Sample in a jar

Anyone who knows me knows that I do not tend to talk about my writing in specifics and I never share anything before it has been thoroughly revised. That said, I felt I should share a little piece of my writing with you all to share my work and relieve anxieties.

My story has a pretty out there sci-fi/fantasy premise, but is more about the characters than the universe. Michael is telling this part of the story. Michael has recently met Thomas who is quickly becoming his only and closest friend in a new and big city.

Please excuse the expletives. I write like they talk.

[...]

The mystery that was Thomas began to unravel just days after he paid for my stint in the hospital. We had met up a few times at O'Reilly's, which I had told him about upon my release, and we'd play pool and darts. Thomas consumed copious amounts of liquor with little visible effect. I drank very little and won even less. Soon after, he began showing up at my place all the time. At the time I thought nothing of it. Three weeks after I met him, he was crashing on my couch. I had very little experience with friendship outside of a liberal arts college campus. These things seemed normal to me.

This was the thing about Thomas. He was, as a famous actor once said, like any other man only more so. It was like someone speaking with an accent they'd learned from movies and music but had never heard from a real person. Thomas behaved like he had learned how to by watching television. His pacing was all screwed up and his punch lines were in all of the wrong places. I didn't notice. He may have been playing the part badly, but he was playing such a familiar part that my mind just kind of filled in the gaps for him.

It was late November, a full month after he thrust a flask in my hand and rescued me from something he had yet to fully explain. We were out at O'Reilly's once more. Thomas was telling me that all the great generations had come and gone.

“Greatness is a thing, Michael, that our generation can only look at with irony,” he said. “Many of our ancient generations, the ones that fought off barbarity and built schools and hospitals, they were great,” he told me. “But then, somehow, greatness fell out of style.”

This was one of the few nights we could go to the bar and actually enjoy ourselves. We were getting to the point where we would sooner go without alcohol for weeks than sit through another fucking karaoke night, or open mic, or (god forbid) a local band. The way Thomas and I saw it; bars were for far more important things than terrible bands and worse poetry. Bars were for drinking and discussion and pool – preferably all at the same time. The rest was all frills. Including any drink served with a tiny-ass toothpick umbrella. I mean, really.

Last call was called and Thomas made his final point:

“Greatness isn't about beating back the newest wave of assholes or ruling some great empire,” he told me, “I'm saying that greatness is about people stopping their lives, people working and dying, to give a better world to their kids and grandkids. Everyone is so damn shortsighted these days...” he trailed off.

I vaguely remember that I said something like, “yeah, but then these great generations expect their kids and grandkids to make that same sacrifice. And they never do.”

“Makes you think, eh?” He smiled, nearly tipsy, and lined up his cue for a shot. He exhaled as he struck the white ball and sent the 8 to rest, prematurely, in the corner pocket.

I remember we took that as a sign and began the leaving process. I pulled on my coat while Thomas picked up his lighter and wallet.

“You know how I know all of this?” he asked me outside the bar, where we usually tarried under the neon signs to finish conversations before heading our separate ways. Or, lately, our same ways. Thomas lit a cigarette. The autumn air stung slightly, pushing away any lingering traces the alcohol and pool had left on my senses.

“I imagine you're about to tell me,” I said, wittily I thought.

“I read things,” he answered himself. He said it with no hint that he'd heard me. “Stories don't have happy endings anymore.” He looked at me, searching for the impact of his words. “Stories with happy endings are out of style, just like greatness. Either no good authors are writing happy endings, or no stories sound good with a happy ending anymore. Greatness requires a happy ending.” He took a puff and went on. “Look at the old story of the war across the ocean. Basically the whole world was at war, right? All of our factories and all of their factories were pumping out bullets and tanks as fast as they could. They were fighting for two things, if you remember your history class. They were fighting to conquer the countries around them, and they were fighting for revenge. We were fighting to end the atrocities they were committing, and we were fighting to defend ourselves and our allies. We won. Happy ending! Greatness!” He looked at me proudly.

“Sure, but even that didn't last long, if you'll recall. We began fighting with our allies before our enemies even had the chance to fall. And that was a very long war composed almost entirely of pretense and victims.”

“Yeah, but I say that was the fault of the next generation. Terrible pansies.” Everything with Thomas boiled down to something. Right or wrong. Good or evil. “I'm going to meet you back at home.” He had taken to calling my apartment 'home'. “I have some things to go do.”

“Alright, I'll see you.”

The walk home was drab and chill. The climb up the stairs to the fifth floor was featureless. Jenny was watching an episode in the second season of Star Trek. She may have been awake. She may have been dead, staring glassy eyed at the screen. I said hello, not that I expected an answer, poured myself a glass of water and headed into my bedroom.