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The Dive
January 4, 2007 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, novels, Poetry, reading, Short stories, Stories, Suicide, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Accident, Crime, Epiphany, Guilt, Justice, Performance | by davidbdale | 8 comments
It was an admirable dive, technically haphazard but stylish, like good slam verse, and confident, despite daunting conditions, including absence-of-a-swimming-pool. The diver who launched himself from the concrete median was not in olympic shape. In a formless black coat and boots, he crafted a smooth arc of surprising fluency (and at the top of this architectural wonder he was scribing with his body—is that the apogee?—he caught my eye with a look so direct it lashed me to the mast of my inadequacy like a judgment) but slammed headlong into the tangential but irrefutable momentum of my not theoretical car. He hadn’t stumbled; he had dived. He hit my car hard. What had I done? I had observed. Because, really, what truth is served by saying I hit him? My safe path was predetermined to collide with his suicidal one, is all. The inevitable occurred. It’s ironic. You spend your life gaming the language and one day you realize—all right, it rear-ends you—that your game is not the essential game. The court calls celebratory toasts intoxicants. Juvenile follies cluster into constellations cops call Priors. The sketch on the police report shows the intersection of our fates, but the district attorney is using bigger paper in all directions. Her diagram includes neighborhoods of my youth, a shot grouping of misdemeanors and minor felonies, and marginal warnings of mayhem should I return to the highways undeterred. I asked about character witnesses, but my lawyer says Forget it, nobody’s witnessed any character. She’s hilarious. Of course I don’t blame the diver; once he launched his body carward, only I had brakes. I failed to undo the future before it could happen. That’s on me. But I ask you, didn’t destiny make two victims when it suicided us both?
Copyright © January 04, 2007
My Eulogy
December 26, 2006 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, Music, Poetry, reading, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Monologue, Performance, Rhetoric, Speech | by davidbdale | 10 comments
Dearly beloved, and others, we gather today with heavy hearts to mourn the passing of a cherished individual, me. The greatest loss, of course, is mine, but each of you are also now diminished, unless you hold collateral for what I owe you. Lying here mute with my jaws wired shut, I’m still the whole show, a loss you’ll not soon recover from, and it saddens me to take away the better part of you. The current fashion in funerals is a joyous celebration, but I prefer ritual groaning to sappy remembrances, so rend some garments. In order of magnitude, starting with me, we have each of us suffered a devastating loss, for I was father, husband, brother, son (most of those accidentally), cousin, grandson, nephew (no one asked if I wanted to be), a felon, an adulterer, an unnamed co-conspirator, the boss from hell, a karaoke singer, and the author of a will that should infuriate everyone it names. A complete list would require depositions. The deceased was infamous for the roles he played and for his ruthlessness: with creditors, with other men’s wives, with the mostly-female choir that will sing here tonight. I loved you all, not just your voices. But oh, what delicious backing those voices provided for mine. By way of closing let me say, in relationships with every man of consequence, an urgent intimacy needs to be petted and fed or it will jump the fence and flee to the woods. In my case, it was my dog, who I will truly miss. Dear friends, I was more to you than you knew; and you, to me, were parts that blended with mine. It won’t be much of a requiem without me singing, but do your best. You can blame your performance on grief.
Copyright © December 26, 2006
Very Short Novels 