Bacon and rice make a good brekkie, luncho and din-din! Just saying!
Anywho, here is my most recent parameters composition for all you cat lovers. Enjoy!
Parameters:
* describe a cat’s dream
* hot summer
* flea infestation
* digs jazz
Jazzy Infestation (written 28 Jun 10)
My skin was burning when my boy woke me up with a careful sweep of the length of my body.
“Mingus? Mingus?” he whispered, “It’s time to go on a trip.”
I lifted my head and looked up at him. He smiled a toothy grin which made his eyes crinkle into long slits. He rubbed me behind my ears. I leaned my head toward his touch and began to purr. My boy began to sniffle and let out a puff of air as if he was holding back something. I wondered to myself what it was. I could only sense a little sadness. He rubbed the back of my ears again and gathered me up in his arms very delicately. I felt a little dizzy and nauseous when he lifted me but I eased into his hold. I closed my eyes. I was so very tired.
My boy’s mommy was near the cold, white food box holding a dish of the creamy stuff I love. She was fanning herself with her free hand.
“Oh, there you are kitty-kitty,” she said like a song, “I poured you a treat before your trip to Dr. Kimble.”
My boy put me down onto the floor and his mommy placed the dish in front of me. A wave of sickness ran through my body. All of a sudden, I could not look at the creamy stuff. I sniffed at it then turned very slowly toward my boy and looked up at him with my eyes dimmed.
“I don’t think she wants it, Mom,” he said looking back at me.
I swung my ears toward the sound of his mommy kneeling down behind me.
“I guess we can get going then,” she said.
I shuffled my body around to catch his mommy pour the creamy stuff into the kitchen bathtub. Then my boy gathered me in his arms again.
On my visits to the white coat, the boy prepared the carrier for me, as always, by putting down a few ripped-up towels as a mattress. Then he would usher me in with a few pats on my backside.
“Okay, I’m going to shut it now. Don’t get worried,” he said as he closed the shiny tic-tac-toe door in front of me.
Usually, I would lay on the towels in a crescent-shape but for this visit, I sat like the Sphinx. I could not let my skin rub against the towels’ stiffness. I had patches of fur missing. I got tufts of it in my mouth when I tongue-bathed myself one evening. I expected it to grow back but it did not. This caused some concern in my boy’s mommy. As for myself, I was slightly perturbed.
“I’m gonna lift you now, Mingus,” my boy said.
My claws extended into the towels as he lifted the carrier. I slid a bit but I maintained my posture. I heard the muffled sounds of the car-house door rumbling open and the loud roar of his mommy’s car-machine starting up. Through the tic-tac-toe door, I saw the bright sphere and my eyes adjusted. I longed to be frolicking amongst the grass and nibbling on the weedy stalks until I coughed them up but not in my weak condition. I was placed near my boy’s feet behind his mommy’s chair in the car-machine. I could see his shoes – a dull gray pair of sneakers with dark gray stripes. The floor beneath me vibrated and I put my head on my paws. My thoughts drifted sublimely into sleep.
****
A cool breeze tickled my chin as I shook myself to the awareness of my surroundings. I saw myself. A canopy of tall stalks enveloped me. Lines of light from the bright sphere, filtered through several openings. A shiver came up my back as I sat up. I licked my left side and then my right. I had a full coat of fur. My ears adjusted to the sounds as I swiveled them to and fro. I could faintly hear a familiar sound of a trumpet in the distance. I dimmed my eyes and focused. The ground was moist and cool beneath my paws. I filled myself with energy by firing up my senses. I quickly looked around to direct myself. My ears found the way and I was off! Flumes of mist flew from my feet as I ran swiftly toward the sound of the trumpet. The stalks brushed against my face as I barreled through, my claws digging into the ground, pushing me toward the source of the song. I knew I was getting closer and closer for the trumpet was joined by drums and piano as well as other horns. The stalks opened up and revealed the music box of my boy’s mommy, a plastic box with circles and flashing numbers on its face. I could see the shiny, silver disc spinning in the clear window next to the numbers. The song snaked its way into my ears. The song was “A Night in Tunisia” by Dizzy, the guy whom my boy called “Puffy Big Cheeks”. It was a cacophony of xylophone and rich trumpet. I sat in front of the music box and sat on my haunches. I bobbed my head to the beat. It was tongue-bathing music. I dug this stuff. The song faded and blended into another song “Goodbye Pork Pie Hat”, a slow tempo tune by Mingus, my namesake, which featured a deep boom-boom bass and sassy saxophone. I sat up and circled the plastic box then lay against it with my legs out. I could feel the beat of the bass on my fur and vibrating my whiskers. A musical massage! I dimmed my eyes and turned on my purr.
****
I jolted awake to find myself on my side, in a crescent position. A heat came from the walls. The carrier was exposed to the light of the bright sphere. I regained my Sphinx position. As I slept, my boy moved me next to him because I could see the middle of his body through the tic-tac-toe door where his shirt met his pants. I felt dizzy and my belly started to feel sour. I spoke up loudly. I think the movement of the car-machine was the cause.
“Mommy! Mingus is crying,” my boy said putting a hand on top of the carrier.
I could not stop moaning. I needed to breathe. It was hard to stay steady.
“Mommy!” he said again.
“Nicky, tell her we’re almost at Dr. Kimble’s,” his mommy said, muffled.
My boy put his face to the tic-tac-toe door and half-smiled. He then stuck his finger into one of the openings and tickled my nose. I felt only a little better.
“We’re almost there,” he whispered, “We just have to turn into the parking lot.”
He started to sniffle again and his face tightened. I looked up at him and then rubbed my nose against his fingertip and closed my eyes. He giggled.
When I arrived at the white coat’s room, my skin felt sore and tender. My boy lifted the carrier onto the soft, shiny table and opened the tic-tac-toe door. I rose to my feet slower than usual and focused my eyes on a large, dark hand reaching in. Then the ground started to slant and I gently slid onto the table. The hand caught me by the front paws and I hissed.
“Whoa there, Mindy!” a deep, booming voice said.
“Her name’s Mingus!” my boy screeched.
“Ah, I see,” the deep voice replied.
I shook my head and hissed again. The voice belonged to the white coat, who was a light-colored man with a thick face and thick hands. He wore looking glasses and I could see myself in them. My eyes were bigger in them and my nose was gigantic. He ran his hands over the length of my body, stopping at the parts that were damaged.
“Her skin is mighty scaly,” he said toward my boy’s mommy, “Looks like she had ctenocephalides felis… cat fleas.”
The mommy put one of her hands to her cheek.
“Fleas?” she said faintly.
“And,” the white coat added, turning my onto my side, “Her belly is distended.”
Distended? What did that mean? I hissed and the nausea came over me again. He pressed his hands on my tummy. I groaned.
“Are you hurting her?” my boy said with a shaky voice.
The white coat ignored his question as he pressed on and on. My claws were ready to come out and dig into his face but my energy was too low. I dimmed my eyes and let out a low groan from my throat.
“I think you should stop, Doctor. That’s a sound I never heard before,” the mommy said.
You bet I never made that sound! I have never been this closely looked at by a white coat. Mostly, it was a temperature backside poke and a tooth check-up, then home. I was becoming fussy. I breathed heavily and groaned. He then put in his ear-plugs with a rope and listened to my heart. He clicked his teeth and said, “Ok, what I can ascertain, folks, is that Mindy here…”
“Mingus!” my boy screeched.
“All right, kid. As I was saying, Mingus here had some fleas that came in contact with her... ahem… downstairs and now; she has a form of taenia taeniaeformis. A tapeworm,” the white coat said removing his earplugs.
“Fleas and tapeworm?!” his mommy said, “I guess I should of looked in my cat manual.”
“She probably got it from playing outside which I’m guessing she does frequently.”
I saw the mommy look away, “Yeah.”
“Is she also sluggish?”
“She’s not a slug!” my boy said, “You’re not a slug, Mingus.”
“Yes, she has been lately,” his mommy replied.
“Well, there you go,” the white coat confirmed, and then he sighed, “And also it’s been pretty hot this summer which is a breeding ground for those pests.”
He patted me on my head and that made me feel better.
“I will write up a prescription for some ointment and some pills for Mingus to take so she can flush out that worm,” he added.
When we finally got back into the car-machine, my boy put me next to him and pulled me out carefully from the carrier. His mommy put some of that white coat jelly on the rough spots before we left and that relaxed me. I curled up in his small lap and purred.
“Feel better, Mingus?” his mommy said to me from the front chair.
“She looks better,” my boy said.
“I guess this calls for some Miles,” she said fanning herself with the silver disk in her hand.
She slipped it into the music slit of the car-machine and the sweet beat of “Boplicity” by Miles Bitchy Brew entered my ears. I put my head on my paws and drifted back to my sublime world of tall stalks and moist air.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
Mayer Hawthorne & Santa Claus
I took a tiny vacation from this and went to LA to visit my cousin Sinbad and cousin-in-law TML. It was very refreshing and I had a wonderful time which was highlighted by a free concert by my music man of the past few months, Mayer Hawthorne at the Getty Center. What a talent! He wore chrome-colored kicks and sang beautifully! My friend Maria and I think his face is delicious. Check out his album Strange Arrangement. I recommend downloading/ listening to "Maybe So, Maybe No" and "Ain't Gonna Work Out".
Anywho, the story I posted below is my 4th for Parameters. Enjoy! Please comment!
Parameters
- Santa Claus
- hates his job
- xenophobic (has a fear of foreigners)
- ethnic elves
The Anti-Votary (written 11 May 10)
The snow pelted against the window as Nikolai started to feel faint. It was 358 ½ more days until he was back in that god-forsaken sleigh. It was a painful feeling, one that has given him many ulcers over the years, stomach and mouth. The New Year had started and he banished himself to his study. He sat at his solid oak desk with the piles of lists that have already accumulated over the past week. With his head in his hands, a migraine throbbed and grated at the back of his eyeballs.
“Jiminy Christmas…” he whispered to himself, “I’m going to kill myself.”
Astrid, his assistant sat on the leather couch against the wall to the left of him. She wore a white mohair turtleneck emphasizing her bountiful chest, and a pair of brown corduroy overalls. She was barefoot and her stubby legs, which fit nicely on the couch cushion, were crossed at the ankle. She ran her tiny hands over her frosty blond hair chignon and onto the digital notepad in her lap.
“Oh stop it, boss,” she said in her perky voice, “You say that every year.”
“Nope, I mean it Astrid. I mean it this time!” he said with a deep grunt as he pulled at his beard.
“Boss, you’ve been at this job for centuries and you’re good at it.”
“Good at it? GOOD AT IT?”
He groaned and hit his head on the desk repeatedly.
Astrid leapt off the couch, notepad under her arm and swiftly onto his desk. The lists did not even rustle. She stood arms akimbo in front of him. She pulled him by his thick head of pure white hair and into her ocean blue eyes.
“You’re having a break-down right now like always and we need you to be focused!”
Nikolai shut his eyes tightly then pushed her hands from his head. His migraine began to throb more intensely and he stood up with an uneasy wobble. Astrid sensed that he was having a dizzy spell and snapped her fingers. In a gingerbread-scented cloud, she produced a huge, warm cup of herbal tea and forced it into his hands.
“Drink,” she said.
He hesitantly put the cup to his lips and drank. Astrid readied her digital notepad and perked her pointed ears. He felt a fervent tingling in his temples. He was suddenly alert.
“Okay, tell the horde to begin on those lists after you organize them into the sectors and gender,” he said with wide eyes.
“Do you prefer a certain order, sir?” she replied quickly, clicking away at the notepad with her stylus.
“No” he said with a grimace, “The results of their labors both brand name and generic should be ready by mid-November for inspection in the Hot Chocolate Room on the long mint-marshmallow table.”
“Consider it done, boss.”
He walked over to the large window overlooking the workshop floor. An uncomfortable grumble floated in his stomach as he looked down at the brown, beige, yellow, and red-skinned imp-structured mass of people undulating with energy down below. He called them “the horde” and they were at his command, some of the time. Each of them brought via orphanages around the world that gathered gnome-like children for his exclusive collection. They were the outcasts of their prospective societies just for their outward appearances – fully formed mentally but different in proportion, all of them either came up to Nikolai’s hip or his upper thigh as adults. He rarely communicated with the horde. Communication between him and them falls on the delicate shoulders of Astrid.
*****
She has been in Nikolai’s service since the age of 5, when her grandmother became too ill to care for a child with “special needs” after the fire of 1887 destroyed most of her town of Lulea on Sweden’s northern coast. The child awoke to her grandmother sobbing loudly in her room and then a hand, non-calloused and smelling of sweet ginger cookies, went over her mouth. They were here to relieve the old woman of her burden. A blindfold was placed over the girl’s eyes then she was wrapped in a thick fur pelt and put into the rear seat of a one horse open-sleigh. She felt the wisps of the crisp wind and snow against her face. She did not cry. During her long journey east, she removed her blindfold. Her companions/ captors were a duo of a young man and woman, both Nordic in complexion and height, dressed warmly in ermine capes and snow leopard pelts. They spoke in hushed tones and never looked over to check on her. The girl found that strange but maybe they knew she was not going to escape.
When they arrived at Nikolai’s large compound in, what she found out later were the Finnish mountains of Lapland, they had to enter through a towering wall of ice and snow. Her companions waved their hands and a gap opened in the wall as if they cut through it with an invisible saw. The grounds, which consisted of a palatial main house – known as The Workshop – surrounded by hundreds of tinier bungalows on each side of it. She was in awe. Once in the Workshop, and out of the hands of her captors, she was examined for any medical defects by an apple-cheeked elderly woman known as The Missus who wore a long, puffy green dress and white pinafore. The woman gave the little girl several doses of what was called “The Syrup Combination”, spoonfuls upon spoonfuls of liquids that caused her tiny stomach to tingle and tumble.
“Oh, don’t be afraid of the medicine, dear. It’s good for your survival,” the woman said in Swedish with a lilt in her voice, “Kristoff and Lumi should have prepared you.”
“I guess,” the child said softly, “I feel funny and a bit nervous.”
“That will go away soon after initial voiding,” the woman assured her, putting a weathered hand onto the girl’s abdomen, “It might be uncomfortable but it will be magical”
The girl was given the assigned name of “Sjuttiova”, the number 72 in Swedish as was customary for the newest arrivals for the horde. This name was sewn into her clothes and the lacy bonnet she needed to wear at all times. Sjuttiova was a hard worker who never shied away from the most menial tasks. She aged slowly like the rest of her kind, owing to her annual dosage of syrups, and found out that this also enhanced her walking speed, strength and stamina. She had a confidence unlike other young children her age and the jolly, rotund man with the cotton-ball beard did not seem to be as repelled by her as with some of her colleagues, especially those who were darker in features and spoke in languages unknown to him. He seemed most comfortable around those who possessed facial features like him: long head, light skin and hair, and light-colored eyes.
The confident, wily girl gradually grew into a headstrong young woman with elegant pointy ears, a syrup side effect, whose self-reliance and affability earned her the respect of the horde. When she turned a youthful 150 years-old, he personally chose her to be his personal assistant. A position vacated, when his former helper, a 500 year-old Norwegian of Viking blood decided to run away. For her new assignment, she needed to endure a yearlong preparation program. Her childhood captors, Kristoff and Lumi were to be assisting her in this task. The young lady had not seen them since they took her. They had not aged since then and still spoke in hushed tones as she arrived for her first day of assistant training.
“Well, well. You have grown up, the one they call Sjuttova,” Lumi said as she folded her slender arms onto her chest.
”That’s great to know,” she sarcastically replied, “I can only grow up.”
“Within your hereditary limits and your yearly Syrup Combination,” Kristoff quipped, looking down at her.
The young woman stared up at him with her faint cerulean eyes and chuckled.
“Sí, dentro de mis límites,” she repeated in a tongue foreign to them.
For a long and excruciating year, they revealed to her many secrets of The Workshop: hidden passageways; maintenance guidelines; reindeer control; ancient procedures and protocol. She quickly adjusted to her new role with the speed of a sponge to water but most importantly, Kristoff and Lumi trained her to emphasize the importance of, what was informally known as “the hierarchy of the horde” of which she was at the zenith of.
The horde was divided into five sectors. Four of them according to directions: North, South, East, West, with the fifth being known as “Sektè Nan Senk”. Due to Nikolai’s fanatic and infinite xenophobic tendencies, each sector had a leader chosen solely by the Missus. The directional sectors were led by four ragtag but trustworthy members of the horde while “Sektè Nan Senk” was led by the mysterious entity, Zwarte Pete.
“If there is one piece of advice that should remain constant, little one,” Kristoff said, “is that you should mind Zwarte Pete, always.”
The young woman had never met this individual for the entire time she had been in Nikolai’s service but the name sounded familiar for it was only spoken of during times of slumber and silence. She shrugged it off and took it as Kristoff trying to frighten her. She soon found out the hard way in the upcoming years that name was not to be taken lightly and needed to be minded, always. She absorbed all of this inside knowledge and adjusted to her new role quickly.
For her first yuletide initiation, the novice assistant was returned her original first name: Astrid and a new wardrobe with her name hand-stitched into each article. It was an elaborate initiation with the same fanfare as the crowning of a queen. The majority of the horde gathered in the courtyard of the Workshop in their best tunics and tights. Astrid survived her preparation and took her place, large notepad in hand, as the right hand elf of Nikolai, a.k.a. Sinterklaas a.k.a. Santa Claus a.k.a. Father Christmas.
*****
Nikolai leaned his head against the large window and rolled his forehead side to side. His mind was brewing with anxiety. Astrid, mind focused, tapped away at her digital notepad and leaned the entire side of her body against his tree-trunk of a leg. Her head rested on the thick of his hip.
“Okay, boss. Your request has been sent to all of the sectors except for ‘Senk’ obviously. The foremen will be coming up here within ten minutes to collect the lists,” Astrid said as she tapped the “send” button on her screen.
Being a lover of languages, she was able to converse in both speech and composition using the Romance and Germanic languages. She knew each one with precise fluency and found them very necessary when communicating Nikolai’s assignments especially when the foremen or leaders of the sectors spoke differently from one another. She pushed herself off of the jolly one’s leg and made her way to the lists on his desk. She once again leapt then landed on the tabletop and waved her hand over the paper towers. They flew into the air in a gust of cinnamon scented mist and magically separated themselves into four different piles on the corners of his desk. Astrid adjusted a stray hair that fell onto her forehead and said, “Here they come.”
The sound of footsteps filled Nikolai’s ears coupled with the low murmur of clicking, chattering tongues drew closer to him in his mind. His palms began to sweat and his eyes shut tightly. As he dug his left fists into his hip and pulled at his beard, he slowly made his way to the adjacent restroom and shut the door. The anxiety was upon him. Sweat, forming on his forehead, dripped down into his eyes and blinded him. Astrid was accustomed to this and shrugged it off as she always did. She heard his sobs echoing through the walls and sighed. At that precise moment, two heavy-set, swarthy-skinned males and two lean, Asiatic females arrived, each holding a large wicker basket. They lined up in front of her and held the baskets close to their chests. She waved her hands in the air in a curlicue motion toward the lists. The heaps of paper flew in unison into their assigned baskets. They condensed tightly into the baskets in a cloudy tornado of peppermint powder. Astrid thanked each of them in their respective languages. They smiled back at her and bowed their heads. One by one, they turned on their heels and strode out of the study, the door swiftly closing behind them. The horde had their assignments. Astrid clicked away at her notepad and made a few electronic memos. A dark form with a bulky head of steel wool textured hair loomed above her and she could see its reflection on her screen.
“Alo, ti fi Astrid,”
The greeting was delivered in a raspy voice in a thick Creole accent from above her. Astrid stiffened but she was not startled. She looked up and grinned.
“Alo, gwo nonm Pete,” she replied.
His skin was the color of raging smoke and his teeth were the color of the purest pearls so when he smiled his mouth would contrast with the rest of his face. He sat upside-down with his thick posterior on the ceiling.
“I have come to collect my list,” he said, “I need time to check it twice.”
Astrid snapped her wrists and two parchment scrolls appeared in each hand. She threw them at him and he caught them with vigor. He opened the scrolls and clicked his tongue against his porcelain-hued teeth.
“So many bad ones!” he croaked, “Mèsi, I will fire up the coal starting tonight. It will be a beautiful sight.”
“You’re welcome, Zwarte Pete,” she said.
Then with a snap of his fingers, he disappeared in a puff of licorice All-Sorts.
After a few moments, Astrid opened the bathroom door to find Nikolai on the floor in a supine position, belly up. His red overcoat lay beside him along with his broad, black belt and shiny boots. His undershirt was soaked with his sweat and his suspenders undone. A puddle of perspiration formed around his head and he was heaving with all his might. She knelt down next to him and sat him up.
“You’re in the clear, boss,” she said reassuringly.
He put his hand on the top of her head and showed her a tired smile.
“You’re my lantern of hope,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes, “Ho, ho, ho.”
Anywho, the story I posted below is my 4th for Parameters. Enjoy! Please comment!
Parameters
- Santa Claus
- hates his job
- xenophobic (has a fear of foreigners)
- ethnic elves
The Anti-Votary (written 11 May 10)
The snow pelted against the window as Nikolai started to feel faint. It was 358 ½ more days until he was back in that god-forsaken sleigh. It was a painful feeling, one that has given him many ulcers over the years, stomach and mouth. The New Year had started and he banished himself to his study. He sat at his solid oak desk with the piles of lists that have already accumulated over the past week. With his head in his hands, a migraine throbbed and grated at the back of his eyeballs.
“Jiminy Christmas…” he whispered to himself, “I’m going to kill myself.”
Astrid, his assistant sat on the leather couch against the wall to the left of him. She wore a white mohair turtleneck emphasizing her bountiful chest, and a pair of brown corduroy overalls. She was barefoot and her stubby legs, which fit nicely on the couch cushion, were crossed at the ankle. She ran her tiny hands over her frosty blond hair chignon and onto the digital notepad in her lap.
“Oh stop it, boss,” she said in her perky voice, “You say that every year.”
“Nope, I mean it Astrid. I mean it this time!” he said with a deep grunt as he pulled at his beard.
“Boss, you’ve been at this job for centuries and you’re good at it.”
“Good at it? GOOD AT IT?”
He groaned and hit his head on the desk repeatedly.
Astrid leapt off the couch, notepad under her arm and swiftly onto his desk. The lists did not even rustle. She stood arms akimbo in front of him. She pulled him by his thick head of pure white hair and into her ocean blue eyes.
“You’re having a break-down right now like always and we need you to be focused!”
Nikolai shut his eyes tightly then pushed her hands from his head. His migraine began to throb more intensely and he stood up with an uneasy wobble. Astrid sensed that he was having a dizzy spell and snapped her fingers. In a gingerbread-scented cloud, she produced a huge, warm cup of herbal tea and forced it into his hands.
“Drink,” she said.
He hesitantly put the cup to his lips and drank. Astrid readied her digital notepad and perked her pointed ears. He felt a fervent tingling in his temples. He was suddenly alert.
“Okay, tell the horde to begin on those lists after you organize them into the sectors and gender,” he said with wide eyes.
“Do you prefer a certain order, sir?” she replied quickly, clicking away at the notepad with her stylus.
“No” he said with a grimace, “The results of their labors both brand name and generic should be ready by mid-November for inspection in the Hot Chocolate Room on the long mint-marshmallow table.”
“Consider it done, boss.”
He walked over to the large window overlooking the workshop floor. An uncomfortable grumble floated in his stomach as he looked down at the brown, beige, yellow, and red-skinned imp-structured mass of people undulating with energy down below. He called them “the horde” and they were at his command, some of the time. Each of them brought via orphanages around the world that gathered gnome-like children for his exclusive collection. They were the outcasts of their prospective societies just for their outward appearances – fully formed mentally but different in proportion, all of them either came up to Nikolai’s hip or his upper thigh as adults. He rarely communicated with the horde. Communication between him and them falls on the delicate shoulders of Astrid.
*****
She has been in Nikolai’s service since the age of 5, when her grandmother became too ill to care for a child with “special needs” after the fire of 1887 destroyed most of her town of Lulea on Sweden’s northern coast. The child awoke to her grandmother sobbing loudly in her room and then a hand, non-calloused and smelling of sweet ginger cookies, went over her mouth. They were here to relieve the old woman of her burden. A blindfold was placed over the girl’s eyes then she was wrapped in a thick fur pelt and put into the rear seat of a one horse open-sleigh. She felt the wisps of the crisp wind and snow against her face. She did not cry. During her long journey east, she removed her blindfold. Her companions/ captors were a duo of a young man and woman, both Nordic in complexion and height, dressed warmly in ermine capes and snow leopard pelts. They spoke in hushed tones and never looked over to check on her. The girl found that strange but maybe they knew she was not going to escape.
When they arrived at Nikolai’s large compound in, what she found out later were the Finnish mountains of Lapland, they had to enter through a towering wall of ice and snow. Her companions waved their hands and a gap opened in the wall as if they cut through it with an invisible saw. The grounds, which consisted of a palatial main house – known as The Workshop – surrounded by hundreds of tinier bungalows on each side of it. She was in awe. Once in the Workshop, and out of the hands of her captors, she was examined for any medical defects by an apple-cheeked elderly woman known as The Missus who wore a long, puffy green dress and white pinafore. The woman gave the little girl several doses of what was called “The Syrup Combination”, spoonfuls upon spoonfuls of liquids that caused her tiny stomach to tingle and tumble.
“Oh, don’t be afraid of the medicine, dear. It’s good for your survival,” the woman said in Swedish with a lilt in her voice, “Kristoff and Lumi should have prepared you.”
“I guess,” the child said softly, “I feel funny and a bit nervous.”
“That will go away soon after initial voiding,” the woman assured her, putting a weathered hand onto the girl’s abdomen, “It might be uncomfortable but it will be magical”
The girl was given the assigned name of “Sjuttiova”, the number 72 in Swedish as was customary for the newest arrivals for the horde. This name was sewn into her clothes and the lacy bonnet she needed to wear at all times. Sjuttiova was a hard worker who never shied away from the most menial tasks. She aged slowly like the rest of her kind, owing to her annual dosage of syrups, and found out that this also enhanced her walking speed, strength and stamina. She had a confidence unlike other young children her age and the jolly, rotund man with the cotton-ball beard did not seem to be as repelled by her as with some of her colleagues, especially those who were darker in features and spoke in languages unknown to him. He seemed most comfortable around those who possessed facial features like him: long head, light skin and hair, and light-colored eyes.
The confident, wily girl gradually grew into a headstrong young woman with elegant pointy ears, a syrup side effect, whose self-reliance and affability earned her the respect of the horde. When she turned a youthful 150 years-old, he personally chose her to be his personal assistant. A position vacated, when his former helper, a 500 year-old Norwegian of Viking blood decided to run away. For her new assignment, she needed to endure a yearlong preparation program. Her childhood captors, Kristoff and Lumi were to be assisting her in this task. The young lady had not seen them since they took her. They had not aged since then and still spoke in hushed tones as she arrived for her first day of assistant training.
“Well, well. You have grown up, the one they call Sjuttova,” Lumi said as she folded her slender arms onto her chest.
”That’s great to know,” she sarcastically replied, “I can only grow up.”
“Within your hereditary limits and your yearly Syrup Combination,” Kristoff quipped, looking down at her.
The young woman stared up at him with her faint cerulean eyes and chuckled.
“Sí, dentro de mis límites,” she repeated in a tongue foreign to them.
For a long and excruciating year, they revealed to her many secrets of The Workshop: hidden passageways; maintenance guidelines; reindeer control; ancient procedures and protocol. She quickly adjusted to her new role with the speed of a sponge to water but most importantly, Kristoff and Lumi trained her to emphasize the importance of, what was informally known as “the hierarchy of the horde” of which she was at the zenith of.
The horde was divided into five sectors. Four of them according to directions: North, South, East, West, with the fifth being known as “Sektè Nan Senk”. Due to Nikolai’s fanatic and infinite xenophobic tendencies, each sector had a leader chosen solely by the Missus. The directional sectors were led by four ragtag but trustworthy members of the horde while “Sektè Nan Senk” was led by the mysterious entity, Zwarte Pete.
“If there is one piece of advice that should remain constant, little one,” Kristoff said, “is that you should mind Zwarte Pete, always.”
The young woman had never met this individual for the entire time she had been in Nikolai’s service but the name sounded familiar for it was only spoken of during times of slumber and silence. She shrugged it off and took it as Kristoff trying to frighten her. She soon found out the hard way in the upcoming years that name was not to be taken lightly and needed to be minded, always. She absorbed all of this inside knowledge and adjusted to her new role quickly.
For her first yuletide initiation, the novice assistant was returned her original first name: Astrid and a new wardrobe with her name hand-stitched into each article. It was an elaborate initiation with the same fanfare as the crowning of a queen. The majority of the horde gathered in the courtyard of the Workshop in their best tunics and tights. Astrid survived her preparation and took her place, large notepad in hand, as the right hand elf of Nikolai, a.k.a. Sinterklaas a.k.a. Santa Claus a.k.a. Father Christmas.
*****
Nikolai leaned his head against the large window and rolled his forehead side to side. His mind was brewing with anxiety. Astrid, mind focused, tapped away at her digital notepad and leaned the entire side of her body against his tree-trunk of a leg. Her head rested on the thick of his hip.
“Okay, boss. Your request has been sent to all of the sectors except for ‘Senk’ obviously. The foremen will be coming up here within ten minutes to collect the lists,” Astrid said as she tapped the “send” button on her screen.
Being a lover of languages, she was able to converse in both speech and composition using the Romance and Germanic languages. She knew each one with precise fluency and found them very necessary when communicating Nikolai’s assignments especially when the foremen or leaders of the sectors spoke differently from one another. She pushed herself off of the jolly one’s leg and made her way to the lists on his desk. She once again leapt then landed on the tabletop and waved her hand over the paper towers. They flew into the air in a gust of cinnamon scented mist and magically separated themselves into four different piles on the corners of his desk. Astrid adjusted a stray hair that fell onto her forehead and said, “Here they come.”
The sound of footsteps filled Nikolai’s ears coupled with the low murmur of clicking, chattering tongues drew closer to him in his mind. His palms began to sweat and his eyes shut tightly. As he dug his left fists into his hip and pulled at his beard, he slowly made his way to the adjacent restroom and shut the door. The anxiety was upon him. Sweat, forming on his forehead, dripped down into his eyes and blinded him. Astrid was accustomed to this and shrugged it off as she always did. She heard his sobs echoing through the walls and sighed. At that precise moment, two heavy-set, swarthy-skinned males and two lean, Asiatic females arrived, each holding a large wicker basket. They lined up in front of her and held the baskets close to their chests. She waved her hands in the air in a curlicue motion toward the lists. The heaps of paper flew in unison into their assigned baskets. They condensed tightly into the baskets in a cloudy tornado of peppermint powder. Astrid thanked each of them in their respective languages. They smiled back at her and bowed their heads. One by one, they turned on their heels and strode out of the study, the door swiftly closing behind them. The horde had their assignments. Astrid clicked away at her notepad and made a few electronic memos. A dark form with a bulky head of steel wool textured hair loomed above her and she could see its reflection on her screen.
“Alo, ti fi Astrid,”
The greeting was delivered in a raspy voice in a thick Creole accent from above her. Astrid stiffened but she was not startled. She looked up and grinned.
“Alo, gwo nonm Pete,” she replied.
His skin was the color of raging smoke and his teeth were the color of the purest pearls so when he smiled his mouth would contrast with the rest of his face. He sat upside-down with his thick posterior on the ceiling.
“I have come to collect my list,” he said, “I need time to check it twice.”
Astrid snapped her wrists and two parchment scrolls appeared in each hand. She threw them at him and he caught them with vigor. He opened the scrolls and clicked his tongue against his porcelain-hued teeth.
“So many bad ones!” he croaked, “Mèsi, I will fire up the coal starting tonight. It will be a beautiful sight.”
“You’re welcome, Zwarte Pete,” she said.
Then with a snap of his fingers, he disappeared in a puff of licorice All-Sorts.
After a few moments, Astrid opened the bathroom door to find Nikolai on the floor in a supine position, belly up. His red overcoat lay beside him along with his broad, black belt and shiny boots. His undershirt was soaked with his sweat and his suspenders undone. A puddle of perspiration formed around his head and he was heaving with all his might. She knelt down next to him and sat him up.
“You’re in the clear, boss,” she said reassuringly.
He put his hand on the top of her head and showed her a tired smile.
“You’re my lantern of hope,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes, “Ho, ho, ho.”
Monday, June 7, 2010
Some Prose
Here is some prose I wrote! Please comment!
These Little Pockets (19.5.08)
I love these little pockets -- these little pockets of muffled sounds when I am alone. The low buzz of the air conditioner as it cools the darkness of my house. A combination of sounds creep into my consciousness: the muffled chatter of my parents arguing about their next vacation destination brush against their walls reducing their voices to ribbons of air then the chime of the house-cat's collar bell that follow his rounds in his nocturnal restlessness. These are the sounds of my night. The only time my body is truly quiet but my mind is running away. I lay on my back with my hands folded, holding the curves of my breasts and elbows at my side. I lock my eyes closed and quiet my body. Then I drift into my thoughts-- thoughts to close the day with. Thoughts of what I am going to do the next day. If I work, my thoughts linger to what I am going to do beforehand. The hurried cold cheese sandwich and chicken broth combo for breakfast and a fast read through the celebrity news in the Living section of the Desert Sun. If no work, then a press of the snooze button at eight and a turn away from the sun filtering through the window. A mental list is prepared to be returned to when I wake up. Then the pockets take over and my body is calm. My parents argue no more and the air conditioner buzzes away and the house-cat purrs next to me. These little pockets of subtle night activity settle me into my slumber only to disappear in the day.
These Little Pockets (19.5.08)
I love these little pockets -- these little pockets of muffled sounds when I am alone. The low buzz of the air conditioner as it cools the darkness of my house. A combination of sounds creep into my consciousness: the muffled chatter of my parents arguing about their next vacation destination brush against their walls reducing their voices to ribbons of air then the chime of the house-cat's collar bell that follow his rounds in his nocturnal restlessness. These are the sounds of my night. The only time my body is truly quiet but my mind is running away. I lay on my back with my hands folded, holding the curves of my breasts and elbows at my side. I lock my eyes closed and quiet my body. Then I drift into my thoughts-- thoughts to close the day with. Thoughts of what I am going to do the next day. If I work, my thoughts linger to what I am going to do beforehand. The hurried cold cheese sandwich and chicken broth combo for breakfast and a fast read through the celebrity news in the Living section of the Desert Sun. If no work, then a press of the snooze button at eight and a turn away from the sun filtering through the window. A mental list is prepared to be returned to when I wake up. Then the pockets take over and my body is calm. My parents argue no more and the air conditioner buzzes away and the house-cat purrs next to me. These little pockets of subtle night activity settle me into my slumber only to disappear in the day.
Friday, June 4, 2010
I have this book titled The Write Brain Workbook and it contains writing exercises for each day of the year - as many of you know, I can be quite the procrastinator so I haven't really stuck to the "one exercise per day" thing BUT the story below is actually the fruit of one of these exercises which I wrote below. By the way, I wrote this about 3 yrs ago. Enjoy!
The Exercise (Day 21 in workbook)
*You are in a bus depot in New York. A gypsy appears out of nowhere and hands you this card: (the illustration shows a pair of scissors, a hand, a skull and bones, a snowflake, a yin yang symbol, a white flag, a bow tie and a Celtic cross)
*Use 7 elements that appear on the card in a story that begins: IT ALMOST SEEMS IMPOSSIBLE FOR ME TO GO BACK TO THAT SPLIT SECOND WHEN.. (let's see if you can guess which elements I used).
Snowflakes
It almost seems impossible for me to go back to that split second when Jensen gave me that bottle of poison to do the deed. I was hesitant at first as any sane person would be but I got this strange rumbling feeling in my gut that it was the right thing to do.
“You have to get rid of that son of a bitch, Maggie,” Jensen said, “It seems for the best.”
I tucked the tiny, brown bottle into my pocket. Jensen stared as I did this, his icy blue eyes scanned toward my jeans. I looked up at his face. Those eyes still glued to my pockets.
“Stop that,” I said pulling my jacket hood over and tightening the drawstring, “It’s disturbing.”
He shook his head, his stare shifted to even up with mine. His hand moved to the furry lining of my hood. I could feel the slight movement of his fingers.
“You can do it,” he said softly, “Be brave.”
His voice was soothing. I still remember it now.
That night I went home to find my brother painting the windows with snowflakes. He did that every winter, taking over for our father years before; the year his body betrayed him.
I could still see my hands tremble as I made my way to my bedroom. When I am nervous, they trembled and that time, they shook more intensely than usual. I took the doorknob into my hand. The muscles could not grip properly. They were weak. I fought the feeling.
The bottle stood on my night table. I rolled over in bed and made sure it was still there. The skull and crossbones on the bottle heralding its contents seemed to come alive. Its stare chilled me. It chills me now.
Next morning was a Sunday. My father came knocking at my door.
“Mags honey? Breakfast is on the table,” he said muffled by the door.
Sunday was reserved for church. My family, immediate and sometimes extended, went consistently. It was routine. First, my father cooked breakfast, my brothers and I got ready and then to St. Thomas for mass. Like clockwork. I pushed myself out of bed, slipped on a pair of socks then down the hallway. Slowly. Attracting static electricity.
My brother’s snowflakes made shadows on the living room floor from the windows like spiky ying-yang patterns. He had been practicing to perfection with those.
Frank and Aaron each sat at the head of our rectangular kitchen table. They both were older than me. I was the only girl and the only source of estrogen in the household. Frank was three years older than me with Aaron in between being 2 years older. I did not look anything like them, they both possessed wavy, sandy blonde hair and light brown eyes. I was cursed with red hair and dark brown eyes. My hair was and still is a fluke. Our mother was a redhead. Our father told us that her hair attracted him to her.
Sunday breakfast was toast, scrambled eggs and bacon. Sometimes my father would make cubed potatoes mixed with green peppers and onions but those were reserved for important Catholic calendar days like Easter or Palm Sunday. Springtime I will always remember as “special potato season.” We ate breakfast like animals. Our conversations during pre-Mass were sparse with father being not as distant as he was on other morning repasts.
The white flag that was attached to Frank’s car antenna fluttered in the wind as we barreled toward church. I wore my jeans that day with Jensen’s bottle in my left pocket and a loose magenta blouse. I hated that blouse but it was the nicest I had for Mass, Aaron sat next to me in the backseat with his hand on the curve of my knee. He always did that. Especially when were going to Mass. I guessed it was the only time no one was looking.
The St. Thomas church was a large concrete building with high ceilings and a Celtic cross nestled atop its single steeple.
I sat between Frank and father. We got there in time for procession, the section that began the Mass when the priest and the rest of the Catholic party enter the church to the choir singing a spirited hymn from the song book. My hands quickly went to my pockets. My fingers felt for the tiny, brown bottle again. I had to be sure. I was definitely sure. I closed my eyes and tilted my head as I always did. This was the moment when I would feel someone’s fingers nestle onto the small of my back underneath my blouse from one side. Then a heavy, broad pressure made its way around my inner thigh. It was then I knew Jensen was right. It seemed for the best.
“Can I use the phone real quick?” I said to my brother when we came home from Mass.
“Yeah, but not too long. I’m expecting a call,” Aaron replied.
My hands shook as I took the receiver in one of them. I dialed away not sure what I was doing. I was on “automatic.” After a few rings, Jensen answered.
“Yeah?” was his greeting.
“You were right. I have to do it,” I whispered, “They have to go.”
“What took you so long?” he said, “Was it the same thing?”
“Uh-huh. In God’s house of all places.”
My eyes began to well up. I shut them quickly to stop the tears from forming.
“Well, get a move on, Maggie,” he said after a long pause.
“Christ, give me the courage,” I said as I put the receiver down.
The next few minutes were a blur. I was not entirely there as my fingers undid the top of the feces colored bottle and poured its contents into the soup I was making them for lunch. The scene was fragmented when I placed the bowls in front of them. My ears were open as I stood in the kitchen and heard the sound of them choking in unison. Then the loud contact of ceramic soup bowls hitting the wooden dining room floor. My fists clenched as I walked in and found them piled in different positions like heavy sacks of laundry around the table, motionless. I did it.
It almost seems impossible for me to go back to that split second when I took a pair of scissors to my red hair in front of my bedroom mirror and cut off large chunks from my head. I had to escape. I had to change. I needed to find comfort in the protection of his understanding.
The Exercise (Day 21 in workbook)
*You are in a bus depot in New York. A gypsy appears out of nowhere and hands you this card: (the illustration shows a pair of scissors, a hand, a skull and bones, a snowflake, a yin yang symbol, a white flag, a bow tie and a Celtic cross)
*Use 7 elements that appear on the card in a story that begins: IT ALMOST SEEMS IMPOSSIBLE FOR ME TO GO BACK TO THAT SPLIT SECOND WHEN.. (let's see if you can guess which elements I used).
Snowflakes
It almost seems impossible for me to go back to that split second when Jensen gave me that bottle of poison to do the deed. I was hesitant at first as any sane person would be but I got this strange rumbling feeling in my gut that it was the right thing to do.
“You have to get rid of that son of a bitch, Maggie,” Jensen said, “It seems for the best.”
I tucked the tiny, brown bottle into my pocket. Jensen stared as I did this, his icy blue eyes scanned toward my jeans. I looked up at his face. Those eyes still glued to my pockets.
“Stop that,” I said pulling my jacket hood over and tightening the drawstring, “It’s disturbing.”
He shook his head, his stare shifted to even up with mine. His hand moved to the furry lining of my hood. I could feel the slight movement of his fingers.
“You can do it,” he said softly, “Be brave.”
His voice was soothing. I still remember it now.
That night I went home to find my brother painting the windows with snowflakes. He did that every winter, taking over for our father years before; the year his body betrayed him.
I could still see my hands tremble as I made my way to my bedroom. When I am nervous, they trembled and that time, they shook more intensely than usual. I took the doorknob into my hand. The muscles could not grip properly. They were weak. I fought the feeling.
The bottle stood on my night table. I rolled over in bed and made sure it was still there. The skull and crossbones on the bottle heralding its contents seemed to come alive. Its stare chilled me. It chills me now.
Next morning was a Sunday. My father came knocking at my door.
“Mags honey? Breakfast is on the table,” he said muffled by the door.
Sunday was reserved for church. My family, immediate and sometimes extended, went consistently. It was routine. First, my father cooked breakfast, my brothers and I got ready and then to St. Thomas for mass. Like clockwork. I pushed myself out of bed, slipped on a pair of socks then down the hallway. Slowly. Attracting static electricity.
My brother’s snowflakes made shadows on the living room floor from the windows like spiky ying-yang patterns. He had been practicing to perfection with those.
Frank and Aaron each sat at the head of our rectangular kitchen table. They both were older than me. I was the only girl and the only source of estrogen in the household. Frank was three years older than me with Aaron in between being 2 years older. I did not look anything like them, they both possessed wavy, sandy blonde hair and light brown eyes. I was cursed with red hair and dark brown eyes. My hair was and still is a fluke. Our mother was a redhead. Our father told us that her hair attracted him to her.
Sunday breakfast was toast, scrambled eggs and bacon. Sometimes my father would make cubed potatoes mixed with green peppers and onions but those were reserved for important Catholic calendar days like Easter or Palm Sunday. Springtime I will always remember as “special potato season.” We ate breakfast like animals. Our conversations during pre-Mass were sparse with father being not as distant as he was on other morning repasts.
The white flag that was attached to Frank’s car antenna fluttered in the wind as we barreled toward church. I wore my jeans that day with Jensen’s bottle in my left pocket and a loose magenta blouse. I hated that blouse but it was the nicest I had for Mass, Aaron sat next to me in the backseat with his hand on the curve of my knee. He always did that. Especially when were going to Mass. I guessed it was the only time no one was looking.
The St. Thomas church was a large concrete building with high ceilings and a Celtic cross nestled atop its single steeple.
I sat between Frank and father. We got there in time for procession, the section that began the Mass when the priest and the rest of the Catholic party enter the church to the choir singing a spirited hymn from the song book. My hands quickly went to my pockets. My fingers felt for the tiny, brown bottle again. I had to be sure. I was definitely sure. I closed my eyes and tilted my head as I always did. This was the moment when I would feel someone’s fingers nestle onto the small of my back underneath my blouse from one side. Then a heavy, broad pressure made its way around my inner thigh. It was then I knew Jensen was right. It seemed for the best.
“Can I use the phone real quick?” I said to my brother when we came home from Mass.
“Yeah, but not too long. I’m expecting a call,” Aaron replied.
My hands shook as I took the receiver in one of them. I dialed away not sure what I was doing. I was on “automatic.” After a few rings, Jensen answered.
“Yeah?” was his greeting.
“You were right. I have to do it,” I whispered, “They have to go.”
“What took you so long?” he said, “Was it the same thing?”
“Uh-huh. In God’s house of all places.”
My eyes began to well up. I shut them quickly to stop the tears from forming.
“Well, get a move on, Maggie,” he said after a long pause.
“Christ, give me the courage,” I said as I put the receiver down.
The next few minutes were a blur. I was not entirely there as my fingers undid the top of the feces colored bottle and poured its contents into the soup I was making them for lunch. The scene was fragmented when I placed the bowls in front of them. My ears were open as I stood in the kitchen and heard the sound of them choking in unison. Then the loud contact of ceramic soup bowls hitting the wooden dining room floor. My fists clenched as I walked in and found them piled in different positions like heavy sacks of laundry around the table, motionless. I did it.
It almost seems impossible for me to go back to that split second when I took a pair of scissors to my red hair in front of my bedroom mirror and cut off large chunks from my head. I had to escape. I had to change. I needed to find comfort in the protection of his understanding.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
The Marred Existence of Fitzgerald Eisenhower
This is another story I wrote for my "Parameters Club". I have to admit that this one was difficult for me to write but easy to visualize in my head. Enjoy!
Parameters (given to me by Donald)
* your character is a schlub (definition: Unkempt in appearance, either due to lack of effort or lack of awareness. The opposite of metrosexual)
* inherits money but does not want it
* witnesses a murder
The Marred Existence of Fitzgerald Eisenhower (23 May 2010)
Fitzgerald Eisenhower’s walk to the liquor store was an actual combined distance of three blocks but it felt, to him, like ten blocks as indicated by his sweaty shirt and labored, open-mouthed breathing. It was the middle of July and the sun was especially cruel to Fitzgerald’s inherent girth. His feet shuffled on the sidewalk as his arms swung like pendulums at his sides and his head, held straight by the pillow of his double chin, focused on his goal of the day: to buy his supply of Red Bull and Hostess Ding-Dongs.
The cigarette and liquor ads that were plastered on the windows of The Booze Bin gave no sign as to what was inside. Every inch of the storefront was taken up by either a couple laughing enjoying their Newports or a beer bottle surrounded by a block of ice. Fitzgerald shuffled underneath the shade of the building and leaned against the glass. He pulled at the collar of his damp t-shirt and cooled himself off by jerking it, pushing air toward his face. He sighed. It felt good but not good enough. He grunted and pushed himself toward the door. A loud chime of a high and low note heralded his entrance into The Booze Bin.
“There he is!” Ray, a middle-aged look-alike of the Lucky Charms leprechaun with a Brooklyn accent, hollered from behind the counter, “How’s our Fitzy?”
Fitzgerald shrugged his broad shoulders and sighed, “Same day, same shit, Ray.”
“Ay, don’t be negative. Today’s a wonderful day! The sun is out. The ladies are out in their cut-offs and most important, the booze is cold!”
“I guess,” Fitzgerald said, lumbering down the snack cake aisle, “Just coming to get my usual.”
“Man, that’s the third time this week. You got yourself a craving, huh?”
Fitzgerald grunted in reply as he filled his arms with the remaining 12-packs of Ding-Dongs from the shelf, a total of six white and blue boxes. He carried them to the counter and unloaded them in front of Ray. Ray folded his arms across his chest, amazed at the tower of chocolate covered, cream-filled cake in front of him. Fitzgerald shuffled to the glass-front coolers and pulled out five of the 4-packs of Red Bull, the elixir of make-believe crack addicts. They were expensive at the Booze Bin, almost $10 per pack.
“Fitzy, Jesus Christ, are you asking for a heart attack” Ray said as he started to ring up the items and put them into bags.
“No, like you said I have a craving,” he replied, trying to crack a smile.
“Ay, don’t humor me, man. Anyway, some of my friends and I are going down to Chickie Donahue’s for some beers. You wanna join?”
Fitzgerald looked away and uttered, “Nah. Maybe. I dunno?”
“Well, all right, let me at least get your number in case you change your mind,”
Ray pushed a piece of paper and small pen across the counter. Fitzgerald scribbled his number down.
“You’re good at chicken scratch!” Ray said, looking at the piece of paper.
He shrugged his shoulders and hesitantly piled the items into four separate bags, all double-bagged. Fitzgerald placed two bills on the counter.
“Keep the change,” he said as he grabbed the bags and shuffled as quickly as he could toward the door.
“Wait a minute!” Ray called out to him.
His cry went unheeded as Fitzgerald was already out the door in a bundle of sweat and heavy breathing.
After 20 minutes of arduous dropping and lifting of the plastic bags so he could catch his breath, Fitzgerald came upon his destination: Sunny Towers. The Sunny Towers apartment building did not look like a tower nor was it sunny. The squat, square white building’s paint- was peeling on the outside, which showed the crumbling concrete underneath, and the palm trees near the gate were so withered that their trunks were folded over. After struggling with his keys, he entered through the rusting front gate, crossed the courtyard littered with rocks and into his ground floor studio apartment.
“I’m home,” he whispered to himself as he unburdened the bags onto the floor near the door.
His apartment was sparse with only a recliner, a large coffee table and a television in one corner and a fold-out couch, sheets disheveled, in the opposite corner. He lumbered into his kitchen and parted the pile of grimy, food-smeared dishes to get to the faucet to wash his hands and splash his face cool.
“Lunchtime,” he uttered as he turned around to make his way back to the front room.
He pulled the bags closer to him and collapsed onto the recliner. The chair creaked loudly and crackled as it bent to his girth. He popped open his first can of Red Bull and tore into the topmost box of Ding-Dongs, grabbed three of them and placed them on his lap. His sausage fingers unraveled the aluminum wrapping of his sacred treat then he jammed the cake into his mouth. He picked up the TV remote from beneath several envelopes on the table marked “Only for Addressee” or “To Be Opened by Addressee” in bold, red letters. He turned on the TV and pulled from the pile.
“From Wentworth & Williams,” Fitzgerald read quietly off a thin, beige envelope, “Chicago, Illinois.”
He began to shake either from the knowledge of what was inside or from his oral injection of sugar and Taurine. He slipped his finger underneath the flap and ripped along the top of the envelope. It was another letter from Luther Wentworth, Esquire, who was his mother’s lawyer. His eyes looked the seal at the top of it, two hands in a seemingly firm handshake and then down to the body:
To Mr. Fitzgerald Eisenhower,
I attempted several times to contact you regarding the estate of your mother, Jeanne L. Eisenhower-Jeffries. Ms. Eisenhower-Jeffries expressed verbally and on binding agreement, before the event of her death, to have you, Fitzgerald, receive monetary compensation throughout the rest of your adult life. Therefore, in accordance with her wishes and last testament, I have enclosed a check for the amount due to you from her estate, in which you are sole heir and lone executor. Please contact me at the number on the business card enclosed. Your correspondence to this matter is of the utmost importance and needs your immediate attention.
Sincerely,
Luther B. Wentworth, Esq.
Fitzgerald squeezed his eyes tightly shut as he turned to the enclosed check. He opened them quickly and stared at the check hypnotically. The amount was a larger sum than the previous one that he opened from the coffee table pile and less yellowed in the corners. A knot started to rise from his belly and into his chest, a feeling he felt before when he thought of his mother. He looked down at the letter and check again. Chocolate from a Ding-Dong was smeared on parts of the letter as if he was inadvertently trying to cross out the lawyer’s words. The knot rose into his neck becoming a lump and he began to sob. He did not want to remember. He did not want to flood his mind with those thoughts again. His hands crumpled the two pieces of paper tightly until they were almost pulverized inside his fists and threw it in front of the TV.
He grabbed at another box of Ding Dongs and popped open a fresh Red Bull. As tears poured from his red-rimmed eyes, Fitzgerald inhaled the three snack cakes and quickly sucked down the Red Bull. His heart started to beat faster and his fingertips began to numb. He had to replace those memories by filling the void with his favorite foods. The room began to swirl around him as he leaned back in his recliner and closed his eyes. He was transported to that day.
Fitzgerald, chubby and 10 years old came home from boarding school for summer vacation to find his mother sunbathing in the nude in the rear garden of her expansive vacation home in Florida. She was 18 years old when she had him and her body was still at the pinnacle of perfection at 28. Her sandy brown hair glistened in the bright sun in a tight bun as she lied face down on a large beach blanket. Her tanned body lean and freckled. When his shadow hovered over her, she turned quickly and screamed, “What the hell! Get out of my light!”
Her powerful screech pushed him backwards and he stumbled, landing on his back. His mother quickly stood above him, her body wrapped in the blanket and said, “Sorry, sweetie. You startled me.”
She knelt down and rubbed his shoulders then pulled him up.
“Welcome home,” she cooed and gave him a peck on the cheek, “Give your mother a hug.”
Fitzgerald smiled and wrapped his arms around her neck. She had a faint scent of coconut sunscreen on her shoulders. He pulled away to look at her. His eyes went, intuitively, to her face. Once again, as with all his summer visits, there they were: the bruises hidden underneath thick face powder. The swelling near her eyes were almost unnoticeable but he knew how to scout these things out. His lips tightened into a frown and his brow became knitted. Then he noticed his mother was smiling.
“I’m fine, my darling,” she said softly, “Nothing I can’t handle.”
She took his hand and touched the top of his head tenderly. They walked back into the house and to the kitchen where his step-father, Theo Jeffries sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper.
“I see you have returned, Fitzgerald for the summer,” Theo said from behind the newspaper in his deep baritone voice.
His mother nudged Fitzgerald’s arm.
“Yes, sir. For the summer,” he replied, pushing the lump in his throat down.
Theo pulled the newspaper down revealing his craggy face and penetrating hazel eyes. Fitzgerald noticed three long scabs running from his ear to the corner of his mouth. He could not help but stare. Theo’s face twisted into a mask of annoyance.
“What are you looking at, boy?” he bellowed as he stood up.
“Theo! He just came home. He hasn’t seen you in awhile,” his mother said, planting her tiny frame in front of her son.
Theo threw the newspaper onto the table and started to make his way toward them. Fitzgerald started to cower. He knew what was coming. He grabbed at his mother’s blanket. He towered over the boy and his mother as he put his huge, banana-like mitts on his waist.
“Jeanne, get out of the way,” he said under his breath, “I need to teach your fatso kid not to be rude.”
“Theo, stay away from him!” she screamed, pushing Fitzgerald behind her.
“You damn whore! Get out of the way and put on some clothes!”
Theo’s brick-like fist flew into the side of her face. She collapsed onto her side and quickly stood up. She stood in front of him again, her tight bun unraveling and spit blood from her mouth into his face. Fitzgerald fell onto the floor and scrambled to the nearest wall. He put his hands to his face sobbing uncontrollably.
“I dare you to hit me again, you coward!” she screamed, blood seeping from her lower lip.
His fist flew into her stomach. She folded over and landed on her knees. Her blanket, which hid her decency, fell off her body.
“Look at her, Fitzgerald! Look at the whore that is your mother,” Theo said as he grasped her hair and pushed her head onto the cold kitchen tile.
He walked over to the boy and chuckled deeply, yanking his hands from his face.
“Yeah, cry, you goddamn brat,” he whispered, “I don’t give two shits. I’m the man of the house now. Your moth----…”
Suddenly, Theo’s eyes rolled back into his head and his mouth drooped as he bent forward into the boy’s lap. The thick stainless steel blade of a meat clever was wedged into the back of Theo’s neck. A dark river of blood poured from the fresh wound. Fitzgerald looked up, his face splattered with his stepfather’s life fluid, to see his mother, naked, shaking and smiling.
Fitzgerald awoke from his dream-like hypnosis to the phone ringing. He shook his head clear and wobbled over to the kitchen to grab the call.
“Yeah?” he said meekly into the receiver.
“Ay, Fitzy, It’s Ray from the shop. How are you doing?”
“Okay.”
“Say, I’m calling to let you know that you gave me $200 to pay for your treats and drinks.”
Fitzgerald grunted in reply.
“Well, I have a shitload of bills to give back to you.”
He took a deep breath and said, “No thanks, keep the change”
Parameters (given to me by Donald)
* your character is a schlub (definition: Unkempt in appearance, either due to lack of effort or lack of awareness. The opposite of metrosexual)
* inherits money but does not want it
* witnesses a murder
The Marred Existence of Fitzgerald Eisenhower (23 May 2010)
Fitzgerald Eisenhower’s walk to the liquor store was an actual combined distance of three blocks but it felt, to him, like ten blocks as indicated by his sweaty shirt and labored, open-mouthed breathing. It was the middle of July and the sun was especially cruel to Fitzgerald’s inherent girth. His feet shuffled on the sidewalk as his arms swung like pendulums at his sides and his head, held straight by the pillow of his double chin, focused on his goal of the day: to buy his supply of Red Bull and Hostess Ding-Dongs.
The cigarette and liquor ads that were plastered on the windows of The Booze Bin gave no sign as to what was inside. Every inch of the storefront was taken up by either a couple laughing enjoying their Newports or a beer bottle surrounded by a block of ice. Fitzgerald shuffled underneath the shade of the building and leaned against the glass. He pulled at the collar of his damp t-shirt and cooled himself off by jerking it, pushing air toward his face. He sighed. It felt good but not good enough. He grunted and pushed himself toward the door. A loud chime of a high and low note heralded his entrance into The Booze Bin.
“There he is!” Ray, a middle-aged look-alike of the Lucky Charms leprechaun with a Brooklyn accent, hollered from behind the counter, “How’s our Fitzy?”
Fitzgerald shrugged his broad shoulders and sighed, “Same day, same shit, Ray.”
“Ay, don’t be negative. Today’s a wonderful day! The sun is out. The ladies are out in their cut-offs and most important, the booze is cold!”
“I guess,” Fitzgerald said, lumbering down the snack cake aisle, “Just coming to get my usual.”
“Man, that’s the third time this week. You got yourself a craving, huh?”
Fitzgerald grunted in reply as he filled his arms with the remaining 12-packs of Ding-Dongs from the shelf, a total of six white and blue boxes. He carried them to the counter and unloaded them in front of Ray. Ray folded his arms across his chest, amazed at the tower of chocolate covered, cream-filled cake in front of him. Fitzgerald shuffled to the glass-front coolers and pulled out five of the 4-packs of Red Bull, the elixir of make-believe crack addicts. They were expensive at the Booze Bin, almost $10 per pack.
“Fitzy, Jesus Christ, are you asking for a heart attack” Ray said as he started to ring up the items and put them into bags.
“No, like you said I have a craving,” he replied, trying to crack a smile.
“Ay, don’t humor me, man. Anyway, some of my friends and I are going down to Chickie Donahue’s for some beers. You wanna join?”
Fitzgerald looked away and uttered, “Nah. Maybe. I dunno?”
“Well, all right, let me at least get your number in case you change your mind,”
Ray pushed a piece of paper and small pen across the counter. Fitzgerald scribbled his number down.
“You’re good at chicken scratch!” Ray said, looking at the piece of paper.
He shrugged his shoulders and hesitantly piled the items into four separate bags, all double-bagged. Fitzgerald placed two bills on the counter.
“Keep the change,” he said as he grabbed the bags and shuffled as quickly as he could toward the door.
“Wait a minute!” Ray called out to him.
His cry went unheeded as Fitzgerald was already out the door in a bundle of sweat and heavy breathing.
After 20 minutes of arduous dropping and lifting of the plastic bags so he could catch his breath, Fitzgerald came upon his destination: Sunny Towers. The Sunny Towers apartment building did not look like a tower nor was it sunny. The squat, square white building’s paint- was peeling on the outside, which showed the crumbling concrete underneath, and the palm trees near the gate were so withered that their trunks were folded over. After struggling with his keys, he entered through the rusting front gate, crossed the courtyard littered with rocks and into his ground floor studio apartment.
“I’m home,” he whispered to himself as he unburdened the bags onto the floor near the door.
His apartment was sparse with only a recliner, a large coffee table and a television in one corner and a fold-out couch, sheets disheveled, in the opposite corner. He lumbered into his kitchen and parted the pile of grimy, food-smeared dishes to get to the faucet to wash his hands and splash his face cool.
“Lunchtime,” he uttered as he turned around to make his way back to the front room.
He pulled the bags closer to him and collapsed onto the recliner. The chair creaked loudly and crackled as it bent to his girth. He popped open his first can of Red Bull and tore into the topmost box of Ding-Dongs, grabbed three of them and placed them on his lap. His sausage fingers unraveled the aluminum wrapping of his sacred treat then he jammed the cake into his mouth. He picked up the TV remote from beneath several envelopes on the table marked “Only for Addressee” or “To Be Opened by Addressee” in bold, red letters. He turned on the TV and pulled from the pile.
“From Wentworth & Williams,” Fitzgerald read quietly off a thin, beige envelope, “Chicago, Illinois.”
He began to shake either from the knowledge of what was inside or from his oral injection of sugar and Taurine. He slipped his finger underneath the flap and ripped along the top of the envelope. It was another letter from Luther Wentworth, Esquire, who was his mother’s lawyer. His eyes looked the seal at the top of it, two hands in a seemingly firm handshake and then down to the body:
To Mr. Fitzgerald Eisenhower,
I attempted several times to contact you regarding the estate of your mother, Jeanne L. Eisenhower-Jeffries. Ms. Eisenhower-Jeffries expressed verbally and on binding agreement, before the event of her death, to have you, Fitzgerald, receive monetary compensation throughout the rest of your adult life. Therefore, in accordance with her wishes and last testament, I have enclosed a check for the amount due to you from her estate, in which you are sole heir and lone executor. Please contact me at the number on the business card enclosed. Your correspondence to this matter is of the utmost importance and needs your immediate attention.
Sincerely,
Luther B. Wentworth, Esq.
Fitzgerald squeezed his eyes tightly shut as he turned to the enclosed check. He opened them quickly and stared at the check hypnotically. The amount was a larger sum than the previous one that he opened from the coffee table pile and less yellowed in the corners. A knot started to rise from his belly and into his chest, a feeling he felt before when he thought of his mother. He looked down at the letter and check again. Chocolate from a Ding-Dong was smeared on parts of the letter as if he was inadvertently trying to cross out the lawyer’s words. The knot rose into his neck becoming a lump and he began to sob. He did not want to remember. He did not want to flood his mind with those thoughts again. His hands crumpled the two pieces of paper tightly until they were almost pulverized inside his fists and threw it in front of the TV.
He grabbed at another box of Ding Dongs and popped open a fresh Red Bull. As tears poured from his red-rimmed eyes, Fitzgerald inhaled the three snack cakes and quickly sucked down the Red Bull. His heart started to beat faster and his fingertips began to numb. He had to replace those memories by filling the void with his favorite foods. The room began to swirl around him as he leaned back in his recliner and closed his eyes. He was transported to that day.
Fitzgerald, chubby and 10 years old came home from boarding school for summer vacation to find his mother sunbathing in the nude in the rear garden of her expansive vacation home in Florida. She was 18 years old when she had him and her body was still at the pinnacle of perfection at 28. Her sandy brown hair glistened in the bright sun in a tight bun as she lied face down on a large beach blanket. Her tanned body lean and freckled. When his shadow hovered over her, she turned quickly and screamed, “What the hell! Get out of my light!”
Her powerful screech pushed him backwards and he stumbled, landing on his back. His mother quickly stood above him, her body wrapped in the blanket and said, “Sorry, sweetie. You startled me.”
She knelt down and rubbed his shoulders then pulled him up.
“Welcome home,” she cooed and gave him a peck on the cheek, “Give your mother a hug.”
Fitzgerald smiled and wrapped his arms around her neck. She had a faint scent of coconut sunscreen on her shoulders. He pulled away to look at her. His eyes went, intuitively, to her face. Once again, as with all his summer visits, there they were: the bruises hidden underneath thick face powder. The swelling near her eyes were almost unnoticeable but he knew how to scout these things out. His lips tightened into a frown and his brow became knitted. Then he noticed his mother was smiling.
“I’m fine, my darling,” she said softly, “Nothing I can’t handle.”
She took his hand and touched the top of his head tenderly. They walked back into the house and to the kitchen where his step-father, Theo Jeffries sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper.
“I see you have returned, Fitzgerald for the summer,” Theo said from behind the newspaper in his deep baritone voice.
His mother nudged Fitzgerald’s arm.
“Yes, sir. For the summer,” he replied, pushing the lump in his throat down.
Theo pulled the newspaper down revealing his craggy face and penetrating hazel eyes. Fitzgerald noticed three long scabs running from his ear to the corner of his mouth. He could not help but stare. Theo’s face twisted into a mask of annoyance.
“What are you looking at, boy?” he bellowed as he stood up.
“Theo! He just came home. He hasn’t seen you in awhile,” his mother said, planting her tiny frame in front of her son.
Theo threw the newspaper onto the table and started to make his way toward them. Fitzgerald started to cower. He knew what was coming. He grabbed at his mother’s blanket. He towered over the boy and his mother as he put his huge, banana-like mitts on his waist.
“Jeanne, get out of the way,” he said under his breath, “I need to teach your fatso kid not to be rude.”
“Theo, stay away from him!” she screamed, pushing Fitzgerald behind her.
“You damn whore! Get out of the way and put on some clothes!”
Theo’s brick-like fist flew into the side of her face. She collapsed onto her side and quickly stood up. She stood in front of him again, her tight bun unraveling and spit blood from her mouth into his face. Fitzgerald fell onto the floor and scrambled to the nearest wall. He put his hands to his face sobbing uncontrollably.
“I dare you to hit me again, you coward!” she screamed, blood seeping from her lower lip.
His fist flew into her stomach. She folded over and landed on her knees. Her blanket, which hid her decency, fell off her body.
“Look at her, Fitzgerald! Look at the whore that is your mother,” Theo said as he grasped her hair and pushed her head onto the cold kitchen tile.
He walked over to the boy and chuckled deeply, yanking his hands from his face.
“Yeah, cry, you goddamn brat,” he whispered, “I don’t give two shits. I’m the man of the house now. Your moth----…”
Suddenly, Theo’s eyes rolled back into his head and his mouth drooped as he bent forward into the boy’s lap. The thick stainless steel blade of a meat clever was wedged into the back of Theo’s neck. A dark river of blood poured from the fresh wound. Fitzgerald looked up, his face splattered with his stepfather’s life fluid, to see his mother, naked, shaking and smiling.
Fitzgerald awoke from his dream-like hypnosis to the phone ringing. He shook his head clear and wobbled over to the kitchen to grab the call.
“Yeah?” he said meekly into the receiver.
“Ay, Fitzy, It’s Ray from the shop. How are you doing?”
“Okay.”
“Say, I’m calling to let you know that you gave me $200 to pay for your treats and drinks.”
Fitzgerald grunted in reply.
“Well, I have a shitload of bills to give back to you.”
He took a deep breath and said, “No thanks, keep the change”
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
A Little Blip of a Story
Hi there! Here is a little story I wrote about 2 years ago. Enjoy!(?)
A Return to Upper Level Occupation
Part 1: The Rec Room Revisited
Living at home has its advantages and some – BIG SIGH – disadvantages. Two and a half years ago, I moved back after graduating from university hoping to save up enough money so I could move back away from the desert to navigate myself in the “real world”. Obviously, THAT didn’t happen but I am still hoping to go back out there except I have a weary enthusiasm that I cannot shake. I suppose it is due to the lack of revenue going into the Bank of Hoping to Hold On.
My brother recently joined me on the exodus to this comfortable Mecca of home-cooked meals and basic cable (even the Sci-Fi Channel). He has taken back what was once his room and what had become the “entertainment center to turn it back into its former mediocre glory. His room – before his move back -- became my personal DVD/VHS library. Squat, 2-tier white shelves lined the walls with my copies of Kevin Smith movies, Japanese dramas and Mystery Science Theater box sets all neatly placed in them. The fiberboard contraption that vaguely resembled an entertainment shelf-unit held a non-flat screen television with a first-wave DVD player nestled next to it. It was not state of the art but it was sufficient! Most of the time after work, I would change quickly into my usual yoga pants and white v-neck shirt ensemble to watch Harold and Maude again in the make-shift TV room. I can remember being taken aback when Torgo in Manos: the Hands of Fate tries to hand-to-face rape that lady in the master’s bedroom. I almost cried with the sheer, cheesy disturbing horror Torgo was presenting to me.
Alas, those days are gone – for my brother with his determination to seize power over the cubby hole that was once his adolescent pain-cave has rid his domain of the 2-tier shelves and bulky television set. Presently, behind the door plastered with cut-outs of Abercrombie & Fitch catalog models and Animal House-era John Belushi is a land of 15 foot shelving (6-tier!!) and classy/ neutral furnishing. My DVD’s are in there but the first wave disc-player has disappeared with a swish of the Goodwill gods. The former entertainment hub of Casa X has become a smaller version of brother-dear’s LA County apartment – complete with a computer desk and IKEA-esque fixtures.
I yearn for your tasteless return, rec-room but for now you are imprinted in my memories.
A Return to Upper Level Occupation
Part 1: The Rec Room Revisited
Living at home has its advantages and some – BIG SIGH – disadvantages. Two and a half years ago, I moved back after graduating from university hoping to save up enough money so I could move back away from the desert to navigate myself in the “real world”. Obviously, THAT didn’t happen but I am still hoping to go back out there except I have a weary enthusiasm that I cannot shake. I suppose it is due to the lack of revenue going into the Bank of Hoping to Hold On.
My brother recently joined me on the exodus to this comfortable Mecca of home-cooked meals and basic cable (even the Sci-Fi Channel). He has taken back what was once his room and what had become the “entertainment center to turn it back into its former mediocre glory. His room – before his move back -- became my personal DVD/VHS library. Squat, 2-tier white shelves lined the walls with my copies of Kevin Smith movies, Japanese dramas and Mystery Science Theater box sets all neatly placed in them. The fiberboard contraption that vaguely resembled an entertainment shelf-unit held a non-flat screen television with a first-wave DVD player nestled next to it. It was not state of the art but it was sufficient! Most of the time after work, I would change quickly into my usual yoga pants and white v-neck shirt ensemble to watch Harold and Maude again in the make-shift TV room. I can remember being taken aback when Torgo in Manos: the Hands of Fate tries to hand-to-face rape that lady in the master’s bedroom. I almost cried with the sheer, cheesy disturbing horror Torgo was presenting to me.
Alas, those days are gone – for my brother with his determination to seize power over the cubby hole that was once his adolescent pain-cave has rid his domain of the 2-tier shelves and bulky television set. Presently, behind the door plastered with cut-outs of Abercrombie & Fitch catalog models and Animal House-era John Belushi is a land of 15 foot shelving (6-tier!!) and classy/ neutral furnishing. My DVD’s are in there but the first wave disc-player has disappeared with a swish of the Goodwill gods. The former entertainment hub of Casa X has become a smaller version of brother-dear’s LA County apartment – complete with a computer desk and IKEA-esque fixtures.
I yearn for your tasteless return, rec-room but for now you are imprinted in my memories.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
My First Blog Post
My stomach is rumbling. I need to eat. Anyway, this is my first blog. How awkward.
I recently joined this short story writing group with my boyfriend and another couple Wes and Amanda- who are really good friends of ours. We decided to get together every 2 weeks to read stories that we wrote by using parameters given to us by each other. The yarn below is the first result from our initial meeting including the parameters. Enjoy!!
Parameters (given to me by Wes)
* loves nature
* crazy/ psychotic
* loner
* deep issues w/ past boyfriends
* very beautiful
Speculation (written 13 May 2010)
Sunlight undulates through the thick jacaranda trees as I apply the last globs of Vaseline to my body. It protects the best from superficial burns so much better than sunscreen and best applied at the start of the afternoon. I sit under my lean-to made of PVC pipes, a shaggy beige duvet, random shrubbery and hemp rope. A jagged piece of mirror hangs at eye-level swinging slightly as I spread the grease onto my contours. I sweep my fingers against the walls of the opaque yellow jar until the slick feel of the jelly wears away and I feel plastic. I am preparing to re-stock my supply. I must get moving.
On the occasions I go into town, away from the shelter of the jacaranda trees; I have to become presentable to the social groups that infest the supermarket, gas stations and all those buildings that thrive on first impressions. The old adage goes: Always give a good first impression... or was that a deodorant commercial?
I pull from the pile of clothing that has collected in one of the corners of my lean-to and assemble the most presentable and respectable outfit: a red t-shirt and a denim skirt. Underneath, I wear the under wire bra I found dumpster diving. It is a cup larger than I am used to but it does the job as a deterrent from devious eyes. I grab my leather sandals and shake purple jacaranda flowers from them. I pull them onto my feet. Then I apply the pink lip gloss over my already slick lips. My armor is complete.
It takes me exactly 14 minutes and 17 seconds to reach the edge of town where the trees shrink away from the asphalt. My internal timer, set to the world clock, indicates this.
The supermarket houses petroleum jelly in abundant quantities. I try to find Vaseline itself. I despise off brands.
I carefully scan aisle 4 for people. A stock boy stands on one side of the aisle with a price gun and a pile of boxes in a cart. This would constitute a minimal first impression. Vaseline is displayed on the shelf opposite of him. I approach without sound. My skin goes cold.
“Hi there,” the stock boy says, his voice husky with lust.
Damn. He saw me. First impression engaged.
“Uh, yeah?” I shoot back as I turn toward him.
"Was there anything you need help finding?” I could see his eyes making contact with my chest and at the apex of my thighs. He wants me. I just came in for Vaseline.
“No. No. I don’t need help.”
I try my best to cut off the interaction by turning my body slightly.
“Wait a minute” he says, his voice getting deeper with longing, “Aren’t you Betty Valdez?”
I haven’t heard my name said in a good while.
“I guess I am,” I reply as I start to remember who the stock boy is.
“I’m Freddy Gale, Sam’s cousin.”
Sam Gale, the first of my amorous experiences. A boy who possessed a shaggy, dirty blond mullet and whose body was thin like a cedar plank with skin the same color; a muddled brownish red. I was 16 and fresh from my time at Canyon Lakes Clinic. We met at a 3-day Christian youth conference that the mother forced me to attend. He got fresh with me the second day. He pulled my hand onto his crotch during a presentation titled “Incorporating Prayer into a Hectic School Schedule”. Then he caused my hand to draw circles against his progressively swelling prick. I became his girlfriend for 6 months.
During this half-year, I fucked for the first time a person my own age. Up to this point, it was only the stepfather and the brother, so my body was prepared for any physical strain that might occur. It was such a chore to act like I was delighted Sam was banging me. We did it 162 times and every other time he complained that my skin was cold to the touch. He tried to be tender during pleasure time but always pushed me away angry if I didn’t scream his name or moan. I learned that I shouldn’t hurt his feelings so I would half-heartedly moan. He seemed to like that. Then came the one time that I denied him bang #163 at his house, he slapped me and smeared my lip gloss. I walked into his kitchen, came back and slapped him with a knife through his ear, then into his crotch, and then into his stomach. Afterwards, I distressed my appearance by running into the walls, pulling out handfuls of hair and loud whimpering. I pulled up a chair next to the bed and waited for the sirens. It was time for the show to begin.
Those pigs sent me away for 5 years again to Canyon Lakes subjecting me to poking and prodding of my outsides and insides in an effort to understand the trauma I have endured. I attended groups that discussed topics such as “Time to Reflect” or “Grow without Grudges” with other peers in my situation. I sat mute and absorbed the emotional trash they were spewing from their mouths. When it came time for me to offer any insight into my psyche, I twisted my face and start to sob so I wouldn’t have to. Our group counselor would walk across the room and hold me. Her touch was torture. I could not wait until I was back in my room.
“The case is going cold as time goes by,” Freddy says, still scanning my upper body, “No leads and I think the police are giving up.”
“Too bad,” I say, trying the best to sound sympathetic with a pathetic effort.
Your testimony really helped,” he says with a small smirk.
“It was the only thing I could do. Sam was a good person.”
Freddy put his head down and rubs the back of his head with the handle of the price gun.
“He was my cousin. I miss him.”
I needed to close this conversation.
“It was nice seeing you,”
“Yeah… I should tell the family I saw you. They would be happy to hear that you are still around.”
“Yes, please, it has been what? Ten years?”
“I think so."
He grabs a pen from his cart and tears a label off a can of hairspray. He is getting fresh with me. I guess it runs in his bloodline. He hands the label to me and I scribble the area code and the first 7 numbers that come into my head.
“Thanks, Betty,” he says as he snatches the label from my hand, “Keep in touch.”
I pull a smile and walk away to grab the remaining five jars of Vaseline from the opposite aisle. I can still feel his eyes burn into my back and over my buttocks. He possesses an insatiable appetite. I walk away faster.
I escape onto the sidewalk and almost run to the nearest intersection grasping my bag of Vaseline to my chest. I pass by other pedestrians. They stare without looking. One of them even reaches out to me and brushes against my skin. I wince. I have to hold it together. I arrive at the intersection. Cars rumble by me as I press the button to activate the walk signal. The burning sensation arises onto my back. They stare. I resist turning my head.
"Excuse me,” a male voice behind me.
Damn. Another first impression that needs to be acknowledged; I don’t want to turn around. Instead, I stay quiet. Silence is the best remedy for this avoidance of a social situation.
“I can’t help but notice you are standing in the street.”
I have to say something.
“I’m very well. Thanks,” I reply.
“You’re almost in the asphalt.”
A car honks. When is the signal going to turn?
My body jerks backwards as I fall over. I shut my eyes. A cacophony of sounds floods my ears – a combination of voices and traffic. I open my eyes to find a circle of heads hovering over me.
“Sorry I had to do that,” the same voice says, “You were going to get plowed.”
I stand up quickly and collect my bag. The jars did not break. My calves feel sore and so does the back of my head near my neck. A hand lands on one of my shoulder blades. Torture touch. I shrug it off. I clear my senses and realize that I am surrounded. Indistinct faces that drill into me with their eyes. I have been violated. I need to be under the jacaranda trees and beneath the warmth of my lean-to and deep in the quiet of the natural wind.
“You okay?” one voice says.
“You took quite a fall,” another one says.
"Your hands are bleeding,” a third voice bleats from behind me.
I look down. My palms are scrapped, the result of breaking my fall. I wipe them onto my skirt and adjust the rest of my clothes.
I walk quickly away as far as I could away from the dark, devious eyes that slice open my back to get at my intentions. My heart stays calm and my eyes focus on road disappearing and becoming dirt.
The sunlight fades away as I fall onto the heavy thicket of brush I laid down as a makeshift berth. No longer am I aware of the stares and intentions of first impressions nor the expectations of being social. It is just the trees and I now.
The lullaby of the thick jacaranda swaying with their light purple blooms like fingers surrounds me in the brisk breeze. Their silent song made me forget, momentarily, the discomfort of being… me.
I recently joined this short story writing group with my boyfriend and another couple Wes and Amanda- who are really good friends of ours. We decided to get together every 2 weeks to read stories that we wrote by using parameters given to us by each other. The yarn below is the first result from our initial meeting including the parameters. Enjoy!!
Parameters (given to me by Wes)
* loves nature
* crazy/ psychotic
* loner
* deep issues w/ past boyfriends
* very beautiful
Speculation (written 13 May 2010)
Sunlight undulates through the thick jacaranda trees as I apply the last globs of Vaseline to my body. It protects the best from superficial burns so much better than sunscreen and best applied at the start of the afternoon. I sit under my lean-to made of PVC pipes, a shaggy beige duvet, random shrubbery and hemp rope. A jagged piece of mirror hangs at eye-level swinging slightly as I spread the grease onto my contours. I sweep my fingers against the walls of the opaque yellow jar until the slick feel of the jelly wears away and I feel plastic. I am preparing to re-stock my supply. I must get moving.
On the occasions I go into town, away from the shelter of the jacaranda trees; I have to become presentable to the social groups that infest the supermarket, gas stations and all those buildings that thrive on first impressions. The old adage goes: Always give a good first impression... or was that a deodorant commercial?
I pull from the pile of clothing that has collected in one of the corners of my lean-to and assemble the most presentable and respectable outfit: a red t-shirt and a denim skirt. Underneath, I wear the under wire bra I found dumpster diving. It is a cup larger than I am used to but it does the job as a deterrent from devious eyes. I grab my leather sandals and shake purple jacaranda flowers from them. I pull them onto my feet. Then I apply the pink lip gloss over my already slick lips. My armor is complete.
It takes me exactly 14 minutes and 17 seconds to reach the edge of town where the trees shrink away from the asphalt. My internal timer, set to the world clock, indicates this.
The supermarket houses petroleum jelly in abundant quantities. I try to find Vaseline itself. I despise off brands.
I carefully scan aisle 4 for people. A stock boy stands on one side of the aisle with a price gun and a pile of boxes in a cart. This would constitute a minimal first impression. Vaseline is displayed on the shelf opposite of him. I approach without sound. My skin goes cold.
“Hi there,” the stock boy says, his voice husky with lust.
Damn. He saw me. First impression engaged.
“Uh, yeah?” I shoot back as I turn toward him.
"Was there anything you need help finding?” I could see his eyes making contact with my chest and at the apex of my thighs. He wants me. I just came in for Vaseline.
“No. No. I don’t need help.”
I try my best to cut off the interaction by turning my body slightly.
“Wait a minute” he says, his voice getting deeper with longing, “Aren’t you Betty Valdez?”
I haven’t heard my name said in a good while.
“I guess I am,” I reply as I start to remember who the stock boy is.
“I’m Freddy Gale, Sam’s cousin.”
Sam Gale, the first of my amorous experiences. A boy who possessed a shaggy, dirty blond mullet and whose body was thin like a cedar plank with skin the same color; a muddled brownish red. I was 16 and fresh from my time at Canyon Lakes Clinic. We met at a 3-day Christian youth conference that the mother forced me to attend. He got fresh with me the second day. He pulled my hand onto his crotch during a presentation titled “Incorporating Prayer into a Hectic School Schedule”. Then he caused my hand to draw circles against his progressively swelling prick. I became his girlfriend for 6 months.
During this half-year, I fucked for the first time a person my own age. Up to this point, it was only the stepfather and the brother, so my body was prepared for any physical strain that might occur. It was such a chore to act like I was delighted Sam was banging me. We did it 162 times and every other time he complained that my skin was cold to the touch. He tried to be tender during pleasure time but always pushed me away angry if I didn’t scream his name or moan. I learned that I shouldn’t hurt his feelings so I would half-heartedly moan. He seemed to like that. Then came the one time that I denied him bang #163 at his house, he slapped me and smeared my lip gloss. I walked into his kitchen, came back and slapped him with a knife through his ear, then into his crotch, and then into his stomach. Afterwards, I distressed my appearance by running into the walls, pulling out handfuls of hair and loud whimpering. I pulled up a chair next to the bed and waited for the sirens. It was time for the show to begin.
Those pigs sent me away for 5 years again to Canyon Lakes subjecting me to poking and prodding of my outsides and insides in an effort to understand the trauma I have endured. I attended groups that discussed topics such as “Time to Reflect” or “Grow without Grudges” with other peers in my situation. I sat mute and absorbed the emotional trash they were spewing from their mouths. When it came time for me to offer any insight into my psyche, I twisted my face and start to sob so I wouldn’t have to. Our group counselor would walk across the room and hold me. Her touch was torture. I could not wait until I was back in my room.
“The case is going cold as time goes by,” Freddy says, still scanning my upper body, “No leads and I think the police are giving up.”
“Too bad,” I say, trying the best to sound sympathetic with a pathetic effort.
Your testimony really helped,” he says with a small smirk.
“It was the only thing I could do. Sam was a good person.”
Freddy put his head down and rubs the back of his head with the handle of the price gun.
“He was my cousin. I miss him.”
I needed to close this conversation.
“It was nice seeing you,”
“Yeah… I should tell the family I saw you. They would be happy to hear that you are still around.”
“Yes, please, it has been what? Ten years?”
“I think so."
He grabs a pen from his cart and tears a label off a can of hairspray. He is getting fresh with me. I guess it runs in his bloodline. He hands the label to me and I scribble the area code and the first 7 numbers that come into my head.
“Thanks, Betty,” he says as he snatches the label from my hand, “Keep in touch.”
I pull a smile and walk away to grab the remaining five jars of Vaseline from the opposite aisle. I can still feel his eyes burn into my back and over my buttocks. He possesses an insatiable appetite. I walk away faster.
I escape onto the sidewalk and almost run to the nearest intersection grasping my bag of Vaseline to my chest. I pass by other pedestrians. They stare without looking. One of them even reaches out to me and brushes against my skin. I wince. I have to hold it together. I arrive at the intersection. Cars rumble by me as I press the button to activate the walk signal. The burning sensation arises onto my back. They stare. I resist turning my head.
"Excuse me,” a male voice behind me.
Damn. Another first impression that needs to be acknowledged; I don’t want to turn around. Instead, I stay quiet. Silence is the best remedy for this avoidance of a social situation.
“I can’t help but notice you are standing in the street.”
I have to say something.
“I’m very well. Thanks,” I reply.
“You’re almost in the asphalt.”
A car honks. When is the signal going to turn?
My body jerks backwards as I fall over. I shut my eyes. A cacophony of sounds floods my ears – a combination of voices and traffic. I open my eyes to find a circle of heads hovering over me.
“Sorry I had to do that,” the same voice says, “You were going to get plowed.”
I stand up quickly and collect my bag. The jars did not break. My calves feel sore and so does the back of my head near my neck. A hand lands on one of my shoulder blades. Torture touch. I shrug it off. I clear my senses and realize that I am surrounded. Indistinct faces that drill into me with their eyes. I have been violated. I need to be under the jacaranda trees and beneath the warmth of my lean-to and deep in the quiet of the natural wind.
“You okay?” one voice says.
“You took quite a fall,” another one says.
"Your hands are bleeding,” a third voice bleats from behind me.
I look down. My palms are scrapped, the result of breaking my fall. I wipe them onto my skirt and adjust the rest of my clothes.
I walk quickly away as far as I could away from the dark, devious eyes that slice open my back to get at my intentions. My heart stays calm and my eyes focus on road disappearing and becoming dirt.
The sunlight fades away as I fall onto the heavy thicket of brush I laid down as a makeshift berth. No longer am I aware of the stares and intentions of first impressions nor the expectations of being social. It is just the trees and I now.
The lullaby of the thick jacaranda swaying with their light purple blooms like fingers surrounds me in the brisk breeze. Their silent song made me forget, momentarily, the discomfort of being… me.
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