Microstory 789: Walking Stick

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So I was thinking about how often I gravitate towards nonfiction when I’m trying to write fiction. Sometimes a topic speaks to my personal life, and I feel I need to be real in that moment, rather than leaving myself out of it, which is what fiction writers are meant to do. If you’re writing something, you need to choose one side or the other; made up, or real life. It shouldn’t be both. Only so many people can get away with writing themselves into a story, and I’m not sure I’m one of them. My Creative License doesn’t say I’m not allowed to, but it doesn’t say I am either, and I don’t keep good enough records to know whether I’ve paid enough of my dues. On the other hand, this is my website, and my book, and I can damn well do whatever I want. I don’t answer to a publisher, or an agent—though I wish I did, so if you know anyone, hook me up. When I was working on the plan for this series, I decided I wanted them all to take place in my recursiverse canon. But certain titles seemed to suggest this was not practical. Before I got too deep in it, though, I realized they could still all be canonical, but that any story could take place in any universe. I made a spreadsheet of each universe that I own, so I can keep track of it, which has made me realize that my universe is on that list. Now, I know that sounds like I think I own the real universe, but here’s the thing...I do. So when I was thinking about what story I could tell that involves a walking stick, I realized I know no better story than mine.

I come from a family of walkers. Not all of us have always done it, more specifically, so passionately, but we all do it now. During the summer before high school, I went to New Mexico with a small group of boys and their fathers in my Boy Scout troop. There’s a huge camp there for backpacking. I believe we went about fifty miles, but you would have to ask my father for confirmation. One time, we were sitting with our guide, who would only be with us for part of the trip. He asked us to go around the circle and tell the group why we wanted to do this. When they got to me, I started tearing up, and said that I just wanted to prove that I could. A few days later, I was having trouble keeping up, and my then-undiagnosed autism was making it hard for me to vocalize my feelings. I ended up flying into a rage, and throwing the walking stick my father had given me to the ground, where it broke apart. I eventually had to acknowledge that this meant I had failed in my goal. I was unable to prove that I “could do it”. Because though my fight with my father didn’t last forever, and I made it to the end, I had done it with an albatross of my own shortcomings. I’ve continued to carry around these character flaws my whole life, when I would really be better off replacing them with a walking stick. A few years later, just under the wire, I achieved the rank of Eagle, which many believe to be the greatest achievement a man can make. I do not believe that, for reasons including the fact that their sociopolitical positions stunted the exploration of my sexuality, and prevented me from finding out who I was. But still, scouting was something my father and I did together, and I do not regret it. To commemorate this milestone, he made me a brand new walking stick. A decorative one. A beautiful one. One that must not be used. One that you can see in the picture above. Though not likely his intention, his gift to me is a symbol, that no matter how many things I break, how many mistakes I make, we can always make another stick. It also symbolizes to me the most important lesson I’ve ever learned; that I can’t do this alone...that I will always need a little helping standing up...and that I deserve it.

Microstory 764: Hockey Stick

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Few people could be considered as fierce an athletic competitor as Veraise Akima. Though born in Captain Mason, Usonia, her family decided to take up a nomadic lifestyle, and start moving all over the world. They never spent more than six months in any one place, and often did not even bother renting a permanent house. They wanted to experience everything that the universe had to offer, so trotting the globe was as close as they were going to get. As a result of moving around so much, Akima found herself in a number of completely different environments, but her one constant was hockey. From the street to the field, ice rink to roller rink, and even underwater, Akima did it all. Seeing her love of the sport, her parents moved to a small island in the Japanese archipelago where it was rumored an old woman was experimenting with graphene tools. She agreed to design a custom stick for Veraise that would be the strongest of its kind in the whole world. Once she had it, she never used anything else. No matter which type she was playing, or where she was playing it, she used the same stick, swapping out only the blades, when necessary. Even after growing old enough to move out on her own, Veraise stuck by her family, having long fallen in love with the idea of not being tied down to any one place for too long. In her mid-twenties, they found themselves living in inland Somalia. There they discovered the Great Salt Flats of Somalia, which she eventually decided was her favorite place ever, especially since it gave her an idea that would change the course of history. She founded a new type of hockey, one that could be played on salt flats. But not all salt flats are created equal. Some are completely dry, and playing on those would prove to be but marginally different than playing in a semi-arid desert. No. Though similar flats existed, no flat was quite like the Great Flats of Somalia. It lies just on top of brine water, which seeps to the surface, resulting in a thin layer of water. It is highly reflective, giving distant observers the impression that they are watching someone walk on water. It was on the edge of the flats that Akima tried out her new sport, gathering her neighbors to play with her, and work out some of the nuances. For the most part, it’s played like other versions of hockey, but requires special equipment to allow for speed in the shallow water. From this day on, Veraise Akima never played any other type of hockey, nor any other sport, for that matter, nor did she live anywhere outside of Somalia. She gathered crowds of spectators from all over the world, which snowballed its popularity, and encouraged the creation of a league. She served as its first commissioner, establishing most of the organization’s rules that remain today. She was buried somewhere in secret somewhere under the Somalian flats with her stick, while her various blades can be viewed by the public in the International Salt Hockey Association museum.

Microstory 9: Sticks and Stones

Young Samuel Doolin sat in his class, hardly paying attention to what the teacher was saying. He was brighter than the other students, and should have been placed at least two grades higher. But he didn't care enough about school to let anyone know that. One phrase the teacher said, however, caught his ear. "Sticks and stones will break my bones but words will never hurt me."

Samuel cleared his throat, prepared himself, and raised his hand. Once called on, he said, "you're a stupid f***ing c***."

In the principal's office, Samuel was calm and collected. The principal, of course, asked him where he learned those words, and why he felt that it was necessary to say them. "Well, I speak English, don't I?" Samuel asked. "And they were necessary to illustrate a point."

"Which is?" the principal asked, curious.

Samuel began the apology. "There are three things wrong with the sticks and stones rhyme. First, it's just a lie. Words are powerful. And they can hurt deeply. Walk into a room of black people and say the "n" word, and just wait for the reaction. Secondly, the rhyme gives bullies free rein to say whatever they want, without repercussions. Obviously, that can't be true either as I am sitting right here. Thirdly, the rhyme places the responsibility on the victim to change their behavior. The bully was just saying whatever they wanted, as they are free to do. Should the victim is simply grit their teeth and ask for more?

Samuel continued, "you may either punish me for my actions, and reform your policies, or you can let me go and stick to your outdated and ridiculous values. But I will not stand for hypocrisy. Either I can say what I want because words can't possibly hurt others, or I can't, and the rhyme should be abolished from the curriculum."

The principal sat for a long while after the speech. "Okay. That makes sense. I won't punish you, because you brought up some good points. But we will change."

"No," Samuel insisted."You absolutely must punish me. That's part of the reformation. I did this in order to elicit change, not to get a rise out of you and my teacher. If I expect you to not be hypocritical, I cannot rightly be so myself." He was given detention for a week. And things began to change. Slowly.