Not Quite The Beginning - Part 2

Carter grimaced when he saw the number. Pushing the side button on his phone, the call disappeared from view but remained in his mind. Could it have really been 3 years? Leaves crunched under his feet as Carter cut through the small park toward his dreary apartment building. The wind nipped at his exposed skin and forewarned the coming cold front and autumn storm. Trash littered the worn stoop of the old brick building before him. Dropping his shoulder to push open the heavy door, Carter doubted himself. Did you really think he wouldn't show up? Come calling as soon as he was out? You know him and you know he'll never change. But can't I change, he thought, arguing with himself.

After he had climbed the four flights to his one bedroom apartment and set down his bag, Carter's phone vibrated against his thigh. The accompanying tinny ringtone stopped when he pushed the talk button.

"Carter Hamilton, it's about time you picked up," Jackson's familiar voice said. "You really gonna leave an old pal like me hanging?"

"Jackson," Carter said, "how are you doing?"

"What do you mean, 'How am I doing'? How would you be after breathing free air for the first time in 3 years? I'm fucking fantastic. Glad to be out of that concrete shithole."

"I can imagine," Carter replied. Specks of dust drifted through the air in front of him, catching the evening light.

"Well now, no you can't, can you?" Jackson spat. "You weren't caught. Weren't even arrested or talked to, if I remember correctly," he added. Carter stopped pacing. Seconds ticked by. "But, let's not rehash the past. A new leaf and all that bullshit." Carter heard the squelch of a train through the phone.

"What can I do for you?" he asked. Unease twisted through his stomach, as he waited for the words he knew would come.

"I've got a job," Jackson replied. "And I could use your services." Carter felt bile seep into his throat.

"Jackson," Carter began, "I don't know if I ca-"

"You shut it. Stop right there," Jackson interrupted. "I don't want to hear a thing. Not one word. I knew you'd go soft with me gone. You never had a damn backbone." Carter closed his eyes and willed himself to say something, anything. "I don't know what you don't understand. You're the alarm guy. That's it. You deal with all the electronic crap, cutting your wires, and I handle everything else. Stealing ain't exactly a complex science."

"You don't understa-" Carter stuttered.

"No," He said. "Just meet me in an hour at the old diner on 23rd. I could use some real food." And with that, Carter heard the line go dead.

Not Quite The Beginning

As they ran, the alarm slowly faded behind them. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen, Carter thought. He and Jackson darted through the alley, their footfalls heavy and loud on the uneven concrete. No one was supposed to be there. No one was supposed to get hurt. Rounding the corner, Carter saw the flashing lights of police cars. He felt grief well inside him, the ocean of inevitability pulling him into the undertow. Jackson, struggling to keep up, gained ground as Carter stepped from the alley and abruptly stopped at the edge of the road. The wail of the police sirens grew as it bounced from the empty buildings. 

The first of the black and white cars whipped around the corner. Knocking Carter to the side as he ran past, Jackson darted into the street. Carter felt the world slow as the cruiser's brakes locked into a skid. The bumper clipped Jackson's legs at the knee and bounced his body off the hood. He flew forward into the air. His face hit the pavement with a wet slap. The bones in his neck cracked with a hollow pop. Carter stared, aghast.

"Sir!" The policeman yelled, as he jumped from the car. "Sir, are you alright?"

Blood seeped into the cracked cement. Carter looked up and saw police cars surrounding the area. He looked to the growing crowd of policemen.

"What happened?" a patrolman asked.

"Is that the suspect?" another said, motioning to Jackson's lifeless body. The officers looked to Carter. Their faces wore concern beneath the flashing red and blue lights. The sirens had ceased, giving way to disturbing silence.

"Sir, what did you see? Do you know this man?" the original officer asked. Carter looked to them in disbelief. He realized how the scene must look to the policemen. They don't know what happened, he thought. Jackson's dead eyes looked through him from the street. Carter felt a heavy weight creep into his stomach. The tar brewing inside grew thicker as he paused, choking to keep it down.

Taking a shuddered breath, Carter began to speak.

Nothing But The Rain

Throughout my life, my hobbies and interests have widely varied. I can remember devouring everything I could about ancient Egypt and dinosaurs in elementary school. This transitioned to drawing and sketching to playing percussion which lead to freestyle biking to golf to learning the guitar. My unending desire for knowledge and the revolving door of activities that engaged me have both given me countless experiences. The changing focus resulted from my starting something new, tearing through it as fast as I could until I felt I had a good handle on it, then being stolen away by something else. Fortunately, the spoils of my sporadic nature have never completely abandoned me when I seemingly ditched them. I love riding my bike when I get the chance, obviously still draw and sketch, occasionally hit the links with my friends, and maintain a prehistoric presence in my life (Winston, duh).

Certain passions, however, have endured throughout my life. One of my greatest can best be described as a love of the story. Since Kindergarten, I have loved to read and have been drawn in by books and stories. From Dr. Seuss to The Boxcar Children and Goosebumps to Scottish detectives, a perpetually walking man, and a sprawling epic, this has grown throughout my years and manifested most obviously in my studying English in college. Yet, my interest in stories has never been confined to just the written word, bound and printed. Movies, TV shows, plays, musicals, bands? They can all show the complex weave of human interactions and emotion. And I love it, being more than willing to commit and dedicate bits of my elusive free time (namely whenever I can't hang out with my wife/friends and my brain can no longer handle studying).

An interesting addition began during college. Rather than merely taking in the stories, I began to produce my own, writing fiction, first for a writing class and then for fun. Much to my chagrin, the time-sinks of life and medical school stopped any continual creative progress. This fact has been sitting my mind, gnawing at my post-central somatosensory gyrus (not really- I'm just in the Brain/Behavior module right now). Throughout the day, I'll imagine bits of scenes, shadows of characters, and inevitably think I should write a story with this. Considering the frequency of my blog updates, you can imagine my success rate (hint: dismal).

Because of this, and in an effort to change it, I'm going to try and write- short stories, scenes, chunks of dialog- and probably post them here. Will these be complete stories? Good stories? Worth reading? I honestly don't know. As any writer or would-be-writer will tell you: writing is hard. It's work; it's tough; but, I think it might be worth it.

In closing: what are some of your favorite stories? Personal stories, books, movies, TV shows, anything. Feel free to post away, if you're out there.



Until next time.

A Severe Lack of Free Time