Wrong Turn Part 2

At the same time I knew there was no way the man could be looking at me, I knew that's exactly what he was doing. Don't go any farther, his stiff ashen face seemed to say. Leave. The urine soaking into my seat steamed up the windshield, and I jammed my foot on the brake as I switched gears. Then it was on the gas, and my head jerked forward again. I was accelerating backwards, eyes still on the man in front of me. He didn't blink. As soon as I could, I wrenched the wheel to the right and did the quickest three point turn ever executed. Ten seconds later I was going ninety miles an hour down that dark road, back toward the bigger one that would lead me home.

I took a shower and scrubbed my body raw. I turned the knob to scalding, and I sat on the fiberglass floor with my head between my knees for about an hour. The rhythm you don't notice usually, the slight pulses of stronger water through the showerhead, put me in a trance as they beat their predictable notes into the back of my skull. I don't know what I was thinking about, but there was something about the shower, of being there, that felt safe. When I stepped out, a little dizzy from the dehydration and muscles weak from their boiling massage, my skin was crimson. For five minutes, I was the first member of a new race, a red race. I stumbled into my bedroom and felt in the dark for my bed. It was there, and I fell into it, naked and steaming. For ten hours I slept, positioned the way I landed when I fell.

Wrong Turn

I don't know why I turned down that road last night, it was just an impulse. The crazy thing is how right it seemed. LIke I was meant to. I was on my way home from my girlfriend's, my van thumping with the sound of Sir Mixalot proclaiming his love for the large female thorax, speeding slightly as I was alone on the road. My mind was empty, and I, having made the trip so many times, trusted my subconcious to make my arms and legs move in their practiced combinations. It usually isn't until I'm unlocking my front door that I realize I don't remember anything past starting my van and pulling out of her driveway.

Last night was different. I was singing along, my anaconda don't want none unless you've got buns, hun, when I noticed I'd turned down a road I'd never been down before. I'd turned without thinking, down the wrong road. Only it didn't feel wrong. At the end of this road, I thought, will be my home. It didn't make sense, none of it. I knew there was no way this road could lead me there, but at the same time I knew for a fact that it could, and would. The song had ended, I must have turned the radio off but I don't remember doing it. I had turned down the wrong road, I knew I had, and yet I didn't want to turn around.

The yellow smudges on the road began blurring together and my van hummed and chortled, bouncing me in my seat. I don't remember caring. Just a little further, I thought. I can get there, just hold on a little longer.

That's when I almost killed a man. Almost ran him down. I came around a curve going maybe seventy and he was there. Tall, abnormally so, and standing in the middle of my lane about a hundred yards ahead. The heart that had been beating in anticipation of something that felt like home and safety now sent its energy in a new direction. Fear. The man, I thought. I'm not going to be able to stop. He wasn't going to move. His eyes were open, he was watching my headlights with dull disinterest. It was up to me to save his life.

Fear, panic. They speed up time, enough so that I only remember the rough jerk that whipped my head forward when the van's wheels finally stopped rolling. The man was now engulfed in the light from my headlights about fifteen feet away. I saw for the first time that he was pale, an albino man dressed in a light grey suit. His hair, long and colorless, seemed to wrap around his head in protection. His hands were at his side and his feet were bare. His eyes were red, and even through the strong glare of my headlights he did not flinch. Even through it, his eyes met mine and my bladder emptied hot between my legs.

PART TWO TOMORROW

The latest page I've done for GCJ...for the Hunter's Moon jam.

Flight Volume 2

I want this book.

Adam The Idea Guy

Haven't posted in while, sorry about that. I wanted to have more things done by now but that didn't end up being the case. I haven't done any more work on the portrait book my father and I are planning, but he did and we both have some cool ideas.

One thing I've noticed is that I (not to be narcissicistic) come up with great ideas. Either that, or people just love what I come up with. GlobalComicJam is now using my idea for a PrintJam (where four new jams are created for the SOLE sake of being printed up as a comic.) And I also helped to make things go faster, making it so that a person only needs to have a layout and a script to move on to the next page for the next person to start. The planning deadline is three days, and then the artist has ten days to actually do it. In actuality, the real deadline is just this: the page has to be done before the last person is finished. Interested?

The other idea of mine people are using is a play we're making in Spanish. Foreign Language Day is being held in CMU pretty soon and so we have to come up with a skit or something that lasts 5 minutes. I suggested the play be about Don Quixote, and should take place in the center of the stage while Cervantes is on the side writing their actions. Every time he crosses something out, the actors rewind and replay that part with the new direction.

I took the title of this post from Don, a guy from GCJ...the coolest thing is that he's not just using the name to be narcissistic (there, I used it twice), but as a JOB. Don't believe me?

Wheelbarrow Man

Temporarily an excerpt - then it will be edited to fit the format of the story below.

Wheelbarrow Man, the children chanted, stomping in mud as they pointed and shrieked. John would cast an eye at them and the children would stop, their excitement replaced with fear. They’d run, scattering in all directions, and he’d continue his walk, pushing the wheelbarrow with a fervor that only came with this humiliation and consequent rage.

The rain that night was the worst John had experienced since the flood. He overturned the wheelbarrow and sat under it, listening to the rattle of hard droplets on metal. He drowsed for some time before falling asleep, an utterly peaceful void before dreams of screaming children and animals massaged him awake.

Mad Hatter

Based on this image.

At six, she brings him his tea. Steaming amber stuff dressed with two cubes of sugar and a small plastic cup of yellow pills. Today, like all days, he’ll stare out the window, slowly sipping until the sun is swallowed by the trees. He'll sip until the tea is barely warm. This time of year the leaves obstruct any view of the ground, but his eyes will focus beyond and through them, perhaps seeing something others can't. Never a word is spoken, nor his mouth opened except to sip.

But today he feels like talking.
The nurse puts the tea and pills down on a tray. When he speaks, she blinks in surprise.
“Where is my hat?” he asks, but she stares. “Judy, dear, where is my hat?”
The startled nurse hurries off, crying “Doctor! Doctor Munn! He’s speaking!”

The doctor is at his side in minutes.
“Mr. Dodd?” He’s flushed. The man in the chair does not turn his head, or change the far-off focus of his eyes. The doctor's excitement wanes as it becomes apparent that nothing more will happen. He turns to go, frowning.
“Where is my hat, Judy? I can’t find it.” Dodd’s voice is haggard and stripped, like an old screw in rotting wood. Doctor Munn stops.
“I don’t know where it is, Arthur. Why do you need it?” Playing the role of Judy, the doctor slowly turns back to his patient.
“To cover up the little men.”
Munn steps closer to the old, crumpled figure in the chair by the window.
“What little men?”
A pause. Then, the old man’s face turns to Munn’s. His far-reaching eyes seem to delve into the doctor’s very existence.
“They’re rigging a sail up there. If I don’t cover it up, they’ll fly me away. Out there.” He turns back, and raises an arthritic finger to the window.

The doctor ambles back to his office, nodding and noting on a clipboard. Progress.

Behind him, the aged patient in the chair is silently opening and closing his mouth. He’s calling “Judy!” but she’s left him. A rogue tear drops down his cheek and still the little men on his crown hoist, heave, and assemble.

Fin

Diving's over - for me. I was two places away from the State cut at Regionals. After five dives they cut from thirty divers to sixteen. At that point I was in fifteenth place. Six dives later I finished in fourteenth. Top twelve qualified for the State meet (including my teammate Nick who got 3rd) which is Friday and Saturday. I'm still deciding if I want to miss a day of school so I can go cheer.

Anyway, that's one chapter of my life that's closed. Happy sad feeling.

All of a sudden I'm finding I have a lot more time. Maybe I'll kick my work output for GCJ up a notch. BAM!!!

Updates!

First is diving.

On Saturday I had Valley Championships, in which I placed 5th with a score of 319.something. This earned me a nice dark brown medal. Regionals are tomorrow, and I'm taking the day off from school to sleep in before we have to leave. I'm not nervous, just excited. My best score of this year for an 11 dive meet (319) is 46 points higher than last year's best of 273. That's a lot of improvement. If I move on, the State meet is on Friday.

Secondly -

My dad and I are working on a book together, one I hope to finish doing the writing for this weekend. Then we'll look for somewhere to print it cheap and it will be on SALE! This is the smaller book of portraits, not the longer fantasy title my father and I have planned for three years from now.

That's all.