The Photograph: Alternate Perspective Scene

This scene is an exercise based on a story I've bee working on about a kid who finds a polaroid of a naked woman in a library book. The kid in the alley is the main character of that story. This is a scene from a different person's perspective. 

Closing in the summer is the worst. In the winter you walk through the kitchen feeling the air temperature drop as you get closer to the cold  that seeps through the gaps around the door or comes crashing in like a wave when someone goes out to smoke. You don't even need your coat. The heat and sweat from working give you three refreshing minutes outside. The perspiration crystallizes into sludge on your back and it's relief. The air deadens the food smell in your nostrils and the gray alley feels cozy. You throw the trash in the dumpster and it barely stinks. The air is hard and resists the smell. There's only the far-off scent of smoke. It might be a chimney, but it might be that brittle winter nights always smell like smoke.

If it's the second or fourth Sunday of the month you have to drain the fryers into a bucket, then pour that into the grease trap next to the dumpster. Winter is no match for that smell. You have to hope there's not slush or ice, because if there isn't you can be quick and hold your breath. When that's over, you start to realize that you're sleeveless outside at 10:30 pm in January and it's time to go inside.

Summer is atrocious. The alley is hotter and thicker than the kitchen with the heat from the ovens and steam from the dishwashers. Inside, air is shuffled around by fans, the AC, doors opening and closing. You go outside and dark summer air sits on you like a wet towel you'll never find the edges of. There's nothing to savor, like there is in winter. As soon as you're out the door the dumpster smell walks up into your nostrils and down your throat. You can only jogwalk while holding your breath until you get back inside. The chemical steam of the dishwasher will seem like a Yankee candle. If it's grease trap week, you can't run because you'll spill. You just step quick. Alley dumpsters behind restaurants are like Satan's crockpots. Stewed rancid muck slow cooks on metal and wafts down the brick and asphalt corridor. Work enough shifts and you'll feel that scent dripping onto your tonsils every time you look down an alley.

One time, I was closing at some casual modern place--the kind with artisanal pizzas where they use every kind of olive except black, like traditional pizza is so gauche. Well, I was running some trash and had just gotten a couple of bags from the kitchen, not even a third full, but sagging with slop. I toss those normal, then go back to get the bathroom trash. When I go back outside, there's some skinny black kid standing next to his bike in the middle of the alley. He rode up in the two minutes it took me to go in and grab the bags. He's just standing there looking down the alley. He had a piece of paper--it looked like a polaroid-- in his hand that he kept looking at. I kind of stood there and watched him to see what he would do, but he never moved. When I let the dumpster lid close he noticed me. I asked if he was all right; he said yes and rode off. But he'd been standing there for a long time just staring at the alley. It was weird as shit.

Let's Do A Writing Prompt: Road Side

DEUS EX MACHINA
In modern storytelling, a deus ex machina is a plot device in which a dramatic and oftentimes contrived occurrence suddenly saves the day or solves a seemingly impossible problem.​ This week, write a short story using this device in the form of a character, object, or new found ability. How will you manipulate the pacing to create the most effective sense of surprise? Consider the tone of the story, perhaps incorporating tragedy and comedy, as you lead up to the unexpected turn of events.


ROAD SIDE

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean!" 

The man did a little hop when the question exploded from his mouth, wisps of long white hair bobbed gently on the side of his otherwise bald head. Simon already felt stressed enough with his life crumbling in chunks like an abandoned house. He'd forgotten to call Leslie after their screaming match, which he was pretty sure had been his fault or he'd made it worse by saying meaner things than she had. He'd started ordering double Captain and Cokes halfway through the night and couldn't remember anymore, and now it'd been almost a week. He wanted to give her space, but now her friends had started calling to say he still had a chance to win her back. Plus, his hours at the coffee shop had been cut and he hadn't started applying for other part-time work. Which had caused his roommates to act weird when he asked them to cover his part of the bills temporarily. So many things were contributing to Simon's general sense of tension, and now this man was yelling pointless questions at him. The aggression, Simon felt, wasn't helping an already inconvenient situation.

"Like I said, I don't have any insurance right now," it was another thing that fallen onto the back burner. "It's a pretty straightforward statement. I don't know what you mean by what do I mean." 

"I'm having trouble understanding why you would be driving a car when you don't have insurance." 

The man stomped his foot and looked, to Simon, a little childish throwing such a fit on the side of the highway. He would have been embarrassed for the man if there had been any other cars in sight. 

"Why the fuck would you be driving while uninsured? You'd better have some fucking money to pay for this." 

Simon looked at the cosmetic damage to the man's driver's side doors that had occurred when he had attempted to change lanes before he noticed the man in his blind spot. It was a gray breezy day on the long straight stretch of highway and Simon lingered in the right lane. It was his favorite kind of weather, and he found it held his attention more than two mid-level sedans on the shoulder of a road.

"I'll be honest with you, I've been meaning to get insurance for a while but other things came up and it kept getting bumped down my to-do list. But I don't not have insurance because I'm basking in financial security, so paying out of pocket won't be an option. Unless you'd be willing to work out some sort of payment plan, which I would be open to." Simon spoke without facing the man, but could see his gesticulations in his peripheral vision.

"What the hell are you talking about? Of course the idiot who hits me on a deserted highway is a broke slacker." The man turned to face the paint scraped cars, "It's responsible people like me who keep things on track and you can't be bothered to do your share. Look at this. This is totaled. You're going to have to buy me a new car. I can't drive this."

"It might be totaled, but that isn't necessarily an indication of costly damage."

"Don't you talk back to me. You're only getting yourself in more trouble."

"I just don't think a scratched paint job will make a Dodge Sabre undriveable."

"It's not a scratch"

The man's voice echoed off a nearby overpass. 

"I'm sorry I made contact with your vehicle, but shouting isn't going to undo what happened."

The man yelled again. Simon didn't like owing so many people money, though, he remained optimistic that a paint job could be paid off in a few months. He asked again if the man wouldn't rather just chalk this event up to the cost of living in the world where sometimes people bump into each other and face unexpected happenstances. The man did not and made another little hop that reminded Simon of Rumpelstiltskin. The man demanded Simon call the police so that a proper report could be filed, and he guaranteed that  Simon would be going to jail for driving with no insurance. Simon had no cellphone and confessed this to the man, who felt that Simon's lack of a cellphone was somehow evidence that the man's own life was cursed. Simon wondered if this could be cultivated into a seed of empathy for the hardships of others. The man didn't even seem to be taking into account the repercussions the accident might have on Simon's life.  

"Fine. I'll call the damn police, but you're going to be paying me back for the minutes I use on the call." The man's hand shook as he dialed. 

Simon listened to the wind and thought about unlimited cell plans, but didn't want to interrupt the man's phone call to the authorities. He hoped that the police, or more likely the sheriff as they were on a highway not within the limits of a city, would see this for what it was: an unfortunate happenstance. He was sure that the officer would be reasonable and send everyone on their way. The air was cool and everything felt muffled. No birds or animals made noise. Occasionally a breeze swept by Simon's ears, but other than that it sounded like the man was arguing with a 911 dispatcher in a room of cotton. The land between Simon and the long curving horizon was wide and flat and covered with wild looking grass. Even though he was surrounded by air and the sky he felt the rest of his life lurking behind him, all the relationships to renovate and responsibilities to tend like a garden he resented. He never seemed to be able to explain to his roommates the pressure and responsibility he imposed on himself when they suggested he take on extra housekeeping duties to compensate for a momentary financial shortfall. 

"Un-goddang-believable. That idiot dispatcher transferred me to another line. Said my call didn't qualify as an emergency. What is wrong with people? I was in a car wreck"

"Are they sending someone?"

"Of course. Once they took me off hold I told them to hurry." 

"I really think that's not the best use of everyone's time. We really could just exchange numbers and you could call me when you have an estimate on the repairs."

"You don't understand, do you? I'm filing a police report. People get arrested for driving without insurance. You're car's going to be impounded. And then I'll be suing you." The man paused before continuing, "For the repairs to my car and the psychological damage. All this stress. I probably have some sort of back injury. Those show up a few days after a bad accident like this. You and I will be in court unless you come up with a settlement."

Simon felt bad for the man, who didn't seem to be appreciating the stillness of the weather. 

"I'm going to sit in my car while we wait."

"Oh no you don't. You're aren't getting in your car, are you crazy? You're going to drive off."

Simon moved towards his car, but had to change course when the man stepped into his path.

"I'm just going to sit with the windows open. I'll be able to hear you if you need to talk to me."

"You're going to drive off."

Simon agreed to sit on a grassy slope next to the cars. It was better, Simon realized, because he could feel the breeze tracing its fingers on his arms and back instead of just the side of his face nearest the open window. There was a cool dampness in the air that he found invigorating. It was almost strange to feel so pleasant on a gloomy seeming day. Even the man, pacing and grumbling like a misunderstood teenage, added a vibrancy to the setting. The grayness of the road melted into the sky and it was a blank slate for Simon to begin painting the next chapter of his life and the man scolding the emptiness was the brush he would use. Simon wasn't sure how to articulate his thoughts to himself, but he knew that this is where he would slowly begin to reorganize his life and clear out some of the clutter. 

The longer he sat, the more the man's assurances that the accident would be taken seriously by the police began to poke into Simon's thoughts. If he was forced to get insurance right away it would delay him being able to pay his roommates back and certainly affect the first payment on the man's car repairs. If he lost his car, finding a new job wouldn't be easy. He'd have to coordinate rides to work from friends since there weren't many opportunities within walking distance. Fear began to spill into him and he felt as though the answer to the man's phone call was rushing towards him like a fist. Simon couldn't match the stillness of the day and wait for this random event to pass over him like water. 

The sound of distant sirens bubbled up into the quiet of the highway. 

"I can hear them. It's about time." The man spun to face the direction from which he and Simon had been driving. Cars and lights appeared in miniature on the horizon. Simon stayed sitting in his spot where his view was blocked. "It looks like someone took me seriously," the man continued as he waved to the still distant police cars. "They were right to send the whole squad. 

The man's words made Simon realize that, instead of one, he heard a chorus of police sirens. He stood and saw a line of  white squares glittering red and blue on top sweeping towards him. If he were to be arrested, he'd have to bail money onto the tab of what he already owed his roommates.


"It's too late to come up with any excuses now. Don't even try." The man stood in the right lane beside his car. 

Simon felt the red and blue wailing fill the muffled afternoon around him. He watched the line of cars enter more detail as they cut along the road. As they did, he noticed a boxy brown car in front of the police. So did the man. 

"Why won't this guy pull over so they can pass? Another maniac on the road." He looked at Simon with angry disappointment. 

The man walked towards the cars and began to flag them down. The brown car schoomed past them without slowing. The man turned to yell and was hit from behind by a police cruiser which was unable to change lanes in time. He was thrown into the back of his own car and fell to the ground folded sideways against the wheel. Simon's only reaction had been to throw himself prone onto the slope, but the cruiser had only hit the man. The cruiser that hit the man and one other stopped while the several others sped towards the brown car. Three officers rushed out and saw that nothing could be done for the man. Simon stood quietly as the sirens were soon gone. 

"What the heck are you guys doing just sitting here?" said an officer with a tight ponytail, while her partner spoke with the officer who had hit the man. 

"We were in an accident and were waiting for you."
"Waiting for us?" 

"Yeah. He had called the police. You were responding to our call."

"Didn't we were engaged in pursuit with a suspect driving the brown car." She looked to the other officers, "Geoff, can you radio this in. Tell them we had to abandon pursuit. Get a body snatcher."

"He thought you were coming for us."

"Is that why he was in the middle of the road?"
"Yeah. He was flagging you down."

"He didn't need to be out in the road to do that. So, what was you're accident?"

Simon gazed at the gray-topped horizon. The world was muted in it's down comforter again with only the crinkled sound of the police radio floating in the air.

"He'd hit the side of my car. Changed lanes without looking."

"Were either of you hurt from the accident."

"No. He insisted on calling it in. I told him it wasn't worth it."

"That's a tragedy."

The officer went to speak with Geoff, then the two came over to Simon and he explained it again. They all agreed that it was an unfortunate freak accident. The officer who hit the man couldn't be faulted. Simon told them that he didn't see a point to filling out a report for his accident with the man.

"I have your statement," said the officer. "If it's alright with you, I'll use that to fill one out on your behalf. It will just help to explain why you two were stopped at the side of the road when we came by, which lead to the man being hit by Officer Gabe's vehicle."

Simon stood on the edge of the commotion, which wasn't really a commotion but compared to everything else along the road it was. He watched officers and paramedics move back and forth until he felt like getting in his car and driving away. He thought about his roommates and Leslie. He was glad that his to-do list wasn't longer.

Wonen, Lord of the Mistlands

This is the story of Wonen. Of course you know that he roams the Mistlands, guiding our ancestors as they pass from death into the world beyond, just as he will some day guide you and I. And you know that late every winter, we celebrate Wonen’s Day, honoring those who have died in the previous year. But it was not always so. Wonen was once a mortal man. This is the story of how he became lord of the land between death and the afterlife.

Wonen Selkirk lived in the outskirts of Tobermory, a small village set on the edge of a plain. To the west of Tobermory stretched a thick forest. One needn’t venture far before the branches and leaves overhead grew thick and blocked out the sun. On cloudy days, as many are, even those familiar with the woods could become lost. At night, only the brave, the foolish or the pursued found cause to enter. Wonen lived with his father on the side of town nearest the Bràigh Forest, as it was called, hunting and trapping for fur and meat. His father taught him the skills of tracking and killing animals at such a young age, that when he grew into a young man he could get near enough to spit on his prey before setting loose an arrow. He had spent so much time creeping through the trees, that he was one of the few people in Tobermory who could stay in the Bràigh after sunset and still find his way out before sunrise.

Of their time not devoted to hunting, Wonen and his father, Gareth, spent a fair amount at the Inn, which did not have a proper name by virtue of not needing one. It was the only inn Tobermory could claim. Time at the Inn for the Selkirk men doubled as leisure and business. As a watering hole for locals and travelers, the Inn functioned as an ideal location to advertise their services and take any orders in need of filling. Wonen tended to leave the task of making business connections to his more gregarious father. This gave him time to make fleeting conversation with Arabella, a comely lass who worked at the Inn. Her parents had died when she was sixteen, and she had no other family. The Inn’s owners, the Cruickshankses, a miserable duo, had taken her in and put her to work immediately. After years of secret smiles and stealing away for moments of privacy, however brief amongst the noise and clatter, Wonen had confessed to Arabella that he loved her.

When he did, she wanted to fall into his arms and tell Wonen that she felt the same for him, but she dared not risk an open display of affection. Her stewards, Mr. and Mrs. Cruickshanks, would not share in her joy. They kept an ever watchful eye on her. Especially Mrs. Cruickshanks. She saw how her husband leered at Arabella, always keeping a hand on her as he muttered his orders. Even so, Mrs. Cruickshanks valued the free labor Arabella provided more than she mistrusted Mr. Cruickshanks, and she would let nothing take away the ward providence had granted her.

When Wonen made his confession, the only acknowledgement she could offer was a slight smile and an excited nod, imperceptible to anyone more than a few steps away. He could read her acceptance from this reaction, and in the elation in her eyes. Not more than a moment later she was gone in a twirl of skirts, gathering up pewter mugs and plates from the tables around the dining hall.

Wonen remained at his seat, admiring Arabella as she moved around the room and in and out of the kitchen, casting a broad smile when he could catch her eye.

“Do you need something else, boy?”

Mrs. Cruickshanks slammed a her knotted hand down in front of Wonen, jarring him from his thoughts. His smile wavered when his eyes met hers. He told her that he supposed he could use another beer and cup of soup. The lines in her face deepened as she glowered at him. She tried to loom menacingly over him, but her spine was old and weak and would not allow it.

“Thank you,” said Wonen, hoping his tone of finality made it past the hair in Mrs. Cruickshanks’ ears.

She humpfed and then left to find her husband. Mr. Cruickshanks was not pleased being cornered and scolded. His wild eyebrows danced like river reeds while his wife spoke conspiratorially. She gestured towards Wonen and Arabella, occasionally adding a jab to Mr. Cruickshanks’ chest. This did not escape Arabella’s attention. Later, while Mr. Cruickshanks scrutinized the young hunter and his wife fawned over a customer of means, she slipped a note to Gareth Selkirk. She instructed him to not read, and that he may only present it to Wonen after the two had reached their home. The sternness of her voice was such that Gareth feared what she might do if he disobeyed.

On the walk home, Wonen’s father spoke mostly of the business he had conducted. He also managed to work in a few questions about The Inn’s proprietors and the girl who worked for them. He sensed a change in Wonen when the topic of Arabella came up, but Gareth did not press further, fearing that it would go against the spirit of her orders. Eventually they arrived home, where it was safe for Gareth to present the note to Wonen.

Arabella wanted to meet him. The next night, after she had finished working at the Inn, and the Cruickshankes had fallen asleep, she would go to Wonen’s house and wait for him at the edge of the Bràigh.

When the night came, Wonen was anxious for the hour to arrive. He wandered his house to pass the time, unable to sit still or think of anything other than his love. He crossed the living room countless times. Finally, his patience exhausted, he went out into the night. Visions of Arabella carried him towards the forest’s edge. Walking across the field towards the trees, he composed an eloquent speech that he imagined would earn him many sighs and kisses. As he refined a bit honoring her fair complexion, a shout arose from the direction he was heading. He took off at a sprint. More shouts came from the darkness. Over the sound of his own breathing and footfalls, Wonen heard the sound of Arabella struggling with at least two men.

When he reached the border of the forest, a weight struck him from behind, knocking him to the ground. It felt like two bags of boiled potatoes had landed on top of him. It was the Cruickshankses. Wonen tossed them aside and was back on his feet before either of them had managed to roll over.

“What are you doing? What’s happened to Arabella?” he said in a hushed shout.

“She’s gone. And it’s no use going after her. She wants nothing more to do with you,” huffed Mr. Cruickshanks from his hands and knees.

“Tell the truth or stay in the mud,” Wonen said with a boot to Mr. Cruickshanks’ side.

“We’ve sold her,” growled Mrs. Cruickshanks. “We know what you two were planning. You were going to take her from us. Leave us with nothing. We sold her off so we could get something in return.”

The couple hadn’t missed the looks between Arabella and Wonen. The previous night, a man looking to recruit or acquire girls Arabella’s age had also been at the Inn. Seeing what was blossoming between the two, they decided to take action and ensure a return on their loss.

“I will return with my love. And then I will return to collect your debt,” said, looming over them.

Mr. Cruickshanks stumbled backward at this declaration. Wonen turned and disappeared into the forest. The couple  watched him disappear through the trees, and, when they were sure he was gone, wobbled quickly home. Over the next days and weeks, they would look uneasily through their windows expecting to find him outside. But he never appeared.

Though it is true that Wonen knew the forest like no other, whoever had taken Arabella was also skilled at moving amongst trees and underbrush. He found himself stopping more frequently, listening for signs of their movements. Eventually there were no more and he was moving blindly into the night. The occasional freshly broken branch, or hint of a footprint, would bring hope that his direction was true. He walked all night, never feeling as though he gained ground. When day came, there was a haze like thick fog all about the forest. He saw no rays of sun, only a gray glow. He walked for the entire day. And he walked through the next night. As the second day came, still with skies like a gray sheet, he reached the far side of the Bràigh forest. Before him stretched a field with wisps of tall grass standing in bunches. Never before had he come through the other side of the forest. Wonen scanned the new landscape before him, aching for a hint of which direction to continue. He shook away a feeling of defeat and walked away from the Bràigh into the field.

Once out of the trees, he could see how thick the mist truly was. It was not long before the forest was erased from sight. He walked on for an hour before deciding to return to the edge of the Bràigh. He would backtrack in the hopes of regaining the trail of Arabella and her captors. Wonen was careful to follow his own footsteps in the damp grass, but they seemed to fade as he traced his own path. Unable to see beyond several hundred feet, he became disoriented. He was unsure if he faced the woods or not. Still determined to free his love, he concentrated on progressing in one direction, until he could find a landmark and his bearings. Wonen pressed on for many more days and nights, never finding so much as a sapling or fallen log. Only tufts of grass. The haze never lifted, keeping the stars at night from him.

There are some who believe that Wonen died in the Bràigh Forest, and that Arabella was sold as a house servant or worse. There are even more who believe that Wonen never stopped walking through the gray field, never stopped searching for the woman who returned his love. They say that, so dogged and relentless was he, death itself could not catch up to Wonen. He stalks the lands between this world and the next, one step ahead of death and one behind Arabella’s captors. But always pressing forward.

Back in Tobermory, Mr. and Mrs. Cruickshanks never again saw an easy night’s rest. Even many years after they sold off their ward, when the Inn hosted a crowd, they still scanned the sea of faces, fearing to see Wonen’s, knowing that he would return to repay them for what they had done. They’re only relief come on their deathbeds, because they did not know Wonen awaited them slipped into death’s embrace.

The people of Tobermory took to saying “Wonen unto him” regarding a person who had cause to look over his shoulder in dread, or committed an act that deserved reprisal. This was eventually shortened to “won’unto him,” which became “woe unto him.”

Woe unto him who looks upon love with anger and hate.