I Hear the Bells

I've resisted the urge to update as I've been the in throes of first trimester. So unless you want to continually hear about how much I hate (HATE) being pregnant, best I keep it zipped for a while. School has been difficult in that I've seemed to have lost the passion for it that I once had (i.e. I've lost the energy to maintain that passion). So it was my final reading day (and you know how much I LOVE to read my stories out loud. Ahem, not at all). It's the night before and I haven't written a thing, haven't even picked out a prompt to mentally mull over, to digest as I drive around and shop and live. I'm at stage one. I vomited up something, deciding I'd edit it it Wednesday (day of class) while at work. I spent maybe two hours tops on this piece. My professor hasn't been a fan of my stuff so far and my classmates haven't been too keen on it either. Looking back, I think I've been more focused on the prompt than the potential story to manifest. I went into class bashful and a little nauseous, thinking I was going to get reamed for my poorly written story. Wonder upon wonder, couldn't have gotten a better review, and as I'm leaving the classroom, the professor says, "Really great job. If you're still interested in grad school, revise the story a little and add it to your portfolio".
I walked out slightly dazed and confused and feeling just a tenth of the elation that I would normally feel. At least I felt some of it--which is incredible since I've been feeling a whole lot of nothing other than fatigue with a dash of despair. The lesson learned from this is that I'm still a writer, even when pregnant, even when I don't care (well, I still care a little), even when I'm frazzled, even when there is nothing in the world that makes me feel normal. It's nice to know I'm still in there. Somewhere.

Here's the story for your reading pleasure. My two-hour creation.

“Destroyed”

               Twenty minutes ago, Augustus Spooler would have considered himself to be a very fortunate man. After just finishing a very precise and costly demolition, his pockets were fat from payday and his machines freshly washed. With the help of his foreman, Gerald, he unloaded his equipment from his flatbed truck, locking them securely in the outdoor garage. He waved goodbye and walked eagerly across the open field towards his house, unusually dark in the distance. His wife, Maggie, should be home and he looked forward to seeing her, to telling her about his day, to hearing her laugh and watching the dark hair fall across her face.

               The grass was tall and needed cutting. It left bits of clinging seeds to his pants. The wooden gate creaked loudly as he passed through it, into his yard. Nights like tonight, Augustus Spooler liked to stop and succumb in awe of his life, to marvel at the two things he built instead of destroyed: his marriage and his house. But any feelings of sentimentality left him suddenly. The sky was black and his house was still. He wondered where Maggie was with an impending queasiness.

Twenty minutes ago, Augustus Spooler was excited to tell her about the news he received today. He was going to be on the cover of Demolition Magazine. They’d sent an interviewer out to cover the tricky demo of a dilapidated, historic hotel and to ask him questions about his life. He told them he was a destructive boy, fueled more by curiosity than ill-intent. He told them a story about how, when he was six months old, he kicked the wooded bars right out of his crib, cracking them down the seams. He told them about how, in tenth grade, he took a science experiment a bit too far and ended up blowing up his parent’s garage. Yes, Augustus Spooler had a knack for destruction. He was renowned for it.

The ram-shackled hotel was sandwiched between two brand-new multi-million dollar condos. Augustus watched it fall with pride, leaving nothing more than a dusty film on the neighboring beveled glass. It was no surprise to anyone that Augustus Spooler became a demolition man. All the curiosity, all the nervous energy channeled into the proper way to knock down a building. Once harnessed, he had the skill to carefully craft the most perfectly executed annihilation. He ended the interview by talking about Maggie, the only women he ever met that intrigued him more than the blooming smoke of collapsing buildings.

He was surprised to find the back door locked. He jiggled the handle, looked through the window, but Maggie wasn’t in the kitchen. He pulled the keys from the side of his stiff coveralls and let himself in. He left his hard hat on the kitchen table and opened his mouth to call out to her, but his voice escaped him.  He frowned at familiar jacket hanging on the back of the kitchen chair. He was strangely unmoved as the reality dawned on him. He had suspected for a while, the truth finally confirmed by the trail of mixed discarded clothes that led up the stairs, towards the bedroom.

He walked outside, still dusty from work, his goggles still clipped to the inside of his shirt. In the garage closest to his house, he found what he was looking for, it’s engine still warm from being unloaded. It was like second nature to Augustus, his hand cupping the perfectly round knob, probably, he thought absently, very similar to the way the man upstairs might be cupping his wife’s breast.

Twenty minutes ago, Augustus Spooler would have considered himself a sane man.  But now, elevated in the tall machine, he could see their shadows in the yellow lamp light as he slowly made his way across the field, towards the house. He could see her clearly as he drew near, watching with a detached fascination, his wife post-coital with the neighbor that she’d been sleeping with for months. Her dark hair was pulled back, out of her face. She was sweating, smiling, oblivious, content.

He had never considered what it would feel like to be leveled, to empathize with the buildings he took pride in reducing. He himself was shaking on his very foundation, feeling the windows of his reality breaking, shattering. His own walls were quaking, crumbling. His life reduced to rubble in a matter of moments. Yes, Augustus Spooler had a knack for destruction, but he had never once, before now, been destroyed. Pulling back the knob, he twisted the level and let the steel ball fly right into the heart of their bedroom.