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   This story is copyright 1999 by Mark Meiss.  All rights reserved.

   You are welcome to read this story online, but please do not make
   any printed or electronic copies.  If you want to share this story
   with someone else, please direct them to the URL:

	http://death.uits.indiana.edu/~mmeiss/writing/

   If you enjoyed this story, want to contribute criticism, or if you
   managed to find it someplace other than the site above, please
   e-mail me at mmeiss@indiana.edu.
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 			  Story Fragments
			   by Mark Meiss

The elevator had just passed the tenth floor on its way to the
eleventh when a distant boom echoed through the shaft and the humming
fluorescent lights winked out.  The car began to fall, but the
automatic brakes grabbed a hold of the cables and jerked the car to a
sudden stop.  The elevator's two occupants almost lost their balance
in the dark as the car bobbed violently up and down before settling to
a stable position between the two floors.

Tabitha Kim brushed a few stray wisps of her gossamer black hair away
from her face with her already trembling hand, but of course she still
couldn't see anything in the inky darkness.  No matter; she could
still see the elevator's other occupant in her mind: a huge terrible
lizard of a man, tall and thick and wrapped up in leather jacket,
leather pants, leather boots.  And the danger of being trapped with
him made her feel as if an icicle was melting down her back.  Already
she could feel his calloused fingers moving the hem of her skirt
upwards, the rough fingertips prodding at her.

But Jeff Kronin ("Slag" to the band and his friends in the scene)
stood almost as far away from Tabitha as the small compartment
allowed.  His hands, rough from years of squeezing nickel-wound guitar
strings and not from pawing at women's clothing, were crossed in front
of his chest.  Tabitha didn't even cross his mind as he slumped
against the wall, his thoughts darker than the elevator.  Rejected
again.  The prick wouldn't even listen to it.  Who the hell am I
kidding, anyway?

Tabitha pressed her small body against the opposite wall, cowering
before the assault that she knew would come, that was the inevitable
consequence of having come on her own to live in Chicago.  Her heart
fluttered as she heard her mother's voice scolding her, telling her
that she had earned this by choosing art over the business, over her
family.

But she did as she always did when the fluttering began.  She
instinctively reached into the side pocket of her denim jacket and
curled her slim fingers around the cool stone.  It was a piece of
agate with tightly banded swirls of red and maroon and azure and
white, swirls that leapt into her mind whenever her fingertips passed
over the rock's smooth surface.  This is beauty, her grandmother had
whispered as she pressed the stone into Tabitha's tiny palm fifteen
years ago, on the last day of the young girl's visit to Korea.  And as
always, the stone warmed under her touch and calmed her.

Across the elevator, Jeff pawed through his own pocket and fished out
a loose roll of heavy red paper, about the size of four stacked
nickels.  He unrolled the paper and grasped one torn end between his
left index finger and thumbnail, then jerked his hand sharply away.

Then came CRACK and a tiny orange flicker of flame as the cap exploded
and its heavy sulfur smell began to spread through the elevator.  Jeff
inhaled deeply, enjoying the acrid odor and its perfect match to his
present temper.

Tabitha yelped at the sound and her heart began to pound furiously.
This was it, he was going to rape her like her mother said, he was
going to kill her.  She panted in fear and the pounding became
irregular, beat this way and then that, and her breathing became
ragged, and she knew that she needed the medicine, needed it now.  But
when her shaking hand emerged from her pocket with the metal vial of
pills and the agate stone, she pitched forward onto the floor.

At the sound of Tabitha falling, Jeff snapped back into reality.
"Lady?" he called into the darkness.  "Are you okay?"

Yes, he was one of them, a bad and dangerous man, but Tabitha knew she
needed help.  "Please.  My pills."

And then a moment later there he was, crouched beside her, his pants
squeaking over his knee as he gently pried her hand open, unscrewed
the vial with his leathery fingers, and gently eased a pill between
her lips.  She forced herself to swallow.  They both anxiously waited
a minute as she felt the burning feeling of the drug cover her flesh
as it beat her heart back into a regular rhythm.  She gasped as the
tightness loosened from around her chest.

"Scary shit, lady," Jeff said, pressing the vial back into her hand.
"My grandmother had the pills like these.  Got a heart problem, huh?"

Tabitha ordered her mother's frantic voice to be silent.  A man with a
grandmother couldn't be a rapist, could he?  "Yes," she said, forcing
a thin smile in the darkness.  "Thank you."

"Hey, what's this rock you've got?" Jeff asked, turning the stone over
and over between his hands.  "At least, I hope this ain't a pill."

She tensed involuntarily at the knowledge that someone else was
touching her stone, but she answered before she could stop herself.
"It's an agate," she said.  "My grandmother gave it to me."

"Huh."  Jeff pressed the stone back into her hand, next to the pills.
"Must be something special about it, then."

"Special?"

"Well, it's from your grandmother.  They don't give things without a
reason."

This was the lizard man she remembered from before the lights went
out?  All leather and chains and Chicago, and he understood?
"She. she told me it was beauty."

Jeff nodded in the darkness.  "Yeah, I know where she's coming from,"
he said, his earlier anger forgotten.  "I have this marble I always
carry with me.  It's this dark violet color, but it's not solid that
way.  I mean, it looks solid, but if you hold it up outside, the sun
shines through it and everything is red-violet.  Like the whole world
is wine-colored."

Tabitha was silent for a long time after that, and Jeff was convinced
that she'd decided not to speak to him again.  The familiar feeling of
despair and embarrassment began to creep over him, but then she asked
softly, "Can I draw you?"

"What?"

"You know, draw a picture of you."

"In the dark?"

"It doesn't matter.  The picture comes from the stone."

And so he agreed, because he knew that his singing and fretwork came
from the marble.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Scott Thompson's 1980 Ford Mustang sat motionless in the cracked
asphalt parking lot of Franklin Delano Roosevelt High School.  Its
flat black, unevenly painted exterior echoed the boredom and dark mood
of its three occupants.  They wore their standard faded heavy metal
T-shirts and blue jeans, of course; who had ever seen Scott or Dorton
or Adam in anything else?

"Damn it, Scott," said Adam from the back seat, his foot on the vinyl
seat and his leg bent sharply at the knee, supporting his outstretched
arm.  "Why the hell are we sitting here?"

Scott coughed nasally-keh-it was his standard gesture of conciliation.
"I'm sorry, guys.  Philip asked me if he could get a ride home today."

"Philip Garton?" said Dorton.  "Oh, shit, man, not that dude.  He
just-gets on my nerves."

Scott would have replied (although he didn't have really have anything
to rebut Dorton's comment), but then the three metalhead friends saw
Philip approaching the Mustang.  He walked in a way no one could quite
describe as effeminate, but it had a sashaying quality that disquieted
a few.  Maybe the khaki dockers accentuated the effect, or maybe it
was the pale, slightly bulging belly underneath the polo shirt.  His
closely cropped thicket of black curly hair sat close to his shoulders
only because of a slightly hunch.  And, yes, there, as always, was the
leather case that carried his papers and books, that damn briefcase.

Philip smiled broadly and waved his open, pudgy palm from side to side
as he caught the trio's attention.  As he walked around to the
passenger side of the car, Adam pulled himself over the back of the
seat, running like cold syrup into the back of the car and winding up
with his head against the floorboards until he righted his scrawny
body and insinuated himself into the seat.

"Can't take shotgun and leave you alone," he said to Dorton, half of a
grin marking his face.

Philip stood outside the car, his brow furrowing as he witnessed the
indelicacy of Adam's maneuver, an action lacking in d‚cor and
explaining much about the state of the community.  Sighing, he opened
the door and brushed his hand over the seat before plunking himself
down heavily, both hands holding his briefcase in his lap.  "Good
afternoon," he said.

"Hey, Phil," said Dorton, his face frozen in boredom as his palm
supported his head, sliding his cheek up face.

"Uh-heh, heh.  That's Philip."

"Jeez. does it really matter that much, dude?"

"Well, the full Christian form in the Bible is Philip, so that's
really how I'd rather have you address me," said Philip.  "If you
don't mind."

"Whatever."

Scott turned the key in the ignition and the car grunted and lurched
and sputtered until it got bored of its resistance, then roared into
life, the engine racing before settling down to a leisurely chug.
With one practiced motion, Scott flipped the radio with his thumb as
his finger pushed the tape into the cassette deck, and the squealing
frenzy of Guns N' Roses began to pour from four speaking.  Shift,
lurch, and then the Mustang was on its way.

"Thank you for the ride, Scott," said Philip.  "I really appreciate
your charity..."

"It's cool, man."  He hadn't caught that slight trailing off period in
Philip's voice or the slightly frowning, pursed lips, the main warning
sign that Philip was about to guide one of his friends toward being a
better person.

Dorton, on the other hand, had suffered sitting next to Philip during
study hall often enough to know that Philip would soon share the
revealed wisdom of himself, Mother Garton, Father Garton, and God.

"What is it, Phil-ip?"

"The music that we're listening to.  While I'm sure that you
enjoy... this..., I really don't think that it's appropriate music for a
Christian to be listening to."

Adam sighed.  "And what's wrong with it?"

"Why, it's so violent, so angry.  You know, it's really narrow-minded,
when you think about it."

"Have you ever heard it before?" asked Adam, clinging to the "oh-shit"
bar on the roof of the car as the Mustang gulped down an unexpectedly
rich mouthful of gas during a turn.

"That's immaterial."  Philip paused, then added, "That means it's
really not related to the matter at hand."

"Yes, it's material," said Dorton.  "And, yes, I know what
`immaterial' means, dude."

Philip shook his head.  "No.  The question that we should ask
ourselves is whether Jesus would listen to this music if he were here
in this car."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hey... you're still reading?  Congratulations -- you found the hidden
bonus EVIL HAIKUS!


I ate too much rice
A sharp stabbing pain inside
Shit in my liver.


Raspberry sweetness
My cheeks turn red and puffy
Comatose but full.


Swallow the penny
My friend laughs, I choke and die
Haiku makes no cents.


Something for dinner
I slide down the tiger's throat
Saliva is warm


He clutches the bowl
Arteries bulge and then pop
Elvis stops breathing