serveitup61
08-03-2012, 12:32 AM
Hey guys, this is a little something I wrote not too long ago that I'm looking to fix up and do something with. Please give me any kind of input, I could use some constructive critiques. Thanks for taking the time to check it out! P.S. the title is bad, so please suggest a new one, if you feel compelled.
-Theo
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
YOU'RE A HERO, MR. SAM [1280 words]
The hot wind blows Sam’s hair wildly, and sweat trickles from his forehead, to his cheek to his chin. He wipes it away with the back of his shaking hand, which he then wipes on his pant leg. He looks down once again at the rushing waters below him, thinking it would be easy, far too easy to jump.
The rocks, he thinks to himself, the rocks would break my fall. Lots of rocks.
His mind is moving just as wildly as the wind that envelops and caresses and sweeps around him.
I’m going to, he thinks, now. Yes. Now.
In the background of everything happening in his mind, Sam’s car door is open and it’s making a Ding, Ding, Ding noise that won’t stop. It’s just dinging, dinging, but Sam doesn’t notice with the wind and the water and the mind moving at a thousand miles an hour.
He takes a single step up to the guardrail, causing his heart to flutter and pound madly. The heat makes breathing hard, and the breathing makes his heart flutter more.
Simple, he thinks to himself, it’s just so damn simple. The answer. The only answer.
His foot finds the top of the guardrail, and he has every intention of doing it.
Ding, Ding, Ding.
He wipes away more sweat, and then takes a step back.
No, he thinks to himself, not today. Later maybe, yes, absolutely. But today, no.
A car passes Sam on the bridge as he walks back to his car, gets in, and drives away.
Sam finds himself behind the checkout counter in his usual spot. He eats boiled peanuts, one by one, and his hands shake as he brings them to his mouth. His mind has calmed down in the past few hours from dealing with customers in the station and cleaning up but all he can really think is that he should have done it when he was on the bridge.
His eyes flit between the security monitor and the boarded up window and the odd-looking customers in the store.
Every single customer that enters the store looks at the boarded up window and asks the same exact question.
What happened?
A break-in.
When?
Last night.
Did they steal anything?
All of it. Broke the window with a propane tank and took everything. Every last dime.
I’ll take an extra pack of cigarettes. If it will help.
Sure.
And charge me for Pump 8, please.
Sam doesn’t want any pity. He just wants to clean up the glass and get a new window so customers will stop asking him. Every time they ask him that question all he can think about is the propane tank coming, like slow motion, colliding with the window and bursting through the glass. The shower of glass cascading around him is so real, so real in his memory.
His hands have been shaking since. He brings another boiled peanut to his mouth.
After the glass fell a blur of things happened and Sam can’t fully make distinctions between different events. There were guns, and men yelling, saying Get down, get down. On the floor. Stay there. And there was a woman, a customer, screaming and crying in the drink aisle who kept saying that she was sorry. She was talking to God, Sam thought, but who knows. She also was telling the men to stay back and that she was innocent and Don’t touch me, don’t touch me.
Then there was Sam picking himself up out of the glass, then helping the woman customer up who was screaming before but had long since stopped. He wrapped her in the blanket he kept in the back and sat with her in the drink aisle and waited with shaking hands.
Then there were the hours and hours of questions with the police, and the investigators who were touching everything. Sam was afraid they would steal things but, well, it didn’t really matter now, he supposed. A paramedic lady wrapped his hands with gauze and they shook the entire time she did it.
Sam is lost in thought, thinking that he should have done it while he was on the bridge, when a customer interrupts, wanting to buy something.
Hi Sam.
Hi Frank.
I’m on Pump 2. And give me a pouch of cavendish.
Flavor?
Cinnamon.
Sam’s eyes flit between the security monitors and the customer’s eyes.
Eyes tell it all, he thinks to himself, they tell all there is to be said.
Sam can see in the customer’s eyes that he is going to ask about the break-in.
Is everything all right today Sam? You know, with everything last night. The whole town heard and they’re sorry.
Did the town tell you that?
Yes, no, well, people are talking. Everybody knows. How do you feel?
Embarrassed, maybe.
Your hands are shaking.
Nah.
Is there anything I can do to help?
No.
I’m sure. Alright. But don’t be embarrassed. It wasn’t even fair—four to one, and guns—not fair at all.
It’s embarrassing.
Goodbye Sam.
Take care, Frank.
For hours, Sam stands in his usual spot behind the counter at the gas station, just breathing in and out of his big nose; the air bristling his comically thick mustache. Sometimes customers come in, and he knows most of them and they all want to talk about it. Most of the time, though, the shop is empty and he reflects on last night and being at the bridge and how he should have done it.
After a long lull, when night is beginning to come along, a customer bursts waddling into the store faster than the propane tank. She is a woman, early twenties, maybe, holding her rounded stomach, hollering and wailing.
Why, he thinks to himself, why me?
A wet stain is running down the woman’s pant leg. Sam hesitates, sighs, and rushing around the counter to help her.
The woman cries as he guides her to lie down on the couch he has in the office in the back.
Blankets, he thinks to himself, I need blankets.
All he knows of this process is what he’s seen on television.
He tells her to breathe. She breathes.
Like this, he tells her, Phoo, Phoo, Phoo, Phoo.
He tells her to push, but he doesn’t know when she should be pushing.
This has always seemed much easier on television.
She tells him contractions are three to five minutes apart from one another. She should be pushing during that time, she says.
He tells her when to push and she is saying she can’t, she can’t.
You can, he tells her, you must.
She is screaming and pushing and Sam can see it after so long.
It’s coming, he tells her.
He knows to support the head, so he does. Supporting the head allows the cervix to open, and the rest of the body can follow through the opening. After a while he is able to support more than just the head and the rest of the body begins to come out.
Push once more, he tells her, one more good one.
Sam finds himself holding the thing, and he is wrapping it in warm blankets and wiping its face off while its mother leans her head backs and pants and sighs, exhausted. She tells him to tie off the umbilical cord with a string. The doctors will take care of it at the hospital.
After a few minutes of resting she lifts her head up to look at her new creation.
Her eyes meet Sam’s.
Eyes tell it all, he thinks to himself.
You’re a hero, her eyes tell him, you’re a real hero.
-Theo
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
YOU'RE A HERO, MR. SAM [1280 words]
The hot wind blows Sam’s hair wildly, and sweat trickles from his forehead, to his cheek to his chin. He wipes it away with the back of his shaking hand, which he then wipes on his pant leg. He looks down once again at the rushing waters below him, thinking it would be easy, far too easy to jump.
The rocks, he thinks to himself, the rocks would break my fall. Lots of rocks.
His mind is moving just as wildly as the wind that envelops and caresses and sweeps around him.
I’m going to, he thinks, now. Yes. Now.
In the background of everything happening in his mind, Sam’s car door is open and it’s making a Ding, Ding, Ding noise that won’t stop. It’s just dinging, dinging, but Sam doesn’t notice with the wind and the water and the mind moving at a thousand miles an hour.
He takes a single step up to the guardrail, causing his heart to flutter and pound madly. The heat makes breathing hard, and the breathing makes his heart flutter more.
Simple, he thinks to himself, it’s just so damn simple. The answer. The only answer.
His foot finds the top of the guardrail, and he has every intention of doing it.
Ding, Ding, Ding.
He wipes away more sweat, and then takes a step back.
No, he thinks to himself, not today. Later maybe, yes, absolutely. But today, no.
A car passes Sam on the bridge as he walks back to his car, gets in, and drives away.
Sam finds himself behind the checkout counter in his usual spot. He eats boiled peanuts, one by one, and his hands shake as he brings them to his mouth. His mind has calmed down in the past few hours from dealing with customers in the station and cleaning up but all he can really think is that he should have done it when he was on the bridge.
His eyes flit between the security monitor and the boarded up window and the odd-looking customers in the store.
Every single customer that enters the store looks at the boarded up window and asks the same exact question.
What happened?
A break-in.
When?
Last night.
Did they steal anything?
All of it. Broke the window with a propane tank and took everything. Every last dime.
I’ll take an extra pack of cigarettes. If it will help.
Sure.
And charge me for Pump 8, please.
Sam doesn’t want any pity. He just wants to clean up the glass and get a new window so customers will stop asking him. Every time they ask him that question all he can think about is the propane tank coming, like slow motion, colliding with the window and bursting through the glass. The shower of glass cascading around him is so real, so real in his memory.
His hands have been shaking since. He brings another boiled peanut to his mouth.
After the glass fell a blur of things happened and Sam can’t fully make distinctions between different events. There were guns, and men yelling, saying Get down, get down. On the floor. Stay there. And there was a woman, a customer, screaming and crying in the drink aisle who kept saying that she was sorry. She was talking to God, Sam thought, but who knows. She also was telling the men to stay back and that she was innocent and Don’t touch me, don’t touch me.
Then there was Sam picking himself up out of the glass, then helping the woman customer up who was screaming before but had long since stopped. He wrapped her in the blanket he kept in the back and sat with her in the drink aisle and waited with shaking hands.
Then there were the hours and hours of questions with the police, and the investigators who were touching everything. Sam was afraid they would steal things but, well, it didn’t really matter now, he supposed. A paramedic lady wrapped his hands with gauze and they shook the entire time she did it.
Sam is lost in thought, thinking that he should have done it while he was on the bridge, when a customer interrupts, wanting to buy something.
Hi Sam.
Hi Frank.
I’m on Pump 2. And give me a pouch of cavendish.
Flavor?
Cinnamon.
Sam’s eyes flit between the security monitors and the customer’s eyes.
Eyes tell it all, he thinks to himself, they tell all there is to be said.
Sam can see in the customer’s eyes that he is going to ask about the break-in.
Is everything all right today Sam? You know, with everything last night. The whole town heard and they’re sorry.
Did the town tell you that?
Yes, no, well, people are talking. Everybody knows. How do you feel?
Embarrassed, maybe.
Your hands are shaking.
Nah.
Is there anything I can do to help?
No.
I’m sure. Alright. But don’t be embarrassed. It wasn’t even fair—four to one, and guns—not fair at all.
It’s embarrassing.
Goodbye Sam.
Take care, Frank.
For hours, Sam stands in his usual spot behind the counter at the gas station, just breathing in and out of his big nose; the air bristling his comically thick mustache. Sometimes customers come in, and he knows most of them and they all want to talk about it. Most of the time, though, the shop is empty and he reflects on last night and being at the bridge and how he should have done it.
After a long lull, when night is beginning to come along, a customer bursts waddling into the store faster than the propane tank. She is a woman, early twenties, maybe, holding her rounded stomach, hollering and wailing.
Why, he thinks to himself, why me?
A wet stain is running down the woman’s pant leg. Sam hesitates, sighs, and rushing around the counter to help her.
The woman cries as he guides her to lie down on the couch he has in the office in the back.
Blankets, he thinks to himself, I need blankets.
All he knows of this process is what he’s seen on television.
He tells her to breathe. She breathes.
Like this, he tells her, Phoo, Phoo, Phoo, Phoo.
He tells her to push, but he doesn’t know when she should be pushing.
This has always seemed much easier on television.
She tells him contractions are three to five minutes apart from one another. She should be pushing during that time, she says.
He tells her when to push and she is saying she can’t, she can’t.
You can, he tells her, you must.
She is screaming and pushing and Sam can see it after so long.
It’s coming, he tells her.
He knows to support the head, so he does. Supporting the head allows the cervix to open, and the rest of the body can follow through the opening. After a while he is able to support more than just the head and the rest of the body begins to come out.
Push once more, he tells her, one more good one.
Sam finds himself holding the thing, and he is wrapping it in warm blankets and wiping its face off while its mother leans her head backs and pants and sighs, exhausted. She tells him to tie off the umbilical cord with a string. The doctors will take care of it at the hospital.
After a few minutes of resting she lifts her head up to look at her new creation.
Her eyes meet Sam’s.
Eyes tell it all, he thinks to himself.
You’re a hero, her eyes tell him, you’re a real hero.