I’m updating the site a little here and there. Aesthetically, mostly, but stuff that should have been done a long time ago. I submitted both the newly revised To Catch the Rain and Foundling to the Kentuckiana Metroversity Competition. Also, to the Canvas: Creative Arts Magazine.

I’m looking to hopefully connect my Twitter to a sidepanel, update the links on the side to things more like the places I do freelance for, get these posts to automatically post to Twitter (which may cause a loop, but I’ll deal with that when I absolutely need to) and need to at some point use the FTP to get Leaning (another video with original concept by yours truly and filmed by Klein M.) on the site. So much to do and so little time.

- Bishop

Here is the story: Foundling.

EDITED: You can now find this story under the Bibliography tab up top. – Bishop

EDITED: You can now find this story under the Bibliography tab up top. – Bishop

Can’t recall inviting him, I think, but he’s started chatting away about where he’s going and how he can just ride with me until then if that’s alright. Smiling, I nod a little and tell him that he’s welcome to stay until his stop, and he throws a worn-out backpack in the backseat. People are still attempting to avoid me and when I put on my turn signal I swear there’s a thousand and one obscenities muttered about my mother or other relative-of-choice. The lights blur as I pull into the correct lane and speed off.

He’s still talking. The only time he stops is to light himself a cigarette, presumably something inexpensive, without bothering to ask me first. Drenched still, but seemingly warm enough from the cigarette, he starts with his name. Guy, he says, but not like the one who wanted to blow up Parliament but like the one from the book. He asks me if I’ve ever read any Bradbury and I nod, he brightens up. I explain that I’ve not read that book in particular and he droops a bit but quickly recovers and asks my own name.

With a little hesitation, I tell him my name’s Vincent. Rain splatters against the windshield and the constant sound of wipers only enhances the silence after my name. Then Guy grins, a little crookedly, and goes on about how there was this movie where the main character, with my name, tried to become an astronaut by taking the place of a better person, genetically speaking. I’m not really sure how to take this, so I laugh a little nervously and mention that I’ve seen it. Good movie, I tell him.

We both go silent this time as the lamps on the highway flicker across the hood and windshield like a strobe light. The inside of the jeep illuminates each time we pass one, very briefly, and when it’s gone only the glow from his cigarette remains. Each time he takes a drag, it gets a little bit brighter and then darkens back to a sullen orange mixed with black. As he stretches out a bit, he seems to realize that his smoking has started to fill the interior and so he rolls the window down, even though it’s raining.

The smoke is quickly pulled from around his face to the cold abyss outside the window and the downpour drives a few drops through the crack and onto his still wet body. Somewhere ahead of us I can make out the taillights on some smaller car, but it’s far enough away to just be two pinpricks of hazy red light. An exit sign pops up, seemingly out of nowhere, and I’m near empty so I make my way to the far lane and comment about how there doesn’t seem to be that many people on the road. He shrugs and shivers a bit before flicking the filter out the window and closing it.

The off ramp ends in a small patch of civilization, just a motel and a gas station but it’s better than nothing. I pull into the dusty station and park at the closest pump to the road, like we’re some sort of intruder. The awning is covering us, so Guy steps out and stretches while I slide my card into the appropriate slot. The lights on the pad come to life. When I’m done, I wave to the man sitting behind the bulletproof glass across the lot, but he doesn’t wave back.

Guy gets back in while taking his shirt off and wrings it out over the pavement before flinging it into his backpack. The dash glows just bright enough to let his tattoo stand out. Of course, he notices me watching him. It’s an angel, he tells me, with the wings folded over his shoulders and around his torso to form an embrace. He points out that the arms are locked around his heart, holding tightly, and that its eyes are closed and weeping. That’s just a little depressing, I tell him. He nods and pulls his necklace from around the back of his neck.

Dogtags, three of them, and a very small cross. For the first time since we’ve met, Guy drops into a serious tone as he explains his tags. He goes on to tell me that he was in the army not too long ago and that they have this system where everyone has a Battle Buddy. As he goes on, he grips his dogtags and slightly fidgets with them. The point of having a Battle Buddy is so that when you get lost or into something too deep for you to handle, they’re there to help you out. We’re all alone as we wander back onto the highway, and I can tell Guy’s crying.

He wipes the tears from his face with his forearm and continues, telling me that his Battle Buddy used to sit up front when they were in transit and he’d sit in the back behind the driver. One day in particular, Guy wanted to sit in the front and so his Battle Buddy willingly gave up his seat. The flashes from the few lights along the road glance over his chest and then his face, showing the angel weeping and then him doing the same in succession. While they were on their way, small rounds fire penetrated the cabin, bullets bounced around the back and one hit his Battle Buddy in the neck just above the collarbone.

I don’t know what to say, and we both go silent again. I’m almost in tears myself when I tell him that I’m sorry for his loss, and that it must have been horrible to go through. He half smiles and simply says that’s what the angel’s there for, as someone must be looking out for him. Wiping tears from my own eyes, trying to figure out why his story got to me so badly, I forget I’m driving.

Then we pummel through the guardrail at sixty-five miles per hour. I can tell we’re airborne for just a second but it feels like forever, that floating feeling in my stomach as we fall, and I watch the tree come closer. Someone screams and it takes a moment to register that it was me. My jeep crunches like a candy wrapper on impact and I throw my hands forward, trying to stop myself, but manage to catch the steering wheel in an awkward way. The snap from beneath my elbow is the only clue I get that it’s broken in three places and the wheel bends forward as my airbag inflates, then I scream again.

I must’ve passed out because when I wake up, Guy is sitting beside me looking up at the moon. He looks fine, like he wasn’t even part of the crash, but for some reason he’s not wearing his shoes. As if he were reading my mind, he lets me know that he took them off so he could feel the wet grass. I try to blink away the pain but the rain slams into my eyes each time, sending throbbing sensations of hurt and agony down my body. He tells me he thinks that I broke my arm, but I’m otherwise okay, and tomorrow will be a beautiful day. I want to ask him how the hell tomorrow’s going to be anything like beautiful, but can’t form the words. A small utter of the word why does manage to escape.

“Because tomorrow you’ll be alive,” he says.

Then he stands up and begins walking back to the road. Before he makes it there he stops and opens his mouth, trying to catch the rain.

Jessica came over afterwards and we hung out for a bit, but I don’t like her like that. She talks too much. She keeps cuddling up to me and I just want to push her away. Sometimes it annoys the hell out of me. I guess we all need human contact though and she’s awfully warm curled up next to me. Better than being curled up by myself. I guess. I took one of those pills the doctors prescribed. Good ole antidepressants.

Wednesday, Dec. 20, 2006
No sleep. Again. Aberman must be really artistic lately because all that pounding and ringing is driving me insane. Then again, do the insane question their sanity? I remember hearing somewhere that they don’t. So I suppose I’m sane. If I were insane, I’d admit it. I’m not insane, just screwed up.

My shoes have mud on them and I don’t remember why. It’s pretty rainy outside, so it’s probably from there, and I have a receipt from some store. Pretty expensive. No recollection of any of it.

I think I’m slightly xenophobic. I don’t like going outside. Maybe that’s agoraphobic. Not sure, will have to look them both up later after work. I go to work, Jessica’s and come home. That’s my basic routine. Actually, that’s my life. Work. Jessica’s. Home. Mostly home. And pills.

Looked it up. Xenophobic means to have a fear of people. Agoraphobic is afraid of being outside. Basically, I think I might be both. Afraid to go outside of my comfort zone, especially with people. Who knows. Does the logic behind the insane person not questioning their sanity apply with phobias? I don’t think it does. What’s the name of that one disease where people constantly think they’re sick?

Thursday, Dec. 21, 2006
I went to Aberman’s today. He said he was going out of town for the weekend. Not that much of a journey as it’s only the apartment next to mine but I still felt like the world was after me. Closing in. Placebo effect apply to phobias? Sometimes I think I read too much into things. Either way, he works on stained glass apparently. Bending and shaping those little metal pieces that fit between the glass to form a picture of Jesus at the cross or other such things. He was working on a dolphin and told me that he really liked them.

If I had a power animal, it’d probably be a dolphin. I really like them too. Did I like dolphins before Aberman told me he did? Am I copying his like of dolphins? Sometimes I wonder if I’m just a mirror. Then again, does a mirror actually wonder if it’s a mirror? I should study psychology, something tells me I’d have a lot of questions. Forgot where I put my pills today. Oh well.

Friday, Dec. 22, 2006
I want to destroy something beautiful.

Saturday, Dec. 23, 2006
I don’t remember writing that yesterday and now I’m curious if Tyler Durden has made himself apparent. I looked in the mirror and wondered what I’d look like if Brad Pitt were to play me in a movie. No real resemblance, but that’s creative license for you. And I’m certainly no Edward Norton. Well, there’s more of an argument for Norton than Pitt. Guess I should find my pills.

Jessica came by again. I pretended to not recognize her, still playing like Cornelius, and she got angry and stormed off. Haven’t seen her in a bit. Unless Tyler’s been seeing her while I was sleeping. It’s a possibility, I guess. But Edward Norton never realizes until the end and I’m certainly no Edward Norton. I should call and apologize, though I won’t really mean it. She’s my friend but I’m not much of a friend to her. Is being depressed the same thing as being apathetic?

Sunday, Dec. 24, 2006
Aberman got back early today, someone had broken into his apartment. The police were there and there’s that yellow caution tape everywhere. Someone had been in his place and destroyed that beautiful dolphin. No more sliding for him. Or me. They asked me if I knew anyone who’d want to destroy it and I told them that Tyler may have done it. They asked who Tyler was and I told them he was a bad man and that’s all I knew. I didn’t mention my journal entry. I think it might have been his.

There are a bunch of small cuts on my wrist. It looks halfway between having tried to commit suicide and simply scratching an itch. Is it bad to be so apathetic about such a drastic thing? Maybe Tyler is seeping into my personality. Maybe I simply am Tyler and things are starting to slip out of my control. Selective memory.

The guy from the store that my receipt had the name of called today. Said my background check came back okay and I could pick my purchase up tomorrow. Will just have to button up and check it out.

Monday, Dec. 25, 2006
The blood’s everywhere. Even in my eyes. It stings and I’m wincing just trying to write this down. Not sure if this is a note for the police or if it’s a note for myself to look back on. The gun’s in my hand and I suppose I could kill myself. Jessica’s body is curled up in shock as if she never expected me to do such a thing when she came in the door. Sort of bowled her body over and she’s pouring out over my couch. Interesting blood pool pattern, I’m sure the coroner will say.

My vision’s a little blurry from the blood and adrenaline. I feel as alive as I ever have and then some. Blood’s pumping through me and my heart’s racing. My pills are spilled out across the floor and I don’t remember actually shooting her. Just the reaction. That horrified look and the ballerina spin to the ground. Maybe I could blame it on Tyler. Too late now. A handful of my pills are at the edge of her blood, speckled with it, and I think I’ll pick them up and take them. Only the blood-speckled ones. All of them. Do suicidal people realize they’re suicidal?

Romeo and Juliet, only without the love. Just the cold hard fact of mortality keeping us together. Is it strange to be thinking about the end where Edward shoots himself? I don’t think so.