Deep Blue

Deep blue; the water and sky
The distance white where the waves break over the reef
Sunlight giving way to starlight
I look north to where the pivot centers
The horizon in endless slow motion, almost imperceivable.

Stay and witness infinity with me.
So long since the first axis spin.
So long since the first crashing wave.
So long since my atoms and these were one;
Still one in the recognition of the whole.
Great beauty around and within.
Water and sky and we are a part
Of the deep, deep blue.

Sea Glass Beach

Kauai

Each morning she walks
the sea glass beach, collecting
blue, green and turquoise
glass to sell to the lady
in the big pink pearls
who uses them to steal from
the silly tourists

Unconditional

(Photocredit: Silence by Jason Theikle)



What would a woman be without her friends?
Oh, the cliffs I might have jumped from.
Oh, the relationships I might have destroyed.
He is distant. He surely hates me.
No. He’s a man. Chill, the heck, out.
Talk to me, my love. He needs a break.

What would a woman be without her friends?
Oh, the self I have despised for so many unforgiven sins.
Oh, the love I have denied for so many unforgiven wrongs.
I am ugly. My mother said so.
No. She didn't. She loves you more than you love yourself.
Unconditionally.

What would a woman be without her friends?
Oh, the blood that might have made me tremble.
Oh, the lack of blood that scares the more.
I might have lost her. I might have created her.
No. You are fine. All is as it was meant to be.
Be calm. Patience and faith, my love.

What would a woman be without her friends?
Oh, the desperation and the joy of it.
Oh, the exhaustion and the pique of it.
Still. Sister. Still.
All is well.

Accountable

I know that I'm not supposed to...but I am posting today because I just uploaded my flash fiction piece to the NPR Three-Minute Fiction contest - Round 4. The challenge in Round 4 was not to write about a picture (like in Round 3, see previous entry below) but to write an original piece of fiction with less than 600 words containing the words: Plant, Trick, Fly and Button, in any tense, usage or conjugation. Here's my attempt!!

Accountable

“Is this a trick? You can’t be serious!” I tried to chuckle but terror was growing in my stomach and sounded in my voice.

A man in a dark gray suit stepped between the goons looming on either side of me. I didn’t recognize his face or his voice as he said again, “Sir, you have to come with us.”

I planted my feet wide, crossing my arms. “I won’t be going anywhere with you,” I tried to sound firm, though it was quite clear that I wasn’t going to be given a choice.

The gray-suited man nodded and the goons’ hands were on me. I was forced roughly into the dull aluminum interior of the black van and shoved onto my knees. One of the thugs held my hands tightly behind my back. As we pulled away, I glimpsed my coffee mug standing ridiculously alone on the top of my white BMW.

The van flew out of the parking garage like an action film stunt, four wheels off the ground, heedless of traffic on all sides. I felt every excruciating bump hammer my kneecaps and reverberate up my skeleton. The pain only intensified the thoughts screaming in my head.

I’m not blindfolded. Shouldn’t I be blindfolded? As if this breach of kidnapping etiquette was somehow indicative of something.

Verboten

It is a sad, sad thing, but my newest writing class teacher has asked that her students not blog during the 6 weeks that we are in her class. She wants all of our writing effort to go into our coursework. So...I'll see you in 6 weeks with new inspiration and new material.

Thank you for reading!!!

A Wanted Ache

The depth is sore.
Once the not feeling --
An absence --
Now there and raw.

Motions fill the space
Around me.
They were the mechanics of days
And days on end,
Slowed now somehow.
No sense to the slowing.
Though no one seems to notice.

This depth I cannot fill with words,
Suddenly useless and
Insignificant.
What to do instead
To soothe an unfamiliar hurt?

Silence and the soreness
Becoming familiar.
An aching want.
A wanted ache.

Thug Life

Some poems and haikus for the baby boys; Baby Ronnie, Harris, Noah, Ben, Gage, Cole, Nicholas, William, Aydan and Keegan.

Shark in the Lake

They told me...
"There's a shark in the lake!"
They dared me...
"A quarter to dive in!"
It's dumb to be afraid.
My daddy read me a book about oceans
I know sharks don't live in lakes.
But I'm not telling.







Photo Credit: Paul Specht

Haiku: Sand Artist

My boy could play there
In the sand, for hours on end.
Imagination.

Photo credit: Beth Armsheimer

Haiku: Visit to Aunt Agnes

Not smiling for you.
My haircut, stupid toys and
New overalls suck.

Photo credit: Superbomba

Haiku: Thug Life

Pour out a little
Milk for the homies that I
Run with in the hood.

Photo credit: Fashion fever

Haiku: The Park

Aa-aa-ah-hh-hh!!!!
The most fun I've ever had
Don't let go of me!

Photo credit: Lightgatherer

Undercover

If I hold it like this
then flip it over my finger
and grab it on the back
with my other hand
and squint my eyes real hard
that makes me a police man.
Undercover of course.

Photo credit: Unknown

Butterfly Warrior

A silly poem for the baby girls: Mina, Brooke, Asa, Maggie, Lizzie, Ari, Olivia, Emily, Valentina and Bebe.

I may look small
I may look sweet
but don't mistake me
Don't underestimate me
I know who I am
and who I'm not
I love these goggles
I wear them alot
They laugh at me
but I don't care
They knock me down
and pull my hair
But I get back up
I always will
Mom and Daddy told me
I can rule the world
I'm a superhero
In flowers and curls
I'm a butterfly warrior
I'm a little girl

Inmost Cave

This week's homework, our sixth and last assignment, is to write our protagonist's "Approach to the Inmost Cave."
++++++++

Monday morning. Evie rolled over and buried her puffy eyes in her pillow. How could she possibly go through a normal workday after what had happened? Could she call in sick for smothering grief and violent waves of self-loathing?

She stood in the hot water of the shower for a long time trying to get control of her emotions. She rationalized that she wasn’t the one who chose the charges. She wasn’t responsible for those God chose not to save.

She made her way to work in a sorrowful daze. She stepped on her favorite red scarf at the top of the Metro escalator. It fell into the mud. She walked on.

Sitting at her desk, she sobbed. She rested her head on her tissue box as her computer hummed to life. She cried for the dead girl and she cried for herself. She’d never know if what she had done had added to the “greater good” she was supposedly working for. She questioned whether God was behind the stone’s power and whether he/she/it was “good” at all.

She looked up from the tissue box and wiped her eyes. In the corner of her desk, in the place where the tissue box had been, she saw a folded piece of paper with her name written on it in elegant script. Hastily, she grabbed and unfolded the page and read:

Evie, you will not be surprised, I think, to find my letter now, in your moment of need. I must say that my hiding place is enlightened. I am certain that it will not be long before you return from a journey in crisis, as I did. In my estimation one doesn’t move the box of tissue until they are shedding true and continuous tears. (I, of course, use a linen handkerchief, so am no expert, but I feel certain it is so).

I’m sorry to boast as you sit on the brink, but please believe me when I say that every Intercessor has been where you are. Here, my dear, in this letter, I must reveal what I can not tell in person today, at our first meeting. Only now, as you cry, will you be able to understand. (Won’t I feel silly if you are simply suffering from hayfever.)

Most Dreaded Scene

For our fifth assignment, our writing teacher asked us to write the scene we are dreading the most. He said, with a chuckle, that it is usually the sex scene that every writer dreads most, but as we were going to be talking about each other's work in class, we ought to be careful which scene we choose. I have chosen to write my opening scenes, not necessarily because I am most afraid to write them, but because they are what will draw in a reader. I want the first scenes to be appetite-whetting. I'm talking "this-book-is-worth-$22-bucks-for-the-hardcover-cause-it-sounds-that-awesome" good.
++++++++

Chapter One

I’m getting too old for this, Alistair thought to himself as he ran through the dark, close streets of Florence.

One hundred and sixty-seven is far too old.

His red velvet cap had long since flown from his head. His red velvet mantel, all the rage only hours before, now trailed behind him like a superhero’s cape as he attempted to outrun the Medici guards.

His cane caught on a cobblestone and wrenched his arm backwards. Over his shoulder he saw that his pursuers were catching up quickly.

He ducked down an alley and hid in a doorway to rest, feeling sure that it couldn’t be much longer until sundown.

Doubled over, hands on his thighs, he sucked air in deep huffs. He tried to control the sound of his breathing but, at his age, and after a half-mile sprint, it was a biological imperative he could not control.

He knew the men who were chasing him would find him at any minute. His only hope was that minute would be one minute too late.

With profound relief he felt the familiar sinking sensation that signaled safety and was falling back into his living room.

“That is the last time!” he shouted to the empty room, one hand holding his heaving chest and the other groping for his armchair. “I’m finished! I can not run anymore!”

Instantly he was engulfed by the sensation of contracting into himself and then expanding like an exploding star. His racing heart quieted, his muscles slackened and he felt a physical lightness he didn’t recognize.

It wasn’t the first time he had, in a moment of frustration, said that he was through, but it was the first time that he had ever really meant it.

With a twinge of regret tempered with acceptance he knew instinctively that he was finally free and that he had, in fact, been free all along. He only had to choose it. Somehow he hadn’t expected it to be so sudden.

He remembered the Mentor’s words. Soon the stone would call him to journey to visit his successor; the person to whom he would become the Mentor. When this final journey was complete, he could die.

The thought brought him such incredible relief that he got up, suddenly lighter on his feet, and poured himself a celebratory scotch.

Sea Monsters

(Joseph Mallord William Turner: Sunrise with Sea Monsters - detail (c. 1845; Oil on canvas)

To battle all the monsters in the sea
To weather the storm and the cold
Ask these first of me, please
But do not ask me to love you.

Weapons I can wield against monsters
Shelter I can build against storm
But I have no defense against you
Exposed, without armor or sword

You could cut me down with a single blow
Or devour me whole, and yet…
It sounds so inviting
See your sorcery, what you’ve done to me?
Oh, please, just come to me.

Cleansing

Water weeping slowly down
In smooth, translucent, quiet lines
Pale skin that drips like a melting wax
Beneath the flame; the head, the mind.

Clean and yet not clean enough
Naked and not open, bare
Hopes like waves of heat arise
Water, dirt and soap descend.

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.

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.

Duckling

“I want you to audition for me.”

“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.

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.

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!

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.

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

Strunk and White's The Elements of Style, first published in the 1930's, is the Bible for writers when it comes to style, form and word usage. I am beginning to realize that I have some very bad habits. Here's a few points I found especially useful. I'm copying from Strunk and White's book directly because their intermittent sassy commentary cracks me up.

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.

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.

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 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.

Overboard - Repost

Last week I submitted this poem to an online literary magazine for publication. I wanted to repost it here. I am sure I am one of thousands who submitted, but I will certainly let everyone know if I am lucky enough to get it published.

First toes, then knees, then chest, then head
The water closes over us
Here chained together, living dead
But now we will be free at last.

Three weeks we sat and starved and stank
Three weeks there shackled in the hold
But we have chosen death to this
And now are safely overboard.

My wife and child are dead as well
Murdered the day that I was chained
And I rejoiced his bloodstained knife
For now they are at home in heaven.

And if my soul can find that place
From this my placeless grave of sea
Yes, I will join them once again
And forever will be free.

Bumblefrog and Kittyroo

Bumblefrog and Kittyroo
do everything together.
They're never found at the zoo
cause fairytales are better.

Sevenling: Disappearance

She opened her world
She offered her heart
And gave him her hand.

But she forgot to hold back
The things that made her.
The edge, the intuition, the sprite.

They disappeared with the rest of her.

It's Not You, It's Me

What is it?

Downcast eyes raise, filled with salty tears.
A look that says, you know the answer to that question. Don't make me say it out loud.

Say it!
I don't love you anymore.

How long have you known?
Does it matter?
It does to me.
A while.

Are you cheating on me?
Yes. I'm sorry.
Don't say you're sorry.
But I am.

Tears overflow as eyes look again at the floor.

Are you leaving me?
Look, it's not you...
Don't you dare say it's not you, it's me. Just tell me, are you leaving me?
Yes.

The Hero's Journey

Last night was the first night of my new writing class at SMU. It was a great first class and I am so pleased because 11 of the 15 students were together in our last class with Suzanne Frank, Intro to Creative Writing. We are already familiar with each other and so there was no shyness to get over; we jumped right in.

Our professor, Daniel J. Hale, began the course by discussing the typical basic form of fiction, a form called the Hero's Journey, championed by Christopher Vogler. Below is an outline of the Hero's Journey. Compare it to your favorite fiction story/novel and see how it fits.

1) Hero/ine is introduced in the Ordinary World, where...
2) S/he receives the Call to Adventure.
3) S/he is reluctant at first or Refuses the Call, but...
4) S/he is encouraged by a Mentor to...
5) Cross the First Threshhold and enter the Special World, where...
6) S/he encounters Tests, Allies, and Enemies.
7) S/he then will approach the Inmost Cave, crossing a second threshold...
8) Where s/he endures the Supreme Ordeal.
9) S/he takes possession of the Reward and...
10) Is pursued on the Road Back to the Ordinary World.
11) S/he crosses the third threshold, experiences a Resurrection and is transformed by the experience.
12) S/he then returns with the Elixir, a boon, treasure or lesson to benefit the Ordinary World.

My Heroine's Journey (I hope...)

After a review of the Hero's Journey format we went around the table and were asked to divulge our book idea. I, of course, haven't got one quite so firm in my mind as most of my classmates. I have some trouble commiting to a single idea, a single character and a single plot. After I said as much to the class, Dan (the professor) responded, "You're going to hate me when I give you your homework." (Fabulous!)

He waited until the last 15 seconds of class to tell us the assignment and then ran out of the room before we could throw pens at him. We are charged by next Tuesday at noon to write the Resurrection Scene of our novel. Step 11 in the Hero's Journey. For some, this will be a piece of cake, they already have the idea developed. For me, not so much.

We are not to build our characters, we are not to explain back plot, we are not to focus on anything but the ressurection scene of our main character. We are to write it as if we had turned to the page 220 in a 300 page book and copied out the contents.

So...I've decided to share with you, if there is anyone out there, my own heroine's journey. Throughout this 6 week course, I am going to post my homework and hopefully, as the time and assignments pass, a book idea will form. Bear with me. I'm new at this.

Resurrection

The pain reached such a pitch that Evie felt her body contract in an effort to dim the throbbing. But her brain could not ignore the irate signals that her nerves were screaming across each synapse.

She knew that she had taken the bullet. She saw the eye behind the muzzle, the flash. She felt the musket ball pierce her skin with all the grace of a ragged boulder entering water. It blasted a hole through her rib cage and entered her chest lodging deep in her lung. She tasted blood immediately, then lost her breath. She fell to her knees. Not wanting to die on her face, she leaned to her left and landed on her side.

Then she died. She was sure of it. She felt the black close in on her. She felt the pain disappear and the peace come. But now, now the black behind her eyes was red with agony. She was either alive or in the infernal hell that fire and brimstone preachers rage against. Damn them for being right.

Very slowly the searing pain downgraded to a more bearable burn. She felt her other senses, previously overcome, returning. She smelled vanilla and cat food. She felt fabric and plush beneath her. She urged her eyelids to raise in several tries like coaxing obstinate mini blinds. In between failures, she caught glimpses of her surroundings. She was clearly back in her apartment and, though she couldn't feel his touch, she recognized Eren standing over her, shaking her, terror contorting his face.

Sevenling: Scrabble

She's mad because I'm beating her
She usually beats me,
But this time I'm the one who has the W, Y and Z.

Whey and Day and Zone
She can not get ahead
I've hit each triple word score tile...Hey!

She dumped them on my head.

Sevenling: January in Texas

Yesterday in Texas was warm, bright and clear
But sadly, still its January
and today the cold is here

Tomorrow we are to expect the rain,
the cloudy, chilly, drizzly rain.
But here we know it will not last.

The next day may again be spring.

Sevenling: Traffic

I used my blinker,
I pulled in slow and
Didn't brake at all.

She revved up, nearly touched my bumper
Then sped around me
Showing me the back of her hand.

Maybe her breakfast didn't agree with her.

What is a Sevenling?

I have found a new poetic form to try. It's called a sevenling and is described by Roddy Lumsden of the American Poetry Journal.

The sevenling is a poem of seven lines inspired by the form of this much translated short verse by Anna Akhmatova (1889 - 1966).

He loved three things alone:
White peacocks, evensong,
Old maps of America.

He hated children crying,
And raspberry jam with his tea,
And womanish hysteria.

... And he married me.

tr. D M Thomas From Selected Poems (Penguin)

The rules of the sevenling are thus:

The first three lines should contain an element of three - three connected or contrasting statements, or a list of three details, names or possibilities. This can take up all of the three lines or be contained anywhere within them. Then, lines four to six should similarly contain an element of three, connected directly or indirectly or not at all. The seventh line should act as a narrative summary or punchline or as an unusual juxtaposition.

There are no set metrical rules, but being such as short form, some rhythm, metre or rhyme is desirable. To give the form a recognisable shape, it should be set out in two stanzas of three lines, with a solitary seventh, last line. Titles are not required.

Ode to Donna's Sandy Feet

Written for my mother, who took this picture.
I am an infant in this place.
The sand between my toes -
Stone beaten into grain
By water relentlessly pounding -
Was born millions of years ago
Violently exuded through miles of deep ocean
To form this island.
My being, by comparison, is but an instant old.
My life, next to this ocean, is so small as to not exist.

What could trouble me here?
What human pain or folly could possibly alter
The ancient perfection of this landscape?


The wind that moves my hair
Flies across the waves unfettered.
The sun that warms my skin
Warms too each grain of sand, each palm frond.
I hear the movement, feel the light.
I am illuminated from without and within.
Alone, yet surrounded.
Small, yet part of the grand whole.

Hope and love are easy here,
Effortless as the lapping of the sea
Against my sandy feet.

What is a Haiku?

Haiku, according to Wikipedia, is a form of Japanese poetry, consisting of three metrical phrases of 5, 7, and 5 syllables respectively. In Japanese, haiku are traditionally printed in a single vertical line, while haiku in English usually appear in three lines, to parallel the three metrical phrases of Japanese haiku. I think that they are alot of fun to write. Just open up your mind, let the words come and count on your fingers as you write them down.

Five Haikus

I.
Will you come to me
Here on the Texas high plain
Your own yellow rose

II.
How am I to hope
When no bottom to this fall
Do I see below

III.
Sad hours seem long
Once was said by a suitor
His true love aloft

IV.
Company seeking
Loneliness abated by
Insincere action

V.
Leaving tomorrow
How long to be far from home
I can not yet know

Choose Your Own Adventure - Just for Kids?

I have just completed a piece in a new format called "Delia Burch", posted below. I based the format on the "Choose Your Own Adventure" books that I loved as a child. I wanted to take the fun of that kind of interactive reading and apply it to a higher reading level.

This blog is proving not to be the best medium for this kind of story because it won't allow me to link the readers' choice directly to Delia's next step. So, instead, I have had to ask the reader to scroll through their chosen path guided by bolded fonts and numbers. This isn't ideal, but gets the idea across.

Please take a look and let me know if, under better reading circumstances, this is a kind of format that you would enjoy. I would very much like to know your first impressions. This may not be a kind of reading that adults appreciate, it may be too cumbersome, too much work, or too fragmented to hold interest. Or it could be refreshing, different and fun. Whatever your opinion, please feel free to comment. Your comments can help me become a better writer and direct my work toward you as my audience. THANK YOU!

Delia Burch

Delia stepped quickly from the train onto the crowded platform in the hope of loosing her pursuer in the throng. She didn’t know why he hadn’t just arrested her outright, but he seemed bent upon remaining undercover, watching her every move from beneath the brim if his hat but not taking any action – yet.

Carrying her red bonnet in her hand, she received berating looks for her uncovered hair and her unladylike roughness as she pushed through the crowd. She willingly tossed decorum to the wind so that the old man who pursued her would not be able to follow her progress by watching her bobbing red bonnet in its slow retreat.

Delia no longer knew who her allies were nor where to find aid. In London she had only two choices. She could either seek a reconciliation with her late father’s estranged elder sister, Lady Nora Burch, or seek instead a reintroduction to the man whose proposal of marriage she had refused two years before, Mr. Charles Maddock. Neither option appealed to her but she was desperate. Who should she approach?

Choose the next step on Delia's path:
Approach Lady Nora Burch - go to Step 1A
Approach Mr. Charles Maddock - go to Step 1B

To follow the path you have chosen for Delia click "continue reading" below.

Wiser Words Were Never Spoken

These are collections of words that I didn't string together myself but wish that I had. I will continue to update this page as I continue to find writing that fits into this category.

Toy-like people make me boy-like.
--- Massive Attack, Mezzanine
This is such a true statement about the way that interaction can affect the way that people relate. Immature actions breed immature responses.

This life is a thump-ripe melon--so sweet and such a mess.
--- Greg Brown, Rexroth's Daughter, Covenant
I love this line because it is so visceral, it takes its meaning and hits all the senses at once.

What then do we live for, but to make sport for our neighbors, and laugh at them in our turn.
--- Mr. Bennett, Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen
I love this line because it has been fundamentally true since humans noticed their neighbor as more than a means to the collective survival of the species. We are forever ready to laugh at and in turned be laughed at by those around us. People who take themselves too seriously are doomed to suffer because this will never change.

If the sun refused to shine,
I would still be loving you;
Mountains crumble to the sea,
There will still be you and me.
--- Robert Plant, Thank You, Led Zeppelin II
I love this refrain. The words are simple but so expressively placed and the sound of the word "you" is so powerful in this context. The last line rolls off the tongue, "there will still be you and me," in a way that oaths rarely do.

Poem Series: 1999

Three poems written in 1999 for dear friends at a time when no amount of deep and heady conversation could persuade them from a path they had to experience for themselves.


Slow Suffocation of the Heart

How thick a constitution and
How sharp a resolution

But your childish thoughts mislead you
And your selfless vows concede you

To the thorns of discontent
And dark alleys of regret that

Pierce as deep as marrow
And meander through your veins.

Your mind will not bend to face the vine
Or the towers built on either side

Rather you carry there upon your back
The seedlings of your sorrow

To plant the vines and
Build the hopeless towers of tomorrow.

Color Palette

How many colors
To make your palette true
They are but the beginning
The tool and not the rule
Primary from birth
The colors of your twinkle in the eye
Years have added to the first
The colors of your life

The painting now is brown and gray
Bright hues that mix and play too much
Are obscured
And can not stay that way
but signal by their disarray
the time to change the canvas.


Lost Girl

How can I reach deep into your brain
To draw out your reason, remind you?
How can I dig down into your chest
And quiet the lust that misguides you?
How can I show you the truth you once knew?
How can I stear you from love's pain, his lure?
How can I watch you return to him when
In the arms of the others he denied you?

How can you trust and believe in him now?
How can you give him the easy way out?
You say you'll teach him a lesson, oh yes and it is,
A rose on your car, a few tears and a kiss
Make up for humiliation, betrayal and loss,
The lies that he told; the respect that it cost.

Don't you know your own worth.
Can't you see what he is?
My sweet girl, guard your heart
And stop kneeling to his.

Alabama Just Desserts

Agnes brushed the red dirt off her dress, put her hat back on and stepped back onto the road. She knew it was Bobby Beechum who had run her off the road with his dad's enormous white Chevy. He’d been a bully since birth and she was sure he would die young and go straight to hell, just like Gran always said.

Now she’d have to sneak into the house before her father could see her and charge her with “rolling around in the hay,” his favorite accusation anytime Agnes looked disheveled. Agnes had never rolled around in anything with anyone, ever, but her father was sure that it was only a matter of time. Based on the behavior of her schoolmates, Bobby among them, she couldn’t really blame him.

“Merciful Lord, girl! What happened to you?!” Thankfully, it was Gran’s voice that greeted her in a holler as she tried to sneak through the back door. Gran was sitting in her usual chair shucking corn.

“Bobby Beechum almost ran me over with his car. I had to jump off the road into the ditch.”

“Lord, that boy is gonna die young and go straight to hell.”

“I know, Gran.” Agnes walked through the kitchen sweet with baking smells. “I’m gonna go change before Daddy sees me.”

“Good girl. Come down after you’re done. I just pulled a pound cake out the oven.”

Agnes opened her bedroom door and found her best friend sitting on her yellow comforter, arms folded and eyes watery. The window she’d climbed through since they became blood sisters at six years old was wide open letting in the Appalachian breeze.

“Sal! What’s wrong?” Agnes knew Sally Hicky well enough to know that watery eyes meant something was terribly wrong. Sally was one of the toughest girls Agnes had ever known and if they hadn’t been best friends, she would have been terrified of her. Sally had three older brothers and no time for cry-babys. She was always telling Agnes to, “Buck Up, Buttercup!”

“We’re moving.” Sally’s voice was unusually high-pitched and wavering.

Seven Days in Prison

Day One:
Yesterday was the last day of the rest of my life because it was my first day in this cell. No more appeals. No more denial. This is my new home and I am as good as dead for all the living I’ll be doing in it.

I used to have a stainless steel subzero, now I have a stainless steel toilet. I used to sleep under goose down on Egyptian cotton. This bed I sit on might as well be sheeted with sand paper. No one will be visiting me, after what I’ve done. And I’ll be best not to talk to the other guys in here. My crime was heinous, I know, but somehow I think these men are more the “heinous” sort than I am.

I didn’t really mean to kill them. I just didn’t want them to live, together, happy, in my house. Taking that life away somehow turned into taking all life away – I got a little over zealous, but I guess I don’t have to feel guilty about it anymore, I’ll pay for it in here to be sure.

Day Two: The food in here sucks but it’s the only thing that breaks up the time. No one makes macaroni and cheese like Molly did. I never appreciated that. Guy next to me at supper commented on the piss poor state of the mac. I agreed with him. Maybe we’re friends now. I don’t know.

Day Three: That guy’s name was Burk. Saw him again today when we got to walk “outside” in a fenced-in cage open to the air. He’s been here 3 years. I didn’t say much, didn’t want to scare him off. Just lent against the cage with him. It felt a little less lonely. Still, I think I’m gonna lose my mind in here. Every night I go to bed thinking I’d rather have been sentenced to death. This is a purgatory worse than Dante could have imagined, to breath for no reason. It’s like being kept alive by machines. I wish they’d have just pulled the plug.

Day Four: Learned to make holes in license plates today. Riveting…get it? Burk made that joke. He worked next to me. He said if I was good I’d get library privileges soon. I’ve never been much of a reader, but I guess I could take it up. What else is there to do? I asked him if anyone ever killed themselves in here and he said all the time. He said - Most everyone here is here for life. The only choice we have is how long that’s gonna be.

Day Five: I wonder if I’ll see Molly when I die. We said that we’d love each other forever. But then she changed her mind, took my money and my house and got with our financial advisor. So I guess she won’t be waiting there when I follow the light. Probably especially not since I killed her and that weasel with her.

Day Six: The guard who shuts my door at night is stupid. He goes door by door with his gun sticking out his holster like an invitation to a desperate man. It’d only take a quick hand. Reminds me of the last time I held a gun. Why didn’t I turn it around then?

You Know What It Is

It sneaks up
Like a child in the night
To the bed of his mother

It waits to pounce
Like a kitten for a string
Focused and fearless

It invades
Like a sickness
All energy going to feed it

It envelopes
Like a hot bath
Warm and weightless

It awakens
Like a sip of strong coffee
When it touches the tongue

It settles
Like a favorite tune
Well-known and comfortable

And ends
Over and over
Until the one time that it doesn't

Siren Song

She remembered the sirens when the war began, bursting the silence of the night two or three times a week. Her mother yelled from the kitchen for all her children to hurry to her and they gathered, tightly packed, in the broom closet that was the most interior room of the house. Belma often fell back to sleep standing up on these nights, supported by the bodies of her female family members, numb to their terror, which long ago had switched in her brain from dreadful and wrong, to normal and consistent.

She could no longer go to school because of the bombings and because she was Bosnian. She was not allowed to go outside under any circumstances. Her mother had heard what happened to woman and female children the Serbian soldiers rounded up. Her father and older brother were fighting with the resistance. They were alone, 5 women in the house. They kept the lights off and all the curtains drawn so that it would look as though the house were deserted.

It had been months since the sirens had stopped. Now there was no warning when the bombs began to fall. After the first few shells exploded, they would rush to the closet together, in a choreographed dance that had become second nature.

Belma rarely slept at night anymore. Inactivity during the day did not tire her young body and her mind would no longer wind down and turn off. Instead she lay on her back and stared into the blackness listening for the whir of missiles, trying not to hear the sobs of her mother and the barking of the wild dogs in the street.

It was happening again. She heard the sound of falling from a great height. She felt the house shake with earthquake force, heard splitting, fracturing, crumbling. She moved robotically to rise from her sunken mattress but she could not see the walls caving in around her. She raised her body but her arms were pinned and crushed beneath the house’s collapsed weight. Pain screamed in her brain with such unfamiliar intensity of feeling that she was overcome and lost consciousness. Blood soaked the bed and pooled on the floor around her.

Petra

Canyon wall fashioned into reason.
Edifice, etched out of sandstone – Petra.
Ancient as the surrounding sands.
Pure now in ruin, as never before in occupation.
The energy of humanity –
Creators, destroyers, virtuous and devilish all –
Imbues soulless works with the spirit of good and evil,
Inextricable.

Mystical now in its emptiness.
A once busy dwelling, noisy market, echoing shrine,
Now camel-top tourist attraction.
All things in time must change.
The earth ever trying to reclaim its raw materials.
What it covers it is the office of the archaeologist to expose.
The act of discovery reintroducing humanity
To the primal, dispirited, vacant lost.

Costa Rica - 1999

In the spring of 1999, I lived as an exchange student in Heredia, Costa Rica. Excellent fodder for further writing in that experience...however, I found recently these two poems that I wrote while living there. It's strange to reach an age where you can look back at your former self and recognize your own growth and the experiences that expanded your mind, in a time when you thought you already knew everything.

Dirty Feet

These dirty feet from dusty roads
Against old sheets seem not so crude.
Without the leg they could be old
And worn from years of walking home.

Dark lines show where the sandals lay;
Places unhidden from the day.
Blisters that rise in pained dismay
Grow hard and strong along the way.

Blue veins beneath translucent skin.
Thin channels where my life’s blood swims.
They feign a weakness not within.
The blue beneath is not so dim.

This Cage of Skull

I speak to you in simple terms
But you can’t understand my words.
My mind repeats them hopelessly.
The bars, a single tongue, enclose me.

My spirit falls, my senses dull.
I can’t escape my cage of skull.
Unless my cage will bend to form
The words that have caged you in yours.

Writing Candlestick Maker

Back in 2000, after I moved to Washington D.C. and found myself in a cold, dark, hobbit-hole of a cubicle three stories underground making copies, I filled my ample free-time by emailing my then boyfriend Andy back in College Station. When the stories of summiting snow drifts to get to the Metro and forcefully shrink-wrapping my dry-cleaned sheets by order of my nuerotic roommate became old news, I switched to telling him stories. Candlestick Maker and the Devil was one of these stories, written over the course of a few months, each paragraph a one-email installment.

Writing that story kept me going in the dead of my first real winter, far from my friends and family. I looked forward to getting to work each morning, because after my menial morning tasks were finished, I got to write Frederick's next move. That small expression of creativity and having a willing reader was fabulous SADD therapy and led to a pretty fun, albeit random, short story - if I do say so myself.

The Candlestick Maker and the Devil

The candlestick maker was the Devil’s best friend. How, you ask, could that be? How could a human, a man, a candlestick maker, living in the newly minted town of Austin, TX in the mid-1800’s A.D. be the best friend of the most fiendish immortal supernatural being to ever plague the universe? Well, I will tell you.

Imagine, for a moment, that you are the most fiendish immortal supernatural being ever to plague the universe. You really don’t have very many friends, now do you? Even among your hellish legions, thought you are greatly feared, you are not especially liked. And you know, because you share with them an evil spirit, that if your demon horde ever had the chance, they would kill you and feast on your entrails. Even for a fiend that is a lonely existence, especially for eternity. So, about the time human types appeared on the scene, some 400,000 years ago, the Devil, who had had quite enough of being alone, decided to befriend a single human. He would keep his earthly friend for the span of that human's life and when he died (obviously passing in the ranks of the Devil's hellish legions), the Devil would find a new friend. In 1840, the Devil’s earthly counterpart was Frederick Grey, the candlestick maker.

The Leave

The leave is taken on a darkened road.
A sob is shaken from a heart exposed.
A back is turned, the silence falls.
Such fond farewells are as songbird’s calls
for endless springtime; temperate, kind.
The planets circle, the ivy climbs,
And naught can halt the passing time,
Nor keep alive what love must die.

Thus horizon line is the far road’s end.
And to that place we all shall lend
our daily strife in joy and woe.
Though close it seems, we’ve far to go.

Photography and Writing

My friend Nicole Pacetti-Simpson is, like me, aspiring. Her aspiration is to become a photographer. So we are working in cahouts to make our dreams into reality. I have asked her to send me photographs that I can then use as inspiration for my writing.

The post below includes a picture Nicole took of her dog Brie in front of their Christmas tree. I wrote the accompanying poem and challenged myself to get it done in less than an hour. It was a great exercise to focus my mind on a single image, rid myself of that need (that I think many writers feel) to write something "serious" and "meaningful" and to instead, just write. I will definitely try it again!

I've Been a Good Dog

I can’t write a letter
with these clumsy paws,
but Santa, I promise
I’ve been a good dog.

I know that you’re coming,
Dad brought in a tree.
It's covered with balls and
toys that aren’t for me.

The lights are so twinkly.
The air smells so sweet.
I know mom’s been baking,
but she won’t share her treats.

So please Santa, come
to this sad puppy’s home.
Bring me some toys.
Bring me some bones.

Oh, please don’t forget me
because I sat on mom’s mum,
barked at the mailman,
and chewed up dad’s gloves.

I know that I shouldn’t
have frightened that skunk,
peed in the bathtub,
or eaten dad’s lunch.

But I am so repentant.
Can’t you see in my eyes?
I even said sorry
to the squirrels, crows and flies.

I haven’t sipped from the toilet
in at least a whole week.
I stayed off the sofa,
I didn’t pull on my leash.

So, Santa, I’ll wait for you
here by the tree.
I’ve been such a good girl.
Don’t forget about me.

Photograph by Nicole Pacetti-Simpson

Out of the Darkness at Miletus

Out of the darkness at Miletus.
What hope is there beyond the light?
I am not man, now slave.
I am but lion’s prey.
Oppressive dark, my life remaining.
The light, my death, though entertaining.

What is Flash Fiction?

Flash fiction as described on wikipedia is "fiction of extreme brevity." Most often this type of fiction has 500 - 750 words, though some goes as low as 300 or as high as 1000.

Again from wikipedia, "Flash fiction differs from a vignette in that the flash-fiction work contains the classic story elements: protagonist, conflict, obstacles or complications, and resolution. However, unlike the case with a traditional short story, the limited word length often forces some of these elements to remain unwritten, that is, hinted at or implied in the written storyline. This principle, taken to the extreme, is illustrated in a possibly apocryphal story about a six-word flash allegedly penned by Ernest Hemingway: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn."

The post that follows is my first attempt at flash fiction. I will continue to play with this type of fiction as it is well-suited to the blog media.

The Fall

Her mother stood in front of the light of the window, a featureless shadow. Her outline against the blinding sun and lace almost more terrifying than her severe and eternally disappointed face, her tightly wound hair, her long sinewy neck. Claire could see the earrings shine as they dangled gaily from her mother's long fingers, casting colored prisms on the walls of her bedroom. It might have been beautiful, even magical.

Her mother stepped forward. Claire took an instinctive step back. Though she still could not see the expression on her mother's face, the tilt of her head communicated her usual exasperated "Oh, Claire..."

The band struck up a rondo downstairs. The guests shoes on the wooden floor echoed through the house. Claire's heart, already racing with dread, beat even faster. Her mother reached her, took her chin in two fingers, turned her head to the side with a snap and let go with a pinch. She took Claire's earlobe and without hesitation pierced the earring post through the flesh. Claire winced, her mother scowled into her wet eyes and held her gaze, daring her to cry. Claire took a deep breath and steadied herself. Second turn, pinch, pierce. Blood smeared on her earlobe and pulsed through her hearing. Her legs buckled. Her mother held her arms in a vice as if to support her, but rather to catch her gaze once more and impress upon her with a look the weight of the occasion.

Murph and Mo

Murph and Mo could have been brothers; broad shouldered, black-haired, brown-eyed brothers. They held their head at the same angle. Their hands were the same size. Neither needed many words to get a point across on the rare occasion when they had a point to get across. Both men’s eyes held the same heavy vacancy, although for very different reasons.

Mo drove, Murph sat in the passenger seat; both of them just tall enough to touch the ceiling of the car with the crown of their head if they sat up straight, which they never did. Murph was the leader of their pack of two, which suited Mo perfectly. Their friendship was as effortless as the mindless turning of the wheels beneath them. Like Cain and Abel, they might have had a chance. But everyone, no matter what god they believe in, knows the end to that story.