Self-awareness

This one was really difficult - and doubly difficult when you know so little about baseball - so I had to move away from baseball a bit!

F3, Cycle 94: Love and Diamonds

Write a 1000 word story about someone who has no self awareness, or, alternatively, someone who has far too much. Include the following words: curve, substitution, relief, sacrifice, strikeout.

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And, on the Sixth Day

Sunday was muggy and hot. The Padres were playing the Mariners, and Petco Park was a riot of color and noise. Tyler had no interest in baseball; he didn’t really understand it. And today, he also had no interest in candy floss or in corn dogs or in anything much at all.

‘Strikeout!’ bellowed his father, a smile of deep satisfaction on his face.

‘Dad?’

‘Yes, son?’

‘Dad, Miss Trotter told us that fish have no memories.’

‘That’s right, son.’

‘She says that they are not like us.’

‘Well, ‘course not, Tyler – they live in water.’

‘No, Dad, she says they’re not like us because we have souls and fish don’t.’

This threw Tyler’s dad somewhat and he was irritated. He didn’t care two hoots about damned fish and just wanted to watch the game.

‘Sure, son – only humans have souls – that’s why we’re special.’

*

Monday was a little cloudy.

‘Please, Miss.’

Tyler sat with his arm up and the class turned in unison to glare at him. It was the end of the last session of the day, and they all wanted to go home. Miss Trotter also wanted to get on home – she had a date with a man she’d met on the internet; he promised a GSOH. She hoped he was also DDF, unlike the last guy, who had cost her several visits to the clinic.

‘Yes, Tyler?’

‘Miss, if fish don’t have souls, do cats?’

‘Tyler, no. Only humans have souls.’

‘But how do we know that?’

Miss Trotter sighed and glanced at her watch.

‘Tyler, look up “self-awareness” on Wikipedia, that should help. Class dismissed.’

*

Tuesday dawned damp. Tyler’s mom had kept him home from school, because he’d complained of stomach-ache. When she’d caught him reading Wikipedia the previous evening, she’d been cross.

‘Tyler – there is no substitute for real education.’

Now she was at work and Tyler had all day to educate himself regarding his cat, Maisy.

The Wikipedia article had disturbed him. It said that only humans, dolphins, elephants, some apes and maybe magpies possessed self-awareness. There was no mention of cats. A link from the self-awareness article had led him to another article about a mirror test. So he sat Maisy in front of every mirror in the house and waited for her to recognize herself. He was certain she would. But, at each mirror Maisy either gazed blankly, sniffed, or walked away without investigation. Tyler stroked the sinewy curve of her back and she purred contentedly.

‘C’mon, Maisy,’ he pleaded, close to tears, ‘GET WITH IT!’

*

Wednesday was hot. Tyler had returned to school, but had found it difficult to concentrate. He didn’t get it. How come Maisy turned her head when you said her name? How could she not be ‘self-aware’ if she was afraid of the door-bell, and hid under the couch when the pet carrier appeared? He’d hoped so much that the mirror test would have given him relief from his worries, but that only seemed to prove that the cat clearly didn’t know who she was.

Their next-door neighbor, Father Morgan, a jovial Catholic priest with glowing red cheeks, was just putting his key into his front door, when Tyler strolled home from school.

‘Father, may I ask you a question?’

Father Morgan was in a hurry – the hot-tub was bubbling away nicely in the back yard and he had an expensive Chardonnay on ice. But his calling meant that he often had to make a sacrifice on his time.

‘Of course, young man – what is it you’d like to know?’

‘If you have no soul, Father – can you go to Heaven?’

Father Morgan sighed.

‘How can you go to Heaven if you have no soul, Tyler?’

‘B-b-but, Father Morgan, what are animals for if they have no soul and can’t go to Heaven?’

Father Morgan’s eyes rolled up into his head.

‘The Lord has provided us with animals to feed us and to entertain us,’ he replied with an assertive nod of his head.

*

Thursday was another gloriously sunny San Diego day. But there was a stuffiness in the air – the kind that only a good thunderstorm can clear. Tyler was late home from school, because he’d been to the library. He’d annoyed Mrs Trim with his barrage of questions, but he’d eventually found what he was looking for.

The smell of apple pie and the lash of his mother’s tongue greeted him when he arrived home. He gulped down his supper and went to bed early, taking his books and the cat with him.

‘Good-night, Tyler.’

‘Good-night, Mom.’

*

On Friday, the heavens opened. Lightning flashed across the sky and rain ran in rivulets along the sidewalk. The weather suited the mood of the neighborhood. The news had spread quickly and it was up to local journalist, Trudy Moon, to report the sad story. She did her best.

Ten-year-old Tyler Starky of 15, Rainbow Drive, was found dead in his bedroom this morning. His distraught mother, 47-year-old florist, Danielle Starky, said that she found him curled up with his cat on the floor of his room. At first glance, she’d thought he was asleep. She said that both her son and his cat appeared to have smiles on their faces. As she moved closer she noticed that the cat had earphones attached to its head. She’d thought this really cute, but when she discovered that the earphones were plugged into the electricity supply, horrific realization hit her. Both the boy and the 3-year-old cat were declared dead by means of electrocution. A library book, ‘ECT Improves Self-Awareness’ by Tonto Drake-Fitch, had been found, open, at the boy’s feet. Tyler’s father, 50-year-old truck driver, Dave Starky, who only saw his son on weekends, commented,

‘He sure did love that darned cat. He loved it more than baseball, that’s for sure.’

An inquest opens on Monday.”

***

Back to School

F3, Cycle 93

Prompt: Write a story using the following word list: Traffic, New Shoes, Calculus, Bus Stop, School, Principal
Word Limit: 1000
Genre: Open

The Return

It was just me and Jenkins at the bus stop. We exchanged brief grunts of recognition, but he stood a safe five feet from me, shuffling back and forth on shiny, new shoes. I looked down at my own new shoes – black brogues with suede stripes down the side. Were they cool? Jenkins lit a cigarette. He was too grown up now to gather with his mates behind the bike shed. I looked away; didn’t want to smell that delicious, deadly smoke; didn’t want to fall off the wagon. Jenkins started to bob up and down and I feared he might be having a fit. Then I realised he had music plugged into his ears.

The traffic was heavy this morning; the school run in full swing. The fumes coming from the cars were more dangerous even than the smoke issuing from Jenkins’ sullen mouth – but who was going to step forward to ban fancy packaging for fancy vehicles? Hypocrisy. I wanted a cigarette. I popped a Polo into my mouth and sucked on it furiously. A frazzled-looking woman, being dragged along behind a yapping poodle, muttered a tired ‘good morning’ as she hastened on towards the corner shop for milk or biscuits or sherry.

We were waiting for the number seventy two bus, Jenkins and me. It was already five minutes late. There were no more school buses; not in urban areas anyway. Council cuts. Only a few school buses continued to run in rural districts, where not everybody owned Landrovers and where the narrow, unlit roads were considered too dangerous for children to walk. Not so in the towns. From here, school was too far to walk - so you either used your parents as taxi drivers, or risked muggings and perverts as you half froze to death at lonely bus stops. I would have cycled, but the roads were too dangerous and cycle lanes were practically non-existent. A Ford Fiesta almost drove into the back of a Toyota as mother took her eyes off the road to pass a packet of crisps back to her fat, spoilt offspring. The screech of brakes frightened a pair of sparrows, who had been sitting peacefully on a whitewashed wall. A lean tabby cat, who had been watching them from a distance, skulked off in disappointment as he watched the birds fly into the leaden sky. Rain started to fall.

Jenkins pulled up his hood and rummaged around inside his rucksack. As he took out a fresh pack of B&H, a new looking copy of ‘Calculus for Wimps’ almost fell out onto the sodden pavement. I felt for him. My father had attempted to teach me calculus when I was twelve years old. He said it would give me a head start. I didn’t get it. And he didn’t get that I didn’t get it. With tears in his eyes, he’d thumped the table and roared, ‘It’s only differentials. It’s easy!’ I vowed, from then on, to concentrate on the arts.

Finally! The bus turned the corner of Mumford Street, only eight and a half minutes late. I followed Jenkins onto the bus; both of us drenched as we showed our passes and took seats as far away from each other as possible. Two elderly women with pursed lips and tight white curls sat together at the front of the bus, loudly discussing gall bladders. The only other passenger was a scruffy girl of about fourteen, who was simultaneously chewing gum, tapping out texts and picking her nose. The bus driver was humming some tune – it sounded like ‘Hark the Herald Angels’ but it couldn’t have been – although Christmas decorations would surely start appearing in the shops as soon as the leaves began to fall.

At 8:20am, Jenkins, me and the girl (still texting) got off at the stop outside the school gates and went our separate ways. It was an old Victorian building – once a proud grammar school, where academia was king – but now it was a comprehensive where mere attendance was looked upon as a sign of achievement. The teachers were weak; stripped of any means of discipline by the self-righteous, ‘children can do no harm’ brigade – God bless ‘em.

The corridors were buzzing. Children were sliding along polished floors; teachers’ heels were clip-clopping with unfounded confidence. Scenes from Harry Potter flashed across my mind, and I could smell boiled cabbage already. Mr Hardman whooshed past me, a pile of books under his arm, his bat-cloak flying out behind him. Now, there was a man who would love to wield a cane. If only.

I wanted to turn around and catch the bus home. I felt like I was coming down with flu. And my stomach wasn’t right. Oh to be curled up under the duvet with a mug of hot chocolate, watching ‘Homes under the Hammer’. But my leaden legs carried me onwards, past the chemistry lab, the gym and the library – past displays of trophies and photographs of triumphant football and cricket teams – onwards towards a heavy oak door, where the etched brass plaque read, ‘Principal’. I felt a tug on the back of my jacket and looked around. I squirmed. There stood Adams – his cherubic curls concealing the demonic little creep that lay beneath. He owned a pony and boasted a sister called Stardust. His father expected him to go to Oxford. No chance. He smiled up at me sweetly and I wanted so badly to slap him.

‘Good morning, Sir,’ he said, ‘isn’t it great to be back.’

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In an effort to get myself writing again, I'm going to follow the advice of Ravens who is a fellow student on the literature course I'm following - and I am going to have a go at flash fiction from Flash Fiction Friday (F3) and also perhaps Terrible Minds. I think I really do need an awful lot of practise - it's a long time since I wrote the NaNoWriMo 2011 effort!