Friday, February 26, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Corner Office
I submitted this piece to NPR today for their contest "Three Minute Fiction." The contest required submissions to be 600 words or less, and written about this picture. Fingerscrossed!
I passed Kiko’s Koffee every morning when I worked at the bank. Some days I came in for a cappuccino, but I usually fixed my coffee at the office. I didn’t want to spend our money on coffee. Shelley and I were saving for a second home in Durango.
Now you can find me here every weekday morning. I get up at 6:30, like I did when life made sense. I stand in line for drip coffee and a paper. I take my seat at this corner table by the window and watch the passersby. They look rushed and stressed, in suits, lugging briefcases. They look exactly like I looked when I was one of them.
I thumb through the employment classifieds, but bank jobs are rarely advertised in the newspaper. When I got laid off, right after Shelley’s second diagnosis, I thought it was a blessing in disguise. It would give me more time to help her get well. I truly believed that the “financial downturn” would prove to be a finite blip, largely the invention of a Chicken Little minority. I could get a job again as soon as Shelley was out of the woods. We had our Durango nest egg. I could spend every penny on her care. Everything was going to be okay.
I did spend every penny on Shelley’s care, but everything was not okay. Similarly, the downturn was not a blip but a bona fide crisis. I lost the house at the very end. After I buried my wife, I moved in with my parents, destitute and entirely reliant upon their charity. Without the use of a time machine, I have stepped back in time 25 years. I’m single again, penniless, jobless and living under my father’s roof. Unfortunately, when the clock rolled back, it didn’t take my memory.
I call this table my corner office. “I’m off to my corner office!” I say to my parents, so they won’t worry about me so much. They know my levity is forced and sarcastic, but they take comfort nonetheless. At least I am trying to pretend I’m okay. They give me coffee money. I think that they need me to have a plan just as much as I need a reason to get up in the morning.
After I finish the employment section, I inevitably turn to the obituaries. Guilt seeps in as I read the remembrances because they give me some relief. For each person listed, there is someone like me, grieving and feeling like their universe is a silently exploding star. I imagine that we are all mutely waiting for gravity to pull our pieces back together.
My eyes skim the pages, stopping at pictures of smiling faces. I remember when Shelley’s smile was among them. She looked so alive. The caption might have read, “Local teacher raises 2nd grade reading scores,” or even “Local teacher saves kindergarten class from fire,” but not “Local teacher loses battle with breast cancer.” Never that.
I leave Kiko’s at 9:00 and head for the library and the second installment of my “workday”online job searching. I leave my paper behind for someone who could use a little something for free. It feels good. It’s a small charity that I never showed to people like me when I was a hurried passerby.
I leave it open to the obituaries. I want the next person to look at the smiling faces too. In this way, I give the dead one more person to bear witness to their lives, which, I suppose, is another kind of small charity.
Now you can find me here every weekday morning. I get up at 6:30, like I did when life made sense. I stand in line for drip coffee and a paper. I take my seat at this corner table by the window and watch the passersby. They look rushed and stressed, in suits, lugging briefcases. They look exactly like I looked when I was one of them.
I thumb through the employment classifieds, but bank jobs are rarely advertised in the newspaper. When I got laid off, right after Shelley’s second diagnosis, I thought it was a blessing in disguise. It would give me more time to help her get well. I truly believed that the “financial downturn” would prove to be a finite blip, largely the invention of a Chicken Little minority. I could get a job again as soon as Shelley was out of the woods. We had our Durango nest egg. I could spend every penny on her care. Everything was going to be okay.
I did spend every penny on Shelley’s care, but everything was not okay. Similarly, the downturn was not a blip but a bona fide crisis. I lost the house at the very end. After I buried my wife, I moved in with my parents, destitute and entirely reliant upon their charity. Without the use of a time machine, I have stepped back in time 25 years. I’m single again, penniless, jobless and living under my father’s roof. Unfortunately, when the clock rolled back, it didn’t take my memory.
I call this table my corner office. “I’m off to my corner office!” I say to my parents, so they won’t worry about me so much. They know my levity is forced and sarcastic, but they take comfort nonetheless. At least I am trying to pretend I’m okay. They give me coffee money. I think that they need me to have a plan just as much as I need a reason to get up in the morning.
After I finish the employment section, I inevitably turn to the obituaries. Guilt seeps in as I read the remembrances because they give me some relief. For each person listed, there is someone like me, grieving and feeling like their universe is a silently exploding star. I imagine that we are all mutely waiting for gravity to pull our pieces back together.
My eyes skim the pages, stopping at pictures of smiling faces. I remember when Shelley’s smile was among them. She looked so alive. The caption might have read, “Local teacher raises 2nd grade reading scores,” or even “Local teacher saves kindergarten class from fire,” but not “Local teacher loses battle with breast cancer.” Never that.
I leave Kiko’s at 9:00 and head for the library and the second installment of my “workday”online job searching. I leave my paper behind for someone who could use a little something for free. It feels good. It’s a small charity that I never showed to people like me when I was a hurried passerby.
I leave it open to the obituaries. I want the next person to look at the smiling faces too. In this way, I give the dead one more person to bear witness to their lives, which, I suppose, is another kind of small charity.
Return with the Elixir
When we were asked to write the Resurrection Scene for class, I accidently wrote my Return with Elixir Scene. So this time I wrote my Resurrection Scene and tacked it onto my edited Elixir Scene.
RESURRECTION
Evie stepped forward, wishing acutely that she knew something about homeopathic medicine in the US Northeast. She motioned to Eren to stay put. He, for once, did as he was told and sat cross-legged on the ground. There were still muskets trained on them, but the fervor behind them had lessened.
Evie approached the Indian leader, who looked at her with barely veiled hostility. She asked for water and was brought a water pouch. She poured a small amount over her hands and rubbed them together.
“May I touch his head?” She asked, keeping her gaze on the leader but expecting an answer from the interpreter.
The interpreter asked and the leader nodded.
Evie pressed her cool, wet hand to his forehead. He was clearly burning with fever.
“How long has he been ill?”
The interpreter shrugged. “7 or 8 days.”
Evie decided to check his chest and back for any sores or spots that would suggest measles, plague or another more obvious disease, since he had no marks on his face.
She mimicked removing her own outer layer and the leader, taking her meaning, took off his shirt. She saw immediately that, though he had no spots or sores, he had been bled.
RESURRECTION
Evie stepped forward, wishing acutely that she knew something about homeopathic medicine in the US Northeast. She motioned to Eren to stay put. He, for once, did as he was told and sat cross-legged on the ground. There were still muskets trained on them, but the fervor behind them had lessened.
Evie approached the Indian leader, who looked at her with barely veiled hostility. She asked for water and was brought a water pouch. She poured a small amount over her hands and rubbed them together.
“May I touch his head?” She asked, keeping her gaze on the leader but expecting an answer from the interpreter.
The interpreter asked and the leader nodded.
Evie pressed her cool, wet hand to his forehead. He was clearly burning with fever.
“How long has he been ill?”
The interpreter shrugged. “7 or 8 days.”
Evie decided to check his chest and back for any sores or spots that would suggest measles, plague or another more obvious disease, since he had no marks on his face.
She mimicked removing her own outer layer and the leader, taking her meaning, took off his shirt. She saw immediately that, though he had no spots or sores, he had been bled.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Duckling
“Sure you do.” She sets a plate in front of him. ”Here's your hash browns. Sorry they were cold the first time.” She turns.
“Wait. I'm serious.” He pulls a silver card case from his jacket pocket and makes a flourish of pulling out a card and handing it to her between two fingers. “Alan Cooper.”
“Thanks.” She says insincerely as she takes the card and walks back to the kitchen.
“We got another one, Leo.” She flashes the card two-fingered, like they do, eyebrow raised copying the smarmy smile.
“Well tape it to the wall, baby girl, with the rest.”
She finds a spot on the wall of “entertainment” business cards and tucks the new one in. She's a little surprised to see that it says 'The Merradona', but that logo is everywhere. It wouldn't be hard to replicate.
“Order up!” Leonard's voice portrays a line cook's mixture of frenetic activity and monotonous ‘That's the seventy-third over-easy I've fried today’ boredom.
He sees Paulie scrutinizing the card and waves his spatula in her direction, “Don't you get any ideas, tart. I don't need to be bailing your skank ass out of jail after you turn “dancer” for one of those pimps in sheep's clothing and get a coke habit.”
Paulie smiles sweetly over her shoulder, “You mean you'd come bail me out? I didn't know I meant that much to you.” She smacks him on the butt with her free hand as she passes, grabs the plate and heads out of the kitchen.
She sees after she delivers the eggs that Mr. Cooper’s booth is now empty.
Shit. If he walked his tab I swear...
But there on the table is a crisp $100 dollar bill with another business card with the words, “I wasn't kidding,” written on it.
She puts the card in her apron pocket and takes the Benjamin to the register. She calculates the bill and pulls a $93.50 tip out of the register drawer.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Call to Adventure
Evie’s eyes dilated as her gaze moved over the stone fragment and she shook her head to regain her focus. She picked up the stone and examined it closely. It was a triangular corner piece. She held it close to her eyes, feeling the smooth face and inexplicably wishing she could touch it without her gloves on.
Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, Evie perceived a watery shimmer like heat off of pavement. She watched in shocked disbelief as a man in a long wool coat and bowler hat materialized amid the waves. His face was deeply lined with age; gray hair peaked out under the brim of his hat. He leaned with one hand on a cane. The other hand touched the brim of his hat in an old-fashioned salutation. He seemed perplexed but he looked at Evie and smiled.
Her mind reeled to explain his sudden appearance. She was frozen in place, shocked but not afraid. He didn’t seem dangerous, just simply and inexplicably there. He looked like a turn-of-the-century gentleman whose harebrained time travel machine had just unexpectedly worked.
“Who are you?” seemed the most pertinent question.
Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, Evie perceived a watery shimmer like heat off of pavement. She watched in shocked disbelief as a man in a long wool coat and bowler hat materialized amid the waves. His face was deeply lined with age; gray hair peaked out under the brim of his hat. He leaned with one hand on a cane. The other hand touched the brim of his hat in an old-fashioned salutation. He seemed perplexed but he looked at Evie and smiled.
Her mind reeled to explain his sudden appearance. She was frozen in place, shocked but not afraid. He didn’t seem dangerous, just simply and inexplicably there. He looked like a turn-of-the-century gentleman whose harebrained time travel machine had just unexpectedly worked.
“Who are you?” seemed the most pertinent question.
Friday, February 12, 2010
The Snow Witch
Yesterday I was watching the strange Dallas snowfall from my 3rd story window when a woman dressed all in black robes with an owl walked out onto the lawn. I'm not kidding. Narnia escapee? Goth hooker? Harry Potter wannabe? Who knows. Aaahhh...the strange occurrences of apartment living in Dallas, TX.
Black on white
The snow witch comes.
Awakened by the joy
In the hearts of the snow watchers.
She must stop the joy.
She must stop the snow.
Fly my owl!
Fly to the clouds!
Take my curse!
Texas shall not have such a snowfall
For another 50 years!
Black on white
The snow witch comes.
Awakened by the joy
In the hearts of the snow watchers.
She must stop the joy.
She must stop the snow.
Fly my owl!
Fly to the clouds!
Take my curse!
Texas shall not have such a snowfall
For another 50 years!
Monday, February 8, 2010
Evie's Journey
ACT I
Ordinary World
Evie Wells is an administrative assistant (PC term for secretary) at the Freer Gallery of Art - Smithsonian Institution. Her ordinary world involves being spoken down to and asked to conduct menial administrative tasks. However, we learn that she graduated top of her class from one of the best history programs in the country and possesses more historical and archaeological knowledge in her brilliant mind than the museum' curators combined. She knows this deep down, but she is still young and not especially confident. She's not asking for more than her lot and pretends, and sometimes even believes, that she's content.
Ordinary World
Evie Wells is an administrative assistant (PC term for secretary) at the Freer Gallery of Art - Smithsonian Institution. Her ordinary world involves being spoken down to and asked to conduct menial administrative tasks. However, we learn that she graduated top of her class from one of the best history programs in the country and possesses more historical and archaeological knowledge in her brilliant mind than the museum' curators combined. She knows this deep down, but she is still young and not especially confident. She's not asking for more than her lot and pretends, and sometimes even believes, that she's content.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Idea of Order at Key West
This is my favorite poem. It was written in 1934 by Wallace Stevens. I read it again this morning and decided I needed to post it. The way the words flow is enough to draw me back again and again, but I also love the message of human strength and potency. It lifts me up when I feel small and powerless.
A Few Matters of Form
Colloquialisms. If you use a colloquialism or a slang word, simply use it; do not draw attention to it by enclosing it in quotations. To do so is the put on airs...inviting the reader to join you in a select society of those who know better.
At Least I'm Not That Girl
I hate her.
How could I help it.
She's gorgeous, the bitch,
In that way that they have.
You know the ones
With the hair extensions and the legs.
This is Dallas, they're not hard to find.
I can't stop looking at her.
She's laughing at his jokes.
He's so happy that she's amused.
He's thinking about how she tastes.
I know he doesn't care if she's there forever.
I know he doesn't care if she's there past Ahhhh.....
But silll, that companionshop looks nice.
The adoration,
So appealing as I walk to the door.
I hate her because I am hating myself.
I hate her because I need to focus elsewhere.
I hate her because when I get home to my bed
And I am alone,
I need to believe that her kind of companionship is empty.
Damn my feeling heart,
I hope that it's not.
I hope that they are forever.
I hope that he bought those boobs
And will love them like a '69 Camaro until the end.
How could I help it.
She's gorgeous, the bitch,
In that way that they have.
You know the ones
With the hair extensions and the legs.
This is Dallas, they're not hard to find.
I can't stop looking at her.
She's laughing at his jokes.
He's so happy that she's amused.
He's thinking about how she tastes.
I know he doesn't care if she's there forever.
I know he doesn't care if she's there past Ahhhh.....
But silll, that companionshop looks nice.
The adoration,
So appealing as I walk to the door.
I hate her because I am hating myself.
I hate her because I need to focus elsewhere.
I hate her because when I get home to my bed
And I am alone,
I need to believe that her kind of companionship is empty.
Damn my feeling heart,
I hope that it's not.
I hope that they are forever.
I hope that he bought those boobs
And will love them like a '69 Camaro until the end.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Class 2: Character
Last night was my second writing class through the CAPE program at SMU. We spent the majority of the class discussing each others homework assignments from the last class, the resurrection scene. We found that very few of us actually wrote a resurrection scene, but instead wrote the either the supreme ordeal or the elixir scene. I am still unsure where my scene will fit into my ultimate story, but our homework this week should help me figure it out. It is to write a 1000 word synopsis of the Hero's Journey of our hero/heroine. I'm nervous about committing completely to Evie and her story, but for the sake of this class, I have to choose a character to build and develop. She was my first idea, I think she deserves to come with me on this journey.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Can We Begin Again?
It hurts deep
The missing
And aches sweet
The memories
We are yet
The leaving not clean
Jagged
Can we begin again?
When you left
There was fire
Drought
When you stayed away
There was rain
Landslide
I feel the sun yet
Beyond this troubled sky
Can we begin again?
Your voice sad
Angry
Your voice hope
Desire
Your voice
Moves and swells yet
I want it back
Can we begin again?
I didn't mean it
The words came
From how dare you
Not I love you
But I love you yet
Can we begin again?
The missing
And aches sweet
The memories
We are yet
The leaving not clean
Jagged
Can we begin again?
When you left
There was fire
Drought
When you stayed away
There was rain
Landslide
I feel the sun yet
Beyond this troubled sky
Can we begin again?
Your voice sad
Angry
Your voice hope
Desire
Your voice
Moves and swells yet
I want it back
Can we begin again?
I didn't mean it
The words came
From how dare you
Not I love you
But I love you yet
Can we begin again?
Monday, February 1, 2010
The Sand Dollar's Destiny
November 2007 - Autobiographical
There once was a girl, of somewhat questionable intelligence, who was walking along the beach in paradise. She noticed something round and orange in the waves and decided to catch it. She splashed and flailed and finally came up with her prize, a perfect sand dollar. Except it wasn't like any perfect sand dollar she'd ever seen. It was fuzzy and covered with little bitty spines. She wondered if it was still alive, saddened by the idea that she should give it up and save its life by throwing it back into the water. Her companions, however, argued that it would not wash up on the beach if it were not already dead or dying.
So the girl formulated a plan. It was a great plan. It was the best plan. It was a plan that would fulfill the poor dead or dying sand dollar's destiny. She would dry it out in the sun, cover it in golden glitter, write the year 2007 on it's lovely side and hang a satin ribbon from it - transforming it into the most beautiful Christmas ornament for her brother and sister-in-law who had been married that very year.
She left the dead or dying sand dollar out in the sun for days while at the beach and carefully, before her departure, folded it into paper for the journey home. A few days passed as the girl returned to her normal life. She left the sand dollar in the paper to continue to dry (for it smelled somewhat less than appealing in this stage of its destiny fulfillment).
Then, one fateful night, (which happens to have been yesterday night), the girl unwrapped the sand dollar to begin its momentous transformation. As the last fold of paper was unwrapped the girl realized the terrible, horrible truth. Not only had the sand dollar broken into many tiny furry pieces, but it was oozing black goo from the inside and smelled like a warm mixture of rotten egg salad and rotten tuna salad.
The poor, dejected girl of somewhat questionable intelligence learned two difficult lessons that night. She learned that somethings are too sacred to be transformed into adornments and, more importantly, she learned that when something smells like that - throw it back!
_______________________________________________________________
Sorry, Ben and Blythe - your present from St. John is fulfilling its destiny on the way to the Dallas City dump.
There once was a girl, of somewhat questionable intelligence, who was walking along the beach in paradise. She noticed something round and orange in the waves and decided to catch it. She splashed and flailed and finally came up with her prize, a perfect sand dollar. Except it wasn't like any perfect sand dollar she'd ever seen. It was fuzzy and covered with little bitty spines. She wondered if it was still alive, saddened by the idea that she should give it up and save its life by throwing it back into the water. Her companions, however, argued that it would not wash up on the beach if it were not already dead or dying.
She left the dead or dying sand dollar out in the sun for days while at the beach and carefully, before her departure, folded it into paper for the journey home. A few days passed as the girl returned to her normal life. She left the sand dollar in the paper to continue to dry (for it smelled somewhat less than appealing in this stage of its destiny fulfillment).
Then, one fateful night, (which happens to have been yesterday night), the girl unwrapped the sand dollar to begin its momentous transformation. As the last fold of paper was unwrapped the girl realized the terrible, horrible truth. Not only had the sand dollar broken into many tiny furry pieces, but it was oozing black goo from the inside and smelled like a warm mixture of rotten egg salad and rotten tuna salad.
The poor, dejected girl of somewhat questionable intelligence learned two difficult lessons that night. She learned that somethings are too sacred to be transformed into adornments and, more importantly, she learned that when something smells like that - throw it back!
_______________________________________________________________
Sorry, Ben and Blythe - your present from St. John is fulfilling its destiny on the way to the Dallas City dump.
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