#hedji

[oh-no-eu-didnt]

Hedji was a spacer if the rare Spiner species who worked with Han Solo shortly before the Battle of Yavin. As a Spiner, Hedji used his quills as a ranged weapon, firing them off his body instead of using a blaster or other more traditional weapon. He was courageous and stoic in his beliefs.

Source: Star Wars 8 - Eight for Aduba-3 (1977)

[hunter-rhys]

The Hurricane Came Through

It’s true the windows shook. The force of the wind scared us all.  I wasn’t too sure what to make of it.  Nothing really scared me before, but I was worried about him, worried that his first year would be marred by this contemptuous matter of nature.  Then I received a phone call from my mother.  She wasn’t too worried about the hurricane, or that the windows sounded like they were going to explode.  All she cared about was telling me what his name meant.  I never thought to ask her why she gave him that name.  Despite my vocal opposition, she didn’t want to talk about anything but his name.  She’d go on to tell me it meant the return of the prince.  I suppose such trivial things do matter at some point.

[hunter-rhys]

Writing

Typing up things I've written. The cycle begins all over again. Submission...waiting...waiting...

[hunter-rhys]

Writing by hand

I'm discovering these days how much I dislike writing by hand.  It used to be easy for me, and I liked the exercise of writing by hand, but these days I can't find any joy in it.  The problem is that I'm not particularly fond of using the computer to write either.  I'm easily distracted on the computer.

[hunter-rhys]

The Merits of Silence

A little story I wrote at work a few days ago.

Luca is about five feet tall.  He doesn't have much use for words.  His earliest memory is of his grandfather urging him to respect the merits of silence.  He’d sit in the backyard next to the small tomato garden and listen to the birds, the crickets and on occasion the little ants scuttling along to wherever it is that ants go.  He’d imagine the intricate worlds the bugs lived in, and the inevitable hierarchy they’re subjected to.  In his grandfather’s presence, Luca never grasped the merits of silence.  The old man, to his credit, never pushed any ideas on the boy.  He simply implored him to sit, silently, and observe.

Luca is older now.  His grandfather has been long resigned to memory as nature ran its course.  Luca sits at the little table by the window a few feet away from the counter.  He had been sitting there for what seemed like half an hour, waiting, as people came in and out, shuffling their jackets off their bodies and plopping down for a meal.  The young woman with the purple head band comes to his table, with a notepad in hand.  She lets him know that customers are supposed to order at the counter.

The young woman reminded Luca of his cousin Lianne.  Lianne had a reserved grin.  Luca was never able to figure out if she was happy or sad.  He’d often resign himself to the assumed knowledge that Lianne was indifferent about all there is to life.  As a boy, once he had learned to walk on his own, Luca would follow behind Lianne up the dingy dirt road to the top of the mound near their grandfather’s house.  He’d lie next to his cousin and watch as she attempted to burn bugs with her magnifying glass.  That Lianne would go on to become a biologist was no surprise to Luca.  He had seen it coming, by observing in silence as his grandfather taught him to.

The young woman leaves a menu in front of Luca and walks to another table.  Luca was relieved to see her go.  It had been years since he last spoke to Lianne, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to hide the discomfort of having to interact with someone who looked like her.  He looked at his watch, and then at the door.  Just then, the door opens and a woman walks in.  She walks over to Luca and smiles.  She bends and kisses him on the cheek.  Luca apologizes to her for not getting up.  He points down, and she notices the missing limbs.  She sits.  Luca takes a deep breath.  He remembered why he called her.  She had a soft unassuming face, and above all she cared enough not to pity him.  And that made her a valuable part of his recovery.

[hunter-rhys]

Mrs. Lopez' Adventure

A short story from my slush pile

There goes the line, Mrs. Lopez thought as she watched a heavy-set brunette woman jump in front of the line with her friend.  I’ve been standing here for thirty minutes with my shoes off, she thought, thank you very much Homeland Security, you sure made life easier.  Then she heard it, that unabashedly cryptic noise that tells you something is amiss.  Mrs. Lopez whipped her head behind her.  Her eyes searched throughout the crowd, but there was nothing.  The noise had ceased.  Had she imagined it? Did she will that sound into her mind? I must be going crazy, she thought as the line progressed.  If one more person cuts this line I’m going to lose it, I have a flight to catch too. 

She wondered why she always had trouble getting out of bed when she had to fly.  She dreaded something about the plane rides but she couldn’t put her finger on it.  People fizzed by with their luggage stacked on pushcarts.  Don’t they know how to travel? You bring a bag or two, never more than that.  Why go through the trouble of packing everything you own?  Then the noise returned with such sharpness that Mrs. Lopez nearly jumped out of her skin.  By this time, she was already at the front of the line, pushing her one bag through the ugly monstrous metal machine.  They used to just open my bag and check it, now they have to laser it.  Then she saw it, him, her, she couldn’t tell.  How cute, she thought as she watched a petite woman waving a bear at the rosy cheeked baby. 

The baby had not stopped crying when Mrs. Lopez finished going through the security machine.  They probably shaved a few years off my life right there.  She looked at the young man in the blue and black TSA uniform.  She could still hear the baby crying.  She’s too skinny.  Maybe she didn’t have enough milk in her breasts for the baby.  She needs big natural breasts to keep a baby healthy.  Where’s her mother?  Didn’t she teach her anything about taking care of children? Mrs. Lopez checked her watch and started pacing across the floor.

Later, while waiting at the gate, she noticed the woman with the baby, struggling to close the stroller.  Three men in the vicinity jumped to her aid.  Conyo, they all want to get in her pants, no class whatsoever, she played with her blue pen in her hand as she watched the men discuss the best way to fold the stroller.  She felt a sudden chill as the hair on her arms stood.  She put her brown sweater on.  Mrs. Lopez took out Marquez’ 100 Years of Solitude, and turned to the first page.  Then she heard it again.  This time the wail did not come from the baby with the petite hopeless mother.  Her ears searched throughout the crowd, and then she heard it again.  In the corner of her right eye, she saw a Latina woman standing with her hand on her hip, cursing into her phone while the baby cried.  What is she doing? She wondered.  Mrs. Lopez wanted to read, but beyond that, she really wanted to walk over to the woman and smack her.  Don’t have babies if you don’t want to take care of them.  Then relief arrived.  A spritely young woman with a big smile in a black skirt and jacket walked up to the microphone in front of the desk.  She played with her red bowtie for a few seconds and then began calling names.  Mrs. Lopez made one last trip to the restroom, because she hated using the bathroom on the plane.  And when she returned, the passengers had already begun boarding the plane.

9A, Mrs. Lopez looked at her ticket.  She had to get past two people to get to her seat.  How come they don’t make planes with just two chairs, one on each side? She wondered as she sat.  Mrs. Lopez read her book as the lead flight attendant gave out the safety instructions.  How does the blood do that? She asked herself.  Then suddenly, as if the forces –invisible as they were –that controlled every aspect of the universe decided to make her life a little more difficult than it already was, Mrs. Lopez heard a baby’s cry.  She whipped her head up and looked around.  Then another cry started.  What is going on?  She shifted her head again.  Another baby started crying.  She looked around at the people sitting next to her.  None of them seemed bothered by the crying babies.  The sound increased by the moment.  The flight attendant continued his instructions, and the babies continued their crying.  The plane started moving. 

Why is the plane moving? He’s not done with the instructions, and I can’t sit on this plane for twelve hours listening to these damn babies.  She searched for words to say, and an accomplice to confide her discomfort in, but no one else seemed to be bothered by the noise.

And at the end of the flight, when she exited from the terminal, Mrs. Lopez looked as if life had been sucked out of her.  Her son, Alejandro, was standing outside the terminal waiting for her when she got out.

“Ma, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Mijo, the babies, those itty bitty babies on the plane.  I can’t stand the babies.” she replied.