Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge did not skate a single shift, but is willing to take credit for helping the Boston Bruins win their first Stanley Cup in 39 years. This week's word is "perfect", and my Wheel-of-Fortune-in-Las-Vegas inspired tale is called "The Nuts". ("The nuts" is a poker term. If one has "the nuts", then, given the arrangement of cards on the table, one has the best possible hand and cannot be beaten.)
Casinos are always bright and loud- the sounds and the smells and the lights make you feel like you've had too much coffee. I couldn't think about the checks that were about to bounce, the sick feeling I get when I buy my daughter's formula with a credit card.
But all that was over-it was time to win my way out. I had it all set up- I had played possum, luring the other players into a pot they couldn't win. It was a perfect plan- as long as that last card isn't a seven.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
IndieInk Writing Challenge: N-V-T-S
This week on the Carousel of Bloggery Goodness which is the one and only Indie Ink Writing Challenge, I ask Amy to write something about a single kiss, and the inexorable Sunshine tells me "Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don't".
"You're nuts," she told me. "N-V-T-S, nuts!," she said, using the old joke from the Mel Brooks movie. Her brown hair, intensely curly, framed her face in attractive ringlets. She looked hurt at what I had just said. "You can't do that," she said firmly, her mouth open slightly. She recrossed her legs, one leg moving smoothly over the other. Her body was amazing for someone with 3 kids. My eyes lost focus in the brown and white print of her dress.
"You're letting David come back? After what he did? You're joking, right? He cheated. He cheated, and then you took him back, and he cheated AGAIN. You know a leopard can't change his spots! Once a cheater, always a cheater!" Her voice was getting impatient, kind of lecture-y. When I saw her with her kids, she could sound like that now and then. I supposed it was a byproduct of constant corrections: "Don't touch that! That's not yours! Where are you going? What are you doing? We don't do that!"
"How can you do this to yourself? How can you do this to me? Don't you remember that first night, the way I stayed up with you until 3AM, listening to you cry? How I was almost late to drop the kids off the next morning?" She wasn't wrong. I had caught them, the curvy blond intern and David, kissing frantically in his car right outside our condo, then barricaded the door with a bookshelf and called her, breathless with hot, angry tears. Like a friend, she talked me down off the ledge, at the expense of her own functioning the next morning. Interesting, a part of my mind noted, how it became something happening to her, instead of something happening to me.
"He doesn't love you, hun. He never loved you. People who love you don't cheat. They don't mock you, or belittle you, or make fun of you when you twist an ankle. People who love you put your interests in front of their own. They make it all about you." She didn't really understand. Her, with all her years with clueless Clarence, didn't know what it was like. Yes, David sinned. He cheated on me with the 19 year old intern from the office, 40 year old women from bars, the woman who sold sneakers at Foot Locker. I took him back because he was someone to complain about Sarah Palin to, someone to make dinner for, someone to watch movies with. He gave my life drama, gave me something to complain about at work, kept me from obsessing about myself and my loneliness. If I hated him, I wasn't hating myself.
David wasn't enamored like Clarence was, in love with the idea that someone that gorgeous would spend time with him. David knew I was disposable- I was cute enough, but no cuter than 10 other girls who would come along as soon as he dropped me. I wasn't tall and gorgeous and secure and firm like she was, rooted into place with the man and the situation and the minivan, driving to soccer and ballet and Scouts. I was just another woman, to be used up and disposed of when I was no longer useful. I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything, looking down at the salad on my plate. I had no appetite. I hardly ate, which made me feel constantly dizzy and a little unhinged. I knew if I was ever going to have a body like hers, I had to either have children or add some fat to my diet. The prospect of either was nauseating.
"Honey, you can't do this. You can't let him hurt you again," she said, her voice now pleading, like she wanted me to finish my broccoli. Her cheeseburger was already gone, and she sipped gently at a Diet Coke. She didn't understand, with her devoted husband, cherubic kids, and perfect, organized life, how it felt when you were this close to the borderline. Taking him back was awful, but not taking him back was worse.
"You're nuts," she told me. "N-V-T-S, nuts!," she said, using the old joke from the Mel Brooks movie. Her brown hair, intensely curly, framed her face in attractive ringlets. She looked hurt at what I had just said. "You can't do that," she said firmly, her mouth open slightly. She recrossed her legs, one leg moving smoothly over the other. Her body was amazing for someone with 3 kids. My eyes lost focus in the brown and white print of her dress.
"You're letting David come back? After what he did? You're joking, right? He cheated. He cheated, and then you took him back, and he cheated AGAIN. You know a leopard can't change his spots! Once a cheater, always a cheater!" Her voice was getting impatient, kind of lecture-y. When I saw her with her kids, she could sound like that now and then. I supposed it was a byproduct of constant corrections: "Don't touch that! That's not yours! Where are you going? What are you doing? We don't do that!"
"How can you do this to yourself? How can you do this to me? Don't you remember that first night, the way I stayed up with you until 3AM, listening to you cry? How I was almost late to drop the kids off the next morning?" She wasn't wrong. I had caught them, the curvy blond intern and David, kissing frantically in his car right outside our condo, then barricaded the door with a bookshelf and called her, breathless with hot, angry tears. Like a friend, she talked me down off the ledge, at the expense of her own functioning the next morning. Interesting, a part of my mind noted, how it became something happening to her, instead of something happening to me.
"He doesn't love you, hun. He never loved you. People who love you don't cheat. They don't mock you, or belittle you, or make fun of you when you twist an ankle. People who love you put your interests in front of their own. They make it all about you." She didn't really understand. Her, with all her years with clueless Clarence, didn't know what it was like. Yes, David sinned. He cheated on me with the 19 year old intern from the office, 40 year old women from bars, the woman who sold sneakers at Foot Locker. I took him back because he was someone to complain about Sarah Palin to, someone to make dinner for, someone to watch movies with. He gave my life drama, gave me something to complain about at work, kept me from obsessing about myself and my loneliness. If I hated him, I wasn't hating myself.
David wasn't enamored like Clarence was, in love with the idea that someone that gorgeous would spend time with him. David knew I was disposable- I was cute enough, but no cuter than 10 other girls who would come along as soon as he dropped me. I wasn't tall and gorgeous and secure and firm like she was, rooted into place with the man and the situation and the minivan, driving to soccer and ballet and Scouts. I was just another woman, to be used up and disposed of when I was no longer useful. I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything, looking down at the salad on my plate. I had no appetite. I hardly ate, which made me feel constantly dizzy and a little unhinged. I knew if I was ever going to have a body like hers, I had to either have children or add some fat to my diet. The prospect of either was nauseating.
"Honey, you can't do this. You can't let him hurt you again," she said, her voice now pleading, like she wanted me to finish my broccoli. Her cheeseburger was already gone, and she sipped gently at a Diet Coke. She didn't understand, with her devoted husband, cherubic kids, and perfect, organized life, how it felt when you were this close to the borderline. Taking him back was awful, but not taking him back was worse.
Friday, June 10, 2011
100 Word Challenge: After The Thrill Is Gone
Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge wouldn't play an entire NBA Finals 4th quarter and take only one shot. This week's word is "compliments" and the title is "After The Thrill Is Gone"
Some were simply too tight, the buttons pulling at the buttonholes, soft diamonds of skin showing through. Some were too loose and shapeless. She knew which ones brought compliments from leering men or jealous women. She tried a dark red, and then a creamy bone white, then light blue, looking for the right amount of curve without falling over into outrageous. "We're not quite lovers, but we're not quite friends...," the radio said. That was true. She didn't how how she felt about him any more, only that being with him felt better than being without him.
Some were simply too tight, the buttons pulling at the buttonholes, soft diamonds of skin showing through. Some were too loose and shapeless. She knew which ones brought compliments from leering men or jealous women. She tried a dark red, and then a creamy bone white, then light blue, looking for the right amount of curve without falling over into outrageous. "We're not quite lovers, but we're not quite friends...," the radio said. That was true. She didn't how how she felt about him any more, only that being with him felt better than being without him.
Wednesday, June 08, 2011
IndieInk Writing Challenge: Survival Gear
Opera Mouth challenged me this week to tell a story about being stranded on a desert island, while I challenge Christy with the single word "Balance". Here's my contribution, "Survival Gear"
I said I wanted to be alone. Well, I got that much of what I asked for.
Flying cargoes of I Don't Want To Know from God Knows Where to Not Even God Knows Where, being paid in cash to keep my ex wife's lawyers out of my pocket, I learned to ask for very little. I wanted a clean plane, simple and straightforward (if extralegal) instructions, and some hard currency in a duffel bag when I was finished. Other than that, I wanted no conversation, no entanglements, no deals- just cold beer and a comfortable place to sit by myself and relax during my downtime.
I missed out on the beer, but I got the alone part right. Jerry, my contact, part time mechanic and full time alcoholic, had assured me the plane, which looked like it had been assembled from discarded parts of other planes, was fine. "It may not look like much," he said, quoting Han Solo, "but it's got it where it counts." After a routine beginning, a sudden squall blew me off course, and then a fuel leak gave me all the drama one could ask for, 1200 miles from civilization and suddenly flightless. I tried all the emergency tricks they teach us to, quickly realizing I was about to become a smallish grease spot on the ocean surface.
A distress call was pointless- not only was I not exactly carrying Christmas ornaments, I couldn't even tell the searchers where to look. So I jumped, stuffing my gear into a waterproof bag and parachuting out of the plane's wake and into, eventually, the unforgiving water. I cut myself free, then crawled and sputtered and eventually swam my way to a tiny strip of land. It was large enough to play American football on, as long as you didn't mind the end zones being underwater. I spread out the gear I had managed to haul out of the sinking plane before it made an anticlimactic smack, sinking like the heavy object it suddenly was once the engines quit.
Windup radio/cassette player, a Johnny Cash cassette, a couple of paperbacks, some pens and writing paper and survival gear-poncho, canteen, dried fruit, flint and steel, fishing line and hooks, evaporator to collect fresh water, frying pan and eating utensils- this was my world, this and this tiny spit of dirt, trees and shrubs. I was alive, wet, but whole and relatively hearty. It beat being dead, but not by a whole lot.
I thought about the movies, TV shows and books about being stranded. "Hatchet", and "Gilligan's Island", and "Lost", and Jack London stories, and "Cast Away". They all managed to put it together, and make it work where they were until they got rescued. I had doubts about my own abilities, but with my equipment laid out in front of me, I felt more prepared, more ready to make a go of it. Besides, what choice did I have?
I was looking around for a place to keep my stuff safe from rain and sun, some sort of a cave or outcropping, when I heard what for all the world sounded like an airplane. It can't possibly be that easy, I thought. Rescue on Day One? No movie producer in the world would approve that script. But the more I listened, the more it sounded like an airplane, until suddenly one popped into view, a yellow and white seaplane, turning left, dropping out of the sky towards my tiny little outcropping of land.
It couldn't be. But it was, as the seaplane dropped lower and lower, finally dipping its long, angular skids onto the water's surface, slowing down, bleeding off momentum by using the friction of water against metal and fiberglass. Were they following me? In that gale, I could have been followed by the RAF and I wouldn't have known it. If so, why me? Were they aware of what I was carrying? If so, they certainly had something on me. Were they intending on stealing it, and my crash had spoiled their plan?
The engine slowed and finally stopped, two men getting out of the cabin carrying rifles. It suddenly occurred to me what their agenda was- whether their plan involved theft or monitoring, it had now changed. And it certainly didn't now involve rescue. I didn't bother running- there were two of them, with guns, and there wasn't any place to hide. They didn't say anything. The taller one made a long shadow against the desert sand.
Being shot wasn't like in the movies- it really felt like a punch, a startling, rude blow into my upper chest. The strangest part was the sound of it- I could hear the wet slosh of my tissues as the bullet punched through them. They didn't say anything, and as my life drained away onto the equipment I had so carefully unpacked, it struck me as funny how useless all this survival gear turned out to be.
I said I wanted to be alone. Well, I got that much of what I asked for.
Flying cargoes of I Don't Want To Know from God Knows Where to Not Even God Knows Where, being paid in cash to keep my ex wife's lawyers out of my pocket, I learned to ask for very little. I wanted a clean plane, simple and straightforward (if extralegal) instructions, and some hard currency in a duffel bag when I was finished. Other than that, I wanted no conversation, no entanglements, no deals- just cold beer and a comfortable place to sit by myself and relax during my downtime.
I missed out on the beer, but I got the alone part right. Jerry, my contact, part time mechanic and full time alcoholic, had assured me the plane, which looked like it had been assembled from discarded parts of other planes, was fine. "It may not look like much," he said, quoting Han Solo, "but it's got it where it counts." After a routine beginning, a sudden squall blew me off course, and then a fuel leak gave me all the drama one could ask for, 1200 miles from civilization and suddenly flightless. I tried all the emergency tricks they teach us to, quickly realizing I was about to become a smallish grease spot on the ocean surface.
A distress call was pointless- not only was I not exactly carrying Christmas ornaments, I couldn't even tell the searchers where to look. So I jumped, stuffing my gear into a waterproof bag and parachuting out of the plane's wake and into, eventually, the unforgiving water. I cut myself free, then crawled and sputtered and eventually swam my way to a tiny strip of land. It was large enough to play American football on, as long as you didn't mind the end zones being underwater. I spread out the gear I had managed to haul out of the sinking plane before it made an anticlimactic smack, sinking like the heavy object it suddenly was once the engines quit.
Windup radio/cassette player, a Johnny Cash cassette, a couple of paperbacks, some pens and writing paper and survival gear-poncho, canteen, dried fruit, flint and steel, fishing line and hooks, evaporator to collect fresh water, frying pan and eating utensils- this was my world, this and this tiny spit of dirt, trees and shrubs. I was alive, wet, but whole and relatively hearty. It beat being dead, but not by a whole lot.
I thought about the movies, TV shows and books about being stranded. "Hatchet", and "Gilligan's Island", and "Lost", and Jack London stories, and "Cast Away". They all managed to put it together, and make it work where they were until they got rescued. I had doubts about my own abilities, but with my equipment laid out in front of me, I felt more prepared, more ready to make a go of it. Besides, what choice did I have?
I was looking around for a place to keep my stuff safe from rain and sun, some sort of a cave or outcropping, when I heard what for all the world sounded like an airplane. It can't possibly be that easy, I thought. Rescue on Day One? No movie producer in the world would approve that script. But the more I listened, the more it sounded like an airplane, until suddenly one popped into view, a yellow and white seaplane, turning left, dropping out of the sky towards my tiny little outcropping of land.
It couldn't be. But it was, as the seaplane dropped lower and lower, finally dipping its long, angular skids onto the water's surface, slowing down, bleeding off momentum by using the friction of water against metal and fiberglass. Were they following me? In that gale, I could have been followed by the RAF and I wouldn't have known it. If so, why me? Were they aware of what I was carrying? If so, they certainly had something on me. Were they intending on stealing it, and my crash had spoiled their plan?
The engine slowed and finally stopped, two men getting out of the cabin carrying rifles. It suddenly occurred to me what their agenda was- whether their plan involved theft or monitoring, it had now changed. And it certainly didn't now involve rescue. I didn't bother running- there were two of them, with guns, and there wasn't any place to hide. They didn't say anything. The taller one made a long shadow against the desert sand.
Being shot wasn't like in the movies- it really felt like a punch, a startling, rude blow into my upper chest. The strangest part was the sound of it- I could hear the wet slosh of my tissues as the bullet punched through them. They didn't say anything, and as my life drained away onto the equipment I had so carefully unpacked, it struck me as funny how useless all this survival gear turned out to be.
Friday, June 03, 2011
100 Word Challenge: Assume
Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge is busy growing its playoff beard. This week's word is "unconscious", and my story about unconscious bias is called "Assume".
Her pregnancy had been a seemingly unending series of bad news, restrictions, and rules. You can't do this anymore, you're not allowed to have that. I was sitting next to her, facing her as she sat. The curtain parted and a tiny woman with tight brown curls and cute glasses came through, holding a chart.
"We've decided we're going to induce you in the morning," she said firmly in a little girl voice.
I had come quickly to my feet. "When did the doctor decide that?," I asked.
"Just now," she said. "I'm the doctor."
Her pregnancy had been a seemingly unending series of bad news, restrictions, and rules. You can't do this anymore, you're not allowed to have that. I was sitting next to her, facing her as she sat. The curtain parted and a tiny woman with tight brown curls and cute glasses came through, holding a chart.
"We've decided we're going to induce you in the morning," she said firmly in a little girl voice.
I had come quickly to my feet. "When did the doctor decide that?," I asked.
"Just now," she said. "I'm the doctor."
Wednesday, June 01, 2011
IndieInk Writing Challenge: Ashamed
This week, as part of the IndieInk Writing Challenge, I challenge Manju, asking her "What do you want from me?", while I am challenged by The Onion, not the satirical newspaper but instead someone with lots of layers (onions have layers, as Donkey told us). This tear inducing vegetable asks me to write about a time when I felt shame. There are no shortage of those, for sure.
I don't typically write about personal things. (I used to. In my archive are post upon post whining about my personal problems.) I do this because I'm a coward- I find it easier to put my feelings into people that don't exist. I've been wrestling about this challenge, because I'm not sure exactly which event would both fail to cause terminal embarrassment and somehow provide edification and/or entertainment.
But I'm going to try.
Evan Dando would argue that it's a shame about Ray.
Billy Joel would instead argue that he is Shameless.
John Lennon, quoting Fats Domino, would ask us Ain't That A Shame?
I've been thinking about this question all week. I've tried approaching this question politically, poetically, fictionally, and factually- and all my efforts have come out pathetically.
What is wrong with me? There are so many blogs, full of confessions about rape, pregnancy, incest, abuse of all sorts. Brave people, baring their souls to try and comfort humans they have never met. And then, there's me: unwilling to tell even the smallest embarrassing story. What am I afraid of?
I guess, in the end, the thing that I feel the most shame about is my inability to talk about anything meaningful. I wish I had the bravery to show my vulnerabilities.
- Posted using BlogPress
I don't typically write about personal things. (I used to. In my archive are post upon post whining about my personal problems.) I do this because I'm a coward- I find it easier to put my feelings into people that don't exist. I've been wrestling about this challenge, because I'm not sure exactly which event would both fail to cause terminal embarrassment and somehow provide edification and/or entertainment.
But I'm going to try.
Evan Dando would argue that it's a shame about Ray.
Billy Joel would instead argue that he is Shameless.
John Lennon, quoting Fats Domino, would ask us Ain't That A Shame?
I've been thinking about this question all week. I've tried approaching this question politically, poetically, fictionally, and factually- and all my efforts have come out pathetically.
What is wrong with me? There are so many blogs, full of confessions about rape, pregnancy, incest, abuse of all sorts. Brave people, baring their souls to try and comfort humans they have never met. And then, there's me: unwilling to tell even the smallest embarrassing story. What am I afraid of?
I guess, in the end, the thing that I feel the most shame about is my inability to talk about anything meaningful. I wish I had the bravery to show my vulnerabilities.
- Posted using BlogPress
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Terrible Minds Challenge: More Noodles, Please.
New Dad and old superhero Chuck Wendig has posted yet another Flash Fiction Challenge, the first one since the birth of Little Dude Wendig. The subject is "an uninvited guest" and my story is called "More Noodles, Please".
"So did you send that packet off?" My mother had washed her makeup off, but she still had her real estate expression on, all false fronts and illusory control over events. She got this tone, a brassy, too loud edge to her voice that said she was asking your opinion, but she didn't really want it.
"Yup." That seemed safe. I hadn't. It was still tucked into my school bag like an unexploded bomb. I was supposed to mail it after school today, to make sure the admissions office got it by the end of the month. In the press of events, I had forgotten all about my promise to send it off. Now I had one more secret to conceal from Miss Snoopybritches over there.
Lea, my over investigative younger sister, piped up. "But she was home at-," she said, choking off her reply when I shot her a look.
"3, yeah," I finished for her. "The line was short," I lied desperately.
My mother was serving us our pasta. My guts clenched at the thought of eating, but I would have to force something down. She was supersensitive to the symptoms of eating disorders, and she would start to fuss over me if I stopped eating. That was one thing I couldn't have, her monitoring every shift in my biology.
Who are you kidding? By graduation, your biology is going to be the main topic of conversation!
It was like those stages of dying we learned about- denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. I had moved through them all in about a week. Ironically, it's not dying that I'm worried about. More like the opposite.
Yeah, that's one way to think about it. Another way is that it doesn't matter whether or not you send off that packet. You're going to be taking tests in the fall, just not ones that grade on a curve. They are more pass/fail type things.
Lea was babbling, something about how this boy was cheating off her paper, except the teacher didn't believe her and he wouldn't stop. Lea, theatrical to the last, carried on about how unfair it was. That's not the only thing that's unfair about boys, I thought.
What, you mean how they tell you all these sweet wonderful nothings, then leave you once they get what they came for? How they can just go, leaving the damage behind them like it was a messy room or a unpaid cell phone bill? How they just forget about you, making you feel used up and ignored? You mean unfair like that?
My mother served herself last, settling in at the head od the table. She wore a semi attentive face, letting Lea think she was being fascinating. I knew the face, kind of a bland face, with eyes that held her gaze so she thought you were listening. I used the same gaze on her too. You couldn't listen to everything she said, not and still stay sane.
You've got something to say that will definitely be listened to. So just say it.
I cut a piece of chicken, then slid it into my mouth. It was fine. She tried to make it sweet and sour, and it came out fairly well. As I chewed, my stomach fluttered nervously. I tried to calculate how much I could eat to keep her suspicions at bay.
Honestly? How much longer do you think you can keep that game going? Two weeks? A month? You already don't fit into those nice black jeans you just got. You have to tell her. You'll feel better if you just say it.
"I saw Kelly at lunch," Lea said accusingly. "She didn't eat anything at all."
"Honey? Is that true?" My mother turned to me with her concerned face on. It registered concern, along with a little bit of Rottweiler "I'm going to keep after you until you spill it" mixed in. "Are you sick?"
That's one word for it. It is something you go to the doctor for.
"I had an apple," I said defensively. "I was just nervous about a test." That was half true. I didn't eat an apple, but I did have a test. English. I barely remember it.
"How did you do?," my mother asked. Her features softened. She seems to have bought that.
It was positive. Tell her. Tell her the test was positive.
"Fine," I lied. It was on Macbeth, and I hadn't read beyond Act I. I left almost half of it blank.
You're not accomplishing anything by doing this. Lea already made a crack about your breasts spilling out of that top you wore yesterday. It's going to get more and more obvious, until you can't hide it at all. You can see it in the mirror when you get out of the shower. How much longer until you can't hide it from anyone anymore?
"You look upset, Kel. What's wrong?" My mother's tone changed instantly, right back to the detective pressing a suspect tone.
She can tell. Just say it.
Lea turned her tiny face to look at me. She looked smug, secure in the knowledge that someone might be in trouble, and it wasn't her.
"I'm fine," I said, shoveling in a mouthful of noodles. My stomach ached at the thought of the food making it's way down there. I had the distinct, odd feeling it would be making the return journey. Soon.
Just say it.
"Mom?"
"Yes, baby?"
"Are there more noodles?"
"I think there's one more spoonful," she said, taking my plate up to the stove.
Lea eyed me suspiciously, like she knew something was up.
She doesn't know how right she is.
- Posted using BlogPress
"So did you send that packet off?" My mother had washed her makeup off, but she still had her real estate expression on, all false fronts and illusory control over events. She got this tone, a brassy, too loud edge to her voice that said she was asking your opinion, but she didn't really want it.
"Yup." That seemed safe. I hadn't. It was still tucked into my school bag like an unexploded bomb. I was supposed to mail it after school today, to make sure the admissions office got it by the end of the month. In the press of events, I had forgotten all about my promise to send it off. Now I had one more secret to conceal from Miss Snoopybritches over there.
Lea, my over investigative younger sister, piped up. "But she was home at-," she said, choking off her reply when I shot her a look.
"3, yeah," I finished for her. "The line was short," I lied desperately.
My mother was serving us our pasta. My guts clenched at the thought of eating, but I would have to force something down. She was supersensitive to the symptoms of eating disorders, and she would start to fuss over me if I stopped eating. That was one thing I couldn't have, her monitoring every shift in my biology.
Who are you kidding? By graduation, your biology is going to be the main topic of conversation!
It was like those stages of dying we learned about- denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. I had moved through them all in about a week. Ironically, it's not dying that I'm worried about. More like the opposite.
Yeah, that's one way to think about it. Another way is that it doesn't matter whether or not you send off that packet. You're going to be taking tests in the fall, just not ones that grade on a curve. They are more pass/fail type things.
Lea was babbling, something about how this boy was cheating off her paper, except the teacher didn't believe her and he wouldn't stop. Lea, theatrical to the last, carried on about how unfair it was. That's not the only thing that's unfair about boys, I thought.
What, you mean how they tell you all these sweet wonderful nothings, then leave you once they get what they came for? How they can just go, leaving the damage behind them like it was a messy room or a unpaid cell phone bill? How they just forget about you, making you feel used up and ignored? You mean unfair like that?
My mother served herself last, settling in at the head od the table. She wore a semi attentive face, letting Lea think she was being fascinating. I knew the face, kind of a bland face, with eyes that held her gaze so she thought you were listening. I used the same gaze on her too. You couldn't listen to everything she said, not and still stay sane.
You've got something to say that will definitely be listened to. So just say it.
I cut a piece of chicken, then slid it into my mouth. It was fine. She tried to make it sweet and sour, and it came out fairly well. As I chewed, my stomach fluttered nervously. I tried to calculate how much I could eat to keep her suspicions at bay.
Honestly? How much longer do you think you can keep that game going? Two weeks? A month? You already don't fit into those nice black jeans you just got. You have to tell her. You'll feel better if you just say it.
"I saw Kelly at lunch," Lea said accusingly. "She didn't eat anything at all."
"Honey? Is that true?" My mother turned to me with her concerned face on. It registered concern, along with a little bit of Rottweiler "I'm going to keep after you until you spill it" mixed in. "Are you sick?"
That's one word for it. It is something you go to the doctor for.
"I had an apple," I said defensively. "I was just nervous about a test." That was half true. I didn't eat an apple, but I did have a test. English. I barely remember it.
"How did you do?," my mother asked. Her features softened. She seems to have bought that.
It was positive. Tell her. Tell her the test was positive.
"Fine," I lied. It was on Macbeth, and I hadn't read beyond Act I. I left almost half of it blank.
You're not accomplishing anything by doing this. Lea already made a crack about your breasts spilling out of that top you wore yesterday. It's going to get more and more obvious, until you can't hide it at all. You can see it in the mirror when you get out of the shower. How much longer until you can't hide it from anyone anymore?
"You look upset, Kel. What's wrong?" My mother's tone changed instantly, right back to the detective pressing a suspect tone.
She can tell. Just say it.
Lea turned her tiny face to look at me. She looked smug, secure in the knowledge that someone might be in trouble, and it wasn't her.
"I'm fine," I said, shoveling in a mouthful of noodles. My stomach ached at the thought of the food making it's way down there. I had the distinct, odd feeling it would be making the return journey. Soon.
Just say it.
"Mom?"
"Yes, baby?"
"Are there more noodles?"
"I think there's one more spoonful," she said, taking my plate up to the stove.
Lea eyed me suspiciously, like she knew something was up.
She doesn't know how right she is.
- Posted using BlogPress
Redlight King
This is Redlight King, a new Canadian group I learned about, of all places, at the movie theater while waiting to see "Thor". The first single, "Old Man", samples Neil Young's song of the same name, and really appeals to me.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Flash Fiction Friday: The Greatest Discovery
Flash Fiction Friday has a challenge up this week, involving conspiracy theories. The challenge is to write a story involving a conspiracy that turns out to be true. This is based on one of the given conspiracy theories, the idea that drug companies possess the cure for all known diseases, but they bury them, preferring to sell drugs to fight symptoms.
I should say that I don't believe that. I don't believe in any conspiracy theories. I prefer Franklin's dictum that three can keep a secret, if two are dead. We can't keep anything secret.
That said, here's a little tale imagining what might happen if one were true.
Jeanette expected headlines, her boss appearing on the Today Show, her lab the lead story on every news show. After all, their compound had done it- taken down the Big C. Cancer was gone, consigned to the footnotes of history like scurvy. But there was nothing about it that morning on TV as she dressed for an early meeting.
They had high hopes for the compound, of course- they always did. Biomedical research was like that- you were sure a molecule had promise, but it always failed- it caused problems in humans, or it was chemically too delicate, or it was expensive. When reality met the whiteboard, reality always won.
But this one was different, Jeanette thought, carrying her lab notebooks, her morning Starbucks, her favorite pens, and her MacBook in a public radio tote bag up to the lab. They had an 8:00 meeting, and it was 7:56. She quickened her pace a little bit. Obviously, the meeting was to set their media strategy- all nine of them were about to be very famous.
The results they were getting were astounding. They tested the patients for everything- no kidney problems, no liver, no nothing. No side effects at all. And it stopped everything- lung cancer, skin, uterine, breast, everything they tried, it worked- zapping the cancer like it was a video game. Total remission, no side effects, as easy to take as Tylenol.
Jeanette filed into the lab, the last one to arrive. Dr. Hay began as soon as she shut the door. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have had a setback. I need all your notebooks. We have scrubbed the servers of your emails. PK53 is no longer a project of ours."
Jeanette, never a quiet sort, spoke without thinking, "What setback? We haven't had any adverse events in the trials. None!"
"Ms. Wong, I have my orders. Everyone pass your notebooks to the front."
"We are releasing, right? We're applying for compassionate use. We have to be! People are dying!," Jeanette spat.
"Ms. Wong, I dont need to remind you you signed an NDA. You can't speak about this drug to anyone. Ever."
"But Dr. Hay! You can't do this! Lives are at stake!"
Her lab mates were sheepishly handing in their notebooks. Jeanette slammed her coffee cup down, tan liquid sloshing out the top.
"You're burying this? Burying the greatest advance in public health since penicillin?"
"Ms. Wong," her boss began. "There are forces at work here you don't understand."
Jeanette looked up at her boss, stamping her foot once with rage, a gesture that made her boyfriend giggle, no matter how serious she was. "I won't let you do this. I can't," she said firmly.
"You breathe a word of this to anyone," he said, "you'll regret it."
Jeanette grabbed her purse and stalked out the door. He can't do that, she thought in a white hot rage- this drug could save people! This drug could have saved my mother! She thought about who to tell, taking the stairs to the street two at a time. Brian, she thought. Brian worked on "Fresh Air", he'll get someone on the story. He'd probably think I want to get back together with him, she mused, but once he hears this, he'll know how important it is, and he'll get some attention on it. Jeanette was fumbling for her phone, walking up Eighth Avenue towards the subway, when she felt a man, dressed in black, suddenly looming up beside her and shoving her roughly into the gap between two buildings. Jeanette opened her mouth to cry out, then felt the heavy thump of something on her head. She saw red inside her closed eyes before everything went black.
I should say that I don't believe that. I don't believe in any conspiracy theories. I prefer Franklin's dictum that three can keep a secret, if two are dead. We can't keep anything secret.
That said, here's a little tale imagining what might happen if one were true.
Jeanette expected headlines, her boss appearing on the Today Show, her lab the lead story on every news show. After all, their compound had done it- taken down the Big C. Cancer was gone, consigned to the footnotes of history like scurvy. But there was nothing about it that morning on TV as she dressed for an early meeting.
They had high hopes for the compound, of course- they always did. Biomedical research was like that- you were sure a molecule had promise, but it always failed- it caused problems in humans, or it was chemically too delicate, or it was expensive. When reality met the whiteboard, reality always won.
But this one was different, Jeanette thought, carrying her lab notebooks, her morning Starbucks, her favorite pens, and her MacBook in a public radio tote bag up to the lab. They had an 8:00 meeting, and it was 7:56. She quickened her pace a little bit. Obviously, the meeting was to set their media strategy- all nine of them were about to be very famous.
The results they were getting were astounding. They tested the patients for everything- no kidney problems, no liver, no nothing. No side effects at all. And it stopped everything- lung cancer, skin, uterine, breast, everything they tried, it worked- zapping the cancer like it was a video game. Total remission, no side effects, as easy to take as Tylenol.
Jeanette filed into the lab, the last one to arrive. Dr. Hay began as soon as she shut the door. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have had a setback. I need all your notebooks. We have scrubbed the servers of your emails. PK53 is no longer a project of ours."
Jeanette, never a quiet sort, spoke without thinking, "What setback? We haven't had any adverse events in the trials. None!"
"Ms. Wong, I have my orders. Everyone pass your notebooks to the front."
"We are releasing, right? We're applying for compassionate use. We have to be! People are dying!," Jeanette spat.
"Ms. Wong, I dont need to remind you you signed an NDA. You can't speak about this drug to anyone. Ever."
"But Dr. Hay! You can't do this! Lives are at stake!"
Her lab mates were sheepishly handing in their notebooks. Jeanette slammed her coffee cup down, tan liquid sloshing out the top.
"You're burying this? Burying the greatest advance in public health since penicillin?"
"Ms. Wong," her boss began. "There are forces at work here you don't understand."
Jeanette looked up at her boss, stamping her foot once with rage, a gesture that made her boyfriend giggle, no matter how serious she was. "I won't let you do this. I can't," she said firmly.
"You breathe a word of this to anyone," he said, "you'll regret it."
Jeanette grabbed her purse and stalked out the door. He can't do that, she thought in a white hot rage- this drug could save people! This drug could have saved my mother! She thought about who to tell, taking the stairs to the street two at a time. Brian, she thought. Brian worked on "Fresh Air", he'll get someone on the story. He'd probably think I want to get back together with him, she mused, but once he hears this, he'll know how important it is, and he'll get some attention on it. Jeanette was fumbling for her phone, walking up Eighth Avenue towards the subway, when she felt a man, dressed in black, suddenly looming up beside her and shoving her roughly into the gap between two buildings. Jeanette opened her mouth to cry out, then felt the heavy thump of something on her head. She saw red inside her closed eyes before everything went black.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Blatant Self Promotion, Volume MCMXVIII
Pure Slush is a web only literary magazine founded and edited by my brother from another mother, fellow 52/250 alum Matt Potter. Matt has kindly posted today (or yesterday, or tomorrow- he's one of those non American time traveler types from overseas) a piece I wrote called "Just Ahead". Faithful readers of this blog (both of you) may note this piece has never appeared here.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
100 Word Challenge: "Couch Potato"
Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge is firmly of the opinion that if Rapture did occur, online literary challenges would be taken up to heaven with all the good people of Earth. This week's word is "Starved" and my story is called "Couch Potato".
"Rich?", I said hopefully.
He wasn't listening. I don't know why I even try anymore. He checked out years ago. After the kids came, and then especially when I got sick, he just left, mentally. It's like he's waiting for me to die.
"Rich?", I asked again.
It was stupid to even try. He wasn't the man I married anymore. I'm lonely, I want to tell him. Just hug me, tell me that I matter, tell me that it is going to be okay. Lie to me.
"What?," he barked.
"Forget it," I said.
"Rich?", I said hopefully.
He wasn't listening. I don't know why I even try anymore. He checked out years ago. After the kids came, and then especially when I got sick, he just left, mentally. It's like he's waiting for me to die.
"Rich?", I asked again.
It was stupid to even try. He wasn't the man I married anymore. I'm lonely, I want to tell him. Just hug me, tell me that I matter, tell me that it is going to be okay. Lie to me.
"What?," he barked.
"Forget it," I said.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: Young Americans
This week, my Challenge goes out to Lazidaisical, while I am challenged by the immortal Plaid Pants, who gives me "ruins at dusk", while neither confirming nor denying the color (or colors) of her pants. I call this "Young Americans"
"You have to travel," everyone told me. "You should go see the world. It will inspire you." I put them off, until my bank balance, fat from a couple of pieces that sold for more than I thought they would, convinced me I could. I paid my bills ahead, packed up, and left for a month, sketchbook in hand, ready to see the Old World.
It was unsurprising. It was old, and very beautiful. People were generally nice, understanding and accepting my ignorance and managing to explain to me, with pantomime and phrases from Matt Damon movies, where the public bathroom was. It was odd seeing signs with unfamiliar logos and words you couldn't understand. As an ignorant American, I got used to reading every flat surface around me, from the warning on a bus window to a vending machine, with subconscious speed.
I had one week left before returning to home and hearth. It had been a fine trip, and I had made sketches, and I had some new ideas. But I had a lingering wish that it be over- that I was back among people I knew, television shows I could understand, Chinese food I could order at 3AM. Rules and customs that I knew, friends that would answer when I called them. Culture was all well and good, but I was about ready to go home.
Our tour bus was making its way up a long, winding hill. The bus driver appeared to be a David Bowie fan, as he kept playing the same Greatest Hits cassette over and over as we kicked up dust behind us. We were at a set of ruins up here, broken walls and columns and old statues. The tour leader, a round bellied Irishman named Phillip, announced, as the daylight faded, we could push on to one more site, or just call it a day. I was all for the latter, along with a sullen teenage girl, but the rest of the group, the girl's earnest mother, several robust seniors and a single man, all voted to press on, so we did.
We finally pulled off to the side. I could see some stone outbuildings and another long wall. It looked more or less the same as the last stone wall we saw, but I held my tongue. There was a vending machine inside the bus enclosure, and I stopped to get another bottle of water. I put in the coins, but the machine wouldn't drop the bottle. Looking around anxiously for some sort of attendant, I saw only the single man. I hadn't spoken to him yet, but as I usually did, I had quickly sized him up as the only fit potential suitor on the bus.
I wasn't the most active person I knew. Not by a long shot. But I had my share of boyfriends, and people who would open their bed to me if I asked. I didn't dare on the trip- you never know what the laws are, never mind the rules and customs and niceties of coupling outside your own land. But in my typical fashion, I eliminated the others and settled on him. Whenever I was in any group, I would analyze it for potential mates, just inside my own head. If it was going to be any of them, it would be him.
I remembered a line I heard a comedian use about the actor Alec Baldwin: the closest thing to James Bond that you're going to meet on this Earth. That's what the single man was- calm, cool, and collected. Trim, with well fit, fashionable clothes and a shock of dark hair, he had noticed my distress with the machine. After nearly a month with no attention from anyone, my body perked up when he caught my eye.
He came up beside me.
"How many did you put in?" he asked. His voice was smooth, like a radio DJ or a lounge singer's would be.
"Three."
"It needs four," he said, sliding one more of the strange foreign coins into the slot. I heard the mechanism release, and the bottle thumped down to the bottom. "I made the same mistake this morning."
"Aha," I said, removing the bottle from the machine. "Thanks."
"I'm Jacob," he said, extending his hand.
"Keith," I said, shaking it. Yup, I thought. I definitely feel something.
"Shall we go look at more rocks?"
"I guess we shall," I said. We walked side by side towards the group, who were gathered near one end of the wall. Phillip was talking about Roman legions as we made our way to the edge of the group. He didn't take my hand or anything so forward, but he seemed to deliberately stand near me. I looked at him in profile, his eyes focused on our group leader. I felt my heart pound a bit. Maybe this trip wasn't so bad after all.
"You have to travel," everyone told me. "You should go see the world. It will inspire you." I put them off, until my bank balance, fat from a couple of pieces that sold for more than I thought they would, convinced me I could. I paid my bills ahead, packed up, and left for a month, sketchbook in hand, ready to see the Old World.
It was unsurprising. It was old, and very beautiful. People were generally nice, understanding and accepting my ignorance and managing to explain to me, with pantomime and phrases from Matt Damon movies, where the public bathroom was. It was odd seeing signs with unfamiliar logos and words you couldn't understand. As an ignorant American, I got used to reading every flat surface around me, from the warning on a bus window to a vending machine, with subconscious speed.
I had one week left before returning to home and hearth. It had been a fine trip, and I had made sketches, and I had some new ideas. But I had a lingering wish that it be over- that I was back among people I knew, television shows I could understand, Chinese food I could order at 3AM. Rules and customs that I knew, friends that would answer when I called them. Culture was all well and good, but I was about ready to go home.
Our tour bus was making its way up a long, winding hill. The bus driver appeared to be a David Bowie fan, as he kept playing the same Greatest Hits cassette over and over as we kicked up dust behind us. We were at a set of ruins up here, broken walls and columns and old statues. The tour leader, a round bellied Irishman named Phillip, announced, as the daylight faded, we could push on to one more site, or just call it a day. I was all for the latter, along with a sullen teenage girl, but the rest of the group, the girl's earnest mother, several robust seniors and a single man, all voted to press on, so we did.
We finally pulled off to the side. I could see some stone outbuildings and another long wall. It looked more or less the same as the last stone wall we saw, but I held my tongue. There was a vending machine inside the bus enclosure, and I stopped to get another bottle of water. I put in the coins, but the machine wouldn't drop the bottle. Looking around anxiously for some sort of attendant, I saw only the single man. I hadn't spoken to him yet, but as I usually did, I had quickly sized him up as the only fit potential suitor on the bus.
I wasn't the most active person I knew. Not by a long shot. But I had my share of boyfriends, and people who would open their bed to me if I asked. I didn't dare on the trip- you never know what the laws are, never mind the rules and customs and niceties of coupling outside your own land. But in my typical fashion, I eliminated the others and settled on him. Whenever I was in any group, I would analyze it for potential mates, just inside my own head. If it was going to be any of them, it would be him.
I remembered a line I heard a comedian use about the actor Alec Baldwin: the closest thing to James Bond that you're going to meet on this Earth. That's what the single man was- calm, cool, and collected. Trim, with well fit, fashionable clothes and a shock of dark hair, he had noticed my distress with the machine. After nearly a month with no attention from anyone, my body perked up when he caught my eye.
He came up beside me.
"How many did you put in?" he asked. His voice was smooth, like a radio DJ or a lounge singer's would be.
"Three."
"It needs four," he said, sliding one more of the strange foreign coins into the slot. I heard the mechanism release, and the bottle thumped down to the bottom. "I made the same mistake this morning."
"Aha," I said, removing the bottle from the machine. "Thanks."
"I'm Jacob," he said, extending his hand.
"Keith," I said, shaking it. Yup, I thought. I definitely feel something.
"Shall we go look at more rocks?"
"I guess we shall," I said. We walked side by side towards the group, who were gathered near one end of the wall. Phillip was talking about Roman legions as we made our way to the edge of the group. He didn't take my hand or anything so forward, but he seemed to deliberately stand near me. I looked at him in profile, his eyes focused on our group leader. I felt my heart pound a bit. Maybe this trip wasn't so bad after all.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Flash Fiction Friday: Livin' On A Prayer
The folks at Flash Fiction Friday have a challenge up for this week involving a list of ten songs with commonly misheard lyrics. The challenge is to take one of the songs, and write a story based on the title. This is my entry, "Livin' On A Prayer".
Kevin wasn't perfect. He was a little quick to anger, and he was a little slow to follow me if I talked too fast about too many different people. He wasn't the cutest boy I've ever met. His nose needed work, and his skin was kind of splotchy. His family was a disaster. But he worked really hard, and he would sit on the bed and hold me when I was crying, his heavy voice whispering, "Baby, it's ok," even if he didn't understand what I was upset about.
I was far from perfect, too. I could lose 20 pounds. I was no beauty queen. My face still broke out, and when it was that time of the month, I could be a raving lunatic. I was insecure at some times, and vain at others. I could be stubborn, and I spent too much money on makeup and girly things I didn't really need. I dragged him to social functions he hated, and made him watch and care about television shows he hated when he'd rather watch sports.
I sat on the edge of our bed and watched him sleep, his breath whistling slightly through his nostrils. We both worked crazy hours, plus I was still in school, but money was still a constant problem. If he was getting all his hours, and the cafe was busy, we could clear rent easily and even buy a little wine to have with dinner. If business slowed, or if one job or the other cut him back, we scrambled even to eat. I worried about it constantly.
The morning had been a blessing, a stretch of several consecutive hours where we could sleep in the same bed, murmuring endearments, falling asleep in each other's embrace and waking up together. For once, for 12 lovely hours, no one had to be anywhere. I loved Kevin, and he loved me, and I felt more sure of that than I ever had of anything. I accepted him and his faults, and he accepted me and mine. Alone among my circle of friends, I had no doubts about the man who shared my bed.
What happened this morning wasn't anyone's fault. I don't think either of us were entirely awake, and we did what adults do when they are half clothed and in love and alone. It was natural- without really thinking about it, we started it, and then it was done, and we were both asleep again. It was me who bolted awake, maybe 20 minutes later, not exactly ashamed, but aware that what had just occurred, enjoyable as it was, shouldn't have happened. Plan B, I thought immediately, staring at the ceiling, remembering a women's magazine article I had read in a flash.
I'm not stupid. I paid attention in health class, and I knew what happened when you lost control of yourself. Our constant money crunch meant that prevention wasn't always in the budget. So I plotted, and planned, and said no when I wanted to say yes sometimes. We talked about kids, of course- everyone our age did, and a few already had started. But we agreed, not yet. Not until money worry wasn't a constant, panicky nausea in my throat.
I slipped into a pair of his sweatpants and a too large t shirt. I pulled my hair back into a sloppy pony tail, found a pair of shoes and my car keys. I fished his wallet out of his jeans and removed a twenty, then found a matching one in my purse. I inspected myself in the mirror, making tiny tugs and adjustments. I looked horrible, but I couldn't spare the time or the effort to look any better.
I watched him sleep for another second. He worked so hard. I worked, too, but a lot of my work was standing around, talking and thinking. His was lifting and bending and stretching, his muscles doing the work, making him so tired some days he would fall asleep while talking to me. He wasn't handsome, he wasn't smart, but he loved me, and he was mine. I can't, I won't put him, put us, through this. Not now. Maybe someday. But not now.
"It will be OK. Someday," I told myself as I shut the door quietly.
Kevin wasn't perfect. He was a little quick to anger, and he was a little slow to follow me if I talked too fast about too many different people. He wasn't the cutest boy I've ever met. His nose needed work, and his skin was kind of splotchy. His family was a disaster. But he worked really hard, and he would sit on the bed and hold me when I was crying, his heavy voice whispering, "Baby, it's ok," even if he didn't understand what I was upset about.
I was far from perfect, too. I could lose 20 pounds. I was no beauty queen. My face still broke out, and when it was that time of the month, I could be a raving lunatic. I was insecure at some times, and vain at others. I could be stubborn, and I spent too much money on makeup and girly things I didn't really need. I dragged him to social functions he hated, and made him watch and care about television shows he hated when he'd rather watch sports.
I sat on the edge of our bed and watched him sleep, his breath whistling slightly through his nostrils. We both worked crazy hours, plus I was still in school, but money was still a constant problem. If he was getting all his hours, and the cafe was busy, we could clear rent easily and even buy a little wine to have with dinner. If business slowed, or if one job or the other cut him back, we scrambled even to eat. I worried about it constantly.
The morning had been a blessing, a stretch of several consecutive hours where we could sleep in the same bed, murmuring endearments, falling asleep in each other's embrace and waking up together. For once, for 12 lovely hours, no one had to be anywhere. I loved Kevin, and he loved me, and I felt more sure of that than I ever had of anything. I accepted him and his faults, and he accepted me and mine. Alone among my circle of friends, I had no doubts about the man who shared my bed.
What happened this morning wasn't anyone's fault. I don't think either of us were entirely awake, and we did what adults do when they are half clothed and in love and alone. It was natural- without really thinking about it, we started it, and then it was done, and we were both asleep again. It was me who bolted awake, maybe 20 minutes later, not exactly ashamed, but aware that what had just occurred, enjoyable as it was, shouldn't have happened. Plan B, I thought immediately, staring at the ceiling, remembering a women's magazine article I had read in a flash.
I'm not stupid. I paid attention in health class, and I knew what happened when you lost control of yourself. Our constant money crunch meant that prevention wasn't always in the budget. So I plotted, and planned, and said no when I wanted to say yes sometimes. We talked about kids, of course- everyone our age did, and a few already had started. But we agreed, not yet. Not until money worry wasn't a constant, panicky nausea in my throat.
I slipped into a pair of his sweatpants and a too large t shirt. I pulled my hair back into a sloppy pony tail, found a pair of shoes and my car keys. I fished his wallet out of his jeans and removed a twenty, then found a matching one in my purse. I inspected myself in the mirror, making tiny tugs and adjustments. I looked horrible, but I couldn't spare the time or the effort to look any better.
I watched him sleep for another second. He worked so hard. I worked, too, but a lot of my work was standing around, talking and thinking. His was lifting and bending and stretching, his muscles doing the work, making him so tired some days he would fall asleep while talking to me. He wasn't handsome, he wasn't smart, but he loved me, and he was mine. I can't, I won't put him, put us, through this. Not now. Maybe someday. But not now.
"It will be OK. Someday," I told myself as I shut the door quietly.
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