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Becoming the Story
and other tales
By L.E. Henderson
Text copyright © 2014 L.E. Henderson
All Rights Reserved
To Donnie, with love; infinite thank yous for all your support and giving me the idea for this book.
Introduction
Recently I began a project in which every weekend I would allow myself to work on a short story. It has been wonderful fun, and I look forward to weekends now because of them.
On Saturdays I exist in a world of “what ifs.” What if a girl meets the misfortunes of her life by telling stories to the point that she begins to create herself as she would a fictional character What would a cat think if she became human and encountered a Christian determined to save her? If I could write a journal entry right after my death, what would it say ? What would a futuristic race of immortals think of a human baby if, by some freak accident, immortal parents gave birth to one of them: a mortal atavist?
All of my weekend "what-if” experiments have been exciting. But beyond momentary fun, is there another, more pressing drive to tell stories?
Fun aside, I believe the title of my book is apt. For many years now, I have written almost every day, through depressions, vacations, financial disasters, holidays, and moves to other states. And the more I have written, the more the way I view the world has changed.
I could not help it; writing is a focused form of thinking. When I think, my perspective changes. When my perspective changes, I change. Putting ideas into words forces me to observe; to imagine how things could be different; to re-evaluate; to wonder. No one can write every day in an honest and concentrated way and not be changed.
In a way I am the girl in the title story, “Becoming the Story.” For her, telling stories is a matter of emotional survival. But the same is true of everyone, writers and non-writers alike. Few people are able to accept life as the jumble of meaningless details that it sometimes appears to be.
Most people seek context and meaning, and that is what stories are, whether they are read, written, or told aloud; the quality of our lives rests upon the kinds of stories we tell ourselves or let others tell us, whether they are “deep” or shallow, good or bad. Writing stories turns the natural human striving for context into a focused and deliberate activity; turns empathy into a lifelong occupation; and promotes the quest for understanding.
Furthermore, every good story belongs to everyone. Regardless of the specifics, they all deal with the problems of being human and the emotions such as love, fear, anger, and sadness that come with it.
I like being part of that effort, and I am excited about sharing these stories with you. Though many of them have appeared on my blog, those of you who subscribe will find unpublished stories here as well.
Since my weekend project continues, there are sure to be more books of stories coming from me. Although I am happy to present these, I am even more excited about the stories yet to be written that will keep pace with my life as it changes and I learn more.
Until I get back to you with more stories, whether in a few weeks, a few months, or a few years, enjoy.
Table of Contents
Introduction
The Atavist
Be Human
Becoming the Story
The Final Word
Rational Therapy, Inc.
The Eternal Twine
The Aliens Do Laundry
Walls Evaporate Sometimes
The Outfielders
The Season of Militant Shyness
About L.E. Henderson and Her Books
L.E. Henderson Online
The Atavist
At 44 Maxwell was the most ancient person on the planet. Behind the curtain he waited uneasily for his name to be called.
“Hi there, Ladies and Gentlemen,” the host began. “A special treat for you tonight. Heartbreaking, yet fascinating as any of you who have been following the story of Baby Josie and Maxwell Farnsworth already know. Without further ado, please welcome to the stage our favorite mortal and inspiration to all, Maxwell J. Farnsworth.”
Max swept the curtain aside. Applause thundered in his ears and bright lights stung his eyes. He moved toward the host, who welcomed Max with a grin, looking down at him from his elevated chair near the edge of the stage. Max stopped short of the identical guest chair.
He shook his head. “I prefer to stand.”
Lenny tossed his head back and bellowed laughter toward the ceiling. “Are our 10 foot chairs a bit high for you?” he said. “No worries, my friend. We thought of everything.”
A second man emerged from behind the curtain wearing grey overalls and rolled out a padded swivel office chair.
“There, is that better?” Lenny asked. “Our research indicates that this type of chair was common in the U.S. circa 2051. No stilted chair legs for you, no sir, and no need for a ladder. We want you to be as comfortable as possible.”
Max settled into the padded chair as Lenny, looking down, shot him a winning moon-bright smile. “Can you hear me from way up here?” Lenny chuckled. The audience rippled laughter. “Well, just let us know if you change your mind and decide to join us.”
The smile faded softly. “As I believe any of us here would agree, you are quite an inspiration. You are a relic, a symbol of our past, our distant ancestor, and even a different species as examination of your DNA suggests.
“When you froze in the Arctic wasteland, you were engaged in a scientific expedition. You were an engineer recruited as part of a team searching for undiscovered organisms able to endure extreme conditions. Our technology allowed us to resuscitate you, and it has turned out that you were one of those organisms. We unearthed you, of course, for a reason other than our historical curiosity. Two of our audience members, Myrtle and Wilhelm Banks have given birth to a curiosity. An atavist.
“As you already know from your reading, here, in the year 7056, what you call humanity has changed quite a bit, to the extent that when we first exhumed you, you were unable to understand us. Our experts of ancient history had to teach you our language and, despite your primitive brain, you absorbed our current syntax.
“Afterward you shared your fascinating story about the day you froze. We learned about your depression, and how you lost your trail, and how the sheets of snow blinded you, and how at the time you were too depressed to fight the onslaught of cold. It all sounded like a quintessentially mortal problem and therefore, hard for us to understand.
“Given your history, it must all be quite a shock to you that we are able to stay eternally young. We have conquered disease and hunger, and – barring extreme physical trauma like fire – we are as immortal as the vampires of your myths.
“Short of our devastating ennui epidemic, which too often leads to suicide, we live for many hundreds, and even thousands, of years, which has allowed our greatest minds time to gain the expertise needed to colonize distant planets.
“But to Myrtle and Wilhelm Banks, a baby has been born who, unlike us, suffers from pain. Real pain, not just ennui.”
“Please, Monique, if you will bring out the subject.” Max turned his head and saw a white-clad blond woman emerge from behind the curtain, rolling a rose-colored bonneted bassinet onto the stage. Lenny nodded to her, and she gathered a pajama-clad bundle from the blanketed interior.
“Josie, say hi to the audience,” Monique cooed.
At first Max could see little of the baby, except for a single unruly curl of peach hair secured with a pink bow.
But the nurse turned Josie around. The infant looked at the audience with large, curious eyes,
but when the spotlight struck her face, she began to cry. She turned, latched onto the lab coat and planted her face shyly against the woman.
Max could see how the baby had bluish cloud-shaped markings that marred the back and sides of her neck.
The nurse pried the tiny fingers away and yielded the squirming bundle to the stage hand who had appeared next to her. He held her away from his body, dangling her from beneath her arms. The baby reached for the floor and emitted a pleading wail.
The nurse withdrew a syringe and plunged it into the skin on one side of the baby’s pale tender neck; the infant screamed and kicked her pajama-clad feet. Max lifted himself a little from his seat and looked on with horror as the audience burst into applause.
“Pain,” the host said. “That is what real pain looks like. Fascinating, is it not? And it was born to one of us. It should be impossible, but it happened, and we all want answers. Give a warm round of applause to the parents of Baby Josephine, who have allowed us to conduct these experiments which should shed some light on this mystery.” The parents nodded to the camera, and stood smiling and proud.
“And to anyone concerned, our experts warned us to sterilize the needle since pre-immortals have incredibly delicate immune systems. An examination by our geneticists has verified that this infant’s cells will one day begin to die more quickly that they can be reproduced. As you know, this is a phenomenon called aging, which will generally limit its life span to less than 100 years. And unlike us, she is biologically equipped
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