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.


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Bill Martin reads Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?

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!”

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

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.


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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.”

Franklin took a deep breath. “Nobody ever said doing the right thing would be easy,” he mused. But, he had to admit that that rain was really starting to make some sense. So, after straightening his stance and patting down his hair from the sideburns back, he turned around and headed proudly back into the casino. Yes, it definitely felt good to be thinking rationally again; to do what was reasonable; to do what was right. “Whew!”

"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, ..."

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