Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Friday, November 30, 2012
Beautiful cover art!
I'm a bit behind the times here, but I just saw that Weave Magazine has posted the cover art for their next issue. I'm extremely lucky to be included in the contributors for Issue 08 and can't believe how gorgeous the art is! This lovely lady will be available Jan 2013. Mark your calendars!
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Tutorial: Tracking your short story submissions
The most recently visited website on my browser isn't my email account or the New York Times, even though I check those multiple times a day. The site that occupies top honors on my computer is Duotrope, and I'm here to spread the gospel.
Duotrope is a free site that offers an extensive database of literary markets (primarily journals, magazines and zines) that publish fiction, poetry and (in beta) non-fiction. Duotrope lists information about each market and - here's where my obsession comes in - tracks data from users about submissions. Have you sent a poem to Tin House? You can see how many other users have sent poems in the past twelve months, what Tin House's acceptance rate is, how long responses take (for acceptances and rejections), what percentage of submissions receive form rejections as opposed to personal ones, and how recently users have reported responses. Among other neat data points. But enough telling - let me show you some of the awesome.
Let's say you want to search for a journal that publishes sci fi short stories in paper medium only, and you want to submit your story electronically. Here's what that would look like:
I didn't make this selection, but you can order your search in a few ways, including from most to least accepting, and in terms of response time (in case you're in a rush).
The real (obsessive) fun starts once you've found a journal to submit your story to. Let's say we're going to try to be the first Duotroper to publish a story with One Story. I'll go to Search, Find by Title, and pull up the listing for One Story. (They're currently temporarily closed to submissions, so let's time travel here and pretend it's September 2012). When I log in with my account, I see that Duotrope has received 507 reports from users regarding submissions to One Story over the past year. None have yet been accepted. But that's ok, we'll be the first one! On the right side of the page, we click "Report Submission/Response." The image below shows the submission page, where we note the date we submitted our story, the status ("Pending Response"), the title of the story, and how we submitted. Wait, the title? First, we have to make an entry in Duotrope for our story - that's so you can tell which story (or poem or essay) you've submitted where. So click "I need to add a piece to my list" (second arrow below) and go ahead.
Once you've reported your submission, Duotrope starts its magic. You can tell how many days your story has been out for submission, and you can track how your wait compares to the average response times. You can even check out a publication's entry to see when the last recorded response was, and the most recent date of a submission that's recorded a response. (So, for our One Story submission that we sent on September 12, 2012, in November 2012 we see that the latest response was October 31 and that they have sent responses for stories submitted as recently as September 1. So that might suggest they haven't gotten to our story yet.)
Here's my submission tracker, for example. You can see some of the stories I have submitted and how many days out they are.
There are more features than I can go over in a short post, but I'm happy to answer any questions. It's really an amazing site - very empowering for writers, and hopefully useful for publishers, who can see how their response times stack up against their peers. So, go forth and submit!
Duotrope is a free site that offers an extensive database of literary markets (primarily journals, magazines and zines) that publish fiction, poetry and (in beta) non-fiction. Duotrope lists information about each market and - here's where my obsession comes in - tracks data from users about submissions. Have you sent a poem to Tin House? You can see how many other users have sent poems in the past twelve months, what Tin House's acceptance rate is, how long responses take (for acceptances and rejections), what percentage of submissions receive form rejections as opposed to personal ones, and how recently users have reported responses. Among other neat data points. But enough telling - let me show you some of the awesome.
Let's say you want to search for a journal that publishes sci fi short stories in paper medium only, and you want to submit your story electronically. Here's what that would look like:
I didn't make this selection, but you can order your search in a few ways, including from most to least accepting, and in terms of response time (in case you're in a rush).
The real (obsessive) fun starts once you've found a journal to submit your story to. Let's say we're going to try to be the first Duotroper to publish a story with One Story. I'll go to Search, Find by Title, and pull up the listing for One Story. (They're currently temporarily closed to submissions, so let's time travel here and pretend it's September 2012). When I log in with my account, I see that Duotrope has received 507 reports from users regarding submissions to One Story over the past year. None have yet been accepted. But that's ok, we'll be the first one! On the right side of the page, we click "Report Submission/Response." The image below shows the submission page, where we note the date we submitted our story, the status ("Pending Response"), the title of the story, and how we submitted. Wait, the title? First, we have to make an entry in Duotrope for our story - that's so you can tell which story (or poem or essay) you've submitted where. So click "I need to add a piece to my list" (second arrow below) and go ahead.
Once you've reported your submission, Duotrope starts its magic. You can tell how many days your story has been out for submission, and you can track how your wait compares to the average response times. You can even check out a publication's entry to see when the last recorded response was, and the most recent date of a submission that's recorded a response. (So, for our One Story submission that we sent on September 12, 2012, in November 2012 we see that the latest response was October 31 and that they have sent responses for stories submitted as recently as September 1. So that might suggest they haven't gotten to our story yet.)
Here's my submission tracker, for example. You can see some of the stories I have submitted and how many days out they are.
There are more features than I can go over in a short post, but I'm happy to answer any questions. It's really an amazing site - very empowering for writers, and hopefully useful for publishers, who can see how their response times stack up against their peers. So, go forth and submit!
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Doc, by Mary Doria Russell
Doc tells John Henry Holliday's story before the fateful showdown at the OK Corral. The book is a strange beast, with a heaping of omniscient narrative overview and relatively little real-time story telling. For this reader, that took a little getting used to. But the story picks up as the novel progresses, and by the time Doc is coughing blood into his handkerchief while Morgan Earp reads to him at his bedside, I was hooked. Russell does a wonderful job of humanizing this legend, apparently aided by an impressive amount of research, and I'm very glad to have met her version of Doc.
The photo here is of John Henry Holliday at age 20, upon graduation from dental school. It is one of the few authenticated photographs of the man.
Side note: Apparently Paramount bought the rights to a script for an action adventure film about Doc Holliday. Cool. Though I'm willing to bet Mary Doria Russell's version of the man is far more interesting.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Remembering How to Ride a Bike
They say you never forget how to ride a bike, but that isn't true. Sure, the mechanics of foot-push-glide-steer remain, but that's not riding. It's the balance, the body poised over the bicycle's frame, leaned into a curve, or weaving around an obstacle that is forgotten. Forgotten so that what remains is a clumsy, mechanical imitation of bike riding.
Steve didn't know any of this, though, when he bought the bike with the flat tire for $10 at a yard sale. It didn't occur to him that he could forget, and in that moment of hopeful weakness, he didn't want to entertain doubts. He was emerging, he thought, from the throat-gripping darkness that had cloaked his life. After two (or was it more? he could hardly think of it) years of desperate misery, Steve was ready to consider the possibility of something other than pain. The bike seemed like a good start.
But it huddled, injured with its flat tire, in his front hallway for weeks. Every time Steve walked past it, he grimaced, both at the reminder of his unfinished task and at the bike's pathetic silhouette.
The decision came, as they often do for those who are healing, without any warning. He woke up, dressed, and took the bike to the shop, where he bought a new tire. Before putting the renovated bike back in his car to drive home, Steve swung a leg over the frame. He bruised his knee against the seat, but ignored it. He lifted himself onto the pedals, and with an anxious breath, pushed off.
Then he realized how much he had forgotten. He wobbled around the parking lot, and nearly strayed into the street as he turned onto a sidewalk. His body felt foreign as it stumbled to execute his biking commands.
But as the breeze flowed past his cheek, his hair, and as his hands flexed against the breaks, he realized what else he had forgotten. That there had been a time when he bicycled. When he had moved from place to place in the open air, or simply traveled for the sake of the journey. That he had once grinned so widely he had inhaled a large bug. That he'd skinned his knee but hopped up again to finish racing down a hill, just to see how fast he could go. He had forgotten those things too. He smiled, just a little, as the memories trickled in. Oh. This is who I was. Am.
Steve didn't know any of this, though, when he bought the bike with the flat tire for $10 at a yard sale. It didn't occur to him that he could forget, and in that moment of hopeful weakness, he didn't want to entertain doubts. He was emerging, he thought, from the throat-gripping darkness that had cloaked his life. After two (or was it more? he could hardly think of it) years of desperate misery, Steve was ready to consider the possibility of something other than pain. The bike seemed like a good start.
But it huddled, injured with its flat tire, in his front hallway for weeks. Every time Steve walked past it, he grimaced, both at the reminder of his unfinished task and at the bike's pathetic silhouette.
The decision came, as they often do for those who are healing, without any warning. He woke up, dressed, and took the bike to the shop, where he bought a new tire. Before putting the renovated bike back in his car to drive home, Steve swung a leg over the frame. He bruised his knee against the seat, but ignored it. He lifted himself onto the pedals, and with an anxious breath, pushed off.
Then he realized how much he had forgotten. He wobbled around the parking lot, and nearly strayed into the street as he turned onto a sidewalk. His body felt foreign as it stumbled to execute his biking commands.
But as the breeze flowed past his cheek, his hair, and as his hands flexed against the breaks, he realized what else he had forgotten. That there had been a time when he bicycled. When he had moved from place to place in the open air, or simply traveled for the sake of the journey. That he had once grinned so widely he had inhaled a large bug. That he'd skinned his knee but hopped up again to finish racing down a hill, just to see how fast he could go. He had forgotten those things too. He smiled, just a little, as the memories trickled in. Oh. This is who I was. Am.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
The Flame Spirit's Choice
Each night the company performed, which was at least thrice a week when times were good, the little flame spirit crept from her lantern to watch. She left a fire spell, mirroring her own energy to cast light upon the magical stage, so no one would notice her absence. It was a risk, she knew, flitting from her hanging lantern like a loose spark to fall upon the stage. If she weren't careful, she could set the whole beautiful theatre ablaze. But she was careful, for she loved the plays.Her favorite was Shakespeare. The playwright's words seemed channeled from her deepest essence, grown into a bonfire or condensed into smoldering ashes upon the stage. Crouched lightly, dimly, on the edge of the stage, she folded her little knees upon herself and drank in the words.
Henry V: We must bear all. O hard condition, Twin-born with greatness, subject to the breath Of every fool whose sense no more can feel But his own wringing ...
She remembered little of her life before the theatre, although dimly she knew it to have been long. She supposed she had been born from the death of an old flame spirit, grown so great in his power that he splintered like a log burning, shedding dozens of sparks that would become her brothers and sisters. Such is the balance of the world, and she knew that was her fate too, so she had tried to keep herself modest, her feelings limited. That was how she remembered so little, for she had truly experienced very little.
But the theatre tested this. The actors conjured a broad world, igniting a passion within, and it was all she could do to constrain herself, to keep from inhaling the contagious passions and releasing them, doubled in strength.
Lear: Howl, howl, howl! O, you are men of stones! Had I your tongues and eyes, I'd use them so That heaven's vault should crack. She's gone forever.
She did once, it was true, singe a curtain. Fortunately a stage hand glimpsed the smoke and tossed a bit of water upon it - the flame spirit was out of range of the splash, happily. But the blackened curtain, which the company could not afford to replace, just as they could not repaint the cracking gilt upon the walls or reupholster the worn velvet seats, reminded her of her choice. That she had decided to live, to experience the magic that this stage produced, reflecting - she guessed - the magic of the world, even if that choice, that life, meant that her own was eventually to end. She revelled in her choice as she crouched at the edge of the stage, watching, the dim flicker of her light reflected in eyes of the theatre's patrons, who leaned forward, absorbed in the drama.
Friday, December 18, 2009
The Temp
It was his last day. The boxes were packed, the coffee stains wiped from the desk, the papers all filed or shredded. It's true, they had hosted a breakfast for him three days before, and it was a nice breakfast. Rich pancakes and sweet, salty sausage served up by a cozy diner, just a few blocks away. "You've done a great job, we really appreciate your dilligence," they told him. "Funny that it ended up being what, nearly a year and a half?" "Two years," he replied. "You were just great," they told him. "Just great." He enjoyed that breakfast, even though it was mostly in silence while they talked to each other. They did pay for his meal.
On the afternoon of his last day, he ran into a few of them in the hallway. They were bundled up, heading out for coffee. "Oh yeah, your last day! Be sure to stop by and say farewell," they told him. "I'll try to come over before you leave," a nicer one said. He nodded. "Thanks."
He had enjoyed the two years. The assignment was much longer than he'd anticipated, and the work, even though it was mundane, was a joy compared to his previous assignment as a telephone receptionist, a mere conduit, no one's destination. Here he had responsibilities, and people came to him to ask questions.
The sun set before the day closed, and as his office dimmed, he waited, watching the clock march towards his conclusion. No visitors came. He sat in silence, then picked up his box, glanced around to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything, and walked out.
The cold outside was bracing, and he wished he had leather gloves, any gloves, to protect his fingers as he gripped the cardboard box. He took a deep breath and launched himself forward.
"Hey!" A voice called. He kept walking, the voice tuned out, intended for someone else. "No, wait! I wanted to catch you but got stuck in a meeting." He turned to see the woman who had supervised him, measuring his productivity in folders filed and cases referred, standing shivering in the cold. Her arms were wrapped around herself, little protection from the winter, and a white envelope dangled from her hand.
"I wanted to make sure you got this," she explained, holding out the envelope. "A reference. You were great, really you were. So hopefully this will, I don't know, explain. Help make sure you get another job you like. I know you liked it here." Her voice trailed off, and she looked at the ground.
"Oh, wow, well, thank you. Thank you very much." He bobbled the box around so he could grab the envelope, and managed to slide it under the lid. "That's nice of you."
"Well, I'm freezing, I'd better run back in. But good luck, I mean it."
He nodded, and watched her hurry back to the glass sanctuary of the lobby. He smiled the whole way home. A reference. Someone else's praise, solidified and permanent. He didn't notice the cold, not for a long time.
On the afternoon of his last day, he ran into a few of them in the hallway. They were bundled up, heading out for coffee. "Oh yeah, your last day! Be sure to stop by and say farewell," they told him. "I'll try to come over before you leave," a nicer one said. He nodded. "Thanks."
He had enjoyed the two years. The assignment was much longer than he'd anticipated, and the work, even though it was mundane, was a joy compared to his previous assignment as a telephone receptionist, a mere conduit, no one's destination. Here he had responsibilities, and people came to him to ask questions.
The sun set before the day closed, and as his office dimmed, he waited, watching the clock march towards his conclusion. No visitors came. He sat in silence, then picked up his box, glanced around to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything, and walked out.
The cold outside was bracing, and he wished he had leather gloves, any gloves, to protect his fingers as he gripped the cardboard box. He took a deep breath and launched himself forward.
"Hey!" A voice called. He kept walking, the voice tuned out, intended for someone else. "No, wait! I wanted to catch you but got stuck in a meeting." He turned to see the woman who had supervised him, measuring his productivity in folders filed and cases referred, standing shivering in the cold. Her arms were wrapped around herself, little protection from the winter, and a white envelope dangled from her hand.
"I wanted to make sure you got this," she explained, holding out the envelope. "A reference. You were great, really you were. So hopefully this will, I don't know, explain. Help make sure you get another job you like. I know you liked it here." Her voice trailed off, and she looked at the ground.
"Oh, wow, well, thank you. Thank you very much." He bobbled the box around so he could grab the envelope, and managed to slide it under the lid. "That's nice of you."
"Well, I'm freezing, I'd better run back in. But good luck, I mean it."
He nodded, and watched her hurry back to the glass sanctuary of the lobby. He smiled the whole way home. A reference. Someone else's praise, solidified and permanent. He didn't notice the cold, not for a long time.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Tunnel Consulting, Part 2
This is continued from Part 1.
The next day, a small man with greenish-blond hair falling over his forehead knocked on her flimsy door. As she opened it, he announced himself.
"I am the tunnel consultant, Marco Van Whimmel. Just call me Marco. Shall we sit out here?" He gestured at her peeling rocking chair and the wicker chair with a faded floral cushion.
"Yes, perfect," Julie concurred. She wrapped her cardigan around herself and took a seat in the wicker chair. Marco rocked awkwardly across from her. "So you ... build tunnels?" she asked.
"Exactly. I'm so sorry about the mix-up. I should have been here first. The bottom line is that someone has bought you a tunnel -" he flipped open a notebook and scanned down a page, holding it closely to his chest. "I can't disclose who. But the point is, you have a tunnel. So, where would you like it to?"
"To? I'm not in jail, so I'm not sure I need a tunnel to anywhere," Julie observed. She flicked the heels of her flip-flops up into her feet. "Where do most people get their tunnels to?"
"Oh, well there is no 'most.' But some popular choices are China, naturally, or the Grand Canyon, or the house of a married lover. Which reminds me - I should point out a few rules, tunnels we won't dig. No digging into bank vaults. Or jails, as you mentioned. We won't break the law, it wouldn't be good for business. Also, no tunnels into hell. You wouldn't think that'd be a problem, but we get the request every once in a while. Same concept as the jail break, I suppose. Anyways, it's more trouble than it's worth, so we've ceased doing that. Finally, no tunnels back in time. Or forward. Only lateral travel."
"Wait, China? Isn't that rather far?"
Marco glanced up at her, his blue eyes twitching. "Tunnels work differently. Nothing's 'far.' Please don't consider geography an obstacle, minus those restrictions I already mentioned."
Julie ran her fingers through her tousled hair, frowning and then repressing a giggle. "What about to your house?"
Marco pulled his lips into a tooth-baring smile that was either intended to show indifference or aggression - Julie couldn't tell. "No, I'm sorry, that's off limits."
"I was just kidding," Julie replied, releasing her giggle. "Let's see ... a tunnel to anywhere I want ..."
"You can mail me your answer, if you prefer," Marco noted, hugging his notebook to his chest.
"Oh yes? I think I'll do that. I need some time to think it over."
He handed her a business card with a simple P.O. Box address. "Send it by tomorrow and the technicians will be here in a week."
"You can't tell me who gave me this?" Julie asked as she showed Marco off her porch.
"No. Definitely not. Terms of the deal."
Julie nodded, and returned to her kitchen. She made up a pot of tea, and sat thinking about where she would like her tunnel to go.
In a week, the same booted man again stood on her front porch. Julie invited him in, and led him down to the basement.
"We can start it from here, you think?" she asked, pointing at the grey cement floor. She had pushed back her dusty boxes and broken furniture to clear a place.
"Why sure, that's no problem. But miss, uh, do I have your plans right? I mean, this is a bit unusual."
"A tunnel that loops around and comes back here? Yes, that's right. Just make sure it's cozy. It's the journey that matters, after all."
He nodded, made some notes, and thumped back up the stairs to get his equipment.
The next day, a small man with greenish-blond hair falling over his forehead knocked on her flimsy door. As she opened it, he announced himself.
"I am the tunnel consultant, Marco Van Whimmel. Just call me Marco. Shall we sit out here?" He gestured at her peeling rocking chair and the wicker chair with a faded floral cushion.
"Yes, perfect," Julie concurred. She wrapped her cardigan around herself and took a seat in the wicker chair. Marco rocked awkwardly across from her. "So you ... build tunnels?" she asked.
"Exactly. I'm so sorry about the mix-up. I should have been here first. The bottom line is that someone has bought you a tunnel -" he flipped open a notebook and scanned down a page, holding it closely to his chest. "I can't disclose who. But the point is, you have a tunnel. So, where would you like it to?"
"To? I'm not in jail, so I'm not sure I need a tunnel to anywhere," Julie observed. She flicked the heels of her flip-flops up into her feet. "Where do most people get their tunnels to?"
"Oh, well there is no 'most.' But some popular choices are China, naturally, or the Grand Canyon, or the house of a married lover. Which reminds me - I should point out a few rules, tunnels we won't dig. No digging into bank vaults. Or jails, as you mentioned. We won't break the law, it wouldn't be good for business. Also, no tunnels into hell. You wouldn't think that'd be a problem, but we get the request every once in a while. Same concept as the jail break, I suppose. Anyways, it's more trouble than it's worth, so we've ceased doing that. Finally, no tunnels back in time. Or forward. Only lateral travel."
"Wait, China? Isn't that rather far?"
Marco glanced up at her, his blue eyes twitching. "Tunnels work differently. Nothing's 'far.' Please don't consider geography an obstacle, minus those restrictions I already mentioned."
Julie ran her fingers through her tousled hair, frowning and then repressing a giggle. "What about to your house?"
Marco pulled his lips into a tooth-baring smile that was either intended to show indifference or aggression - Julie couldn't tell. "No, I'm sorry, that's off limits."
"I was just kidding," Julie replied, releasing her giggle. "Let's see ... a tunnel to anywhere I want ..."
"You can mail me your answer, if you prefer," Marco noted, hugging his notebook to his chest.
"Oh yes? I think I'll do that. I need some time to think it over."
He handed her a business card with a simple P.O. Box address. "Send it by tomorrow and the technicians will be here in a week."
"You can't tell me who gave me this?" Julie asked as she showed Marco off her porch.
"No. Definitely not. Terms of the deal."
Julie nodded, and returned to her kitchen. She made up a pot of tea, and sat thinking about where she would like her tunnel to go.
In a week, the same booted man again stood on her front porch. Julie invited him in, and led him down to the basement.
"We can start it from here, you think?" she asked, pointing at the grey cement floor. She had pushed back her dusty boxes and broken furniture to clear a place.
"Why sure, that's no problem. But miss, uh, do I have your plans right? I mean, this is a bit unusual."
"A tunnel that loops around and comes back here? Yes, that's right. Just make sure it's cozy. It's the journey that matters, after all."
He nodded, made some notes, and thumped back up the stairs to get his equipment.
Tunnel Consulting, Part 1
The man standing on her front porch hooked his thumbs into his belt and regarded her with a raised eyebrow.
"You mean you haven't picked one out yet? Goddamn. How'm I supposed to install a tunnel if you haven't even talked to the damn consultant yet ..." His final words trailed off in a growl of frustration.
"Wait, you're joking right? Tunnel? Consultant?" Again, Julie considered shutting the door in the man's face.
"No, ma'am. You got a gift certificate, like I told you. It's not uncommon, that's how most folks get their tunnels. Mm, prob'ly all of 'em, tell you the truth. Anyways, we need to set you up with the consultant." The man pulled a cellphone out of his back pocket, tapped in a text message, and replaced it. He sighed, and shifted his weight between his heavy boots. "It'll just be a minute."
"Til the consultant gets here?" Julie asked, alarmed at the prospect of having these mad people invade her house. She began to wonder if she should call the police.
"No, no, til he tells me when he can meet you. Listen, I know what you're thinking - but this is for real." He shrugged, and offered no argument to support his claim. Strangely, Julie found his confidence credible.
An electronic melody announced the text message. "Twelve noon tomorrow alright with you, miss?" the man asked, holding his phone open, waiting.
"Tomorrow? Well, alright."
"Ok. Think about what kinda tunnel you want, and the consultant will be happy to talk it all over with you. We'll be seeing you later then. Sorry about the mixup. Goddamn schedulers," he muttered as he walked down her creaking wooden stairs.
Slowly, Julie shut the screen door.
Continued here.
"You mean you haven't picked one out yet? Goddamn. How'm I supposed to install a tunnel if you haven't even talked to the damn consultant yet ..." His final words trailed off in a growl of frustration.
"Wait, you're joking right? Tunnel? Consultant?" Again, Julie considered shutting the door in the man's face.
"No, ma'am. You got a gift certificate, like I told you. It's not uncommon, that's how most folks get their tunnels. Mm, prob'ly all of 'em, tell you the truth. Anyways, we need to set you up with the consultant." The man pulled a cellphone out of his back pocket, tapped in a text message, and replaced it. He sighed, and shifted his weight between his heavy boots. "It'll just be a minute."
"Til the consultant gets here?" Julie asked, alarmed at the prospect of having these mad people invade her house. She began to wonder if she should call the police.
"No, no, til he tells me when he can meet you. Listen, I know what you're thinking - but this is for real." He shrugged, and offered no argument to support his claim. Strangely, Julie found his confidence credible.
An electronic melody announced the text message. "Twelve noon tomorrow alright with you, miss?" the man asked, holding his phone open, waiting.
"Tomorrow? Well, alright."
"Ok. Think about what kinda tunnel you want, and the consultant will be happy to talk it all over with you. We'll be seeing you later then. Sorry about the mixup. Goddamn schedulers," he muttered as he walked down her creaking wooden stairs.
Slowly, Julie shut the screen door.
Continued here.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
A Coffee Bridge
For Erin, who's making her own leap.
It started with the coffee shop. Each day, from 2-3pm, Marlene would escape, before the kids got home from school, before she had to start cooking dinner. She knew she was out of place in the hipster hangout, all worn vinyl booths and retro stained glass lamps, but she loved it nonetheless. She liked feeling transported into a more rarefied world, pretending that she was one of its denizens, even as she knew that no one truly belonged to the life she imagined the coffee shop held. Marlene sipped her rich coffee and stared out the picture window. She particularly liked it when it rained.
One day the coffee shop switched its black-and-white photos, hung rakishly across the walls, for some bright oil paintings. Beside each was a cream-colored business card displaying a scrawled price and the artist's name, Y. Peirte. Marlene stared, fascinated at the paintings. They glowed blue and green and yellow, but didn't speak to her at all. In their failure to grab her they intrigued. I could do that, she thought. Maybe even better. Maybe.
For three weeks, she stared at the garish paintings. She wondered about the artist, Y. Peirte, wondering if the paintings sold, if they provided a livelihood, or just satisfaction. After three weeks, her heart pounding, she bought two canvases, twenty paints, and five brushes from an art supply store.
For another week, she continued going to the coffee shop, but now it was only to hide. As she stared out the window onto the sidewalk, all she could see were the colors of her paints and the blank canvas.
One day at 2pm, Marlene inched her way towards the closet where she'd stashed her supplies. She pulled the bag up into the attic, laid everything out on the rough plywood floor. First a dab of blue, then of red. Mixed, made purple. The thoughts, feelings that had been percolating in her mind over the past few weeks slowly trickled onto the canvas. The art lessons from her youth crept up to the surface of her mind and her hands. She painted.
She painted each day, from 2-3pm. Bought another canvas, and painted some more. Sometimes she hated it, sometimes she loved it. But always she painted, always in secret. Her husband suspected, but he caressed her cheek and knew not to ask. She was terrified to reveal herself.
It was a year before she returned to the coffee shop. She didn't recognize the barista anymore, which made her both sad and giggly. Marlene drank her coffee, sipping from the edge of the white porcelain cup. When she finished, she rested it carefully in the saucer and, glancing at the paintings - different - on the walls, approached the clerk.
"May I speak to your manager?" she asked.
"That's me," the young woman replied, wiping her hands on her brown apron.
"I was wondering ..." Marlene mumbled, and lay a battered white envelope on the counter. Out from it she pulled eight photographs. Her paintings.
Gingerly, woman shuffled through the photographs.
"For the shop, you're thinking?"
"Yes," Marlene said, little more than a whisper.
The woman smiled. "Wonderful."
It started with the coffee shop. Each day, from 2-3pm, Marlene would escape, before the kids got home from school, before she had to start cooking dinner. She knew she was out of place in the hipster hangout, all worn vinyl booths and retro stained glass lamps, but she loved it nonetheless. She liked feeling transported into a more rarefied world, pretending that she was one of its denizens, even as she knew that no one truly belonged to the life she imagined the coffee shop held. Marlene sipped her rich coffee and stared out the picture window. She particularly liked it when it rained.
One day the coffee shop switched its black-and-white photos, hung rakishly across the walls, for some bright oil paintings. Beside each was a cream-colored business card displaying a scrawled price and the artist's name, Y. Peirte. Marlene stared, fascinated at the paintings. They glowed blue and green and yellow, but didn't speak to her at all. In their failure to grab her they intrigued. I could do that, she thought. Maybe even better. Maybe.
For three weeks, she stared at the garish paintings. She wondered about the artist, Y. Peirte, wondering if the paintings sold, if they provided a livelihood, or just satisfaction. After three weeks, her heart pounding, she bought two canvases, twenty paints, and five brushes from an art supply store.
For another week, she continued going to the coffee shop, but now it was only to hide. As she stared out the window onto the sidewalk, all she could see were the colors of her paints and the blank canvas.
One day at 2pm, Marlene inched her way towards the closet where she'd stashed her supplies. She pulled the bag up into the attic, laid everything out on the rough plywood floor. First a dab of blue, then of red. Mixed, made purple. The thoughts, feelings that had been percolating in her mind over the past few weeks slowly trickled onto the canvas. The art lessons from her youth crept up to the surface of her mind and her hands. She painted.
She painted each day, from 2-3pm. Bought another canvas, and painted some more. Sometimes she hated it, sometimes she loved it. But always she painted, always in secret. Her husband suspected, but he caressed her cheek and knew not to ask. She was terrified to reveal herself.
It was a year before she returned to the coffee shop. She didn't recognize the barista anymore, which made her both sad and giggly. Marlene drank her coffee, sipping from the edge of the white porcelain cup. When she finished, she rested it carefully in the saucer and, glancing at the paintings - different - on the walls, approached the clerk.
"May I speak to your manager?" she asked.
"That's me," the young woman replied, wiping her hands on her brown apron.
"I was wondering ..." Marlene mumbled, and lay a battered white envelope on the counter. Out from it she pulled eight photographs. Her paintings.
Gingerly, woman shuffled through the photographs.
"For the shop, you're thinking?"
"Yes," Marlene said, little more than a whisper.
The woman smiled. "Wonderful."
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
The Ideal Costume
Sam breathed deeply, filling his chest with pride as he carried his bag into the bathroom. Below the shiny red paper the bag held a greater treasure than the Christmas present it once contained. Glancing around shyly, he determined he was best off stepping into a stall to effect his transformation. Not impressive if he did it in front of the other boys, he concluded, closing the door behind him. Slowly, with reverence, he extracted the two pieces of black clothing. Stepping carefully on the tops of his sneakers, he wiggled out of his blue jeans and slipped into the black cotton pants. He shed his t-shirt and struggled with the buttons as he closed the black shirt. The outfit was a little larger than he'd hoped, but he knew he still looked like his brother's magazine. Sam had only snuck glances at the forbidden pages, contraband even for his older brother to hold, but he had seen enough to both fall in love and know how to mimic it.
He pulled the black hat down over his head and carefully, balancing, he stepped into the black shoes usually reserved for church. Satisfied with his transformation (even if he wished the hat had a brim going all the way around his head, like the picture), he smushed his Sam Clothes into the bag and strode out of the stall. Seeing the bathroom empty, he panicked and hurried to find his class.
Sam found the tail end of his class's column, and wedged himself in place next to Geena, the witch, and Darius, Spiderman. Darius gave him an appraising glance and whispered, "Cool costume! You're a ninja, right? Where are your, uh, nunchucks?"
Sam's eyes widened with horror. "No! I'm a spy!" He hissed. "Like Spy vs. Spy, you know!"
Darius shrugged and turned his attention to the front, as the march had started. They shuffled down the hallway and out the front doors, blue paint peeling, into the cool, damp day. Sam nudged his way past Darius and Geena, looking for Jimmy. Jimmy would know who he was.
The parents lining their parade route cheered and clapped for the shuffling feet, many of which were trying not to slip on the wet leaves in their unusual shoes. Sam scanned the crowd, but saw no familiar faces. He reached out and tapped a green shoulder.
"Jimmy!" He exclaimed. "You're Frankenstein, right?"
"You bet," his friend confirmed, eyes gleaming through the tiny holes in his plastic mask. "And you're ... Wait, I can't see with this thing on. Uh, a man witch?"
"No!" Sam pouted. "A spy!"
As they walked, Sam's ears caught whispers from the sidelines ... "Look at the Frankenstein! And the ninja!" "Well, what's that one, a ninja?" "Ninja," "Warlock ..." Blushing, angry and embarrassed, he turned his eyes to his shoes. Black, shiny, they kicked up clumps of brown leaves.
Suddenly, he smiled. He squared his shoulders, looked up, and smiled at the crowd. He almost waved, like a beauty queen, but caught himself. That's right, Sam thought. A ninja, a witch. You'll never know what I really am, and that's how I like it. Only I know who I am.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Ignorance, Part 2
Continued from Part 1.
We are all shades, waiting for the bus, limited versions of ourselves. I hang behind, he does not notice me, for why should me? He boards the bus, so do I, it is all very easy.
The bus ferries us – to the world of the living, is it? – across the city, beyond where grit is glamorous and into where it is simply a fact of life, not an accessory but a uniform. We rumble over potholes, across a cavernous overpass. People descend from the bus, some of them trudging, some bouncing as they near home. A low brick apartment complex approaches outside the bus, halts by my window and a number of riders descend. So does the violin player, so do I.
I follow twenty feet behind him, no attempt to dissimulate, just walking. He does not turn around, I am nothing to him, no threat.
He enters the building, I cannot follow. A light on the ground floor illuminates a square window. I approach. Behind the iron bars, I can see. I observe certainly that he can see. His eyes, walnut brown, drink in his surroundings. An old woman hunched in an armchair, flashes of television colors muted on her wrinkled face. He kisses her cheek, she pats his arm. He moves to another room, I follow, the dark night silent behind me, the rooms in front of me delicately humming. A younger woman, wife perhaps, with pendulous breasts and thin brown hair pulled back reaches down to pull a chicken from the oven. I want some, so does he, he pokes a fork at it. Dirty dishes peek above the edge of the sink, trying to stage an escape from their pit.
No children that I can see, just the three of them. A shadow moves – perhaps a cat, perhaps the television’s dreams. A carved clock sits on a shelf opposite my window, I think it tells the right time, but I cannot see that far very well. It looks cheap, plywood shapes and laminate stickers. I wonder why he has it, the violinist.
Disappointed, I turn away from the windows and walk through the stiff grass back to the bus stop. I hope there is a bus back to the city. As I wait, I consider my failure.
A bus does come, eventually, and I am grateful, aching from standing. I return to the city, and it occurs to me that I have a chance to do it all over. Not to follow the violinist again, reenacting my selfish curiosity, but to discover what I was looking for. And the answer lies, as the violinist probably could have told me, in not looking, in closing my eyes. The next time I ascend the escalator, accompanied by the violinist’s hard-earned notes, I know I will close my eyes, even if briefly, and hear just the music. I will see the man as he presents himself, no need to search, to judge. There is the music, and that is all I need to know.
The bus ferries us – to the world of the living, is it? – across the city, beyond where grit is glamorous and into where it is simply a fact of life, not an accessory but a uniform. We rumble over potholes, across a cavernous overpass. People descend from the bus, some of them trudging, some bouncing as they near home. A low brick apartment complex approaches outside the bus, halts by my window and a number of riders descend. So does the violin player, so do I.
I follow twenty feet behind him, no attempt to dissimulate, just walking. He does not turn around, I am nothing to him, no threat.
He enters the building, I cannot follow. A light on the ground floor illuminates a square window. I approach. Behind the iron bars, I can see. I observe certainly that he can see. His eyes, walnut brown, drink in his surroundings. An old woman hunched in an armchair, flashes of television colors muted on her wrinkled face. He kisses her cheek, she pats his arm. He moves to another room, I follow, the dark night silent behind me, the rooms in front of me delicately humming. A younger woman, wife perhaps, with pendulous breasts and thin brown hair pulled back reaches down to pull a chicken from the oven. I want some, so does he, he pokes a fork at it. Dirty dishes peek above the edge of the sink, trying to stage an escape from their pit.
No children that I can see, just the three of them. A shadow moves – perhaps a cat, perhaps the television’s dreams. A carved clock sits on a shelf opposite my window, I think it tells the right time, but I cannot see that far very well. It looks cheap, plywood shapes and laminate stickers. I wonder why he has it, the violinist.
Disappointed, I turn away from the windows and walk through the stiff grass back to the bus stop. I hope there is a bus back to the city. As I wait, I consider my failure.
A bus does come, eventually, and I am grateful, aching from standing. I return to the city, and it occurs to me that I have a chance to do it all over. Not to follow the violinist again, reenacting my selfish curiosity, but to discover what I was looking for. And the answer lies, as the violinist probably could have told me, in not looking, in closing my eyes. The next time I ascend the escalator, accompanied by the violinist’s hard-earned notes, I know I will close my eyes, even if briefly, and hear just the music. I will see the man as he presents himself, no need to search, to judge. There is the music, and that is all I need to know.
Ignorance, Part 1
At times, walking up the long escalator from the subway, I have to resist the powerful urge to look behind me. There is a clock at the bottom, but if I crane my neck around while still walking forward, I know vertigo and injury will result. (Pausing is not an option – you know the city, always forward.) So, I walk up, suffocating the urge, ascending, pulling my ignorance behind me. These times I feel like Orpheus, resisting temptation in exchange for fulfillment at the surface.
There is often, like with Orpheus, a mournful melody to accompany me but, unlike Orpheus, I am not the player. Instead, the shimmering, slightly off-tone garlands of music falling down the escalator come from a street musician. When I arrive in the sunlight, I will see him, large bottom overflowing his tiny perch (a bucket?), his dark, rough hands cradling the small violin. His eyes closed, always. I think it was the eyes that caught my attention.
When I reach ground level, my test concluded, I can end the curiosity. Out of the purse comes my cell phone. Time known.
I have imagined that once I will emerge, extract the phone, and there will be no time. Orpheus, unaccountably obedient, turns around and there is no Eurydice. If there is no time, I suppose the skies will be grey, one lonely note from the violin will hang on the air, and Einstein will have been wrong. (What was his ignorance, trailing behind him as he ascended?)
Naturally, that doesn’t happen. But subterranean escape after escape, the music, flimsy as it is, has enchanted me. As I often do, this day I put a dollar in the violin case, worn red velvet and quarters with a 20 for show. Then I go and sit where time has stopped, or at least made us invisible. A park with peeling benches and indifferent pigeons milling on the bald turf. I sit and wait, resolved, invisible behind the violin player. I cannot see if he opens his eyes but I believe he does not, no more than a peek at least. When the commuter exodus ebbs and the clouded sky is lit only with our own reflected luminance, he rests the violin on his wide lap, empties his earnings into a plastic baggie, zips it up, and puts everything away. The bucket – I can see it is a bucket now, for he has stood – is flipped and turned into a suitcase. He walks off. I follow him.
The story is continued in Part 2.
There is often, like with Orpheus, a mournful melody to accompany me but, unlike Orpheus, I am not the player. Instead, the shimmering, slightly off-tone garlands of music falling down the escalator come from a street musician. When I arrive in the sunlight, I will see him, large bottom overflowing his tiny perch (a bucket?), his dark, rough hands cradling the small violin. His eyes closed, always. I think it was the eyes that caught my attention.
When I reach ground level, my test concluded, I can end the curiosity. Out of the purse comes my cell phone. Time known.
I have imagined that once I will emerge, extract the phone, and there will be no time. Orpheus, unaccountably obedient, turns around and there is no Eurydice. If there is no time, I suppose the skies will be grey, one lonely note from the violin will hang on the air, and Einstein will have been wrong. (What was his ignorance, trailing behind him as he ascended?)
Naturally, that doesn’t happen. But subterranean escape after escape, the music, flimsy as it is, has enchanted me. As I often do, this day I put a dollar in the violin case, worn red velvet and quarters with a 20 for show. Then I go and sit where time has stopped, or at least made us invisible. A park with peeling benches and indifferent pigeons milling on the bald turf. I sit and wait, resolved, invisible behind the violin player. I cannot see if he opens his eyes but I believe he does not, no more than a peek at least. When the commuter exodus ebbs and the clouded sky is lit only with our own reflected luminance, he rests the violin on his wide lap, empties his earnings into a plastic baggie, zips it up, and puts everything away. The bucket – I can see it is a bucket now, for he has stood – is flipped and turned into a suitcase. He walks off. I follow him.
The story is continued in Part 2.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Through the Inches
She responded by instinct, naturally, when her body gave her those new, unexpected sensations. Heavy, focused, the young cat sought out the perfect corner. Somewhere quiet, dark, safe. She could not have explained why, and if she could have felt surprise at the sight of the kittens she would have, but she accepted it all with equanimity. It was instead the closure of the entrance, the theft of sunlight and fresh air that shocked her.
She had been so absorbed with her three new lives, blind, mewing and heart-wrenching, that she had not even noticed that the path by which she had entered her refuge was now closed. It was only when her body ached with hunger, when she was forced to leave her innocent, defenseless charges, that she realized. Anxious, she paced the perimeter of her space. It was large, but closed. Had she been human, she would have realized that the garage door had been closed, with only two inches of space remaining, leaving her in a concrete cube, without escape.
She hoped for mice - not rats, they might prey on her babies before she could prey upon them - but none entered. Soon, hunger terrorized her. Desperate, she cried out, sticking her nose out through the tiny bit of space that remained to her, her only reminder that the real, open, free world still existed. Food, release, help, she cried. Her belly, her pleading babies, drove her to distraction.
As she cried, a warm smell of meat, flesh and fat and blood, crept towards her. Then, miraculously, the meat itself appeared, slipped through the crack, glowing in the remaining sunlight. She snatched it and ran away, back to her nest in the corner.
But the meat only held her for a short time. Soon she was starving again, her kittens larger, their eyes open and looking to her for food. On black paws, she crept around the space again. No mice, no nothing. Hunger drove her, she cried. She cried and cried. The light disappeared, then, after the cool night, reappeared. Still she cried.
Inexplicably, the meat came again. She snatched it away, glimpsing bare fingertips and hearing whispers in foreign, human tones. Her hunger satiated, she calmed.
When the sunlight next returned, a rattling cacophony came with it. The cat mother blinked, startled, as the bright day slowly invaded her space. The door was opening.
She was too astonished to do anything for a moment. A man walked in, his face widening in surprise as he saw her. She cringed, waiting for the violence. He bent down.
And cooed. If she could have understood, she would have known he said, "Oh, aren't you darling! So sweet. Maria, come look at these kittens!"
He thrust a weathered, darkened hand at her. The cat laid back her ears, but was too tired, and too hopeful, to do anything more. She remembered the meat, proffered by similar hands, though smaller. He caressed her head.
"There there. We'll take care of you my love. Maria, can you get a box, blanket? We've got to move these kitties to somewhere better." He ran his hand down the cat's black fur, and extended a heavy finger to stroke the grey head of one of her kittens. "We'll take care of you," he promised.
She had been so absorbed with her three new lives, blind, mewing and heart-wrenching, that she had not even noticed that the path by which she had entered her refuge was now closed. It was only when her body ached with hunger, when she was forced to leave her innocent, defenseless charges, that she realized. Anxious, she paced the perimeter of her space. It was large, but closed. Had she been human, she would have realized that the garage door had been closed, with only two inches of space remaining, leaving her in a concrete cube, without escape.
She hoped for mice - not rats, they might prey on her babies before she could prey upon them - but none entered. Soon, hunger terrorized her. Desperate, she cried out, sticking her nose out through the tiny bit of space that remained to her, her only reminder that the real, open, free world still existed. Food, release, help, she cried. Her belly, her pleading babies, drove her to distraction.
As she cried, a warm smell of meat, flesh and fat and blood, crept towards her. Then, miraculously, the meat itself appeared, slipped through the crack, glowing in the remaining sunlight. She snatched it and ran away, back to her nest in the corner.
But the meat only held her for a short time. Soon she was starving again, her kittens larger, their eyes open and looking to her for food. On black paws, she crept around the space again. No mice, no nothing. Hunger drove her, she cried. She cried and cried. The light disappeared, then, after the cool night, reappeared. Still she cried.
Inexplicably, the meat came again. She snatched it away, glimpsing bare fingertips and hearing whispers in foreign, human tones. Her hunger satiated, she calmed.
When the sunlight next returned, a rattling cacophony came with it. The cat mother blinked, startled, as the bright day slowly invaded her space. The door was opening.
She was too astonished to do anything for a moment. A man walked in, his face widening in surprise as he saw her. She cringed, waiting for the violence. He bent down.
And cooed. If she could have understood, she would have known he said, "Oh, aren't you darling! So sweet. Maria, come look at these kittens!"
He thrust a weathered, darkened hand at her. The cat laid back her ears, but was too tired, and too hopeful, to do anything more. She remembered the meat, proffered by similar hands, though smaller. He caressed her head.
"There there. We'll take care of you my love. Maria, can you get a box, blanket? We've got to move these kitties to somewhere better." He ran his hand down the cat's black fur, and extended a heavy finger to stroke the grey head of one of her kittens. "We'll take care of you," he promised.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
After the Ride
He stomped into the room, his plate armor groaning and clanking. The metal rested under a thick coat of dust, residue from a day's fighting. Lucinda watched him as she reclined on the bed. Richard paced and cursed, glancing up occasionally at her.
"That is fundamentally irreconcilable," he announced.
"You've had too much of that mead," she observed. "Mary is at it again, pouring you too much."
"Curses, Lucinda, you're not listening!" Richard yelled. He pulled his sword from the sheath at his hip. It did not emerge easily, seeming to grasp at the inside of the sheath. "I am telling you, the fool's claim is irreconcilable!"
"Why is that? It is entirely possible he had made his plans first. Just because the records -"
"NO!" He bellowed. He grabbed the sword hilt in both hands and drove the weapon into the bed. Lucinda raised an eyebrow as she watched, and marveled that he was able to push the blade through the fabric and avoid the metal springs.
"Listen, Richard. You are going too far with this. Look at yourself. Get out of that ridiculous RenFest gear, drink some water, sober up, and we'll call the club. Just because Dave says he booked the gig before you had a chance doesn't mean he's lying."
Richard glared at her. "You never believe me. You're just trying to keep me from succeeding."
"You know that's not true," she retorted. "I drove you to the Renaissance thing today, paid for you to rent that horse even! How can you accuse me of not being supportive? So I don't want you to quit your day job for your two fantasy jobs. Not yet at least. There's nothing wrong with that. I know you'll get there eventually," she softened her tone. "Whether it's knocking guys off their block every day in front of a movie camera or signing with a major label with the band, I know you'll get there. You just have to enjoy the ride."
Richard collapsed onto the bed, the weight of his armor sagging the mattress, which pulled his sword into a painful angle. Like a splinter sticking out from his hand.
"Ok. Can you help me get these damn boots off?"
"That is fundamentally irreconcilable," he announced.
"You've had too much of that mead," she observed. "Mary is at it again, pouring you too much."
"Curses, Lucinda, you're not listening!" Richard yelled. He pulled his sword from the sheath at his hip. It did not emerge easily, seeming to grasp at the inside of the sheath. "I am telling you, the fool's claim is irreconcilable!"
"Why is that? It is entirely possible he had made his plans first. Just because the records -"
"NO!" He bellowed. He grabbed the sword hilt in both hands and drove the weapon into the bed. Lucinda raised an eyebrow as she watched, and marveled that he was able to push the blade through the fabric and avoid the metal springs.
"Listen, Richard. You are going too far with this. Look at yourself. Get out of that ridiculous RenFest gear, drink some water, sober up, and we'll call the club. Just because Dave says he booked the gig before you had a chance doesn't mean he's lying."
Richard glared at her. "You never believe me. You're just trying to keep me from succeeding."
"You know that's not true," she retorted. "I drove you to the Renaissance thing today, paid for you to rent that horse even! How can you accuse me of not being supportive? So I don't want you to quit your day job for your two fantasy jobs. Not yet at least. There's nothing wrong with that. I know you'll get there eventually," she softened her tone. "Whether it's knocking guys off their block every day in front of a movie camera or signing with a major label with the band, I know you'll get there. You just have to enjoy the ride."
Richard collapsed onto the bed, the weight of his armor sagging the mattress, which pulled his sword into a painful angle. Like a splinter sticking out from his hand.
"Ok. Can you help me get these damn boots off?"
Monday, August 31, 2009
A game
Warning: This is not a happy story. Sorry Gary.
We walk up the front steps and pull open the tattered screen door, screen hanging loose like peeling flesh, just as you would expect. The hallway is dark, musty, but not as dirty as one might have thought. I walk on the boards, confident they will not fall in.
"Not bad," I say, turning around to my friend. He is sillouetted by the bright, diffused light outside. I see two other sillouettes move behind him, flanking, blocking the doorway. I suck in my breath.
"Perfect," says one of the shapes, a woman. My friend spins around, I'm sorry I couldn't warn him.
"We needed two more," says the other, a young man. "So glad you could join us. Did Javier send you?"
"Javier? I don't know a Javier," I reply, my heart slowing as I think I see a way out of this. "We just wandered in. But we'll be going now."
I can see the woman shake her head, though I can't see the features of her face, backlit as she is.
"No, we need two more players. You'll have to come with us. Follow him."
"But," I start to protest.
"Follow him," she growls. My friend hops away from her, and follows the young man, who has opened a door and is walking downstairs. Lost, I do the same.
The basement is lit with yellow light, eminating from a few camp lanterns. In a corner, eight people sit in a circle, some reclining on pillows. The yellow light leaves strange shadows on their faces. The woman we encountered above shuts the door behind me, and, with a firm hand on the small of my back, guides me to take a seat. The room smells sharp, not the dull moist basement smell I would expect, but a pointed, harsh smell, like an auto repair shop. Like metal on metal, I decide as a sit. My friend is sitting across from me, and we exchange wide, nervous glances.
A man sits to my right, ramrod straight and solemn. He pushes his shaggy brown hair from his eyes and surveys the group.
"I think you know the rules," he begins, but then his eyes fall upon my friend and I. "Ah, newcomers. Well, a review is in order then. It's very simple. Keep your cards facedown. Play a card by turning it over in the center. Do what the card says. If it's a zero, you die. That's it."
I stare at him, certain he's joking. Mistaken. Something I've imagined. He narrows his eyes at me. He's fairly young, in his thirties probably. He looks strong under his thin grey t-shirt.
"I'm not dealt in to this game," I try to explain. "I think we should go."
The man lifts an eyebrow. "Oh, but you are," he says, gesturing to my side. I see a messy pile of cards, about 10, with a faded, gold diamond pattern on the back. "You are in," he intones. A sick smile spreads across his face. "And it's your turn."
Trembling, I pick up a card and throw it into the center, flipped to reveal its underbelly. The card was originally blank, without spades or hearts, and had a few words written in black marker. Sighing with relief, I don't even read the words. Not a zero. The next person goes, so I assume there is nothing for me to do.
The card throwing circles around, silently. The leader laughs, often before each card is revealed. I wonder if he knows, from the top sides, what the bottom says. No zeros. He smiles, relishing the tension. The rest of the faces are expressionless, captivated, perhaps, by the game. I glance at my friend. I can see the vein in his neck throbbing, casting a tiny undulating shadow as fear fills him.
"I need to use the bathroom," I venture. To my surprise, the leader nods and flicks a hand.
"That way," he mutters, pointing back up the stairs. My back is to the wall, facing the stairs, so I step across the circle. My friend gets up to follow me. No one objects, and we walk to the doorway. I glance back, as I open the door to the stairs, and I see someone else getting up. I hurry to open the door, and walk up as quietly as possible. At the top, behind my friend, I see two more people following us, at the bottom. I can tell, from the angry look in their eyes, that they are not hoping to use the bathroom as well.
The front door is shut, bolted and locked with a key, from the inside. I turn and run down the hall. My friend follows, I think. The house creaks and betrays my movements, and I can hear little else.
There are no exits. I see no large windows, no back doors. Panicking, I throw open a door. It leads to a closet of a bathroom. Above the toilet, about 10 feet from the ground, is a window.
I jump onto the toilet and struggle to force the window open from below, barely reaching. It budges and, as I pull myself up to the ledge, I force it open further. I can slide myself out on my stomach, sliding sliding. The cool outdoor air kisses my cheek, a blessing. I am about to pull my hips through when I feel someone grab my ankles. They pull, I pull. I'm slipping back through the window, freedom evaporating. Suddenly, the grip weakens. I scramble to pull myself out, and tumble down onto the grass. It hurts, it was a hard, jarring fall, but I hardly notice. I'm out. I run.
I run and run. No sign of my friend, and my stomach churns for him. But still I run. I'll find help. Surely there is a house that is occupied, somewhere here.
The dilapidated street streches into countryside, and I run alongside the road. I see a house ahead, a prim wood frame house, and I allow myself to slow. No one is following, I can let myself breathe.
I knock on the door, a man answers. Wearing a worn sportscoat and jeans, he looks friendly. I try to explain. He ushers me in, not believing me, but solicitious.
"Now, now, just sit here and rest a moment." He shows me a tidy, bright sitting room, facing the street. "No one's chasing you, I'm sure."
I don't believe him, I look outside. Empty, green meadows. But I still don't believe him. My friend isn't with me, I didn't make this up.
"Now where were you again?" he asks.
I look out the window again, and then I see them. The messy-haired man, confidently leading a column. I see my friend, and sigh, for some small relief. But the woman, the woman who first found us, she is not there. Dead, I think, although I could not justify it.
"They're here," I breathe to my host as the column turns towards the house. I jump up, hesitate like a scared rabbit, and run. Hide, hide, is all I can think. Like a child, I run to hide in the first room I can find. A workroom, with a large table. A blanket underneath. Stupid, scared, I throw myself under the table and try to hide my bulk with the blanket.
Footsteps come soon.
"Don't be silly, my pet," the leader's voice chides. "You are a part of the game now, you cannot leave before we've finished playing."
His large boots stop in front of the table. Without hesitating, without even a shred of consideration for my hiding place, he reaches down to drag me out. "There we are," he says, standing me up. I see the rest of the group standing behind him. Blank-faced, except my friend. Who looks scared. Seeing his face, my lungs clench up and my head pounds. I flail, and grab something hard and cold on the work table. In a rush, I lunge at the smiling man's throat.
The razor blade knife cuts the side of his throat. I shudder, feeling the resistance of his skin, his vein, and then the give of it before the blade. Taking advantage of his surprise, I grab his arms from behind. He is larger, but I have a knife against his throat. Half of his neck is becoming slippery with blood.
"We have to end this," I say, not knowing what I'm saying, to the gathered group. "This is a madness he drives us to, to sacrifice ourselves."
"I am not the killed," he whispers. "You are. Quit this foolishness." From behind him, my face in his blood and his straw-dry hair, I can hear the power in his voice, whisper not withstanding. I look over his shoulder and plead.
One of the group grabs the razor blade from my hand. I gasp, and stagger backwards. Fear clouds my vision. But no cut comes. A moment later, I see the leader staring down at his bloody hands. The razor blade is passed to another, and another stroke comes.
"We must all kill him," someone says. "So no one is guilty."
I hardly follow what happens, so much movement, but so little sound. Finally, I see the man stumble back into the hall, turning for the first time to face me. He is a torrent of blood, agony.
"Zero," he utters, and collapses. Someone, quicker thinking than I, grabs him and pulls him towards the back of the house. We follow. The body thumps down the back door steps, not leaving too much blood. A creek flows swiftly, deeply to the right of the house. Two people drag the body across the long grass and throw it in. The water rushes to meet its burden, to carry it away. We shuffle through the grass, exhausted. Free. Or perhaps not.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Claims
He found it strange, later, that so much happiness could spring from that irritated, put-out moment. For, after all, to sit somewhere is to claim it, to call it yours, even temporarily. "That is my seat," one says. Or, "Oh, am I sitting in your seat?" It is impossible to have a seat if it is someone else's - if so, it cannot be yours. So, naturally, his irritation upon walking out of his rowhouse - his house, mind you - and finding her sitting upon his low retaining wall.
"Can I help you?" He asked, the irritation seeping from his voice. Or so he hoped.
"I'm just resting," she smiled. "Thank you." She made no movement, except to recross her legs. They made the cloth of her skirt flow, heavy liquid cascading down from the wall.
Her gratitude was genuine, if presumptuous, and he paused in his indignation for a moment.
"Well," he said, and then faltered, uncertain what he had intended.
"This is a beautiful view you have," she added, flicking her wrist towards the other side of the street. A hill sloped down across from them, empty of houses, showing lush green trees below. "You are fortunate."
He followed her eyes, and nodded. Fortunate, yes, he thought, he knew, though it was easy to forget. Startled, he sat next to her to look at it.
"You don't mind?" he asked.
She laughed. "It's your wall."
"Can I help you?" He asked, the irritation seeping from his voice. Or so he hoped.
"I'm just resting," she smiled. "Thank you." She made no movement, except to recross her legs. They made the cloth of her skirt flow, heavy liquid cascading down from the wall.
Her gratitude was genuine, if presumptuous, and he paused in his indignation for a moment.
"Well," he said, and then faltered, uncertain what he had intended.
"This is a beautiful view you have," she added, flicking her wrist towards the other side of the street. A hill sloped down across from them, empty of houses, showing lush green trees below. "You are fortunate."
He followed her eyes, and nodded. Fortunate, yes, he thought, he knew, though it was easy to forget. Startled, he sat next to her to look at it.
"You don't mind?" he asked.
She laughed. "It's your wall."
Sunday, March 15, 2009
The Journey
This one's for Gary.
Another one was ripe. The tree's branch uncurled, taking days to release the great bud ensconced inside. When the branch finally unfurled itself, the bud released and fell to the ground, rolling down the small hill. The bud rocked to a stop, settled in a mossy dip. For a long time it sat there, unmoving. Then, the outer shell cracked and split, falling open to reveal the snail. His bright blue shell glimmered, standing out like a gem against the green moss. He extracted his head and turned it from one side to another. He saw moss, which he knew to be moss, and he saw the massive tree behind him. His eyes swiveled back and forth, taking in the entire landscape. He saw no other blue gem snails, which he knew himself to be, and knew he ought to look for. The snail nodded to himself, accepting this information, and decided to inch his way forward, to explore.
After a long time, ages it seemed, the snail arrived at the edge of the world. He crept up to the edge, recognizing it from afar but wanting to see it, to experience the bliss of crouching upon the cusp of oblivion. He did so, and was amazed. Brown earth reached down below him, but beyond that he could not see anything except darkness. The sound of rushing, whispering air reached up to him. It called to him, begged him to merge himself with it. He shivered, and turned away. He made his way back.
The path he had taken previously was obscured, unrecognizable from the passage of time. The snail did not worry. He made his way as he could, sliding over moss and rotting leaves and bark. He met a moth, and passed a slug. He nodded at the slug and trudged on.
An ant, a massive ant, asked the snail for a ride. "I am traveling and could use some assistance," he explained. The snail pulled his eyestalks down into his shell as he thought. The ant was solitary, strange for an ant.
"Where are you going?" the snail asked.
"Ah, where," the ant replied. "To find something that makes me happy."
"That is a good thing to look for," the snail said. "I should like to look for the same thing. I have seen the edge of the world, and that did not make me happy. Should we search for the heart of the world?"
"You are an accommodating snail," the ant praised him. "I think we should search for the heart of the world."
The ant took his place on the snail's iridescent blue shell, and they commenced their slow journey together. They knew not to ask anyone where the heart of the world was, for they knew they would be the first to find it.
The snail crept along, and one day, as rain drizzled down upon them, he spotted a great cavern up ahead.
"I am certain that is the entrance to the heart of the world," he told the ant. The ant nodded, and the snail observed his agreement. Silently, they proceeded forward.
After a few cycles of light and darkness, they reached the cavern. It was dark inside, but they had no fear. They traveled and traveled, following the path into the heart of the world. The cave began to reverberate with a deep, contented sound. Even more confident, they continued. The air became warm, and all light was gone. The snail did not slow his pace, and the ant silently approved.
The first tickle was slight, almost imperceptible. Soon, more tickles followed, and eventually they became a warm, soft embrace, as the air around them thickened and welcomed them. A rumbling hum flowed around them. The snail and the ant had found the heart of the world, and they were happy. They smiled.
Another one was ripe. The tree's branch uncurled, taking days to release the great bud ensconced inside. When the branch finally unfurled itself, the bud released and fell to the ground, rolling down the small hill. The bud rocked to a stop, settled in a mossy dip. For a long time it sat there, unmoving. Then, the outer shell cracked and split, falling open to reveal the snail. His bright blue shell glimmered, standing out like a gem against the green moss. He extracted his head and turned it from one side to another. He saw moss, which he knew to be moss, and he saw the massive tree behind him. His eyes swiveled back and forth, taking in the entire landscape. He saw no other blue gem snails, which he knew himself to be, and knew he ought to look for. The snail nodded to himself, accepting this information, and decided to inch his way forward, to explore.
After a long time, ages it seemed, the snail arrived at the edge of the world. He crept up to the edge, recognizing it from afar but wanting to see it, to experience the bliss of crouching upon the cusp of oblivion. He did so, and was amazed. Brown earth reached down below him, but beyond that he could not see anything except darkness. The sound of rushing, whispering air reached up to him. It called to him, begged him to merge himself with it. He shivered, and turned away. He made his way back.
The path he had taken previously was obscured, unrecognizable from the passage of time. The snail did not worry. He made his way as he could, sliding over moss and rotting leaves and bark. He met a moth, and passed a slug. He nodded at the slug and trudged on.
An ant, a massive ant, asked the snail for a ride. "I am traveling and could use some assistance," he explained. The snail pulled his eyestalks down into his shell as he thought. The ant was solitary, strange for an ant.
"Where are you going?" the snail asked.
"Ah, where," the ant replied. "To find something that makes me happy."
"That is a good thing to look for," the snail said. "I should like to look for the same thing. I have seen the edge of the world, and that did not make me happy. Should we search for the heart of the world?"
"You are an accommodating snail," the ant praised him. "I think we should search for the heart of the world."
The ant took his place on the snail's iridescent blue shell, and they commenced their slow journey together. They knew not to ask anyone where the heart of the world was, for they knew they would be the first to find it.
The snail crept along, and one day, as rain drizzled down upon them, he spotted a great cavern up ahead.
"I am certain that is the entrance to the heart of the world," he told the ant. The ant nodded, and the snail observed his agreement. Silently, they proceeded forward.
After a few cycles of light and darkness, they reached the cavern. It was dark inside, but they had no fear. They traveled and traveled, following the path into the heart of the world. The cave began to reverberate with a deep, contented sound. Even more confident, they continued. The air became warm, and all light was gone. The snail did not slow his pace, and the ant silently approved.
The first tickle was slight, almost imperceptible. Soon, more tickles followed, and eventually they became a warm, soft embrace, as the air around them thickened and welcomed them. A rumbling hum flowed around them. The snail and the ant had found the heart of the world, and they were happy. They smiled.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Story of an Artist in a Dirty Apartment
I don't vacuum very often, so yesterday, after long ignoring the accumulating filth to the best of my ability, I succumbed. I started with the carpet in the tiny closet I call my studio. Where I paint, crumple paper, cut fabric, and generally try to be creative. It didn't take long until the vacuum choked on something. I turned it off and sat down next to it. I would coach the vacuum to regurgitate whatever it had improperly swallowed, I thought. I found the end of a string, wrapped around the vacuum brush. That's easy, I determined with relief, and began to pull on it. The string was beautiful - thick and soft, made of shades of purple with gold strands interwoven. I watched with amazement as it spooled out from the vacuum. There was so much yarn, I laid it out in a circle around me. Pulling yarn, and piling circles upon circles around me. The yarn piled up. I smiled, enjoying the cocoon I was creating. More yarn, higher walls. Finally, it reached above my head. I pulled pile of extra yarn into my haven, and then tied a knot at the top. I found a needle in the carpet, and used the extra string to sew the walls of the cocoon into something a little more solid although, to be honest, they felt pretty sturdy already. Finally, I closed the bottom of my cocoon below me. I sighed with relief. A beautiful purple and gold pouch I'm in, I thought. What a lovely place to spend some time. I sat there, and thought purple and gold thoughts. Waterfalls, spirit gems, crumpled paper. Then, almost as if I had expected it, or invited it, something picked me up. This pleased me too. Such a lovely package as me in my purple and gold pouch should be picked up. Carried. I wondered idly where I was going. Perhaps to join a collection of pouches. That would be nice. I swung in the air for a long time. I could tell I had left the stale, stinky air of my apartment behind, and noticed a sweet, honeysuckle scent. As it should be. Now, I sway in the sweet breezes, happily ensconced in my cocoon, absent of physical needs. I can paint beautiful images in the air with my mind, and write these words for you. Perhaps it didn't start yesterday. Perhaps it was years, centuries. I don't know, I'm not waiting for anything. Just living in a world of inner beauty.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Valentine's Story, Part 2
This story is continued from a previous post.
The fourth day after Ranger’s new boss started was one of the few rainy days Bruni earned each year. Jessie was standing over the stove sprinkling cheese on a mac and cheese casserole when she saw Ranger’s green car pull into the driveway. She slid the casserole into the oven and glanced back at the car. She furrowed her brow as the clock behind her ticked away the seconds and no one emerged from the car. The rain ran in rivulets down the window pane, and she wondered if Ranger was hoping it would let up. She grabbed an umbrella and ran outside.
She opened the passenger-side door and leaned inside.
“Hey sweetie, I brought an umbrella out for you.”
“Thanks.”
He sat slouched in the seat, staring at his hands at his lap. She reached inside to brush her fingers against his thigh.
“You comin’ in?”
“Yeah. Not just yet though.”
“Oh,” she replied, startled. “Ok. Well, I’ll leave this here for you.”
She folded the umbrella and dropped it into the car before running back inside.
Thirty minutes later, Ranger came inside.
“You didn’t even use the umbrella, silly,” she said, brushing the water off his soft, brown hair.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“Don’t apologize,” she kissed him. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
He refused to say anymore, and spent the rest of the evening in silence.
It wasn’t until Saturday morning, as Jessie was heading out to work, that he opened up.
“Mitch, the new boss, you know? I don’t think he likes me.”
“That’s ridiculous, why would you say that?”
Ranger swiveled his foot on the ground, like he was putting out a cigarette.
“He told me my performance was sub-par and I was an ignorant red-neck.”
“He said that?” she exclaimed.
“Yeah. The red-neck thing was under his breath, but I know he said it.”
“Well, maybe he didn’t,” Jessie replied, hopefully. “Maybe you heard him wrong.”
Ranger glared at her.
“I know what I heard. So you think I’m dumb too?”
“You know that’s not what I meant. I was just hoping it’s not as bad as you thought.”
“I’m sure it is. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I can’t work with this guy.”
“You’re going to have to,” she said gently. “We need this job. Remember how hard it was to find it? And now, with the mortgage …” Her voice trailed off. Two and a half years of mortgage payments hadn’t made much of a dent in their debt, and the thought of all those zeros they still owed the bank made her nervous.
He exhaled, and his shoulders slumped. She hugged him and kissed his neck.
“I have to go, but let’s talk about this more when I get back.”
“Alright,” he said, and kissed her.
When she returned, exhausted, Ranger was absorbed in a crime drama on TV, with a bottle of beer in his hand. She didn’t want to disturb him, so she tiptoed up to bed.
As the weeks passed, Jessie’s husband spiraled deeper into his own personal misery. She could rarely get him to tell her what was wrong, as recounting it seemed to wound his pride even further. He drank more and spoke less, and seldom agreed to go out with the few friends they had made in Bruni. When she reassured him, he snapped, and when she caressed him, he pulled away. She didn’t know how to make him feel better, how to show him her love. Her heart ached.
And so, nearly three years after last seeing her mother, Jessie decided to write, pleading for help. Jessie’s mother was no stranger to marital difficulties – Jessie’s parents had nearly divorced when she was twelve, after three years of misunderstanding that rotted their relationship and led to screaming. But, to Jessie’s amazement, they reversed their trajectory and reconciled. Jessie wanted that secret, wanted the advice. And when she let herself admit it, she wanted her mother’s consolation. A hug scented with cloves and bread, that’s what her mother’s love was.
Her tears hit the paper before the ink did. She stopped thinking about what to write and just wrote. She sealed the letter without reading it, and ran it down to the mailbox.
When she came back inside, she saw Ranger sitting on the couch, watching TV. She walked behind him and ran her fingers through his hair. The TV was showing Forrest Gump, and the music surged through the quiet room. She leaned down to whisper in his ear.
“This is a little cheesier than your usual fare,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.
“I guess I’m feeling mushy,” he replied. He reached his arms over his head to hug her. Then he released her and reached for his beer.
“Do you feel like going out? Maybe have dinner at Chili’s?” she asked, hopeful and watching his profile.
He drank the entire bottle before answering.
“No. Thanks. I’m just going to watch this. You can go though.”
“No, that’s ok,” she sighed. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me, ok?”
“Ok.”
The fourth day after Ranger’s new boss started was one of the few rainy days Bruni earned each year. Jessie was standing over the stove sprinkling cheese on a mac and cheese casserole when she saw Ranger’s green car pull into the driveway. She slid the casserole into the oven and glanced back at the car. She furrowed her brow as the clock behind her ticked away the seconds and no one emerged from the car. The rain ran in rivulets down the window pane, and she wondered if Ranger was hoping it would let up. She grabbed an umbrella and ran outside.
She opened the passenger-side door and leaned inside.
“Hey sweetie, I brought an umbrella out for you.”
“Thanks.”
He sat slouched in the seat, staring at his hands at his lap. She reached inside to brush her fingers against his thigh.
“You comin’ in?”
“Yeah. Not just yet though.”
“Oh,” she replied, startled. “Ok. Well, I’ll leave this here for you.”
She folded the umbrella and dropped it into the car before running back inside.
Thirty minutes later, Ranger came inside.
“You didn’t even use the umbrella, silly,” she said, brushing the water off his soft, brown hair.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“Don’t apologize,” she kissed him. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
He refused to say anymore, and spent the rest of the evening in silence.
It wasn’t until Saturday morning, as Jessie was heading out to work, that he opened up.
“Mitch, the new boss, you know? I don’t think he likes me.”
“That’s ridiculous, why would you say that?”
Ranger swiveled his foot on the ground, like he was putting out a cigarette.
“He told me my performance was sub-par and I was an ignorant red-neck.”
“He said that?” she exclaimed.
“Yeah. The red-neck thing was under his breath, but I know he said it.”
“Well, maybe he didn’t,” Jessie replied, hopefully. “Maybe you heard him wrong.”
Ranger glared at her.
“I know what I heard. So you think I’m dumb too?”
“You know that’s not what I meant. I was just hoping it’s not as bad as you thought.”
“I’m sure it is. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I can’t work with this guy.”
“You’re going to have to,” she said gently. “We need this job. Remember how hard it was to find it? And now, with the mortgage …” Her voice trailed off. Two and a half years of mortgage payments hadn’t made much of a dent in their debt, and the thought of all those zeros they still owed the bank made her nervous.
He exhaled, and his shoulders slumped. She hugged him and kissed his neck.
“I have to go, but let’s talk about this more when I get back.”
“Alright,” he said, and kissed her.
When she returned, exhausted, Ranger was absorbed in a crime drama on TV, with a bottle of beer in his hand. She didn’t want to disturb him, so she tiptoed up to bed.
As the weeks passed, Jessie’s husband spiraled deeper into his own personal misery. She could rarely get him to tell her what was wrong, as recounting it seemed to wound his pride even further. He drank more and spoke less, and seldom agreed to go out with the few friends they had made in Bruni. When she reassured him, he snapped, and when she caressed him, he pulled away. She didn’t know how to make him feel better, how to show him her love. Her heart ached.
And so, nearly three years after last seeing her mother, Jessie decided to write, pleading for help. Jessie’s mother was no stranger to marital difficulties – Jessie’s parents had nearly divorced when she was twelve, after three years of misunderstanding that rotted their relationship and led to screaming. But, to Jessie’s amazement, they reversed their trajectory and reconciled. Jessie wanted that secret, wanted the advice. And when she let herself admit it, she wanted her mother’s consolation. A hug scented with cloves and bread, that’s what her mother’s love was.
Her tears hit the paper before the ink did. She stopped thinking about what to write and just wrote. She sealed the letter without reading it, and ran it down to the mailbox.
When she came back inside, she saw Ranger sitting on the couch, watching TV. She walked behind him and ran her fingers through his hair. The TV was showing Forrest Gump, and the music surged through the quiet room. She leaned down to whisper in his ear.
“This is a little cheesier than your usual fare,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.
“I guess I’m feeling mushy,” he replied. He reached his arms over his head to hug her. Then he released her and reached for his beer.
“Do you feel like going out? Maybe have dinner at Chili’s?” she asked, hopeful and watching his profile.
He drank the entire bottle before answering.
“No. Thanks. I’m just going to watch this. You can go though.”
“No, that’s ok,” she sighed. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me, ok?”
“Ok.”
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Brushing Away the Dirt, Part 2
This continues a story started in the previous post.
It started after Grandma died. I was 14 and I missed her a lot. She had always been quite the presence in our tiny home - sitting in that corner, sewing our ratty clothes, telling stories about devils or spirits, and cracking dirty jokes. Her husband had been gone some twenty years when I was born, and I think my birth gave her a new, comfortable role to fall into. Not a widow anymore, but a grandmother. We were tied together that way. And when she died, I missed her.
Our crowded house, so loud during the day, dipped into silence at night. A week after we buried Grandma, I crept out. Tiptoed past my brother's bed and through the shared living space. I cracked the light screen door open and slipped out into the warm night.
Although the street wasn't lit, the moon was bright and I easily ran along the side of the road. The cemetery was close and only a few cars flew past me, blazing headlights and screaming merengue.
You know, I've always loved our cemetery. Lush green and red leaves hug the graves, and it seemed like a fitting entrance to Paradise. I wondered how Grandma felt, and I hurried over to her new tombstone.
It was new but already it wasn't shiny. As usual, we'd had rain storms daily, and a few had brought down waves of soil from the cliffs above the graveyard. So her tombstone, like all the others, was dirty. What a shame, I thought. I pulled my nightshirt off my head and used it to wipe the stone clean. I'll admit, it was a bit of a thrill standing there bare-chested in the warm night.
I put my shirt back on and kneeled down to whisper to the gravestone. "I miss you Grandma," was all I could muster, both because I was a kid with not much of a way with words, and because I was trying not to cry. To distract myself, I looked at her name carved, not all that well I'll say, in the stone. The letters were still dirty and so, one by one, I traced my finger inside them, scooping out the grains of island dirt.
When I cleared the 's,' the last letter in her name, again I told my grandma how much I missed her. To my surprise, she answered back.
"Good lord child I've only been gone a week."
It started after Grandma died. I was 14 and I missed her a lot. She had always been quite the presence in our tiny home - sitting in that corner, sewing our ratty clothes, telling stories about devils or spirits, and cracking dirty jokes. Her husband had been gone some twenty years when I was born, and I think my birth gave her a new, comfortable role to fall into. Not a widow anymore, but a grandmother. We were tied together that way. And when she died, I missed her.
Our crowded house, so loud during the day, dipped into silence at night. A week after we buried Grandma, I crept out. Tiptoed past my brother's bed and through the shared living space. I cracked the light screen door open and slipped out into the warm night.
Although the street wasn't lit, the moon was bright and I easily ran along the side of the road. The cemetery was close and only a few cars flew past me, blazing headlights and screaming merengue.
You know, I've always loved our cemetery. Lush green and red leaves hug the graves, and it seemed like a fitting entrance to Paradise. I wondered how Grandma felt, and I hurried over to her new tombstone.
It was new but already it wasn't shiny. As usual, we'd had rain storms daily, and a few had brought down waves of soil from the cliffs above the graveyard. So her tombstone, like all the others, was dirty. What a shame, I thought. I pulled my nightshirt off my head and used it to wipe the stone clean. I'll admit, it was a bit of a thrill standing there bare-chested in the warm night.
I put my shirt back on and kneeled down to whisper to the gravestone. "I miss you Grandma," was all I could muster, both because I was a kid with not much of a way with words, and because I was trying not to cry. To distract myself, I looked at her name carved, not all that well I'll say, in the stone. The letters were still dirty and so, one by one, I traced my finger inside them, scooping out the grains of island dirt.
When I cleared the 's,' the last letter in her name, again I told my grandma how much I missed her. To my surprise, she answered back.
"Good lord child I've only been gone a week."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Princess Nijma
