JRT

I heard many memorable things this weekend, this being one of the best:

"It's as tender as the night is long."

New Short Story

Red Sweater

It was Christmas time, which meant one of many things at the Harding house; red and blue lights neatly decorated the shutters hiding the dead leaves of fall.

Scot Harding, twenty seven, dressed warmly and with a multicolored scarf wrapped around his neck, stood on the front porch holding two large bags of presents. He was motionless, letting the snow puddle on his recently cleaned jacket as he simply stared to the front door.

“It’s your house,” Ruth said. “You going to knock, or go in?” Scott turned. Ruth stood two feet behind him. Her face was wrapped up in a scarf, a solid black, and her jacket was so thick it made it difficult to see what she actually looked like. Scott then smiled and kissed the top of Ruth’s left cheek, the only exposed skin he could find. He knocked on the door.

Inside, three small children ran to Scott and grabbed hold of his legs.

“Uncle Scott!” they all said, and they jumped up and down, trying to reach the bags of presents now held high above their heads.

“Not until tomorrow, little munchkins,” Scott said. And they laughed and yelled and continued to run in circles. One of the children, a little girl who was clearly the oldest, slowly walked to Ruth, one tiny step after the other.

“Hi, Ruth,” the little girl said. And there was silence. Ruth unwrapped her scarf, exposing her tanned skin and sharp features. She then bent down and lifted the little girl up into her arms.

“Well, the prince is home!” Scott's father said, now walking to the front door. He was bald, with a similar figure to Scott, once you added thirty pounds. He hugged Scott, and then kissed Ruth on her left cheek.

“You’re the last ones,” the father said. He then patted his round belly, covered with a red sweater, the same sweater he wore every Christmas.

In the living room, more people spread out on fluffy couches and chairs, forming a neat circle around a large Christmas tree and fire place. When Scott and Ruth entered, however, everyone stood. They clapped, smiled, and gave either a handshake or kiss.

“The artist is home!” Scott’s older brother said, and he patted Scott’s back. He too wore a red sweater.

With that, babies cried, children laughed, and adults talked, forming a cloud of sound that settled on top of the room. Scott simply smiled and looked all around. A fire blazed, giving warmth to the house, the Christmas tree flickered, and over a dozen handmade stockings covered with intricate designs of stars and snowflakes hung from a nearby shelf. On top of the shelf were pictures, all of which were of the family in this room. Some of the pictures were from Christmas’s before this, with the same people smiling and kissing and shaking hands like they were doing today.

A camera flash went off in the background.

“Is that my baby?” a voice said. Scott turned and saw his mother standing in the doorway of the kitchen. He had seen her in this exact position so many times in his life; only her age kept changing.

Scott walked to her. The room became quiet, and even the babies knew to stop crying. Ruth stood next to Scott’s father, watching every move.

“Hi, Mom,” Scott said, and they slowly hugged. The mother’s face now rested against Scott’s chest, for she was more than a foot shorter than him. She then looked up, smiled, and wiped a tear from her right cheek.

“I knew you’d be wearing the scarf I made,” she said.


Dinner was served in the dining room, which was reserved for occasion only such as this. Christmas plates and Christmas cups were at each place setting, filled with beautiful food and drinks enjoyed by the entire family, tightly packed into the large room.

Scott sat next to Ruth in the middle of the table, surrounded by children. Scott’s mother sat directly across from Scott, smiling, silently listening to the conversations. And Scott’s father was at the head, continually chewing his food and nodding his bald head.

“They just don’t understand the process,” Scott’s brother said, sitting just to the right of his father. “Brokers and agents do the same type of work, but brokers are licensed, they manage their own estates. Agents have to work with brokers. They provide their services on a contract.”

Scott’s father chewed his food and nodded his bald head.

“So the broker pays the agent a portion of the commission earned from the sale,” Scott’s sister in-law said. She had a baby on her lap, which she fed with a bottle as she occasionally ate and added sporadic bits of a dialogue.

“Just move back from across town,” Scott’s sister said. “That’s all we care about real estate.” She too had a baby on her lap.

“We’re only 50 minutes away,” Scott’s brother said.

“Yeah, but that baby is going to need cousins to play with soon,” Scott’s sister said. “You want to drive 50 minutes back and forth for play dates?” The children then laughed and made messes of their food, while Scott’s mother smiled and stared all around the table, at each of her children and grandchildren.

“I want more monster paintings!” one of Scott’s nephews said, covered with red spaghetti sauce. Turkey was served for dinner, but the children each had special meals based on their very specific taste restrictions.

“A monster painting?” Scott’s sister said.

“Like the one Uncle Scott made!” Scott’s nephew said. “I want a new one with new monsters!”

And the children laughed louder. They raised their arms, yelled, and a baby started to cry.

“Well, Uncle,” Scott’s sister said. “Could we get another masterpiece?”

“Of course,” Scott’s mother said. “Scott can paint anything! It’s always perfect.” She smiled, blushed, and Ruth took hold of Scott’s hand.

“How’s all that stuff going, anyway,” Scott’s brother said. “The…painting?”

“Wonderful, I’m sure,” Scott’s mother said. “Every time people come over they say how amazing your work is.”

Scott’s brother smiled. He looked at his wife and nodded his head, which was beginning to bald just like his fathers. Everyone was now quiet, waiting for Scott to speak, who took a large sip of water from his Christmas cup and awkwardly smiled.

“Everything is the best it’s ever been,” Scott said. The mother sighed, and Scott moved Ruth’s hand up to the table, showing everyone that he was holding it.

“Well, I was going to wait for tomorrow,” Scott said. “But…” And there was a long pause. He stared at Ruth. Scott’s mother closed her eyes.

“I’m pregnant,” Ruth said, and after the shortest pause imaginable, everyone cheered. More handshakes and more kisses. The women, still holding their babies, quickly moved to Ruth and began asking dozens of questions and staring at her belly, one of the few appropriate times to ever do this. And the men all moved to Scott and firmly shook his hand, which is what men always did in situations like this.

“When did you find out?” Scott’s father said to the room.

“Just three weeks ago,” Ruth said. “We wanted to tell everyone together.” And there was more celebrating. The long table was now empty, covered with half eaten food.

“Good for you, little brother,” Scott’s brother said. “This is what you needed.” He patted Scott’s back and then walked over to Ruth. Everyone now surrounded her, allowing Scott to stare at his entire family, at all the familiar faces he had watched age over the years. And it was then he noticed his mother was gone, the only person not celebrating. Scott slowly backed away from the room, letting the cheers echo behind him, until he reached the living room and saw his mother sitting alone on a fluffy couch. She wasn’t staring at the Christmas tree or fire place, however, but at a large painting Scott had given her six years earlier, which hung on a side wall.

“Mom?” Scott said.

And she was silent, completely still, continuing to look up at the painting.

“Are you okay, Mom?” More silence. Scott moved to her side and saw her face, expressionless like the dead.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Scott said. He paused. He stared back and forth between his mother and the hallway leading back to the dining room. “But I’m going to start taking classes again,” Scott said. “I’ll find something better to take care of us.”

Scott moved closer, though he never sat down. “And I’ve already been saving for a ring.”

Scott’s mother suddenly sighed. She smiled, but kept facing the painting, listening to the familiar cheers still playing in the background.

“You were supposed to be different,” the mother said.

And there was a pause. Scott opened his mouth, but only exhaled. He then stared out of a side window, at another house in the distance with blue and red lights neatly decorating its shutters.

New Month/ New Book

So I've started writing a new book! (Well, I stared seven months ago...Exciting, I know). Anyway, I'm hoping to have it finished by the end of the month, so I thought now would be a good time to share the first few pages. Because...why the hell not!?!? Enjoy the weekend!


Mordecai, Jim

I kissed my palm and placed it against the metal of the plane.

“Thank you for flying with us,” a stewardess said. She watched me lower my hand and then scratch the back of my freshly shaved head. She smiled, and I noticed her lipstick was pink, not a typical red.

“It’s superstition,” I said. “Always kiss the plane when you get off.”

The stewardess laughed, and her large breasts shook.

“Lucky plane.”

I walked down the runway. People passed me on both sides and brushed against my body and my large duffle bag. Anywhere else it would feel uncomfortable to make this much physical contact with complete strangers, but here it felt oddly safe to do so, and I slowed my pace.

“You kill people,” a voice said. I looked down and saw a boy no older than five years old, or at least I thought. He looked up, but I only saw part of his face due to an oversized baseball cap that hung loose around his scalp.

“Thomas,” a woman said. She lifted the boy and forced his face into her neck.

“I’m sorry. It’s just the news.” She waited for my response, and I exhaled and stopped walking, causing a small clutter of traffic to form behind me as the woman walked into the distance holding her boy.

When I reached the airport I expected to watch dozens of travelers reunite with loved ones. A husband away on business kisses his wife, a daughter away in the Peace Corps hugs her father, but there was nothing. Airport security no longer allows passengers to greet the outside world when they first exit their plane, leaving the light at the end of the runway tunnel to be more human traffic.

I took a step forward. My duffle bag felt heavy.

Two hours later I stood fifteen yards away from x-ray machines and metal detectors. On the other side of them was a place I knew nothing about, and more importantly had no security constantly patrolling on makeshift golf carts to assure my safety. I watched people exit the airport and people enter. For the people entering, they took off their shoes, their belts, and anything else that could possibly cause a threat. For the people exiting, they left with no inspection.

I scratched the back of my freshly shaved head.

“Hey,” a voice said. “You in the army?”

I turned and saw a man sitting at a table outside of a bar. His placement made him seem disconnected to the other drinkers lined up on their stools, but he clearly belonged.

“Not officially,” I said. And I looked down at my camouflage pants and grey t-shirt. The word ARMY was written across it in large, capital letters.

The man smiled.

“Want to join me?”

“I’m waiting for someone.”

“You’ve been waiting for an hour.”

“You’ve been watching me?”

“I’ve been watching you.”

And the man sipped his drink, light brown liquid with three ice cubes bobbing up and down, fighting with one another to stay afloat.

“What are you worried about?” the man said. “No one has weapons here.”

He stood and I fully saw his maroon suit and large red bow tie. The outfit was clean, but worn, making it difficult to tell whether he was old fashioned, rich, or off. I walked closer to his table, and then turned back to security.

Dozens of beltless people, men with guns.

“This isn’t a small town, no one’s going to peak over the crowd and greet you…unless maybe it’s a girl.”

I remained still, and I watched an old woman have the outside of her upper left thigh rubbed after three failed attempts of passing through the metal detector.

“No girl,” I said. And behind me I felt a smile. I felt sweat bubble up on my arms, and I heard a chair slide away from the man’s table.


I sat and held my hands together. I had nowhere else to put them.

“A drink?”

“I’m fine.”

“If you don’t want a drink, then why did you sit down?”

The man raised his arm and winked. I was unsure what these gestures meant, but regardless a waiter soon came with a glass of light brown liquid. He slid it towards me, leaving a wet line that clearly divided the table.

“Would you rather a beer?”

“This is fine.”

“Knew you were a classy kid.”

And the man smiled and swallowed his drink whole, taking him less than two seconds. He emptied the ice cubes into his mouth and sucked his cheeks in, squeezing his lips to a bright red, not a typical pink.

“So, how old are you? Twenty five or twenty six?”

“Twenty four.”

He laughed and tilted his face up, revealing his large Adam’s apple, dancing with each breath.

“And how old are you?”

“How old do you think?”

“I’m bad with ages, don’t want to insult you.”

“If you’re bad, then guess.”

The man smiled and rested his chin on the bridge of his two connecting hands. He leaned in and I tightly gripped my glass; light brown liquid with no ice cubes.

I turned. At the bar was a woman with a large plate of nachos in front of her. She wasn’t eating her food, just staring down at it. By the men’s bathroom was a janitor. He bent down, picked up a dollar bill, and cautiously put it into his pocket. And on a nearby chair, right next to the man’s chair, was a bag with a red belt resting on it.

I paused.

“Why didn’t you put your belt back on?”

“My belt?”

I gestured at the chair.

“After you went through security, why didn’t you put it back on?”

“I did.”

“Then why is it on your bag?”

“Because I took it off again.”

The man bit down his teeth, and I heard an ice cube crush inside of his mouth.

“I’m forty seven years old, you know. Four dash seven, and I’ve been flying my whole life. Been on six continents, thirty five countries, and have flown around the earth probably a dozen times if you add the miles.”

A small bead of sweat formed on the man’s cheek. He quickly wiped it away.

“But you still don’t like flying?”

“Classy kid.”

And the man squirmed in his chair, noticing security and random people aimlessly moving by. Still no travelers reuniting with their loved ones, just traffic and traffic.

“I love flying,” I said. “People like saying how screwed up everything is, but when you’re in a plane it shows we can do something right.”

The man opened his mouth, yawning, a silent scream, and I separated my hands.

“Sitting in a chair thousands of feet in the sky.”

“So you’re an optimist?”

“I just like flying.”

And I took my first sip, closed my eyes, and felt light brown liquid burn my throat and kill any words trying to escape past my clenched teeth. I reopened them and the man leaned into the table, much closer than before. He reached for my glass and swallowed the liquid whole, taking him less than one second.

“Always need to drink before I get on the plane.”

“Superstition,” I said. And the man was silent. He raised his arm and flicked his wrist, more gestures I didn’t understand, and a waiter came over holding another drink. The man aggressively took it, causing it to spill on his hands and suit, which he licked off, absorbing every lost drop back into his body. He then stared at me.

“You know that feeling you get when you lean back in your chair,” the man said. “And you almost fall over but you catch yourself right before you tip.” He leaned back. “That’s what flying makes me feel like.”

The man raised his glass, saluting nothing, and he admired a drop of liquid sliding down to his fingers.

“But this makes it better. Instead of making me feel like I’m about to fall, I just feel like I’m already falling, and falling isn’t scary. Standing on the edge of a cliff is scary. Flying in a plane is scary. But if you can find something that makes everything seem like it’s already falling, then nothing is falling. Get it?”

I scratched the back of my freshly shaved head. The man wobbled.

“Like if I jump off a building, but everything around me jumps off too and is falling at the same speed, than nothing is going down. If everything is together, then everything is still. No place to crash.” Sweat layered on the man’s forehead, and he leaned back farther, allowing me to see the inside of his suit jacket.

There were brown stains on the inside.

“Alcohol makes you feel like that?”

“Alcohol!” The man leaned forward, causing the chair to hit the ground with a bang. People at the bar stared in our direction, and fifteen feet away a security guard drove by on a makeshift golf cart.

“You think alcohol can do that? Make you feel that good?” The man wiped his forehead, laughed, and panted. He hit his hands on the table, hard enough so my glass danced with each blow. He then raised his arm, much higher than the previous times, and leaned in so our faces were only inches apart. He smiled, and then slowly brought his hand down, whistling, making it seem like a falling bomb; a falling plane. When his hand touched the table he shook and made explosion noises, which quickly turned into uncontrollable laughter. Thicker beads of sweat now layered his forehead and cheeks, growing larger and dripping to his red bow tie.

“Security isn’t that good here,” the man said. “Trust me!”

I quickly stood and knocked over my chair. I picked up my duffle bag and walked to the exit, to the x-ray machines, to the metal detectors, and to an unknown world. Though with each step I still heard the man’s laughter and screams that echoed off my back.

“Usually I would have put my hand on your thigh. But you’re too cute. With a head like a fresh, green grape!”