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The Straw That Stirs the Drink
His life since the accident has been a series of staccato bursts. He's heard people talk about "living in the moment" as if that is hard to do. For him, it's like breathing.
The details of the crash are mostly lost to him now. It's not that he can't remember, exactly. It's just that he doesn't. It doesn't usually occur to him to think backward or forward. Most of the time, he just moves to the music.
What he does know is that the accident turned his hair a brilliant white and put him in the hospital. People call him the Straw Man, even though his hair is much paler than straw. He doesn't mind the nickname - the name he used before belongs to another man, another life.
He owns a little house outside a small town. Nearby are a small university, a park, and a river. Once he was a student at the university, but now he has no patience for long, snaking lines across a page. Now he goes there to sit on the quad, watching the people walk by or the squirrels scampering on the grass.
Inside his house sits an overstuffed chair with fading brown cushions. There is no television; he finds the plots tortuous and the lights and sounds jarring. Instead, he has a tea kettle, a porch with a swing, a bedroom with a soft quilt and a desk. On the desk sits a geode, half a gray rock cracked open to reveal a spill of gleaming jagged amethyst. It's a present from a girl he once knew, though he's all but forgotten her face.
He doesn't have a job. There is a bank account with money in it, money that somehow relates to the accident. The details of that aren't terribly important to him; he only knows it's enough to last him a long time if he doesn't spend a lot. He never spends a lot because he doesn't need much: a roof over his head, food to eat, jeans and sweatshirts and new sneakers when the old ones fall apart.
Since the crash, he is isolated but he never feels lonely. His family and friends don't come around often, but he takes a walk every morning and every evening. Sometimes he meets people along the way. Other times, he has no company but nature. Nature is company enough.
Besides, he's never been truly alone since the accident. He can touch people's minds.
* * * * *
He's watching a snail creeping across the university's quad when he notices the studious girl.
She's bent over a notebook at a wooden picnic table, angular and ambitious. A curtain of coppery hair obscures her face, but he doesn't need to see her features to know that she's upset. He can feel the frustration baking off of her.
A dam bursts and his head is filled with fragments of thoughts that do not belong to him.
Before he realizes what he's doing, he is standing beside her.
"A garden snail moves at a speed of only 0.03 miles per hour. Yet it is still capable of traveling over 1800 miles over the course of its lifetime."
The moment the words are out of his mouth, he regrets them. She'll probably scream for help, telling anyone who will listen about the crazy man who has approached her, spouting nonsense.
Click.
Her amber eyes meet his, and that's when he feels it. He's never picked a lock, but he imagines this is the sensation of the last pin falling into place.
"Oh!" the girl cries out as she jumps to her feet, "I have to get back to the lab!" She's gone a moment later, leaving him to ponder what has just happened.
* * * * *
He's feeding ducks in the park when he spies the awkward boy.
The boy is maybe sixteen, pale and gangly and trying to fold himself into invisibility on a nearby bench. His face is thin almost to the point of gauntness, marred by pimples and misery. He's tossing crumbs halfheartedly in the birds' general direction and looks like he could burst into tears at any moment.
The Straw Man moves to approach him, and the boy's thoughts invade his mind, unbidden as always.
Suddenly, the words begin to tumble from his lips.
"A duck looks clumsy when it waddles, but in the water it can glide like a swan," he says.
Click.
The boy looks at him, confused but hopeful.
"Two more years is a really long time," he says doubtfully.
The Straw Man motions toward the duck pond.
His forehead scrunching up in thought, the boy muses, "Are you saying that I have to find my own pond?"
The Straw Man just smiles. His own words aren't important anymore.
"Maybe I could do one of those magnet schools - you know, the ones for smart kids," the boy says, "Even if it's just for a year."
He smiles at the Straw Man, and it transforms his whole face. With the lines of anguish wiped away, it is a pleasing face. It's the face of the man he's going to be. Then he gathers his things, gives a little wave, and leaves without another word.
That's how it usually goes.
* * * * *
He's crossing the bridge when he sees the broken man.
The river is swollen well beyond its usual size and laps hungrily at its banks. A storm has been pummeling the town for the past two days, but all is calm now except for the water. Dawn is breaking, painting the sky and river with brilliant streaks of orange, pink and gold.
He watches the sun rise every morning, but it's especially lovely today. With a sharp intake of breath, he pauses at the edge of the bridge. When he resumes his walk, he's aware of nothing more than those scrawls of blazing color. He's almost at the other end of the bridge before he notices that he is not alone.
The man is standing about three feet away. He looks to be in his thirties and is dressed in a flannel shirt, blue jeans and scuffed work boots. He has the rumpled look of a man who's slept in his clothes. Staring raptly at the horizon, he appears to be admiring the scenery.
Without warning, the Straw Man's thoughts are no longer his. This time, there are no tangled fragments - only a single repeating refrain:
No one would really miss me if I just disappeared.
He waits for the rush of words that will set things right, but it doesn't come. This has never happened before, but he knows he has to do something.
"Breathtaking, isn't it?" he asks.
The other man turns slowly toward him. His eyes are hollow and hopeless, his mouth set with grim determination. He does not speak.
"The sunrise is always so lovely after a storm," the Straw Man says awkwardly. He's not used to having to come up with the words on his own.
The other man isn't helping. He's turned his back and is staring down into the swirling depths of the river.
The Straw Man feels his palms beginning to sweat. He doesn't know why the right words aren't coming. Maybe it's because the broken man doesn't want to be helped. If he can just find the right words, though, everything will change.
He doesn't usually think of the past, but now he remembers a 3D poster that once hung on his wall. Some people can't see the hidden picture in them, but he has always been able to. The trick is to focus your eyes on something in the distance, as if you're looking through the picture.
In his mind's eye, he stares through the broken man. He has just enough time to think this is stupid - it isn't working, and then his consciousness dims. From far away, he hears a voice - he thinks it might be his, still babbling at the broken man.
Then he feels something give way and a river of thoughts that are not his rushes over him. Each one slams into him with punishing force and for a moment, he thinks he's going to black out.
The words rush from his mouth before he even knows what he's saying.
"...After a storm, you can see so much further, so much more clearly than you could otherwise. Very few people can appreciate that fact. Personally, I think they just don't want to acknowledge it because they don't like change. But change can be beautiful. Don't you agree?"
He knows he's found the right words, but they don't seem to have registered yet. The broken man turns toward him, looking like he's going to punch him in the mouth. He spits out an indignant, "Listen, fella--" and
Click.
It's as if a switch has been flipped. The broken man falls silent and turns to look at the river again. "You might be right," he murmurs, "You just might be right."
Knowing his work is done, the Straw Man turns to go home. He normally walks another mile or two after the bridge, but he's suddenly feeling very tired. No longer concerned with the river, the sunrise, or the world around him, all he wants now is his comfy chair and maybe a nice cup of hot tea.
The other man asks him if any diners nearby are open this early. He directs him to Frank's place in town and starts walking toward home. Though tired, he hits his stride quickly and feels better the more distance he puts between himself and the once-broken man.
All of a sudden, he is once again awash in the stream of the man's thoughts. This time, it comes in images, clear and unbroken.
And then, there is a single, reverberating word:
FUTURE.
For a moment, it is more than he can take. He reels as if he's been slapped, and his knees feel as though they are going to give way. The riotous hues of the dawn recede to gray.
Taking a deep breath of the fresh morning air, he exhales slowly. The color seeps back into the world. His limbs are heavy, as if he's narrowly escaped drowning in the river below. He leans against a tree and lets the cool breeze ruffle his hair. By the time his strength begins to return, the sun has climbed in the sky and it's almost fully light.
He doesn't usually think of the future, but now he remembers the geode that sits on his desk at home. A geode is just another rock until water hollows it out, leaving a space where glittering crystals can grow.
After considering this for a moment, he shrugs and begins walking home again. Watered by the storm, the world around him is green and blooming. The music rises within him once more and he marches to its beat.
This was originally written for intersection week in LJ Idol. The talented ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ellakite wrote a companion piece here.
The details of the crash are mostly lost to him now. It's not that he can't remember, exactly. It's just that he doesn't. It doesn't usually occur to him to think backward or forward. Most of the time, he just moves to the music.
What he does know is that the accident turned his hair a brilliant white and put him in the hospital. People call him the Straw Man, even though his hair is much paler than straw. He doesn't mind the nickname - the name he used before belongs to another man, another life.
He owns a little house outside a small town. Nearby are a small university, a park, and a river. Once he was a student at the university, but now he has no patience for long, snaking lines across a page. Now he goes there to sit on the quad, watching the people walk by or the squirrels scampering on the grass.
Inside his house sits an overstuffed chair with fading brown cushions. There is no television; he finds the plots tortuous and the lights and sounds jarring. Instead, he has a tea kettle, a porch with a swing, a bedroom with a soft quilt and a desk. On the desk sits a geode, half a gray rock cracked open to reveal a spill of gleaming jagged amethyst. It's a present from a girl he once knew, though he's all but forgotten her face.
He doesn't have a job. There is a bank account with money in it, money that somehow relates to the accident. The details of that aren't terribly important to him; he only knows it's enough to last him a long time if he doesn't spend a lot. He never spends a lot because he doesn't need much: a roof over his head, food to eat, jeans and sweatshirts and new sneakers when the old ones fall apart.
Since the crash, he is isolated but he never feels lonely. His family and friends don't come around often, but he takes a walk every morning and every evening. Sometimes he meets people along the way. Other times, he has no company but nature. Nature is company enough.
Besides, he's never been truly alone since the accident. He can touch people's minds.
He's watching a snail creeping across the university's quad when he notices the studious girl.
She's bent over a notebook at a wooden picnic table, angular and ambitious. A curtain of coppery hair obscures her face, but he doesn't need to see her features to know that she's upset. He can feel the frustration baking off of her.
A dam bursts and his head is filled with fragments of thoughts that do not belong to him.
All but dissertation.
Years of research, and still no results.
Might as well give up.
Before he realizes what he's doing, he is standing beside her.
"A garden snail moves at a speed of only 0.03 miles per hour. Yet it is still capable of traveling over 1800 miles over the course of its lifetime."
The moment the words are out of his mouth, he regrets them. She'll probably scream for help, telling anyone who will listen about the crazy man who has approached her, spouting nonsense.
Click.
Her amber eyes meet his, and that's when he feels it. He's never picked a lock, but he imagines this is the sensation of the last pin falling into place.
"Oh!" the girl cries out as she jumps to her feet, "I have to get back to the lab!" She's gone a moment later, leaving him to ponder what has just happened.
He's feeding ducks in the park when he spies the awkward boy.
The boy is maybe sixteen, pale and gangly and trying to fold himself into invisibility on a nearby bench. His face is thin almost to the point of gauntness, marred by pimples and misery. He's tossing crumbs halfheartedly in the birds' general direction and looks like he could burst into tears at any moment.
The Straw Man moves to approach him, and the boy's thoughts invade his mind, unbidden as always.
I thought she liked me.
Everyone was laughing at me.
I can never show my face at school again.
Suddenly, the words begin to tumble from his lips.
"A duck looks clumsy when it waddles, but in the water it can glide like a swan," he says.
Click.
The boy looks at him, confused but hopeful.
"Two more years is a really long time," he says doubtfully.
The Straw Man motions toward the duck pond.
His forehead scrunching up in thought, the boy muses, "Are you saying that I have to find my own pond?"
The Straw Man just smiles. His own words aren't important anymore.
"Maybe I could do one of those magnet schools - you know, the ones for smart kids," the boy says, "Even if it's just for a year."
He smiles at the Straw Man, and it transforms his whole face. With the lines of anguish wiped away, it is a pleasing face. It's the face of the man he's going to be. Then he gathers his things, gives a little wave, and leaves without another word.
That's how it usually goes.
He's crossing the bridge when he sees the broken man.
The river is swollen well beyond its usual size and laps hungrily at its banks. A storm has been pummeling the town for the past two days, but all is calm now except for the water. Dawn is breaking, painting the sky and river with brilliant streaks of orange, pink and gold.
He watches the sun rise every morning, but it's especially lovely today. With a sharp intake of breath, he pauses at the edge of the bridge. When he resumes his walk, he's aware of nothing more than those scrawls of blazing color. He's almost at the other end of the bridge before he notices that he is not alone.
The man is standing about three feet away. He looks to be in his thirties and is dressed in a flannel shirt, blue jeans and scuffed work boots. He has the rumpled look of a man who's slept in his clothes. Staring raptly at the horizon, he appears to be admiring the scenery.
Without warning, the Straw Man's thoughts are no longer his. This time, there are no tangled fragments - only a single repeating refrain:
No one would really miss me if I just disappeared.
He waits for the rush of words that will set things right, but it doesn't come. This has never happened before, but he knows he has to do something.
"Breathtaking, isn't it?" he asks.
The other man turns slowly toward him. His eyes are hollow and hopeless, his mouth set with grim determination. He does not speak.
"The sunrise is always so lovely after a storm," the Straw Man says awkwardly. He's not used to having to come up with the words on his own.
The other man isn't helping. He's turned his back and is staring down into the swirling depths of the river.
The Straw Man feels his palms beginning to sweat. He doesn't know why the right words aren't coming. Maybe it's because the broken man doesn't want to be helped. If he can just find the right words, though, everything will change.
He doesn't usually think of the past, but now he remembers a 3D poster that once hung on his wall. Some people can't see the hidden picture in them, but he has always been able to. The trick is to focus your eyes on something in the distance, as if you're looking through the picture.
In his mind's eye, he stares through the broken man. He has just enough time to think this is stupid - it isn't working, and then his consciousness dims. From far away, he hears a voice - he thinks it might be his, still babbling at the broken man.
Then he feels something give way and a river of thoughts that are not his rushes over him. Each one slams into him with punishing force and for a moment, he thinks he's going to black out.
Everything I had is gone.
I'm a failure.
They'd all be better off without me.
The words rush from his mouth before he even knows what he's saying.
"...After a storm, you can see so much further, so much more clearly than you could otherwise. Very few people can appreciate that fact. Personally, I think they just don't want to acknowledge it because they don't like change. But change can be beautiful. Don't you agree?"
He knows he's found the right words, but they don't seem to have registered yet. The broken man turns toward him, looking like he's going to punch him in the mouth. He spits out an indignant, "Listen, fella--" and
Click.
It's as if a switch has been flipped. The broken man falls silent and turns to look at the river again. "You might be right," he murmurs, "You just might be right."
Knowing his work is done, the Straw Man turns to go home. He normally walks another mile or two after the bridge, but he's suddenly feeling very tired. No longer concerned with the river, the sunrise, or the world around him, all he wants now is his comfy chair and maybe a nice cup of hot tea.
The other man asks him if any diners nearby are open this early. He directs him to Frank's place in town and starts walking toward home. Though tired, he hits his stride quickly and feels better the more distance he puts between himself and the once-broken man.
All of a sudden, he is once again awash in the stream of the man's thoughts. This time, it comes in images, clear and unbroken.
Steaming eggs and bacon on a clean white plate.
A man in a mechanic's coverall shaking his hand.
The open arms of a smiling red-haired girl.
And then, there is a single, reverberating word:
FUTURE.
For a moment, it is more than he can take. He reels as if he's been slapped, and his knees feel as though they are going to give way. The riotous hues of the dawn recede to gray.
Taking a deep breath of the fresh morning air, he exhales slowly. The color seeps back into the world. His limbs are heavy, as if he's narrowly escaped drowning in the river below. He leans against a tree and lets the cool breeze ruffle his hair. By the time his strength begins to return, the sun has climbed in the sky and it's almost fully light.
He doesn't usually think of the future, but now he remembers the geode that sits on his desk at home. A geode is just another rock until water hollows it out, leaving a space where glittering crystals can grow.
After considering this for a moment, he shrugs and begins walking home again. Watered by the storm, the world around him is green and blooming. The music rises within him once more and he marches to its beat.
ellakite wrote a companion piece here.