Some freewriting.

Night Breeze

The road and sky are dark as pitch and I am driving. It is about 4 a.m.—the birds are still silent, as are the houses and the trees. I hear nothing but the warmth of the summer night. It, in a way, makes a sound of its own.

I have my windows down.  The breeze trickles through and touches my face and eliminates—even if briefly—the stickiness of the humid air. I speed up a little bit—forty miles an hour in a zone marked twenty-five.

I don’t care, though. I don’t know where I’m going. Tonight I needed to drive somewhere, some time.

It is nights like this where the past ceases to be pure memory. It steps out of our minds and takes root in the dew-covered grasses.

I drive by darkened hills and basketball courts and ice cream stores and empty park benches. I pass empty schools and playgrounds, both diligently awaiting the local students.

I keep going—onward, onward.

And then I get an urge to stop.

It is the edge of the town. I remember I first came here the night before I was to move away. I grew up here. My memories stay locked in the fields and the stores, the houses and the people. I had to come to the edge—knowing that I would soon break through and enter into something without place. I would be a man without roots.

And I was frightened.

I remember looking at the sign:  “Williamsburg—Established 1810.” This was everything I knew. That comforted me.

Now I have returned. I guess I must have been driving longer than I thought. Still it is strange how we are sometimes compelled to return to such places. The world is full of compelling. I think of sea turtles always returning to the same island in order to lay eggs.

All of us need a home.

I turn off my car and I unbuckle my seatbelt and I step outside. The warm air is refreshing. Everything seems tinged with magic. It is as if a singular step would transport you into some fantastical world filled with strange creatures.

I look at the sign—just as I did years ago.

I smile as a night breeze blows.

Summertime Longing

Summertime Longing

By Jon Bishop

Outside the window of his first floor office Tom Zimmer sees a small group of kids playing on the grass. Their laughter trickles through the glass and into his ears, which pulls his lips into a smile. He stops his typing—the files and such can wait a few minutes. He hears one of them shout:  “Tag! All right, you’re it. You’re done.” Air conditioners fill the office with unnatural cool air; everything just beyond the window basks in the bright heat of the summer sun. He longs to be young again—out with them, playing on the grass and on the fields until a mother, somewhere, someplace, reminds everyone that it is time to eat.

He shuts his eyes.

He is outside with his friends, engaged in a game of hide-and-seek. He ducks beneath a bush and puts his hands over his head. Its leaves rustle and some of its fruit drop to the ground, sending small plumes of dirt into the air. A slight breeze carries them away.

This noise, though slight, gets him discovered.

“Found you, Tom. Now, it’s your turn.” His friend Billy had been “it.” Now he would move to the center of the field and close his eyes, count to ten. His other friends scatter as he begins reciting the numbers. 

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—

“Tom!”

Pollen dances through the air as if it too participates in the games of the summertime. Birds in the distance seem to sing of mating and romance and of place. Dogs bark and insects chirp.

Eight, nine—

“Tom!”

He inhales, in preparation of seeking his hidden friends.

Ten—

“Tom!”

He starts and turns around and sees his coworker, Jim, standing outside his office door.

“Hey, a few of us are getting lunch. You want to come?”

He pauses.

“Uh, sure. Just let me get some cash. I’ll meet you in a few minutes.”

“Sounds good. We’ll be down in the lobby.”

Jim nods and walks away.

Tom reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out his wallet. Before he leaves he turns and again looks out the window and sees that all of the kids are no longer there. They never were.

The End of Things

The End of Things

By Jon Bishop

Jason Jackson laces up his shoes.

In a few minutes he will begin his tenure with a new team—one last shot at a title, he says with confidence to the media.

He looks at the mirror in his locker. He is tired, worn. His fifteen years in the NBA are obvious in the lines on his face, the bags under his eyes. He has also gained weight. Earlier in the day he found the profile the newspaper did about him. He smiled at his youth—fresh out of college, lean, eager.  The headline read:  “Hope.” He would resurrect the team from obscurity, they wrote. And he did that.

But then, as teams are wont to do, everything started to decline:  players aged, guys were traded. The record fell apart and ticket sales plummeted. Something had to be done. So, the general manager one day called Jason into his office.

He inhales, remembering.

“Sit down, Jason,” he said with a smile. His office was large and clean—a plant here, some pictures there. Papers and clutter covered the desk at which he sat.

“So, this is—“

“Yes, this is it.”

“Where am I going?”

“We’ve sent you to Denver. We’re getting two first round draft picks in return.”

Silence. Jason looked around the office. The general manager stared at his desk.

“Well, at least they’re good.”

“Yeah, they’re good. You’ll like it there.”

Jason cleared his throat. He tried to force down the emotion that had welled up, but it remained. The general manager noticed that his eyes rippled with tears.

“I’ve really enjoyed this team. But, you guys need to do what you need to do.”

A pause.

“I know you understand. Thank you for your service. You can be assured that we’ll retire your number. I’m serious—I don’t know if I’ll still be here, but, if anyone says otherwise, then they’re going to hear from me.”

“I appreciate that.”

They shook hands. Jason left.

He exhales. He sees a ghost in the mirror. He sees someone who has not yet been accepted by his new teammates and the fans in Denver. He sees a target of the sportswriters:  “Can Washed-Up Jackson Still Play?”

But he has to ignore all of that.

He’s here for one season, maybe two—and he has to make the best of it. They have a shot at a championship, he was told. He wants one more ring, one more shot at greatness. He wants to be remembered as an elite player. 

He bounces up and down. It’s something he started doing in high school. It gives him energy and quells his nerves.

The other guys have already left the locker room and are shooting around on the court. Thirty minutes until the game begins. Most of them are young:  twenty-three and twenty-four and twenty-five. Some are in their late twenties and early thirties. Jason is thirty-seven.

He is, for all intents and purposes, a basketball dinosaur.

He begins walking out of the locker room and he stops when he sees a picture on the wall. His friend and former teammate, John Williams, used to play for Denver. He has long since retired, but he finished his career when Jason was beginning his. He was a great mentor.

Jason inhales; his breathing grows unsteady. If he isn’t careful, he’ll cry—and then that will draw the attention of the commentators and the teammates and the coaches. So he stops for a moment and settles himself.

He has to focus now. He needs to put on that game face. It has intimidated many teams in the past. When players saw it, they knew that he was going to give a masterful performance.

He shuts everything out now. He is in the moment, eternal and forever. The crowd outside murmurs and applauds but he does not hear it. He cannot see the cameramen and the dancers and the ball boys and the referees. He does not notice the other team.

As he approaches the court he hears the public address announcer say:  “Jason Jackson has made it onto the court. Let’s give it up for him!”

The crowd applauds, but it is as if it were a dream—ephemeral and fleeting. He picks up a basketball and begins shooting.

The lights are dimmer, as if it is twilight.

Only twenty minutes until the game.