Vocal Fiction

Why does she pretend to like him? For the prestige bestowed by dating the captain of the football team? She’s beautiful and popular in her own right. More importantly, she’s smart and kind and funny.”

“Oliver”

Abagail could do so much better than him. How does she not see that? She doesn’t even like him. You can see it in her face when he puts his arm around her.

“Oliver Ackerman, are paying attention?”

“Oh, sorry Ms. Wagner.”

“If you want to the be a great writer someday, you’ll have to learn to pay attention to details, and right now it would suit you well to take these in.” She taps her telescopic pointer on the chalkboard. “You have what it takes to win if you just put your mind to it. You want to be like your idol Gene Travers, right? Maybe meet him someday? Well, this competition is a big step forward to achieving your goals”

She’s one to talk. She loves writing and is prolific at it yet here she is, teaching tenth grade English. Oliver quickly scribbles down the writing requirements for the county-sponsored writing contest as the class bell rings.

Ms. Wagner speaks loudly over the ringing, “remember class, the winners of this competition will be published in a book and receive a cash prize, so put forth your best effort. And no cheating! This has to be your original work.”

As Oliver leaves the classroom, he sees Abagail and Josh kiss goodbye as they part for different classes. You can see the relief on her face as she sees me. “Hi, Oliver!” She flashes me that same beautiful smile she’s had since we were five. We start walking to our lockers nearby.

“Hi, Abs. I liked your story idea for the competition.”

“Thanks. Satirical fiction sounds fun, and you know how much I like to talk politics. What are you writing about?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Oliver nervously pushes his glasses up his nose and begins fidgeting with his locker dial. “I was thinking about writing a love story about between a nerdy boy and a beautiful girl.”

Abagail smiles coyly. “And who might that be based on?”

A voice from behind me blurts out, “we all know the answer to that!” Abagail looks over my shoulder and sees her friends, Sophia and Zoey. Her smile dissipates quickly as she knows what’s coming.

Sophia continues, “he wants to write about his love for you, silly. Everyone can see how he fawns over you. And a fictional story is the only way he can live out that fantasy.”

“It’s not about us. It’s just a story.” Oliver meekly tries to defend himself, but no one buys the lie.

Zoey grabs Abagail by the arm and starts walking away and says, “why do you still hang out with that geek?”

Abagail looks over her shoulder at Oliver and silently mouths the words, “I’m sorry.”

Feeling dejected, Oliver skips his last period of the day. Tears well up in his eyes as he exits the building, pushing his way past the guard.

Oliver mutters to himself, “how can she do that to me? To herself? Pretending to be someone she’s not? She’s not the person she wants everyone to see. I’m the only one she’s real around.”

“Who are you talking to, young man?” an elderly homeless man sitting on the sidewalk asks Oliver.

“Umm…no one.”

“Well, No One, do you happen to have some spare change? I’m mighty hungry and haven’t eaten for days.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t. Have you tried asking the church down the street for some help?” Oliver points to the church.

“They’re closed to outsiders right now.”

“Closed?” Oliver spots someone carrying boxes into the church. “But I can see someone there now. Let me go see if they have any blankets or food for you.”

Oliver enters the church and immediately spots the mayor directing people arranging tables and the pastor decorating the walls with Christmas lights. “Hello sirs, do you have any food or blankets for the homeless man down the street?”

The pastor steps forward and says, “I’m sorry, my boy, but we don’t have anything for him at this time.”

A man approaching from behind Oliver says to the pastor, “where do you want the rest of the meat?”

“In the kitchen fridge, please, beneath the produce,” the pastor replies.

Oliver eyes him with disbelief. The pastor, looking visibly uncomfortable in the situation, explains, “we’re hosting the awards banquet for the writing competition.”

“You can’t even spare even one small meal?”

“No, I’m sorry. Please have the man return after the banquet and I’ll see what I can do. Thank you for stopping by.” The pastor ushers Oliver back through church doors and shuts them behind him.

Oliver apologizes to the old man for not being able to help.

“It’s okay. Even by trying, and even by talking to me, you’ve done more than most.”

Oliver walks home, pondering his rough day.

Mom came home late again. “Hi, sweetie. Sorry I’m late. I had to work a double because some of the other nurses were out sick. How was school?”

“Fine,” Oliver lies. He doesn’t want to concern her with his problems. He believes she has enough on her plate working long hours and raising him alone. “How was work?”

“It was alright. Had a poor drag queen come into the ER today.”

“Really!? Who was it?” Oliver’s interest is piqued because small town America doesn’t see many drag queens.

“You know I can’t divulge that info. She was badly beaten with torn clothes, a bloody nose, a gash in her head, two black eyes, and streaky makeup ruined by tears.”

“That’s so sad,” Oliver said.

“Yes, but we got her face bandaged up and sent her home. Anyway, have you decided what you’re going to write about for the competition?”

“I was planning on…” Oliver paused. “No, I haven’t decided yet.”

“If you win, what will you spend the prize money on?”

“I don’t care about the money. I’ll just give it to you to help with the bills. I just want to make my voice heard. That’s what really matters to me.”

After supper, Oliver starts writing at the desk in his room. Late into the night he dreams up amazing story ideas, intriguing characters, and beautiful settings only to scratch them all off one by one. Nothing feels right. It feels so forced. He glances through his many past stories and hand drawn graphic novels about alien invasions, medieval conflicts, and dystopian worlds. None of it feels right. His heart feels too heavy for such topics, and nothing compares to the works of the greats like Gene Travers’ Galactic Conquest trilogy or Distorted Time novel.

“For being ‘so full of potential,’ as everyone says, I sure feel like a failure,” Oliver mutters to himself, staring at the ceiling. He concedes for the night and vows to write something tomorrow.

School the next day is awkward with Abagail. Oliver avoids talking to her initially, feeling ashamed for even proposing his idea to her yesterday. After English, she asks that he not write the love story he was planning.

“It would be too obvious who it was really about and that would strain my relationship with Josh. Plus, he’s already going through a lot right now. Yesterday he got into fight with a rival school’s football team.”

“Is he alright?”

“Yea, he says he won the fight but he’s a little banged up, so he stayed home today.”

“Well, that’s good, I guess. And don’t worry, Abs, I’ll write about something else.”

Before leaving school, Oliver buys an apple and sandwich from the school vending machine for the homeless man. However, when arriving at the location he last saw the man, he found him curled up in cardboard box, cold and lifeless. His body was stiffened by rigor mortis but his frailty was nonetheless apparent. Clutched in his hand was a simple note, “Thank you for your kind heart, No One. God Bless.”

Oliver runs to the church and tells them what happened. The pastor calls the police to report the incident. He tries to console Oliver but it’s of little use. Oliver is both remorseful for not doing more to help the starving man and angry at the church for doing even less. Oliver walks to the restroom to dry his eyes and freshen up before walking home.

Upon entering the restroom, he sees Josh replacing a bandage on his head. Josh quickly puts away a bottle of coverup. He hadn’t completely evened out the cream under his darkened eye sockets.

“What are you looking at, dweeb?” Josh says, never taking his eyes off the mirror.

Oliver stares at him for a moment. “Did you go to the ER last night, Josh?”

Josh stops fiddling with the bandage and turns to Oliver. “No. What’s it to you?”

“I heard about a drag queen that was attacked. If you need to talk to someone, I’m here for…”

Josh charges at Oliver and slams him against the wall before Oliver can finish his sentence. “You don’t know anything so keep your mouth shut!”

The pastor’s voice can be heard through the door. “Everything alright in there?”

Josh replies, “Everything’s fine, Dad. I’ll be out in a second.” He then looks Oliver dead in the eyes and whispers, “You tell anyone what you think you know and you’re dead.”

Oliver meekly nods and leaves the bathroom. He rushes home to his empty house. He listens to the usual voicemail on the answering machine from Mom saying she’s working late again.

Shaken by the day’s events and feeling demoralized and dejected, Oliver finally discovers his story.

Vocal Fiction

Everyone puts on a mask, pretending to be something they’re not…pretending to care…but it’s all fiction. Fiction that they portray for the world to see…to buy into their lies that they struggle to convince to even themselves. Everyone is so vocal in telling their fiction but are quiet on injustices, poverty, hunger, and bullying. A schoolgirl’s fiction that she needs to popular to be loved…a teacher’s fiction that she’s not good enough to pursue her dream job…a pastor’s fiction that accommodating the wealthy trumps generosity for the desperate…a football player’s fiction that he can’t or shouldn’t live his true life. These fictions are heartrending, but none so disappointing as my own. Too craven am I to express my love for the schoolgirl. Too self-centered am I to encourage the teacher to pursue her dreams. Too slow am I to help the weak prevent starvation. Too timid am I to help the jock learn to love himself. My fiction, that I am a good person, a good student, a good friend, and a good son…can no longer be my story.

I can no longer espouse my vocal fiction. I am sorry for what I’m about to do and even more sorry for the things left unsaid. I hope my mother, friends, and the community can find solace in my words, and most importantly, live lives true to who they are.

--No One

At Oliver’s funeral, his mother hands Abagail his story. Abagail reads it tearfully and asks his mother, “why are you showing me this?”

Oliver’s mother replies, “I want you to finish his story. I’ll never know how his life would have turned out. I want to hear how his life plays out had I had spent more time with him…paid more attention to him…discovered how he really felt. I want to know what kind of man he would have become. Can you do that for me?”

Abagail’s tears fall onto Oliver’s story as his body is lowered into the ground. “I’d be honored to, Mrs. Ackerman.”

With Oliver’s mother’s permission Abagail creates a blog to write the story for the contest. She sends out links to the blog to everyone in the school and local community that she could find, asking them to help write Oliver’s story. Touched by the words of his suicide note, the community did just that. But, it wasn’t a ‘fictional’ story. Rather, they told who Oliver really was. The story details how he motivated the schoolgirl to reevaluate her relationships, how he inspired the teacher to start on a romantic novella that she’d been considering writing for years, how he swayed the pastor cut back on extravagancies and donate money to build a homeless shelter, and how he influenced the jock to come out to his family and friends.

The pieces fell into place one by one, leading to a tale of success in which Abagail and Oliver go to college together, Lady Regina the drag queen becomes his best friend, Ms. Wagner becomes his writing mentor, and the homeless shelter is named in his honor. The story goes on to explain the man Oliver becomes, the children he raises, and the successful writing career he leads.

All who participated in writing his story anxiously attend the ceremonial award show where the competition winners are to be announced. There’s triple the number of people that can be reasonably seated but few eat the food, some in solidarity with Oliver and the homeless man, and others due to nervousness as they await the results.

“Can I have your attention, please?” The mayor begins to speak through the microphone to get everyone’s attention. “After much deliberation, it is with a heavy heart that we must disqualify the entry made in Oliver Ackerman’s name.” The room let out and audible sigh. “While we sympathize with Oliver, his family, and the lives he has touched, we cannot bend the rule that each story must be written by one student and one student only.”

After the awards ceremony, the mayor approached Oliver’s mother and apologized again. “If there was any way I could award you the prize money, I would.”

Mrs. Ackerman said, “it was never about the money for Oliver. Couldn’t you see that? All he wanted was to make his voice heard and to encourage others to be true to themselves.”

The mayor pondered for a moment. “I think he succeeded then, but I think we can do more to ensure the world never forgets.”

Ten years have passed and the Oliver Ackerman Shelter for the Needy has been serving the community for most of them. However, it’s the Ackerman Writing Lab that attracts visitors from afar. Oliver’s mother runs the lab with the help of Ms. Wagner to keep his legacy alive.

A stranger asks the waitress of the Writing Lab’s Cafe, “what’s the deal with the water tower?”

The waitress peers out the window and reads aloud, “Be vocal in your life, but live it true.” She looks back at the man sitting in the booth. “Words to live by, don’t you think?”

“Yes ma’am. I’m a writer and would like to create a story with that concept in mind. Could you tell me who wrote it?”

“In a sense, it was written by No One. In a sense, it was written by everyone. But all credit should go to the late Oliver Ackerman.

“How can I learn more about him?”

“Let me introduce you to some of his work.” She pulls out a small stack of books and graphic novels from one of the bookshelves. “They’re really great stories. You should read them to get a sense for his writing style.”

“Thank you Miss…” he pauses to glance at her name tag, “Miss Abagail.”

“You’re very welcome Mister…”

“Gene Travers at your service. Pleased to meet you. You seem to know a bit about Mr. Ackerman, would you be so kind as help me write his story?”

“You’ll need more help than just mine. He touched a lot of lives in this community at the expense of his own. You should hear their stories because they’re part of Oliver’s story too. I’ll help you and call up some friends…on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You tell his true story.”