The irascible Chuck Wendig has posted another weird and wonderful flash fiction challenge, this time to write a story in exactly three sentences.
This story has been on my mind, and it inspired the following effort.
They say I should just ignore them, that two faced, mean people and heartless comments and baseless rumors are just something I have to endure, or get around, or get over. They don't understand how hard it is, how much it hurts to see everyone, everywhere being happy, and popular, and content with the world and their place in it. I'll never know what they know, and when I'm gone, they can go on without me- it's just better for everyone that way.
Friday, April 22, 2011
100 Word Challenge: Frayed Ends Of Sanity
Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge would like to make it clear that if nominated, it will not run, and if elected, it will not serve. The word is "distance", and my piece is called "Frayed Ends of Sanity".
When you're moving at high speed, it becomes a matter of proportion. You can't tell how fast you're going, because everything is out of scale with what you're familiar with. I was driving fast, propelled by caffeine and Metallica, not because I wanted to be there, but because the illusion of motion made me feel like I was doing something. The route was familiar, the factories and warehouses swelling around me, then fading away into leafy suburban sprawl just as quickly. I knew where I was going, even though I didn't know what I would do when I got there.
When you're moving at high speed, it becomes a matter of proportion. You can't tell how fast you're going, because everything is out of scale with what you're familiar with. I was driving fast, propelled by caffeine and Metallica, not because I wanted to be there, but because the illusion of motion made me feel like I was doing something. The route was familiar, the factories and warehouses swelling around me, then fading away into leafy suburban sprawl just as quickly. I knew where I was going, even though I didn't know what I would do when I got there.
It's Friday, and we're Flashing!
This week's 52/250 theme is "cold front", and my story, which I am sort of proud of, is called "Candy Cane"
Sunday, April 17, 2011
IndieInk Writing Challenge: "After These Messages"
It's Indie Ink Writing Challenge time again, cats and kittens! This time the lovely and talented Trish has asked me to "Write about Time". What follows is my response, which I am calling, "After These Messages". My challenge will be met with delightful strangeness by Miss Yvonne here.
"A junkie runs on junk Time and when he makes his importunate irruption into the Time of others, like all petitioners, he must wait."-William Burroughs, Naked Lunch
8:30, he said. 8:45 at the latest. I knew it was 7:29. I knew it was because I had just looked at the little reminder thing on the TV, in the corner there near the logo. I knew that it would seem slower if I kept looking at it, so I promised myself I wouldn't look at it anymore.
Like all promises, I broke it immediately. It was 7:30, which was good, because time had gone by, but it was also bad, because I knew it had just changed, and that would make the next change all that much slower to come. The best way to do it was to not look at the time, so you could be pleasantly surprised when you looked back at how much time had passed.
I tried to focus on what the girl was saying on the screen. I didn't pay for cable, but the guy who had lived here before had scammed his way to getting some free stuff, patching into the feed somehow, so who was I to question? I was barely making the rent- I wasn't going to ask any questions about free TV.
It was the traffic girl, a pretty, thin blonde. She had a wide brown belt on over a red dress. She wasn't gorgeous, but she smiled a lot and the camera liked her. How did you get to be a traffic girl, I wondered. Did you study traffic in college? Did you need to know anything about traffic, or did you just read stuff other people wrote?
The focus shifted to the weather- another blonde, this one seeming a little taller and thinner, wearing something purple, still beautiful and charming. I thought I had seen somewhere that weather people actually did their own work- it was full of computers and hard science, and some of the work was done for them, but they had to know what was going on.
I remembered when I knew what was going on.
They went to commercial, and I watched a woman in tan slacks and brown flats marvel at her new carpet, then another woman yelling about how wonderful Jiffy Lube was. I laid back on the couch and closed my eyes, trying to will the time away. I heard them come back to the studio, the tiny Indian woman and the friendly older man telling me about last night's loss to the Mets, then segueing into another inner city shooting. I drifted off for a moment, figuring a short nap would kill some time for me.
I awoke with a start, right in the middle of a yogurt commercial. I didn't trust the tiny clock radio in the kitchenette- the power in this place was unreliable, so I never knew what time it was unless the TV was on.
I pulled myself up, feeling the room swim for a moment. I closed my eyes until it passed, listening for the familiar voices that would tell me the main program was back and I could get a reassuring time stamp in the corner. The need had been a distant, quiet presence in my head this morning, but it was yawning and stretching now, preparing to make my life hell until I fed it.
It wasn't an ache, although I certainly hurt. It wasn't nausea, although I had that, too. It was a clear, distinct lack- the absolute absence of something. I can't explain it to you if you haven't felt it. It's like being really thirsty, or needing to pee- except the solution to either one of those is readily available.
I heard the broadcast resume, and forced myself to look. 8:17. It was frustratingly close. I imagined him driving into my neighborhood, looking for a place to park, my stuff wrapped up tight inside his windbreaker pocket. I looked at the money, wrinkled twenties on the arm of the couch. I resisted the urge to count it again.
I willed him closer, wished for the lights to be green in front of him. I pictured him zooming up my street, seeing a gap and sliding his car into it. I felt like I could feel the distance between him and I shrinking by the second. I knew where my stuff was, thinking about getting it out to get ready, but I didn't want to seem eager.
If you seemed too anxious to get it, he might make you wait, or he might start charging you more. You had to act calm, like you didn't care whether or not you got any. You had to act like you didn't need it, even when your guts were churning and your muscles felt watery and weak with need.
My brain was screaming at me, telling me I needed it now, to forget about how it looked, that nothing mattered except getting it inside me as quick as I could. I pictured the way the stuff looked, orange and clear plastic, the spoon with the blackened bottom, the lighter.
I thought about flicking it to check, but if I knew if I did that, it would be constant, flick, flick, flick, flick, until I used up the fuel and would end up walking, painfully, slowly walking down to the store on the corner where he would charge me 3 bucks for a 79 cent lighter that he knew I couldn't do without.
I looked at the TV again, that pretty Indian woman explaining to me how the church was dealing with more allegations, more lawsuits. Her voice was even, accentless and flat like all the rest of them. It was racist to assume she ever had an accent- she could have grown up anywhere.
Still, I wondered if she had an accent. Did journalism training knock it out of her? Or did she train herself not to use it, but home for Christmas, around family, did she slip back into more natural speech patterns? What was she like? Was she single? Married? A parent?
8:32, I noticed. He would be here any moment, I decided. He was probably parking now, coming up to my door, walking up the cracked cement to buzz my apartment. I wanted to go look, make sure he wasn't buzzing already, make sure the buzzer hadn't failed during the night. I made myself wait, knowing that the strain of standing by the window would weaken my resolve, making me look weak and desperate to him.
I was remembering how good it felt, how you didn't feel good so much as finally feel even when it hit you. You felt normal, like you could get up and go to work and be a regular person now that the raging furnace of need was stoked. It made you feel functional, like you had been wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day and then finally took them off.
When the buzzer sounded, I nearly cried with relief.
"A junkie runs on junk Time and when he makes his importunate irruption into the Time of others, like all petitioners, he must wait."-William Burroughs, Naked Lunch
8:30, he said. 8:45 at the latest. I knew it was 7:29. I knew it was because I had just looked at the little reminder thing on the TV, in the corner there near the logo. I knew that it would seem slower if I kept looking at it, so I promised myself I wouldn't look at it anymore.
Like all promises, I broke it immediately. It was 7:30, which was good, because time had gone by, but it was also bad, because I knew it had just changed, and that would make the next change all that much slower to come. The best way to do it was to not look at the time, so you could be pleasantly surprised when you looked back at how much time had passed.
I tried to focus on what the girl was saying on the screen. I didn't pay for cable, but the guy who had lived here before had scammed his way to getting some free stuff, patching into the feed somehow, so who was I to question? I was barely making the rent- I wasn't going to ask any questions about free TV.
It was the traffic girl, a pretty, thin blonde. She had a wide brown belt on over a red dress. She wasn't gorgeous, but she smiled a lot and the camera liked her. How did you get to be a traffic girl, I wondered. Did you study traffic in college? Did you need to know anything about traffic, or did you just read stuff other people wrote?
The focus shifted to the weather- another blonde, this one seeming a little taller and thinner, wearing something purple, still beautiful and charming. I thought I had seen somewhere that weather people actually did their own work- it was full of computers and hard science, and some of the work was done for them, but they had to know what was going on.
I remembered when I knew what was going on.
They went to commercial, and I watched a woman in tan slacks and brown flats marvel at her new carpet, then another woman yelling about how wonderful Jiffy Lube was. I laid back on the couch and closed my eyes, trying to will the time away. I heard them come back to the studio, the tiny Indian woman and the friendly older man telling me about last night's loss to the Mets, then segueing into another inner city shooting. I drifted off for a moment, figuring a short nap would kill some time for me.
I awoke with a start, right in the middle of a yogurt commercial. I didn't trust the tiny clock radio in the kitchenette- the power in this place was unreliable, so I never knew what time it was unless the TV was on.
I pulled myself up, feeling the room swim for a moment. I closed my eyes until it passed, listening for the familiar voices that would tell me the main program was back and I could get a reassuring time stamp in the corner. The need had been a distant, quiet presence in my head this morning, but it was yawning and stretching now, preparing to make my life hell until I fed it.
It wasn't an ache, although I certainly hurt. It wasn't nausea, although I had that, too. It was a clear, distinct lack- the absolute absence of something. I can't explain it to you if you haven't felt it. It's like being really thirsty, or needing to pee- except the solution to either one of those is readily available.
I heard the broadcast resume, and forced myself to look. 8:17. It was frustratingly close. I imagined him driving into my neighborhood, looking for a place to park, my stuff wrapped up tight inside his windbreaker pocket. I looked at the money, wrinkled twenties on the arm of the couch. I resisted the urge to count it again.
I willed him closer, wished for the lights to be green in front of him. I pictured him zooming up my street, seeing a gap and sliding his car into it. I felt like I could feel the distance between him and I shrinking by the second. I knew where my stuff was, thinking about getting it out to get ready, but I didn't want to seem eager.
If you seemed too anxious to get it, he might make you wait, or he might start charging you more. You had to act calm, like you didn't care whether or not you got any. You had to act like you didn't need it, even when your guts were churning and your muscles felt watery and weak with need.
My brain was screaming at me, telling me I needed it now, to forget about how it looked, that nothing mattered except getting it inside me as quick as I could. I pictured the way the stuff looked, orange and clear plastic, the spoon with the blackened bottom, the lighter.
I thought about flicking it to check, but if I knew if I did that, it would be constant, flick, flick, flick, flick, until I used up the fuel and would end up walking, painfully, slowly walking down to the store on the corner where he would charge me 3 bucks for a 79 cent lighter that he knew I couldn't do without.
I looked at the TV again, that pretty Indian woman explaining to me how the church was dealing with more allegations, more lawsuits. Her voice was even, accentless and flat like all the rest of them. It was racist to assume she ever had an accent- she could have grown up anywhere.
Still, I wondered if she had an accent. Did journalism training knock it out of her? Or did she train herself not to use it, but home for Christmas, around family, did she slip back into more natural speech patterns? What was she like? Was she single? Married? A parent?
8:32, I noticed. He would be here any moment, I decided. He was probably parking now, coming up to my door, walking up the cracked cement to buzz my apartment. I wanted to go look, make sure he wasn't buzzing already, make sure the buzzer hadn't failed during the night. I made myself wait, knowing that the strain of standing by the window would weaken my resolve, making me look weak and desperate to him.
I was remembering how good it felt, how you didn't feel good so much as finally feel even when it hit you. You felt normal, like you could get up and go to work and be a regular person now that the raging furnace of need was stoked. It made you feel functional, like you had been wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day and then finally took them off.
When the buzzer sounded, I nearly cried with relief.
Terrible Minds Challenge: "I Bet She Does"
The irascible penmonkey Chuck Wendig has thrown another flash fiction gauntlet down, this time to incorporate five words/concepts into a story of less than 1000 words. My entry is called "I bet she does".
It had been one of those mornings- I overslept, a common enough event. But it made me feel strange for the entire day, throwing me off stride. It wasn't the only thing- I had my period, which made me feel fatigued and a little insecure, and I was up early on a Saturday, which no amount of iced coffee on Earth could fix.
I was volunteering for Cuts For The Cure, a cancer charity where hairdressers gave out free haircuts, keeping the hair to make wigs for sick kids and collecting donations for research at the same time. I was there because my school said I had to in order to graduate, because my mom was the vice president of the charity, and because I cared about sick kids. What order those priorities came in varied as the day went along.
My job was to do basically what I was told, just like in the rest of life. I got drinks and snacks for everybody, explained to folks what was going on and how they could help. I smiled a lot, to the point where my cheeks started to hurt.
It was getting late, the shadows starting to grow long as the sun hid behind the Target we had set up in front of. The demand was starting to drop off, and I decided to start organizing the cash, separating the denominations to make the counting easier. As I was stacking the fives in a pile, preparing to put them into a rubber band, a shadow came over me.
I glued on my smile and looked up. My heart froze. It was a boy, a beautiful boy with dark eyes and an unruly mop of hair under a University of Michigan cap. I tried not to stammer, and failed utterly.
"Uh, er, um....hi!" I was hopeless.
"So what's happening?" I could picture his voice in my ear, a late night stolen phone call under the blankets.
"Uh, this is called Cuts for the Cure," I began, my speech evening out as I ran through the sentences I had gone through so many times over the long day. Even while I was talking, I was saying to myself, "Oh, God, OK. Stand straight. You don't have a figure like Karen's, so at least show him what you do have. Don't let your voice crack, don't giggle, just be cool, just....oh my God, he's so cute."
Karen was a friend who whined at me until I let her do her service hours with me. She was leaning back, talking with my mom's coworker Janette, her long legs crossed demurely at the ankle as Janette finished with a customer. I wanted to turn my head and tell her to look, but part of me hoped fervently she hadn't noticed him.
"My mom said I should get a haircut," he said, his voice warm and thrilling. Inside my head, a voice repeated shrilly, "he didn't say girlfriend! He didn't say girlfriend!"
"Come right this way," I said, guiding him over to my mother's empty chair. We exchanged a series of conspiring glances behind his head. "Don't blow this, Mom," I thought at her urgently. I walked backwards towards the unguarded money table, watching my mom begin to play with his locks while she brightly chattered. My phone buzzed in my back pocket as I reached the table. It was a text from Karen, just three letters.
omg!
At least I knew she saw him as I did.
ikr!
I didn't want to turn back to the money, but I knew I had to. After only a minute, I had the bills sorted out, finally turning around to see Karen, her long legs now perched at my mom's station, winding a long strand of hair around one finger. I felt uneasy, only compounded by my mother's comment on the way home, "Boy, your friend Karen sure liked that boy Josh, didn't she?"
I bet she does, I thought grimly.
It had been one of those mornings- I overslept, a common enough event. But it made me feel strange for the entire day, throwing me off stride. It wasn't the only thing- I had my period, which made me feel fatigued and a little insecure, and I was up early on a Saturday, which no amount of iced coffee on Earth could fix.
I was volunteering for Cuts For The Cure, a cancer charity where hairdressers gave out free haircuts, keeping the hair to make wigs for sick kids and collecting donations for research at the same time. I was there because my school said I had to in order to graduate, because my mom was the vice president of the charity, and because I cared about sick kids. What order those priorities came in varied as the day went along.
My job was to do basically what I was told, just like in the rest of life. I got drinks and snacks for everybody, explained to folks what was going on and how they could help. I smiled a lot, to the point where my cheeks started to hurt.
It was getting late, the shadows starting to grow long as the sun hid behind the Target we had set up in front of. The demand was starting to drop off, and I decided to start organizing the cash, separating the denominations to make the counting easier. As I was stacking the fives in a pile, preparing to put them into a rubber band, a shadow came over me.
I glued on my smile and looked up. My heart froze. It was a boy, a beautiful boy with dark eyes and an unruly mop of hair under a University of Michigan cap. I tried not to stammer, and failed utterly.
"Uh, er, um....hi!" I was hopeless.
"So what's happening?" I could picture his voice in my ear, a late night stolen phone call under the blankets.
"Uh, this is called Cuts for the Cure," I began, my speech evening out as I ran through the sentences I had gone through so many times over the long day. Even while I was talking, I was saying to myself, "Oh, God, OK. Stand straight. You don't have a figure like Karen's, so at least show him what you do have. Don't let your voice crack, don't giggle, just be cool, just....oh my God, he's so cute."
Karen was a friend who whined at me until I let her do her service hours with me. She was leaning back, talking with my mom's coworker Janette, her long legs crossed demurely at the ankle as Janette finished with a customer. I wanted to turn my head and tell her to look, but part of me hoped fervently she hadn't noticed him.
"My mom said I should get a haircut," he said, his voice warm and thrilling. Inside my head, a voice repeated shrilly, "he didn't say girlfriend! He didn't say girlfriend!"
"Come right this way," I said, guiding him over to my mother's empty chair. We exchanged a series of conspiring glances behind his head. "Don't blow this, Mom," I thought at her urgently. I walked backwards towards the unguarded money table, watching my mom begin to play with his locks while she brightly chattered. My phone buzzed in my back pocket as I reached the table. It was a text from Karen, just three letters.
omg!
At least I knew she saw him as I did.
ikr!
I didn't want to turn back to the money, but I knew I had to. After only a minute, I had the bills sorted out, finally turning around to see Karen, her long legs now perched at my mom's station, winding a long strand of hair around one finger. I felt uneasy, only compounded by my mother's comment on the way home, "Boy, your friend Karen sure liked that boy Josh, didn't she?"
I bet she does, I thought grimly.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
100 Word Challenge: An Occurrence At Owl Creek Bookstore
Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge refuses to return Theo Epstein's phone calls offering a contract to join the Boston Red Sox as a starting pitcher. This week's word is "imp", and my story, in a nod to the great Ambrose Bierce, is called "An Occurrence At Owl Creek Bookstore".
"Dad-deeeeeee!" His voice was sharp, full of anger. His face was screwed up in puzzlement. "What's an imp?"
I scanned my mental dictionary. "It's a little devil, or it's a word for a naughty boy. Why?"
"That lady called me one." A dark haired woman was glaring at him from the science fiction section. I put down the Foster Wallace I was perusing.
"I just asked her when her baby was going to come!", he protested. "She has a big tummy just like Mommy does."
"That's not something we ask strangers, buddy," I told him as she stormed away.
"Dad-deeeeeee!" His voice was sharp, full of anger. His face was screwed up in puzzlement. "What's an imp?"
I scanned my mental dictionary. "It's a little devil, or it's a word for a naughty boy. Why?"
"That lady called me one." A dark haired woman was glaring at him from the science fiction section. I put down the Foster Wallace I was perusing.
"I just asked her when her baby was going to come!", he protested. "She has a big tummy just like Mommy does."
"That's not something we ask strangers, buddy," I told him as she stormed away.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Flash Friday: "The Secret" (NSFW)
The 52/250 Flash theme this week is "Tainted Love". My story, "The Secret", appears this week, which is nice, except for the fact that it somehow got clipped- the last two lines of the story are missing. I'm pretty sure it's an error. Here is the story in its intended form. (NSFW, I guess, at least in the sense that it implies that unmarried people sometimes have sex. Shocking, I know.)
"So, do you want to know my number?"
Her brown eyes flashed eagerly at me. Her bracelet shone in the dim light of the restaurant. I felt like she almost wanted to tell me. I hadn't really thought about it, but now that she had asked me, I wanted to know. Some questions you knew could never be answered- what if Napoleon had won at Waterloo? But others you didn't know could be asked, until they were. And once they were asked, the possibility existed they could be answered. I had told her my number. I thought about inflating the total before telling her, but I didn't. My number seemed a little low. I didn't expect her number to be zero- that seemed impossible. I didn't know what number I wanted hers to be, either. Was 5 too many? 10? How many should she have? Would the thought of others who had come before make what we had different? Would knowing I wasn't the only one imbue the act with some sense of corruption, some taint of ill repute? Would I compare? Wonder if I was better? Was there any difference between assuming the number wasn't zero and knowing what the number was? It was stupid, but now that I knew I could know, I wanted to know.
"No," I told her.
"Good," she said. "I would have lied anyway."
"So, do you want to know my number?"
Her brown eyes flashed eagerly at me. Her bracelet shone in the dim light of the restaurant. I felt like she almost wanted to tell me. I hadn't really thought about it, but now that she had asked me, I wanted to know. Some questions you knew could never be answered- what if Napoleon had won at Waterloo? But others you didn't know could be asked, until they were. And once they were asked, the possibility existed they could be answered. I had told her my number. I thought about inflating the total before telling her, but I didn't. My number seemed a little low. I didn't expect her number to be zero- that seemed impossible. I didn't know what number I wanted hers to be, either. Was 5 too many? 10? How many should she have? Would the thought of others who had come before make what we had different? Would knowing I wasn't the only one imbue the act with some sense of corruption, some taint of ill repute? Would I compare? Wonder if I was better? Was there any difference between assuming the number wasn't zero and knowing what the number was? It was stupid, but now that I knew I could know, I wanted to know.
"No," I told her.
"Good," she said. "I would have lied anyway."
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Too Clever By Half: From The Rejection Files
Like the Dwight Howard of online flash fiction challenges, the 52/250 editors have been sending stories back at me, fast and furious. I'm not really mad, just kind of puzzled. I guess art is subjective, so what else can a poor boy do? Here's two that did not suit their needs- the first is on the theme "Unintended Consequences", the second on the theme "Threesome".
I slid into a seat towards the back of the auditorium, on time, but only just. The professor, a tweedy looking guy with thick glasses, had already started.
"When one undertakes an act, one undertakes the risk of all possible consequences of the act, wouldn't you agree? Or, to use the vernacular, don't do the crime if you can't do the time." He got a laugh, but it was a perfunctory one.
I slid down lower in my seat, bringing the brim of my Red Sox cap in line with the top of his head. I didn't want to fall asleep, but I didn't want to listen to this crap, either. All consequences? You can't do anything without imagining all possible outcomes? Like hell. She said she was safe. It's not my fault. It's not like I made her do it. She wanted to.
"Who is responsible, we must ask ourselves. Whose fault is it when things go awry? Who do we blame when an undesired event, however unlikely, occurs?"
She said it was OK.
When I reminded her of that, on the phone this morning as I dashed for class, she spat back, "I know what I SAID, Richard. And I know what this is, and I know now that I was wrong. And I know one more thing, too. I know you're not going to discard me. I'm not some dumb little mistake."
I started wearing heels all the time around the house. I was taller than him wearing pumps, and I knew it bothered him. He was in the living room, sunk down into the couch, smoking and sulky like a recalcitrant teen. I smelled that it wasn't tobacco.
I walked in there and stood, close enough to the screen that I knew he could see me. I knew better than to block the screen completely.
"Bill? Are we going to talk now?" He hated it when I called him "Bill".
"Later," he mumbled, his eyes on the screen.
"No, Bill. Now. We have problems. You and me problems."
"I told you, I'm under a lot of pressure. The press, the fans."
"I know. And I understand. I've been there. But if it's not you and the band, it's you and the press. Or you and the fans. Or you and the lawyers. When's it going to be you and me, Bill?" I saw that last line strike home.
"It will be. I promise. Soon." He coughed, then looked up at me, his words turning hard. "I'm doing all this for you, you know- all the work is for you, my new song is for you."
"That's great, Bill. But I can't curl up next to a promise. Or a f@$king song." I walked out again, listening to the tick tock of my heels keeping time against the hardwood floor.
I slid into a seat towards the back of the auditorium, on time, but only just. The professor, a tweedy looking guy with thick glasses, had already started.
"When one undertakes an act, one undertakes the risk of all possible consequences of the act, wouldn't you agree? Or, to use the vernacular, don't do the crime if you can't do the time." He got a laugh, but it was a perfunctory one.
I slid down lower in my seat, bringing the brim of my Red Sox cap in line with the top of his head. I didn't want to fall asleep, but I didn't want to listen to this crap, either. All consequences? You can't do anything without imagining all possible outcomes? Like hell. She said she was safe. It's not my fault. It's not like I made her do it. She wanted to.
"Who is responsible, we must ask ourselves. Whose fault is it when things go awry? Who do we blame when an undesired event, however unlikely, occurs?"
She said it was OK.
When I reminded her of that, on the phone this morning as I dashed for class, she spat back, "I know what I SAID, Richard. And I know what this is, and I know now that I was wrong. And I know one more thing, too. I know you're not going to discard me. I'm not some dumb little mistake."
I started wearing heels all the time around the house. I was taller than him wearing pumps, and I knew it bothered him. He was in the living room, sunk down into the couch, smoking and sulky like a recalcitrant teen. I smelled that it wasn't tobacco.
I walked in there and stood, close enough to the screen that I knew he could see me. I knew better than to block the screen completely.
"Bill? Are we going to talk now?" He hated it when I called him "Bill".
"Later," he mumbled, his eyes on the screen.
"No, Bill. Now. We have problems. You and me problems."
"I told you, I'm under a lot of pressure. The press, the fans."
"I know. And I understand. I've been there. But if it's not you and the band, it's you and the press. Or you and the fans. Or you and the lawyers. When's it going to be you and me, Bill?" I saw that last line strike home.
"It will be. I promise. Soon." He coughed, then looked up at me, his words turning hard. "I'm doing all this for you, you know- all the work is for you, my new song is for you."
"That's great, Bill. But I can't curl up next to a promise. Or a f@$king song." I walked out again, listening to the tick tock of my heels keeping time against the hardwood floor.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Monday, April 11, 2011
Terrible Minds Challenge: Death In The Afternoon
Freelance "penmonkey" Chuck Wendig has a challenge up to write a 500 word story based on the name of a cocktail. Being the Hemingwayophile that I am, this was no problem, even though I've haven't had a mixed drink since my 21st birthday. The story is called "Death in the Afternoon".
Ray stepped into the barroom, letting his eyes adjust from the bright of outside. Jamie, his favorite bartender, was bending down low, sliding a green tray of clean glasses into place. Ray walked across the room, taking his customary seat at one end of the polished bar.
Jamie straightened up and walked down the length of the bar. He marveled, seeing the peek of defiantly red bra strap on one shoulder, to her tight black top and long, trim legs. He looked into her eyes, trying to hold her gaze and failing. He looked away.
"What do you have for me?" Jamie asked, her voice brilliant like the afternoon sun. They had a little game they played- if he could come up with a drink she hadn't heard of, she would buy him one. She hadn't lost yet.
"Death in the Afternoon," he said.
"We don't have absinthe," she shot back. "Pernod okay?"
"Sure."
He watched her go down the bar to prepare it. He loved the way her clothes hugged her curves, making her look sleek and supple like a racing boat.
She brought it to him, fizzing, lime green. He tasted it. It was terrible.
"Jimmy says you're getting married," he began.
"Yeah," she said, looking away, her brown hair a tangled mess on her back.
"So I guess you won't run away with me, huh?" He felt relatively safe, flirting with her. He had never been able to knock her off her stride. But he was never entirely sure.
"Ray, you have kids older than me," she said, chuckling.
"Never stopped Saul Bellow," he said as she walked away. She refilled a glass at the other end of the bar, then came back.
"He's a lucky guy," Ray offered.
"I'm the lucky one," she said dreamily.
"So, you going to go off and make babies now? Leave me alone here?"
"No," she said, choking off a laugh. "I'll still work here. Someone's got to put up with you." He noted what part she answered, and the part she didn't, and he knew that it mostly wasn't true. Life takes you away from who you were, makes you become someone else. He knew he would see her less and less, and then not at all. That was the way it was.
He took another sip of the foul drink. He would finish it, so as not to insult her, but he would need a Coke on his way home to wash the taste away.
"You like that?" she asked. She was looking at him now, standing ramrod straight, her belt buckle level with his chin. He looked at it, and then up at her. She had a faint smile on her face.
"Love it," he said, and swallowed the rest. He laid a ten on the bar, more than twice the charge.
"I'll see you, James."
"See you, Ray."
Ray stepped into the barroom, letting his eyes adjust from the bright of outside. Jamie, his favorite bartender, was bending down low, sliding a green tray of clean glasses into place. Ray walked across the room, taking his customary seat at one end of the polished bar.
Jamie straightened up and walked down the length of the bar. He marveled, seeing the peek of defiantly red bra strap on one shoulder, to her tight black top and long, trim legs. He looked into her eyes, trying to hold her gaze and failing. He looked away.
"What do you have for me?" Jamie asked, her voice brilliant like the afternoon sun. They had a little game they played- if he could come up with a drink she hadn't heard of, she would buy him one. She hadn't lost yet.
"Death in the Afternoon," he said.
"We don't have absinthe," she shot back. "Pernod okay?"
"Sure."
He watched her go down the bar to prepare it. He loved the way her clothes hugged her curves, making her look sleek and supple like a racing boat.
She brought it to him, fizzing, lime green. He tasted it. It was terrible.
"Jimmy says you're getting married," he began.
"Yeah," she said, looking away, her brown hair a tangled mess on her back.
"So I guess you won't run away with me, huh?" He felt relatively safe, flirting with her. He had never been able to knock her off her stride. But he was never entirely sure.
"Ray, you have kids older than me," she said, chuckling.
"Never stopped Saul Bellow," he said as she walked away. She refilled a glass at the other end of the bar, then came back.
"He's a lucky guy," Ray offered.
"I'm the lucky one," she said dreamily.
"So, you going to go off and make babies now? Leave me alone here?"
"No," she said, choking off a laugh. "I'll still work here. Someone's got to put up with you." He noted what part she answered, and the part she didn't, and he knew that it mostly wasn't true. Life takes you away from who you were, makes you become someone else. He knew he would see her less and less, and then not at all. That was the way it was.
He took another sip of the foul drink. He would finish it, so as not to insult her, but he would need a Coke on his way home to wash the taste away.
"You like that?" she asked. She was looking at him now, standing ramrod straight, her belt buckle level with his chin. He looked at it, and then up at her. She had a faint smile on her face.
"Love it," he said, and swallowed the rest. He laid a ten on the bar, more than twice the charge.
"I'll see you, James."
"See you, Ray."
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: The noise escalates
This week, Trish challenged me to write a story including the line "behind her the noise escalated". I'm not sure where this idea came from, exactly, but it jumped into my head fully formed, so I just went with it. My challenge will be answered by FlamingNyx.
Melissa worked from home on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday- but she made herself get up and dress, all the way down to stockings, modest heels, and makeup. It helped tell her daughters that Mommy was working, and shouldn't be bothered for anything short of armed revolution in the streets. It also helped her convince herself that she was working- being slightly uncomfortable helped her focus, reducing the temptation to spend the day IMing with her hugely pregnant sister, stuck on bed rest in Topeka and dying for conversation.
Just like in the office, she gave herself from 12 until 1 for lunch, so after she ensured that Frick and Frack, her 9 and 12 year old girls home for the beginning of school vacation, were going to eat something other than Cheez Doodles for lunch, and once she had prepared her own turkey sandwich and Diet Coke, she allowed herself a few personal moments on the computer. She checked in with Amy, listened to her grousing about the miseries of the 8th month, then signed out and called up her word processor.
Years ago, after graduating and marrying Roger but before career and babies took hold, she made herself promise to write. "Write every day", she told herself, "no matter what. No matter what else you have to do, write something." She had been writing since she could remember, from adventures starring her stuffed animals to anguished teenage reflections to poems she tried, and occasionally managed, to place in the college literary magazine. She didn't talk about it, or make a big deal of it- it was just a secret love that she promised herself, 22 and full of promise, she would not forget about.
Like a lot of promises, she hadn't managed to keep it. Events pressed, and weekend getaways stole her time, and then eventually the girls came, dulling her nerves and killing her senses. She kept the flame burning, dashing off paragraphs when she could, but it had become a weekly thing more than the daily work she knew it had to be. She tried to memorize scenes- the unspoken exclusion she felt at Saturday's soccer game, for one thing- committing to later reducing them to words. But she seldom followed through.
She stared at the screen, remembering what it was like on Saturday. The little clots of parent groups, some oohing and aahing at new babies, others deep in conversation about common friends or, more likely, common foes. She thanked God regularly that her daughters didn't seem to have her own social issues- they both blended and mixed easily, rich girls and poor, popular girls and not, quiet girls and loud. But Melissa stood apart, returning greetings that were offered to her, but never having more than a sentence or so to say. Nobody ever said it, but the lines were clear- like you drew them in the grass.
It could not have been clearer, she typed. The house was as quiet as it ever got, bangs and thumps from upstairs, the echoed speech of 12 talking on the phone, then the footfalls of someone coming down the stairs. It was too loud to be 12, who moved like a ghost, teenage anxiety making her want to disappear most of the time, so it had to be 9, with the heedless nature of the tween who didn't yet care what she sounded like.
Behind her the noise escalated. Nine had turned the TV on, loudly declaring as she did so, "Mom-MEEE! Can I watch some TV?". In theory, Melissa thought, you asked for permission before taking action, not after. "Sure," Melissa said, distracted, saving her file and shutting the word processor down. There wasn't going to be any more work done on that idea, she thought, wondering why it was she compromised so much, and when exactly it was she sold her 22 year old self down the river.
It wasn't their fault- Melissa and Roger had welcomed their arrival. But Melissa couldn't help thinking, burying it into the little corner of her heart, that she had not bargained for all that had come with them, the sacrifices of body, and mind, and soul, and the sheer energy it took to hold their little lives together. She hadn't agreed to that part, and when she tried to steal away a moment to bring her old self to the front, to compose something beautiful and striking, to make even a line or two that captured exactly how it was, it seemed like they resented the exclusion. No, Mommy, they seemed to say- all of you isn't enough. We want more.
She opened the door to the porch, hearing 12 calling from the top of the stairs. She heard her daughter begin the sentence, but shut the door deliberately on her words. It was childish, she thought, pretending you didn't hear someone. But there were times when you just had to get away from them, if only for a minute. Melissa watched the breeze move the leaves on the trees and wondered exactly how much she had left to give.
Melissa worked from home on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday- but she made herself get up and dress, all the way down to stockings, modest heels, and makeup. It helped tell her daughters that Mommy was working, and shouldn't be bothered for anything short of armed revolution in the streets. It also helped her convince herself that she was working- being slightly uncomfortable helped her focus, reducing the temptation to spend the day IMing with her hugely pregnant sister, stuck on bed rest in Topeka and dying for conversation.
Just like in the office, she gave herself from 12 until 1 for lunch, so after she ensured that Frick and Frack, her 9 and 12 year old girls home for the beginning of school vacation, were going to eat something other than Cheez Doodles for lunch, and once she had prepared her own turkey sandwich and Diet Coke, she allowed herself a few personal moments on the computer. She checked in with Amy, listened to her grousing about the miseries of the 8th month, then signed out and called up her word processor.
Years ago, after graduating and marrying Roger but before career and babies took hold, she made herself promise to write. "Write every day", she told herself, "no matter what. No matter what else you have to do, write something." She had been writing since she could remember, from adventures starring her stuffed animals to anguished teenage reflections to poems she tried, and occasionally managed, to place in the college literary magazine. She didn't talk about it, or make a big deal of it- it was just a secret love that she promised herself, 22 and full of promise, she would not forget about.
Like a lot of promises, she hadn't managed to keep it. Events pressed, and weekend getaways stole her time, and then eventually the girls came, dulling her nerves and killing her senses. She kept the flame burning, dashing off paragraphs when she could, but it had become a weekly thing more than the daily work she knew it had to be. She tried to memorize scenes- the unspoken exclusion she felt at Saturday's soccer game, for one thing- committing to later reducing them to words. But she seldom followed through.
She stared at the screen, remembering what it was like on Saturday. The little clots of parent groups, some oohing and aahing at new babies, others deep in conversation about common friends or, more likely, common foes. She thanked God regularly that her daughters didn't seem to have her own social issues- they both blended and mixed easily, rich girls and poor, popular girls and not, quiet girls and loud. But Melissa stood apart, returning greetings that were offered to her, but never having more than a sentence or so to say. Nobody ever said it, but the lines were clear- like you drew them in the grass.
It could not have been clearer, she typed. The house was as quiet as it ever got, bangs and thumps from upstairs, the echoed speech of 12 talking on the phone, then the footfalls of someone coming down the stairs. It was too loud to be 12, who moved like a ghost, teenage anxiety making her want to disappear most of the time, so it had to be 9, with the heedless nature of the tween who didn't yet care what she sounded like.
Behind her the noise escalated. Nine had turned the TV on, loudly declaring as she did so, "Mom-MEEE! Can I watch some TV?". In theory, Melissa thought, you asked for permission before taking action, not after. "Sure," Melissa said, distracted, saving her file and shutting the word processor down. There wasn't going to be any more work done on that idea, she thought, wondering why it was she compromised so much, and when exactly it was she sold her 22 year old self down the river.
It wasn't their fault- Melissa and Roger had welcomed their arrival. But Melissa couldn't help thinking, burying it into the little corner of her heart, that she had not bargained for all that had come with them, the sacrifices of body, and mind, and soul, and the sheer energy it took to hold their little lives together. She hadn't agreed to that part, and when she tried to steal away a moment to bring her old self to the front, to compose something beautiful and striking, to make even a line or two that captured exactly how it was, it seemed like they resented the exclusion. No, Mommy, they seemed to say- all of you isn't enough. We want more.
She opened the door to the porch, hearing 12 calling from the top of the stairs. She heard her daughter begin the sentence, but shut the door deliberately on her words. It was childish, she thought, pretending you didn't hear someone. But there were times when you just had to get away from them, if only for a minute. Melissa watched the breeze move the leaves on the trees and wondered exactly how much she had left to give.
Friday, April 08, 2011
100 Word Challenge: You're Crazy
Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge is proud to announce it has been designated an essential service and will remain active during any government shutdown. This week's word is "broken", and my story is called "You're Crazy".
The receptionist was stretching, reaching up to get my chart. I watched the fabric of her pink scrubs as it pulled tightly. I could tell what kind of underwear she had on.
I'm not crazy, I thought.
The blonde took the folder down. There were brightly colored letter stickers along the edge. One stood for my last name, but what did the others mean? Did they indicate how nutty I was?
I wanted to say I wasn't crazy.
She saw what she needed, and put the sheaf of papers down.
"Your copayment is 20 dollars," she said. She sounded bored.
Author's Note: Mental illness has touched my family numerous times, as I expect it has most of your families as well. Please note that the preceding is a work of fiction, and it is a character using the word "crazy", not me or anyone I know. Absolutely no disrespect is expressed or implied towards the mentally ill or those who love them by the use of the word " crazy". As I said, I is one of those touched by mental illness.
The receptionist was stretching, reaching up to get my chart. I watched the fabric of her pink scrubs as it pulled tightly. I could tell what kind of underwear she had on.
I'm not crazy, I thought.
The blonde took the folder down. There were brightly colored letter stickers along the edge. One stood for my last name, but what did the others mean? Did they indicate how nutty I was?
I wanted to say I wasn't crazy.
She saw what she needed, and put the sheaf of papers down.
"Your copayment is 20 dollars," she said. She sounded bored.
Author's Note: Mental illness has touched my family numerous times, as I expect it has most of your families as well. Please note that the preceding is a work of fiction, and it is a character using the word "crazy", not me or anyone I know. Absolutely no disrespect is expressed or implied towards the mentally ill or those who love them by the use of the word " crazy". As I said, I is one of those touched by mental illness.
Blinded By The Flash
This week's 52/250 theme is "Blind Spot", and I managed to make the cut this week with a story called "Stiletto".
Wednesday, April 06, 2011
IndieInk Writing Challenge: Unsure
This week's IndieInk Writing Challenge comes to me from Trish, who asks what I have done that I didn't think I could do. This is not an easy question for me- I have done very little, and I think I am capable of even less. I never learned to ski, or play the piano, or play the piano on skis. But challenges are to make us stretch, so stretch I will. (My challenge will be answered by Alyssa.)
I don't know how to approach this through the front door. I'm not a inspirational person by nature. I don't dislike inspirational stories- you will find no bigger fan than me of Randy Pausch's "The Last Lecture" (the book, the audiobook, or the lecture itself). But I have trouble translating inspirational stories into the blood and sinew and bounced check fees and library overdue fines of my own life. I read it and feel inspired, but when I come away from it, the lessons don't seem real.
I'd like to tell you about a big goal I set, worked hard for, and achieved. That seems to be the point here- dreaming a big dream, then achieving it. I guess having a child suffices- that certainly wasn't hard to achieve for us, but the nature of it as an achievement is questionable. Graduating college, maybe- I certainly had my doubts I could do that, and I did. But that was less a matter of achievement than one of stubbornness- I graduated because I was too stubborn not to.
So once again, I'm going to attempt a bank shot. I'm doing this because I can't think of what else to do, and I'm doing this because I have an instinctive distaste for talking about myself. (Strange quality in a blogger, I admit.) In truth, I am doing this because it feels like the only thing I can do. What follows is fiction.
"Chase? Chase? Are you listening to me?"
"Yes, love."
"I don't think I can do this."
"Of course you can do it."
"No, no...I really don't think I can."
"Why?"
"It's so big. Such a big thing to do. Bigger than anything. It's too large for anyone to handle. I know it's natural, and it's normal. But it is too much for me to handle. Too much work, too much stress, too much."
"People handle it all the time."
"I know. I feel like a freak for saying so, but I'm scared. I'm scared of what this will to do me, what it will do to us."
"I know," Chase said. "I'm scared, too. But I'm here for you. With you, You don't have to do it alone."
"Believe me, I appreciate that. I do. But there are parts- like this part- I have to do by myself. You can't do this for me."
"I know." Chase was quiet.
After a few minutes, she spoke again. "Chase?"
"Yes?"
"It doesn't matter if I'm ready or not, does it?"
"No, it really doesn't. This is happening whether or not we're ready. But I think we're ready. We're as ready as anybody is, doing this."
"I don't think we're ready. I don't feel ready. There's so much to know."
"We'll figure it out."
"We don't have a lot of time. Any time."
"No, no we don't," Chase said.
"Don't you feel guilty? I mean, don't you feel like we should be better prepared? It's our fault she is here."
"I know. But we'll learn."
"I can't help but think we should have gotten ready. Read a book or took a class or something."
"Maybe. But we're here now. We know what we know, and what we don't know, we'll learn. But I'll be with you, every step of the way. I'm not going to abandon you."
"OK," the doctor said. "Time to push!"
I don't know how to approach this through the front door. I'm not a inspirational person by nature. I don't dislike inspirational stories- you will find no bigger fan than me of Randy Pausch's "The Last Lecture" (the book, the audiobook, or the lecture itself). But I have trouble translating inspirational stories into the blood and sinew and bounced check fees and library overdue fines of my own life. I read it and feel inspired, but when I come away from it, the lessons don't seem real.
I'd like to tell you about a big goal I set, worked hard for, and achieved. That seems to be the point here- dreaming a big dream, then achieving it. I guess having a child suffices- that certainly wasn't hard to achieve for us, but the nature of it as an achievement is questionable. Graduating college, maybe- I certainly had my doubts I could do that, and I did. But that was less a matter of achievement than one of stubbornness- I graduated because I was too stubborn not to.
So once again, I'm going to attempt a bank shot. I'm doing this because I can't think of what else to do, and I'm doing this because I have an instinctive distaste for talking about myself. (Strange quality in a blogger, I admit.) In truth, I am doing this because it feels like the only thing I can do. What follows is fiction.
"Chase? Chase? Are you listening to me?"
"Yes, love."
"I don't think I can do this."
"Of course you can do it."
"No, no...I really don't think I can."
"Why?"
"It's so big. Such a big thing to do. Bigger than anything. It's too large for anyone to handle. I know it's natural, and it's normal. But it is too much for me to handle. Too much work, too much stress, too much."
"People handle it all the time."
"I know. I feel like a freak for saying so, but I'm scared. I'm scared of what this will to do me, what it will do to us."
"I know," Chase said. "I'm scared, too. But I'm here for you. With you, You don't have to do it alone."
"Believe me, I appreciate that. I do. But there are parts- like this part- I have to do by myself. You can't do this for me."
"I know." Chase was quiet.
After a few minutes, she spoke again. "Chase?"
"Yes?"
"It doesn't matter if I'm ready or not, does it?"
"No, it really doesn't. This is happening whether or not we're ready. But I think we're ready. We're as ready as anybody is, doing this."
"I don't think we're ready. I don't feel ready. There's so much to know."
"We'll figure it out."
"We don't have a lot of time. Any time."
"No, no we don't," Chase said.
"Don't you feel guilty? I mean, don't you feel like we should be better prepared? It's our fault she is here."
"I know. But we'll learn."
"I can't help but think we should have gotten ready. Read a book or took a class or something."
"Maybe. But we're here now. We know what we know, and what we don't know, we'll learn. But I'll be with you, every step of the way. I'm not going to abandon you."
"OK," the doctor said. "Time to push!"
Sunday, April 03, 2011
Explain The Unexplainable: "New Kid In Town"
I have been a fan of Chuck Wendig's weird and wonderful writing site, Terrible Minds, for a while now. While decidedly NSFW, Chuck has a lot of interesting things to say about the craft and how it's done. He has been posting flash fiction challenges, and while I have tried a couple of times, I never had anything worth putting up until now. This week's is based on a set of truly horrifying stock photographs, available here, and the challenge, issued here, is to write a story based on one of the pictures. My story, New Kid In Town, is based on picture number 40.
Amanda Heymann opened the door, then shut it just as quickly. She didn't, Amanda thought in foot high letters across her eyelids. Another part of her brain reminded her that her mother, obviously, had. She had told her mother that her first birthday in her new town didn't mean anything- that she needn't bother, that it didn't matter, that she wouldn't care. She had seen, in the flash of color and riot of smell and sound when she had opened their front door, that her mother had bothered.
Amanda thought briefly about leaving- simply taking off, walking back down the driveway. She didn't have anywhere to go, of course- no boyfriend, no sympathetic older sister with a car to drive her to safety. She could just walk, going down sidewalk after sidewalk in flight from the party, but that would bring attention and concern. Amanda wanted that even less than she wanted this.
She opened the door and stepped inside. Her mother Nancy was coming out of the kitchen, adding a plate full of what looked like Geno's Pizza Rolls. There were maybe 15 or 20 faces she knew from her new school, scattered around her living room in clumps of 2 and 3 and 4.
"Honey, you're home," Amanda's mother said, "I just couldn't stand the thought of not doing anything for your birthday, so your teachers helped me find some of your school friends to have a little party. Isn't that fun?" She used her high, tight, overly cheerful tone, the tone of voice that sounds like glossy photographs look. It was her tone when she was trying to convince herself of whatever she was trying to tell you.
Amanda walked across the carpet, measuring her steps carefully. To her right was Sara, she knew, a willowy blonde who seemed above the earthly concerns of mortals, along with a tall, athletic boy who kept one hand on her whenever he possibly could. She saw Zane, a dark haired boy she would admit only to herself she wanted to get to know, along with a bitter, gossipy trio from her Spanish class she called "The Harpies" inside her head. She saw on her dining room table that the food her Mom had come up with was at least being eaten- so they couldn't tease her about that, she reasoned. More was gone than sheer politeness would require.
She saw Jane, a short, dark-haired girl who seemed a tiny bit frightening and intense, talking with a broad, expansive redhead, making the taller girl laugh softly, as if she was used to choking off her natural reactions. Amy was alone by the table, chewing excessively on a tortilla chip with salsa while an overweight boy she knew sat in her math class seemed to be telling her the denouement of a long, complicated story.
Amanda kept walking. Her mother had plugged her iPod into the little speakers attachment a thoughtful uncle had sent, and she imagined that her musical taste was drawing little snickers from around the room. She saw balloons, and streamers, and thought that the only thing that proved that she was no longer 8 years old was the taller party guests and the absence of a piñata.
She looked around at them, huddled in their groups and their private worlds. Why did they even come? She felt sweat starting to trickle down her back, and her skin itched under her black hair. No one spoke to her, continuing their conversations as if she had never come in. Her mother was bustling away in the kitchen again. She finally reached the door to the laundry room, opening it and stepping through, closing it behind her quietly.
It was an insane thing to do, she thought. There were probably a few eyes on the back of the door now, and without a doubt her mother would drag her out of here in another minute. It was one of those things that made sense for just a moment. She had to be away, even for mere seconds, from the judgment in their eyes. She couldn't believe her mother had done this. It was like so many things she did- sweet, well meant, but utterly wrong.
There was a single pink balloon that drifted in here from the living room, and Amanda grabbed it and pulled it down. She looked at the decorative ribbon curled around her fist with its chipped nail polish and patches of itchy skin. She felt dizzy, nauseous and uncomfortable, holding on to a single pink balloon, abandoned in a room by itself. She felt another sudden, sad impulse- suddenly imagining stripping off her clothes, climbing into the dryer and sitting there, her face buried against her own knees, like she did when she was 6 and just needed so desperately to be apart.
Amanda stood there, balloon in her tightly clenched fist, tears making silent hot tracks down her cheeks, when she heard the knocking, gentle at first, then more insistent. "'Manda?," her mother was saying in a voice that she thought was soft, "You need to come out and be with your friends." She had no idea, Amanda thought, her body sliding down until she was sitting on the floor, how wrong every part of that sentence was.
Amanda Heymann opened the door, then shut it just as quickly. She didn't, Amanda thought in foot high letters across her eyelids. Another part of her brain reminded her that her mother, obviously, had. She had told her mother that her first birthday in her new town didn't mean anything- that she needn't bother, that it didn't matter, that she wouldn't care. She had seen, in the flash of color and riot of smell and sound when she had opened their front door, that her mother had bothered.
Amanda thought briefly about leaving- simply taking off, walking back down the driveway. She didn't have anywhere to go, of course- no boyfriend, no sympathetic older sister with a car to drive her to safety. She could just walk, going down sidewalk after sidewalk in flight from the party, but that would bring attention and concern. Amanda wanted that even less than she wanted this.
She opened the door and stepped inside. Her mother Nancy was coming out of the kitchen, adding a plate full of what looked like Geno's Pizza Rolls. There were maybe 15 or 20 faces she knew from her new school, scattered around her living room in clumps of 2 and 3 and 4.
"Honey, you're home," Amanda's mother said, "I just couldn't stand the thought of not doing anything for your birthday, so your teachers helped me find some of your school friends to have a little party. Isn't that fun?" She used her high, tight, overly cheerful tone, the tone of voice that sounds like glossy photographs look. It was her tone when she was trying to convince herself of whatever she was trying to tell you.
Amanda walked across the carpet, measuring her steps carefully. To her right was Sara, she knew, a willowy blonde who seemed above the earthly concerns of mortals, along with a tall, athletic boy who kept one hand on her whenever he possibly could. She saw Zane, a dark haired boy she would admit only to herself she wanted to get to know, along with a bitter, gossipy trio from her Spanish class she called "The Harpies" inside her head. She saw on her dining room table that the food her Mom had come up with was at least being eaten- so they couldn't tease her about that, she reasoned. More was gone than sheer politeness would require.
She saw Jane, a short, dark-haired girl who seemed a tiny bit frightening and intense, talking with a broad, expansive redhead, making the taller girl laugh softly, as if she was used to choking off her natural reactions. Amy was alone by the table, chewing excessively on a tortilla chip with salsa while an overweight boy she knew sat in her math class seemed to be telling her the denouement of a long, complicated story.
Amanda kept walking. Her mother had plugged her iPod into the little speakers attachment a thoughtful uncle had sent, and she imagined that her musical taste was drawing little snickers from around the room. She saw balloons, and streamers, and thought that the only thing that proved that she was no longer 8 years old was the taller party guests and the absence of a piñata.
She looked around at them, huddled in their groups and their private worlds. Why did they even come? She felt sweat starting to trickle down her back, and her skin itched under her black hair. No one spoke to her, continuing their conversations as if she had never come in. Her mother was bustling away in the kitchen again. She finally reached the door to the laundry room, opening it and stepping through, closing it behind her quietly.
It was an insane thing to do, she thought. There were probably a few eyes on the back of the door now, and without a doubt her mother would drag her out of here in another minute. It was one of those things that made sense for just a moment. She had to be away, even for mere seconds, from the judgment in their eyes. She couldn't believe her mother had done this. It was like so many things she did- sweet, well meant, but utterly wrong.
There was a single pink balloon that drifted in here from the living room, and Amanda grabbed it and pulled it down. She looked at the decorative ribbon curled around her fist with its chipped nail polish and patches of itchy skin. She felt dizzy, nauseous and uncomfortable, holding on to a single pink balloon, abandoned in a room by itself. She felt another sudden, sad impulse- suddenly imagining stripping off her clothes, climbing into the dryer and sitting there, her face buried against her own knees, like she did when she was 6 and just needed so desperately to be apart.
Amanda stood there, balloon in her tightly clenched fist, tears making silent hot tracks down her cheeks, when she heard the knocking, gentle at first, then more insistent. "'Manda?," her mother was saying in a voice that she thought was soft, "You need to come out and be with your friends." She had no idea, Amanda thought, her body sliding down until she was sitting on the floor, how wrong every part of that sentence was.
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