As soon as the plane picked up speed on the runway and Olivia felt her body being pressed back into seat she fell into a deep sleep. She woke with her mouth hanging open and a thin string of drool running down to her shoulder. She discretely reached up and wiped her hand across the back of her mouth and gently twisted her neck back into a vertical position.
“That’s the trouble with sleeping on airplanes,” the dark haired man sitting on the aisle said smiling.
Olivia tried to smile back but actually felt angry that the man had the nerve to comment that he had noticed. If there was one thing Olivia respected, it was privacy in the midst of strangers. She turned and looked out at the ocean below. They were flying into darkness from the near eternal sun of summer Alaska. She felt herself growing tired and welcoming the night. She’d been coming to Homer for the past two summers and still hadn’t gotten over the disorienting light that peaked on the summer soltice. The first week or two she was filled with a restless energy during what should have been the nighttime and then found herself sleepwalking through her days. She wanted to the surrender to the weariness in her bones and the ache in her heart and escape again into the oblivion of sleep. She wondered how she could screen herself from mister-notice-everything at the end of the isle. She poked her head up and saw that a window seat in the last row of the airplane was open. She gave a chilly smile as she moved into the isle and escaped to the far corner. Her bundled sweater served as pillow and she drifted off quickly, putting what lay ahead out of her mind.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Friday, March 4, 2011
Letting Go - Jennifer Baljko
She went to the shrink. She wanted to see more clearly the pattern of events she had let happen, that had let tear her apart. More, she wanted to let go of the feeling that she had somehow failed him, the one she had once loved like no other. The man sitting before with glasses, behind his big desk, told her to visualize walking across a field with her lover. He told her to arrive at the sea where a boat was docked. She was to put the man she had once loved in the boat, and send him off. Just like that. He said this would heal her. She tried it. She and her beloved reached the dock, and sat there for hours, long after sunset had chilled their bones. She tried again and again to cast him away. She would give her lover a life jacket, a kiss on the cheek, a hug. She would push him off to his never, never land, and then throw him a line, happy to reel him back in. He wouldn’t go. She couldn’t let him. She did this for days, weeks, months even. Then one day, for no good reason, it happened. She said goodbye. He motored out towards the horizon. She walked away, didn’t turn back. Hadn’t seen him waving goodbye.
Letting Go - Anna Teeples
It was on the second floor in the Mission and her name was Sweet Cecelia. Grace had been there twice before to just talk with her and review the design. As an artist Grace knew what she wanted and had sketched it for her to review. Sweet Cecelia stared at Grace at their first meeting and merely asked, “Are you sure?” Today was the day. Grace was there and ready. She was letting go of all the judgments, the taboos and opinions. She was ready to have her own design; a small piece of art permanently inked and inserted into her virginal skin. It was a passage that was much more than skin deep.
Letting Go - Melody Cryns
No matter where I go or what I do, no matter what path I travel in my life, memories of my mother surround me and envelop me – they never go away. She appears in my dream wearing that flannel nightgown she always wore, telling me that it’s time to unpack those boxes. Bookcases stuffed with books surround me in the bedroom where I sleep – some of them old books filled with memories, hopes and dreams, magic and imagination. I can never let go of the books. I lug them with me everywhere no matter how many times we move. And we’ve moved a lot of times.
I want to tell my little grandson when he arrives about my mother, who would have been “Great Grandma Mary,” when he arrives in July – I want to take baby Jeremiah, who will also be named after my grandfather, my mother’s father whom she loved so much, on the same paths in Golden Gate Park I’d traveled on with my mother and then again with my own kids. I’ll show him the rhodenderon gardens and the Japanese Tea Garden, and forget that the old museums have been torn down in favor of the new – only the wall of the old Academy of Sciences remain, but the green park benches can still be found, thank heavens – and the trails, the paths we walked on, still remain. If you walk down the trail, you can forget that the changes ever even happened. You can find lovely lakes and the old electric boats and row boats still glide around Stow Lake, the brown lake with Strawberry Island in the middle. If you listen closely, you might hear a bunch of kids yelling and playing – me and all my friends in the neighborhood.
At the end of the day, when the shadows get bigger and the sky becomes a little darker, we all head close to home – because when our Moms go out on to the stoop to yell for us, we’d better be able to hear them.
And, sure enough, like clockwork – because we could tell what time it was just by where the sun was – no one ever wore a watch or anything. Our moms really had no idea where we were even – all they could do was tell us, “Don’t go to Whiskey Hill, it’s dangerous!” But we knew that as long as we were within hearing shot at the end of the day, then all would be well.
I can still hear my mother’s loud, dramatic voice yelling, “Mary, Michael, Jennifer!” over and over again like a mantra. Then we’d hear other mothers, not as loud and distinct, but still ringing through the air. “David, Barry, time to come in!” their mother would shout with her distinct Irish brogue. Other moms would yell names too, and soon they all became blended in with one another, but our mom’s voice was always the loudest and most distinct – at least to us.
Mom and me fell in love with the Beatles together, and would often sing songs while walking down the street, embarrassing the heck out of my brother and sister. That was when she felt loose and free on the weekends, letting her hair down instead of wearing it up. Friday nights were always the best because we’d always go out to eat – either we’d go to Top’s Doughnuts on Irving Street where they served really good hamburgers or to that Fish n’ Chips place on Haight Street where we’d get fish and chips with vinegar sprinkled on it, wrap them in newspaper and bring them to that little lake on Stanyan and Haight Street where we’d all sit on a park bench and eat and Mom would tell us that the English people also used newspaper to wrap their fish and chips in – now I can’t even imagine eating food with newspaper ink anywhere near it!
But even now as I sit at home surrounded by some of the books that surrounded me throughout my childhood, I know that I will never be able to let go.
I want to tell my little grandson when he arrives about my mother, who would have been “Great Grandma Mary,” when he arrives in July – I want to take baby Jeremiah, who will also be named after my grandfather, my mother’s father whom she loved so much, on the same paths in Golden Gate Park I’d traveled on with my mother and then again with my own kids. I’ll show him the rhodenderon gardens and the Japanese Tea Garden, and forget that the old museums have been torn down in favor of the new – only the wall of the old Academy of Sciences remain, but the green park benches can still be found, thank heavens – and the trails, the paths we walked on, still remain. If you walk down the trail, you can forget that the changes ever even happened. You can find lovely lakes and the old electric boats and row boats still glide around Stow Lake, the brown lake with Strawberry Island in the middle. If you listen closely, you might hear a bunch of kids yelling and playing – me and all my friends in the neighborhood.
At the end of the day, when the shadows get bigger and the sky becomes a little darker, we all head close to home – because when our Moms go out on to the stoop to yell for us, we’d better be able to hear them.
And, sure enough, like clockwork – because we could tell what time it was just by where the sun was – no one ever wore a watch or anything. Our moms really had no idea where we were even – all they could do was tell us, “Don’t go to Whiskey Hill, it’s dangerous!” But we knew that as long as we were within hearing shot at the end of the day, then all would be well.
I can still hear my mother’s loud, dramatic voice yelling, “Mary, Michael, Jennifer!” over and over again like a mantra. Then we’d hear other mothers, not as loud and distinct, but still ringing through the air. “David, Barry, time to come in!” their mother would shout with her distinct Irish brogue. Other moms would yell names too, and soon they all became blended in with one another, but our mom’s voice was always the loudest and most distinct – at least to us.
Mom and me fell in love with the Beatles together, and would often sing songs while walking down the street, embarrassing the heck out of my brother and sister. That was when she felt loose and free on the weekends, letting her hair down instead of wearing it up. Friday nights were always the best because we’d always go out to eat – either we’d go to Top’s Doughnuts on Irving Street where they served really good hamburgers or to that Fish n’ Chips place on Haight Street where we’d get fish and chips with vinegar sprinkled on it, wrap them in newspaper and bring them to that little lake on Stanyan and Haight Street where we’d all sit on a park bench and eat and Mom would tell us that the English people also used newspaper to wrap their fish and chips in – now I can’t even imagine eating food with newspaper ink anywhere near it!
But even now as I sit at home surrounded by some of the books that surrounded me throughout my childhood, I know that I will never be able to let go.
Picking up the Pieces - E. D. James
Arnold flashed from the past back to the present as the caravan of cars led by a green forest service truck moved past the blockades and up towards the cone. Horns honked and hands waved out of windows expressing the joy people felt at being able to return to the homes and cabins that were now declared safe. Arnold only felt his stomach sink and the frustration that had cost him his job five years ago rose up again. He’d almost been able to leave it behind. The meditation, the counseling sessions, and his daily workout sessions had allowed much of the anger to dissipate. But now, listening to the announcers stumble through the information that the seismologists had given them that served as the basis for the decision to open the area around Medicine Lake again, Arnold felt it all well up in him again. He knew in his core that they were wrong. That they were misinterpreting the data and that it would lead to disaster. All that would be left would be to go in and pick up the pieces of what was little would remain of peoples lives and possessions.
He thought back to that day when he had first seen the future in the bottom of Boulder Canyon. It had been one of those clear, still, incredibly hot summer days. As he pushed his raft into the cool water of Cache Creek he felt like one of the luckiest geologists on the planet. He’d spend the day drifting along making a strip map of the rocks that lined the canyon. He had salami sandwiches and beer for lunch and was looking forward to a little beach about half way down the canyon that his professor had told him about. Skinny dipping and sunshine. A fine day ahead.
The cool water kept the bottom of the raft cool. He felt the current pick up as he moved to the center of the creek. The walls of the canyon steepened ahead of him. He paddled into a little eddy at the side of the creek as he entered the section and put the raft up on a boulder so that he could study the cliffs rising above him. At first he thought that what he was seeing was an optical illusion created by the bright sunlight and the shadows of the cliffs. But as he studied it he realized that what he was seeing was something real, something significant. There was a change in the sediments about halfway up the three hundred foot wall. The rocks above had the characteristic reddish, tan hue of sediments that were deposited by rivers and lakes and streams. The rocks below were grey and menacing. He looked down at the map he had brought with him. Those that had gone before him had mapped the color change, but the interpretation was that the darker sediments were deposited into the arm of the ocean that had once occupied this part of the landscape. Arnold knew this was wrong.
He thought back to that day when he had first seen the future in the bottom of Boulder Canyon. It had been one of those clear, still, incredibly hot summer days. As he pushed his raft into the cool water of Cache Creek he felt like one of the luckiest geologists on the planet. He’d spend the day drifting along making a strip map of the rocks that lined the canyon. He had salami sandwiches and beer for lunch and was looking forward to a little beach about half way down the canyon that his professor had told him about. Skinny dipping and sunshine. A fine day ahead.
The cool water kept the bottom of the raft cool. He felt the current pick up as he moved to the center of the creek. The walls of the canyon steepened ahead of him. He paddled into a little eddy at the side of the creek as he entered the section and put the raft up on a boulder so that he could study the cliffs rising above him. At first he thought that what he was seeing was an optical illusion created by the bright sunlight and the shadows of the cliffs. But as he studied it he realized that what he was seeing was something real, something significant. There was a change in the sediments about halfway up the three hundred foot wall. The rocks above had the characteristic reddish, tan hue of sediments that were deposited by rivers and lakes and streams. The rocks below were grey and menacing. He looked down at the map he had brought with him. Those that had gone before him had mapped the color change, but the interpretation was that the darker sediments were deposited into the arm of the ocean that had once occupied this part of the landscape. Arnold knew this was wrong.
Picking up the Pieces - Bonnie Smetts
“Come, get up.” Ash held out his hand and Marjorie took it. She hated feeling weak and she hated the guilt of lying. “Now, shall we go downstairs and see what our daughter is up to?”
Marjorie unfolded up toward her husband. “Let’s do that. I’m so sorry to have startled you. I must have fallen asleep there. I don’t know how long I’ve been here.” She laughed. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she passed by and for a second didn’t recognize the person she saw.
Downstairs Charlotte was racing around the sunroom, the sun never having arrived this day with the rain. “Mommy, Daddy, look at the trees outside.”
They followed her to the glass doors out to the garden. “What dear? What is it you want us to see?” Ash took Charlotte’s hand and kneeled down to see at her level. “What’s there?”
Marjorie held her breath.
“Look, Daddy. The lady is floating under the tree again. She loves it when it rains, Daddy.”
“Charlotte, there is no one out there.”
“Daddy, she saw us so she went away now. You saw her. She was there in the orange dress.” Charlotte backed up from her father.
“Charlotte, you can’t be making things up.”
“I’m not making up. Mommy, Mommy, I know you saw her.” Marjorie stood still, frozen between her daughter and what she knew was outside.
“Dear I didn’t see anything.” Charlotte looked at Marjorie and her stomach clinched. She didn’t want to disappoint Charlotte, but they couldn’t go on with her seeing what wasn’t outside. That woman, Marjorie wished that woman would stop showing up in the garden.
Sarah came from the kitchen carrying lemonades. Like a cool breeze, the sight of the tall glasses filled with ice and deep green mint leaves calmed Marjorie. She let her eyes rest on the glasses as they came closer. “Here we are. Something fresh to cool this heat.”
Marjorie begged for something to cool the heat.
Marjorie unfolded up toward her husband. “Let’s do that. I’m so sorry to have startled you. I must have fallen asleep there. I don’t know how long I’ve been here.” She laughed. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she passed by and for a second didn’t recognize the person she saw.
Downstairs Charlotte was racing around the sunroom, the sun never having arrived this day with the rain. “Mommy, Daddy, look at the trees outside.”
They followed her to the glass doors out to the garden. “What dear? What is it you want us to see?” Ash took Charlotte’s hand and kneeled down to see at her level. “What’s there?”
Marjorie held her breath.
“Look, Daddy. The lady is floating under the tree again. She loves it when it rains, Daddy.”
“Charlotte, there is no one out there.”
“Daddy, she saw us so she went away now. You saw her. She was there in the orange dress.” Charlotte backed up from her father.
“Charlotte, you can’t be making things up.”
“I’m not making up. Mommy, Mommy, I know you saw her.” Marjorie stood still, frozen between her daughter and what she knew was outside.
“Dear I didn’t see anything.” Charlotte looked at Marjorie and her stomach clinched. She didn’t want to disappoint Charlotte, but they couldn’t go on with her seeing what wasn’t outside. That woman, Marjorie wished that woman would stop showing up in the garden.
Sarah came from the kitchen carrying lemonades. Like a cool breeze, the sight of the tall glasses filled with ice and deep green mint leaves calmed Marjorie. She let her eyes rest on the glasses as they came closer. “Here we are. Something fresh to cool this heat.”
Marjorie begged for something to cool the heat.
Picking up the Pieces - Judy Albietz
In a flash, Bakari was at the base of the cinder cone. Even though the actual distance was several miles, all Bakari had to do was to use his inner eye to see himself in another place and he’d be there. Just another perk for being an extension of the Time Portal, he thought. He usually saved his energy and traveled around on Borealis like everyone else—in real time—in real space. But this was an exception. He had to do this without Sam knowing what he was up to. Five minutes left.
Bakari centered his short half-flesh half-plastic self on the trail. Glad he still had some feeling in this body, he wiggled his metallic toes against the sharp edges of the lava-rock gravel. Then he looked up to where Sam and the Blue Monkeys stood near the top of the cinder cone. The big dog was silhouetted against the bright blue sky. Bakari had shielded himself so Sam wouldn’t spot him.
Bakari had no doubt he’d be able to pull this off. But he did have some concerns about what kind of shape he’d be in when it was over—in just two minutes. Bakari used the remaining time to survey the scene.
Everything was proceeding just as in his vision. The outsiders’ ship had arrived. The humans were climbing onto the beach. From there, they would take a trail to the top of the cinder cone—where Sam and the others waited. The humans wouldn’t even pretend to be peaceful. One of them would immediately pull out some sort of weapon to shoot Sam in the chest. When the Blue Monkeys would try to stop them from leaving, the humans would kill them too.
It was time. Now the humans are in for a surprise, Bakari thought to himself. Looking inwardly, he quickly located the coordinates of a safe place in time and space. He took a deep inhale into his plastic lungs. Staring up at Sam and the Blue Monkeys, he imagined a bubble around them. That triggered the familiar chiming sounds of time travel. Then the bubble was empty. Bakari knew this would take almost all his energy reserves. He smiled weakly. Then he collapsed to the ground.
Bakari centered his short half-flesh half-plastic self on the trail. Glad he still had some feeling in this body, he wiggled his metallic toes against the sharp edges of the lava-rock gravel. Then he looked up to where Sam and the Blue Monkeys stood near the top of the cinder cone. The big dog was silhouetted against the bright blue sky. Bakari had shielded himself so Sam wouldn’t spot him.
Bakari had no doubt he’d be able to pull this off. But he did have some concerns about what kind of shape he’d be in when it was over—in just two minutes. Bakari used the remaining time to survey the scene.
Everything was proceeding just as in his vision. The outsiders’ ship had arrived. The humans were climbing onto the beach. From there, they would take a trail to the top of the cinder cone—where Sam and the others waited. The humans wouldn’t even pretend to be peaceful. One of them would immediately pull out some sort of weapon to shoot Sam in the chest. When the Blue Monkeys would try to stop them from leaving, the humans would kill them too.
It was time. Now the humans are in for a surprise, Bakari thought to himself. Looking inwardly, he quickly located the coordinates of a safe place in time and space. He took a deep inhale into his plastic lungs. Staring up at Sam and the Blue Monkeys, he imagined a bubble around them. That triggered the familiar chiming sounds of time travel. Then the bubble was empty. Bakari knew this would take almost all his energy reserves. He smiled weakly. Then he collapsed to the ground.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
