BEING UNMASKED
I want to throw off this face
that pretends that I am cool.
Toss these shoes that think
they protect me from movement into life.
I want to burn these gloves
that try to warm me from the cold
calculations of my hands.
And this shirt I want to tear from my breast
so my heart no longer
hides beneath the veneer of fashion or choice.
Even this bodily container is too much to bear!
I want to flay the skin from my flesh,
scrap the flesh from my bones.
I want to dance the flamenco
on the sidewalk before friends,
my sun-washed heels clacking
on concrete like a pair of dancing hammers.
I will dance across the harsh earth
until the powder of my bones blows
across the Kalahari desert.
There, a lone hyaena, exiled from his tribe,
finds my frowning bleached skull laying in the dust.
Taking pity on a fellow traveler,
he cracks the plates
of my skull into thin shards
strewing them over the parched sand.
Then I’ll wipe my brow and notice it’s
still there.
My mask.
Maybe I’ll laugh until I cry,
the tears seeping out the latex holes
of my eyes,
running down latex cheeks.
I’ll cry for 52 years
or until I stop.
Then, one day, like any other,
I’ll go to work and
sitting in my office find the mask washed away.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
checkerboard - Dixie
Little birds peck at the crumbs and twigs that have fallen on the checkerboard, on the picnic table, in the backyard, outside.
There he is, grandfather, in the corner by the TV, slumped in his wheeled throne.
I see our shadows, those summers at the picnic table, back years.
Wind blows wild, gold leaves fall, birds cheep and fly away.
Checkerboard calls:
"Whatcha waitin' for, Saul?"
Checkers spin past my tiny fingers. I cry no! grasp the shadow.
He dances, Grandfather, across the rug, a swirl of silver, aa twirl of cane like Fred Astaire at his most dapper.
Giant organ music fills the room, all eyes turn upward where jewels dot the ceiling and the roof pushes into the sky. He straightens his bow tie, Grandfather, tips his top hat, and dances up the wall, through the trees and clouds, and leaps!
"King me!" he shouts.
.
There he is, grandfather, in the corner by the TV, slumped in his wheeled throne.
I see our shadows, those summers at the picnic table, back years.
Wind blows wild, gold leaves fall, birds cheep and fly away.
Checkerboard calls:
"Whatcha waitin' for, Saul?"
Checkers spin past my tiny fingers. I cry no! grasp the shadow.
He dances, Grandfather, across the rug, a swirl of silver, aa twirl of cane like Fred Astaire at his most dapper.
Giant organ music fills the room, all eyes turn upward where jewels dot the ceiling and the roof pushes into the sky. He straightens his bow tie, Grandfather, tips his top hat, and dances up the wall, through the trees and clouds, and leaps!
"King me!" he shouts.
.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Worth: Melinda Jean
Just a word written on a tear of paper. One. Its meaning, its single value present and contained. Alone "worth" stands. Lonely? Up to your judgement. But should it not hold the confidence inherent? A blue heron diving, or a red herring singly could not change the course.
As a girl, "worth" often appeared to me on a pedestal, not all that accessible. The urge to be the one setting the value, equating my worth. That longing took hold and with no doubt my worth wore hats and had a baby. It did align with societies value of mothers, I had to admit. Value, meaning? I did stand alone and wobbled. Lonely? Sometimes. But to accept the standard of worth set by others morals was missing the arrow that points to a deeper connect. One of no judgement. Because how can we judge thing that we don't know or understand?
As a girl, "worth" often appeared to me on a pedestal, not all that accessible. The urge to be the one setting the value, equating my worth. That longing took hold and with no doubt my worth wore hats and had a baby. It did align with societies value of mothers, I had to admit. Value, meaning? I did stand alone and wobbled. Lonely? Sometimes. But to accept the standard of worth set by others morals was missing the arrow that points to a deeper connect. One of no judgement. Because how can we judge thing that we don't know or understand?
The Apocalypse comes to the coffee shop: Melinda Jean
It seemed the shop often had special guests. The pungent air, a thick inter lay of chocolate, burnt carmel, fruit and musty cellars waifed up the inside of Apocalypse's nostrils as the door came off in his grip. Cal the owner, looked up having a lypse he stumbling over his words "Apo" he managed to say. Apo was naked and muscular, his walk shook the wooden floor boards and cracked the planks under his wet feet. He smelled of ocean and now the scent of salt water and coffee was almost comforting and a corner of Cal's mouth started to lift. Until Apo spoke "Give me a large mocha, extra shot, extra hot, extra coco, don't go lightly on the whip and a long pull," he graveled. Cal had had Michelle Pfeiffer in before, but she was slight like a fawn and wore a baggy sweater pulled tight over her perfectly tanned body, her face beautifully regal. She didn't cause a stir, just wanted to come in and out and not be noticed. But Apocalsype enters and Cal has to think of remodeling, shutting down, having to give up his dreams. Thoughts move to what might become of Cal's coffee shop. Just then Apo sneezes, it's the kind followed by several more, the continuous sort each bringing down a different corner and as the walls fell around them and the smells mingled together of roasted coffee beans and sea shore air.
Cried 'til it Hurt - 2008 Nov 15
Cried 'til it hurt
la la la
Raz pic pride
shanna men na
Music press pull
strum didy dumb
Papa's voice punched
bam didy bam
Nina's radio rad
wa wa wa
Michael's counts
click click click
Katie's doll
tick tick tick
Melinda's heart
sick sick sick
Razzing til it hurt
Pickin' part pride
Music turn the knob
Press in the corner
Pull in 'way at seams
Cry baby cry
cry cry cry.
la la la
Raz pic pride
shanna men na
Music press pull
strum didy dumb
Papa's voice punched
bam didy bam
Nina's radio rad
wa wa wa
Michael's counts
click click click
Katie's doll
tick tick tick
Melinda's heart
sick sick sick
Razzing til it hurt
Pickin' part pride
Music turn the knob
Press in the corner
Pull in 'way at seams
Cry baby cry
cry cry cry.
Old Cobwebs: Melinda Jean
2008 November 15
Old cobwebs were the best sign of a good corner, "The older the better," saying to herself while shopping for a new place to spin and weave, the exhausting dance of a whole day in which after she would rest and wait; pray for prey. Nurishment, that rush of energy in the body. The natual high, there was nothing like it, still at the top of her lifetime loves. Another was the product of her particular weave. If found outside, a winter morning web can take on the glistening light through tiny spheres of water, sometimes the light enough to blind her delicate seeing mechanisms. She prided herself on these works of art not only because of their beauty, but because of their brevity, as one fly caught and the web ruined, time to move on again.
Another of her blessings she found was in the perspective being offered by height. Oh sure she was fearful of heights and remembered being a big clustered ball of brothers and sisters and worried about the fall, the decent. What if her web didn't catch and she'd fall to her death. Her mother would reassure her that she was so light she'd probably would land fine. This childhood fear haunted her and the only reassurance was ironically in being that high seeing the movement of life below her. She often felt it must be what a bird feels like when its flying; and then as she rested in her new web feeling heavier than her more youthful self, she wondered about the decent. The fall, would that be like flying? Could that offer some new perspective? As she looked at her beautiful creation and smiled she lifted her body to the bottom of the web and let go. Careful to not spindle any web, but to allow herself a weighty decent.
Old cobwebs were the best sign of a good corner, "The older the better," saying to herself while shopping for a new place to spin and weave, the exhausting dance of a whole day in which after she would rest and wait; pray for prey. Nurishment, that rush of energy in the body. The natual high, there was nothing like it, still at the top of her lifetime loves. Another was the product of her particular weave. If found outside, a winter morning web can take on the glistening light through tiny spheres of water, sometimes the light enough to blind her delicate seeing mechanisms. She prided herself on these works of art not only because of their beauty, but because of their brevity, as one fly caught and the web ruined, time to move on again.
Another of her blessings she found was in the perspective being offered by height. Oh sure she was fearful of heights and remembered being a big clustered ball of brothers and sisters and worried about the fall, the decent. What if her web didn't catch and she'd fall to her death. Her mother would reassure her that she was so light she'd probably would land fine. This childhood fear haunted her and the only reassurance was ironically in being that high seeing the movement of life below her. She often felt it must be what a bird feels like when its flying; and then as she rested in her new web feeling heavier than her more youthful self, she wondered about the decent. The fall, would that be like flying? Could that offer some new perspective? As she looked at her beautiful creation and smiled she lifted her body to the bottom of the web and let go. Careful to not spindle any web, but to allow herself a weighty decent.
White Carpet: Melinda Jean
2008 July 5
Why white, you might say? A whistling white, passing in the car, almost a verbal blur. The pet, who mostly resides in the car, has never mistreated the white. It's the pureness of it, the soft luxury. The pet doesn't think of 'deserve' or not, but of just the moments of the carpets beauty, its comfort and sinks right in. And when the white isn't there, as the car sometimes drives fast, it's the whistle that gives the pet that nostalgia, that missing, that only is filled with white carpet.
Why white, you might say? A whistling white, passing in the car, almost a verbal blur. The pet, who mostly resides in the car, has never mistreated the white. It's the pureness of it, the soft luxury. The pet doesn't think of 'deserve' or not, but of just the moments of the carpets beauty, its comfort and sinks right in. And when the white isn't there, as the car sometimes drives fast, it's the whistle that gives the pet that nostalgia, that missing, that only is filled with white carpet.
Fog Floats Over Water: Melinda Jean
Fog floats over water, from the window at this distance the fog looks supported; water collected over the season heavy and deep, mist gathered by the lightness of morning. The scene serene as she sips her coffee. Nothing more just creamy coffee and to write. She hasn't been to the cottage at this time of year and now she is here to stay, even if temporary. Quiet reflected a stillness in her mind that had been waiting, all the racing to get here, every fraction of time hidden in boxes, stacked in columns around the cabin. Like a maze with labels Kitchen, Living room, Bath; her whole life in correct categories allowing her only narrow passage.
When she first thought of leaving to come to the cabin, her whole body would stand thick with history and she feel inertia set in, settling like jello, she couldn't move. But now she looked out over the soft fog of morning and felt light, allowed a smile and managed to squeeze forward to the typewriter.
When she first thought of leaving to come to the cabin, her whole body would stand thick with history and she feel inertia set in, settling like jello, she couldn't move. But now she looked out over the soft fog of morning and felt light, allowed a smile and managed to squeeze forward to the typewriter.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Being Unmasked - JohnD
I've had only one rule that I've explicitly stated for this organization, “We do not expose other members' weaknesses.” One rule, that's it!
If anyone is concerned about a colleague, you come to me and we can discuss it constructively. You don't go around telling everyone else that you think somebody is wrong, stupid, or whatever. You don't say, “Oh, Luigi is a weakling. He's got no killer instinct.” You don't do that!
If Luigi has trouble breaking somebody's ribs; if you think he's pulling his punches, okay, that's probably important for me to know. But you don't go saying that to other members. You definitely don't start arguing with Luigi about it. And you most definitely don't argue with Luigi about it in front of the victim; I mean, the blood-sucking parasite who's trying to steal food from my children's mouths. It's like Luigi's being unmasked. If Luigi is sensitive, good, but we don't want others to know that.
Perhaps I need to find another position for Luigi. There are plenty of positions within the organization that require someone with sensitivity. We've seen a dramatic increase in drug sales to the elderly lately. However, the elderly are uncomfortable dealing with brutes. Luigi might be perfect for that division. He'll need to go through some retraining, but that shouldn't be a problem. It's probably going to be a great fit and good for business.
The problem is when we unmask one another's weaknesses, or perceived weaknesses. Now, we all know that Anthony is gay. I think we're all fine with that now. Why? Because he gets the job done. Nobody, and I mean nobody, is better at extortion than Antonio. It's been that way for 15 years. However, five years ago, Dino unmasks Antonio. He forces him out of the closet, tells everyone Antonio's gay. Suddenly, everyone forgets that Antonio has been doing great work for years. They forget that he's the best of the best. They lose confidence in him. That's crazy and that's wrong!
A week later, Antonio violently kills Dino with his bare hands, and Dino's even got a knife. Basically, Antonio restores order and only spends three days in the hospital. All the same, all that could've been avoided, which brings me back to my point: Don't unmask others; don't expose their weaknesses. You come talk to me if you have any concerns about any one else in this organization. You got that?
Okay I've got to get to my knitting class. You all carry on. But just remember, don't be so quick to judge others.
-
If anyone is concerned about a colleague, you come to me and we can discuss it constructively. You don't go around telling everyone else that you think somebody is wrong, stupid, or whatever. You don't say, “Oh, Luigi is a weakling. He's got no killer instinct.” You don't do that!
If Luigi has trouble breaking somebody's ribs; if you think he's pulling his punches, okay, that's probably important for me to know. But you don't go saying that to other members. You definitely don't start arguing with Luigi about it. And you most definitely don't argue with Luigi about it in front of the victim; I mean, the blood-sucking parasite who's trying to steal food from my children's mouths. It's like Luigi's being unmasked. If Luigi is sensitive, good, but we don't want others to know that.
Perhaps I need to find another position for Luigi. There are plenty of positions within the organization that require someone with sensitivity. We've seen a dramatic increase in drug sales to the elderly lately. However, the elderly are uncomfortable dealing with brutes. Luigi might be perfect for that division. He'll need to go through some retraining, but that shouldn't be a problem. It's probably going to be a great fit and good for business.
The problem is when we unmask one another's weaknesses, or perceived weaknesses. Now, we all know that Anthony is gay. I think we're all fine with that now. Why? Because he gets the job done. Nobody, and I mean nobody, is better at extortion than Antonio. It's been that way for 15 years. However, five years ago, Dino unmasks Antonio. He forces him out of the closet, tells everyone Antonio's gay. Suddenly, everyone forgets that Antonio has been doing great work for years. They forget that he's the best of the best. They lose confidence in him. That's crazy and that's wrong!
A week later, Antonio violently kills Dino with his bare hands, and Dino's even got a knife. Basically, Antonio restores order and only spends three days in the hospital. All the same, all that could've been avoided, which brings me back to my point: Don't unmask others; don't expose their weaknesses. You come talk to me if you have any concerns about any one else in this organization. You got that?
Okay I've got to get to my knitting class. You all carry on. But just remember, don't be so quick to judge others.
-
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Death - JohnD
Death came to the coffee shop, I guess. I don't know. She said she was death. What do I know. She started talking about the apocalypse.
"I've come to wipe out the human race," she said. La-di-da, la-di-da. She went on and on. Seemed real upset with humans in general.
"Let me finish my coffee here and I'll help you," I told her.
"Does it look like I need your help?"
"Sure, why not?" I said. "Everyone needs help sometime or another."
Red lasers shot out from her eyes and stopped two inches from my face. I could feel the heat and it wasn't comfortable at all.
"Okay, never mind," I said. "You're very attractive, but a bit too dark for my liking."
"Attractive? You think I'm attractive even though I'm going to wipe out the human race?"
"Well what does one thing have to do with the other? I mean you've got a job to do. That's fine. You're still good looking, very good looking."
"I don't know" she answered, running her hand through her long blonde hair. She looked at me sincerely, her eyes returning to their lovely green. "Humans for the most part consider me evil."
"Well that's ridiculous. You're death. Without death, this planet wouldn't last a week."
"Right, that's exactly right... You really find me attractive, though?"
"Yes, and look I'm done with my coffee."
"So you want to help me with the apocalypse?"
"Yeah sure."
With that we left and went to my place, but we never got around to starting the apocalypse. She had to go the next morning. I wonder how she's coming along with that whole apocalypse thing.
"I've come to wipe out the human race," she said. La-di-da, la-di-da. She went on and on. Seemed real upset with humans in general.
"Let me finish my coffee here and I'll help you," I told her.
"Does it look like I need your help?"
"Sure, why not?" I said. "Everyone needs help sometime or another."
Red lasers shot out from her eyes and stopped two inches from my face. I could feel the heat and it wasn't comfortable at all.
"Okay, never mind," I said. "You're very attractive, but a bit too dark for my liking."
"Attractive? You think I'm attractive even though I'm going to wipe out the human race?"
"Well what does one thing have to do with the other? I mean you've got a job to do. That's fine. You're still good looking, very good looking."
"I don't know" she answered, running her hand through her long blonde hair. She looked at me sincerely, her eyes returning to their lovely green. "Humans for the most part consider me evil."
"Well that's ridiculous. You're death. Without death, this planet wouldn't last a week."
"Right, that's exactly right... You really find me attractive, though?"
"Yes, and look I'm done with my coffee."
"So you want to help me with the apocalypse?"
"Yeah sure."
With that we left and went to my place, but we never got around to starting the apocalypse. She had to go the next morning. I wonder how she's coming along with that whole apocalypse thing.
Monday, September 1, 2008
The Circus - Kevin
She takes his hand as they cross the parking lot toward the big top. They seem to be the only adults in sight not anchored to any eager tykes.
He looks for an excuse to pull his hand away -- maybe someone's dropped a ticket or a wallet, or maybe someone needs CPR. Not that he knows CPR, but he could stand over the person and call for help and at least then he wouldn't have to hold her hand.
Why didn't he just take his hand away? Was he that much of a coward? Well, yes. But taking his hand away would be a lot easier than what was yet to come. Under the bigtop.
He hands over their tickets and they find their seats while random clowns do random tricks down below.
From the moment they enter the tent, her eyes light up and she smiles like an awestruck 10 year old. He tries not to glance over at her. Why's she so damn happy? A voice in the deep recesses of his brain says something to him about the circus, but he's too overwhelmed to listen.
She eats popcorn and cotton candy; he never knew she liked either of those. See? he tells himself. You don't really know her at all. You two are practically strangers. You're doing the right thing.
**To be continued at:
http://sportpastime.blogspot.com
He looks for an excuse to pull his hand away -- maybe someone's dropped a ticket or a wallet, or maybe someone needs CPR. Not that he knows CPR, but he could stand over the person and call for help and at least then he wouldn't have to hold her hand.
Why didn't he just take his hand away? Was he that much of a coward? Well, yes. But taking his hand away would be a lot easier than what was yet to come. Under the bigtop.
He hands over their tickets and they find their seats while random clowns do random tricks down below.
From the moment they enter the tent, her eyes light up and she smiles like an awestruck 10 year old. He tries not to glance over at her. Why's she so damn happy? A voice in the deep recesses of his brain says something to him about the circus, but he's too overwhelmed to listen.
She eats popcorn and cotton candy; he never knew she liked either of those. See? he tells himself. You don't really know her at all. You two are practically strangers. You're doing the right thing.
**To be continued at:
http://sportpastime.blogspot.com
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Pearls- Cyndi
Her mother stood before her, looking excited and anxious at the same time. Carly stared at her, as if she were seeing her for the first time. Her mother had always been there for her through thick and thin. She was beginning to realize just how much she had taken for granted. Her mother had supported her since the death of her father when she was a baby. It now came to her- all the sacrifices that were made on her behalf, the hours of work, the time spent making memories and helping Carly to feel loved and secure growing up. Perhaps she had never really looked at her mother this way before. She just knew her as “mom”.
Carly looked her in her eyes and thought she seemed slightly shorter than she last remembered. Then there were the eyes themselves, the blue still sparkled with her mother’s spunk, but they didn’t seem quite as bright anymore. Her loving face had a few more lines and wrinkles and her graying hair was thinning in places. But to Carly, she was still a very beautiful woman. She wore a dress of mauve, with lace on the bodice and a skirt of a tasteful length. She had put a lot of time into choosing just the right dress for this occasion. For today was Carly’s wedding day.
There had been so many hours of planning, preparing for this day and their exciting new life together. And here it was, all coming true. Carly was in her elegant white gown with the tiny buttons running down the back and the flowing train trailing behind her . Her bridesmaids had helped her put on her veil. The last finishing touches were complete. The butterflies in her stomach felt like they were trying to escape but were trapped by the confining fabric of her dress. She took some deep breaths to calm her nerves. These were the last few moments before she was to walk down the aisle, and her mother had asked to have this time with her in private. Carly waited as her mother brought her hands from behind her back and presented her with a velvet box.
“These were your grandmother’s”, she said as she held it out to her. “She wore them on her wedding day and I on mine. Now it is your turn!”
Carly slowly took the box that showed signs of wear on the edges, and gingerly opened it. Inside lay a necklace of pearls. She had heard about them, and even seen them in her mother’s wedding pictures, but had never beheld them in real life. She ran her fingers lightly over the small delicate strand.
“Oh mom!” she exclaimed as she hugged the precious woman before her.
She could feel the tears of joy welling up inside, threatening her perfectly applied make-up. “I love you!”
Prompt: Pearls August 9, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
"What Is It?" - Maya
They were hunkered down in a tight little knot in the clearing, all skinny-legged, skinned knees, brown summer bodies. The four of them. It was amazing that by this hot late August afternoon they were all still playing together. Every day since school let out they'd seemed to triangulate, three against one, and every day in a new configuration. Today Marcie was the odd one out. Surprisingly, this happened relatively rarely. Surprising in that she was the only girl. Conventional wisdom would have her be the isolated one most of the time, but conventional wisdom didn't hold in this case. Marcie got along well with everyone. But today she had really wanted to go to the pool, not into the woods. She'd been outvoted, so she'd grumbled as she'd trailed along behind them. It was too hot, she complained.
"Yeah, but it will be cooler in the woods," Davie had argued.
"Better be," she'd mumbled back.
Now they were in a clearing, out in the direct sun, but even Marcie was too fascinated to notice.
"What is it?" she asked.
The others shook their heads or hunched their shoulders. Sean poked it with a stick.
"Maybe it's an alien," he said.
"A dead alien," Davey replied.
It was small. No bigger than a cat or skunk, or maybe a possum. But it wasn't any of those. Its back legs were longer than the front ones, and five-toed. Kind of .... human. It only had one eye left, but that one was large and round.
"Hey, know what I just realized?" Frankie said, pushing his glasses back up his nose. "It doesn't stink. Shouldn't it stink?"
Frankie would notice something like that. He was the quiet one, the observer. Frequently the odd man out in this group of extroverts. But he could be stubborn. He stuck to his guns. The other three admired that in him, and although they never said it, they all thought of Frankie as "the smart one."
"I didn't think of that," Sean acknowledged. "Maybe it is an alien, and thier bodies don't stink."
"What'll we do with it?" Marcie asked. "Like, shouldn't we take it to a scientist or something?"
"I'm not picking that thing up," Davie said.
"Me neither," agreed Sean.
"Okay, let's bury it, then," Marcie said.
"Why? Then we'll never find out what it is," Davey retorted.
"I know," Frankie said. "I'll take a picture of it on my cell phone. Then we'll bury it. We can show the picture to someone to identify it."
They all agreed. But without a shovel or trowel or anything to dig with, they wound up just covering it up with stones and leaves.
They decided to go to Sean's dad. he worked at the university in the Physics Department. So, when he got home from work they descended on him . It turned out that his colleagues in Biology were intrigued, once the kids convinced them it was not a hoax.
The four of them were excited to take the scientists to the makeshift grave site. They found it easily enough. But when they removed the stones and leaves, what they found was nothing. Nothing at all. No trace. Not a bone, not a hair, not a scrap of DNA.
They never did find out what it was.
Prompt: "What is it?" 8/16/08
"Yeah, but it will be cooler in the woods," Davie had argued.
"Better be," she'd mumbled back.
Now they were in a clearing, out in the direct sun, but even Marcie was too fascinated to notice.
"What is it?" she asked.
The others shook their heads or hunched their shoulders. Sean poked it with a stick.
"Maybe it's an alien," he said.
"A dead alien," Davey replied.
It was small. No bigger than a cat or skunk, or maybe a possum. But it wasn't any of those. Its back legs were longer than the front ones, and five-toed. Kind of .... human. It only had one eye left, but that one was large and round.
"Hey, know what I just realized?" Frankie said, pushing his glasses back up his nose. "It doesn't stink. Shouldn't it stink?"
Frankie would notice something like that. He was the quiet one, the observer. Frequently the odd man out in this group of extroverts. But he could be stubborn. He stuck to his guns. The other three admired that in him, and although they never said it, they all thought of Frankie as "the smart one."
"I didn't think of that," Sean acknowledged. "Maybe it is an alien, and thier bodies don't stink."
"What'll we do with it?" Marcie asked. "Like, shouldn't we take it to a scientist or something?"
"I'm not picking that thing up," Davie said.
"Me neither," agreed Sean.
"Okay, let's bury it, then," Marcie said.
"Why? Then we'll never find out what it is," Davey retorted.
"I know," Frankie said. "I'll take a picture of it on my cell phone. Then we'll bury it. We can show the picture to someone to identify it."
They all agreed. But without a shovel or trowel or anything to dig with, they wound up just covering it up with stones and leaves.
They decided to go to Sean's dad. he worked at the university in the Physics Department. So, when he got home from work they descended on him . It turned out that his colleagues in Biology were intrigued, once the kids convinced them it was not a hoax.
The four of them were excited to take the scientists to the makeshift grave site. They found it easily enough. But when they removed the stones and leaves, what they found was nothing. Nothing at all. No trace. Not a bone, not a hair, not a scrap of DNA.
They never did find out what it was.
Prompt: "What is it?" 8/16/08
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Science Experiment - JohnD
Belinda and Joey looked up at the hole in the ceiling. A small sliver of drywall fell from the edge of the hole, spiraling downward as a flow of dust descended upon them. Joey watched the piece of drywall flutter off toward the wall that separated the living room from the kitchen.
Finally, the poetically drifting sliver landed on the metallic frame of the launcher, which had just finished hopping several feet sideways, repeatedly bouncing off the wall, making deep gouges into it.
Joey had been aware of the launcher's post-launch maneuvers, but feeling safely out of its reach, he had paid more attention to the hole that now adorned the ceiling. The launcher was finished with its tantrum and sat comfortably entrenched inches into the wall. “Well, that was....fascinating,” Joey stated tentatively. “I mean, in an against-all-laws-of-physics kind of way.
Belinda was still analyzing the opening in the ceiling.
Joey squinted to focus his eyes farther up through the hole. “It went clean through the first floor. It looks like it went through your bed....That doesn't even seem possible.”
Belinda continually angled left, right, back, and forth to get the best possible view. “Yes, that's my bed all right. I can see daylight. It went right through the roof. I figured it had to. I mean, with the amount of force obviously involved. I think we really have something here Joey.”
“'We'?” Asked Joey. “You know, I wasn't really involved here in the scientific part of any of this. I'm the language arts type. It was definitely your invention, idea, design, everything. Wouldn't you say?”
Belinda didn't answer, still completely engrossed by the aperture they had just created in the ceiling.
Joey paused and then started up again. “So, as you speak of this event going forward, you would definitely want to use the first-person singular pronoun, 'I.'” Joey quickly ran his hands back and forth through his hair, stirring up a small cloud of white dust. “Anyway,” he continued, “you were right. It worked.”
“Okay, so you owe me a dollar!” proclaimed Belinda proudly. “You still think girls aren't good at science?”
“I'm not so sure,” resisted Joey.
Belinda's eyes widened. “You're saying that you don't owe me a dollar?!”
“Calm down, I'm not saying that at all. I mean, that was obviously way more than ten feet. I owe you the dollar for sure....Um, but wait a minute. Not to change the subject, but do you know what my main concern is at the moment?”
“What's that?”
Joey looked back up at the hole. “That bowling ball. It's going to have to come back down, right?”
“Hmmm, good point,” Belinda said, bringing her hand to her chin in concentration. “Yeah, I should have thought of that by now. It's just that it was so unexpected. I was thinking that it might go 10 to 15 feet up in the air, but that sucker must've launched 500 feet, maybe. Or who knows? Maybe we just turned that bowling ball into a satellite.”
“'We' again?” asked Joey, throwing his arms up in the air slightly. “Anyway, my point is that you might not be that great at science. Better than me of course since I'm just a literature kind of kid, but you're the one who said, against my advice mind you, 'let's put the bowling ball in the launcher then move it outside.' In hindsight, you gotta admit that doesn't seem too smart.”
“Well,” growled Belinda, looking at the launcher smashed up against the wall across the living room, “I was just trying to save us an extra trip. Besides there's no way it should have launched by simply placing the ball into it.”
“Proving my case.” Joey spoke slowly, articulating his words. “Are you good at science or is your contraption possessed? Divine intervention perhaps. Maybe it was just dumb luck.”
“Dumb?” Belinda snapped.
Suddenly, they heard a whistling noise from above that was quickly increasing in volume. They each took a step backwards as the bowling ball came crashing back through the same hole, blasting by them in a blur, and driving deep into the wooden floor, sending splinters flying and vibrations rippling throughout the house. A new and thicker cloud of dust emanated throughout the room as the thunderous noise of the crash started to spread outward beyond the walls of the house.
They looked at each other, mouths agape. Joey gulped. “Darn it! I got sidetracked. I just mentioned the ball coming back down and then forgot all about it.” As he spoke, he looked back and forth from the hole in the ceiling and the ball in the floor. “Another thing, how is it that the ball came down through the exact same hole? I mean, exactly.” Joey coughed as he tried to swat away the chalky powder in the air. “That came down not even an inch off the path that it went up,” he said as he pulled a one inch splinter of wood out of his shirt. It pierced his shirt at the collar, passing halfway through before coming to a stop. “By the way,” he said smiling, “this missed my jugular by a centimeter.” He held the piece of wood between his fingers before flicking it to the ground.
Belinda looked at the bowling ball lodged deeply into the floor of her living room. “Yes, this is a very positive development, I'd say.”
“Positive,” Joey repeated. “Funny, I was thinking of a different word. But you know us language types, we're always obsessing on semantics.”
“There's a lot going on here,” Belinda continued. “Sorry about your jugular....um, that could have turned out not so well. We got the bowling ball back, though,” she said cheerfully. “That's good news. And coming down the exact same path, that could be huge: another totally unexpected result. I wonder if that was a one-time deal or an aspect of the launcher's design. If it's consistent, there's just gotta be some real world application for that.”
“You know what my concern is now?” asked Joey.
“What's that?” inquired Belinda as she noticed an inch wide piece of floorboard wedged deeply into the base of the leather couch.
“Well, I'm just wondering if I can get out of here before your parents get home. I'm sure you all will have lots to talk about.”
“Yes, Yes,” Belinda agreed. “This is so big. We have an absolute scientific breakthrough here.”
Joey cringed as the word “we” left Belinda's lips. “Yeah, YOU definitely deserve credit for that.”
Belinda turned toward Joey and grabbed him momentarily by the shoulders. “I don't think you grasp the significance of this discovery. We'll be famous for this, and rich, too.”
“Rich?” asked Joey as his he stood up straighter. “How rich?”
“Very!” replied Belinda as she performed a cursory examination of her clothing and body, looking for splinters or wounds of any kind. “It's like we've tapped into a previously unknown energy source. Everyone's gonna wanna talk to us.”
“You mean, besides the police and fire department?”
“Everyone,” repeated Belinda, swinging her arms out in opposite directions left and right as she spoke, “talk shows, physicists, corporations, everyone!”
“Oh,” said Joey looking off into space with a smile, “well, WE did work hard on this experiment.” His gaze drifted toward the hole in the ceiling, which instantly snapped him out of his daydream. “Well, until the money starts flowing in, I hope your parents can see the other positives of the situation.”
“Of course,” agreed Belinda, “like the pure merit of this scientific breakthrough.”
“Yeah, like that.” Joey nodded. “They might also see that 12-year olds, even if they are scientific geniuses, which is debatable, really aren't responsible enough to be left home alone, so hopefully they'll chalk this all up to a learning experience.”
“You are the practical one Joey, that's why it's nice to have you around,” Belinda said as she blew a puff of air upward dislodging a fine layer of dust from her face.
“Good, so remember to cite the positive when discussing this matter with your parents. Okay Belinda? You with me on this?”
“Okay, cite the positive. I will.”
Joey started patting down his clothing to beat off the dust. “A big positive here is that we didn't get hurt. I mean, just look at this place. And you and I don't have a scratch on us. That's a miracle. I hope your parents are appreciative of that fact.”
“Don't worry,” assured Belinda. “My parents will be very grateful that we're both okay. They'll also be proud of this little science experiment. It really is a doozy. Unprecedented, I would say.”
“Well, good luck with that,” said Joey with a nod as he walked backward toward the front door. “I would say no reason to mention me in any of this. Um, well, at least until Oprah calls.” Joey backed up bowing and nodding as he occasionally glanced backward trying to negotiate furntiture and the two steps up to the entrance hall. “But if, uh, you do feel compelled to bring up my name, remember that I said, 'let's bring the launcher outside first, then put the bowling ball in it.' You know, um, I think that's an important point.”
Belinda smiled and nodded, looking up proudly at the hole in the ceiling.
“So, anyway,” Joey persisted, “I'll be moseying along. Congratulations. It really is an impressive experiment. It should win first place at the science fair for sure.”
And with that, Joey turned around, opened the front door, and launched out of there fast and recklessly, kind of like a bowling ball.
Finally, the poetically drifting sliver landed on the metallic frame of the launcher, which had just finished hopping several feet sideways, repeatedly bouncing off the wall, making deep gouges into it.
Joey had been aware of the launcher's post-launch maneuvers, but feeling safely out of its reach, he had paid more attention to the hole that now adorned the ceiling. The launcher was finished with its tantrum and sat comfortably entrenched inches into the wall. “Well, that was....fascinating,” Joey stated tentatively. “I mean, in an against-all-laws-of-physics kind of way.
Belinda was still analyzing the opening in the ceiling.
Joey squinted to focus his eyes farther up through the hole. “It went clean through the first floor. It looks like it went through your bed....That doesn't even seem possible.”
Belinda continually angled left, right, back, and forth to get the best possible view. “Yes, that's my bed all right. I can see daylight. It went right through the roof. I figured it had to. I mean, with the amount of force obviously involved. I think we really have something here Joey.”
“'We'?” Asked Joey. “You know, I wasn't really involved here in the scientific part of any of this. I'm the language arts type. It was definitely your invention, idea, design, everything. Wouldn't you say?”
Belinda didn't answer, still completely engrossed by the aperture they had just created in the ceiling.
Joey paused and then started up again. “So, as you speak of this event going forward, you would definitely want to use the first-person singular pronoun, 'I.'” Joey quickly ran his hands back and forth through his hair, stirring up a small cloud of white dust. “Anyway,” he continued, “you were right. It worked.”
“Okay, so you owe me a dollar!” proclaimed Belinda proudly. “You still think girls aren't good at science?”
“I'm not so sure,” resisted Joey.
Belinda's eyes widened. “You're saying that you don't owe me a dollar?!”
“Calm down, I'm not saying that at all. I mean, that was obviously way more than ten feet. I owe you the dollar for sure....Um, but wait a minute. Not to change the subject, but do you know what my main concern is at the moment?”
“What's that?”
Joey looked back up at the hole. “That bowling ball. It's going to have to come back down, right?”
“Hmmm, good point,” Belinda said, bringing her hand to her chin in concentration. “Yeah, I should have thought of that by now. It's just that it was so unexpected. I was thinking that it might go 10 to 15 feet up in the air, but that sucker must've launched 500 feet, maybe. Or who knows? Maybe we just turned that bowling ball into a satellite.”
“'We' again?” asked Joey, throwing his arms up in the air slightly. “Anyway, my point is that you might not be that great at science. Better than me of course since I'm just a literature kind of kid, but you're the one who said, against my advice mind you, 'let's put the bowling ball in the launcher then move it outside.' In hindsight, you gotta admit that doesn't seem too smart.”
“Well,” growled Belinda, looking at the launcher smashed up against the wall across the living room, “I was just trying to save us an extra trip. Besides there's no way it should have launched by simply placing the ball into it.”
“Proving my case.” Joey spoke slowly, articulating his words. “Are you good at science or is your contraption possessed? Divine intervention perhaps. Maybe it was just dumb luck.”
“Dumb?” Belinda snapped.
Suddenly, they heard a whistling noise from above that was quickly increasing in volume. They each took a step backwards as the bowling ball came crashing back through the same hole, blasting by them in a blur, and driving deep into the wooden floor, sending splinters flying and vibrations rippling throughout the house. A new and thicker cloud of dust emanated throughout the room as the thunderous noise of the crash started to spread outward beyond the walls of the house.
They looked at each other, mouths agape. Joey gulped. “Darn it! I got sidetracked. I just mentioned the ball coming back down and then forgot all about it.” As he spoke, he looked back and forth from the hole in the ceiling and the ball in the floor. “Another thing, how is it that the ball came down through the exact same hole? I mean, exactly.” Joey coughed as he tried to swat away the chalky powder in the air. “That came down not even an inch off the path that it went up,” he said as he pulled a one inch splinter of wood out of his shirt. It pierced his shirt at the collar, passing halfway through before coming to a stop. “By the way,” he said smiling, “this missed my jugular by a centimeter.” He held the piece of wood between his fingers before flicking it to the ground.
Belinda looked at the bowling ball lodged deeply into the floor of her living room. “Yes, this is a very positive development, I'd say.”
“Positive,” Joey repeated. “Funny, I was thinking of a different word. But you know us language types, we're always obsessing on semantics.”
“There's a lot going on here,” Belinda continued. “Sorry about your jugular....um, that could have turned out not so well. We got the bowling ball back, though,” she said cheerfully. “That's good news. And coming down the exact same path, that could be huge: another totally unexpected result. I wonder if that was a one-time deal or an aspect of the launcher's design. If it's consistent, there's just gotta be some real world application for that.”
“You know what my concern is now?” asked Joey.
“What's that?” inquired Belinda as she noticed an inch wide piece of floorboard wedged deeply into the base of the leather couch.
“Well, I'm just wondering if I can get out of here before your parents get home. I'm sure you all will have lots to talk about.”
“Yes, Yes,” Belinda agreed. “This is so big. We have an absolute scientific breakthrough here.”
Joey cringed as the word “we” left Belinda's lips. “Yeah, YOU definitely deserve credit for that.”
Belinda turned toward Joey and grabbed him momentarily by the shoulders. “I don't think you grasp the significance of this discovery. We'll be famous for this, and rich, too.”
“Rich?” asked Joey as his he stood up straighter. “How rich?”
“Very!” replied Belinda as she performed a cursory examination of her clothing and body, looking for splinters or wounds of any kind. “It's like we've tapped into a previously unknown energy source. Everyone's gonna wanna talk to us.”
“You mean, besides the police and fire department?”
“Everyone,” repeated Belinda, swinging her arms out in opposite directions left and right as she spoke, “talk shows, physicists, corporations, everyone!”
“Oh,” said Joey looking off into space with a smile, “well, WE did work hard on this experiment.” His gaze drifted toward the hole in the ceiling, which instantly snapped him out of his daydream. “Well, until the money starts flowing in, I hope your parents can see the other positives of the situation.”
“Of course,” agreed Belinda, “like the pure merit of this scientific breakthrough.”
“Yeah, like that.” Joey nodded. “They might also see that 12-year olds, even if they are scientific geniuses, which is debatable, really aren't responsible enough to be left home alone, so hopefully they'll chalk this all up to a learning experience.”
“You are the practical one Joey, that's why it's nice to have you around,” Belinda said as she blew a puff of air upward dislodging a fine layer of dust from her face.
“Good, so remember to cite the positive when discussing this matter with your parents. Okay Belinda? You with me on this?”
“Okay, cite the positive. I will.”
Joey started patting down his clothing to beat off the dust. “A big positive here is that we didn't get hurt. I mean, just look at this place. And you and I don't have a scratch on us. That's a miracle. I hope your parents are appreciative of that fact.”
“Don't worry,” assured Belinda. “My parents will be very grateful that we're both okay. They'll also be proud of this little science experiment. It really is a doozy. Unprecedented, I would say.”
“Well, good luck with that,” said Joey with a nod as he walked backward toward the front door. “I would say no reason to mention me in any of this. Um, well, at least until Oprah calls.” Joey backed up bowing and nodding as he occasionally glanced backward trying to negotiate furntiture and the two steps up to the entrance hall. “But if, uh, you do feel compelled to bring up my name, remember that I said, 'let's bring the launcher outside first, then put the bowling ball in it.' You know, um, I think that's an important point.”
Belinda smiled and nodded, looking up proudly at the hole in the ceiling.
“So, anyway,” Joey persisted, “I'll be moseying along. Congratulations. It really is an impressive experiment. It should win first place at the science fair for sure.”
And with that, Joey turned around, opened the front door, and launched out of there fast and recklessly, kind of like a bowling ball.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Black Cast-Iron Wood Stove - JohnD
“Our getaway cabin,” we'd named it so.
As father would drive, mother smiled and eased.
The radio played as healing winds breezed.
But for the stove, mom delighted to go.
She clashed with that black cast-iron wood stove.
It didn't like cooking, so everything burned.
But through the years, it taught and it learned.
Oh, “our getaway cabin” at Meadow Grove.
We got the call on Friday, how mom cried.
We drove out and sure enough everything burned.
But for the stove, all was ash, all was stern.
That day it seemed a part of mom just died.
Yet, the stove looked new with a thick, rich glaze.
Mom bowed before it in honor and praise.
--
As father would drive, mother smiled and eased.
The radio played as healing winds breezed.
But for the stove, mom delighted to go.
She clashed with that black cast-iron wood stove.
It didn't like cooking, so everything burned.
But through the years, it taught and it learned.
Oh, “our getaway cabin” at Meadow Grove.
We got the call on Friday, how mom cried.
We drove out and sure enough everything burned.
But for the stove, all was ash, all was stern.
That day it seemed a part of mom just died.
Yet, the stove looked new with a thick, rich glaze.
Mom bowed before it in honor and praise.
--
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Listening to the Radio - Kevin
Above: night sky, late summer. A thousand twinkling pinpricks decorate black velvet.
Below: the '75 Camaro. Four friends and twelve beers inside. And the radio plays.
They talk and laugh and drink and spill. They turn up certain songs and change the channel when others come on. There is nowhere they'd rather be than here, now, with each other.
Finally, when their song comes on, the song, the best song ever, they all shut up and listen. The one of them starts singing along. Then they all do, eyes clenched shut, voice projecting emotions none of them have fully encountered yet.
To read the rest go to: http://sportpastime.blogspot.com
Below: the '75 Camaro. Four friends and twelve beers inside. And the radio plays.
They talk and laugh and drink and spill. They turn up certain songs and change the channel when others come on. There is nowhere they'd rather be than here, now, with each other.
Finally, when their song comes on, the song, the best song ever, they all shut up and listen. The one of them starts singing along. Then they all do, eyes clenched shut, voice projecting emotions none of them have fully encountered yet.
To read the rest go to: http://sportpastime.blogspot.com
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Sunday, July 13, 2008
i thank You God for most this amazing day - JohnD
Sherry had to admit that the scenery was breathtaking. They were hiking up Half Dome and she drank it all in: the light summer breeze, birds chirping in the distance, and the magnificent everything: the blue sky, the beautiful view of trees and mountains, just everything, absolutely everything. It was as if she heard the music of nature, of life, of God. She was alive and feeling one with the earth when chaos intervened in the form of Evan Denton.
“I thank You God for most this amazing day,” he boomed.
“Damn it!” thought Sherry. In her own mind, she screamed, “Your so pompous, Evan!” It was all she could do to not say it aloud. All day he had been quoting Shakespeare and other famous poets and writers. Sherry was an oxymoron of emotion: caught up in the unbelievable beauty of her surroundings and disgusted by the snobbery and arrogance of Evan's constant quoting.
“Should I really have agreed to this double date slash hiking trip,” she asked herself.
Sherry sensed that Doug and Emily were quite content with the whole situation. “Either that or they're really good actors,” she reasoned.
“Who was that from?” Emily asked as soon as Evan recited the “amazing day” line.
Sherry shot a dirty glance in Emily's direction as if to say, “Don't encourage him, you traitor!”
Emily gave Sherry a wink and laughed silently.
Of course, Evan obliged by answering, “E. E. Cummings.” And naturally, he continued sharing more about Mr. Cummings and reciting more lines from his various works.
“Do Emily and Doug really like this Evan guy or are they just willing to put up with him because they think that I am this desperate to date someone?” Sherry questioned.
During the hike, every time they came across a fork in the road, Evan would recite a line or two from Robert Frost's The Road Not Taken. “Great!” Sherry would tell herself. “Evan the smug strikes again.” During the drive to Yosemite, Sherry had come up with the “Evan the smug” moniker. With the four of them in the car together and Evan dominating the conversation, it helped to pin that nickname on him. But at this point, mocking him privately had lost its anaesthetic effect.
At the moment, Evan seemed to be stuck in an endless loop about E. E. Cummings. Sherry tried to block out his voice as they continued their ascent. She focused on the variety of scents that drifted to her. She could hear the music of nature again.
For no apparent reason, Evan spoke louder than even before, breaking Sherry from her day dream state. Sherry heard him blathering on about nature and flowers or something another. She had no idea who he was quoting now. “How interesting,” she thought, “the sentiments from the lines he's reciting mirror my very feelings about this place. So, why does he annoy me so much?”
As Evan continued relentlessly, it seemed to Sherry that he was starting to affect an almost British accent. She calmly looked for a ledge to throw him over.
Without even a token effort to converse, Evan pontificated and lectured with increased enthusiasm and bravado. Try as she might, Sherry couldn't block him out anymore. She felt depleted, drained of all energy and hope.
But then, a miracle. Evan's voice started to get raspy. “Whoa, something's wrong with my voice,” he said, touching his throat. He continued to talk for a while, but his voice was getting quieter and quieter, and raspier yet. Doug and Emily seemed quite concerned. Evan insisted that he could continue with the hike, however. “I'll just have to not talk,” he said almost inaudibly.
And with that, Sherry raised her hands to the heavens and proclaimed loudly and clearly, “i thank You God for most this amazing day!”
“I thank You God for most this amazing day,” he boomed.
“Damn it!” thought Sherry. In her own mind, she screamed, “Your so pompous, Evan!” It was all she could do to not say it aloud. All day he had been quoting Shakespeare and other famous poets and writers. Sherry was an oxymoron of emotion: caught up in the unbelievable beauty of her surroundings and disgusted by the snobbery and arrogance of Evan's constant quoting.
“Should I really have agreed to this double date slash hiking trip,” she asked herself.
Sherry sensed that Doug and Emily were quite content with the whole situation. “Either that or they're really good actors,” she reasoned.
“Who was that from?” Emily asked as soon as Evan recited the “amazing day” line.
Sherry shot a dirty glance in Emily's direction as if to say, “Don't encourage him, you traitor!”
Emily gave Sherry a wink and laughed silently.
Of course, Evan obliged by answering, “E. E. Cummings.” And naturally, he continued sharing more about Mr. Cummings and reciting more lines from his various works.
“Do Emily and Doug really like this Evan guy or are they just willing to put up with him because they think that I am this desperate to date someone?” Sherry questioned.
During the hike, every time they came across a fork in the road, Evan would recite a line or two from Robert Frost's The Road Not Taken. “Great!” Sherry would tell herself. “Evan the smug strikes again.” During the drive to Yosemite, Sherry had come up with the “Evan the smug” moniker. With the four of them in the car together and Evan dominating the conversation, it helped to pin that nickname on him. But at this point, mocking him privately had lost its anaesthetic effect.
At the moment, Evan seemed to be stuck in an endless loop about E. E. Cummings. Sherry tried to block out his voice as they continued their ascent. She focused on the variety of scents that drifted to her. She could hear the music of nature again.
For no apparent reason, Evan spoke louder than even before, breaking Sherry from her day dream state. Sherry heard him blathering on about nature and flowers or something another. She had no idea who he was quoting now. “How interesting,” she thought, “the sentiments from the lines he's reciting mirror my very feelings about this place. So, why does he annoy me so much?”
As Evan continued relentlessly, it seemed to Sherry that he was starting to affect an almost British accent. She calmly looked for a ledge to throw him over.
Without even a token effort to converse, Evan pontificated and lectured with increased enthusiasm and bravado. Try as she might, Sherry couldn't block him out anymore. She felt depleted, drained of all energy and hope.
But then, a miracle. Evan's voice started to get raspy. “Whoa, something's wrong with my voice,” he said, touching his throat. He continued to talk for a while, but his voice was getting quieter and quieter, and raspier yet. Doug and Emily seemed quite concerned. Evan insisted that he could continue with the hike, however. “I'll just have to not talk,” he said almost inaudibly.
And with that, Sherry raised her hands to the heavens and proclaimed loudly and clearly, “i thank You God for most this amazing day!”
Saturday, July 12, 2008
White Carpet - Maya
The view was spectacular, just like she'd said. Windows ran floor to ceiling, and the view ran from the Bay Bridge to the Golden Gate. It didn't hurt that the apartment was on the 7th floor. Nob Hill was high enough to see the Bay as it was, but this place was pretty much above everything. Alcatraz was right there, and even the weather was perfect - no fog to interfere with the panoramic vista. Really, spectacular.
What I hadn't expected (and amazed me as much) was how she'd decorated it. Everything was sleek and modern, white and stainless steel or glass. White couch, white chairs, glass bowls on glass tables, crystal decanters on glass shelves and white carpet.
"Well? What do you think?" she asked.
"It's spectacular, honey," I replied. "Absolutely spectacular."
She clapped her hands together and grinned the broadest grin her thin face allowed. "I know. Come, sit on the couch and catch the view. Want some tea?"
"Sure," I replied, plopping down on the plush white cushions. What I was really thinking was, "How can this be my child? Could we possibly be more different?"
Here I was in a peasant skirt and sandals (which I now checked to be sure I hadn't tracked in any dirt onto this pristine white carpet). I mean, my house was all wood, old carpets, funky ethnic folk art and color, color, color. I realized that kids sometimes separate from their parents by choosing radically different lifestyles, but this was astounding. My daughter, my little girl, had opted for pretty much everything I had rejected - money, prestige, upward mobility. It's not that I had anything against money - it sure made life easier. But this!
"Come on," I told myself. "You knew where she was headed." The writing had been on the wall since junior high school. And look who she'd married ... The world of high finance made no sense to me, but it brought her this apartment, this view, this life in San Francisco in which money helped a great deal. Was, in fact, necessary.
Her daughter came back carrying a tray with teapot and cups. Italian. Williams-Sonoma. Now, those she liked. They didn't exactly match the decor. In fact, they reminded her of that trip to Tuscany and Umbria. Lovely.
"It's Earl Grey. You like that, right?" her daughter asked.
"Sure. You know I like most teas."
"So, what do you think?"
"I could look out this window forever."
"I know. It's amazing at night, too. You and Dad have to come for 4th of July. They have fireworks right off the pier down there. The neighbors tell me these are the best seats in town."
"Nothing but the best!" I said.
"Mother, don't start," she retorted. "I know you think this is all shallow materialism, but it's my life and I happen to like it."
"What? What did I say?"
"Nothing," she grumped. "But I can tell."
"Honey, I'm not sitting in judgment."
"Aren't you?" she asked.
She was right, but I wasn't going to admit it. "I think it's gorgeous. I'd just be scared to death mess it up, but I don't have to live with it. If it doesn't bother you, it's great."
"See? There you go!" she said, jumping up. Her elbow connected with her teacup and Earl Grey spilled all over the carpet. The white carpet. Dark tea. She looked at me, eyes frozen wide like deer in the headlights. I said nothing. Finally, she ran into the kitchen to get something to clean it up.
I wondered if the stain would ever come out.
Prompt: White Carpet, 7/5/08
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Fog Floats Over Water - Kevin
My mind is fog
Waiting for the sun
Waiting to remember
The house
The lake
Days you couldn't see five feet in front of you
And too many days of complete clarity
Our finch bounces with life in its cage
As mother watches from the bed, her life sneaking away
From across the lake a cello plays
Father's question:
Is it the big things in life that matter?
Or is it the small things that remind us how big
The big things really are?
The wood of the dock creaks steadily from out the window
Like a lullaby
I can't sleep
Then I can
I am like two different people
The cello plays and I can never see from where
It could be played by a ghost
The ghost haunts me through music
Each morning
Here on the dock
At first light
I can convince myself I am the only person on earth
By last light I have learned the hard way
That isn't true
Silver fish peekaboo beneath me like swimming nickels
Father's arms
Veins bulging
Row the boat
Mother's hands
Veins collapsing
Put on lipstick, even at the end
Our finch
The cello
Music
Life somewhere out there
Just beyond the quiet whiteness
I hold up my hand
I can barely see it
Maybe this means
I barely exist
Fog floats over water.
For more of my writing, go to: http://sportpastime.blogspot.com
Waiting for the sun
Waiting to remember
The house
The lake
Days you couldn't see five feet in front of you
And too many days of complete clarity
Our finch bounces with life in its cage
As mother watches from the bed, her life sneaking away
From across the lake a cello plays
Father's question:
Is it the big things in life that matter?
Or is it the small things that remind us how big
The big things really are?
The wood of the dock creaks steadily from out the window
Like a lullaby
I can't sleep
Then I can
I am like two different people
The cello plays and I can never see from where
It could be played by a ghost
The ghost haunts me through music
Each morning
Here on the dock
At first light
I can convince myself I am the only person on earth
By last light I have learned the hard way
That isn't true
Silver fish peekaboo beneath me like swimming nickels
Father's arms
Veins bulging
Row the boat
Mother's hands
Veins collapsing
Put on lipstick, even at the end
Our finch
The cello
Music
Life somewhere out there
Just beyond the quiet whiteness
I hold up my hand
I can barely see it
Maybe this means
I barely exist
Fog floats over water.
For more of my writing, go to: http://sportpastime.blogspot.com
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Talking Rain - JohnD
He put his last three dollars into the slot machine. “Okay, I only need a seven hundred dollar jackpot and I'm back to normal,” he said to himself.
He pulled the handle: a lemon, a lemon, and a monkey. “A monkey? Is that a monkey?” he asked aloud. Nobody answered. His vision was blurred. He squinted and leaned forward and back again trying to make the monkey, if that's what it was, come into focus. The leaning motion made him mildly dizzy, blurring his vision a bit more. Maybe the monkey-like thing doubles the lemon jackpot, he hoped. But, no. Nothing happened. That was it. He was finished. He downed the rest of his drink.
“Franklin, get some more money. I'll pay off for you big time.”
“Who, what?” asked Franklin.
“Trust me Franklin,” the machine said.
Franklin looked at the slot machine as he felt the room spin slightly. “Are you talking?” he asked.
“Come on Franklin. Don't be like that,” the machine soothed. “It's me. I'll take care of you.”
“Don't be like what?” Franklin demanded.
“You don't trust me?” said the machine, tension in it's voice.
“Hold on!” said Franklin. “Just hold on.” He felt the casino tilting now as the slow spin continued. “This doesn't make any sense. I mean, when did I say anything about not trusting you? I'm just out of money. That's all!”
“Oh, come on,” the machine pleaded. “Like you don't have a credit card?”
“Stop it!” yelled Franklin. People from nearby slot machines looked up momentarily before being consumed again by their respective machines.
“Fine,” whispered the machine, sobbing gently. “You don't have to make a scene.”
“Don't start crying,” said Franklin.
The machine started bawling uncontrollably. “Well,” replied the machine. “It's just that I try my best for you, but nothing's good enough!”
Franklin shuddered. “Wait, wait!” he said to himself. “You're normal. You're a normal person. You've been drinking too much and you haven't slept in, like, 36 hours. Go, go, get out of here; get back to your hotel room!” He started leaving.
“Come back!” yelled the machine. “I need you. I'm nothing without you!”
Franklin kept walking. “Where is my hotel?” he thought. He walked to the open doors of the casino. It was raining hard.
“Hold on Franklin, don't come out into me!”
“Oh, for heaven's sake!” yelled Franklin.
“No really Franklin,” said the rain. “I'm all acidic this evening. It would be a considerable health risk. You'd better go back into the protective environment of that casino.”
“Stop it!” screamed Franklin. “Acid rain? That's ridiculous!”
“No, truly,” said the rain. “You might just want to get some more money and continue making wagers in that comfortable, dry, highly respectable gambling establishment. Given the circumstances, it's the safest course of action.”
Thursday, June 26, 2008
"An Ending" - Dixie
What I wouldn't give for an ending. Alas, it eludes. I have a beginning, I have a middle, I do not have an ending. The girl in the story is fully formed, or becoming so. She develops easily, although she does not have a name and is rather clueless about what is happening. She needs an ending to go forward, a light on the horizon, that North Star that the know-it-all writer is moving toward.
"So, what's the point of the bank robbery?" she asks me in that innocent way of hers.
"Yeah, I don't get it," pipes in Sanjay, the character who does have a name. "What's it have to do with the gun and the pool?" He smooths his silk shirt and tosses the gun on the table. Clunk.
"What happens after we rob the bank?" She timidly pushes the gun, as if playing spin the bottle. The muzzle points at me.
Oh, shit. They're right. What is going to happen after they rob the bank? Or are they even going to? We are all confused, except maybe the gun, which probably doesn't even belong in this story.
"Oh, well," she says dreamily and sits back into her huge sunglasses. Trust personified.
"Fuck it," says Sanjay. He stomps out of the room slamming the door behind him. Absolutely no trust.
I reluctantly pick up the gun, which turns into my pen and sends a few words spurting on the page.
"Although they had no idea what they were doing, ..."
To read the full story: http://tothebottom900.blogspot.com/
.
"So, what's the point of the bank robbery?" she asks me in that innocent way of hers.
"Yeah, I don't get it," pipes in Sanjay, the character who does have a name. "What's it have to do with the gun and the pool?" He smooths his silk shirt and tosses the gun on the table. Clunk.
"What happens after we rob the bank?" She timidly pushes the gun, as if playing spin the bottle. The muzzle points at me.
Oh, shit. They're right. What is going to happen after they rob the bank? Or are they even going to? We are all confused, except maybe the gun, which probably doesn't even belong in this story.
"Oh, well," she says dreamily and sits back into her huge sunglasses. Trust personified.
"Fuck it," says Sanjay. He stomps out of the room slamming the door behind him. Absolutely no trust.
I reluctantly pick up the gun, which turns into my pen and sends a few words spurting on the page.
"Although they had no idea what they were doing, ..."
To read the full story: http://tothebottom900.blogspot.com/
.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
"The black room took us in like a cave" - Maya
It was just what I wanted – walls painted black, even the windows, which were painted shut as well. They were covered with heavy curtains, but I pulled them back to check. No light. A single bulb dangled from the remnants of a long-discarded light fixture in the ceiling, but that was no problem. We didn’t have to turn it on. And we wouldn’t.
The black room took us in like a cave. I know what you’re thinking – like a womb. I don’t care. You can psychologize me all you want, it won’t matter. Black was what we wanted and black was what we got. We weren’t looking for airless or claustrophobic, so it was good that it was on the third floor an not, say, in the basement. Black and damp would have been too much for me. I’m allergic to mold anyway. In fact, it might have been a bright and airy room at onetime. Might be again. I wouldn’t want to be the one to paint over it or scrape off all that black paint, but that’s neither here nor there.
We had our little cave now. Our little sanctuary. Our refuge. I imagined it to be like an underground temple or a blank slate. We didn’t even need to bring much with us.
I’m sure you’re wondering why I did it. Well, you see, I didn’t know who he was when I met him. Or maybe I should say “what” he was. He was different – I could see that right away. I always was a sucker for different. And he moved fast. Those dark eyes that looked unflinchingly into mine – as though he wanted to see inside me. And did. And like who he found there.
He never lied to me. He just made sure I cared about him before he told me. All right, I’ll say it – I fell in love with him. Loved him. And he needed me, needed someone badly. He’d just arrived and wasn’t safe. He’d left his family – needed new territory, new blood, so to speak.
It’s not every day that someone promises you eternal life. Can’t you understand? Eternal life with someone you love and who loves you? I felt loved, anyway. I don’t know. I think he did love me.
So, I found the room. He promised he’d take me, turn me, once we settled in. He needed me to stay as I was to do the necessary business in daylight hours. Once we had a safe place it could happen. And it was perfect. I had the coffin moved in right away. He was so pleased. It was perfect.
How could I know he’d been followed from the old country? Tracked, like an animal. All they saw was trouble. Not his beauty, his kindness, his intense love. All they saw was danger. I didn’t. He’d explained it to me and it seemed doable. It seemed…okay. Does different have to mean bad? I’ve never thought so.
They’d waited till the sun went down and the coffin opened. Stakes in hand, they burst through the locked door – I don’t know how – and they killed him. God, they killed him. They’d have killed me, too, if he had turned me. But he hadn’t and they didn’t, obviously. They called me stupid, gullible, dangerous. They told me to leave before the police arrived. They were giving me a chance to start over. Then they left. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t just leave him like that.
Don’t you see? I could have run away and avoided all this, but I didn’t. I wanted to stay here in our cave, our sanctuary. I wanted to be with him forever.
Prompt: "The black room took us in like a cave." - Anne Sexton
6/7/08
The black room took us in like a cave. I know what you’re thinking – like a womb. I don’t care. You can psychologize me all you want, it won’t matter. Black was what we wanted and black was what we got. We weren’t looking for airless or claustrophobic, so it was good that it was on the third floor an not, say, in the basement. Black and damp would have been too much for me. I’m allergic to mold anyway. In fact, it might have been a bright and airy room at onetime. Might be again. I wouldn’t want to be the one to paint over it or scrape off all that black paint, but that’s neither here nor there.
We had our little cave now. Our little sanctuary. Our refuge. I imagined it to be like an underground temple or a blank slate. We didn’t even need to bring much with us.
I’m sure you’re wondering why I did it. Well, you see, I didn’t know who he was when I met him. Or maybe I should say “what” he was. He was different – I could see that right away. I always was a sucker for different. And he moved fast. Those dark eyes that looked unflinchingly into mine – as though he wanted to see inside me. And did. And like who he found there.
He never lied to me. He just made sure I cared about him before he told me. All right, I’ll say it – I fell in love with him. Loved him. And he needed me, needed someone badly. He’d just arrived and wasn’t safe. He’d left his family – needed new territory, new blood, so to speak.
It’s not every day that someone promises you eternal life. Can’t you understand? Eternal life with someone you love and who loves you? I felt loved, anyway. I don’t know. I think he did love me.
So, I found the room. He promised he’d take me, turn me, once we settled in. He needed me to stay as I was to do the necessary business in daylight hours. Once we had a safe place it could happen. And it was perfect. I had the coffin moved in right away. He was so pleased. It was perfect.
How could I know he’d been followed from the old country? Tracked, like an animal. All they saw was trouble. Not his beauty, his kindness, his intense love. All they saw was danger. I didn’t. He’d explained it to me and it seemed doable. It seemed…okay. Does different have to mean bad? I’ve never thought so.
They’d waited till the sun went down and the coffin opened. Stakes in hand, they burst through the locked door – I don’t know how – and they killed him. God, they killed him. They’d have killed me, too, if he had turned me. But he hadn’t and they didn’t, obviously. They called me stupid, gullible, dangerous. They told me to leave before the police arrived. They were giving me a chance to start over. Then they left. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t just leave him like that.
Don’t you see? I could have run away and avoided all this, but I didn’t. I wanted to stay here in our cave, our sanctuary. I wanted to be with him forever.
Prompt: "The black room took us in like a cave." - Anne Sexton
6/7/08
Monday, May 19, 2008
Forget-me-not
A long, long time ago in a kingdom far, far away lived a fair maiden and her handsome knight. They loved each other very much and planned to marry, vowing to spend the rest of their days together.
Now their country was very beautiful with wooded hills and flowering fields. And a strong wall surrounded their town. The young lady was very loyal to her homeland and had always felt quite safe. But alas, her beloved was a noble knight bound by duty to protect the neighboring countryside and villages as well. He was gone traveling a lot of the time and so they had to console themselves with the fleeting moments they were able to find to be alone. Those were precious times and they drew closer together in spirit.
One particularly fine spring day the knight was due to return from a mission. His Lady Love eagerly awaited him and carefully planned their days ahead. She dressed in a light, flowing gown, her hair freshly washed and flowers adorning her golden mane. She walked outside the town gate, wanting to be the first to spot the returning brave band of knights. And so they appeared on the horizon, as a cloud of dust at first from the pounding of their horse’s hooves. Closer and closer they came into view until she was able to spot the one to whom her heart belonged. She followed them back into the town square, anticipating the warm embrace of her loved one. But he had disappointing news for her.
“We’ve only come back for more supplies,” he told her. “There is an approaching enemy a few villages over and we must return to protect them.”
“No, you cannot leave again so soon!” she pleaded, to no avail. For she knew her knight would not shirk his duties.
“I have a short while for the horses to be fed and watered,” he told her. “Let’s take a walk down by the river. I must leave my armor on though, so I will be ready to go again quickly.”
“Okay” she agreed reluctantly. A short time was better than nothing.
They strolled off together in the warm sunshine, the birds singing and their hearts happy at the sight of each other. The knight absentmindedly picked some flowers along the way, gathering them into a bouquet to present to his betrothed. They talked of the future and their hopes and dreams. As they drew near to the riverbank they could see the current was swift and strong. But there were some especially beautiful flowers reaching over the edge that the knight felt would make his presentation all the more lovely. As he leaned over to pick them he felt himself lose his footing and he started to slip down the embankment. In he toppled with a loud SPLASH! His armor weighed him down and he was pulled under the cold water. He struggled with all his might, but realized this was the one battle he could not win. He would not make it out. He used his last strength to get above the surface and toss the flowers to the distraught one left standing on the shore. “Forget-me-not” he called as he went under for the final time.
Prompt: forget-me-not April 26, 2008
Monday, March 31, 2008
SPEED LIMIT - Kevin
"I didn't know there was a speed limit," he said (like he'd been waiting all his life to do so). The line itself was bad enough, but his wink afterwards was almost a capital offense.
Not again, she thought. I can't do this again. She instinctively glanced toward the bar's exit, toward freedom, toward her comforter and her cats and her TV.
His picture had jumped out at her, but she was suspicious of pictures. She was a voice girl -- let her hear them for five minutes and she could tell whether they actually looked like the picture. Whether they had mommy issues. Whether they had three other regular girls. Whether those shining locks were a hairpiece.
He passed the phone test with ease. They stayed on for one hour and one minute. She made an excuse to go so she didn't use all her best material before the date.
When she stood outside the bar three nights later and watched the man approach, she thought, Please let this be him, Please let this be him.
When they ordered wine she made a mental list of witty anecdotes to share.
And then the trouble started. His first comments about her meeting his dogs and his parents flew by with only a mild scent of creepiness. It was when he talked about "wintering" together upstate that the smoke alarm in her head went off. He actually used the word "wintering."
"And eventually," he said, with a flick of the wrist, "I want to teach our kids -- "
Her smoke alarm cut him off. "Slow down there, Andretti. We just met."
"I didn't know there was a speed limit." And the wink.
She didn't want to leave the wine, so she gulped it down in one massive sip. Then she put her foot on the gas and tried not to run out the door.
Not again, she thought. I can't do this again. She instinctively glanced toward the bar's exit, toward freedom, toward her comforter and her cats and her TV.
His picture had jumped out at her, but she was suspicious of pictures. She was a voice girl -- let her hear them for five minutes and she could tell whether they actually looked like the picture. Whether they had mommy issues. Whether they had three other regular girls. Whether those shining locks were a hairpiece.
He passed the phone test with ease. They stayed on for one hour and one minute. She made an excuse to go so she didn't use all her best material before the date.
When she stood outside the bar three nights later and watched the man approach, she thought, Please let this be him, Please let this be him.
When they ordered wine she made a mental list of witty anecdotes to share.
And then the trouble started. His first comments about her meeting his dogs and his parents flew by with only a mild scent of creepiness. It was when he talked about "wintering" together upstate that the smoke alarm in her head went off. He actually used the word "wintering."
"And eventually," he said, with a flick of the wrist, "I want to teach our kids -- "
Her smoke alarm cut him off. "Slow down there, Andretti. We just met."
"I didn't know there was a speed limit." And the wink.
She didn't want to leave the wine, so she gulped it down in one massive sip. Then she put her foot on the gas and tried not to run out the door.
Monday, February 11, 2008
She Built Her House for the Next Five Decades - Maya
She walked into the new room and breathed in deeply. Ah, the good smell of freshly cut wood.
- Yes - she thought - I like this. It has a good feeling. Now I can stop. This will satisfy the demand.
She ordered furniture, chose a deep blue for the paint, and decided which of the new Oriental rugs would look best on the hardwood floor. This was something she could do. She liked being busy.
But at night, when the workmen were gone and the servants had all gone to sleep, she was left with her solitude. And that unsettled feeling began creeping back in.
Lying in her big canopy bed, alone, in the bedroom more than large enough to accomodate two, she was keenly aware of the vacancy on the other side of the mattress. Even on summer nights she often felt chilled in her clean sheets. And in the quiet she heard it call to her - it cried,it whispered in her brain. The house. It wanted more. It wanted to grow. If only her daughter had lived.... maybe a child would have satisfied it - a bright, happy, living thing filling all the empty space. But there was no child, and the house grew restless, bitter.
Every time she got fooled. She would truly believe that if she just gave it one more room or added one more wing it would retreat into silent contentment, it would snuggle down onto its foundations with an almost audible sigh of relief. Every time. But no sooner had she given in to its demands when it started again.
"Stop torturing me," she whispered. "You must be satisfied, Enough is enough."
- Never enough - she heard the reply. - Never. I must grow. Grow! Grow! -
She turned over and pulled the pillow over her head. It didn't help. She knew it wouldn't. This was not new and would not be any different from the other times. How could she be so naive as to think it would let her go. She would never be free.
Tears leaked out of her eyes, soaking into the bedding. If only she could sell the house, move away. To a cottage by the ocean or in the mountains - where the clean wind would scour her troubled mind clear of its burdens. But she couldn't. It was the house where she'd borne her child, that her husband had built for her, just for her. She couldn't abandon it.
So she did what she always did. Gave up and gave in. Sent for the contractor. Planned another addition. So the house could grow, like a living thing. Like the real,lving thing it wanted to be, drove her to make it be.
prompt from 1/19/08 (exact wording of prompt not recorded, but about Sarah Winchester)
- Yes - she thought - I like this. It has a good feeling. Now I can stop. This will satisfy the demand.
She ordered furniture, chose a deep blue for the paint, and decided which of the new Oriental rugs would look best on the hardwood floor. This was something she could do. She liked being busy.
But at night, when the workmen were gone and the servants had all gone to sleep, she was left with her solitude. And that unsettled feeling began creeping back in.
Lying in her big canopy bed, alone, in the bedroom more than large enough to accomodate two, she was keenly aware of the vacancy on the other side of the mattress. Even on summer nights she often felt chilled in her clean sheets. And in the quiet she heard it call to her - it cried,it whispered in her brain. The house. It wanted more. It wanted to grow. If only her daughter had lived.... maybe a child would have satisfied it - a bright, happy, living thing filling all the empty space. But there was no child, and the house grew restless, bitter.
Every time she got fooled. She would truly believe that if she just gave it one more room or added one more wing it would retreat into silent contentment, it would snuggle down onto its foundations with an almost audible sigh of relief. Every time. But no sooner had she given in to its demands when it started again.
"Stop torturing me," she whispered. "You must be satisfied, Enough is enough."
- Never enough - she heard the reply. - Never. I must grow. Grow! Grow! -
She turned over and pulled the pillow over her head. It didn't help. She knew it wouldn't. This was not new and would not be any different from the other times. How could she be so naive as to think it would let her go. She would never be free.
Tears leaked out of her eyes, soaking into the bedding. If only she could sell the house, move away. To a cottage by the ocean or in the mountains - where the clean wind would scour her troubled mind clear of its burdens. But she couldn't. It was the house where she'd borne her child, that her husband had built for her, just for her. She couldn't abandon it.
So she did what she always did. Gave up and gave in. Sent for the contractor. Planned another addition. So the house could grow, like a living thing. Like the real,lving thing it wanted to be, drove her to make it be.
prompt from 1/19/08 (exact wording of prompt not recorded, but about Sarah Winchester)
Monday, January 28, 2008
Besides the Heat - dixie
Besides the heat, it's the dirt, the noise, and the inscrutable foreign words flapping around me like too many parakeets in the cage at the pet shop. I am certain of nothing. I am in control of nothing, except my own silence and the fake expression of calm on my face. Luckily, they go for el senor, who speaks at least some of the language. La senora gets to hide behind the suitcases and clutch her purse.
The taxi feels like a steam room, smells like a, well I don't know what. I am sweating, something I don't do. I lean against the door as we bump through the streets, sliding and honking. I wish for huge arms around me and a nice cup of tea, but his arms are busy grappling with the itinerary that he and the driver are going on about. And this doesn't seem like a cup of tea sort of country.
Prompt: besides the heat
1/25/08
The taxi feels like a steam room, smells like a, well I don't know what. I am sweating, something I don't do. I lean against the door as we bump through the streets, sliding and honking. I wish for huge arms around me and a nice cup of tea, but his arms are busy grappling with the itinerary that he and the driver are going on about. And this doesn't seem like a cup of tea sort of country.
Prompt: besides the heat
1/25/08
Friday, January 4, 2008
Hate/Love - Greg
Prompt 12/30/2006: Think of a person you don't like and describe what you don't like and what you might say if you had to share an elevator ride.
I hated him and he hated me, and when I stepped into the elevator we looked at each other and knew what had to be, even before the doors thumped closed.
I stood to one side and he the other, but we could feel the animosity rising like noxious air in a small container. He whispered under his breath, and I turned threw a wild punch that skidded off the top of his head. He rolled with the punch then countered with his own punch which hit me on the side of the face. Then I hit him in the mouth, and I could feel with satisfaction the splash of something warm on my fist. But then he hit me in the nose and my eyes watered and the metallic taste of blood flooded my mouth.
We grabbed each other’s shirts, but it was unnecessary because neither would run away even if we could, and so we traded punch after punch like two hockey players in the middle of the rink. Now his nose was bleeding and now his mouth. I was bleeding over the left eye and both nostrils. Still we kept pounding.
The elevator stopped and the door opened. Two well-dressed old ladies stood at the door and froze, their mouths ajar and silent. We continued whaling on each other ad the door closed.
After a while the velocity of our punches slowed, our arms tiring. Blood splattered over the walls, but we did not stop. It was glorious! Soon we stopped punching, but I grabbed him and threw him against the wall, then he me. We danced about the elevator in a violent bloody dance macabre. The elevator door opened again and we fell to the floor in front of the two ladies who stepped back. The door repeatedly closed and opened on our two writhing bodies until we rolled back in.
It closed once more and in a moment we stopped and held each other in our grips breathing in each other breath, lost in exhaustion. “I hate you,” he said, but with not much conviction. “And I hate you,” I said, but realized, right then, right now, that I may have also loved him.
I hated him and he hated me, and when I stepped into the elevator we looked at each other and knew what had to be, even before the doors thumped closed.
I stood to one side and he the other, but we could feel the animosity rising like noxious air in a small container. He whispered under his breath, and I turned threw a wild punch that skidded off the top of his head. He rolled with the punch then countered with his own punch which hit me on the side of the face. Then I hit him in the mouth, and I could feel with satisfaction the splash of something warm on my fist. But then he hit me in the nose and my eyes watered and the metallic taste of blood flooded my mouth.
We grabbed each other’s shirts, but it was unnecessary because neither would run away even if we could, and so we traded punch after punch like two hockey players in the middle of the rink. Now his nose was bleeding and now his mouth. I was bleeding over the left eye and both nostrils. Still we kept pounding.
The elevator stopped and the door opened. Two well-dressed old ladies stood at the door and froze, their mouths ajar and silent. We continued whaling on each other ad the door closed.
After a while the velocity of our punches slowed, our arms tiring. Blood splattered over the walls, but we did not stop. It was glorious! Soon we stopped punching, but I grabbed him and threw him against the wall, then he me. We danced about the elevator in a violent bloody dance macabre. The elevator door opened again and we fell to the floor in front of the two ladies who stepped back. The door repeatedly closed and opened on our two writhing bodies until we rolled back in.
It closed once more and in a moment we stopped and held each other in our grips breathing in each other breath, lost in exhaustion. “I hate you,” he said, but with not much conviction. “And I hate you,” I said, but realized, right then, right now, that I may have also loved him.
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