Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge will neither confirm nor deny whether it intends to run for president in 2012. This week's word is "forgetting", and this story is called "Who Are You?"
Tara watched the rain streak the window.
"What is it?" Steven said from the bed. She didn't turn around.
"Is it that I'm married? Is that it?"
Tara fervently wished it was. That, she could understand. Simple, straightforward guilt, she could grasp. Tara could take the stolen afternoons in the hotels under another name, the hours and days without any contact, the knowing glances of the maid. That came with the territory.
The part she hated was the way it turned her against herself, making her forget all the times she condemned others for doing what she did so easily.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Flashed by a Threesome
The final 52/250 Flash is up, and while I am not in the mix, the stories and poems therein are not unworth your time.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Artists Way- Checking In
The marvelous Velvet, who is more marvelous than a sausage sandwich, is leading some of her minions on a journey through Julia Cameron's book "The Artist's Way". As such, we (Velvet's zombie army) will be conducting weekly check ins, as the book instructs. This is week one's check in.
1. I did not do any "artist pages". (Cameron suggests you begin each day with free writing for 30 minutes in a notebook.) Mornings are tough for me- we're often trying to get three people to three different places, making it hard to find 30 minutes for anything.
2. I did not do an "artist date". I took several unscheduled trips, places like Target and OfficeMax where I can browse pens and paper and think for a while.
3. Probably the most significant issue I came upon this week was writing a non fiction piece for my buddy Matt Potter's magazine Pure Slush about my father's passing in 2009. It was a lot harder than I had imagined it might be.
1. I did not do any "artist pages". (Cameron suggests you begin each day with free writing for 30 minutes in a notebook.) Mornings are tough for me- we're often trying to get three people to three different places, making it hard to find 30 minutes for anything.
2. I did not do an "artist date". I took several unscheduled trips, places like Target and OfficeMax where I can browse pens and paper and think for a while.
3. Probably the most significant issue I came upon this week was writing a non fiction piece for my buddy Matt Potter's magazine Pure Slush about my father's passing in 2009. It was a lot harder than I had imagined it might be.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: Remembering
The IndieInk Writing Challenge is upon us, with a mean girl in a garage challenging me to write about "The Virus". (My challenge goes out to some random girl, who will respond to it here.)Which, I have to admit, is a challenge so good it's actually a little hard. Sometimes a challenge sets me on one path, and there's nothing I can do about it. Challenges like this, though, present a whole menu of possible avenues, and the challenge is to settle on just one.
I think about all sorts of things when I hear the word "virus", some professional and technical, and some artistic and dramatic. I think of Ed Harris' stricken artist in the movie version of Michael Cunningham's "The Hours", and of Keith Haring, and of Freddie Mercury, and of the doomed strivers in Jonathan Larson's incomparable musical "Rent". I think of reverse transcriptase, and vaccinia, and varicella, and H1N1, and tobacco mosaic virus, and the undercover nature of viral replication- using the cell's own machinery to produce more virus. I think about zombie and vampire movies, and novels like Steven King's "The Stand", and Michael Crichton's "The Andromeda Strain", and the novella that became the film "I Am Legend".
Eventually, my brain settled here:
I watched the smoke make little curlicues and bends and loops as it rose from the tip of my cigarette. I met a woman, a Chinese artist who was premed before she gave up on that to make art, at a party once. She told me that the patterns in smoke like that are demonstrations of chaos theory- you could take two identical cigarettes, and light them with identical matches, and they would burn totally differently- there are so many variables, and variables impacting variables, that the system is impossible to predict. I didn't know what that meant, but it sounded good. After she bummed a cigarette and smoked it, she went back inside, while I just stayed on the porch the rest of the night, thinking about that. Jacob hated that.
Jacob. Lover, friend, comrade, brother in arms. He hated my smoking- hated it from the very beginning, insisted that I do it outside, even when he wasn't around. He could be downright bitchy about it, frankly- constantly begging me to quit, imploring me to get the patch, or gum, or hypnosis, or acupuncture. Anything to get it out of my body, and the smell out of his life. I started out of a sense of artistic yearning- that was what artists did, right? They smoked. It made you look young, and cool, and edgy, and unconcerned with mortality. Pollock, Rothko, Warhol, Picasso. "All those artists are dead," Jacob would sniff, and walk away, waving his hand theatrically.
No point in stopping now, I thought. I sat on the fire escape, looking out through triangles of steel and sharp angled buildings at the night sky. It was my smoking refuge, but sometimes I used it to just think. I'd take a novel out here- Proust, which I laughingly promised to finish as a promise to Jacob I wouldn't die- but I never read, just staring at people walking by on the street or someone on the phone inside an apartment across the street, bickering with a lover or consoling a friend. Jacob always asked me why I never made any progress in the book, and I could never tell him the answer- remembering someone else's memory was just as hard as remembering your own.
That makes Jacob sound whiny and controlling, and he's really not. I should be kinder. After all, if there is a God, I'm going to be seeing him soon. I should try to be nice. After I found out, he immediately insisted I had to stay, disease or no disease. He could have insisted, once I stopped going out with him, and then stopped working and thus, inevitably, stopped being paid, that I had to go home to Momma. I still suggested this to him, once or twice a week- my Mom would love to have someone to fuss over again- but Jacob always demurs. I secretly think he relishes having the dying boyfriend- makes him the center of a lot of conversations, which is exactly what he likes.
As it was, I wasn't costing him much. A few packs of cigarettes, a bottle of wine once a month. I only picked at food now. He had started right away, as soon as we knew, trying every trick in the book- greasy fast food, gourmet cheeses, pastry, fresh bread, homemade soups from Food Network chefs- to get me to eat. But just like my desire to paint, my desire to eat vanished soon after finding out. Part psychological- why start something you won't finish, or maintain a body that has failed you-and part biological, my shutdown was final, beyond reasoning. A few crackers, a cigarette, some water, and then back to bed, a cycle I would follow several times a day.
Sleep was a distant illusion. Fortunately, I had lost enough weight that my climbing in and out of bed barely stirred Jacob. All I could manage was a couple of uneasy hours, drifting in and out of consciousness, before some pain or other symptom- dry mouth, nausea or other stomach miseries, intense, full body itching that caused me to rub my skin raw with fury- would bring me to awareness again.
Sitting here, watching a cigarette burn , I wonder about how I got it. They tell us not to- you don't ask a cancer patient how they "got" it, so you shouldn't ask us, either. Which risky, stupid, lust filled assignation was it? Would an identical me, presented with the same opportunity, knowing what I know now, act differently? The proper answer was yes- of course, I would do anything I could to avoid the infection. The true answer? No. I was a prisoner of my loins, like all men.
The cigarette stops burning, with a final, sad, silent puff that quickly wafts away. With this invader inside my body, subverting its machinery, perpetuating itself at the expense of me, everything seems pointless. I could crawl up over the railing, hurl myself into space, feel a rushing of air, then a crunch, and then nothing at all. But that would just create a mess for someone else to clean up. That would annoy Jacob- my last act being to ruin some poor young policeman's morning. Better not, I decided, getting up to go back inside.
I think about all sorts of things when I hear the word "virus", some professional and technical, and some artistic and dramatic. I think of Ed Harris' stricken artist in the movie version of Michael Cunningham's "The Hours", and of Keith Haring, and of Freddie Mercury, and of the doomed strivers in Jonathan Larson's incomparable musical "Rent". I think of reverse transcriptase, and vaccinia, and varicella, and H1N1, and tobacco mosaic virus, and the undercover nature of viral replication- using the cell's own machinery to produce more virus. I think about zombie and vampire movies, and novels like Steven King's "The Stand", and Michael Crichton's "The Andromeda Strain", and the novella that became the film "I Am Legend".
Eventually, my brain settled here:
I watched the smoke make little curlicues and bends and loops as it rose from the tip of my cigarette. I met a woman, a Chinese artist who was premed before she gave up on that to make art, at a party once. She told me that the patterns in smoke like that are demonstrations of chaos theory- you could take two identical cigarettes, and light them with identical matches, and they would burn totally differently- there are so many variables, and variables impacting variables, that the system is impossible to predict. I didn't know what that meant, but it sounded good. After she bummed a cigarette and smoked it, she went back inside, while I just stayed on the porch the rest of the night, thinking about that. Jacob hated that.
Jacob. Lover, friend, comrade, brother in arms. He hated my smoking- hated it from the very beginning, insisted that I do it outside, even when he wasn't around. He could be downright bitchy about it, frankly- constantly begging me to quit, imploring me to get the patch, or gum, or hypnosis, or acupuncture. Anything to get it out of my body, and the smell out of his life. I started out of a sense of artistic yearning- that was what artists did, right? They smoked. It made you look young, and cool, and edgy, and unconcerned with mortality. Pollock, Rothko, Warhol, Picasso. "All those artists are dead," Jacob would sniff, and walk away, waving his hand theatrically.
No point in stopping now, I thought. I sat on the fire escape, looking out through triangles of steel and sharp angled buildings at the night sky. It was my smoking refuge, but sometimes I used it to just think. I'd take a novel out here- Proust, which I laughingly promised to finish as a promise to Jacob I wouldn't die- but I never read, just staring at people walking by on the street or someone on the phone inside an apartment across the street, bickering with a lover or consoling a friend. Jacob always asked me why I never made any progress in the book, and I could never tell him the answer- remembering someone else's memory was just as hard as remembering your own.
That makes Jacob sound whiny and controlling, and he's really not. I should be kinder. After all, if there is a God, I'm going to be seeing him soon. I should try to be nice. After I found out, he immediately insisted I had to stay, disease or no disease. He could have insisted, once I stopped going out with him, and then stopped working and thus, inevitably, stopped being paid, that I had to go home to Momma. I still suggested this to him, once or twice a week- my Mom would love to have someone to fuss over again- but Jacob always demurs. I secretly think he relishes having the dying boyfriend- makes him the center of a lot of conversations, which is exactly what he likes.
As it was, I wasn't costing him much. A few packs of cigarettes, a bottle of wine once a month. I only picked at food now. He had started right away, as soon as we knew, trying every trick in the book- greasy fast food, gourmet cheeses, pastry, fresh bread, homemade soups from Food Network chefs- to get me to eat. But just like my desire to paint, my desire to eat vanished soon after finding out. Part psychological- why start something you won't finish, or maintain a body that has failed you-and part biological, my shutdown was final, beyond reasoning. A few crackers, a cigarette, some water, and then back to bed, a cycle I would follow several times a day.
Sleep was a distant illusion. Fortunately, I had lost enough weight that my climbing in and out of bed barely stirred Jacob. All I could manage was a couple of uneasy hours, drifting in and out of consciousness, before some pain or other symptom- dry mouth, nausea or other stomach miseries, intense, full body itching that caused me to rub my skin raw with fury- would bring me to awareness again.
Sitting here, watching a cigarette burn , I wonder about how I got it. They tell us not to- you don't ask a cancer patient how they "got" it, so you shouldn't ask us, either. Which risky, stupid, lust filled assignation was it? Would an identical me, presented with the same opportunity, knowing what I know now, act differently? The proper answer was yes- of course, I would do anything I could to avoid the infection. The true answer? No. I was a prisoner of my loins, like all men.
The cigarette stops burning, with a final, sad, silent puff that quickly wafts away. With this invader inside my body, subverting its machinery, perpetuating itself at the expense of me, everything seems pointless. I could crawl up over the railing, hurl myself into space, feel a rushing of air, then a crunch, and then nothing at all. But that would just create a mess for someone else to clean up. That would annoy Jacob- my last act being to ruin some poor young policeman's morning. Better not, I decided, getting up to go back inside.
Monday, May 09, 2011
Sunday, May 08, 2011
Friday, May 06, 2011
Unflashed! "Running Late"
My Flashing Friends have another week of stories up, this time on the theme "Unintended Consequences". My story again fell short of the bar, so here it is anyway: "Running Late". I actually thought this was kind of good, for once. Ah well.
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 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."
Monday, May 02, 2011
100 Word Challenge: "Home Sweet Home"
Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge will not produce its birth certificate, no matter how many times you ask. This week's word is "Family", and my story is called, "Home Sweet Home"
I opened the door. It was raining. She was soaked to the skin, her light blue dress almost transparent. "I'm sorry," she said, and coughed once. Her arms were folded across her chest. I reached out and pulled her inside by her elbows. I shut the door firmly.
She coughed again. "I'm sorry I said that. I'm sorry I-"
"No," I interrupted. "It's fine. You don't have to apologize."
"I don't have anywhere to go," she said.
"I know," I said. "You can stay. It's fine. Really. Home is where, when you go there, they have to take you in."
I opened the door. It was raining. She was soaked to the skin, her light blue dress almost transparent. "I'm sorry," she said, and coughed once. Her arms were folded across her chest. I reached out and pulled her inside by her elbows. I shut the door firmly.
She coughed again. "I'm sorry I said that. I'm sorry I-"
"No," I interrupted. "It's fine. You don't have to apologize."
"I don't have anywhere to go," she said.
"I know," I said. "You can stay. It's fine. Really. Home is where, when you go there, they have to take you in."
Tornado Relief Challenge: Who'll Stop The Rain?
Daniel has begun a flash fiction challenge, 1000 words, based on the theme of rain. Here's my entry, "Who'll Stop The Rain".
Kayla Bennett was up before her alarm. She had laid out her full uniform- underwear, socks, shorts, top, shin guards- the whole thing. She was up, changing in the dark, assembling herself, rushing into the bathroom to brush her teeth in case her mom decided to check. She came down the stairs, stepping carefully so her cleats didn't make any noise.
She came through the kitchen, her mother already at the table, staring down into a steaming cup of coffee. "Oh, honey," she said. "It's raining. No game today." She sounded really disappointed, even though Kayla secretly felt like her mom hated soccer, all the chaos and the driving and the waiting.
"It's going to stop," Kayla said.
"I don't think it is, baby."
"It will."
Kayla walked past her mother and into the living room, looking out the giant picture window. Her younger sister Kara was already there, ragged blanket in one fist, staring dumbly at the TV from one corner of the couch. Kayla looked outside. It was a dark, angry rain, pouring out of a cement gray sky. Kayla knew it wasn't going to stop, just like that blonde woman said on the news last night. She could hear the narrator on the TV talking about how bananas were yellow. Kara was always the first one up, but she, like her mom, needed a little time to warm up before she was ready to talk.
Kayla stood very close to the window and looked up, hoping for a break in the clouds, a line of sun that would signal a possible game today. The sky gave her no hope, a uniform gray with rolling black bubbles. It looked angry. Evil. She stared at it, willing it to split, commanding the clouds to part. She sighed, looking down at the tips of her cleats against the wall. Stupid rain.
Kara was beside her now, looking up at her, her tiny fingers playing with the hem of Kayla's soccer shorts. Kara was always fascinated by the satiny finish.
"Rainin," Kara said. She was annoying at times, but she was so cute it was hard to stay mad. Kayla looked down at her disordered hair and wide eyes.
"Yeah."
"Gonna play today?" That was unlikely, Kayla admitted to herself. The rain was pouring down in sheets, and even if it were to break right now, Kayla thought, the field would take hours to dry. She'd play in the rain- she'd play in anything. But nobody else would.
"No, Kar."
"Why you got your 'form on?," she asked.
"I was hoping it would stop raining."
Kara looked outside, her tiny face screwed tight with a look of concentration. "Stop, rain!" she commanded.
"Thanks, Kar. I don't think that will work." That was sweet of her.
Kara went back to the couch, resuming her previous post. Soccer was really the only thing she was good at, the only thing that made her special. She wasn't the prettiest girl in her school, or the nicest, or the smartest. Kara got all kinds of attention, being the baby, and Katherine...she got attention for another reason. Soccer, especially if Katherine and Kara stayed home, was her time to shine, her time when Mom and Dad looked only at her.
She kicked the base of the wall, very softly. The toe of the cleat made a satisfying thunk. She kicked it a little harder, delighting in the solid sound it made.
"Don't do that," Katherine said behind her. "Dad'll make you clean it if you make a mark." Her older sister had come in to the living room, phone in hand, texting madly. Kayla watched her walk, almost waddle, her belly now sticking out so far her sleep pants, black ones with moons and stars on them, were constantly slipping, leaving a crescent of pale, tight skin. Kayla shivered with the weirdness of that. She could hardly imagine there was a whole person inside her sister's body. Kayla stopped kicking.
Katherine sat on the opposite end of the couch, her belly resting between her legs. Kara looked at one sister, then the other.
"Baby come today?," Kara asked. She asked this every day.
"I don't know," Katherine said dismissively. "Maybe."
Kayla heard her father's low voice in the kitchen. A moment later, he came out, already wearing a Red Sox cap along with a gray shirt and blue sweats. "I don't think there's a game today, Punkin," he began, looking at Kayla with wrinkled eyes.
"I know," Kayla said, a little louder than she intended. She stalked out of the room, not caring how loud her cleats sounded. She walked through the now empty kitchen, and started up the stairs, hauling her uniform top off as she went. She opened the door to her room, then shut it hard behind her. Acting mad seemed to only make her angrier as she stripped off the uniform piece by piece, setting the shoes and shin guards down but hurling the pants, shirt, socks, and underwear around the room. Finally, her momentum spent and a little bit ashamed, Kayla Bennett crawled under her covers again, unwilling to face another long Saturday as the third kid.
Kayla Bennett was up before her alarm. She had laid out her full uniform- underwear, socks, shorts, top, shin guards- the whole thing. She was up, changing in the dark, assembling herself, rushing into the bathroom to brush her teeth in case her mom decided to check. She came down the stairs, stepping carefully so her cleats didn't make any noise.
She came through the kitchen, her mother already at the table, staring down into a steaming cup of coffee. "Oh, honey," she said. "It's raining. No game today." She sounded really disappointed, even though Kayla secretly felt like her mom hated soccer, all the chaos and the driving and the waiting.
"It's going to stop," Kayla said.
"I don't think it is, baby."
"It will."
Kayla walked past her mother and into the living room, looking out the giant picture window. Her younger sister Kara was already there, ragged blanket in one fist, staring dumbly at the TV from one corner of the couch. Kayla looked outside. It was a dark, angry rain, pouring out of a cement gray sky. Kayla knew it wasn't going to stop, just like that blonde woman said on the news last night. She could hear the narrator on the TV talking about how bananas were yellow. Kara was always the first one up, but she, like her mom, needed a little time to warm up before she was ready to talk.
Kayla stood very close to the window and looked up, hoping for a break in the clouds, a line of sun that would signal a possible game today. The sky gave her no hope, a uniform gray with rolling black bubbles. It looked angry. Evil. She stared at it, willing it to split, commanding the clouds to part. She sighed, looking down at the tips of her cleats against the wall. Stupid rain.
Kara was beside her now, looking up at her, her tiny fingers playing with the hem of Kayla's soccer shorts. Kara was always fascinated by the satiny finish.
"Rainin," Kara said. She was annoying at times, but she was so cute it was hard to stay mad. Kayla looked down at her disordered hair and wide eyes.
"Yeah."
"Gonna play today?" That was unlikely, Kayla admitted to herself. The rain was pouring down in sheets, and even if it were to break right now, Kayla thought, the field would take hours to dry. She'd play in the rain- she'd play in anything. But nobody else would.
"No, Kar."
"Why you got your 'form on?," she asked.
"I was hoping it would stop raining."
Kara looked outside, her tiny face screwed tight with a look of concentration. "Stop, rain!" she commanded.
"Thanks, Kar. I don't think that will work." That was sweet of her.
Kara went back to the couch, resuming her previous post. Soccer was really the only thing she was good at, the only thing that made her special. She wasn't the prettiest girl in her school, or the nicest, or the smartest. Kara got all kinds of attention, being the baby, and Katherine...she got attention for another reason. Soccer, especially if Katherine and Kara stayed home, was her time to shine, her time when Mom and Dad looked only at her.
She kicked the base of the wall, very softly. The toe of the cleat made a satisfying thunk. She kicked it a little harder, delighting in the solid sound it made.
"Don't do that," Katherine said behind her. "Dad'll make you clean it if you make a mark." Her older sister had come in to the living room, phone in hand, texting madly. Kayla watched her walk, almost waddle, her belly now sticking out so far her sleep pants, black ones with moons and stars on them, were constantly slipping, leaving a crescent of pale, tight skin. Kayla shivered with the weirdness of that. She could hardly imagine there was a whole person inside her sister's body. Kayla stopped kicking.
Katherine sat on the opposite end of the couch, her belly resting between her legs. Kara looked at one sister, then the other.
"Baby come today?," Kara asked. She asked this every day.
"I don't know," Katherine said dismissively. "Maybe."
Kayla heard her father's low voice in the kitchen. A moment later, he came out, already wearing a Red Sox cap along with a gray shirt and blue sweats. "I don't think there's a game today, Punkin," he began, looking at Kayla with wrinkled eyes.
"I know," Kayla said, a little louder than she intended. She stalked out of the room, not caring how loud her cleats sounded. She walked through the now empty kitchen, and started up the stairs, hauling her uniform top off as she went. She opened the door to her room, then shut it hard behind her. Acting mad seemed to only make her angrier as she stripped off the uniform piece by piece, setting the shoes and shin guards down but hurling the pants, shirt, socks, and underwear around the room. Finally, her momentum spent and a little bit ashamed, Kayla Bennett crawled under her covers again, unwilling to face another long Saturday as the third kid.
Sunday, May 01, 2011
Terrible Minds Challenge: "I Saw Her Standing There"
Chuck Wendig, the firey pen monkey with a heart of gold and testicles of aircraft aluminum, lost his dog recently, inviting his weekly challenge friends to pay tribute in the form of a story involving a good dog. I'm not a dog guy, which I know makes me basically lacking in my humanity, but there you go. I still had an idea, though, so here goes.
I saw her standing, leaning against the bar facing the rest of the room. She had on a red gown that hugged her curves. Bridesmaid dresses were a running joke, but she looked fine. I got a scotch and soda, then turned to stand near her, facing the same way. I tried to measure my distance, standing close enough to signal affection without assuming intimacy. Her brown hair fell in waves down her back, and her face, though pretty, looked pinched.
"Hi," she offered. Her voice sounded tight, like she wanted to follow her glass of wine with 8 or 10 more.
"Having fun?"
"No. I'm going to sit down," she said, and walked to a table. The band was piling onto the stage again.
I walked around the table and sat in the chair next to hers, turning it so I faced her. She had her legs crossed, one bare foot pointing at me.
"Shoes killing you?," I offered.
"You have no idea," she said.
"No, I don't look good in heels," I said. She chuckled.
"You one of his friends?"
"Yeah," I admitted. "College. We wrote on the school paper."
"I was Shannon's roommate junior and senior year."
"Aha. Was she as boring as Gary was?"
"Oh, God. When she met Gary, all she did was study. No drunken hookups."
"What about you?"
"What? Hookups? I had my share."
"I did my share, too," I added.
She put her feet together on the floor, her painted toes bright and cheerful. "Sorry," she began.
"No, it's fine," I said. "I understand. Those shoes look great, but not comfortable."
"I only wear shoes like that to weddings."
"Been going to a lot?"
"Oh, my God. This is the fourth this month. I was only a bridesmaid in this one, though."
"That's extra work, isn't it."
"God, yes. More work, more money."
"But you kind of have to do it, huh?"
"Yeah. It's hard to turn someone down for this."
She looked up at me. Her eyes were starting to swim. "Want a refill?"
"Yes, but no." Her voice wavered. "I do, but I think I should stop. I want to drink a lot, and I really shouldn't."
"Bad day, huh?," I offered.
"Well sort of," she began. "It was stressful, but it wasn't just this. It's just that, well...," her voice trailed off. Her chin wrinkled.
"You don't have to tell me," I offered, trying to give her a way out.
"It's my dog, Daisy. I took her to the vet and they called me this morning. There's nothing they can do."
"Oh, no," I said. "That's awful."
"I'm flying back home tomorrow morning, and I just don't know if I can handle it. She was a good dog. My mom got her for me when we moved, and she has been my best friend ever since. I complained about boys to her, I told her all my secrets, I went almost everywhere with her, and she never complained about anything, not once. Want to see her?"
"Of course," I said. She took her phone out of her purse to show me a mutt, looking at the lens eagerly, deciding whether or not the phone was something to eat. "She looks friendly," I offered.
"Oh, she is. She loves everybody...," she said, her voice breaking. "Dammit, I'll ruin my makeup."
"You look fine," I said. "But it has run a little," I added truthfully.
"I assumed. I'll go fix it in a minute. What really bugs me is...I mean," she said, "I'm not dumb. I knew she wouldn't live forever. I just always had it in my head that she was going to meet my first baby. That's just this idea I had. And now she won't. It's just not fair. She was good....I mean why her? Why now? She just started limping, I figured it might be arthritis maybe. But not this. Not cancer. "
She got quiet as the band started playing "American Girl". "Shannon loves this song. I haven't told Shannon. I haven't told anybody. Just you. And you couldn't care less."
"Of course I care. A death in the family is always traumatic."
"Thank you. Every time I bring her up in the office, they all say, 'Well, it's not like it's a baby.' And I'm like, 'I know.' But they don't understand. I haven't had a serious boyfriend since college, I don't know anyone in town! Daisy is my only friend! Who am I going to tell now?" Her full face was fixed and firm, her eyes holding mine as if she expected me to answer.
She stood up. "I'm going to go clean up. Thank you for listening to me. You can go circulate now."
"No, no," I insisted. "I've done about all the circulating I can stand."
"OK," she said. She swallowed her wine in one swallow. "I'll take that refill, then." She slid her shoes on and left.
I drained my drink, then got two more. I had her pegged, watching her not participate in the chatter, assuming she felt she was above it. I could see now that she was more complicated than my simple judgement would allow. She came back out as the band was starting "I Saw Her Standing There". Her face was mostly clean now. I smiled softly, handing her another glass of wine.
"Thanks. Want to dance?"
"I don't...er...I...," I stuttered.
"Oh, come on," she said, slipping off her shoes. "Just follow me," she said. I did.
I saw her standing, leaning against the bar facing the rest of the room. She had on a red gown that hugged her curves. Bridesmaid dresses were a running joke, but she looked fine. I got a scotch and soda, then turned to stand near her, facing the same way. I tried to measure my distance, standing close enough to signal affection without assuming intimacy. Her brown hair fell in waves down her back, and her face, though pretty, looked pinched.
"Hi," she offered. Her voice sounded tight, like she wanted to follow her glass of wine with 8 or 10 more.
"Having fun?"
"No. I'm going to sit down," she said, and walked to a table. The band was piling onto the stage again.
I walked around the table and sat in the chair next to hers, turning it so I faced her. She had her legs crossed, one bare foot pointing at me.
"Shoes killing you?," I offered.
"You have no idea," she said.
"No, I don't look good in heels," I said. She chuckled.
"You one of his friends?"
"Yeah," I admitted. "College. We wrote on the school paper."
"I was Shannon's roommate junior and senior year."
"Aha. Was she as boring as Gary was?"
"Oh, God. When she met Gary, all she did was study. No drunken hookups."
"What about you?"
"What? Hookups? I had my share."
"I did my share, too," I added.
She put her feet together on the floor, her painted toes bright and cheerful. "Sorry," she began.
"No, it's fine," I said. "I understand. Those shoes look great, but not comfortable."
"I only wear shoes like that to weddings."
"Been going to a lot?"
"Oh, my God. This is the fourth this month. I was only a bridesmaid in this one, though."
"That's extra work, isn't it."
"God, yes. More work, more money."
"But you kind of have to do it, huh?"
"Yeah. It's hard to turn someone down for this."
She looked up at me. Her eyes were starting to swim. "Want a refill?"
"Yes, but no." Her voice wavered. "I do, but I think I should stop. I want to drink a lot, and I really shouldn't."
"Bad day, huh?," I offered.
"Well sort of," she began. "It was stressful, but it wasn't just this. It's just that, well...," her voice trailed off. Her chin wrinkled.
"You don't have to tell me," I offered, trying to give her a way out.
"It's my dog, Daisy. I took her to the vet and they called me this morning. There's nothing they can do."
"Oh, no," I said. "That's awful."
"I'm flying back home tomorrow morning, and I just don't know if I can handle it. She was a good dog. My mom got her for me when we moved, and she has been my best friend ever since. I complained about boys to her, I told her all my secrets, I went almost everywhere with her, and she never complained about anything, not once. Want to see her?"
"Of course," I said. She took her phone out of her purse to show me a mutt, looking at the lens eagerly, deciding whether or not the phone was something to eat. "She looks friendly," I offered.
"Oh, she is. She loves everybody...," she said, her voice breaking. "Dammit, I'll ruin my makeup."
"You look fine," I said. "But it has run a little," I added truthfully.
"I assumed. I'll go fix it in a minute. What really bugs me is...I mean," she said, "I'm not dumb. I knew she wouldn't live forever. I just always had it in my head that she was going to meet my first baby. That's just this idea I had. And now she won't. It's just not fair. She was good....I mean why her? Why now? She just started limping, I figured it might be arthritis maybe. But not this. Not cancer. "
She got quiet as the band started playing "American Girl". "Shannon loves this song. I haven't told Shannon. I haven't told anybody. Just you. And you couldn't care less."
"Of course I care. A death in the family is always traumatic."
"Thank you. Every time I bring her up in the office, they all say, 'Well, it's not like it's a baby.' And I'm like, 'I know.' But they don't understand. I haven't had a serious boyfriend since college, I don't know anyone in town! Daisy is my only friend! Who am I going to tell now?" Her full face was fixed and firm, her eyes holding mine as if she expected me to answer.
She stood up. "I'm going to go clean up. Thank you for listening to me. You can go circulate now."
"No, no," I insisted. "I've done about all the circulating I can stand."
"OK," she said. She swallowed her wine in one swallow. "I'll take that refill, then." She slid her shoes on and left.
I drained my drink, then got two more. I had her pegged, watching her not participate in the chatter, assuming she felt she was above it. I could see now that she was more complicated than my simple judgement would allow. She came back out as the band was starting "I Saw Her Standing There". Her face was mostly clean now. I smiled softly, handing her another glass of wine.
"Thanks. Want to dance?"
"I don't...er...I...," I stuttered.
"Oh, come on," she said, slipping off her shoes. "Just follow me," she said. I did.
IndieInk Writing Challenge: No Remorse
The Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week comes to me from Jan, who tells me "He ran on the beach, with the waves lapping at his aching legs. What is he running from?" (My challenge, "symmetry", goes to Cope.)
I woke up early, forcing myself onto my feet before I could change my mind. My bedroom was sparse, which was how I wanted it. No distractions. No remorse. No regrets. I pulled on running clothes and running shoes, trying to get myself out there before I fully realized what I was doing. I put my keys and my IPod into my pockets, then headed out the door, locking it behind me.
I stood stock still, looking as far as I could to one side, and then the other. The ocean was there, remote and implacable, roaring constantly, underscoring everything you said and did. It was time to get to work, I thought, it's not going to get any easier. Just do it. Start moving. It will never get any harder than it is the first day, and it will get easier. So just start.
I started the IPod, letting James Hetfield's angry bark motivate me. I went back to the first album, needing the uptempo rhythms and anger of a band ready to take on the world. It also reminded me of high school- when I used to come in the winter to hit the weights and stay strong, the coach who supervised us used to play this tape over and over. I walked down to the beach, starting along the hard sand, letting a brisk walk get me warm.
Caroline had started the fight again last night. Since the divorce, she became more controlling, complaining about every trip, every obligation that wasn't, in her view, necessary. She had a point- I had made plenty of money, with more to come before this contract ran out. There were beaches in North Carolina- I didn't have to come out here.
When the calendar turned, I had to get serious. I had to simplify, get clean and pure. I had to get away from them, from story time and runny noses and waiting with the other minivans at pickup time. I needed to train, focusing on nothing else, building uo the endurance i would need come August. Despite what Caroline says, I do love my girls. But they're draining.
I started a slow jog, my joints creaking as I moved. The fog was still lingering, clouding everything other than what was in front of me. I did this, flew away from aggravation and obligation to come out to Southern California to start working out by myself, getting into fighting shape for the season to come.
Yes, I was going to get paid, regardless of how I performed. There was something else at work, though- I was starting to measure myself against the greats, and no amount of money would help me there. I had done something that very few had ever done- ascended to the very top of my field, becoming among the very best in the world.
I broke into a genuine run, finding a nice rhythm against the dark sand, the sea pounding at my feet, the drumming thundering in my ears. I know the girls would rather I be there to pick them up after violin practice. But I wanted to show them that when you have a chance to do something, you do it, as hard as you can for as long as you can. You make sure it gets everything you have while you're young enough to give it. You do it, the only thing you've ever been any good at, for as long as they will let you.
I woke up early, forcing myself onto my feet before I could change my mind. My bedroom was sparse, which was how I wanted it. No distractions. No remorse. No regrets. I pulled on running clothes and running shoes, trying to get myself out there before I fully realized what I was doing. I put my keys and my IPod into my pockets, then headed out the door, locking it behind me.
I stood stock still, looking as far as I could to one side, and then the other. The ocean was there, remote and implacable, roaring constantly, underscoring everything you said and did. It was time to get to work, I thought, it's not going to get any easier. Just do it. Start moving. It will never get any harder than it is the first day, and it will get easier. So just start.
I started the IPod, letting James Hetfield's angry bark motivate me. I went back to the first album, needing the uptempo rhythms and anger of a band ready to take on the world. It also reminded me of high school- when I used to come in the winter to hit the weights and stay strong, the coach who supervised us used to play this tape over and over. I walked down to the beach, starting along the hard sand, letting a brisk walk get me warm.
Caroline had started the fight again last night. Since the divorce, she became more controlling, complaining about every trip, every obligation that wasn't, in her view, necessary. She had a point- I had made plenty of money, with more to come before this contract ran out. There were beaches in North Carolina- I didn't have to come out here.
When the calendar turned, I had to get serious. I had to simplify, get clean and pure. I had to get away from them, from story time and runny noses and waiting with the other minivans at pickup time. I needed to train, focusing on nothing else, building uo the endurance i would need come August. Despite what Caroline says, I do love my girls. But they're draining.
I started a slow jog, my joints creaking as I moved. The fog was still lingering, clouding everything other than what was in front of me. I did this, flew away from aggravation and obligation to come out to Southern California to start working out by myself, getting into fighting shape for the season to come.
Yes, I was going to get paid, regardless of how I performed. There was something else at work, though- I was starting to measure myself against the greats, and no amount of money would help me there. I had done something that very few had ever done- ascended to the very top of my field, becoming among the very best in the world.
I broke into a genuine run, finding a nice rhythm against the dark sand, the sea pounding at my feet, the drumming thundering in my ears. I know the girls would rather I be there to pick them up after violin practice. But I wanted to show them that when you have a chance to do something, you do it, as hard as you can for as long as you can. You make sure it gets everything you have while you're young enough to give it. You do it, the only thing you've ever been any good at, for as long as they will let you.
Friday, April 29, 2011
No Flash For You!
My good friends at the 52/250 Flash have published another round of stories on the theme "home sweet home". I do not have a story this week, but it's well worth your time to read it despite, or perhaps because of, that.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
100 Word Challenge: Price Check
Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge recieves no Federal tax dollars. This week's word is "bathed" and my story is called "Price Check".
"Look," Karen wanted to say, nominally In Charge but really just In Charge Of Taking Blame, her face bathed in dirty blond hair from a rapidly unwinding bun, "my older kid thinks she's going to run away with her middle school boyfriend, my younger one thinks he's going to grow up to train Pokemon, and my new boyfriend hasn't called me in four weeks. My back hurts, my knees ache, and I can't afford my rent. So forgive me if I'm not paralyzed with guilt over the fact that Tide rang up at $5.99."
"Look," Karen wanted to say, nominally In Charge but really just In Charge Of Taking Blame, her face bathed in dirty blond hair from a rapidly unwinding bun, "my older kid thinks she's going to run away with her middle school boyfriend, my younger one thinks he's going to grow up to train Pokemon, and my new boyfriend hasn't called me in four weeks. My back hurts, my knees ache, and I can't afford my rent. So forgive me if I'm not paralyzed with guilt over the fact that Tide rang up at $5.99."
Monday, April 25, 2011
From This Month's Esquire
This month's Esquire magazine (Jeff Daniels is on the cover) contains a real throat punch of an essay from Cleveland writer John Hyduk which says more about me than I probably want you to know. I'd link to it here, but it appears to be magazine only. It's well worth the price, though.
This was the paragraph that spoke the loudest to me:
"You tote a lot more to work in a lunch pail than Ring Dings. You pack alimony and autism diagnoses and car notes and the rest of the workingman's grind. Baby needs a new pair of shoes. Also braces, a better school, and a down payment on that spring field trip. And you chew whatever has been dumped on your plate in silence. You don't go into therapy. You go to work."
This was the paragraph that spoke the loudest to me:
"You tote a lot more to work in a lunch pail than Ring Dings. You pack alimony and autism diagnoses and car notes and the rest of the workingman's grind. Baby needs a new pair of shoes. Also braces, a better school, and a down payment on that spring field trip. And you chew whatever has been dumped on your plate in silence. You don't go into therapy. You go to work."
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