Mark Falkin - The Late Bloomer

Please, God, dont let her die.

So, prologue.

Mr. E, youd like that Im trying to do this. Instead of videoing everything and narrating over it. I couldnt have done that anyway. There was no time to be a reflective documentarian. Now that Ive got some time, maybe I can process all this and tell you what happened.

In fact, doing it this way is how I process it.

I know youd prefer this to, well you were such a supporter of my writing, a mentor. And so telling this with the intention of writing it down instead of filming it I know you hated the world of screens wed come to live in. I tend to agree with you now, though at first I thought you were being a crabby old teacher who didnt get it and stubbornly didnt want to. Referred to yourself as a Luddite. I had to look it up.

But its me who gets it now. I was getting it then, the way you saw things, which wasnt negative at all. I got that you were trying to show me that through storytelling I could show readers that the world is a beautiful place, that life is a beautiful thing, even when were scared and we dont understand what life is and who we are and why we live and what happens after we die. Dont let anybody tell you they know, because they dont, youd said. When I repeated this at the dinner table to my stepdad, Martin, he said, Sounds like your typical liberal school teacher who cant hack it in the real world so he teaches, warping minds with his embitterment. Pretty poetic for an asshole like Martin, I have to say. I remember offering him a brittle smile when he said that, nodding my head, and muttering to myself, Embitterment, hmmm.

And what you said about stories. I really get that now, too. Youd said they werent just about filling time, entertainment. Not that thats wrong, a story can be both meaningful and entertaining, youd said, should be both for it to resonate. You told me that stories connect us, make us understand ourselves and each other a little better. That stories make the world a better place because they are empathy engines.

I like that. Empathy engine. Vroom vroom.

Its a noble cause, storytelling, youd said. Noble work.

So, here I go with being noble.

This is for you Mr. English, probably for you more than anyone, except that its really for you, dear reader.

Okay, so, even more prologue. Of the housekeeping ilk.

Im using a little handheld digital micro voice recorderit came in said Capture Your Stories with that circled R trademark thing next to it. So, thats what Im doing: capturing my story. Ill shape it later, if I make it.

I hate that I even have to say that. If I make it. God. I want to unplug that part of my self. Got to keep my spirits up. I know that part of me is the least Kevin. I dont know. Hes the one just trying to survive. To tell it the way things are. The reason why things are what they are. Heh.

Id sit and write it properly, this book, a narrative non-fiction theyll call it, because even though its got a novelish, fictiony feel to it, its all true. Or maybe its a memoir. A memwah. Thats what it is.

Whatever. Point is, I cant just sit and write it all down because if I dont keep moving well, I dont know what theyd do. But shes waiting for me, so I cant stop. And doing this keeps me company. This and Maggie here. Isnt that right, girl?

I mean, I always wanted to be a writer. Heres my chance. Maybe my only and last, but.

In case I dont get too far along doing this, I have to say that although Ive got my reasons for going down there, I cant say I feel like Im truly going to save them. But maybe I can help them. Its all a big fat maybe, as it has been from day one. They seem to think differently. Kodie says they do, at least. But I dont know. Were just too different now. Theres something, what? pernicious about them. Sure, because of what they did, but mostly its in the way they move, the way they flock

If I repeat myself or if this sounds clunky sometimes, just know that this is raw raw raw. Im going to really write this someday. I need to capture my story now because I dont know about tomorrow. Tomorrow is so far-seeming. After all thats happened, it would be foolish to say youre going to know what happens next.

But I think this book will be important because I think I may be the only one left. It certainly feels that way. Unless she really is there waiting for me like she says she is.

Oh, duhgot off track there. Let me get this out of the way. Okay, Im Kevin Gabriel March and I live in Austin, Texas. Im not sure what day it is, the day I start this recording, November something, but all this started the morning of October 29, 2018. Im a, I was, a high school junior and Im seventeen years old. Birthdays December 24. Always hated that timing. We get the gift-shaft, we who are born so close to Christmas. You just dont get celebrated. You get overlooked.

Dreams and visions swirl. Theyre heavy and seem important. Not just my brain firing, my mind reacting to conscious life. So many feelings, sights and sounds, but this ones been a repeatera beach; a big sound of something rubbing up against an object in the water, a wooden pier, maybe; nightfall and fires in a row, dancing silhouettes; in midmorning light, a blurry presence perched on the seas horizon.

They can do the jobs of armies. Odd thing is, they dont seem to act at the behest of a leader. They move as quicksilver, like one organism, a massive flock of birds abruptly lifting into the air, undulating, twisting, graying the sky; or like a school of fish winding and turning all shiny in shafts of light knifing down through the water. A content and contiguous group, a single entity moving and working and living en masse, seeming to move toward a moment. Moving inexorably toward it.

As am I.

Right now, I dont watch them. Now I move. Its just dawn, best time to move.

Yesterday morning, from atop of the W Hotel, I saw them through my $1,000 binoculars. Per usual, they were out in the open, a beige wintering Texas field beyond the floodplain south of the city. I wonder now if they are the ones following me. No, I dont think they do it that way. They dont need to follow me. I think they relay the message ever-forward: here he comes.

It was predawn, just when the rim of sky in Austin went that violet crown attributed by O. Henry, (Does this matter, Mr. English, the color at dawn? Sometimes I just want to describe the beauty and the horror because thats what life is. Guess thats why you said Id make a better poet than a novelist. I remember asking, Can I tell them what happens next but with lyrical writing? You smiled so big and your eyes shined.) I saw their bellies, all of them together in total synchronization, of course, swelling and deflating rapidly though theyre asleep. Maybe theyre having bad dreams in that deep REM sleep?

But what would they dream about?