Inspiration?

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Ok, check it out. I mention a topic, or perhaps a question or a quote, and you guys write something inspired by it. Your piece can be anything, from a haiku to a short story.

Let's start with a broad topic for our first shot at this. I'd love to hear poems and stories that have to do with The Great Outdoors. Any climate and topography is fine.

Have at it - I'll throw something into the mix later.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

The title The Great Outdoors triggered this memory for me. I may have mentioned this to some of you before...hell, I may have written a story on it before.

--------------
I used to work at an insurance agency.

Exciting, I know. I worked my first real good "I'm an adult" job at a small family owned/operated place in Calabasas. They took a chance on a kid with no experience who was willing to take anything after working at a Chuck-E-Cheese type place.

For me, it was exciting. I breathed paper dust and covered paper cuts with more paper cuts. I read the manuals to the fax machine and copier and was the only one who could replace the toner and find those elusive paper jams. I put things that were in disarray into order - I was in on the meetings - my opinion was valued and I was treated rather equally, even though I was 19. I bathed in the florescent lights and the constantly ringing phones.

Yet after a morning of this, I sure could use some air.

Money was short and every penny saved went towards moving in with the love of my life. I’d bring homemade lunches or cans of soup and Rubbermaid dishes to warm it in. I’d chat with the old agents, acting like goofy kids making faces at each other in the small, friendly break room.

Eventually I’d wander my way outside. The roads in Calabasas wind around the hills and leave pockets of quiet, even though you’re always close to the 101 freeway. Yes, the air wasn’t perfect, but an LA child like myself takes little notice of that. I remember there were nice breezes though, breezes in the tree…

We had a tree. A tree in the middle of the parking lot, surrounded by a tiny oasis of grass. It was just enough to sit on and feel taken away from the pavement. The grass was well tended and always green and fresh. Out came the Peanuts blanket from my car, the one covered in Snoopy and Charlie Brown and Linus riding hot air balloons.

I’d sit under the tree and write in my journal. I’d write letters to my beloved, letters to other friends. I’d think. I’d lie down and stare up at the branches, waving in the breeze. I liked that perspective best, since all I could see was sky and tree, and I could be anywhere. I imagined myself in a park, or a field, or a nature preserve. I’d restrict my field of vision until I really believed I wasn’t in the center of a cement ocean any longer. I’d daydream and blink slowly and forget about paper cuts and toner.

I’d take naps. Dream of a day far beyond this. Or just dream of the coming weekend with lazy afternoons spent snuggling.

I’d wake to realize I was late, fold the blanket (damp from the grass) and toss it in the car, then jog back in to face data entry and relieving the receptionist. I welcomed the air-conditioning and sometimes remembered to comb my hair.

I’m glad it’s a moment like this that I remember clearly. A moment breathing fresh air and seeing animals in the clouds.

May we all find a small spot of grass in a cement ocean and daydream a moment away.

[blueerica]

As I sit here, in my haze of anti-histamine, I try to think of something fantastic to say about the great outdoors. And I'm zzzz....

All I can focus on is the here and now... The light tinkling of raindrops.

I love getting caught in the rain. I fear I don't get caught in it nearly enough. I love a good downpour. I love getting drenched, and for no good reason; spinning circles in the rain, dancing as though I was Debbie Reynolds waiting for my Gene Kelley... Dodging raindrops like bullets, but finding myself shot anyway...

Though I may look like a drowned rat, I feel like a cleansed soul. Then there's the point at which the rain stops. A quiet night full of freshly-fallen sprinkles, glittering softly upon the asphalt outside my door. The streetlights lend their odd grace to the surface. Crisp, refreshing... Just a dare waiting to happen... A puddle ready to pounce in...

[AllyOops!]

That was absolutely beautiful, CP. I really enjoyed reading your post and your descriptions put me in the moments you described. I could read your post over and over again. :)

The Great Outdoors makes me think of Yosemite. I spent a long Christmas Holiday weekend vacationing at the Awahnee in December, and it was absolutely breathtaking. The air was crisp and thin, and challenged my lungs. Witnessing what is truly God's country, and every wonderment created by Him, and the Heavens, soothed my weary and citified soul. Leaving my man-made, concrete frenzy never felt so good.

I'm a city girl. I thrive on controlled chaos and the noise that accompanies it. However, that weekend the heart I forever leave in Los Angeles I unknowingly packed with me, and I gave it freely to the beauty of Yosemite. The falling leaves from countless trees were as golden as the silence that I came to know and surprisingly love. The tiny gurgles pronounced from crystal streams born of melting snowcaps were as precious to me as if they were coming from a newborn baby. Bucks and does grazed sweetly in the fields that I hiked through, and I finally sat on the edge of a smooth rock overlooking a clear, glacial stream. So clear that I could count the slate and cinnamon coloured pebbles blanketing the sediment beneath the glassy waters. Parts of the stream were frozen from the icy, brittle December air, and I could see that the plant life below was encapsulated in time. Little shards of green being embraced by nature's frozen diamonds. Everything standing still until the air warmed once again.

Later, I strapped on my skates and twirled around on the ice. With the spellbinding awe that is half dome as my backdrop, I linked hands with my sweetheart until our noses and earlobes turned crimson, our legs rivaled butter and we were in desperate need of a roaring fire, each other's arms and hot brandied coffees. :coffee:

And for the first time, nautre so took my breath away that it also brought tears to my eyes.

I can't wait until the day I return. :)

[Gemini Cricket]

The "Great" Outdoors
A Play in 27 lines by Gemini Cricket

Brad and Ralphie stand by a metal pipe railing in the middle of the stage. The rest of the stage is bare. They gaze fondly into the audience.

Ralphie: Aren't the outdoors...

Brad: Great?

Ralphie: Yes.

Brad: No.

Ralphie: Isn't the view of the Monterey Bay beautiful up here?

Brad: Swell. You know what needs to happen to it?

Ralphie: No.

Brad: It needs to be filled with cement so I'd finally have a place to park our truck.

Ralphie: Don't you love the Grand Canyon?

Brad: It needs more Starbuckses.

Ralphie: Isn't Big Sur wonderful?

Brad: Firewood for miles and miles. Do you know what Death Valley needs?

Ralphie: Air conditioning?

Brad: Exactly.

Ralphie: Yosemite's nice.

Brad: Half Dome needs an ATM half way up it.

Ralphie: Why?

Brad: So I'd have money to spend at the mall I'm going to build on top of it.

Ralphie: You hate the outdoors.

Brad: Not totally. It does make me appreciate staying home a great deal.

Ralphie: I'm going on a hike.

Brad: Call me when you're lost.

Ralphie: You know... some park rangers can be handsome.

Brad: I'm coming with.

FIN

[€uroMeinke]

I'd never been camping
Before Big Sur
What was I?
Maybe 25?

There were four of us
Old yellow volovo
the swedish chef
The other three, veterns

They told me of the beauty
the sleeping outdoors
under the stars
magesty

But one by one
the trip took it's toll
Allergies
Hangovers

It was Memorial Day
Crowded with RVs
The Smell of Diesel
And it was cold

Two couples crowded
In a tent for one
Huddling for warmth
In the bitter cold

Shivering, Drunk, restless
We woke having never slept
Coffee on an open flame
Neighbors giving cups out of pity

The other three pleaded
That this wasn't camping
As it ought to be
And they appologized to me

But I loved every second
Despite the crowds
I walked the beach and forrest
of Henry Miller and Robinson Jeffers

I got a taste
Of the great outdoors
It's decadent inhabitants
And it's overwellming beauty

[Tref]

The Great Outdoors

The great outdoors
Blue sunny skies
A ranger named Tom Frankel
A rake, an ox,
Some jagged rocks
A twist upon my ankle

Ole Yellowjacket bee
A friend to me
The snake says
“How you doin’?”
A red ant scout comes round to say
“I like your chocolate puddin’!”

The bear looks mighty hungry
The rabid squirrels so fine
A rusty nail will find ye walkin’
Through poison ivy vines.

Mother Nature
Hare Krishna!
A river nymph named Mindy
The great outdoors I love you best
When looking out my windie.

Finis.

[blueerica]

:snap:

I am really liking how this is going... Are we going to change the theme weekly?

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Ok kids, thanks so much for the fantastic entries. You people are oh see kay. ;)

Time for a new theme. Let's use this quote for inspiration:

The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed. ~Carl Jung

Again, use this however you wish - you can include the quote in your piece, or take ideas from it, or what have you.

I'll be back later with my submission.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Loneliness is the realization that we can never truly be with another intellect.

Didn't the Borg Queen warn Picard of this fate?

Surround yourself with people
with occasions and outings and adventures
shared past cultivates similar outlook
but still they can't see how you see
think how you think

We strive for that moment.
A fresh personality walks in
tentative discussion, small talk hellos
courtesies and halting attempts to reach out
something triggers, gains momentum, avalanching
looking into this new friend's eyes and seeing agreement

in those moments, I wish I could catch their hands in mine
dance 'round and 'round without tune or meter
laughing exalting praising yelling
"I have found someone I feel connected with!"
sure, they
never visited your hometown
dislike your favorite food
or perhaps enjoy listening to country music

BUT STILL
they like this and this and this
they read my philosopher
owned Hungry Hungry Hippos
agree on dating etiquette
have a brain and a heart and a wit

excitement for future memories
anticipation to just talk
remembers past friendship flare-ups
knows this is brief so clings fast
the click, the spark, the knock
jump on it before it goes

and the best, the absolute best
is when the differences are intriguing
leading to new concepts and outlooks
hence the excitement, adventure
reacting, transforming
giving and taking
an intercourse of the mind

This scares off the loneliness for a while
kindred in thought and deed
eyes and grins wide
attuned, learning, growing - together.

[€uroMeinke]

Fire
Earth
Water
Air

Will you
Burn me
Burry me
Drown me
Asphyxiate me?

Or

Will you
Warm me
Nourish me
Wash me
Let me breath?

How will our elements combine,
Complement or contradict?

Between us will we ever find
The elusive Quintessence
That immeasurable element sublime
That defies all detection?

It’s the drug we both seek
To be more complete
So we break ourselves down
And expose all our parts

Revealing our rawest of elements
To mix and commingle
To see if together a new element
Can be born.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

I will read through these, and contribute, when I can wrap my head around it. I'm all blankety blank lately. Love the thread, though!

[Flubber]

This is quiet
Not peace, just quiet
Sit near me and share

This is talk
Small at first, then more
There is meaning in words

This is love
Shared, not stolen
A precious gift

This is time
Fast with you, not with me
I need more

This is life
Quiet talk, loving times
If not for you I would sit alone

[wendybeth]

Really great thread, CP!:snap:

When I'm not brain dead, I may throw in some prose. Can't do poetry- I appreciate it, but it doesn't appreciate me.:rolleyes:

[lindyhop]

Really great thread, CP!:snap:
I second that. I love reading all the contributions. One day I'll come up with something.

When I'm not brain dead, I may throw in some prose. Can't do poetry- I appreciate it, but it doesn't appreciate me.:rolleyes:
There are always prose poems. :)

[blueerica]

In a second
we met
lives intertwining
you said hello,
but I said no
and yet, you persisted anyway.
Thank you.

[Gemini Cricket]

When we met
All fire and music
The world stopped
And spun the other way

We became the two-headed
Lead character of a sitcom
Everyone was watching
Aren't they cute and good for a laugh?

Upon making our CD collection joint
And adapting to the way
Each other drives
We postition matching rocking chairs
So they face the sun

But

The sun sets
Rocking chairs aren't rollercoasters
Someone drives like a funeral
CDs get dusty
This show's a syndicated rerun
The world's a globe on your desk
Music fades and fire burns

What then?

[blueerica]

UGH -- I give you too much mojo, GC!! Too much mojo, I tell you!!

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Alrighty! Such great work! Time for a new topic.

Hmm....how about a title:
A Very Rewarding Task

Ooh, that can mean anything! :cheers:

I'll be back later, please, get started!

[blueerica]

Hmmm -- I'm intrigued... Will have to get back to this one a little later...

[Prudence]

A very rewarding task
(a haiku, in honor of the season)

Pull up cardboard tab
Rip open plastic wrapper
Girl Scout Cookies, yum!

[Cadaverous Pallor]

As you can probably tell, I'm a bit blocked when it comes to this title. :blush: I really don't like any of the ideas that pop into my head. Too formulaic, too dark, too sappy, too simple, too whathaveyou. Hmm. I can't tell if I'm censoring myself or if I really just don't have any good ideas.

This may just be a week where I don't participate...we'll see.

[€uroMeinke]

As any Sisyphus will tell you
There are some tasks that will never be accomplished.
Laundry, dishes, cleaning house
The mundane maintenance of our daily lives.

Yet we put them on our to-do lists
Rejoicing when we cross them off
Only to add them back on
Later in the week.

Most tasks are undone and redone
Even the great one's:
Monuments, revolutions, whole civilizations
Sometimes for better, sometimes for worse.

The only task we accomplish with finality
is the living of our lives
Something we'll never appreciate
when it's completed.

[blueerica]

^^ Wow! That's really wonderful!

[MerryPrankster]

The only task we accomplish with finality
is the living of our lives
Something we'll never appreciate
when it's completed.

Awesome! :)

You just gave me an excuse to not do a lick of housework today! It's a beautiful day oustside. I'm going to tie on my old school roller skates and take a whirl. A few mimosas beforehand might make it even more interesting. :eek:

Now that's inspiration!!

[€uroMeinke]

Awesome! :)

You just gave me an excuse to not do a lick of housework today! It's a beautiful day oustside. I'm going to tie on my old school roller skates and take a whirl. A few mimosas beforehand might make it even more interesting. :eek:

Now that's inspiration!!

Happy to oblige ;)

- Bringing you hedons, where ever you are :cheers:

[CoasterMatt]

Happiness is a loaded nailgun, and lots of stuff to hang

[lindyhop]

The only task we accomplish with finality
is the living of our lives
Something we'll never appreciate
when it's completed.

I bow to your wisdom, great guru of swank!

:cool:

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

As any Sisyphus will tell you
There are some tasks that will never be accomplished.
Laundry, dishes, cleaning house
The mundane maintenance of our daily lives.

Yet we put them on our to-do lists
Rejoicing when we cross them off
Only to add them back on
Later in the week.

Most tasks are undone and redone
Even the great one's:
Monuments, revolutions, whole civilizations
Sometimes for better, sometimes for worse.

The only task we accomplish with finality
is the living of our lives
Something we'll never appreciate
when it's completed.

Chris, I really loved this. Thanks.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

and inspired by my filthy glasses, the lenses of which never seem to stay clean...

Tortoise Shell Negotiators

Without the glass, it is a meaningless interstice
Between my face and what’s in front;
The lenses through which I view this country askew
Are necessaries that right the angles and sharpen crystallized light
Into objects I can identify with the weaker of my senses

Essential to me is this unblurring that
Happily erases the halo from this world;
Me, I like my sinning in sharp focus
Me, I like the hedonistic throng of Man
That flails against that which would puppet master our inhibitions

I want to inebriate the populace with language,
The vibrancy of a human thought in voice or ink:
Word with a lowercase ‘w’, and not in anyone’s name but Ours

I want to drink the nectar of happenstance,
I want to get so sick on luck and coincidence,
Vomit up the definitions I have for “fate", “destiny”,
And the rascally “expectation”

So I’m thankful for these glasses that let me see the world
In its way and mine, though it’s a wrestling act each time
I blink the crying back

And possibly it’s true that I’ve been given rare visions
Of things as I would have them be and not as they are,
But I wonder if these moderators,
Between my face and what’s in front,
Make me a hostage to my inner dreams and thoughts

Also in the wondering,
Do other people’s glasses gather up the world refuse as mine do?
It’s as if all the grime and speck of life need a place to rest
And have taken a shine to me -
Sweat that’s condensed and grease from the forelock,
Ash, muck, fingerprint and glue

The filthy detritus of bodies keeping my loneliness company,
Fvcking up my pretty views

[Tref]

and inspired by my filthy glasses, the lenses of which never seem to stay clean...

Tortoise Shell Negotiators ...

Yer words skate like the finga's of Vince Guaraldi.

[Tref]

Yer words skate like the finga's of Vince Guaraldi.

Whateverthehellthatmeans.

[blueerica]

So the topic should be A Rewarding Task, but quite frankly, I can't think of anything. Could such a simple theme be so difficult? I suppose so.

There are a number of rewarding tasks; those that the very task is it’s own reward, those that you get a reward for upon completion (a bounty, some might say), and those which have rewards only in knowing that they’re checked off some arbitrary list I’ve made up. (Oh, I have many!)

For me, the most rewarding of tasks usually fall in the first category. Instant gratification, and most everyone, I think, would take that option. Drawing, though it has been so long since I’ve done it for pleasure, is a task that fits within those parameters. But, what’s even better about that task is that the final result, the end product, becomes a reward matching or even surpassing the reward of the doing.

Completion holds its own sweet reward, does it not? Sometimes – okay, most of the time – I over-analyze my finished works, be they writings or drawings, and the reward diminishes as I ruminate over missed strokes and missed words. The worst, for me, is the spraying of fixative over fine layers of dust, finalizing it, only to notice an oversight in shading or landscaping. It’s nice that Little Red Riding Hood now looks as though she is prancing off a cliff, instead of into a beautiful, full forest. (i.e. more than the first few rows of trees, Erica!)

OR – The post that goes through, as my right hand and index finger clicks (so gently) the submit button. A flash of panic as in my mind’s eye, I see the mistake I made. Misspeaking, misspelling, or otherwise misrepresenting what should have been a great post, idea, poem (Oscar Wilde once said “A poet can survive anything but a misprint.”). Hit the Q-edit button! It might not help me before someone might lay eyes on what I’ve said, what mistakes I’ve made. OH! Why am I so hard on myself?







But I must say – completing THIS task, writing about rewarding tasks – is completed, and the reward is mine!


When’s the next topic coming, CP? ;)

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

The Plumber

When I drive by Victorian houses with my friend Suzette, she always squeals in delight about how beautiful the design is and how friendly the paint colors. I smile at her because I'm hoping to cop a feel later, but inside I'm screaming at her. Those old houses are like beautiful young virgins with harpy, old woman heart, bone and muscle. Old houses like that are rotting from the inside out. They're made up to look real nice but inside they began dying ages ago. Lead pipes in the walls swilling water back and forth. Termites. Mold in the attics. Water in the basement. Disgusting.

I'll tell you right up front that I don’t do anything for free. It's true you don't always have to give me money. In fact I prefer you don't. I hate money. Money is sullied paper; you can't even use it for writing. It's a waste. Usually I’m looking for payment in kind, a trade of sorts, but I’ll take money when necessary. Like if I need to take my dog to the vet and the vet doesn’t need any work done, I’ll have to pay him, so someone will have to pay me. No exchange of goods or services that time. But normally I prefer to work on trade. That seems the more American thing to do; peaceful Indian and Pilgrim style like they taught us when I was a kid. None of this “true” crap. I prefer my Thanksgivings extermination free and I don’t care if it’s a lie. I’ll take a pretty lie over an ugly truth (stupid Victorian houses aside), and I always got straight A’s in my history classes so my teachers must have felt the same way.

My father says I’m a communist fvck, but he’s a fvck period, so why do I care? I love a hard day’s work and when I’m offered payment in kind, it feels more like a present than payment, like a big fvcking thank you tied up in a velvet bow. There’s no one who can do a job so well as you can, pal! I like it when they call me pal.

So that we’re clear, full copper re-pipe – no problem. But I don’t ever want to pay for a beer in your establishment ever again, and if your business folds before I’ve had my Miller’s worth you will owe me, and I’ll have that in writing. You won’t have to pay me a dime but your wife might have to agree to weed my garden for the next two years to cover your end of the bargain. Your garden always looks so nice.

I would like that, his wife weeding in my garden. She’s got a deliciously fat rump. I wonder what her face would look like twisted in pleasure.

I’m a good plumber and I will be compensated for my services. I’ll unclog your drains and I’ll pull out your nasty clumps of wet hair for an unseemly amount of money. It’s amazing the money people will cough up to avoid having their gag reflex tickled. Old Ms. Miles at 340 Lemon Place pays me fifty dollars just to unclog a toilet. I don’t think it’s healthy to be afraid of your own sh*t. I read somewhere that if your sh*t smells foul it’s because you’re not eating the right foods, and your body is slowly rotting from the inside. At its worst your sh*t should smell like moldy flowers, a rank bouquet. Stick your head in the throne and take a whiff sometime. It’s key to understanding your own health.

Another thing, check for floaters. Poo should float at the top of the bowl for a few seconds before sinking to the bottom. It should also be a light brown color and smooth. It should break up as it hits the porcelain bottom. If it is dark brown and bulbous, you need to eat more fiber. If it’s green, you probably drank too fvcking much with me at the bar last night. And if it’s black, you’re pipes are seriously clogged. You’ll need a good plumber. Someone who got rid of their gag reflex years ago by dangling his head off of a bed, opening his mouth in a yawn, and staying that way for hours. I read somewhere that this is how porn stars get rid of their gag reflexes.

I did some work out at a hydrotherapy facility once, you know, colonics. That was a big job. Too big for their bank account, I guess, cause when I asked them for a colonic machine they were retiring in exchange for my services they said no problem and we sealed the deal with a sweaty handshake. Her hand was sweating, not mine. The machine needed a little bit of work, but I’m a talented guy and I got that machine working in no time.

I’m a stickler about good pipes. Without good pipes, you’ve got rot and death, cholera and cancer. The stink of unwashed human skin fills the air instead of the smell of freshly baked bed or laundry drying on a line. Your plumbing goes and it’s like you’re living in the 18th Century again. Human stink can take the sunshine right out of the air. So it’s my advice to you to always go with copper and to always include enough fiber in your diet. Avoid cheap products like Drano and drink plenty of water. Properly maintain your plumbing, my friends, and the reward is in all the money and services you’ll save not having to call on a guy like me. We don’t come cheap, men of my caliber. I’ll plumb the sewers of your cities and bodies - it’s what I love to do - but I hear my exchange rate is turning positively Faustian.

Still, should you ever need me, here’s my card. You’ll notice my number is toll free.

[blueerica]

^^ Aud ^^

You rock my literary world!

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Cats and Kits, such sweet reads! :cool: I myself had to bow out of this week's challenge. Sad, but true.

Onward and upward! It's Thursday again, time for a new topic. This time, just a single word.

Judge.

Have fun, back later, and this time I think I can come up with something. ;)

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

^^ Aud ^^

You rock my literary world!

Thank you, Erica. I always appreciate your support. My best cheerleader! I only wish I could go back in to fix up the grammar in places, but I can't seem to find an edit function right now. Ah, well.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

And Then There Was

Who am I to judge?

Well, for starters, I’m God, Creator of the Universe and the infinite space beyond that is unknowable even to me. I am the omnipotent being who breathed life into all things living, He who wound you up and let you go, and it is only natural for something ticking to one day stop. An ant doesn’t die without my knowledge, though its death does not require my consent. When a tree falls alone in a forest, I hear it because I am the tree. I am the ant. I am your heartbeat and the pauses in between.

You are me and I am you and together we can never be lonely, and God (hah!), do I wish I could feel lonely now and again, like in the good ole days of dark and quiet. I wouldn’t mind a place of my own again, where my lungs don’t have to share your air and my thoughts are not mingled with the pale echo of your rambling prayers.

I would like to experience a dream that isn’t filled up with your symbolism.

What I need is a Fortress of Solitude. Superman had the right idea. Superman knew what it was like to be a part of mankind and still be set apart. When you’re set apart, say, because you’re worshiped and held to impossible standards, and are expected to rush in and save the day all the time, it would be nice to have a place where you could be by yourself, wouldn't it? I remember too well what it was like in the dark and quiet before that first day.

In the beginning there was the Void and there was me. I’m a bit clumsy but usually pretty careful. However, that day I stood up too quickly and cracked my head against the Void – THWACK – and felt pain for the first time, and for the first time I spoke, “Ow, God dammit! I can’t see a damn thing here. Light. LIGHT!”

There’s a thrill you get when naming a pet or child. Some people even name their cars. That thrill you feel is the final tuning fork vibrations of my own first thrill.

There it was in front of me – Life – and I was responsible for it. You are all just copies of copies of copies of a copy that was once the first spark.

I never wanted to be a single parent. Everybody is always staring at me at P.T.A. meetings, blaming me for everything that’s gone wrong. Let’s pretend for a minute that you don’t all have free will, and I’ll pretend that it’s my responsibility to take your suggestion boxes seriously.

Okay, your minute is up.

I may have built the thing but I never offered a warranty or a maintenance contract. Everything, in time, needs a bit of upkeep, a bit of renovation and upgrade. But I’m old, really old, and rejuvenation is the responsibility of the young. Haven’t I given you everything you need to take care of yourself? Wasn’t that expectation clear? You were made in my image. You are all designers and architects. It was dark so you invented candles and then you invented light bulbs. We are no different. In fact, sometimes I wonder if it was you who invented me. This thought makes me shudder so I will try to ignore it.

I wouldn’t have given you the kingdom without the means to govern it, but it’s not my fault you allow Camelot to fall again and again. You were given the potential for progress. I began you in the earliest of stages and let you evolve slow enough to actually learn. You were dust and comet tails. You were single-celled organisms. You were apes who became crafty, craftier, craftiest! If I had no intent I certainly gave you a beginning that could not have unfolded any other way.

There is no fault in the design, my lovelies, and therefore no fault in the maker. You may have been an accident, the result of a bumped crown, but you were a happy accident and you were perfect. You are perfect.

I cannot absolve you because I have not judged you, even though I could if I wanted to. If I could make you I’m pretty sure I could “Alt/Ctrl/Delete” just as easily, but I see no point, though I wonder if I might finally get some peace and quiet again. But to find you wanting is to find myself wanting, and like I’ve already said, you are me and I am you, and we are perfect, warts and all. Don’t mess with perfection. You can spend a lifetime ignoring your allotment of years in favor of what awaits you, but I’ll tell you now that it’s still dark here. I gave you all the light I had lo those many years ago and I’m still bumping my head against that which I cannot see.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Judge.

To survive in nature, one must judge.
Will this particular
item/experience/person
be helpful or harmful?
So ingrained in our brains
This need to categorize
Another instinct often in the wrong context.

Judgement is attached in the most unlikely of places.
Judge an object, will you?
Capabilities don't equal villiany
Money and weaponry and knowledge
Tools without moral stance
Yet hated or exalted as if they've sense of their own
As if they bring with them the deeds done in their name.

It is hard to resist judgement.
What could be easier?
Judgement is completion
Finality, no more work to be done
This is this and that is that
Simple path flecked with lightning
Dirt stamped to hardness with constant use.

Many say they don't judge.
Can they see how they lie?
I see myself rationalize blind dismissal
While damning those that judge me
I'm smart enough to see my weakness
not wise enough to eliminate it.

To be honest, never have I met anyone
Living truly from event to event.

It would be a meet with a saint.

[€uroMeinke]

I judge you everyday
And I am never fair
Because I always put you in context
With what has happened in my past
Even when you weren’t there.

I’m much too lenient
When I think of the good times.
I overlook your cruelty, your anger,
The shortcomings that everyone else sees
Perhaps I’m a fool to forgive so much.

Yet I’m also stubborn and vindictive
When I think of the bad times
I avenge my hurts with you
Punishing you for the tears
I’m accidentally reminded of

Victim of my moral ambivalence,
There are no appeals with me
Though my judgments often vary
Issuing pardons and condemnations
For the same crimes.

And so I stand before you,
The defects of my own judgments bared
Asking you for forgiveness and understanding
Wondering about your own ambivalence
And whether you’ll be fair.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

Yet hated or exalted as if they've sense of their own
As if they bring with them the deeds done in their name.

(and...)

I'm smart enough to see my weakness
not wise enough to eliminate it.



Really enjoyed the entire poem, but those lines in particular. :snap: :snap: :snap:

[SacTown Chronic]

Many say they don't judge.
Can they see how they lie?


:snap:

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

I judge you everyday
And I am never fair
Because I always put you in context
With what has happened in my past
Even when you weren’t there.


Perfect way to open a poetic treatise on judgment and its accruements. Lovely read. It has it’s own cadence.

And it strikes me as capturing some very universal feelings on the subject while at the same time I can only see it being written by you.

[blueerica]

Hmm -- Now I gotta try to follow those three things up?? What the?? :D

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Thursday again...hmm. How's this?

"...at that moment, I realized I was a grown-up."

[Not Afraid]

It is so strange for me to see the words "Thus Spoke Zarathustra" when, for 20+ years it has been "Also Sprach Zarathurstra" for me - even before I knew any Deutsche.


It's just one of those strange things you realize living with € all of these years. He's infectious, you know. Maybe even inspirational, ja?

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

There was a bursting forth of something, too scared was I to give this something a name, but now I have you clean and in my arms, and can see that you are just a babe.

I had walked the room in circles cursing every man I had ever known and I sat back on my haunches moaning my own mother’s name. Amelia, Amelia, Amelia, I prayed and prayed and prayed. At first there was an alien liquid seeped out of me in a sputtering gush like a dropped bucket. I thought it would be more like ringing out the laundry before sticking it up on the line, and so I was scared. Our family was small and secluded, always, and I was the first with child being the only girl. Mother died long ago or else she might have told me.

When the pain began, I was glad to be so alone here in the woods. Here has been my home since I was a girl. I always hated for anyone to hear me scream. There is nothing I hate so much as spectacle.

I walked the room in diagonals next, the circles making me dizzy. I thought about the wrong I had done, and figured my agony was penance owed. I would ask for forgiveness but you cannot be a beggar at death’s door.

Four months with child when the mine collapsed. My dresses had been Mother’s and were too large; they hid you well. My father and brothers were buried without ceremony or witness.

Charles was a lovely boy with money who liked my soft curls and freckles. He kissed my thighs and tickled my feet, and there were many times we met together in secret before you began to grow inside of me. Charles promised love but could not promise a wedding ceremony. My family was buried and I would be alone in this world with you to care for. The sky was black with a new moon the last night I held my Charlie. At my request he laid down on his stomach and I crushed a piece of broken masonry into his skull. Death came upon him in an instant. I could not even hear his final breath.

I am small girl but a strong one. I dragged your father up and over into the well and no one came looking for him. We had been so careful and undiscovered in our love.

You were born with a caul still upon your head. If we lived by the sea, I could have used it to make an amulet to sell to a sailor. Then, perhaps, we would have had food to eat. But we are too far from the sea, William. Too far from anything good. I buried the good luck charm in the wood before we came to meet your father. We want to sink. We want to sink. We want to sink.

I was a child before you were born, William and now I am a woman fully grown, though I am still young. Let the world, and not us, grow old. Soon we will be a family again. You are so good and lovely, and I promise that will never change. We just have to sink. Let us sink. Stop your cries and let us sink. Hush your cries so we can sleep.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Damn, I forgot all about this! And it's Thursday already! Eliza's is absolutely amazing, btw. :)

Shall we give this topic some more time or do we want a new topic? I'll think on writing something here....

[blueerica]

I actually wrote a couple of things on this topic, but haven't managed to type it up yet.. hehe... I'm not sure if I'm fond of what I've written, either.

So, I could hold onto it, work it into something better and post it as it's own thing, or we can wait, and I can be forced into looking at it again.. ;)

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Bored. Bored bored bored.

I stretched my aching arms and massaged my wrists. A look at the clock snapped me to immediacy - 7:22pm. I glanced around the room lit only with monitor light, realizing that the sun had set while I was playing. How long ago? Two minutes, one hour? "Online Gaming: A True Virtual Reality," I said aloud as I flipped on a light switch.

My conscience grumbled as I stepped carefully over clothes and books to reach the doorway. I could hear my own mind making the usual excuses in retort. I had to level today, otherwise I'd never catch up to Jacqueline.

So fine, got that done, as if it were mailing a payment or sweeping the steps. I can cross that off my list. I snickered at the empty condo.

Walking through the hall turning on lights, I headed for the living room. Fell into the couch knowing I didn't want to watch anything. Glanced at the stereo knowing I didn't want to hear anything. I stared at the wall and soaked up the silence.

Now what? Now what? A repetitive, nagging thought.

Now what?

I'd had my sugary snack to tide me until late dinner. I'd done my homework, at least the pre-lunch classes. I'd checked my email and my message boards and instant messenger. I'd said goodnight to my girlfriend.

I stared at the wall in the empty house, waiting. Vision blurred and thought slowed. I felt present elsewhere...my bedroom with the obstacle course floor...the bathroom with its soap residue white on the glass door...the cold kitchen, barely used.

I'd always felt independent on Mom's late nights. I did my own thing. I'd felt grown up and mature. I could game or chat or watch whatever I wanted on TV. Sometimes I'd make some mac 'n cheese just to prove I could. Being 16 wasn't a bad set-up with my Mom. She trusted me, and I didn't mind acting Man of the House at all.

But tonight...tonight was dark. When the hell did the sun set, anyway? It seemed extra dark. I thought of getting back on the computer and connecting with someone, anyone...but I didn't move.

I stared at the wall and heard my own breathing.

Where was she? Where was my mother? Why was I alone? So many nights of late dinners and rushed good nights. So few moments of genuine smiles and heartfelt exchanges. Why was I alone?

It wasn't late. She was on her way. There was no reason to worry. But awareness flooded in with images of carjackers and drunk drivers and brake failure. Images of working at a register and coming home to my own empty condo. Images of being responsible for sending the checks on time and getting the kids to school. Images of reaping frustration from crops sown in haste. Of never seeing London and being lucky if you see the beach. Of dodging disaster and planning ahead and dealing with assholes and choking down unfairness.

Then, the roaring in my head ceased.

Now what?

I rose. I stepped into the kitchen. I put away clean dishes and washed dirty ones. I heated cans of soup and made turkey sandwiches with as many fixings as we had. I worked quickly and carefully.

I heard the key in the lock.

I thought of Mom eating a halfway decent meal after a hard day's work. I thought of smiling and laughing with her as she ate. I thought of giving her a hug.

I thought of connecting with a fellow human in this harsh world and being of comfort.

At that moment, I realized I was a grown-up.

[€uroMeinke]

"...at that moment, I realized I was a grown-up."

I hear the pounding of nails on my coffin lid.

[wendybeth]

I hear the pounding of nails on my coffin lid.

No, that's just the raccoons on the roof.

[€uroMeinke]

No, that's just the raccoons on the roof.

Immortal youth is mine

[wendybeth]

Immortal youth is mine

Not if the furry little bastards keep you awake all night.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

CP, you rock my friggin' socks. This was really, really well written. I enjoyed every sentence. It's a really honest piece of writing.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

:blush: :blush: :blush:

[Monorail Man]

The time had come, the doors opened at nine
I came in at eight, it didn't feel quite right
I was 14 and felt too young at the time
The day went fast, it was allready night

There went 3 years behind a desk
A time that was of fun, was now of anger, of discust
I figured it was time to give it a rest
I put in the letter, it was was a must
The job had ended,
The first chapter was written,
And at that cusp
I realized I was a grown-up! :D

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Alrighty. :) Nice one, MM.

We're all thinking at least a bit about the Schiavo case, and hence, our own mortality.

I figure a topic of Death is just a bit too broad. How about this instead?

Will and Testament

[AllyOops!]

When you left me, I lost my Will to live. To love.
With no good-bye you were taken, and on our very last kiss, your tender, warm lips were replaced by the heat of a sun-baked bronze coffin.
I took a single rasberry coloured rose and I walked away.

I still stay up at night, did you know that?
I still keep hoping you'll knock on my door.
You'll tell me it was all an awful dream.

I still cry over you, can you hear me?
They tell me I have to move forward, but they never tell me how.
Please God, just one more moment to see your face one last time.

I still need you, can you feel me?
I caress your cheek, your face etched on your tombstone
The granite is cold just like my heart when I lose myself in grief.

I want to tell you that I found somebody special. I love him with my entire being and he makes me so very happy and alive. He awakened me. I think you'd really like him. Did you help bring him to me? Your last words were that you wanted me to be happy. I know that we were once supposed to last forever. Remember the picture that I drew of us? Me in the wedding gown? Pink, of course. We hung it on the refrigerator. You used to love my drawings.

I never dreamt that the day we would be in Church together, at the altar, it would be me standing side by side with your casket.

Please help me to let go. Please help me to move forward. If my tears were born of clouds I would flood the world ten times over.

But that's a Testament to how much I love you. To how remarkable you are. Unlike our bodies, our love will never die.

I miss you.

[Hades]

Whoa! That was deep and so very meaningful. I know about the background from which you wrote this, but it could touch anyone's heart even if they didn't know about your past loss. Got me teary eyed.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

"Well, here we are."

"Yes. Alone at last."

"Strange, isn't it? To be the only ones left?"

"Truly strange. Surreal almost."

"More like a Samuel Beckett play, I'd say."

"Wasn't he a surrealist?"

"Uh, I don't think so. Maybe. No. I have no idea. Could you pass the bacon bits?"

"What for?"

"I like to sprinkle them on my cantaloupe slices."

"Really? I like to eat my cantaloupe with a tall glass of chocolate milk."

"To each his own..."

"Said the old lady as she kissed the pig."

"I love it when you finish my sentences."

"And I love finishing them. It's a good thing we go so well together, being left here all alone like this. I thought an empty planet would be a lot more quiet."

"Me, too. Instead it sounds a bit like....I don't know...it's a constant buzzing."

"Not a buzzing. A sizzling. Like grease in a pan. That reminds me, you should turn over. You're stomach is getting burnt."

"Thanks. Would you mind putting some sunblock on my back?"

"Not at all my friend, not at all."

"I am really glad that it's you. If we had to be the last, I mean."

"Yeah. It's funny, really. You know I didn't really like you when we first met?"

And they shared a laugh then before lapsing into silence. The listened to the dying world around them, grease in a pan. The water rolled in from the west and the air smelled fresh like a beginning, ironic since it was so obviously the end. Earlier they had taken the notice of the ocean, blaoted with death. The leviathans of the deep had all floated to the surface and looked like tiny islands in the distance. The sun was at its zenith and as time had finally stopped, so it would remain.

"I heard the trumpets this morning, Will. I expected them to sound ominous but I could have sworn it was a Lee Morgan song being played; it was lovely.

"I felt an earthquake at dawn," smiled Testament, "and thought the whole world was a waltz. It was lovely, too."

[€uroMeinke]

They came like vultures
Sensing death
But they were family
Pretending love

“But certainly, there’s a will?
There must be something here
To divide amongst us
Or at least sell?”

But there wasn’t
Death was still 20 years away
Possessions used
Money spent

So we buried dad alone
With love,
Respect and dignity
And little else.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Last Will and Testament by Stephanie Bock

You are all gathered here because I have died.

Since this will is being written by me at the tender age of 14, then it's obvious I've died some horribly untimely death. If I don't die young, this will never be seen. It's sad to ponder the concept of never seeing adulthood, but I've pondered it. Life can be unfair and grim and painful.

Anyway, on to the Will.

My camera goes to my friend Max. His camera isn't all that great and mine is brand new. I hope he makes good use of it.

My PS2 goes to Alicia. She never wanted to do anything else when she came over. She gets all the games and everything that goes with it.

My cool glitter pen set goes a girl named Lan that sits behind me in 3rd period. She told me she liked them and it started us being friends in that class. I don't remember her last name.

My books go to Drew. He gets first choice of any of my sci-fi series. I wouldn't have read all that if he hadn't been reading it too.

Yes, Mom and Dad, you may read my journal now. I hope no one gets offended or anything. I had some bad days, just like anyone else. I'd like to know that someone will read that stuff someday. I hope the poetry isn't too weird.

All the notes I've passed throughout my school years are saved in boxes marked "Private". These notes are sorted by the person who wrote them, in the order they were received. On my death, these notes are to be given back to those that wrote them. Let those people know that saved communications are among my most cherished possessions. They can do what they want with them, though.

That goes for any photos including other people too, although most of my stuff is digital now anyway.

My posters go to Melissa, who shares the same crushes I do, and who made it bearable that we wouldn't ever get to meet them.

My bike is in really bad shape and I don't want to will it on anyone that doesn't want it, so Mom and Dad can do what they want with it.

And now the really important stuff:

My room goes to my little brother. I don't want it set up as some kind of shrine - please redecorate it and give it to Matt. Matt, you can also have my stereo, all my music, and my computer. You weren't old enough to merit all that before, but I'm sure you'll grow into it.

Any money from my bank account that was for college, as well as my babysitting money in my locked box, goes towards any funeral expenses. If there's any left after that (which I doubt) please put it towards Matt's college fund.

Mom and Dad, anything else that I have owned is yours, of course. I tried to think of something I could will to you, but I think the loss of a daughter would too much to compensate for. Besides, you gave me everything I have, so I can't really give you anything at all.

Hmm, how about if I will you my music box. The one with the kissing dolls on it that plays "Favorite Things". Keep that for me, please?

That's the will. I hope no one ever reads this. I just want to be prepared, that's all.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

Oh my f*cking God, I loved this. I love Stephanie Bock and I want her to be my friend. So many kids do this, too. Make a will. And it's amazing how much you know about her just from this one testament. How kind and wonderful and thoughtful she is. This story makes me even *more* glad to know you, Jen. Seriously, two things you've written for this thread are two of the best short stories I've read in months. I think you're an amazing talent and should be writing all the time. I really love your casual style. I feel like these people are speaking to me, in the same room with me. She's so real. So totally 14. And I love that she's not necessarily dead. This could just be totally charming, or only slightly morbid. I love how she talks about the things she owns. The phrasing. I wouldn't change a thing. I wante dto cut and paste my favorite bits but it feels like cutting and pasting the whole thing.

"Hmm, how about if I will you my music box. The one with the kissing dolls on it that plays "Favorite Things". Keep that for me, please?"

That actually got me teary eyed at work.

Man. Write more, more, more!

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Whoo boy, such praise from Eliza is heady stuff! :eek:

Speaking of our dear Eliza, here's my concept for the next assignment. We all love Eliza's diary style writings. I challenge you to give us A Slice of Your Life. It can encompass one moment or many moments, and can be as long or short as you want, but it must be from your point of view, on a normal day(s) of your life. Of course, you can make it up if you want since we have no clue whether it's true or not....but it must be a believable circumstance.

Oooh, I'm all excited to read what people have to offer!

[Prudence]

I'm hoping it's okay for me to use the wayback machine and take a slice of life from my past. This is something I was already working on in my head. Sorry, it's kind of long. But it's the truth from my perspective.

Puberty: An Autobiography

For years my peers referred to me as “Zitso.” Not because I was the only one with bad skin, or because mine was the worst, but because I had been first, and because I didn’t know my place.

The worst transgression a girl can make as she travels through puberty is to shamelessly be smarter than the boys. There were other smart girls, maybe even some who were smarter. Some kept quiet and never revealed their test scores. They slid by under the radar -- not popular, but not a target. Others would bat their eyelashes and ask the nearest boy for unnecessary help; good grades could then be attributed to male tutelage, not feminine smarts.

I didn’t realize the importance of this game. My parents always taught me (indirectly, by their actions) that my intelligence was something to be proud of and use as best I could. My mom stayed home with us until I was in high school, but I knew she was smart. My dad used to take me to work with him on the weekends. I’d sit in his office and marvel at all the wonders in his desk. Colored paper clips! A grease pencil! Special rulers! He’d introduce me to any of his co-workers who happened to be there on the weekend. Maybe it’s because it was the weekend and there were never more than a few other people there, but I never noticed a real difference in numbers between men and women and just assumed that when I grew up, I’d have an office, too. And my own grease pencil.

My dad would take me down to the big computer room at his work and show me the machines taller than I was, with the spinning reels of data. There were pages and pages of dot-matrix printouts with the perforated edges. One day, my dad decided that I needed to know what factorials were and he took me downstairs to his den and wrote out an explanation on the white board. It wasn’t until I was much older that I realized that my dad never treated me like a “girl.” He never assumed that I wouldn’t be interested in math or computers. In fact, he assumed that I would share each and every one of his technological hobbies and to this day describes his latest accomplishments in exquisite detail – whether or not I want to hear about them.

But the kids in my class didn’t know my dad. They received the usual messages about how girls are supposed to behave around boys. One day the boy we carpooled with asked if he could carry my books for me. I naively assured him that I could carry them myself, because I could; there were only a couple, and why shouldn’t I carry my own burden if I was able? But unbeknownst to me, that seemingly simple question was the first step in some pre-pubescent mating dance and I had rejected his advances. By doing for myself, I demonstrated a total lack of respect for my place in the social hierarchy. I was unrepentant and I’d made an enemy for life.

And that’s when the “Zitso” started. Everyone called me that; to refuse was to offer to be the next target. Teachers joined in on the game, because they wanted to show that they were fun and approachable. And what better way to demonstrate solidarity with students then by joining in the taunting? After all, I never cried in front of them, so it must not have bothered me too much. I saved all my tears for home, where my mother saw and knew that I was miserable, but didn’t know what to do. I was ashamed of everything about myself. I was significantly underweight and convinced I was fat. I didn’t have the right clothes. In seventh grade, I refused to take off my jacket during the day because then people would see the dark spot on the back waistband of my jeans where I’d cut off the label. They were the wrong brand, but the only ones my mother would buy for me.

Most of my eighth grade year is a blank; that’s the year my dad almost died. I had three friends at school. One girl had a spiky mullet and walked with a limp; when my mother saw her years later in a store, the girl swore she’d never known me. Another girl had a learning disability. She was a really good friend, but I was in the honors class and she was in special ed and we didn’t see each other much during the day. I went with her, her dad, and her little brother to my first rock concert – George Michael’s Faith tour, live in the Tacoma Dome. It was almost as if I was a normal kid. The last was the school drug dealer. He looked like he never bathed. He was regularly beat up and tolerated only for his willingness to provide what the other students wanted. I don’t know what eventually became of him, but I will always think of him as a gentleman. He once offered me some of his product, and seemed almost relieved when I told him I wasn’t interested in that. He never offered it again.

Meanwhile, my dad was diagnosed with cancer again. He’d had cancer once before – a malignant lump on his back. The lump was removed and the area treated with radiation. We were lucky that the cancer hadn’t spread. My dad went to several follow-up treatments, spaced farther and farther apart as time went on and he remained cancer-free. He had one final appointment before they would give him the “all clear.” It was on that visit that they discovered five lumps in his lungs.

My dad has never smoked even a single cigarette. He didn’t have lung cancer like you think of when you hear the term. He had lymphomas that just happened to be in his lungs. He had surgery to remove the portions of his lungs that contained the tumors, and I learned that you could use staples inside a human being.

Chemotherapy followed. He planned the chemo for late Thursday evenings. He’d work four 10-hour days, Monday through Thursday. That way he wouldn’t have to take any leave from work. Thursdays my mom would take him to chemo. When they got home, my mom would leave him in the car, come in the house, and make us go to our rooms. Then she’d bring in my dad and the pink basin into which he would vomit. She’d put my dad to bed and let us out of our rooms. My dad would be sick all weekend, but go back to work on Monday. We didn’t seem much of him during treatment, because he was either at work, working at home, or sick in bed.

One night my mom came into my bedroom while I was asleep to tell me that she was taking my dad to the hospital, but that a neighbor was going to come over in case we needed anything, and that my mom would be back to get us ready for school in the morning.

That was the night my dad almost died. His fever had skyrocketed and he required a massive transfusion. He stayed in the hospital for some time after that. I don’t remember how long, because frankly I don’t remember much from that time; I’ve written here almost my entire memory of that year. I didn’t find out until years later how close to death he came. I do remember visiting him in the hospital. My parents never wanted us to see that my dad was sick, so he must have been there some time if they thought we should come see him there.

But my dad lived. He ever even lost all his hair. He still has health problems, but he’s still around, fairly active now that he’s had his hip replaced, and still telling me all about his latest technological accomplishments. It’s a good thing I’m in law school, because some day he’s going to get sued over his websites.

And eventually my classmates gave up the taunting. My skin cleared up for a time and the name replacement no longer made sense. High school teachers weren’t so eager to be friends with the students. There was one last attempt to keep me in my place. My pelvic bone didn’t form quite properly and, despite years of ballet training, I was still a bit pigeon-toed if I didn’t concentrate on my walking. Once, on a field trip to Seattle Center, the boys walked in a cluster behind me, dragging one foot behind them with their hands clasped as claws to their chest in the classic “hey, retard!” pose used by teen boys everywhere. One of the girls asked me who the boys were mocking and I realized that she truly didn’t know. That’s when I knew the spell had been broken. The boy clique could mock me all they wanted, but they were their own audience now, and no one else cared.

[blueerica]

Puberty: An Autobiography


I'd like to say something really cool in response to this, but I've got a couple o tears running down my face, so I'll just leave it at this was really amazing, and I'm so glad you shared.

-e

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

The boy clique could mock me all they wanted, but they were their own audience now, and no one else cared.

What a great ender.

I like how you contrast the painful humiliation of the ridiculous school taunting with teh painful realities of what was going on with your family at the time. I also find it interesting how both can occupy an equal amount of head space in a young person's mind, especially a sensitive person's. The poor girl jeans would have probably effected me as much as my dad's illness. Sometimes those kinds of feelings just blur into each other thanks to all the puberty hormones. Thanks for sharing this, Prudence.

God, I hated junior high school. High School was grand. Junior High School was a friggin' nightmare. 8th grade, especially. [shudder]

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Awesome, awesome stuff, Prudence. Thanks for the bravery. I can't mojo you yet, but I will, ASAP. :snap:

[blueerica]

I haven't been posting in the thread lately. I suck, I know. I start writing for it, then something comes up. My life's been a little crazy lately, but when this topic came up, I wanted to post.

This is very long, and I'm apologizing in advance. I don't even know where to edit it down at.

(I'm just hoping this can fit in one post, to be honest)

_________________________
I’m not one for replacing items, especially, it seems, DVDs and CDs. I’m not a hundred percent sure why, but usually, it’s been something that was stolen, something ruined in some way, and I never try to hunt it down again. I must have gotten all I needed from it, it was it’s time to go, and I’d say goodbye silently, by not trying to regain what was once had.

For much of my childhood, I remembered my ex-step father being abusive to my mother. I remember being blamed for his smoking. As the years wore on, he became more controlling with me, and moved from being emotionally abusive to being physically abusive to me. We moved a few times, my mom had twins, and during my junior year of high school, they purchased a resort, of types, with a convenience store attached to the front. Things seemed promising, and I was commissioned to work in the store, usually while watching my sisters. The pay was virtually non-existent, I soon realized (despite promises of payment, my former step-dad decided to give himself advances in cocaine). So I applied for a job at a deli & convenience store, and I planned on still working at our store. I got the job, and wow! Money! Amazing! I could afford, things, I could do things.. I bought things I really wanted like CDs, and clothes. I was still managing to pull in around 20 hours a week at the family shop, and kept up with my school work enough to keep an A-B average (thanks insomnia, and the occasional pick-me-up from the school supplier!). I have to say that during that time in my life, music really saved it. It felt good, and I could lose myself in it.

Senior year came; mentally, I was as stretched out as can be. School, inevitably, got tougher, and I started picking up more hours at the other place, Ferguson’s. The fighting got worse. The ex-step would be gone for weeks on binges, only to return angry and violent. He was mad that I was spending so much time working for “fvcking Ferguson’s” and not working for him. Screaming and yelling every night he was home about it. He would grab me, shake me, and shove me against the counter. He used to like to break things and throw things, especially at people. There were a number of times I’d remember ducking a plate being thrown in my general direction (wow, I can infer from Python while writing about this??), only because he was f-ed up from the coke & didn’t like what was for dinner.

The very last fight I had with him, I remember coming home from Ferguson’s on a warm May night. I had just graduated from high school, and I got home late, carrying in stuff from my car, including my CD folder, to see him sitting there, half-drunk with an old friend of his, who was just as much of an alkie as he was, just as much of a drug user as he was, but far more passive. I came through the door, to his – I wish you could hear it, I don’t know if I can properly describe it – low, dark, grumble and mumble. His curses, his voice raised. He started yelling, and the friend got up and left. He took the CD folder out of my hands and slammed it on the ground; he grabbed my arms around my biceps and started shaking me, and pushing me toward the counter. I’d become so accustomed to that “move” that I managed to not get too hurt, except for a few bruises on my arm, and got myself out of his drunk grasp. Sh!t started flying, and finally he reached my CD case, which was already opened, threw it open onto the ground, and stomped on it. Between that and the screaming, I just about lost it. It was the last fvcking time he was going to do this, I told myself. I ran upstairs to the loft-style room I was now sharing with my toddler twin sisters. It was dark, and the ESF was shouting below. At that point, I really don’t remember much. The next thing I remember is my sister Brittany screeching at my leg, and I’m poised with a solid-glass statue, aiming at the man coming up the stairs. He stumbled backward and fell, and I looked at my sister, and knew that I had to get out. He never came back up the stairs.

I led my sister to her bed, and climbed in with her. I couldn’t even cry. I just felt nauseated, and shocked, and confused, and… lost. Things quieted downstairs. Once I knew the coast was clear, I went down and picked up the CD folder. He broke my Smashing Pumpkins CD, Siamese Dream, and Soundgarden, Superunknown. The rest seemed fine, but all I remember is just sobbing, as these were, perhaps, my two favorite CDs in the world. I went over to the phone in the hallway, sat down on the floor, stretching the twisted cord, and called my grandfather in Huntington Beach, California, which seemed about the furthest thing from Newaygo, Michigan. Beepa said he’d get me out as soon as possible. I put in my two weeks notice at Ferg’s, and on June 10th, I hopped on a plane to Los Angeles.

In my mind, I said goodbye to a lot of what was my life in Michigan. Each time I’d go to a music store, I’d look at various CDs – always passing those CDs by. In my mind, I couldn’t bring myself to buy those again. I’m really not sure why, but I’d pick them up each time for at least a year and a half, only to set them down again. When I hear certain songs on the radio, I’d imagine the bridge to the next song starting up, but it was never there.

Flash to May 6, 2005.

I’m at the Block at Orange with my two sisters, who had moved out a couple of years after I did, with our mom. We’re walking around, and what should I do but wander into Virgin. I’m already broke from this past weekend’s music purchases, but staring me down is one copy of Siamese Dream right as soon as I walk through the doors. I pick it up. Walk to the line. Settle with the cashier.

We were tired from a long day, so we went to the parking lot, hopped into the car, and I put in the CD. Even my sisters somehow knew the lesser-known songs from that CD. I nearly started crying. Somehow, it felt like some part of my life got resolved.

Next week, I’m picking up Superunknown. I should have done this a LONG time ago.

[mousepod]

Spring, 1983. Three years, 2 months before rehab.
I have become a walking dichotomy.
Nerdy kid. President of the band, spanish club, the Leonia High School chapter of the National Honor Society. Currently taking AP English, AP Calculus, AP History. Not Physics. Not anymore.
Starting drinking at 13. Not socially. Privately. To sleep. Dad always said to think of nothing and my mind would stop racing. Tanqueray worked faster.
Stopped getting beat up sometime between Freshman and Sophomore year. We lived one frigging mile from New York City, but everyone was scared to cross the river. Not me. I crossed the river. That was dangerous. I wasn't cool, but they stopped beating me up anyway.
Was always pretty good at doing work at the last minute. High school was easy that way. Except for Physics. You had to actually do labwork. 1st quarter, I got a B+. 2nd quarter, an F. Physics teacher, a man who didn't like me and looked a lot like a turtle, made me an offer. Stay in his class and take a midterm D, or drop and take a midterm C. Colleges only cared about midterms.
Anyway, a month before high school ends forever, I am a wreck. A 16-year-old senior. Less than one month from my first taste of cocaine. Three years, two months before rehab. Mr Cullen, my AP History teacher pulls me aside. He knows something is up. I feel he senses my anguish.

"Jesse, you need to get a datebook."
"What?"
"You need to get a datebook with boxes in it, so you can write things down."
"...and?"
"You need to get a datebook with boxes in, so you can write things down and keep track of your responsibilities. That way, you'll know when you have to do something. And you can make sure you'll do it."
"Thanks for the advice"

One month later, a high school graduate. Three years and one month after that, rehab.

I used to wonder whatever became of Mr Cullen. Every once in a while, in the middle of the night, I would get the urge to look him up - see if he's still teaching. But I never write it down. I never did buy that fvcking datebook.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

My apologies. This started out as a more exact Slice of Life essay but turned into something a bit different. I decided to post it anyway. -js

Every day, as I go to and from my parked car to the small bungalow library I work at in the mornings, I walk through the playground.

The playground was one of the odd things when I first came to work at an elementary school. It's a place that a 20-something without children wouldn't have a reason to visit - that is, since she graduated from her own elementary school. It was quite a shock to me at first. See, it's all the same.

There are tetherball poles and handball walls and basketball hoops. They play their versions of "Three Flies Up" and tag. There are swings and monkey bars and that weird black hard rubber stuff that probably wouldn't help if you fell off the metal jungle gym. They even have a burning hot slide. Yeah, this school doesn't have the cash for new stuff, so all that takes me back, easily.

There's painted hopscotch and painted four square and a painted map of the US. The kids make up their own games to jump from colored state to state.

The only big thing this place doesn't have that my school did is benches. No benches. If they're not allowed to play as a punishment for bad behavior, they sit on the line that is painted all the way around the playground and marked where each classroom lines up. Instead of being "benched", as we were, they call it "on the line". "Jose, that’s it, you're on the line at recess." For some reason this bugs me. I keep thinking, “isn't it basic human dignity in America to sit off of the ground?” And this is from someone that doesn't mind sitting on the ground in public at all, but hell, I'm not forced.

But that's the difference. The rest is the same.

The clothes are different, sure. There's a lot more pink than I remember. But the rest is the same. There are still girls with impeccable braids done by overly caring mothers alongside girls with wild hair obviously untouched by a comb that morning. There are the boys with sneakers trailing laces and t-shirts with cartoon characters on them. There are kids who always have dirty hands, making dirt castles where the grass can't grow. There are colorful backpacks and the less well-off kids with the cheap ones.

But wait, all that is surface stuff. I'm telling you, it's all the same. Look!

There's the girl who's smart in science that follows the boys around. There's the girl who wears dresses nearly every day, and you're not sure whether it's because she likes them or because her mom forces her. There's the girl who has a new outfit every month and a swagger to match. There's the horde of girls that follow her. There's the girl who ties back her hair and has scraped knees and is a little too boisterous to be popular.

There’s the boy that makes things up to try impress everyone. There’s the group of boys that wear basketball jerseys and talk about sports and almost nothing else. There’s the effeminate boy with the bracelet and a penchant for talking instead of playing. There’s the boy that doesn’t read well and hasn’t learned social skills, so he daydreams alone. There’s the boy that gets to watch adult movies and TV and tells everyone about the violence and sex. There’s the boy that sits on the line every day and doesn’t care – or does he?

The boys still chase the girls and the girls still run to the bathroom to get away, giggling. They still argue over whether the ball was over the line or not. They still chant when jumping rope. The younger kids still can’t make baskets at all (even on these lower hoops) but play basketball anyway. They never pass the ball. The older kids still hide out behind the bungalows so they can swear and talk about more taboo things. They also still forget that the librarian sits right by the back wall and will open the door to scare them away.

They still don’t know that the librarian isn’t mad and would never punish them, she just thinks it’s funny.

Just looking at their young, fresh faces makes me think I’m going to see the children I knew. Those kids never grew up for me – the ones that moved away, the ones that went to a different junior high. I half expect to see the bully and the princess and the slob of my own childhood. And when I encounter the current bully or princess or slob I almost want to say, I know you!

But it’s at that moment that the kid looks up at me and says “Good morning, Mrs. S!” They still use the same singsong voice for hellos, goodbyes, and thank yous. I get a lot of that. I know that when kids are not commanded to say hi but they do so anyway, you’re in pretty good stead with them. I get a lot of smiles and waves and other acknowledgements as I cross the black top. From the girls on the flip bars to the boys in line for handball, I know I’m not that hated nor feared. Even so, it reminds me that I’m no participant in the dynamics of the playground, but just an observer. Not a time traveler, just a historian.

Somehow, seeing my past verified by the present is comforting. Even when I witness the worst of the playground – ostracization, injuries, injustice – it still doesn’t hurt my view of it much. It proves to me that the trials I went through as a kid are not due to a flaw in myself. We are all subjected to childhood, playing one of the roles laid out for us. We all do our dance on the blacktop.

Nothing has changed.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

And a single edit to see if I could make it cohere. It only kinda coheres.

Slice of Life

Time, the weather, bus schedules, hormones, who will become the next Pope, and the publication date for the final Harry Potter book.

These are all things that I have no control over. These are the givens I accept and they’re all just a little slice of my life. I cannot slow down the tick-tock of my own personal death clock any more than I can set my watch with any certain accuracy because time is relative. I cannot chase clouds out of my blue sky when all I want to see for miles and miles is a great expansive blue. I’m not Catholic, and even if I were I still would have no control over the papal election.

Went on the pill a couple of times and if anarchy is control, then I maybe I can control my hormones.

I’m a rabid Harry Potter fan and I don’t even have control over that.

Whether I brush my teeth in the morning and at night, whether or not I floss first, whether I’ve cheated on a test, whether or not I tell lies to my boss about why I’m late to work yet again, whether or not I have a cigarette now and again, or whether I practice safe sex.

These are all things I have control over. These are My Chose Your Own Adventure books and they’re a little slice of my life, too. I brush my teeth every morning and every night, but only in the evenings do I floss first. I have cheated on tests, usually in government class, and always scamming answers from my good friend Mary. When I think about it now I can still feel the shame. It makes my body blush and my nipples become erect, like I’m aroused, but I’m not. I’m ashamed. Funny how my body reacts the same in either state!

Yeah. Funny.

I sometimes lie to my boss about why I’m late for work. Usually I miss my first bus because I left my house too late, but I’ve told him that I had to go out and buy cat food because I forgot the night before. I’ve had fake plumbing problems, fake sick friend problems, and once I even claimed that someone had vomited on the bus and I had to get off because the stench was too bad. So, fake vomit problems.

I don’t cheat and I don’t lie when I think it matters. Some people would probably say it always matters and maybe they’re right. All I can say is that I’m always honest about being dishonest sometimes.

I have a cigarette now and again, because I like the little hug around my heart the first puff gives me, even though doctors would probably call that asphyxiation or a subtle prelude to cancer. I like sociable smokes more than lonely ones. I like a smoke with a beer. Usually I smoke with my friend Sophie or I sneak one with my dad. We’re like prison inmates conspiring together, or school girls talking about our first tongue kiss, or maybe we’re just what we are: a girl and her dad.

I practice safe sex, but once I chose not to. There were no repercussions other than my first realization that condoms fvcking suck and I prefer sex without them. I’ve practiced safe sex every time since, however, but now I known what I’m missing.

God, Do-Overs, parallel universes, magic, reincarnation, haunted houses, Bobby Fischer.

These are all things I can’t put my finger on. These are things that may or may not exist, or if they did exist, may not exist any longer, and the confusion is a major slice of my life. Religion and worship are real enough to people, so does it really matter if God is myth or reality? Life’s a stage and I believe in the show.

I’ve felt up the angles of regret. I’ve wanted to have the opportunity to do things over again, eat my words, try another approach, fix things in my life, whatever the hell that means. The wanting feels real enough but the doing seems impossible. But is it? An amnesiac’s first sip of coffee could really be her 4,321st. Maybe a beautifully crafted apology can do the trick. Maybe a simple one is enough.

To those who are owed one, I apologize. I even mean it.

Scientific American published an article on parallel universes and while reading it I was horrified to discover what a cosmic carbon copy I am. Still, I was also comforted to know that I might be living infinite versions of my life. In one I might be a lot better off than I am now and in another I might be worse. Now that I only have myself to compare myself to, I’m feeling a lot more self confident. No way am I cooler than me.

Add to that the possibility that each of my infinite lives might have past lives, and I ican easily imagine we’ve all taken turns being each other at one point or another. And if that’s the case, then I might achieve a balanced breakfast understanding of every single person who has ever lived, and therefore humanity as a whole. If this nirvana of understanding is achieved, I could easily transform into Pure Love.

Right now I understand very little, so I dish my love out miniature portion size. Pure drivel.

A well crafted chick can be magic enough for me. I’m happy leaving any real mojo browsing bookstores that smell of sandalwood incense.

I know jack about haunted houses, but I love Halloween.

Bobby Fischer was real, but where is he?

There are more uncertainties than certainties, and what’s uncertain always feels more significant than what I have dominion over. What I can’t put my finger on is there to tease and delight my curiosity.

Human beings disappoint me on a near daily basis. Strangers. Loved ones. (Sometimes the strangers are the loved ones). Family. Friends. Myself. Disappointments, all.

It’s like the human race was born to fail beyond even our greatest successes, and yet I love the human race, maybe for its failures. Who doesn’t love an underdog? I want to go to bat for you all.

Of course, in a parallel life, I may very well want to take that bat and smash in all of your skulls. And that, of course, would be a slice of my life, as well.

[Ghoulish Delight]

Bobby Fischer was real, but where is he?
I don't know if this was purely a philosophical question..but in case it wasn't:

He had been spending the last several years in jail in Japan due to questionable imigration status. However, now he's happily living his beligerantly anti-semetic life in Iceland where he was granted citizenship.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

I don't know if this was purely a philosophical question..but in case it wasn't:

He had been spending the last several years in jail in Japan due to questionable imigration status. However, now he's happily living his beligerantly anti-semetic life in Iceland where he was granted citizenship.

Cool. Thanks.

[€uroMeinke]

Coffee
It starts with coffee
Or the quest thereof
Sure there’s a shower
There’s getting dressed
But without Coffee
Nothing else
will happen

Commute
Consciousness returns
10 miles into my journey
I could have been driving for days
But I’m here again
Queued up on the 710
How late will I be today?


Work
In the land of cubicles
Is my boss in today?
How many meetings?
Do we have time for some coffee
To trade tales of our weekends
Disneyland and hot lesbian sex
Or is it meetings again?
Updates to the boss?
Or just work
Often, it’s
Work

Commute
The time is now mine
Education by NPR
Music by KCRW
Or some Japanese Chick
Jesse turned you on to
Sometimes there’s shopping
Or a phone call home
It’s all about going
Home

Home
Kisses hello
As the internet seduces
Dinner is always late
Sometimes an afterthought
As we trade tales of
Life, music, art,
And the French Revolution
We make plans for the weekend
And trips abroad.
And stay up
Too late

Night
Really just morning
Well after midnight
But time enough to
Squeeze in a chapter
Or two
Because tomorrow
There will be
Coffee

[Cadaverous Pallor]

You must spread some Mojo around before giving it to €uroMeinke again.

Ah, but you've revealed my laziness! I did think of posting a topic on Thursday but wasn't in the mood. And I'm still not in the mood, for some reason.

Someone else can come up with one, if they want. Or perhaps I'll get to it later. :)

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Alright, alright, my guilt got to me.

Which leads me to the new inspirational topic: Obligations.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

Jen, that playground piece is amazing. You've posted three stories in a row now that are, to my mind, nearly flawless and complete. You have such a good memory, and such a way of speaking about American childhood that most American children could relate to, I think. Your observation about these kids, how your nostalgia ties to the present, are all so wonderful. There were so many lines I wanted to quote back at you for their brilliance. The descriptions of the kids created entire characters in just a few lines. I knew those kids. I could see their home lives and siblings, the things you didn't mention were still all there, created by you.

"We are all subjected to childhood." Indeed.

I don't think writing should be just a hobby for you, lady.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

Early bird gets the worm
But the night owl hunts the mouse,
Which is bigger, meatier,
And gives a satisfying squeal as its plucked.

Wake up early, but not as early as I’d like,
So it’s doughnuts and coffee
A few times a week;
They go down like worms, slippery sweet.

I stay up late making up for hours
Lost at a 9-5 desk job, where I sit
Suckling stillborn thoughts and
Nursing daydreams with a tall-tale heart.

Is this how I'll occupy
The rest of my life, with a drawl that
Unfolds and expands away from me,
Like a Universe?
How I dread and cower before such an Infinity.

It's in the early hours of the morning,
When I think a worm is more than enough,
That I confuse starvation with lightening up.

But in the dampening, darkening night
I hunger madly for better prey,
A curious morsel, a brave harangue;
Something that’s meaty to put gristle in my teeth,
Something that wrestles when I fall upon it,
And bites me back, and sighs
With something like contentment
When emitting its dying breath.

[blueerica]

Some laundry baskets
Nine to five
Oil change needed
Ice cube trays to fill
Taxes already done
All that homework
Go to the grocery store
Intimidating to look at my credit card statement
Library fines, that are way overdue
Bills, bills,
Obligations.

[blueerica]

Today, while reading a magazine during my obligatory 30-minutes of cardio on the elliptical machine, I came upon a Mahatma Gandhi quote in the From the Editor page.

“Live as if to die tomorrow. Learn as if to live forever.”

While we all have obligations in our lives, from the mundane and standard, to the difficult and trying, I know it is easy to neglect our obligations to ourselves.

Everyday chores aside, here is my alternate list of obligations:

Be kind to myself.
Pursue a career that I want, not a career that I am stuck with.
Make time for friends, family, and good times.
Keep negativity away from me, and harsh judgments at arm’s lengths.
Indulge in the arts I have shrunk away from.
Immerse myself in the waters of many cultures.
Pursue passions meaningful to me, and leave other pursuits behind.
And again,
Be kind to myself.

Tomorrow, I should keep track of how many times I tell myself no, that I can’t, that it won’t work, and that I’ll fail. I hesitate from the most insipid things, and ultimately, I’ve come to realize, that this anxiety and ultimately, immobilization comes from my fear of failure, which is irrational. I fear confrontation, I fear not being accepted, I fear so so much, and ignore the obligation I have to myself. I help others when they need it, but me? They can fail; I can’t. Though I fail every day.

There has been much greatness achieved by those who went against greater odds than I can imagine. How insignificant my problems are compared to the vastness of the world. What a speck (a fleck!) I am!

Further into the magazine was an article on those who stayed in and came to Thailand after the tsunami last year. Families lost, homes, livelihoods, pain, and suffering. And here I am, in plush southern California wasting away each day. Each day could be my last. Every time a breeze goes by… could be a sensation I never get to feel again, and I should treat it as such. So, I’m trying to teach myself a new lesson on the sanctity of life, not only of others’, but the sanctity of myself.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

Be kind to myself.
Pursue a career that I want, not a career that I am stuck with.
Make time for friends, family, and good times.
Keep negativity away from me, and harsh judgments at arm’s lengths.
Indulge in the arts I have shrunk away from.
Immerse myself in the waters of many cultures.
Pursue passions meaningful to me, and leave other pursuits behind.
And again,
Be kind to myself.

All noble pursuits, love.

I'd mojo you some more, but I've got to mojo others first.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

I get up on time, because I don't want to rush.
I take a shower, because I feel better clean.
I eat a healthy breakfast, because I'll have more energy.
I dress neatly, because I want to be viewed as a professional.
I leave on time, because I don't want to get stressed over traffic.

I say good morning to those I see, because it is one.

I work hard. It makes me feel worthwhile. I ask the boss for money to make the place look better because it'll affect how much kids care. I reorganize to make things flow better, thereby making access easier for students.

I shop for a gift at lunch because I have a birthday to attend this weekend. I email a friend because I know they'll smile while reading it. I write something poetic because my brain needs the exercise.

I come up with new ways to do things because inefficiency drives me crazy. I cut through bureaucracy and talk to the higher-ups to impress people and fix problems. I smile at patrons and make conversation because it makes people more comfortable. I explain things carefully so that there's no confusion, which means a happier public, which means more support for public services.

I do chores at home because I can't afford a maid.

I wash the kitchen floor because I hate when I get crumbs on my bare feet. I do laundry because I want to wear my favorite outfit again. I sort through my crap because I want room to store new crap. I clean the toilet because it grosses me out. I tidy files on my computer so I can find that embarrassing photo when I need it.

I put my jacket and shoes away because I don't want them in the way.
I make dinner because it's cheaper than going out, and better for you.
I wash the dishes because a clean kitchen is healthier.
I brush my teeth because I want to keep them.
I set my alarm so I will be on time tomorrow.
I go to bed on time so I won't be tired.

Obligations? Nah.

My only obligation is to myself.

[€uroMeinke]

It was an obligation. You know what obligations are – those things you never really want to do, but feel you have to do just the same. Sometimes they’re the things you do because its “the right thing to do” and while you should want to do those things, you never really do.

My mother’s become one of those obligations, though I’m not sure how. Mind you, I love my mom, and she’s still healthy, living on her own. There was a time when every visit was filled with delightful tales of her immigrant past. I loved to listen to her stories and loved to bring people to listen to them. I’m not sure why that changed.

Perhaps I’ve heard all the stories and have grown bored with their retelling. Perhaps it’s because she’s abandoned those stories and replaced them with stories about her cat. Perhaps it’s because my mother has seemed to stop living with purpose, and has turned instead to waiting to die.

So the guilt sets in. Is it my fault? If I called or visited more often would it make a difference in her life? The Obligation grows – and I wonder when I last talked to her, last week? Oh, maybe last month? She told me about going shopping, the sex lives of my nieces, the latest antics of her cat, as well as the cats of my sister, my cousin, and aunt who live in Switzerland. Then I feigned interest while surfing the internet. “uh-huh,” I said - repeatedly.

I should feel guilty, as well as shame for even confessing this. Yet it’s still an obligation. Dinner, on a day that isn’t even Mother’s Day. I’ll go even though I don’t want to. I’ll go because it’s the right things to do. I’ll go because maybe it will make a difference in her life, so she can stop the business of dieing. But it remains, an obligation.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Alrighty. You want random, you got it.

Write something that has to do with this (http://www.getty.edu/art/collections/objects/oz134056.html).

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

This will be fun.

[blueerica]

Barry Wayne Winslow was born on a sticky Saturday afternoon, April 14th, 1962, to Jean and Robert Winslow. He was a big Lynyrd Skynyrd fan, but sweet home stopped being Alabama a long time ago. He was done with Grove Hill, he was done with the farm, and he was done with Pa. That was the last fvckin’ black eye he was takin’ from that bastard.

It was a hot, balmy June morning, and school was out for summer. He abandoned the farm, and took his 3-speed over to Nora’s Truck Stop. There wasn’t much to do in that god-forsaken town, Barry learned, except for workin’ on the farm, or going to the poolroom at Nora’s. He chose the latter on a regular basis. Barry started going there last summer, and Jimbo would always let him have some beers while playing pool with the truckers that would stop off there, or at least he did when Nora wasn’t around. His favorite regular there was Tom Ratley, otherwise known as Big T, and today, Barry was hoping Big T would give him a ticket straight the fvck out of Grove Hill, or at least to Mobile.

All day, he racked ‘em up. Stranger after stranger. Not a familiar face. 4 o’clock, then 5 o’clock, 6. 7 and then 8 o’clock in the evening came by, but nothing. When would Big T show up? With the room empty, Barry took some of the powdery blue chalk, and etched his name across the dirty white bathroom door. ****! How long was this going to take?!

Sweaty-browed Jimbo wiped his hands on the small white apron he strapped across his groin, and grunted, “What the fvck you still doin’ here?” Hell if Barry knew.

Fifteen minutes of listening to AM radio later, bright lights shone in through the window, accompanied by a familiar low growl. Chug-chug-click, and off went the engines, and out with the lights. The crunchy sound of gravel under heavy footsteps, and the creak of the old screen door being thrown open went along with Big T, as he strolled into Nora’s.

“How you doin’, kid?” asked Tom. “You look like you been run over.”

Barry’s worn-out eyes searched for a bit of hope, and lit up with a spark and half a smile. “I’m so glad you’re here, Big T.” “Remember couple ‘a weeks ago, you asked if I ever wanted to ride-along with you on a run in your rig?”

“Yeah…?”

“Well, Pa says I can take a few weeks off from the farm, seein’ as I did so good in school this year and all. Plus I did extra work at the farm to get us ahead.”

“You sure about this?”

“Heck yeah!” Barry shouted, a little too loudly. He stammered, “Sorry for shoutin’ there T, but can I please come with ya? You know I’ve wanted to come along for a long while now.”

“You should know, that this run’s gonna be a big one. I’m goin’ all the way to Detroit. You sure your dad said it was okay?”

Barry nodded. Detroit sounded wonderful. So foreign. I bet everyone’s all so cool. Then Barry remembered that it’s supposed to get real cold up north, and he might need a jacket. And a few other things. He wasn’t ever coming back.

“Hey T, you think I got enough time to run home and grab some clothes n’ stuff?”

“Sure, I’ll grab some grub. Jimbo, gimme my usual.”

Barry burst out the front door with ease, his heart racing all the way until he came to the Winslow mailbox at the end of the driveway. Quietly, he took to the grass, the gravel and dirt might wake the animals. Barry paused to consider his bedroom upstairs, and what would be the best way of getting up there.

As he came to the tall oak tree that went to the ledge near his window, Sugar’s sweet eyes came out from the shadows. Barry motioned the big brown lab over, and pet her on the head. Putting his right index finger to his mouth, he quietly, shhh’d her, hoping and praying her excited little tail would be the extent of things.

As Barry climbed the tree, he thought his muscles might fail him. As he started to slip, Sug whimpered. Barry regained his composure and sent down another Shh. He sat upon the lowest branch. Only a little more to go, just a little higher, just a little bit over. As the branch thinned, Barry’s faith in his plans wavered in the gentle breeze that blew by. Just a few more minutes and he’ll be out of this hot, sticky hellhole forever!

Perched upon his ledge, he steadied himself. Paint chipped away as his windows squeaked open. He stumbled inside his moonlit bedroom, crawled around, found his school bag, emptied it out, picked up his jacket, grabbed a pile of clothes from the floor, and jammed it all inside. With one leg out the window, he took one last look around, and thought goodbye.

Barry reached for the branch extending itself toward him, hopped over onto it, and in the quick-slowness one observes when in peril, the branch cracked, snapped, and both he and the limb came crashing to the hard ground. Sugar started barking, chickens were stirred, horses neighing, and a light turned on in Ma & Pa’s room. Their window slammed upward as Barry rolled toward the shadows of the house.

Oh, please don’t let him see me… Please, he thought in exasperation.

He heard his Pa mutter something, and the window again slammed shut. The lights dimmed.

Sugar came up and nuzzled Barry while he waited with a tear in his eyes.

“You be a good girl,” he whispered.

Barry stood, his body sore, but tall. He dusted himself off, found his dirt-covered bag, threw it over his shoulder, and tip-toeing away on the grass, Sug followed him.

He turned and whispered, “Hey – Stay. Good girl.” And she did.

Barry ran, down the gravel road, passing the fields, barns, mailboxes, and with the wind in his hair he ran. Barry ran, and kept running – far away from Grove Hill.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

"I can’t believe they’re closing it down.”

Stan was lining up his shot carefully, one eye shut. No break in his concentration for Jim’s statement. The cue slid easily on his arched finger, back and forth, as he gauged the strength needed for this shot.

“I’ve been coming here since I was 13,” continued Jim, twisting and untwisting his cue absentmindedly. “Sal used to let me in even though I was underage, though he never sold me liquor. Just let me play at this table. When I was 15 I ditched my last class o’ the day too often to come here and the office called my parents.” He shook his head and smiled at the memory.

Stan took into account the slight angle of the aged table and poked at the cue ball. Four ball slipped into a corner pocket, easy as you please.

The old jukebox had given out perhaps 3 years back. It sat sullenly in a corner, still plugged in. The tiny color TV sitting above the old bar whined in the background; volume too low for anyone to understand, picture too fuzzy for anyone to watch. Only other noise was the vehicles on the Interstate going 70. One dirty field worker sat taking his whisky lunch on a barstool, and he made no sound at all. Barkeep was hanging halfway out the back door, smoking a cigarette and watching traffic.

Stan smiled his lopsided grin and stretched his back. Jim’s far-off look caught his eye and brought him out of his momentary triumph.

“Look, you know how it is. They’re fixing up this street. Don’t want an old bar with a screwed-up pool table and walls with the word “fvck” on it next to the new ice-cream shop, now do they?” Stan’s voice was gruff and sharp.

Jim kept quiet and Stan scoped out his next shot. Long shot for the corner which would be hard to get later, or the sure pretty little thing into the side right next door?

“Ten, corner” murmured Stan and let fly.

Instincts failed him and the ten hit the bumper.

“Sh!t.” Said simply, a state of fact. Stan had a seat on a hard plastic orange chair and gulped Rolling Rock. No use in standing, Jim would clean him out now. Fvcker always won.

Instead of looking at the table, Jim looked at Stan.

“’S different for you. I grew up here. This piece of sh!t place is a part of this town. See that, on the wall there, next to your head? Where it says ‘Small Block Chevy’?” Jim pointed to Stan’s right, and Stan obligingly turned to look. “My friend Carlo wrote that. Was obsessed with his car. I could point out 50 more things on this wall to you. It may not be pretty, but this crap on the walls, this is history.”

Stan looked at him, mouth held shut. Isn’t much you can do when a man’s feeling his sense of belonging, he thought. Poor guy never went anywhere but here. Hell, he’s still here. I may be here now, but least I been other places.

Jim seemed to have more to say, so Stan let him say it.

“D’ya ever see those pictures that cavemen drew inside of caves? Sure, they’re pictures of animals and crap, and people today think they’re about spirits and voodoo and what all, but I tell you what – ain’t nothing spiritual ‘bout it. Not at all. It’s just some people with a wall to draw on. What makes them ancient places any better than ours?”

Stan looked at the floor, considering the ancient dirt and beer stains.

Sated for the moment, Jim considered the table. A few seconds later the three had found a home in a side pocket. He was deciding on his next tactic when Stan spoke.

“It’s progress. No use in whinin’ ‘bout it. Didya think this place would be here forever? That they’d mount these filthy walls in a museum? Man, you’re crazy. They’re gonna come in here, paint these walls clean, make this a fancy coffee shop, and that’s that. And let me tell you something, ain’t a moment too soon. This place smells like sh!t to me.”

Jim didn’t respond. He moved slowly from his frozen position…lined up his shot…let the cue slide.

He missed.

[Prudence]

blueerica and CP -- you guys both rock. Totally and completely rock.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

CP, this was brilliant. I think it would make a really good scene in a play, actually. The dialogue is flawless. I love the contrasting characters: one whose nostalgia mantains his love for the place and the other who sees it for what it is. This place smells like sh!t to me", and both - in their own ways - totally get it. It's this dialgoue over a game of pool about a bar, and yet it's not really about that at all. It's about preservation versus progress. Loved it.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

BlueE, this is my favorite of what I've read of yours so far. It had such a lovely progression, and I just love this idea of this boy running running running from something to something, whether it's from his past life and into this dream of his future, or running around the town trying to get things in order for his departure. I just had this breathless feeling reading it all, hoping he'd make it out of town, but not feeling very confident that his life would be much improved if he did. And it's a lovely portrait of this town that is entirely brought to life through this one main character. Thanks so much!

[blueerica]

He missed.

But you didn't!! Right on!!

I'll try and remember to mojo you later, as it seems I cannot give any more to you until I spread some love around....

-e

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

Its widely known that all door knobs are raving lunatics. It’s what they get for being twisted around all the time. Doors are usually not very trusting after years of being jerked around, and chairs usually feel put upon, the result of spending too much time bearing heavy loads.

“Pssst, Barry. Barry! Is he asleep?”

“Wuh-huh.”

“I said, is he asleep?”

“And I said 'wuh-huh'.”

“Which sounded like you were asking me to repeat my question.”

“No, ‘Wuh-huh’ very clearly means ‘Yes, Rufus has paid the bills, mopped up the floor, smoked a joint, and has fallen asleep in the upholstered Eames chair he found in the abandoned lot behind the supermarket.’

“I understand you now.”

“Good. I’ve been working very hard on developing a language for doors. I really think us doors should stick together.”

The chair let out a resigned sigh. “Would make it rather hard for you to open and shut if you were stuck together, and opening and shutting is, after all, your purpose. You are the barrier between inside and out, external and internal, public and private. Doors are, perhaps, the most important objects in the world.” The chairs often had to reassure Barry that he was important and well liked. Doors can be so terribly sulky. Chairs are naturally obliging even if they are not always comfortable. Sadly, there was no point in reassuring a chair of its importance. Take away chairs, and there’s still a ground to sit upon. Chairs know this only too well.

“Hey, fellas, can you pipe up a bit? We can’t hear anything from in here, and as you know Old Cue likes to withhold information.” The sound came from a corner pocket and was spoken by the No. 6 solid.

“I do, I do indeed. I like to keep secrets. Why everyone in here can see that the linoleum is of a certain color, and in a certain condition, but just because we all know what the linoleum looks like does not mean I’ll tell you what it looks like if you ask me, because everything I know is a secret even kept from myself. For instance, there is a brown box up there, high up in the wall. I see it. I believe I even know what it is, and have recorded its proper name down in my memory.”

“You’re talking about me, I gather! I am the super coolest object in this entire joint,” piped up the air conditioner who was still arrogant and brash even though it was never plugged in anymore.

“Shhh. I would thank you not to interrupt me again,” continued Cue Ball. Anyway, I will not tell you what it is used for, even though I’m fairly certain I know its exact purpose, but I sometimes bury my secrets so deep, there’s just no telling, not even to myself. In the morning, when you are all exhausted and asleep, I open up my secrets and I investigate them thoroughly. I come to a greater understanding about the world and all the people in it, but I like to keep this knowledge to myself, even though I’m fairly certain that a treatise detailing all I have learned would eliminate avarice from the hearts of man.”

The only object in Nora’s Midway Truck Stop that cared one whit about the hearts of man was Cue Ball. Cue Ball once asked Rufus’ dog, Filthy, what he thought about the hearts of man, and all Filthy had to say was, “Moist. Do you have any?”

None of the objects in Nora’s Midway Truck Stop had known that many years ago Rufus used to work in the Grove Hill morgue. The hearts were always Filthy’s favorite part of his evening meals. Without this knowledge, the objects just assumed Filthy was joking. All the objects liked Filthy, and the only time they envied humans is when one laid a sweaty palm on Filthy’s back. They would have liked to better show how much they appreciated his company, and how safe they always felt when he was around. They would have really liked to pet him.

The linoleum, however, despised Filthy. In his old age Filthy had become mildly incontinent and would leave miserable puddles of piss on the linoleum floor, which would sometimes get mopped up, but usually it would seep deep into the foundation. As a result, Nora’s Midway Truck Stop always smelled of dog piss and its patrons were often heard bemoaning Filthy and the stinking floor. “Should shoot him as a kindness,” they would say, “and rip up this wretched floor, put in new linoleum.”

The floor would shudder at this. The floor was always waiting to be torn up and tossed into the rubbish bin, and waiting was turning out to be a miserable existence, just like it had been for the floor’s previous owner, Nora.

Nora, when she was alive, used to sit on her porch until the mail arrived, waiting for a letter from her son. He had moved to California to be a movie star. She didn’t read the papers or watch television, but the residents of Grove Hill all talked about their hometown boy who made it big in Hollywood. She waited everyday for an invitation that would request her presence in his home, a room having already been made up for her. This went on for ten years. She began to feel that it was a mother’s lot to grow old and resent her child, to sit and wait after years of hard work, until you become smelly and useless and tired out. Eventually she knew this to be exactly her lot, and she greeted it every morning with a grimace and a fart.

Nora was bringing a tray of glasses to the kitchen when she had a stroke, slipped and cracked her head on the pool table, and was found dead the next morning by Rufus and Filthy. Filthy was still only a few years old then. All evening Nora lay on the linoleum, and the linoleum – newly installed – was greatly resenting the spilled alcohol, shattered glass, and blood splatter, though they were grateful that the blood at least matched.

Cue Ball told the table it was a murderer, and the pool table hadn’t spoken to anyone but the Eight Ball since that night. Eight Balls, being prophetic, tell no lies, and yet they too know how to keep a secret.

The ambulance came to take away the body that had once been their Owner. They zipped her up in a bag and took her out, just like Rufus and his crew took out the trash every night. And that’s why the objects all knew that human beings were really no better off than they were. Sure, a person had animation, but when the animation was over, she was bagged and tossed aside, same as anything that’s lost its usefulness.

Only the Cue Ball seemed to give Man greater importance, but if any of the other objects suggested the Cue Ball may be right, the Door was always quick to interject a little wisdom of its own. “Do you know how many beatings old CB gets in a night? I wouldn’t put too much faith in damaged wisdom, my friends.”

The Door had been at Nora’s as long as the walls and the floor. They only recently started calling it Barry after a drunken teenager tagged her lover’s name across its entire width. The Door didn’t mind. In fact, it thought it gave it some character.

Pool tables came and went and chairs came and went even faster. Glasses got broken, liquor got drunk, light bulbs were changed, and the air conditioner sat dormant but cocky as ever. The people changed too but there wasn’t anyway of telling since, to inanimate objects, all people look the same. They hung around them in blurs in dim light and left looking demolished. In the daytime they looked badly reassembled and shoddily painted over with false sobriety, or as the door knob attached to the exit door would say, “False hope!” before falling into a fit of mad giggles.

On the opposite side of the hall a “NO EXIT” sign overlooked the squalid room with an angry expression. Drunks ignored the sign all the time and passed through the doors below without notice. “There is no meaning,” said the sign. “There is no purpose. Not for any of us. There is no exit and yet they exit. And if I serve no purpose, than you serve no purpose. Maybe there is no purpose in the world at all."

Rufus was having a bad dream. He kicked in his designer chair, which was feeling rather glum in its new environment. The desk spoke up in a most sympathetic tone to say, “That’s all right ,dearie. Don’t you worry. It don’t matter where you’ve been, it don’t matter where you are, and it don’t matter where you going. It’s really all the same.”

Rufus let out a deep sigh in agreement and the Eames squeaked once before falling quiet.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Eliza, with the unexpected, everyone! :eek: Beautifully portrayed, quite a fun read, piss and all. :snap: Mojo you later.

Erica, already mojoed you, but gotta say publicly, very bittersweet stuff, very real. And now I want a brown lab named Sugar. :D

[mousepod]

I am blown away.

[blueerica]

I really like what the picture has inspired so far.

:snap: :snap:

I love that there are so many angles this can be coming from. For feck's sake, Audra! Furniture... really... ?? ;) Hehehe.. I think it's fantastic! It just makes me want to write more!

I'm just so glad I'm coming out of my rut!!

[Boss Radio]

"According to our records, this is where they spent most of their time."

"You're sure of it?"

"My sense is one of absolute certainty."

"What is it?"

"It is obviously a machine of great mathematical importance. The lifeforms would grapple with equations based on elementary physics and create demonstrations of proximity collision and deflection."

"They were running doomsday scenarios? Brilliant."

"Indeed, but not brilliant enough to save them from their eventual demise. Observe: each sphere represents a planet. When an orbital trajectory is interrupted or even touched, the results are conclusive. It is a simple demonstration of physics."

"I see. And when the life forms would stop using the spheres, and instead run at each other with broken vessels that contained their liquid sustenance and strike each other about the head-"

"They were merely applying their theories to their immediate physical reality."

"And the primitive markings on the walls?"

"Those are their findings. Crude, somewhat difficult to understand, but they are significant, of that I am certain."

"You'll need more time and resources to continue the project."

"Yes."

"We expect results this time."

"You will get them. You have my assurance."

"Not like the last study."

"No sir. And I would like to extend my sincerest apologies. Never for a moment did it occur to us that the machines were for the outer coverings of the life forms, and not the life forms themselves. To all outward appearances, it seemed conclusive."

"We lost a valuable team member. It was horrible."

"I am truly sorry."

"This time we want results. Am I clear?"

"Yes. We will be able to predict the planetary movements with variables not greater than .00000000000001 percent."

"And the liquid?"

"Already synthesized."

"Then consider the project oficially underway."

"Thank you, sir."

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

Eliza, with the unexpected, everyone! :eek: Beautifully portrayed, quite a fun read, piss and all. :snap: Mojo you later.

Erica, already mojoed you, but gotta say publicly, very bittersweet stuff, very real. And now I want a brown lab named Sugar. :D

Freakin two hours worth of work and *still* I post something with misplaced commas, grammar quagmires, etc. Man, I wish I was a better proof reader!

Thanks, CP. This has been a fantastic round. I've so enjoyed reading these. Great idea using the picture!

[Boss Radio]

CP, EH and Blue,
I am quite impressed by the quality of your writing.

Blue's character study was almost confessional in its haunting sadness. Nothing quite like making a break from a bad reality...
.
CP has captured a scene straight out of a Billy Bob Thornton movie, with amazing restraint. Nailed it.

Hodgkins has successfully created a demented Beauty and the Beast-worthy cast of inanimates and cast them into a Sad Cafe setting, and made it funny. And unexpected. Wild stuff.

Do any of you write professionally?

If not, have you considered it?

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Do any of you write professionally?

If not, have you considered it?:blush: Heh. Welcome to the Open Mic. Perhaps we should rename it "If we got off our collective asses, we'd be published by now." ;) We have been badgering Eliza about her non-pro status for quite some time now, and this forum has forced the rest of us to reveal our talents, and thereby get badgered as well.

Anyway, all that's for another thread. We're here to push each other do write more, and by writing more, get better at it.

It's so good to see someone else posting here, and with a great story to boot. :cool: I've always loved the aliens-studying-humans angle, and the dialogue-only style totally works for it. Can't wait to see your next work.

As usual, no new inspiration until next week. I'd love to see more submissions!

[Bornieo: Fully Loaded]

Reception at Nora's

I took this picture because I wanted to have some sort of solid remembrance of what happened there and maybe for some sort reminder of penance. The place doesn't exist anymore, days later a large tractor demolished the building, but the pain of the heart remains long after the physical is gone.

It hadn’t changed a bit since the time, although the pool table was replaced years later. There were several tables and chairs and a juke box that played Elvis songs constantly. That’s what they liked to hear. They sat among the cigar smoke, cigarette smoke and the scent of week old beer. They were unshaven and smelled of pig ****, chicken feathers and cornbread. That scent makes me gag to this day. I hated them.

I can remember the first time, there was that window that I could barely peek over. That window changed my perspective for sure. I was just walking by on my way back from school one day and heard the music and saw the smoke billowing out from that damned window. There was a measure to it where a new puff of smoke would appear at the 2nd beat of that song, “Don’t Be Cruel” and the shadows of people moving to the beat cascaded through the smoke like ghosts, and the laughter, an unearthly cackle that sounds like it was coming from the bottom of a deep, damp well.

“Oh yeah, move that ass.”

The song changed as I caught my first glimpse of this new world.

“Wise men say, only fools rush in...”

The room had stopped and they were watching two people in the middle of the room dancing real slowly. The girl was no more that twenty and the boy not much older.

After another cackle, “Closer!” was yelled by this beastly fat man sitting on a chair that some would think would collapse at any moment from the immense weight. After his yelp, he shoved a big smoldering cigar back into his unshaven face and glared with the tiny eyes of a rat about to scurry and covet some cheese. He gripped the pool cue with 4 fat fingers, his middle finger was missing and I wondered how that happened, his shirt sleeves were pulled up and the stains of sweat ran down from his button up shirt, down his fat belly and seemed to disappear into the **** brow pants he wore, that stretched to the point that if it had a voice, it would be screaming in pain. Then our eyes met. He cackled and moved his eyes back to the couple.

“Closer, yah ****in’ bastards.”

Faster than anyone would think, he brought the pool cue down and whacked the girl in the leg just below the hem of her flower skirt. They all laughed, deep and low as she began to sob and moved closer to the boy who also began to tear up. Another pool cue came down, this time on the boys shoulder and where the girls hand rested. There was a loud, sharp sound and I noticed the shiny ring on her finger and the blood that dripped from underneath it.

Suddenly my view was obscured by a smiling, giggling face.

“What’dya lookin fer boy! Da reception’s over!” There was a whiff of the smell of beer and tobacco and the man came closer, grinning with two teeth and a unshaven face. His hand reached out and grabbed my shirt. Louder “What’dya loookin fer!

“Leave him be, Pete.” Came quietly from behind him. The music had stopped and they had all turned to look at the window. The man bowed his head and moved back to his place among them.

“Get your ass home, boy.” Came calmly from the Fat man. “Go on.”

Hypnotized, I turned and walked home. Down the road the music started, a deep bass beat and then a scream.

The next day was Saturday and I was hesitant to walk the same way past that building they all were in last night. But curiosity was never one of my better traits and as I walked towards the building, the door swung open and a fat man walked onto the porch. With the wooden boards creaking under his feet he walked to the steps and stopped. The tiny eyes in his fat head met mine and the fat four fingers waved me over.

“Boy.”

I stood at the base of the steps and looked up a the fat man who looked down at me. He seemed to be sweating even more and I feared that the drops that ran down his double chin would hit me in the eye or mouth and that I would die from some horrible disease. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin, hand made cigarette and lit it. He looked up at the blue sky and exhaled a puff then looked back at me with those tiny eyes.

“You keep to yourself. Those negro folks ain’t worth a damn.”

After reaching with the four fingers to dust my hair, he lumbered off. I didn’t watch him leave, but I did catch a glimpse of a shiny ring on his pinky and a smatter of blood on his shirt.

Now physically it is all gone and in the past. All I have is the picture and the thoughts of some sort of absolution.

(c)2005 MrB

[LSPoorEeyorick]

Jane was under the pool table, and she had no intention of coming out.

Even though Conty the bartender had flipped on the lights and had, in his sandpapery voice, informed the local degenerates that their speakeasy had spoken easy enough for one night. Even though the last trucker had trudged out the door. Even though Mitch was probably halfway to Mississipi, Jane wasn't going to move.

It was achy-damp in her hiding spot, and though the tungsten filaments illuminated every etched name on the walls, the space around her might as well have been a black hole. She'd made an effort to control her wandering fingers, which had a habit of reaching out and exploring textures without her even realizing it. She couldn't help herself when she saw a stone polished by the sand and the rocks in the creek behind her father's property-- she'd stoop over and seize the treasure, fondle it between her hands, stroke it across her cheek, her lips, her tongue, even-- she couldn't get enough of the feel of things.

Here under the table, she knew should control her impulse, but her curiosity got the better of her, and she found herself rubbing her finger back and forth on the sticky edge between the tile and the linoleum. She’d discovered a sticky pool of dried beer, its skunk lending a sour zest to the sickly bouquet of p_ss and prophylactic. It reminded her of the time her mother got a vase full of cully-roses from a boyfriend Jane had never met. He didn’t call back after that, and her mother kept the flowers in the vase until they could see the stems mush and the water turn brown through the patterned glass. They gave off an odor of rotting spunk and tomatoes left too long on the vine.

She hadn’t had much luck controlling her fingers earlier, either. She’d been leaning on the wall watching the high-school dropouts in their billiard-disguised pissing contest when she’d seen the old friend of her father’s knocking back whiskey with Conty and Shep. There he was, craggy and charming as she’d remembered from when he used to come and help her father clear the field every spring. She knew she hadn’t seen him since she was seven or eight. The fields hadn’t been cleared in those ten years, either. She smiled at him. Called his name.

“How you know me, girl?” he’d asked.

“If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you.”

This made his eyes crinkle up and brighten, and he leaned forward. She could smell his whiskey-sweet breath. “Aren’t you a trickster, then?”

“Yep, that’s me.”

They’d talked about the music—a bunch of old country dirges. They’d talked about the drought and the way he saw the trouble city to city from his truck. She found comfort in the old friend, even if he didn’t remember her. But after awhile her fingers couldn’t resist the texture of the turquoise stone in his belt buckle. He didn’t know she didn’t mean anything by it.

“And you’re a honeysuckle, too. Fresh as one,” he’d said, as he was tearing her flesh before she managed to break away, before she’d become just another rotting flower under the table at Nora’s Midway Truck Stop.

[blueerica]

For me, Boss, the answers are no and not really.

I just get excited when new topics, ideas, and challenges come up. I'm finally at a place again where I feel like I can start really writing again. I'm jazzed to read what others are going to write, and to try and imagine angles they might take. Even though we're given a starting point, or at least a point of reference, I like to imagine inside of their minds and reading these short stories and poems is like finding a piece to a puzzle. Reading these stories is like a piece of their hearts, their minds, and their history, real or unreal.

This week's inspiration challenge has been my favorite so far. I even considered writing a second story, but my weekend looks like it's jam packed, so I'm not sure if I'll get around to it in time for the next topic to come up. I am already anticipating the next idea...

[blueerica]

Bornieo & LSPE -- Wow...

[lizziebith]

I didn’t want to go into that room; I could tell already that it stank. I reeked too, of gasoline, and you’d think I wouldn’t what with the shortage and all, but long-haulers were outside pumping like there was no tomorrow. Maybe they were right. But I needed no new stink on me, no belch-perfume, no human chimney plume, no damp-flesh-rot, please. But I was pushed.

I came in off the 43 and out of the late afternoon and pressure gradient and noise of whinging brakes, but I still didn’t want to go into that room. All doorways and no way out, I thought to myself. All walls and ceilings and no shelter. Not like I knew what I’d do with shelter.

So, I blew in, and there was no turning back. I’ve found I’m reckoned only in terms of my direction, and forward is the only way I know how to go. So in I went. And inside, I found the angles confusing; I ducked under the remnants of the room’s original outer wall and curled quietly into the jamb of a long-barred door, and there I waited and waited and waited and waited and waited and... Until you came.

And you breathed me in and took me away.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

lizziebith's riddle threw me for a loop at first but I did get it eventually. Nice. :)

[€uroMeinke]

She had no business being there.

I know it may not be the right thing to say, but she was just asking for trouble showing up that day and she never should have stuck around as long as she did.

I guess it’s still no excuse about what happened, but Jay could be a real asshole. Any of us who knew him, knew to stay clear when he was in one of his moods. I know she couldn’t of known that, and maybe we should of tried to stop it. But the truth is, we didn’t.

It was hot that day, that southern kind of hot that just weighs on you like a sick old dog. Nobody was even playing pool, just talking Sh*t and enjoying the coolness of the beer.

The room changed when she walked through the door. She was a sweet little thing, all tight jeans, and a halter-top. The crappy air-conditioning was probably a relief to her, I can still see the beads of sweat disappearing between her tits. There aren’t too many woman who come into Nora’s, except maybe somebody’s ex looking to pick another fight. Women like this just didn’t come here – one whiff of bleach, stale beer, and sweat should have been enough to send her back out onto the interstate and find some other place to take a piss.

Maybe the heat got to her, I don’t know, but instead of turning tale, she asked for the restroom and walked on in.

Jay was beside himself of course, He was always bragging about the p*ssy he got on the road. We all thought he was full of sh*t – maybe that’s why he felt the need to prove something. And the rest of us? Well, I said we don’t get many women here so I don’t think any of us was going to chase her off, own good or not.

When she came out she hesitated a moment, maybe some sense came into her after all. But Jay quickly put an end to that, pressing a beer into her hand, telling her to relax and cool down a bit.

I didn’t hear her say all that much. I think she was running from something, must have been on the road for a while. But Jay started to get a bit weird, saying that he knew her from somewhere, some bar down in Mobile. Said he’d seen her dance there. That’s when she really shut up. “I don’t dance any more.” Was all she said.

“Honey, I don’t want to see you dance”

He grabbed her head and pulled her in to kiss her. She tried to push him away, but Jay wasn’t going to stop. "f*ck you Jay, I’m done with that”

“Like hell, you are bitch - not till you show me a little respect first.” Before I knew it, he’d backhanded her and she fell back against the pool table. He was on her before she ever got her balance. He grabed her halter, twisting and ripping it down so you could see her bra. “you gonna be friendly now?”

She said nothing.

Some of us had gotten up over the commotion. I didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t right. But damn if I wasn’t getting hard myself.

“You f*cking whore” He shouted into her face. “This bitch comes all the way from Mobile to come looking for some cash. Well if she wants something she’s gonna earn it.”

Hank was the first to step in. “Cool it Jay, I don’t want any trouble here.”

Then it happened.

She grabbed the knife off Jay’s belt. He charged into her but that just plunged the knife deeper into his belly. That was the freakiest thing I ever seen, Jay with a knife stuck right in him and it was like nothing happene. His rage wouldn’t stop. He took hold of her and threw her to the ground.
Hank tried to stop him but got a beer bottle in the face before he could even touch him. Then he was on top of her, the knife still sticking from his belly. “Now you’re really gonna pay, bitch!”

I pulled Hank behind the bar and it suddenly got silent. Jay, there on top of her, his arm raised about to give her another one – but he stopped there, let out a gurgling belch, and a single drop of blood slid down the side of his mouth.

They say he might have lived if he left the knife alone. But it seems in those last moments he’d pulled it out and bled to death. It took days to get the blood up, I doubt it'll ever come full clean. I still can smell him.

We never found out who the woman was, or what she was doing there. Maybe Jay knew, but then he was always full of sh*t. Who ever she was though, she had no business being there.

[blueerica]

Hello Class! My name is Miss Blue and I'll be your substitute for this week....

"My mother had a great deal of trouble with me, but I think she enjoyed it."

Mark Twain

This Sunday, May 8th, is Mother's Day. So, I wanna hear it:

Mothers.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

The name's Blue. Erica Blue. ;)

Thanks for taking over, I haven't had very much time this week. Yes, she has my blessing. Now get writing! (That is, once you get back from Disneyland...mine may take a few days as well. ;) )

[wendybeth]

Mother's Day

Last night, after a long and very trying day at work, I went to the store, came home and made dinner, and then collapsed in front of the computer.
Seconds later, my nine year old daughter came into the room. "Wanna go play?" No, honey- mommy's tired- just give me a few, okay? She disappears downstairs, and I fall back into the day's news. A short time later she is back upstairs, holding a large box and giggling. I ignore her, as I am immersed in the latest scandal from City Hall.

"Hey, Mom!"

I roll my eyes and take a deep breath. "Yes....?"

"Come here!" (Giggle).

Sigh. I reluctantly drag myself away from the computer and go into the dining room. She is standing there, looking kind of silly, really- wearing a tiara, her dance costume from last year, and sort of a Princess Leia meets Cindy Brady do that is probably going to be next years trend. She gestures to the box and says "Happy Mother's Day!" I can't help but laugh. Every year she gives me my presents early- she cannot keep a secret, ever. I begin to open the box, thinking I will encounter some homemade flowers, clay pot or the like. Instead, inside are two wrapped presents. I pick up one and unwrap it, and I discover a cd. "David Bonie, Mom! Just like you like!" I was amazed- we were recently at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and we had seen David Bowie's costumes in an exhibit. I'd told her how much I used to like him, and....well, she remembered.

I opened the next package- it was a book. "Peter and the Starcatchers", by Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson. I'd read about it some time ago and commented on how I was looking forward to reading it. I gave the Girl a big, teary hug, and listened as her Grandma told me how she had selected these gifts all by herself. Part of me was amazed that she already knew me so well, and another part of me realised that this was yet another sign of her growing up.

I love my presents, but I really hope I wake up to a basket of homemade flowers on Mother's Day.

[blueerica]

Yeah, I know that this one was my week, and I really should have had something to write about my mother, but when it came down to it, I didn't have it in me to write anything, and what I wanted to write was just going to take more energy than I had to give.

My mom is a special person, and no, I don't mean "special." She's smart, witty, funny, and is a compassionate soul. As I was growing up, we were friends. She talked to me about everything, even asked me for advice. I thought it was cool for a while, but ultimately, I longed for the kind of parent that would have rules for me to break. I had no guidelines, just those I made for myself. All my friends thought it was cool; I just felt put upon.

I guess that when my mom first broke the news that she was pregnant with me, my family was shocked. Of course, my father wasn't supposed to be able to have any children of his own, so there was that aspect of shock. It's just that my mom went into the marriage with my father fully understanding of the situation, and was fine with it. No one ever thought she would have kids, and most didn't think she was the mothering type. And I don't know if she really ever was.

I've had a lot of hurt with my mom, and a lot of good times. Joy and sorrow. She's seen me shine, and she's seen me at the bottom. She's probably the only one who knows what's really up, and what's really down with me. For the longest time, she didn't know that I was faking happiness, but once she learned that component, she knew me again.

I visited with my mom on mother's day. My two younger sisters were running over her when I walked through the door. Mom & I talked for a while, and when I could really see how upset she was, I sent her to relax in her bedroom, while I cracked the whip over my sisters. While it was probably fine in the 1-kid-at-a-time situation to be "friends" it probably isn't when you have two or more to handle. The twins know which buttons to push, how far they can go, and that mom just feels guilty all the time, and will cave into them, even when they're at their worst. My mom is learning to set down rules, and to draw the line with them, but it's an uphill battle. Her blood pressure is sky high. She feels sick all the time. Tight.

She's lost weight, but she works a tough job. She works the night shift as a custodian for the Santa Ana School District. She carries around a vacuum cleaner that looks something straight out of ghostbusters, and just as heavy as you might imagine it would be. She's got lines around her eyes.

My mom is beautiful, even if the wear is starting to show. I see pictures of her in her 20s and 30s, even 40s, and I think wow... I won't even ever look that good. It's hard for me to believe that she thought (and still thinks of) herself an ugly duck. I suppose that years in high school with first the brainy set, and then the druggie set doesn't exactly inspire confidence.

She's been through a lot. She makes it through, even if she thinks she's going to drop dead tomorrow. I don't think I want to be like her, but I love her. There's a lot of her that I want to take with me. She wears her heart on her sleeve, something I've only started pinning on. It's a tough road she took, filled with unpopular choices. But she's my mom, and I love her.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

Her picture hangs on my wall. I found it in my parent’s garage, forgotten or misplaced like a once brilliant epiphany. Windex made it worthy of white wash again, though the cheap and yellowed plastic frame is chipped on one edge and begs replacing.

The photograph was taken of her in Hawaii. She looks reposed and mildly in love. One arm is slender and crooked; both emerging from a tie-dyed t-shirt sized very small. This woman’s image is a swirl of sin and innocence, a true summer of love vision appropriate to the 1970's.

She is slight but tall. Her cheekbones are high and promise youth even in her maturity. At the time she boasted an afro perm. In life it was red and as ostentatious as she was, but here she is rendered in subtle black and white. This moment in time gives her a false but majestic grace.

This woman looks capable of lying and speaking blunt truths in the span of one sentence. I can see Mrs Darling’s kiss hidden in her faint smile. I spy a secret. I spy carefree.

This woman is not my mother. She’s just some beautiful girl who looks pretty upon my wall. I have her shape, though my breasts are much larger and I carry more weight. Her legs are longer than my own, though I have a longer torso which makes me the taller. You cannot see her legs in the photograph. Our eyes are green but here they look pale grey. Our smiles don't match but I inherited my grandmother's grin. We are dusted with freckles. If I look through a collection of my own photographs I will not find any of me that look reposed and mildly in love. I’ve never looked graceful or majestic, and I’ve never looked past a lens into the eyes of man who saw the best in me, and learned how to capture it for others to see.

This woman is not my mother. She is someone’s promiscuous lover, and he is taking her photograph.

She is twenty-six but she looks twenty or thirty-five, depending on when I’m looking at her, or maybe it’s how I’m looking at her. I was twenty-six the year I found the picture and hung it on my wall, and it frightened me to think how much could happen in twenty-six years: a whole other life, someone else’s life. One moment you are twenty-six years old and the next you have a twenty-six year old daughter who is trying to make sense of your life from just one photograph. And the girl is looking at you and recognizing you in portions. She’s falling in love with the mystery of you and trying to answer the enigmatic question mark only she can see trapped inside your Kodak pupils.

She’s looking at you and you cannot be her mother. You are something else entirely. You are the first pale creeping of the dawn and the elusive dusk as it quickly slips into darkness. You are high-tide and concealing.

You are not my mother but someday soon you will be. My smile is your mother’s smile. I can see it in the iris and in the bone structure of our hands, though unlike yours the middle finger on my right hand is crooked. Notice our arms, dusted with freckles. See how are scowls match and how easily our rages fly. I am capable of telling lies and speaking blunt truths in the span of one sentence. We are promiscuous.

There are no pictures of me at twenty-six looking as beautiful as you look now, but when you are my mother, your eyes will become a lens that traps me safe inside of yourself, where I know I am beautiful and cherished.

[wendybeth]

:snap::snap:Awesome, Eliza!:snap::snap:

Gotta go spread some mojo........;)

[blueerica]

There are no pictures of me at twenty-six looking as beautiful as you look now, but when you are my mother, your eyes will become a lens that traps me safe inside of yourself, where I know I am beautiful and cherished.

I think I'm in love with EH1812.

It's apparent by my constant lack of being able to give her more mojo.

[LSPoorEeyorick]

Mojo for Eliza, as per usual. Never can give it to her.

I also have in inspiration thread etiquette question... if we have something in our collection that really, really applies to the topic, may we post it? Or is the inspiration thread only for new works?

[blueerica]

I also have in inspiration thread etiquette question... if we have something in our collection that really, really applies to the topic, may we post it? Or is the inspiration thread only for new works?

I would guess: yes.

But let's see what others have to say. I don't think there are too many rules about this... ?

[€uroMeinke]

I guess Cp as the OP has the final decission - but, as the resident anarchist, I won't be laying down any rules here ;)

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Mojo for Eliza, as per usual. Never can give it to her.

I also have in inspiration thread etiquette question... if we have something in our collection that really, really applies to the topic, may we post it? Or is the inspiration thread only for new works?To all who come to this happy thread, welcome. This thread is your thread. ;)

The less rules, the better. Post away!

[LSPoorEeyorick]

The Amigo

Escapism was the chosen method of passing the hours sandwiched between Thanksgiving and the nauseating drive back to school for the final stretch of exam preparation. Unpaid-bill neck tension melted away at the sight of Dad’s crinkled eyes, warm and blue and welcoming. The nightmarish stacks of The Modern Novels--yet unread before the scheduled blue-book exam-- dissolved into happier dreams of dark meat fox-trotting with butternut squash. And the spiteful call from a newly-engaged ex-boyfriend became eclipsed by pumpkin pecan cheesecake and drizzly caramel sauce. One could imagine away any number of things while clasped in the embrace of a parent’s arms, or a parent’s refrigerator, or a parent’s wallet.

The wallet in question-- or its owner, my mother-- had decided that, after we’d gorged ourselves on leftovers for the third meal that weekend, it was time to shop. To her, holiday break meant that she’d have another woman readily available to navigate her wheelchair through narrow aisles of local stores, stopping to peek at the little treasures my speed-shopping father would never have noticed. She’d summoned all the energy she had after whipping up the holiday feast, and she’d taken extra steroids to make the trip. After she’d showered (and rested for an hour) and pasted on enough foundation to hide the pinpricks of petichae on her cheeks where the internal bleeding showed through (and rested for another hour) and drew on her eyebrows, we were ready. I took her plump, purple-tinged arm and walked her carefully to the Lincoln, taking breaks so she could catch her breath, gulping the crisp air and grinning at me.

We found ourselves at a sprawling example of the warehouse store trend: everything you need, crafted by small third-world hands at half the price, all available under one roof. It wasn’t the kind of place that either of us would really choose to shop for an afternoon. But we knew we’d only have two, maybe three good hours before exhaustion from the low platelets would put and end to our excursion. With an auto-immune disease, one-stop shopping was the best you could hope for.

Parking-spotting, a gift with which I was not blessed, was especially challenging in the days post-turkey mortem. Every blue-lined spot at the front had already been taken-- some by curiously sporty cars with conspicuously absent disabled licenses. We were left with a spot at the back between two SUVs in a pissing contest over which could park more over the line. Leaving as much space as I could on her side, I mashed my various chub sideways out of Dad’s Silver Bullet and popped the trunk. The wheelchair, a worthy adversary of shopping trips past, glinted and sneered at me.

“You know, we can always change our minds,” Mom called from her seat. “I don’t want you to have to push me around.”

“No worries. I’ve got it.” I seized the wheel and yanked upwards, catching the handles on the top lip of the trunk. I grappled with the handles and the armrests scraped the bumper. I yanked up by the armrests and finally the vile thing let loose-- but not before the wheels spun out and pinched my pinkie finger. I bit my lip and swore silently, and took a breath to clear my head before I wedged her chair into the space between our car and the neighboring monstrosity so that she’d only see a smile that said we were ready to move inside.

The doors and the mass of crowds parted as we rolled into the garish lighting of the superstore. A besmocked twenty-something with dead eyes and a pasted-on grin stood watch over a line of shopping carts. I grinned back with my own pasted-on grin. “Happy holidays how are you today,” he monotoned. I mumbled something back, pushing the chair towards the awaiting aisles.

Mom jerked her hand up to stop me. “Back up, go slower,” she murmured. “Let’s take our time.” A little confused, I rolled her back a few inches. “Farther,” she coaxed. Another step wasn’t enough, so I turned towards the door and, dodging an influx of shoppers, yanked her back until she finally felt satisfied. I looked up to see that we were again facing the zombie greeter. “Good morning,” Mom bubbled. “How are you today?”

The bewildered greeter gaped at her for a moment before registering that she was actually talking to him. “Um, I’m… OK. How about you?”

“Happy to be out.”

“Happy to be out today?” Greeter asked.

“I don’t get out too much anymore.”

“On a day like today, though… The crowds are rough.”

“Only if you’ve been standing on your feet greeting for… how long have you been here, anyway?”

He groaned. “Since five this morning. This isn’t exactly the easiest weekend for shopping.”

“Ah, but it’s the best. My girl’s home from college today.”

“That’s nice. Can I help you with anything?”

“She’s studying theatre. Runs a Shakespeare company.”

“Mom! Nobody wants to hear about that.” I rolled my eyes at nobody in particular.

Greeter smiled an actual smile at me. “Wow, a theatre company.”

“She directed Hamlet this year. And now here she is, shuffling me around town in this awful wheelchair.”

“It’s not an awful wheelchair, mom,” I sighed, though I knew it was. Greeter straightened his back and craned his neck towards the customer service window. I was certain the next words out of his mouth would be “let me find somebody else who can deal with you,” or perhaps “why are you talking to me, again?” But Greeter waved at a frizzy-haired woman behind the counter and called out to her.

“Jodie! Can you bring me an Amigo?”

Mom let out an audible gasp. “An Amigo? You have Amigos here?”

Greeter puffed up his chest a little. “We just got them in last month.”

“Are you selling them, or…”

“They’re for people to borrow while they‘re here.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “But we only let the goodies use them.”

“Aw, I’m no goodie,” she grinned, and blushed a little through her lacquered makeup.

A humming noise came up from behind us as Frizzy Jodie wheeled towards us in what I recognized as an electric wheelchair. A shiny, zippy electric wheelchair… the kind that Dad’s insurance had denied us several times on the grounds that my mother wasn’t bedridden and therefore didn’t require more help than a squeaky plus-sized wheelchair and a family member to push.

“She’s a beaut!” Mom exclaimed. Frizzy Jodie hopped down and offered her a hand. “Oh, can I really give it a spin?”

“She’s all yours,” Jodie said, and tugged at her right arm as I tugged at her left. Trying not to put any weight on the joints that suffered her steroids and body mass, she winced and plopped from one seat to the other.

“So many bells and whistles! What do they all do?”

Jodie pointed out the forward and reverse, and an inverted triangle with a picture of a rabbit at the top and one of a turtle at the bottom. Mom pushed the curser up to rabbit and tore off towards the aisle of holiday knickknack gluttony, giggling as she zoomed.

I called after her. “You might want to try turtle first.”

“Who really wins a race by being slow and steady? Last one to the Christmas Tree aisle makes dinner!”

Greeter smiled at me. “You’d better get going.”

“Eh, how hard is it to warm up leftover turkey?”

“Well, some of us have trouble boiling water.”

“Then some of us are in luck. No boiled water necessary for reheated bird.”

“Unless it’s turkey carcass soup, which I’ll make today if you don’t hurry up!” she called from down the aisle.

“I had better get going, then,” I said, handing him the wheelchair. “Floating bits of stuffing isn’t all that appealing.”

We chuckled and watched the amigo disappear into the fluorescent horizon. “Is she always that…”

“Warm and bubbly? That’s mom.”

He pushed shopping cart in my direction. “You’re lucky.”

I nodded and trudged off in the direction of artificial pine and icicles and mom’s giddy laugh, wondering how long my luck was going to last.

(Continued on next post.)

[LSPoorEeyorick]

(The Amigo, continued)

I found her among racks of knitted dogs and bells and angels, fondling the texture of a plus-sized Christmas sweater vest. Clearly I’d inherited her tactility but not her style.

“Isn’t this cute?” she asked, examining a shiny button in the shape of a candy cane.

“It certainly makes its point.”

“Don’t grinch. It’s cheerful.”

“Hey, if teddy bears in scarves do it for you, go for it.”

She grimaced and held the sweater up to her rounded shoulders. “I don’t fit clothes here anyway.”

I straightened my own rounded shoulders. “I thought…”

“I did. How are you supposed to maintain weight if you can’t move?” She sighed, and plunked the sweater into my cart.

“Oh… I don’t really think that it’ll look good on me.”

“It’s not for you. It’d look nice on your aunt. Maybe we can find some warm sweatpants to give her on the caroling trip, too. Are you still coming?”

I usually did end up accompanying my parents on their annual Christmas trip to Gladwin, the tiny, depression-era farming town where they grew up. We’d bundle ourselves in our warmest coats and brave the black ice on the poorly-paved roads between the homes of my mother’s less-fortunate siblings. I could always expect that while we warmed our hands on the wood-burning stove in his bungalow, my beer-bellied uncle would point out the couple new pounds I’d gained that year and make his pet bird do tricks. But we’d sing our harmony to “The First Noel” and play Santa, and somehow, I always ended up with less Scrooge and more Tim Cratchett. I nodded and suggested we buy some toys for Billybird.

After locating the right bird-treats, and treats for the rest of the people on our caroling stops, she was determined to find some presents to send back with me. She always made sure her kids in college had something to look forward to each day… a carved snowman to remind us to get outside and play… a CD to keep us in the Christmas spirit despite our piles of undone work… powdered cider so we could inhale the musky sweetness and imagine we had just stepped inside their warm house, seconds from their embrace and the real cider mulling on the stove.

We were in the middle of a kerfuffle about Toblerone (she was convinced she could find one for me, I was certain the store hadn’t found a way to sweatshop Swiss chocolate, and even if they had I wasn‘t willing to waste her last bit of fading energy in search of honey nougat) when I felt the sensation of being gawked at.

A pillar of a woman stood in the aisle across from ours, staring at us with an indignant pout on her lips. I stared right back and sneered at her knockoff designer bag. Mom smiled at her, with a look of slight confusion on her face that we’d usually identify with her search for a missing word or name since the steroids started bleeding her memories together. “Do we know you?” she asked.

The woman pointed a bejeweled finger as she walked towards us. “You should have left that machine for someone who really needs it.”

“Pardon me?”

“There are people who deserve to use those wheelchairs. You shouldn’t have taken it.”

Mom shrugged. “These are available for anyone who needs them, that’s what the greeter said.”

The woman put her hands on her hips--or lack thereof-- and took a step closer to us. “Anyone who needs them. Not you. If you just stood up and walked, you could lose some of that weight.”

A tingling of bile grew to a burning fireball constricting my throat, and fifteen different insults evaporated before I could open my mouth . I looked helplessly to my mother, who was taking a deep breath. She smiled weakly and shook her head. “You don’t always know the whole story.” The woman narrowed her eyes and wheeled around, and clicked away in her tacky pumps. I stared in disbelief until she turned a corner, and then looked down at my mother. Her eyes were welling up and she was staring at the scuffed linoleum floor.

I kicked the nearest shelf. “What a ****ing bitch.”

“She didn’t know. She didn’t know I was sick.”

“Doesn’t excuse her behavior.”

Her tears had begun to reveal her blood-bruised cheeks. I dug in my pockets for a Kleenex.

“No,” mom said, shrugging her shoulders. “But someday she’ll know how I feel.”

“She’ll never understand.”

“Not until she gets sick someday. We all do.”

“Well, I hope the bitch suffers.”

Mom looked me straight in the eyes for a moment. The she put the wheelchair in gear and rolled away. “I wouldn’t wish this suffering on anyone.”

She was waiting for me at the front, where Jodie with the frizzy hair was helping her park alongside an electrical outlet. Another worker had pulled out mom’s own wheelchair and we helped her back into it. The workers smiled warmly at her, and she smiled warmly back while I stared numbly and pushed her back through the tides of shoppers into the parking lot and a pouring rain. Barely the energy to stand, she slumped from the wheelchair to the car and laid her head back to rest.

I glared at the wheelchair. **** you, ****ing wheelchair.

I popped the trunk and tried to pick it up. Dripping wet, it slipped. Pinched again.

I slammed it up and over the bumper. The wheels stuck.

I shoved it harder. And harder. ****ing wheelchair. **** you. Be that way. We don’t want you.

I screamed.

And then I felt a hand on my back. I spun around.

It was the greeter, rain-drenched, looking at me with concerned eyes. “Are you OK?”

“No.”

He re-angled the wheelchair and slid it in gently. “I told you it wasn’t a good day for shopping.”

Mom’s voice, worn but warm, drifted from the passenger seat. “It’s always a good day for shopping.”

He closed the trunk and patted me on the shoulder, and walked away with a train of shopping carts in tow. I stood still, suddenly aware of how wet I was, not really caring. I squashed back into the driver’s seat and reached out for mom’s hand. “Do you want anything?”

“I’m OK.”

“Do you want me to key that awful woman’s car?”

“Maybe a little.”

“How about some chili fries?”

“Chili fries… would be nice.”

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Wow, LSPE. :eek: My entry seems rather pathetic in comparison, but here it is.


Mother's Day

Those damned cards. The holiday really wouldn't be all that bad if weren't for the damn stupid cards.

First there are the "Mother" cards. Almost never have I bought a "Mother" card. She's Mom, always has been. "Mother" is what my stuck-up aunt calls my grandmother. “Mother, what a lovely dinner!” “Mother will come along, won’t you?” She speaks with the cadence of some aristocracy far from our own family. The very association with my aunt has always soured me on the word “Mother”.

If you can't buy a “Mother” card, your choices have been chopped in half, at least.

Now if the card talks about being patient, or having a gentle way, or listening well, or bringing harmony to the family, or having grace....it's just so not my mom that I can't bring myself to purchase it.

My mom is a tough lady that works her ass off. She yelled at us all the time. We deserved it because we never helped her. She and I were enemies for years.

If the card talks about pampering herself or taking the day off, she laughs grimly. My mom doesn't take many breaks. She does nearly every chore in the house. Perhaps she’ll pamper herself when all the kids are gone. Only a couple of years left. Her joys are cigarettes, taped soap operas watched alone, and keeping her flower garden tidy. My mom doesn't have friends, doesn’t do much for fun.

I know I could write my own card. I have, many times before. But it's become very hard for me to articulate my oddly conflicting feelings for my mother. I've seen too much, and I'm too honest to pretend I haven't. She screwed me up in a lot of ways. But I know that she really is loving and generous and cares very deeply about all of us…in some ways. And as an adult I’ve come to see her with a love generated by sadness about her choices that led to her current status. Yeah, it’s pity, but it has to do with shared experiences – I prefer the word “empathy”.

So there I stand, looking at card after card, trying to filter out one that doesn’t lie. One that won’t seem ridiculous. I usually end up with “we appreciate all you’ve done for us.” That is accurate, at least, and heartfelt.

The upshot is that as I’m reading all of the rejected cards, I realize that there really are moms out there that “always know just what to say” or “that I can come to with any problem” or are “filled with joy and laughter”. I have to admit, after many years of enduring the card aisle, I get a bit jealous.

[blueerica]

CP -- I love it when I read someone's thoughts on things like this... feelings i thought I was isolated with, only to realize that it's not all that uncommon to feel jaded about card shopping when things aren't as peachy keen. I probably read too much into what's being said in the card, but for a while there, I couldn't buy a card that said how much my mom did for me, especially when I was the one raising my sisters. Bitterness doesn't make for good card shopping.

I love that you love your mom and respect the choices she made, even though you may not have made you happy. Sometimes moms don't bake cookies for when you come home after school, and sometimes they don't shop or lunch with you. Sometimes you don't talk to them on the phone every day, or every-other day, at 6:45.

For those aforementioned "rough years," I often went for the funny card, because it hurt to much to sift through the mushy ones. I'm just so thankful that my relationship with my mom has grown, and grown stronger... :)

Thanks for writing that!

[wendybeth]

When it was mentioned that we might use other sources of 'inspiration', I immediately thought of posting this (http://images.amazon.com/images/P/B00005J6RD.01.LZZZZZZZ.jpg) , mainly because reading it would only be slightly less exhausting than recounting highlights from my chilhood. There was a difference, though- mine wasn't a movie star. So, I agree that shopping for Mother's day cards can be a challenge. We get along fine now- she had a breakdown a few years back and is much nicer, but I still keep at arms length.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Fantastic stuff, everyone, as usual.

New topic.

Logic vs Emotion

[wendybeth]

Fantastic stuff, everyone, as usual.

New topic.

Logic vs Emotion

Oooh, this is going to be good....I'l write about PMS.:D

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

A Very Brief Play in One Act

Scene: An alley below a roadway bridge. It is a illuminated by the bridge’s street lamps, and a dim light above the door of an abandoned building. The wall of the abandoned building frames one side of the alley, and the girders of the bridge frame the other side. Aside from the structures, the alley is completely empty. Two characters enter, one from stage left, and one from stage right, meeting in the middle.

Phineus: So, Frances, we meet again.

Frances: Yes, Phineus, we do indeed meet again.

Phineus: Fortuitous.

Frances: Not at all. I’ve had this planned all along, or have you forgotten what a schemer I am?

Phineus: I have not forgotten. But to plan to meet me here, at this very moment in time, at this very spot?

Frances: Why, yes! Only fools leave things to chance. I’ve had designs on this moment in time, and on this very spot, for years.

Phineus: Why, of all places, did you pick this dump hole beneath a little roadway bridge that’s just inches away from an abandoned building, when there’s an elegantly refurbished mall just across the street? Highly illogical, Frances, and this is – after all – our time to be logical. We were very, very emotional in our last life, if you recall. Although, I am also feeling a bit wistful at the moment. I bet the food court has an ice cream parlor. Oh, how I love ice cream! Do you remember when we were playing in the sandbox last time, and you threw sand in my eyes? I cried like the babe I was and my mother did not come running, but yours did. She chastised you and made you apologize.”

Frances: I refused, but she told me I couldn’t have ice cream unless I apologized, and so finally I did. She taught me to be very fond of bribes.

Phineus: You were a very angry child.

Frances: And why shouldn’t I have been? It got me ice cream, after all. Oh, I do like this place. I know I shouldn’t. I shouldn't feel so sentimental during these transitional periods from one body to the next. But it really does get dreadfully dull not feeling anything. I’m very wealthy. I pick impeccable investments. I drive impeccable cars. I never make the wrong decision. My logic is flawless, as is yours, and others of our ilk. But I really do get tired of always being right, of always intuiting the correct answer. There is no chance. No adventure.

Phineus: We’re not supposed to feel this way. We’re not supposed to regret or desire. We’re simply here to observe and calculate and bask in the wellspring of our own intellectual thumb twirling. I hate when you bring me down to nostalgia’s level. It’s lowering us both to the murky depths of human de-evolution. We are forced to endure an emotional body for one full life cycle whilst our logical minds recline and recuperate. You are being very annoying.

Frances: Back when I was a woman – my last life, mind, and not that disastrous one before, I had a crush on a homeless man who used to sleep right over there. I used to walk over this bridge to work from my parent’s house and see him down below reading. I thought he must be a man of the world, a true walkabout. My scholarly wanderer who needed no home, no comfort, no love but the world’s whole offering. I adored him from afar. Would have been highly impractical to adore him up close, where I might notice sores or whiskey breath, or the fact that his reading material might very well be old discarded Readers Digests. No, I did not want to taint the vision I had of his entire life. Oh, Phineus, what an odd, wistful girl I was! I had a yearning, all the time. Was always stumbling over my own choices. I loved what I wanted and not what I had. I ran around in circles chasing a tail that had evolved away centuries before. I was silly all the time. Broke all the time. Yet my heart pumped firmly in favor of novelty and imagination. There was love coursing through me with no real outlet, and so I let it pour out in rivulets that encircled ideas and concepts more than the real that surrounded me from all sides.

Phineus’ impatience visibly grows as Frances regresses more and more into emotional reminiscence.

Phineus: Illogical of you to chose sentimentality over practicality. We cannot even buy a beer here. I really would have much preferred a bar for our meeting, Phineus. You know I never get as misty over the last life we lived as you do. You’re always chasing after fairy dreams. This place is dull and horrible. Underneath a bridge, right by the L.A. River – the majestic sewer. I mean, really! You do this nonsense every time you turn 30, no matter how many times you turn 30! Every other life we wind up in places like this. Don’t think I’ve forgotten the Mexican discotheque. Or the Paris Opera in 1918!”

Frances: I have not forgotten, either. But you might as well indulge me. We’ve known each other for thousands of years, Phineus, and I really only get this way every other cycle. And then, only if I’ve been drinking.”

Phineus: You’ve been drinking? What have you been drinking?

Frances: Milk, what else?

Phinueus shakes his head in consternation. He knows what kind of effect milk has on his friend.

Phineus: Why don’t we do some Calculus together? Why not focus on a way to heal democracy? Or, I know, let’s go to my place and watch Star Trek’s <i>The Best of the Vulcans from Star Trek: The Original Series to Star Trek: Oh Dear God, Where Are We NOW?!”

Frances (who has started to cry): I really thought I was in love with that homeless man, Phineus. But he was just a twig in a stream, another flight of fancy. I get things so wrong sometimes.

Phineus: As do I, Frances. But only every other time, remember? The rest of the time it’s smooth sailing from Date of Birth to Date of Death. Every other time we lived charmed, rational lives. This is just a hiccup. You feel it very time you turn 30 and realize you’ve done everything you’re supposed to do, and to perfection. You feel a little bit of guilt over letting things become such a mess during our regenerative cycles. You’ll be fine tomorrow.”

Frances (sniffling now): I know you’re right, Phineus. It’s just, I rather like the mess, you know? All this order, it’s just so….

Phineus: Universal. Infinite. Miraculous. Divine. Comforting. Easy.

Frances: And boring. I was a male prostitute once, and it was degrading and awful, often painful and literally sickening. But it was a visceral life, full of emotion. I do prefer emotion, I think, to this ridiculous monotony.

Phineus: And I prefer this ridiculous monotony to throwing myself off of a bridge because my wife dumped me.

Frances: Thousands of lives and one suicide. You’ll never let me live it down!

Phineus: Come, let’s leave this place. We can find a nice bar and recite the periodic elements table in a sing-song. Doesn't that sound like good, clean scientific fun?

Frances: No, but it does sound universally, infinitely and miraculously boring. And such is my life, except for the days when I turn 30, or have been reborn again a new and emotional being, to live and muck up my life in ways most unpleasant but beautiful. I can hardly wait, Phineus. Next time I plan to muck up the works with flourish; a real royal affair!

Phineus: And I, as always, look forward to not enjoing watching you do it.

The two friends wrap their arms around each other, and exit sage left.

End Scene

[Boss Radio]

Fantastic.

I loved what I wanted and not what I had. I ran around in circles chasing a tail that had evolved away centuries before. I was silly all the time. Broke all the time. Yet my heart pumped firmly in favor of novelty and imagination. There was love coursing through me with no real outlet, and so I let it pour out in rivulets that encircled ideas and concepts more than the real that surrounded me from all sides.

Sheer poetry.

[€uroMeinke]

Perhaps it’s true that love is just
Hormones and the desire for sex
And pleasure

Perhaps it’s true that anger is just
That dump of adrenaline that makes you fight
Or run.

Perhaps it’s true that sadness is just
Withdrawal from those very substances
That make us feel good

Perhaps every choice we make
Is predetermined by our biochemical circumstances
A mere illusion of control

But as reasonable as all that is
I think it reasonable to presume
Otherwise.

I think it reasonable to assume
That we should be responsible
For the decisions we make

I think it reasonable to assume
That our sorrow sometimes shows our respect
of things and people missed

I think it reasonable to assume
That our anger sometimes shows our disgust
For great wrongs

I think it reasonable to assume
That our love sometimes betrays
Our very frailty and humanness.

Perhaps it's true and reasonable to assume
That sometimes logic exists
To prove our emotions true

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

What a lovely response, Chris.

"Perhaps it's true and reasonable to assume
That sometime slogic exists
To prove our emotions true"

Hear, hear!

[Ghoulish Delight]

Hurtling across the flat, dry, endless expanse of the desert at well over 100 miles per hour, his grin is as wide as the horizon. In the passenger seat, she smiles too, if not as broadly, alternately watching the cracked earth blur beneath the car and turning to watch him.

"What absolute freedom!" he cries, glancing at her for a moment, one eye still on the empty landscape ahead.

"Yes," she responds, "It's amazing." Happy, if a bit dispassionate.

They continue in silence for several miles.

"You checked the brakes, right?" she asks, out of the blue.

"Yes, of course. The brakes are fine."

"Okay, good."

Silence.

"What if they're not?"

"What?"

"What if the brakes don't work?"

"Umm, I guess it doesn't really matter, we have no reason to use them. There's more flat desert here than we'll ever see. I don't plan to stop until the car runs outta gas and we coast to a stop."

"I know, I know."

Looking out the window, her smile fades. It returns for a moment when her gaze shifts back to him, still grinning ear to ear. But it doesn't last.

"But what if something gets in the way?"

"What? Nothing's going to get in the way. Besides, if it does, we have the brakes."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I told you I checked them. We wouldn't have started if we didn't have brakes. But it doesn't matter, we won't need them."

"But what if we do?"

"But we don't. And even if we did, they're fine."

"How can you be sure?"

"I checked them."

"That was 20 miles ago. Maybe something's happened to them. I think we should stop."

"What?! But that makes no sense! If what makes you want to stop is the possibility of lack of brakes, then all stopping will do is prove that we didn't need to stop."

"...."

He laughs, and pats her leg reassuringly. And continues driving.

"What was that!?" she exclaims, gripping his arm and making the car waver for a moment.

"What was what?"

"I...there was a big ditch or something, we narrowly missed it, why didn't you stop?"

"There was? I didn't see it. And we didn't hit it. That's why I didn't stop."

"But we could have..."

"Could have, but we didn't."

Her smile is gone now. She puts it on the few times he looks her way.

"I think I saw another hole or bump or something," she says quietly, weakly.

"Fvck, do you want to stop?"

"No, I just...I don't know."

"Because we'll stop if you want."

"No. No. I'm fine."

The desert is endless, and she does feel like it can go on forever, only stopping when the car "naturally" runs out of gas. But she's watching. She's watching the ground ahead to look for flaws, rather than the beauty of the ground disappearing underneath them. And she's watching him drive, scrutinizing, making sure he doesn't screw up, making sure he's watching for the hazards too.

They've reached a slight downgrade, the car begins to pick up speed, tires skimming gracefully over the baked desert landscape. He's stopped turning even one eye towards her.

"Stop," she says, suddenly and matter-of-factly. "I'm not enjoying this anymore."

He looks briefly, directly into her eyes, and then puts his foot on the brakes.

The car groans in protest, the tires, so recently content with barely contacting the ground, scramble for purchase on the thin layer of dust that coats the earth, and the car begins to spin. Both occupants thrown violently to one side, their seatbelts saving them from major damage. After what seems like an agonizingly long time, the car comes to a rest, the engine voices a few last spiteful whines and clanks, and dies in a way that lets them know it's not going to start again.

She sits in the passenger seat, head hanging.

The car, after a couple spins, has come to rest facing back in the direction they had come. He's staring wide-eyed out the window at the tracks that they've left.

"I'm sorry," she sobs. "There was no good reason to stop."

He's quiet for a moment. Then looks at her. "I...I didn't know it would be so difficult to stop. I wonder if we even could have stopped in time or safely to avoid anything that got in our way."

They sit in silence for an eternity.

"Do you wish we were still going?" he asks.

"Yes. I do."

"So do I. If we repair the engine, should we try again?"

"I don't know."

"Neither do I."

[Cadaverous Pallor]

My God....you guys continue to amaze me....and I've been totally blanking on this one. Eliza did a fantastic job of the fully-fleshed debate....€ brought it down to bare essence....and I'll tell GD what I think of his in private. ;)

I need to work on this...

[Boss Radio]

Apparently my mojo machine doesn't give the love to the usual suspects, so I'll just do the call out:
Eliza is brilliant as always.
Euro - bravo! Love the philosophical poem. If Linus were to leap out of the Peanuts strip and take the form of a half-mad beatnik with a Disney jones, I imagine he would be you.
GD - I am very impressed. You are a triple threat.

You people are all so very talented.

Makes me feel like...dancing.

[Ghoulish Delight]

Triple threat? What are the other two? Heck, what's the first one?

[Boss Radio]

Where as the great Sammy Davis Jr. was a triple threat because he could:
1. Dance
2. Sing
3. Tell jokes and do impressions

GD is a triple threat because he is:

1. A highly intelligent and witty conversationalist.
2. An excellent writer.
3. A technical super genius whiz kid.

Dude, accept it. Your a trriple threat.
Don't go all ego, now...

[Cadaverous Pallor]

He's got other talents as well. ;)

[Not Afraid]

Don't go all ego, now...

D'oh! ;)

[Ghoulish Delight]

For the record, I need to give credit where credit is due for my piece. The underlying debate was mine, the story was mine, but the car analogy was all CP. A brilliant analogy without which I wouldn't have been able to verbalize my thoughts.

[Boss Radio]

So you're really Ellery Queen.

[blueerica]

I've been putting off posting or writing anything about Logic vs. Emotion, because it's hitting really close to home right now. I've tried to avoid talking about it too much on the boards, though recently it has seeped out into some things I've posted. Stuff is still in a legal sense pending, and it's probably just not right to talk about it. As I type this, I have 4 police officers (that reads at 2 LAPD cruisers sitting in front of my house) in the back, talking to a former tenant who has lost all reason, all sensibility, and apparently, his sanity.

We've been dealing with this for months, and while there have been mis-steps on our end, for the most part we've been screwed at every turn. This guy has exhausted every opportunity, every loophole, every goddamn little thing to weasel his way back in. When I was home alone last week, the lock-out occurred. For anyone who's been involved with the process, you know that the lock-out is usually the end of the line. Usually. So, I guess he broke back in and squatted for 3 days, but I didn't know about that until Friday, after I discovered an unwelcome mat waiting outside his apartment, as I was going up to feed his fish. Poor fish.

Oh, I should tell you, an unwelcome mat is a bed of nails screwed into the platform in front of his door.

So, after a while of the cops talking to him, trying to talk him down, getting him to undo the barricades from behind the door, and off the windows, the tenant throwing papers out the backside of his apartment, the kind officer I was dealing with nicely decided to talk me into letting him have until Sunday morning to move his belongings out, since the former tenant was so concerned. So, here comes Monday morning, and the police are back. It's all locked up again. Nothing has been moved. The tenant pretended to move from Friday to Monday. Not logical, I'll tell you that much.

So today, he's been given another (I skipped half the story because I don't wanna spend all day typing, and I probably have to talk to the cops at some point soon) 15 minutes. Which turned into an hour. Which turned into 3 hours. Which brings me to now, and I'm kinda hungry.

Grandma's gone racist. 3 birds died, 1 fish. Lots of dog poop. Mom at the doctors all the time, and we don't know what's wrong. My little 13 year old sisters are flipping me off. Had to buy new car keys, and wow are they expensive. Need new rear brakes. FAFSA hasn't gotten back to me, and I want money for school.

But, when all is said and done, my life is good. I have these problems to worry about. No matter what happens in this, I know that I have been through and survived worse. I'm in the top percentages of having a good life in this world. I am not in a war. I am not being beaten about the head. I've got food in the refrigerator. I have a car to drive. I have a job. I'm going to school. I have friends. I have family that loves me. I love my family. I'm not dying. Or at least I'm not dying soon, unless you're counting the % chance that I could die in the next 30 minutes. Hell, I'm on the internet posting about this, and someone's reading it, whether they care or not. My life is fvcking good, and that's about as logical and as emotional as it gets. I'm in a good place.

So, CP, I'm putting in a request. When you choose the next inspiration, don't pick something so close to home. I want to write for an escape. ;)

[Cadaverous Pallor]

So, CP, I'm putting in a request. When you choose the next inspiration, don't pick something so close to home. I want to write for an escape. ;)Actually, I can't write on this subject, as it hits ME too close to home. No, you won't get an elaboration. :D Anything I'd write would end up with this exact sentiment:

"I give myself very good advice, but I very seldom follow it. When will I learn to do the things I should?"

Such is life, I suppose.

Not in the mood to come up with anything at the moment; my brain is on vacation today.

:birdy:

[blueerica]

How about "Vacation" ?

[Cadaverous Pallor]

How about "Vacation" ?Sure, why not? :)

[Cadaverous Pallor]

A short man carrying a briefcase walked down a busy street.

I'm going on vacation, thought Trey, a small smile on his lips.

He was dressed in an unremarkable business suit which fell limply on his small frame. The tie was too large, making his face look small in comparison. His walk was purposeful but unhurried.

Vacation. Finally. I deserve it by now. The smile broadened, but his eyes remained focused on some distant point.

His route brought him past a bank with a running LED display. It flashed "3:25pm". Trey's position at Hill Foods Inc. required that he work until 5pm sharp. Here he was, nearing the corner of Anderson and Flower streets, nearly a mile away.

His car was still parked at the office.

Sweat dampened the inside of Trey's white collared shirt. This outfit was worn to protect him from ridicule, not cold weather. Walking from an air-conditioned car to an air-conditioned office was usually the only exposure it recieved. In direct sun and afternoon spring weather, the suit was a disadvantage.

Trey did not care about the sweat.

He'd been on vacation before, many times, thought Trey. He'd usually taken his allotted two weeks a year to visit family in another state. Sometimes he'd extended holiday weekends. These vacations included required dinners with distant cousins and their various spouses and step children. He'd listened to their doings and eaten at their tables and smelled the strange smells of strange houses filled with essentially strange people. He'd told himself many times that he needed to do this to keep the family together. Since Ma-Maw had passed, it was up to the new generation, wasn't it? It didn't matter if their stories involved little Kit's cheerleading practice or Max's engagement to a professional calligrapher or cousin Bob's layoff from the munitions plant....he'd hear them and tell his own story and eat the meal provided and that was what had to be done.

But now, now he was really going on vacation.

Take some time for myself, you know? Trey adjusted his grip on the briefcase. Talking to himself, even silently, was not working. The thoughts kept coming.

There was Patty. He had actually brought Patty a couple times to these family gatherings. She was better than he at the game. He could almost hide behind her as she tittered back to cousin Judy, "really? An A in Math? Well, that is something for you to be proud of. You just know he'll be a scientist or something. How is your househunting going?" and on and on and on. Patty was good at that. It was too bad he couldn't use her as a shield anymore.

Going on vacation, thought Trey forcefully. Not a care in the world.

He'd known that Patty was using him as a shield as well. No need to look around if you just settle down. Going to dinner every Saturday night and perhaps seeing a movie was easy. Meeting new people, trying new conversation, not so easy. He'd known, but he'd wanted to believe that they were in love, that he felt warm inside just looking at her, that she wanted nothing more than to be with him.

When she said that she was bored, he knew that he was bored too, and always had been. Patty had been gone for a while.

No weekend plans meant nothing but the work week to look forward to. Hill Foods had been steadily increasing its profit margin in the past year but things hadn't changed for Trey. Every workday for the past 5 years he'd sat at the same desk, running the same reports and giving the same presentations. More canned fruit needed in Lansing Park, less snack crackers and cookies should be sent to Mankato. He was reliable and accurate and everyone knew it so no one gave him any undue attention. Apparently, he'd hit the ceiling in the amount of resposibility he could acquire, or at least, the amount of responsibility anyone was willing to give him.

He went about his business without complaint, nor companionship. After a few months of showing up for company lunches and team building activities, he couldn't perform the awkward social rituals any longer and stopped attending. He'd felt far less required to do these things than to visit family, and bowed out whenever possible. These were supposed to be breaks from the grind, moments to relax outside of the pressures of work.

Nope, now I’m going to have a REAL vacation. The sweat was showing on his forehead now, and his smile was strained.

Without a reason to go out, his casual clothes had shuffled themselves to the back of his closet. Weekends were spent in an undershirt, reading a book or watching TV. Dust gathered on his formal shoes. Sure, he cared about how he looked. Every morning before work he checked the mirror for breakfast caught in his teeth. His collars were clean and his slacks were pressed. His appearance, his demeanor, his attention, all of these things were for work, and the perhaps-twice-a-year family visits.

Trey arrived at Hill Foods this morning and placed his briefcase on the desk. He had spent an hour or two reading reports and statistics and bar graphs. At some point he remembered to check his company email address.

Richard, a distribution deptartment coworker of Trey’s, had gotten a promotion. A spot had opened up in management and Richard had accepted their offer. Hill Foods Inc. was very proud to have such a wondeful workforce, including people like Richard that took intiative, got things done, etc etc etc.

Richard had been Trey’s subordinate. Now Trey would have to report to Richard. Richard had only worked with him for 8 months.

It was at this moment that it occurred to Trey that he might need a vacation.

Just leave it all behind, thought Trey, his pace quickening. Gotta get away, got to leave it all behind…

The suitcase slipped in his sweaty hands. He let it drop as he broke into a run.

[blueerica]

Oh, I knew this was going to be a good topic....


:titters in anticipation:

[Ghoulish Delight]

Hehehe, titters.

[blueerica]

nevermind.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Oh, I knew this was going to be a good topic....


:titters in anticipation:Anticipation? What am I, chopped liver? :p

Hehe, titters. ;)

[blueerica]

No, you are not chopped liver. You are the filet mignon.

I expect more filets over the next few days.. ;)

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

I cannot mojo you! FIE!

"This outfit was worn to protect him from ridicule, not cold weather." Lovely.

[Boss Radio]

Without a reason to go out, his casual clothes had shuffled themselves to the back of his closet. Weekends were spent in an undershirt, reading a book or watching TV. Dust gathered on his formal shoes. Sure, he cared about how he looked. Every morning before work he checked the mirror for breakfast caught in his teeth. His collars were clean and his slacks were pressed. His appearance, his demeanor, his attention, all of these things were for work, and the perhaps-twice-a-year family visits.


Beautifully rendered.

You rule!

[MerryPrankster]

I just wanted to say that I really enjoy reading this thread. Sometimes I read it late at night and then go to bed and mull over your incredible stories. What an amazing group of writers we have here. Bravo to all of you! Keep up the wonderful work! :snap:

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

Obituary, Obituary:
Announcement for a holiday –
Death notice, it told us
How his bird soul flew away.

In acquiescence of inertia,
Put a bullet in his brain,
A little suicide vacation
Leaving naught but a stain.

She found him, she held him,
Her hair was gore’s mop;
Still the red stained the walls,
Spelling out: MAKE IT STOP

Stop the noise; stop the movement;
Stop my hair growing thinner; stop
Her breasts growing nearer to the ground.

Stop the mewing; stop the laughter;
Stop hushed whispers in the hall;
Stop the hours; stop the hurt;
Stop my absentee pleasure.

Stop the silence; stop the noise;
Stop the breeze; stop the piano; stop
memory, for mine is failing.

Stop the commotion; stop the blender;
Stop the moment; stop this lingering, for

My memory is failing
When I desire only to remember
Us as we were.

She felt the thinness of his bones,
Her breast sagged upon his chest,
How she longed to carve him open and crawl
Inside the hollow of his empty nest!

[€uroMeinke]

It began by leaving town, but more than that
I left my life behind.
My home
My friends
My family

All I had was the clothes in my suitcase
My memories
The quirks I decided to keep,
Or couldn’t over come
Fresh start in artifice

But now I was on the outside
And couldn’t get in
Without somehow admitting
My past, my experience,
The very things I had abandoned

So in the end, it was a fantasy,
An embarrassed confessional,
A failed reinvention
And so, I returned home
Till my next vacation.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

The bar was crowded last night but the outside patio was less noisy and the music wasn’t so loud. We were sitting around a table eating stale chips and drinking beers, chatting about the meeting and getting to know each other better, just a bunch of theater ****s shooting the ****. My father was talking to a pretty French actress about how he and my mother met. I’ve heard this story a few times already, but each time a new detail is added, a little bit more revealed, and I know that memories aren’t absolute truths. In fact, some memories are grandiose fictions, but that doesn’t make them any less real to the one doing the remembering.

Memories are derelict houses getting a new coat of paint. Sometimes I remember doing something I’m fairly certain I’ve never done, but the memory lives inside my file cabinet mind as a permanent record, and so I choose to believe in it. Maybe my father inaccurately remembers the outfit my mother was wearing. Maybe she can’t quite recall who first held out a hand. But here is when he sees her. Here is when he guesses right that she’s easy, and he need only ask her back to his trailer for the afternoon and she’ll say yes.

“Yes.”

Years later my parents had moved to the suburbs together and had children. While still a toddler, my parents bought a cabin up in Big Bear Lake. I have never known how this came about. My father grew up skiing and has always loved the great outdoors. My mother is a city dweller who, if she never saw the country again, would never miss it. She gave skiing a try and she feigned sprained ankles so that medical teams would toboggan her down the mountain, and once my father had to carry her all the way down to level ground.

My brother and I loved the cabin. I love it still, even more now that it’s no longer ours. I remember every corner of it, every smell, from the crisp clean air that swept onto the patio to the musty old wet cloth smell of the basement apartment. The entire cabin was carpeted in electric blue shag and the walls were knotted wood. I squished the carpet in my toes and pulled at it like I would rip up grass; the walls were rough and scratched my hands but never gave me splinters. My brother and I slept in a loft space overlooking the living room while my parents retired to the master bedroom.

In the kitchen we kept nuts and seeds, which we fed to the gray squirrels, and we ate our meals off of blue and white floral patterned plates; I still own the tea set.

The singular heartbreak of my childhood was going to the cabin to remove our belongings and to shut the front door behind us for the last time. It was the first time I understood the expression, “nothing lasts”.

Still locked up inside of me are these half-invented memories and true tall tales of the weeks we’d spend there vacationing each year. Skiing in the winter. Hiking the rest of the year. We’d play indoors when the weather was menacing, pretending the basement apartment was our own shared space, separate from the parent’s world above. It was dark down there and it reminded us of someplace or someone old.

The cabin was purchased furnished. In the downstairs apartment were a stack of books and when my brother and I were old enough to read we flipped through them, but only one ever captured our complete attention: The Happy Hooker by Xaviera Hollander. We laughed for a few minutes about the title after I explained to my brother the definition of hooker. Together we sat and read from excerpts from the text, and today the only story I remember in any detail was about a man with a penis so tiny he wore a dildo and tried to convince “The Happy Hooker”, in the dark, that it was his real organ. She discovered the ruse and coaxed him to be with her as himself.

She pleasured him and made him happy, and then she wrote a chapter about how his penis was smaller than her pinky finger.

My brother and I squealed with laughter and read some more. We hid the book and returned to it every time we came back to the cabin, each time wondering who it belonged to. Who were the perverts who owned the house before us? What wonderful human beings allowed for this window of depravity to open up every single time my family stole away for a little vacation, a respite that was supposed to take us away from the R-rated city.

God bless those who would take our G-rated childhood getaway and convert it into the grand Triple X!

Never once, not even now, did I ever suspect the book belonged to our parents. Our parents would never bring such filth into our two-home American dreamscape.

Flashforward and my father is still talking to a pretty French actress about how he and my mother met, how years before the cabin in Big Bear was purchased, my parents were introduced at a luncheon. Their first conversation was about a book they were both reading, The Happy Hookerby Xaviera Hollander. She asked if he’d gotten to a certain part in the story, and he said he had.

“Have you tried it?”

“No.”

“Would you like to go someplace with me?"

"Yes."

The truth of my parent’s history is revealed to me in increments, stories that are told and retold, each time with little embellishments, or embellishments removed. Each time a new detail or circumstance comes to light or is obscured.

Last night I learned that the copy of The Happy Hooker that my brother and I read and hid and laughed about, and got turned on by and hid and found again, belonged to my parents. They talked about it, probably read it allowed to turn each other on. My brother’s and my dirty cabin secret was their conversational ice breaker, and it was from that ice breaker that love - sex love, friendship love, hate love, baby love, loyalty love, family love, all kinds of love - was born.

[blueerica]

I can't even begin to say enough how wonderful it is to be able to read what you write, Audra.

.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Holy crap, babe. That felt as real as anything. And so stripped down, so simple. Wonderful. Pseudo mojo! :snap:

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

Holy crap, babe. That felt as real as anything. And so stripped down, so simple. Wonderful. Pseudo mojo! :snap:

As you now know, it's based on real events. Though, from my point of view, obviously. I'm sure I've misremembered things all over the place, but I think the truth is in tact. And I DO remember that cabin exactly. There's nothing made up about that. And those squirrels? The grayest, prettiest squirrels I've ever seen. Ah, Big Bear. I miss Big Bear.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

4 days of our Honeymoon was spent in Big Bear. Big Bear is rad.

I don't think it's any less good, now that I know that it is true. :)

[Boss Radio]

Audra, you are a mighty ninja master.

[blueerica]

“Miss Tilden?”

“Miss Tilden…?” the young cabana boy asked.

“Oh! Yes?” Mary returned, slightly alarmed.

“Would you like another mai tai?”

“Oh no, thank you though. Could I trouble you for a glass of ice water?”

“Certainly.”

“The hot sun, and recent arrival to St. Lucia made Mary’s head swoon. She pushed her feet into the hot grains until her toes hit the cool, damp, tightly-packed sand underneath. She was away at last!

Mary never thought she’d get there soon enough. Things just got too crazy back in Chicago. Work; her fiancé, Stanley; family; friends; they never could have understood. She no longer needed anyone to understand. Maybe I can start over… A permanent vacation!

She slathered her fair skin with a liberal dose of SPF 50, and pulled her straw hat down until it reached her sunglasses. The waves lulled her to sleep…

… and the waves woke her up.

She saw the glass next to her chair, filled to the brim, beads of sweat clinging to the side, but long melted-away was the ice. Have I been asleep that long? Is that my stomach growling?

Mary stood up, brushed off some sand, and walked toward the resort café as the day’s last sun hit her across the shoulders. A few vacationers were inside, drinking iced tea, and taking dinners. Some were having beer; some were just nodding off in the corners. She ordered her favorite: tuna melt with a tomato inside. Nice, golden, toasted. As she sat and ate, she pondered her last days in the city.

Stan was a bore. Satisfied and smug with his 9 to 5 job at Chicago’s First Bank. When she moved to the Windy City back in ’02, she applied for a teller position at the bank and Stan asked her out on a date, promptly after interviewing her. She thought he was cute, and that he’d do, but three years later, here she is, and Mary wasn’t sure if the southern Caribbean islands were far enough away. A cute local sidled up next to her at the bar.

“Honey, why are you alone here, now?” he asked. “What is your name?”

“Elizabeth,” she replied, “and I’m taking a break from things.”

He stared at her modest chest, just a bit red from the sun, and nicely pushed up by her underwire top. “Well Lizzie, honey, would you like to go dancing wit’ me later?”

“What is your name?”

“Terence”

“Well, Terence, I think it was rather bold of you, asking a strange woman for drinks so quickly, when you hadn’t even introduced yourself. What if I told you I wasn’t interested?”

“I wouldn’t believe you.”

“Hmmm... I’ll meet you here at 8:00.”

With a wink, Terence walked away. Mary looked at her watch. She had two hours to get ready. She settled her tab with the elderly man behind the counter, and walked back to her cabin.

As she sat on her bed she considered checking her cell phone voicemail. It would cost a lot, but she had to know. She explained to the operator that no one was going to answer the phone number she was calling, and that it was a call to check messages.

Message 1
May 25, 2005 7:15PM
“Mary, this is your mother. Call me!”

Message 2
May 25, 2005 9:15PM
“This is Stan. Call me at home, baby.”

Message 3
May 26, 2005 7:15AM
“Call me back, this is urgent. Call the cell. Bye.”

Message 4
May 26, 2005 8:30AM
“Sarah! Where are you? You didn’t show up for work, and I can’t find you anywhere. Crazy sh!t’s been going on, and I can’t find you anywhere! Sutherland box got broke into and everything’s fvcking gone. Cops everywhere, detectives! It’s been non-stop and where the fvck are you? I miss you baby --- “

Mary slammed the phone down. She didn’t need to hear anymore; she knew what she needed to do next. Fvck, fvck, fvck! She let her head fall onto the pillow, closed her eyes, and planned her next move.

One phone call to the airlines later, and she learned she could get to Venezuela pretty cheaply tomorrow morning. Damn.

She changed into a white linen dress, and opened her safe. She removed a gold necklace with a large star sapphire dangling on a pendant. This should sell for enough. She stared into the box. All the gems, the diamonds, the gold! Then slammed it shut.

Tonight, fun. Then I can run.

[blueerica]

my bags are packed
tightly
with every thing
i might need
passports, monies exchanged,
ticket to ride
we're off to somewhere new
exciting!
what fun we'll have
walking along strange avenues,
riding in wild taxicabs!
new sights!
new sounds!
an adventure to be had,
if only in my dreams.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

Lovely, E. Snappity-snap-snap.

I cannot mojo you, however. Believe me, I tried.

We need a new topic!

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Oops, I kinda dropped the ball, eh? Things have been insane at both my jobs this week and I had almost no time to visit here.

I just visited the San Diego Zoo, so how about

The Zoo

[Not Afraid]

All the monkey's in the Zoo
they go crazy over you
They go wild, simply wild, over you.

[blueerica]

I wrote a poem a while back, that started with "Those will be someone's last words, for sure..." and it originated off a conversation about someone in a zoo standing in front of a lion cage with a broken lock saying "Look at dee liooonn!" while having his picture taken...

[SacTown Chronic]

I'm in a cage. The
animals stroll by with their
children. I amuse.

See the humans eat.
Look honey, that one's pooping.
Ha! Funny human.

Daddy, are humans
happy in those cages? Yes,
my curious one.

They couldn't survive
in the wild. They are weak and
stupid. Need our care.

Thanks for the zoo trip,
daddy. The humans are cute.
In my dreams tonight.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

“Who wants to go to the zoo?”

Babysitters. I hate them. I hate them almost as much as I hate my actual parents, and that’s saying something. Maybe that makes me a heartless little bastard, but I don’t care. Maybe my heart’s just hardened, like the Pharoh’s, and if that’s the case, your beef is with God and not with me. I just live here, and not by choice, if you haven’t already been able to guess that.

My parents work all day and all week and all month and all year and the years pile up until here I am, 9, hostage to a 17 year-old black hole named Kelly, and the only think giving me pleasure is imagining Chompers chomping her to death with his canine incisors. Nobody knows the dog’s real name is Chompers, or that he has a killer’s instinct, just like me. My parents and siblings call him Muffin, but they are just a bunch of stupid losers who can’t see a dog’s true soul. They know nothing of dogs and their greatness. I don’t think any one of them even knows what the Dog Star’s name is. It’s Sirius. Sounds like serious. I like it. I say the name over and over again under my breath and it makes me feel calm and protected. I think of it as my secret name. Sirius and Chompers.

Chompers is domestic, of course, but he’s got a wild free spirit and when we’re alone together he shows it to me. We run with each other, over the wet dewy grass in the early morning on Saturdays, and it’s like there is no great divide between us; boy and dog are one. There’s no better relationship. My older brother, Stuart, says that the best thing in the world is sex. “Just you wait, man,” he says, forgetting that I was only 8 at the time, “when you’re my age you won’t be able to get enough of it. Women are hot. I don’t just mean their looks. When you’re touching them their skin gets hot, and when you feel below, it’s even hotter, like melted caramel.”

“So they’re sticky," I ask.

“Yeah, man. Totally.”

I left his room disgusted. I know lots of kids who like eating all kinds of messy sticky sweet foods, but those guys are revolting. I don’t know how they can stand their sticky mouths and hands. If girls are anything like that then I want nothing to do with girls. Not even when I’m old enough. My dog’s fur is warm and that’s the kind of warmth I like. His fur is coated with dust and it’s the dirt and mud of the ground that I don’t mind at all. We’ll wrestle in the park until we’re covered in the same mess and I feel more close to him than any other living thing. The dirt becomes our coat of arms, identifying us as family.

I was glad when Stuart left for college. Now there's my sister and me, and Jen will be leaving soon, too. Good riddance.

People are okay, I guess, even if I do hate them. They buy me gifts for my birthday and call me “Rascal” which I pretend to hate but kind of like. But they don’t get it. You know. IT. This whole life business. They’re older than me and but only I seem to understand what’s really important. It’s making time for the people and things you love. And since Mom and Dad are always working, that tells me all I need to know. We love work. We love time away from home. We don’t love kids and we don’t love you. We just had you because we are supposed to because it’s what married people do.

Jen once said she overheard our parents say I was an accident. I don't exactly know what she meant by that, but I thought of the time Chompers slammed into a table knocking Mom's favorite vase onto the floor. She cried over a silly vase as if a vase could ever be of any real importance. If I'm an accident, I'm the kind of accident that makes people cry over silly things, even if that makes me the silly thing. That way Chomper and I are even more alike than I realized.

I’ll never get married. I want to become a famous dog trainer but I don’t want my dogs to be in movies. Movies sap out my energy and make my eyes feel dull and dead. I don’t like playing pretend, either.

I wonder what the babysitter loves. Obviously not animals if her idea of a good time is going to see a bunch of sad creatures locked up in cages, ripped from whatever happiness they’d known before. Obviously she doesn’t love me, if she’s stupid enough to think an obvious animal lover like myself would have anything to do with those pour lost souls. My father says my hatred for zoos is unfounded. He called me “supercilious”, which I had to look up. I think it’s supercilious of a teacher in his 40’s to call a 9 year old boy supercilious. I was just being honest. It’s often what kids do best, though we usually get called heartless for it.

But I don’t think I’m heartless, really, just observant, and based on my observations I come to certain conclusions. Lately I’ve come to the conclusion that babysitters are stupid and useless, and they derive their greatest pleasure from forcing their young charges to do things they don’t want to do, like watch talk shows and make origami animals. They don’t even look like real animals. It’s stupid. Chompers destroyed all of Kelly’s oragami pigs and cranes and I laughed a lot - another happy accident - but the babysitter got mad and made me go to my room. That was cool. I read a book on crocodiles. I’d like to go to Florida someday. Maybe they would sense my love for them and allow Chompers and me to swim alongside of them. We would be covered in the same scummy water and eat the same fish, and they’d keep me out of harm’s way. Eventually my teeth could grow sharp and my body green and rough. We would become a family.

Maybe I do like to play pretend.

Now Kelly is feeling guilty and wants to take me to the zoo. I just look at her with a blank expression I’ve spent hours trying to perfect. My jaw is slack and I'm swallowing the air like I'm eating it while Kelly shuffles her feet and turns an ugly shade of red. She can wait until the end of time for my answer for all I care.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

What a fun story, Aud.

The other day I spent what seemed like forever searching online for a cool piece of photography to use as inspiration and found diddly squat. Today I actually found something.

Click here. (http://photography.mojado.com/archives/2005/03/12/marriott_from_3rd.php) As I'm supposed to be doing some other project, I might not participate in this one. Have at it!

[Ghoulish Delight]

That's the hotel I stayed at on my recent business trip to San Fran.

[wendybeth]

That's the hotel I stayed at on my recent business trip to San Fran.

I wish I had more time. An entire story just popped into my little brain and I have literally no time to run with it. If this is still going after the dust from the Girl's soiree settles, I'll post it.:D Cool building, though.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

That's the hotel I stayed at on my recent business trip to San Fran.Geez, put a little more effort into your story, willya? :p

Actually, that's rather weird, since I chose that pic at random. :eek:

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

“Oh, my God, is that Chris Martin? Honey, shut up a minute, I think I’m about to walk by Chris Martin....Are you serious? Chris Martin! The lead singer of Coldplay....Oh, for Christ’s sake, yes, Gwyneth’s husband, yes..... No, I will NOT ask him that. I think Apple is an adorable name. Well, we don’t have to worry about that, do we, Mr Vasectomy?................I do NOT always bring that up..........Well, I did, but I’m having second thoughts..........You ALWAYS say, Let’s have this conversation some other time. And that condescending, Shall we, you tack on the end? God, I hate that………………I didn’t……honey, I didn’t say I hate you, I said I hate it when you tack….honey, you’re breaking up. You’ve misunderstood and you're breaking up……..Hello?...............No, NO, I do not want to break up. That’s NOT what I said. I meant the connection is bad………………..No, not OUR connection, the phone connection. I always get such terrible reception in this area; I should have never switched to T-Mobile. What? Chris who? Oh, him. I have no idea. He passed by me a while ago, around the time we started arguing. I’m not even sure that it was him. Maybe just a look-a-like….Hold on a sec, will you, I think my blue tooth is falling out of my ear. Hello?”

[€uroMeinke]

That's the hotel I stayed at on my recent business trip to San Fran.

Does that mean there's a story hear that you can't share with the general public?

[Stan4dSteph]

The other day I spent what seemed like forever searching online for a cool piece of photography to use as inspiration and found diddly squat. Today I actually found something.I have an original from this guy (http://www.chrishoneysett.com/home.htm). He's got some cool stuff you might use.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Definitely some cool stuff there, Steph. Thanks!

And thanks for bumping this thread! My creative push is elsewhere at the moment, hope others can revive this for themselves...

[blueerica]

http://www.chrishoneysett.com/images/water_droplets1_500_415.jpg

I'm going to resurrect this thread. Going to try and resurrect myself while I'm at it, but let's start here.

Thanks Steph, for the link. I found this picture there.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

Adam contemplated the pavement and tossed the cigarette we’d been smoking out into the gutter where a little stream of dirty water carried it away. Most likely it would wind up in the L.A. River. If the rain keeps up it might make its way to the ocean. Romantically speaking that cigarette is having a more wild adventure than I’ve ever experienced. Realistically speaking it’s just a piece of garbage floating out to sea and I hate Adam for littering. I always pocket the butts. Each month, money is debited directly from his account to benefit some environmental group that accosted us outside of an Urban Outfitters, but I know he doesn’t really give a **** about the environment. Environment to him means air to breathe and concrete to walk on. Bred in captivity, he doesn’t know what he's missing. He seems ensconced in a life devoid of conviction or aspiration. That’s why I was attracted to him at first - by contrast I seem positively altruistic. In truth I usually care more about the stories people tell than the people themselves. I do volunteer work at retirement communities for the free breakfasts and the story ideas I steal from the old folks lonely enough to befriend me.

“It reminds me of the beach.”

I’d been enjoying the quiet and Adam’s voice cut my eardrum like a blunt razor. I’d secreted myself away into my thoughts and would have preferred being left alone. I wonder how many people only have relationships because it’s what we think we’re supposed to do. Things were easier when I was only interested in having sex and didn’t care what people thought about my private life. Now that I’m no longer a teenager I care about people looking at me and thinking, Doing beautifully; nothing to see here! I don’t mind a little internal bleeding so long as I don’t bruise.

I smiled at him; no reason to be a little bitch just because I’m suddenly in a bad mood. He had paid for dinner - his family has money - and he even held my hand under the table when he sensed I was feeling nervous around my parents. He’s generous with his smokes and his compliments are never generic. This morning I woke up to him murmuring against my thigh. He said he loved the way I smelled in his bed, a combination of my own natural scent, his laundry detergent, and the smokiness picked up in the bar we went to the night before. When he kissed the back of my knee his tongue was still warmed by sleep, and I felt the full force of an impregnable affection. Bedrooms become fortresses that protect me from the rest of the world, making it possible for me to love someone. Everywhere else I feel cold and ashamed, and standing next to him then, just hours later, he hardly mattered to me at all. I felt like watching a movie. I wanted to be alone with my parents. Then I wondered why it’s so hard for me to converse easily with someone I’m fvckign, and figured he deserved some kind of response.

“What does? The street?”

“The patterns made by the water. It almost looks like the surf just rolled off the smooth sand. At night the sand almost looks gray.”

“Funny thing about light. Without it there isn’t any color at all, right? Take that shirt you’re wearing, for instance. In this light it matches the concrete but I’m seeing that it’s red because I remember it’s red. Pigment may be absolute but light is a moral relativist.” These thoughts, pouring out of my mouth like vomit, sounded so much better in my head. I was trying to be interesting and likeable.

He turned to look at me fondly then and I knew what was coming. Fear lurched in my lower intestine and I blushed a violent shade of beach sand gray. Why does he always have to buy into my bull****?

“You gave me this shirt, remember?”

“Yeah, so what?”

“Your mother bought it for you but you gave it to me because it didn’t fit. When you went to the bathroom at the restaurant, she asked about it. Said it suited me perfectly and told me you were always quick to share when you were a kid.”

“That’s because I never liked the crap she bought me.”

“Liar. You were nice. C’mon. Tell me you were sweet natured and generous." His grin was borderline impish.

“Alright. I was nice.” It wasn’t even a lie. When I was a kid loved everybody.

“I think she knows about us.”

“So.” This disconcerted me greatly.

“So, maybe I could come around more. If she knows we don’t have to worry about her suspecting. She doesn’t seem to mind, and…”

“Fine.” It was stupid to stay disconcerted for long. My life has a way of deciding things for me, which is kind of comforting. It’s a load off to give someone what they want when there’s no practical reason not to.

"Do you mean it? Your house is so much more comfortable than mine, so much warmer. My folks are always fighting and it’s making winter break feel like a tedious experiment in devolution. Sometimes I think I was raised by well trained gorillas.

I laughed and it was genuine. Suddenly the idea of him being around more didn’t seem so terrible. He was my boyfriend, wasn’t he? We’d been dating for a few months. We were interested in the same subjects at school. The sex was wonderful - achingly so. Perhaps we could become better people together. Maybe I shouldn’t worry so much. Maybe my parents really don't care and are just waiting to hear it all from my own lips. I rarely ever give anyone enough credit. We could spend the majority of our winter break sequestered in my bedroom where I would find it so much easier to love him and be good to him. The world would be some invisible, unseen, unknown threat surrounding us as we sneak smokes on the rooftop and read to each other. I’m a closet romantic.

He hugged me tightly and I wrapped my arms around him. I suddenly didn’t want to be anywhere else. We continued to walk down the street to where the car was parked and I noticed that wet leaves had stopped up the gutter and there was a pile of refuse – most likely our cigarette butt included - encircling the leaves like a filthy halo. Life is like that: we move in a steady direction until it hits a road block or runs into traffic, and that’s when Destiny has a head on collision with Chance. It feels good to be stuck in traffic from time to time, giving you a moment’s pause to reflect on your existence. Here we are and only for a brief time, and if you are lucky enough to be loved, hopefully you’re smart enough not to piss all over it. At least that’s what I think I’m meant to learn from Adam. I'm not entirely sure what he's supposed to learn from me, though.

Adam lit up another cigarette and I watched a puff of smoke swirl and mix into the cooler air. The garbage halo tugged at the periphery of my eye and maybe I don’t care that much about the environment but my personal aesthetics were revolted. I bent down to pick up an assortment of cigarette filters, cans and take-out boxes, and Adam released a noise of surprised disgust. “What are you doing? That’s disgusting!”

“I agree. It IS disgusting, which is why I’m going to throw this **** away in the waste basket can over there. And when we’re done with that cigarette, it’s going into the basket, as well. I hate litter.”

“Okay.”

“I hate it!”

“I hear you. Calm down. I won’t litter anymore. Promise. I didn’t realize it bothered you so much.” I deposited the trash and Adam tried to take my hand.”

“Don’t, they’re dirty.”

“I don’t care.” He grabbed for me again and his palm was calloused and friendly. I apologized for mine being somewhat sticky.

“I won’t litter anymore. I promise.” I looked at him and imagined I could be a person who could love another person forever.

“Thank you, Adam.”

Yes. Indeed. Thank you, Adam.

[Boss Radio]

You must spread some Mojo around before giving it to Eliza Hodgkins 1812 again.