Inspiration 7.0 [Archive] - Lounge of Tomorrow

Eliza Hodgkins 1812

02-05-2007, 01:50 AM

I do not have a name. None of us do. We are born the moment you think we are there and are frightened of us. For a small span of time you will think of little else besides us after you are tucked in and the lights go off. You will hear an unexpected creak, scratch or hum and know with certainty that I am there.

And so I am, thanks to you.

I mean you no harm. None of us have ill intentions. We are born from belief and soon you will forget all about us, but for now I wait for quiet words to fill my empty spaces. It begins with, “I know you’re there.”

I am. Hello. Your words make me happy.

“I can hear you breathing.”

Your imagination.

“You can’t hurt me.”

I would never occur to me to try. Keep talking. Your address is all that I can ever know. Your voice squeaks out a raspy trill which fills me with joy. To be known is to be loved.

Music is when you cry out for your mother. So long as you think I am there I belong to you. I am beholden. Your startled breaths, you sniffling nose, that fear sweat smell that muffles your milk scented skin. These mortal aspects of you are what weave my existence. Once you will be brave enough to send your head over the edge of the bed. I will hear you slink down, down, down until I can sense you there. When you look into the dark the dark looks back. I feel every atom of you. It is love, it is love, it is love.

“Please leave me alone.”

That is not how it works. We don’t leave. We are left. Maybe you will grow up. Maybe your breath stops tomorrow. I cannot know when it will happen but I do know someday you will die.

Not so with us. Once here we are always here. Entirely yours, like I said: beholden. When you figure out that the creak was your sister’s foot on the attic stair and the scratch just a tree branch irritating the window, when you understand that the hum is nothing more than an audible power line on your street you will master your fear and render me insensate. In deafness I will wait for the sound of your voice. I will forever feel its loss.

We pay our debts with remembrance.

tracilicious

02-05-2007, 07:42 AM

That totally rocked! :snap:

LSPoorEeyorick

09-05-2007, 05:44 PM

*bump*

Try this (http://www.flickr.com/photo_zoom.gne?id=138254670&size=l) on for size.

Kevy Baby

09-05-2007, 05:53 PM

Sorry LSPE. Since I didn't catch this thread the first time around, I am going to focus on the OP.
Can one ever feel love as deeply as one feels loss?I believe that love can be and is deeper than loss.

I can get over a loss. I hope to never get over my love for my wife.

Loss tends to start deep and fade away over time. Love starts out small, growing deeper with time if you allow yourself to surrender completely and totally to it.

I want to keep love in my life. I accept loss as part of my life. I work hard to keep love in my life and work hard to move past loss.

The pain of loss is temporary. The joy of love impacts one forever.

Loss is a hole than can be filled. Love is a mountain that continues to grow with no limits.

And that's what I have to say about that.

blueerica

09-05-2007, 06:16 PM

*bump*

Try this (http://www.flickr.com/photo_zoom.gne?id=138254670&size=l) on for size.

*bump* explanation:

Use the picture as a muse. New Topic.

I will see what may come of this from me. I'm itching to write something.

Cadaverous Pallor

09-05-2007, 06:59 PM

*bump*

Try this (http://www.flickr.com/photo_zoom.gne?id=138254670&size=l) on for size.Awesome photo! I'll be back.

Bornieo: Fully Loaded

09-05-2007, 07:07 PM

It's been about a year or so since I've written anything...

let me see if it still fits...

Cadaverous Pallor

09-05-2007, 08:33 PM

Outside Toys

Playing outside
sky was pretty
with clouds and blue in between
two friends were there
Shannon from across the street
Jodie from the house on the corner
we got bored of Treasure Hunt so we
went back into my room
Jodie saw the hammock (she’d never
been in my room before)
and got all excited
stuffed animals
put aside, no longer fun
“let’s play with ALL of them”
I didn’t know what else to do
so out they came into daylight

I was kinda worried my
parents wouldn’t like it
not “outside toys”
so we went to the side of the house

you know
the side
where the grass is dead
and the tree is lopped off
cause it’s easier and no one sees anyway

we used the old patio chairs
so White Teddy could organize a revolt
against Smarty King Lion’s regime
Duracell Bunny was lookout
Dumbo found out and tried to warn Lion
but he didn’t believe him
we were just getting to the part
where Panda refused to go along with the scheme
when Mom called me in

the girls ran off before I could turn around
there was all this stuff, outdoors, dirty
I knew I couldn’t get it in without mom seeing
so I figured I’d eat dinner
and sneak them in later

Dad brought home a new movie
about a kid’s toys that are real
so we watched it after dinner
then I went to bed

I woke up and remembered.
Looked out my window
snow
lots of snow, still falling
didn’t know it was so soon
there was nothing I could do
and I cried
and tried to hide it from mom
but she always knows

and I told her
(at least I was crying that
helps you not get in trouble)
and she was sad with me
and reminded me that here
in Juneau
the snow stays all winter
and that if we took them in now
it would be a lot of work
and they were already ruined

instead, I waited
stomped around in boots and
made snowmen
snow bunnies snow lions snow teddy bears
waited for spring

had to visit Gram for a weekend and came back and
the snow was gone
green was growing
and there they were
all wrecked

I was happy and sad too
found them and didn’t even need
a treasure map
my mistake was still here
on the side of the house where
no one sees

-- js 9/5/07

LSPoorEeyorick

09-05-2007, 08:41 PM

LoT say: no mojo for CP.

I say: **** that ****! Public mojo. We're off to an excellent start! I loved it!

we were just getting to the part
where Panda refused to go along with the scheme
when Mom called me in

Loved this line of thought. You're always so insightful about children's minds.

made snowmen
snow bunnies snow lions snow teddy bears
waited for spring

Wonderful, wistful image!

blueerica

09-05-2007, 08:53 PM

Neener, neener! I got to give her mojo!

Cadaverous Pallor

09-06-2007, 07:54 AM

I just have to stop everything and say THANK YOU to the wonderful LoT community for all your support. I know that you guys don't mojo for nothing and getting mojo for something I made up always stirs my emotions. This time around it's especially powerful to me, as it's been a while since I've stretched myself. I thank God and everything lucky that you guys are in my life, because you help me be a better writer, a better creative, a better person.

I MEAN IT. I love you guys. <hugs all around>

Boss Radio

09-06-2007, 09:32 AM

Beautiful imagery.
Bravo!

Cadaverous Pallor

09-07-2007, 10:59 AM

The rest of you writers better not leave me hanging out to dry. :p

LSPoorEeyorick

09-07-2007, 11:01 AM

I'm in the process of mine.

blueerica

09-07-2007, 12:06 PM

As am I...

Eliza Hodgkins 1812

09-07-2007, 02:29 PM

Delivered by Ann and Andy on Monday, January 22, 2007

Madam Bear, Vice President Lion, Members of Congress, distinguished guests, and fellow citizens:

We are in crisis.

At school they call us names: Dirt poor. Raggedy Ann and Andy. White ******s. It’s worse at home, where we’re called nothing at all. It is perhaps better to be hated by people who notice you than loved by someone who barely acknowledges your existence. Not that we’re completely neglected. We have a threadbare apartment to call our own and a hot dinner is always left in the oven when we arrive home from school. You know when people say, “What’s the matter, were you raised in a barn?!” Well, we grew up in a small city slum but were raised barn animal strong. Twelve years old and healthy. A roof over our heads, a place to eat, and enough bite between us to tear anyone apart who tries to mess with us.

Name calling is tolerated but we don’t like to be roughed up. Cindy Walls threw sand in our eyes last week and we wrestled her to the ground, then kicked her black and blue and bloody. We do hit girls. She cried and screamed and threatened to tell. We explained to her that tattling was as good as betrayal, and if she squealed we’d murder her dog first and then her mother. “Cindy,” we said, “we are a force of reckoning.” That’ll teach her to throw sand in our eyes.

There’s only so much **** eating you can do as a kid before you snap and it’s not our fault that people wrongly expect us to keep still through it all. Most domestic animals will take their beatings and remain loyal because they don’t know another way to live. Well, we are not that kind of animal. We know of better ways, even if those ways are mean. With tooth and claw, we will come at you if you take it upon yourself to mess with us first.

It's a matter of record that Dad left when we were born. Mama said he didn’t want one baby, let alone two. He said times were hard and they would only get harder with two extra mouths to feed. He was right about that, but she still says good riddance to a no good man. We say good riddance to good riddance, because our family could have used a second income.

It may seem hard to believe, but there is good in our hearts even if it's gone and leaked out of everyone else. For example, we are kind to animals and are good about recycling. We believe there is magic to be found in the world and we know we are here to make a difference. Together, all obstacles will be conquered. Together, we will make this a better world to live in, but first we must get rid of all the people. As your Presidents, we promise to increase our stockpile of nuclear weapons for that one great day when we will launch an attack against the crime that is Humanity. Like we told Cindy Walls, we are a force of reckoning.

Ladies and gentleman, we move through this dark world together and with confidence. Though we are miserable now, the State of Us is strong. We peer into the future and envision a better tomorrow. Enemies, beware.

Motorboat Cruiser

09-09-2007, 04:30 PM

"The Bear Necessities"

I glanced into the rear-view mirror, just in time to see the remaining few wisps of sunlight illuminating the civilization I was leaving behind. I wondered if I would be a changed man the next time I saw its foreboding skyline. I sure hoped so.

This was certifiably crazy, of course, this impromptu journey across the country. When I awoke this morning, I was only planning on spending a lazy day watching TV and maybe firing up the grill when the sun went down – an itinerary of hot dogs, beer, and a baseball game. Other than that, I really didn’t expect much, certainly not an excursion such as this, set into motion without more than a few moments of thought. When I poured my first cup of coffee and sat down to check my email, the farthest thing from my mind was Platte, South Dakota. And yet now, with the wind ruffling my receding hairline and Joe Walsh serenading me through his talk box, I'm hastily driving towards a midwestern ghost town of sorts, the only image in my head that of a stuffed bear on a lawn chair. It was this image that greeted me at the start of my day, a random picture out of thousands on my hard drive that the screen saver had conjured up – and I suspect, not by chance alone.

This particular photo, currently and indelibly etched into my subconscious, was taken 23 long years ago, when I was just shy of my eighteenth birthday. So much has changed since then. For it wasn’t long after I took that picture that I had discarded the stability of family life and ventured alone into the big city, to find out if I had what it took to be a real writer. And despite the years of struggle, I never really glanced longingly into the rear-view mirror of life, preferring instead to just move forward with reckless abandon, trying to discover who I was, who I could be. In my self-imposed exile, the past held no fascination, only remnants of bitterness carefully avoided. And, in all likelihood, I might never have even considered this strange pilgrimage I find myself on if it wasn’t for that damn bear staring at me this morning.

The picture was taken during what I thought would be the last in a history of visits to Platte - a tiny town in the middle of nowhere that was home to less than a hundred, dirt-poor, overall-wearing residents. Dotted with abandoned grain silos and dried up fields, few ever opted to stay in this desolate community smack-dab in the center or rural America. But Platte was also where the matriarch of our family called home - my great-grandmother, Lydia. Her and Stanley had taken up roots here after immigrating to this country and lived together as simple farmers for over 70 years. Here, they raised a family … my family.

It was no surprise to any of us back then that Lydia would choose to stay in Platte till the end, even though Stanley had died almost ten years earlier. This was still her home, all she had ever known, and she simply wasn’t interested in leaving. And, as a result, our entire family would converge once a year in reunion, in celebration, and out of heartfelt respect. We would gather in this remote homestead to reminisce over a game of cards and a feast of foods canned by her wrinkled but remarkably still-strong hands. And in between meals, amidst the gusts of fresh and warm country air, we would nap lazily on the old sofas. That was just about all there was to do in this quiet town that time forgot. But, despite the boredom, despite the remote location, nobody ever missed one of these gatherings. And it wasn’t out of duty, mind you, it was out of enormous love for a kindly old woman who meant the world to each and every one of us.

And when she finally took her last breaths at the ripe age of 101, we gathered one last time to pay our respects and to share a meal of her canned food and a game of cards, each of them well worn by the hands of time. It was the day after her funeral that I started looking through musty ancient closets and finding these wonderful artifacts from my youth. In particular, a box of old toys and stuffed animals that had accumulated over decades. I decided to take them outside to the small grassy area that I loved to play in as a young boy, arrange them carefully, and take one last portrait to remember them by - the one that just so happened to greet me before breakfast this morning.

(continued below...)

Motorboat Cruiser

09-09-2007, 04:30 PM

Back when I was little, I only had my vivid imagination and a box of worn toys to get me through those long and boring visits. As an only child, there were no siblings to commiserate with. And so, with these weathered toys, some of which my father had played with when he was a boy, I created fanciful worlds that would occupy my mind for hours on end. My toy of choice, my partner in crime through these escapades, was a simple stuffed bear. Together, we passed the time in the summer sun – a trusty friend that had never let me down in the many years that I had visited, always ready to suggest a colorful adventure for us to embark upon. For as far as my memory is able to trace back, this bear was the first thing out of the box when I arrived and the last thing to go back before I left. Buddies to the end, we were.

And now, as I pass through the vacant desert night, music loud and muscles already fatigued, my mission is simple and yet, oddly profound – to bust that stupid bear out of its boxed prison in South Dakota. I take a final swig off of the now-cold coffee I bought before I left, light one of many cigarettes at my disposal, and nudge the gas pedal with a sense of purpose. If all works out as planned, the empty passenger seat to my right will soon be occupied by a ragged and old stuffed comrade, strapped in securely and seeing the world outside of Platte for the first time. And somehow I sense that, along those battered and desolate old highways, we might both be seeing the world for the first time.

After grandma died, the family gatherings ended, and in many ways, so did the sense of family itself. We all returned to our previous lives, scattered in every corner of the country, never managing to find reason enough to gather around a big dining table again and play cards into the wee hours. And after my parents passed away less than a decade later, leaving me alone in this world, it truly signified the end of family as I knew it. The pain of their loss was enough reason to shut out the memories of the past - for better or worse. And yet, in the years that followed, through the madness and stress of a solitary urban existence, I’ve slowly begun to lose perspective. I’ve begun to lose touch with who I am, where I came from … where I am going.

Something important was surely missing from my life - this much I knew, although I hadn’t a clue what it could possibly be. My writing, once capable of unraveling vivid tales, was now shallow and lifeless and my imagination a mere fraction of its former self – far removed from the days when a stuffed bear was all I needed to create. With its glassy eyes and furry paws, it had supplied a muse like no other I have ever crossed paths with since. And today, a week after celebrating my 40th birthday, as I stared intently at that old photograph I had taken as a teenager, I wondered whether that bear might still hold those same powers. And much to my surprise, I’m apparently willing to drive all the way across the country just to find out. I know our reunion will be bittersweet, for it will allow old painful memories to blossom with a vengeance. But damn it, at least I might be able to actually feel my soul again, rather than just waking each morning as a shell of my former self. If I can regain even a fraction of my boyhood vibrancy and childlike wonder, this journey certainly won’t be for naught.

Change comes at a turtle’s pace, if at all, in Platte, South Dakota. In all the years I visited this little town in my youth, I don’t actually remember anything changing at all as a matter of fact. And somehow (don’t ask me how) I just know that Lydia’s humble old abode will still be there, likely boarded up and long-forgotten, just as my soul has been. Somehow, I know that my bear friend will be reclining in the same place I left him all those years ago, wondering why he was so abruptly abandoned by his young friend after so many years of sticking by my side. I’ll have plenty of time to explain as we make our way to his new home in sunny California. A thousand miles of tears, of laughter and of simply catching up on lost time.

“Hang on, bear. I’m on my way!” I say excitedly to myself - my stomach already knotting in anticipation, even though there are many miles left to travel into this good night. For as crazy as it must sound, within this bear is a forgotten piece of me - a life I turned my back on, a history I assumed would serve no purpose in my future endeavors. And up until this morning, I think I truly believed that. I assumed that I could haphazardly throw chunks of my past into the trash, and yet, somehow, still feel whole. But life doesn’t work that way … and so I drive … through a vast landscape of nothing in an attempt to find everything.

Cadaverous Pallor

09-10-2007, 07:55 AM

Madam Bear, Vice President Lion, Members of Congress, distinguished guests, and fellow citizens:

We are in crisis.I love this opening. :snap: Now I keep thinking of a President that would talk about getting into scraps in school.

“Hang on, bear. I’m on my way!” I say excitedly to myself -Fantastic line. This is totally something I can relate to. I'd drive across the country in that scenario.

Can't wait to see what's next!

LSPoorEeyorick

09-10-2007, 08:27 AM

EH and MBC, terrific! I love the way to watch each brain comes at this from another direction.

"It is perhaps better to be hated by people who notice you than loved by someone who barely acknowledges your existence." - I thought this was really striking, EH, and insightful.

"I drive … through a vast landscape of nothing in an attempt to find everything." - Lovely use of contrast! A perfect closing observation.

Thanks, both of you, for sharing. (I apparently can't give either of you mojo right now.)

Motorboat Cruiser

09-10-2007, 09:10 AM

In my haste to post, I neglected to say how much I enjoyed EH's contribution as well. EH, that was some wonderful writing!

Cadaverous Pallor

09-12-2007, 09:27 AM

Bump

Just to keep this on everyone's radar...

LSPoorEeyorick

09-12-2007, 10:27 AM

Mine's coming soon! (I really am working on it. It's longer than I expected to be.)

LSPoorEeyorick

09-13-2007, 05:46 PM

A short play

Dramatis Personae:
Alfred S. Felidae, a lion
Ursa Thorpe, a polar bear
Clyde "Dumbo" Smith, an elephant
Mutthew Plunkett, a dog
Theodore Grey, a bear
Charles "Astro" Tandy, a dog
Bill Thompson, a platypus
Angel Delmar, a fish
Mela Chu, a large panda
Leuca Chin, a small panda
Silas Cotton, a rabbit

Lights up on a nearly-blank stage. An array of ragged and faded animals are spread out, off-kilter and motionless. A lion, an elephant, and a dog are seated on a bench. Next to the bench, a bear is slumped in a chair. Another dog leans on a stump; a platypus and a fish are splayed on the ground next to two spooning pandas. On stage left, a polar bear faces the other animals in a chair, next to which sits a bucket—its contents concealed. an empty chair sits off to the side with its back to the audience. On stage right, a forked tree sprawls skyward—and in the middle of this fork hangs the front half of a rabbit holding a drum. The rabbit looks up and speaks to the audience.

SPEEDY
The meeting was called to order by Commisioner Ursa Thorpe at 7:00 PM on Monday, April 20, in the garden beside Little Granny Restaurant and Café. Members present included Alfred S.Felidae, Clyde "Dumbo" Smith, Mutthew Plunkett, Theodore Grey, Charles "Astro" Tandy, Bill Kendrick, Angel Delmar, Mela Chu, Leuca Chin, and, of course, myself—Silas Cotton.

Each animal has become conscious at the mention of its name.

BILL
Speedy!

SPEEDY
They call me Speedy.

BILL
Get over here, you bastard!

SPEEDY
It's ironic.

BILL
It wouldn't be so hard to get down, you know. If you jumped.

SPEEDY
Go to hell, Bill.
(to audience)
Bill never tires of mocking my circumstances.

BILL
No, really. Just let go.

SPEEDY
I can't ****ing let go. The drum is sewn into my paws.

BILL
Is it any wonder that you have trouble moving on?

ANGEL
Get off his back, platypus.

SPEEDY
Angel is…

BILL
How 'bout I get off on yours?

SPEEDY
Beautiful.

ANGEL
It's animals like you that make me grateful my eggs are fertilized outside of my body.

SPEEDY
And blunt.

ANGEL
If I could, in fact, lay eggs.

SPEEDY
To a fault.

ANGEL
How's it looking from up there, Silas?

SPEEDY
Still no change. I'm trying not to be disheartened.

ANGEL
I know you are.

SPEEDY
I don't think the Sea of Lights is coming.

A great dingy polar bear draws herself up in her chair.

URSA
Ladies and gentlemen? Are we ready?

BILL
Yes, Madam Commissioner.

URSA
Very well.

SPEEDY
(to audience)
Members absent included Daisy. Just Daisy. Again.

URSA
A good evening to you all. I hope that since our last meeting, you are all finding yourselves well. Let us review the agenda for this evening.

SPEEDY
(to audience)
Old business: there is no old business.

URSA
Moving on, then…

SPEEDY
No old business that they want to talk about, anyway.

URSA
The next item on the agenda is new business.

SPEEDY
(to audience)
New business: a report from the co-chairs of the Committee for Weather Preparedness.

URSA
Let us now hear from Mela Chu and Leuca Chin.

MELA and LEUCA
Good afternoon.

MELA
As you all know, the path of days is cyclical.

LEUCA
With each passing day, we travel back around toward our earlier steps, retracing them every cycle.

(The two pandas speak in overlapping statements.)
MELA
Petals follow thaw

LEUCA
Thaw follows crust

MELA
Crust follows crisp

LEUCA
Crisp follows the sea of lights.

MELA
And petals once more.

LEUCA
Today, the petals have gone, and the crisp…

MELA
As you can sense—

LEUCA
…is upon us. While the absence of the Sea of Lights is disconcerting,
we must face the facts.

MELA
The crust is coming soon, and we must consider our survival tactics for the impending weather.

LEUCA
The crust falls comes from the sky, and so it is our recommendation…

MELA
Following careful strategic planning…

LEUCA
That we construct some sort of shelter, so that we will not be separated—

MELA
nor harmed!

LEUCA
…when it freezes around us. We have taken the liberty of obtaining this billowing object…

MELA
(holding up an unraveling and soiled children's safety blanket)
Which—stretched over the chairs, should provide sufficient shelter from the coming cycle.

LEUCA
We place a motion on the table: after the crisp has settled in and the Sea of Lights return, we will construct our shelter…

MELA
And prevent our suffering.

ANGEL
Prevent our suffering?
(She scoffs.)

URSA
Angel, I will not tolerate your speaking out of turn.

ANGEL
I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Madame Commissioner, but I simply cannot listen to these elegant, ignorant words without responding.

URSA
Must I demand your removal from this quorum?

ANGEL
Demand all you like, Ursa Thorpe, but you and I both know I'm not going anywhere. No one is. We are stuffed animals. And we're stuck here, and no amount of "billowing objects" will solve our problems.

URSA
And I presume you have the answer to said problems?

ANGEL
No. I can't say that I have the answer. But I have a hell of a lot of questions.

(continued)

LSPoorEeyorick

09-13-2007, 05:49 PM

(continued)

URSA
Such as?

ANGEL
Well, for starters, why do you think that the Sea of Lights will return?

An elderly bear straightens up in his chair.

THEODORE
If I may say-- It has returned and returned again. It is cyclical.

(overlapping)
MELA
Petals follow thaw

LEUCA
Thaw follows crust

MELA
Crust follows—

ANGEL
(interrupting)
It has come once and returned a second time. That's all. But you all seem to be forgetting that in between the two times we've witnessed it, we saw more people than just the ones that made up the Sea of Lights.

THEODORE
You mean Little Granny's tea guests?

ANGEL
Well, yes, but aside from those. There were other people…. people who didn't go into the tea house. They brought petals out of season.

DUMBO
I do remember that.
(He points to the empty chair with his trunk.)
They laid them on Daisy's chair, and all around us. I will never forget it.

SPEEDY
And… I remember them searching. For Daisy. After the tall man took her away.

URSA
We'll have to take your word on that, Silas Cotton. You were the only one who could have seen any of it from your vantage point.

SPEEDY
But they did search. I know you heard them calling her name.

URSA shudders. This is true.

ANGEL
Someone must have taken Daisy. If not, she would have come back to us. She would have held us again.

SPEEDY
But the only person who ever held us again was Little Granny.

DUMBO
She came to see us so often.

ANGEL
But she stopped coming so often.

SPEEDY
And then she just stopped coming.

URSA
Then we will just have to wait until such a time as she returns and brings us inside.

SPEEDY
Don't you see? She's leaving us here. I can't even see her come and go anymore.

BILL
Why are we supposed to believe you, rabbit? You're a corporate shill.

SPEEDY
It's not like I asked them to sew this drum to my paws.

ANGEL
Stop convoluting the matter at hand! Think of this logically. Even the people who used to come to Little Granny's for afternoon tea. They're not coming here anymore.

DUMBO
It's like every day is Monday.

ANGEL
It all adds up. The tea guests aren't coming to Little Granny's. And Little Granny isn't coming to us. The Sea of Lights won't be coming, either. Because no one thinks about Daisy anymore. No one thinks about us.

URSA
(sternly.)
Angel, that's not true.
(sofly)
I think about Daisy.

THEODORE
I do, too, Ursa. I do, too. Perhaps… perhaps, if we wish to remember Daisy, we will have to do it ourselves.

ANGEL
Yes, Theodore, I think you're right. I'd like to put a motion on the table: The petals have passed, and the crisp is upon us. It is time for us to take the Sea of Lights into our own hands.

The animals retrieve and pass out candles and matches from inside the bucket next to Ursa's chair.

SPEEDY
(to audience)
A motion was made and seconded. We utilized the supplies left behind after the last time the people came.

ALFRED
(lights his candle)
I'm a lion of few words, but Daisy… I always liked being your lion of few words.

DUMBO
(lights his candle)
Sometimes I was resentful that you never asked my real name. My real name is Clyde. Clyde Smith. But then, I didn't know your last name, either. I guess we didn't know that about each other. I guess we'll never know.

MUTTHEW
(lights his candle)
It's like I'm still in shock. Like I just can't take it all in. Two years, and I still feel wide-eyed. I… I don't know what else to say.

THEODORE
It's OK, Mutthew.
(lights his candle)
Daisy, I was there from the beginning. I was bigger than you back then. You were soft, and pink, and I could have held you in my paws. How you grew. How you might have grown. I miss you.

ASTRO
(lights his candle)
You built me a fort once, with a sheet over a couple of chairs. I felt… special. I hope you knew you were special to me.

BILL
(lights his candle)
I never admitted it, but I loved your tea parties. The tea kept me warm. Your arms kept me warm.

ANGEL
(lights her candle)
It is… so HARD. So hard to carry on without you. So hard to be brave. So hard to tell the truth. You always told us the truth, though. And I know if you were still around, you'd still be telling us how ragged we looked and how much you loved us. Well. Ditto, babe.

MELA
(Lights her candle)
May the songs you sang to us play on.

LEUCA
(lights her candle)
May the dances you danced with us live on in our hearts.

URSA
(lights her candle)
You were a graceful child. Our graceful child. I still believe you're out there. Please come back to us.

Night has fallen, and the stage is barely lit, aside from the characters' candlelight. SPEEDY still holds his drum, and looks wistfully at the others' candles.

SPEEDY
God damn you, Daisy. I can't even hold a candle. You put me in this tree, and I have spent the last two years looking. Looking at your face, burned into the fuzz where my brain should be, the face you made when the tall man squeezed your hand and pulled you away. And I have tried—I have tried to replace that vision with the memories of you laughing with us. The smile on your face when you'd played a trick on one of us. And I've tried to replace the guilt in my heart—the guilt that I could see everything that happened, and I couldn't stop it—with… anything. Anything else. But all I have left…

ANGEL
All you have left is us. We have each other.

SPEEDY
I'm not sure that's enough.

Quiet music fades up as the last of the lights fade out. And then the candles fade out, too.

Eliza Hodgkins 1812

09-13-2007, 06:36 PM

Too add to my mojo, MBC:

"And somehow I sense that, along those battered and desolate old highways, we might both be seeing the world for the first time."

Two snappity snaps way, way up.

Eliza Hodgkins 1812

09-13-2007, 06:43 PM

HEIDI! We (and I believe you know the 'we' I refer to) need to have a reading of this. In costume. Or we should just put on the damn play. I command it and it will be so.

SPEEDY
Go to hell, Bill.
(to audience)
Bill never tires of mocking my circumstances.

That is cracking me up. My insides her from suppression. "Bill never tires of mocking my circumstances." If Speedy can be played by a girl, I want that part. I want to say that line. I'm going to think that line all the way home.

Poor toys and their missing Daisy.

ANGEL
All you have left is us. We have each other.

SPEEDY
I'm not sure that's enough.

That's terrific. Abandonment: by parent. By God. By any loved one, etc. It doesn't always matter that there are others when the One you want isn't there.

Brava. Let's put on a show!

(Funnily enough, you mentioned that the similarities in our approach, and just this morning I was thinking of expanding my piece for the stage, or a longer story in which the stage is set...)

Cadaverous Pallor

09-13-2007, 06:54 PM

Amazing, Heidi. The terms and clues were perfectly balanced, the tension and suspense a perfect length. Just wonderful. Now that's the craft! :snap:

Motorboat Cruiser

09-14-2007, 12:26 AM

That was a most enjoyable read, Heidi. Both amusing and touching and a wonderful balance between the two.

Strangler Lewis

09-14-2007, 05:21 AM

FADE IN

STUFFED ANIMALS set up as in picture. Off-camera, we hear the rear door to a truck being rolled down and locked. We hear doors to the truck open and shut. Several car doors open and shut. The engines to the truck and accompanying car start and rev up. The vehicles drive off into the distance, until we hear nothing. Two beats.

FIN

--

FADE IN

STUFFED ANIMALS set up as in picture. Off-camera, we hear car doors open. A SLAP, then a CHILD'S HYSTERICAL CRY. The car doors shut. The car starts and revs up. It drives off into the distance, until we hear nothing. Two beats.

FIN

--

FADE IN

STUFFED ANIMALS set up as in picture. Several seconds pass. An OLD LADY in a nightgown wanders into the picture. She is obviously suffering from Alzheimer's Disease. She sits down on the ground in the midst of the animals and stares at them, uncomprehending, without joy.

FIN

--

FADE IN

STUFFED ANIMALS set up as in picture. The animals are all wearing anti-contagion masks. Nothing happens for seven seconds.

FIN

LSPoorEeyorick

09-14-2007, 07:15 AM

Hurrah, SL! Abstract and intriguing-- reminded me a little bit of Beckett's short plays. I'm so glad you hopped on the bandwagon!

Strangler Lewis

09-14-2007, 09:32 AM

Thanks. It's a grand bandwagon to be on.

Boss Radio

09-14-2007, 10:14 PM

CP: Lyrical, haunting and beautiful imagery. You are a poet, but in a good way.

EH: Brilliant, dark and disturbing, like a modern-day Twilight Zone episode.

MBC: Dashboard confessions on a quest to liberate your youth in the form of a bear. Superbly realized.

LSPE: Absurd and lovely and a little sad...and a juggling act with all those characters in such a limited venue. Excellent, inventive, and my current favorite of your work.

SL: A one man experimental minimalist film festival. Ingenious.

Great work,everyone!

One day soon, I will contribute again. I just have to finish something first...

Cadaverous Pallor

09-17-2007, 04:13 PM

BUMP. Get in those Inspired posts!

How about if I post a new inspiring photo in a few days? Maybe a week?

Tom

09-18-2007, 08:41 PM

In my teen years, I lived down the street from a cemetery, but I never visited it. It was at the terminus of the road, about two blocks from my house, but in the other direction was my school (less than a block away) my town, my friends. The whole flow of my life was in the other direction, and so I never went to the cemetery.

Until one day. One grey day, early February of my senior year. I had no school, my friends were all elsewhere for the moment, and I decided that I finally wanted to see the cemetery. I walked up the road and entered its grounds. I was alone there. I walked among the headstones, all of which were of the flat variety, plaques embedded in the ground. Neat, evenly spaced rows. There were none of the giant crosses or statuary, none of the more exuberant kinds of headstones. It was a very well-behaved cemetery.

But as I approached the periphery of the cemetery, I found that it did not all seem well-tended. I saw a section that, from a distance, appeared to have been trashed. There seemed to be debris lying around. I approached curiously.

The headstones revealed that it was a corner of the graveyard set aside for the burial of babies. None buried there had lived more than a few months. Some had died the day they were born.

The "debris" was items that the families had left at the graves. Balloons were deflated and laid limply on the ground. Stuffed animals were ratty and smeared with mud from melting snows. I realized that they must have been set out at Christmastime, now a month and a half distant. They were scattered about now, by animals, people or weather I do not know.

But no one had removed them. I guess no one wants to be the one who takes teddy bears from dead children. So they laid there. I don't know for how long. I never went back.

Motorboat Cruiser

09-18-2007, 10:04 PM

Tom - there is such beauty in simplicity. I couldn't help but feel that your story didn't need one word more - or one word less. It is perfect just the way it is and I loved it.

Boss Radio

09-18-2007, 10:16 PM

Well done,Tom - stark and insightful.

Strangler Lewis

09-18-2007, 10:30 PM

"I guess no one wants to be the one who takes teddy bears from dead children" is one of the best lines I've read in a while. Good job.

Cadaverous Pallor

09-20-2007, 12:16 AM

Damn, Tom, that was great. :snap:

blueerica

09-20-2007, 08:57 AM

I actually have something... I am finishing it up and should have it posted by tonight. I'm trying to confront a little fear inside me that it's not good enough to share, but I need to get back on the bike with this one. :)

blueerica

09-20-2007, 09:02 PM

I could choose only one, so I left them all behind. Of course, this was years ago, but the whole thing has been a little hard to forget. Anytime I see a stuffed animal, especially bears, I’m instantly transported to the age of six; instantly lonely and fearful. The two feelings, or emotions – or whatever you call it – have been a part of my life as long as I can remember. This isn’t to say that my life’s been so horrible, but things could have been better.

When I was really little, my father was around. Well, I guess I mean “around” rather generically. I remember him being there at key points and not much else. Then again, who really remembers the day-to-day minutia when they’re 26, 16, or 6, or any other age for that matter? I certainly don’t, but that’s not at the heart of what I’m trying get at, I suppose. I know he wasn’t around, and my not remember is only a reinforcement of what I know of my life at that time.

Miss Jenny was kind; sweet, to the point of being saccharine. She said she’d take care of me, and she did for a while. I remember when she showed up with the CPS officer – it seemed like everyone was in a hurry. I could only bring one toy.

Mom hadn’t been home in a couple of day and I was hungry. That’s all I really know. What I’ve figured out since is that she went missing and that no one has a clue. It’s been 20 years, and still no one knows what happened to her. Not entirely sure how that happens, but – maybe it was for the best that I was young; keeps away the hurt. I remember her standing at the stove making macaroni and cheese. It’s the simple stuff out of the blue box, but there was something about it that made me feel warm, loved… maybe she just threw in an extra pat of butter.

So yeah, I could choose only one, so I left them all outside; the stuffed animals, that is. I remember a week after Miss Jenny brought me to her house that it rained. I left them all outside. I figured I couldn’t choose and that since everyone liked playing with me and the animals that it would be best to leave them all there. Maybe someone else who could keep them would take them and take care of them, just like Miss Jenny said she’d take care of me. I lived next door to this pizza place, was it George’s? I really don’t remember, except for the G, I’m certain it started with a G.

Oh yes, did it ever rain. I wonder if anyone ever came by to take the toys before it got all wet. A month after I left I came back with Miss Jenny and I remember seeing that the animals were gone, but so were the chairs and the little flowers that were starting to grow. I remember feeling bad that I didn’t get to really say goodbye to some of my school friends; it all happened so fast. After a month with Miss Jenny I went to Miss Suzy’s home where I lived until I was 19. They never found my father, and I told you all about my mom. Miss Jenny sent me cards every year, but I never heard from my old friends again. Maybe it’s my own fault that I never let them know what happened, but I know there’s a big part of me yearning to remember just a little bit more than a box full of stuffed animals I left outside.

LSPoorEeyorick

09-21-2007, 12:57 AM

Oh, Erica! That was lovely, and achey, and an excellent read. I'm so glad you posted it.

"I know there’s a big part of me yearning to remember just a little bit more than a box full of stuffed animals I left outside." - a perfect ending.

LSPoorEeyorick

09-25-2007, 11:33 AM

All right, gang. I think everyone who wants to post for the previous one has posted (though late posts are always welcome, you know!)

And now, for a new round... something entirely different (http://www.flickr.com/photo_zoom.gne?id=495092041&size=l).

Ladies and gentlemen, start your (pen)gines!

Ponine

09-25-2007, 11:54 AM

I fear I need help here.... What is it?

Granted, I cannot see it all on my screen at once, but any inspiration thats going to come has to not be baffled. Thank you.

LSPoorEeyorick

09-25-2007, 12:02 PM

Jen helped me decide on this one-- and both of us kind of liked it because it wasn't clear exactly what it was. To me, though, the locks (?) and the hand prints make it seem like a door? Or maybe, a trunk, or a box, or something? It's not entirely clear, but I guess it's up to us to figure out what it is. Smaller version is here (http://www.flickr.com/photo_zoom.gne?id=495092041&size=m).

blueerica

09-25-2007, 12:02 PM

Ponine, you can also click on the smaller versions at the top of the screen. It's what I have to do.

Ponine

09-25-2007, 01:38 PM

Ponine, you can also click on the smaller versions at the top of the screen. It's what I have to do.

That helped a TON.
For those of you who dont know, and those who do, I suffer from an insane inability to converge my eyes.
So what does that mean for me?
When you present those Do you see two faces, or a vase , pictures... I can usually only find one of the two.

In this case... without that smaller image, I never pulled the "metal" to the forefront, it was somehow lost in the background.
I dont know what it is either, but LSPE's link helped.
Thank you!

Cadaverous Pallor

09-25-2007, 01:48 PM

This odd image will be sure to conjur up some fun scribblings (er, tappings?). I'll be back later....

Morrigoon

09-25-2007, 02:19 PM

How have I missed this thread before?!? Some of the writing you guys have done is absolutely amazing. LSPE, I was really touched by the play, the sense of loss, the need to make sense of the world they now found themselves in.

Regarding the new picture, I'd say it looks like the call buttons outside a low-rent apartment, the coldness and roughness of the cement wall contrasted by the warmth of the image of a child's hand, indicating that even in this cold, hard place, love and innocence can thrive.

(Okay, I know that description was halfway to writing something, but I'm at work so I can't do it now)

Cadaverous Pallor

09-25-2007, 04:26 PM

Regarding the new picture, I'd say it looks like the call buttons outside a low-rent apartment, the coldness and roughness of the cement wall contrasted by the warmth of the image of a child's hand, indicating that even in this cold, hard place, love and innocence can thrive.

(Okay, I know that description was halfway to writing something, but I'm at work so I can't do it now)Hey, you'll blow it for everyone! Keep thine notes to thineself! :p

Morrigoon

09-25-2007, 04:50 PM

Sorry.

Mine is coming soon. Not turning out quite like I wanted it to, but I guess it'll do for a first attempt.

Morrigoon

09-25-2007, 05:42 PM

I keep telling myself that someday I’ll go back there.

It’s funny, you know, how you can live in the same city, the same 23 square mile island, and yet, exist in a completely different world. Today, as the modern me steps from the comfort of a heated town car into the refreshing cold of a January day, my Manolos crunching through the thin layer of snow that’s managed somehow to cling to the dirty curb in front of my favorite Starbucks on Pearl and Hanover, I stop and see the world around me with my old eyes.

There was a time in my life when cold wasn’t described in terms like “refreshing” or “brisk”. Children of that age of course rarely venture beyond the definition of “cold” or “hot” to describe the weather, of course. But if I had been a little older, if I had been, say, my mother, I might have used her words to describe the world around me. Perhaps it’s a blessing that I wasn’t old enough to learn how to apply “bitter” or “desperate” to situations in my life. I think I was happier for it.

The heat from inside blasts me in the face as I open the door, compelling me to remove my hat and fan myself with it. Honestly, why do business owners think we want to roast in their stores? I can feel a smile creep across my face as I think this. My inner first grader still can’t resist a good pun, even if the new me wouldn’t dream of making the joke out loud. “The lowest form of humor,” I’ll never forget that description. I’m sure it came from one of those artsy French films I subjected myself to throughout my teen years. Funny how things stick with you, isn’t it?

Heading out the door with my last gingerbread latte of the season, I cast a quick glance over my left shoulder. Hey, everyone has their quirks, this is mine. I don’t actually expect to see them there, but for the past 30 years of my life, I still look. That’s when the new me takes over. I’m not six, mom is gone, and handprints on the door’s edge no longer track how grown up I’ve gotten. Sometimes I wish they did.

What would those prints look like today, I wonder? Would they have an expensive manicure or wear a fine watch? Would they be higher up on the doorframe? No, they wouldn’t look anything like me today. Those hands didn’t need expensive clothes or the latest technology to be happy. They just needed to hear that they were loved, that they were beautiful. That they mattered to someone.

“Julie? Julie, can you hear me? Yeah, I’ve got one of those goddamn delivery trucks next to me… listen, cancel the rest of my appointments today, will you? Something came up… yeah… yeah… look, just tell them I have a meeting, okay? I’ve gotta go.”

Slave and master, I think, as I slip the Treo back into my pocket. This damn phone is with me everywhere I go. Well, today it got to do something useful for a change. Feeling recharged (dare I say inspired?) I pull it back out and turn it off completely. There, I’ve done it. What a grand adventure this is turning out to be! Damn, my coffee’s cold already. I sip at it anyway. Still tastes good.

I start to hail a cab, but then think better of it. Not sure I could find the place if I had to recite an actual address, and anyway, if I’m going to this much trouble, I may as well do it right. Now I’m actually laughing out loud at the ridiculous image of me actually riding the subway. How long has it been? Were there always this many people on the platforms? People mistake me for a tourist the way I’m looking all around me. No, seriously, I do NOT want a lenticular postcard of the twin towers. Not an Empire State Building keychain either. Buddy, if you don’t get the hell away from me I’ll take that goddamn keychain and slit that unshaven throat of yours, I am NOT kidding.

Who the hell AM I today? I feel alive! No, wait a sec, it’s these shoes, they’re pinching my feet. I look with longing at the feet of the nurse standing beside me. I wouldn’t be caught dead in those things ordinarily, but my stilettos were clearly designed for a life of town cars, not subway rides.

All the tourists are gone now. The smart ones, anyway. This neighborhood is no place for them. Technically it’s no place for me either. It’s no place for anyone. I’m starting to wonder what the hell got into me to come back here, this has to have been one of the dumbest-

Oh my god. They’re still there. I can’t believe they’re still there. Suddenly, it all washes away: my life, my petty worries, my anger at the drycleaner this morning, my concerns about bond prices, the empty Starbucks cup I’m still clutching… nothing exists but me - the little girl in pigtails clutching her big brother’s castoff coat around her shoulders to keep out the cold, and those handprints by the call buttons. The world reaches out and gives me a hug. It may only have lasted a moment, but in that moment, I was loved, mom wasn’t dead, and I had no idea what a “ward of the court” meant. And for that moment, I didn’t need anything. Not the manicure, not the Starbucks, and definitely not my empty corporate existence. I am a big girl now.

I needed this.

I whip out the Treo once again. It, at least, has not outlived its usefulness today. I snap a picture of those prints; white paint smeared into the concrete grooves. I set it as my background picture. This is me. This is what it means to be truly happy. I won’t forget again.

This city hasn’t sucked my soul out of me… it just kept it safe until I was ready to have it back.

Motorboat Cruiser

09-26-2007, 07:55 AM

Erica - I thought that was really touching and well written.

Morrigoon - so glad you are joining us. I can't read your piece yet as I'm still working on mine but I will as soon as I'm finished.

Cadaverous Pallor

09-26-2007, 09:48 AM

Jude watched his sneakers. The sidewalk slid around them as he made his way steadily up the road. Each time he moved his left foot, it rotated slightly, pitching forward and yawing right, so he could see the outlines of the filthy Reebok logo on the side. Straight foot, Reebok, straight foot, Reebok. Jude knew he didn’t want to think about why his left ankle didn’t work too well, but he couldn’t help but watch his feet everywhere he went.

“It’s easier to see the sidewalk jiggle with my feet jiggling instead of the world jiggling,” he said loudly to himself.

He had almost passed the doorway when he came to a halt. No one watching would have figured this was his goal, but one instant he was moving full speed, the next, he was so stationary it was hard to believe he could move at all. After a few beats, he shuffled in a circle and wedged himself into the shallow doorway.

Jude raised his eyes from his shoes.

The cement was absolute gray, looking soft and almost spongy, rippling in their own time. A bricklayer’s comb marks were deep and irregular, the seams between cement sheets apparent and showing painful weakness. Old damage had been repaired with more goopy cement, platelets trying to congeal in wounds. Jude did not want to touch it, for fear of a wet or yielding skin, though he knew he had put a hand on this wall before.

He could see the prints plainly, in the stark white of a perfect past, of a blinding breath in time, of easily leaning on the wall and chatting, of seeing her eyes and shoulders and the way her hair curled. He’d ring the bell and she’d come down, not wanting to bring him up to the small flat with it’s tired furniture and spare dishes. They’d had the odd tradition of inspired small talk in the small doorway before strutting out to dining and music.

The only plate he could read said STUART. STUART. STUART. Jude read it again and again, nowhere else to rest his eyes except the phantom handprints and the undulating wall. He remember the odd ring the knobs made and wished to hear it again, so he reached out a cold hand.

RRRRRRRRRRR. RRRRRRRRR. The twist completed a circuit and he could hear the buzz coming form her 3rd floor apartment window. He read STUART again and twisted the knob. RRRRRRRRRR.

He could hear bare feet stomp the stairs just inside the doorway, and then the door was open a few inches, a chain restraining any real view of the inside.

“Who’s there?” Her voice cracked, not of fear but just of being unused today. Must be Wednesday, thought Jude. She paints at home on Wednesday. Wednesday.

“Me,” he responded. He had reflexed to look at his Reeboks again, but when she leaned forward, a blond wisp of hair flashed through the door, and he saw that, alright.

The woman behind the door sighed heavily.

“Jude. You remember what we talked about before?”

He made these sounds: “Yeah, I know.”

“I tried, I tried to help, but I couldn’t. You wouldn’t let me help. You wouldn’t help yourself.”

“I know.”

“You have to go.”

“It says STUART. Where the bell is. That’s all.” Seemed the right thing to say, the truth.

“That’s right, Jude.”

“Ok.” There was finality there.

“Ok.” She closed the door abruptly. She knew that any conversation, even a goodbye, was only encouragement.

Jude was motionless. Cars stuttered by. A stiff breeze ran along the side of the building. He waited over 2 minutes, motionless, for a goal to materialize.

“Gotta go to the park.” Before the sentence was completely out of his mouth, Jude was already out of the alcove and a few sidewalk squares away, watching his feet take him to his favorite drinking fountain.

Cadaverous Pallor

09-26-2007, 10:21 AM

Morrigoon - nice! Great snapshot of two completely different urban lives, within one person. Can't mojo you. :snap:

Morrigoon

09-26-2007, 10:55 AM

I like yours too! :snap:

blueerica

09-26-2007, 10:40 PM

The day before he moved was warm and the beginnings of summer humidity were creeping into every moment of the day. Jon suggested we head down to the warehouses just to talk about things. I know that warehouses don’t seem very romantic, but they always seemed that way to me, and I think Jon felt the same way. The rippling waves of a sunset walk on the beach are always pretty, but the stark lines and features of the warehouse district were beautiful, and in them we were rebellious, dangerous. We were grey.

We knew Jon’s family was planning on moving when we first met. They move all the time – going from state to state, city to city, neighborhood to neighborhood. His family buys new homes, fixes them over the course of a school year, flips them and moves on to the next place. I’d never met anyone like him before, so cool, so detached. He was 17 and spoke of philosophers like Nietzsche and Heidegger. Oh, and he smoked. With brown hair hanging in his eyes he was a little on the greasy side and the hoodie under his denim jacket proved it. Mom and Dad never met him, and that’s fine by me. They probably just figured I was at a friend’s house – oh the blessings of trusting parents, at 16 I could go just about wherever I wanted, which probably makes it as much a surprise that I hadn’t tried to sneak out before I met Jon.

School is out and we had all the time in the world to spend with one another – but, he was leaving. I would fixate on that, sending myself headlong into a depressive landslide. I hadn’t ever wanted anyone so badly. What if he was the true love of my life? And he was leaving?

Once we got down to the warehouses we climbed up to the top of #374. From there we could see the river and the green of the empty lands just beyond it. It was getting late and we could see commuters hopping onto the freeway. He never said a word and I didn’t dare – I didn’t know if tears would come or just verbal vomit. I wanted to be strong, so that I wouldn’t be remembered as the blithering crybaby I knew lived inside me.

He reached into his front pocket and grabbed some smokes. With the flick of a thumb came the flame from his lighter and with one puff the dimming skies only illuminated the cherry embers at the tip of the cig. People were walking below us, but no one seemed to mind. He offered his pack to me. Now, normally I’d just turn them down since I usually end up choking on the first puff, but this time I went for it. He lit it and with my first breath came the coughing and hacking that was to be expected. Tears formed in the corners of my eyes and I just wiped them away.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

More silence.

I couldn’t believe over two hours have gone by – it went by like mere minutes. I still didn’t know what to say.

The sun went down and the lights came on. Jon was the first to say anything.

“I’m really gonna miss you.”

“Me too.”

Then the floodgates opened. He held me tight and I said I had to go home. I didn’t, but I couldn’t stand to be there any longer. The warehouses, with him, the sunset – it was all overwhelming. My insides felt as though they were melting from the intensity of my emotions.

As we climbed down the metal steps, he began to reminisce. I began to feel sick. We saw wet paint spilled just outside one of the warehouse doors and he turned to me.

“Let’s make this moment last forever. Give me your left hand.”

He dipped my hand into the white paint and placed it on the wall. He dipped his in and placed it next to mine. I took my hand down and so did he, and he grabbed both of my hands, smearing paint on both of them as well as his own hands.

“I’ll keep this moment with me forever.”

I bet he says that to all the girls.

Motorboat Cruiser

09-26-2007, 11:23 PM

If he just had time to reach for the bell, things might have turned out differently. James and I might be sitting in my living room right now, drinking a jug full of rum and cokes. I miss those nights and I miss my friend. I miss his candor and his humor. I miss his war stories that he would repeat each time he drank a few too many. I miss pretending that I didn’t know how they were all going to end.

I never see him in my dreams. I only hear the frantic pressing of a doorbell that never had a chance to ring when it mattered the most. In my dreams, the ringing wakes me, I run for the front door and all that is on the other side are two white handprints on the old gray wall next to my front door. In the distance, I hear him scream and there is nothing I can do to help. I’ve had this dream more times than I care to count.

His candor and humor that I so adored were likely what killed him, I believe. He just didn’t understand the hatred that still lurked in these parts, perhaps to this very day. He was out of his element - thinking that, as a decorated veteran, he had the respect of his new neighbors in this backwater town that he had relocated to. After a few drinks at the local watering hole, he probably told a joke that was misinterpreted, or made a remark about a girl that was someone’s sister, or made some other innocuous statement that wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow in the big city where he was raised. But those medals on his chest didn’t mean a thing to the people around here who were just waiting for an excuse. They likely never took time enough to even notice them, what with all that ebony colored skin that proved to be so distracting. Of course, nobody interviewed that had been at the bar that night had any recollection whatsoever of him being there. Imagine that. I know he was there though. I dropped him off at the front door and watched him walk in and that’s what I told the police. Unfortunately, my information didn’t seem to interest them much.

According to the only witnesses who ever came forth, James was running for his life down Elm Street at approximately 1:40 in the morning, pursued on foot by four to six men whose faces were covered in white hoods. His body was still dripping with the new complexion they had forcibly applied to his skin but he had somehow apparently managed to free himself from their capture – at least for a few terrifying minutes. He made it all the way to my doorstep, almost five blocks away, but they apparently caught up and pulled him away from the door before he could ring the bell. His body, painted a ghostly white, was found a few days later in the local swamp.

If I had known he was out there, I would have fought alongside my friend to the bitter end against those bastards. I never got that chance though, separated from James by a gray wall that wouldn’t allow his screams to penetrate. And today, all I have to remember him by is the last grasp of a dying man, desperate to be saved from those he served to defend only a few years earlier. I stare at those prints every day and try not to imagine what he must have been thinking at that moment – so close to help and yet, yanked away at the last moment.

Those handprints have been on the wall for almost 50 years now and I still refuse to paint over them. Supposedly things have changed since then and something like that could never occur again in this quaint little town. It has even been suggested that we might see our first black President next year, proving how far we have come as a nation.

I cannot, however, share in any of that optimism. The fact is, those men were never caught. And each time I pass another man on the street, of a similar age as myself, I can’t help but wonder if he is one of the still-free men that felt some hideous need to dip my friend in paint before he killed him. I wonder how well he has taught his children. His grandchildren.

All I know is that, while the men that committed this atrocity might actually still walk the streets, I’ll be damned if they aren’t going to have to stare at those white handprints every time they choose to travel past my home. I hope they haunt them every day just like they continue to haunt me every day. This is our shared history in this piece of **** town and I refuse to let them forget, until the moment they begin their slow rot in hell.

Motorboat Cruiser

09-27-2007, 12:07 AM

Morrigoon - Wow, that was wonderful. The line that especially caught my attention was "Perhaps it’s a blessing that I wasn’t old enough to learn how to apply “bitter” or “desperate” to situations in my life. I think I was happier for it." - I could really relate to this.

CP - What an interesting take on that picture. I couldn't help but ponder the words "“I tried, I tried to help, but I couldn’t. You wouldn’t let me help. You wouldn’t help yourself.” for quite some time, trying to fill in the blanks. - I really liked this.

Erica - Another completely unique take that was a pleasure to read, although also quite sad as I couldn't help but reminisce about those I had said goodbye to over the years after reading it. Really well done.

Cadaverous Pallor

09-27-2007, 08:00 AM

Erica - I was totally transported to being 16 again. Evocative.

MBC - the anger in there is so strong, very powerful.

LSPoorEeyorick

09-27-2007, 11:18 AM

Collectively,
UR in my thread
rockin' my socks

Morri, so glad you're joining us this time 'round! I loved the reference to tourism in one's own city (it's been something I've been thinking about a lot lately.) "People mistake me for a tourist the way I’m looking all around me." - the image really struck me.

Jen, I've already told you, but I just loved this. I'm so fond of the way that a few sentences can allow a reader's brain to play, to mix up and put together the facts the way they want to. I have a pretty specific idea of what this is about, but I would bet it differs from the next person's, or the next... the way that we all look at a photo and see it differently, we can look at your story and read it differently. This was particularly illustrated here: "“It says STUART. Where the bell is. That’s all.” Seemed the right thing to say, the truth."

Erica, what a lovely sense-memory-- "he grabbed both of my hands, smearing paint on both of them as well as his own hands. " Pain of youth vivid among this. Definitely brought to mind an experience that was similar, particularly with the "blithering crybaby I knew lived inside me."

And Eric... oh, Eric. This is maybe my favorite short-story piece of yours that I've ever read. You took this is a direction that was so ragged. So painful. And it really rings with the image-- and it rings on its own. Mojo, mojo, mojo to you.

blueerica

09-27-2007, 12:29 PM

I loved everyone's, for the reasons stated in all the above posts. So evocative, so unique. I think that's what I love best about this thread; it's an exercise in imagination that brings us to the bedrooms and living rooms, street corners and classrooms of our past.

On that note, I want to say that MBC's story nearly moved me to tears. Thank you, it was beautiful...

Morrigoon

09-27-2007, 03:12 PM

I'm not sure what the protocol for introducing new images is, so pardon me if I'm inspiring out of turn, but I found this (http://www.flickr.com/photos/fodder/1424439378/) image pretty interesting.

Eliza Hodgkins 1812

09-27-2007, 04:09 PM

“Caught left handed, hah!”

Imagine the Blue Fairy bringing Mr. Potatohead to life, finding him a job in a small pornographic video shop and arranging for him a very unhappy marriage, and you will successfully dream up Peter Johnson, my high school principal. A man possessing first and last names that both mean “dick” should really try harder to defy expectation.

“You must think you’re so clever!”

Principal Johnson has a potbelly full of disappointment, and I’m convinced his favorite pastime is to shut himself up in a closet screaming invective and reviling his life. This man cannot possibly like himself. If only I could pity him. It’s good to feel sorry for other people because it leaves no room for feeling sorry for myself. If I could see his picture when he was a boy of five (before “disappointment” was even a word in his vocabulary), I might be able to forgive the man who sits smugly across from me, pointing his finger in accusation. He’s four times my age and has never learned that etiquette conveniently supplies one shared rule for pointing and staring, and that’s to never do either. Since my very first day of school, he stared harder at me than anyone. If this were a 1930s carnival show, he’d be frothing at the mouth first in line at the freak show. How could I ever forget his look of when we were introduced and I reached out to shake his hand? When I pass him in the halls, I half expect him to spit on me.

To add injury to insult, Principal Johnson is pointing at me with his left hand even though he is right handed. The lip smirk confirms that he’s doing this on purpose. Most days he knows his life is hardly worth living but right now he’s experiencing a moment of triumph. “Relish” is written all over his face. Some people become educators because they love to teach, others because they love to torment. My guess is that Peter Johnson’s instruments were too blunt to sharpen young minds, but **** floats before it sinks. In a country where the stupidest of people can rise through the ranks of power, a mediocre teacher can be promoted to run a school, no matter if it's run into the ground.

“Not so clever, though. You left a signature. Did you do it on purpose, or did you catch your balance stumbling into a wall with paint still on your hands?”

I remain mum. A still life Angel of Virtue.

His arms now folded across his chest, Principal Johnson adjusts his face to look vaguely concerned. This is how he’ll sit as he pretends to wonder why a girl with no history of misconduct and a flawless academic record would stoop so low. He’ll pretend because being concerned is what is expected of a high school administrator and because we’re waiting for the dean to barge in any minute with the results of the fingerprint analysis; he doesn’t want to be caught looking gleeful when the situation is supposed to be grim. The punishment for graffiti is expulsion and Principal Johnson wants me gone. If it were up to him, my existence would be reason enough.

It might baffle you that a person with so many physical flaws would be so intolerant of mine, but that’s it exactly: Here sits a man who thinks, I may be old, I may have a terrible comb over, I may have this hideous mole on my arm and broken capillaries all over my nose, but at least I don’t have that!

“That” is something I was born with. Can’t do anything about it and I made my peace with it a long time ago, though it saddens me to know I’ll never run the 100 yard dash or play the piano. Instead I’ve developed another hobby. It involves examining the pictures of people I know when they were children and detecting any evidence of what they might become. The measure of one’s life is like a book read back to front; when you start at the end, all that comes before seems predestined. What I seek is a person’s destiny showing up in their faces before the road is clear. So far my research has been discouraging. In all the photos I have examined, the blank and smiling denizens of the two-dimensional world only seem to be thinking one thing: CHEESE!

The photographs people are willing to share with me aren’t candid shots and most that are planned erase a person’s identity completely. It takes a very gifted photographer to capture people as they truly are, and perhaps only dark alchemy could transform image into Destiny. I’ll keep looking. I take self-portraits of myself every morning and night because the destiny that concerns me the most is my own. I’ve read A Prayer for Owen Meany half a dozen times to better understand my own condition. I’ve decided there has to be a good reason, but it’s hard to imagine what good will come from having two left hands, and my two left feet didn't win me any dates to the prom.

I am a seventeen-year-old girl who has never broken a rule in my entire life, having always felt that I was born with one problem big enough to last its entirety. Staying out of trouble has been my life’s mission statement. Since my first day of school, I have been a model student. I'd make a perfect soldier but the army would never have me. I’ve cultivated a spotless reputation. No drugs. No alcohol. At my last gynecological exam, I snuck a peek at my chart. Next to my doctor’s illegible notes is the word VIRGIN stamped in red block letters. Modern day Hester Prynnes are pinned with virtuous Vs.

So why, after spending so much of my time trying to shroud my imperfect body in perfect deeds, would I sneak into the school over the weekend to paint a mural of Principal Johnson caricatured as a gigantic penis? And why would a “clever” girl leave behind such incriminating evidence?

Because I am fed up, of course, and because I want him to know that it was me. I want the whole school to know. Prom is over. All school work has been turned in. Graduation is on the horizon.

I have acceptance letters to no less than five prestigious art schools. I doubt they'll all change their minds over something as trivial as a misunderstood senior art project. I wrote about my inteionts in my college admissions essays, after all.

So here I sit, patiently and calmly, for the scales of high school law to tip in Principal Johnson’s favor. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter.

My destiny remains unknown but confidently I walk towards the future, with one left foot in front of the other.

Cadaverous Pallor

09-27-2007, 04:11 PM

Collectively,
UR in my thread
rockin' my socksCan I gush about your gush post? I seriously love your gush post. You gush much, much better than I do. Seriously!

Jen, I've already told you, but I just loved this. I'm so fond of the way that a few sentences can allow a reader's brain to play, to mix up and put together the facts the way they want to. I have a pretty specific idea of what this is about, but I would bet it differs from the next person's, or the next... the way that we all look at a photo and see it differently, we can look at your story and read it differently. This was particularly illustrated here: "“It says STUART. Where the bell is. That’s all.” Seemed the right thing to say, the truth." Yay! That is totally what I was going for. I did a little dance of adding and deleting facts, trying to decide how much to reveal, and how much to leave up to the reader to interpret.

I'm not sure what the protocol for introducing new images is, so pardon me if I'm inspiring out of turn, but I found this (http://www.flickr.com/photos/fodder/1424439378/) image pretty interesting.That was taken outside EH1812's place, right?

Cadaverous Pallor

09-27-2007, 04:18 PM

EH - Wow, love the gritty determination in this one. Taking a premise so wacky, weaving it with utter realism and have it work so well - bravo!

Eliza Hodgkins 1812

09-27-2007, 04:20 PM

EH - Wow, love the gritty determination in this one. Taking a premise so wacky, weaving it with utter realism and have it work so well - bravo!

Thanks, lady. Gonna read the others as soon as I can. I'm having problems with the edit functionality here. Every time I try to fix one little thing in a sentence, it just loads and loads and loads and won't post the change. :(

Ghoulish Delight

09-27-2007, 04:23 PM

Thanks, lady. Gonna read the others as soon as I can. I'm having problems with the edit functionality here. Every time I try to fix one little thing in a sentence, it just loads and loads and loads and won't post the change. :(Click "Go advanced" if it's doing that to you.

Morrigoon

09-27-2007, 04:23 PM

Meesa like deesa, mmm hmm.

Eliza Hodgkins 1812

09-27-2007, 04:29 PM

Jen, you write young people better than anyone I know and most people I've read and I'd mojo you into oblivion if I had any mojo I could give.

The cement was absolute gray, looking soft and almost spongy, rippling in their own time. A bricklayer’s comb marks were deep and irregular, the seams between cement sheets apparent and showing painful weakness. Old damage had been repaired with more goopy cement, platelets trying to congeal in wounds. Jude did not want to touch it, for fear of a wet or yielding skin, though he knew he had put a hand on this wall before.

And then their is your unique and beautiful attention to detail. I love what you notice.

Eliza Hodgkins 1812

09-27-2007, 04:47 PM

Click "Go advanced" if it's doing that to you.

Thank you.

Eliza Hodgkins 1812

09-27-2007, 05:00 PM

Eric, that was a chilling and haunting account of someone just outside of alvations reach, yet close enough to leave their mark, and a great piece of writing. Thanks.

Motorboat Cruiser

09-27-2007, 05:04 PM

EH1812, that was a great story. It's funny, I was looking at the picture last night (after I had finished my story) and, for the first time, noticed that it was two left hands. This little factoid makes my whole story impossible. But, then I reminded myself that these stories do not have to line up entirely with the photo; It can merely be the catalyst. That made me feel better. :)

It's so cool that you capitalized on that detail though. :) And I so love a good tale of revenge.

Morrigoon

10-01-2007, 12:09 PM

Okay, here's one on that photo I posted the other day:

The problem was, Celia was always pulling crap like this.

My grandma always insisted we call her by her first name. She thought it more democratic that way, like somehow taking note of her seniority over us made us inferior citizens or something. Of course, just because we called her Celia didn’t mean we were her equals, it just meant that we satisfied her desire to pretend that she treated us as equals.

My grandmother the activist. Wooo.

Most kids have fond memories of their grandmothers baking them cookies or taking them to Disney World. The only reason Celia would ever be caught dead in that part of Orlando would be to protest “the man”. But there was plenty of that to be had right here in Miami.

As a teenager I used to dread my parents going away on business trips because it meant Celia coming over to watch us. So instead of chilling on the couch with a bowl of chips and several hours of MTV after school, we were subjected to hours of television news and Celia shouting at the top of her voice about how it was all lies, and how they never reported anything that was actually significant in the world. You know, in retrospect, I have to agree with her there, but it doesn’t change the fact that as a teenager I just did not care or want to hear it.

Weekends were the worst though. Inevitably there was some protest going on somewhere, and we had to be a part of it. How many pamphlets did I hand out to unwilling strangers; how many rallies did I attend, bored out of my gourd while Celia got her political freak on? I swear, attending protests were like church to her. I started to appreciate her more as I got older, and came to understand what she was fighting for.

Well… until she started up with the performance art. She wasn’t doing it for art’s sake, of course. This was just a new and creative form of drawing attention to herself- oops, I mean “rallying for the cause”. She read some article in one of those liberal newsletters she subscribed to, talking about PETA and the crazy forms of protest they used to get publicity for their cause. Not that she ever got involved with that group, luckily (Celia liked a good steak as much as the next person, preferably free-range and from a small co-op of ranchers, served in a mom-and-pop steakhouse). But she loved the idea of artistic protest.

She went through a lot of body paint and feathers in the ensuing decade. Anyone who didn’t know her might have thought her one kinky old broad. You could say she was an activism fetishist. Wow, hearing myself say that, it’s really a perfect description of who she was. Protest for protest’s sake. Okay, so they were good causes, but really I think she liked the romance of fighting the man. She hungered for the validation of belonging to one beleaguered group after another, always for cause good enough to justify stepping outside the bounds of acceptable human behavior. Only this wasn’t a one-off, doing-it-for-the-cause thing for Celia, she lived the lifestyle.
I guess that’s why nobody was surprised to see her laying on the sidewalk in front of the Sheraton, clad in a teal shower curtain and tennis shoes. To anyone that knew her, she was probably trying to bring attention to the homeless in protest of some program that failed to be funded by congress or something. If she was, well, it worked. Her photo made the main page of the Herald’s website the next day, with the tagline, “Homeless woman lies dead on sidewalk as hundreds pass by, uncaring.” She had passed in the night.

LSPoorEeyorick

10-01-2007, 02:59 PM

Wait-- we have not moved on yet, right? We usually wait two weeks in between Inspiration topics so that people who take longer can get their work completed.

Morrigoon

10-01-2007, 03:49 PM

Ah, sorry. Still new at this.

LSPoorEeyorick

10-01-2007, 07:14 PM

Greasepaint was originally made from tallow. Yes, tallow. That means my predecessors had a slick glob of a beef fat mask melting down their faces thanks to the heat from the burning-candle footlights and from the sardined bodies of a drunken mob of an audience, and from whatever walking-against-the-wind kinetic antics worked up a sweat. I flipped burgers in a fast food restaurant when I was younger. Just the steam evaporating from the Grade-Z meat patties caused my pores to clog and ooze. I can't even imagine what it would be like to smear a cow facial directly on to my skin daily. Back then, they didn't even have Noxema.

These days, the greasy stuff is made primarily from petroleum. Your friends might make jokes about killing mimes (or not killing them—terrible thing to waste, and all) and by now they're trite. But seriously, if you killed us, I think you'd find that the terrible mime-based dependency on oil would be reduced significantly. Why, I'd imagine that the combined petroleum wasted by all of the mimes in this country probably stacks up to a week's fuel for an automotive-sexual-organ-enhancement-type vehicle. A whole tank full.

Generally, I'd much rather use Mehron's pressed white powder. Or none at all. The silent movie mimes, the greats—Chaplin, Keaton, Lloyd—never relied on so much makeup to delineate their clowning from reality. George makes a good point, though—that they had the distance of the silver screen to separate the clowns in the audience from the artists on-screen. And if we robbed our imaginary bank in the park bare-faced, I have no doubt that some people would get pretty freaked out. They might even call the cops. So George insists on makeup. And not just any makeup… greasepaint. Clown White. And so I scoop it out of the extra-large Ben Nye tub and slather it on.

I know—I know. If I don't want to wear grease on my face, then I ought to do whatever the hell I want to do. George wouldn't like it, though. He grows disinterested in women who disregard his point of view. Mentors-In-Demand get to do that kind of thing. Particuarly to the mimes they're ****ing. And what can I say? I get off on the mentor-protégé sexual dynamic just as much as he does. I enjoy being told what to do. Or shown. I don't have to have fantasies, I have memories—of his muscular arms wrapping around me from behind, steering my body through the imaginary bank vault, for one. Of him reaching up to caress my face with one hand, the other drawing my hand to caress his. Playfully guiding my hands to the invisible box around his **** until we find the hidden key. Greasepaint can be more of an asset than a liability in some contexts.

George is such an expert at what he does. I once watched him trick a woman into believing that there was a real bird in his hands. She even went and bought birdseed from one of the park vendors, and brought it back to feed it. By then he'd moved on to another bit, a little-old-lady act that had the passersby in stitches. He is such a singularly gifted artist that he can con you into believing you're tucked away inside some thrilling location, safe within the confines of heavy walls and mechanized locks and stacks of money to be whisked away—if a mime policeman plant isn't there to lock you up, that is—when, in fact, you're in a back alley. And his training session has neatly segued into heavy petting and what the policeman—not a mime plant, unfortunately—refers to as "lewd conduct" as he frisks the two of you, your gummy left hands against the wall.

Maybe more than being told what to do, I like to bitch about how I'd have done it differently, if I were in charge. I don't have to take responsibility for my actions when someone else is in control.

Goddamned Clown White.

Eliza Hodgkins 1812

10-01-2007, 07:46 PM

Some really great imagery in there, Heidi. Loved the make-up history woven into the story. And, you really do need to read Clown Girl. A similar dynamic that exists between your narrator and George exists in that story.

Morrigoon

10-01-2007, 08:09 PM

Whoa. Loved that.

Cadaverous Pallor

10-02-2007, 07:25 AM

This piece is so full of tactile imagery I feel like washing my hands. Nice work!

Ponine

10-02-2007, 11:50 AM

I could work on it for anotehr week and not be pleased.... I'm just impressed I finally wrote something.

The last box.
It’s not a large box, not really a small box, just large enough maybe to hold the cat comfortably. Providing of course she wasn’t already packed in her carrier safe at the motel.
I keep wandering though the house. My home. I found one of Annie’s stuffed toys we missed on the top shelf of the closet. A package of batteries in the bathroom, a penny for good luck on the kitchen floor.
When James and I moved in twleve years ago, we thought this would be our forever home. At the very least, our home till we could afford a real house. We could do without the yard; all we needed was each other. We could do without a porch, what would we use it for in this neighborhood anyway?

The walls were pristine and white, and the carpet new when we moved in. Now the walls are the yellowish color of dust and age, the carpet worn in places with an occasional glimpse of its old glamour.

I remember that first week in “our” place. No furniture, no bed. James and I decided that the living room carpet, with its soft pile, and new carpet smell was as good as anywhere else to sleep. We had Chinese food on a cardboard box in the corner, lit by one candle, and enjoyed the sounds of silence, and each other.
Annie came here from the hospital; to this, her first home.
She spent her birthday evenings in the kitchen nook where I kept my mothers breakfast table.
On her 8th birthday she squealed when her gift contained her very first kitten.
I bandaged her knee on this kitchen counter.
The same counter where we made cookies for Christmas.

That seems like so long ago now. Annie is still the same little girl she always was. There’s a chip in the tile from the day she climbed the counter by herself to get a cookie. I remember running into the kitchen after hearing the most awful sounds; coming in to see my angel on the counter clutching a cookie in each hand, all around her pieces of cookie jar, more cookies, and hundreds of pieces of china, never to be used again. I was never so thankful for that thrift store china as I was that day.
Today, Annie is about to slip out of her cocoon and become a young woman before my eyes. But for now, stuffed toys are still her best friends, her sparkling silver Mary Jane’s her must have fashion accessory.

I can almost feel the pulse of the memories in the wood of our home. Right here, where I marked Annie’s height, I was standing in this doorway the day James told me he had moved in with someone else. Kids were never in his life plan he said. Come to think of it, I was standing right here the day the doctor called to say I was pregnant.

Sweep it under the carpet. Annie and I have to find our path. I thought we could stay here and let Annie find her way through school, through life. I didn’t predict the building getting condemned. How could I? This was my home.
Sure, there are cracks in the walls; the stairs are cracked and missing pieces. It was still home. Throw my keys in the box, I won’t need them anymore. There’s nothing else left in our home to lock up.

I’m the last one to leave the building. Annie spent the night with a friend last night. She said the house felt ‘funny’ without our things in it. I can’t argue with that.
My last time down the stairs, step over the 15th step that’s been missing ever since the Williams dropped their refrigerator on it. They moved out last week, Mrs. Gonzalez the week before. Her kids sent a moving truck. I hope they’ll take care of her. Keep walking down the stairs, all the way down to the lobby. The last box tucked under my arm.

Out the door to the street. I reach up; place my hand on the handprints that have been on the building since the day we moved in. James used to say that some jerk rested while he should have been working. That never sat well with me. Then one day at the ripe old age of seven, Annie said, “Those are angel handprints. That’s why they’re white. They protect all of us here.”

At the time, I thought nothing more of it than a childs fancy. Now I think, maybe she was right. Then again, maybe I just believed my daughters wish because I wanted to. There are worse things to believe in after all.

*************************

LSPoorEeyorick

10-02-2007, 12:07 PM

Ahh, yes-- I could work on everything I do for "another week" and still find it unsatisfactory. I'm on just learning to deflect the voice in my head and actually post stuff before it crumbles under the weight of my fear-ridden perfectionism. (Bleah!)

But I'm so glad you posted yours, Ponine, because I thought it was lovely and sad. Depiction of a home and its journey crystal-clear.

Also, Morrigoon, I'm really sorry to have implied kibosh on creativity. The more pieces contributed, the better, of course! I will look into writing one this weekend (as I'm trying to balance my "creativity exercise" writing with writing the piece I've been working on, on my own.) I really liked your description of "activism fetishism" - and the way you wove your story around it.

tracilicious

10-02-2007, 12:42 PM

I'm loving reading the pieces in this thread. I haven't yet mojo'd everyone, so public mojo all around. Sorry I'm not more specific. Inspiration hasn't hit me with the past pics, but when we get around to Morri's pic I've got something.

Gemini Cricket

10-02-2007, 12:54 PM

Darn. Can't look at the pic at work.

Morrigoon

10-02-2007, 04:33 PM

Also, Morrigoon, I'm really sorry to have implied kibosh on creativity. The more pieces contributed, the better, of course! I will look into writing one this weekend (as I'm trying to balance my "creativity exercise" writing with writing the piece I've been working on, on my own.) I really liked your description of "activism fetishism" - and the way you wove your story around it.

Seriously, no worries. It was not my intention to overstep the protocol of the thread. After all, I'm the newcomer to this activity. Just sorry I rushed ya :)

€uroMeinke

10-21-2007, 09:12 AM

There is magic in the world, though we don’t see it anymore. Technology, the new magic has done away with most of it, science and logic conquering all of that stuff once reserved for sorcerers and Gods. Now, a flick of a finger will light up a city now; we can talk to just about anyone, anywhere on the globe; and the powers of destruction we command could upstage any biblical apocalypse. It would seem there’s no room for magic anymore. But it’s still here, mostly unseen, and in unexpected places.

People marvel at Stonehenge and the pyramids of the Mayan; that the movement of the sun and the planets might be expertly mapped with these huge weathered stones. Then they return home to their sprawling cities, and towering structures failing to recognize the patterns they map. That there are certain moments when the sun will shine directly between two buildings; that a ray of light might strike a glass façade and be bent and refracted into a prism of color, that some might pass and be filtered through yet another window, only to shine like a pointer on what might be an ordinary doorbell.

It seemed miraculous when I saw it – at the moment of solstice, though I didn’t know it at the time. A bright red beam suddenly appearing in a downtown alley, I couldn’t help but follow it to the doorway it pointed to. More amazing still was that it landed directly on the call button to one of lofts. There was no name beside this one, perhaps that’s why I had the courage to press it. If anyone did live there, certainly they’d want to know about this odd moment of astrological happenstance.

It was Sebastian who came to the door, though I could Sophie’s voice calling to him from the top of the stairwell. I was startled, of course when the door opened and the beam vanished, but Sebastian just grinned as I tried to explain myself, and what I had seen.

Of course they knew. It would be Sebastian who would later point out the handprints and explain their meaning. A marker – or warning as ancient as the first cave paintings, soon I would be seeing them and others everywhere. In this case two left hands, something sinister perhaps, or at least something beyond one’s ordinary control of right handed thought.

Some would see it and flee in fear. Others, the curious, would be seduced by their mystery. That was my first test, passed without thinking – for there is magic in the world, and where it exists there is no place for reason and logic, just fear and wonder.