Prompt the Fourth

I have been loving the prompts for their very variety. But I feel like the most challenging writing prompt may actually be coming up with a writing prompt. I find that funny. Here is my prompt. I hope it is up to snuff.

Pick a book that you love. A book that you have read multiple times because you love the story. Write the equivalent of a fan fiction piece that is based on the book. This could mean writing a different ending, prolonging an existing scene, adding a prequel or epitaph, or whatever else. But do this without trying to mimic the actual writing/writer.

Phil Collins (or, the Monkey Love Man)

Jacob's Saturdays consisted of chores. When he woke up, he cleaned his apartment. After college, when he'd first started teaching, he had roommates and rented a house and had to deal with yard work and plants to satisfy the lease. His roommates were all graduate students who were too busy to do chores.

He did homework. He went shopping. Jacob shopped three days out. When he was in college, he'd read in a sociology class about all these couples who'd met shopping. Jacob thought it was all way too Lethal Weapon 2 and look how well that one turned out, with the girl drowned and the guy a drunken, rabid anti-Semite, but he still stuck to the frequent shopping. He always told himself he would cook something but he never did.

He went to a small, local grocery, owned and operated by an older married couple, pictures of them through the years on the wall, along with pictures of their kids growing into adults. It was downstairs from his apartment. He just had to walk out the front of the building, down the stairs and it was to his right. On the left was the Italian restaurant where he spent way too much money; across the street was a Chinese takeout place where he didn't spend enough.

The wife was pleasant enough, greeting him as he entered. Jacob had been shopping there since he moved in, almost two years ago, but he still hadn't become a regular. Their prices weren't terrible--convenience stores, for example, charged more--but it was pretty clear he would never be a regular. The son and daughter worked summers and they remembered him and were very friendly. If they ever took it over and Jacob never moved out of his apartment, he'd be a regular. He'd also have killed himself, but he would be a regular.

He smiled at her, said "hello," and took a basket.

He walked through the produce, looking at everything. He didn't know how to cook any vegetables he actually liked. He could boil and he could steam, but when things got more complicated than either of those processes, he was lost. Jacob didn't know what simmer meant until he was twenty-seven. He was cooking dinner for a girlfriend and had to call his mom to tell him.

Asparagus, a vegetable Jacob loved, confused him. Artichokes too--his one attempt at cooking artichokes had been an unmitigated disaster. It permanently ruined a pot and temporarily had Jacob and his roommates swearing off green vegetables. They also had to air out the kitchen for a week; luckily, the Oregon winter was temperate.

But he still pretended he might get some celery or carrots. Maybe lettuce for a salad. Even a bag of lettuce or just a pre-bagged salad. He didn't.

The butcher counter started at the rear of the produce section and Jacob pretended to look there too. He had a George Foreman Grill still in the box, a gift from an aunt when he got his first apartment. Jacob had always worried, like his mother had, about showing use of gifts people had given. No one ever visited Jacob though, so he never had to worry about it. He didn't even really communicate with his aunt. They were Facebook friends, of course; they never really talked.

He got some roast beef from the butcher, listened to the other shoppers talk about sirloin and other things he didn't know anything about, and picked up a loaf of French bread on his way to frozen dinner section. Since it was a somewhat pretentious grocery, they had some nice organic brands, which Jacob bought, though never in the portion control variety. He felt gypped if he didn't get a little dessert. He got one with apple crisp and two with cherry crisp. He didn't really care what entree he was getting.

The line was never short--especially on weekends, families stopped in for little things, snacks maybe, when frequenting the park across the street (though even weekends were nothing compared to weeknights around six, when there would be nine people minimum in line for the single register)--and Jacob passed the time playing on his cellphone. Thirty-one years old and he'd played more video games in the last year since he got the cellphone than he ever had before.

After he checked out with the wife, who treated him politely and impersonally as usual, he stood around in front of the stairs up to the apartment building, enjoying the breeze. He was also waiting for some of the people to move along. They mobbed in front of the grocery, waiting to cross the street, chitchatting with some neighbor they hadn't seen for a while. He hated going up the stairs to his apartment feeling like he was on display.

Once he did get upstairs, he put his microwave dinners in the freezer and put his beer in the refrigerator and went into the bedroom to take a nap. It wasn't even noon. Sometimes Jacob would get done with all his chores by two in the afternoon and have nothing else to do all day. He could find social things to do--his coupled friends all found it amusing to have him go along to dinner and to a show, just because he always had stories (like kids smoking pot in class)--but it was the time in between. From two to seven, a tenth of his days off per week, he had nothing to do. Sundays were worse, but he could justify doing nothing since he'd done it all on Saturday.

Plus, he took a long nap on Sunday, every week, as he dejectedly prepared for another work week. He'd sleep five hours, from noon usually, and still go to bed around ten.

His nap lasted forty minutes. His soothing sounds of the forest hadn't even finished when he woke up. He stayed in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling, then got up and started some laundry. Jacob did laundry multiple times a week too; every time he went shopping downstairs, he come upstairs and start some laundry.

His life hadn't always been so mundane. He used to wake up on the floor of his bathroom Saturday afternoons, almost no memory of the night before, certainly not coming home. Then he grew up but he did it out of sync with his friends--he got a career first, most of them got paired up first, then got careers.

At work, at lunch, he'd talk to the guys a few years older than him who talked about dating services. They all made single women in their thirties sound like monsters. Jacob hadn't looked into any dating services, but he had thought about what he'd write in his profile.

It all sounded great until he realized he was making it all up, compositing himself with the Compsons, which was especially depressing given Jacob thought he'd been making it upbeat.

He had his windows open for the breeze. One of his neighbors was listening to Phil Collins. Something from a movie, Jacob didn't remember the title--his mom had liked it.

Even with the nap, his chores were done at ten to three.

His coupled friends were still busy, his single male friends only wanted to go places to meet women (nothing more appealing to the female sex than thirty year-old men loitering around a college campus on a Saturday), his single female friends only wanted to go places to meet men (Jacob's single female friends hated his single male friends and vice versa). Jacob wasn't even sure he liked any of his friends anymore. It wasn't a recent development; he was pretty sure he'd disliked them for years, just maintained the relationships to give himself something to do.

Vivienne's number was on his caller id. He wouldn't have it otherwise. How cheesy would it be to call her with "One More Night" playing dimly in the background. Like when he'd been thirteen calling a girl he liked with Barry White playing on his mom's turntable.

They could go see a movie. Maybe go to the botanical gardens, they were having a special seasonal exhibit, he'd seen advertisements up on buses when driving to work. Or maybe the batting cages. Jacob used to have a friend who always said batting cages were great for early dates.

Debating whether or not to call, Jacob decided "One More Night" had an effective chorus, but the actual content of the song wasn't catchy at all. It also wouldn't sound good playing in the background for his phone call. His phone call where he asked out the girl--the woman--he'd turned down for a date maybe sixteen hours earlier.

He thought about going through his music and trying to find something good, but then he realized she might not answer.

All of Jacob's music was on his computer--he wasn't sure if his neighbor had loud computer speakers or still actually had a CD player--and he made playlist of all the songs he could play in the background for a phone call to Vivienne.

The list started with thirty-nine songs, but after listening and considering and lots of cutting, Jacob got it down to six songs.

Of course, it took him most of the afternoon and before he'd even finished listening to the final playlist, his friends were calling, offering him something to otherwise occupy his time.

It was kinda long

So, firstly: I'm not sure I agree about sexy Phil Collins although I think he has nice legs. I've been noticing legs lately. Especially nice legs.

Secondly: This *was* kinda long, but for the sake of blog navigation, I pared it to two paragraphs.

I'm wandering now.

Thirdly: Chatroulette is a really excellent word, despite what it means. I thought it was a French theorist, so I'm a little disappointed.

***

“You’re lying,” the German noticed, “but I will take your order because I notice something about you.” And she patted Swallow's back, pushed her fingers into Swallow's stringy hair. At that, Swallow pulled away, dragging against the stranger paws, but then the German flung her away and stood up.“You need to take me back,” the German said. “It’s time for you to buy a computer and let me go. Can you do that?”

Swallow felt her eyebrows pulling her forehead, and was hit by the silence of not knowing, of not possibly making it past the truth of isolation, but it was with a tingle somehow, an option out, and she so she stood up, the linen falling away, and reached out to grab Alina’s elbow, their skin brushing, but only in a brief proportion. “Sounds good,” Swallow said, before moving the German past the bureau and its filmy reflection. “I’ve always wanted to see your room.”

“There is no home for the likes of me,” muttered the German, as if reading Swallow’s desire. Swallow stopped her with a hand pressed against her face, at first missing the mouth and covering the German’s nose, but then slipping down and pressing, not gently, against her lips. Swallow shook her head, trying to knock something loose, and then removed her hand and led the German through the door and down the stucco hallway, pausing them only briefly at Letta’s door as if to assess the silence, before continuing down past the library.

Love that library, she had thought, delirious, the German’s elbow in her thin toy fingers. So traditional, and so incredibly immense, like a ballroom or a church—larger perhaps in her mind, but this too she knew. Its tables—three different ones, including two wooden and one plastic, and the two wooden of different eras with different commitment to baroque ornamentation—set at different angles and with different piles of clutter or neatness, as if Letta had decided beforehand which would been given over to chaos, and why. The most curlicued table was also the messiest and held, from the catalogue of Swallow’s memory, mostly seeds and seedpods, whereas the plastic one was set for papers and notebooks, tucked into exceedingly tidy piles along the five feet of its surface, one after another after another. If Swallow had to guess, which she did, the third—wooden but plain—was Letta’s actual workspace, and couldn’t be condemned as messy any more than it could be lauded as neat. It seemed, from an outside perusal, to be an accurate tsunami of thought: feathers and three slides with something intrinsically tiny and complex, two notebooks—one open with neatly penned numbers (Swallow felt guilty, wondered if she was doing enough work) and the other closed and maybe covered stern to bow with neat figurations in Italian, a plate rimmed with the refuse of olive oil and a tomato stem, seven cups (Swallow had counted, amused: four that must have held coffee, two blank, and the last with a reservoir of red liquid and several floating bodies, fruit flies perhaps), and then a random smattering of napkins, paperclips, a stapler, plastic bags, an ashtray with tiny seashells, leaves, an old-fashioned typewriter with a flier caught in its wheels, several clay sculptures obviously made by the same person (who seemed to have a fondness for metaphorical dick-vulva combos), and a pair of running shoes with socks stuffed into their body. And all this without regard to the bookshelves lining every corner of the room, including the small section behind the door.

Lost

Hello there. Thing one: around the 2:03-2:06 mark on the video, Phil Collins suddenly seemed really sexy. Thing two: this little piece was inspired by the prompt and Chatroulette.

---------
I press play.
I press next.
I see a large penis vigorously stroked by a faceless man, and I look.
I press next.
I am told that I look 37 by a Brazilian boy, who then tells me I am a pervert.
I press next.
I am told that I am ugly by two teenage girls.
I press next.
A man from Montreal asks me what the meaning of life is. I write ‘meaning of life=living it,’ he smiles and shrugs.
I press next.
I am told to take my sweater off by a naked man lying in bed, and I do.
I am encouraged to show nipple, and, after considering it for a moment, I do.

What? I do? I take my shirt off and I let a stranger, who may or may not be French, masturbate to my cleavage? This can’t be. What would my parents say? What if this is being recorded? What if it is reposted all over the Internet? I will suddenly become that idiot who showed her tits to a stranger. This wasn’t what I came for. I couldn’t tell you what I expected, but tweaking my own nipples and using my elbows as a makeshift miracle bra wasn’t it. And yet I push up the ladies, make sure my face is hidden, and consider taking my actual bra off altogether. The man has a blue tattoo on his left pectoral muscle. The sun is shining through a window out of the camera’s scope. He has sheets with little cherries on them. Oh god. Please. Please. Take me home! I don’t remember where, exactly, home is, but it has got to be around here somewhere, along with my commonsense and dignity. Take me home, and I’ll wear cardigans and start a garden and volunteer at a senior citizens’ center. I will do rigorous exercise five times a week! I will eat more kale! Just take me home. Take me home, away from this flasher I have suddenly, inexplicably, become. Take me home and put me to bed. I will wear flannel nightgowns! I will make myself cups of chamomile tea! I will be good. I promise. I promise, just take me home. Wherever that may be; I can’t quite remember. If you do this for me, I will make you a sandwich. If you do this for me, I will show you my breasts. Wait, no. I will not do any such thing. Once I’m home, my breasts will be tucked inside loose fitting tunics and bulky hand-knit sweaters. I will keep them secret. They will only come out for mammograms and other special occasions. But, if you want a peek before we get there, well, what’s the harm? Some man in Belarus found them quite to his liking. I pressed next, but maybe I should have stuck around. You never know when you’re going to need a friend in Belarus, and what were we, if not bosom buddies?

Next.
A couple in South Dakota.
Next.
The smallest penis I have ever seen. Poor guy.
Next.
A man with a sock on his head.
Next.
Can I ever get back to where I started?
Next.
Please. Please. Just take me home.
Next.
Because I can’t remember.
Next.
Next.
Next.
Next.
Next.
Next.
Next.
Next.

Starting something.. (a day late)

Jacob spent most of the trip wishing Gemma was being a complete bitch. He didn't just want her to be awful to him, he wanted her to be awful to other people too. He wished she was rude to waiters and waitresses, instead she--independent of him, because he did the same thing--carefully stacked up her plates for them. When someone at the theater was bumped into her, almost knocking her down (and turned out to be an old lady there to see the show because she'd been in it years before when it had first opened on Broadway), he wished she would have yelled at her, instead of asking if they could get a coffee or a piece of pie after the show to talk about it.

Mostly Jacob spent the trip hating himself, because there wasn't a single good reason he shouldn't have been in love with Gemma. He'd lay in bed at night and his eyes would tear up with his self-loathing. Then he'd get even more upset with himself for being such a jerk and he'd think about telling her he was a jerk and then he'd wonder whether he was any more special of a jerk than anyone else. If what he was experiencing was normal. If self-loathing was just a facet of dating and he'd somehow missed it until now; maybe it had been the failing factor, why he was still single at thirty-one.

"What are you reading?" she asked him at breakfast. Their hotel had a restaurant, which wasn't complementary, and then a breakfast buffet, which was included. He'd woken before her and gone down to the buffet, just because it meant free coffee and donuts.

He showed her the book, a legal mystery (Jacob didn't think of them as thrillers unless the protagonists life was in danger and, in this one, it wasn't) he'd gotten from the shelf in the room. They were staying at a hotel with books in the rooms. In New York City. Because someone was going to run out of things to do. Then again, when Jacob had gone to San Francisco the year before, he ended up sitting around the pool hating himself for reading a Michael Crichton novel, but it wasn't like he stopped reading it (or went out and did anything touristy).

"Is it any good?"

He wanted her to take the book, which was a reviewer's copy in hardcover, and bash his head in. He really did. He stopped himself in the middle of the thought and considered it and decided he was correct. He really did feel so bad talking to her, he wanted her to cave his skull in so he wouldn't have to be such a shit to her anymore.

But, of course, he just shrugged and told her it was "all right."

They went for breakfast across the street at a diner, which was better than the hotel restaurant for breakfast food. CHeaper too. But Jacob was spending way above the budget for the trip; he recognized his actions--he figured spending a fortune would make it more likely she'd have a good time and regret it less later--and accepted them.

She got the french toast and he got an omelette. She got orange juice, he got coffee.

He kept bargaining with himself during the breakfast, trying to make himself feel better, like less of a jerk. Like if he told her she'd somehow obsolve him of all the guilt, like she'd immediately understand and forgive him. Or maybe she'd just laugh and tell him it didn't matter.

Jacob was terrified he'd some day end up in AA--which seemed unlikely, given it being, essentially, a Christian organization and wholly dependent on one prostrating him or herself to a superior being--and he'd have to do the apology step and he'd have to apologize to her. He just wanted to get through the trip. There were plenty of things Jacob already hated himself for, plenty of people he'd hurt worse--there was the woman who had to take the morning after pill and she got sick from it and Jacob made her feel guilty for not having condoms (he figured, at the very least, Gemma was getting a nice vacation)--so knew he could take it, but Jacob didn't know very many nice people. With Gemma, he was probably exploiting the nicest person he knew, in fact.

He knew, even if he told her, even if she knew, she wouldn't hate him for it. She wouldn't even be mad about it. She might be a little hurt, but she'd understand. He didn't want her to understand. He wanted her to reach across the table with her syrup-coated knife and stab him in the hand.

It was during this trip, maybe for the first time, Jacob realized he really didn't like himself. He usually just let that feeling pass, not take too much off of him; but watching her eat her French toast, sip her orange juice, smile at him, talk about the trip, Jacob knew just what a jerk he was being to her. And he was never going to forgive himself for it.`

What's that you say, Sir Indefatigable?

Why hello, everyone.

This prompt involves song lyrics and Phil Collins. I have to preface it by saying that it is no way intended to be ironic or tongue-in-cheek or McSweeneys-ish or side-eyed or anything like that. For real. Basically it is motivated by my Gen-X personal history, which was periodically crosscut by Mr. Collins' musical oeuvre. I've always loved his songs, and it just so happened that "Take Me Home" came up twice on my car radio this past week. There's something about hearing his voice and music while driving alone late in the eve-n-ing......

Anyhow. Here's the prompt:

1. View the video for "Take Me Home":


2. Read through the song lyrics:
Take that look of worry I'm an ordinary man They don't tell me nothing So I find out what I can There's a fire that's been burning Right outside my door I can't see but I feel it And it helps to keep me warm So I, I don't mind No I, I don't mind Seems so long I've been waiting Still don't know what for There's no point escaping I don't worry anymore I can't come out to find you I don't like to go outside They can't turn off my feelings Like they're turning off a light But I, I don't mind No I, I don't mind Oh I, I don't mind No I, I don't mind So take, take me home Cos I don't remember Take, take me home Cos I don't remember Take, take me home Cos I don't remember Take, take me home, oh lord Cos I've been a prisoner all my life And I can say to you Take that look of worry, mine's an ordinary life Working when it's daylight And sleeping when it's night I've got no far horizons I don't wish upon a star They don't think that I listen Oh but I know who they are And I, I don't mind No I, I don't mind Oh I, I don't mind No I, I don't mind So take, take me home Cos I don't remember Take, take me home Cos I don't remember Take, take me home Cos I don't remember Take, take me home, oh lord Well I've been a prisoner all my life And I can say to you But I don't remember Take, take me home...

3. Write/make/do something that is either a) inspired by this song or b) uses at least one line of lyrics from the song.

Yep. That's pretty much it!

a section of a piece

“I’m just going to say it one more time,” Bastion instructed without looking at her, “but I’d really prefer it if you went away.”

But apparently it didn’t matter what Bastion preferred. She didn’t hop down, and as he looked back over his shoulder, he could see the top of her head as she sunk further down against the back of his seat. He sighed. Probably she would die on his watch; likely it was always scripted in the stars, maybe the Catfish constellation, or maybe the one he had recently named the Gangrenous Clubfoot. Its lower right star, there twinkling and grinning at him, him grinning back as he tentatively puffed the cigar Will had given him. That star, that very one: thou shalt be doomed to be at fault when thy sister dies. But also it will be due to her sheer perverse stubbornness, and your unwillingness to do anything but sigh and press on, he also told himself, irritated with his own passivity as he tentatively reached out his hand and pulled the lever back into gear again. First gear though. What with Merlot sitting behind him, primed and ready to fall out under a enormous wheel, and the deep and sloppy mud that had been showing up from under the thin billowing grass that the tractor trundled over: probably best to stay in first.

The machine grunted forward as Bastion put a little pressure on the pedal, and then jerked to a stop when Bastion gasped at the suddenness of the movement and stomped his foot back on the brake. Same as a car, same as a car, he chanted to himself, and it was almost true except that nobody had taught him how to drive a stick shift, and also the gas pedal on the tractor appeared to have forward and reverse built into it, depending on which way you rocked the pedal. Stupid system, he thought, and tried to press his heel down instead to get the tractor into a better position to rocket through the two small alder he was trying to squeeze between. Behind him Merlot snickered.

“Are you planning on going anywhere? Or just sit here belching all day?”

“You just shut up, or I’ll push you off myself,” he responded. “I didn’t ask you to come along.” As a matter of fact, Bastion had thought he had certainly gotten up early enough to make sure she didn’t tag along, but just as Bastion maneuvered the machine out of Will’s garage and down the driveway to the hedge, she had darted so quickly in front of him that he had nearly screamed in fright. Indeed it was fortunate that the damn machine was so slow, because otherwise he would have already fulfilled his destiny and mushed her quite to a pulp.

“Ho!” she had shouted as she scrambled up the back of the wheel-cover and clambered around trying to find an appropriate nook, “Trying to sneak off without me?”

“Merlot,” he had said, panicking with the thought of her commentary more than the possiblity of mushing her (he tried not to enjoy the cartoonish image of her being pressed into the mud and then stuck, nearly flat, as the tractor rolled right on through), “I’m not going more than thirty feet, and it’s going to be boring.”

“Don’t mind,” she responded with a sweep of the hand. “Don’t see too much else happening around these parts.” This was, if anything, an understatement in a place that pretty much only had the turning of leaves going for it, thought Bastion. Still he liked it, and liked it quiet if possible without all the girls constantly crawling all over him. You going to put it over there? Why are you doing that? Is that enough room? Are you sure? Always with their questions, and what did he do but take care of them, really. What did he ever do besides that? And for that matter, how could he even be thinking about turning down the job offer? Yes, he would be leaving them for long periods of time, but he would also be providing for them, wouldn’t he? He’d be contributing financially, and they didn’t really need him there all the time, did they? Maybe they’d find ways to be happy if he weren’t always there, making things happen for them. Maybe they’d be better without his constant help. That doesn’t make sense, he told himself, with a sigh.

“Let’s get going then,” he said finally when Merlot tossed a dirt-clod at a tree directly behind them. Reversing the tractor slowly, he enjoyed putting his hand on the bucket lever. Not that he needed it yet. Wished he could have been digging a big hole. How much fun that would be, maybe he could find an excuse later to do that… like a pond for the family or something. With koi, or maybe just goldfish. He pushed the lever up and down a little, jiggling the tractor as it started its slow, relentless march across their yard. No reason to move it, but no reason to not move it, right? He wondered if he put the bucket all the way down against the ground and then kept pushing the lever, whether it would lift the tractor right up. If Merlot weren’t there, he might have tried it. He sighed again. He should take the job. It was so perfect, him and the water and the boat and the other guys. No mother and sisters and sisters. Quiet. Maybe he could finish stacking all the wood today and then they would be set for the winter, so it wouldn’t really matter if he went away. Plus, maybe Will would look in on them, make sure they were okay.

He just wished they were okay more frequently. But no, they were never okay, he had to admit to himself. His mom was probably clinical. Probable no doubt. Hadn’t they always known it? He and his sisters scrambling for the ends, jumping to the corners of the trailer back when they had one, always ready to move and then move again, hustle out of her way, hustle back when she called. Crawl in her lap and smell that even red smell of her skin, like pepper or something. And then the others, Swallow so bad she had to leave; without her, the tight constraint of Naomi’s shoulders, the sharp slap way she had of talking to the others. Like they had nothing in common anymore, not even the pleased smirk they had always shared. Lord knows they couldn’t have looked more differently than each other: Bastion couldn’t even have qualified as a looker if he began wearing paper bags with lookers painted on their surface, but Naomi nearly made people shine just to look at her… well, since she had grown up. So no, they hadn’t had much in common but hadn’t they always had that smile, they glint of humor sparking between them without even having to face each other? That at least, the sign of their twinship, but now it was like she was gone too except maybe her bitterness.

The tractor reached the pile of wood and so Bastion stopped and remembered to push the brake extra hard and pull the knob that locked it into place. He rubbed the bucket lever again, felt the hard black smoothness of it, resting in the center of his palm, and then lifted it gently with his index finger, felt the tractor jolt with the heaviness of its own parts. He felt a fondness for it, mentally thanked Will again for letting him use it for the weekend if he looked after Rodney. He’d give Rodney an extra treat this afternoon. Bastion looked over, but couldn’t see if the great beast was watching through the kitchen window, so turned his attention back to the levers. After positioning the bucket where he wanted it, he pulled the second level until it had flattened out—its opening almost directly facing the sky but slightly tilted towards the woodpile. The whole thing had become such a burden, he thought as he climbed slowly out of the tractor, hampered by his incredible bulk—his thick ankles nearly caught in between the bucket cogs and the wheel cover.

On the ground, he stood up straight, caught the crick in his back, and stretched. Despite his obesity, he was not only strong but also surprisingly flexible, surprisingly fit. He stood up taller and looked at the woodpile, which he was going to slowly transfer into the bucket and then cart over to the woodshed for stacking. Maybe this was all it was going to take to keep them warm. Maybe that was the first step, he thought; maybe then things would be okay. He started over to the pile and began tossing pieces into the bucket.

Up in the tractor cockpit, Merlot had lifted out of her corner and slid into his seat. She placed her hands on the wheel, and then one hand on the levers. “Hey, Bastion,” she asked, “Can I drive it over to the woodshed?”

Bastion pitched a few more pieces of wood, and then straightened to see her resting her arms and head on top of the wheel, looking down at him. She tilted her head to the side and thrust her lips out beseechingly. Bastion smiled, and bent back down to the wood.

“Not unless you climb on down and help me do the actual work,” he said, and waited to see if she would climb down. But she didn’t, and instead watched him from under her sweatshirt hood, no doubt sulking and mentally berating him. Bastion wondered again if it would always have to be him, and unconsciously doubled the pace of his wood tossing while thinking of the way the water splits into foaming halves when a fast escaping boat goes through it.