Perspective, Selective

Tell me if you’re game

to watch a sea of foam and dirt

turn into a city park:

wildflowers next to

steel towers surrounded by

tourists, students, and impatient drivers.

Tell me if you’re game

to lift your head and marvel

at the man-made:

buildings standing big shoulder

to big shoulder

the inspired and inspiring,

Or would you rather

sneak a peek from up above?

Glance over rooftops studded with

concrete and brick chimneys,

across the tree-filled parks,

over to the green-blue lake,

the one you know is much colder

than any photo will suggest.

There you might find what

you’re really game for:

a horizon

barely curving

waiting to give birth to the sun.

---

Lucky you, it's a poem and photos! I figured since the speakeasy has a photo prompt this week, why not add some of my own? At the same time I made up for missing a few poems back in April. I told you photography would inspire me.

Expecting

Winter seemed reluctant to release its hold.

Chicago, pregnant with spring,

still clung to her Siberian chill,

blowing through April’s sunny days and

windows-open, grilling-on-the-patio weather,

like the woman in labor, scared

of what the new season might bring.

Spring seemed hesitant to emerge.

It hid in the last bank of snow,

now mostly dirt and icy rocks,

like the baby being born, not ready

for the traumatic change.

We held our breath, like family members

in the waiting room, praying for a

speedy delivery, a healthy baby.

We let it go and watched it

condense in the frozen air around us.

Landmarks

Without a word, she dropped
to the ground.

It was one thing to capture

photos from the sidewalk,

but the best angles

were from above.

The neighborhood totems

weren’t hard to find,

like wooden carvings

on a wooden tree,

they stuck out

from their origins.

They marked the places

she spent her day

like pushpins in a map,

souvenirs of errands ran.

She documented them;

they became hers.

New Order

"Don't blame the Sinner. Compel the Sinner to follow the path of Surrealism. We, the Surrealists, believe in the expression of the unconscious, the juxtaposition of realities, and the liberation of imagination."

Max listened to the Credo warbling over the loudspeakers as he got dressed in the dark, an Order practice meant to extend dream time.  His single room only held a bed and a desk, but it did have a full-length mirror on the back of the door, for Visualizing. He zipped his Order-issued jacket over his sleepwear. The black made his pale skin even more striking.

At first bell, he joined the others in the Refectory. Everyone sat at their preferred tables without regard for the Order's loose hierarchy--Fathers, Brothers, Novices, and Acolytes--and waited for the opening invocation. Father Andre stood and spread his arms as if to give a hug. A belt made out of rope held his white cassock in place; a set of keys hanging from the belt clinked together as he moved and the talking in the hall quieted. "Good Morning, everyone."

"Good Morning, Father," they answered in unison. Max's stomach growled loud enough for his table mates to side-eye him. He shrugged his shoulders and bowed his head.

"We greet the morning with open minds. We invite our dreams to coexist with reality. We welcome the day that could be." Father Andre brought his arms down and began to dismiss the tables for breakfast.

“Did you get your Sinner yet?” Marcel asked from across the table. As another un-initiated Acolyte, he was the closest thing Max had to a friend in the Order.

“No, I thought we got them after breakfast. Do you already know yours?”

Marcel started to answer, then suddenly found interest in the table.

The sound of Father Andre’s keys jangling grew closer, then stopped. Max felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to its owner. "Hello, Father."

"I need you in my studio," Father Andre said.

Max eyed the serving line behind Father Andre.

"Now. We can worry about food later."

Father Andre’s directness unsettled Max, but he followed him into the hallway. Nothing happened quickly within the Order. There was a reason they fondly referred to themselves as the “Dis-Order of Surrealists”--experimental performances and visionary exercises took precedence over structured activity.

“Is something wrong?” Max asked as they followed the hallway around a corner, away from the common rooms.

Father Andre swept open a pair of double doors nearly hidden behind a large paint-splattered canvas. “As our newest un-initiated recruit, we have yet to see your talents as a Converter.” They entered his studio, a corner room with several floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the lake that separated their monastery from that of the New Order on the other shore. “I wanted to know your background before assigning you a Sinner, so I checked the records this morning.”

Max hovered at the entrance of the room. Father Andre stood behind his desk.

“It’s funny, I couldn’t find a file for Max Viole anywhere.”

Max walked with even steps to the windows and placed a hand on the glass. A red flag flew above the towers of the New Order’s black monastery. In the time it took Max to turn back to Father Andre, the windows shattered behind him. Father Andre dove to the floor. Max lunged towards him and grabbed for his keys.

“Let’s go, Muriel.” A woman stood at the jagged opening of the window. She wore a harness attached to a thick cable stretching out the broken window.

Max knew he was Muriel in the same way he had known the window would break: not at all, then all at once.

Father Andre clutched at his cassock from his prone position at Muriel’s feet. Muriel pulled her jacket sleeve over her hand and lifted a shard of glass from the wreckage, using it to slice Father Andre’s belt so she could slip the keys off. She dangled them above him. “There are no Sinners.”

---

---

Midnight Snack

[Author's Note: I recently noticed this story had been reverted back to a draft. I have NO IDEA how that happened and I'm currently pretty upset with Blogger/Google for having no explanations. Not only did it revert to draft, it reverted to a super duper early draft of this story--not even close to my final draft. Everyone's comments are still here. What happened? If anyone knows how I can recapture my final--published--draft, please let me know! Until then, here is a super sloppy copy because I'm too sad to rewrite this story right now.]

When Amelia quit her job at the restaurant to go back to school she assumed she would finally get to eat dinner at dinner time and go to bed before bar close. Instead, she went to class all day, did homework all evening, and gazed out her window all night, waiting for the sun to rise so she could get up and do it again.

Tonight was no different. She wanted to blame it on her neighbor's insistence that he vacuum in the early hours of the morning, but Amelia's insomnia was all her own fault. Besides, she actually liked knowing someone was being domestic nearby. It comforted her--just not enough to take her past the point of counting sheep. With an exaggerated sigh, Amelia sat up and pushed herself out of bed. There was no use fighting to keep her eyes closed.

She shuffled to the kitchen, flipping on lights as she went. Living alone had great benefits, especially for an insomniac with a midnight-vacuumer for a neighbor. In the kitchen, she pulled out pots and pans and knives and cutting boards, lining up tools and ingredients on the counter with no regard for noise.

She could see her small TV from where she stood, and she turned it on to late-night cooking shows. With the volume down, flashes of the chefs and their dishes in the works caught Amelia's eye, but she didn't lose focus on her own midnight meal.

Her mother always told her to finish eating by 8 pm, to let her food digest, and because a meal after dark meant double the calories, but Amelia never listened to her mother. It might kill her, but cooking after dark felt made her feel alive.

When she was done eating, she washed every dish and put it back in its place. No one could ever know what happened here, in her kitchen, in the wee hours of the morning.

---



---

Extramuralisation

I hate first dates, but you know what? Second dates aren't that great either. Josh took me out again last night, but before he picked me up I had no idea what we would talk about. We already knew each other's favorite music and movies, where we grew up, and what we studied in college. I'm a slow reader, so I was still reading the same book as I was when I saw him a week earlier.

Someone more socially adept might suggest we dig deeper--religion, politics, child-rearing strategies--but I was mostly hoping we could focus on the food. He took me to The Black Adder, you know, home of the Anaspeptic Ribs, so I figured that's what he wanted to do too.

Then our waitress came over.

"Hey guys, welcome to The Black Adder! Can I--oh, hi, uh Josh." She put our waters on the table and took a step back.

Josh looked up. "Oh, Abby, hey!"

"What...brings you guys here tonight?" Abby asked.

"The ribs," I offered. "I'm Erin, by the way."

Abby nodded and pulled out her order pad. "Do you want to start with drinks?"

Josh, who had been playing with his straw wrapper this entire time, ordered a beer: "Just whatever's on tap."

"I'll take a whiskey and coke."

Abby smiled. "I'll be right back with those."

"Wow, that wasn't awkward at all. I'm guessing you guys have a sordid past? Please tell." I was elated at being off the hook for coming up with conversation--that interaction alone could entertain me for a night.

Josh looked over his shoulder, presumably to check that Abby was out of earshot. "We dated. For three years. She wanted to get married, I wasn't ready, and we fought about it daily until we just...stopped."

"Stopped fighting?" 

Another waiter came around with our drinks and Josh took a big pull from his beer. "Stopped talking."

"Oh." I stirred my drink.

"Yeah. Then one day, she was gone. Took all her stuff, no note or anything. She must've started working here recently. I saw her once at her old job. She used to tend bar at Eclipse. She threw a drink in my face."

"Well she sent someone else out with our drinks tonight, so that's a step in the right direction." I lifted my glass. "Cheers, to mending broken hearts."

He clinked his bottle with my glass and we both drank. I felt as though the night was going great. I already got this guy to open up to me! And with a juicy story nonetheless. 

Josh took another look around. "You know, I um, I'm not sure if I fed the meter enough, now that I think about it. I'm gonna go...check that." He got up and put his coat on. "Order me a burger?"

I sat there and waited, but he never came back.

---

---

THANKS: Brooke, for making dinner last night and tonight when all I wanted to do was eat and sleep. 

Playing Dirty

"I have spent years chasing the tail of my darkness." Louis looks across the lake, where there is only more lake.

No one says anything for a long time. Waves roll in and smack the concrete surge barrier where the three men stand. It's dark except for the beam of the car's headlights at their backs, sending out long shadows over the water.

Gus takes out a cigarette and cups his hand around the end to light it. He takes a long drag and turns his head to exhale. His shirt is a size too small and the ends have come untucked. They flutter in the wind like pennants at a used car lot.

"You've been chasing tail, alright. Nobody said anything about darkness." Eli kicks at broken concrete, sending pebbles down onto the rocks that form the shore.

"Watch your mouth, kid." Gus speaks low, but Eli hears him as if he'd whispered straight into his ear.

Eli straightens up and combs down his hair with his hand. The wind messes it up again. He shoves his hands deep into his jacket pockets. He's the tallest of the three men, but right now he feels like a child.

"Shit." Louis adjusts his hat. His tells are frequent, but they aren't a fail safe. He has so many--each one like its own pose in an album of still shots--it's hard to distinguish which are genuine and which are play. "So the other night, when my wife asks me where I've been, I decide to tell her the truth."

Gus drops his cigarette butt on the ground. He uses the heel of his dress shoe to snuff it.

"I say to her, 'Irma, I'm a hardworking man. You know I haven't always been the most moral of men, but I do my job, I never leave you wanting.'" Louis spits. "Shit. Got a light?" He pulls a pack of cigarettes out, tapping them on the palm of his hand before pulling one out.

Eli pulls a lighter out of his pocket and holds for Louis while he inhales. He snaps it shut a little louder than he means to and covers this noise with a cough, snort, and spit. He could use a smoke right now, but he's afraid to move anymore. He's new to this game.

"She didn't even try to deny it; that's how I knew." Louis shakes his head. "All I said was that I stopped by Paulie C's before coming home. Already she's biting her lip, looking up at me from the table with those wide eyes. I didn't even have to show her the evidence." He pulls a pair of women's underwear from his jacket pocket and throws them on the wrapped body-shaped bundle in front of him. "God damn panties. The snake kept a souvenir." With several kicks, Louis sends Paulie C and his souvenir into the water. He flicks the butt of his cigarette in after. "I shoulda known. She was still married to her first husband when we started fooling around. I fell in love with a cheater. Now I can barely stand to look at her."

The men walk back to the car, where Irma waits. She sits, crying, in the backseat. Eli joins her as Gus takes the wheel and Louis gets in the passenger side.

"Did you hear that, Irma?" Louis asks from the front. "I can barely stand to look at you."

In the darkness, Eli reaches for Irma's hand. She is perhaps the best player of them all. When Louis started getting suspicious and asking questions about her whereabouts while he was at work, it was Irma's idea to frame Paulie C. "Louis has never liked him," she'd said, and that had settled it. Now, she glances at Eli from behind fake tears. A smile plays at the corner of her mouth. He squeezes the tips of her fingers and prays he stays on her good side.

---



---

THANKS: Martin Luther King, Jr. and everyone carrying out his dream. (Yes, I know I'm a day late on this, but I didn't post yesterday. I'm still grateful.)

Bump in the Night

"Hey babe? Can you come here...and bring a needle with you?" Jesse called from the bathroom.

Melody sighed from their bedroom. "For what? I'm a little busy." She went back to reading her book, hoping Jesse would do his own sewing.

"Please? I need help." Jesse walked in the room, one leg of his sweatpants rolled up as far as it would go to reveal a pasty white thigh.

"What's wrong?" Melody rolled over to face him. "Oh, God. Jesse, put that down. You're so pale."

Jesse propped his leg up on the bed so Melody was face-to-face with his groin. "I have a thing." He pointed to a yellow and green bump on his inner thigh. "Can you poke it with a needle? I think it needs to drain out."

Melody pushed his hips out of her face and sat up straighter. "Woah, bud. Whatever happened to leaving a little mystery in our relationship?"

"I'm really freaking out about this, Mel. What if it's a tumor? Some sort of growth?" He pulled his sweatpants all the way off and stood in just his boxers. "You know what? Forget about it. I'll take care of it myself. Where's the sewing kit?"

"Some things can't be forgotten, Jesse. The needles are in the hallway closet, on the shelf above the towels." Melody picked up her book. "Make sure you sterilize." She heard water running, then a sharp intake of breath.

"Oh. Shit. Wow, that hurts."

Curious, Melody peeked her head into the bathroom. Jesse sat on the edge of the tub, one leg crossed over the other, as he poked and prodded with the needle. After piercing himself, he squeezed on either side of the bump, exhaling slowly. Blood gathered around his fingertips.

"You know that's probably an ingrown hair, right?" she asked.

Jesse looked up, putting on his best Pity Me face. "It hurts so bad. Is it really bright in here? It's like the sun's in my eyes. I feel so hot." He leaned back, closing his eyes. "Oh, no, now it feels like I'm spinning."

"Babe, you uh...do any drugs recently?"

"I think part of my soul is leaking out of me."

"Alright, I'm gonna go put in a pizza. You hungry?" Melody started walking away before Jesse answered. "Good luck with your growth. I'll be in the kitchen if you need me. Don't need me."

---

Floating Against the Stream

There was a loud crash in the hallway. Everyone in the classroom looked towards the door in surprise, except me. I side-eyed Lou's empty chair at my side. She was two-for-two on first period tardies. Worst lab partner ever.

Lou opened the door tentatively, as if she could somehow sneak in unnoticed after whatever happened in the hallway. Please. With her wardrobe? I've seen less conspicuous crossing guards.

She was greeted by 24 pairs of eyes--23 of them curious, one disapproving. I shook my head as she realized her plan to slip in quietly wouldn't work--she bit her top lip, did the Curly snap-snap-clap, and finished by sliding her hands underneath her armpits and behind her back, suddenly self-conscious.

I covered my eyes in embarrassment. How did I befriend the tackiest person in our class?

"Heyyyy....guys," she said.

Silence, then muffled laughter.

"I assume no note again today," Mr. Swank cleared his throat, "Lou?"

Lou smiled a little, then let it drop again. "No. Sorry."

"Alright, well. This will have to be a demerit, then."

Lou nodded. "I know." She joined me at our table and reached for my notes like a compulsive eater goes for the last piece of pizza.

I grabbed them back. "Hey," I whispered. "No hello? Are we just gonna pretend you didn't show up late to school again? And what was that crash?"

"I'm sorry! I--" Lou looked up to Mr. Swank, who was back at the board, drawing molecule configurations. "I was dealing with Kinkaide Problems," she continued in her inside voice.

"Your grandpa's in the hallway?" I casually doodled water molecules in my notebook, feigning attentiveness.

"What? No. The hallway was just a depth perception miscalculation. Kinkaide showed up at our house this morning. My mom's pissed."

"What did he want?"

Lou rolled her eyes. "What doesn't that guy want? I'll tell you after class. Long story short: Kinkaide Problems turned into Kali Problems--"

"--And now we have Lou Problems..."

"Absolutely not. Lou Problems are not--will not become--a thing."

"Right."

"What are you drawing, anyways? Is that you? Lou took my notebook again, turning her head sideways to inspect it.

"It's a water molecule, Lou."

"No, it definitely looks like you, Duke. It has your big ears. And your big head."

---

This week's Speakeasy response draws from this story.










---

Housekeeping

THANKS: PNC Bank, for letting me stand in the ATM foyer while waiting for my bus this morning.

Upcoming Post: Heads up, dear readers--tomorrow is the People's Choice Awards. Pending a strong CBS signal, I'll be live-blogging starting at about 8. As the first awards show this year, and the least serious, it'll be my test run/dress rehearsal for Awards Season. Join me!

Ghosts of the Past

Claire found me after first period. I was at my locker when I heard her stomp up behind me.

“Frankie.”

I didn't even turn around, just continued twirling the dial on my lock so I could get my books for second period. “Hey Claire, what’s up?”

She came around to face me, leaning against the row of lockers and crossing her arms over her chest. “You know what’s up, Frankie. Why are you avoiding me?”

“What? We don’t have first period together, how could I be avoiding you?” I knew she wouldn’t be happy with that answer, so I continued looking into my locker as if I was holding a conversation with my school books instead of my best friend.

She swung open the locker next to mine while leaning in beside me until we were cheek to cheek. “We’re locker buddies, Frankie!” she stage whispered. “We always hang out here before second bell.” Without looking she threw her books into the bottom of her locker and grabbed another off the shelf. “I know you’re mad at me for putting you on blast yesterday in English. Can we just get over that?”

I turned to look at her. I knew she was sorry, but if I let this go, it wouldn’t be long before she embarrassed me again. “First of all, we don’t always hang out here...it’s only the third day of school. And secondly, you humiliated me, Claire. My...” I looked around to make sure no one was near us, “...ghosts are my business, not yours. I told you in confidence.”

“Ghosts? Lighten up, Frankie,  no one cares that you used to stutter when we were kids. You didn't tell me in confidence, either. We've gone to school together for eight years. I know all of your 'ghosts.' If anything, your stutter makes you endearing. You can be kind of a jerk, but now you seem...charming, almost. I helped you.”

She wasn’t getting it. “Look, Claire.” I put my hands on her shoulders, making direct eye contact in the hopes that she understood what I was about to say. “We’re in high school now. No one else from our elementary school goes here, so no one knows us yet. We...we can recreate ourselves! This is the time when we can be the people we dreamed about being! I don’t want to waste this.”

“Hey guys...everything okay?” It was Calvin, a quiet kid from our English class.

“Calvin? I didn’t know you spoke.” Claire looked over my shoulder to where he stood. I dropped my hands to my sides and turned to face him.

“I-I don’t, much.” Calvin looked down at his feet, then back up at me. “I st-t-tutter too.”

Claire patted me on the back. “I’ll leave you two alone,” she whispered. There was nothing left for her to do but walk away.

---

Merry Christmas Eve! I'm writing for The Speakeasy again.

What I Found

I found the tracks in the deep snow between the trees.

"Bigfoot. I'm positive." I told my family at dinner.

"A deer or a neighbor's dog, I'm sure. Eat your food, Millie." Mom plopped another spoonful of meatballs on my plate, where they rolled around like bodiless heads in the tomato sauce.

My older brother, Everett, set down his phone and leaned into the table, grabbing the salt and shaking it liberally over his plate as he spoke. "We aren't anywhere near Bigfoot territory." He paused to shovel a forkful of spaghetti into his mouth, slurping up the noodles and getting sauce on his face. "Wouldn't the Abominable Snowman make more sense? It is December."

"Watch the sodium intake, Ev." Mom pulled the salt shaker away from him as she tried to get Johnny, my baby brother, to eat with a fork instead of his fingers.

"The Abominable Snowman is from the Himalayas, dummy." I twirled spaghetti around my fork, wishing dinner was over.

"No name-calling, Millie." Dad set down his newspaper to pick up his glass of red wine, swirling it around before taking a drink. "You’re right though, we're not in Yeti stomping grounds."

I made a face at Everett. He was already back on his phone and didn't notice. I continued spinning my fork as Izzy, our dog, wandered into the dining room. She pushed her nose into my thigh, asking for scraps. I waited until Dad was reading and Mom was busy picking up solitary noodles from Johnny’s tray, then I dropped a meatball onto the floor. Izzy ate it gingerly and looked back up to me as if to say, “That’s all?” I shrugged my shoulders and dropped her another one.

“Can I be excused?” I asked to what could have been a table of face cards instead of my family members. No one looked at or answered me. I grabbed an orange from the fruit bowl on the counter, threw on a coat, and motioned to Izzy. “C’mon, girl. Let’s go for a walk.”

Outside, the early winter darkness added to the quiet of our rural town. I peeled the orange as we headed towards the line of pine trees at the edge of my parents’ property. Izzy ran in giddy zigzags ahead of me. I started to call her back before she ran through the tracks, but I didn't have to. She froze a few feet from the trees; her ears pushed forward and her tail went straight.

I caught up to her and saw why: the tracks were still there, but so was the creature who had made them. Creatures, actually. Two brown bears stepped out from behind the trees, their dark eyes first taking in Izzy, then me.

I heard a low rumble and realized it came from Izzy. “Iz,” I hissed. “No.” She didn't listen. Barking, she jumped back and forth in the snow in front of me. The bears weren't impressed and continued pacing. They didn't advance, but they didn't retreat either. I crouched down behind Izzy and slid my fingers beneath her collar. She stopped her hasty activity, her body still tense.

We can't outrun bears. That’s all I could think as I buried my head into Izzy’s scruff. Juice from my half-peeled orange ran from my fist down to my wrist, where it fell into the snow like pale blood. The citrus stung my dry skin.

Izzy nudged my hand with her nose, forcing the orange out into the snow. She licked the juice off my fingers and pushed into me, knocking me off balance and onto my back. When I sat up, she was already halfway to the bears, the orange peeking out of her mouth. She bent low to place it in front of them and took a few steps back.

I doubt the bears lurked on our property for a dog-slobbered orange, but Izzy’s peace offering proved effective. One of them pushed it around with his nose while the other sat back on his haunches. Izzy trotted over to me, nipping at the sleeve of my coat. I stood up and together we backed away.

Only Everett noticed I’d been gone. “Why are you breathing so heavy?” he asked as I slipped back into the kitchen to help clean up dinner. “You look like you saw Bigfoot.”

------

Call it a pre-resolution--I'm throwing myself into blogging for these two weeks before the new year (which coincides with my 5th blogiversary). This post was prompted by The Speakeasy #140.