This week, I found inspiration in six words offered at Easily Mused. The link gets you to the home page, so that you can explore this terrific forum for writers. You can also bump into some #fridayflash regulars over there. The words I used will be in the labels; I find that telling the words ahead of time detracts from a story. Comments welcome!
WEEKNIGHT TELEVISION
"Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes," the contestant sang, botching the melody for the tenth time. Jack threw Jenna a disgusted look. "I don't know how you watch this shit. Reality my ass."
Jenna curled up tighter under the raveling afghan, kept her gaze fixed on the television.
Jack fumbled in the kitchen, complained about the contents, or lack of contents in the fridge.
The contestant walked off the stage to condescending smiles and insincere thank yous from the judges. The host of the show spouted disingenuous platitudes, then issued a teaser for the next segment.
X Factor. X Games. X Box.
A child dressed as Darth Vader tried to make objects move. He flung his hands before him, but the washing machine did not perceive the pint-sized omnipotence. She changed X to EX, tried each one again inside her mind. Yeah, that worked. EX Box got Jenna snorting.
"What's so funny?"
She pointed to the television. Darth flinched, shocked that he started the car. His dad winked at the mom as he held the remote car starter.
Jack sat down, popped the top on a Narragansett. "Shit!"
Jack hopped up as frothy beer foam spewed his jeans. "Aren't you gonna do something?"
Don't giggle, don't laugh, face is stone, my face is granite....
EX marks the spot. Jenna giggled.
"Get me a friggin' towel, whydontya. Geesh."
Jenna went to the bathroom, pulled a damp towel from the bar. She dropped it in Jack's lap. Before she could return to her seat, he grabbed her wrist, pulled her down onto him.
"I remember a time when you woulda dried this for me."
He nuzzled her neck, reached his hand under her shirt.
She slid off his lap. "Hungry?" she asked.
"Huh?" Jack said.
"I'll make popcorn."
Jenna peeked through the cut through. Jack rested his forearms on his knees, stared at the screen. She opened the box of Pop secret, shoved a bag in the microwave, hit the "popcorn" button. Idiot-proof. If only everything was so simple.
The ersatz butter reek filled the apartment. So did feminine laughter.
Jack had changed the channel to HBO. Boobs filled the screen, and a dwarf—no, small person, she'd watched the documentaries, and besides, this guy was considered a serious actor, not a munchkin, not like a token member of a rapper's entourage—he was surrounded by gratuitous nudity until the scene cut to a guy getting beheaded.
"I don't know how you watch this shit," Jenna said, offering Jack the bowl.
He looked at her until she squirmed, then grabbed a handful of popcorn.
Jenna set the bowl on the couch between them, picked up the remote control.
On Demand, maybe there she'd find something they both liked.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Friday, August 19, 2011
SALVATION BOX
Hello again. They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions... I'm in the fast lane. Missed last week, but here I am today with a #fridayflash. Thanks for reading. Tell a friend if you like the words.
SALVATION BOX
Carmen pulled the box out from under the bed. ADIDAS. In junior high, that meant All Day I Dream About Sex. Seventh grade. Bangs and octagon-framed glasses, acne and a training bra. Did she think about sex? After Mr. Gauvin spent four months on human reproduction, she tried her best to forget about sex. Learning the difference between clitoris and vulva from a two-chinned biology teacher with Rorschach stains on his tie somehow dampened the ardor. She remembered the boys disgusted expressions every time a girl crossed or uncrossed her legs. Maybe that was the school board's intention—birth control by revulsion.
She never owned a pair of Adidas.
For that matter, neither had Jeremy, as far as she knew. Jeremy was a Nike man. Except for the occasional Chuck Taylors. At least, people referred to the Chuck T's as sneakers. Running shoes, cross-trainers, board shoes, basketball shoes—what was so politically incorrect about the word sneaker? Maybe the "sneak" part. But that was the point of rubber soles, wasn't it? Rubber soles...rubber souls...rubbers...Jeremy always used Fantasy brand....
Adidas. Women's Running adiSTAR Salvation 3 shoes. Size 5½. Medium width. Carmen opened the box. White shoe—no, white sneaker, pink and black treads. Cool design, if one were to run in the mud, or snow, or on thick-piled carpeting. Also inside the box, she found a pair of ankle socks, stretched flat on cardboard inside the cellophane. Fuzzy white socks with pink edging and fuzzier pink pom poms.
Carmen tucked a few stray hairs back under the bandana covering her head. She stared at the dust motes floating lazily on the late afternoon sunbeams. Still needed to vacuum and dust, but organizing the clutter came first. She left the sneaker box on the bed, and slid open Jeremy's side of the closet. She sniffed a suit, relishing his lingering cologne. She missed him so much when he left town for the weekend. But, business was business, and her business this weekend was to tackle the fall cleaning.
Carmen grabbed a garbage bag as she remembered Jeremy's erotic dream, one he'd shared with her shortly after they'd met. Something involving pom pom socks and sneakers. She was supposed to wear that and nothing else. In his dream, she'd, well, she'd done things that even Mr. Gauvin may not have disclosed to a class of pre-teens while stroking the labia majora and labia minora on that female anatomy poster. She laughed out loud, surprising herself at the sharp sound. Labia Majora, that should be the name for an all girl rock band. Imagine what the drummer did with her sticks....
Carmen had always intended to do it, really, she wanted to please Jeremy, but somehow she'd never quite gotten around to shopping for the socks. Had Jeremy intended to surprise her? Bought the dream sneakers, found the dream pom poms, then got shy and shoved the box under the bed? Sure, he was waiting for the right time to pull it all out and ask her to fulfill the fantasy. But before that happened, he stored his suitcase under the bed. The box got shoved deeper, almost forgotten. Sure, that was it. Then he took a trip and Carmen decided to do the fall cleaning and looked under the bed when the vacuum whined on the dust bunnies and she found the box. Maybe, maybe, maybe....
Carmen yanked his clothes off the hangers and stuffed them in the garbage bags. She found Salvation. That was Salvation 3 running shoes. Those sneakers were not her size.
SALVATION BOX
Carmen pulled the box out from under the bed. ADIDAS. In junior high, that meant All Day I Dream About Sex. Seventh grade. Bangs and octagon-framed glasses, acne and a training bra. Did she think about sex? After Mr. Gauvin spent four months on human reproduction, she tried her best to forget about sex. Learning the difference between clitoris and vulva from a two-chinned biology teacher with Rorschach stains on his tie somehow dampened the ardor. She remembered the boys disgusted expressions every time a girl crossed or uncrossed her legs. Maybe that was the school board's intention—birth control by revulsion.
She never owned a pair of Adidas.
For that matter, neither had Jeremy, as far as she knew. Jeremy was a Nike man. Except for the occasional Chuck Taylors. At least, people referred to the Chuck T's as sneakers. Running shoes, cross-trainers, board shoes, basketball shoes—what was so politically incorrect about the word sneaker? Maybe the "sneak" part. But that was the point of rubber soles, wasn't it? Rubber soles...rubber souls...rubbers...Jeremy always used Fantasy brand....
Adidas. Women's Running adiSTAR Salvation 3 shoes. Size 5½. Medium width. Carmen opened the box. White shoe—no, white sneaker, pink and black treads. Cool design, if one were to run in the mud, or snow, or on thick-piled carpeting. Also inside the box, she found a pair of ankle socks, stretched flat on cardboard inside the cellophane. Fuzzy white socks with pink edging and fuzzier pink pom poms.
Carmen tucked a few stray hairs back under the bandana covering her head. She stared at the dust motes floating lazily on the late afternoon sunbeams. Still needed to vacuum and dust, but organizing the clutter came first. She left the sneaker box on the bed, and slid open Jeremy's side of the closet. She sniffed a suit, relishing his lingering cologne. She missed him so much when he left town for the weekend. But, business was business, and her business this weekend was to tackle the fall cleaning.
Carmen grabbed a garbage bag as she remembered Jeremy's erotic dream, one he'd shared with her shortly after they'd met. Something involving pom pom socks and sneakers. She was supposed to wear that and nothing else. In his dream, she'd, well, she'd done things that even Mr. Gauvin may not have disclosed to a class of pre-teens while stroking the labia majora and labia minora on that female anatomy poster. She laughed out loud, surprising herself at the sharp sound. Labia Majora, that should be the name for an all girl rock band. Imagine what the drummer did with her sticks....
Carmen had always intended to do it, really, she wanted to please Jeremy, but somehow she'd never quite gotten around to shopping for the socks. Had Jeremy intended to surprise her? Bought the dream sneakers, found the dream pom poms, then got shy and shoved the box under the bed? Sure, he was waiting for the right time to pull it all out and ask her to fulfill the fantasy. But before that happened, he stored his suitcase under the bed. The box got shoved deeper, almost forgotten. Sure, that was it. Then he took a trip and Carmen decided to do the fall cleaning and looked under the bed when the vacuum whined on the dust bunnies and she found the box. Maybe, maybe, maybe....
Carmen yanked his clothes off the hangers and stuffed them in the garbage bags. She found Salvation. That was Salvation 3 running shoes. Those sneakers were not her size.
Friday, August 5, 2011
COMMUTE
Gosh, I miss doing this every week. But in the paraphrased words of Dr. Suess, I am thankful I do it occasionally, rather than regret when I cannot. #fridayflash. Thanks for reading.
COMMUTE
MONDAY
She groaned at the tired punch-line the morning deejay delivered after a rambling story. Vanessa slammed the volume knob, listened to the tires roll against pavement. A to-do list formed in her mind, quickly segued to a should-have list, then a shouldn't-have list. She turned the radio back on. Vanessa let the familiarity of an overplayed classic lull her back into the morning commute.
A white sheet billowed ahead. Though rarer these days than a year ago, she made a point of reading each testament to a brave soldier's return, adding her silent prayer of thanks and welcome home. Vanessa eased up on the gas pedal as she approached the overpass. This wasn’t one of those.
I LOVE YOU WILL YOU MARRY ME SAM. Such vulnerability rippled across the white sheet, the corners tied to the steel fencing. Eight thick, crooked words let the world know ME put his or her heart out on the line. Was Sam a Samuel or Samantha? What did ME know about love? So hopeful, there for the world to read. The driver behind Vanessa laid on his horn.
She sped up, thinking if only ME knew. Hopeful, all-consuming, shout-it-from-the-rooftops love—or from Interstate 93—lasted only until the top layer of wedding cake thawed. A year layer, a mere token from its once glorious affec—confection, she meant confection—it tasted stale, bland, maybe a little freezer burnt. But Chris and she shared it, pretending it still meant something. Well, maybe not enough. They ate it two days after their first anniversary. Or was it three?
Would SAM see the proposal today? Would SAM say YES? She missed that warm, tingly, all-I-can-think-about-is-him feeling. Even more, she missed him feeling that way about her. Vanessa swerved to avoid the mutilated carcass of what once could have been a squirrel as she took her exit. She wished ME luck and added a stop at the bakery, maybe a bottle of wine to her to-do list.
TUESDAY
The sheet sagged. Between wiper passes, Vanessa read I LOVE YOU WILL YOU MARRY ME SAM. It looked a little soggy, less hopeful. The last M had smeared in the rain. Did SAM see it yesterday? Of course she/he did. When someone says yes to a proposal, the couple would probably celebrate, toast with champagne, linger over a romantic dinner. She would lift her hand, let her new diamond catch the flickering candlelight, let it bounce until his pupils reflected the same sparkle. They would make love for hours rather than have sex. In bed, she would hold her diamond up again to catch the street light peeking in between the venetian blinds, then kiss and cuddle and fall asleep with a satisfied smile. Of course SAM and ME would not drive to the overpass and untie their first banner of love. That would be the last thing on their to-do list.
Vanessa turned onto the off ramp, hand-over-hand on her steering wheel. Her engagement ring did not sparkle. Neither did her wedding band. But it was a rainy, gray day; no sunshine to glint off diamonds. She added jewelry cleaner and maybe a quick peek in the lingerie department to her to-do list.
WEDNESDAY
The lower right corner had loosened from between the chain links. I LOVE YOU WILL YU ARY was visible as the wind caught the flap, folded and battered the sheet against the fence. Did SAM say yes? Had SAM even read the proposal? ME must be losing sleep, biting fingernails, ricocheting between righteous anger and self-doubt. How dare SAM make ME wait?
Or had SAM said no? Then of course ME would leave the sheet on the highway, probably take a few days off to avoid ever seeing such a naive message of hope. Vanessa felt for ME. And for SAM.
Maybe something happened to SAM. SAM had not driven on I93. Maybe SAM stayed longer than expected at a family event. Got reacquainted with a long lost cousin, one of those persons who is called cousin due to family friendship, and not because of blood. Better if ME had his/her heart broken now, rather than later. Better to learn now, rather than after the sex becomes obligation, when foreplay becomes the minty fumes of mouthwash.
Vanessa took her exit, added reorganizing the photo albums to her to-do list.
THURSDAY
Large tears bisected the sheet, I LOV WIL MAR SA wrenching on the right, E YOU L YOU RY ME M flapping on the left. Vanessa cried, added buy a legal pad for more to-do lists.
FRIDAY
Vanessa called in sick, then drove the back roads. She parked on the berm just before the bridge. She hoped SAM had seen the message, and knew in his/her heart that someone, at least for a moment, had burst with so much love that it needed to be shared. Vanessa hoped ME held onto that depth of feeling, and could feel it again. Or continue to feel it. Maybe SAM said yes and maybe ME left the banner up for inspiration.
Vanessa detached the tattered corners from the chain links, gently folded the stained and ripped cloth. She could have it dry cleaned, have the attendant sew it back together. She would store it, maybe in her hope chest.
The crisp white sheet snapped in the breeze. Vanessa noticed she missed a paint smudge on the back of her hand as she tied the corners to the fencing. Her L looked a bit crooked, but the OVED blazed thick and bold. Chris would drive under this bridge, maybe tomorrow, maybe next weekend. She could wait for his response.
COMMUTE
MONDAY
She groaned at the tired punch-line the morning deejay delivered after a rambling story. Vanessa slammed the volume knob, listened to the tires roll against pavement. A to-do list formed in her mind, quickly segued to a should-have list, then a shouldn't-have list. She turned the radio back on. Vanessa let the familiarity of an overplayed classic lull her back into the morning commute.
A white sheet billowed ahead. Though rarer these days than a year ago, she made a point of reading each testament to a brave soldier's return, adding her silent prayer of thanks and welcome home. Vanessa eased up on the gas pedal as she approached the overpass. This wasn’t one of those.
I LOVE YOU WILL YOU MARRY ME SAM. Such vulnerability rippled across the white sheet, the corners tied to the steel fencing. Eight thick, crooked words let the world know ME put his or her heart out on the line. Was Sam a Samuel or Samantha? What did ME know about love? So hopeful, there for the world to read. The driver behind Vanessa laid on his horn.
She sped up, thinking if only ME knew. Hopeful, all-consuming, shout-it-from-the-rooftops love—or from Interstate 93—lasted only until the top layer of wedding cake thawed. A year layer, a mere token from its once glorious affec—confection, she meant confection—it tasted stale, bland, maybe a little freezer burnt. But Chris and she shared it, pretending it still meant something. Well, maybe not enough. They ate it two days after their first anniversary. Or was it three?
Would SAM see the proposal today? Would SAM say YES? She missed that warm, tingly, all-I-can-think-about-is-him feeling. Even more, she missed him feeling that way about her. Vanessa swerved to avoid the mutilated carcass of what once could have been a squirrel as she took her exit. She wished ME luck and added a stop at the bakery, maybe a bottle of wine to her to-do list.
TUESDAY
The sheet sagged. Between wiper passes, Vanessa read I LOVE YOU WILL YOU MARRY ME SAM. It looked a little soggy, less hopeful. The last M had smeared in the rain. Did SAM see it yesterday? Of course she/he did. When someone says yes to a proposal, the couple would probably celebrate, toast with champagne, linger over a romantic dinner. She would lift her hand, let her new diamond catch the flickering candlelight, let it bounce until his pupils reflected the same sparkle. They would make love for hours rather than have sex. In bed, she would hold her diamond up again to catch the street light peeking in between the venetian blinds, then kiss and cuddle and fall asleep with a satisfied smile. Of course SAM and ME would not drive to the overpass and untie their first banner of love. That would be the last thing on their to-do list.
Vanessa turned onto the off ramp, hand-over-hand on her steering wheel. Her engagement ring did not sparkle. Neither did her wedding band. But it was a rainy, gray day; no sunshine to glint off diamonds. She added jewelry cleaner and maybe a quick peek in the lingerie department to her to-do list.
WEDNESDAY
The lower right corner had loosened from between the chain links. I LOVE YOU WILL YU ARY was visible as the wind caught the flap, folded and battered the sheet against the fence. Did SAM say yes? Had SAM even read the proposal? ME must be losing sleep, biting fingernails, ricocheting between righteous anger and self-doubt. How dare SAM make ME wait?
Or had SAM said no? Then of course ME would leave the sheet on the highway, probably take a few days off to avoid ever seeing such a naive message of hope. Vanessa felt for ME. And for SAM.
Maybe something happened to SAM. SAM had not driven on I93. Maybe SAM stayed longer than expected at a family event. Got reacquainted with a long lost cousin, one of those persons who is called cousin due to family friendship, and not because of blood. Better if ME had his/her heart broken now, rather than later. Better to learn now, rather than after the sex becomes obligation, when foreplay becomes the minty fumes of mouthwash.
Vanessa took her exit, added reorganizing the photo albums to her to-do list.
THURSDAY
Large tears bisected the sheet, I LOV WIL MAR SA wrenching on the right, E YOU L YOU RY ME M flapping on the left. Vanessa cried, added buy a legal pad for more to-do lists.
FRIDAY
Vanessa called in sick, then drove the back roads. She parked on the berm just before the bridge. She hoped SAM had seen the message, and knew in his/her heart that someone, at least for a moment, had burst with so much love that it needed to be shared. Vanessa hoped ME held onto that depth of feeling, and could feel it again. Or continue to feel it. Maybe SAM said yes and maybe ME left the banner up for inspiration.
Vanessa detached the tattered corners from the chain links, gently folded the stained and ripped cloth. She could have it dry cleaned, have the attendant sew it back together. She would store it, maybe in her hope chest.
The crisp white sheet snapped in the breeze. Vanessa noticed she missed a paint smudge on the back of her hand as she tied the corners to the fencing. Her L looked a bit crooked, but the OVED blazed thick and bold. Chris would drive under this bridge, maybe tomorrow, maybe next weekend. She could wait for his response.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
TWO FLICKS OF A SQUIRREL'S TAIL
This story I thought would be longer, and I had started and stopped it several times. Today, I saw my way through to the end of it as a flash. So, for two weeks in a row, I participate in #fridayflash. Some weeks are easier than others, that's all I'm sayin'.
TWO FLICKS OF A SQUIRREL'S TAIL
Mike looked out the plate-glass windows to see the bagger leaning against the cart corral, texting. Damn kids. Mike stepped outside to yell at Jake when the moon stopped him. Full and bare in all its pockmarked glory, Mike half expected Elliot and ET to bicycle across the surface. A beat-up LeMans careened into the lot, almost grazing the snaking buggy-line Jake pushed toward the store.
Three doors shot open. The driver grasped his door to pull himself out of the car. He limped to the two reaching arms and helped a hunchbacked woman from the back seat. He got a walker from the trunk, rolled it on its tennis-balled feet towards the gesturing woman. Another old man shuffled around from the passenger side. The trio headed toward Mike.
"Store's about to close folks."
"Are you turning away customers? Back in my day—"
"Shush Frank, let the lolly-gagging boy do his big-boss routine."
He hadn't heard lolly-gagging since nana. The hunchbacked woman's sandpapery voice scratched Mike's eardrums. "Have some respect, boss-man—"
—she pushed her walker closer—
"we'll be gone—"
—the automatic doors swooshed behind him—
"—in two flicks of a squirrel's tail."
He stepped aside to let them pass, breathing through his mouth. They smelled like the last time he was at nana's house, an aromatic blend of mothballs, hamburger grease, and urine with a hint of lavender.
But growing up, her house smelled of strawberry rhubarb pie, and pot roast, and Canada peppermints, and clean sheets and lemon Pledge. Her yard buzzed with bees and dragonflies and the faint whoosh of distant traffic. Mockingbirds and jays called from the edging pines, competing with the chickadees and whippoorwills. Turtles crawled, ants hilled, toads hopped. He had seen rabbits and chipmunks, startled squirrels with bulging cheeks. Both he and the animals would stop, stare, and then the squirrels would flick their tails twice before they'd flit away. Always, two flicks of a squirrel's tail—
Mike lost the old folks.
Marci glared at him from register six. The automatic recording urged shoppers to bring their purchases to the front, the store would be closing in ten minutes. Jake crashed the line of carts against the front wall. Mike couldn't hear the old folks shuffling steps or their querulous voices.
"Goodnight boss. See you tomorrow," Stan from produce said as he headed for the exit. He covered his bald spot with a Boston Red Sox cap, instantly erasing years from his face.
"Did you see some old folks in the aisles?" Mike asked.
"Nope. You all set with me?"
"Yes. Goodnight."
Sam left. The women from the deli said their goodbyes. Mike overheard one comment to the other to wish on the full moon. The other retorted it took more than a full moon. The last two stock boys told Mike all set. None of them had seen any shoppers.
Can I do my drawer now?" Marci asked. She winked at Jake, who lingered at the end of her line. The fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed. The announcement thanked everyone for shopping at Soucy's Market.
"Fine! I'll leave a self check-out open," Mike said.
"How do three gimps disappear?" he mumbled as he walked to the front of each aisle, checking the length for the trio. He immediately felt guilty for the insult; his nana would have boxed his ears for that under-breath comment.
A soap smell wafted, a familiar, fresh scent that he couldn't place. Halfway down aisle eight Mike spotted a spilled box of Calgon. Just as he was about to yell for Jake to get a broom, Marci shouted, "Bye Mike! I left the green thingies on top of my drawer."
The automatic doors swished shut. Mike returned to the front, saw the kids run to Marci's Corolla where Jake trapped her against the door. They kissed. Moonbeams shone on the empty LeMans.
Mike locked the doors, wishing he could have a do-over. No way would he spend his career at the local grocery store. He'd be the one kissing girls in the parking lot, Mike thought as went to Marci's register—an entire sheet of S&H green stamps covered the drawer.
Nostalgia sucker-punched Mike. He remembered licking stamp after stamp, filling up the booklets. He had studied the redemption catalogue, agonized between a camera or binoculars. On his thirteenth birthday, his nana had used all the booklets and surprised him with a shiny red Schwinn.
Mike got the broom and dustpan. Over time, those green stamps had paid for nana's oversized suitcase, alarm clock radio; even her pink floral bedspread.
The walker leaned against an endcap.
"Where are you!" Mike shouted. The Calgon smell wafted stronger, reminding him again of nana. Gosh, he hadn't thought about her since he'd brought her to the nursing home, her suitcase filled with housecoats, and her faded bedspread. The alarm clock radio looked out of place in that utilitarian room. So had nana. He should have visited more often.
Soap powder must have drifted as he swept because his eyes stung. Mike pulled the hanky from his back pocket, blew his nose, then let out a self-deprecating laugh. He hadn't thought so much about nana in years.
Mike bent to pick up the fallen box and slipped. His head slammed against the tiles. Suddenly, the catch phrase came to him.
He shouted, "Calgon, take me away!" and covered his eyes with his forearm, trying his best not to sob.
The fluorescents buzzed louder, then altered into a different tone. Bees, Mike thought. He sniffed. Peppermint and lavender filled his nose.
"My, that was quite a spill, Mikey. You fell faster than two flicks of a squirrel's tail."
Mike opened his eyes. Nana smiled at him. "You're fine. Help me with these groceries. Oh, they had the new catalogue down at Soucy's. Hope you wished for something good on last night's full moon!"
I did Nana Mike thought. Yes I did.
TWO FLICKS OF A SQUIRREL'S TAIL
Mike looked out the plate-glass windows to see the bagger leaning against the cart corral, texting. Damn kids. Mike stepped outside to yell at Jake when the moon stopped him. Full and bare in all its pockmarked glory, Mike half expected Elliot and ET to bicycle across the surface. A beat-up LeMans careened into the lot, almost grazing the snaking buggy-line Jake pushed toward the store.
Three doors shot open. The driver grasped his door to pull himself out of the car. He limped to the two reaching arms and helped a hunchbacked woman from the back seat. He got a walker from the trunk, rolled it on its tennis-balled feet towards the gesturing woman. Another old man shuffled around from the passenger side. The trio headed toward Mike.
"Store's about to close folks."
"Are you turning away customers? Back in my day—"
"Shush Frank, let the lolly-gagging boy do his big-boss routine."
He hadn't heard lolly-gagging since nana. The hunchbacked woman's sandpapery voice scratched Mike's eardrums. "Have some respect, boss-man—"
—she pushed her walker closer—
"we'll be gone—"
—the automatic doors swooshed behind him—
"—in two flicks of a squirrel's tail."
He stepped aside to let them pass, breathing through his mouth. They smelled like the last time he was at nana's house, an aromatic blend of mothballs, hamburger grease, and urine with a hint of lavender.
But growing up, her house smelled of strawberry rhubarb pie, and pot roast, and Canada peppermints, and clean sheets and lemon Pledge. Her yard buzzed with bees and dragonflies and the faint whoosh of distant traffic. Mockingbirds and jays called from the edging pines, competing with the chickadees and whippoorwills. Turtles crawled, ants hilled, toads hopped. He had seen rabbits and chipmunks, startled squirrels with bulging cheeks. Both he and the animals would stop, stare, and then the squirrels would flick their tails twice before they'd flit away. Always, two flicks of a squirrel's tail—
Mike lost the old folks.
Marci glared at him from register six. The automatic recording urged shoppers to bring their purchases to the front, the store would be closing in ten minutes. Jake crashed the line of carts against the front wall. Mike couldn't hear the old folks shuffling steps or their querulous voices.
"Goodnight boss. See you tomorrow," Stan from produce said as he headed for the exit. He covered his bald spot with a Boston Red Sox cap, instantly erasing years from his face.
"Did you see some old folks in the aisles?" Mike asked.
"Nope. You all set with me?"
"Yes. Goodnight."
Sam left. The women from the deli said their goodbyes. Mike overheard one comment to the other to wish on the full moon. The other retorted it took more than a full moon. The last two stock boys told Mike all set. None of them had seen any shoppers.
Can I do my drawer now?" Marci asked. She winked at Jake, who lingered at the end of her line. The fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed. The announcement thanked everyone for shopping at Soucy's Market.
"Fine! I'll leave a self check-out open," Mike said.
"How do three gimps disappear?" he mumbled as he walked to the front of each aisle, checking the length for the trio. He immediately felt guilty for the insult; his nana would have boxed his ears for that under-breath comment.
A soap smell wafted, a familiar, fresh scent that he couldn't place. Halfway down aisle eight Mike spotted a spilled box of Calgon. Just as he was about to yell for Jake to get a broom, Marci shouted, "Bye Mike! I left the green thingies on top of my drawer."
The automatic doors swished shut. Mike returned to the front, saw the kids run to Marci's Corolla where Jake trapped her against the door. They kissed. Moonbeams shone on the empty LeMans.
Mike locked the doors, wishing he could have a do-over. No way would he spend his career at the local grocery store. He'd be the one kissing girls in the parking lot, Mike thought as went to Marci's register—an entire sheet of S&H green stamps covered the drawer.
Nostalgia sucker-punched Mike. He remembered licking stamp after stamp, filling up the booklets. He had studied the redemption catalogue, agonized between a camera or binoculars. On his thirteenth birthday, his nana had used all the booklets and surprised him with a shiny red Schwinn.
Mike got the broom and dustpan. Over time, those green stamps had paid for nana's oversized suitcase, alarm clock radio; even her pink floral bedspread.
The walker leaned against an endcap.
"Where are you!" Mike shouted. The Calgon smell wafted stronger, reminding him again of nana. Gosh, he hadn't thought about her since he'd brought her to the nursing home, her suitcase filled with housecoats, and her faded bedspread. The alarm clock radio looked out of place in that utilitarian room. So had nana. He should have visited more often.
Soap powder must have drifted as he swept because his eyes stung. Mike pulled the hanky from his back pocket, blew his nose, then let out a self-deprecating laugh. He hadn't thought so much about nana in years.
Mike bent to pick up the fallen box and slipped. His head slammed against the tiles. Suddenly, the catch phrase came to him.
He shouted, "Calgon, take me away!" and covered his eyes with his forearm, trying his best not to sob.
The fluorescents buzzed louder, then altered into a different tone. Bees, Mike thought. He sniffed. Peppermint and lavender filled his nose.
"My, that was quite a spill, Mikey. You fell faster than two flicks of a squirrel's tail."
Mike opened his eyes. Nana smiled at him. "You're fine. Help me with these groceries. Oh, they had the new catalogue down at Soucy's. Hope you wished for something good on last night's full moon!"
I did Nana Mike thought. Yes I did.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
FANTASMIC!® VACATION
No rain, hot weather coming our way... I am dreaming of vacation.
FANTASMIC!® VACATION
For the fifth time today we queued, as my twelve-year-old son said in his best British impersonation. His British slipped into Swedish, but I chuckled nonetheless. At least this queue was out of the burning sunshine.
The air-conditioned holding tank piped in almost current music and even a slide show distraction while we pretended our 3-D glasses were Ray-ban© designer and we were movie stars rather than weary tourists waiting to act as a “shrunken audience.” I hated “True Colors” (it was a morning radio staple that targeted my age group, so it reminded me of Starbucks® coffee and TJ Maxx® deals and Aerostars®), but combined with the poignant (not corny I rationalized) Kodak® images of vibrant families simulating touching milestone moments, I couldn’t help but hum along and wipe the spec that suddenly irritated my eyes (my son said I could get the red out with Visine®) as I gazed upon my own family milling about. With zero chores and clean sheets and ‘top-notch’ accommodations—not to mention loads of family time—it had turned out to be a terrific week. So what if the brochure-promised "family-time" was spent in "queues?"
I chose to think of it as quality time, since we got to really listen to, and laugh with the boys (or at least I found the patience to clench my teeth and smile indulgently rather than scream it's only funny the first time as my son attempted the tired ersatz British accent again). Later we could spend more time together as we waited our turn for Pluto or Captain Hook or Chip and Dale to visit our table while we ate overpriced burgers and paid for the souvenir photograph. We would go to the parade and light the night with the Simba flashlight and Pocahontas glow sticks. Of course, we would order the keepsake dvd of the spectacular(!), and hurry to catch the shuttle so we could spend the last half hour of our day at the Lego® store and maybe get a Ghirardelli® chocolate shake for dessert, and, and....
That’s when I realized; we paid to vacation inside a commercial.
FANTASMIC!® VACATION
For the fifth time today we queued, as my twelve-year-old son said in his best British impersonation. His British slipped into Swedish, but I chuckled nonetheless. At least this queue was out of the burning sunshine.
The air-conditioned holding tank piped in almost current music and even a slide show distraction while we pretended our 3-D glasses were Ray-ban© designer and we were movie stars rather than weary tourists waiting to act as a “shrunken audience.” I hated “True Colors” (it was a morning radio staple that targeted my age group, so it reminded me of Starbucks® coffee and TJ Maxx® deals and Aerostars®), but combined with the poignant (not corny I rationalized) Kodak® images of vibrant families simulating touching milestone moments, I couldn’t help but hum along and wipe the spec that suddenly irritated my eyes (my son said I could get the red out with Visine®) as I gazed upon my own family milling about. With zero chores and clean sheets and ‘top-notch’ accommodations—not to mention loads of family time—it had turned out to be a terrific week. So what if the brochure-promised "family-time" was spent in "queues?"
I chose to think of it as quality time, since we got to really listen to, and laugh with the boys (or at least I found the patience to clench my teeth and smile indulgently rather than scream it's only funny the first time as my son attempted the tired ersatz British accent again). Later we could spend more time together as we waited our turn for Pluto or Captain Hook or Chip and Dale to visit our table while we ate overpriced burgers and paid for the souvenir photograph. We would go to the parade and light the night with the Simba flashlight and Pocahontas glow sticks. Of course, we would order the keepsake dvd of the spectacular(!), and hurry to catch the shuttle so we could spend the last half hour of our day at the Lego® store and maybe get a Ghirardelli® chocolate shake for dessert, and, and....
That’s when I realized; we paid to vacation inside a commercial.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
SUMMER HEAT AT CANNOLI PIE
The lastest issue of Cannoli Pie, "Fresco", features a short fiction piece by me! The editor describes the story as "ornate, sexy and trippy." I can dig that. Check it out:
http://cannolipie.com/Documents/CP9%20Fresco.pdf
http://cannolipie.com/Documents/CP9%20Fresco.pdf
Thursday, March 17, 2011
FAKE REAL WOMAN
FAKE REAL WOMAN
Diane smashed the portrait she'd painted of Tim and herself against her knee. She pulled drawers, swept the night stand, got rid of every memento and gift that reminded her of him. The anger still boiled. I'm just not attracted to you anymore.
She yanked clothes he bought for her from her closet, ripped each into rags. No loss on those; he still bought her clothes from two sizes ago. For when you get back to yourself, he'd said. She slid the wedding gown from the back, but stopped herself in the nick of time. Mom's wedding gown. Diane's first fitting was supposed to be Saturday. I'm just not attracted to you anymore.
He had yet to promise for better or for worse. He had opted out. Her finger throbbed from tugging off the engagement ring. He'd slid that on her finger two sizes ago.
Just when she thought it couldn't get any worse. I'm just not attracted to you anymore.
Tim got her through mom's funeral. So what if she spiraled a bit after that. Missed classes, lost her art students, lost the downtown studio. Lost her figure. She caught her reflection above the bureau.
Frizzy auburn curls framed her splotchy pale skin, lids swollen over hazel eyes, mascara sliming down puffy cheeks—and two chins, neck folds, the beginning of a matronly uni-boob. She couldn't erase his expression from her mind. There was no remorse. Only pity. I'm sorry, I'm just not attracted to you anymore.
She could handle not being pretty to him anymore (though it hurt). She could handle him not loving her anymore (she'd try). But she could not handle him believing her insignificant (a non-person). If she bumped into him on the street, he wouldn't say hello. Only people who thought themselves superior doled out pity. To him, she would be invisible.
She could show him. She mattered. She could be thin again. Pretty again. Diane raced to her attic studio, slammed a blank canvas on the easel. She slipped on her apron, tied her hair into a ponytail. She'd show him the real her, the perfect Diane.
She mixed paints, brushed bold lines across the blank white. First the hair, blue-black and flowing. She added dots of white then blurred them to give shampoo-commercial shine. She outlined a heart-shaped face, widow's peak a point on the smooth forehead.
Her arm tingled as she shaped eyebrows, arched and haughty. Not something she'd felt before, but yes, if she could feel haughty, she could get over the hurt. Cerulean irises under luxurious lashes, only the faintest hint of laugh lines.
Diane watched her hand fly across the canvas. The collar bone, sleek, visible, not cushioned by fat. Sculpted arms, graceful wrists, elegant fingers all appeared. She hadn't felt such inspiration since her mother started chemo. Painting felt good again. She added flesh tones, filled in shadows, gave the Diane in the picture dimension. A warmth spread from her fingertips to her hands, from there to her entire body, exciting her, arousing her, spurring her to give life to the woman on the canvas. Show a part of herself that Tim....
Diane lowered the brush. In her artistic frenzy, she had forgotten. He had dumped her. Pitied her. Deemed her insignificant.
She stared at her self-portrait, the portrait of the better self she wanted to be. The one Tim wanted her to be. One that Tim could be attracted to.
The woman was not Diane.
From the eye color to the erect nipples on melon-shaped breasts, to the perfect cheerios navel dotting the pilates-structured stomach, to the curly black triangle between full hips, to the muscular legs....
Diane could never be the goddess on the canvas. The nude woman looked too real. The woman was taller, shapelier, bolder—Diane realized she had painted a nude Wonder Woman. Diane reached for more blue pigment to cover the nudity. She couldn't believe she had painted every hot-blooded teenaged boy's fantasy woman. Her fantasy.
Tim's fantasy.
How could lines and paint be more attractive than flesh and blood? Diane stared at the statuesque image. Her fantasy, his fantasy—regardless, not real. Not Diane.
She put down her palette. This hurt too much. What was she doing to herself? Before she could become jealous of this non-person, Diane turned around to look for the gesso. Start fresh, begin again, all that happy horseshit—as long as she didn't have to stare at someone she could never be. Gesso—artist's white-out.
Something yanked her ponytail.
Diane screeched and slapped the arm holding her hair. It did not let go. She slammed into the canvas. Another arm reached over her shoulder, snatched the gesso. She recognized the hand. She had just painted it.
"You're not real" she shouted. Diane twisted and pulled, tried to free herself. In a flash, Wonder Woman's leg grew in dimension until it kicked Diane.
She crumpled to the floor. The canvas ripped as Wonder Woman pulled free. Diane crawled toward the door, but the comic heroine was bigger, stronger. She pinned Diane as she coated a spatula with gesso.
Diane balled her fist but before her punch made contact, it disappeared in a smear of white. Two more swipes and Diane's body was gone. The thick white goo touch Diane's cheek. Then she felt nothing at all.
Diane smashed the portrait she'd painted of Tim and herself against her knee. She pulled drawers, swept the night stand, got rid of every memento and gift that reminded her of him. The anger still boiled. I'm just not attracted to you anymore.
She yanked clothes he bought for her from her closet, ripped each into rags. No loss on those; he still bought her clothes from two sizes ago. For when you get back to yourself, he'd said. She slid the wedding gown from the back, but stopped herself in the nick of time. Mom's wedding gown. Diane's first fitting was supposed to be Saturday. I'm just not attracted to you anymore.
He had yet to promise for better or for worse. He had opted out. Her finger throbbed from tugging off the engagement ring. He'd slid that on her finger two sizes ago.
Just when she thought it couldn't get any worse. I'm just not attracted to you anymore.
Tim got her through mom's funeral. So what if she spiraled a bit after that. Missed classes, lost her art students, lost the downtown studio. Lost her figure. She caught her reflection above the bureau.
Frizzy auburn curls framed her splotchy pale skin, lids swollen over hazel eyes, mascara sliming down puffy cheeks—and two chins, neck folds, the beginning of a matronly uni-boob. She couldn't erase his expression from her mind. There was no remorse. Only pity. I'm sorry, I'm just not attracted to you anymore.
She could handle not being pretty to him anymore (though it hurt). She could handle him not loving her anymore (she'd try). But she could not handle him believing her insignificant (a non-person). If she bumped into him on the street, he wouldn't say hello. Only people who thought themselves superior doled out pity. To him, she would be invisible.
She could show him. She mattered. She could be thin again. Pretty again. Diane raced to her attic studio, slammed a blank canvas on the easel. She slipped on her apron, tied her hair into a ponytail. She'd show him the real her, the perfect Diane.
She mixed paints, brushed bold lines across the blank white. First the hair, blue-black and flowing. She added dots of white then blurred them to give shampoo-commercial shine. She outlined a heart-shaped face, widow's peak a point on the smooth forehead.
Her arm tingled as she shaped eyebrows, arched and haughty. Not something she'd felt before, but yes, if she could feel haughty, she could get over the hurt. Cerulean irises under luxurious lashes, only the faintest hint of laugh lines.
Diane watched her hand fly across the canvas. The collar bone, sleek, visible, not cushioned by fat. Sculpted arms, graceful wrists, elegant fingers all appeared. She hadn't felt such inspiration since her mother started chemo. Painting felt good again. She added flesh tones, filled in shadows, gave the Diane in the picture dimension. A warmth spread from her fingertips to her hands, from there to her entire body, exciting her, arousing her, spurring her to give life to the woman on the canvas. Show a part of herself that Tim....
Diane lowered the brush. In her artistic frenzy, she had forgotten. He had dumped her. Pitied her. Deemed her insignificant.
She stared at her self-portrait, the portrait of the better self she wanted to be. The one Tim wanted her to be. One that Tim could be attracted to.
The woman was not Diane.
From the eye color to the erect nipples on melon-shaped breasts, to the perfect cheerios navel dotting the pilates-structured stomach, to the curly black triangle between full hips, to the muscular legs....
Diane could never be the goddess on the canvas. The nude woman looked too real. The woman was taller, shapelier, bolder—Diane realized she had painted a nude Wonder Woman. Diane reached for more blue pigment to cover the nudity. She couldn't believe she had painted every hot-blooded teenaged boy's fantasy woman. Her fantasy.
Tim's fantasy.
How could lines and paint be more attractive than flesh and blood? Diane stared at the statuesque image. Her fantasy, his fantasy—regardless, not real. Not Diane.
She put down her palette. This hurt too much. What was she doing to herself? Before she could become jealous of this non-person, Diane turned around to look for the gesso. Start fresh, begin again, all that happy horseshit—as long as she didn't have to stare at someone she could never be. Gesso—artist's white-out.
Something yanked her ponytail.
Diane screeched and slapped the arm holding her hair. It did not let go. She slammed into the canvas. Another arm reached over her shoulder, snatched the gesso. She recognized the hand. She had just painted it.
"You're not real" she shouted. Diane twisted and pulled, tried to free herself. In a flash, Wonder Woman's leg grew in dimension until it kicked Diane.
She crumpled to the floor. The canvas ripped as Wonder Woman pulled free. Diane crawled toward the door, but the comic heroine was bigger, stronger. She pinned Diane as she coated a spatula with gesso.
Diane balled her fist but before her punch made contact, it disappeared in a smear of white. Two more swipes and Diane's body was gone. The thick white goo touch Diane's cheek. Then she felt nothing at all.
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