The phone had been ringing all morning. In her pocket, on the dresser, next to the stove. It started before she even made coffee. She let the messages pile up.
The day was spectacular. The wind from the desert had cleared the air, made L.A. smell of sage instead of car exhaust, brightened the light, sharpened the shadows. Lisa opened the windows at her kitchen sink and looked out over Hollywood, feeling, briefly at least, like the master of her world. If only life were more like a board game and she would be allowed to stay where she was, no slipping back down the track. That would be ideal. Keep the apartment, they would say. Keep the lovely espresso machine and the coffee that is delivered every month from a cooperative in Mexico. Keep the view, the day, the weather, the comfort of knowing where everything is and what is to be done.
Begin again from there.
The phone was like an insect, buzzing crazily where ever she put it down. The vibrations actually made it move, as if it could not contain its news. She was glad she’d resisted the Blackberry. The avalanche of emails was piling up in her computer. As long as she didn’t turn it on, they would stay there, behind the screen.
None of the calls, none of the emails would be from Helen asking her back. This was something she let herself know for an instant or two at a time, as the water heated in the espresso maker, when the light clicked on, watching the milk bubble in the steamer. The job, which was like a relationship in so many odd ways, was not working out. The position was evolving, the needs changing. It was time, really for Lisa to move on. It was for the best. Or better anyway, for both of them. Helen had fixed Lisa with one of her strange dark eyed, truth seeking gazes and said you don’t want to be here.
Most of the calls were from people in her phone book, names and photos appearing on the caller ID like some kind of cartoon of life flashing before her eyes. Here are all the people who know you and care about you, in Hollywood anyway. It was nice that there were so many. She admitted that to herself. Nice, too, that so many were outraged. She had sampled enough of the messages to know that.
She poured the frothed hot milk from its metal pitcher into the wide mouthed cup she had bought when she bought them machine. It was sky blue and there had been two of them until her sister broke one. They’d been fighting and Kate insisted on doing the dishes, insisted she was not so drunk, so unreliable as Lisa claimed. Lisa unsnapped the coffee holder from the machine and tapped the little brick of used espresso into its bin.
She took the cup and the phone to the kitchen table and sat, sipping and watching the screen.
Friday, March 26, 2010
The Phone Rang - Rebecca Link
The baby named Alonya was no longer available. The baby I had held in my heart for three months waiting to see was to be adopted by a Russian citizen. Gary and I went to the Board of Education in Perm and received four referrals. It is mandatory for the Board of Education to give you permission to see specific children in the orphanage. The first baby was a girl and she had large blue eyes. She was
unresponsive. I held her and she just hung over like a Raggedy Ann doll. The doctor shook his head “no” at me. I wondered could I hold up through this process? How could I make such a significant decision, in just a few minutes that would affect me the rest of my life? I told Gary you will have to choose, after losing Alonya I feel paralyzed. The second baby they brought out was wiggling and looking into my eyes. Her name was Olga Frash. When Gary held her she was mesmerized by his face and mustache. She would laugh and giggle. She had very long fingers and toes. When we sat her down she would reach for Gary. She got into Gary’s travel bag and started taking everything out. The doctor smiled at me and shook his head “yes”. Gary said,” We don’t need to look further, she is the one.”
After signing all the proper documentation we flew home to wait for our court date. We had taken many picture of Olga and I looked at them through out each day. I kept praying God would help me through all of this. I felt unsettled. I wondered about Alonya and where she was. My mother had a hard time letting go of her too. She included Alonya in her prayers each night.
I had gone to the grocery store and was carrying the bags into the house when Gary walked out of our separate office. He had a concerned look on his face. I asked him, “What is wrong?” He asked me to come in and sit down. My first thought was: we lost another baby. He told me, “Melody just phoned from the adoption agency and it appears the Russian couple did not qualify to adopt Alonya. They will allow us to pick from the two babies.” I told him,” There is no way I could choose who to leave behind. I want them both!” Gary agreed. One phone call changed everything. I felt settled.
unresponsive. I held her and she just hung over like a Raggedy Ann doll. The doctor shook his head “no” at me. I wondered could I hold up through this process? How could I make such a significant decision, in just a few minutes that would affect me the rest of my life? I told Gary you will have to choose, after losing Alonya I feel paralyzed. The second baby they brought out was wiggling and looking into my eyes. Her name was Olga Frash. When Gary held her she was mesmerized by his face and mustache. She would laugh and giggle. She had very long fingers and toes. When we sat her down she would reach for Gary. She got into Gary’s travel bag and started taking everything out. The doctor smiled at me and shook his head “yes”. Gary said,” We don’t need to look further, she is the one.”
After signing all the proper documentation we flew home to wait for our court date. We had taken many picture of Olga and I looked at them through out each day. I kept praying God would help me through all of this. I felt unsettled. I wondered about Alonya and where she was. My mother had a hard time letting go of her too. She included Alonya in her prayers each night.
I had gone to the grocery store and was carrying the bags into the house when Gary walked out of our separate office. He had a concerned look on his face. I asked him, “What is wrong?” He asked me to come in and sit down. My first thought was: we lost another baby. He told me, “Melody just phoned from the adoption agency and it appears the Russian couple did not qualify to adopt Alonya. They will allow us to pick from the two babies.” I told him,” There is no way I could choose who to leave behind. I want them both!” Gary agreed. One phone call changed everything. I felt settled.
It Could Be Worse, You Could Be Me - John Fetto
Hawley looked at the vet mangled on the tracks. The splayed limbs, reminded him of three more corpses fifteen years ago. It was the way they were arranged, that made it hurt to look at. Limbs don’t bend that way. They don’t, and the blood was rushing out, fleeing the twitching, broken body. He kneeled down, place his hands above the rushing blood, and pressed. The blood slowed, someone tore cloth and pressed it forward, he pushed it inside the leg, feeling the blood soak through the cloth, through his fingers, sticky and warm. He shouted for more cloth. Someone removed their belt and handed it with a stick; wrapped it, slipped the stick under and turned it till it tightened and the man screamed. He relieved the woman holding the other shattered leg.
“I got,” she said and he let go.
As he walked away, he walked past a sherrif’s squad car, head ducked, hoping they wouldn’t recognize him. Mc Dolan was out in the back, some of his men were chuckling, “Could be worse,” a young one said, “it could have been me.”
Hawley stopped. Thought about it. Then kept walking to his truck.
“I got,” she said and he let go.
As he walked away, he walked past a sherrif’s squad car, head ducked, hoping they wouldn’t recognize him. Mc Dolan was out in the back, some of his men were chuckling, “Could be worse,” a young one said, “it could have been me.”
Hawley stopped. Thought about it. Then kept walking to his truck.
It Could Be Worse, You Could Be Me - Judy Radin
Been thinking about the old days, when lupus hurt so much I wanted to die. My skin is bruised blue, yellow, and purple from a treadmill accident. My immune system has been called to action. Those little t-cells are trying to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. And it’s anybody’s guess how far the autoimmune reaction will go. Will it attack my platelets? Will it settle in my kidneys? Probably not. Hopefully not.
I had to take Vicodin all weekend. Just one a day. Nothing crazy. The pain in my arms and hands got to be too much. I couldn’t lift the kettle. I couldn’t drain the pasta. I couldn’t even open the wine. Aspirin didn’t help. Fancy anti-inflammatory COX-2 inhibitors didn’t help. Even Percocet didn’t help. Percocet just made me stoned. Vicodin, though. Vicodin did the trick.
Vicodin and I have had a long, successful relationship. Through six surgeries, each followed by challenging recoveries, I popped Vicodin day and night. I drove on it. I wrote on it. I shopped on it. I went to the theatre on it. I traveled to Europe on it. I never got addicted, though. And I’ve never once taken it for pleasure. I always wanted it out of body as soon as possible.
I’m in a bit of a time warp from this pain in my hands and knees. It is so familiar, so reminiscent of the seventies and eighties, when I lived on Grizzly Peak amongst Eucalyptus trees and morning glories. My friends were tired of my complaints. My family thought I was pretending to be sick just to annoy them. I hobbled around like an old lady, shuffling instead of walking, and thinking about symptoms instead of boyfriends.
I didn’t have Vicodin then. I had my journal and a view of the bay and between the two somehow I got by.
I had to take Vicodin all weekend. Just one a day. Nothing crazy. The pain in my arms and hands got to be too much. I couldn’t lift the kettle. I couldn’t drain the pasta. I couldn’t even open the wine. Aspirin didn’t help. Fancy anti-inflammatory COX-2 inhibitors didn’t help. Even Percocet didn’t help. Percocet just made me stoned. Vicodin, though. Vicodin did the trick.
Vicodin and I have had a long, successful relationship. Through six surgeries, each followed by challenging recoveries, I popped Vicodin day and night. I drove on it. I wrote on it. I shopped on it. I went to the theatre on it. I traveled to Europe on it. I never got addicted, though. And I’ve never once taken it for pleasure. I always wanted it out of body as soon as possible.
I’m in a bit of a time warp from this pain in my hands and knees. It is so familiar, so reminiscent of the seventies and eighties, when I lived on Grizzly Peak amongst Eucalyptus trees and morning glories. My friends were tired of my complaints. My family thought I was pretending to be sick just to annoy them. I hobbled around like an old lady, shuffling instead of walking, and thinking about symptoms instead of boyfriends.
I didn’t have Vicodin then. I had my journal and a view of the bay and between the two somehow I got by.
Next Year It'll Be Different - Melody Cryns
Next year St. Patrick’s Day will arrive and I’ll have my master’s degree. Next year my youngest will be 18 going on 19…next year I’ll look back on this year and think – time has gone by so fast. Where did last year go? Next year at this time I’ll have lost that last 30 pounds, and maybe next year Mike H. and I will still see each other except it’ll be deeper…Next year, I’m not sure what I’ll do or where I’ll be. I like to think I’ll live in the same place, have the same job…pretty much the same life. But things happen – people come and go and I don’t know what will happen. I look out at the bare branches of the trees and think – soon the leaves will begin to sprout on them. Last night when I walked up the steps of my apartment, I could smell the orange blossoms and something else sweet – like flowers – in the warmish evening air. Spring is almost here…time for new beginnings, change. I’m not sure exactly where the changes will take me – but I know it’s all exciting and new like when I stood there on that stage as Woodham’s with those professional musicians and I sang and played my acoustic guitar even…it was terrifying, but I finally did it. I gathered up the courage and got myself up there – it took Beatles Jam Night for me to do that. Suddenly songs that I knew well all felt like a blur and if Mike Halloran hadn’t suddenly slipped in to the right of me, serenading us with those beautiful harmonies, if that other dude hadn’t slipped in behind me with the lead guitar riffs I wasn’t able to fill in…then maybe I wouldn’t have made it through the song, through “She Loves You” which I had to sing with all of my heart. When I sing “She Loves You,” I’m actually singing to my mother…
And now I can picture my other in her beautiful wedding gown on October 6, 1956, the day she married my Dad. Just last Sunday I plucked the small wedding album with my mother’s unmistakable handwriting listing the names of the entire wedding party in the front from my Dad and sister who were arguing over it.
“You said I could have it Dad, but then you took it back!” my sister said.
“But – but I needed this.”
The photo album had been buried underneath ten years of papers and magazines, and my dad had begun to believe the photo album was lost forever in the midst, but we came across it after endless trips to the dumpsters with bags filled with papers. We were all sweaty and tired when we found it, and first y sister and then my dad flipped through the browned pages with the well-preserved black and white photos slipped into plastic.
While Dad and my sister argued over the wedding album, I grabbed it and said, “I’m going to scan the photos!”
They both agreed that was a good idea and nodded in agreement. Not only did I stop the argument, I also was the lucky one to go home with the album, to study its pages and look at pictures I’ve never seen – of my mom, my dad, my grandma and even my great grandma who was still alive then – and my other grandma as well.
On the first page, there was a photo of my mother looking into the mirror and you can see her smiling face in the mirror as my Grandma helps Mom with her veil…they’re both together in the mirror smiling. I look at the photo for a long time, remembering my mother and my grandma…and admiring how beautiful they were, just as I admired how beautiful Mom and Dad were. They looked like movie stars and the church wedding looked so wonderful and theatrical.
Next year it’ll be different, Mom, I thought. Next year I’ll make you proud…
And now I can picture my other in her beautiful wedding gown on October 6, 1956, the day she married my Dad. Just last Sunday I plucked the small wedding album with my mother’s unmistakable handwriting listing the names of the entire wedding party in the front from my Dad and sister who were arguing over it.
“You said I could have it Dad, but then you took it back!” my sister said.
“But – but I needed this.”
The photo album had been buried underneath ten years of papers and magazines, and my dad had begun to believe the photo album was lost forever in the midst, but we came across it after endless trips to the dumpsters with bags filled with papers. We were all sweaty and tired when we found it, and first y sister and then my dad flipped through the browned pages with the well-preserved black and white photos slipped into plastic.
While Dad and my sister argued over the wedding album, I grabbed it and said, “I’m going to scan the photos!”
They both agreed that was a good idea and nodded in agreement. Not only did I stop the argument, I also was the lucky one to go home with the album, to study its pages and look at pictures I’ve never seen – of my mom, my dad, my grandma and even my great grandma who was still alive then – and my other grandma as well.
On the first page, there was a photo of my mother looking into the mirror and you can see her smiling face in the mirror as my Grandma helps Mom with her veil…they’re both together in the mirror smiling. I look at the photo for a long time, remembering my mother and my grandma…and admiring how beautiful they were, just as I admired how beautiful Mom and Dad were. They looked like movie stars and the church wedding looked so wonderful and theatrical.
Next year it’ll be different, Mom, I thought. Next year I’ll make you proud…
The Last Time He Wore This - Jennifer Baljko
Danny pulled his father’s varsity jacket out of the dusty chest. He ran his fingers over the old black leather, and traced the letters of his father’s name stitched in gold on the right side. How different it fit him now, now that he had grown into it. The last time he put on was almost 20 years ago, when Danny and Sebastian were packing up their house and moving to their uncle’s place on Kennedy Boulevard. The jacket had swallowed Danny’s torso and draped his skinny, bowed legs. Years later, people who knew his father told Danny he should run track. As a teen, Danny had his father’s lean physique, and they said Danny would do well in the 200-meter dash. The only place where Danny ever wanted to run was far away from all of them. Standing in the cold basement, shivering in his father’s jacket, the 33-year-old regretted that he hadn’t run far enough.
The Last Time She Wore This - Karen Oliver
The bells are the first thing I recall, and the winding road. What an image. A tiny, elderly woman slowly climbs the steps to the church tower and begins slowly ringing the bells, their deep sound resonating throughout the valley. The wedding party will parade from the church to the reception party on the road that winds through the French countryside on this perfect day. Smiles fill the spaces around us and seem made out of sun and warm breeze. Cows watch from the green, soft, rounded hills as the bride and wedding party, then all the guests, walks down the center of the road.
There is one quirky detail in the picture, a little girl, about 10 years old. She is excited and wants to be in the parade so she leaves the guests and walks in the front alongside the wedding party. Her dress stands out among the white and pastels, the lime green of the grass. She has big ruffles on her skirt, purple and pink and bright, Irish green, covered with black polka dots. The top is black and has a big pink corsage. She couldn’t be happier, or more beautiful.
There is one quirky detail in the picture, a little girl, about 10 years old. She is excited and wants to be in the parade so she leaves the guests and walks in the front alongside the wedding party. Her dress stands out among the white and pastels, the lime green of the grass. She has big ruffles on her skirt, purple and pink and bright, Irish green, covered with black polka dots. The top is black and has a big pink corsage. She couldn’t be happier, or more beautiful.
As For God - Kaye Doiron
“As for God”, she asks herself. Her thoughts immediately start to feel all jumbled up, each one jumping for attention. She remembers the heartache of her youth, the angst, the overwhelming sense of despair. And has it gotten better or has she just become adjusted to the pain? Has she turned off the feeling part? She takes a deep breath. Her thoughts turn to a not so distant memory. Her beautiful blonde haired blue eyed atheist sitting in the back seat.
“Kaden, God does not exist.” he says to his little brother who doesn’t even blink.
“Of course God exists, Grey!” He’s everywhere, can’t you see him?”
Grey skeptically turns to his Mom and rolls his eyes.
“No he doesn’t.”
“Yes he does.”
“No he doesn’t.”
“Yes he does.”
“Stop!” she says without even taking her eyes off the road. “Each of you has a right to believe whatever you want about God, it’s personal and private and you have the rest of your lives to decide what you believe.”
“See” Kaden says.
“KADEN!” Grey replies. “So what do you believe Mom?”
“I haven’t decided yet” she replies. “But I definitely agree that if he does, we can see him all around us.”
“I don’t see anything” Grey states shortly.
“Can you see Santa Claus?” she asks.
“No.” Grey replies.
“Do you believe in him?” she asks.
“Maybe.” Grey says with a crook of a smile.
“Great” she thinks. “What’s more depressing than a nine year old atheist who believes in Santa Claus and not God.”
“Kaden, God does not exist.” he says to his little brother who doesn’t even blink.
“Of course God exists, Grey!” He’s everywhere, can’t you see him?”
Grey skeptically turns to his Mom and rolls his eyes.
“No he doesn’t.”
“Yes he does.”
“No he doesn’t.”
“Yes he does.”
“Stop!” she says without even taking her eyes off the road. “Each of you has a right to believe whatever you want about God, it’s personal and private and you have the rest of your lives to decide what you believe.”
“See” Kaden says.
“KADEN!” Grey replies. “So what do you believe Mom?”
“I haven’t decided yet” she replies. “But I definitely agree that if he does, we can see him all around us.”
“I don’t see anything” Grey states shortly.
“Can you see Santa Claus?” she asks.
“No.” Grey replies.
“Do you believe in him?” she asks.
“Maybe.” Grey says with a crook of a smile.
“Great” she thinks. “What’s more depressing than a nine year old atheist who believes in Santa Claus and not God.”
As For God - Donna Shomer
The road stretches for miles
and I am traveling
There are small desecrations
Little violences along the way
creatures caught between the wheels.
Unnoticed, except for this
nearly perceptible numbness.
And as for God
and I am traveling
There are small desecrations
Little violences along the way
creatures caught between the wheels.
Unnoticed, except for this
nearly perceptible numbness.
And as for God
As For God - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
I’m here scratching my pumpkin patch
waiting for them to grow. I’ve got kids
to feed, cows to milk, clothes to sew.
An old-fashioned life. Rural, poor, but
OK. We’re OK. So far. As
for God, She’d better not come
around until She squares it with me.
I’m the one looking out for us
unless She decides to come on the job.
About time.
waiting for them to grow. I’ve got kids
to feed, cows to milk, clothes to sew.
An old-fashioned life. Rural, poor, but
OK. We’re OK. So far. As
for God, She’d better not come
around until She squares it with me.
I’m the one looking out for us
unless She decides to come on the job.
About time.
As For God - Corii Liau
My grandmother apparently believes that the Buddha only watches her in the morning and the evening. In the morning she eats vegetarian (rice porridge, salted greens, fermented blocks of spicy tofu, and sour pickles). In the evenings, she kneels in front of the Buddha and framed photos of our ancestors and counts her bracelet of prayer beads, her hushed voice sounding out syllables of piety, punctuated by the soft click of each bead.
In between the morning and evening, my grandmother eats meat, gossips with the neighbors, and opens up old arguments with my grandfather, who tries to eat his lunch in peace.
In between the morning and evening, my grandmother eats meat, gossips with the neighbors, and opens up old arguments with my grandfather, who tries to eat his lunch in peace.
As For God - Judy Albietz
Tamar always made up stories for me. Since she was eleven years older, she often babysat for me when my parents went out. I loved having her as a babysitter. When it was time to go to bed, she went up to my tiny room with me. She sat next to me and told stories until I fell asleep.
My small bed was tucked into the corner of my room. Tamar and I leaned against the blue painted wall which felt cool to my back. She sometimes used her hands in a secret sign language as she strung the words together in her sing-song voice. No, I can’t remember any of the stories. That’s not important, anyway. I remember her hands. Sometimes she made shadow puppets on the opposite wall. I remember that she always had all the time in the world for me. My other sister, who was two years younger than Tamar, never told stories. I hated it when she babysat since she always teased me.
Tamar let me sleep on a little cot in her room whenever I wanted to. She taught me how to read the funnies. She showed me how to walk the three blocks to my school when I started kindergarten. She and I made corn stalk dolls together. One day she packed up her clothes for college. I didn’t understand that she would never really come home again. I was mad at Tamar for leaving me alone, stuck in the house with my other sister.
With Tamar gone, all I had left was Toby, a gentle brown cocker spaniel. Toby took Tamar’s place on my bed. Toby told me stories too, mostly about God.
My small bed was tucked into the corner of my room. Tamar and I leaned against the blue painted wall which felt cool to my back. She sometimes used her hands in a secret sign language as she strung the words together in her sing-song voice. No, I can’t remember any of the stories. That’s not important, anyway. I remember her hands. Sometimes she made shadow puppets on the opposite wall. I remember that she always had all the time in the world for me. My other sister, who was two years younger than Tamar, never told stories. I hated it when she babysat since she always teased me.
Tamar let me sleep on a little cot in her room whenever I wanted to. She taught me how to read the funnies. She showed me how to walk the three blocks to my school when I started kindergarten. She and I made corn stalk dolls together. One day she packed up her clothes for college. I didn’t understand that she would never really come home again. I was mad at Tamar for leaving me alone, stuck in the house with my other sister.
With Tamar gone, all I had left was Toby, a gentle brown cocker spaniel. Toby took Tamar’s place on my bed. Toby told me stories too, mostly about God.
As For God - Camilla Basham
I had almost made it through the day without Sister Claire zoning in on me, well the best she could zone in with her one good eye, “Ruthie, exactly what did you tell your brother about God in religion class today?”
I looked at the clock and realized I may be able to stall for two minutes until the bell rings. The tapping of her ruler on the palm of her hand told me otherwise.
“Eddie asked me what God does with us after we die. I told him we get buried under a bunch of dirt and worms eat out our eyeballs and drill holes in our bodies.” The class gasped and the two mean girls each let out a loud “Ewwwwww.” Followed by, “She’s so weird.”
I shift in my desk, “I guess I should have told him the truth - that most of us go to Hell and burn in eternal damnation - but I didn't want to upset him.”
I looked at the clock and realized I may be able to stall for two minutes until the bell rings. The tapping of her ruler on the palm of her hand told me otherwise.
“Eddie asked me what God does with us after we die. I told him we get buried under a bunch of dirt and worms eat out our eyeballs and drill holes in our bodies.” The class gasped and the two mean girls each let out a loud “Ewwwwww.” Followed by, “She’s so weird.”
I shift in my desk, “I guess I should have told him the truth - that most of us go to Hell and burn in eternal damnation - but I didn't want to upset him.”
As For God - Anne Wright
A framed photo of Will and Diana laid on the coffee table. It was one of those pictures taken when they were on a trip somewhere, it looked like Florence or Bologna, one of those photos that had turned out so beautiful, with each one of them smiling and looking like they were in love with life, holding hands and leaning into each other. I’d seen it on the mantel but never looked at it carefully. Will was wearing the sweater I had given him when we were lovers. It must have been taken sometime last year after I had stopped seeing him, but now I knew that I had never really stopped loving him.
I sat as still as I could, with Will’s head on my lap. I think he was sleeping. The living room was messy, like nobody cared about it. Newspapers piled on the chair, it looked like a week’s worth of unopened papers, folded and smooth and unread. A few wine glasses and highball glasses cluttered the tables, and little plates with uneaten food – crackers and dried out, curling pieces of cheese and some squashy-looking red grapes – sat unattended on the side tables next to the upholstered chairs. Once I had admired these chairs with their pretty fabric cushions, but now I noticed they were stained, and one chair looked like their cat used it to sharpen her claws. They had funky lace doilies, the kind that old people like to use, draped over the arms. And the sun came in from the crack in the curtain and it shone like a spotlight on the hardwood floor, illuminating dust balls and the debris of unclean life.
I leaned to pick up the picture in its wooden frame. The glass made it hard to see so I took it from the frame. There was Diana, looking blonde and kind of wrinkled, wearing those stupid designer glasses that made her face too long. Will had the same goofy smile that I’d fallen in love with, but I could tell he was straining, being there with her when he was missing me, and our warm arms clutching hard, and our mouths kissing until we were raw, and our sweat making a sucking sound when we finally separated and lie side by side in the motel bed.
I sat as still as I could, with Will’s head on my lap. I think he was sleeping. The living room was messy, like nobody cared about it. Newspapers piled on the chair, it looked like a week’s worth of unopened papers, folded and smooth and unread. A few wine glasses and highball glasses cluttered the tables, and little plates with uneaten food – crackers and dried out, curling pieces of cheese and some squashy-looking red grapes – sat unattended on the side tables next to the upholstered chairs. Once I had admired these chairs with their pretty fabric cushions, but now I noticed they were stained, and one chair looked like their cat used it to sharpen her claws. They had funky lace doilies, the kind that old people like to use, draped over the arms. And the sun came in from the crack in the curtain and it shone like a spotlight on the hardwood floor, illuminating dust balls and the debris of unclean life.
I leaned to pick up the picture in its wooden frame. The glass made it hard to see so I took it from the frame. There was Diana, looking blonde and kind of wrinkled, wearing those stupid designer glasses that made her face too long. Will had the same goofy smile that I’d fallen in love with, but I could tell he was straining, being there with her when he was missing me, and our warm arms clutching hard, and our mouths kissing until we were raw, and our sweat making a sucking sound when we finally separated and lie side by side in the motel bed.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Gifted - Camilla Basham
The fat brain
Rotting like remnants of tanned teeth
In an aged cavernous gullet
Is the final clever joy
Of summers dead with love
The fat brain
Ripped and distended by the sun
Used as a timpani or tambourine
To be scraped with words
By Nietzsche’s machine
Rotting like remnants of tanned teeth
In an aged cavernous gullet
Is the final clever joy
Of summers dead with love
The fat brain
Ripped and distended by the sun
Used as a timpani or tambourine
To be scraped with words
By Nietzsche’s machine
Gifted - Jennifer Baljko
It wasn’t the words he used. He had the vocabulary of a high school dropout who spent too much time taking too many drags on whatever was being passed around. It was the way he said the words that he used that won over all the lonely hearts. He had a gift for spinning a web. Always with a coy superhero smile, his head cocked, wavy chestnut locks brushing his honey-colored eyes. There was dangerous man behind those eyes. A devil that would whisper in your ear while taking a blade to throat. Only one woman saw that flicker of evil. She saw it only once.
Magic - Anne Wright
I’ve been depressed, she said.
He looked at her. He didn’t want to see her eyes start watering, and he didn’t want to see her nose turn red they way it did right before she started to cry. He was relieved when she kept talking and didn’t start crying.
I’ve had a hard life.
Well, he said, that’s true, I have too. But I don’t look at it that way. It’s a matter of attitude. He wanted to buoy her up. He really didn’t want her to start crying, for god’s sake. They were in a public place, a nice restaurant with lots of bottles of imported wine lining the wall, and an interior designed by a decorator who didn’t believe in darkness and privacy.
Anybody walking by on the street could look into the big open windows and see them. What has he done to her, to make her cry like that? And he is sitting there stiff, and white linen napkin in his lap, while she’s using hers for a handkerchief. It’s so sad that people are like that, uncaring and all. I used to know a man who was so cruel that he made me cry just so he could comfort me. I used to stiffen when he touched me. I don’t know why I just didn’t leave him but there was a magic in his hands that I needed. Her companion, a little fluffy white dog, pulled on his leash, leaning against her with his tiny will. She let the leash out a bit so he could sniff the weeds around the tree which was growing out of the sidewalk. White dog pulled at the leash again, and she walked away.
He looked at her. He didn’t want to see her eyes start watering, and he didn’t want to see her nose turn red they way it did right before she started to cry. He was relieved when she kept talking and didn’t start crying.
I’ve had a hard life.
Well, he said, that’s true, I have too. But I don’t look at it that way. It’s a matter of attitude. He wanted to buoy her up. He really didn’t want her to start crying, for god’s sake. They were in a public place, a nice restaurant with lots of bottles of imported wine lining the wall, and an interior designed by a decorator who didn’t believe in darkness and privacy.
Anybody walking by on the street could look into the big open windows and see them. What has he done to her, to make her cry like that? And he is sitting there stiff, and white linen napkin in his lap, while she’s using hers for a handkerchief. It’s so sad that people are like that, uncaring and all. I used to know a man who was so cruel that he made me cry just so he could comfort me. I used to stiffen when he touched me. I don’t know why I just didn’t leave him but there was a magic in his hands that I needed. Her companion, a little fluffy white dog, pulled on his leash, leaning against her with his tiny will. She let the leash out a bit so he could sniff the weeds around the tree which was growing out of the sidewalk. White dog pulled at the leash again, and she walked away.
Magic - Judy Albietz
Josh kept telling himself that Lily had to be alive. With panic in his chest, Josh tried to breathe slowly as the feelings of fear and dread mounted higher with each stoke he paddled. As he headed up to the cabins, Josh thought about what he would tell his and Lily’s parents and the sheriff. The most important thing was for them to focus on finding Lily. He had to leave out some parts of what he saw. If he told them about the Standing Wave turning into a whirlpool, about how it sucked Lily in—and at the same time how it threw him up in the air—they’d think he’d lost his mind. And he couldn’t tell them about the weird music he heard in the trees and how the sky mysteriously clouded over when the whirlpool formed.
If he described everything he saw, they might not believe a thing he said. So, he kept to his “simple” story: “One minute Lily was surfing the wave and the next, she had disappeared. I was right there in the nearby eddy, where I always stay where we spot each other surfing the wave. It was quiet. The sky was blue. The trees were turning gold with the coming Fall.”
He knew what he saw. Or did he? Maybe he really had gone crazy and just dreamed up the whole whirlpool thing. Or maybe he was perfectly sane and had seen things happen that weren’t normal, and therefore … supernatural, or … the product of magic.
If he described everything he saw, they might not believe a thing he said. So, he kept to his “simple” story: “One minute Lily was surfing the wave and the next, she had disappeared. I was right there in the nearby eddy, where I always stay where we spot each other surfing the wave. It was quiet. The sky was blue. The trees were turning gold with the coming Fall.”
He knew what he saw. Or did he? Maybe he really had gone crazy and just dreamed up the whole whirlpool thing. Or maybe he was perfectly sane and had seen things happen that weren’t normal, and therefore … supernatural, or … the product of magic.
Loss, Loss, and More Loss - Maria Robinson
It was the words from the Shakespearean sonnet that Martha remembered: store with loss and loss with store, as she awoke after Oscar night.
She was trying to see the filling, emptying and refilling of her life over the last decade.
She was a Manhattan native, third generation, with a hefty legacy from her paternal grandparents. A new college grad, with the impossible to get job working at the Leo Castelli Gallery. It was there that she'd met Sean on one of his deal-making trips from the London Art scene. In those days, Castelli showed all of the American and European conceptual artists, had begun developing the new downtown New York realists and as an Italian had decades worth of contacts. Sean had come to broker some deals for newly rich " City" clients, like Wall Street heavies who wanted to collect art, search for tan trophy wives and find a way to flaunt it all. Sean had the crisp Jermyn Street purple oxford shirt tucked into khakis, Italian loafers, no socks. After time in Soho, he was heading to the Hamptons for more cultivating and smoozing. But it was something about the accent, the wispy curls, the raw promotion that made Martha fall teetering over into a chasm that would take her ten years to come out of.
She was trying to see the filling, emptying and refilling of her life over the last decade.
She was a Manhattan native, third generation, with a hefty legacy from her paternal grandparents. A new college grad, with the impossible to get job working at the Leo Castelli Gallery. It was there that she'd met Sean on one of his deal-making trips from the London Art scene. In those days, Castelli showed all of the American and European conceptual artists, had begun developing the new downtown New York realists and as an Italian had decades worth of contacts. Sean had come to broker some deals for newly rich " City" clients, like Wall Street heavies who wanted to collect art, search for tan trophy wives and find a way to flaunt it all. Sean had the crisp Jermyn Street purple oxford shirt tucked into khakis, Italian loafers, no socks. After time in Soho, he was heading to the Hamptons for more cultivating and smoozing. But it was something about the accent, the wispy curls, the raw promotion that made Martha fall teetering over into a chasm that would take her ten years to come out of.
Loss, Loss, and More Loss - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
It’s not always death. Sometimes
it’s their sea glass collection
filling a jar, the water dried,
lucent greens dulled. The shop window
reflecting, sideways, us, old now.
Sometimes it is. A cat food
dish washed and put away. Phone
numbers crossed out. Stopping surprised
by the photo beside the cabinet: This smile
once occupied a whole heart.
it’s their sea glass collection
filling a jar, the water dried,
lucent greens dulled. The shop window
reflecting, sideways, us, old now.
Sometimes it is. A cat food
dish washed and put away. Phone
numbers crossed out. Stopping surprised
by the photo beside the cabinet: This smile
once occupied a whole heart.
Loss, Loss, and More Loss - Rebecca Link
Taking an Aeroflot flight from Moscow to Perm, Russia was certainly a risk. The plane’s seatbelts didn’t work, the overhead compartments didn’t have doors that shut, and we were facing two other passengers with a table between us that was fastened to the floor. All of that didn’t matter; I just kept my mind focused on seeing our baby at the orphanage.
We had been given information from our adoption agency about a baby named Aloyna Maslova three months earlier.
She was blonde with piercing steel blue eyes. By now I had made pictures of her and sent them to all our relatives. She had already become a part of our family and I hadn’t even held her.
As the plane landed I was excited but apprehensive. The area was desolate and stark. As we exited the plane on the runway three police officers armed with machine guns watched us as we climbed down the stairs. Through the chain link fence I saw our interpreter waiting for us. She wasn’t smiling. As we approached her she looked into my eyes and said in a matter of fact,” I am sorry to inform you but Aloyna Maslova is no longer available.” “A Russian couple has decided to adopt her and until you have come to see her and sign the papers it is permissible for a Russian citizen to adopt her.”
I felt as if I had another miscarriage. I felt void of any emotion. Everything felt quiet and still as if life had stopped. I couldn’t process another loss. I wished I were home.
We had been given information from our adoption agency about a baby named Aloyna Maslova three months earlier.
She was blonde with piercing steel blue eyes. By now I had made pictures of her and sent them to all our relatives. She had already become a part of our family and I hadn’t even held her.
As the plane landed I was excited but apprehensive. The area was desolate and stark. As we exited the plane on the runway three police officers armed with machine guns watched us as we climbed down the stairs. Through the chain link fence I saw our interpreter waiting for us. She wasn’t smiling. As we approached her she looked into my eyes and said in a matter of fact,” I am sorry to inform you but Aloyna Maslova is no longer available.” “A Russian couple has decided to adopt her and until you have come to see her and sign the papers it is permissible for a Russian citizen to adopt her.”
I felt as if I had another miscarriage. I felt void of any emotion. Everything felt quiet and still as if life had stopped. I couldn’t process another loss. I wished I were home.
Everything's Wrong With Me - Judy Radin
Everything’s wrong with me.
Do you see it?
Can you tell?
Just look at me closely
You’ll observe it as well
My hair is too frizzy
My nose is too wide
And despite my big smile
I am crying inside
One day it’s my knees
The next it’s my hands
It’s hard being a writer
When you can’t lift a pen
A keyboard can help
Especially now
I can spew out this nonsense
Without wetting my brow
Do you see it?
Can you tell?
Just look at me closely
You’ll observe it as well
My hair is too frizzy
My nose is too wide
And despite my big smile
I am crying inside
One day it’s my knees
The next it’s my hands
It’s hard being a writer
When you can’t lift a pen
A keyboard can help
Especially now
I can spew out this nonsense
Without wetting my brow
It Was Life or Death - Corii Liau
Not a matter of life or death
Whether or not she can have the sugary cake
But to a child
The sweet is everything that means choice
in her short life
And its denial is an unbearable limitation
Amounting to tears flying and beating fists upon the floor.
As a teenager, she’ll wear thick black mascara,
And smoky shades around her eyes
Powdery makeup to look pale against
Her black lace and safety pins and spiky dog collar.
Why do you limit yourself? Her mother wants to ask.
Her mother wants to say, There’s a difference between defining yourself
And limiting yourself.
Trying to remember the girl of two who was in love with sweets.
Whether or not she can have the sugary cake
But to a child
The sweet is everything that means choice
in her short life
And its denial is an unbearable limitation
Amounting to tears flying and beating fists upon the floor.
As a teenager, she’ll wear thick black mascara,
And smoky shades around her eyes
Powdery makeup to look pale against
Her black lace and safety pins and spiky dog collar.
Why do you limit yourself? Her mother wants to ask.
Her mother wants to say, There’s a difference between defining yourself
And limiting yourself.
Trying to remember the girl of two who was in love with sweets.
It Was Life or Death - Darcy Vebber
Suki’s apartment had been different once, larger, a whole elegant floor now haphazardly divided into rooms with walls that were not parallel or did not reach the ceiling. For some reason – there was no apparent reason to any of it – the bathroom was huge. It required two overhead lights and an extra large bathmat. It had a claw foot tub both Suki and Bobby could happily bathe in, built in storage and its own electric heater.
The heater was on and the water was running in the stained pedestal sink when Suki found Bobby on the bathroom floor. He was lying on his side, on the cracked octagonal tiles, and his lips were blue. She turned off the water before she called 911. Someone else turned off the heater, maybe one of the many young EMT’s who gathered in the bathroom – big enough for all – to touch and examine and discuss.
One carried oxygen, another the defibrillator kit, another gloves and masks. They bumped a gurney up the stairs and into the apartment but could not get it, even folded into a kind of wheel chair, into the bathroom itself. They were strong though and they carried Bobby and his oxygen, easily into the hall where they settled him, strapped him, covered him with thin flannel blankets.
The sight of their arms, muscle bulging boy arms, stayed with Suki. I was used to Bobby, she said to someone later. I just got used to how thin he was, how fragile. I forgot.
They were taking him out the front door, another strange addition to the place as it was metal and didn’t really fit in the frame. The landlord said it was for security. The last of the EMT’s turned to Suki. “Coming with?”
Like a boy, like a boy in a group of boys, going someplace after class, shyly offering a girl an invitation. Her throat unaccountably closed. She nodded. She was small herself and wouldn’t take up much room.
The heater was on and the water was running in the stained pedestal sink when Suki found Bobby on the bathroom floor. He was lying on his side, on the cracked octagonal tiles, and his lips were blue. She turned off the water before she called 911. Someone else turned off the heater, maybe one of the many young EMT’s who gathered in the bathroom – big enough for all – to touch and examine and discuss.
One carried oxygen, another the defibrillator kit, another gloves and masks. They bumped a gurney up the stairs and into the apartment but could not get it, even folded into a kind of wheel chair, into the bathroom itself. They were strong though and they carried Bobby and his oxygen, easily into the hall where they settled him, strapped him, covered him with thin flannel blankets.
The sight of their arms, muscle bulging boy arms, stayed with Suki. I was used to Bobby, she said to someone later. I just got used to how thin he was, how fragile. I forgot.
They were taking him out the front door, another strange addition to the place as it was metal and didn’t really fit in the frame. The landlord said it was for security. The last of the EMT’s turned to Suki. “Coming with?”
Like a boy, like a boy in a group of boys, going someplace after class, shyly offering a girl an invitation. Her throat unaccountably closed. She nodded. She was small herself and wouldn’t take up much room.
It Was Life or Death - Karen Oliver
They were laughing so hard, sliding across the polished, wood floor of the hallway in their socks, seeing who could slide the farthest. This was so much fun. In a second, there was a loud sound, glass everywhere, blood. Rich’s hand Is stuck in the window; the sharp glass prevented it from moving in or out. Oh Oh. Screaming, crashing, giant footsteps running up the stairs, and blood everywhere . Everyone was yelling with terrified voices.
He couldn’t remember what actually happened, just that somehow he was crouched in the corner being screamed at and blamed for playing in this dangerous way. The memory is a blurred image of loud voices and waves of fear crashing over him. He was going to be killed. Rich might die and it was his fault. He trembled so hard that all thoughts disappeared.
He couldn’t remember what actually happened, just that somehow he was crouched in the corner being screamed at and blamed for playing in this dangerous way. The memory is a blurred image of loud voices and waves of fear crashing over him. He was going to be killed. Rich might die and it was his fault. He trembled so hard that all thoughts disappeared.
It Was Life or Death - Melody Cryns
When my daughter told me she had a drug problem, I knew I had to do something right away – that I couldn’t wait. My beautiful red headed daughter with so much promise couldn’t even tell me face-to-face. She called me on the cell phone on a Thursday night.
“Mom, I need help. I’ve got a problem – a big problem!” Megan said, her voice broken with tears. I was sitting at the kitchen table at the apartment just getting ready to eat some dinner after work.
At first it all seemed so surreal, as if it was just a dream or a fantasy, or something out of those dramatic movies – it took a few moments for it to really sink in that my daughter was asking for help, begging for help.
“I’m going to come and get you!” I shouted. “Right now. And we’ll figure out what to do. Tell me where you are.” I grabbed my purse and my keys and ran out the door and in 15 minutes, I’d jetted down Highway 85 all the way to Oakridge Mall – maybe it was because I let her hang out at that awful mall and there are bad people there – where had I gone wrong, I thought? I gave my daughter everything she had and now this? I pictured Megan lying in a gutter someplace and shook that thought from my head real quick. Do something, I thought. Do something right now.
I saw Megan standing in front of Target at Oakridge Mall, not looking any different than she did when I last saw her – yet now she seemed so different, so vulnerable somehow, as she saw me and jumped into the car.
I could tell she had been crying and she was standing with her boyfriend for the moment James. Was it him? Was he the one who gave my daughter drugs? I wanted to hate him so bad, hate anyone that would give my daughter any sort of drugs.
“James told me I should call, Mom…” Megan said because I didn’t wave back at James when he waved at me. I drove out of the driveway of Oakridge mall as fast as I could legally.
The drive back home seemed long and silent. At first, neither of us knew what to say. “I’m going to call Heidi,” I said. “You know, my friend in Washington, and I can send you up there.”
“Okay,” Megan said in a small voice, looking so broken and small crunched in the corner of the front seat, not my beautiful confident cheerleader daughter at all.
I wanted to send Megan to someplace safe – it was a matter of life and death, I thought. Yes, I’ll call Heidi. And Megan will go up to Washington to Heidi in the woods. That’s what I’ll do. She would understand. I couldn’t think of anyone else who would, except maybe my other kids.
All these thoughts and fears raced through my mind as I drove back down Highway 85 and handed Megan the cell phone. “Find Heidi’s number and call her now. She’s in my contacts.”
“Mom, I need help. I’ve got a problem – a big problem!” Megan said, her voice broken with tears. I was sitting at the kitchen table at the apartment just getting ready to eat some dinner after work.
At first it all seemed so surreal, as if it was just a dream or a fantasy, or something out of those dramatic movies – it took a few moments for it to really sink in that my daughter was asking for help, begging for help.
“I’m going to come and get you!” I shouted. “Right now. And we’ll figure out what to do. Tell me where you are.” I grabbed my purse and my keys and ran out the door and in 15 minutes, I’d jetted down Highway 85 all the way to Oakridge Mall – maybe it was because I let her hang out at that awful mall and there are bad people there – where had I gone wrong, I thought? I gave my daughter everything she had and now this? I pictured Megan lying in a gutter someplace and shook that thought from my head real quick. Do something, I thought. Do something right now.
I saw Megan standing in front of Target at Oakridge Mall, not looking any different than she did when I last saw her – yet now she seemed so different, so vulnerable somehow, as she saw me and jumped into the car.
I could tell she had been crying and she was standing with her boyfriend for the moment James. Was it him? Was he the one who gave my daughter drugs? I wanted to hate him so bad, hate anyone that would give my daughter any sort of drugs.
“James told me I should call, Mom…” Megan said because I didn’t wave back at James when he waved at me. I drove out of the driveway of Oakridge mall as fast as I could legally.
The drive back home seemed long and silent. At first, neither of us knew what to say. “I’m going to call Heidi,” I said. “You know, my friend in Washington, and I can send you up there.”
“Okay,” Megan said in a small voice, looking so broken and small crunched in the corner of the front seat, not my beautiful confident cheerleader daughter at all.
I wanted to send Megan to someplace safe – it was a matter of life and death, I thought. Yes, I’ll call Heidi. And Megan will go up to Washington to Heidi in the woods. That’s what I’ll do. She would understand. I couldn’t think of anyone else who would, except maybe my other kids.
All these thoughts and fears raced through my mind as I drove back down Highway 85 and handed Megan the cell phone. “Find Heidi’s number and call her now. She’s in my contacts.”
Friday, March 12, 2010
What Never Happened - Jackie Davis-Martin
Virginia had to wait through two class periods for enough of a lull to read Henry’s note in peace. She’d forgotten all the senior presentations were beginning until she was on her way to school, stuck in the car with Stewart who slipped a tape into the recorder and lit a cigarette before they pulled out of the drive.
Her own car wouldn’t start that morning, the car whose trunk contained squeezed tubes of acrylic paint, squeezed onto rags a little and onto the riverbank a lot, the mere wasted oozings of them then a reminder (she couldn’t help it) of her recent sexual transgressions, the paintbrushes, too, properly dabbed and rinsed and all put together in a box except for the canvas which she’d thrown into a large wire garbage container, blank. She’d heard latter, pulling away in her car, a voice of discovery: “Hey! Look at this. It’s brand new.”
That same car, though, now sat on the road in front of their house, and Virginia tried not to see it as a sign. She and Stewart always drove to the same school in separate cars. Virginia didn’t like to smoke in hers, as much as she enjoyed the coffee and a cigarette in the faculty room, and hated more the lack of silence wherever Stewart was. She couldn’t get her wits about her, and made the excuse that she was never sure when she’d leave the building and liked her own wheels. Stewart, for his part, hated to wait.
But this morning they were stuck in Stewart’s car, Virginia surrounded by the heat of her own sunburn—although that was abating—and the heat of her ardor for another man which seemed to be increasing, as well as the soprano duet from Norma. It was easier to pretend she wasn’t as trapped in the marriage as she felt that moment in the car, easier to think that at least she’d see Henry at the end of the short ride, and beyond that she wasn’t thinking at all.
Until it occurred to her that this Monday began the senior art presentations, something she’d made a very big deal of and hadn’t even prepared rubrics for the students’ evaluation or a stage kind of set-up for them to present. The latter she managed to cull together and wrote on the board: Interpretation of Assignment:: 10; Reaction and involvement of others: 10; Execution: 10. That would do it—and of course they’d mostly get A’s since they were seniors and very involved. But still.
Huddled in the bathroom stall of the upstairs faculty room at 11:15 Virginia opened her note:
V—Saturday never happened.
Virginia’s heart heaved and she had to sink, fully clothed, onto the commode. There was a space on the paper, then more writing, the print careless or in haste:
That’s what I’m telling myself because I don’t know when I can get away again.
Virginia drew some breaths. The writing got very small: You’re all I can think of. -- H
She must have gasped or moaned. Fran’s voice from the other stall called out, “Virginia? Is that you? Are you all right?”
Snapped to accountability, Virginia muttered yes and flushed the toilet, just as she realized she hadn’t peed and really had to. Damn all this proximity! She didn’t emerge from the stall, but used it the way she should have, listening to Fran wash her hands and chat to her about the bell schedule for Friday. God, people were such incredible bores. All Virginia could think about was Henry; she had to be with Henry. And people like Fran had to take days to adjust to shift in bell schedule. But: that was right—a big assembly. Fran left the ladies’ room, and Virginia stared at her own image over the washbowl, her own eyes widening: was there any way at all that they could cut?
Back in her classroom Virginia felt heartened. She had a new assignment that she’d share with Henry—somehow—and was about to erase the standards on the board. A moment ago she felt she was failing; now, she looked at her criteria and scored herself a tentative 20 points for Interpretation and Reaction. All that they had to do was Execute.
Her own car wouldn’t start that morning, the car whose trunk contained squeezed tubes of acrylic paint, squeezed onto rags a little and onto the riverbank a lot, the mere wasted oozings of them then a reminder (she couldn’t help it) of her recent sexual transgressions, the paintbrushes, too, properly dabbed and rinsed and all put together in a box except for the canvas which she’d thrown into a large wire garbage container, blank. She’d heard latter, pulling away in her car, a voice of discovery: “Hey! Look at this. It’s brand new.”
That same car, though, now sat on the road in front of their house, and Virginia tried not to see it as a sign. She and Stewart always drove to the same school in separate cars. Virginia didn’t like to smoke in hers, as much as she enjoyed the coffee and a cigarette in the faculty room, and hated more the lack of silence wherever Stewart was. She couldn’t get her wits about her, and made the excuse that she was never sure when she’d leave the building and liked her own wheels. Stewart, for his part, hated to wait.
But this morning they were stuck in Stewart’s car, Virginia surrounded by the heat of her own sunburn—although that was abating—and the heat of her ardor for another man which seemed to be increasing, as well as the soprano duet from Norma. It was easier to pretend she wasn’t as trapped in the marriage as she felt that moment in the car, easier to think that at least she’d see Henry at the end of the short ride, and beyond that she wasn’t thinking at all.
Until it occurred to her that this Monday began the senior art presentations, something she’d made a very big deal of and hadn’t even prepared rubrics for the students’ evaluation or a stage kind of set-up for them to present. The latter she managed to cull together and wrote on the board: Interpretation of Assignment:: 10; Reaction and involvement of others: 10; Execution: 10. That would do it—and of course they’d mostly get A’s since they were seniors and very involved. But still.
Huddled in the bathroom stall of the upstairs faculty room at 11:15 Virginia opened her note:
V—Saturday never happened.
Virginia’s heart heaved and she had to sink, fully clothed, onto the commode. There was a space on the paper, then more writing, the print careless or in haste:
That’s what I’m telling myself because I don’t know when I can get away again.
Virginia drew some breaths. The writing got very small: You’re all I can think of. -- H
She must have gasped or moaned. Fran’s voice from the other stall called out, “Virginia? Is that you? Are you all right?”
Snapped to accountability, Virginia muttered yes and flushed the toilet, just as she realized she hadn’t peed and really had to. Damn all this proximity! She didn’t emerge from the stall, but used it the way she should have, listening to Fran wash her hands and chat to her about the bell schedule for Friday. God, people were such incredible bores. All Virginia could think about was Henry; she had to be with Henry. And people like Fran had to take days to adjust to shift in bell schedule. But: that was right—a big assembly. Fran left the ladies’ room, and Virginia stared at her own image over the washbowl, her own eyes widening: was there any way at all that they could cut?
Back in her classroom Virginia felt heartened. She had a new assignment that she’d share with Henry—somehow—and was about to erase the standards on the board. A moment ago she felt she was failing; now, she looked at her criteria and scored herself a tentative 20 points for Interpretation and Reaction. All that they had to do was Execute.
What Nobody Told Her - Darcy Vebber
Down the stairs in the morning, trailing her bathrobe, Frannie reminded Lisa every morning of Winnie-the-Pooh who was dragged, bump, bump bump, to the landing, thinking there must be another way to come down stairs. Frannie came down looking both eager and cautious. Fitting, Lisa thought, for a small child greeting the strange new day.
For Lisa it was different. The house was small but sunny most days, in the back, where they lived looking out at the green-space between the rows of buildings. Watching her child emerge into the sunlight where the stairs opened on to the narrow kitchen made her happy but also, filled with the awareness of everything that could happen, desperate to stop time. Here, right here. It would be good to stay. William, reading the paper, at the table on the other side of the divider. Bowls of cereal, a pitcher of milk, glasses of orange juice catching the light. Here.
How not to swoop the baby up into her arms and cry? Here. We are safe. Every morning, the relief of it took her by surprise again. She made pancakes or lost herself in the smell of clothes pulled at the last minute from the drier they’d sacked into the pantry space. I am in Brooklyn she would think. Two thousand miles from where I began, surrounded now by people instead of empty desert, cloudless sky.
Frannie would climb in to a chair next to her dad, unwilling anymore to sit on a booster seat. Her chin was just above the table top. Sometimes she sat up on her knees, her legs folded under her, in order to see what she was eating, although she ate the same thing every day. One pancake, sprinkled with white sugar, no butter, one small glass of cold milk. Her mother’s daughter, she seemed to have inherited a wariness Lisa would have sworn was learned.
For Lisa it was different. The house was small but sunny most days, in the back, where they lived looking out at the green-space between the rows of buildings. Watching her child emerge into the sunlight where the stairs opened on to the narrow kitchen made her happy but also, filled with the awareness of everything that could happen, desperate to stop time. Here, right here. It would be good to stay. William, reading the paper, at the table on the other side of the divider. Bowls of cereal, a pitcher of milk, glasses of orange juice catching the light. Here.
How not to swoop the baby up into her arms and cry? Here. We are safe. Every morning, the relief of it took her by surprise again. She made pancakes or lost herself in the smell of clothes pulled at the last minute from the drier they’d sacked into the pantry space. I am in Brooklyn she would think. Two thousand miles from where I began, surrounded now by people instead of empty desert, cloudless sky.
Frannie would climb in to a chair next to her dad, unwilling anymore to sit on a booster seat. Her chin was just above the table top. Sometimes she sat up on her knees, her legs folded under her, in order to see what she was eating, although she ate the same thing every day. One pancake, sprinkled with white sugar, no butter, one small glass of cold milk. Her mother’s daughter, she seemed to have inherited a wariness Lisa would have sworn was learned.
Alone - Karen Oliver
She cannot tell anyone what she does when alone. That is the whole point of being alone, getting away from prying, judging eyes. Being alone is being away, from her fears, her need to control everything, from following everyone else’s agenda, Being alone is breathing deeply, safety, peacefulness, ease; soft, shapeless clothes and disappearing into good books. Watching mindless television. Calling old friends. Being alone gives her a break from herself and helps her find her source again, for the next time she gives it all away.
Alone - Corii Liau
What he did when he was alone was not something that any of them would have ever guessed. She and their friends assumed that he spent his time making things, but in truth, he did these activities in the relative openness of his studio, drenched in light from the skylight. When he was sculpting, people would often wander in and lay around, snacking on whatever fruit or crackers he’d not finished from lunch, and eyeing his models. She often came into to talk to him when he was at the loom weaving, watching the shuttle go back and forth hypnotically, sometimes falling asleep mid-self-involved-sentence. His collaging sessions became group activities where everyone would come over and drink wine without being invited to and glue sparkles, shells, or feathers to his carefully constructed pieces. They were always respectful and asked him before adding anything to his art, but even so, he was remarkably tolerant to these intrusions.
But what he did alone in the quiet hours flowing like radio static and the buzz on telephone wires between midnight and dawn was to operate his short wave radio and read his knitting patterns in his deep voice. He wrote all of his knitting patterns down in a black notebook, and sometimes played a little music on the turntable in the background, or rang a bell at the end of each “repeat.” He read his patterns using a dim lamp next to his broadcasting equipment, with a mug of hot tea. “CO 157. P1, K2 until end. K15, *k2tog* to last 15 sts, k15 with MC. Work 3 inches in Garter stitch with MC then BO all stitches,” he started off one evening, wondering if anyone was listening, and if they were, if they were knitting along, or writing everything down to translate later into yarn.
But what he did alone in the quiet hours flowing like radio static and the buzz on telephone wires between midnight and dawn was to operate his short wave radio and read his knitting patterns in his deep voice. He wrote all of his knitting patterns down in a black notebook, and sometimes played a little music on the turntable in the background, or rang a bell at the end of each “repeat.” He read his patterns using a dim lamp next to his broadcasting equipment, with a mug of hot tea. “CO 157. P1, K2 until end. K15, *k2tog* to last 15 sts, k15 with MC. Work 3 inches in Garter stitch with MC then BO all stitches,” he started off one evening, wondering if anyone was listening, and if they were, if they were knitting along, or writing everything down to translate later into yarn.
Alone - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
The door closes, his footsteps tap
away. The air flows around
her into the corners of the room.
She settles her shoulders and inhales
the quiet lapping at the window.
Noises outside, familiar, interwoven.
She adores him, and he her, they
accompany each other. A sigh
from the chair where he reads:
``What is it?’’ ``Oh, this,’’ and he tells
the idea. A small crash from the kitchen:
``Everything all right?’’ he asks.
``Yes, just a dish.’’ A touch
on the head in passing, hands
clasp in bed. Loving is active,
circling the other, holding each
in joy and fear, retreating
to lie coiled and silent
when they are alone. Love raises
them, stirs them, tires them.
When they are alone, they rest.
away. The air flows around
her into the corners of the room.
She settles her shoulders and inhales
the quiet lapping at the window.
Noises outside, familiar, interwoven.
She adores him, and he her, they
accompany each other. A sigh
from the chair where he reads:
``What is it?’’ ``Oh, this,’’ and he tells
the idea. A small crash from the kitchen:
``Everything all right?’’ he asks.
``Yes, just a dish.’’ A touch
on the head in passing, hands
clasp in bed. Loving is active,
circling the other, holding each
in joy and fear, retreating
to lie coiled and silent
when they are alone. Love raises
them, stirs them, tires them.
When they are alone, they rest.
What Nobody Knew - Judy Albietz
Nobody yet knew that Peter was a hacker. So far, he had kept it to himself. Just for the satisfaction of knowing he could do it. That was all, at least so far. But on that morning, three days ago, everything changed for Peter. The day had started out quite normal when he decided to entertain himself by hacking one of the many so-called “secure computer systems” he discovered through his tracking program. He loved the challenge of hacking through security barriers to get access to someone else’s territory. Once there, he didn’t do any damage. He just left to go onto another system.
With a few key-strokes, he found one which looked particularly interesting. It had some strange programming features he’d never seen before. Settling back into his threadbare office chair, he prepared himself for the hours ahead to get through the first level of protection. With his left hand on the keyboard, Peter swiveled half around to reach the table behind him for the remaining half of last night’s burrito. When he returned to face the computer, he was not expecting what he saw.
“Where did you find that?” Peter asked his 24-inch flat panel monitor. Shapes of all sizes in every color of the rainbow were dancing on his screen. More important, they were in 3-D, seeming to jump out at him. “How did you do that?” He asked, now using both his mouse and keyboard to try to get control of the movement on the monitor.
The screen went blank and the familiar cursor popped up. Then the screen flickered and once again it was as before, with Peter’s programming instructions. A little shaken, Peter quickly continued to try to break into this odd system. Within minutes, instead of hours, he found himself at the “door” and was able to enter easily, as if the security shields had all been taken down. The system was totally exposed. Once inside, he saw that he had access to an unfamiliar storage system, holding millions of banks of data.
At this point, Peter almost abandoned the project. First, he it wasn’t any fun to get into someone else’s system that easily. Second, he had a weird feeling about all this. But then he heard something that he couldn’t resist. Music started to come in through his small auxiliary computer speakers. First he heard soothing background tones, almost like a lullaby, with a melody he didn’t recognize. After several minutes, high-pitched flute-like notes joined in. They sounded like words to a song, in a language Peter didn’t recognize.
With a few key-strokes, he found one which looked particularly interesting. It had some strange programming features he’d never seen before. Settling back into his threadbare office chair, he prepared himself for the hours ahead to get through the first level of protection. With his left hand on the keyboard, Peter swiveled half around to reach the table behind him for the remaining half of last night’s burrito. When he returned to face the computer, he was not expecting what he saw.
“Where did you find that?” Peter asked his 24-inch flat panel monitor. Shapes of all sizes in every color of the rainbow were dancing on his screen. More important, they were in 3-D, seeming to jump out at him. “How did you do that?” He asked, now using both his mouse and keyboard to try to get control of the movement on the monitor.
The screen went blank and the familiar cursor popped up. Then the screen flickered and once again it was as before, with Peter’s programming instructions. A little shaken, Peter quickly continued to try to break into this odd system. Within minutes, instead of hours, he found himself at the “door” and was able to enter easily, as if the security shields had all been taken down. The system was totally exposed. Once inside, he saw that he had access to an unfamiliar storage system, holding millions of banks of data.
At this point, Peter almost abandoned the project. First, he it wasn’t any fun to get into someone else’s system that easily. Second, he had a weird feeling about all this. But then he heard something that he couldn’t resist. Music started to come in through his small auxiliary computer speakers. First he heard soothing background tones, almost like a lullaby, with a melody he didn’t recognize. After several minutes, high-pitched flute-like notes joined in. They sounded like words to a song, in a language Peter didn’t recognize.
What Nobody Knew - Judy Radin
Joanna’s resumé was a lie. It had to be. She had to be able to explain where she’d been all these years. If she told the truth no one would hire her. If she told the truth she might not even get any interviews. That’s what her parents told her. “If you ever want to work again, Joanna, you’re going to have to cover up the last year.” Even her doctors agreed. So Joanna asked her friend Jerry to say she worked for him at his Berkeley start-up. Jerry agreed. It wasn’t a total lie. Joanna actually worked for Jerry before she got sick. She’d done all the things she said she’d done. She just didn’t do them last year.
Last year Joanna was in the hospital. Everyone thought she was going to die. Her case of lupus had been relatively mild until then, consisting of joint pain, skin rashes, and chronic fatigue. Then she got the flu and the flu made her immune system go haywire. Her t-cells started destroying her. They started her off on low doses of Prednisone, ten to twenty milligrams, but it wasn’t until the dose hit ninety milligrams that the drug started having an effect. So they pumped her body full of Prednisone and waited. After three weeks her platelets finally started to return to normal. She wasn’t going to die.
Prednisone saves lives, but it’s so toxic to the system that it took a year to get it completely out of her body. Joanna had all the nasty side-effects: swollen, distorted facial features, extreme weight gain in the upper body, and a beard and mustache. For a while she looked like hell. But now, a year later, she was herself again. You’d never know looking at her what she’d been through. She felt good too. She was back in Berkeley and she was in remission. She knew she wasn’t cured. She knew that any minute something could happen and she could be back in the hospital. But she couldn’t let anyone else know that, certainly not a potential employer.
Last year Joanna was in the hospital. Everyone thought she was going to die. Her case of lupus had been relatively mild until then, consisting of joint pain, skin rashes, and chronic fatigue. Then she got the flu and the flu made her immune system go haywire. Her t-cells started destroying her. They started her off on low doses of Prednisone, ten to twenty milligrams, but it wasn’t until the dose hit ninety milligrams that the drug started having an effect. So they pumped her body full of Prednisone and waited. After three weeks her platelets finally started to return to normal. She wasn’t going to die.
Prednisone saves lives, but it’s so toxic to the system that it took a year to get it completely out of her body. Joanna had all the nasty side-effects: swollen, distorted facial features, extreme weight gain in the upper body, and a beard and mustache. For a while she looked like hell. But now, a year later, she was herself again. You’d never know looking at her what she’d been through. She felt good too. She was back in Berkeley and she was in remission. She knew she wasn’t cured. She knew that any minute something could happen and she could be back in the hospital. But she couldn’t let anyone else know that, certainly not a potential employer.
What Nobody Knew - Melody Cryns
Nobody knew that she always went out of her way to stand next to the best looking guys in the room – that secretly, even though she was all about having fun and being a major flirt – she would love to have someone for her very own. A good-looking cool guy who didn’t have major issues or life complications, who could at least take care of himself. She didn’t expect a guy to support her or anything.
But nobody knew that when they saw her walk into Woodham’s Lounge, all bubbly and fun. They thought she was just one of the girls who wanted to have fun. She was sure of it. Of course she could have been wrong. Maybe the guys could see through her and know what she really wanted. She hoped not though. That wasn’t the plan. The plan was to go out and have fun and be one with the music.
And yes, she was always one with the music. Sometimes the music took over and she’d stand in front of the jammers who played their guitars and the pulsating bass along with the rhythmic drumming, directly in front, sort of in the middle…and she’d feel enveloped in the music and feel this sort of euphoria that she could never get from drinking alcohol – it was hard to explain to people how it made her feel when she was surrounded by all the music. She couldn’t get enough of that feeling, so she kept going back to Woodham’s, even though she knew she shouldn’t go to the Sunday night jams because she’s always want to stay until the end and the Sunday night – then she has the hardest time getting up and going to work the next day. But it doesn’t matter to her because she’s surrounded and enveloped in the music and she gets so many warm hugs from wonderful, talented musicians. Where else can she go and feel safe and be surrounded by loads of guys who are always happy to see her?
So, she kept going back to Woodham’s because it was her safe refuge. Only once she got caught up with Hotty Scotty, the charming drummer…and she had fun with him, but Scotty was just a flighty butterfly after all, and not into hanging with the same chick for any length of time. Soon he was even hitting on her friends and that’s when she decided not to hang with him anymore.
So when she sashayed into Woodham’s Lounge, with the dark and mysterious lighting drawing her in, she felt as if she owned the place.
“Oh hi hippie chick!” one of her musician guy friends would say, and give her a huge, warm hug that felt so good.
She could hug all these guys and even hang on them – she could dance with them, laugh with them and joke with them. Occasionally, she even went to IHOP and drank coffee with a group of them. She was the life of the party and when her girlfriends were there, they would all laugh and dance and enjoy the music together.
But in the end, she almost always went home alone.
But nobody knew that when they saw her walk into Woodham’s Lounge, all bubbly and fun. They thought she was just one of the girls who wanted to have fun. She was sure of it. Of course she could have been wrong. Maybe the guys could see through her and know what she really wanted. She hoped not though. That wasn’t the plan. The plan was to go out and have fun and be one with the music.
And yes, she was always one with the music. Sometimes the music took over and she’d stand in front of the jammers who played their guitars and the pulsating bass along with the rhythmic drumming, directly in front, sort of in the middle…and she’d feel enveloped in the music and feel this sort of euphoria that she could never get from drinking alcohol – it was hard to explain to people how it made her feel when she was surrounded by all the music. She couldn’t get enough of that feeling, so she kept going back to Woodham’s, even though she knew she shouldn’t go to the Sunday night jams because she’s always want to stay until the end and the Sunday night – then she has the hardest time getting up and going to work the next day. But it doesn’t matter to her because she’s surrounded and enveloped in the music and she gets so many warm hugs from wonderful, talented musicians. Where else can she go and feel safe and be surrounded by loads of guys who are always happy to see her?
So, she kept going back to Woodham’s because it was her safe refuge. Only once she got caught up with Hotty Scotty, the charming drummer…and she had fun with him, but Scotty was just a flighty butterfly after all, and not into hanging with the same chick for any length of time. Soon he was even hitting on her friends and that’s when she decided not to hang with him anymore.
So when she sashayed into Woodham’s Lounge, with the dark and mysterious lighting drawing her in, she felt as if she owned the place.
“Oh hi hippie chick!” one of her musician guy friends would say, and give her a huge, warm hug that felt so good.
She could hug all these guys and even hang on them – she could dance with them, laugh with them and joke with them. Occasionally, she even went to IHOP and drank coffee with a group of them. She was the life of the party and when her girlfriends were there, they would all laugh and dance and enjoy the music together.
But in the end, she almost always went home alone.
What Was Wrong With Her - Kaye Doiron
I sat next to Satan in church on Sunday. Even more ironic than that is that I was in church.
She showed up, Satan, at my door Sunday morning and said, “ I’m taking you for a surpise!”
“ I’m in my jammies.” I replied. “ I want to stay at home.”
“ Come on” she insisted. “ throw some jeans and a sweater over your pajamas and let’s go, we’re going to be late.”
“ Where are we going?” I asked.
“ Just hurry up!!!” she shouted.
Her excitement was persuasive and I did just that, I threw a pair of jeans on, my pj’s acting like insulated underwear in case we were going to be outside and a brown sweater over my new jammy top with red hearts on it. I didn’t put a bra on or brush my hair or my teeth.
As we pulled up panic started to rise in my chest. “ YOU’RE TAKING ME TO FUCKING CHURCH???!!! I am not going to church, take me back home.”
“ Come on, there’s lots of singing, you’re going to love it!!” She persuaded, already two feet ahead of me.
“ FUCK!” I said loudly not caring if anyone around me could hear it. I noticed no one was around me.
“ Are we late?”
“ Yes, hurry up!”
We walked into a big assembly hall, less like a church than the gymnasium of my kids’ school. Everyone was already seated and a seven piece band was on the “ altar?” playing a fairly decent song. The words were on a giant fifty foot by fifty foot screen above the band and everyone was singing. As we walked into our aisle everyone turned and smiled a big holy roller welcome smile that gave me the heebie jeebies and made me want to bolt for the door. “ I hate you” I whispered as Deb grabbed my hand.
“ Sing!” she whispered back.
There were at least thirty people with their hands in the air waiting for the God particles to enter through their fingers and make everything in their lives hunky dory.
The pastor walked up and took the podium as the band wrapped up. He was wearing a Saints jersey and this mildly amused me. He was a fairly decent speaker, though his message was not meant for me. His theme was false idols. False idols are not my thing, I see God in everything and everyone around me. He was passionate, oh he believed and I guess I admired him for that.
Satan cried through the entire lecture but I don’t think any of it sunk in. In her heart, I believe she really thinks she is all that. She misses the entire “ be a good person, do unto others” boat. She is on the Carnival stuff your face, let em eat cake boat. But she’s the kind that will never take a good long hard look in the mirror. Why the tears I wondered.
I sat with all the zealots listening to their false idol like he really had the right to tell them what the bible was trying to teach them.
‘“Are we really so stupid? Can the two hundred people sitting around me really be so daft? So naiive? So soulless?” I wondered.
I felt as filled up spiritually after the service as a diaper that sags between a toddlers knees. Satan felt great, on a manic high. She’d done her hour of penance for the seven days of sinning and treating everyone around her like shit. She felt atoned, elated, gleeful. I felt all sucked dry.
She showed up, Satan, at my door Sunday morning and said, “ I’m taking you for a surpise!”
“ I’m in my jammies.” I replied. “ I want to stay at home.”
“ Come on” she insisted. “ throw some jeans and a sweater over your pajamas and let’s go, we’re going to be late.”
“ Where are we going?” I asked.
“ Just hurry up!!!” she shouted.
Her excitement was persuasive and I did just that, I threw a pair of jeans on, my pj’s acting like insulated underwear in case we were going to be outside and a brown sweater over my new jammy top with red hearts on it. I didn’t put a bra on or brush my hair or my teeth.
As we pulled up panic started to rise in my chest. “ YOU’RE TAKING ME TO FUCKING CHURCH???!!! I am not going to church, take me back home.”
“ Come on, there’s lots of singing, you’re going to love it!!” She persuaded, already two feet ahead of me.
“ FUCK!” I said loudly not caring if anyone around me could hear it. I noticed no one was around me.
“ Are we late?”
“ Yes, hurry up!”
We walked into a big assembly hall, less like a church than the gymnasium of my kids’ school. Everyone was already seated and a seven piece band was on the “ altar?” playing a fairly decent song. The words were on a giant fifty foot by fifty foot screen above the band and everyone was singing. As we walked into our aisle everyone turned and smiled a big holy roller welcome smile that gave me the heebie jeebies and made me want to bolt for the door. “ I hate you” I whispered as Deb grabbed my hand.
“ Sing!” she whispered back.
There were at least thirty people with their hands in the air waiting for the God particles to enter through their fingers and make everything in their lives hunky dory.
The pastor walked up and took the podium as the band wrapped up. He was wearing a Saints jersey and this mildly amused me. He was a fairly decent speaker, though his message was not meant for me. His theme was false idols. False idols are not my thing, I see God in everything and everyone around me. He was passionate, oh he believed and I guess I admired him for that.
Satan cried through the entire lecture but I don’t think any of it sunk in. In her heart, I believe she really thinks she is all that. She misses the entire “ be a good person, do unto others” boat. She is on the Carnival stuff your face, let em eat cake boat. But she’s the kind that will never take a good long hard look in the mirror. Why the tears I wondered.
I sat with all the zealots listening to their false idol like he really had the right to tell them what the bible was trying to teach them.
‘“Are we really so stupid? Can the two hundred people sitting around me really be so daft? So naiive? So soulless?” I wondered.
I felt as filled up spiritually after the service as a diaper that sags between a toddlers knees. Satan felt great, on a manic high. She’d done her hour of penance for the seven days of sinning and treating everyone around her like shit. She felt atoned, elated, gleeful. I felt all sucked dry.
What Was Wrong With Me - Jennifer Baljko
I’m not depressed. I’m not lonely. I’m not looking to make a million bucks. I’m not looking for God. And, I’m not trying to be someone different than who I am. Okay, maybe that last line isn’t completely true…Maybe I am trying to be a different version of me. Not necessarily a better me – I think I’m fine as I am – but maybe a smarter me, a wiser me, a kinder me, a version of me I don’t know yet.
Anyway, lately, for the last handful of months, I can’t resist this temptation to buy every freaking thing that pops into my inbox that seems to have a New Age slant to it. I now have a hundred or more MP3 downloads and PDF transcripts that will teach me to mediate, tap away my worries, detox my body of all sorts of ingested poisons, chant myself happy, and awaken my feminine creativity and divinity. I’ve only gotten through about a dozen of them. I like them, and have some of them on my iPod. I intend to listen then, to learn something new. It’s just that when they come on while I’m running, I’d rather be chugging uphill to Lady Gaga or Lenny Kravitz than breathing in some delusionary Ohm that will save me from myself.
I can’t quite figure out why I have developed this sudden obsession. Maybe I’m being called for some higher purpose, to do something for the greater good. What’s probably truer, is that I’m a marketing manager’s dream customer.
Anyway, lately, for the last handful of months, I can’t resist this temptation to buy every freaking thing that pops into my inbox that seems to have a New Age slant to it. I now have a hundred or more MP3 downloads and PDF transcripts that will teach me to mediate, tap away my worries, detox my body of all sorts of ingested poisons, chant myself happy, and awaken my feminine creativity and divinity. I’ve only gotten through about a dozen of them. I like them, and have some of them on my iPod. I intend to listen then, to learn something new. It’s just that when they come on while I’m running, I’d rather be chugging uphill to Lady Gaga or Lenny Kravitz than breathing in some delusionary Ohm that will save me from myself.
I can’t quite figure out why I have developed this sudden obsession. Maybe I’m being called for some higher purpose, to do something for the greater good. What’s probably truer, is that I’m a marketing manager’s dream customer.
What Was Wrong With Her - Camilla Basham
I have seen death before so many times, though usually through the gentle safety of white cotton sheets or hospital bed guard rails or under oxygen tents or through the separated fingers of Father Dubois as he raises his hand to give the last rights. But death on a bare wooden floor, death so raw, death forced upon someone by someone else, that I have never seen. Until now.
I sing my happy song in my head so I won’t cry and begin to walk backwards from the scene. I reach to flatten the pleats of my skirt, only to remember I’m not in my school uniform. I’m in my party dress; the hem soaked with blood. I feel naked and without oxygen as the walls close around me.
A sound comes from somewhere in the house and I feel my chest tighten. I turn and look for the door. It seems to be moving farther and farther away from me, the way objects do in your dreams at night when you try to reach for them.
My knees begin to bend without me telling them to and I instruct them to head for the door hoping they will follow one last command from my brain. The weight of my falling body pushes me outside into the night; into the falling rain.
I smell damp earth as the world turns to bright white; feel the ground rise to meet my body and am immediately grateful for the cushion of mud. I wonder if my heart has stopped beating. Maybe mom will notice me now.
I sing my happy song in my head so I won’t cry and begin to walk backwards from the scene. I reach to flatten the pleats of my skirt, only to remember I’m not in my school uniform. I’m in my party dress; the hem soaked with blood. I feel naked and without oxygen as the walls close around me.
A sound comes from somewhere in the house and I feel my chest tighten. I turn and look for the door. It seems to be moving farther and farther away from me, the way objects do in your dreams at night when you try to reach for them.
My knees begin to bend without me telling them to and I instruct them to head for the door hoping they will follow one last command from my brain. The weight of my falling body pushes me outside into the night; into the falling rain.
I smell damp earth as the world turns to bright white; feel the ground rise to meet my body and am immediately grateful for the cushion of mud. I wonder if my heart has stopped beating. Maybe mom will notice me now.
What's Wrong With Him/Her - Maria Robinson
1. Chris is not in love with Maddy, twenty years his senior but the mother of his child. And no, it's not what you think. She's HIS boss, she seduced him, has the power and shall we say the testosterone.
2. Chris is one of those drifting men. Weak and absent father, evaporated mother. Very smart but lacking in discipline. Becomes yoga teacher and seeks mother figure. Ends up working for Maddy.
3. Maddy is impossible. She's a New Yorker at her core, heart of flint from the West Side, well-educated but as the youngest of much older parents, lacked any supervision or even concern. Competes with much older sister long enough to finish Barnard but then heads West to discover herself. Father buys a building for her to construct a yoga school. Becomes an imperious boss but deeply lonely. Uses her power, just like a man, to prey on men who work for her. 4 marriages and divorces and counting. Reaches 45 and decides to become a mother. Consort irrelevant.
4. What's wrong with this story is that neither character has deep strength, its going to be a war of attrition between the two of them and now there's a baby in the balance. How to you handle innocence in the story?
5. You thought that you might be reading a story, or a poem, but in reality reading, planning and writing are all one thing and so this is what happens, even if you think that something is wrong with these assumptions.
6. There's always poetry, there's always the flow of life, the discarded emotions and the new ones.
7. Time is time. Nothing is wrong with nothing. It's all just slipping away.
8. The character is seeking power in the face of absurdity. I'm sure we could discuss that.
2. Chris is one of those drifting men. Weak and absent father, evaporated mother. Very smart but lacking in discipline. Becomes yoga teacher and seeks mother figure. Ends up working for Maddy.
3. Maddy is impossible. She's a New Yorker at her core, heart of flint from the West Side, well-educated but as the youngest of much older parents, lacked any supervision or even concern. Competes with much older sister long enough to finish Barnard but then heads West to discover herself. Father buys a building for her to construct a yoga school. Becomes an imperious boss but deeply lonely. Uses her power, just like a man, to prey on men who work for her. 4 marriages and divorces and counting. Reaches 45 and decides to become a mother. Consort irrelevant.
4. What's wrong with this story is that neither character has deep strength, its going to be a war of attrition between the two of them and now there's a baby in the balance. How to you handle innocence in the story?
5. You thought that you might be reading a story, or a poem, but in reality reading, planning and writing are all one thing and so this is what happens, even if you think that something is wrong with these assumptions.
6. There's always poetry, there's always the flow of life, the discarded emotions and the new ones.
7. Time is time. Nothing is wrong with nothing. It's all just slipping away.
8. The character is seeking power in the face of absurdity. I'm sure we could discuss that.
Friday, March 5, 2010
The Thing He/She Loved - John Fetto
The thing he loved was the wood. He loved working with it, carving, smoothing it out so that it was flawless, not a crack or seam, and smelt fresh. The thing she loved was the leather, pulled tight, straining, about to burst. She would wrap it around the wood, forming the seat, and after she pulled it tight, and he nailed it, each nail poking through the leather, driven into the wood. They wrapped leather around the arms and back, until the it was something half ancient tree, half bulging animal, strong, eternal, it dared you to sit down and rest in its arms.
The Thing She Loved - Donna Shomer
The two of them upside-down
on the monkey bars
dresses hanging overhead
underwear on two little girlbutts
like a set of wide doe-eyes
beholding the world
that cannot allow this
to continue.
on the monkey bars
dresses hanging overhead
underwear on two little girlbutts
like a set of wide doe-eyes
beholding the world
that cannot allow this
to continue.
The Things She Loved - Corii Liau
Olive learned at her 21st week of pregnancy that the baby growing inside her was drinking several ounces of amniotic fluid a day, and that the baby’s taste buds had developed to the point of being able to taste and differentiate between flavors. In fact, the baby girl would probably really like the things that Olive ate and drank.
“So, for instance, if you want your baby to like broccoli, then eat lots of broccoli,” the RN told Olive.
Olive had had a large chai that morning. Milk, chai tea, sugar, and plenty of cinnamon. She wasn’t sure whether she was eating and drinking things that she had always liked, or if the baby was somehow directing her to eat and drink things that the baby liked.
“The things she loves are blueberries, pineapple, strawberries, yogurt, honey, oranges, nuts, shrimp, carrots, and noodles,” Olive told the RN.
The RN smiled. “That all sounds very healthy. You’re doing well.”
After the appointment, Olive searched the neighborhood surrounds of the hospital for a bearclaw and warm milk with honey. The thought crossed her mind, you are what you love. She held her belly in both hands and felt tears suddenly sting the rims of her eyelids. Despite everything, this girl would be sweet.
“So, for instance, if you want your baby to like broccoli, then eat lots of broccoli,” the RN told Olive.
Olive had had a large chai that morning. Milk, chai tea, sugar, and plenty of cinnamon. She wasn’t sure whether she was eating and drinking things that she had always liked, or if the baby was somehow directing her to eat and drink things that the baby liked.
“The things she loves are blueberries, pineapple, strawberries, yogurt, honey, oranges, nuts, shrimp, carrots, and noodles,” Olive told the RN.
The RN smiled. “That all sounds very healthy. You’re doing well.”
After the appointment, Olive searched the neighborhood surrounds of the hospital for a bearclaw and warm milk with honey. The thought crossed her mind, you are what you love. She held her belly in both hands and felt tears suddenly sting the rims of her eyelids. Despite everything, this girl would be sweet.
The Thing She Loved - Maria Robinson
Katherine Sloan, pulled the covers off the bed where her 36 year old daughter, Martha lay huddled in a fetal position.
Katherine had flown first class from JFK to London to pick up the pieces of her daughter's life that lay strewn about a cheerful London flat after her husband had left her. The children screamed wildly down the halls and ran up the carved wooden staircase. Tea had been laid in the quirky drawing room filled with avant-garde paintings and sculptures. But Katherine sat on the edge of the bed with Martha, trying to coax her out. " I know you loved him. A woman always desperately loves her first husband, at first, because that's her beginning. But it's not her end. Sweetie, the boys will be fine in New York. Let's go down for tea. Plus I've brought your favorite pajamas from home. To remind you of home."
Holding both of Martha's hands, Katherine's steely grip pulled her to standing. Katherine, perfectly balanced on her Ferragamo pumps, walked her daughter downstairs holding her waist.
Katherine had flown first class from JFK to London to pick up the pieces of her daughter's life that lay strewn about a cheerful London flat after her husband had left her. The children screamed wildly down the halls and ran up the carved wooden staircase. Tea had been laid in the quirky drawing room filled with avant-garde paintings and sculptures. But Katherine sat on the edge of the bed with Martha, trying to coax her out. " I know you loved him. A woman always desperately loves her first husband, at first, because that's her beginning. But it's not her end. Sweetie, the boys will be fine in New York. Let's go down for tea. Plus I've brought your favorite pajamas from home. To remind you of home."
Holding both of Martha's hands, Katherine's steely grip pulled her to standing. Katherine, perfectly balanced on her Ferragamo pumps, walked her daughter downstairs holding her waist.
The Thing He Loved - Jackie Davis-Martin
“The thing I really love to do is sail that boat,” Henry said. They were looking through the windshield of his car at the river. Virginia’s car was right next to his. If she rolled down her window and stretched out her arm, she could put her hand flat against her own window.
“But that’s so possible,” she said. “I mean, it’s something you can do.” They had been talking about their ideal Saturdays and Virginia had confessed she liked the house quiet, to herself, when she could work on a painting.
Henry smiled and nodded his head. “You would think, wouldn’t you?”
He looked at her with such gentleness—she could see affection in his eyes—and she was flattered and unsettled by it.
“Yes, the boat.” He sighed thinking of it, or thinking of something whose import seemed beyond the simple conversation they were having. Or trying to have. Virginia had to admit it was awkward to talk to someone you didn’t know at all, someone you just had coffee with in the faculty room along with a dozen or more others where what you said was not strictly measured to determine who you really were. Henry gazed at the river where a sailboat was coming into their view, just at the bend, then turned to her again. “May I?” he said, lifting her hand.
She agreed, and watched their two hands fold into each other and rest on her left thigh. There can’t be anything wrong with simply holding hands on a Saturday morning, she thought to herself. With a co-worker she added, to give Henry a neutrality she wasn’t t feeling at all. What she experienced was a strong charge emanating from his hand to an area in herself she hadn’t felt for a few years. She took a few short breaths.
“It’s difficult to get away,” he explained, “on Saturdays. You know, the kids have things to do—there’s so much to catch up on around the house.”
“Don’t they like the boat?” Virginia had no children, so the “you know” Henry had inserted was just conversational rhythm.
“Ella doesn’t want them on it,” he said. Ella was Henry’s wife. “She’s afraid. And she has a point.”
Virginia tried to read Henry’s face. Was it being critical? She wanted him to be unhappy in his marriage, to adore her, the easy one, the one easy to talk to, soft around the edges, different. At the same time she admired him for defending his wife; that was a good thing to do.
“It’s not a big boat, and they have to know what they’re doing. I wouldn’t want to risk it with the kids either. Maybe when they get a little older, if they want to.”
Virginia stared at their hands and felt more than barren at the moment. Henry’s life seemed unimaginable to her, full of bustle and giggles and activities and things to do. Her life seemed almost sculpted. Stewart sat at a desk in the living room, reading his French papers, or Paris Match, or he took over the family room (family! what a misnomer!) with his opera recordings. He told her she could paint all she wanted there, too, to spread the ground cloth over her half, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t think around the soprano voices.
“Would you like to go?” Henry asked. “Would you like to try sailing with me?”
“But that’s so possible,” she said. “I mean, it’s something you can do.” They had been talking about their ideal Saturdays and Virginia had confessed she liked the house quiet, to herself, when she could work on a painting.
Henry smiled and nodded his head. “You would think, wouldn’t you?”
He looked at her with such gentleness—she could see affection in his eyes—and she was flattered and unsettled by it.
“Yes, the boat.” He sighed thinking of it, or thinking of something whose import seemed beyond the simple conversation they were having. Or trying to have. Virginia had to admit it was awkward to talk to someone you didn’t know at all, someone you just had coffee with in the faculty room along with a dozen or more others where what you said was not strictly measured to determine who you really were. Henry gazed at the river where a sailboat was coming into their view, just at the bend, then turned to her again. “May I?” he said, lifting her hand.
She agreed, and watched their two hands fold into each other and rest on her left thigh. There can’t be anything wrong with simply holding hands on a Saturday morning, she thought to herself. With a co-worker she added, to give Henry a neutrality she wasn’t t feeling at all. What she experienced was a strong charge emanating from his hand to an area in herself she hadn’t felt for a few years. She took a few short breaths.
“It’s difficult to get away,” he explained, “on Saturdays. You know, the kids have things to do—there’s so much to catch up on around the house.”
“Don’t they like the boat?” Virginia had no children, so the “you know” Henry had inserted was just conversational rhythm.
“Ella doesn’t want them on it,” he said. Ella was Henry’s wife. “She’s afraid. And she has a point.”
Virginia tried to read Henry’s face. Was it being critical? She wanted him to be unhappy in his marriage, to adore her, the easy one, the one easy to talk to, soft around the edges, different. At the same time she admired him for defending his wife; that was a good thing to do.
“It’s not a big boat, and they have to know what they’re doing. I wouldn’t want to risk it with the kids either. Maybe when they get a little older, if they want to.”
Virginia stared at their hands and felt more than barren at the moment. Henry’s life seemed unimaginable to her, full of bustle and giggles and activities and things to do. Her life seemed almost sculpted. Stewart sat at a desk in the living room, reading his French papers, or Paris Match, or he took over the family room (family! what a misnomer!) with his opera recordings. He told her she could paint all she wanted there, too, to spread the ground cloth over her half, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t think around the soprano voices.
“Would you like to go?” Henry asked. “Would you like to try sailing with me?”
The Things He Loved - Kaye Doiron
His book collection sits in the wine cellar gathering mold and dust, where it has been untouched for going on two years. He chose each book with such care; he remembers the first acquisition found in Israel on his second or third assignment there. The thick red tapestries, the dusty, smoky air, the small, crowded spaces, the small bearded salesman who spoke to him in Arabic only even though his English was beautiful. The weight of the book, the ruggedness of the spine, it sits so well in his hands. It all comes rushing back, like the memories of a love affair, those first nights spent together wrapped up in each other’s perfect reflections of self. He jabs at the fire. He will be leaving on another assignment soon. Part of him hopes it will be his last, that he will die there. He is so very tired. The cold does not relinquish, his hair and beard are covered in snow. His fingers ache with it as he caresses the neck of his guitar and he imagines Danny sitting here by the fire with him. There are so many things he should be teaching his son, his beautiful blue eyed Danny boy, the son he dreamed of on all of those lonely nights in the field. He dreamed him and he was there, suddenly nestled in the arms, at the breast of the love of his life, his light, his beauty, his wild mare. His memories betray him, he sees Bella, a cell for cell replica of her mother, standing by the sea, the mountains behind her, her back to everything but the deep blue that calls her, her white blonde hair blowing, a distance in her gaze. And of course, her twin Sean. Sean, if he is honest with himself, the real reason he had to go. He remembers the last morning he touched their mother. He remembers her neck in his hands. He remembers Sean standing in the corner with his hockey stick and a sociopathic empty stare in his eyes and in that moment he saw that he had created another monster. In that moment he knew he had to leave all of the things that he loved. He sees Danny venturing down to the cellar, timidly. He envisions him caressing each and every book, reading each journal entry, learning about his father in these books. And he is comforted. He sits the guitar down next to him and lies down next to the fire. His gaze turns to the millions of stars that cover the mountain range like a thick blanket. Maybe tonight he will stop breathing.
Virgin - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
Complete, just itself, finished becoming. Now: Is.
Fresh snowfields before birds and skiers come.
Young girl, young boy thrumming with power under
young skin, bursting with firsts, eyeing the other.
Woods filled to the edges with organisms of themselves:
vines-bugs-water-trees. No force from outside
changes the perfect moment. Yet.
And yet:
to destroy completion
is to spin the cycle back to becoming
until it is perfect again. For now.
Fresh snowfields before birds and skiers come.
Young girl, young boy thrumming with power under
young skin, bursting with firsts, eyeing the other.
Woods filled to the edges with organisms of themselves:
vines-bugs-water-trees. No force from outside
changes the perfect moment. Yet.
And yet:
to destroy completion
is to spin the cycle back to becoming
until it is perfect again. For now.
Virgin - Carol Arnold
A red tailed hawk landed on the telephone poll outside my window this afternoon, a virgin to this perch of only pigeons and crows. I sucked in my breath when I saw him, just as I did when I first laid eyes on a lion. The hawk surveyed his hunting ground of asphalt and steel, just as the lion had surveyed his of forest and plain, and the gaze was the same too, older and more patient than ten thousand years. Neither creature left any doubt of their wildness, and for a moment I felt my wildness too, but when the hawk spread its wings and swooped over the house, the blue jay that replaced him reminded me once again of my place in the world. He pecked worriedly at the wood at the top of the pole, then turned his head toward me as if to say, “This will not do. This will not do at all.”
Virgin - Darcy Vebber
He tore the sheet of paper in half and then in half again. Even though he was angry, he could not help being precise, lining up the torn squares and rectangles, edge to edge. When he could no longer tear the paper, the stack of pieces too thick and small, he dropped them, neatly, into the wastebasket next to the bed and brushed his fingertips against each other, as if the paper had been sticky. And disgusting. He looked disgusted.
Sam was sitting in a molded plastic chair, his back to the wall where the nurses whiteboard announced their names and the date. Someone had drawn a smiley face.
Mary was asleep or at least she had her eyes closed.
The reverend had found the letter with the things Mary left behind at the house. She had written to everyone they knew for help and some letters just didn't get sent. The reverend kept an eye on everything, even stamps. This particular letter was to her sister but they were all the same, essentially. They detailed the man's insistence that Mary have her baby in the house even though the nurses she'd seen in Vacaville said she was so young it wasn't safe. In this one, Mary also said she was afraid of Sam, afraid he would give in. My husband is an orphan, she had written, and I think he is always looking for a father.
Sam had been watching the Reverend as he read the letter but when he came to that, Sam lowered his head and pressed his big hands into the ridge above his eyebrows. He wanted to correct the record -- he was not an orphan -- but he stayed silent. He had learned was that there was no point in arguing with the Reverend any more. There was no charming him, no calling on his love even though he had promised both of them that he would always love them.
He was just like anybody's angry parent, blustery and red faced and only pretending to be in control. Sam could see that at the same time as he could see what he had seen before, a man infused with love and intelligence, a guide, a teacher. It was like the devil had a hold of the Reverend, like the snake was in him and him at the same time. That was what the nam had taught. The devil is in all of us. He said it gently, as if it was good news: you've been wondering where evil comes from? It comes from you.
The Reverend crossed from the foot of Mary's bed to where Sam sat and put his hand gently on the back of Sam's bowed head. "Come back home with us," he said. "Leave her and come back with us."
Sam felt a chill.
Sam was sitting in a molded plastic chair, his back to the wall where the nurses whiteboard announced their names and the date. Someone had drawn a smiley face.
Mary was asleep or at least she had her eyes closed.
The reverend had found the letter with the things Mary left behind at the house. She had written to everyone they knew for help and some letters just didn't get sent. The reverend kept an eye on everything, even stamps. This particular letter was to her sister but they were all the same, essentially. They detailed the man's insistence that Mary have her baby in the house even though the nurses she'd seen in Vacaville said she was so young it wasn't safe. In this one, Mary also said she was afraid of Sam, afraid he would give in. My husband is an orphan, she had written, and I think he is always looking for a father.
Sam had been watching the Reverend as he read the letter but when he came to that, Sam lowered his head and pressed his big hands into the ridge above his eyebrows. He wanted to correct the record -- he was not an orphan -- but he stayed silent. He had learned was that there was no point in arguing with the Reverend any more. There was no charming him, no calling on his love even though he had promised both of them that he would always love them.
He was just like anybody's angry parent, blustery and red faced and only pretending to be in control. Sam could see that at the same time as he could see what he had seen before, a man infused with love and intelligence, a guide, a teacher. It was like the devil had a hold of the Reverend, like the snake was in him and him at the same time. That was what the nam had taught. The devil is in all of us. He said it gently, as if it was good news: you've been wondering where evil comes from? It comes from you.
The Reverend crossed from the foot of Mary's bed to where Sam sat and put his hand gently on the back of Sam's bowed head. "Come back home with us," he said. "Leave her and come back with us."
Sam felt a chill.
Virgin - Jennifer Baljko
The Roman Catholic institution, hereby known as The Church That Messed Up My Head (TCTMUMH) would, with due cause, call me a lapsed Catholic. I think leg warmers were still fashionable when I knowingly stopped practicing my baptized faith. I don’t know where to even start with that whole thing, this thing I’ll call my faith separation, the thing my family refuses to accept. They believe a little confession would clear up my obvious confusion. To keep this short, let’s just say I worked in a rectory during some of my formative teenage years, and learned pretty quickly that many priests did not take vow to live with modest wealth or within their means.
Even still, even as I dwell in my world of liberal ideas, as my family so aptly puts it, and find it hard to follow any string of logic written in that great old holy book of theirs, I got to say, I think the Virgin Mary is a pretty cool lady. It’s not really the story I care for. I like the divine feminine, maternal power she exudes in her flowing blue robes. For an organization that normally squanders equality, or twists it to fit it own purposes, and refuses to allow women to be “servants of God” in any real authoritative way, I like seeing Mary up there on a pedestal in every church you ever enter. The spectacle is even grander in third-world countries where everything is done for the love of God, including beating your wife. In the world according to me, it’s a bit of sweet justice that she has goddess status and is worshipped as such. I always chuckle at the hypocrisy of it all, what us lapsed Catholics see that the loyal blind sheep don’t. Go Mary!
Even still, even as I dwell in my world of liberal ideas, as my family so aptly puts it, and find it hard to follow any string of logic written in that great old holy book of theirs, I got to say, I think the Virgin Mary is a pretty cool lady. It’s not really the story I care for. I like the divine feminine, maternal power she exudes in her flowing blue robes. For an organization that normally squanders equality, or twists it to fit it own purposes, and refuses to allow women to be “servants of God” in any real authoritative way, I like seeing Mary up there on a pedestal in every church you ever enter. The spectacle is even grander in third-world countries where everything is done for the love of God, including beating your wife. In the world according to me, it’s a bit of sweet justice that she has goddess status and is worshipped as such. I always chuckle at the hypocrisy of it all, what us lapsed Catholics see that the loyal blind sheep don’t. Go Mary!
Singing - Camilla
“I landed a gig as the singing Nathan’s hotdog at Giant Stadium, but I sort of blacked out when they tried to zip up my bun. The thing is, I suffer from claustrophobia. It goes back to when I was 16 and my boss caught me making love to his wife, in the supermarket. He was the manager; I was the bag boy. One day his misses comes walking down the frozen food aisle braless, and well, you know. So, we end up doing it in the stock room and he barges in, kidnaps me buck naked, seals me up in one of those big Ramen Noodle boxes with packaging tape from aisle 6 and threatens to throw me into the bay. I begged for mercy and was finally released onto the stage of the American Conservatory Theater, in the nude, right in the middle of the Bay Area Amateur Players' production of Hedda Gabler. Since then I’ve had an unnatural fear of confined places, noodles and Norwegian playwrights.”
Singing - Judy Albietz
Three monkeys, the dog and the girl were on the road to the enclave surrounding the Time Portal Temple. Even though Sam and Sophia had explained to Lily what they needed to do to get her back home, she was not completely clear on the plan. It would take a day’s walk to get there. They had to find out what was going wrong with the Time Portal. Then they needed to fix it so Lily could be sent back safely. And at the same time they had to protect Lily from whoever is trying to kill her.
Time was of an essence, so Lily decided to save her questions for the journey. She was getting used to this whole telepathy thing with Sam. It hadn’t been much of a leap to communicate with the monkeys. However, it was peculiar to hear and understand their voices in her head while also hearing them singing in a strange language full of bird-like clicking sounds. Sophia sang in soft high tones, while Risto and Ajax had rich tenor voices. There was something else Lily noticed as she walked alongside Sam and the three blue monkeys. When Sophia sang, a drumming sound, like a heartbeat, surrounded the air around the medicine woman. Lily wondered if it would be rude to ask Sophia about it. As if she read Lily’s mind—which of course she didn’t—Sophia showed Lily how the monkeys and dogs communicate with the plant life on the island. She lifted her slender blue hands and the drum beat became louder, filling the air. Sam sighed happily. He knew what was coming next. After a few minutes, lovely musical notes joined the soft drumming. It sounded like wind instruments were perched in the tall trees around them. Even the strange-looking yellow and orange plants alongside the road joined in with soothing low background melodies. The singing swirled around them. After several minutes, Lily also sighed as she felt new energy coursing through her body, as if she had just gotten up from a good night’s sleep.
Time was of an essence, so Lily decided to save her questions for the journey. She was getting used to this whole telepathy thing with Sam. It hadn’t been much of a leap to communicate with the monkeys. However, it was peculiar to hear and understand their voices in her head while also hearing them singing in a strange language full of bird-like clicking sounds. Sophia sang in soft high tones, while Risto and Ajax had rich tenor voices. There was something else Lily noticed as she walked alongside Sam and the three blue monkeys. When Sophia sang, a drumming sound, like a heartbeat, surrounded the air around the medicine woman. Lily wondered if it would be rude to ask Sophia about it. As if she read Lily’s mind—which of course she didn’t—Sophia showed Lily how the monkeys and dogs communicate with the plant life on the island. She lifted her slender blue hands and the drum beat became louder, filling the air. Sam sighed happily. He knew what was coming next. After a few minutes, lovely musical notes joined the soft drumming. It sounded like wind instruments were perched in the tall trees around them. Even the strange-looking yellow and orange plants alongside the road joined in with soothing low background melodies. The singing swirled around them. After several minutes, Lily also sighed as she felt new energy coursing through her body, as if she had just gotten up from a good night’s sleep.
Singing - Judy Radin
After lunch we gathered in the music room. Auditions for The King and I were starting and I really wanted to play Tuptim, the young girl being forced to marry the king. I’d already been in a ballet production of The King and I several years before. I played one of the Siamese children. We wore beautiful silk brocade pantaloons, matching silk jackets, and a traditional Siamese hats. The Siamese children didn’t sing, but we had several dance numbers that we did as an ensemble. I loved the music. I would hang around the rehearsal hall every day, singing along, learning the all the lyrics and dialog. So when the chance came to try out for Tuptim a few summes later I jumped on it. I already knew all of Tuptim’s lines. I would hardly have to study the script.
Marty the drama coach was in charge of auditions. There were about thirty of us trying out for Tuptim. I few hours earlier I was belting out I Have Dreamed, one of the character’s duets. But somehow, in front of the group, I had no voice. I sang a few lines. Marty stopped playing the piano and asked me to sing louder. We started again but I couldn’t get any volume.
“You have a great voice,” Marty said, “but you need to project more.”
I tried a few more times but I couldn’t sing any louder. There were too many people around. I felt self-conscious. I got all sweaty and my throat closed up. Finally Marty thanked me for trying. He directed me to sit down with the rest of the group. I was mortified. My friend Jill got her turn after me. Jill’s voice wasn’t any better than mine but she sang her heart out. She was fearless. She had confidence. She got the part.
Marty the drama coach was in charge of auditions. There were about thirty of us trying out for Tuptim. I few hours earlier I was belting out I Have Dreamed, one of the character’s duets. But somehow, in front of the group, I had no voice. I sang a few lines. Marty stopped playing the piano and asked me to sing louder. We started again but I couldn’t get any volume.
“You have a great voice,” Marty said, “but you need to project more.”
I tried a few more times but I couldn’t sing any louder. There were too many people around. I felt self-conscious. I got all sweaty and my throat closed up. Finally Marty thanked me for trying. He directed me to sit down with the rest of the group. I was mortified. My friend Jill got her turn after me. Jill’s voice wasn’t any better than mine but she sang her heart out. She was fearless. She had confidence. She got the part.
How it Ended - Melody Cryns
It all began on that hot Friday morning at the Frankfurt Zoo in Frankfurt, West Germany on May 21, 1981. It was difficult for me to walk and the mild heat seemed way too hot as I held my large stomach and waddled behind my husband Stephen. As we looked at the lions and then the tigers, the pains began – like a wave, a tightness of the stomach. I had to stop for a moment because it ached, not that horrible aching pain, just a little.
“Umm, I think I’m in labor now – I just had a contraction!” I said to my husband who just cheerfully smiled and said. “Okay, good. There’s still plenty of time!”
Easy for him to say, I thought, as I trudged onwards. I had found Guinea Pig fields and it was so cool to watch all the guinea pigs running around. I just loved guinea pigs, those furry little creatures of all different colors, some with long hair, some with short, looking so happy running around and inside their colorful little houses. They delighted me for a while until I felt another pain – this time I gripped the side of the railing of Guinea Pig fields because it hurt.
“I’m having another pain!” I shouted to my husband who was busy looking at a bunch of monkeys jumping around.
“Okay, we’ll go to the hospital soon.”
I was supposed to have my baby at Frankfurt 97th General Hospital, which was far from Gelnhausen, where we lived.
As I watched the guinea pigs, another pain gripped me, that tightness, like a cramp but worse.
“Stephen, I think it’s time. Shouldn’t we go now?”
“Okay, but first I’ve gotta get a shot glass from the Frankfurt Zoo!” As I waddled over to a bench to sit down, I watched as Stephen got in what looked like a long line in front of a wooden shack where they sold trinkets, shot glasses and zoo-related stuff. I couldn’t see exactly what they had and at the moment, I didn’t even care to look. Even the idea of soft raspberry ice cream which had sounded so good to me earlier didn’t appeal to me anymore.
I just wanted to get out of the heat and get this thing done with, and my husband was standing in line to get a shot glass.
It seemed like ages before we got to the hospital, and then they told me I was only dilated 2 centimeters and it would be a while. Groan….
So they put me in a bed and prepped me which meant giving me a horrible enema and inserting an IV into my hand which hurt really bad, not as much as the pains I was getting though.
Seventeen hours of hard labor later, after my close friend Heidi made several futile attempts to join me in the labor room and my husband announced that many people had their babies and moved on to delivery, I had my first baby, my Stephen Michael Vasquez with a “ph” of course.
That was almost twenty-nine years ago. How would I know at the moment I held my baby boy for the very first time that my life would never be the same again, that I’d learn unconditional love for this baby boy totally dependent on me – and for the other three children that I’d have – that I’d love them more than anything else on this earth, more than life itself? That I’d gladly die for these kids.
Today as I look out the window at the few leaves clinging to the tree branches outside my kitchen window and the cat jumps on the counter, I realize that this phase of my life is ending…my youngest, my baby girl Megan turns 18 in September. She’ll be with me for a while I’m sure, but already I feel the pull of independence…our road trip was a reminder of that – she’s looking to the future, and where she wants to live, what she wants to do…
It’s the end of an era filled with babies, toddlers, loads of hugs and kisses, chaos and craziness, small children, big children, cub scouts, soccer, cheerleading, drama club, and endless trips to friends’ houses…Now it’s difficult to get a hold of those older kids because they’re living their own lives…and Megan will do the same even though I begged her to never turn into a teenager when she was ten…she had smiled wistfully at me then, pushing back her long bright red hair…”Mom, I can’t promise that!” she’d said, getting out of the car as my last child headed for her last year of elementary school.
Stevie, Melissa, Jeremy and Megan will always remain closest to my heart, always and forever…no matter where they go or what they do.
“Umm, I think I’m in labor now – I just had a contraction!” I said to my husband who just cheerfully smiled and said. “Okay, good. There’s still plenty of time!”
Easy for him to say, I thought, as I trudged onwards. I had found Guinea Pig fields and it was so cool to watch all the guinea pigs running around. I just loved guinea pigs, those furry little creatures of all different colors, some with long hair, some with short, looking so happy running around and inside their colorful little houses. They delighted me for a while until I felt another pain – this time I gripped the side of the railing of Guinea Pig fields because it hurt.
“I’m having another pain!” I shouted to my husband who was busy looking at a bunch of monkeys jumping around.
“Okay, we’ll go to the hospital soon.”
I was supposed to have my baby at Frankfurt 97th General Hospital, which was far from Gelnhausen, where we lived.
As I watched the guinea pigs, another pain gripped me, that tightness, like a cramp but worse.
“Stephen, I think it’s time. Shouldn’t we go now?”
“Okay, but first I’ve gotta get a shot glass from the Frankfurt Zoo!” As I waddled over to a bench to sit down, I watched as Stephen got in what looked like a long line in front of a wooden shack where they sold trinkets, shot glasses and zoo-related stuff. I couldn’t see exactly what they had and at the moment, I didn’t even care to look. Even the idea of soft raspberry ice cream which had sounded so good to me earlier didn’t appeal to me anymore.
I just wanted to get out of the heat and get this thing done with, and my husband was standing in line to get a shot glass.
It seemed like ages before we got to the hospital, and then they told me I was only dilated 2 centimeters and it would be a while. Groan….
So they put me in a bed and prepped me which meant giving me a horrible enema and inserting an IV into my hand which hurt really bad, not as much as the pains I was getting though.
Seventeen hours of hard labor later, after my close friend Heidi made several futile attempts to join me in the labor room and my husband announced that many people had their babies and moved on to delivery, I had my first baby, my Stephen Michael Vasquez with a “ph” of course.
That was almost twenty-nine years ago. How would I know at the moment I held my baby boy for the very first time that my life would never be the same again, that I’d learn unconditional love for this baby boy totally dependent on me – and for the other three children that I’d have – that I’d love them more than anything else on this earth, more than life itself? That I’d gladly die for these kids.
Today as I look out the window at the few leaves clinging to the tree branches outside my kitchen window and the cat jumps on the counter, I realize that this phase of my life is ending…my youngest, my baby girl Megan turns 18 in September. She’ll be with me for a while I’m sure, but already I feel the pull of independence…our road trip was a reminder of that – she’s looking to the future, and where she wants to live, what she wants to do…
It’s the end of an era filled with babies, toddlers, loads of hugs and kisses, chaos and craziness, small children, big children, cub scouts, soccer, cheerleading, drama club, and endless trips to friends’ houses…Now it’s difficult to get a hold of those older kids because they’re living their own lives…and Megan will do the same even though I begged her to never turn into a teenager when she was ten…she had smiled wistfully at me then, pushing back her long bright red hair…”Mom, I can’t promise that!” she’d said, getting out of the car as my last child headed for her last year of elementary school.
Stevie, Melissa, Jeremy and Megan will always remain closest to my heart, always and forever…no matter where they go or what they do.
Crashing - Karen Oliver
She practically tiptoed out of the house so no one would wake. It wasn’t often she stayed so close to the ocean and she wanted to “know” this place more deeply. It was barely light, still that gray sameness over everything that you knew soon would start to differentiate into deeper shadows and gradually into the fresh colors of a new day. She loved the way it could change in an instant, first a line of blue in the cloud, then more contrast in the whites and grays increased, almost as if the images were appearing out of nothing. It seemed like such a gift, watching the night open into the clear colors of day. Ah, the air; Hard to describe this air. The sounds of the gulls overpower it and nothing else was noticed for a moment. One must breathe deeply. The smaller sensations and the smells of the kelp and the wet sand are lost for a moment in the overpowering crashing of the surf. Piles of kelp lie on the wet sand and slow her walk even more as lots of small flies scatter with each of her steps before settling again on the kelp. In the distance there is the silhouette of one person and the shadow of a dog. She is glad they are walking away.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
What Was on the Floor - Judy Radin
Crumpled stacks cover the floor
Write all day, toss pages aside all night
Always tweaking
First drafts suck
Mine, anyway
(Not his. Not hers.)
Can’t come up with the words.
Not right away.
Not all the time.
Try again tomorrow
New paper.
New topic.
Gather up the pages
Toss them in a bag
Make room for more
On the floor
Write all day, toss pages aside all night
Never satisfied
Never good enough
Always tinkeringNever good enough
Always tweaking
First drafts suck
Mine, anyway
(Not his. Not hers.)
Can’t come up with the words.
Not right away.
Not all the time.
Try again tomorrow
New paper.
New topic.
Gather up the pages
Toss them in a bag
Make room for more
On the floor
What Was on the Floor - Jennifer Baljko
Alex, the two-year-toddler I was babysitting for a friend of mine, was more than determined to walk up the slide, not via the stairs, but to go straight up the slide. I had previously hung out with him and his mom before, and I know his mom wouldn’t have let him do that. So, the joust begins. I tell him no. “Alex, please use the stairs instead.” He keeps going up, giggling at the top as he starts to slide down. He goes up again, the same way as before. This time I pick him and put him on the ground. He gives me those devil-red eyes, sending me straight to hell. He again starts his ascent. Again, I grab him mid-step. There weren’t any other kids around and we were in his backyard, but I throw this out anyway because I don’t know what else to say, “This is not fair for the other kids who might be waiting. You have to use the stairs.” We go back and forth a couple more times, each asserting our authority.
As a last resort, he throws himself on the ground and wailed. My eardrums pop and I’m sure there’s blood dripping from my inner ear. I’m glad my memory hasn’t cracked. I have a quick recall of a brilliant commercial I had seen somewhere in Europe. I don’t even remember what the ad was selling, but the rest of it made an impression. A mother and her young child are shopping in a grocery store. Of course, the child wants something and the mother says no. The tantrum starts and the child slammed herself onto the floor, pitching a fit. A couple seconds later, the scene repeats and this time the mother falls down to the floor, screaming like banshee recently released from the insane asylum and without her meds. Everyone in the store stops to stare. The child gapes at her mother, absolutely horrified by this bizarre behavior. The mother gets up, dusts off her pants. She doesn’t say a word. But her look says it all, “So are we going to do this all freaking day, or can we just go shopping like normal people.”
The entire commercial flips through my head at lightning speed. Without thinking, I hurl myself on the grass. I kick my legs wildly, bat my arms like a seagull, and yell many decibels louder than the toddler next to me. Alex stops his fake crying, stands up and glares at me for a long time. He had never seen an adult act this way - that much was obvious given his dumbfounded expression. I stand up, and give him my best “Now what?” scowl.
Without saying a word, we decide the battle of the slide was a draw. We move on to the sandbox.
As a last resort, he throws himself on the ground and wailed. My eardrums pop and I’m sure there’s blood dripping from my inner ear. I’m glad my memory hasn’t cracked. I have a quick recall of a brilliant commercial I had seen somewhere in Europe. I don’t even remember what the ad was selling, but the rest of it made an impression. A mother and her young child are shopping in a grocery store. Of course, the child wants something and the mother says no. The tantrum starts and the child slammed herself onto the floor, pitching a fit. A couple seconds later, the scene repeats and this time the mother falls down to the floor, screaming like banshee recently released from the insane asylum and without her meds. Everyone in the store stops to stare. The child gapes at her mother, absolutely horrified by this bizarre behavior. The mother gets up, dusts off her pants. She doesn’t say a word. But her look says it all, “So are we going to do this all freaking day, or can we just go shopping like normal people.”
The entire commercial flips through my head at lightning speed. Without thinking, I hurl myself on the grass. I kick my legs wildly, bat my arms like a seagull, and yell many decibels louder than the toddler next to me. Alex stops his fake crying, stands up and glares at me for a long time. He had never seen an adult act this way - that much was obvious given his dumbfounded expression. I stand up, and give him my best “Now what?” scowl.
Without saying a word, we decide the battle of the slide was a draw. We move on to the sandbox.
What Was on the Floor - Karen Oliver
Scrap books are piled up on the floor of my bedroom. All sizes, which makes the structure I am building need careful planning. Putting scrapbooks in my bedroom is an impulse I am re-thinking. My practical side said that it would be nice to keep those memories close at hand and, at first, it felt right to have them near me in such an intimate space. Albums. Memories. People say they would take “the albums” in a fire. I rarely look at my old photos and the memories they bring back aren’t always so pleasant. Remember that purple dress and that moving talk with little Chelsea about her mother passing out on the floor? Look at how young we were then, barreling toward the future with no regard for what was coming. Wasn’t the water beautiful on that camping trip? Awww, there we are together, posed for our Christmas photo. Too bad he isn’t with her anymore.
Boyfriends - Carol Arnold
“Roland’s a masochist,” Lulu said, looking first at me then at Mom. She pronounced the word slowly, impressed with herself at being able to diagnose things mental. She’d taken Psych 101 at Rosemont JC the year before, and since then no one could get out of the room without a mental condition.
Mom was shivering in her red chair. The heat had been turned off again, and Lulu and I were over there to take care of things. So far all we’d taken care of was getting in a fight.
“He likes to be humiliated,” Lulu say. “That’s why he wants you to throw up. Why don’t you just pee on him instead?”
“Ha, ha, Lulu,” I said. “You’re so funny I could split my sides.”
“How about pee your pants?” She slapped her thigh and let out what was supposed to be a laugh but sounded more like a wounded hyena. I ignored her and turned to Mom.
“Mom, about the heat. How come you don’t pay the bill?” Her housecoat had daisies on it. It was so thin I could see her shriveled nipple through one of the yellow petals. It looked sad.
“Now, don’t get on me again. Times are hard enough without you two girls jumping all over me.” She brushed a wisp of white hair out of her face and screwed up her eyes.
Since Dad died she’d been living on his social security and railroad pension. It wasn’t a lot of money but I couldn’t see she needed more.
“Where’s your money going Mom?” I asked.
She looked over at Lulu, then down at her feet. Her right big toe wiggled up and down like it was doing a dance. It started me going, my toes wiggling around in my sneakers too. Something was up.
“So, Lulu, do you know anything about this?” I asked.
Mom blurted out the answer. “Fabion needed some money,” she said. Fabion was Lulu’s boyfriend, for fifteen years. Lulu didn’t believe in marriage, said it dragged you down, but if she were going to marry anyone, it would be him. Plus, she liked the way his hair poofed up on his head.
“Oh,” I said. “Mr. Perfect needed money?”
“Just temporarily,” Lulu said, “only until he sells the Corvette.” Fabion had been working on an old car for years, “cherrying it out,” he said. He had it up on blocks in their garage. As far as I could see he’d already cherried it out, and all he was doing now was rubbing it down. Every day he’d take a shami-cloth and rub circles around over and over. It shone like a mirror.
“Yeah, when hell freezes over,” I said, wishing I knew the mental condition for Fabion. ODD? I had heard Lulu say it about someone else, someone who thinks nothing is clean enough.
“What do you know?” Lulu said. She rolled her eyes and stared at the ceiling.
“I’d rather have someone who wants me to pee on him than someone who rubs a car over and over like it’s a goddamn baby,” I said.
Mom was shivering in her red chair. The heat had been turned off again, and Lulu and I were over there to take care of things. So far all we’d taken care of was getting in a fight.
“He likes to be humiliated,” Lulu say. “That’s why he wants you to throw up. Why don’t you just pee on him instead?”
“Ha, ha, Lulu,” I said. “You’re so funny I could split my sides.”
“How about pee your pants?” She slapped her thigh and let out what was supposed to be a laugh but sounded more like a wounded hyena. I ignored her and turned to Mom.
“Mom, about the heat. How come you don’t pay the bill?” Her housecoat had daisies on it. It was so thin I could see her shriveled nipple through one of the yellow petals. It looked sad.
“Now, don’t get on me again. Times are hard enough without you two girls jumping all over me.” She brushed a wisp of white hair out of her face and screwed up her eyes.
Since Dad died she’d been living on his social security and railroad pension. It wasn’t a lot of money but I couldn’t see she needed more.
“Where’s your money going Mom?” I asked.
She looked over at Lulu, then down at her feet. Her right big toe wiggled up and down like it was doing a dance. It started me going, my toes wiggling around in my sneakers too. Something was up.
“So, Lulu, do you know anything about this?” I asked.
Mom blurted out the answer. “Fabion needed some money,” she said. Fabion was Lulu’s boyfriend, for fifteen years. Lulu didn’t believe in marriage, said it dragged you down, but if she were going to marry anyone, it would be him. Plus, she liked the way his hair poofed up on his head.
“Oh,” I said. “Mr. Perfect needed money?”
“Just temporarily,” Lulu said, “only until he sells the Corvette.” Fabion had been working on an old car for years, “cherrying it out,” he said. He had it up on blocks in their garage. As far as I could see he’d already cherried it out, and all he was doing now was rubbing it down. Every day he’d take a shami-cloth and rub circles around over and over. It shone like a mirror.
“Yeah, when hell freezes over,” I said, wishing I knew the mental condition for Fabion. ODD? I had heard Lulu say it about someone else, someone who thinks nothing is clean enough.
“What do you know?” Lulu said. She rolled her eyes and stared at the ceiling.
“I’d rather have someone who wants me to pee on him than someone who rubs a car over and over like it’s a goddamn baby,” I said.
Boyfriends - Darcy Vebber
He was younger than Lisa’s mother and he wore a fine silver watch which he took off to do the dishes after they ate dinner together. In Alice’s condo, there was only one place to eat, a space between the kitchen area and the living area. She had placed the pine table from the kitchen in Window Rock there. She usually kept it covered with one of the Mexican embroidered table cloths she’d bought down in Nogales but for David, she brought out something more traditional. Plain, white.
This was how Kate had described their mother’s boyfriend to Lisa. Plain, white. She didn’t make it to dinner. No one seemed to know for sure where Kate was or even where she was staying but she’d called Lisa on her cell in the afternoon to say, sorry. Can’t make it. I’ve met him, anyhow. Very nice. Very white.
.Kate said this about people as if she and her sister and mother were not as white as white themselves. European, Lisa would correct. European ethnicity. It was important to her to be accurate, especially about ideas. Pin them down. Make sense.
David was a stock broker. He was easily the most successful man their mother had ever dated. Tall, thin, hunched a little at the sink, he was easy enough to talk to, if you wanted to talk about things that did not matter.
Neither Kate nor Alice seemed to notice but it was impossible for Lisa not to think about what her father would have said. To Marc, men like David were not even the enemy. They were insubstantial, beneath even being dismissed. They were deluded and like all delusional people, dangerous companions.
It was clear that Alice liked him, maybe for the exact reason Marc would have walked out on this dinner. Maybe she wanted a nice looking man with a nice watch who did the dishes. It was fine with Lisa. David did not seem dangerous to her. Alice could be dangerous, Kate was dangerous if only to herself but David? She studied his back, his small flat backside, pale blue button down, khaki slacks. If David wanted to do her mother’s dishes, she would not complain.
This was how Kate had described their mother’s boyfriend to Lisa. Plain, white. She didn’t make it to dinner. No one seemed to know for sure where Kate was or even where she was staying but she’d called Lisa on her cell in the afternoon to say, sorry. Can’t make it. I’ve met him, anyhow. Very nice. Very white.
.Kate said this about people as if she and her sister and mother were not as white as white themselves. European, Lisa would correct. European ethnicity. It was important to her to be accurate, especially about ideas. Pin them down. Make sense.
David was a stock broker. He was easily the most successful man their mother had ever dated. Tall, thin, hunched a little at the sink, he was easy enough to talk to, if you wanted to talk about things that did not matter.
Neither Kate nor Alice seemed to notice but it was impossible for Lisa not to think about what her father would have said. To Marc, men like David were not even the enemy. They were insubstantial, beneath even being dismissed. They were deluded and like all delusional people, dangerous companions.
It was clear that Alice liked him, maybe for the exact reason Marc would have walked out on this dinner. Maybe she wanted a nice looking man with a nice watch who did the dishes. It was fine with Lisa. David did not seem dangerous to her. Alice could be dangerous, Kate was dangerous if only to herself but David? She studied his back, his small flat backside, pale blue button down, khaki slacks. If David wanted to do her mother’s dishes, she would not complain.
Boyfriends - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
Let’s have lots, dancing around us, kissing our hands.
Let’s dress up and go to parties, tossing our heads,
flirting with Ben and Sam and Alex and Ernesto.
But not Augustus: He won’t play the cavalier.
He strolls, reading poetry to inflame his passion.
When he finally arrives at love, he will make
romantic drama with pledges of eternal faith.
A girl must be ready to play her part with him.
We are not ready! We want to play the cruel
mistresses, the fond and gay but elusive charmers
who come and go, dancing and tossing our heads.
Let’s dress up and go to parties, tossing our heads,
flirting with Ben and Sam and Alex and Ernesto.
But not Augustus: He won’t play the cavalier.
He strolls, reading poetry to inflame his passion.
When he finally arrives at love, he will make
romantic drama with pledges of eternal faith.
A girl must be ready to play her part with him.
We are not ready! We want to play the cruel
mistresses, the fond and gay but elusive charmers
who come and go, dancing and tossing our heads.
What Destroys Happiness - Judy Albietz
Rachel wouldn’t have seen the bird if she hadn’t taken that walk to the pond. No one else wanted to go. Too chilly they said. Rachel had to get out of the house for a little while. Her older sister Tamar was lying on the couch in the den. Tamar wore a red paisley scarf. No one talked about how Tamar’s stomach was more swollen today. The chemo hadn’t worked.
Rachel put on her shoes and grabbed her tan sweater. Then she left through the back door. It swung out sharply and slammed shut behind her. Almost caught her heel. Rachel hugged herself and began to jog to keep warm. The early afternoon sun was cooled by clouds. Spring in Michigan. Her feet made sucking sounds. The wet ground was still absorbing melted snow. The buds of brown muddy plants were sparsely decorated with bits of color.
Rachel reached the pond. The gray wooden bench was still there, on the edge of the water. As Rachel sat down, she remembered how happy Tamar had been when they bought that house ten or eleven years ago. It was right on the edge of a wildlife refuge. You could watch the birds. Tamar loved to get up early in the morning and keep track of the different species visiting the pond. She sometimes brought her easel down to the pond. Or she sat at her workbench in the den to sketch or paint or sculpt. The paints and paper and clay were now put away.
Rachel inhaled. The pungent odor of decaying vegetation was mixed with spicy aromas of new plant shoots. Rachel heard the call of a bird in flight. She leaned back to look up. The white bird circled the pond twice and then landed on the tall spruce on the opposite side of the pond. The bird was alone. It sat on a high branch for several minutes, looking down at Rachel. Then it flew away. That was the last time she saw it.
Rachel put on her shoes and grabbed her tan sweater. Then she left through the back door. It swung out sharply and slammed shut behind her. Almost caught her heel. Rachel hugged herself and began to jog to keep warm. The early afternoon sun was cooled by clouds. Spring in Michigan. Her feet made sucking sounds. The wet ground was still absorbing melted snow. The buds of brown muddy plants were sparsely decorated with bits of color.
Rachel reached the pond. The gray wooden bench was still there, on the edge of the water. As Rachel sat down, she remembered how happy Tamar had been when they bought that house ten or eleven years ago. It was right on the edge of a wildlife refuge. You could watch the birds. Tamar loved to get up early in the morning and keep track of the different species visiting the pond. She sometimes brought her easel down to the pond. Or she sat at her workbench in the den to sketch or paint or sculpt. The paints and paper and clay were now put away.
Rachel inhaled. The pungent odor of decaying vegetation was mixed with spicy aromas of new plant shoots. Rachel heard the call of a bird in flight. She leaned back to look up. The white bird circled the pond twice and then landed on the tall spruce on the opposite side of the pond. The bird was alone. It sat on a high branch for several minutes, looking down at Rachel. Then it flew away. That was the last time she saw it.
A Small Door - Melody Cryns
The door was so small, I wondered if I could squeeze through. Well, let’s see, I thought. I’m a lot thinner than I was a year ago. Maybe now I can get through that blasted door, the door I’ve been avoiding for so many years. Before the doorway was so small that I knew there was no way I could get through and now – now there’s hope. Shall I give it a try or shall I just walk by that door of opportunity once again? I see that cute little girl taunting me, smiling and hopping up and down on one foot. She’s got long, long reddish blonde hair and now she’s waving at me. “Dare you to come through the door!” she shouts.
She dared me, darn it. Did that little girl just dare me? At first I wondered who she was. She’s not any of my kids, of course. Oh yeah, of course. I know that girl. “You come back here. You’re supposed to be hangin’ with me!” I shouted to her.
“Try and catch me if you can!” the girl yelled, her long hair bobbing up and down, her little pixie face all crinkled in a big smile.
But there’s no way I’m as fast as that precocious little girl. I would never be able to catch her. She’s off and at it again. She’s my muse and she’s run away through the small door that I can’t squeeze through and I’ve gotta catch her if I can. I haven’t even tried to squeeze through the door in a long time. It’s bright and sunny over there on the other side and the grass at the park is a deep green – back when they’d run the sprinklers in…in…where the heck is she anyway? Is that Golden Gate Park? Yes, it’s gotta be. Yes, it is. That little girl, my muse, stepped away from the doorway and I couldn’t see her.
“Hey, where’d you go? You come back here!” I yelled. Suddenly, the young girl ran by the doorway, taunting me yet again.
“Well, come and get me. C’mon. What are you so afraid of?” She stood still for a moment, watching me, looking so cute in her turquoise bell bottom pants and striped blue and white t-shirt to match. For a moment I loved her as much as I loved my own kids…even though she was a very bad little girl for not listening to me.
What was I afraid of? I mean, it was a small door, but I should be able to squeeze through it. I might have to bend down and heave myself through, but why not?
“Okay, okay, I’m coming after you. I ran over to the small child-sized door and pushed myself through. It was a tight fit, and for a moment I thought I’d be stuck like Winnie the Pooh was when he tried to get down the rabbit hole. But I squeezed some more, and…and…oh it feels so tight, I thought, so tight, but I think I’m gonna make it.
“Aha!” I burst out into the other side, where the sun was shining down on the Greens, a small triangular shaped meadow in Golden Gate Park where I played as a kid. And there she was, that little muse of mine smiling up at me.
“See, it wasn’t that bad, was it? I knew you could do it!”
She grabbed my hand and we skipped through the grass and my knees didn’t even ache.
She dared me, darn it. Did that little girl just dare me? At first I wondered who she was. She’s not any of my kids, of course. Oh yeah, of course. I know that girl. “You come back here. You’re supposed to be hangin’ with me!” I shouted to her.
“Try and catch me if you can!” the girl yelled, her long hair bobbing up and down, her little pixie face all crinkled in a big smile.
But there’s no way I’m as fast as that precocious little girl. I would never be able to catch her. She’s off and at it again. She’s my muse and she’s run away through the small door that I can’t squeeze through and I’ve gotta catch her if I can. I haven’t even tried to squeeze through the door in a long time. It’s bright and sunny over there on the other side and the grass at the park is a deep green – back when they’d run the sprinklers in…in…where the heck is she anyway? Is that Golden Gate Park? Yes, it’s gotta be. Yes, it is. That little girl, my muse, stepped away from the doorway and I couldn’t see her.
“Hey, where’d you go? You come back here!” I yelled. Suddenly, the young girl ran by the doorway, taunting me yet again.
“Well, come and get me. C’mon. What are you so afraid of?” She stood still for a moment, watching me, looking so cute in her turquoise bell bottom pants and striped blue and white t-shirt to match. For a moment I loved her as much as I loved my own kids…even though she was a very bad little girl for not listening to me.
What was I afraid of? I mean, it was a small door, but I should be able to squeeze through it. I might have to bend down and heave myself through, but why not?
“Okay, okay, I’m coming after you. I ran over to the small child-sized door and pushed myself through. It was a tight fit, and for a moment I thought I’d be stuck like Winnie the Pooh was when he tried to get down the rabbit hole. But I squeezed some more, and…and…oh it feels so tight, I thought, so tight, but I think I’m gonna make it.
“Aha!” I burst out into the other side, where the sun was shining down on the Greens, a small triangular shaped meadow in Golden Gate Park where I played as a kid. And there she was, that little muse of mine smiling up at me.
“See, it wasn’t that bad, was it? I knew you could do it!”
She grabbed my hand and we skipped through the grass and my knees didn’t even ache.
A Small Door - Jackie Davis-Martin
In the dream the door, like the others, opened into a shed of sorts, a small room filled with ice and snow. That was at first. When she returned (and who knew why she was returning?) she felt she should clear them. She had a shovel. The first room, the first shed that is, was satisfying in that she scooped up the slush and tossed it outside, exposing the wooden floor, making it useable she remembered thinking although as I write this I’m not sure what it was useable for. Heartened, she moved to the next room, with her shovel. These rooms were separate entities, separated, accessible by a step or two, but the next room had had its sludgy ice, its frozen mounds, now transformed to small sculptures of ice which hung by red threads or ribbons. Strange she hadn’t noticed that before, had thought the ice was all of one piece, but it wasn’t; it was of discrete sculptures, maybe angels, maybe birds, so jammed together they appeared at first to be one ice cluster. She reached for a small, narrow bird—or angel-- on its red streamer and put it in her purse. Maybe it would last; maybe it would be glass when she looked at it again.
How would she reach her mother? How would she let her know that there would be someone waiting to pick her up in the ice and snow so the woman wouldn’t be anxious? The phone number was back at the house, back at a house, maybe hers, and she didn’t have a copy of it, nor any way of returning in the snow, which was thick, but pleasant, too, really. Her mother was part of some shared-number cooperative and there was no way of calling and asking about it either. Well, they would be there. She and someone else, a man.
The third door was open as she approached, blocked by a great wedge of ribbed ice, as though a cascade of water had tumbled upon itself and froze just like that. She slid her shovel, a shovel now flat and silver and sleek as the spatula I use for getting salmon off the grill—only larger, of course—under the great wedge and moved it, in its completeness, out of the doorway. The window in the room also had a frozen overspill, much like a window box hanging into the room, thick with frozen symmetrical modules, and at first she turned the shovel over to perhaps hack at it, to knock it down and push it from the room, but then she noticed the beauty of the ice here, too, too beautiful to push aside, to destroy. She’d leave it that way, although god knows how they’d manage around it. Maybe others would admire it, too. She marveled that she hadn’t seen, the first time through, the sculptures in this room, either, next to the window box, the glossy ice formations. How had she missed such beauty?
Her watch said her mother was in the air right now. She’d go back to the house.
You, dear reader, have questions, don’t you? Who is the woman? How old is she? Where exactly is she? A tundra? A tundra of frozen shacks with small doors? Is she even wearing boots? I’ll try to answer. In some ways the woman is me, but she’s too young, isn’t she, worrying about a mother that died fifteen years ago, died then at over eighty? In other ways the woman is my daughter, back East in all the snow, sealed into her apartment for days and marveling over the formations of ice over her plants and deck chairs. The mother in the air would in that case be me because I often fly out to see her, to see my daughter, except not this weekend.
The anxiety is surely my own because it hovers always in one disguise or another, here a mother in the air, unsettled. The ice and snow should be fearful but they are not; they are beautiful discoveries in little rooms; they are what I wasn’t aware of at first. I like to think that those rooms of ice and snow are my writing. It’s easy to walk by the small door and not see it at all, hidden as it is by something else, but once inside, well, there it is: a discovery I hadn’t considered, hadn’t imagined before.
But entering doors of frozen rooms was my dream last night, and the door was this morning’s prompt, There are no end of small doors, really.
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
--Samuel Taylor Coleridge, “Kubla Khan”
How would she reach her mother? How would she let her know that there would be someone waiting to pick her up in the ice and snow so the woman wouldn’t be anxious? The phone number was back at the house, back at a house, maybe hers, and she didn’t have a copy of it, nor any way of returning in the snow, which was thick, but pleasant, too, really. Her mother was part of some shared-number cooperative and there was no way of calling and asking about it either. Well, they would be there. She and someone else, a man.
The third door was open as she approached, blocked by a great wedge of ribbed ice, as though a cascade of water had tumbled upon itself and froze just like that. She slid her shovel, a shovel now flat and silver and sleek as the spatula I use for getting salmon off the grill—only larger, of course—under the great wedge and moved it, in its completeness, out of the doorway. The window in the room also had a frozen overspill, much like a window box hanging into the room, thick with frozen symmetrical modules, and at first she turned the shovel over to perhaps hack at it, to knock it down and push it from the room, but then she noticed the beauty of the ice here, too, too beautiful to push aside, to destroy. She’d leave it that way, although god knows how they’d manage around it. Maybe others would admire it, too. She marveled that she hadn’t seen, the first time through, the sculptures in this room, either, next to the window box, the glossy ice formations. How had she missed such beauty?
Her watch said her mother was in the air right now. She’d go back to the house.
You, dear reader, have questions, don’t you? Who is the woman? How old is she? Where exactly is she? A tundra? A tundra of frozen shacks with small doors? Is she even wearing boots? I’ll try to answer. In some ways the woman is me, but she’s too young, isn’t she, worrying about a mother that died fifteen years ago, died then at over eighty? In other ways the woman is my daughter, back East in all the snow, sealed into her apartment for days and marveling over the formations of ice over her plants and deck chairs. The mother in the air would in that case be me because I often fly out to see her, to see my daughter, except not this weekend.
The anxiety is surely my own because it hovers always in one disguise or another, here a mother in the air, unsettled. The ice and snow should be fearful but they are not; they are beautiful discoveries in little rooms; they are what I wasn’t aware of at first. I like to think that those rooms of ice and snow are my writing. It’s easy to walk by the small door and not see it at all, hidden as it is by something else, but once inside, well, there it is: a discovery I hadn’t considered, hadn’t imagined before.
But entering doors of frozen rooms was my dream last night, and the door was this morning’s prompt, There are no end of small doors, really.
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
--Samuel Taylor Coleridge, “Kubla Khan”
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