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This Week’s Theme: Use this quote as the spark, "I'm not one for sentimental endings. Not this time." "I'm not one for sentimental endings. Not this time." That’s what he said. When he slammed the car door. When he walked away into blue velvet. Those were his words, each one like the drumbeat to a funeral dirge, like the handful of stones I’m forced to carry in my heart. Sometimes I repeat them to myself, roll the syllables over my tongue. When the midnight pours in my window, cold and dark. When my bed feels as empty as my soul. Sometimes I imagine another ending and I write it down. “I’m not one for sentimental endings. But this is a beginning—” He would lean toward me, over cracked vinyl seats, cup my face in his hands and look into my eyes. The single tear sliding down my cheek would take his breath away for a moment, then he would kiss it away . . . “I’m not one for sentimental endings. But this is breaking my heart, I just can’t—” He would weep; he would beg me to stay. He would promise to change, to be different, to do anything I ask. One hand would slide over mine and he would pull me back into his arms. My face would be wet from his tears . . . “I’m not one for sentimental endings. Not this time.” I would turn away from him, the words still warm in my mouth. I would open the car door, swing my legs out onto pavement, stand up and feel an intoxicating sense of freedom. I am leaving him and he is devastated . . . Of all my imagined endings, this last one is my favorite, the one I rehearse when the ache drives me to my knees, the one that gets me through the day when I feel like a shadow walking through bright crowds. About Fiction Friday Technorati Tag Another Technorati Tag THE CARDINAL RULES TO FICTION FRIDAY: 1. Spend at least 5 minutes composing something original based on the theme or challenge. 2. But, remember, no editing. This is to inspire creativity not stifle it. 3. On Friday, simply post what you wrote to your own blog. 4. Then come back to Write Stuff and leave the link in the comment section of that week’s Fiction Friday post. |
10/10/07
Fiction Friday: October 12
9/17/07
Point A to Point B
The transformation from man to dog went smoother than Wilbur expected. He didn't have any problems until it was time to fly the spaceship home. He kept mistaking the steering wheel for a bone, and before he knew he could stop himself, he chewed it to pieces.
9/15/07
A Shocking Revelation
Yikes! A shocking revelation for all Alien Dream lovers:
Monday we will begin the 3-day interview with Becky Miller.
And we will attempt to keep up with the blog tour for Austin Boyd, a way cool writer dude that all of you need to check out. Really.
So, as we say in the biz, be there or be alien square.
Stay tuned, same bat time, same bat channel.
Well, same bat channel if you tune in to Alien Dream, that is.
NOBODY KNOWS
What they are doing now? Are they frozen in place like marionettes? Do strings hold every muscle in check? Do their eyes flash, twin beacons of red light, waiting for the power to come back on?
Right now the stage is in shadow and the lights are all turned off.
But even I can’t see through the dark.
Maybe they have given up waiting for me, the only audience they have right now. Maybe they are all taking a break. Chaz has probably wandered to the edge of the set, smoking a cigarette between sips of coffee. All the dead children are probably eating peanut butter sandwiches and listening to an English tutor conjugate verbs. Maybe a make-up artist is touching up the ash on their faces before carefully arranging them on the floor again, a tangled puzzle of pre-pubescent bodies.
They’re all in position now. I can’t see it, but I can sense it, an edgy awareness, a sizzling knife blade of anticipation. Apparently they have all noticed that I am sitting here, poised before the keyboard.
I think I can hear Chaz, sliding a cell phone into his hip pocket, a half-smile on his face as he thinks about the date he has with Beth Morgenstein, his real life girlfriend. They’re probably planning to meet later for cocktails in that trendy new club down in Hollywood. I know he’s growing tired of playing the cynical bad boy with a heart of platinum, tired of never breaking the law unless it’s for a greater cause, tired of a world where real alcohol is only sold on the black market in shadow bars that move from one location to the next.
I can see him now as he closes his eyes, brushes blond bangs off his forehead. The make-up artist checks his face, brushes it with a gossamer layer of ash, then moves swiftly off camera. Chaz glances at me, gives an almost imperceptible nod.
Then he is completely in character again. I am invisible as the lights go up, smoke filters onto the set. Flames smolder around the edges of the doorframe.
He walks across the room, leans down beside Angelique, and he wonders if she is still alive.
But nobody knows.
Only me.
9/12/07
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This Week’s Theme: Write a story, poem, or essay from the point of view of an inanimate object. I roll out the door, down the stairs. I bounce, HIGH, I bounce, LOW. The air sings around me, the grass flows like liquid green silk as I finally, breathlessly roll to a stop. I rest. Sigh. Stare up at blue heavens and imagine the freedom of clouds. I'm only free for a few moments, whenever some hand tosses me from one point in the universe to another. I'd rather roll, jump, hop, or dance. But I lay. Still. Waiting. Someone comes out the door and I try to get their attention. Here I am, I whisper. Too soft. They don’t hear me. Play with me, I say, louder this time. One of them, a little boy looks in my direction, scratches his head, then turns away. Get over here and play with me, I shout. I'm angry now, feeling neglected and sorry for myself. All of a sudden I see The Dreaded Creature lumbering toward me. I realize, a moment too late, that I should have kept my round rubber mouth shut. I should have rested beneath the coppery sun, delighted in the fragrant lilac breeze. But now the monster is coming. The big slobbery mouth full of teeth draws nearer. Massive jaws open and, in a horrid life-altering moment, they clamp down on me, block out the sun and the sky. I am jogging over to the shade beneath an oak tree now. Dropped to the ground, sodden. Picked up again, chewed on, dropped. Picked up, dropped, a dizzying loop of up and down and up again. That Awful Dog has me in its clutches. Again. I should have been quiet. I was free, on the grass. I was part of a poetic moment of tranquil beauty. But now I am dog-breath and slobber and riddled with tooth marks. And this beast thinks I am its new best friend.  About Fiction Friday Technorati Tag Another Technorati Tag THE CARDINAL RULES TO FICTION FRIDAY: 1. Spend at least 5 minutes composing something original based on the theme or challenge. 2. But, remember, no editing. This is to inspire creativity not stifle it. 3. On Friday, simply post what you wrote to your own blog. 4. Then come back to Write Stuff and leave the link in the comment section of that week’s Fiction Friday post. NOTE: If you are participating in Fiction Friday, post a comment and I'll give you a link. Enjoy! 1. Bloggin' Outloud 2. Broad thoughts from home 3. Drawing on words 4. Ric 5. Paul Anderson 6. Webster You're next 7. Paisley 8. Tumblewords |
Fiction Friday's Coming
Stay tuned, alien lovers. Fiction Friday is coming.
If you want to play along, check this out.
See you on Friday.
If you want to play along, check this out.
See you on Friday.
9/11/07
Dirty Jobs
The door opened. Inside a pale light glowed. Red. A womblike enclosure.
“Come in,” a voice beckoned.
He hesitated. Not sure how he got here. A slight confusion settled in his mind, his last actions wiped clean.
Shadows flickered in the doorway, tall, thin, spindly creatures.
“Come along, now.” Impatient, the tone deepened an octave.
He crossed the threshold, limbs stiff and heavy, movements lethargic. It felt like he was moving through mud. Someone, or something, sat at a desk, tapping a pen on a piece of parchment. Waiting.
“Sit.”
He sat. Didn’t want to look the thing in the face-its eyes seemed to glow, its breath came out in sulfurous puffs.
“Name?” It held the pen poised, ready to write.
“You know my name. I mean, I thought—didn’t someone else already ask me all these questions?”
“Name?” It lifted its head. Yellow eyes stared, unblinking.
“David.”
“Full name.”
“David Berg.”
It wrote, dark ink on leathery parchment. Then it opened a book, started flipping through pages. “Mmmmm. Yes. Here you are.” It ran a bony finger over the page, nodded its head.
David looked around. The burgundy walls throbbed, flesh-like. They seemed to be constricting, shrinking, breathing. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be here—”
The creature didn’t lift its head. It continued to read.
“—there’s obviously some sort of mistake—”
It held up a hand to silence him, and kept reading. Turned the page, read some more.
Someone screamed outside, back in the corridor. David turned in his chair. He saw a body being dragged off into shadowy gloom. A temporary chill flooded the room, then vanished.
The beast leaned back in its chair, crossed its arms, finished with what it was reading. “That’s quite a dossier, Berg. Didn’t realize you were on our side.”
“I’m not on your side. I’m not on anybody’s side.”
“Yes. That thing with the children, the way you threw religion into the mix, we love that sort of thing here.”
“And where am I exactly?”
“This?” The creature stretched out its arms, pride in its voice. “This is the place of beginnings. This is the womb, the birth canal. Soon you will be born into your new home.”
“I’d rather go back to my old home. I’d like to leave—”
“Yes.”
Invisible hands gripped David then, held him in place. A narrow hole opened in the floor, a flesh and blood tunnel that led someplace dark. A foul stench bled into the room. The invisible hands were touching him now.
“No. Stop!”
He was being pulled into the tunnel and the hands continued to touch him, everywhere. Invisible fingers were probing his mouth, his eyes, his ears, every part of his body. When he struggled, they grabbed even harder. He couldn’t breathe.
“No, make them stop,” he pleaded. “Please, make them stop. Oh my god!”
“But Mr. Berg, we couldn’t possibly stop,” the creature grinned. “You see, this is your god.”
David Berg perched on the lip of the opening now, a fleshy tunnel that led forever downward. He screamed, but no one heard. The hands were inside his mouth, in his throat, in his lungs. He tumbled over the edge and with a horrid wet sucking noise, he slid out of sight.
The creature sighed. Closed its eyes for a rapt moment. Then tapped its pen on the desk, lifted its head and looked toward the hallway.
“Next.”
“Come in,” a voice beckoned.
He hesitated. Not sure how he got here. A slight confusion settled in his mind, his last actions wiped clean.
Shadows flickered in the doorway, tall, thin, spindly creatures.
“Come along, now.” Impatient, the tone deepened an octave.
He crossed the threshold, limbs stiff and heavy, movements lethargic. It felt like he was moving through mud. Someone, or something, sat at a desk, tapping a pen on a piece of parchment. Waiting.
“Sit.”
He sat. Didn’t want to look the thing in the face-its eyes seemed to glow, its breath came out in sulfurous puffs.
“Name?” It held the pen poised, ready to write.
“You know my name. I mean, I thought—didn’t someone else already ask me all these questions?”
“Name?” It lifted its head. Yellow eyes stared, unblinking.
“David.”
“Full name.”
“David Berg.”
It wrote, dark ink on leathery parchment. Then it opened a book, started flipping through pages. “Mmmmm. Yes. Here you are.” It ran a bony finger over the page, nodded its head.
David looked around. The burgundy walls throbbed, flesh-like. They seemed to be constricting, shrinking, breathing. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be here—”
The creature didn’t lift its head. It continued to read.
“—there’s obviously some sort of mistake—”
It held up a hand to silence him, and kept reading. Turned the page, read some more.
Someone screamed outside, back in the corridor. David turned in his chair. He saw a body being dragged off into shadowy gloom. A temporary chill flooded the room, then vanished.
The beast leaned back in its chair, crossed its arms, finished with what it was reading. “That’s quite a dossier, Berg. Didn’t realize you were on our side.”
“I’m not on your side. I’m not on anybody’s side.”
“Yes. That thing with the children, the way you threw religion into the mix, we love that sort of thing here.”
“And where am I exactly?”
“This?” The creature stretched out its arms, pride in its voice. “This is the place of beginnings. This is the womb, the birth canal. Soon you will be born into your new home.”
“I’d rather go back to my old home. I’d like to leave—”
“Yes.”
Invisible hands gripped David then, held him in place. A narrow hole opened in the floor, a flesh and blood tunnel that led someplace dark. A foul stench bled into the room. The invisible hands were touching him now.
“No. Stop!”
He was being pulled into the tunnel and the hands continued to touch him, everywhere. Invisible fingers were probing his mouth, his eyes, his ears, every part of his body. When he struggled, they grabbed even harder. He couldn’t breathe.
“No, make them stop,” he pleaded. “Please, make them stop. Oh my god!”
“But Mr. Berg, we couldn’t possibly stop,” the creature grinned. “You see, this is your god.”
David Berg perched on the lip of the opening now, a fleshy tunnel that led forever downward. He screamed, but no one heard. The hands were inside his mouth, in his throat, in his lungs. He tumbled over the edge and with a horrid wet sucking noise, he slid out of sight.
The creature sighed. Closed its eyes for a rapt moment. Then tapped its pen on the desk, lifted its head and looked toward the hallway.
“Next.”
9/8/07
Writer's Block: Kick Start
There are no rules and yet, there are too many rules. I write, not because I want to; in fact, I am afraid of writing, of saying the wrong thing. Of constantly writing and then rewriting, and then never finishing anything of value.
Perhaps I fear being misunderstood or undervalued.
Perhaps I am looking for that perfect lead sentence, that set of words that tumbles miraculously off the page, that kick-starts the reader’s brain and devours him alive, that binds him and bribes him and subjugates him, somehow convinces him to read the entire volume of say, 25 or 250 pages. He must not only read, but love. No not love, but be consumed by the vision contained within those pages. He must be motivated to his own sense of greatness, must become a better human, must be saved and must discover that my writing revealed some quintessential knowledge that he simply couldn’t have lived without.
I think perhaps my goals have been set too high.
Perhaps I should allow myself to write. To make mistakes. To never be published. To pursue the art of communicating with letters and words and sentences, to let the forming of ideas, characters and plots be the end in itself. Let the people come to life on my page. Let them inhabit my world.
And then, if I chose, let them meet other people, people who have been deemed “real” and therefore better; people who have been appointed judge and jury; people who may or may not decide whether my fictitious world is worthy of becoming the literary Disneyland, the amusement venue for those who seek entertainment for today and today alone.
Maybe I should be writing . . .
Perhaps I fear being misunderstood or undervalued.
Perhaps I am looking for that perfect lead sentence, that set of words that tumbles miraculously off the page, that kick-starts the reader’s brain and devours him alive, that binds him and bribes him and subjugates him, somehow convinces him to read the entire volume of say, 25 or 250 pages. He must not only read, but love. No not love, but be consumed by the vision contained within those pages. He must be motivated to his own sense of greatness, must become a better human, must be saved and must discover that my writing revealed some quintessential knowledge that he simply couldn’t have lived without.
I think perhaps my goals have been set too high.
Perhaps I should allow myself to write. To make mistakes. To never be published. To pursue the art of communicating with letters and words and sentences, to let the forming of ideas, characters and plots be the end in itself. Let the people come to life on my page. Let them inhabit my world.
And then, if I chose, let them meet other people, people who have been deemed “real” and therefore better; people who have been appointed judge and jury; people who may or may not decide whether my fictitious world is worthy of becoming the literary Disneyland, the amusement venue for those who seek entertainment for today and today alone.
Maybe I should be writing . . .
The Deep End
Summers were filled with a bright outside, layers of concrete and sunshine; and dark shadowy insides. My mother would sleep, shades drawn; grey on grey shadows filtered from room to room as a fan thumped stale, humid air out onto city streets. I would leave our apartment in the morning and walk to my best friend's house while it was still cool. Together we made the journey over steaming sidewalks to Tenth Avenue.
There, a midwestern paradise reigned. Damp wet concrete tunnels housed the changing rooms. A horrid lack of privacy, a bank of public showers, then a wide stairway led toward filtered light. The smell of chlorine and the wet smack of bare feet on rough cement.
And then a brilliant glare.
A bright white-hot sun ate the heavens, washed away all color. All that remained were white and aquamarine. Now you could taste the chlorine in the air, mingled with the soft fragrance of Coppertone suntan lotion.
Water splashed. Children yelled. Mothers and teenagers lounged on carefully spread towels.
My best friend and I entered a magical world. A world of liquid imagination. Here we could float away from the reality of the blue-collar working class. The stench of machine oil and factory dust evaporated. Gone was the feeling that I didn't fit in with the rest of the two-parent world. I walked through crystal water and everything changed. Fairy tales came to life as we imagined we were princesses; my black hair transformed to platinum and like a mermaid, I wore crowns encrusted with aquamarines.
Light played on the water, on the surface that was our skin.
And always, as the day progressed, I grew bolder. Crossing rope boundaries into ever-deeper water. My friend would protest, but I would swim, heedless, under the rope—from the shallow end, where we could easily touch the bottom, to the middle, where we could barely stand on our tiptoes. And then finally to the deep end, where the bottom was legendary, a mythical kingdom where the water changed color, where the water grew cold.
And then, when I had had enough with diving below the ropes and reaching new limits, then I would climb up the ladder. I would pad my way to the diving board while my friend watched.
I would get in line behind the other kids, my heart thumping, my arms wrapped around myself as I shivered. I waited. And waited. Moving a foot at a time. Then finally I would stand at the bottom of the ladder. Here it was impossible to tell when the person at the top had jumped. I had to wait. I had to get the message from someone who could see.
Go! Jump! They would say, as soon as the person above me had left the board. Even before I heard the splash, I was scrambling up the ladder, rungs slippery, hands reaching for the sky.
When I reached the top, everything changed. All the shouting and laughing turned silent. Everyone and everything became small. I could only hear my own breathing.
The board stretched before me, narrow and long. It bounced as I walked. There was always a moment when I stood at the very end that I wondered why I was here. Why had I agreed to climb up here?
But a horizon of water called to me from below. Deep. Cold. Challenging.
A bounce and a jump.
Falling. Lightning quick. Holding my breath.
A splash. Then silence. A turquoise world. Falling down. Farther and farther. One toe touched the bottom. Deep blue. Icy. Then I pushed off with one foot and I would shoot to the top. Lungs screaming. Arms pulling.
Another splash and I was on the surface. Gasping. Flailing. Pretending that I knew what to do. I only knew a little bit about swimming and now I had to do my best imitation. If the lifeguards saw me struggling, they would kick me out of the deep end.
And I had to stay.
It was a point when I was out of control; I was literally in over my head, pushing every boundary, pretending to be something that I wasn't. At that point in my ten-year-old life I had just mastered an awkward dog paddle, a stroke that could barely keep my head above water, as long as another kid didn't make a huge wave. I drank chlorine by the mouthful, coughed and choked.
And I always kept my eyes on the ladder. My goal.
Sometimes I feel like I'm in the deep end today. When an unexpected challenge looms ahead. It's funny, but I'm not as brave as I was at ten, back when I only had my life to lose. Things like getting lost on uncharted freeways or flying across the country seem much worse than not making it to the swimming pool ladder.
But back then, risking my life was always accompanied by a moment of peace.
Under the water, all sound disappeared, everything slowed down; it became another world, my body changed into something amphibious. Breathing stopped. Thinking stopped. It all become a wondrous gelatinous moment-of-being, separated from everything and yet surrounded by everything at the same time. Light filtered down through rippling blue. Bodies flew past like we were in outer space, like we were all flying in slow motion, like we had all entered another dimension.
Like we were created for another world. And for one fraction of a second, we all acknowledged it was true.
There, a midwestern paradise reigned. Damp wet concrete tunnels housed the changing rooms. A horrid lack of privacy, a bank of public showers, then a wide stairway led toward filtered light. The smell of chlorine and the wet smack of bare feet on rough cement.
And then a brilliant glare.
A bright white-hot sun ate the heavens, washed away all color. All that remained were white and aquamarine. Now you could taste the chlorine in the air, mingled with the soft fragrance of Coppertone suntan lotion.
Water splashed. Children yelled. Mothers and teenagers lounged on carefully spread towels.
My best friend and I entered a magical world. A world of liquid imagination. Here we could float away from the reality of the blue-collar working class. The stench of machine oil and factory dust evaporated. Gone was the feeling that I didn't fit in with the rest of the two-parent world. I walked through crystal water and everything changed. Fairy tales came to life as we imagined we were princesses; my black hair transformed to platinum and like a mermaid, I wore crowns encrusted with aquamarines.
Light played on the water, on the surface that was our skin.
And always, as the day progressed, I grew bolder. Crossing rope boundaries into ever-deeper water. My friend would protest, but I would swim, heedless, under the rope—from the shallow end, where we could easily touch the bottom, to the middle, where we could barely stand on our tiptoes. And then finally to the deep end, where the bottom was legendary, a mythical kingdom where the water changed color, where the water grew cold.
And then, when I had had enough with diving below the ropes and reaching new limits, then I would climb up the ladder. I would pad my way to the diving board while my friend watched.
I would get in line behind the other kids, my heart thumping, my arms wrapped around myself as I shivered. I waited. And waited. Moving a foot at a time. Then finally I would stand at the bottom of the ladder. Here it was impossible to tell when the person at the top had jumped. I had to wait. I had to get the message from someone who could see.
Go! Jump! They would say, as soon as the person above me had left the board. Even before I heard the splash, I was scrambling up the ladder, rungs slippery, hands reaching for the sky.
When I reached the top, everything changed. All the shouting and laughing turned silent. Everyone and everything became small. I could only hear my own breathing.
The board stretched before me, narrow and long. It bounced as I walked. There was always a moment when I stood at the very end that I wondered why I was here. Why had I agreed to climb up here?
But a horizon of water called to me from below. Deep. Cold. Challenging.
A bounce and a jump.
Falling. Lightning quick. Holding my breath.
A splash. Then silence. A turquoise world. Falling down. Farther and farther. One toe touched the bottom. Deep blue. Icy. Then I pushed off with one foot and I would shoot to the top. Lungs screaming. Arms pulling.
Another splash and I was on the surface. Gasping. Flailing. Pretending that I knew what to do. I only knew a little bit about swimming and now I had to do my best imitation. If the lifeguards saw me struggling, they would kick me out of the deep end.
And I had to stay.
It was a point when I was out of control; I was literally in over my head, pushing every boundary, pretending to be something that I wasn't. At that point in my ten-year-old life I had just mastered an awkward dog paddle, a stroke that could barely keep my head above water, as long as another kid didn't make a huge wave. I drank chlorine by the mouthful, coughed and choked.
And I always kept my eyes on the ladder. My goal.
Sometimes I feel like I'm in the deep end today. When an unexpected challenge looms ahead. It's funny, but I'm not as brave as I was at ten, back when I only had my life to lose. Things like getting lost on uncharted freeways or flying across the country seem much worse than not making it to the swimming pool ladder.
But back then, risking my life was always accompanied by a moment of peace.
Under the water, all sound disappeared, everything slowed down; it became another world, my body changed into something amphibious. Breathing stopped. Thinking stopped. It all become a wondrous gelatinous moment-of-being, separated from everything and yet surrounded by everything at the same time. Light filtered down through rippling blue. Bodies flew past like we were in outer space, like we were all flying in slow motion, like we had all entered another dimension.
Like we were created for another world. And for one fraction of a second, we all acknowledged it was true.
The Send Button
I think the fear of failure and the fear of success are twin sisters. They play together in the dark; hold hands while they run through the rain. They laugh and giggle and sleep under my bed like childhood monsters; sometimes they whisper things only my dearest friend should know. They tell tales about my inadequacies, and rarely need to embellish for I am fraught with enough details to entertain an entire gymnasium. They are blood relatives to that other set of dastardly twins, depression and anxiety. I think they all phone each other, a hellish conference call that could only take place during a full moon, and brainstorm on ways to stick yet another 9-inch pin into the Voodoo doll that is me.
And yes, I am supposed to be writing.
Isn’t that what I am doing right now?
Paranoia? I think not.
See, they really are out to get me. What they don’t know is that the keys are moving and words are flowing, a river of thought—discordant and jumbled, yes. First drafts are as snarled as mermaid hair, with bits of seaweed and fish scales thrown in for color. First drafts are as maudlin as a middle-aged streetwalker sauntering through a gated community, or as embarrassing as an alcoholic parent coming to visit during the holidays. It’s all about wearing your naked heart on your figurative sleeve. Let the world see it. Or at least pretend to let them see. You’ll always have that second draft, you know.
Unless, somehow, you accidentally hit the “send” button. And you turn in the first version by mistake.
Whatever you do, don’t tell either set of twins what I just said. That would give them yet another stone to cast when I am lying on the floor, my brain empty of ideas and my deadlines looming. Let them think my fears have mysteriously vanished, that I have been healed, that the writing demons no longer gnaw at my heels. Perhaps the twins will go and visit my neighbor instead. I think she needs an hour or two of desolation to break up her cheery day. She smiles entirely too often. Perhaps she has been in cahoots with these evildoers all along.
I’m convinced the twins need to get a life, they’re stuck in a rut, they need to go pick on someone else. I’m entirely too small and unimportant. I mean, somewhere out there someone is actually making an important decision or two. Shouldn’t he/she be the one riddled with doubt? I think this is like getting someone else’s poison pen mail. All this doubt and insecurity has to really belong to someone else, someone with a greater purpose.
All I should be worried about is whether I should have a cheese quesadilla or a bean burrito for lunch. And maybe whether I should polish off that bag of cookies while I’m at it.
And yes, I am supposed to be writing.
Isn’t that what I am doing right now?
Paranoia? I think not.
See, they really are out to get me. What they don’t know is that the keys are moving and words are flowing, a river of thought—discordant and jumbled, yes. First drafts are as snarled as mermaid hair, with bits of seaweed and fish scales thrown in for color. First drafts are as maudlin as a middle-aged streetwalker sauntering through a gated community, or as embarrassing as an alcoholic parent coming to visit during the holidays. It’s all about wearing your naked heart on your figurative sleeve. Let the world see it. Or at least pretend to let them see. You’ll always have that second draft, you know.
Unless, somehow, you accidentally hit the “send” button. And you turn in the first version by mistake.
Whatever you do, don’t tell either set of twins what I just said. That would give them yet another stone to cast when I am lying on the floor, my brain empty of ideas and my deadlines looming. Let them think my fears have mysteriously vanished, that I have been healed, that the writing demons no longer gnaw at my heels. Perhaps the twins will go and visit my neighbor instead. I think she needs an hour or two of desolation to break up her cheery day. She smiles entirely too often. Perhaps she has been in cahoots with these evildoers all along.
I’m convinced the twins need to get a life, they’re stuck in a rut, they need to go pick on someone else. I’m entirely too small and unimportant. I mean, somewhere out there someone is actually making an important decision or two. Shouldn’t he/she be the one riddled with doubt? I think this is like getting someone else’s poison pen mail. All this doubt and insecurity has to really belong to someone else, someone with a greater purpose.
All I should be worried about is whether I should have a cheese quesadilla or a bean burrito for lunch. And maybe whether I should polish off that bag of cookies while I’m at it.
The Silent Yes
I grew up in a family where yes was said too often. Sometimes the yes was silent, but it was still yes. Always yes.
Up the hill, the Janes and Jills lived in brick houses, had two parents and multiple cars that waited patiently inside ample garages. In my house, there were two parents and four girls and two boys—in the beginning. By the time I was eight, this had been whittled down to one parent and two girls. To this day, I sometimes think that if I stand still long enough, everyone around me will melt and disappear. They will blow away like dust on the brittle wind and I will wonder if they ever truly existed.
Alcohol ran like a raging river beside my house. Both of my parents grabbed buckets and ran down to its rocky banks, where they freely drank. Sometimes they stumbled home together. Not always.
This was all normal to me. Not good, but normal. It wasn’t until I walked into someone else’s house, one of those brick everything-is-perfect-here varieties, that I felt the dirt beneath my fingernails. Fortunately, all my friends lived in wooden houses. All their parents had secret maps that led them to the river, and they all took turns drenching themselves.
Some people have fragrant memories of family vacations and birthday parties. For me, my childhood comes rushing back in a stomach twisting lurch whenever I walk past the open door of a tavern.
Somewhere along the way, at a very early age, I became an artist. It may have been my path of escape. It may have been a means of expression. I don’t know. For me it was as important as breathing. It was survival. Drawing, painting and writing were the fingerprints I left on the world; they were the way I touched, felt and comprehended everything. Reading was the vehicle that transported me to another world, a safe land where all the bad things happened to someone else. My art was the thing that allowed me to stay human, that gave me the ability to feel when I should have been numb. It was what gave me hope and it was the thread that led to my future.
When my friends dropped out of school and went to work in one of the many soul-eating factories, I clenched my teeth and said, “Not me.”
I wish I would have had more as a teenager—we all long for more, it’s part of our nature—I wish I could have known God intimately. I wish I could have ridden the waves of adolescence with Him.
But that wasn’t what happened. I didn’t meet Him until later. Much later
Up the hill, the Janes and Jills lived in brick houses, had two parents and multiple cars that waited patiently inside ample garages. In my house, there were two parents and four girls and two boys—in the beginning. By the time I was eight, this had been whittled down to one parent and two girls. To this day, I sometimes think that if I stand still long enough, everyone around me will melt and disappear. They will blow away like dust on the brittle wind and I will wonder if they ever truly existed.
Alcohol ran like a raging river beside my house. Both of my parents grabbed buckets and ran down to its rocky banks, where they freely drank. Sometimes they stumbled home together. Not always.
This was all normal to me. Not good, but normal. It wasn’t until I walked into someone else’s house, one of those brick everything-is-perfect-here varieties, that I felt the dirt beneath my fingernails. Fortunately, all my friends lived in wooden houses. All their parents had secret maps that led them to the river, and they all took turns drenching themselves.
Some people have fragrant memories of family vacations and birthday parties. For me, my childhood comes rushing back in a stomach twisting lurch whenever I walk past the open door of a tavern.
Somewhere along the way, at a very early age, I became an artist. It may have been my path of escape. It may have been a means of expression. I don’t know. For me it was as important as breathing. It was survival. Drawing, painting and writing were the fingerprints I left on the world; they were the way I touched, felt and comprehended everything. Reading was the vehicle that transported me to another world, a safe land where all the bad things happened to someone else. My art was the thing that allowed me to stay human, that gave me the ability to feel when I should have been numb. It was what gave me hope and it was the thread that led to my future.
When my friends dropped out of school and went to work in one of the many soul-eating factories, I clenched my teeth and said, “Not me.”
I wish I would have had more as a teenager—we all long for more, it’s part of our nature—I wish I could have known God intimately. I wish I could have ridden the waves of adolescence with Him.
But that wasn’t what happened. I didn’t meet Him until later. Much later
Kaleidoscope Kiss
I didn’t expect to see him at the party. He was older than us, this tall handsome man with the dazzling smile. Like a dancer, he moved through our underground culture, teaching everyone the new steps, peddling the new music, the new clothes, the new ideas.
We should have run, I suppose. But we couldn’t. We were his flock of baby lambs, following him, longing to drink from his well of western culture.
That night the Illinois summer rolled out in all her glory: a magic carpet of starlit skies, sultry clouds of fireflies, a thick sticky humidity that drove us all outside.
Smoke wafted, strong and pungent, from one cluster of teenagers to the next.
My skin chilled as my best friend and I walked over dewy grass, crickets competing with the dark, pulsing drone of In A Gadda Da Vida. Midnight blue shadows disguised faces. Lawn chairs sprawled over a gentle hill.
It was there that this mesmerizing creature of the night swooped my friend into his arms, caught her in his trap for the evening. She curled on his lap, drank kisses mixed with red wine. His pretty lips curved in a grin and when he spoke everyone listened. He was more experienced than we were.
He was married.
He told a story that burned in my 16-year-old brain.
He was lying beside his wife, he said, caressing her swollen, pregnant belly one evening. And then, without warning, he placed a tiny tab of LSD on her lips. They both poised, waiting, this kaleidoscope kiss pressed against her lips, this deadly temptation.
Like a baby bird, she opened her mouth. Expectant. Eager.
He held the tab, just beyond the reach of her tongue.
Was there a quiet cry in that moment? A silent scream from her womb? Did the heavens rip, from top to bottom; did swords flash as dark sinister shadows fought shimmering white beings?
He held the tab above his wife’s mouth, ignored all the warnings of the maimed, the armless, the malformed. He teased her until she begged him to give it to her, and then he took the temptation away. He took the acid himself.
He ended the story with a laugh and none of us could tell whether he was the hero or the villain. He leaned down in that instant, enveloped my friend in another wine-drenched kiss.
The worst part of it all was that, despite the awkward hush that fell over us, his tale didn’t diminish his beauty. It didn’t loosen his hold.
We all sat poised like baby birds with our mouths open.
Waiting. Hoping.
Longing for his kaleidoscope kiss.
We should have run, I suppose. But we couldn’t. We were his flock of baby lambs, following him, longing to drink from his well of western culture.
That night the Illinois summer rolled out in all her glory: a magic carpet of starlit skies, sultry clouds of fireflies, a thick sticky humidity that drove us all outside.
Smoke wafted, strong and pungent, from one cluster of teenagers to the next.
My skin chilled as my best friend and I walked over dewy grass, crickets competing with the dark, pulsing drone of In A Gadda Da Vida. Midnight blue shadows disguised faces. Lawn chairs sprawled over a gentle hill.
It was there that this mesmerizing creature of the night swooped my friend into his arms, caught her in his trap for the evening. She curled on his lap, drank kisses mixed with red wine. His pretty lips curved in a grin and when he spoke everyone listened. He was more experienced than we were.
He was married.
He told a story that burned in my 16-year-old brain.
He was lying beside his wife, he said, caressing her swollen, pregnant belly one evening. And then, without warning, he placed a tiny tab of LSD on her lips. They both poised, waiting, this kaleidoscope kiss pressed against her lips, this deadly temptation.
Like a baby bird, she opened her mouth. Expectant. Eager.
He held the tab, just beyond the reach of her tongue.
Was there a quiet cry in that moment? A silent scream from her womb? Did the heavens rip, from top to bottom; did swords flash as dark sinister shadows fought shimmering white beings?
He held the tab above his wife’s mouth, ignored all the warnings of the maimed, the armless, the malformed. He teased her until she begged him to give it to her, and then he took the temptation away. He took the acid himself.
He ended the story with a laugh and none of us could tell whether he was the hero or the villain. He leaned down in that instant, enveloped my friend in another wine-drenched kiss.
The worst part of it all was that, despite the awkward hush that fell over us, his tale didn’t diminish his beauty. It didn’t loosen his hold.
We all sat poised like baby birds with our mouths open.
Waiting. Hoping.
Longing for his kaleidoscope kiss.
9/7/07
Crop Circles: Volume One
Contents:
Stories from the barren edge of the universe, from the flat edge of the earth. Thoughts that exist in between yes and no, between go and stay. Words that flow like alien wheat on the brittle solar wind.
1. Writer's Block: Kick Start
There are no rules and yet, there are too many rules. I write, not because I want to; in fact, I am afraid of writing, of saying the wrong thing. Of constantly writing and then rewriting, and then never finishing anything of value. . .
2. The Deep End
Summers were filled with a bright outside, layers of concrete and sunshine; and dark shadowy insides. My mother would sleep, shades drawn; grey on grey shadows filtered from room to room as a fan thumped stale, humid air out onto city streets. I would leave our apartment in the morning and walk to my best friend's house while it was still cool. . .
3. The Send Button
I think the fear of failure and the fear of success are twin sisters. They play together in the dark; hold hands while they run through the rain. They laugh and giggle and sleep under my bed like childhood monsters; sometimes they whisper things only my dearest friend should know. . .
4. The Silent Yes
I grew up in a family where yes was said too often. Sometimes the yes was silent, but it was still yes. Always yes. . .
5. Kaleidoscope Kiss
I didn’t expect to see him at the party. He was older than us, this tall handsome man with the dazzling smile. Like a dancer, he moved through our underground culture, teaching everyone the new steps, peddling the new music, the new clothes, the new ideas. . .
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