Saturday, May 26, 2012
100 Word Challenge: "Don't Look At Me"
The redoubtable Velvet Verbosity, just back from scoring an overtime goal to send the New Jersey Devils to the Stanley Cup Finals, issued a 100 Word Challenge this week centering on the word "spectacle". This is called "Don't Look At Me".
Thin, pretty Catherine hated spectacle. Don't make a fuss, she thought. Don't notice me, don't point at me, don't talk about me. Just pretend I'm not here. When the ebullient secretary Judy sent a company wide notice that it was Catherine's birthday, she cringed, expecting a tidal wave of well wishes and forced conversations. As the day proceeded and the silence deepened, Catherine wondered if she had finally forced her way out of everyone's life, as she said she wanted.
She didn't start crying until she finally left for home that night.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Terrible Minds Challenge: "Flint Smoke"
Our pal Chuck Wendig left BabyTown long enough to issue a challenge, titling a 1000 word story with a color lifted from a list of paint colors. This is called "Flint Smoke"
"What's that 'smoke' song you played in the car?," Rose said.
" 'Smoke On The Water'? 'Smoke Gets In Your Eyes'? 'Smokin' In The Boys' Room'? " I was smiling as I said it. I was being obtuse, and she knew it.
"No, no," she said. She was sitting on my couch, her knees pulled up to her chin, wrapping her arms around her bony ankles. I looked at her legs, trim and beautiful, but starting to thicken with age. I didn't care. I liked that she had more mass now. It made her more corporeal, more earthbound.
"The one where he says he can smell the smoke." She was watching me toss the Caesar salad I was preparing. Her eyes, which looked flint gray in the fading sunlight, were following me intently.
"That's Ben Folds. It's called 'Smoke'."
"Yeah, that one," she said. She turned her head to look at the stereo. It was silver, expensive, and looked like it was from the future. Van Morrison purred from the speakers.
"At the end of the song, he says 'you keep on saying the past is not even past/and you keep on saying/we are smoke.' " The oven dinged, and she watched me spin, put on oven mitts, and remove the garlic bread, pale yellow and white on a dented silver tray.
"It reminded me of what Dr. Almond said about Faulkner. How he said 'the past is never dead,' " she continued. She was looking down at her bare toes.
I didn't say anything. I was laying out silverware, delivering plates of hot pasta and sauce, putting the garlic bread slices into a basket. She was watching me. She had already asked to help, but the kitchen was too small.
"Then he said, 'it's not even past,' " I added. She unfolded from the couch to come to the table. She didn't dance any more, but she still moved with that smooth, leonine grace. I watched her move.
"Yeah," she said. She added some garlic bread to her plate, and served herself some salad. I poured her a glass of wine.
"Do you feel like your past is....past?," she said. I served myself, watching her chew a bite of salad.
"I tend to follow Rafiki's advice. I keep my behind in my past." I took a bite of bread. It was too hot, but it felt good, melted butter and hot, stringy bread. The sun was coming through the window, making the spoons and forks shine.
"Rafiki?," she said.
" 'The Lion King,' " I said. "The monkey. Robert Guilliaume."
"Oh yeah," she said. She said that sometimes when she didn't know what I was talking about.
"Do you miss....do you wish....do you ever wish you were younger?," she said. I looked over at her shoes, silver flats that had been covered with glitter. They looked like the shoes someone would wear if she wanted attention.
"No," I said. "It's hard enough being the age I am. Do you?"
She chewed a bite of pasta and swallowed. "Sometimes. I wish I was still dancing. It used to make me feel so important, so alive. People counted on me. I wish I were that girl again, the one who hadn't made any big mistakes yet."
"I think you're important now," I said. I finished off my glass of wine and poured another one.
"Thank you," she said. "I think you're important too." She sliced through a piece of meat in the sauce, and it cut easier than she thought, since the knife sliced right through and scraped against the plate. It was an angry sound.
"Why are you thinking about the past?," I asked.
"It's easier than thinking about the future." I could hear a siren in the distance, since I had left the windows open.
"Fire truck," she said. The child of a firefighter, she could always tell. She looked over the top of the trees. She raised her thin arm, pointing. "See?," she said. A tendril of grayish whiteness was rising above the trees. It looked like the pulled apart cotton balls I used to glue onto model kits. I thought about the old Don Henley lyric, "Somebody's going to emergency, somebody's going to jail."
"I think you have a bright future," I said. "You're smart, you're funny, you're pretty, you're-"
"I'm not anything," she said, cutting me off. "I'm nothing. I want to disappear. " Her eyes swam with tears. It made her eyes look almost blue. "Like in that song. I'm smoke."
"I don't think that's true," I said. "Jeannie likes you, and Professor Fitzpatrick, and..."
"I'm not anything," she repeated. "I'm not. I'm just....I'm not anything to anyone. I'm smoke," she said flatly.
She got up, pushing in her chair neatly, then went into the bathroom, closing and locking the door. She turned the exhaust fan on, which probably meant she was crying. I took another bite of salad and chewed it, listening to the sound of my own teeth grinding, loud inside my head. Outside, the sirens got closer, then stopped. There was another, farther off sound, which was either another engine responding, or some other emergency.
There was always another problem.
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Trifecta Writing Challenge: "Flight Delayed"
My Pythagorean amigos at the Trifecta Challenge have posted a picture challenge this weekend. I won't post the picture here, because it's not mine, but if you follow the link above, you can look at it. I call this "Flight Delayed".
It was so late even the pseudo pushcart vendors selling sunglasses and worthless plastic toys had closed up shop. Thunderstorms crossing the Texas prairie had set up a chain of delays that put him into his home airport several hours later than he had planned, in the bizarre emptiness of 12:34 AM. Everything was still there- the darkened McDonalds, the sports bar with a chain in front of the door- but everyone was gone, as if the apocalypse had come and no one told him.
Dave had performed a weekend in Indianapolis, which went well, besides a few hecklers to quiet using well honed putdowns, a drunk waitress who kept ignoring his protests that he was married, and a morning radio DJ who wouldn't let him complete a thought before segueing into a Nicki Minaj record. Annoying, but part of the job. Dave shrugged off the indignities of the weekend, walking through the empty airport towards his car and finally, blessedly, back to his tiny home.
The money wasn't great, but it was enough. The travel was aggravating, but it provided loads of anecdotes he could stretch and contort into material. Dave walked down a long hallway that led from the terminal to the parking. He could see out either side, watching the road below. A shuttle left the brightly lit terminal, taking no one nowhere. In the end, Dave thought, he did it because it was all he knew how to do and get paid for.
It wasn't curing cancer, Dave thought, or inventing the next iPhone. It wasn't defending the unjustly accused, or feeding the hungry, or inspiring inner city teens to pass AP Calculus. It was what he could do, and even if he saw less talented peers getting wealthy from TV deals, he was OK with the long nights and long, dull days, because over 100 people per show, six shows per week, left the room happier than they came in.
It was so late even the pseudo pushcart vendors selling sunglasses and worthless plastic toys had closed up shop. Thunderstorms crossing the Texas prairie had set up a chain of delays that put him into his home airport several hours later than he had planned, in the bizarre emptiness of 12:34 AM. Everything was still there- the darkened McDonalds, the sports bar with a chain in front of the door- but everyone was gone, as if the apocalypse had come and no one told him.
Dave had performed a weekend in Indianapolis, which went well, besides a few hecklers to quiet using well honed putdowns, a drunk waitress who kept ignoring his protests that he was married, and a morning radio DJ who wouldn't let him complete a thought before segueing into a Nicki Minaj record. Annoying, but part of the job. Dave shrugged off the indignities of the weekend, walking through the empty airport towards his car and finally, blessedly, back to his tiny home.
The money wasn't great, but it was enough. The travel was aggravating, but it provided loads of anecdotes he could stretch and contort into material. Dave walked down a long hallway that led from the terminal to the parking. He could see out either side, watching the road below. A shuttle left the brightly lit terminal, taking no one nowhere. In the end, Dave thought, he did it because it was all he knew how to do and get paid for.
It wasn't curing cancer, Dave thought, or inventing the next iPhone. It wasn't defending the unjustly accused, or feeding the hungry, or inspiring inner city teens to pass AP Calculus. It was what he could do, and even if he saw less talented peers getting wealthy from TV deals, he was OK with the long nights and long, dull days, because over 100 people per show, six shows per week, left the room happier than they came in.
Flash Fiction Friday: "Unnecessary"
Our friends at Flash Fiction Friday have a simple task for us this week: 1000 words, as long as three of them are frenetic, cummerbund, and hobbit. This is called "Unnecessary," and it is humbly dedicated to my main man Lance, who, if he does not know whereof this character speaks, soon will.
Daniel knew when he was not necessary. Living in a house with three women and four cats, he developed a keen sense for the parts of life he was needed for, things like grilling burgers on major holidays, opening jars, and killing spiders. The rest of the time, he told his pal Steve at work, he just tried to keep out of sight. It was a matter of survival.
He sat in the living room, halfheartedly looking at a trade publication. The television was playing ESPN silently. He had passed by the girls' rooms upstairs, observing the frenetic beehive of activity at a distance. The bathroom was in constant use, doors slamming, girls in towels leaving one room, entering another, then leaving again and going back to the first one. He followed his usual dictum, grabbing what he needed and abandoning the upstairs to the fairer sex.
He knew this day was coming. Every father with girls did, and it was another one of those knife edge moments you faced, where your instincts and your deep emotions had to be tamped down by your logic and reason. He didn't want tonight to happen, but he knew he couldn't stop it, so like so many things, just take cover and wait for the storm to pass. He trusted them to make the right decisions. The boys? Not so much.
He was pretty sure they would be OK- they had talked about drinking, and drugs, and sex, ad nauseum, with their daughters, for years now, getting their full quota of eyerolling and long sighs. In the end, it was like his colleague Diane had told him years ago, clucking with sympathy at the thought of two teenage daughters, "you tell 'em, and you tell 'em, and you tell 'em- eventually, you just have to hope they listened."
Daniel stared at the condensation forming on the side of his Diet Pepsi. He wanted a beer. Needed a beer, really. But he didn't need to ask if that would be OK. He knew it wouldn't be. It was diet cola until the cummerbund clad boys and begowned girls had assembled, been fluttered around and fussed over, and then bid farewell. Lara would probably go upstairs and cry about her lost youth, and he would switch over to the Royals broadcast, open a beer, eat some chips, and see what new method they had divined for blowing tonight's game.
A door slammed, and he heard the solid sound of high heels on wood. As with any two sisters, Nicole and Justine had their little differences, quirks of personality that made them fully present individuals instead of carbon copies. Nicole was the girliest, wearing a skirt to any event more formal than gardening. Justine was always more reserved, quieter, more observant, spending one summer reading "The Hobbit" over and over while her sister tanned and painted her toenails and performed elaborate weddings between Barbie and Ken.
They were in Nicole's world now, updos and mascara and wardrobe tape in places he didn't want to think about and Daniel imagined Justine would be uncomfortable all night, secretly eager to shed the uncomfortable shoes and return to Jane Eyre and sweatpants as soon as possible. Lara loved every moment of the process, probably quietly reliving her own days as the center of the world before college and real life and age pushed you to the periphery of everything.
Daniel thought about his own prom, Sarah, so angelic and round hipped, who kissed him frantically in the limo on the way home, but demurred when his eager hand found her warm thigh. It was a weird formalized dance- they expected you to try, so you did, knowing they would decline. It was a confirmation of the pseudo adultness of the whole process, a nod to the effort spent making themselves attractive.
He actively, aggressively did not want to think about these boys, callow Duane and suave Robert, who would walk out of here with his daughters' manicured hands on their arms. He didn't know what the rituals were like these days, but he figured they couldn't be far different than his day. Lips would find lips, a perfumed, powdered neck, and then...what? Lara probably knew if they were virgins, but Daniel never asked. If he had to guess, he would say Justine was, and her sister was not, but he really didn't want to know. It was one of those walls, made of something as clear as Saran Wrap but also hard and bulletproof, that came between them now. Was this to be a shining, momentous night for one of them, a night to be recalled long into their own grandmotherhood, with him just a distant memory, buried under a grassy hill?
Daniel shook his head, watching Chris McKendry animatedly describe an auto race, then narrate a Kings team trying to defend the Stanley Cup. It was different now- different teams were winning, different things were important. Everything was different, and nobody asked you what you thought about it. It was prom night, and he was reduced to being a cheerleader, approving of everything and judging nothing. He thought about driving the girls home from the hospital, almost two decades ago, helpless and tiny, weak and soft, and it seemed inconceivable that these strong young women, with long legs and limitless potential and passionate opinions, were even the same species. Someday, he warned them silently as they eased their way downstairs, step by step, elegant, pointed toes exploring each step carefully, you'll have kids of your own, and you'll go back to being helpless again.
Daniel knew when he was not necessary. Living in a house with three women and four cats, he developed a keen sense for the parts of life he was needed for, things like grilling burgers on major holidays, opening jars, and killing spiders. The rest of the time, he told his pal Steve at work, he just tried to keep out of sight. It was a matter of survival.
He sat in the living room, halfheartedly looking at a trade publication. The television was playing ESPN silently. He had passed by the girls' rooms upstairs, observing the frenetic beehive of activity at a distance. The bathroom was in constant use, doors slamming, girls in towels leaving one room, entering another, then leaving again and going back to the first one. He followed his usual dictum, grabbing what he needed and abandoning the upstairs to the fairer sex.
He knew this day was coming. Every father with girls did, and it was another one of those knife edge moments you faced, where your instincts and your deep emotions had to be tamped down by your logic and reason. He didn't want tonight to happen, but he knew he couldn't stop it, so like so many things, just take cover and wait for the storm to pass. He trusted them to make the right decisions. The boys? Not so much.
He was pretty sure they would be OK- they had talked about drinking, and drugs, and sex, ad nauseum, with their daughters, for years now, getting their full quota of eyerolling and long sighs. In the end, it was like his colleague Diane had told him years ago, clucking with sympathy at the thought of two teenage daughters, "you tell 'em, and you tell 'em, and you tell 'em- eventually, you just have to hope they listened."
Daniel stared at the condensation forming on the side of his Diet Pepsi. He wanted a beer. Needed a beer, really. But he didn't need to ask if that would be OK. He knew it wouldn't be. It was diet cola until the cummerbund clad boys and begowned girls had assembled, been fluttered around and fussed over, and then bid farewell. Lara would probably go upstairs and cry about her lost youth, and he would switch over to the Royals broadcast, open a beer, eat some chips, and see what new method they had divined for blowing tonight's game.
A door slammed, and he heard the solid sound of high heels on wood. As with any two sisters, Nicole and Justine had their little differences, quirks of personality that made them fully present individuals instead of carbon copies. Nicole was the girliest, wearing a skirt to any event more formal than gardening. Justine was always more reserved, quieter, more observant, spending one summer reading "The Hobbit" over and over while her sister tanned and painted her toenails and performed elaborate weddings between Barbie and Ken.
They were in Nicole's world now, updos and mascara and wardrobe tape in places he didn't want to think about and Daniel imagined Justine would be uncomfortable all night, secretly eager to shed the uncomfortable shoes and return to Jane Eyre and sweatpants as soon as possible. Lara loved every moment of the process, probably quietly reliving her own days as the center of the world before college and real life and age pushed you to the periphery of everything.
Daniel thought about his own prom, Sarah, so angelic and round hipped, who kissed him frantically in the limo on the way home, but demurred when his eager hand found her warm thigh. It was a weird formalized dance- they expected you to try, so you did, knowing they would decline. It was a confirmation of the pseudo adultness of the whole process, a nod to the effort spent making themselves attractive.
He actively, aggressively did not want to think about these boys, callow Duane and suave Robert, who would walk out of here with his daughters' manicured hands on their arms. He didn't know what the rituals were like these days, but he figured they couldn't be far different than his day. Lips would find lips, a perfumed, powdered neck, and then...what? Lara probably knew if they were virgins, but Daniel never asked. If he had to guess, he would say Justine was, and her sister was not, but he really didn't want to know. It was one of those walls, made of something as clear as Saran Wrap but also hard and bulletproof, that came between them now. Was this to be a shining, momentous night for one of them, a night to be recalled long into their own grandmotherhood, with him just a distant memory, buried under a grassy hill?
Daniel shook his head, watching Chris McKendry animatedly describe an auto race, then narrate a Kings team trying to defend the Stanley Cup. It was different now- different teams were winning, different things were important. Everything was different, and nobody asked you what you thought about it. It was prom night, and he was reduced to being a cheerleader, approving of everything and judging nothing. He thought about driving the girls home from the hospital, almost two decades ago, helpless and tiny, weak and soft, and it seemed inconceivable that these strong young women, with long legs and limitless potential and passionate opinions, were even the same species. Someday, he warned them silently as they eased their way downstairs, step by step, elegant, pointed toes exploring each step carefully, you'll have kids of your own, and you'll go back to being helpless again.
Friday, May 18, 2012
The Return of Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge!
Though she has yet to involve a robot like our friend Lance, the mighty Velvet Verbosity, bloodied but unbowed, fresh from battling Russian cyberpunks and making the world safe for her wordnerd minions, has returned to the field of 100 Word Challengedom. This week's word is "fragile", and I call this entry "Like Copper, Like Tin, Like Lead."
"Divorce?," Ella repeated. She had heard the word, but it suddenly had a flavor she didn't remember. She stared at the place in front of her, where the sound waves that came from her mouth had traveled. Words were such fragile things, she thought, just a waving of some molecules, a gentle sweep of air pressure changes that fill the room and then fade away. The word she said was now attached to an idea, though, thoughts and feelings and concepts in her head, weighted down like copper, like tin, like lead. Solid and unbreakable.
"Yes," her father said.
"Divorce?," Ella repeated. She had heard the word, but it suddenly had a flavor she didn't remember. She stared at the place in front of her, where the sound waves that came from her mouth had traveled. Words were such fragile things, she thought, just a waving of some molecules, a gentle sweep of air pressure changes that fill the room and then fade away. The word she said was now attached to an idea, though, thoughts and feelings and concepts in her head, weighted down like copper, like tin, like lead. Solid and unbreakable.
"Yes," her father said.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
The Final (?) Indie Ink Writing Challenge: "I Won't Say Goodbye"
[Author's Note: There is some trouble in IndieInk land. It is unclear whether or not, or when, there will be more IndieInk Writing Challenges. Plus the site appears to be down at the moment. I do remember my prompt, "To [You] With Love", but I do not recall who sent the prompt and who recieved my quote, an Ernest Hemingway line from one of his letters. Sorry about that.]
[Author's Other Note: This is fiction. Made up. Not true. Bullpucky. Nonsense. "Not intended to be a factual statement," as the office of Senator Jon Kyl once put it. "Hooey and Applesauce", as Dave Dameshek says.]
Dr. Kelly-
It's hard to know how to begin. There's so much to say, but it all tastes like ashes in my mouth. I can't make sense of it all. But I can't do this without trying to explain. It's up to you whether or not you believe it.
I can't really explain this. But I have this feeling I just need to tell you these things. These things are important, and I really feel like I need to tell you.
I know this probably isn't making any sense yet. Maybe it never will.
This thing isn't your fault. If you skim down this letter. you're going to get the impression that you should call the police, or an ambulance, or a doctor. Don't bother. I've been thinking about this for a while. I've been thinking about very little else. So by the time you see this, it will be far too late. I'm going to leave this in your mailbox late on a Friday, after I know you've finished for the day and taken your little red Accord home through the city streets. You won't see it until Monday morning, and, as I say, it will be impossible to change things at that point. Don't try.
I really want to add, at this point, that it's really not your fault. Not at all. You are probably going to think that it is. I understand that, but it's really not. You should try to remember that. All this happened because of me, not because of anything you did or didn't do. Cold comfort, I bet. But that's all I can offer.
Do you remember the first day of class? I certainly do. It was still warm out, and you were wearing a dark brown dress, which was almost tan where the sun hit it. I think I fell in love with you at that moment. Your perfect, pretty shoes with the little rat a tat sound they made on the floor. You were so fired up about teaching, so cute and gawky and just so very beautiful. The moment your first lecture finished, I knew.
Nothing could happen immediately. You were faculty, I was a student. It was ridiculous to think anything different. But my brain wouldn't stop, counting down the days until I could tell you, when finals were over and we were no longer bound by convention. I knew people would talk, but people always do. I knew I could win you. I was sure of it.
Even as I type that, I blush a little bit. How monumentally stupid! To think that you would have ever...ah, never mind. Forget it. I was just dumb, dumb, dumb.
Did you know I followed you home once? Yeah, I know. Creepy. But I did. I waited until your car pulled out, then followed you all the way home to your little three story house, squashed on either side by other houses. After I knew where you lived, I would drive by sometimes. I don't know what I expected to find. Of course, if you sunbathed in the nude, that would have been great! But I didn't think you would do that. I just had to know something about you, something about what you were like when you took your shoes off and relaxed after a long, hard day. Did you drink wine? Watch sad movies? What were you like in "real" life?
Then, of course, your Mom died on that horrific weekend, right before Christmas. It was so awful to watch you struggle through that day's lecture, and then the fill ins were obnoxious. You finally came back after break, and we all sent you cards, and you were so kind to handwrite those notes to all of us. It was so neat, seeing your handwriting expressing real feelings instead of just all the endless notes you put on the board. I have it here, pinned to my cork board above my laptop screen. You loop your "j"s in this really special, unique way. I've never seen anybody do that before. I read it a thousand times, and honestly, just the first line and the last, those were the ones that hooked me. "To Thomas," and "Love, Lori."
I'm blushing again. To see those letters, those words- it set me on fire! It reminded me of that line from "Araby"-"But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires." It was marvelous. I feel stupid to have felt that way, but at the time, that's where I was.
Of course, I soon learned you signed everyone's note that way.
I can't believe I let myself think that way.
I'm so stupid.
Please remember that this isn't your fault at all. This is kind of what set it off, but if it wasn't this, it would have been something else. I just wasn't built for this world.
Do you remember when you were talking about Hemingway, and you cited all the different things, his father, all the wounds, all the concussions, before he died? How those things were "necessary, but not sufficient" causes of his depression? That's kind of like this. This whole episode by itself isn't enough, but it just tops off a bunch of other things that I never told you about. Trust me, there are plenty of other reasons.
There's a line that I heard on the comedy channel. This comic was smoking a cigarette, and he said, "Look, if you've sat through the first half of a movie, and it's terrible, what makes you think it's going to get any better in the second half?"
I won't say "Goodbye" or anything dumb like that.
Thomas
[Author's Other Note: This is fiction. Made up. Not true. Bullpucky. Nonsense. "Not intended to be a factual statement," as the office of Senator Jon Kyl once put it. "Hooey and Applesauce", as Dave Dameshek says.]
Dr. Kelly-
It's hard to know how to begin. There's so much to say, but it all tastes like ashes in my mouth. I can't make sense of it all. But I can't do this without trying to explain. It's up to you whether or not you believe it.
I can't really explain this. But I have this feeling I just need to tell you these things. These things are important, and I really feel like I need to tell you.
I know this probably isn't making any sense yet. Maybe it never will.
This thing isn't your fault. If you skim down this letter. you're going to get the impression that you should call the police, or an ambulance, or a doctor. Don't bother. I've been thinking about this for a while. I've been thinking about very little else. So by the time you see this, it will be far too late. I'm going to leave this in your mailbox late on a Friday, after I know you've finished for the day and taken your little red Accord home through the city streets. You won't see it until Monday morning, and, as I say, it will be impossible to change things at that point. Don't try.
I really want to add, at this point, that it's really not your fault. Not at all. You are probably going to think that it is. I understand that, but it's really not. You should try to remember that. All this happened because of me, not because of anything you did or didn't do. Cold comfort, I bet. But that's all I can offer.
Do you remember the first day of class? I certainly do. It was still warm out, and you were wearing a dark brown dress, which was almost tan where the sun hit it. I think I fell in love with you at that moment. Your perfect, pretty shoes with the little rat a tat sound they made on the floor. You were so fired up about teaching, so cute and gawky and just so very beautiful. The moment your first lecture finished, I knew.
Nothing could happen immediately. You were faculty, I was a student. It was ridiculous to think anything different. But my brain wouldn't stop, counting down the days until I could tell you, when finals were over and we were no longer bound by convention. I knew people would talk, but people always do. I knew I could win you. I was sure of it.
Even as I type that, I blush a little bit. How monumentally stupid! To think that you would have ever...ah, never mind. Forget it. I was just dumb, dumb, dumb.
Did you know I followed you home once? Yeah, I know. Creepy. But I did. I waited until your car pulled out, then followed you all the way home to your little three story house, squashed on either side by other houses. After I knew where you lived, I would drive by sometimes. I don't know what I expected to find. Of course, if you sunbathed in the nude, that would have been great! But I didn't think you would do that. I just had to know something about you, something about what you were like when you took your shoes off and relaxed after a long, hard day. Did you drink wine? Watch sad movies? What were you like in "real" life?
Then, of course, your Mom died on that horrific weekend, right before Christmas. It was so awful to watch you struggle through that day's lecture, and then the fill ins were obnoxious. You finally came back after break, and we all sent you cards, and you were so kind to handwrite those notes to all of us. It was so neat, seeing your handwriting expressing real feelings instead of just all the endless notes you put on the board. I have it here, pinned to my cork board above my laptop screen. You loop your "j"s in this really special, unique way. I've never seen anybody do that before. I read it a thousand times, and honestly, just the first line and the last, those were the ones that hooked me. "To Thomas," and "Love, Lori."
I'm blushing again. To see those letters, those words- it set me on fire! It reminded me of that line from "Araby"-"But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires." It was marvelous. I feel stupid to have felt that way, but at the time, that's where I was.
Of course, I soon learned you signed everyone's note that way.
I can't believe I let myself think that way.
I'm so stupid.
Please remember that this isn't your fault at all. This is kind of what set it off, but if it wasn't this, it would have been something else. I just wasn't built for this world.
Do you remember when you were talking about Hemingway, and you cited all the different things, his father, all the wounds, all the concussions, before he died? How those things were "necessary, but not sufficient" causes of his depression? That's kind of like this. This whole episode by itself isn't enough, but it just tops off a bunch of other things that I never told you about. Trust me, there are plenty of other reasons.
There's a line that I heard on the comedy channel. This comic was smoking a cigarette, and he said, "Look, if you've sat through the first half of a movie, and it's terrible, what makes you think it's going to get any better in the second half?"
I won't say "Goodbye" or anything dumb like that.
Thomas
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
100 Word Song: "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised"
My compadre Leeroy, along with his somewhat more human pal Lance, have renewed 100 Word Song activities with none other than the Fab Four and "Revolution". My entry is called "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised".
"The Revolution Will Not Be Televised,
He told us when the Sixties died."
I stared at the words, cold and lifeless. I stole them from a dead man, recorded before my birth, forecasting a world we're still waiting for. I tried to feel his fervor, the certainty that rebels have that the force of their rightness will win out.
My parents tried to change the world, then got fat and moved to the suburbs. It's hard to imagine that they really meant it way back then, young people still naive enough to believe that the world can change.
"The Revolution Will Not Be Televised,
He told us when the Sixties died."
I stared at the words, cold and lifeless. I stole them from a dead man, recorded before my birth, forecasting a world we're still waiting for. I tried to feel his fervor, the certainty that rebels have that the force of their rightness will win out.
My parents tried to change the world, then got fat and moved to the suburbs. It's hard to imagine that they really meant it way back then, young people still naive enough to believe that the world can change.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Trifecta Writing Challenge: "Biology Be Damned"
My triangle obsessed friends in the land of Trifecta have a simple, yet very complicated, challenge this weekend: in only 33 words, write a story, with one of the words being "mother". This is called "Biology Be Damned"
Someday, Claire thought as her stepdaughter Anne stomped up the stairs, you'll learn that the woman who holds you when some small cruelty breaks your heart is your mother, biology be damned.
Someday, Claire thought as her stepdaughter Anne stomped up the stairs, you'll learn that the woman who holds you when some small cruelty breaks your heart is your mother, biology be damned.
Wednesday, May 09, 2012
Flash Fiction Friday: "The Hurricane"
My fine, possibly feathered, friends at Flash Fiction Friday have challenged us to write about meeting the parents. I looked at the prompt a little differently, and what emerged is this, which I call "The Hurricane".
Shari looked at the hostess, a tall, slim woman with her hair pulled smartly back into a ballet dancer's bun. We probably look like the letter "b", she thought.
"Mr. Thompson said he was running a little late, and he'd be right along. Can I start you with a drink?," the woman said. She was dressed all in black- blouse, skirt, long, opaque tights and heels. Her makeup was a little overdone, making her look a bit skeletal. Shari felt a pang of envy at her flat stomach and visible hipbones.
Shari's mouth was dry. She cleared her throat softly. "Mineral water, please. With lemon."
"Right away," she said, bustling off.
Shari pulled the chair out farther, then sat down, arranging herself as best she could in her borrowed dress. She could feel the eyes of other diners on her. That was one of the many things she would not miss. Along with the aching back, the intense emotional waves, the sore feet and ill fitting clothes, she would not miss the feeling of being on stage. No matter where she walked, she felt their judgement. No ring. No accompanying male. "Tramp," she felt them thinking. That, or something worse.
They didn't understand. Nobody did. Only somebody who had been through it would understand, and most people who did wouldn't talk about it. They couldn't grasp her inner life, the way she had punished herself a thousand times over for a moment's weakness. They didn't know how fervently she wished it to be untrue, prayed she could somehow put the genie back in the bottle and undo this. She felt their gaze, preying on her roundness, seeing her young face and coming to conclusions, calling her heedless and wanton and foolish inside their perfectly ordered lives, not realizing they couldn't call her anything she hadn't called herself, with sheets balled in her fists as pain or nausea was her only companion through a sleepless night.
The whole process she had informally named the "Hurricane of Suck," the single, stupid act leading to weeks of wishing it wasn't so. When it became too obvious for her to deny, she checked out her options, but she simply couldn't do what everyone else did, and before too much longer, her fate was sealed. She saw a phone number in the back of a magazine, called it, and was brought into the protective embrace of Hank Thompson, Esquire.
What followed was blizzards of phone calls and emails, forms and more forms, letters and photos to review, and finally, at long last, this dinner. Shari tried to beg off, and Mr. Thompson had made it clear to her that she didn't have to come. But in the end, she agreed to his pleas, and she was sitting here, watching the faces circulate around here, wondering which one would be them.
A young man came up with a glass tumbler of water with lemon stuck on the rim. His voice was sweet, with a hint of Spanish at the edges. Her heart pounded for a moment, gazing at his strong features and olive skin. Then Shari reminded herself who she was, and more importantly, how she looked and what she was.
"Water for you, miss?," he said smoothly.
"Yes, thank you," she said. She felt woefully underdressed. When she wasn't in sweatpants, she survived on what she could borrow and Goodwill. She was wearing a dress that her overweight friend Liz found too loose, a blue one with faint white stripes, and the only shoes that still fit, faded espadrilles. Shari thought about the goddess who sat her, and this statue as well. Was everyone who worked here beautiful?
"Would you like some bread until your party arrives?"
"That would be fine," she said, pretending to be calm.
The waiter whisked off, wearing all black as well, and Shari watched him walk. God, she thought. What I wouldn't do to not be...me.
She thought about bolting again. She didn't really want to meet these people. She would see their faces before she closed her eyes every night, wondering if her boy was OK with these strangers. Was he warm? Happy? Sad? Safe? Brave? Did they teach him about life? Bake cookies for his class? What were they doing at 3:30 in the afternoon? She felt out of place, like everyone was staring. She felt panicky, the thought of simply walking out consuming her, just walking straight to the bus stop, then riding back to her room. Then crying, no doubt, crying until her shudders faded into a restless sleep. Sleep. The only thing she really enjoyed these days.
Shari sipped the water. The lemon lent it a tiny edge of sourness. There were days water was all she could stand, but her stomach growled in response to the coldness. Today wasn't one of those days. She was suddenly ravenous, and she felt a stirring inside of her, followed by a solid thump of a kick. She took another sip, and then another. OK, Thompson, she was beginning to tell herself, if you're not here by the time I finish this, I'm out of here.
Just then she saw his face, his graying hair plastered straight back with gel. He was always smiling. Shari wondered just how he could manage that as she began to extricate herself from her seat.
"Shari! So glad you made it! This is-," the lawyer began.
"Oh, sweetie, don't get up!," a woman said, coming around over Thompson's right shoulder. Her hair was cut short, almost like a boy, and she was wearing a suit with a long navy skirt and a soft creamy blouse. "I'm Janet, and this is my husband Mike, and-"
Shari started to sit back down. The woman gasped.
"Oh, honey. You're so beautiful. You're just- you're GLOWING!," she said loud enough for everyone to hear. Shari had heard the word before, but never in reference to herself. The older woman fluttered and cooed, asking questions without waiting for the answers.
"Now, Jan," Mike said. His voice was smooth and buttery, suitable for his classic good looks. He smiled, showing laugh lines. "Back off! You're going to scare the poor girl!"
Nonplussed, she continued, "But I just want you to know, hun, that we are just so overwhelmingly grateful that you would do this for us-"
Shari sat down, her vision beginning to blur. Janet was continuing to talk, and Shari was aware enough to be able to nod and smile earnestly. Was she doing it for them? For herself? Who was this about, anyway? Becoming pregnant wasn't something she did, it was something that happened, and she was dealing with it the best way she could. Shari looked at the two adults' faces, beaming with an inner light, grateful for something she was giving them, and something they were taking from her.
Shari looked at the hostess, a tall, slim woman with her hair pulled smartly back into a ballet dancer's bun. We probably look like the letter "b", she thought.
"Mr. Thompson said he was running a little late, and he'd be right along. Can I start you with a drink?," the woman said. She was dressed all in black- blouse, skirt, long, opaque tights and heels. Her makeup was a little overdone, making her look a bit skeletal. Shari felt a pang of envy at her flat stomach and visible hipbones.
Shari's mouth was dry. She cleared her throat softly. "Mineral water, please. With lemon."
"Right away," she said, bustling off.
Shari pulled the chair out farther, then sat down, arranging herself as best she could in her borrowed dress. She could feel the eyes of other diners on her. That was one of the many things she would not miss. Along with the aching back, the intense emotional waves, the sore feet and ill fitting clothes, she would not miss the feeling of being on stage. No matter where she walked, she felt their judgement. No ring. No accompanying male. "Tramp," she felt them thinking. That, or something worse.
They didn't understand. Nobody did. Only somebody who had been through it would understand, and most people who did wouldn't talk about it. They couldn't grasp her inner life, the way she had punished herself a thousand times over for a moment's weakness. They didn't know how fervently she wished it to be untrue, prayed she could somehow put the genie back in the bottle and undo this. She felt their gaze, preying on her roundness, seeing her young face and coming to conclusions, calling her heedless and wanton and foolish inside their perfectly ordered lives, not realizing they couldn't call her anything she hadn't called herself, with sheets balled in her fists as pain or nausea was her only companion through a sleepless night.
The whole process she had informally named the "Hurricane of Suck," the single, stupid act leading to weeks of wishing it wasn't so. When it became too obvious for her to deny, she checked out her options, but she simply couldn't do what everyone else did, and before too much longer, her fate was sealed. She saw a phone number in the back of a magazine, called it, and was brought into the protective embrace of Hank Thompson, Esquire.
What followed was blizzards of phone calls and emails, forms and more forms, letters and photos to review, and finally, at long last, this dinner. Shari tried to beg off, and Mr. Thompson had made it clear to her that she didn't have to come. But in the end, she agreed to his pleas, and she was sitting here, watching the faces circulate around here, wondering which one would be them.
A young man came up with a glass tumbler of water with lemon stuck on the rim. His voice was sweet, with a hint of Spanish at the edges. Her heart pounded for a moment, gazing at his strong features and olive skin. Then Shari reminded herself who she was, and more importantly, how she looked and what she was.
"Water for you, miss?," he said smoothly.
"Yes, thank you," she said. She felt woefully underdressed. When she wasn't in sweatpants, she survived on what she could borrow and Goodwill. She was wearing a dress that her overweight friend Liz found too loose, a blue one with faint white stripes, and the only shoes that still fit, faded espadrilles. Shari thought about the goddess who sat her, and this statue as well. Was everyone who worked here beautiful?
"Would you like some bread until your party arrives?"
"That would be fine," she said, pretending to be calm.
The waiter whisked off, wearing all black as well, and Shari watched him walk. God, she thought. What I wouldn't do to not be...me.
She thought about bolting again. She didn't really want to meet these people. She would see their faces before she closed her eyes every night, wondering if her boy was OK with these strangers. Was he warm? Happy? Sad? Safe? Brave? Did they teach him about life? Bake cookies for his class? What were they doing at 3:30 in the afternoon? She felt out of place, like everyone was staring. She felt panicky, the thought of simply walking out consuming her, just walking straight to the bus stop, then riding back to her room. Then crying, no doubt, crying until her shudders faded into a restless sleep. Sleep. The only thing she really enjoyed these days.
Shari sipped the water. The lemon lent it a tiny edge of sourness. There were days water was all she could stand, but her stomach growled in response to the coldness. Today wasn't one of those days. She was suddenly ravenous, and she felt a stirring inside of her, followed by a solid thump of a kick. She took another sip, and then another. OK, Thompson, she was beginning to tell herself, if you're not here by the time I finish this, I'm out of here.
Just then she saw his face, his graying hair plastered straight back with gel. He was always smiling. Shari wondered just how he could manage that as she began to extricate herself from her seat.
"Shari! So glad you made it! This is-," the lawyer began.
"Oh, sweetie, don't get up!," a woman said, coming around over Thompson's right shoulder. Her hair was cut short, almost like a boy, and she was wearing a suit with a long navy skirt and a soft creamy blouse. "I'm Janet, and this is my husband Mike, and-"
Shari started to sit back down. The woman gasped.
"Oh, honey. You're so beautiful. You're just- you're GLOWING!," she said loud enough for everyone to hear. Shari had heard the word before, but never in reference to herself. The older woman fluttered and cooed, asking questions without waiting for the answers.
"Now, Jan," Mike said. His voice was smooth and buttery, suitable for his classic good looks. He smiled, showing laugh lines. "Back off! You're going to scare the poor girl!"
Nonplussed, she continued, "But I just want you to know, hun, that we are just so overwhelmingly grateful that you would do this for us-"
Shari sat down, her vision beginning to blur. Janet was continuing to talk, and Shari was aware enough to be able to nod and smile earnestly. Was she doing it for them? For herself? Who was this about, anyway? Becoming pregnant wasn't something she did, it was something that happened, and she was dealing with it the best way she could. Shari looked at the two adults' faces, beaming with an inner light, grateful for something she was giving them, and something they were taking from her.
Tuesday, May 08, 2012
Terrible Minds Challenge: "Doom In The Sky"
Former presidential candidate Chuck Wendig issues his flash fiction call to arms this week in a saurian vein. All stories must involve dinosaurs. This is called "Doom In The Sky".
Watching a child in a museum crowd reminds me of my days playing high school basketball, when I was taught to use peripheral vision and constantly track both one's opponent and the ball. It's a peculiar routine, tracking exhibits with one eye and a child with another. As my chemistry teacher Mr. Turner always told us, when you're doing two things at once, you're doing one or both of them badly, and I was having trouble noticing any of the displays because I was preoccupied with tracking Dylan's mop of brown hair.
We were stopped in front of a dinosaur display, a giant T. Rex looming over both of us. My sister, pregnant and exhausted, begged me to take my nephew somewhere, anywhere, so I drove into the city to take him to the museum. "And I don't want him coming home with any gifts," she said as we left, but she always said that, and I never listened. Dylan was hard to say no to, and I wasn't inclined to do so in any case.
I knew the T. Rex was a rough approximation of what they actually looked like, steel and plaster and paint constructing a facsimile of a creature that could have stood here 65 million years ago. I remembered reading somewhere that they were probably more tropical beasts, but then again, the climate was different then. I always wondered how aware they really were. They almost certainly operated on a more basic level- just feed, and excrete, and reproduce. Then repeat. I envied the simplicity sometimes.
The crowd swirled and boiled around us- boys chased girls, girls chased boys. Parents gossiped, occasionally pausing to yell a command that wasn't heeded. A slim girl beamed as she held the hand of a rough looking boy, who seemed embarassed but secretly pleased. Young looking museum employees in blue polo shirts walked around aimlessly, preventing outright destruction while privately flirting with one another. It was humanity, caged in, surrounded by the history of everything on the planet.
"I like T. Rex," Dylan declared.
"You do?," I asked. "You're not scared of them?"
"Nope," he said. "Dinosaurs aren't real."
Not any more, they're not. "They aren't real now. But they used to be."
"When?"
How to explain a time span of millions of years to someone who finds it hard to wait from lunch until dinner?
"A long time ago."
"When you were a baby?"
Ouch, kid.
"Longer than that, pal. Before anyone you know was born."
"Wow," he said admiringly. "Like a kabillion years?"
"Yeah, about that."
"Can we go get ice cream?" He shifted gears like nobody's business. Take care of a root need- hunger.
It had to be easier to be a dinosaur, blissfully unaware that your time as master of the planet was short? No appointments, no schedules, no unemployment checks, no worries about your ex girlfriend or your novel that won't sell. Just acting, letting your primordial drives take the wheel. "Just do, don't think," Coach Turner would tell us. How much of my behavior was instinct, my lizard brain still running the show, my genetic heritage cutting through the clutter of society and decorum. I know Richard Dawkins would argue that I was a slave to my genes, acting to protect my nephew so that my genetic heritage, encoded in his tiny cells, would carry on. Even if I was only protecting him from an afternoon of Spongebob reruns.
"Of course we can, buddy. Don't tell Mom, OK?"
"Sure," he agreed. I knew he would tell her anyway, and I knew he would show her whatever trinket or stuffed animal he came home with. He hadn't learned to lie, which made him both endearing and dangerous.
I took his hand, and we walked through the maelstrom, his trust in me innocent and absolute. He knew nothing bad would happen as long as he held on. And nothing would, if I had anything to say about it. There were comets on the way, later on, that would disrupt everything he knew. Things like death, and heartbreak, and sadness; but for now, walking along with me, following the signs for the cafeteria, he was as unaware as a T.Rex, munching away on greenery as doom lights the sky behind him.
Watching a child in a museum crowd reminds me of my days playing high school basketball, when I was taught to use peripheral vision and constantly track both one's opponent and the ball. It's a peculiar routine, tracking exhibits with one eye and a child with another. As my chemistry teacher Mr. Turner always told us, when you're doing two things at once, you're doing one or both of them badly, and I was having trouble noticing any of the displays because I was preoccupied with tracking Dylan's mop of brown hair.
We were stopped in front of a dinosaur display, a giant T. Rex looming over both of us. My sister, pregnant and exhausted, begged me to take my nephew somewhere, anywhere, so I drove into the city to take him to the museum. "And I don't want him coming home with any gifts," she said as we left, but she always said that, and I never listened. Dylan was hard to say no to, and I wasn't inclined to do so in any case.
I knew the T. Rex was a rough approximation of what they actually looked like, steel and plaster and paint constructing a facsimile of a creature that could have stood here 65 million years ago. I remembered reading somewhere that they were probably more tropical beasts, but then again, the climate was different then. I always wondered how aware they really were. They almost certainly operated on a more basic level- just feed, and excrete, and reproduce. Then repeat. I envied the simplicity sometimes.
The crowd swirled and boiled around us- boys chased girls, girls chased boys. Parents gossiped, occasionally pausing to yell a command that wasn't heeded. A slim girl beamed as she held the hand of a rough looking boy, who seemed embarassed but secretly pleased. Young looking museum employees in blue polo shirts walked around aimlessly, preventing outright destruction while privately flirting with one another. It was humanity, caged in, surrounded by the history of everything on the planet.
"I like T. Rex," Dylan declared.
"You do?," I asked. "You're not scared of them?"
"Nope," he said. "Dinosaurs aren't real."
Not any more, they're not. "They aren't real now. But they used to be."
"When?"
How to explain a time span of millions of years to someone who finds it hard to wait from lunch until dinner?
"A long time ago."
"When you were a baby?"
Ouch, kid.
"Longer than that, pal. Before anyone you know was born."
"Wow," he said admiringly. "Like a kabillion years?"
"Yeah, about that."
"Can we go get ice cream?" He shifted gears like nobody's business. Take care of a root need- hunger.
It had to be easier to be a dinosaur, blissfully unaware that your time as master of the planet was short? No appointments, no schedules, no unemployment checks, no worries about your ex girlfriend or your novel that won't sell. Just acting, letting your primordial drives take the wheel. "Just do, don't think," Coach Turner would tell us. How much of my behavior was instinct, my lizard brain still running the show, my genetic heritage cutting through the clutter of society and decorum. I know Richard Dawkins would argue that I was a slave to my genes, acting to protect my nephew so that my genetic heritage, encoded in his tiny cells, would carry on. Even if I was only protecting him from an afternoon of Spongebob reruns.
"Of course we can, buddy. Don't tell Mom, OK?"
"Sure," he agreed. I knew he would tell her anyway, and I knew he would show her whatever trinket or stuffed animal he came home with. He hadn't learned to lie, which made him both endearing and dangerous.
I took his hand, and we walked through the maelstrom, his trust in me innocent and absolute. He knew nothing bad would happen as long as he held on. And nothing would, if I had anything to say about it. There were comets on the way, later on, that would disrupt everything he knew. Things like death, and heartbreak, and sadness; but for now, walking along with me, following the signs for the cafeteria, he was as unaware as a T.Rex, munching away on greenery as doom lights the sky behind him.
Tuesday, May 01, 2012
Trifecta Writing Challenge: "To Tell The Truth"
The Trifecta Writing Challenge is going with "thunder" this week. I call this "To Tell The Truth".
We had walked, and sang, and ran, and played outside, and read books, and ate. It was the time of the day where we slow down, not yet ready for bed, but definitely heading that way. You make an effort to say everything slowly and calmly, dimming the lights, sending gentle, subtle signals that it is time to go to sleep. Mommy and Daddy are due home long after bed, and while my nephew seems to have a certain understanding of the events, he still looked around now and then like he wasn't entirely sure.
"What's that sound?," he said. A hot day had evolved into a summer storm, one that couldn't help but be a little frightening. We heard a sharp bang, followed by a slow, rolling rumble and a gust of wind, splattering rain against the window.
"Thunder," I said.
"What's that?" He was at the "what's that" stage- a million questions, one following another, an endless sequence of queries. I gave brief thanks that my own child was long past this phase.
"Just a noise, buddy." I pictured the violent, hot strike of the lightning bolt, shoving the air aside, causing the waves that we processed as sound. It was just a noise, I knew, but it still spoke to one's lizard brain, telling you that you were in danger.
"Scary," he said.
"Yeah, it is," I said. I tried not to lie to him. "But we're OK."
"Are Mommy and Daddy coming home?" His head was resting on my thigh as he stared intently at the TV. I could smell the sweat from our last bout of roughhousing. On the screen, animated Batman was battling cartoon evil. The noise continued to thunder away at the windows.
"Yes, they are, buddy. You'll see them in the morning. Don't worry. They are safe. We are safe. Everything is okay."
I hoped that wasn't a lie, either.
We had walked, and sang, and ran, and played outside, and read books, and ate. It was the time of the day where we slow down, not yet ready for bed, but definitely heading that way. You make an effort to say everything slowly and calmly, dimming the lights, sending gentle, subtle signals that it is time to go to sleep. Mommy and Daddy are due home long after bed, and while my nephew seems to have a certain understanding of the events, he still looked around now and then like he wasn't entirely sure.
"What's that sound?," he said. A hot day had evolved into a summer storm, one that couldn't help but be a little frightening. We heard a sharp bang, followed by a slow, rolling rumble and a gust of wind, splattering rain against the window.
"Thunder," I said.
"What's that?" He was at the "what's that" stage- a million questions, one following another, an endless sequence of queries. I gave brief thanks that my own child was long past this phase.
"Just a noise, buddy." I pictured the violent, hot strike of the lightning bolt, shoving the air aside, causing the waves that we processed as sound. It was just a noise, I knew, but it still spoke to one's lizard brain, telling you that you were in danger.
"Scary," he said.
"Yeah, it is," I said. I tried not to lie to him. "But we're OK."
"Are Mommy and Daddy coming home?" His head was resting on my thigh as he stared intently at the TV. I could smell the sweat from our last bout of roughhousing. On the screen, animated Batman was battling cartoon evil. The noise continued to thunder away at the windows.
"Yes, they are, buddy. You'll see them in the morning. Don't worry. They are safe. We are safe. Everything is okay."
I hoped that wasn't a lie, either.
100 Word Song: "Ballad Of An Unknown Gun"
If it's Tuesday, this must be Belgium, and this also must be 100 Word Song Day. Leeroy and mi hombre Lance have gone with Ashtar Command's "Deadman's Gun". I call this "Ballad of an Unknown Gun."
"I just want it gone," my mother said. I thought about Hemingway, who got rid of the gun his father used, only to use a different gun to end his own life. It laid there in a wooden box, an inert piece of silver metal and polished wood. Someone worked hard to make this into a perfectly functional little object that was willing to serve the desires of whoever held it. It's kind of silly to blame a machine, I thought, for the errors of its operator. "Computers never make mistakes," my father used to say. "People often do."
"I just want it gone," my mother said. I thought about Hemingway, who got rid of the gun his father used, only to use a different gun to end his own life. It laid there in a wooden box, an inert piece of silver metal and polished wood. Someone worked hard to make this into a perfectly functional little object that was willing to serve the desires of whoever held it. It's kind of silly to blame a machine, I thought, for the errors of its operator. "Computers never make mistakes," my father used to say. "People often do."
Monday, April 30, 2012
100 Word Song: "The Friend Zone"
Mi amigo Leeroy, and his human pal Lance renew the 100 Word Song Challenge this week with the mighty Rolling Stones and a track off the first album of theirs I ever owned (vinyl, bitches!). The disc was "Tattoo You" and the song was a mellow track, "Waiting on a Friend". I call this "The Friend Zone".
Her voice was blubbering, with gulps of air between the words. "And he was there, with her, and they stopped kissing, and they looked at me. It was like they thought I was stupid, stupid for not knowing, stupid because I was the only one who didn't know." I couldn't see her, but I knew the way her face got red and hot with emotion, the way her blonde curls shook when she was angry. I always knew he was wrong for her, now she knew too. "I wish the boys I liked were like you," she said.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Flash Fiction Friday: "No Way Out (Heaven's Trail)"
The Flash Fiction Friday family has offered doubt as this week's topic. I call this story "No Way Out (Heaven's Trail)"
The Samuelsons were part of the 90% of the church that asked very little of anyone. They were there on Christmas and Easter, and they handed over their contribution when they were in the pews. They didn't join committees or sing in choir. They mostly kept to themselves, filing out briskly before anyone could socialize with them. When they started coming less and less, and then when the news blew through the congregation like an ill wind that their elaborately named daughter Cornelia was in serious medical trouble, I made sure they knew they could reach out to me.
When the call came, I set aside an afternoon, turning the corner into the oncology wing at about 1:30 or so. I shook hands with her father, a small, visibly nervous man, right outside her room. He was taking turns with his wife, one of them attempting to do work at home while the other sat vigil. His face and arms were tanned. He owned a landscaping firm, I thought.
"She's been waiting for you," he said. He looked tired, and he sounded beaten.
I squirted hand sanitizer into my palms and rubbed it in briskly.
"I would have come earlier if I had known," I said. "How is she?"
He didn't say anything, just looked down at the institutional gray tile floor. He sighed.
"Not so good. Do you mind if I go get a cup of coffee?," he said, steadily avoiding my gaze.
"No, not at all," I said. "I have lots of experience doing this. We're fine." I had walked into my share of hospital rooms, and seen just about everything it was possible to see. .
He walked off without another word, and I went into her room. I remembered Cornelia as a modest girl, a trim, pretty preteen, always turned out in her Sunday best, walking shyly a pace or two behind her parents as they leave the service. The girl I confronted now had lost all of her auburn hair, giving her a skeletal, alien appearance. Her skin, usually alabaster white, was splotched with ugly red patches. I knew enough not to react, but the contrast was striking. She barely looked human.
"Hi there," I ventured. She was hooked up to IVs, and there was a TV on a rocker arm way above her head, playing silently to no one. The gown hung on her skeletal form loosely, and I could see where her collarbone jutted out at the base of her neck.
"Hi Reverend," she said. Her voice was papery soft. She took a sip of water from a plastic cup in front of her. "Did my Dad leave?"
"Yes," I said. "He went to get something downstairs. He said you wanted to talk to me?"
"I need to ask you something," she said. It sounded like she couldn't get enough air to form the words.
"Absolutely," I said. "Anything at all."
"And you can't tell anyone what I tell you."
"No, sweetheart, no. I will absolutely keep this discussion between us. I wouldn't reveal it, and actually, legally, I can't. So ask me anything."
She took another sip of water, and laid her head back. I could see the outline of her chest more clearly now. I knew she was in middle school, but she was so thin she would pass for a tall second grader.
"Did God give me cancer?"
This was the Sunday punch of questions, and although I have answered it dozens of times, I've never felt like I answered it very well. There were volumes full of wisdom answering this question, from all faiths, across the centuries, and none of it helped.
"I don't think God does that. I think cancer is just part of the world we live in, and He gives us the strength to deal with it." It was hard to take on the cares of so many people. I thought about the scene in "Jesus Christ Superstar" where the actor says, "There is too little of me!" I know the Lord supports me, but it is hard not to feel alone, too.
"It's not because I did something bad? Not because of telling a lie? Or kissing a boy?"
"No, it's not because of anything anyone did. God understands we're not perfect. He loves us despite our mistakes." The trees were moving silently outside the window.
"But why, though? Why me?"
"I don't know, Cornelia. Nobody knows. A long time ago, I read a book where someone asked that question, and the answer was 'why not me?' I know that doesn't make sense, but we have to trust in God's plan. It's all we have." I looked at the highway in the distance, people rushing to get somewhere else, as fast as they could.
"It's not fair."
"No, no it's not."
"I'm never going to have a boyfriend. I'm never going to get married. I'm never going to get to do anything good. Why is that part of the plan, Reverend?"
"I don't know if that's true," I said.
"I think it is," she said firmly, then coughed once. "I hear the way they talk. I pretend I'm sleeping and they talk about me."
She was probably right. "I don't know why this is part of the plan. I really don't. All I can do, all any of us can do, is just trust that it is."
"So I'm not a bad person?"
"No, honey. You're not a bad person at all."
She yawned elaborately.
"Do you need to close your eyes, Cornelia?"
"A little bit," she said, and stretched, settling her tiny body again on the mattress.
"I'll let you go, then," I said. "If you need to talk, just have your mom or dad call me. I'm available whenever you need me."
"OK," she said, her voice thick and slow. "Thanks."
"Thank you, Cornelia. I'll pray for you."
"Thanks," she mumbled.
I backed out of the room. Her eyes fluttered and closed. Cornelia's father was sitting on a chair in front of the door, staring at the floor between his knees, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand. He looked up at me, and we both nodded. I walked down the hall, listening to the beeping and the chatter, the ringing phones and the rattling of carts. I was pretty sure she didn't believe my answers. I had trouble believing them too.
The Samuelsons were part of the 90% of the church that asked very little of anyone. They were there on Christmas and Easter, and they handed over their contribution when they were in the pews. They didn't join committees or sing in choir. They mostly kept to themselves, filing out briskly before anyone could socialize with them. When they started coming less and less, and then when the news blew through the congregation like an ill wind that their elaborately named daughter Cornelia was in serious medical trouble, I made sure they knew they could reach out to me.
When the call came, I set aside an afternoon, turning the corner into the oncology wing at about 1:30 or so. I shook hands with her father, a small, visibly nervous man, right outside her room. He was taking turns with his wife, one of them attempting to do work at home while the other sat vigil. His face and arms were tanned. He owned a landscaping firm, I thought.
"She's been waiting for you," he said. He looked tired, and he sounded beaten.
I squirted hand sanitizer into my palms and rubbed it in briskly.
"I would have come earlier if I had known," I said. "How is she?"
He didn't say anything, just looked down at the institutional gray tile floor. He sighed.
"Not so good. Do you mind if I go get a cup of coffee?," he said, steadily avoiding my gaze.
"No, not at all," I said. "I have lots of experience doing this. We're fine." I had walked into my share of hospital rooms, and seen just about everything it was possible to see. .
He walked off without another word, and I went into her room. I remembered Cornelia as a modest girl, a trim, pretty preteen, always turned out in her Sunday best, walking shyly a pace or two behind her parents as they leave the service. The girl I confronted now had lost all of her auburn hair, giving her a skeletal, alien appearance. Her skin, usually alabaster white, was splotched with ugly red patches. I knew enough not to react, but the contrast was striking. She barely looked human.
"Hi there," I ventured. She was hooked up to IVs, and there was a TV on a rocker arm way above her head, playing silently to no one. The gown hung on her skeletal form loosely, and I could see where her collarbone jutted out at the base of her neck.
"Hi Reverend," she said. Her voice was papery soft. She took a sip of water from a plastic cup in front of her. "Did my Dad leave?"
"Yes," I said. "He went to get something downstairs. He said you wanted to talk to me?"
"I need to ask you something," she said. It sounded like she couldn't get enough air to form the words.
"Absolutely," I said. "Anything at all."
"And you can't tell anyone what I tell you."
"No, sweetheart, no. I will absolutely keep this discussion between us. I wouldn't reveal it, and actually, legally, I can't. So ask me anything."
She took another sip of water, and laid her head back. I could see the outline of her chest more clearly now. I knew she was in middle school, but she was so thin she would pass for a tall second grader.
"Did God give me cancer?"
This was the Sunday punch of questions, and although I have answered it dozens of times, I've never felt like I answered it very well. There were volumes full of wisdom answering this question, from all faiths, across the centuries, and none of it helped.
"I don't think God does that. I think cancer is just part of the world we live in, and He gives us the strength to deal with it." It was hard to take on the cares of so many people. I thought about the scene in "Jesus Christ Superstar" where the actor says, "There is too little of me!" I know the Lord supports me, but it is hard not to feel alone, too.
"It's not because I did something bad? Not because of telling a lie? Or kissing a boy?"
"No, it's not because of anything anyone did. God understands we're not perfect. He loves us despite our mistakes." The trees were moving silently outside the window.
"But why, though? Why me?"
"I don't know, Cornelia. Nobody knows. A long time ago, I read a book where someone asked that question, and the answer was 'why not me?' I know that doesn't make sense, but we have to trust in God's plan. It's all we have." I looked at the highway in the distance, people rushing to get somewhere else, as fast as they could.
"It's not fair."
"No, no it's not."
"I'm never going to have a boyfriend. I'm never going to get married. I'm never going to get to do anything good. Why is that part of the plan, Reverend?"
"I don't know if that's true," I said.
"I think it is," she said firmly, then coughed once. "I hear the way they talk. I pretend I'm sleeping and they talk about me."
She was probably right. "I don't know why this is part of the plan. I really don't. All I can do, all any of us can do, is just trust that it is."
"So I'm not a bad person?"
"No, honey. You're not a bad person at all."
She yawned elaborately.
"Do you need to close your eyes, Cornelia?"
"A little bit," she said, and stretched, settling her tiny body again on the mattress.
"I'll let you go, then," I said. "If you need to talk, just have your mom or dad call me. I'm available whenever you need me."
"OK," she said, her voice thick and slow. "Thanks."
"Thank you, Cornelia. I'll pray for you."
"Thanks," she mumbled.
I backed out of the room. Her eyes fluttered and closed. Cornelia's father was sitting on a chair in front of the door, staring at the floor between his knees, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand. He looked up at me, and we both nodded. I walked down the hall, listening to the beeping and the chatter, the ringing phones and the rattling of carts. I was pretty sure she didn't believe my answers. I had trouble believing them too.
Monday, April 23, 2012
100 Word Song: "Three and One"
My bosom buddy Lance, who would be a first round pick in the Flash Fiction Contest Draft, and Leeroy, who is easily one of the best literary robots I have ever encountered, refill the 100 Word Song chalice with "Of Lilies and Remains" by Bauhaus. My entry is called "Three and One".
They were standing on top of a small hill, pretending the cold wind that made their t shirts stick to their bodies and the studs on their leather jackets jingle didn't affect them. They didn't say anything. None of them could think of anything to say. She had told them, all of them, before, at different times, in different ways, that she was tired of life and she couldn't take it anymore. That she was miserable. They thought she didn't really mean it, but standing here next to the flat gray stone, they knew she had.
They were standing on top of a small hill, pretending the cold wind that made their t shirts stick to their bodies and the studs on their leather jackets jingle didn't affect them. They didn't say anything. None of them could think of anything to say. She had told them, all of them, before, at different times, in different ways, that she was tired of life and she couldn't take it anymore. That she was miserable. They thought she didn't really mean it, but standing here next to the flat gray stone, they knew she had.
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