Plain, Blank, and Lovely

Plain, Blank, and Lovely

by Patrick Shand

He felt as if he were walking across a blank white sheet of paper.

The snow covered everything, there was no traffic, and most stores were closed. It was that strange mix of beautiful and terribly dangerous. He walked past an old man shoveling snow in front of his house while a wiry haired woman yelled for him to stop, that it was useless, that it was just going to keep on coming down.

Soon the old man and his wife were in the distance, and the only sound that the walker heard was the muffled whistle of the wind. He kept walking.

He’d been crunching through the thick whiteness for an hour, and he was halfway there. His nose was red, made raw by the wind, and his socks were soaked through from snow that had crept over the top of his boots.

He didn’t mind much. He let the fat flakes collect on his shoulders as he carved a path down the winding street. Normally, there would be cars zipping up and down, eight lanes of traffic. Everyone else was home.

He was going somewhere.

Normally, it wasn’t that bad of a journey, but his car was back at the apartment where he kept his few possessions. Everything he owned was squeezed into a little box of a space, but he didn’t mind. He had something else, somewhere else, and he’d be there soon.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he didn’t want to stop walking. His teeth were chattering, and it was colder when he paused. The text, which he’d forget about until hours later, was from a friend who he’d made plans with that afternoon. He’d forgotten. The friend, a lovely girl named Sarah, was at his empty apartment, wondering why he’d left. It wasn’t safe.

He concentrated on the road in front of him. It was getting harder to tell the difference between the sky and the ground, but he knew he’d get there in time if he kept his face forward and his eyes focused.

He didn’t want to stop, but his arms were starting to lose feeling. He came across a fast food restaurant, where a plain woman stood behind the counter, bored, playing on her phone. It was the only place he’d seen open. He wondered how she was getting home. If she’d be staying there overnight.

“Can I help you?” she asked, but the question she seemed to be asking was more along the lines of “Are you insane?”

“I’d like a medium fries.” In truth, what he really would have liked was a large fries, but he only had two dollar bills in his wallet.

She gave him the fries on a tray, but he plucked them off and made his way to the door.

“Sir?” she called after him.

He paused, looking back. He was too young to be called “sir” by this woman, who couldn’t have been much younger than him, but he realized that to her, he was just a jacket, a scarf, and an exceptionally red nose. He looked at the woman, deciding that she was plain in a very good, very nice way.

“Stay here awhile,” she said. “Please. Just sit out here. We have a radio in the back, I could, like, bring it out here. Just… it’s kind of not safe out there.” She pulled nervously at her collar.

He smiled at her, but all she could see was a slight shift under his scarf. “I’m okay,” he said, and then he left.

He unzipped his jacket and put the hot box of fries in his shirt before zipping it back up. Warmth beat into his chest for two blocks before the greasy potatoes, like his feet and hands and arms and legs before, succumbed to the cold.

But it was okay.

He was almost there.

He closed his eyes and walked the rest of the way. He knew the route by heart, and there wasn’t any danger of him being hit by a car.

His feet tingling, as if anticipating the warmth inside, he climbed the steps to the doorway. The doorbell glowed orange when he pressed it.

Hardly daring to open his eyes, he waited, his chapped, white lips parted, fog coming out of his mouth in thick clouds. The door opened and she looked at him.

He opened his eyes. Blond hair framed a too skinny face, in which two dark, surprised eyes were held. She was wearing a thing, long sleeved shirt with pajama bottoms and bright green socks. She always had interesting socks. She stared at him blankly.

“Hey,” he said, but his voice sounded nothing it usually did.

“Um. Hi. How’d you get… you walked here?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “I told you I would.”

“What? When?” She tapped her finger against the door. She shivered. A breeze was coming into the house.

“Last night,” he said. “On the phone. You said that if it snows as bad as they were saying, we’d have our own personal snow day. I said I’d love that.”

She looked at him, her confused expression breaking into something else.

“Your phone wasn’t on, so I figured—”

“I forgot to charge it after you called,” she said. “It died.”

“I figured I’d just come. I didn’t want you to think I forgot.”

Her mouth moved, but no words came out. She was reaching for something to say, but her mind was as blank as the white canvas outside that stretched in all directions.

He felt the cold box of fries scratch against his chest when he took a step back. He remembered the girl who offered him a place to sit, and he wished he’d taken it. He wished he was the kind of guy who would have thought to take it.

“I can’t really…” she said. “I… ah. The people across the street are coming over for dinner. I’d invite you, but—”

“No, I understand,” he said. He didn’t.

“—but they, you know,” she said. He didn’t.

“Okay,” he said, turning around, walking back. His footsteps were now just tiny dimples in the snow. He did his best to match every one.

She took a step out of the house, hugging herself, shivering. She was freezing. He turned around and looked at her.

The wind hurled flakes at them sideways, the snow tossing and turning in the air.

“Can I call you after?” she said. “I think we need to talk.”

He nodded, but the movement was lost in his hood, scarf, and jacket. He left.

He walked back across the blank white sheet of paper, this time with less purpose. Slower. He checked his phone and saw the text from lovely Sarah, his good friend. She was already back in her apartment, two floors over his. He stuffed the phone in his pocket and kept walking.

When he came to the fast food restaurant, he peered in through the fogged windows and saw the plain, nice girl inside sitting on top of the counter, crumpling up napkins and throwing them across the room at the garbage can. He watched her miss three times and score once.

He thought about going inside and sitting with the plain, nice girl. Maybe even seeing if he could get a balled up napkin into the trash. But he couldn’t. He had somewhere to be.

He had to be home in time for her call.

He kept on walking across the blank, white, nothing.

New York Comic-Con

It's something to behold.

What Does Han Solo Have in Common with Lil' Wayne?

Seems as if Weezy is channeling Han in his new song.

Besiegement!

Today is the third to last day of production on a feature film I starred in, wrote, and directed with Steven Wisnowski. It's called "Besiegement!" and it's a kung-fu /slacker /bromantic /gangsta /romantic /office /action-comedy.

Yes.

Many trailers to come. For now, you can follow our updates here.

The Misadventures of Olive Sukkin

Sometimes, things happen.

In early 2009, my play Soft Serve was accepted into the Shhh... Let's Talk About Sex festival of plays. When I came to attend the festival, I met producer Kimberlyn Crawford.

In mid 2009, I attended my friend Dennis A. Allen's play, Real Estate. Kimberlyn also attended. We spoke, and she said she was working on a festival for women playwrights.

As a very politically correct man, I thought "that's wonderful." In a darker, more prominent fold of my brain, I thought, "Nah, fuck that, I'm writing a play and sending it to her."

Sometimes, following dark impulses can get you to decent places.

Kimberlyn and I had a bunch of meetings, the play I sent was reworked, and... Well, in short, so far, we've had two staged readings of The Misadventures of Olive Sukkin and a full production is in the works.

Now, I'm just waiting to hear more details. Wish the production luck.

Here's the site.

http://olivesukkin.com/olivesukkin.comb.html

Angel: Last Night (short comic)

I already posted this on my other blog, where I review Buffy, Angel, and Spike comics. I'm going to be going back to that blog for reviews soon, because I'm super behind, but right now my own writing is taking precedent. As it should be, seeing that I'm, you know, doing this as a career and all.

Here's a short comic that I wrote, Angel: Last Night, that ties into my favorite comic series of all time, Angel: After the Fall. It takes place during #16, between the moments of Angel's death and W&H returning Los Angeles to normal.

Open publication - Free publishing - More webcomic

Now, I'm re-posting this because of how awesome the reaction has been. I want to write for IDW's ANGEL series more than anything else, and... well, look at the reactions from www.slayalive.com alone

PAUL: "Normally I hate fan fic, it's usually so amateurish and indulgent. But this actually feels like it could potentially be a "deleted scene" from the actual series. In fact, shame on you Brian for not thinking of it first. I was complaining in another thread recently about how I'd wanted Doyle to be in AtF, this comes pretty close to filling that wish."

THE GIRL IN QUESTION: "I thought your dialogue was pretty on-point. Actually, juist like others have said, it felt like it really oculd have been a scene right out of ATF. Me likey. Me give you karma."

WYNDAM: "This was great, Pat.

One of my favorite aspects from the show was whenever Angel would find inspiration and renewed purpose from those closest to him, and you created one of those scenes that also fits perfectly in the context of AtF's story, and reminds me why Angel is my favorite series.

The artist is great. I like the abstract style and the expressions on their faces really sell the scene.

Awesome stuff, and I hope to see more."

Much, much more ANGEL stuff to come in the future.

NOTE TO NON-ANGEL FANS

Now, non-Angel fans. I bet you're sorta scratching your heads. Well, stop. You're getting head particles all over my blog. I'll give you a bit of a summary of what happened before, so you can understand all of this.

Also, c'mon, watch the fucking show. It's brilliant.

Angel is a vampire with a soul. He fights evil with a group of friends, some of whom (Doyle, Cordelia, and Fred, for example) have died in the never ending battle. We on the same page?

Now, a prophecy was made that Angel would play a pivotal role in the apocalypse and, for his efforts, be rewarded with humanity.

On the sucky-for-him side, a demonic organization, Wolfram & Hart, has made it their mission statement to make life Hell for Angel. When Angel rebels against them, they decided to get literal and send Angel, his friends, and, yes, his entire city (LA) to Hell. They turn Angel into a human so that he can't save his friends. One of his friends, Gunn, gets turned into a vampire.

Now, that is when Angel: After the Fall starts. It's revealed that the aforementioned prophecy really means that Angel will play a role for EVIL in the apocalypse, and that Wolfram & Hart, despite their actions, want to at least keep him alive for this. Angel realizes that the only way to set things back, to get out of Hell, is to die. That way, Wolfram & Hart will have to send them to the last moment they were in reality... before Hell. This takes place between his death and the return.

NOTE: The image used for this blog post was also done by ANGEL: LAST NIGHT artist, Pablo Praino.

Carnies in ♥

This short story was published in The Molloy Student Literary Magazine- Volume 2 (Fall 2008).

The magazine was once called The Molloy College Literary Journal, taking submissions from teachers, students, and even writers who didn't attend the college. The Spring 2008 issue was the first that restricted submissions to students only, in order to showcase the current talent at the college.

Three volumes have been published to date. Volume 4, which features my short story "Montage" will be published in Fall 2010.

Carnies in ♥

by Patrick Shand

Dave.

The name sounded so clear in my mind. So right for him. Of course he’d be a Dave. It was like, there are certain things that don’t have the right name. Like cyanide for example. Something so bad, you’d figure they wouldn’t give it a pretty name. But other things fit. Like “noodle.” Have you ever just looked at a noodle and thought about how… noodly it was? Well that’s kinda how Dave is. No, not noodly… just so Dave.

When he first kissed me that night, with the lights blinking all over the place as the kids screaming on the little roller coasters, and the smell of fried sugary goodness coming from all over the place, all I could think about was how Davey he kissed. If you know what I mean. He put his hand right under my ear, where the skin is so soft, and my whole body tingled like I was being… electrocuted or something.

A guy like Dave could drive a girl crazy.

Dave had to get back to operating the controls of the Swoosh-a-Go, so after promising him that we’d hang after the carnival closed, I stumbled out of the fun house, love drunk. I saw my friend Leslie gaping at me as if I had a wig made of noodles on my head.

“Amanda…” she said.

“…Yeah?” I said. More like slurred. It’s amazing how kissing gives you the same effect as drinking alcohol—well, not that I’ve ever drank alcohol, just… one would assume.

“Amanda,” Leslie said. She’s good with emphasis. I can never get emphasis right.

“Can you finish a sentence?” I said. See, emphasis failure. When I use emphasis, I sound like Chandler Bing. Could I be any weirder?

“Amanda… Please tell me you weren’t just making out with that carnie,” Leslie said.

“What? No, he’s not a carnie. He’s a… carnival worker,” I said.

“Yeah, and add that to the fact that his teeth can’t be referred to as plural, and you’ve got a thorough-bred carnie,” she said. She stuck her hands in her pocket, curled her upper lip, and leered at Dave. Gotta hand it to her, she’s unrivaled at the Unfriendly Leer. If I ever had a problem with some guy at school, she’d just cast them the U. Leer, and they’d U-Turn right out of my face. Awesome chick to have as your best friend.

Except, you know, Dave didn’t deserve leer face. But I digress. A lot, actually… it’s a thing I tend to do.

Leslie and I moseyed over to the booth where you throw little darts at balloons. I didn’t want to play, but Leslie had her eye on the big Tweety Bird stuffed animal. She paid the grisly man at the booth a fiver and took the darts. Now that guy was a true carnie. Little hat, a chin and a nose that almost touched, and one eye that seemed to be set in a perpetual wink. Dave wasn’t nearly as carnie as this guy—

“Ey, ain’t you the tail my Dave took inter the fun house?” the carnie said.

I looked both ways, as if expecting to see someone standing by my side. Nope, I was the “tail” he was talking to.

“Um… your Dave?”

A dart whizzed past the carnie’s head, and Leslie pumped her fists in victory when it popped a large blue balloon. She turned to me, “Ooooh, this guy knows your boyfriend.”

“Wait, what do you mean your Dave?” I asked. His Dave? What, was Dave like a slave to the carnies? Maybe that’s why such an otherwise heart-throb (well, in my opinion) guy was working here.

“Dave, he’s m’boy!” the carnie said. “My son! And yer gon’ have ter get more than one ‘loon if yer want that bird, missy.”

But Leslie seemed to lose interest in poor, neglected Tweety. She was looking at me, looking both shocked and so, so amused. “You’re kidding!” she said. “You’re freaking kidding!”

“Shut up,” I said.

“Your make-out buddy is this guy’s son?” she hissed, cracking up. Before the carnie could get offended, she ran away and I jogged after her, yelling for her to shut up. She ran all the way to the Ferris wheel, where the other girls we came with were on line.

By the time I reached her, my heart pounding in my chest from running, she was already spilling the latest gossip on my carnie affair.

“…and I knew the guy was ugly, but then when we got to the balloon popper booth, there’s this hideous carnie and he say’s he’s the guy’s father!” Leslie squealed. The other girls—which sidebar: were only acquaintances—were in stitches, laughing so hard that the family in front of them on the line gave them dirty looks. My cheeks burned furiously.

“It wasn’t like that,” I said softly. I couldn’t blame Leslie. She got carried away sometimes. A lot of the time. She wasn’t making fun, she was just… you know… story-telling.

“So pray tell, Amanda, why you made out with the guy in the first place?” Leslie asked.

Truth was, because he was cute. Because he was sweet. Because of the smile he gave me when I was on line to get into the funhouse. Because when I couldn’t get past the rolly floor section, he actually came in from the back and held my hand as I did it. Because he was nice.

“I don’t know,” I said, looking at my shoes. They had purple laces with green dots on them. Not like the clean white ones Leslie wore. “I guess it was dark. Couldn’t really see if he was… you know… cute. Guess I just kinda did it.”

The Ferris wheel carnie opened the gate and let us all in so we could pick our seats. Leslie put her arm around me as we walked.

“See, you’ve got to watch what you do in places where people can see you. This is a very controlled environment, my dear Amanda. Look over there. That’s Juliana Grant. Do you know what would happen if she found out you and a pure-bred carnie made with the lip n’ grab?”

“Would she blab it to the first group of girls she sees?” I said with the slightest bit of contempt.

“Now, now, Mandy, don’t get snippy, I’m trying to help,” Leslie said. She opened the door of one of the carts and we sat in it together. People were still piling on, so they didn’t start the wheel yet. Leslie continued to give me advice. She tends to do that a lot. “See, in high school… you can’t just do stuff. You gotta think. Think about your future. Like, what would happen if you’re still known as the Carnie Lover when you come back for, like, a ten year reunion. People just don’t forget that you hooked up with a carnie, chica, they remember it. If people knew—well, other than us two and Sally, Louisa, Margaret, Barb, and Colly—then you might as well just be a carnie. If you understand what I’m saying.”

“I do, and I agree. I’m going to tell him that I…”

I saw Dave. Standing right in front of me. Right at the little swingy door of our cart.

“Mind if I sit here?” he asked.

Leslie, barely able to hide her grin, stood up and jumped out of the cart. “Go ahead, dude, I’ll catch the next ride. And Amanda… tell him.”

When Dave stepped into the cart, he closed the door behind him and saluted to the guy operating the controls. The Ferris wheel took off, and our cart rose up into the air. It was like the world fell out from under us and we were left suspended in the air.

“So, whadday got to tell me?” he asked. When he asked that, I looked right at his face. He kinda did look like his dad, only both eyes were open. He might have had a few missing teeth, but his front ones were still there and they were bared in a bright smile. But Leslie was right. I think. She usually is right about these kinda things.

The wheel came to a stop when it reached the highest it could. I looked out over the town, and I saw all of it. Lights, tiny lights, kind of like I saw in the funhouse when Dave kissed me.

“I told you I’d see you after the carnival,” I said. “But I can’t.”

There was a moment of silence, so I turned to look at him, trying to read his face, trying to look for a reply. He wasn’t smiling any more, but he didn’t look sad either. He looked like someone being told that the sky was blue. Someone being told something obvious, something they already knew.

“Well?” I said. Bit of an anti-climax. I expected a bit more. I mean, it wasn’t like I didn’t want to meet him, and I thought he wanted to meet me. He might as well show it.

“What, you want me to fight you?” he said. “Try’n convince you to see me? Would it work?”

Maybe, I thought.

“Probably not,” I said. “See, my friends, they—”

“Don’t tell me the details,” he said, his tone perfectly steady. Again, a bit of a letdown. “I mean, I don’t want to spoil my memory. Of you in the funhouse. Before you talked to your friends.”

“It’s not like—”

“Nah, I know what its like,” he said. The car began to move again, and we got closer to the ground, paused for a second so another cart could be the highest, and then the wheel resumed turning. “See, with what I do… things get clearer. Only when you stop moving do you get the chance to… think. Over-think. And all that does is cloud things.”

He stuffed his hands into his pockets and leaned in the corner of the cart. “See,” he continued. “Me? My family? We keep movin’. Keep learnin’. Eventually, after a while of that, after a while of seeing things, the same things over and over… you stop learnin’ and start knowing.”

“Yeah?” I said. My voice sounded really breathy. If Leslie was here at this moment, I’d be able to give her a lot better reason as to why I made out with Dave than “It was dark.”

“So I coulda guessed what would happen with this,” he said, pointing from me to him. The ride was ending. The carts in front of us were being lowered to the ground so the people could get off. We would be off the ride in a second.

“I don’t have to go with them,” I said, pointing to Leslie, who was looking up at us from behind the gate. “I mean… I don’t know what I mean.”

“Nah, you don’t have to. But you will,” he said.

I looked at him, feeling an acute sadness that wasn’t at all coming from him. It wasn’t pity at all, because I didn’t pity Dave. I was jealous of Dave. Wanted to be like him as much as I wanted to be with him.

But when our cart was the lowest, he opened the door and trudged out, leaving me alone in the cart. I could have followed him, went back into the funhouse or went to find ice cream or something. But Leslie and the girls were waiting for me, so I swung my legs out of the cart and walked over to them. We went back to the balloon booth, where we’d try to win the Tweety Bird doll from Dave’s dad.

I wish I could say something great inspired this. Maybe I was a carnie in a past life. Maybe it's my apparent fascination with men named Dave (see the last entry, fuck Dave). I've noticed that a lot of my short stories explore the quieter moments between people, how the small things that people do to each other are what really hurt the most. Amanda wants to be a better person. She wants to not give a shit what her friends say. She wants to be with Dave because of that instant, powerful connection she feels. It's super rare, and she knows that, and she hates the fact that she's willing to pass it up to fit in with girls she doesn't even like.

Maybe I wrote it because I'm trying to figure out how and why people can do that to themselves.

But in truth, the title "Carnies in Love" just came to me and how the hell can you pass that up. Carnies. Carnies! Carnies in HEART SYMBOL no less.