2009.08.06
Posted in Short Stories, Writing at 9:37 pm by Jeremiah Wittevrongel
My dearest son,
I remember. All the mystery, all the awful truths. I remember. Today would have been your 30th birthday. For the past five years I’ve spent this day crying and refusing to leave the house. I need to let go, even though I don’t want to. I can never forget, but I can try to end the suffering.
I remember 30 years ago the world was bright and full of promise. We lived together the three of us. It was a small home. But it was ours. Our place, our life. The spark that started things when your father and I were 17 continued on, and we made our way in the world. You were our shining star, and the spitting image of your father from the day you were born. When you were with him, a fierce pride shone on his face, and he would have done anything you asked. You know the truth now, and I’m sorry I lied to you. I had to lie to you because I lied to myself.
I remember that day in third grade. You got in a fight with another kid who was teasing you about not having a father. You came home crying, and we ate cookies and drank milk and talked about it. I don’t know if you understood then, but I told you it was OK to miss him. I hope it’s OK, because I never stopped missing either of you. I desperately needed to believe that. And still do. Your father was a good and decent man. You were a good and decent man. Even then, after the fight, he would have been proud of you. I was. You were so like your father then.
I remember when I went on vacation with your aunt twelve years ago. You were working at a summer job, saving for University. You were so like your father then. I came home and you had cleaned out the storage room in the basement as a surprise for me. All the dust was gone and everything was neat and tidy. I’m not sure if you saw the fear in my eyes when I noticed the box. I should have thrown it away, burned it, destroyed it utterly. It was all I kept, all I had left of your father.
The box was unsealed.
I remember the look on your face. You knew I had lied, and you seemed sad instead of angry. Of course, we never spoke of it then. Or since. We just went on like nothing was wrong. Like nothing had changed. You were so like your father then.
I remember when I got the call, how numb I felt. You never returned from that hiking trip, and they never found what was left. Because they didn’t know what to look for. I knew then that even in death, you were so like your father. What brought you there to him? To the place he went? And what happened there? I needed answers, and so a year ago, on your birthday, I found out.
I remember when I got to that place in the shadow of the mountain. I knew the trail as if by instinct, although I spent my whole life avoiding it. As the hike wound on, I felt a mix of both anticipation and calm. Like I was going home for the first time in years. At last I arrived at that stand of aspen, arrived at the truth. You and your father, dancing in the wind, calling to me.
Join with us.
I remember laying hands on you and your father. All at once I saw everything. The same story repeated two decades apart. The same passions, the same fierce determination, the same fate. It was painful and beautiful and violent and powerful and so agonizing for me. You were so like your father as you were transformed.
I remember the others calling to me also, the way they must have called to you. You were both always searching for something, and you both found it. Having looked upon your faces in life I could not bear to look upon them now. At once beautiful and grotesque, I knew then that I could not join you. That fate was yours alone, not mine to share.
I remember the anger as I turned to leave. I was angry at you, and you were angry at me. Part of me died that day and stayed with you, but you wanted more than I could give. We all knew I would never come back. And even if you could read this letter, you would still not understand. You are so like your father that way.
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2008.07.11
Posted in Board Games, Short Stories at 7:25 pm by Jeremiah Wittevrongel
A year and a half ago, I received The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror (2006) as a gift. It’s an annually-published review and anthology of the best fantasy and horror fiction of the year. I’ve read each story in it at least twice, but there is one I keep coming back to: “My Father’s Mask” by Joe Hill.
What fascinates me about the story is the way it juxtaposes fantasy, imagination, roleplay, gaming, and life. As a very simple example, the main character’s mother uses the phrase “Let’s play a game” in the story to mean “Let’s play make-believe”. The story also features anthropomorphic playing cards, and in the end, the protagonist ends up wearing his father’s mask (literally and figuratively).
This story has significantly altered the way I view story-oriented roleplaying games (like World of Darkness and Grimm) and to a lesser extent all games with a roleplaying aspect – even games like Descent and Arkham Horror. They move beyond the mechanical into the realm of the real, so long as we allow our imagination to take them there. We’re free to live out our fantasies (or our nightmares) as we see fit, and we can wear whatever masks we want.
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2007.02.07
Posted in Short Stories, Writing at 8:16 pm by Jeremiah Wittevrongel
“It was like a train wreck – you didn’t want to watch, but you couldn’t look away.”
I snap out of my daydream and regard my lunch companions, realizing I have no idea what they are talking about. No doubt it was some anecdote from a drunken frat party a few years ago when the four of us were in university together. It’s easy to wax nostalgic about those days, now that all of us have real jobs in the real world. This entire road trip is really an attempt to recapture some of the magic of those days, though none of us would admit it.
Where the hell are we, anyway? We made it as far as Kelowna yesterday before Joe announced that we were all starting to stink and that we needed to find a hot shower pronto. Nobody argued, and I think we were all glad for the break and a rest. Steve’s 89 Tercel was a little small for us four guys.
But now we’re a half day further down the road, a half day I spent sleeping with my neck uncomfortably propped on my jacket as a pillow. Downing the rest of our lunches, we head back to the car. I notice a few signs on the way. Hope, BC. We aren’t far from Vancouver now. The plan is to spend a couple of days there, then head south to Seattle or Portland, maybe further. So long as we make it back to Calgary in ten days, it doesn’t really matter to any of us.
The lull of the engine and the gentle vibration of the vehicle as it reaches highway speeds make me realize how tired I am. I curl up as best I can on the sticky vinyl seat, and quickly fall fast asleep.
“Dave. Dave!”
“Mmmph?”
“Dude, you’re snoring. Wake up!”
“Mmph.”
My eyes finally blink open, just as Mike opens his mouth to say something. “‘Morning, sunshine! We’re just about at Hope, and we’re gonna stop for some lunch.”
“There’s a great little diner just off the main drag,” Joe chimes in. “You’ll love it – straight outta the 50s. Almost like it’s still stuck there.”
“Hey, wait a sec – You said Hope, right? I thought we left Hope already.”
“Dude, it’s only 11:30. We didn’t even leave Kelowna until 9:00. This pieceashit don’t move that fast.”
I guess it was a dream. Except why would I dream about a diner in Hope, BC? Maybe as I was dozing in the car I picked up on the guys talking about it. That must be it.
“So there’s this guy at the party. Don’t know who invited him, but there he was. Maybe he was crashing or somethin’,” said Joe, in between gulps of cheeseburger. “Anyways, he was about the saddest thing you ever saw. Clothes straight outta the 80s, and a mullet. I mean, come on, the mullet went out of style in what, 1986?”
“I’m not sure the mullet was ever in style.” Steve, ever the fashionista. “I never had one, thank god.”
“Well, I’m not sure the Tercel was ever in style, and certainly not in 1989,” quips Mike. He had never lived down his 3rd grade class picture, and it’s still a bit of a sore spot with him.
Everyone laughs, and Joe continues on with his story while the rest of us continue eating.
“So this guy, OK, nobody knew who he was. He looks around the party for a bit, then walks straight up to the most beautiful girl there, and straight out asks her for her number. She totally shuts him down, but undeterred, he turns and starts talking to one of her friends and asks her for her number. By this point, half the people at the party were just standing there, watching this guy. It was like a train wreck – you didn’t want to watch, but you couldn’t look away.”
“What did you just say?” I interject.
“Dude, haven’t you been listening? This guy was a total dork…”
“Yeah, I heard ya. That last bit, though. Whadja say about it bein’ like a train wreck?”
“Yeah, like a train wreck. Didn’t want to watch, but couldn’t look away. Come on, you must’ve heard that one before.”
“Oh, sure, I guess so.” My poor attempt at a cover fooled anyone, but nobody had the wherewithal to call me on it.
“Well, I’m stuffed”, says Joe, and follows it up with a loud belch as punctuation. Where he had time to eat with all his talking I’ll never know. “Let’s make like a shepherd and get the flock outta here.”
Lost in my own thoughts, I follow the rest of the crew back to the Tercel. Had it just been a dream?
Steve’s driving, and Mike’s flipping through tracks on the iPod, looking for something. Next thing I know, we’re all being assaulted with the opening guitar riff from Faster Kill Pussycat.
“Aw, come on, dude. Not again. We’ve already listened to this disc like three times this trip. You’ve got what, like, 12 gigs of music on that thing? Why not something else?” complains Joe.
“Cuz this is the shit! I bet this is what Madonna rocks out to when she cranks up her iPod.”
“Who cares what that tramp listens to?” retorts Joe.
“And how d’ya know she even owns an iPod?” asks Steve.
“Everyone knows that, stupid.”
The banter continues, but I’m not listening. I’m yawning. Why have I been sleeping so much lately? Oh well. Being well rested when we get to Vancouver is a good thing – these guys will want to party all night. So I doze off.
“Hey, Dave. Dave! Wake up, dude.”
I open my eyes and stretch, taking in my surroundings groggily.
“Hey, it’s still light out. We in Vancouver yet?”
“Does it look like we’re in Van?” asks Steve sarcastically, guesturing out the window. “We’re almost in Hope, and I’m starving. Everyone cool if we stop for some grub? I know a great little diner…”
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2006.04.09
Posted in Short Stories, Writing at 9:25 pm by Jeremiah Wittevrongel
It’s raining. At first, it started with a few drops, but those few drops quickly became a shower. It’s warm outside, and I really don’t mind. This isn’t a deluge; it’s one of those rains that seems to cleanse everything it touches. The city, the cars, even me.
It’s raining on a Sunday night, and the city is empty. There’s concrete everywhere, dripping and running with water, washing away all the sins of the daytime and the weekend, of the worker and the partier, the resident and the visitor. Washing away everything. What’s left is the city itself. My city. Even though there are people around, the city belongs to me. The skyscrapers, the empty C-Trains rumbling by, the traffic lights and crosswalks. All shimmering with water, and all mine.
The rain is dripping from my shaved head and my grinning face. My coarse beard is wet and somewhat itchy from the water, but I keep smiling. The rain feels good. My pants are getting wet, but my fleece jacket is keeping me warm enough and dry enough that I don’t really notice. My shoes look clean for the first time in weeks, the water beading up on the black leather. For a moment, I am the rain, and I feel happy.
I look up at the sky. The cloud cover stretches as far as I can see from down here, but it’s not foggy at all. Just a nice cool rain. The clouds glow with that peculiar orange glow that comes from the thousands upon thousands of city lights. That same orange glow that you can see from sixty miles away. That same orange glow I saw every cloudy night when I was growing up and lived outside the city.
I watch the rain in the streetlights, dancing and flickering and shining. I watch the rain in the puddles, dripping and splashing and beckoning. I hear the rain falling all around, drumming and gurgling and pinging.
I just want to keep walking, and for the rain to continue forever. But I’m home now. Still, the rain calls me with the irresistible lure of its siren song against my window, and it plays its undeniable tattoo on the streets below. I make a cup of hot chocolate and step onto the balcony, and lean over the railing. Watching the rain cleanse the city, my home, and my soul.
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2006.03.11
Posted in Short Stories, Writing at 11:17 am by Jeremiah Wittevrongel
Suddenly, I’m awake. The warm confusion of alcohol brushed aside by the cool air. Cool, but not cold; I’m dressed for it.
5 blocks and 22 stories. That’s how far I am from home. There’s a line of cabs waiting outside a bar. Ceili’s. No wait, the cabs are lined up for the bar next door. Last I checked it was 1:30. The bars will be closing soon.
I walk past the theatres. I would have been there earlier, but Dean had car trouble. The show will have to wait.
Now I’m walking past My Apartment. The dance club. It used to be Area 51, and it was Escape before that. At least I think it was. It’s hard to keep track. I wonder if it has changed at all inside.
4 blocks and 22 stories. A man runs past me. He’s talking on his cell phone. Loudly.
“I’m really tired. I’ll be there soon. Stay right where you are, Kate. I love you.”
3 blocks and 22 stories. The man runs up to a young woman, grabs her in a hug. She must be Kate. I hope she’s Kate. She jumps up, wraps her legs around the man. I doubt they realize anyone is around. I’m the only other person on the street.
When he called her, they were only half a block apart. He was speaking so loudly, I’m surprised she couldn’t hear him without the cell phone.
Happily reunited, they stumble into Ceili’s. No, this is the other Ceili’s. The one on 7th. It must almost be last call.
2 blocks and 22 stories. Kate and the man are gone now. I’m alone. The street is empty, but somehow warm and comforting.
I need to urinate. To save time, I cut diagonally across the parking lot. I wave my card at the sensor, but the door won’t unlock. Oh yeah. The sign. This door won’t be unlocked until 5:00. I haven’t come home this late in a while.
22 stories. The front door yields, thankfully. The lights in the elevator are all working. I can’t remember the last time that was true.
There’s a note under my door. “Yearly tenant file update.” Funny, I don’t remember getting a note like this last year. Not that it matters. I’m moving soon.
The warm air in my apartment catches me. I’m suddenly tired again. Goodnight.
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