Contact

Intro: my sister is five years older than me and has been writing since I was a kid. I've always read her stories with a sense of awe and felt a deep connection with the themes conveyed. She's been writing chapters for her story Contact for years, and after reading her latest chapter, when I sat down to write, this is what came out. 



* * *


       They were lying on the couch together: her with her back against his chest and him with his back against the armrest. They were eating triscuits out of a box sitting on her lap, talking about what had happened in their hours apart between the morning and evening, when he made a joke, and she chocked on a triscuit, and they both began to laugh: spurring each other on by the jolt of another body laughing against their own. Their secret is this: as he does the dishes with her hands wrapped around him to rest in his front pockets, and she’s eating breakfast with her toes discretely tapping his under the table, and they’re innocently laughing body to body on a couch, they’re living out the true meaning of existing as one flesh with another human being: contact. 

Man-made

I originally wrote this story my freshmen or sophomore year of high school for my creative writing class. I think we had to write a story that modeled the way an old myth would be told. I've lost the original since then and have repeatedly told it to friends, who have encouraged me to write it down. So here it is: it's not the same as it used to be, but the important parts are still there. Enjoy.

***

 There was once a man who lived deep, deep in the woods. He had lived there for many years and had not seen anyone since he was a small child. His mother had raised him in the wilderness but had gone away when he was very young: all his memory contained of her was a feeling of warmth and the soft sounds of laughter. He had been carving since he was a teenager. It started as him repairing the log cabin he had always lived in. As he needed new tools he began to make them, as he needed new furniture, he began to sculpt it.

            The man carved forks and spoons, tables and chairs. He soon had everything he needed and had begun to carve what he saw: birds and bears, flowers and trees, and over time he had carved every plant and every animal many times over. He needed a new challenge, so he carved a river and then he carved the wind. He carved the stars in the night sky and the sun that shone in the day. He carved the flight of the bumblebee and the slow and steady rise of smoke from a warming fire. The man was a master at his craft and after many, many years he found that there was nothing that he could not create.

            He pondered one night: what could be the most challenging and impossible object to carve. Would it be something that flowed or floated, a sound that swam in the wind, or a smell that brought back memories? Then it came to him: he would carve the human soul.

            The man chopped down a tall tree, cut out a portion, and began to carve. He worked day and night, neither eating nor sleeping. He took out large chunks and chiseled fine details, he scraped away at edges and gouged out angles. After several days and nights of meticulous work the man put down his mallet and chisel and stepped back to observe his work. Having never seen but one, and having no memory of even she, he had unwittingly carved a woman. He stumbled to his bed and lost consciousness, too exhausted and starving to go on.

            It was a long time before the man woke up. When he opened his eyes he realized he was tucked into his bed. He did not remember getting beneath his covers. He looked over at his fireplace where a fire was burning, warming up the cabin and cooking something that smelled delicious over its flames. The man pushed the blankets off of him and walked to the fire. He took the large wooden spoon and stirred the stew that was simmering over the fire, taking a sip of it: even if he hadn’t been starving he would have appreciated the taste. Just then the door to the cabin opened. He looked up.

            In walked his carving: his perfect sculpture of the soul was smiling with red lips and tan skin. She was walking and moving and living before his very eyes. She was dressed in his clothes and talking to him as she crossed the room to stand next to him. She smiled.

            “What?” he croaked.

            “Sit down and I’ll get you some stew,” she repeated. She pulled out a chair at the table and he sat down in it hard. He watched her as she filled two bowls and set one in front of him and one in front of herself. They ate in silence and he could not take his eyes off her. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It was a long time before he was able to speak.

            “How does it taste?” She asked.

            “Good.” He answered. He stared at her long blond hair. “Thank you.” He added.

            Life went on after his soul came to life. The woman joined him outside to hunt, trap, and do all the chores of everyday living. A few days passed, and the more he watched her, the more uncomfortable he grew. She was gorgeous. The most perfect thing he had ever seen. She shouldn’t have to work outside, sweating and straining like him. One morning when she dressed in his clothes and went to join him outside, he told her to stay inside where it warmer and she wouldn’t have to exert herself. She told him it was okay, she didn’t mind the work, but he wouldn’t hear it.

            The woman made the cabin immaculately clean. She organized and cooked so that the man always had a warm meal when he needed one and could find everything he needed in a timely fashion. One day as they sat eating dinner together, the man observed the woman in his old rugged clothes. They were baggy and bland compared to her smooth skin and her bright eyes.

            The next morning he began carving again. He chiseled many dresses in flattering styles: slicing the wood so thin that it was like fabric hanging over her frame. She thanked him adamantly, telling him how beautiful the gifts were, but he still was not satisfied. He worked much harder than normal for several days, stock piling extra food and wood. Then he told her:

            “You deserve much more than this. I’ve carved with the wood here in these woods for years, but you deserve much more extravagance than what these mountains and forests can offer you.” He left the next morning on a long journey. The woman waited patiently in the cabin for many weeks, keeping everything clean and in good working order for the man when he returned. When he finally came back she rejoiced at his returning, and he proudly presented her with what he had found. He had brought back exotic stones and jewels, and having carved them into all manner of rings, necklaces, and earrings, he presented them to her as gifts. She told him they were beautiful.

            The woman stayed inside, a vision of beauty and extravagance; clean, warm, and dressed in gowns and jewelry of a kind indescribable. Every day the man came back from his long hours working outdoors and ate dinner with her. He was infatuated. But there was still something wrong. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. She was pristine, stunning, magnificent. She was a vision of perfection. A reflection of heaven. A goddess.

            It struck him, with his spoon halfway to his mouth, and she looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to finish the bite as the broth dripped off the spoon.

            “I know,” he told her. “I know what I need to do. You are everything. You are spectacular and inspiring. You are gorgeous and perfect. You are as immaculate and eternal as a goddess, and that is what I will make you!”

            She reached out to try and stop him, but it was too late. He was already up and out the door. It wasn’t long before he came back with a large, ornate pair of carved wings. He placed them on her back and instantly they took form. She stretched out her shoulders, and flung wide the new white feathers. The man stumbled back, in awe of her glory. She turned from him and ran from the cabin, and he followed her outside. Glowing in the sun, she looked at him squarely.

            “All I ever wanted was to live my days next to you! To work hard with you; to experience life with you! But you kept me inside and shielded me from your world. You left me waiting for you and simply admired what you could see. But you made me to be more than a body and more than what the eye can take in. The only gift I wanted was your love, but even that you traded in for lavish trinkets and clothes. You made me a soul, a woman, and now a goddess. So that is what I’ll be!”

            The man watched in horror as she beat her wings powerfully against the air, and flew up and away into the sky. He stayed kneeling in the dirt for a long time. He lived the rest of his life alone, never forgetting his goddess and forever yearning after her beauty. 

Hallelujah

The following eight parts make up the story "Hallelujah." After listening to the song "Samson" by Regina Spektor and every rendition of the song "Hallelujah" for years, I had formed my own picture of what happened between Samson and Delilah, and decided to write it down. I realize it doesn't follow the Biblical account, but it's based on a true story, so this seems to be a welcome place for it. It's set in modern day, or something like it, and I did my best to paint them in a modern light and make who they were back in the day, what they would be considered now. It's not done, and it may change, but this is what it is after five months. Quotes are from "Samson" by Regina Spektor, "Hallelujah" by Leonard Cohen, and the book of Judges from the Hebrew Bible, the New American Standard Bible translation.

Enjoy. 

Chapter 1 - Outrdrawn

“Maybe there’s a God above,

but all I ever learned from love,

was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you.”

            She looks in the mirror before she leaves. She blinks slowly underneath thick mascara and eye shadow. She looks at her thin bare arms, at the bones in her chest and her thin clothes. She gives her ankle a few twists and a small stomp to place her heel in just the right location. She swallows, she takes a deep breath, she adjusts her breasts and pulls her shirt down a little lower. She gives herself a knowing smile in the mirror, throws herself a wink, and flounces out the door.

            He looks in the mirror before he leaves. He looks at his dead eyes, the downward curve of his lips, and his unkempt hair. It’s grown long and dreaded in the time he’s stayed in his apartment. He is impartial to his plain t-shirt and his plain jeans. He is impartial to the garbage heap that his home has become. He is impartial to where he will end up. He does not plan on coming back, he does not plan on how to get where he’s going. He does not plan on smiling. Ever again.

Chapter 2 - First

           "You are my sweetest downfall.

            I loved you first."

             He was standing at the bus stop with a twenty-dollar bill in his pocket and four hundred miles of road behind him, when a small woman walked over to stand next to him. She pulled out a cigarette, lit it with a careless ease, and she looked over at him as she waved the smoke from her face.

            “Do you mind if I smoke?” She asked. He turned his head toward her and observed her top to bottom then back up. She raised an eyebrow at him.

            “I don’t mind.” He told her and looked back at the road. The evening was gray and cold, taxi cabs rolled by them in a hurry, and she kept her eyes on him and breathed in heavily on her cigarette. She smiled.

            “What’s your name, stranger?” Her voice was deep and alluring and he hated her instantly, but he answered nonetheless.

            “Samson.” He stared at the road.

            She sighed heavily and shifted her weight to her other hip.

            “Samson, there seems to be something on your mind.” His face took on hard anger and she leaned into his line of vision, “And it has nothing to do with my suggestively displayed bosom. Come,” she gestured and walked behind him, “step into my office. I promise I’ll sit a good three feet from you.” She chuckled to herself and walked into the bus stop enclosure. He didn’t move. The air bit a little and she didn’t say anything else.

            He watched the busses and the oily water they splashed up as they went by. He saw the low light reflecting off the metal buildings and smelled the smog in the air. The minutes droned on and his anger began to ebb into exhaustion. He glanced down, then walked into the bus enclosure and sat down. The woman looked at him.

            “Cigarette?”

            “No.” He responded. There was a long silence as she observed him.

            “I’m Delilah.” She said boisterously, leaning toward him from a good three feet of promised space away. “What do you think of me, Samson?” He considered her high heels and her low top. He considered her black eyes and the smoke wafting his direction from her lips. He considered the women he had put stock in to be mature and loving, to be good and honest and he made his assessment. He looked her direction.

            “I think you’re as good a lady I’ve ever seen.” She looked at him very still and without smiling; her demeanor had dropped. So had his. A solemn moment had passed between them and all honesty was trusted to ensue.

            “Buy me a drink.” She demanded calmly.

            “Where’s the nearest liquor store?” She looked at him unsure. “We’ll take it to go.” The edges of her mouth curled up and she laughed out loud as she stood up and gestured for him to follow. A large bus pulled up and made a ruckus of coming to a complete stop. Exhaust poured out the back and the doors opened. He stood and looked at her.

            “Was there somewhere you were going to go?” He asked. She shook her head at him casually.

            “Nope.” She replied. 

Chapter 3 - Red

“Samson came to my bed,

told me that my hair was red,

told me I was beautiful and came into my bed.”

            Honesty is a tricky thing. It seems so hard at first. It seems nigh impossible when you’re looking into the face of someone you are sure is a real human and not a creature like yourself. But the truth always comes out that you’re both creatures, more than likely of the same kind, and then honesty becomes intoxicatingly easy. Even easier with liquid encouragement.

           

            He learned why she wore a diamond and a band on her right hand. She learned why he never took off his cross necklace. He discovered that her favorite meal is breakfast, she’s a flaming liberal, and a painter. She discovered his love for the outdoors, cooking, and history. He told her his former fiancé had cheated on him and married his best friend. She told him she’d been a dancer since she was fifteen. He learned the placement of her birthmarks. She learned the locations of his scars.

            And in a silent moment he told her. He told her he would never love again. And he was never going to get over what had happened to him.

            She told him that was okay. She told him she had loved many before him and would love many again. 

Chapter 4 - Movement

“And remember when I moved in you,

the holy dove was moving too,

and every breath we drew was hallelujah.”

            Delilah was alive. That’s why he stayed with her. As he was fading away she seemed solid: solid enough to pull him back to reality. Her hips swung and her voice twanged: even in the morning. He soaked her in. Soaked in her life. She was over animated and put on an air of apathy that made him feel comfortable sitting and existing and slowly pulling himself back together from the recesses where he had been flung. She let him do that. And she nursed the life back into him simply by being.

            So he began to live too. Felt responsibility and empathy slowly burn their way back into his blood stream. He began to make dinner for her when she came home. He cleaned her apartment, fed the cat, and once he went out to get groceries in the evening without telling her and she beat him home. He came through the door and caught her standing silently in the middle of her bedroom. They looked at each other and her face was grave. He held up the grocery bags.

            “Just went to restock.” He said and stepped out of her line of sight into the kitchen. It happened so gradually that neither of them knew until it was too late. The sharing of life, the accepting of wrongs, the comfort of existing with another human being. She was all woman with him, and he was all man. He knew how she walked, how she showered, how she smoked, and how she laughed. He knew what made her grin, what pissed her off, and what she was willing to ignore.

            So he forgave her when she turned on him.

Chapter 5 - I Have To Go

“I have to go, I have to go. Your hair was long when we first met.”

            How do we get to these places? How do we get stuck between a rock and a hard place? You think back on the decisions that brought you to this point and you trace your steps back one by one. Didn’t want to go to college, worked at a coffee shop, upgraded to a bar at twenty-one, started taking online classes, bought a cat, learned to cook, bought a bus pass.

            You go to leave work like any other day and you’re not thinking about what happens outside your country: about world issues, and the big picture. The things that you read in the news and watch on TV seem very far away: like a fantasy. The terrorist and religious crusader in the paper? He makes you feel a stricter loyalty to your country, and if there was something you could do then of course you would do it, but a plan of attack doesn’t often cross your mind. What you’re really thinking about is what recipe you’re going to try to make tonight, if the litter box needs to be changed and what pocket you’ve left your keys in. Then one day you close up from work and a regular walks up to you and tells you they need you to go above and beyond.

            Samson had seemed like a fantasy and now she knew why: he was the man in the paper and on the news. He had told her that his God had given him unnatural strength, and she had brushed it off when he told her there was something he must never do in order to keep it. But now she believed him, and she would find out how to stop him.

            How do we wrestle our way out of these places? With silence. With blank eyes and a blank mind. With deep breaths that shake loose the truth from where every defense mechanism has been holding it down. With a cigarette. With anger, no answer, it’s not true, I never loved him anyway. I can’t do this. With tears that won’t come and a cold resolve. With much waiting. How could he? I know what I need to do. I will do what must be done. I am the kind of person that can do what must be done.


*

            She stood outside her apartment door. The smell of breakfast was wafting past its edges and she could not move—until finally she could and she unlocked the door and walked in. Samson stood in the kitchen in her apron cooking a late night breakfast and sneaking pieces of bacon to her cat crouched on the counter. She could not smile. Oh God, she couldn’t smile. He turned to her.

            “Hey sweetie.” She smiled. She walked to him and looked between him and the cat. He gave her the bacon and she walked to the dining room table.

            She had never planned on staying with him forever anyway.

Chapter 6 - Humility

“And the lords of the Philistines came up to her and said to her,

"Seduce him, and see where his great strength lies,

and by what means we may overpower him,

that we may bind him to humble him.”

Judges 16:5

           

            He knew when she discovered who he was.

            He awoke one night and saw her, a silhouette of black against dark blue light, sitting cross-legged and slouched on the small round table by the window in their bedroom. She had it propped open and she breathed smoke silently through the screen cover between long slow swallows of alcohol. She was wearing her knee length bathrobe and her hand, with both cigarette and bottle, rested on her right knee. Long before he watched her casually slide her free hand across her cheek and wipe it on her robe, he knew.

           

            So he forgave her when she turned on him.

            He forgave her forceful attitude and conniving questions. He forgave her standing up for her country instead of him. He forgave her feelings of betrayal and anger, because he was angry too. Angry that he let himself go where he was certain he had never wanted to go again. But people never mean to stumble back into old habits and mostly they can’t help it, because it’s the human thing to do.

            And when he had played the game long enough, he told her. He told her the secret to his strength, this time for real, no more false leads and lies. He made it easy for her. He walked right into her trap and her plan, because he was too tired to pretend anymore:

Chapter 7 - Kitchen Chair

“She tied you to a kitchen chair,

she broke your thrown and she cut your hair,

and from your lips she drew the hallelujah.”

             Their eyes locked. This is the moment where the heart breaks. This is the moment where honesty equals love, and we do what we do with naked abandon, because we’re caught. We’re caught as we fall and we’re seen for what we are, and no amount of righteous judgment can stop us from being naked in the face of the unconditional. So she squeezed her fingers together and felt the dull scissors cut a lock of his hair and heard the silent slide of it gracing the floor. He felt his strength ebb away, and his chance for vengeance slide away with it.

            There was no breath. There was no movement. She looked into his calm and knowing eyes and the scissors slid from her fingers, their rust covered blades clamored on the floor, and he leaned forward against the ropes and kissed her.

            In the end she let him go, but he did not run. He took a slice of Wonderbread from the cupboard and picked up the dull scissors from the kitchen floor. He munched lazily on his snack as he placed the scissors nearby her on the nightstand, and fell asleep in her lap where she silently finished the job. The next morning stayed lazy, she went to work as usual in the evening, and when she came home he was gone. They had taken him as planned: a white envelope with money and a note remained as proof.

            But even for weeks afterward, her victory never tasted sweet.  

Chapter 8 - Wrong

“And even though it all went wrong,

stand before the Lord of Song,

with nothing on my tongue but hallelujah”

            She knew where they would take him and she could not let his shame be her glory. She had done what she needed to do for her country, now she would do what had to be done for his God: His good had eaten her down to skin and bones and she knew how to make it right. So bribing and winking her way through the hoops, she made arrangements for getting to him.

            When she saw him, she felt her limbs turn to ice and she could not catch her breath. She had not anticipated what they would do to him once they had him. Emaciated and eyeless, he was strung up between two columns in the basement of the federal building, and through nausea and shame, she noted with satisfaction, the thin brown hair that was peeking up through his scalp. It was all the incentive she needed. No one would ever know how she had placed his hands on the foundations of the building, or how her hands on his are what gave her away.

            She did not run to him in the last moments and throw her arms around him as the building fell. He did not tell her that he forgave her. He did not tell her to leave and save herself. She did not tell him that she was sorry and that she really did love him. There were no words between them when he brought the columns down. There were no words that could fix what had been done. He was finishing what he had started, and she was paying for her crimes. And they knew that. And somewhere far away, the God that watched it all knew it too. And it was credited to him as a cold and broken, hallelujah.