Hello.
This is Javer. I'm not going to say much of anything, because I don't really feel like it. But I can honestly say I'm ashamed of myself for making you people wait for this next chapter. The length of time I had for this and how little of it I used productively is pretty much inexcusable. I'm sorry. Thirteen of this fiction's readers took their time to review it (not counting my friend Michie-chan, whom I actually know and have thanked in person), and I feel like I let them down. So, I'll try not to be this incredibly lazy in the future—but please understand, I had a lot of other stuff to write. Bit off more than I could chew, you know? So, yeah. I'll start the next chapter ASAP. No more slacking. Oh, and by the way, you guys are awesome.
Near Derry's unofficial border, within walking distance of Williams Elementary, in an autumn-painted place that was more a shack than a house, in a small but cozy room, on the night of January 19, 1959, Michael Hanlon found himself unable to sleep.
This was not new. It was the seventh time that week, eight if you counted the nap he had tried to take in math class three days ago, and Mike counted it. Sleep was beginning to seem a distant luxury—Mike had already begun to form a mindset similar to the reasoning of an alcoholic on Saturday night. If I go to sleep now, I'll still get six hours of sleep, just one more shot. I can still get five hours' sleep. Plenty. I can still get . . .
Except in place of "shot", the boy's stubborn thirteen-year-old brain had persuasively slipped in "thought". Too much thinking can wear on the nerves, like too much wearing can wear on a coat. Little holes start to appear everywhere. Holes in the pockets, holes in the lining, holes in the memory, holes in the instinct.
In addition to the sudden, inexplicable memory lapses in relation to anything from last year, Michael had been quite a bit more apprehensive as of late. Caution had stolen, quietly and unobtrusively, into his character. But he was determined not to show it, and for the most part had some success—barring his left arm. It kept twitching at sharp noises. All of him twitched at sharp noises, of course; but some spot nestled between the forearm and bicep, some magic pressure point (eight years later, Michael would relate it to some obscure knock-out technique from Star Trek) that would continue to jump around like a frightened rabbit. It almost always lasted for whole minutes afterwards, and got to the point where the arm became as much of an annoyance to him as his friend Bill's stuttering was to he who was so afflicted.
He stuffed a fist into his pillow, then collapsed face-down in it. The sound of his breath was heavy and muffled to him, and it occurred to him that maybe he ought to suffocate himself in it. He could certainly get some sleep then.
Mike flipped over, laying on his back on the ratty but comfortable mattress. He bent his arms (no twitching tonight, though there was a rock bruise that hurt) behind his neck (very dirty, but his dark skin helped conceal it) and intertwined his fingers. Perhaps he would just suddenly faint dead away, and wouldn't get up for days. That would have been ni-
Thump.
All thoughts of sleep vanished. Mike shot up faster than he would have believed.
Then common sense kicked into gear again, bringing relaxing reason. It was probably nothing more than his father getting up to use the bathroom.
His arm had begun twitching again. Michael stifled a grunt of frustration and grabbed his forearm, attempting to steady it. No dice. The bone felt like it was about to shake right out of the skin. Jitter 'n jive, baby. Dance till dawn.
Miserably, Mike laid back down and waited for the seizure, or whatever it was, to settle. I could join the freak show if this keeps up, the irrational teenage part of him said. Great. They'd call me the Boy with the Jitterbug Arm. Step right up. Pay a
(nickel to see him see the wonderful boy with the wonderful arm lookit him lookit Jim, hee hee ho ho lookit the black boy, how nice, and oh isn't his skin lovely? All dark like dirt, because that's what he is dirt oh yes, just wormy dirt, so lookit the funny quaking filthy circus spade, lookit the clown Georgie-)
Wait. What?
Michael hesitated, then frantically searched his mind. He had remembered something from last year, and he knew it must be something important. What was that? Something about a circus . . . what was in a circus?
Weird stuff, he knew . . . animals . . . that wasn't it. Although he filed that one away in his mental Urgent pile, because there was something about some animal that struck him. Not a circus animal, but . . . he'd mull it over later.
Tightrope, high-wire acts, pretty girls with their fancy clothes clinging to their narrow waists—okay, now he was getting off track. Strongmen lifting dumbbells with weights that looked like they'd yank whoever lifted them straight down to Hell, jugglers juggling rubber balls of red and yellow
(and green and blue, want one? They're free, and they're all yours)
There! That was something else, and he managed to grab and hold it in his head with the application of some imaginary Super-Glue. Rubber ball. Rubber ball. Rubber ball.
Not a rubber ball, though. Something kind of round. Filled with-
Blood flowed through veins working overtime out of Mike's face, leaving him pale.
"Oh, my God," he whispered.
There was a yellow balloon tied to his bedpost.
It waved at him, and an unexpected breeze washed through the closed window. The wind caressed his face with cold as bitter and dry and full of calm malice as the hand of a dead man. It seemed to hover, and for a second Mike would have sworn he could almost see it. White. Red.
And silver. And orange and blue.
All these colors, the sheet of wind drifted whimsically downwards to press up against his neck. Mike remained frozen in terror, his eyes large white frightened headlights that stood out in the dark.
The breeze whipped ferociously towards the balloon, becoming a tiny storm almost, and the balloon's blank yellow sunshiny face spun around. Half a turn. Three-quarters. And without having the slightest clue why, Mike instantly knew he had never been more sure of anything that he was of this:
If that balloon faced him and it was bleeding, he would go hopelessly insane.
Turning. More. More.
It faced him. Just as he had expected, the beautiful squeaky new balloon was welling up dark clots of red, thick and viscous, and Mike began to scream, over and over and oveeeer again, and then he was crazy ha-ha, insane, nothing made sense-
(and yet everything made sense hee-hee ho-ho lookit George, lookit the clown and see him smile at you, it means he wants to be your friend but he hates you, yes he hates you so, you ruined him you hurt him so bad and NOW HE'S GOING TO HURT YOU--!!!!)
At 10:37 A.M. the next day, Michael Hanlon woke up. His neck was cold, and there were ten deep, black and blue finger marks on it. Later, without noticing, he peeled off his left arm a drop of dry white greasepaint.
* * *
So, did you like it? I hope so : ) I wonder who should be next . . . I was thinking either Richie or Stan. But then again, I'm trying for a series of chapters outlining the thoughts of the members of the Losers' Club from least important to most. I like the character Michael Hanlon—nothing against him—it's just that he didn't play a very big role in the story. Sure, there was that bird thing . . . and his father at the destruction of the factory. But other than that, not much. If you have any preferences, feel free.
Last thing, I promise. I had to put some consideration in the matter before I decided on using the word "spade" to mean a person of African-American ethnicity. I'm really touchy on that subject. Truth be told, I'm most comfortable using the term "African-American" even though that is a bit of a mouthful : ) My only reason was that since several readers have commented that my writing is similar to Stephen King's, I wanted to be as realistic as possible in an attempt to make people feel as though they were actually reading an official continuation of the book. It was not intended offensively in any way.