As a part of my storytelling class, I attended a live storytelling performance on campus this past weekend. Stories are meant to be heard, which is why recordings and YouTube videos are important, but live is better than recorded when considering the emotional impact of a story.
This monthly event is part open mic and part storytelling performance, which meant I got to hear a variety of traditional tales, personal stories, and the featured teller's program. Hearing (and seeing) how others tell was a great way for me to think about the way I tell - do I remember to pause for drama (or comedy)? How do I stand? Do I have any verbal or physical tics?
Most powerfully, hearing the featured teller - Mama Edie Armstrong - along with several members of the Drum Divas showed me all the ways storytelling can reach an audience. She had us singing and dancing, laughing, sharing, and focused on her tales. Her program was called "Migrations: The Drums are Calling Us Home" and featured stories both personal and traditional, along with songs and educational interludes.
Mama Edie's style is suited for small gatherings (the audience was about 40-50 adults in a small lounge), but could easily translate to a larger performance. It was easy to see how she would work in a school setting or with younger audiences, as she asked for participation and used our reactions as teachable moments.
I was entertained, informed, and surprised at how quickly the time passed as Mama Edie told. The entire program was life-affirming and helped to show how storytelling is a connecting art form. I'm excited to continue my storytelling journey as I develop my librarian toolkit.
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 10, 2018
Saturday, July 1, 2017
All These Wonders
The Moth Presents All These Wonders: True Stories about Facing the Unknown by Catherine BurnsMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
A collection of stories told on various Moth stages, all relating to the theme of "Facing the Unknown" and including storytellers old, young, familiar, and fresh.
First thoughts: This book is beautiful, heartbreaking, and timely. What better time to read about facing the unknown than when staring down the unknown? It's a humbling feeling to know you're not alone, or that different from a wide variety of other humans.
Favorite quote: "Honesty matters. Vulnerability matters. Being open about who you were at a moment in time when you were in a difficult or an impossible place matters more than anything." - Neil Gaiman, foreword
Storytelling thoughts: While The Moth is about live storytelling more so than reading, I was still so moved by the emotions of the tellers. I can only imagine how powerful it is to be in the room when the stories are being told. Luckily, there are Moth events in Chicago, so someday (as soon as this month!) I can be in the room. For those who don't live near a city where they have live events, there's always the Moth Podcast or Radio Hour. And for those who don't do podcasts, there's this wonderful book.
Storyteller thoughts: I'm excited to seek out other works by the storytellers featured in this collection - some are published authors, others are comedians with Netflix specials, and others have no obvious connection to the storytelling world, except their humanity and a need to share their beautiful stories.
Recommended for: EVERYBODY. This book is now a permanent fixture in my personal library, and I'm going to share it with anyone who says they need something new to read. I can see this being a great gift for graduates or new parents.
Final thoughts: I laughed and cried and felt better about my place on this planet. This will be one of the few books I reread in my lifetime.
Editor's Note: I received a copy of All These Wonders from Blogging for Books in exchange for an honest review.
View all my reviews
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
A Journal Journey Pt 2
And here's my journal journey to date: everything personal and cringe-worthy from my life in 12 notebooks.
Up next, filling this guy with whatever inspires me.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Drowning
"You've just reached a new high level in Ignoring Me." Lucy picked an unpopped kernel of popcorn out of the bowl on her lap and launched it at the side of Benjamin's head.
Benjamin shrugged and kept his focus on the TV, where a CGI army under his command attacked a mostly abandoned village. The sound of bullets and barely intelligible radio communication drowned out Lucy's sigh.
This romantic funk--going on two months, based on the last time Benjamin and Lucy went out together to somewhere that didn't have a drive-thru--wasn't how Lucy pictured their relationship progressing, but the oddest part was Benjamin himself wouldn't label it as a funk at all. He would say they were settled into a routine typical of any couple who had been dating long-term.
If Lucy knew that, she would treat it as the first of many red flags.
But Lucy didn't know that, like she didn't know Benjamin's internet search history or the subjects of his recently sent text messages, or of his recently received text messages. All things which would raise several more red flags.
No, what Lucy knew was boredom. And brief forays into anger. And the way the light from a video game made her skin look blue, like she was underwater.
---
Funk: A perfect word to work with this week, as it sums up where I'm at mentally.
---
Benjamin shrugged and kept his focus on the TV, where a CGI army under his command attacked a mostly abandoned village. The sound of bullets and barely intelligible radio communication drowned out Lucy's sigh.
This romantic funk--going on two months, based on the last time Benjamin and Lucy went out together to somewhere that didn't have a drive-thru--wasn't how Lucy pictured their relationship progressing, but the oddest part was Benjamin himself wouldn't label it as a funk at all. He would say they were settled into a routine typical of any couple who had been dating long-term.
If Lucy knew that, she would treat it as the first of many red flags.
But Lucy didn't know that, like she didn't know Benjamin's internet search history or the subjects of his recently sent text messages, or of his recently received text messages. All things which would raise several more red flags.
No, what Lucy knew was boredom. And brief forays into anger. And the way the light from a video game made her skin look blue, like she was underwater.
---
Funk: A perfect word to work with this week, as it sums up where I'm at mentally.
---
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
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.”
---
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.”
---
---
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Misdirection
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
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.
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.
---
---
---
---
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
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.
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.
Thursday, January 23, 2014
The Proposal
Chloe and Franklin drive home from dinner when the subject comes up again.
"I can't believe that guy proposed at a restaurant," Chloe says. "People still do that?"
"Some people really like food? Maybe that's where they met. We don't know." Franklin says from the passenger seat.
"And did you see the ring? A diamond. C'mon dude, it's 2039. Diamonds are so quaint."
"This coming from the girl who still drives a hybrid...besides, he did the whole get down on one knee thing, so why not throw in a diamond?" Franklin shrugs. "Call me old-fashioned, but I thought it was sweet."
Chloe looks over to Franklin, then back at the road. "You are old-fashioned. And don't make fun of my car," she pats the dashboard, "I got a really good deal on this gal."
"Maybe that guy got a good deal on the ring."
"I should hope so. It wasn't even that big."
---
[Envisioning a near future where things are different, but still the same.]
---
THANKS: blankets. coffee. socks. tea. steamy showers. candles. anything that makes me warmer.
Chloe looks over to Franklin, then back at the road. "You are old-fashioned. And don't make fun of my car," she pats the dashboard, "I got a really good deal on this gal."
"Maybe that guy got a good deal on the ring."
"I should hope so. It wasn't even that big."
---
[Envisioning a near future where things are different, but still the same.]---
THANKS: blankets. coffee. socks. tea. steamy showers. candles. anything that makes me warmer.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
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.)
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.)
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
No Spark
The first time I saw how strong a word is, I was too late to take it back.
"If that's how you feel, what else is there to say?” she said.
“Wait,” I said.
But she was gone.
---
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
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."
---
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."
---
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Going Paleo
"Everything on my tray is beige," I said, sitting down across from Lou at our table. Two days in and the school lunches were already getting a little desperate.
Lou continued pulling apart split ends with the concentration of a brain surgeon.
"Hey, Cafeteria to Lou." I swatted her hand away from her hair and she looked up at me like I'd kicked a puppy rather than discouraged her bad habit. "Tell me what happened this morning--why were you late to school again? And what are you eating?"
"Kali forgot to send in my lunch money and this was all I could find at home." Lou stirred the murky contents of the plastic container in front of her. "Leftover pea chowder. I think."
"Your mom cooks the weirdest shit." I took the chicken patty out of my sandwich and handed her the bun. "Here, you can have this. I don't need the carbs and you won't eat the meat. Win-win."
"Can I have your applesauce? You don't need the sugar either." Lou glanced down to my waist and back up again.
"Excuse you?" I pushed my tray across the table. "Whatever. We're going to Big Sammy's after school anyways, right?"
"Can't," Lou said through a mouthful of green soup and applesauce.
I handed her my napkin. "Kinkaide Problems?"
"Yep." Lou disregarded the napkin and swiped the back of her hand across her mouth. "He showed up this morning going on about some Miles guy. I think he owes someone money. Or he's someone's brother? He owes Kinkaide's brother money? I'm not sure. Anyways, Kinkaide is bringing this Miles character to dinner so I have to go straight home after school. Besides, I'm going Paleo from now on. No more Sammy's." Lou pushed my now empty tray back to me, keeping the cookie from dessert.
I glanced at the cookie and back to Lou.
"What? Starting after lunch. I can't go on a diet mid-meal."
---
A continuation of Lou's story. Read more here and here.
---
THANKS: Neighbor guy at work, who helped me shovel out my work car and who always greets me with "Hello, Beautiful," in a non-creepy way.
Lou continued pulling apart split ends with the concentration of a brain surgeon.
"Hey, Cafeteria to Lou." I swatted her hand away from her hair and she looked up at me like I'd kicked a puppy rather than discouraged her bad habit. "Tell me what happened this morning--why were you late to school again? And what are you eating?"
"Kali forgot to send in my lunch money and this was all I could find at home." Lou stirred the murky contents of the plastic container in front of her. "Leftover pea chowder. I think."
"Your mom cooks the weirdest shit." I took the chicken patty out of my sandwich and handed her the bun. "Here, you can have this. I don't need the carbs and you won't eat the meat. Win-win."
"Can I have your applesauce? You don't need the sugar either." Lou glanced down to my waist and back up again.
"Excuse you?" I pushed my tray across the table. "Whatever. We're going to Big Sammy's after school anyways, right?"
"Can't," Lou said through a mouthful of green soup and applesauce.
I handed her my napkin. "Kinkaide Problems?"
"Yep." Lou disregarded the napkin and swiped the back of her hand across her mouth. "He showed up this morning going on about some Miles guy. I think he owes someone money. Or he's someone's brother? He owes Kinkaide's brother money? I'm not sure. Anyways, Kinkaide is bringing this Miles character to dinner so I have to go straight home after school. Besides, I'm going Paleo from now on. No more Sammy's." Lou pushed my now empty tray back to me, keeping the cookie from dessert.
I glanced at the cookie and back to Lou.
"What? Starting after lunch. I can't go on a diet mid-meal."
---
A continuation of Lou's story. Read more here and here.---
THANKS: Neighbor guy at work, who helped me shovel out my work car and who always greets me with "Hello, Beautiful," in a non-creepy way.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
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!
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!
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
Making an Entrance
Lou was seven minutes late to Swank the Tank’s science class on our first day of school. I could hear her asthmatic wheezing from where I sat in the back of the room, but that didn’t stop her from trying to be sneaky. She waved at me and tiptoed towards the seat I saved for her while Mr. Swank continued scribbling his name on the chalkboard like a six foot, 220-pound kindergartner. She was halfway back when his bicep tensed briefly. His hand, still clenching the chalk, hovered over the board as he boomed out Lou’s full name over his shoulder: “Louise Babcock?”
Lou stopped in her tracks, her face flushing. She hated to be called Louise, particularly by figures of authority (and even more particularly by figures of authority with mullets).
“It’s Lou.” She turned around, hands on hips, to face the front of the room.
“Do you have a note?” Mr. Swank turned as well, crossing his arms over his billboard-size chest.
Reaching down to pick up a non-existent skirt, Lou curtsied. "My apologies, I neglected to ask for one. Please forgive me."
“No need for groveling, I’ll just mark this as a demerit.”
Lou put up her hands in surrender: “Whoa, calm down, Father Brown. We started off on the wrong foot. Cut me some slack on the first day. Let’s put this behind us, shall we?”
Mr. Swank considered this for a moment before nodding. “Fair enough. But this is your only warning.”
“Roger that.” Lou saluted Mr. Swank and turned on one foot to join me in the back. “Hey Duke,” she said to me as she slid into her seat.
“Smooth entrance,” I greeted her.
“Louise? Duke?” Mr. Swank asked.
“It’s Lou,” both she and I answered.
---
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
Ghosts of the Past
Claire found me after first period. I was at my locker when I heard her stomp up behind me.
“Frankie.”
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.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
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.
"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.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
One-Word Wednesday
Could you get your message across in one word sentences? Today I challenged myself to do that (mostly via text). I'm not a woman of many words (until I drink caffeine or alcohol), preferring to write (duh), but it was still tough to condense what I wanted to say into one word. I had to get creative with descriptions, which led to being more accurate while at the same time more confusing. By the end of the day, I found it hard to not word vomit everywhere; I kept thoughts in my head to spew out once my self-imposed challenge ended.
A simple Google search of "one word" brings up some fun things--apparently I'm not the only one challenging myself this way, nor am I the only one who recognizes the power of solo words:
oneword.com : they give you one word, you type for 60 seconds. It's about "being inspired by words." If you choose, you can register & upload your flow. Today's word is "sweep" and I invented a new definition for it: sweet weep. Like happy crying. I sweep fairly often.
myoneword.org : "Change your life with just one word." The idea is to "choose one word that represents what you most hope God will do in you, and focus on it for an entire year." This super overwhelms me. Like defining an entire city with one word (see Eat, Pray, Love --Rome is "sex," New York is "ambition," London is "stuffy," etc.), I think it's neat to think we each have one word that defines us. I just don't think I could ever settle on one word forever. (Maybe my word is overwhelmed?) A search for Chicago's word comes back with "loyal," "husky," "nonchalant," "real," and "straightforward."
oneword365.com : Similar to My One Word, this site is a 2013 New Year's resolution to choose one word to focus on for an entire year. What does it mean if the words I think of first are "wine," "balance," and "pranks" ? When I asked Britney, she said her word would be "supercalifragilisticexpialidocious." Getting the most bang for her buck, that one.
I remember having to do a one word writing exercise in high school. We wrote stories with just one word sentences; it was one of my favorite activities. I write better when posed a challenge, given a specific topic, or made to follow story guidelines--I'm not nearly as overwhelmed by an expanse of white page when my options are limited. In some way limits are freeing. I can't find the story now, though I'm sure it's at home somewhere. It was mostly dialogue, which happens to be my writing forte.
I guess I'll write another...
Trying
Bar. Empty. --Wait. Woman. Alone.
Bartender. "Thirsty?"
"Parched."
"Drink?"
"Beer."
"Enjoy."
"Thanks." Sip. Grimace. Bitter.
"Bad?"
Frown. "Unpracticed."
"Patience."
Door. Man. Sits. "Whiskey. Please."
"Sure." Turns. Pours. Serves.
Downs. "Another."
"Careful."
Wave. Dismissing.
"Grieving?"
"Celebrating." Sarcastic. "Pregnant."
"First?"
"Fourth."
Whistles.
"Exhausted."
"Wife?"
"Same."
Nods.
Woman. Eavesdropping. Sighs. Bottle.
Emptied. Empty.
Leaves. Leaving.
Stops. Whispers. "Congrats."
A simple Google search of "one word" brings up some fun things--apparently I'm not the only one challenging myself this way, nor am I the only one who recognizes the power of solo words:
oneword.com : they give you one word, you type for 60 seconds. It's about "being inspired by words." If you choose, you can register & upload your flow. Today's word is "sweep" and I invented a new definition for it: sweet weep. Like happy crying. I sweep fairly often.
myoneword.org : "Change your life with just one word." The idea is to "choose one word that represents what you most hope God will do in you, and focus on it for an entire year." This super overwhelms me. Like defining an entire city with one word (see Eat, Pray, Love --Rome is "sex," New York is "ambition," London is "stuffy," etc.), I think it's neat to think we each have one word that defines us. I just don't think I could ever settle on one word forever. (Maybe my word is overwhelmed?) A search for Chicago's word comes back with "loyal," "husky," "nonchalant," "real," and "straightforward."
oneword365.com : Similar to My One Word, this site is a 2013 New Year's resolution to choose one word to focus on for an entire year. What does it mean if the words I think of first are "wine," "balance," and "pranks" ? When I asked Britney, she said her word would be "supercalifragilisticexpialidocious." Getting the most bang for her buck, that one.
I remember having to do a one word writing exercise in high school. We wrote stories with just one word sentences; it was one of my favorite activities. I write better when posed a challenge, given a specific topic, or made to follow story guidelines--I'm not nearly as overwhelmed by an expanse of white page when my options are limited. In some way limits are freeing. I can't find the story now, though I'm sure it's at home somewhere. It was mostly dialogue, which happens to be my writing forte.
I guess I'll write another...
Trying
Bar. Empty. --Wait. Woman. Alone.
Bartender. "Thirsty?"
"Parched."
"Drink?"
"Beer."
"Enjoy."
"Thanks." Sip. Grimace. Bitter.
"Bad?"
Frown. "Unpracticed."
"Patience."
Door. Man. Sits. "Whiskey. Please."
"Sure." Turns. Pours. Serves.
Downs. "Another."
"Careful."
Wave. Dismissing.
"Grieving?"
"Celebrating." Sarcastic. "Pregnant."
"First?"
"Fourth."
Whistles.
"Exhausted."
"Wife?"
"Same."
Nods.
Woman. Eavesdropping. Sighs. Bottle.
Emptied. Empty.
Leaves. Leaving.
Stops. Whispers. "Congrats."
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Independence Day
The road stretches north for miles, only ending where it meets the sky and seems to drop off into nothingness. Nothingness. We are surrounded by nothing and everything. It's the kind of scenery that un-anchors me, leaving me floating somewhere at the back of my skull, while at the same time it rushes towards me with all the power and grace of a well-established forest. It's the kind of scenery that makes it okay to think these words.
We pass city limit signs for places small enough to claim the "Mighty Midgets" as their hometown mascots without anyone really caring. Places where ruffed grouse (Grouses? Groose?) come a dime a dozen. We imagine the people who live in these places fall into one of two camps: those who wear socks under their sandals and those who wear socks under their lace-up boots.
When I first found out the slogan was "Nobody doesn't like Sara Lee" I got upset. I always thought it was "Nobody does it like Sara Lee." I don't know why I remember that now. The pause between conversation topics grows to a clean break of silence separating declarations of side roads with funny names. Kumdinger Drive. Cutoff Road, which would be funnier if there was a bar somewhere along it. Most likely there is.
We pass city limit signs for places small enough to claim the "Mighty Midgets" as their hometown mascots without anyone really caring. Places where ruffed grouse (Grouses? Groose?) come a dime a dozen. We imagine the people who live in these places fall into one of two camps: those who wear socks under their sandals and those who wear socks under their lace-up boots.
When I first found out the slogan was "Nobody doesn't like Sara Lee" I got upset. I always thought it was "Nobody does it like Sara Lee." I don't know why I remember that now. The pause between conversation topics grows to a clean break of silence separating declarations of side roads with funny names. Kumdinger Drive. Cutoff Road, which would be funnier if there was a bar somewhere along it. Most likely there is.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Horror Story Opening or the True Events of Wednesday Night?
There are exactly eleven cars in the grocery store's parking lot. It's only 9:30, but even the usually lively apartment complex across the street looks dead and sickly under the circa 1970s street lights. Bailey and I get out of the car, still singing Sheryl Crow, and walk into the fluorescent brightness of the store.
We only need a few things, just the last ingredients for the fettuccine Alfredo we want to make the next day, but we were crawling under our skin to get out of the house--even just to drive up to Abbotsford, which is just about as exciting as Colby on any given day.
The two cashiers on duty nod hello as we walk in and go back to whatever it is they were doing: cleaning the glass over the bar code scanner (again), refacing the candy and magazines next to the register. Bailey and I head for the back of the store, the dairy section. The country songs our parents grew up with crackle over the loudspeakers. "Mothers, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys..."
A small girl stands next to the yogurt in the refrigerated shelves and stares up at us as her mother drifts towards the frozen pizzas, leaning on their empty shopping cart and shuffling along in flip flops from last summer. I get the chills, but I'm not sure if they're from the selection of cold cuts and cheese in the refrigerated section around me or the girl's vacant gaze.
Bailey grabs a wedge of Parmesan cheese, the only one in the entire cheese section spanning nearly the entire back wall of the store. This is more of a yellow cheese kind of place.
"Do we need anything else?" she asks.
"I don't think so. We only have ten dollars, so."
We take the chip aisle to the front of the store, passing a middle-aged man debating between Fritos and Cheetos. His cart already holds a 24-pack and a can of Easy Cheese. He turns to watch us as we walk past. We smile hello and keep walking as he puts both bags of chips in his cart.
In the checkout line the cashier asks if we've found everything okay. His skin is a weathered tan and his blond hair stays curly with the help of hair gel. We pay and decline a bag, turning to go back out to the car.
"Have a good day tomorrow, girls," the cashier says to our backs.
"Thanks, you too," we reply.
"I mean...ladies."
The automatic doors slide open and we hesitate for a moment, wondering if we should laugh. Instead we keep walking out to the nearly empty parking lot.
We only need a few things, just the last ingredients for the fettuccine Alfredo we want to make the next day, but we were crawling under our skin to get out of the house--even just to drive up to Abbotsford, which is just about as exciting as Colby on any given day.
The two cashiers on duty nod hello as we walk in and go back to whatever it is they were doing: cleaning the glass over the bar code scanner (again), refacing the candy and magazines next to the register. Bailey and I head for the back of the store, the dairy section. The country songs our parents grew up with crackle over the loudspeakers. "Mothers, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys..."
A small girl stands next to the yogurt in the refrigerated shelves and stares up at us as her mother drifts towards the frozen pizzas, leaning on their empty shopping cart and shuffling along in flip flops from last summer. I get the chills, but I'm not sure if they're from the selection of cold cuts and cheese in the refrigerated section around me or the girl's vacant gaze.
Bailey grabs a wedge of Parmesan cheese, the only one in the entire cheese section spanning nearly the entire back wall of the store. This is more of a yellow cheese kind of place.
"Do we need anything else?" she asks.
"I don't think so. We only have ten dollars, so."
We take the chip aisle to the front of the store, passing a middle-aged man debating between Fritos and Cheetos. His cart already holds a 24-pack and a can of Easy Cheese. He turns to watch us as we walk past. We smile hello and keep walking as he puts both bags of chips in his cart.
In the checkout line the cashier asks if we've found everything okay. His skin is a weathered tan and his blond hair stays curly with the help of hair gel. We pay and decline a bag, turning to go back out to the car.
"Have a good day tomorrow, girls," the cashier says to our backs.
"Thanks, you too," we reply.
"I mean...ladies."
The automatic doors slide open and we hesitate for a moment, wondering if we should laugh. Instead we keep walking out to the nearly empty parking lot.
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