Scott Taylor
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Ten Very Short Stories, vol. 4

Testing my Hypothesis that my Roommate has been Reading my Diary

Today’s entry:
Have started poisoning F.
Will now watch for signs.

 

For his own Good

“Yes,” he admitted to me, “it’s bad, inexcusably bad, that it had gotten to the point where saving the relationship all came down to the creation, delivery, and appreciation of a carefully crafted mix-tape—the best mix-tape ever on the topic of unrequited love, if you ask me.”

“What happened?”

“It was stolen out of my car. They didn’t touch anything else. I don’t get it.”

“The Universe is an indifferent construct,” I told him, knowing that, at some point, the investigation would lead them to me.

 

On the Writer’s Shelf

His books, all of which were published some thirty to forty years ago, a copy of The Seagull, and a gun.

 

Mr. Death

He appeared at the kitchen window, like in a fifties sitcom, and chatted her up in a neighborly way.

 

After the Fight

I was staring straight up through the tree skeletons at the snow floating down. I was very cold. I was lying on my back on a bit of black ice on a walkway through the commons. I could not remember how I got there.

My girlfriend stomped over and pushed on my arm with the heel of her boot like she was testing the liveliness of a roadkill.

“Hey,” I said.

“Well, I guess you’re not dead,” she said, and stomped off again toward the tram.

 

Guinness Book Attempt

I needed to stay up for 12 nights. My buddies were helping me. Restaurants brought food, thinking I was a boy scout. The third day I began muttering and talking to myself. On the fourth day, I began yelling at people. They took me off the radio and they took me off TV. On the fifth day: my friends spiked my coffee with sleeping pills they had ground up with two spoons.

 

Bounty

It had been a long day. He worked late for the third time this week, but everything seemed to be finally going well. He had really turned the corner on everything. New city. New job. Sure, divorce was on the horizon, but even that seemed like a relief now and not a tremendous insult.

He got out of the car, and walked into a convenience store by his apartment. He grabbed a loaf of bread, some eggs, and a single pilsner. As he waited in line, he looked up and saw a poster with his picture on it and the word “Bounty” above his head.

“What the hell?”

“Is this some kind of joke,” he said to the clerk.

She shrugged.

He took the poster down to have a better look at it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the clerk turn away from him as she punched in some numbers and began whispering into the phone.

 

The Tale of the Twins

Once upon a time there were twins, alike in every way except that one could only open doors and the other could only close them.

One day, the one who could only open doors died, and well, you know the rest.

 

Contrary to What You’ve Heard about Screaming

“Jay is a project manager from Athens we abducted three days ago. If you want to learn more about him, login, and use your subscriber code to access his entire Facebook site, as well as his WhatsApp and Telegram accounts—including all the messages he’s deleted in the last year!

“I’ve just received word that Jay has been put into the Extravehicular Mobility Suit. In a couple minutes, we’ll wake him up with a shot of adrenaline, and then eject him from the space station. He’ll have thirty minutes to get his bearings, figure out the suit, and then maneuver his way back to the docking doors before his oxygen runs out, while you, our special subscribers, get to watch and listen.

“Okay, I’ve gotten the thumbs up. Here we go! Contestant number 59640, it’s time to wake up! I’m sure you’ve got questions.“

 

Portent

Nothing bad ever happens at the Scissors Museum, he said, twisting his mustachio.

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Ten Very Short Stories, Vol. 1
Ten Very Short Stories, Vol. 2
Ten Very Short Stories, Vol. 3

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Ten Very Short Stories, vol. 3

Anachronism

The last thing H. remembered was getting in bed next to his wife, hoping to get enough sleep before his presentation in the morning. Now, he was being dragged in chains down a dirt road toward a bonfire. People were yelling. People were cheering. They threw rocks at him.

G. woke feeling pleased with himself. This was a new time, a new place. He would have to learn the language. In the meantime, there was a woman in bed with him, who was responding to his touch.

 

Clandestine

They had gotten out of the city. No cell service. No electricity. Not a single soul knew they were there. The view was absolutely breathtaking.

However, it was ten below, and the car wouldn’t start.

 

Penultimate Moment

The moment I realized he really was from another planet, was the moment I regretted everything I had just said.

 

Coming to

K. woke up on a plane and found himself tied up. Someone said he was a hijacker. This made no sense. Why was he even on a plane? But the more he thought about it, the more he supposed it was true. I need to get out of these ropes, he thought, and back to the situation at hand.

 

Mamma Mia

She mixed up Queen and ABBA because of a lyric and her life has never been the same.

 

Last Words

The stage was set. Everyone was gathered around his bed. He knew he’d be gone before evening. Thankfully, he had rehearsed this moment in his head for months. He would relish this moment.

Later, at the very end, unable to speak, his last thought was: I will never learn.

 

“I was Told Not to Contact You… “

Inside the big box, was a much smaller box in the middle of all the packing plastic. He unwrapped it carefully. It was a family portrait. There was a thick coating of dust on top of the frame.

He examined the photo and recognized himself as a very young boy, but he did not recognize anyone else.

 

Rules?

“Santorini! . . . “Santorini! . . .  Please!”
“You and your safe words,” she said. “How adorable.”

 

The Metamorphosis

S. woke up feeling very strange.
He got out of bed, went to the mirror,
and found himself looking at a cartoon lion.
Heavens to Murgatroyd, he said.

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Ten Very Short Stories, vol. 2

He Asked

“If you could go back in time, what’s the one thing
you would change about your life?”

She told him.

 

Reprimand

“I’m sorry ma’am,” said the officer.
“Did he suffer?” she asked.

Later, at the station, the commissioner said,
“Look, there are some situations
that don’t require the god-awful truth.”

 

Ghost

He hypothesized that he was a ghost.
He lectured and explained.
His evaluation of the literature was intriguing.
He presented persuasive examples.
I had many questions
but he simply kept talking as if I wasn’t there.

 

Worse Ways

Well,” the detective said to his partner,
as he walked away from the body.
“There are worse ways to die.”

“Not many,” she said.

 

Waiting for the Mask to Drop

Beneath my seat, instead of a floatation device,
there was a packet of plastic eyes.

 

Yeah, We Found Him

Nothing else to do, we fed his dogs
and called the sheriff on the short wave.

 

Wait a Minute

Looking at their wedding photos, they compared notes,
and realized that neither one knew the guy
who had introduced himself to each as “the uncle.”

 

Driver’s License Photo

He looked through the wallet he had found
that evening on the beach, on a pile of clothes, no one around.
He would have rent money after all.

Later, while relaxing for the first time in weeks,
there was a story on the news about a local woman
who had committed suicide.
She looked familiar.

 

Red then Green

“It has to be done in the exact order.”
“Wait, what?”

 

It was Funny at the Time

The anesthesia was just kicking in,
and it was time for the procedure.
“See you on the other side,” she said.

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Ten Very Short Stories, vol. 1
Ten Very Short Stories, vol. 3
Ten Very Short Stories, vol. 4

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Matter: No Way Out but Through, episode 3

Oh People!

The third show of No Way Out but Through is live!
A warning for the wary listener: everyone dies in this one.

Show 3: Matter

Imagine yourself in the middle of a world-destroying catastrophe. Now imagine that we have a short quiz for you. It won’t take but a minute. The world is a dusty, dark chaos, and the trap our unreliable narrator finds himself in gets more dire as the story goes on. Agents Angstrom and Kinski find themselves in a different kind of trap—and due to a lack of budget, and thus, vocal talent, poor Kinski doesn’t even get a speaking part. An announcement that the hit show Arena is returning to the air tonight to answer the question, “What Happens After We Die?” Then The Race is On—with apologies to George Jones, Tom Durkin, and Larry Collmus. And finally, a poem about life, the universe, and everything.42

Listen:

http://scott-taylor.buzzsprout.com

Matter

1.
Three Questions

One.
If, in the course of a world-destroying catastrophe,
you know a science fiction or science magazine type disaster—
an asteroid hits the earth, the sun is extinguished, a nuclear war
or climate change disaster makes the planet unlivable—that kind of thing—
anyway, if you could save hundred people,
not including yourself, who would be flown via rocket,
to another planet where they could survive,
which one hundred would you choose?

Two.
If you could, would you send some sort of monster to live there with them?

Three.
Exactly what kind of monster?

 

 

2.
If Nowhere has a Middle

The only washing machine in town sits on a corner by the remains of a gas station, which looks to have been abandoned at least two decades ago. It’s plugged into a light pole by the street. There’s a water spigot it’s hooked up to, and a drainage hose that runs a few feet and then dead ends in the parking lot.

It’s past midnight. The streetlight barely glows, its light constrained by a thick coating of dust on the glass. The next light is about a quarter mile down the road, barely as bright as a minor star.

The wind picks up. A small twister forms in the parking lot, spinning bits of trash up into the air. As I dump my clothes from a canvas bag into the machine, a car pulls up and parks between the pump island and what used to be the front door.

Three young men get out. They leave the doors open and light each other’s cigarettes. There’s music playing but I can’t make anything out about it. They don’t pay me any mind. They just lean against the car and smoke.

A couple walks by on the opposite side of the street—European travelers with impressive backpacks. They stop and illuminate their map with a powerful flashlight. They look up. They look around. They point. They fold the map into a perfect rectangle, and continue on in the same direction.

I start the machine and lean against it as the tank fills. I don’t bother with the temperature control—all the water here is warm.

The wind picks up even more. Dust is suddenly everywhere. I should have waited until tomorrow. My eyes burn. My mouth is dry with dust..

The men get inside the car. They close the doors rigorously but I do not hear the sound it makes. Breathing is unpleasant. I can’t swallow. I get a little too caught up in imagining my death by suffocation.

There’s a phone booth at the edge of the parking lot. I hold my breath and make my way toward it. Getting the door to even budge is difficult. I rattle it around and it finally loosens. I jerk it open, and close it hard behind me. I take a short exploratory breath.

Another car pulls up. The windows of both cars roll down. They talk briefly. They exchange . . . something. The first car leaves.

The phone book is long gone. The cable it once hung from is all that’s left. The receiver is dangling, so I hang it up. Old candy wrappers and flattened cigarette butts paper the floor. Some pale, yellow weeds grow through a crack where the booth is attached to a cement block. I’m protected from the wind, but I am also trapped inside while it blows.

I can barely see anything outside. There’s dust in the booth now. Trash is blown and pinned against the glass. The booth creaks. It seems like it should hold, given how it’s bolted to the block but I’m not totally convinced.

There’s a big strong loud prolonged gust, and the lights go out. Larger objects start striking the booth, branches and boards. The world is a swirling dusty dark chaos.

Then it lets up and everything is silent like I’ve gone deaf.

Then I hear the car start and drive off. I hear it drive down the road. I hear it for a very very long time. If nowhere can be said to have a middle, then that is where I am.

I consider grabbing my wet clothes, and making a run for it but I’m not convinced I could find my way in the dust and the dark. I slump against the side of the booth, unwilling to leave, unable to decide anything.

 

Now I see the headlights of five, maybe six, cars pull into the lot. A bunch of doors burst open. I hear voices. Some yelling. There seem to be two factions. I can make out the legs of many men silhouetted by the headlights of the cars.

I am hoping they leave before they notice me, but the phone rings. It’s loud. It’s shrill. It’s the only noise in the entire world. I pull the receiver off to stop the ringing. A man says, Stay right where you are. We are on our way. Outside, the men from the cars have stopped arguing. One of the cars backs up, so its headlights are pointed my way. Every single one of them sees me now. They pull out their guns and begin moving toward the phone booth.

 

 

3.
Road Block

 

one

The Coast Highway. 9:30 pm.
Agent Kinski is unconscious and needs help.

We were traveling down 101, as planned. However, there was an unexpected road block about a quarter mile from the epicenter. There are plenty of falling rocks and washouts on this road this time of year but there was no mention on the road report that had been generated just thirty minutes before. The structure looked far more formidable than necessary, for even a washout.

We got out of the car. The air felt thick. It smelled of ozone . . . of something floral, something sweet. . . It smelled of decay.

From a distance the structure looked legitimate. However, the closer we got to it, the more bizarre it became. We saw what looked like a cargo cult version of a falling rocks sign, like it was copied without knowing its purpose.

The structure itself, while imposing, didn’t look heavy. It didn’t look like it was made of metal. It wasn’t smooth. It looked organic. It looked like it was made of . . . some sort of black coral.

Agent Kinski went in closer to investigate. She pushed on it to see if it would move. She thought that maybe we could just move it out of the way. It gave a little where she pushed. Then she backed away. She said, “it’s already too late,” then collapsed.

Her hand was red and purple, like it was bruised and inflamed. She was delirious for a few moments before going totally unconscious. I moved her to the car, careful to avoid her hand. She’s breathing but needs help. Ten miles back from here, there’s a spot where a copter could land. I’ll try to make it there. Be ready to evacuate Kinski.

 

two

I hope you’re receiving this because we are trapped. Another structure, identical to the first one, is now blocking the road a quarter mile back—where there was nothing fifteen minutes ago. Kinski is not well. Her breathing is shallow. She’s making noises in her sleep—like she’s speaking in tongues.

I doubt my gun is of any use at all. The flamethrower will not do much in the rain. I don’t want to use the explosives unless I have to. My next move is to see if I can drive the car straight through it.

 

three

Send reinforcements now. We are careening down the hill. The road is washed out. We are in a mudslide. It looks like we are on some sort of bobsled run, maybe it’s some sort of lumber thing. It’s totally black at the bottom, like there’s a big hole or no wait . . . there’s something there. . .

 

 

4.
Arena Promo

Coming up later tonight,
the hit show Arena
triumphantly returns to the air
to answer the question:
What Happens After We Die?

On tonight’s show,
teams representing Christianity,
Islam, and Buddhism
will square off in the Arena
with Medieval weaponry,
the winners gaining
the right to decide . . .

What Happens After We Die

Find out the answer
to this age-old question,
tonight at nine.

 

 

 

 

5.
The Race is On

(after George Jones, with inspiration from Tom Durkin and Larry Collmus)

And through the iron gates, they’re off—

Getting out fast is Healthy Child followed by Doctor’s Orders
then, running together, it’s Confused Parent and AntiVax
it’s Healthy Child and Doctor’s Orders
but AntiVax and Confused Parent are making a move,
Doctor’s Orders is falling off the pace
here comes AntiVax
with Confused Parent along for the ride.
and now Measles Outbreak is moving along the rail
Doctor’s Orders is completely out of the picture
it’s AntiVax, Confused Parent, and Measles Outbreak
followed by High Temperature and Nasty Rash
and coming up on the outside, It’s Nothing to be Done,
Tiny Casket, and Devastated Parents

Now at the first curve, High School Jock
and Glory Days are running together
it’s High School Jock, Glory Days,
and here comes College Team
it’s High School Jock and Living the Dream
oh but College Team is applying the heat,
Glory Days are gone for good,
High School Jock is falling back
now its Softball Team and Middle School Coach,
with Lumber Mill just two lengths back
It’s Softball Team, Middle School Coach, and Lumber Mill
along the rail, here comes Jack Daniels,
Drunken Brawl, and Night in Jail,
Middle School Coach is nowhere to be seen,
and now, Lumber Mill has dropped completely off the pace,
coming on strong, it’s Recruitment, Army, and Basic Training,
it’s Military Exercise, and now Friendly Fire,
followed by Devastated Family,
Too Many Questions,
Closed Casket,
and Folded Flag.

Music Prodigy is making her move,
it’s Young Artist, Recognition, and College Scholarships,
and here comes Big City and Big Time Tryouts,
it’s Practice, Practice, Practice,
it’s Audition, It’s Passion, and here comes Failure,
Audition and Failure are running neck and neck,
Passion is dropping off the pace,
it’s Practice, followed by No Longer Fun,
Music Prodigy is in a tight spot,
and here comes Depression and Too Much to Drink,
it’s Failure, it’s Pressure,
it’s Depression and Too Much to Drink
it’s Big City, it’s Rooftop,
it’s Ah, Might as Well Jump.
it’s Stunned Friends, Disappointed Family,
and Closed Casket.

Now on the back stretch,
Happily Married is leading along the rail
followed by Is This All There Is
Stuck in the Middle with You is three lengths back
it’s still Happily Married, Is This All There Is,
and here comes Late Night at Work,
now Attractive Secretary is making her move,
is This All There Is has moved in front of Happily Married,
Attractive Secretary is looking good,
it’s Late Night at Work, How About a Nightcap,
it’s Instant Fires, and then Drunken Evening,
Happily Married has fallen off the pace,
It’s Attractive Secretary
and now Red Camaro is coming on hard,
it’s Drunken Evening, and now Bachelor Pad,
Attractive Secretary Is falling back,
it’s Late to Work, Utter Chaos, and Too Much to Drink,
And here comes Untimely Dismissal, and Divorce Papers,
Attractive Secretary is nowhere to be seen,
it’s Too Much to Drink,
And now pulling ahead on the outside,
it’s Fatal Accident,
Devastated Family,
and Uncomfortable Funeral.

Now finally making its move, it’s Late Bloomer,
followed by Lifelong Masterpiece, it’s Late Bloomer
really picking up the pace, then Lifelong Masterpiece,
and Encouraging Feedback,
It’s Late Bloomer and here comes,
Multiple Publications along the rail,
things are looking up for Late Bloomer but wait,
here comes Hard to Concentrate, and Doctor’s Appointment,
with Multiple Tests running just behind,
Lifelong Masterpiece is dropping off the pace,
it’s Test Results, Bad News, and Oncology,
Lifelong Masterpiece is completely out of the picture,
Late Bloomer is really falling back,
it’s No Energy, and Disbelief,
it’s Denial and Regret,
It’s Unfinished Masterpiece,
Time’s Wingèd Chariot is hurrying near,
It’s Death of Ivan Ilyich,
Too Little Too Late,
Late Bloomer is done.

Now it’s Old Maid at the rail,
Living Alone is on the outside,
Estranged Family is a half-length back,
here comes Missing Medicaid Check,
No Insurance, and Low Funds,
followed by No Heat,
and now Heart Problems is nipping at her heels,
it’s No Insurance, it’s Heart Problems
it’s Lonely Lonely Death,
it’s Long Week, and Neighbor Complaint,
Then Fire Department and Terrible Odor,
it’s Sad Hungry Pomeranian,
Closed Casket,
And Ill-Attended Funeral

And into the homestretch they come,
it’s Early Death, Late Death, and Unexpected Death,
it’s a Crushing Death,
a Shooting Death, an Instant Death,
it’s a Death that’s been a Long Time Coming,
It’s Homicide, Genocide, and Suicide
it’s Self-Immolation, and Collateral Damage,

And it’s the Big Sleep, Bit the Dust, and Bought the Farm,
it’s Cashed in his Chips, Come to Rest,
and Crossed the Great Divide,

“It’s Departed, Defunct, and Ceased to Be,
It’s Rung Down the Curtain
and joined the Choir Invisible”
(Monty Python, Dead Parrot Sketch)

It’s Giving Up the Ghost,
Left the Building,
Met his Maker,
and Kicked the Bucket,
it’s a Permanent Vacation,
Put to Bed with a Shovel,
and Pushing Up the Daisies,

it’s Six Feet Under,
Snuffed Out,
and finally,
Shuffled off this Mortal Coil

 

6.
Matter

At some point, somehow,
almost impossibly,
the universe begins
and, for a while, exists,
then, at some point, dies,
but along the way,
luckily, amazingly, somehow,
who could say why,
in local instances anyway,
things begin to attract weight,
things begin to matter

 

 

 

SFX Credit Attribution:

Horses Racetrack, Montevideo, Uru provided by sounddogs/ Pond5
Horse Racing Crowd Cheering At End Of Flat Race provided by soundsvisual/Pond5
Race Track Crowd, Gates Open provided by ProSoundEffects/Pond5
Horse Race Meeting Crowd provided by jfxsound/Pond5
War Drums provided by jmac713/Pond5
Wind Desert Sand provided by clacksfx/Pond5
Rain hitting roof provided by quietswede/Pond5

 

 

 

 

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Ten Very Short Stories, vol. 1

Infamous

That’s when the radiator blew
and the now infamous pogo stick
began its fatal trajectory.

 

Radio Report

The cars were all leaving town, using both sides of the road, heading inland. It’s all very orderly. So far.

 

The Deputy’s Tale

The deputy used to work at the jail but asked for a transfer—one night, a few months back, he dreamed he had been locked in a cell and no amount of counseling or harassment could change that fact.

 

Foreigners

They were married and traveling, which they did a lot. They had a fight, which they did from time to time. She could not, for the life of her, remember what they had been fighting about.

He went for a walk after midnight to cool down.
This was not a good city for that.

 

Romance

Dinner would be ready soon, He had set the table perfectly for two.

The next morning, the settings were still there, unused, except for one glass and the entire bottle of wine.

 

Penelope’s Tale

Every night she undoes the knitting she’s done that day to fool the suitors— if only she can buy more time, she thinks, but look, here’s her husband home from work at the usual hour and of course there are no suitors.

 

The Former Rodeo Clown’s Tale

I always wanted to be a cowboy.
Look at me now, he says.
Anyway, that’s why I walk with a limp.

 

Misnomer

Once, he says, they talked to me, and more important, they talked about me amongst themselves. I was a great white hope, they said, he says.

 

Infernal Signs

Yesterday, after an absence of almost a hundred years, the goats came back to town.

Some people have begun selling their worldly possessions. Others think about behaving irresponsibly.

 

Sisyphus and Son

Are we there yet?

Wait, there’s more:
Ten Very Short Stories, vol. 2
Ten Very Short Stories, vol. 3
Ten Very Short Stories, vol. 4

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Afterimage : No Way Out but Through, episode 2

The theory goes like this: The more we learn language, the more it structures our thinking, the more it structures how we learn, how we store and retrieve memories. This is why we have such trouble remembering things from when we were very young. Those memories were stored using a very different system. I’ve been reading about this lately. I’m not in the field or anything. I’m simply trying to make sense of something that happened.

Listen below. The transcript follows.

http://scott-taylor.buzzsprout.com

And what happened, happened when I was four years old. I know this because my brother was still a baby, still months away from walking. And I remember that it was Fall. The air was crisp, and the leaves were falling.

We were at the airport—not our hometown airport, not the one we usually flew out of. We were in the middle of a trip, on a layover. We had been there a couple hours and it was nearing our boarding time.

We traveled a lot back then. My parents had already taken me to Europe and Asia, and had made plans to see Tanzania. They assumed that when I began school the next year, the opportunities would dwindle and they’d be locked in to traveling during summer vacations and school holidays, having to travel at the same time as everyone else. And having a second child compromised their travel plans even more.

Across from us, there was a family: parents, a boy, and a girl. The boy was a couple years older than me, the girl about the same age. The boy was all over the place, running, climbing, playing with spaceships and astronauts. The girl worked on a puzzle book.

As the airline agent began boarding the first-class passengers, I saw a man walking straight toward us. He walked deliberately. He had an energy about him. I remember him as looking very intense. He wore a jean jacket, jeans, and boots. His face was sunburned. I was nervous about him.

But he was not concerned with me. He was looking at the mother of the family across from us. He made eye contact with her, then looked at the husband, and the kids, then turned around, and was gone.

The mother jumped up. She said something to her husband, then ran off after the man, and disappeared into the crowd.

Everyone was boarding now. The family looked confused and anxious. The kids sat on the edge of their chairs, barely moving. I looked for the mom. Where did she go? Would she make it back in time?

When it was our turn, I didn’t want to go. My father had to pull me toward where the agent was taking boarding passes.

We got on the plane. I kept looking for them. We waited in the aisle. People were putting their suitcases into the overhead. I couldn’t see anything. After we were seated, I stood up on my chair. I saw four empty seats. My father told me to sit down, and buckled me in.

They’re not there, I said to my mom, who was occupied with my brother.

It’ll be fine, she told me.

The seats were eventually taken by another family and the plane took off.

 

I have no memory of the vacation, where we went, what we saw.

This image though, the woman disappearing into the crowd, was always close at hand. I would wonder about the sunburned man. I would wonder if they made it to their destination.

This occupied my mind for hours every day for months.

Penny for your thoughts, my mother would say.

I’d shrug and say nothing, or make something up.

I dreamed about this often, but never an entire dream revolving around this one image. It was spliced in at random places, like a practical joke played by a theater projectionist. I’m swimming in the ocean, I’m running through the forest, I’m falling off a building—the man enters, looks at the woman and her family, then leaves. The woman explains, runs after him, disappears. I’d wake up, and my mind would race for hours.

The scene would play across my daydreams as well—whenever I was bored in school, or riding the bus, or on long car rides to my grandparents’ house, superimposing itself over the wheat fields as I looked out the window. It was especially on my mind when we flew. I looked for them in every airport.

I’d tell myself, as I got older, one way or another, this family reached some sort of equilibrium again. I’d tell myself, that the woman made it back in time, that they boarded a plane, that they made it to their destination. I’d tell myself, that the kids grew up and everything turned out fine.

I was not able to convince myself. It was like wanting to know how characters’ lives continue after the book or movie is over, except that these were real people. It was a real thing that happened in front of me.

I sketched the scene over and over. I wrote stories. I provided endings—none of which rang true.

The image needed closure and I had no idea how to accomplish that.

 

Then, few years ago, while flying on business, I had a layover. I had some time, so I headed toward my terminal, hoping to grab some dinner and a drink, and found myself at the same gate I had been at many years earlier, the gate where the woman had disappeared.

I sat down in the same seat, and replayed the whole scene in my head.

I stayed for as long as I could before having to run to my gate. I was excited. I knew where it happened. I felt optimistic I could uncover more.

I began booking flights with layovers at that airport. Not long layovers—I did not want my wife getting suspicious, and I did not want to explain. I could not explain. I had no confidence in my ability to explain. I did not feel I could do the image justice. I did not trust myself to defend it to another person. I did not want to fail the image.

Each time, I would get to the gate as early as I could, and try to take everything in. There had to be something I had overlooked. But each time, I found nothing. Being there did not shake anything loose in my head. I was no longer so optimistic.

After a couple more times, sitting in that chair, I realized that the image was not becoming more clear, that the crowded gate of the present was overwriting the image of the disappearing woman. It was overwhelming it. Despite the emotional charge the image had for me, it was fading away.

I tried to hold off booking there but I could not help myself. I’d arrive, sit there, sickened, each time able to recall less and less.

 

Then, last year, I found I could no longer book the layover. The terminal was going through a renovation.

I barely slept during that time. I asked my doctor for sleeping pills, telling her I was under a lot of pressure at work, telling her I was traveling a lot, telling her that my relationship with my wife had become stressful.

 

Some months later, I was finally able to book the layover again. It took every bit of willpower I had to not run through the airport. When I arrived at the newly remodeled gate, I realized that I had not thought this through, that I was not the least bit prepared for what I’d see.

It was totally changed. It might as well have been an entirely different airport in an entirely different city. I felt nothing there.

It was all gone. Nothing remained.

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Podcast Transcripts

Past Tense: No Way Out but Through, episode 1

Oh People!

I am excited to announce the existence of my podcast—
No Way Out but Through.

The podcast is a deployment of monologues, poems, music, and stories that revolve around a central theme. It’s waking upside-down in a car filling with water. It’s the strange piece of metal you found with the map brought back from your dreams.

Show 1: Past Tense
A psychic finds a strange piece of metal with a map brought back from her dreams. Scott draws some questionable conclusions about the present, based on serial misreadings of his own past. A town reacts to long-awaited infernal signs. The Past is your permanent crazy ex who knows all your passwords—and secrets—by heart. From the radio desk, Scott suggests a weekend activity for the kids at the Armory, involving art and knives. He then gives a quick update about last week’s freak eclipse. And finally, a time-travel caper.

Listen below. The transcript follows.

http://scott-taylor.buzzsprout.com

Past Tense

1.
The Psychic’s Tale

I’m afraid of bridges, she says.
Hot sun. Steel cables. Traffic.
The water slowly rising.
Nothing to be done.

Now, in a room filled with mirrors,
she tells her story again,
and the needles
on the machines go crazy.
The doctor questions her once more
about the yellow birds
destined to block out the sun,
and the strange piece of metal
she found with the map
brought back from her dreams.

Everything in history, she says,
is five seconds old.

 

2.
Ten Years Ago

“Anyone who isn’t embarrassed of who they were last year probably isn’t learning enough.” 
― Alain de Botton

Ten years ago, I remember thinking, very distinctly, that I have finally figured it out. I understand where I’m going, who I am, and what the past means.

Now, to make this assessment, I was comparing myself to the self I was ten years before that—which is to say, twenty years ago—when I had previously thought: I have finally figured it out. I know where I’m going, who I am, what the past means.

It turns out, I couldn’t have been more wrong . . . except perhaps ten years before that, when I was as wrong as it gets. Then, I was completely in the dark. It was amazing how stupendously wrong I was.

Now, as I’m sitting here. . . and I know what this sounds like—I mean, I know my track record here . . . but I just want to say that, right now, at this moment, I really and truly believe, in my heart of hearts, that I honestly have my shit figured out . . . I understand where I’m going, who I am, and I absolutely know what the past means . . .

One hundred percent.

 

3.
Infernal Signs

Yesterday, after an absence
of almost a hundred years,
the goats came back to town.

Some people
have begun selling
their worldly possessions.
Others think,
about behaving,
irresponsibly

 

4.
Inescapable

The past is a black Buick
filled with 40s film gangsters,
who pull even with you on a winding road
on a cliff by the ocean
and knock you over the side.
On your way down,
your life flashes before your eyes.
and it’s so boring
you can’t wait to hit bottom.

The past is the pitcher
who does not bother
backing you off the plate with high heat
but simply throws at your unhelmeted head.
The past is the catcher who kicks you in the nuts
while you’re sprawled out on the ground.
The past is the umpire who laughs,
and calls you out.

The present is the frog in the pot
and the past is what is turning up the heat.

The past is your permanent crazy ex
who knows all your passwords—and secrets—by heart.

The Past says:
order another round.
It says: Keep on talking.
It says: Say things without thinking.
Say things you don’t mean.
It’s your god-given right
to speak up and speak out.
In fact, let me do all the talking.

The Past says:
What you’ve said and done
is said and done.
There is no undo.

The Past says:
Do not bother arguing.
I am rigid and right
and will win every time.

The Past says:
I am all-powerful, all-knowing.
Thou shalt have no other gods before me.
It says: get down on your knees.

The Past says:
The present is nothing.
The present doesn’t last
for even a second.
It doesn’t exist.
The present is a myth.

The Past says:
The entirety of your life is in the past.
Every single bit of it.
It is unchangeable, irreversible, unalterable,
and you screwed it up so many times,
that all you can do now
is ride your poor little miserable existence out
until it breaks down completely
like a hundred-dollar car.

The Past says:
I am inescapable.
I am your masterpiece.
I am your immutable body of work.

It says:
Obey.
It says:
Get down on your knees.

 

5.
Ephemeral Art Day

Hey, welcome back. If you’re looking to do something with the kids this weekend, bring them on down to the armory this Saturday at 10am for the third annual Ephemeral Art Day.

Meet artist and craftsman Jack Tumble. You’ve likely seen Jack’s work at all the gift shops in town, and of course, at the airport and bus stations. His myrtlewood carvings are always a big hit with visitors to the area.

Jack will teach your kids how to carve and whittle with a knife. First, they’ll learn some knife safety from Jack and his assistant, and then work on carving their own dog, cat, or duck. They’ll be thrilled by the difference a couple hours can make, as they turn an ordinary wood block into a delightful animal shape.

Then Jack’s brother Jimmy will fire up the ol’ wood chipper and the kids will place their newly created masterpieces into the chipper where Jimmy will turn their art into useful, and valuable, beauty bark.

It’s a great way to teach kids that someday they’ll pass on and everything they’ve done in life will come to naught. As a memento of the day, they’ll receive a cubic foot of mulch containing chips from their carving, to take home and put on the flower beds.

That’s Ephemeral Art Day, this Saturday, 10am, at the armory. Admission is free.

 

6.
Scorcher

Thousands of nervous birds
fly over the plaza to block out the sun.
More on this story as it develops.

Popularity poll, says the radio.
Save on home furnishings.
Prepaid phone cards, it says.
The best is yet to come.
We’ll be right back.

The new governor steps
up to the microphone,
and begins speaking.
We cannot hear him
from where we are standing.
A murmur moves through the crowd.
Nobody we ask
can tell us what’s going on.

91 degrees, says the radio.
It’s going to be a scorcher.

 

7.
Every Kind of Siren

Every kind of siren. People shouting. Lights flashing. Everyone is frantic. I am running. Where am I? I stop to get my bearings and am immediately knocked down. I get up and stumble out of the way. The people running by look familiar, but I can’t place them.

More sirens. Fire trucks now. Two cars crash in the intersection, back away from each other, and drive off. I have no idea where I am, no idea how I got here.

In a store window, I get a look at myself. It doesn’t make sense. I’m a kid. I look down at my arms. I’m like thirteen or something.

It’s dark out. Warm. Middle-of-the-night. Summer. People are yelling about a fire. I recognize some of the people now—neighbors from when I was in junior high.

This is the night the barn was set on fire and took down an entire block with it. It was in the newspaper for months.

More police cars. I run to find the neighbor whose house burns down, who dies from complications. I feel like I’m moving in slow motion. I round the corner by the park, and see it is way too late to do anything. Why am I even here? The streetlights are off, but the fire flashes bright as day.

The firefighters get the people out, save what they can. Ambulances arriving. Paramedics. I see my neighbor taken away on a gurney.

I remember that the barn was set on fire by some boys I went to school with. Older boys. I see them in the crowd. I remember being shoved face-first into mud, the contents of my launch box dumped on the sidewalk as the bus pulled up. I walk toward a policeman but stop before I get to him. I cannot say anything. I have no proof. I cannot know that they did it. Without proof—they might think I did it. Next summer, after an argument, one of the boys will shoot his mother while she sleeps. The other will be in and out of jail until he enlists and dies overseas.

I see a girl I went to school with. We make eye contact. Our eyes say to each other: can you believe this is happening? She’ll be my girlfriend for a few months in high school. We’ll go to different colleges and lose contact. Later I’ll hear that she died of a broken heart and a failed liver at the age of 32. I resist the urge to go to her. We barely know each other at this age.

I suddenly realize that I’m trapped here, trapped in the past. Everything I know about the future does not help me. It will never help me. I have no idea how I got here. I have no idea how to get back. I do not want to live it all again—even knowing what I know.

The barn collapses. The houses are partly saved. Three people are taken to the hospital, same as I remember. I spot two friends. I slip into the crowd. I cannot possibly talk to them.

I walk through my old neighborhood. I want to be back where I belong. I do not want this second chance.

 

 

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