story of the month

This month’s topic for my writing group was “paranoia”. Again, not something I would have chosen on my own, though quite interesting. Again, I have the feeling that there should be some more of this story, only I don’t quite know where to take it next. On the subject of my last post about all my family having the flu: we’re feeling much, much better now. Not exactly healthy but not sick anymore either. We’ll spend tomorrow out of town, and I hope to be back next week with some real blog content for a change. Here’s the story:

It’s only paranoia if it isn’t real, isn’t it?

It’s only paranoia if it isn’t real, isn’t it?

So, what’s better then, being crazy, or it being real? Huh? What’s better? Is it paranoia? You know, when you know, well, you know that basically everyone is out for you? Or is that realism?

Is that guy over there really interested in that shop’s window, or is he only pretending to be interested so that I won’t see his face? And then, when I look away, will he be walking after me, will he follow me, and then there will be another one, and then another one, and then, that guy over there? Or that girl? Or that one? Haven’t I seen them all before? Or have I just seen them because they all live in this neighborhood, and it’s perfectly natural to see them, or do I only think they look familiar because these days all people look alike? Except for that guy over there, I haven’t seen him before, not anywhere, I’m sure. Maybe they brought him in so that I wouldn’t be suspicious. Someone new.

But then, these day and age, who’d spend that kind of money on people observing me? There are other means, other means, tools, they could have cameras. There can be cameras everywhere, tiny little cameras, no bigger than buttons, than coins, sewn into my clothes, looking from windows, looking out of shops, cameras inside shops, everyone knows there are cameras, surveillance cameras everywhere.

They wouldn’t even have to use their own cameras, or people, they could just hack into everbody’s computers and follow me through those. Everybody has a computer nowadays, mean little robot machines. With cameras. And microphones. They fool you, mean little robotic computers, alien intelligence, these days they don’t even look like computers anymore. There was a time, when every computer looked like a big fat electric typewriter; nowadays, these days, they have tiny little computers, looking like cigarette boxes, like miniature telephones, nasty people with their nasty little headphones, so tiny you can barely see them, plugged into their ears. Cameras inside telephones, computers everywhere. There are people carrying robots, robot computers all around me, plugging into each others machines, taking pictures with these tiny little cameras, recording everything with there tiny little microphones, and sending it off to each other, to some other robot, computer, sitting on the other side of the globe.

Every day now you’d meet someone, someone who’d seem mad because talking to himself, a sure sign of madness, that, talking to yourself, not good, you shouldn’t do that, only old fools, crazy people do that, you see; you see all these people, young people, fat, wealthy looking people, they all run around in the streets, talking to themselves, and then, and then it turns out, they aren’t talking to themselves, they are talking on the phone. Only, you can’t see the phone, it’s so tiny. They can plug it into their ears or something, a tiny telephone, sitting there in their ears. Next to the tiny camera, I bet. Cameras everywhere these days.

Numbers and barcodes and everything.

I bet they could track me by the chip in my library card. There are chips in everything, or so they say but I wonder, what are they doing with potatoes in all these computers?

Well, I figure the robots must have something to eat too? Don’t they? So maybe they put chips in everything, even the washing machines, the janitor told me so, there’s a chip in the washing machine, a computer even, which means, of course, that there is a robot living in the basement of my own house. He’s probably counting my socks, and reports how often I wash them. But I tricked him! Ha! I have been going to the laundromat. Ha! What do they think? Counting my underwear? No, sir, I won’t have that.

So, all these cameras, and robots, eating chips in everything. The phone, the washing machine, the shops, the bank, the library even. It’s a shame, I used to like the library. It’s warm and cozy there, with all the books, and not noisy, it’s quiet and cozy and calm, and there are no young people there, almost no people in fact, no noise, nothing of what they call music nowadays, and then I could take a nice bit of reading home to sit by the fire in the evenings.

Can’t do that anymore, of course, there’s a chip in my library card, and so they could track it, every bit of it, track me, better put the library card into the waste bin, right here, so, that’s better. Only there will be no more books for free, it’s a pity but there you are, can’t have this sort of thing, robots eating chips in my library card, nasty buggers.

Tracking somone must be an awful lot of work, like in the war, when you were undercover, and nobody was to find you out. But these days they had so many people, probably half the population working for them, otherwise they wouldn’t be bothering with somone like me, I’m not important, no sir, for all they know I’m not important, and they can’t know, I have never told nobody, no sir, never.

Must be going crazy, must I? Only, it’s only paranoia if it isn’t real. And it could be real, couldn’t it? Only I never told nobody, never. I didn’t tell.

(Seems like I’m still not on top of everything yet, but this month I managed to write, um, half of the story for the writer’s group meeting. The prompt was “surreal”. Of course I only started writing at noon, helped my husband cook while typing on the computer, and then had to teach right up to the moment when I ran out of the house to catch the train for the meeting. I really hope to finish this, tie the two strands of the story together, ply them so-to-speak. I wrote it as stream of consciousness as I could.)

Falling

Diving into the night as a floating wind came by to grip me, cars on the highway passing by. The moon staring at us while we were heading for the shoreline; the green fish staring at you while we wove our way through the algae, downwards into the deep blue cool, threading deeper and onwards. The caves nearby whispering to us while we floated between the corals, creatures like jewels asleep in the liquid dark.

Out to the open, the ocean, the blue, the dark, the cool, the wet, outwards, and downwards, into the depth. Our eyes blind from the cold, the pressure, the lack of light, only illuminated by smallish animals, wearing lanterns, and luminecence. Down through the sand to the point where there’s rock, always rock underneath.

Resting there for a while, pausing the race, not moving, letting the cold streams run over us, resting, but not for long, onwards, and upwards, outwards, throught the deep, the blue, the cold, through where the water is calm always, up, and through, through the waves, the white crust of frothing waves, going up and down, right and left, never still, never at peace, drifting on. And on, always moving, riding the wind, the water, the dark.

Erin and Heidi at the mall, carrying their totes, their make-up, walking slowly because of their shoes. Very pretty shoes, there had been a sale, and so they had spent the last of their paychecks on these, sexy shoes with high spiky heels that made their ankles look pretty and slim. They looked very much alike from afar, their hair done into a puffy mass of curls framing their pretty faces. They liked make-up, those two, their eyes all heavy eyeliner, smoky shadows, and fluttering lashes, their mouths rose-colored glittering pouts.

Floating on the water, being rocked by the waves’ motion, waiting until the annoying moon starts to pale above us. More blue, more light, more warmth, rushing in, meeting the morning. Still, beneath us the dark, the cool, the deep, unchanged by light’s arrival. Onwards again, taking hold of the wind, merging, waving in and out, the air, the light, colors getting brighter, shiny. The water, sparkling with light, reflecting warmth, deflecting hearts.

The girls are speaking, endlessly, giggling, and gossiping, talking, never listening. Just an endless stream of syllables put forth with a meaningless smile. Both of them connected to the ether by invisible strings, their cell phones humming; shiny, sleek, bluetooth connectors at their ears and lips. Connected not with the world around them, with the people they see before them, with smells, and sounds, and sights right there but only with other people hanging from the same strings, never being where they are.

They walk slowly, taking care with every step; the sexy shoes demand attention, their totes getting heavier, the mall a whir of color and movement.

Onward and upward again, the air, the wind, the light, gliding, soaring. You and I, me and you, moving, sensing, now the sun is up in the sky, a one-eyed giantess bringing life and scorn, making the world bright, shiny, and slightly harsher. We know that the staring moon is still there but now he can’t see us anymore. Nosy he is but now he’s pale and in the presence of his big warm mistress he’s too far away to catch us. So we seize the moment, go on and on, rounding the globe, moving in, and out, up and down. Fear of falling isn’t hindering us. Going down deep we meet rock again, and again, going up there’s air and light, dust and sparkles, creatures big and small. Moving, moving, always moving. We wave in and out of the streams, the rivulets going down, the vapor going up, playing like dolphins. Come on my love!

(I wrote this story back in August as an assignment for the writing group meeting. The prompt had been “insanity” but somehow I ended up just writing something. I turned out to be so curious about where it went from there that I ended up writing part two and the beginning of part three in September. You’ll have to wait for part 2, though, because I have to make a small alteration to it before posting it here.)

Finally they had gotten the fire going. Not exactly blazing heat but at least a little warmth against the salty, stinging wind coming from the
sea. They huddled close to it, looking into the flames as men had done since the dawn of time, their stomachs growling.

When they had planned to go onto this trip it had sound like fun. Go to an island, live on the beach for a week. Fun. Rub shoulders with nature,
and then go home with stories to tell.

Well, there sure would be stories to tell but then they weren’t as sure anymore how to make it home.

Laura held her hands close to the fire, her front too hot, and her back still exposed to the chilling wind. It felt as if those tiny salt
crystals that were everywhere cut right through to her bones. She never got the appeal of campfires and barbecues, and now she had to rely on
this to keep her even vaguely comfortable. She remembered how it always took too long for the food to get ready, and how everbody had started
eating the salads until no one had wanted all that slightly burned meat. Only there weren’t any salads this time. She longed for the coziness of
central heating and delivered pizza, to say nothing of hot baths and warm beds, while thinking that today she would be lucky to get enough
slightly burned fish to get satisfied. Right there she would have killed for a bit of pepper or a twig of rosemary.

At least they did get to keep their sleeping bags, the water filters, shovels, knives, and fishing gear. They were very lucky that the boat
that flipped over held no essentials.

On the other hand it would have been really nice to have things like bread, soup, or tents.

Laura tried to be grateful that they had enough to eat, and were reasonably warm but then she would have loved to be at home right now,
snuggling under a blanket watching TV.

The others were getting on her nerves. Stan, their self-proclaimed outdoor expert who had needed five matches to light the fire, Lenny, who
was in charge of cooking, and who already had dropped the fish twice, Samantha who kept whining that her hair was looking terrible, and her
friend Michelle who didn’t say much and seemed to be still in shock after her boat keeled over. Well, it could have been worse, everybody
wore life-vests, and they got by on clams, crabs, and fruit.

She wondered how long it would take until they would be rescued. The others didn’t doubt that there would be a rescue party anytime soon but
she thought that it would be at least three weeks, and then only for the ones who had to go to work.

The thought of spending about three more weeks with these people made her restless. Despite the windchill she got up for a walk on the beach.

“Laura? Whatcha doin'”, Samantha asked, “You can’t go along the beach all alone after dark.”
Of course she could. There was no one here besides them, the island was too small for any predators, and she’d see the fire on her way back.

Stupid, city-dwellers, Laura thought. She shouldn’t have come, and her boyfriend didn’t look as attractive any more, now that he sat there at the fire, pretending to know something about cooking over an open fire.

Laura hadn’t thought much about her time as a girl scout or going camping with her parents until now when she had to find out that the
people she called her friends were completely unprepared for living in the real world. It seemed that taking away their mobile phones,
refridgerators and cars made them totally helpless.

Well, better to learn survival on a tropical island than in Alaska.

Somebody came after her.
“Laura, you can’t go off on your own.”, Stan pleaded.
“Why not?”, she answered.
“It’s dangerous.”
“No, it isn’t. There’s moonlight, there’s the fire, the island is small,
and there are no big animals living here.”
“There could be sharks.”
“I don’t want to go for a swim, I’m just taking a short walk, calm down.”
“Then let me go with you.”

There seemed to be no way out, so she went back to the fire. The fish wasn’t done yet. It looked quite burned, though. Not exactly a gourmet meal.

Maybe she should cook the next fish herself. And while she dreamed of that she also thought about catching the next fish herself. She could
make herself a spear and get some of the bigger fish in the lagoon. She remembered how her mother had showed her to be perfectly still until the
fish forgot her. But if she made herself a spear Stan would know that she had more tools in her backpack than she had let him know. And when
she thought about what he had managed to do to his own innocent leatherman tool she knew she wasn’t ready yet. More crabs in the future.

Every month I’m writing a story as homework for my writing group. And then I post it here:

“You must be so happy!”, her mother exclaimed on the phone. “Must I?”, Elena wondered to herself. Since she knew better than to respond with “Why do you always tell me what to feel?”, she managed an almost convincing “Of course I am!” before she excused herself.
That part, the excuse, had become much easier these days. Interestingly you could have obligations by the dozen, or really valid reasons for something but it seemed that nothing was as valid as saying, “You know, with the baby…”

That seemed to be one of the few things that were easier now. Most things were much more difficult, of course. Before she hadn’t known that one could crave sleep so much. That being hungry could make her that aggressive, or how fiercely she’d protect her baby.

Her baby. It still seemed weird. Like a stranger yet familiar as her own limbs. Clearly a part of her and yet, totally different.
If only the baby would sleep. She looked at the pile of parenting books on her bedside table, next to a gigantic bottle of water, three cartons of nursing pads, and the book she was reading. Well, trying to read. Something not baby-related .

When, before her daughter was born, she had read that it took about eight hours a day to care for a baby, she had laughed inwardly. That couldn’t be true.
What the books didn’t say was that those fictional eight hours were spread out all through the day. Alternating twenty minutes of baby-care with ten minutes off. When she had read that babies slept about eighteen hours a day she didn’t know that she’d have a daughter who never slept more than twenty minutes at a time. At least it felt like she didn’t.

She thought of last night when Mark had carried the wailing infant through their apartment for three hours while she got to sleep with earplugs. That had been the best sleep she’d had in two weeks. Who knew how refreshing three hours of uninterrupted sleep could be? Or that one could be tired enough to doze off while holding a conversation just because the other person didn’t say anything for five seconds? And that one could be resilient enough to hold the baby, feed the baby, burp the baby, rock the baby, change the baby, carry the baby, and go without food, drink, or anything for ages?

That was something at least. Who would have thought she could do that? Despite the fact that she really considered trading the baby for a vacation. Alone. Only her, a comfortable bed, and room service.

Until she was separated from her, if only for an hour, and she missed her, and worried if Mark was treating her right, and then she knew she’d rather die than let anything happen to her.

Maybe that was what her mother meant by being happy? Though her mother didn’t seem capable of feelings that fierce or even remotely passionate. Maybe that first months really became all foggy after a few years and then you only remembered the moment when you held your newborn in your arms, marveling at it, this whole new life that was part of you and your loved one.

But then, that was another one of those lies. The “happiest day of your life”, that was wedding day, wasn’t it? Maybe all these people suffered from amnesia.

Elena remembered everything. The awkwardness of the ceremony, the fight they had the morning before, how everything went utterly chaotic, and how they were really glad when that day was over.

Maybe other people meant something different by “happy”. Maybe those people lived by making up a story in their head of how it should have been, and clung to that for the rest of their lives.

Elena stopped walking through the apartment because little Anna had finally fallen asleep in the sling. She sat down, the baby heavy on her, pulling at the fabric on her shoulders. She had her book right here, next to her favorite chair, tea at the ready, still warm in the thermos. She put up her feet that hurt after walking for almost an hour, inhaled that sweet baby smell, felt the warmth of the sun on her legs, and took a sip of tea, careful not to spill anything on her daughter.

“This is happiness”, she thought, “this moment. Soon I’ll feel uncomfortable again, something will be wrong, but now, this minute, I’m happy.”

She opened her book, looked for where she had stopped reading the night before, and dozed off.