Akting Out

“Milady, milady, oomph…”
Alyssa half-stumbled, half-barreled through the regal wooden doors of Lady Leeia’s private chambers. Anyone else may have caught the business end of the throwing dagger Lady Leeia kept under her pillow, but the longtime Valkryie Commander had grown accustomed to Alyssa’s haphazard entrances. As such, she merely rolled over and groaned, reluctantly shaking off the last of a deep sleep.
“…Alyssa. Good morning…ooph.” Whatever remained of a pleasant night was ripped away by the young girl’s pouncing on the pristine silk sheets, burying her knees in Lady Leeia’s stomach. Even as Lady Leeia fought to keep her wind, resisting the urge to throttle the child, little Alyssa was carelessly, enthusiastically tearing the covers away. “Milady, you need to see this! C’mon!”
“Okay, okay, Alyssa…may I breathe?” Lady Leeia swung her legs over off the side of the bed and reached up to the wall at her right. She first took down her customized right arm, the one she could turn into anything she wanted, although retirement provided little opportunity to use it beyond anything mundane. After fastening her arm to her shoulder, she quickly donned her jet-black armor. “Now.” Lady Leeia began, “what is the emergency?”
Alyssa, all of five years old, bound over the bed to stand beside Lady Leeia and without hesitation, clasped her artificial, metallic right hand. “Could you please take us to the third wing observatory, please?”
“Okay.” Lady Leeia nodded, “But we’re going to walk.”
Alyssa blanched. “Um, milady? Your way is so much quicker.”
“I know.” Lady Leeia smiled knowingly and held eye contact with Alyssa, “But it looks like such a beautiful morning. I’d rather walk.”
Alyssa lowered her head, nervously biting the nail on her index finger, and nodded. “…k.”
As they exited her private chambers, Lady Leeia was pleasantly surprised to find that things weren’t as bad as they used to be. Unfortunately, Alyssa had learned to run before she could walk, and had never really mastered either. Other Valkryies had been woken by Alyssa’s tear through the barracks and were once again cleaning up behind her, picking up falling busts and replacing the decorative carpets the child had accidentally taken down. The child moved like a tornado but was twice as destructive. The Valkryies threw polite nods at their leader and quick glares to the child.
When they reached the Third Wing Observatory two flights up, Lady Leeia considered letting the Valkryies have the girl. “Alyssa…how many times have I told you not to bother me with one of your moving pictures?!”
“I know, milady, I know. But just watch, please…?”
It was either that or hurling the child through the open window at the left. Lady Leeia chose the former. She didn’t have much taste for the fictional moving images the people of Earth put together, especially the phony-looking battle sequences of their more popular films.
Ten seconds into the film, she noticed this was indeed different. The only shirtless man in the scene engaged another, shorter man with a wooden bear-claw right hand. The lithe, shirtless man attacked with such ferocity and such flawlessness in his technique that Lady Leeia wondered if this might be the real thing. His scream, high-pitched and feral, shook her to the core.
Alyssa smiled at seeing Lady Leeia’s captivation. “You see? You see?”
Alyssa held out her hands and motioned as if pulling something apart. The images split in two, following her hand. This same man was now fully dressed, calmly walking with another, older man in yellow. They were discussing the philosophies of the martial arts…philosophies Lady Leeia hadn’t heard the likes of which since Michael St. Ambrose had come into his own.
There was definitely something different about this man. “Who is this?”
“He was born Lee Jun Fan,” Alyssa replied quickly, eager to please, “But they call him ‘Bruce Lee’ in Amer..Amery…”
“America.” Lady Leeia finished.
“Yes!” Alyssa exclaimed. “America. Milady, I think we should recruit him.”
“For what?! No man can become a Valkryie!”
“No, but a man can train the Valkryies, milady. Uriel St. Morias did, according the libraries.”
“You must not have read to the end of that chronicle and seen how that turned out.” Lady Leeia mused. “I was there. It’s a bad idea. Besides, the Valkryies don’t need training…”
Alyssa grew somber. This next part would be tricky. “Milady…mom.”
Lady Leeia looked down to Alyssa in shock. She hadn’t referred to her like that for a couple of years now. “The Olymparus Patrol has been missing for months. We haven’t talked to the people who live there in almost a year…”
Lady Leeia exhaled. Alyssa spoke the truth. Although centuries had passed since any overt conflict, things had been tense lately near the border. Seven Valkryies missing was a bad omen. “Mom, I know you don’t like to think about it, but what if Yin is back?”
Lady Leeia said nothing, becoming transfixed on the moving picture.
“… If she has, we’ll have to fight…” Alyssa persisted, pointing back at the moving images. “…and if we have to fight, we’ll need people like him to show us how. Please, mom.”
For a moment, Lady Leeia watched the film. Closing her eyes, she nodded. “I need to see more.” She conceded. “If he’s as good as you say, the world will mourn him.”
“The world’ll recover. We’re doing this for them, right?”
“Okay, Alyssa. Return to your studies. I’ll pick up where you left off and let you know of my decision later.”
This story is dedicated to the enduring memory of Bruce Lee.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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I was listening to Alicia Keys, trying to calm my nerves as I completed my first flight into San Francisco. I thought the flight itself would be terrifying, but it was actually pretty pleasant, if not cramped. I imagine being above the clouds like that is the closest I’ll get to Heaven while I’m still alive. No, what was nerve-wracking was the thought of seeing my parents after so much time apart. When I left California, I was angry and all but on the run. Now, coming home under my own steam to make things right felt like coming full circle.

I’ve often said that in order to really know a place, you need to walk it. Put your feet to the pavement, absorb the sounds of the area and get a feel for its heartbeat. Returning to my old streets was like coming back to the house you had grown up in; an uncomfortable sense of familiarity and loss, in which things both changed and remained the same. Bayfair Mall had been one of my primary hangouts when I was younger. I used to shoplift and dodge cops from its various stores. Now, it was nearly unrecognizable.

Electronics Boutique? Long gone. I think all games stores are Game Stop now, anyway…
Waldenbooks? Gone.
Red Robin? Gone, although to be fair, it was gone just before I left.

The mall, located at the edge of San Leandro, is about half the size it used to be and shaped like a U. Almost nothing was familiar, and I felt out of place. Still, there are certain things that’re just unmistakably California; like how the sun paints the sky a radiant, deep pink that opens into the brightest blue you’ve ever seen, casting a pleasant shadow over the mall and outlet center beyond, accompanied by a breeze just warm enough to be comfortable, just cool enough to be relaxing…and I’m home.

It was here I met my parents for the first time in almost ten years. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel; I’d processed every possible emotional response—and how to deal with it—on the plane.  Would I be angry? Would I hold him against a wall and demand some long-sought answers? Would I be happy to see him? He was still my father, after all. What if I felt nothing? All these questions raced through my mind one last time as I waited for the inevitable.

Blessedly, it was none of those emotions as I saw him—them—pull up in a car I did not recognize. I had honestly wondered if rage would get the better of me in that moment. Truthfully, it was the furthest thing from my mind. I was surprised.

It’s funny how the memories you form as a child stay etched into your mind as an adult. I always remembered my father as this immortal giant who could tear the house in half when he lost his temper. Now, I was nearly twice his size…and he was so much older. The darker part of me—Busterwolf—was hoping for the ultimate showdown. One look at his eyes said it would never happen—and it wasn’t necessary. One thing about my father and I was that we never needed words to know where the other was coming from. My father is also a proud man; apologies come rarely, and today was no exception. But I read it in his eyes. I hoped he saw mine as well.

Ten years is too long. After all that time, it didn’t matter which one of us was right or wrong; both of us were neither. In the end, we were still father and son.

It was good to see all of them. My parents are in great shape for the age. I hope the exercise I do now pays off in later life. My parents don’t eat out all that much anymore, but they made an exception for me and took me to an old seafood restaurant that used to be a family favorite. I got my typical fried shrimp, they picked up the tab, and we took photos. I even took some one-on-one photos with my dad, and out of respect for their privacy, I will not upload those to the internet.

I was only there for two days. I didn’t get the time with my dad alone that both of us wanted—we have a lot to talk about—but I’m confident that I’ll get another chance. It won’t be ten years before we see each other again. Besides, this was day two; day one was reserved for my children.

Seeing the utter shock and disbelief on my kids’ face when I walked into the door of their home was enough. It was more than I deserved. I was then body-tackled by a remarkably strong fourteen year old and an energetic six year old, and we were off from there.

Nothing quite like playing with young kids to make you feel your age. A back-and-forth game of scrimmage at a local park looked like it would be a stalemate until Terry came from nowhere, jumping in front of a kid on the other team to make a miraculous interception (damn, that’s my kid!!) and nearly run it back for a touchdown. I may not have had much to do with my son’s upbringing for the past six years, but I take full credit for his determination.

I got another piece of his determination when we had our first sparring session in years. I had spent the first five years teaching him Tae Kwon Do and kickboxing, the rest he learned in the street and from his cousin. And he has great instincts; I showed him how to clinch once. The first time I put him in one, the wiry little f***er reverses me, clinches me from the side, and drives his knee into my leg like a jackhammer. I nearly submitted. I’m still limping.

I can’t talk about Brandon all that well because, well, I don’t know him that well. He loves everything, but not to a fault. He thinks the world can do no wrong, but has his phobias. He’s fiercely protective of his cousin, as they’re about the same age. He prefers boxing because he “doesn’t like to kick” and has asked that I show him how…which means I need to up my game.

When I was younger, I used to brag that I was alone in the world; I came from nowhere, I had no family, and I was going nowhere. Someone I work with said that your world view changes when you get into your thirties. She was right.

I’ve still got a long way to go, but I’m a lot further than I was. It was good to go home…and I’m glad I have a home to go to.

Thanks for reading.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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I nearly died when I was twenty-nine. Not by accident, not some oh-you-got-so-lucky situation that usually ends up on a talk show, someone had me dead to rights. I was only spared because I was needed alive at the time…at least, that’s what I thought.

But God has funny ways of getting your attention.

Let’s back up a bit.
When I was twenty-nine, I was staying in on the North Side of Saginaw, Michigan. It was about as close to hell as you could get without dying; every other home on the block was either burned out or a former crime scene. Nights were riddled with gunfire and the community park was a haven for hustlers and small children alike. Cops never came up there by themselves, and if they were up there, count on itchy trigger fingers. I couldn’t blame them; in the end, everyone just wants to go home, right?

As usually, I had gotten myself involved with something I had no business being a part of. Put simply, it was a contest only a few people knew about and the winner would take home a fair amount of money. I’m training—as usual, mind you, nothing had changed about my routine—when something funny happened. I couldn’t explain it, but as I’m punching and kicking the heavy bag, my legs feel as though I’m dragging them through sand, my shoulders strain and the muscles stretch with each punch. I can feel the shock of each blow against the back reverberate back through me and it hurts. My legs, formerly my best asset, now felt as though they took whole minutes to bring up. I tried resting and going back at it to no avail; it was as though my strength, speed, and endurance had been suddenly, unexpectedly cut in half. I wasn’t injured. It had been months since my last serious fight. There was no reason for this. It shook me to the core. Up until that moment, I figured I would fight for the rest of my life; my definition of immortal.

A few days later, I got a look at my competition as he swiftly beat a friend of mine into submission. Had I felt like I was in my prime, I wouldn’t have been worried. Shaken, unable to ascertain what the hell was wrong with me…there was no way I was going to take this guy on. Screw the money.

I went to the person who organized the event and told him I wanted out. He asked me if I was certain. I said I was. He appeared to let it go at that.
That night, as I returned to where I was staring, someone pulled into the intersection a block away. They stopped, and I looked up in time to see a dark silhouette step out of the car.
I felt something rip past my head before I saw the light, heard the defeaning explosion. I had never heard a gunshot that close. It was my breaking point. I lay there, on the ground, huddled, terrified, almost in tears, in the middle of the road in the worst ghetto I had ever been in.

The man who organized the event asked me if I was okay as I re-entered the place I was staying. Yes, I was fine. No, I won’t be dropping out of the event. I got the message. Fuckhead.
That night, with my cot traditionally placed under the pay phone by the men’s room (I slept light, and wanted to be woken by any movement), with everyone else sleeping and snoring, I got down on my knees for the first time in nearly three years. I folded my hands, lowered my head, and gave up.
I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know where else to go. I don’t want to die. Please…help me get through this. Help me get out of this situation. I will work. I will go straight. I will do whatever You ask of me. Please, God…just meet me halfway.

My life has not been the same since that night.
Two days later, the event ended positively, almost humorously—and I made a lot of money.
The next week, I was out of the shelter, and in my own apartment. I have not been homeless since.
The following month, I had a full-time job. A friend of mine sold me his old car.

Just like that. One prayer changed everything.

People often tell me that I can get away with things that other can’t, or that I seem to have figured something out that others haven’t. I wouldn’t give myself that much credit. In fact, I wouldn’t give myself any credit. The fact of the matter is, I have a standing arrangement with God; as long as I continue to work and pursue my ambitions, without bringing harm to others unless absolutely necessary, then He will always, without fail, continue to provide aid. This is the very definition of Meet Me Halfway. So many people expect God to do all of the work and then turn away when He doesn’t; He doesn’t work that way. In a dark tunnel, God is your map, He is your flashlight, but you still have to walk to the end of the tunnel.

It’s a beautiful arrangement, too. It allows me not to worry about most things because I know they will be resolved. They may not be resolved in the way I want them to be, but the point is, they are. I pray. He answers. I work. He does the rest. It’s allowed me to get this far.

I still get a little emotional going food shopping (no joke) because I’m grateful that I can. So many people take the simple things for granted. That I can sit here, write this blog, drink the tea I bought and listen to the music from the other computer beside me is nothing short of a miracle. Everything I am, was, and will be I attribute to God; I do none of it on my own.  I only advance because He allows me to.

I wanted to take a moment and use the gift He gave me to publicly acknowledge my gratitude for all He has done for me. Thanks for reading.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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For a moment, they leaned, in the majestic cylinder atrium. It was dark, pleasantly lit by the millions of stars that dotted the sky far overhead. The brighter stars shimmered above them as if trying to illuminate the mood of the three young angels within the atrium. Michael, the youngest, turned away from the group and braced his head against his forearm, looking out of the open window into infinite space. A comet passed by, whistling as it descended towards a planet they hadn’t named yet. It was as though the universe was in mourning; as it should be.
“So what do we do now?” Gabriel finally asked. He was usually the first to speak his mind, today was no exception. “We never planned for this.”
“We leave his body in repose, and no one ever steps foot in that room again.” Lucifer, the most headstrong spoke up, the wisest of them, “And we begin to cull the herds.”
“What do you mean, ‘cull the herds’?” Michael replied, frowning and turning to him. Lucifer looked at him as though the answer was obvious. “It’s very simple.” His tone was condescending, “We’re the only ones left to watch over this experiment. We make our presence known to the, um, little darlings, and those that don’t fall into line are expunged.”
Gabriel was already shaking his head. “No, no, Lucifer, that’s not what he wanted. We’re not even supposed to know about the experiment, remember?”
“Doesn’t matter. We do. And we’re the only ones left to run it.”
Michael came off the wall and walked towards Lucifer, in the center of the atrium. “No, Lucifer. We’re not going to run the experiment. We wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
“I would. I understand how he thought.”
Michael chuckled. “Oh, do you? So he saw fit to bring you in on his plans? Allow you to assist with the world creation?”
Lucifer scowled. “He’s dead now. It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does matter,” Gabriel interjected, stepping up to Michael and Lucifer, “just because he’s gone doesn’t mean we can start running things however we like.”
Lucifer turned coldly to Gabriel and stared down at the young angel. “Why not, Gabriel?”
“Because I said so, that’s why.” Michael shot back. He tried to mask the fear in his voice, but as always, Lucifer saw through him.
Lucifer’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, is that right, Michael? Aren’t I the oldest?”
“Yes.” Michael conceded, “But I was never punished for trying to interfere with the experiment. So I say what’s what. Also…I’m stronger than you.”
Lucifer stepped forward confrontationally. “Oh, is that what you think?”
Gabriel stepped between them, his eyes pleading with them not to fight. Now wasn’t the time. “Guys…”
“We will leave his body in repose.” Michael announced finally, holding Lucifer’s glare, “But we’re leaving the experiment alone.”
Gabriel smiled; Lucifer shook his head. “Who are you to presume to know what he wanted?”
“No different than you.” Michael replied, “But we’re not forcing our will on the experiment; that defeats the purpose.”
Michael looked at Gabriel. “We’ll let them go and see what happens.”
Gabriel smiled his appreciation. Lucifer pointed towards the open window. “If you leave them to their fate, they will wipe each other out, do you understand me?”
Michael was surprised; this was as humble as Lucifer ever was. “We’ll make them aware of our existence, when it’s time.” Michael conceded, “We’ll even guide them along the way, when they ask for it. But what we will not do is force ourselves on them. Their free will is the very purpose of this experiment. We will not interfere with that.”
Lucifer’s shoulders sagged. It was as close to a concession as Michael would get. Lucifer had always been the arrogant one.
“All the energy it must’ve taken,” Gabriel mused, “It was just too much for him.”
Michael placed a reassuring hand on Gabriel’s shoulder and massaged gently. “It’ll all work out. The experiment we’ll go forward. We’ll set up a governing body from here, judge only when they’ve completed their time in the other world.”
“Yeah.” Lucifer growled, “We’ll have to chronicle this too, you know.”
Michael nodded as though he had been expecting that. “I know. “ He extended his hand to Gabriel, who reached inside of his robe and produced a leather-bound book. Most of the pages were empty, save for the first six. They detailed intimately how their father had labored for six days creating the experiment; a magnificent universe teeming with millions upon millions of life. The goal was to see how life evolved on its own.
The entry for the seventh day, the final day, was blank. “What do we put?” Gabriel asked, reading over Michael’s shoulder.
Michael glanced at Lucifer, who turned away. “On the seventh day,” Michael finally said, “He rested.”
Michael closed the book and handed it back to Gabriel. “We’ll make it available to the experiment when they’re ready for it. For now, we have work to do.”

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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We drive in silence. We were speeding moments ago, not that anyone but the tumbleweeds would notice. Still, pushing a buck ten on a dirt road in a fifteen year old truck may not be the best way to ensure a safe arrival.

He doesn’t say anything to me. He never does, when things like this happen. I always want to ask why he stuck by me for so long. But I never do. If I did, he might leave.

The horizon is reddening as the sun says its farewell for the day, and we’re heading towards it. Fitting, all things considered. I don’t know where we’re going to go. We have gas to get there, though, and that’s all that matters.

My ribs hurt and are soft to the touch. I can’t see well out of my left eye; tends to shut when someone puts their fist into it repeatedly. I guess that’s something I need to work on. It always hurts to breathe for a little while after the work is finished. It’s almost become routine. Make sure you get the winnings. No, I don’t want to go to the hospital. They ask too many questions.

I cough once into my hand. No blood. He keeps driving, not asking questions. I don’t think he’s even blinking this time. I don’t blame him. Things got back this last time around. I wouldn’t be surprised to wake up tomorrow and find him gone. It’s okay. I’ll leave a little money on his clothes just in case.

We’ve worked together maybe twenty times, and there were loads of times I knew we pushed our luck just a little too far, but this last time was it. Someone got our plate—we saw them writing as we hauled ass out of there, that same someone has probably already called the cops. We needed to hurry up and get away from there. But it’s been almost an hour and no black-and-whites have pulled in behind us.

It was supposed to be simple. Just another fight, right? Just me and the other guy. He was the area’s best street fighter, and I can tell you that it was a title well-earned, after spending fifteen minutes getting to know him. Problem was, he was the area’s best fighter, and I was known across three different states. I can brag; I earned the right.

Nando—my silent, soon-to-be- former gopher and driver—had arranged the match because of the huge payday. We met in this little hole-in-the-wall bar in this little hole-in-the-wall town where the population didn’t exceed five hundred, and everyone was counting on their favorite son to make good.

He had a lot of pride, I’ll give him that.
Sometimes, when people watch you work, the cheering stops and the mood grows eerily somber. The only sounds echoing throughout the room are the ones from one man beating the life out of another. It’s ceased to become a spectacle; they are now watching someone die.

I close my eyes. I don’t want to think about it, but it doesn’t work. All I see is him and red. God, I pray quietly, I didn’t want to do that do him. Why didn’t he just stay down!?

Why is winning so important to you? The answer, as always, is almost immediate and comes from nowhere. I open my eyes. Connection broken.
It’s not my fault, I try to tell myself, he knew the rules. He would not stay down. He kept coming. I did what I had to do, that’s all.
That’s all.
I can’t stop the new memories. First, the fists to his kidneys, hoping the loss of bladder control would convince him to stop. Then, the round kicks to the ribs, over and over, hoping the inability to breathe would convince him to let it go. And finally, the uppercut to the Adam’s apple, the one that had stopped him cold, caused his mouth to explode with blood before he collapsed to the floor and stayed there.

Then, fighting against a town of angry civilians who had just watched their hero destroyed. The frozen look of horror on Nando’s face as he looked up at me as though I was the devil himself.
He’ll recover, I keep telling myself, hoping to believe it. He’s strong. He will.

He wasn’t moving. The nowhere voice again, carrying ultimate authority, reminding me that this, too, I will have to answer for one day.
The sky is red, the sun now a massive third of a circle as it continues to dip below the horizon, sending golden streaks through a sky of scattered clouds.
We may be safe in a larger city tonight, but tomorrow, we will have to leave the state. I tell myself, adding one more place I cannot return to a growing list in my mind.

Tomorrow, the sun will rise, I will recover, alone or otherwise. More work will be lined up. More than money will be gambled with. I’ve never tried to understand why I chose this life, or if it chose me, but it is the one I must live, for now.

And so, we continue driving into the sunset.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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