#derek chivers

My chest feels like it’s caught fire. Grief is burning up all the air in my lungs. I’m not ready to say goodbye. It feels like we’ve lost too many too soon. I don’t know how to just sit here and be without you. I would rather chase after and bring you home. My hands are strong, they can dig all the way down to the afterlife. Shovel dark earth out of the way until my nails are caked with dirt, split and bleeding. Both your names are heavy as coins in my mouth. Worth enough to get me across the river.

Grief is a circle. Even when you are moving forward everything around you reminds you of the person you lost. Memories new and old curve in on themselves until it’s a perfect circle, an inescapable loop. But that’s comforting in its own way, that we can never get too far away from the person we wish was still with us.

Today is Derek’s birthday. The first since we lost him. One year ago I sent him the last message he would ever receive from me. I sent him others while he was in the hospital but he was not awake to read them. The anniversary of his death will follow just behind his birthday.  

It’s impossible not to think of lasts today. The last time he attended writing group. The last time we talked about his novel. The last time he printed out a story of mine so he could write me notes in the margins. The last time I saw him.

Since the new trilogy of Star Wars movies began the premiere of any Star Wars flick has been like a holiday. Derek was always good at bringing people together. He would buy out more than half a theater worth of tickets and a whole swarm of us would go to opening night together. People would get dressed up in costumes. We’d meet up for drinks beforehand and bask in the excitement of new stories, new characters, of being surrounded by friends.

That was the last time I saw him. He drove up from Kenai to bring us all together. Afterwards, even though it was late and he would have to get up in the morning to drive back home, he lingered with Matt and I in the freezing parking lot outside his hotel. Just to talk. Finally, after saying goodbye several times only to end up picking up some thread of conversation again, we actually parted. As I turned towards where we parked I squeeze his shoulder, his hand came up touch my elbow, and then we were headed in opposite directions. The last time he’d be close enough to touch.  

The last book he ever recommended to me was about addiction, death, and grief. Now that feels like an omen, a warning, or a goodbye that I missed. Because in this circle everything comes up again and I feel like I should have known so much more so much sooner.

In this circle, the me that is six years old and watching A New Hope for the hundredth time misses a friend that she will not meet for more than a decade. Here, the me that doesn’t exist yet misses Derek when I go to see Star Wars Episode nine. Today I am sitting here writing and hating that even though he was brilliant he will never get to write another book.

The first time I tried to write about his passing I only wrote one line. “It felt like a whole universe went dark when I learned I lost Derek.” That’s as far as I got. I never knew what to say after that because it just felt too horrible to be true but too real to be denied.

Now it reminds me of a Star Wars story I read years ago. Leia was in some distant part of the galaxy and she pointed out a star that was where Alderaan used to be. The world where she was raised, the home of her family, long destroyed. She talked about how sometimes she traveled so far out into the galaxy that when she looked for Alderaan in the sky she could still see its light.

Grief is a circle. Even when you are moving forward everything around you reminds you of the person you lost. Memories new and old curve in on themselves until it’s a perfect circle, an inescapable loop. But that’s comforting in its own way, that we can never get too far away from the person we wish was still with us.

Today is Derek’s birthday. The first since we lost him. One year ago I sent him the last message he would ever receive from me. I sent him others while he was in the hospital but he was not awake to read them. The anniversary of his death will follow just behind his birthday.  

It’s impossible not to think of lasts today. The last time he attended writing group. The last time we talked about his novel. The last time he printed out a story of mine so he could write me notes in the margins. The last time I saw him.

Since the new trilogy of Star Wars movies began the premiere of any Star Wars flick has been like a holiday. Derek was always good at bringing people together. He would buy out more than half a theater worth of tickets and a whole swarm of us would go to opening night together. People would get dressed up in costumes. We’d meet up for drinks beforehand and bask in the excitement of new stories, new characters, of being surrounded by friends.

That was the last time I saw him. He drove up from Kenai to bring us all together. Afterwards, even though it was late and he would have to get up in the morning to drive back home, he lingered with Matt and I in the freezing parking lot outside his hotel. Just to talk. Finally, after saying goodbye several times only to end up picking up some thread of conversation again, we actually parted. As I turned towards where we parked I squeezed his shoulder, his hand came up to touch my elbow, and then we were headed in opposite directions. The last time he’d be close enough to touch.  

The last book he ever recommended to me was about addiction, death, and grief. Now that feels like an omen, a warning, or a goodbye that I missed. Because in this circle everything comes up again and I feel like I should have known so much more so much sooner.

In this circle, the me that is six years old and watching A New Hope for the hundredth time misses a friend that she will not meet for more than a decade. Here, the me that doesn’t exist yet misses Derek when I go to see Star Wars Episode nine. Today I am sitting here writing and hating that even though he was brilliant he will never get to write another book.

The first time I tried to write about his passing I only wrote one line. “It felt like a whole universe went dark when I learned I lost Derek.” That’s as far as I got. I never knew what to say after that because it just felt too horrible to be true but too real to be denied.

Now it reminds me of a Star Wars story I read years ago. Leia was in some distant part of the galaxy and she pointed out a star that was where Alderaan used to be. The world where she was raised, the home of her family, long destroyed. She talked about how sometimes she traveled so far out into the galaxy that when she looked for Alderaan in the sky she could still see its light.

Come Back Home  

Photo by bmJi

My chest feels like it’s caught fire. Grief is burning up all the air in my lungs. I’m not ready to say goodbye. It feels like we’ve lost too many too soon. I don’t know how to just sit here and be without you. I would rather chase after and bring you home. My hands are strong, they can dig all the way down to the afterlife. Shovel dark earth out of the way until my nails are caked with dirt, split and bleeding. Both your names are heavy as coins in my mouth. Worth enough to get me across the river.

photo by David Tomaloff

Thursday, 6:41 PM

beep

            -ing. Oh my god.

            It works, John! The landlines work!

            Sorry Mom. I didn't believe it until I heard your voice. I'm okay. We're alive. I would've called, but my cell's dead. John's turns on, but there's no signal. I forgot to plug mine in before- It probably still wouldn't work, but if I would have known- How could I have known?

            Sorry. I'm okay. We're okay. John saved me. He- Listen, I know you never got along, but I love him. He's changed. People change, I know they do. Can you? I want to come home.

            What John? I don't- How would I know? Oh.

            Are things okay there? He wants to know. It's just the machine, John. I'll have to ask again when I call back, but they must have power. There's no power here, Mom. Not anywhere we've been. There's wrecks at every intersection, too. That's not all, either. I'm scared. The police are all busy, somewhere, I guess. We haven't seen any. People are getting- Well, I guess they're just scared too.

            I'm lucky I checked the phone. We broke in here to get some food. I know, I'm sorry Mom. We had to eat. If you could see it out here you'd understand. Just don't leave the house, okay? Not unless you have to. We stopped for gas yesterday but we couldn't get any food. We didn't have much cash, and no one's taking cards. Some won't take cash. Most aren't even open. Everyone has guns. John kept us on the back roads ever since-

            Okay. Okay John!

            Mom, John needs to call his parents, and he wants to get out of here in case the owners come home. I love you Mom. I promise I'll call again. As soon as I can.

Beep

Next Message

Monday, 11:19 AM

Beep

            Mom, where are you? I was really hoping you would answer. I couldn't tell you before, John's outside hiding the car. I was leaving him when it happened. I was at the train station, coming home. Then everyone was screaming and it was dark. Pitch black in the middle of the day, sirens and gunshots, you couldn't see the sky through the ash.

            There was a man with a knife, Mom. He-

            But John-

            I left a note. He knew I was at the station. He found me. He had a hammer from the toolbox he keeps in the car, and he beat the man with the knife. He kept hitting him and- And I wanted him to. He saved me, only, he had the look. The way he used to look at me.

            Please tell me people can change, mom.

            We're so close now.

Beep

Next Message

Wednesday, 2:26 PM

Beep

            I'm so scared, Mom. I don't know what to do.

            I hope you're okay. I'm not. John's not. John-

            We stopped to help a lady with a little baby. I told him not to. I just, after what happened, I couldn't. We were almost out of gas, though, and she needed formula. And John wanted to do the right thing. For me. She said she knew about a gas pump near a store.

            I think John knew something was wrong. He dropped me off here. He told me to gather up all the food I could find, and he'd be right back. He said he'd come back to get me.

            That was yesterday. I don't know what to do. I can't stay here. I...

            I think I hear something. I'll call you right back. I love you.

Beep

End of Messages

"Gearing Up To Get An Agent" (#GUTGAA) Meet & Greet

Atop Lazy Mountain, the Talkeetna Range in the background

In lieu of our scheduled short fiction...

My name is Derek (@derek_chivers). I live in Alaska and I write fiction. Well, not exclusively. That first sentence, for instance, was non-fiction, and I also write bits of memoir from time to time. One of these short stories of my misspent youth, "Gunshots on Dogfish" won a statewide writing contest last year and was published in F Magazine.

But fiction, that fickle mistress, is my first love. For the better part of a year now I've been trying to take our relationship to the next level, and I'm being a bit old fashioned about it. That's right, I'm trying to convince a literary agent to represent my novel so it can be published traditionally: bricks and mortar, paper and binding, the whole nine yards (or any better cliche you can think of).

One small part of this monumental quest involves participation in Blogfests and Twitter events, one of which is "Gearing Up To Get An Agent," #GUTGAA on Twitter, hosted by Deana Barnhart. These contests are a fun way to get feedback, meet other authors, and potentially catch the eye of a literary agent.

So without further ado:

Meet & Greet Questions

Where do you write? Anywhere I can. I have a PC, a laptop, and a 1927 Underwood portable typewriter, so the means are never far when the motivation strikes. Sometimes I have better luck at work, the local coffee shop, or the bookstore.

 My 1927 Underwood Four Bank Standard Portable Typewriter

Quick. Go to your writing space, sit down and look to your left. What is the first thing you see? The Last Unicorn, by Peter S. Beagle, sitting on top of my computer tower. I read it some time early last year. My housekeeping habits are not the greatest.

Favorite time to write? Whenever the mood strikes. If any one time was most pleasurable I'd have to say the mornings, armed with a cup of coffee.

Drink of choice while writing? Oops, I guess I just answered that one. I take it black, like my soul. I've also been known to write with a pint of stout or porter at hand in the evenings.

When writing , do you listen to music or do you need complete silence? I'll take silence if I can get it... but with a 19-month-old running the house, silence is a limited commodity. The rest of the time I need music to drown the chaos. Instrumental folk and bluegrass lately, but my tastes are constantly evolving.

What was your inspiration for your latest manuscript and where did you find it? The sentence that began this novel came from a writing prompt followed by a writing endurance contest conducted by my writing group The Life Partners, some of whose short fiction can be read on this blog. The protagonist was inspired by all the great pirates, smugglers, and ne'er do wells of sci-fi and fantasy. There's more than a bit of Han, Zaphod, Mal, and Jack Sparrow in there.

 Mock cover for my novel by James K Brown Graphic Design

Eulogy

Photo by Roey Ahram

The sun hung low in the sky, its last light failing to fight the chill in the early spring air. She pulled her jacket close and turned her collar up against the night's first flakes of snow. She would have stayed longer, lingered with the book by the fireplace, but she'd nearly been the last to leave the night before. Tonight suspicious stares followed her through the stacks. No matter her clothes were clean, expensive even, they were the same she'd worn yesterday. She left early and started across the parking lot with no thought of where to go. Her shadow leaped out and stretched thin before her, flat and insubstantial on the dirty pavement. The light grew brighter as a sleek white car pulled up, its idle quiet and even. The passenger window hummed softly as it drew down into the door. “Kelsey?” said a man's voice. Like the finely tuned exhaust of the vehicle, it was low and gentle. “Is that you?” She tucked a wisp of fine blonde hair behind her ear and bent low, fighting familiar mannerisms. She was greeted by a kind face: older, but still familiar. “Devon?” she asked. “It is you!” He'd grown handsomer, tempered in the way that hardens soft boyishness into something more resilient, less fragile. He laughed briefly, stopped abruptly. “Are you walking?” without waiting for her answer he leaned over and popped the passenger door open. “Hop in.” She climbed inside the warm car and shut the door. The window rolled up, the warm leather of the seat embraced her. She shook the snowflakes from her hair, smiling as they drifted down around her. His eyes lit up the way they used to, his face softened. Her lips tightened; her smile disappeared. She looked out the window and watched the falling snow smother the lot. It covered the gray asphalt with a thin white veil. 

Photo by Carol