Truth or Dare

Heyo! Below is my first response to Online Onslaught. Please enjoy. Even better, if you feel especially helpful, copy it into a word document and edit it. Write it up, be an mean, evil, grammer Nazi. And then send it back to me. K?
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I cared what she thought, so when she dared me I knew I was in trouble. A dare is something you can’t take back or alter. Once it’s said you have two choices. Do the dare, and risk humiliation and bodily hard accomplishing the act; or don’t do the dare and be condemned to be a coward for the rest of your high school existence.

In rural Nebraska, there’s not much to do, so our dares tend to be a little more violent than the paltry “run around the circle clucking like a chicken.” Climbing water towers and running along the tops of the corrugated tin barn roofs were just a few of the more risky endeavors and dares. Jim had broken is collar bone falling off his parent’s roof once. That had ended the Truth or Dare games for a while, but not permanently.

Those were the physically risky dares, there were other psychologically risky dares. Peeping into her bedroom and seeing Mrs. Barnesdale naked was a truly harrowing experience. The worst was the termed the “Gauntlet”. Running through the side of town was a deep drainage ditch/culvert. Nettle trees intertwined around the banks forming an enclosed tunnel about five feet tall. Imagine the “Evil Trees” in the Wizard of Oz feed by fertilizer runoff, and you’d get a pretty good picture of what it looked like. The drainage trench would go under the gravel roads, and a big cement cylinder would serve as the bridge structure. Raccoons would make nests there, snakes would fall asleep, lying out on the dry cracked mud, left over from the last rain. Cicadas would nestle in the trees making an eerie er-er sound. Sometimes the sound would stop instantaneously, like the hundreds of insects had halted on cue, to something more powerful and sinister. At night the thorns and leaves blocked the stars, so the Gauntlet seemed like an ascent into the netherworld with no Virgil for a guide.

We played truth or dare to shake off our childhood. We proved to each other that we were strong and brave, wise and experienced. Risking and telling it all to show that we were adults, that we accepted the risk as a part of a so-called thrilling adult life.

She knew what she asked of me; she was getting back at me for Mike and I’s “extra-curricular activities” behind the football field. And I had no choice to accept. Not oing so would relegate me to the lowest of the low. I had to walk the Guantlet, with out a flashlight.

As I entered in, climbing between a hole through the trees, Mike slipped me his tiny key chain flashlight. “Only for emergencies, they’ll see if you use it.” He whispered, as I awkwardly climbed down the dirt bank. I was greeted at the bottom with the small shower of soil I had displaced on my way down.

I walked gingerly down the Gauntlet, lightly placing my foot down until I was sure there wasn’t something that would yelp or hiss as I put my weight on it. I breathed very quietly as I walked, hoping that if I was silent as possible, the trees would ignore my presence. As I paced through a cement bridge, my foot hit something light and hollow.

They wouldn’t see the light because I was enclosed, and I stopped (I felt at little bolder for making it this far). Using the flashlight, I could see some kid’s old cigar box. Inside was his baseball cards and a few green army guys, part of his childhood hidden away from the rest of the world.

But then, a Opossum saw my presence as he moved down the tunnel. He hissed, and I though I saw foam. I started running and screaming pell-mell through the rest of the Gauntlet. I finally arrived to see my friends stricken and then grinning faces.

“What was it?” Mike asked.

“Some opossum, scared the shit out of me though” I said.

“We could tell, but what’s that?” She said, as the others glanced at the cigar box.

“Some kids’ stuff I found under the bridge.”

“I dare you to burn it”

And I was suddenly tired of truth or dare.

YES yes...Oh Yes!

Yes: This blog is new
Yes: I like comments
Yes: This will be a repository of creative writting
Yes: I like pink umbrellas, mountain bikes and rum
Yes: You can visit often

What is "flash fiction"?

More exacting than a short story, more robust than poetry. Clean, explict, evocative work that astounds, moves, and gets a pint across-if there is one. Meant for a quick read, it is powerful and calls for a wide audience. Found mostly online.

Here's wikipedia's definition:

Flash fiction

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Likely coined by James Thomas, Denise Thomas, and Tom Hazuka in their 1992 anthology by this name,Flash fiction, also called "sudden fiction," "micro fiction," "postcard fiction" or "short-short fiction," is a sub-genre of the short story characterized by limited word length. There is no "official" or exact word limit, but flash-fiction stories are generally less than 2,000 words long, and tend to cluster in the 250- to 1,000-word range. Occasionally, stories under 1,000 words are categorized as "Flash" and those 1,000-2,000 are described as "Sudden." Regardless, "Traditional" short stories range from 2,000 to upwards of 20,000 words in length, and tend to cluster in the 3,000- to 10,000-word range. A good rule of thumb is that a short story (flash, sudden or traditional) is meant to be read in one sitting, unlike a novella or a novel.

Flash fiction differs from vignettes in that the works contain the classic story elements: protagonist, conflict, obstacles or complications, and resolution. However, unlike a traditional short story, the limited word length often forces some of these elements to be unwritten, that is, hinted at or implied in the written storyline. Ernest Hemingway's six-word flash, "For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn." illustrates this principle taken to the extreme.

Flash fiction has roots going back to Aesop's Fables, and practitioners have included Bolesław Prus, Anton Chekhov, O. Henry, Franz Kafka and Ray Bradbury. The Internet has brought new life to flash fiction with its demands for short, concise works. Ezines are a ready market for flash-fiction works; however, many print magazines publish them as well. Some markets that specialize in flash fiction include SmokeLong Quarterly and Vestal Review.

One type of flash fiction is the short story with an exact word count. An example is 55 Fiction or Nanofiction. These are complete stories, with at least one character and a discernible plot, exactly 55 words long. Another is the Drabble, exactly 100 words, excluding titles. Storybytes.com is a web site and email newsletter with stories whose lengths are powers of 2.

Smoke and fire

I love the smell of cigarettes. The hazy stream that emits from the end. It is how I smell when I've accomplished an excellent Friday night. It's the smell of a bar with good friends, it is the smell of Shitty's aka Pancake City with even better friends. It's the smell of freedom, of relaxation. It's the smell of rebeliousness. It's the smell of a great Friday night.

There are two kinds of smokers: those with habits, and those who are rebels. Those with habits smoke becasue they are addicted. Those who are rebels smoke becasue it's supposedly bucking social norms. The rebels gather in their smokers' circle trying the exude the Marxist revoltion from their butts ;)

Freshman year; the debaters would stand in a Smoker's circle. Walsh, Tyson, Chris, Tyler would stand around smoking acting cool and in control-ready to decimate next rounds opponets. To get the smoker's circle and listen to these supposed masters, you had to stand the smoke. And thus, my association with smoking and cool was born.

The smell of cigars is even better, a smell that comes on Summer sunday nights, shared with none. My own personal vice and liberation.

A piece of Daddyo's Work

I guess I get to explain this. My dad, for as long as I would remeber , would tell us be dtime stories. Huferdoo's and humperdinks and monsters galore. Little did i know, that he was wriitng , perhaps more mature work as well. this si something he sent me recently.

Conversations with God

It was late in the summer of 1978. I was driving my 1967 Volkswagen Bus on Hi way 50 across Utah when it happened. Those of you who drive Volkswagens are familiar with the sound. The valves had loosened up. The telltale pop of low compression steadily grew louder as the compression in the number 3 cylinder continued to drop. The experience of having dropped a valve into the cylinder a couple of years before convinced me that I needed to find a VW mechanic and fast. I had no desire to be stuck out in the middle of Nowhere with a blown engine with parts sticking out of it and a large pool of oil collecting beneath it.

I was on my way to Northern California, via the rural back roads of America and I knew I was never going to make it the way the engine sounded. A mechanic in a small town west of Ely Nevada confirmed that which I already knew, the cylinder head was bad and I was going to need a replacement. The mechanic didn't have one and it was going to take about a week to get one in. I called my contacts in California that I was going to be delayed. I made arrangements to spend a week in that small town in eastern Nevada.

The plan was to sleep in the van while waiting for the parts to arrive. I got a short time job washing dishes in a little greasy spoon to help defray the expenses of the repair and the costs of food for the week. The restaurant was owned and run by a nice little lady by the name of Rosa. Well,.. Maybe I should modify that, Rosa was not little, she was a large heavyset woman of Hispanic descent. She was honest, hard working and very direct. She consented to exchanging meals for work but made certain that she got the best end of the bargain. I soon found myself, washing dishes, mopping floors, and making minor repairs to the building. She had obviously cut this bargain with other people passing through. She made no bones about what she expected of me.

It wasn't hard work and after about 3 in the afternoon when the lunch crowd had petered out I took off an hour or two. I spent the time at a little convenience store gas station bus stop place that still sold cokes in bottles. The machine they were in was the old style machine that kept them cold by circulating refrigerated water around the bottles. The whole store including the inventory looked as if had been there at least 50 years. But the sodas were cold, so I would buy one and wander back to the restaurant to sit on a bench in front and take advantage of the shade.

After about day two, an old man of some Indian extraction showed up on the bench out in front of the convenience store. I didn't pay much attention to him at first but after day three of his presence I began to notice his behavior was a little strange. This old guy would show up at about 8 o'clock in the morning and then sit without moving till about seven in the evening. I never once saw him get up to get a drink or get something to eat. I figured that he was just doing this at the times when I was too busy to watch him. He always sat exactly in the same spot and always in the exact same way.

He appeared to be about 60 or seventy years old. He was dressed in a simple black suit, black shoes, white collared shirt and socks. The shirt was always buttoned up to the last collar button and he wore an old straw cowboy hat that was stained with dirt and sweat and had been shaped way too many times. He walked with a slight limp and used a cane. The cane was a simple dark wooden one that was highly polished and was about the same color as his hands. When he sat down, he would place that cane squarely between his feet, place his hands on the top, right over left. He would then slide back on the bench shift his weight forward to the cane and then he would sit. Sit and not move. Every time I would look out the window to the right of the sink where I was washing dishes I would see him there. Always sitting always in that same position.

I didn't pay much attention the first day he showed up, but after the third day of watching him through the window of the kitchen my curiosity was at a peak. The locals didn't pay much attention to him so I assumed he was a regular appearance. Since everyone seemed to pretty much ignore him, the first step seemed to be to ask one of the locals who he was and why he was there. Rosa was the most likely first candidate. The restaurant was a local social center at coffee time and any news that was news was discussed there in detail. The question was asked, the answer was given and I was not prepared.

"What old man?" Rosa asked back. Astonishment turned to impatience, as I could not imagine that she had not seen or heard about the old man sitting at the gas station. "The old guy on the bench in front of the gas station" I asked back. She turned to look out the window and after a second or so turned back, went back to counting her money and nonchalantly stated, "oh, that's God"

It took me several seconds to register what she had said. There was no question that I had heard her correctly, the question was, is she serious? "You're kidding" was the reply. Rosa looked up from her task, her dark brown eye's focused their intensity on me and in an utterly matter of fact tone, replied "No."

I must have stood there for a couple of long seconds. Unbelief had obviously registered its look upon my face, because after a time Rosa with the sound of exasperation in her voice said, "Look, if you don't believe me, go ask him yourself."

At that point rational thought once again entered the picture. This is a crazy guy, my mind concluded. This poor old man has spent way too much time in the sun with too many bottles of tequila and he now thinks he is God. It made sense to me. The behavior pattern he presented seemed to indicate this. Only a crazy guy would sit for hours on end with no apparent purpose. It was going to be a day or two until the bus was complete so I decided that I would talk to this guy and just get a feel for how crazy he was. I had nothing to lose as I was going to be gone in a couple of days, so any problems I created by bothering a crazy guy I would leave behind when I left.

The next morning during the breakfast shift I watched for the return of the crazy guy. Sure enough he showed up right on schedule. The plan was to talk to him when I got off work after the lunch shift. I figured I would walk over to the bench, buy one of those ice-cold sodas and proceed to find out why Rosa referred to this crazy old man the title of God.

I spent that morning and rest of the afternoon thinking about how I was going to approach this fellow. He had evidently told people that he was God, how else would they have known how to refer to him? So what kinds of questions do ask of God? How do you engage in small talk with a deity? I gotta admit the whole idea presented a great deal of entertainment and the morning and the rest of the day passed quickly. I watched him that day as he engaged in the now familiar routine, he arrived, he sat down and he stayed. He was still there when I finally got things cleaned up from the lunch hour rush. I walked over to the gas station, bought my soda and sat down beside the old man and began to formulate my approach to him in my mind. Before I could say a word the old man spoke up and said; "Hi John, how's the VW repair going?"

I was dumbfounded; never in all my imaginings of my conversations with "god" had I assumed that he would speak to me first. I sputtered out something about how it was going "ok" and the latest information on the expected completion time. The whole time my mind was racing to formulate an explanation of how this old coot knew my first name. This was no small feat when you looked at it in detail. As a matter of fact, I could only think of two people who actually knew me as "John". Those people would have been the VW mechanic and Rosa at the restaurant. At no time during the old guy's appearance had I seen him anywhere near either one of them. As I sat there puzzling the answer became very clear to me. This was a small town, very little of any interest ever happened here. The appearance of a stranger with a VW Bus adorned with Grateful Dead stickers was probably discussed in great detail. It would have been talked about in public places and the Gas station was a public place. The old guy had probably listened to every conversation in the place and simply put two and two together. Still; being called by my first name and the familiarity in the old man's voice unnerved me just a bit.

The voice of this old man was not what I expected either. I had expected a small voice, a voice with years of substance abuse and alcoholism in it. I expected him to talk to the ground, to shy away from human contact with the deliberation of one whose thoughts are always in disarray. I was not expecting strength, clarity and warmth in this voice. Most of all I didn't expect him to speak directly to me.

I collected my thoughts and placed myself back on track to ask the questions I had puzzled over all morning. The first thing on the list was simply to get him to state who he was. The last thing I wanted to do was to ask somebody a stupid question. I had more than a reasonable doubt about what Rosa had told me. It seemed a good idea to have him confirm just how crazy a person he was. "Mind if I ask you a few question's?" I queried. "Not at all, John" he answered, referring to me once again in the first person. " Rosa say's that you are "god", is that true?" I didn't know any other way to ask the question and I wasn't really prepared for the succinctness of the reply. "Yes, that is who I am". Again the reality did not match the expectation of the fantasy. I had imagined that when engaged in conversation that this old coot would ramble and hedge his statements like many of the really crazy people I had known over the years. I expected him to expound on who he was and after several awkward moments I realized that he was not going to do this. "What are you doing here?" I asked, "waiting for the bus" was the reply. Again the expectation did not fit the answer. The problem was, it made sense in a crazy way. The Gray Hound bus line did stop at this gas station, it did pick up and drop off passengers once a week. If this old guy was going to ride the bus it made sense that he would get on it here. I had imagined that this crazy person would wax philosophic about the whys of being god and why he was in this place at this time. Waiting for a bus was too simple an answer, yet it was probably the truest one.

This was not working out as I had expected. The expectation was by this time I would be in full control of the conversation. This was not the case, not only was I not in control I was struggling with trying to remember what questions I was going to ask. I was still somewhat unnerved by his use of my first name.

I decided to fall back on an old historical question, the nature of creation. The basic idea here was this was a question that absolutely everybody has an opinion on. You may have never cracked open a bible, but just about everyone would have covered the "Scopes Monkey Trial" sometime during a class in American History. It seemed simple to me, either you bought into the fundamentalist concept that the world was created in seven days or you didn't. I thought it would be interesting to hear what twist this crazy guy was going to take. So I asked the question. "So, "god" what about this creation business, was it a seven day deal or what?"

At this point I turned to look to see what the response of the "god" was going to be. And again I was not prepared. I have had a lot of experience working with people who have had difficulty in maintaining a grip on reality. I have had a lot of experience working with people who have lived deep within the throes of substance abuse. They do not look at you directly as general rule. They will look past you, look at their shoes, look at the floor, but not at you. Should they look at you, you can see in their eyes that things are not OK. Their eyes are simply a reflection of the troubles that they have within. Or maybe they are dulled by medication either necessary or illicit. They are not clear.

I should never have made eye contact. Once again my control was shot. The eye's that were looking back at me were not the eyes of an impaired individual. They were bright, clear, intensely focused and they were looking right at me. His eyes had an immediate familiarity and after a moment I occurred to me that they looked much like my grandfather's. They were a light grayish blue and they had that mischievous sparkle that my grandfather's had.

"Let me ask you a question" the old man with the eye's queried. "Huh" was my intelligent reply as I realized that this "crazy" guy was once again talking to me. " Do you believe in God?" he asked. I was on the defensive now, I was not prepared for this, so I shot back, "What's that got to do with it".

The eye's flared with irritation at my response. "It has everything to do with it!" the old man shot back. "Look, you asked me about creation, creation is an act, son. The very use of the word creation implies that there is someone there to perform the act of creation." The old man continued, " If there is no one there to create how do you have a 'creation'?" "So which is it, do you believe in a creating god or do you believe in that 'Something Else".

I was not prepared for this. In all my fantasizing about this encounter never did it occur to me that I would be in this position. I was being asked about the most basic theological one could pose. "Is there a god, or more specifically, do you personally believe in god." I was on the run by this time, I stammered some idiotic phrase like "yeah I guess so", trying not to answer the question directly.

The old man pounced on the answer like a cat on a mouse. "OK," he said, "since you believe in God, let me ask you another question. Do you believe that God is perfect?" Again, I was not prepared. I frankly, had never thought much about any of these questions and I was spending considerable mental energy in just trying to deal with the fact that I was no longer in control of the conversation. I had never spent much time thinking about whether or not "god" was "perfect". The standard old defensive response can up in my head, "yeah, well I guess so." It occurred to me that I sounded just like a teenager being grilled by a parent. "God" responded, "good, then it doesn't matter".

I was stumped. I had to stop and think about what the old man said. "It doesn't matter" was not a response I had ever heard used about the Creation Vs Evolution arguments! I saw an opportunity to take back control of the conversation. "What do you mean it doesn't matter? Of course it matters. You can't have it both ways. You can't believe in a Seven day creation and Evolution at the same time." The old man sighed. "Look John, You just admitted to yourself that you believed that God is perfect, right?" I had to answer "yes"

"OK, if God is perfect, would it not follow that Creation is perfect?" Again I had to answer "yes". "So," God continued, "if I created the earth in seven days like you asked, that means in seven days that I created the earth and the heavens perfectly, and that everything that has happened since has done so because of that creation" I didn't know what to say. "Or, God continued, " I created the heavens and the earth and set in motion an evolutionary process so that everything that has happened since has done so because of that creation" the old man paused, I could sense that he wasn't done. "and it could be entirely something else" and he looked at me and grinned.

I took the bait, "Like what?" I had no idea at this point where the conversation was going to go.

God continued, "The one thing that has always annoyed me about these "Creation Stories" is that they always sound like that I quit working and went into retirement after I was done" Once more I found myself without a thing to say. God was looking wistfully off down the road in the direction that the bus was going to come from. He quickly turned to me and asked, "Do you believe that humanity is created in my image?"

The question came out so quickly once again I stammered like a teenager and muttered "I guess so" God looked off into the distance and sat silently for a moment.

"Formula 1 Mechanics" The phrase popped, quickly and forcefully. I sat there and tried to comprehend what he was talking about and it made no sense. Which, in hindsight should not have surprised me since I thought I was talking to a crazy guy. "What do you mean, Formula One Mechanics" He looked directly at me again and said, "You're a pretty good mechanic,"

Again I was startled, sure, I had talked to the Volkswagen guy about the work that needed to be done, but a had not worked at all on the bus while I was there. I could not imagine how he had figured it out. My guess is that it was his guess. God Continued, "I think Formula One Mechanic's probably come the closest. They have these nearly perfect machines in front of them. But each one of those guy's is constantly tweaking, constantly looking for ways to make it go faster", "And possibly Volkswagen Mechanics because they are constantly in tune with their machine. Take yourself for example. You knew that you were losing compression and about to throw a valve just from the sound of the engine" He looked at me again " Now I'm not saying that creation isn't perfect, but who are they to say that I'm not involved day to day, making the necessary adjustments!" God huffed with just an air of aggravation and continued to look down the road for the bus.

I was beyond belief at this point. Nothing this old fellow had said made me think he was crazy. Nothing about the way he said things made me think he was crazy. Nothing he said, outside of the claim to be God, was least bit implausible. I could not begin to fathom how he knew the details of my pending engine failure. I sat there on that bench and the thought that maybe, just maybe, Rosa was correct began to creep into mind.

All the questions I had planned to pepper the old guy with were gone. I could not think of a single thing that made any sense to ask. After a moment of silence, the old man spoke again. "Why don't you go ahead and ask." I sat there stupefied; I had no idea what he was talking about. "Ask what??" was the best I could do for a reply. "Ask me the same question that every one eventually asks in one form or another," the old man said. I sat puzzling at the old man's request. I could not fathom what it was he wanted me to ask. We sat there in silence.

I was thinking hard by now. What could this old guy want me to ask I pondered? I found myself actually desiring to ask that which he said I should ask. But, I didn't know what to ask so after a long silence I said to the guy, "I don't know the question",

"Sure ya do" was the reply, "you have been asking yourself the question for some time. But let me help ya out just a little. Most people just put it plainly, why am I here and where am I going"

I just sat there listening to this man speak and frankly I had no idea where the conversation was going. He looked at me and continued. " You are at that point in your life where you are starting wonder; "is this all there is". "You know that there has to be more to your existence than just getting up in the morning and breathing for 24 hours and then starting all over again, you just don't know how to put your finger on it" "But I gotta give you credit you are trying." "You read this book, you read that book, you try this philosophy, you try that philosophy, but everything you are doing is from the outside in. You haven't started at the beginning."

At this point all I could do was sit in rapt amazement. This old man was talking to me is if he knew me intimately. How could he possibly have known that this was something that I was dealing with? I had been thinking about all this for some time. If I was completely honest, my decision to even talk with this old man was I part an exercise in trying to help define that spiritual part of my life.

"Ok, I replied, if I need to start at the beginning, where or what is the beginning?" God sat silently for a second or two, glancing up the road for the bus that should be arriving shortly. "God" turned to me and asked. "How much do you remember about the time before you where born?" he queried. I just looked at him for a second before replying. "Come on" I said "nobody knows anything about what it was like before they where born." I chided him. "Perhaps", he replied "but you existed, did you not? So who you are and what knowledge you have now is not just a part of being. Dogs Cats, monkey's all exist, but they do not have what you have. Nor can they be what you can be. That is what makes you human. Now I am going to tell you something about being human. Remember the question I asked about what you know about your existence before you were born? Well, you will know exactly the same amount about what happens when you die and any human who tells you that they know something else is lying. I am the only one who can tell you these things and frankly John, you don't need to know." The bus backfired at the bottom of the climb into town as the driver downshifted. God's ride was on the way. He looked at the bus and moved forward in anticipation. I didn't want him to leave. "It's not so much how you start life or end it, everybody comes and goes the same way, it's what you do in-between that counts"

"What about the beginning?" I pushed the question out in fear and in the knowledge that when the bus arrived, God was going to get on it and my opportunity would be gone. "That's easy said God, just find people who are seeking just as you are. There are basic truths there, John, he spoke softly, kindness, compassion, love are just the basics. How they manifest themselves in your life is what you have to figure out. And there are people who can help." I just sat as the bus slowly ground up the hill. "Remember when the Saturn 5 took off to the Moon. I shook my head yes, again with no idea why he would ask the question. "There isn't a man alive who knows intimately and in complete detail all of the workings of that rocket. But yet it flies. Life and faith is a lot like that. There are people who understand completely just one little part of it all but nobody knows it all. At some point you just have to have faith that as long as you do your part correctly, the rocket will fly." Go find those people who know their little piece of the creation." The bus brakes hissed to a stop and the doors flew open and "god" stood up.

I sat pinned to my seat, unable to move. No one got off and God took the dozen steps or so to the bus and then he stopped and turned. "By the way John, your engine repair will get you home but it will not take you to California, and when you get home look up a guy by the name of Ray Arnold at the homeless mission downtown, he'll help you out. Tell em I sent ya" He smiled, turned and boarded the bus. The bus doors closed and God went wherever he was going.

I sat for a long time on that bench. I never talked to anyone, about my discussion with god. I worked at Rosa's till the bus was done. And then I thought about what he said. I never made it to California and the new heads and valves worked fine. Twenty miles away from the house the opposite side began to pop and wheeze, but I made it home just as he said. I looked up Ray Arnold at the mission when I got back. When I told him who sent me, with a sweep of his arm he covered the room and said, "He has sent them all here, one way or another". I told him the story of the meeting with god and he said I wasn't the first one to tell him something like this. He told me who else to go talk to and there I was, at the beginning.

Sherwood Anderson and Mr. Lind

Mr. Lind was an alcoholic English Major that never grew up. the Bastard made us work our ass off, for the first time in A.P. English. Everyweek he'd mention some named "Sherwood Anderson" who was supposedly better that Joyce. I decided to check this Anderson charater out. I'm glad I did. Below is the short story that this blog is named after.

WINESBURG, OHIO

Sherwood Anderson

TANDY

UNTIL SHE WAS seven years old she lived in an old unpainted house on an unused road that led off Trunion Pike. Her father gave her but little attention and her mother was dead. The father spent his time talking and thinking of religion. He proclaimed him- self an agnostic and was so absorbed in destroying the ideas of God that had crept into the minds of his neighbors that he never saw God manifesting himself in the little child that, half forgotten, lived here and there on the bounty of her dead mother's relatives.

A stranger came to Winesburg and saw in the child what the father did not see. He was a tall, red- haired young man who was almost always drunk. Sometimes he sat in a chair before the New Willard House with Tom Hard, the father. As Tom talked, declaring there could be no God, the stranger smiled and winked at the bystanders. He and Tom became friends and were much together.

The stranger was the son of a rich merchant of Cleveland and had come to Winesburg on a mission. He wanted to cure himself of the habit of drink, and thought that by escaping from his city associates and living in a rural community he would have a better chance in the struggle with the appetite that was destroying him.

His sojourn in Winesburg was not a success. The dullness of the passing hours led to his drinking harder than ever. But he did succeed in doing some- thing. He gave a name rich with meaning to Tom Hard's daughter.

One evening when he was recovering from a long debauch the stranger came reeling along the main street of the town. Tom Hard sat in a chair before the New Willard House with his daughter, then a child of five, on his knees. Beside him on the board sidewalk sat young George Willard. The stranger dropped into a chair beside them. His body shook and when he tried to talk his voice trembled.

It was late evening and darkness lay over the town and over the railroad that ran along the foot of a little incline before the hotel. Somewhere in the distance, off to the west, there was a prolonged blast from the whistle of a passenger engine. A dog that had been sleeping in the roadway arose and barked. The stranger began to babble and made a prophecy concerning the child that lay in the arms of the agnostic.

"I came here to quit drinking," he said, and tears began to run down his cheeks. He did not look at Tom Hard, but leaned forward and stared into the darkness as though seeing a vision. "I ran away to the country to be cured, but I am not cured. There is a reason." He turned to look at the child who sat up very straight on her father's knee and returned the look.

The stranger touched Tom Hard on the arm. "Drink is not the only thing to which I am ad- dicted," he said. "There is something else. I am a lover and have not found my thing to love. That is a big point if you know enough to realize what I mean. It makes my destruction inevitable, you see. There are few who understand that."

The stranger became silent and seemed overcome with sadness, but another blast from the whistle of the passenger engine aroused him. "I have not lost faith. I proclaim that. I have only been brought to the place where I know my faith will not be real- ized," he declared hoarsely. He looked hard at the child and began to address her, paying no more at- tention to the father. "There is a woman coming," he said, and his voice was now sharp and earnest. "I have missed her, you see. She did not come in my time. You may be the woman. It would be like fate to let me stand in her presence once, on such an evening as this, when I have destroyed myself with drink and she is as yet only a child."

The shoulders of the stranger shook violently, and when he tried to roll a cigarette the paper fell from his trembling fingers. He grew angry and scolded. "They think it's easy to be a woman, to be loved, but I know better," he declared. Again he turned to the child. "I understand," he cried. "Perhaps of all men I alone understand."

His glance again wandered away to the darkened street. "I know about her, although she has never crossed my path," he said softly. "I know about her struggles and her defeats. It is because of her defeats that she is to me the lovely one. Out of her defeats has been born a new quality in woman. I have a name for it. I call it Tandy. I made up the name when I was a true dreamer and before my body became vile. It is the quality of being strong to be loved. It is something men need from women and that they do not get. "

The stranger arose and stood before Tom Hard. His body rocked back and forth and he seemed about to fall, but instead he dropped to his knees on the sidewalk and raised the hands of the little girl to his drunken lips. He kissed them ecstatically. "Be Tandy, little one," he pleaded. "Dare to be strong and courageous. That is the road. Venture anything. Be brave enough to dare to be loved. Be something more than man or woman. Be Tandy."

The stranger arose and staggered off down the street. A day or two later he got aboard a train and returned to his home in Cleveland. On the summer evening, after the talk before the hotel, Tom Hard took the girl child to the house of a relative where she had been invited to spend the night. As he went along in the darkness under the trees he forgot the babbling voice of the stranger and his mind returned to the making of arguments by which he might de- stroy men's faith in God. He spoke his daughter's name and she began to weep.

"I don't want to be called that," she declared. "I want to be called Tandy--Tandy Hard." The child wept so bitterly that Tom Hard was touched and tried to comfort her. He stopped beneath a tree and, taking her into his arms, began to caress her. "Be good, now," he said sharply; but she would not be quieted. With childish abandon she gave herself over to grief, her voice breaking the evening stillness of the street. "I want to be Tandy. I want to be Tandy. I want to be Tandy Hard," she cried, shak- ing her head and sobbing as though her young strength were not enough to bear the vision the words of the drunkard had brought to her.

Hi!

this is an experiment.
I've got a lot of writtings and need some place to store them all.
If you need and explination of the name--do a google search on Sherwood Anderson.
You'll like him