Lone Rider

Recently I put a story called Lone Rider up at the Six Sentences social site. The theme is something different for me, but does it work?

The Swallows Came Back Today

The swallows came back today. I saw them as soon as I left my front door. I love to watch the swallows. They dive and whirl and seem to have so much fun. They don't care if you stand and watch them. Their colours are beautiful, if you can track one with your eyes for long enough to really see them. You might think they're a bit bland at first - just black and white - but they're not. Their feathers are black and white but also grey and silver in every shade.

I wonder what made them come back? Years ago, when they first appeared, I thought perhaps they migrated for the winter, but it's not that simple. There's no pattern to when they'll come or go. They might come three times in one year, or take three years between visits. Suddenly they are here, just a dozen or so at first. Over the next days and weeks their numbers will double again and again. Then their numbers will keep halving in the same way. One day - and I know it's coming even as I see the first of them flitting in the morning sun - they'll all be gone.

I can never be certain, once they've gone, that they'll ever come back. How can I? I don't know what brought them here, what will make them leave. It saddens me that their departure is so certain, while their return is so tentative. Even after twenty years, I still can't be sure.

While I walk, one of the swallows chases a small moth closely like a fighter plane. It banks left and right, up and down, intent on its prey. It almost brushes my face. I shout in surprise, and then laugh at the joy of it, and my own reaction. I look around, but everyone else on the street ignores me. They seem to be ignoring the swallows too.

I'm glad the swallows came back today. I'd like to tell Julie, my wife; she'd like to know. She loved the swallows, too. I don't know what made Julie come into my life either. I don't know why the cancer came to take her. But while I had her, I knew from the lesson of the swallows that, despite the joy we shared, her departure, one day, would be certain. It was sooner than I'd hoped, but later than it could have been.

Nine Clubs

The 3WW Wednesday words this week are heartache, jangle and reckless. A little scene for you:

We play bridge at a small square table in the corner of the staff room over lunch. The game starts when we have our four players. Today I'm partnered with Elka, a Polish woman from the art department. She irritates me in so many ways. Her jewellery is pretentious. She has dangly gold earrings and a golden necklace that looks like a dog chain. There are rings on each finger and countless bracelets on her arms that jangle every time she plays a card.

I could possibly tolerate Elka if she would just eat her lunch and play cards; but for her, this would be a waste of a captive audience. She imposes tales of hardship, misery and heartache on us. She is a perpetual whinger, who complains not only about the present, but also about every wrong committed against her, real or imagined, that she can remember or invent.

Elka is in fine form today, and I'm sick of it. I decide to provoke her further with a reckless bid to eight hearts. She drops her rambling and tells me to repeat my call; she's sure she can't have heard properly. Bob, on my left, doubles my bid. She is stunned now, and tries to rescue us to nine clubs.

The hand is unwinnable, but Elka is silent as she concentrates, trying to make something from nothing. Her pride forces her to fight to the death. I recover my smile as I get myself another cup of coffee and leave the staff room for the fresh spring air. Life's too short to keep playing a game you're not enjoying.

(Edit 28/10/2009: changed "heart properly" to "heard properly". Thanks Mattrozzi.)

The Fitter's Wisdom

The fitter struck the end of the coupling with the sledgehammer five or six times, forcing it further onto the shaft. Smoke came from the coupling: it had been heated to help it fit onto the shaft. The apprentice leaned forward with his measuring tape, then shook his head and said something. He moved back as the fitter started into the coupling again. Like a machine, they worked as one: hitting, measuring, moving.

Why, I wondered, had the fitter chosen the hammer instead of the tape? Perhaps he didn't trust the young man with the forceful delicateness of the task, or maybe he was venting the frustrations of working a week-long shift away from his wife and children. As I walked on, I understood the fitter's wisdom. An apprentice must learn to measure more than he must learn to strike.

The Joke's on You

I've posted a six-sentence story to the 6s Social Network called The Joke's on You. This was my response to a challenge by Dan to write a story along the lines of the familiar "A man walks into a bar..."

Your Optimism, My Faith

Tristan challenged me to write a short story demonstrating the difference between optimism and faith, as described by what has been called the "Stockdale Paradox", recorded by James C. Collins in Good to Great. See the wikipedia article on James Stockdale for more information.

Thanks to Tristan for pointing out the Stockdale Paradox to me: I hadn't heard of it. I gave this one a lot of thought, and I hope that this story meets the challenge.

I feel a need to note that like everything else on this blog, this is a work of fiction – even if it is written in the first person. I am not, and am not claiming to be, a bestselling author. My name's not John Percival anyway.


Your Optimism, My Faith
A young man approached me out of the airport crowd. He was about thirty years old, with black hair gelled into that messy, just out of bed style. I avoided eye contact until he said, "Excuse me."

I let my book drop a little from my face and turned to him. "Yes?" I said. "Can I help you."

"Sorry to just come up to you like this," he said, "but you are John Percival, aren't you?"

Even a bestselling author, such as myself, is really only a minor celebrity. A 'real' celebrity goes around in his own plane, chauffeured limousine and has his own bodyguards. He's mobbed by fans and paparazzi, but is equipped to deal with it. A minor celebrity like myself, is stuck in the middle. I drive my own car, take regular airline flights like everyone else, and go to the shops without a body guard. Fact is, most people don't know what author's look like, and ninety-nine percent of the time we don't look like the studio portrait on the dust jacket anyway. This time however, I was busted.

"Yes," I said. "As a matter of fact I am."

The man extended his hand, "I'm Nelson. Nelson Hogan; very pleased to meet you, John."

I shook Nelson's hand, and sat down next to me. I wasn't too surprised to be picket out of the crowd. I was in Australia launching my latest book, and it was already on the bestseller chart. I was due to appear on one of the network television breakfast shows in Sydney the next morning.

"I'm really glad to meet you," said Nelson, "because you're my role model".

I'd never heard this one before. "I love your latest book" was more common, followed by some unsolicited advice on how the plot might have been improved. All I managed to reply was, "Oh?"

"I've also written a novel myself and…"

He must have seen the fear in my eyes, because he quickly added, "Don't worry; I don't want you to read it or anything. I've started sending it to publishers. I've already had two rejection slips, but I'm really optimistic about getting it published soon."

"Really," I asked. I was intrigued, having been through the rejection slip phase myself. "What's the basis of your optimism, may I ask?"

"Of course you can ask, John," said Nelson. "You're the reason, actually, that I'm so optimistic. I read somewhere that you had fifty rejection slips from publishers and agents before your first novel was published. I just know that soon someone will say yes to me too."

I smiled, but without humour. There are few things as sincere yet totally ridiculous as unfounded optimism. It scares me. "Actually," I said, "I had fifty-two rejection notes. But tell me, why is the number of rejections that I got relevant to you?"

Nelson paused a moment, and ran his fingers through his hair. "I'm not saying my novel is in the same league as yours: I'm just saying that your optimism is my inspiration. Each time I send a letter or an extract to a publisher, I'm at home, expecting them to say yes."

"Can I give you some advice?" I said.

"Please!"

"Stop expecting them to say yes. Stop being that optimistic: it's insane."

Nelson's jaw dropped; literally. Some drool actually escaped down to his chin while he sat, unmoving.

I felt obliged to explain a little further. "It wasn't actually the first novel I wrote that got published," I said.

"What?" He reached with his hand and wiped away the drool.

"That's right," I said. "Once I sent that manuscript off to the first publisher, I starting writing my second novel. Then, whenever I got a rejection note, I sent the manuscript to the next publisher, or agent, and went straight back to writing."

"Why did you keep writing the second novel when the first one was getting rejected?"

"You haven't started writing your second one?"

"No," said Nelson, looking at the floor.

"Then why did you write the first one?" I asked.

"Because I like writing," he said. "I want to be a writer. I think I have a lot to say, I think I can entertain people. I like it. You must understand that."

"I do understand that, " I said. "Why then didn't you start writing your second novel?"

It didn't look like Nelson had given this much thought before. "I suppose I thought I'd better get the first one published. You know, to prove myself; show that I could do it."

"That's funny," I said. "You said you're very optimistic about getting your first novel published, but that you don't seem so optimistic about the second."

Nelson seemed to prefer to ask the question. "You were so optimistic about the publication of your first novel that you started writing your second one; is that right, John?"

"No, I wasn't optimistic at all," I said. "In the end, not being optimistic paid off. Once I finished my second novel, I thought it was a lot better than the first. So, I stopped sending the first one around, and started sending out the second one. And of course, I started on my third novel. That second novel I sent out was the first one I got published – with some major rewrites – by an editor that was willing to give me a go. My first novel stayed on the shelf, and then my third got published."

"He didn't publish your first one?"

"I never showed that editor my first novel," I said. "I wasn't optimistic – I was realistic. I faced the hard fact that fifty-three professionals in the publishing industry didn't think it would fly. Later, I picked up that manuscript again and had another read, and it was terrible! It's so bad; it's not worth rewriting."

Nelson spent a few moments contemplating. "So," he said. "You were realistic, rather than optimistic. What kept you going, then? Was it your love of writing?"

"It takes more than just a love of writing to put that much work in," I said. "What kept me going was my faith in my ability to write, and more importantly, my ability to learn to write better. I had faith that if I kept working at it, I would write something worthy of publication."

"Isn't your faith the same as my optimism?"

"No!" I said, a bit too loudly. Some of the other passengers gave us dirty looks. "No, there is a major difference. Your optimism has you at home expecting a call any moment from a publisher, begging you for the rights to publish your manuscript. My faith kept me writing, knowing that in the end I would get better, and would be published. Your optimism is going to get dashed one rejection at a time until it is completely ruined. You won't get half way to fifty-two rejections before that happens. My faith in my ability to become a better writer is completely independent of external influences. It continued through the time of the rejection letters, and it continues when fans, and even agents, try to tell me that now I'm perfect."

Nelson said nothing for a minute, but looked down at the heavily worn carpet. Then, very quietly, he said "I don't really see the difference. Faith or optimism: it's the same."

The lady speaking into the public address system announced that my flight was now boarding.

I turned to Nelson as I grabbed my bag and stood up. "Think through what I've said again; a lot. This is critical, not just to your writing career, but to your whole life. If you don't see the difference soon, you'll die of a broken heart."

Khloe after dark, crooked jaw and lifebelt

"Khloe after dark, crooked jaw and lifebelt", said Brett proudly, as he sat down at his desk.

Brett was often cryptic, but this blew my mind. I turned from my laptop and looked him in the eyes. "What?"

"Those," said Brett, pausing for effect, "are the three most popular Google searches for today."

I didn’t know where to begin. "Why?" I asked, hoping I wasn't making a mistake. Leaving the room could possibly have been a better option.

"Who knows why people search for stuff," said Brett. "It's driven by the Yanks mostly. They search for some sick and crazy things. The Indians too; and the Chinese. It's a population thing…"

"Stop," I said, raising both my hands. "Why are you telling me the three most popular Google searches for today?"

Brett gave that look he gives when he's very disappointed with me. Like a father who can't believe his son is such a simpleton. "For our blog," he said, slowly. "We want money from people clicking ads on our blog. Ergo, we need site traffic; ergo we need to appear on Google results."

"Ergo we need people to find our blog by searching 'Glow in the dark with a crooked jaw and a lifebelt?"

"Close." said Brett. "Khloe after dark, crooked jaw and lifebelt."

"Our blog is about short fiction and poetry," I said. "Those words and phrases have nothing to do with either."

Brett didn't let that stop him. Perhaps I should have tried harder to stop him myself. The damage is done, now. The ad revenue is improving, though. In six months I'll be able to buy a cup of coffee. Regular, of course; not large.

Wanted: Experienced Scaffolder

On my first day on the job, I was in awe of Jack Bier. He embodied that combination of skill and confidence – no, fearlessness – that made a scaffolder the king of the trades. I wanted to be like Jack: he would walk across a one foot wide beam ten stories above the ground, without even looking at his feet. In those days scaffolders didn't work from walkways and handrails – we worked from beams and girders – and blazed the trail of planks and walkways for others to follow. Jack stayed back for some overtime when I left for the pub, feeling on top of the world.

On my second day on the job, Bob, the foreman, showed me the pool of blood where Jack had landed on the ground. All it took was for his foot to slip on a fresh pigeon dropping. A few of the blokes saw him fall. Bob pointed out the beams that Jack had hit on the way down.

I felt sick, and spewed up breakfast onto the dirt; but Bob wasn't finished. He took me with him to visit Jack's wife with his final pay-cheque. Bob wanted me to learn something that day, and I did. Jack was an old generation scaffolder: skilful, fearless and a little cocky. I became one of the new generation. I don't disrespect Jack, or what he did; but, I don't think a man needs to die putting bread on the table.

Random Acts of Kindness

Nothing is as confusing as a random act of kindness. You lose your mental balance for a moment when, for no particular reason, a lady in the office walks past your desk and gives you a Mars bar. When someone lets you change lanes in a traffic jam just before the lights, long held beliefs in "cause and effect" and "I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine" lie shattered and redundant, even if only for a moment.

I used to think, for some reason, that these occasional random acts were about me. I assumed that despite me not being aware of any reason for someone being "nice", there must have always been some underlying reason within me anyway. Somehow, subconsciously, I must have exuded irresistible charm, leaving the other person overcome and unable to restrain their own generosity.

About a week ago I suddenly realised: it's about them. It's about their power to confuse. They use this potent power to throw others into a king of stupor, while being in complete control themselves. I realised that we all have this power, and are able to unleash it with a simple, undeserved, random act of kindness.

I was onto them, and decided to join them, immediately. My cousin Margaret - Marg to those who'll talk to her - hates the world and everyone in it. She is forever complaining about lots of things: from world politics to the fact that her knives are blunt, and her kitchen draws get stuck.

Marg doesn't lock the doors of her house - funny for a someone who thinks the world is out to get her - so I snuck into her house. I sharpened her knives, oiled her kitchen draws and all the doors and even fixed a leak in the toilet. I left Marg's house on a high, knowing that she wouldn't be able to figure out who or why these kindnesses had been bestowed upon her.

Apparently, Marg came home in a foul temper: something to do with a bad experience at the Woolworths checkout. She decided to get straight into cooking dinner, which involved chopping onions, which involved a knife. She keeps these in the second drawer. Marg wrenched hard on the drawer; which, being unexpectedly well oiled and jam-free flew out of the runners and across the kitchen. I heard later that it took her about ten minutes to get everything back into the drawer, and the drawer back onto the runners. It certainly didn't appear to help her mood.

By the time Marg was ready to use the knife on the onion, she was livid. I'm not sure exactly what her onion cutting technique is, or exactly how sharp I got those knives. What I can say, is I didn't realise that a simple kitchen knife, well sharpened, can cut a human finger clean off. Let alone two.

Anyway, the microsurgery went well, apparently, and Marg should be out of hospital within another few weeks. Needless to say, my random act of kindness remains a secret, and I've since arranged an alibi. Was my random act of kindness a failure, then? Good question. With the amount I've laughed just thinking about Marg, her drawer, her knife and her onion, I'm not sure I can call it a failure.

Checkout

Most of the checkouts have a line of overloaded trolleys behind them, guarded by the zoned-out, the frazzled, and the weary. Aisles one and two are labelled, "Express - 8 items or less". I have one item: a box of Panadol; and I'm keen to use it. I stand at the end of the queue for aisle one.

I glance over at aisle two, looking for confirmation that I made the right selection. The queues do seem roughly the same length, so I'm happy.

I decide that there must be a lot of variables that affect how long I'm going to have to wait here; it can't just be about queue length. I start checking out the baskets and bags of those ahead of me, and compare them those in aisle two. I'm soon convinced that the aisle one customers ahead of me have taken more liberties with the eight item restriction. Clearly, the eight item rule is not enforced; and without enforcement, there is no law.

I hold my box of Panadol as conspicuously as I can manage - without appearing to be a psychopath - in the hope that someone ahead of me will be filled with guilt, or compassion, or both, and let me in ahead of them. It has happened to me before; I'm sure. It doesn't happen now, though.

It seems that the other queue is shorter now. I'm about to step across when a woman with a wide rear end arrives. I decide to stay with aisle one; though I'm satisfied that her decision confirms my judgement: the other queue was shorter.

I stand waiting, beneath the glaring, slightly flickering, fluorescent lights, listening to inane elevator-style music interspersed by the occasional unintelligible garble of some announcement. For all I know, those messages could be pleas to evacuate the building because of bomb, a fire, or imminent structural collapse; there just isn't any way to know. I suppose that the tone of the voice - which is all I can make out - points more toward boredom than panic. None of the staff abandon their posts, so I stick it out.

I keep standing, and waiting. I think that my brain may be dying, and that my headache is just one of the symptoms. I've been drifting - not watching the checkouts properly - and as I look across at aisle two I almost swear aloud. The woman with the wide load is now the next to be served, yet there are still three people ahead of me in aisle one. Clearly another variable affecting waiting time exists that I failed to properly consider: operator speed. How did I miss that?

I need to re-evaluate my position. There are now another three people behind the large woman. I decide that it's still worth my while to change aisles. I complete the manoeuvre deftly, just making it into the other line ahead of an elderly man with some Polydent and generic brand aspirin. I look up to see the operator of my abandoned checkout glaring at me. It's only now that I notice she only has one arm. I suddenly feel very small; guilty, and dirty, even.

I want to go back to aisle one now, to make amends with the amputee lady, and show that I meant nothing personal by deserting her. It was observation, logic and reason that led me away; it wasn't about her, directly. Going back is the only solution.

I realise that I can't go back to aisle one. The greybeard with the dentures that I almost bowled over is on the end of the queue; and when I look sideways at him, I can see that he is looking sideways at me. Crazy old man. He'd think I was insane if I now went into the line behind him. I don't like people thinking I'm insane. He may think I'm stalking him; which would be worse. At least in aisle two I'll be out of the shop quicker now, no matter how bad I feel.

I stick with aisle two, and wait. Suddenly, out of the background music, the murmuring, and the beeping of the registers, I hear raised voices. I look up to see the woman with the large backside arguing with the checkout operator, who's no spring chicken. She's short and thin, and her hair has been rinsed purple. She's also certain that she was given a twenty-dollar note, but Mrs Largebottom insists it was a fifty. This could get ugly. I turn to check out the progress in aisle one as Miss Purplehead rings her bell for the supervisor.

The one-armed lady now has four more people in her queue. I turn to the other, non express aisles, and see a mass of trolleys, mothers and children. I'm about to cut my losses and go for aisle one when the music is again interrupted by an announcement which this time, I can understand. "Price check aisle one." No! Not aisle one!

The mild headache I came into the store with is becoming a living, exploding, thing. I toss the Panadol onto a counter-top display of bubble-gum and walk out the store, between aisles one and two, squeezing roughly between Mrs Largebottom and the man with The Price is Wrong. I only hope I have escaped in time, with my sanity still intact. I doubt it.

I'm a Farmer

"I was raised on a farm," I said, "as was my father, and his father before him. I never thought of doing nothing, but farming." I pulled my akubra hat down a little further over my eyes, emphasising my point. As I did so, I notice again how old and wrinkled my hand looks; it's an old man's hand.

"Fair enough," replied Tom, my visitor. Being from the church, I guess it was his job to be nice to me; no doubt he would try to convert me, sooner or later. If he was looking for money he was right out of luck, though. I didn't have fifty bucks to be swindled out of. Still, I didn't mind having a chat when I could spare the time.

I gave Tom another long, hard look. I wasn't sure how old he was - couldn't have been much over thirty. He was a bit on the heavy side, and his face was quite white and pasty. He was already getting sun burnt on his face and neck. He was a city boy who ate too much and didn't get out enough.

He asked, "So, is this the farm you grew up on?"

I laughed. "No," I said, "I grew up in the Darling Downs. When dad died, we sold up, and the money, for what it was, got carved up between me and my three brothers. Esme and I came out here in the eighties, to get our own place, nice and big."

"You must have done pretty well for yourself?" Tom said. He was making conversation I guess, and fishing a bit, but he clearly didn't have a clue.

I said, "Not so well, mate, not so well. The bank has finally foreclosed on us. They're selling this property in two weeks."

Tom wasn't sure what to make of it, and was quiet for a minute. I could here his brain ticking over. In the end, he asked, "Where are you off to?" Good an answer as any, I suppose.

"The sale price on this land should cover our mortgage and leave us with just enough to buy a small house in a small town. Haven't decided where."

"Really? You've been farming this property since the eighties, and that's all the money you'll make?"

"Uh-huh," I grunted at him. What the hell, I thought; may as well tell the lad a story. "I came here in 1982 and bought this place with a nice loan from the bank. Place was lush and green - there was a lot of money to be made running cattle through this country.

"Then, Esme gets pregnant with our first daughter. That was nice. Then we have drought. For those next four years, we had five inches of rain; in total. No grass for the cows, no money for hay. We lost a lot of stock."

"Wow," said Tom, scratching his foot in the dirt.

"Yeah, wow," I said. I didn't mean to be sarcastic; it just came out like that. "The first decent downpour we had, and our little four year old girl is terrified, because she's never seen rain. That was a good season. The grass came back, and the cows started to do well. Esme may have even smiled." I hadn't meant for it to get personal, I just haven't told anyone else before. I leaving soon, and probably wouldn't meet this man again. That made me want to talk more. Who wants to dump all there baggage on a friend?

Tom smiled at my story. He wasn't laughing at me, or anything. He smiled in a good way, like what happened to me meant something to him. "I guess it wasn't enough, that good season?" he asked.

I spat into the dirt. "No, it wasn't enough," I said. "Not even close. Another five years of drought, right after that. All our savings went into buying feed, or cattle, or food for the table. We got overdrafts on the mortgage. Nobody likes to beg, most of all me. And if you've got to beg, our bank manager's not the one you want to beg from."

Tom was looking away now; maybe he couldn't face me. Maybe he thought I was going to cry. I wasn't even sure that I wasn't. He put his finger right on it when he asked, "Those times must have been hard on Esme; you and her together."

Just thinking about it made me swear. I apologised to the reverend, but he said it was okay. I went on, "We fought like cats and dogs, usually over money. She'd buy something for Maria - our daughter - or for the house. God knows they both deserved it, but I was always just hoping, and hoping, that we could just last, you know, if we just tightened our belts. Pull through the hard times, and just keep going until the seasons came back, and the rain was good, and the grass was green, and the cattle got fat, and had lots of calves...

"But it didn't get better. In all those years Esme would have only gotten one, maybe two new dresses. Now, the house is run down. The carpet's worn out, the curtains are faded and the paint is peeling off the walls. She did real well, you know; but the fighting was like cancer between us. Bickering just became a part of life. We get on all right now, mostly, but I think she only stuck with me because she was stubborn. I'm sure she still loves me, in a kind of way, but you, know, something died between us in that last drought."

I felt like a smoke, but wasn't sure if Tom would be offended. Then I thought, stuff it; my hands were shaking. I took my smoke packet from my top pocket and lit one up. Then Tom asked me for one too, and I nearly fall over. We stood quietly for a while, smoking, until we'd both finished.

Eventually, Tom broke the silence. "I'm really sorry that I didn't get to meet you, and get to know you, sooner," he said, "before you had to leave. You know, I've only just arrived in the area..."

I cut him off. "There's nothing to be sorry about," I said. "You just arrived; I'm just leaving. That's what people do. Whatever happens, will happen." How many times have I told myself that?, I wondered.

Tom sighed, but nodded his head. "I appreciate you being so frank with me," he said. "I've certainly learnt a lot about the hardships of farming in just a few minutes; but, I've got one question."

"Shoot!" I said, turning to face him. I was surprised to see the redness in his eyes. The man sure was quick to feel pain that wasn't his.

"You've suffered so much from farming. Drought, losing money, losing stock, humiliation... the impact on your marriage; and I'm sure it all took some kind of toll on your children. Tell me, why did you do it? Why did you stick with farming through all those years, and through all the hardship?"

I smiled and laughed out loud. "That easy," I said. "It's all about the lifestyle. I wouldn't have given it up for anything in the world."