Bone Sliding

Bone

Sliding

A Novel by

Anders Flagstad

Smashwords Edition

Bubble Eyes Publishing

San Diego, CA

www.BubbleEyesPublishing.com

www.AndersFlagstad.com

Copyright 2018 Anders Flagstad

Copyright 2018 Kenneth Anderson

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-370-78034-1

(Smashwords)

Published by BubbleEyes Publishing at Smashwords

(this book is available in print at most online retailers)

Illustrations and Design by K.P. Anderson

For N.I.B.

Smashwords Edtion, License Notes

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FRONTISPIECE

They stayed that way for some time. In a gold-white sack of light in the middle of the night, Jim standing, Daniel watching, his father breathing.

Jim stared at his father’s hand, gripping his. It was beautiful. Clear pink skin, translucent over hard bone, it was a miracle of fragile unbreakability. That was his father’s hand. His father used to look at his hands and ask Jim – how did I end up with an old man’s hands? – these aren’t my hands. But they were. He’d earned them. Year by year. Jim could feel all five fingers, the bones of his father’s fingers, holding onto the bones of his. They weren’t going to let go. None of them were. He looked and understood he couldn’t tell where his father’s hands left off and his own began. And that was fine. They were all the same hands, anyways. The same flesh. They always had been. They still were. They always would be. Nothing about that was going to change. Nothing ever changes.

It was good.

Jim blinked and thought and he was surprised again.

It was good.

He hadn’t expected that.

from Chapter 62, Yearning

CONTENTS

Novel

About the Author

0

BEFORE

You know the feeling. It’s a bad feeling.

Being.

It’s confusing.

Then it gets worse.

Being.

Pleasures land on your front doorstep in fat, juicy parcels, so reliably, one after another, you don’t even bother unwrapping them, let alone pick them up. Then, one day, you find steaming piles of pain and boredom deposited instead, and you wish you’d owned a different doorstep and you wonder, you have to ask – is there a reason behind all this?

Being.

There’s no sense to it. What’s the cause and effect of it? Where’s the justice in it? How do its rewards and punishments work? And why? You ask why. Nobody gives you an answer.

There’s no neat system of pluses and minuses. No equals sign giving you what you deserve. No tools. None that you can see. Or use. You end up un-asking the questions.

Being.

As long as you’re here, and you are still here, maybe while you’re asking and un-asking these questions, maybe you can practice something else. A new skill. A pastime. A kind of hobby. Like… Maybe… Love. It’s something to do. As long as you’re here. And you’re still here. Who knows? Maybe questions weren’t the reason we were here. Or answers.

It’s confusing.

Being.

You know the feeling. It’s a bad feeling.

1

CLICK

You know the feeling. It’s a bad feeling. As if your flesh had come unhooked from your bones and your body was sliding right off your skeleton to fall – kerplunk! – as limp and shapeless on the floor as a shower curtain ripped off its rings. That’s how Paul felt. All the time. He was tired of it. He hated it. First and foremost., as his dad would say.

A bad feeling.

It was almost as bad as when he felt his skin snapping back into place. Falling on top of his skeleton, draping over his skull, dropping over his shoulder blades, sliding onto his arm bones, cascading down around his leg bones... click! – click! – click! – fastening onto his many foot bones, everything almost hooking onto where it should be, flesh nearly back in its right place, but not quite, brother, not even close.

Almost normal.

You know, brother, that was an even worst feeling.

Then getting ripped off shapeless again. Falling on the floor.

No, brother, that was the worst feeling.

No, it was all bad. It was all the worst. It got so a guy even forgot his own name. Was he really Paul? Who was Paul? If he wasn’t Paul, who was asking the question?

Feelings.

Why was it so complicated?

Then it would start again.

Those feelings.

Off. On. Off On. Anyways. You get it.

Paul hated it. If that’s who he was. Paul? Paul? Yeah, it didn’t sound right somehow. But that was crazy talk, right? Or does everyone feel that way? Anyways, whoever he was, his insides felt bunched and wrinkled. His mind felt as if it were an un-ironed shirt. And who wants a life as an un-ironed shirt?

Yeah, we’ve all been through it, right? Brother? Right? Well, Paul was sick of it. And he wasn’t going to do it anymore.

When you can’t even trust your own body, when you can’t even feel comfortable in your own skin, well, brother, it’s time for some serious thinking, some serious decision making. Enough was enough. And Paul had definitely had enough.

Paul was young. Maybe a little impetuous. Maybe he didn’t think before he spoke sometimes. He was young – what could he say? He wished, he asked the Universe – get me out of this body – and sometimes brother, sometimes, you’ve got to be careful what you ask for.

2

ALMOST

Paul began coughing.

No, gagging, gasping was more like it.

He was lying down. In the snow. It had almost been peaceful. Until the car started up. The rusty exhaust pipe of the Model B he was lying beneath cleared its throat, then noisily belched woolly clouds of poisonous gas directly into his mouth and nose. He hadn’t thought about that. You know, it had been all Paul could do to spit the gravel and ice out of his mouth when the car’s rear tires started spinning. The tires chewed the powder up and cheerfully piled it, neat and tidy, onto his frost-bitten face. It was a pretty deep pile. It hurt. He hadn’t thought about that either. Yeah, he blinked and spit a lot.

Paul was waiting for the car to slip and slide. It had been skating all over the road, all morning long, and of course, now that Paul was lying in back of it, it didn’t want to slip an inch in any direction whatsoever. It stayed put and spun.

Paul was lying and waiting because he wanted the car to jump backwards and ride up on top of his body and roll all its ungainly, cast-iron heaviness over Paul’s soft, squishy parts. He calculated the right rear tire would hit him in his head, above his nose, if he didn’t move. Yup, that should do it. It should crush the life right out of him. The trick was not to move. He was more frightened than he thought he would be. You’d think he hadn’t done this before. He was sure he had. Or had he? Did any of that make sense? He had another coughing fit. Maybe it was going to asphyxiate him first, instead. Well, brother, either way… Whatever it takes to get the job done. He coughed some more. Spit. He squinted his eyes. He kept on spitting. The car kept on shoveling snow at his face. Somebody kicked him. In the ribs. Right in the center of his heavy wool coat. Then he felt the sole of a shoe on his forehead.

He opened one eye. Not a shoe, a boot. It was Zeke’s boot – well, one of Zeke’s dad’s boots, Zeke was in them now. Zeke had borrowed this pair since he didn’t have a pair of his own. Another one of Zeke’s brothers had borrowed Zeke’s heavy leather boots a week ago, to help out an elderly uncle on an elderly farm out in the middle of nowhere, and they hadn’t found their way home yet from North Dakota. These, the ones on Zeke’s big oversized feet, they must have been made of even heavier leather, they were the Sherman Tanks of boots, military grade, and they surely had something akin to torpedo metal encasing the toes.

Yeah. All Paul knew was – they hurt. Yup. When used correctly. And the boots were being used by an expert. Zeke, at present. To be precise.

Cut the engine Stan. Our boy here, he’s asleep. You asleep, chump?

No.

No? That’s what you’re telling me?

No.

O.K., Paul, I give up. No, what? What do you think you’re doing, you numbskull? Someone could get hurt lying in back of a car getting itself unstuck from a snowdrift. You pushing it with your nose?

Paul didn’t answer that.

But Zeke didn’t go away.

After the engine slowed and the tires stopped, it got quiet, quick. Paul could see all this wasn’t going to work, not as planned. He opened his other eye. He had a great view of worn rubber tread. You know, it never worked out the way you thought it would. It was never easy. It felt as if he’d done this before. Had he? The spitting, the boot tread and everything? How many times had he done this? How would he know? The bottom of the boot rubbed back and forth on Paul’s forehead.

Or didn’t you think of that, Paul? Getting hurt? Getting killed? Or were you thinking at all? What’s going on, brother?

Zeke was giving Paul a strange look, halfway between a frown and a smile. The two expressions were fighting each other across his face. It was a fascinating battle to watch. The engine stopped. The frown won. The exhaust pipe wheezed, gave a final burp and settled into silence. He could hear a car door open, and Stan squeaking through the snow, plowing towards the two of them. It must be pretty cold out. The snow screamed it at every step. Yeah, even the icicles on his eyelashes had icicles. The engine exhaust had been warm though.

What’s he doing, Zeke?

No idea, brother.

I’m checking the tires guys.

He’s checking the tires, Stan.

Checking the tires. Now who woulda thought of that?

Stan looked down at Paul. Zeke looked down at Paul. Paul looked up at Zeke and Stan. It hit Paul they were waiting for him to say something else. O.K. Great. Say something, Paully.

C’mon guys. What did you think I was doing?

Paul propped himself up on one of his elbows and turned his head around. This was ridiculous. He couldn’t even get himself run over. In a blizzard. Behind a car. He coughed and blinked snow out of his eyes. His eyes had been aching, rolling them backwards to look up at his two best friends standing upside down in back of him. He hadn’t been making much sense of the expressions on their upside-down faces. But, right-side up, the expressions became even stranger. Anger? Love? Betrayal? He almost laughed, they looked so comical. Then he felt like crying. Man! Why was it always so hard? In the end, Paul kept his face carefully blank. Or he thought he did. Who knew what was on his face? Who knew what was going on behind his face? Certainly not Paul. Life was a lot like riding a crazy merry-go-round, lately. Lots of motion... Always in a circle... Never getting anywhere… None of it meaning anything… The whole thing starting over… Around and around and…

Zeke and Stan looked at each other. Something unreadable passed between them. Or nothing passed between them. Paul could never tell. He could never figure out what they were thinking. They always surprised him.

We don’t know what you’re doing, Paully said Zeke.

There was a moment of silence for the three of them to take that in.

And the truth of it is, brother, said Stan we don’t give a hoot anyways. So. Get the heck up and help us this time, the tires are fine. You get this bucket of bolts rolling forward again. O.K.? No more funny business, Paully, yes? Entendu?

Stan looked over at Zeke again. They did that look/non-look thing again.

Stan grew up speaking French at home, he only mixed it up, speaking the Franglais, with his family and his best friends. He was trying to help Paul. He was treating Paul as family. Paul saw it. Paul understood it. Paul didn’t want that kind of help though, just now. He didn’t know what he wanted. This was all so wrong.

Paully?

Paully?

Yeah. Sure.

Stan gave Paul his I’m serious look, wide eyes, raised eyebrows, the whole shebang.

Zeke looked at Stan. He doesn’t get it. Zeke acted as if he were going to kick Paul again. He smiled as he did it. But it wasn’t a very convincing Zeke-smile. Zeke kicked the snow, and Paul danced up and out of the way, acting as if he’d expected to be kicked. Zeke pretended to kick Paul again, but at the last minute wrestled Paul down to his knees, not kidding, this time for real. Zeke was on the wrestling team. He was big. He knew how to get your cooperation, in a wrestling-way. Paul knew from experience. He was on the team too. Zeke easily and efficiently got Paul in his signature, inescapable head lock. Zeke was laughing. Now, this time, his smile was real. Paul was sure of it. Some hardness in Paul’s chest slipped, melted into liquid, drained away through holes in his leaky soul, and suddenly Paul wanted to stay here. He wanted to stay. He didn’t want to make his final exit. He wanted to be here. With these guys. Now. He wanted it. Where did all these feelings come from?

Stan went down on one knee and grabbed Paul’s head-locked head with both of his well-mittened hands. He quickly ripped off Paul’s cap, quickly tore off his own right mitten, and rapidly rubbed his knuckles painfully over Paul’s head, back and forth, through Paul’s thick red hair. It was freezing out, below freezing. Stan could only do it (mercifully) for a few seconds, before flesh would start getting frostbit. But it still hurt. Like a son-of-a-gun. It hurt. But it was a good kind of hurt. Did that make sense? If you were alive, you hurt.

You’re a crazy kid, Paully Olsen. You know that?

3

CLICK

Out of the sides of his eye, Paul saw the penguins again.

Watching him. Silent as usual. Waist-high, silk-bright white torsos with lemon yellow mufflers and Fred Astaire formal coats, they usually stood politely to one side and surreptitiously followed Paul’s movements with bored, expectant eyes and stoically hunched shoulders. The acted as if they were doing Paul a favor. At great personal cost to themselves.

Paul felt as if he were being scrutinized by any number of midget Winston Churchills. No pressure. Merely prime ministers watching you, Paully. Be yourself. Act natural. You know. As if they weren’t here. So, Paul ignored them. Elaborately. He always did. Everyone else ignored them too, acted as if they weren’t there. It seemed like the right thing to do.

Paul accidentally glanced at one, it caught Paul’s attention between knuckle-rubbings, as it flapped its wings slightly and shuffled its big fluffy feet. Did he hear it sighing? Was that a yawn? Don’t look, Paul. Look up. Look at Stan.

Why was it always so hard?

4

BURIED

Paul wanted to die.

Yeah. For as long as he could remember. Well, that wasn’t true, not exactly. He couldn’t remember very far back.

He felt as if he were a deck of cards, each card a life, and he could remember different people, guys, girls, different places, cities, farms, deserts, mountains, but nothing very clearly, nothing you could put your finger on and say – this happened to me, I was there, I know. He couldn’t tell if he’d lived it, or if someone had told him about it, or if he’d read about it someplace. He was always looking at himself from somewhere way far away. Floating above it all. Where it was safe. Did everyone feel this way? He wanted to ask somebody if all that sounded strange. But he didn’t. Did that make Paul a coward? He didn’t know. He couldn’t tell.

He had asked his gym teacher once though, about reincarnation.

Mr. Andrietti. A well-muscled fireplug of discipline and optimism. Paul liked him because he was short like Paul. At one point, during wrestling practice last fall, Mr. A. had shown the team something called yoogah and taught them how to tie themselves into pretzels. No one could. But they continued to try, pulling on their bones to make their teenage bodes as supple as rubber bands, imitating pigeons and dogs and frogs and plants. It felt good. And, yeah, it seemed to help in the wrestling department. But it was a crazy way to start practice.

Mr. A. was also a very inspiring speaker. He practiced endless variety in his motivational talks to the male teenagers under his wrestling supervision. Mr. A. had added smiling elephant-headed gods, and fourteen-armed dancers and remembering past lives to the rest of his encouraging banter as they huffed and groaned through their partially successful stretches and Paul had asked him once, after practice, if Mr. A. thought it was true – could you remember past lives? For real? Mr. A. had smiled and shook his head and slapped Paul on the back – just you keep your weight down and concentrate on the Bakers Falls match next week. O.K., Mr. Olsen? That should be enough to handle.

Was that a yes?

Or a no?

But it didn’t matter, because Paul would always end up hurting, in the end. Life hurt. And really, boy, did it, scout’s honor. It hurt bad. But that meant you were alive, right?

Maybe. But he still wanted to kill himself. It hurt too much, he hurt other people too much, there were a lot of reasons. Good reasons too.

He’d thought about it. A lot. Anyone would say the same. It was common sense. If it got to be too much you made a change. Simple. He’d say so to anyone. If anyone would listen. Of course no one would. Well, Paul didn’t ever bring it up. So, Paul supposed, they couldn’t listen, right, if you never brought it up?

Wrong. They could bring it up. They could ask. No one asked Paul, did they? No, they didn’t. No one asked him what was going on. No one asked him why he was so quiet. Time for a change, Paully. No more waiting. He was scared, yeah, who wouldn’t be? He was scared but he’d decided. It was going to be today.

This was his last day on earth.

If this was his last day, why