Catch Me if You Can't

The air was soft and warm like Christmas Eve. There was no tree, nor were there any presents, ‘twas not the season. Yet, ‘tit felt like the season. A fire was ablaze in the fireplace (‘twould have been a different story altogether ‘twere it on the staircase). Lights ‘twere hung round the window panes and round the trunk of the potted palm in the corner of the room. There ‘twere no stockings hung from the mantle with care, but there ‘twas a stack of stockings, wet and muddy, piled carelessly by the washing machine in the back hall; the dog was giving them a sniff.

There ‘twere relatives about, gathered from all corners of the globe. They had all come to witness the burial of Grandpapa, a man who always made it feel like ‘twere Christmas. He wore reindeer sweaters in July. He put candy and dollar bills in the children’s shoes no matter the time of year; each of the grandchildren had placed a shoe outside their sleeping quarters in case Grandpapa magically appeared on this, the night before his burial.

Outside, it was late August, hot and humid, but inside the house still felt like Christmas Eve. Or, better yet, felt like Grandpapa: soft and warm. If you put your ear to the floor, you could hear the rumblings of seventeen grandchildren playing Grandpapa’s favorite game in the basement: Catch Me if You Can’t! In this hilarious game, Grandpapa was always it, because he never caught anyone. He would get so close, but never quite tag you and you would howl with delight at the wonderfulness of your daring escape. Tonight, they played as if Grandpapa ‘twere there, howling and squealing to keep his spirit alive!

written Monday, May 7, 2012 

This post is in memory of Ray Bradbury, the man who inspired me to write.

Vernix’s Amazing Nachos

Timothy walked around the corner only to realize that he had just walked around another corner. There were more corners in front of him, though he could only see one. Each corner led to the next and the next, and so on. He could smell the cheese; nachos.

Timothy hated going to Vernix’s house. Vernix had double-majored in architecture and psychology, and his custom built home reflected his brain’s abnormal structure. The hallway from the front door to the living room is an actual maze; literally. Once you ring the doorbell, you are admitted by a buzzer – well, the buzzer sounds more like a bell; Pavlovian (“Ha,ha, Vernix!"). It goes something like this: you ring the doorbell, Vernix buzzes (sounds like a bell) you in, the door opens, the smell of Vernix’s signature dish – the nachos – wafts down from a vent, Vernix begins the timer, and you start making your way through the maze. The thing is: Vernix’s nachos are amazing! So, the second you smell them you are determined to find your way through the maze, no matter how long it takes. The walls are moveable, so each visit to Vernix’s presents you with a new maze.

Timothy once took thirty seven minutes to finish the maze; he missed the first quarter of the Super Bowl. His best time is one-minute thirty seconds. Timothy has been coming to Vernix’s every Sunday for three years; his average time is three minutes forty-two seconds.

Today, Vernix installed mirrored walls, as well as a replica living room – giving Tim a false sense of victory – and once he touched the bowl of nachos in the middle of the room, the room began to collapse in and Timothy was forced out of what would have been the bathroom door in the actual living room. But, he didn’t end up in the bathroom – he was back in the foyer, facing the actual front door.

So, Timothy just gave up. He opened the front door to leave and stepped into the actual living room (“Nice one, Vernix!")!

The nachos were the best yet.

The fire

The fire waxed. Then, it waned. A cool, autumn breeze blew by. The fire waned, again. It breathed; a hot breath. It was red, then orange. There was…the smallest hint of blue; a tinge. It reached, stretched toward the sky. It was…warm. It longed…for fuel. It was dying to stay alive.

A pile of wood lie nearby…waiting…to help, to be the fuel…to help.

The fire waxed. It waned, again. Surrounded by a ring of rocks, then dirt, then benches, then…forest; a dark forest. There was a hum. A humming. Coming from…somewhere. A car? Idling? Maybe.

No, an airplane; overhead.

The fire fell. Now…only smoldering. Choking. Coals glowing. Red hot coals pulsing…with life? Crackling. Footsteps? On leaves? No, the coals.

The fire settled, cooled. The fire resigned. Was resigning? Yes? A shadow…no…a darkness surrounded one coal, then two, then all. Heat escaped…or, was escaping; rapidly. Darkness fell all around. Popping? The coals. The heat…embers inside the dark coals bursting to be free. Pressure. A few more…pop…pop…crack…yes, even a snap.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

Eyes? A raccoon? A possum? A deer. Two deer. Approached…were approaching. Then, they finished approaching and stood…sniffed…were sniffing…no…yes…were sniffing the coals. Their antlers clashed…ah…were clashing…their antlers, clashing together, scraping.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

The fire. It was startling…to the deer…the popping…they ran…were running…away.

The fire was out. Completely out; cold. It was.