PLEASE NOTE: I changed the chapter titles to make this shorter. Chapter 1 used to comprise all the content in Chapters 1-3. Please pick up reading in Chapter 4 if you read the original.
Revision 2: Incorporated milo's notes and fixed the ambiguity over the parent's names. I decided to cut the original text just because it makes the post size a bit overwhelming.
Revision 3: Chris made some suggestions that helped clean up a few issues. I incorporated some of them. Thanks
Revision 4: Did quite a few fixes.
Revision 5: More show less tell, and more fixes
There were only two seasons in Bramble Point: green and dead. It should have been well into dead by now, but this humidity made Tyler feel dirty like he hadn't showered. A trickle of sweat rolled between his shoulder blades as he made his way down the uneven sidewalk. Didn’t fall imply that leaves should actually fall? It felt wrong somehow wishing that all the trees would die. Taken to that extreme, he supposed the town would suffocate. Which was what he was doing now breathing breath after superheated breath like the hissing radiator in his mom’s car.
The hot haze rising off the asphalt floated in his vision like a mirage. A better neighborhood might have tricked him into thinking that everything had a blurry, magical quality, but there was no transformation to be found. The homes were still all like his: boxy and modular, and there wasn’t one lawn in sight without patches of crabgrass.
He passed a few of the neighborhood watch sitting in squat, metal lawn chairs. They lifted beer cans to him in a laughing toast. At least they were staying in their yards today. No matter how bad it was, having middle-aged men walking the streets shirtless and potbellied would only make him reconsider the death of every tree. It was hard to believe it wasn't still summer. He couldn't help thinking this was going to be a sorry place to spend Halloween tomorrow.
Not that he’d meant to be here at all. He was supposed to spend the holiday with his dad Nick, but Sherry, Nick’s lounge waitress girlfriend, had had another one of her episodes.
They’d sat down together to eat spaghetti. He’d asked Sherry to pass the parmesan cheese. She’d picked it up, sprinkled some on her food, and then put it down, without once looking at him. He’d asked again, and she’d kept eating.
His dad had sighed and rubbed his temples. “Sherry,” he had said, “could you please pass the parmesan cheese?”
She’d looked up from her plate then with that Stepford Wives meets Village of the Damned smile of hers, and handed it to him. “Here you go, hon.” He’d taken it, and without a word passed it to Tyler. No one had spoken again while they ate.
His father finally put his fork down and patted his stomach. “I may need to loosen my belt after that meal.” Sherry had looked up from her plate and smiled. “Tyler, don’t you think that was a good meal Sherry made us? Hey, I’ve been thinking. It isn’t your usual time to visit, but I know we’d love to have you over for Halloween.”
Before he could respond there’d been a metallic clank. Sherry had dropped her fork onto her plate, stood, and began moving away from the table stiff and unfocused like a sleepwalker.
“Honey?” His dad had looked confused. He started to go after her and stopped. He reminded Tyler of a tightrope walker the way he stood there wavering.
She had left the room, a door slammed, and something fell to the floor with a thud. The noise, and probably the fact that there was a closed door between them had propelled his dad down the hallway.
Sherry had started moaning in soft sobs, and sounded like she needed to breathe into a paper bag or something. There were only so many “Please come out of the bathroom’s” his dad had in him though until he snuck back to the kitchen.
He yelled down the hall. “I’m taking him home. I’ll be right back.” There was no response, but Tyler couldn’t help noticing in the quiet that the crying had abruptly stopped.
As they drove, his dad had rolled his eyes, and apologized for her “hysterics”. That was the word he said. So, Tyler was unprepared for The Smile, which he’d only ever seen used on his mother, or Sherry, but there it was that crooked, stupid little smile. There was no point in listening to what came next. He tuned out the words, like they were a song on the radio he didn’t want to hear, and instead translated what was actually being said. It amounted to this: We’re not getting together for Halloween after all, because being with Sherry is only about a billion times more important than hanging out with you. Tyler had just nodded, what else could he do?
His dad could never keep his lies or excuses simple, he just had to keep going. That’s how Mom had caught onto Sherry in the first place. Tyler had let the words wash over him for the rest of the car ride, certain phrases rising to the surface. “You don’t get together with someone like Sherry so that she can have migraines… you’re getting older… you understand…”
When it was time to go. His father had given him one of those around the shoulder we’re too old to hug because we’re men hugs, called him sport, and punched him on the arm. What the hell did he think this was, Leave It to Beaver? Tyler had smirked, with Sherry that's probably exactly what he thought. Dad was hell bent on avoiding women that would drive him into hiding. After being married to Typhoon Tina, he was happy someone else was locking themselves in the bathroom.
These days, he had his own troubles with mom and Halloween. “It’s demonic,” she had said just last Sunday after church. Reminding him for maybe the tenth time in the last week, “Pastor Ray does say its Satan’s Holiday.” He wasn't sure if he even believed in God, and definitely not Pastor Ray's God. His God yelled a lot, and seemed pissed off at everyone--a lot like Pastor Ray himself. Mom had found God after Dad left, and for weeks she’d been dragging him to this church telling him how much fun he’d have at the First Assembly Harvest Festival and Lock-in.
He’d heard about Lock-ins from Toby Sullivan. Toby got stuck going last year. He said, “They trick you with pizza and rock-wall climbing, but what they really do is lay on the preaching.” What had really unnerved him was that most of the kids were chanting things on-and-off for about two hours like, “We Love Jesus. Yes We Do! We Love Jesus. How ‘Bout You?” He said, “It was like being in jail with some cult—and the pizza was Dominoes.” Dominoes!
He opened his front door to a burst of hot air. It was an oven in here making the outside seem cool by comparison. He often thought his mom must be part snake. Crossing the room to the air conditioner, he switched it on, and dialed it down to seventy-five. Hell, if they were going to have an argument anyway, he moved the dial down to seventy then slipped into the kitchen and grabbed a Fresca from the refrigerator, running the can slowly across his forehead before opening it and taking a drink.
Stepping back into the living room, he frowned at the old paint stained bed sheet stretched under an easel. His frown deepened at the blank canvas. His mother had been trying to be artistic again. Her sketch book was also open, balanced on the arm of the couch, next to a half-eaten tuna sandwich. There were some torn out pages crumpled on the floor. She hadn’t made much of anything since dad left, and with each day’s false start she moved progressively from simmer to boil. He stepped carefully around the clutter, angling toward his room. Years of being unnoticed had made him as quiet as a whisper.
His shirt stuck to his skin as he took it off, and used it as a towel to sort of dry himself. He wadded it into a ball, and counting down 3… 2… 1… made a jump shot at the hamper in the corner. The buzzer sounded: BZZZZZ. The game was… lost.
He opened his closet, and took a fresh blue t-shirt off the shelf. Pulling it on, he began sorting through his clothes considering his costume options for the thousandth time. Unfortunately, Dad also took his job with him when he left, so buying something was out of the question. He was too old to grab Mom’s sheet off the ground, cut two holes out for eyes, and go as Casper the Paint Splatter. Anyway, he needed to be a vampire this year. Michaela Winters thought vampires were sexy ever since Midnight came out, and that was good enough for him. He put his newly purchased plastic fangs in his mouth and snarled into the closet door mirror. He thought about wearing glitter like in the movie, but it was just too stupid. Vampires didn't sparkle, and anyway that’s a recipe for an ass kicking. He took his hand and brushed his too ordinary brown hair out of his eyes, willing it to be interesting—failing. There wasn't time or money to get a haircut. His mom would probably insist on cutting it for him if he brought it up. Shuddering, he turned back to the closet and began separating out anything black. Hearing footsteps coming down the hall, he quickly pocketed the fangs.
“Trying to put a costume together?” his mother asked.
Without turning he shrugged his shoulders and gave a low, noncommittal grunt.
“It did say costume optional on the release form for the Harvest Festival. You did turn in the release form, didn't you?” Not waiting for a response, she said, “I think a costume is a good idea. We don’t need to give up a day of the year to a counterfeit holiday—it just has to be the right type of costume. Oh, can you reach that?” She pointed to a sheet stacked on top of some folded towels on the upper shelf in the closet. Taking it from Tyler, she held it in front of him, shaping it in her hands like a toga. “There, you could go as David fighting Goliath. I could make you a sling out of some leather straps.”
“Mom!” He started backing away from her. David and Goliath? Great, just another reminder that he didn't take after Dad—he was barely taller than she was. At least he didn't inherit her freckles.
“You’re right,” she said, holding her hands up in surrender. “I’m sure a lot of kids will go as David. I know! What about Phineas? All we need is a spear. I told you about Phineas right? When the Israelites left Egypt, God told them not to be—she started to say something then changed her mind—sexually active with the Canaanites—”
“Mom!” He tried to will her to stop talking, stop talking.
“Sweetie, this is important. You've just turned fifteen, and I’m sure you’re discovering girls. You need to make the right life choices. I wish my mother had told me these sorts of things.”
“Maybe your mother had the right idea.” He turned away so he didn't have to look at her. It had been bad enough last year before her conversion. She had placed two condoms on the kitchen table, and then it kept getting worse. Dad wasn’t there to have the talk. He figured she’d read a book somewhere and was checking off items on a list: be responsible, you have urges, someone special. Then she had put one of the condoms on a banana to demonstrate. He shook his head. This year it was fornication, and abstinence, and Phineas will drive a spear through you—like that wasn't sexual. She was so embarrassing. She didn't have to worry though, he was abstinent by default—and it wasn't anything to be happy about.
There was a knock on the door. His mother let go of the sheet and turned to answer it. “Okay, okay, I’ll let you come up with your own ideas. Hormones have sure gotten you touchy.”
“It’s not hormones!” He threw the sheet into the closet. It was stupid to think he could put a costume together at home. He could just imagine sneaking away from the Lock-in and crashing Michaela’s party dressed as David.
Random Jerk: What’s that in your hand loser? Is that a jockstrap?
Me: It’s a sling.
Random Jerk: [Laughter] Looks small enough for you.
“Ally’s here,” his mom said from the living room. He could only hear one side of the conversation, as Ally’s louder voice was drowning out his mother’s.
“No thanks, Ms. Maltz, I had something to eat at home. Okay, Tina. No, no, really don’t go to any trouble. Um, I mean, yes, a cookie would be nice. Thank you.” Ally walked into his room shaking her head slightly, holding two chocolate chip cookies. “Your mother said to give you one.” She handed him both cookies. His mother always thought Ally was too thin. So every time she visited, she had to run the gauntlet of offered sandwiches, potato salads, and whatever else his mom had in the fridge. It wasn't that she didn't eat; she was just always in motion. Her body had a hard time containing its own energy.
She sat cross-legged on his bed now facing him, her blond hair peeking out beneath a baggy, green hoodie. “Your mom still giving you a hard time about Halloween?” Her smile was sympathetic.
He shrugged, “It isn't really about Halloween. It’s about my dad” He bit a cookie. “Sherry moved in with him last week.”
“They’re living together? I thought he said, he didn't want to be in a relationship.” She pulled the hoodie’s strings up and down.
“Yeah, I guess he just didn't want to be in a relationship with us.” Tyler brushed cookie crumbs off the bedspread onto the floor. “I think this church thing is a reaction. Mom’s trying to change—be someone else. She’s manic.”
Ally was absent-mindedly batting the model of the U.S.S. Abraham Lincoln with her right hand. It had hung from the ceiling since they first built it together when they were eight. The guns were crooked and the landing deck off-center. “Anyone might be manic when their marriage ends—anyway, all parents are manic.”
He told her about David and Goliath. “I need your help tomorrow.”
Revision 2: Incorporated milo's notes and fixed the ambiguity over the parent's names. I decided to cut the original text just because it makes the post size a bit overwhelming.
Revision 3: Chris made some suggestions that helped clean up a few issues. I incorporated some of them. Thanks
Revision 4: Did quite a few fixes.
Revision 5: More show less tell, and more fixes
Chapter 1
There were only two seasons in Bramble Point: green and dead. It should have been well into dead by now, but this humidity made Tyler feel dirty like he hadn't showered. A trickle of sweat rolled between his shoulder blades as he made his way down the uneven sidewalk. Didn’t fall imply that leaves should actually fall? It felt wrong somehow wishing that all the trees would die. Taken to that extreme, he supposed the town would suffocate. Which was what he was doing now breathing breath after superheated breath like the hissing radiator in his mom’s car.
The hot haze rising off the asphalt floated in his vision like a mirage. A better neighborhood might have tricked him into thinking that everything had a blurry, magical quality, but there was no transformation to be found. The homes were still all like his: boxy and modular, and there wasn’t one lawn in sight without patches of crabgrass.
He passed a few of the neighborhood watch sitting in squat, metal lawn chairs. They lifted beer cans to him in a laughing toast. At least they were staying in their yards today. No matter how bad it was, having middle-aged men walking the streets shirtless and potbellied would only make him reconsider the death of every tree. It was hard to believe it wasn't still summer. He couldn't help thinking this was going to be a sorry place to spend Halloween tomorrow.
Not that he’d meant to be here at all. He was supposed to spend the holiday with his dad Nick, but Sherry, Nick’s lounge waitress girlfriend, had had another one of her episodes.
#
They’d sat down together to eat spaghetti. He’d asked Sherry to pass the parmesan cheese. She’d picked it up, sprinkled some on her food, and then put it down, without once looking at him. He’d asked again, and she’d kept eating.
His dad had sighed and rubbed his temples. “Sherry,” he had said, “could you please pass the parmesan cheese?”
She’d looked up from her plate then with that Stepford Wives meets Village of the Damned smile of hers, and handed it to him. “Here you go, hon.” He’d taken it, and without a word passed it to Tyler. No one had spoken again while they ate.
His father finally put his fork down and patted his stomach. “I may need to loosen my belt after that meal.” Sherry had looked up from her plate and smiled. “Tyler, don’t you think that was a good meal Sherry made us? Hey, I’ve been thinking. It isn’t your usual time to visit, but I know we’d love to have you over for Halloween.”
Before he could respond there’d been a metallic clank. Sherry had dropped her fork onto her plate, stood, and began moving away from the table stiff and unfocused like a sleepwalker.
“Honey?” His dad had looked confused. He started to go after her and stopped. He reminded Tyler of a tightrope walker the way he stood there wavering.
She had left the room, a door slammed, and something fell to the floor with a thud. The noise, and probably the fact that there was a closed door between them had propelled his dad down the hallway.
Sherry had started moaning in soft sobs, and sounded like she needed to breathe into a paper bag or something. There were only so many “Please come out of the bathroom’s” his dad had in him though until he snuck back to the kitchen.
He yelled down the hall. “I’m taking him home. I’ll be right back.” There was no response, but Tyler couldn’t help noticing in the quiet that the crying had abruptly stopped.
As they drove, his dad had rolled his eyes, and apologized for her “hysterics”. That was the word he said. So, Tyler was unprepared for The Smile, which he’d only ever seen used on his mother, or Sherry, but there it was that crooked, stupid little smile. There was no point in listening to what came next. He tuned out the words, like they were a song on the radio he didn’t want to hear, and instead translated what was actually being said. It amounted to this: We’re not getting together for Halloween after all, because being with Sherry is only about a billion times more important than hanging out with you. Tyler had just nodded, what else could he do?
His dad could never keep his lies or excuses simple, he just had to keep going. That’s how Mom had caught onto Sherry in the first place. Tyler had let the words wash over him for the rest of the car ride, certain phrases rising to the surface. “You don’t get together with someone like Sherry so that she can have migraines… you’re getting older… you understand…”
When it was time to go. His father had given him one of those around the shoulder we’re too old to hug because we’re men hugs, called him sport, and punched him on the arm. What the hell did he think this was, Leave It to Beaver? Tyler had smirked, with Sherry that's probably exactly what he thought. Dad was hell bent on avoiding women that would drive him into hiding. After being married to Typhoon Tina, he was happy someone else was locking themselves in the bathroom.
#
These days, he had his own troubles with mom and Halloween. “It’s demonic,” she had said just last Sunday after church. Reminding him for maybe the tenth time in the last week, “Pastor Ray does say its Satan’s Holiday.” He wasn't sure if he even believed in God, and definitely not Pastor Ray's God. His God yelled a lot, and seemed pissed off at everyone--a lot like Pastor Ray himself. Mom had found God after Dad left, and for weeks she’d been dragging him to this church telling him how much fun he’d have at the First Assembly Harvest Festival and Lock-in.
He’d heard about Lock-ins from Toby Sullivan. Toby got stuck going last year. He said, “They trick you with pizza and rock-wall climbing, but what they really do is lay on the preaching.” What had really unnerved him was that most of the kids were chanting things on-and-off for about two hours like, “We Love Jesus. Yes We Do! We Love Jesus. How ‘Bout You?” He said, “It was like being in jail with some cult—and the pizza was Dominoes.” Dominoes!
He opened his front door to a burst of hot air. It was an oven in here making the outside seem cool by comparison. He often thought his mom must be part snake. Crossing the room to the air conditioner, he switched it on, and dialed it down to seventy-five. Hell, if they were going to have an argument anyway, he moved the dial down to seventy then slipped into the kitchen and grabbed a Fresca from the refrigerator, running the can slowly across his forehead before opening it and taking a drink.
Stepping back into the living room, he frowned at the old paint stained bed sheet stretched under an easel. His frown deepened at the blank canvas. His mother had been trying to be artistic again. Her sketch book was also open, balanced on the arm of the couch, next to a half-eaten tuna sandwich. There were some torn out pages crumpled on the floor. She hadn’t made much of anything since dad left, and with each day’s false start she moved progressively from simmer to boil. He stepped carefully around the clutter, angling toward his room. Years of being unnoticed had made him as quiet as a whisper.
His shirt stuck to his skin as he took it off, and used it as a towel to sort of dry himself. He wadded it into a ball, and counting down 3… 2… 1… made a jump shot at the hamper in the corner. The buzzer sounded: BZZZZZ. The game was… lost.
He opened his closet, and took a fresh blue t-shirt off the shelf. Pulling it on, he began sorting through his clothes considering his costume options for the thousandth time. Unfortunately, Dad also took his job with him when he left, so buying something was out of the question. He was too old to grab Mom’s sheet off the ground, cut two holes out for eyes, and go as Casper the Paint Splatter. Anyway, he needed to be a vampire this year. Michaela Winters thought vampires were sexy ever since Midnight came out, and that was good enough for him. He put his newly purchased plastic fangs in his mouth and snarled into the closet door mirror. He thought about wearing glitter like in the movie, but it was just too stupid. Vampires didn't sparkle, and anyway that’s a recipe for an ass kicking. He took his hand and brushed his too ordinary brown hair out of his eyes, willing it to be interesting—failing. There wasn't time or money to get a haircut. His mom would probably insist on cutting it for him if he brought it up. Shuddering, he turned back to the closet and began separating out anything black. Hearing footsteps coming down the hall, he quickly pocketed the fangs.
“Trying to put a costume together?” his mother asked.
Without turning he shrugged his shoulders and gave a low, noncommittal grunt.
“It did say costume optional on the release form for the Harvest Festival. You did turn in the release form, didn't you?” Not waiting for a response, she said, “I think a costume is a good idea. We don’t need to give up a day of the year to a counterfeit holiday—it just has to be the right type of costume. Oh, can you reach that?” She pointed to a sheet stacked on top of some folded towels on the upper shelf in the closet. Taking it from Tyler, she held it in front of him, shaping it in her hands like a toga. “There, you could go as David fighting Goliath. I could make you a sling out of some leather straps.”
“Mom!” He started backing away from her. David and Goliath? Great, just another reminder that he didn't take after Dad—he was barely taller than she was. At least he didn't inherit her freckles.
“You’re right,” she said, holding her hands up in surrender. “I’m sure a lot of kids will go as David. I know! What about Phineas? All we need is a spear. I told you about Phineas right? When the Israelites left Egypt, God told them not to be—she started to say something then changed her mind—sexually active with the Canaanites—”
“Mom!” He tried to will her to stop talking, stop talking.
“Sweetie, this is important. You've just turned fifteen, and I’m sure you’re discovering girls. You need to make the right life choices. I wish my mother had told me these sorts of things.”
“Maybe your mother had the right idea.” He turned away so he didn't have to look at her. It had been bad enough last year before her conversion. She had placed two condoms on the kitchen table, and then it kept getting worse. Dad wasn’t there to have the talk. He figured she’d read a book somewhere and was checking off items on a list: be responsible, you have urges, someone special. Then she had put one of the condoms on a banana to demonstrate. He shook his head. This year it was fornication, and abstinence, and Phineas will drive a spear through you—like that wasn't sexual. She was so embarrassing. She didn't have to worry though, he was abstinent by default—and it wasn't anything to be happy about.
There was a knock on the door. His mother let go of the sheet and turned to answer it. “Okay, okay, I’ll let you come up with your own ideas. Hormones have sure gotten you touchy.”
“It’s not hormones!” He threw the sheet into the closet. It was stupid to think he could put a costume together at home. He could just imagine sneaking away from the Lock-in and crashing Michaela’s party dressed as David.
Random Jerk: What’s that in your hand loser? Is that a jockstrap?
Me: It’s a sling.
Random Jerk: [Laughter] Looks small enough for you.
“Ally’s here,” his mom said from the living room. He could only hear one side of the conversation, as Ally’s louder voice was drowning out his mother’s.
“No thanks, Ms. Maltz, I had something to eat at home. Okay, Tina. No, no, really don’t go to any trouble. Um, I mean, yes, a cookie would be nice. Thank you.” Ally walked into his room shaking her head slightly, holding two chocolate chip cookies. “Your mother said to give you one.” She handed him both cookies. His mother always thought Ally was too thin. So every time she visited, she had to run the gauntlet of offered sandwiches, potato salads, and whatever else his mom had in the fridge. It wasn't that she didn't eat; she was just always in motion. Her body had a hard time containing its own energy.
She sat cross-legged on his bed now facing him, her blond hair peeking out beneath a baggy, green hoodie. “Your mom still giving you a hard time about Halloween?” Her smile was sympathetic.
He shrugged, “It isn't really about Halloween. It’s about my dad” He bit a cookie. “Sherry moved in with him last week.”
“They’re living together? I thought he said, he didn't want to be in a relationship.” She pulled the hoodie’s strings up and down.
“Yeah, I guess he just didn't want to be in a relationship with us.” Tyler brushed cookie crumbs off the bedspread onto the floor. “I think this church thing is a reaction. Mom’s trying to change—be someone else. She’s manic.”
Ally was absent-mindedly batting the model of the U.S.S. Abraham Lincoln with her right hand. It had hung from the ceiling since they first built it together when they were eight. The guns were crooked and the landing deck off-center. “Anyone might be manic when their marriage ends—anyway, all parents are manic.”
He told her about David and Goliath. “I need your help tomorrow.”
#
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
