glass all around

prompt: glass all around, oct. 13 2007

bright eyes (if you steal her sunshine)

Links back to my blog because it was 7 pages long in word perfect and I didn't want to clog up this blog.

Bird Flu

“You don’t look too good”, my buddy says to me as he flies past. We are circling the park yet again. Now the leader is changing directions. We turn and go the other way. Moving together- rising, gliding, flapping harder to lift higher into the air. It was true. I did feel a little under the weather. But that was just it, this crazy weather kept changing. One day it was hot and the next could be so cold that I felt like my tail feathers would freeze right off! But what choice did I have? There is no such thing as calling in sick for a bird. So here I am with the rest of the flock.

The sun had recently made its way above the horizon, slowly spreading its light to the awakening world. The soft colors tinted the morning clouds. We flew together as one- one body, one accord. Then we landed in the uppermost branches of the tall redwoods that were on the perimeter of the park. What a vantage point this was! What a view! We could watch the slumbering neighborhood come to life. Of course the joggers were always out early, and those with not quite so much energy were doing their walking laps. And there is the Chinese exercise group- what's that called again? Oh yeah, Tai Chi. Here comes the whole parade of dog walkers with those crazy mutts pulling at their leashes, watching for squirrels to chase. Has any dog ever caught one? The kids are coming too, with their heavy book laden backpacks weighing them down on their way to another day of education. Most of them don’t look too enthusiastic, though. Poor teachers, what a job they have! Oh look, there’s even a couple on their way to the tennis courts for an early game. How can they play next to the distracting sound of the crossing guard’s whistle blowing every few seconds?

I usually enjoy watching this scene unfold before me every day. But today I feel a little off. Sitting way up here I actually begin to feel slightly dizzy. What an odd sensation! What could be the matter with me? Hope I didn’t eat a bad worm or something. Uh oh, the leader is looking to take flight again. I want to follow. My whole being longs to soar through the air and be a part of this flock. But my body is resisting. I just can’t do it.

“Hey”, I say to my friend. “I’m heading home. I think I have the flu.”

Prompt: Bird Flu 10/6/07

Bird Flu - Maya

"Hey, listen to this." She elbowed her friend studying at the table beside her.
"What?"
" 'It could happen anytime. Tornado. Earthquake. Armageddon.' "
Her friend gave her "the look" - the "why are you bothering me with this crap" eyeball-rolling look.
"No, it really gets to me, this stuff."
"It's like, so what?" her friend replied.
"But it's so true! We're, like, I don't know, all victims of life. This guy, this poet .... what's his name? William Stafford. He really understands. Whoops. Understood. He's dead."
"Aren't they all? That's why they call them 'dead white males.'"
"No, I like this guy. It's like, he understood exactly how I feel sometimes."
"You mean you sit around worrying that a tornado's gonna get you, or lightning strike, or you're going to fall into a hole in the ground when the big one hits? Not me! I refuse to live that way."
"But don't you feel like that, at least sometimes? Like our parents made a bad world even worse, and now we're going to inherit it."
"I just don't let it get to me."
"How? Every day the news is full of some disaster - global warming, bird flu, mad cow disease, you name it."
"Look. It doesn't get you anywhere worrying about birds dying. Stop eating chicken if you're that scared. You'd be better off as a vegetarian anyway."
"Yeah, right. You and I both know that the vegetarians we hang out with eat worse than anybody. Potato chips, cokes and cigarettes aren't exactly a healthy diet. Vegetarianism just allows you to act superior because meat doesn't touch your lips."
"All I'm saying is that I think you either need to ignore all that shit or go do something about it. Join Moveon.org or...what's it called? Greenpeace?"
"Yeah, I probably should. Maybe it would help."
"I can't believe you sit around worrying about fucking bird flu."
"You're probably right. This guy, though, this poet Stafford - he wasn't talking so much about the man-made stuff. More like natural disasters. Stuff you can't do anything about. And they COULD happen any time."
"You just said it yourself - you can't do anything about it - so get over yourself! Study something else for a while, would you? I have work to do, and those guys at the next table are giving us dirty looks for talking so much."
She looked over and sure enough the people at the next table were glaring at her. She slumped down further on her hard chair, picking up her book and thinking - okay, so how do you not worry when you're already worried? And why is it that some people worry and others don't? She twirled the ends of her shoulder-length hair in her fingers, a nervous habit started when she was little.
- How are you supposed to deal with this crap? - she wondered. She had a whole lot of life ahead of her and she didn't want to live it like this. At least, she hoped she had a whole lot of life ahead. Unless tornados, or earthquakes, or bird flu came first. It could happen.

Prompt: Bird Flu, 10/6/07

Getting Fired: A Charge Nurse's Perspective

Getting fired. Those words don’t sound very good. Bad connotation. Probably a pretty scary thing for most people. But actually, that has been my goal for awhile now. Not to lose my whole job- for I love what I do- being a maternity nurse. That is exactly why I don’t relish the evenings when I have to be charge nurse for the whole unit. I don’t get to do a good job at what I like best- taking care of the moms and babies. So getting fired from being “in charge” would really be a good thing from my point of view. Then I would have the time I need to listen to the patients, reassure them and teach them how to take care of themselves and their new babies. But instead, I’m stuck with tons of paperwork. Oh wait- we’re supposed to be paperless now. So I really don’t know why the printer keeps spitting out those forms. I have to make assignments for the other nurses, distribute new admits, delegate and keep track of coworker’s breaks (did they take too long or not even get to go to dinner yet?). And of course, every patient, visitor and staff complaint is the charge nurse’s responsibility. Make everyone happy at all costs is what it’s all about. But what about me? All I get are grumbles all evening long. How happy can I be in such a situation? And my least favorite part- keeping track of the staff/patient ratio that we need to be productive budget-wise. Like I care how much money the unit is taking in and putting out. As long as I get my paycheck, that is good enough!

Most of the other nurses told the managers that they didn’t ever want to be in charge. I said the same thing, but nobody listened to me. So I had a strategy. I thought, “what if I just do such a bad job that they want to fire me from this position!” But so far it hasn’t worked. With my bad luck, most of the shifts I work are crazy and very hectic. It seems like there should always be a full moon. (And everyone in the hospital dreads full moon nights!) I said that it was my fault that the unit was full to capacity with so many medically challenged patients and not enough staff. Maybe they would see that I was jinxed and put someone with better luck in charge. But I was just told that I could handle chaos in a calm manner. So I tried looking more frantic and frazzled, but since everthing got done, I was still told, “Good job.” On the rare evenings when it would calm down slightly, I didn’t send any extra staff home early and our budget numbers came out looking really bad. I thought that would do it for sure!! But I was just told, “That’s OK. You guys deserve a break once in a while.” Arrrgh!

Meanwhile, I’m stuck telling all the dads, whose wives are in double rooms, why we can’t rebuild the maternity unit right at this very moment and give everyone a private room. Where did the secretary go and why are all the call bells going off and all the phones are ringing off the hook? How many more patients can we take from Labor and Delivery and what is that doctor so upset about? What to do about the visitors who won’t leave after visiting hours are over and the kids that are running up and down the halls screeching? And HELP- someone just wandered onto our unit, despite the locked doors and is cursing, threatening and clearly on drugs. SECURITY!

Oh- can someone please tell me what I have to do to get fired from this job?!?

Prompt: Getting Fired 9/15/07

Being Misunderstood - Greg

1 Sept 2007
Prompt: Being Misunderstood

When he told her,“I love you!” what he really meant was, “Right here, right now, in this moment falling into the sea of ecstasy, I love this bed, those curtains, the redwood forests, the ocean, the tundra, the stones in the yard, the microwave oven–-everything–-even your wretched annoying cat.”

But no, the only blunt inarticulate utterance his stupid mouth could say was, “I love you,” as he fell into the great abyss.

But even has he fell, he knew he would regret the words which had carelessly tumbled from his mouth. He knew misunderstanding had entered the room, especially as she moaned and cried out louder. He wanted to soar into his momentary heaven, but the words nailed him to the earth like a crucification. Three words–-three deadly words! She would not understand. He already didn’t understand. But maybe it didn’t matter. Not right now. All thought slipped from his mind. Maybe only this mattered . . . Only this.

Ransom Note - Greg

25 Aug 2007
Prompt: Write a story that begins with a ransom note.

I typed out the first ransom note on my mother's old Royal Typewriter and brought it to The Rat who sat hunched over the wooden coffee table covered with maps, diagrams, scenarios and plans for the kidnaping. He glanced at the note and began talking about an old episode of Mannix where the forensic scientist had told the iron-jawed private eye that every typewriter was as unique as a human fingerprint. Then he crumpled up the note and told me to do it over again.

I returned later with a new note, from my Mom’s new Epson Inkjet printer. He took one glance and pointed, “Look, there’s a black mark in the upper left hand corner. This can still identify us. Do it again,” he said, tossing it in the garbage with the other.

I drove to the local library and printed a new copy and brought it back. “It’s from the library?” he asked, annoyed. “They’ll know what town we’re in. Do it again.”

This happened several more times. Ink pen: “They’ll identify the handwriting.” Ink pen with block letters: “The can identify the pressure from the pen tip.” Ink pen left handed: “Will you get off handwriting thing!” he said.

I picked up some old magazines I had subscribed to, cut out words and letters: “You cut these out of Poet’s & Writer Magazine?” he said incredulously. “Yeah, so?” “So who subscribes to that? They’ll identify the font, they’ll go down the subscriptions list and they’ll be knocking on the door in 10 minutes. Use your damn head!”

I went to the supermarket and bought a Time magazine. I put on plastic gloves and meticulously cut and pasted together the ransom note before bringing it to him. I explained my precautions and he began to read nodding his head in approval. Then it stopped. “You freakin’ spelled ransom wrong! It’s not ‘random!’ You don’t demand a ‘random’ of $25,000, you stupid moron! Are you retarded? Do it again!”

The Rat returned to his plans on the table and I pulled out the snub nose and shot him in the back of the head. The kidnappee, who sat tied and gagged to a wooden chair, jerked and his eyes filled with terror. I dragged him and the chair behind The Rat, cut loose one of his arms, and shoved the snub nose in his hand. “Shoot him” I said, and the man grunted and shook his head. I grabbed his face and repeated seriously, “Shoot him.” The man, his eyes filling with tears raised the wobbly gun and fired, hitting instead the television across the room. The gun dropped to the floor. “Good enough,” I said picking up my bag and the collection of crumpled ransom notes. “You escaped from your bounds, grabbed the gun and shot the kidnapper in the head. You’re a hero.

"And I," I said walking out the door, “am out of the kidnapping business.”

Bob Dylan's Great Betrayal

Sept. 1 - "being misunderstood"

--

Bob Dylan is a quiet man. He doesn’t want trouble, not this late in life. He’s had a long life, he’d given a lot, to many people. His needs are, for a man of his social stature, quite simple. He really only wants the chance to eat his waffles in peace. He had thought that wasn’t asking too much.

“And I love,” says the teen, hopping up and down in front of him, “I love ‘Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues.’ Oh my god. That’s my favorite song.”

Dylan looks down at his waffles, the melting butter, the rivulets of syrup dripping on to the plate. “Yes,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Really!” The teen smiles like daylight. It’s a sexless wisp of a thing, short hair and wide eyes. “Your brevity fails, and negativity won’t get you through? Story of my life! Greatest lyric ever, man. It’s so hopeful, you know? Like, yeah dude. You’re gonna screw up. Brevity! Brevity always fails. But, you know, maybe you do mess up but like, yeah man! Yeah! Negativity won’t get you through!”

“Oh,” says Dylan. “Um.”

“My best friend died,” the teen rattles on. “It was. . .man. I can’t even - it was horrible. Young people don’t belong at funerals, you know? And I was like - dude. I was going crazy, falling to pieces, but that song, that line, oh man. Turned me around, you know? Like, I changed! Cause you’re damn right. Negativity never helped a man.”

The teen sticks its hand out. “Sorry,” says the teen, laughing. “I’m like, you know. Brevity fails! Dude, it is an honor and a pleasure.”

Dylan shakes the teen’s hand. His waffles are now cold, soggy with syrup and forgotten.

“Thank you,” says the teen, vibrating with sincerity. “And your brevity fails, and negativity won’t get you through. Wow.”

“Gravity,” says Dylan.

“What?” says the teen.

“Gravity,” says Dylan again, feeling smaller and more lowdown then he’d ever felt in his life, despite having done nothing wrong. “It’s. . .your gravity fails and negativity won’t get you through.”

The teen looks like it had been kicked. Dylan felt that he might’ve.

“Gravity never fails, man,” says the teen, still and betrayed.

“I like your lyric better,” says Dylan helplessly.