Changing How it Turned Out - Kate Bueler

Changing how it turned out. I didn't know how it would turn out yet. But I had pieced together snapshots of scenes in my mini series of my mind. A melodrama of my heart and hope for the future. The qualities I liked in him played perfectly in this short by me. See I have a girlhood crush syndrome that my early 30s hasn't seemed to break. I get crushes on strangers. On the barista. On the neighbor. On the friend. On the dude I made out with once. Excitement from the first time, the first time feeling the taste of infatuation dances around me as I skip on the way home. I can't shake the excitement I feel for someone in the beginning. The beginning of anything. It might be my favorite part of it all.

I guess part of my giddiness is for the lightness I feel for the real thing. The real thing that does warm me beyond the beginning to the depths of companionship. I used to fall hard and fast but took a vacation from the every moving fast bullet train to the very slow one making every stop. And it first it was fine. It was okay. But boredom started to seep in through my pores. I still wanted adventure. I still wanted intrigue. I still wanted to feel my heart pump with excitement. The slow train was slow. And I wanted more. But how to walk of the line of want I want long term and what I desire short term? Can I have both the excitement and stability as I walk on this tightrope of love with my heart jumping in and out of my chest to my sleeve and back again?

I don't know. But I do know. I need vacations. Vacations from the slow train. I pull the stop and jump out and try something new. Unplanned and spontaneous. And so easy just to be. And then I feel the warmth of another around me soothing the need for now. But later as the scenes of the future play out. Sometimes I want more scenes. I want more snapshots. And I can't help but wonder how it will turn out. In thinking about it, can I change how it will? Or the faith I feel in things coming together allows me not to change anything at all. See sometimes you meet someone while on vacation from the things you are supposed to be doing that makes the excitement and wonder grow inside as you think what will be next. For you. For him. And the excitement tastes good and I force myself not to wonder how it will turn out. Or to change the ending. I just want another line. Another paragraph. Another chapter. Of this book.

Changing How it Turned Out - Anna Teeples

I need to fry some bananas. I got nothing on today's prompt and I know that when I am stuck on writing, you write anyways. It was a day full of tough messages to people who needed to hear things that they did not want to hear. Somewhere in all of this muck, I know I am changing something. Like a giant splinter stuck in my soul needing to work it's way out. And now, the splinter is out and there's a small tender wound needing attention. I finally have that space to rediscover some of me that has been caked in mud. At the end of a long day, when you are feeling worn out and broken, you gotta change the day.

I picked up my little battle worn skittle, turned on the gas burner and sprayed a fine layer of oil. I peeled a banana and sliced the knife through the long length of the yellow meaty center. I placed a half on the hot surface with a sizzle. Sprinkling a dusting of cinnamon while smelling the sweetness ooze into the air, I wait patiently as the sliced side caramelizes just a bit before turning it over. In a matter of minutes, my mouth is watering and anxious for the first bite of warm banana. The beauty of this wonderful delight is the un-necessity of any other accompaniment, no need for chocolate or ice cream or warm dripping caramel. Just bananas, fried bananas. A perfect ending to soul shifting day.

Changing How it Turned Out - Melody Cryns

We live in a lovely little home amid trees and flowers with a garden, slightly unkempt in front. The house looks like an English cottage – it’s the house I passed by almost every day those few months we lived in San Jose near the Rose Garden neighborhood. But the house isn’t in San Jose – no, it’s right by the beach in Santa Cruz. We can walk to the beach with the harbor and the lighthouse.

My mother, who thankfully quit smoking when she was younger, is still around and comes to visit often. Megan invites her lovely friends over. She’s almost finished with high school and is graduating at almost the top of her class. My older kids are all very successful and happy, well adjusted young adults. I am making a living as a teacher and a writer, and I’m not stressed out about work at all. Every day I walk down to the beach with my ukulele and the dog and let her play in the waves – and I play my uke on the beach, sometimes alone and sometimes with all of my uke playing friends.

We make trips to San Francisco often, and usually stay at the Seal Rock Inn which overlooks the Cliff House and Land’s End – or we stay at Melissa’s house in Twin Peaks. I always travel down Highway 1 to get to San Francisco because who’s in a hurry?

Although I do have to teach at certain times, I’m pretty much free to do what I want and go wherever I want – I can always make ukulele jam get togethers and acoustic jams, and of course, there’s always time to sit and write.

If I want to take a nap in the middle of the day, I do it – lying down on a hammock in my lovely backyard.

Of course, I have a wonderful dependable car that never causes any problems at all – a BMW that gets me to where I want to go in no time at all, a zippy little car with all the bells and whistles anyone could want. Sweet car!

I’ve already published a book and another one is coming out soon. I’ve got it made in the shade, oh yeah! I’m going on a book tour soon with my ukulele so I can play music, sing and read from my writings. Life is really good – there’s always someone at the house to take care of the animals, and my daughter is so incredibly responsible. I trust her totally and completely. Oh and how can I forget my wonderful, hot loving boyfriend who is always there for me? He even travels with me and pays his own way and everything!

Sigh…

As I sit here and listen to Beatles music, I smile – thinking of how my life could have been, wondering if I truly would have changed the path if I could have.

I live in a one-bedroom apartment in Sunnyvale off El Camino with my incorrigible 18-year-old daughter Megan. She needs to get her act together and finish high school – and get a job of course. Our little dog likes to bark at everyone that walks by our apartment, and I had to leave her alone today because Megan’s off gallivanting around in Monterey, or Santa Cruz – not sure where. And she doesn’t want to come home. Not that I blame her, but still.

My little car overheated on the way to Sacramento for no apparent reason and the last time we lived in a house was when we lived in Oregon – but it was a sort of run-down house on a cul-de-sac just outside Salem, Oregon.

Mom passed away back in 1997 when the older kids were teenagers and Megan was only four, right before I fled from Oregon and moved back down to California with all of my kids – driving a piece of crap old Chevy Cavalier car that my son’s friend had given us – that was after the last car had broken down before that one.

We ended up having to move several times to dodge the high rents in the San Francisco Bay Area, and one time just because there were too many teenagers hanging around my place. There were always too many teenagers hanging around my place.

Now here I sit listening to Beatles music, wondering where Megan is and if Jen will be okay – that’s Jeremy’s girlfriend. She was so stressed out about the pregnancy and moving that she went on disability and she’s having a rough time. Now that my older daughter Melissa is getting a job, will she be able to start paying me back? Will she be able to pay off that bail bond I still get phone calls for because apparently they have my name and number?

Death - Jackie Davis-Martin

In general...there's no point in writing hopeless novels. We all know we're going to die; what's important is the kind of men and women we are in the face of this.
-Anne Lamott

Claire didn’t know what kind of woman she would be in the face of death. She hadn’t thought about it. It was even an odd consideration, later. I will be strong. I will be the sort of person whom others will marvel at. I will be private.

Anne Lamott was more likely referring to the characteristics one exhibited facing one’s own death. And, more likely, she was using death as a metaphor for crisis or catastrophe, or the “trouble” that the character faces. And in a story it’s not death that’s important, it’s the character’s reaction. Will she be noble? Will she be a mess?

Claire was a writer, one who had dodged real death in stories, substituting instead some other crisis—money, sexual tension, even, as she got more philosophical, the meaning of life, of certain actions one would take. Some of her friends wrote stories where family hovered at bedsides, or consulted anxiously with doctors. A few had near-death experiences, of high risk.

In these stories, the risky people survived to tell the tale. The family dealt with the bravery of the old man or the old woman who had lived a long and meaningful life and spoken something important at the end.

They could all discuss the reality of what had been written.

What happened, though, was that death came to Claire, and Claire had to face it. She didn’t know that facing it showed what kind of woman she was one way or the other. Take today, for instance, a small anniversary of that death. If she were writing about it, or re-creating such an event, she would certainly substitute something other than the golden sky outside her windows, the light tingeing the houses on high hilltops, sun glinting from windows like the spangles on the dance costumes both she and her daughter loved. She wouldn’t use that detail, though, because it didn’t fit the sadness she felt.

In a story she would have her character stand at the window and marvel that the beauty of the sky turning pink and blue and gold was still hers, that the birds’ chirping was comforting, something to truly listen to, and therefore of great value. She would have her character note the majesty of the lighted pillars in the garden across the street, the lights lighting the light of day just breaking, the stillness and silence of a day not quite under way.

In reality hers—Claire’s—was underway and, although she looked out the window at these things, she looked past her daughter’s pictures, and thought two things: Who was she? And why isn’t she here? Mostly she thought, Is it possible, really? Claire’s character wouldn’t mention that she couldn’t bear to look at those pictures, nor bear to remove them, since such wavering would show unsteadiness. People who looked for ready themes would pounce on that: denial. Claire disliked ready themes, exhibiting, at times, another of them: anger.

None of these behaviors was pretty, or of high character.

She’d pour herself another cup of coffee, strong and black and halved with milk, and write what she was trying to understand of life and death.

Anne Lamott. Claire didn’t know anything about Anne Lamott. What had she endured? But a writer didn’t have to endure, first hand. The writer’s job was to imagine.

And imagining, pretending, was the reality that made sense. Claire could pretend to be Claire, for instance. She would be brave because people liked to be with others who were brave, who were gay, who showed strength of character.

The other characters would like Claire better, feel more at ease, if she became a character, and not her true self. They’d like her better if they didn’t truly know the importance of what she was going through; they’d prefer her character to show strength in the face of this.

This.

This.

The Place Where She's Most Uncomfortable - Elizabeth Weld Nolan

I am visiting the house of a stranger. The couch and chairs in the living room are covered with plastic made to fit their yellow contours. Doilies and coasters cover each little table where family photos stand at attention in their upright frames.

A purple and black portrait of Jesus over the fireplace shows him hanging from the cross in a drawing that could be taken from a graphic novel, so lurid are the colors. The only cabinet holds china dishes and a collection of girl dolls, their little bow mouths bright red against their white faces. They are dressed in long gowns of another century. The legs of the furniture stand in little cups on the pale carpet.

I press my knees, clad in blue pants, together. My ankle bones touch. Then I notice: There are no books. Not one. No, there is one. A large Bible with a white leather cover, sits on a round table by itself on top of a lace runner. I smile at my hostess, the mother of my college roommate who is rebelling against everything. I have been listening to her for a year, and I see, in this, my first visit to her house, that with all her opinions and philosophical rants, she has told me nothing about her family.

``I don’t usually invite people,’’ she had said in our dorm room, pulling on her (illegal) cigarette.

``Thank you, Mrs. Whickett, for having me,’’ I say.

``We’re glad to have you, dear,’’ she says. ``We’re so curious about Mary’s friends from college. So you’re from Massachusetts?’’

``Yes, ma’am. The Boston area.’’

``What church do you go to there?’’ She looks excited and a flush comes across her pale cheeks.

``The Unitarian Church. I helped run the Sunday School in high school.’’

``Sunday School!’’ She looks pleased and glances at Mary who lounges (or slips off the plastic?) on an armchair. ``Do you read Scripture with the children?’’

``Well,’’ I shift on my own plastic, ``we make sure they know the Bible stories.’’

``The New Testament?’’

``Both,’’ I say. ``We study all religions.’’

``Unity Church, did you say?’’

``No, Unitarian. We believe in one Creator. That’s why that name.’’ She sits up straighter. I think she’s actually wearing a corset under her flowered dress. It’s hard to believe she’s the mother of my casual roommate or that my intellectually voracious friend came from this house.

``Do you take Jesus for your Savior?’’ she asks sternly, suspecting the worst. She’s right.

``Well, not exactly,’’ I say, realizing I’m about to go over the edge. ``We believe he was a great teacher and historical figure.’’

``Oh my dear,’’ she says, ``let me help you understand the truth.’’ She reaches for the Bible and opens it. Mary sits up quickly.

``Mother,’’ she says, ``we have to go out. We’ll be back for dinner.’’ She stands and signals me.

``Uh – thank you, Mrs. Whickett. See you later.’’ As we go out the front door, I go limp with relief .

``Did I do all right?’’ I ask.

``Great,’’ she says and grins at me. I can see we are not going to talk about this, and that we never will. ``Let’s go to the movies.’’

She puts her arm through mine, and we swing into the freedom of the fresh winter air.

The Place Where He's Most Uncomfortable - Maria Robinson

It was Stan's second full day in Tel Aviv. He'd woken up in the middle of the night and walked into a wall. He smashed right into the reality that he was not at home in New York on West Side Drive. Miriam had screamed when she heard the thud and turned on the bedside light. " Stan, Stan, are you alright? You're in Israel, Stan". Stan had found his way to the toilet and she could hear with sound of a light fountain. Holding him by the forearm, she ushered back into the unfamiliar bed in his wife's 'sabbatical" apartment.

The Place Where He's Most Uncomfortable - Francisco Mora

At the top of a hill, the lane next to the taxi was moving in a steady stream. The taxi waited, twenty cars away from the light in the left-hand turn, waiting for a covered green. In the taxi, Jason turned to look looked at the cars flowing by. His thinking entered into that momentary disorientation that happens when you look at a moving and stationary object simultaneously. He didn’t say it, would he, he couldn’t know without saying something, or would that send the cabbie into rage like the one yesterday? Jason would be late though, and they would say ‘you’re always late’. He hates that but slightly less than sitting in a cab that’s going to be late and not making a suggestion he knows without doubt would make them early.

Jason’s thought had to, so it did get out, “you know, it’s a lot faster if you go straight here and turn left up at El Dorado a couple blocks because,”

“But you can get stuck right there in this intersection if someone crosses the street. That’s why I didn’t go that way.”

That’s true. But how many people walk in LA? He didn’t say it.

“You’re the boss, man, I’ll go straight, no problem.”

“It’s your call, really. I’m always open to new ways of getting around to avoid jams, which you guys always how to do.”

Jason stared and tried to focus on the poster behind the passenger seat in front of him of local restaurants in Silverlake and Los Feliz near downtown. The driver wasn’t unfriendly, assertive maybe. However, the exchange was enough to make Jason’s neck automatically go into spasms–side effects of chemotherapy on the brain’s command center. Then the neck and the shoulders started.

The cab reactivated Jasons’ authoritative personality and his prowess as a fine driver, professionally trained, to race cars and motorcycles for the fun of it. Driving performance was something Jason had taken for granted until illness made him dependent on other drivers and taxis. Come to think of it, though, taxis might not be the place where he is most uncomfortable.

He thought about the joke with his wife, that the worst part of the chemo sessions (even the surgeries to get tumors out of the neck and the hips) wasn’t the feeling of black substrate moving in his veins instead of nourishing red blood. (That river of void.) The worst thing was dealing with his father’s driving, that lurching tank plodding out of Cedars-Sinai. That broke all records. They had to break the arrangement made when Jason was twenty-four, that Jason would always drive, to avoid disastrous clashes. Dad, according to Jason, used the brakes more than the gas, and created dangerous situations—which wasn’t true.