Am I nailing it when I fullfill what I want to say? This thought came to me while contemplating a critique on someone’s story ( not here ) and then working on my own. I found myself doing what I was shaking my head at. Guilty! During the dialogue exchange, the physical reactions had been reduced to stock motions; he laughed, he grinned, he raised an eyebrow, he looked. Simple phrases that in the end dragged the story down an ordinary path. The occasional interesting event or phrase would catch my eye, but for the most part the author coasted on ‘what I want to say.’ Using ‘What I want to say’ is not necessarily a bad thing. In the paragraph above I used vague phrases like ‘occasional interesting event’, ‘catch my eye’ and ‘coasted.’ I grabbed for them like a cook grabbing for familiar ingredients. In fact a good many writers feel relieved - I know I do - just by discovering what they want to say and getting it down or paper ( or word doc. ) But ‘what I want to say’ can often lead to cliches. In one self published story that I read recently, I found a cliche and a tired phrase in nearly every sentence; greatest idea since sliced bread, without a hitch, out this jam, truly wished a loved one was there ( during a moment of crisis ). And on and on. The writer was saying what he/she wanted to say without going deeper. By the end of the story, I felt as though someone had written it with a Mad Libs, fill-in-the-blanks form. Can a writer write a novel and publish it by saying ‘what I want to say’? Definitely. But should he? Are you finishing it or did you you nail it ( get it right. ) Why not go deeper and discover what you really want to say. I’m going to pull apart opening sentences to two well-written books, Lolita and Z is for Zachariah, to show you what I mean. Let’s start with Nabokov, now, imagine he’s a newbie whose first drafts could be posted for critique. Here’s the end result, what he’s striving for - Lolita. Light of my life. Fire of my loins. - Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov. But, lets say he starts by putting down a sentence that gives his opening chapter the general idea he needs - Lolita was the most important person in my life. No snickers. Whose to know genius doesn't start this way. And this could be his ‘what I want to say’ moment. After all it does what it’s supposed to. But then he thinks about it and admits, okay, it’s to the point but rather drab, and it feels familiar. Everyone has someone important in their life so why should the readers think the mc feels something special? And by its vagueness Lolita could be a mother, a sister, an aunt or a friend. I need to clarify the relationship. See, by continuing to ask questions - Why is this revelation special? How does Lolita affect the mc? The writer is really asking - is this what I really want to say? He’s going deeper and deeper until finally, he tweaks the sentence - Lolita had me, body and soul. Maybe this is the author’s ‘what I want to say’ moment, or as it’s clearer than the previous sentence, maybe it could be the author’s ‘what I really want to say moment.’ Then again he could think meh, body and soul is an ordinary phrase I want something special. He goes deeper, asking more questions. What am I trying to convey? The mc’s obsession/ focus for Lolita and his lust. What is a symbolic focus? Light is an element, a focus point. It’s also a spiritual symbol. Aha. And lust begins in the loins. Fire is also an element. Lust is a heat. Light and fire create an echo by their similarities. Now, echo the sentences to highlight that connection. Lolita fire loins light life. Lolita. Light of my life. Fire of my loins. - Vladimir Nabokov. I’m not saying this is how he did it, heck these lines could’ve been the first thing he wrote down, but it makes for an interesting experiment. Going deeper is not just about swapping vagueness for clarity. It’s about finding what you really want to say by how you want to say it. It’s the very conception of your writer’s voice. If Lolita’s not your thing lets try the same go-deeper experiment with an amazing Ya book. Here’s the end result - May 20, I am afraid. Someone is coming. That is, I think someone is coming, though I am not sure, and I pray that I am wrong. - Z is for Zachariah by Robert C. O’Brien. A great opening. But let’s say Robert in his first instinct types out his general idea - I’m trembling like a leaf because I saw someone up on the ridge. Perhaps he looks it over and tweaks it - I’m trembling like a leaf because I thought I saw someone up on the ridge. Maybe he’s having a ‘what I want to say’ moment. After all it’s showing fear and the cause of it. But he’s not satisfied. It’s not really what he wants to say. Often what you really want to say has to challenge convention to truly nail it. He cuts trembling like a leaf, it’s cliche, plus, he wants to use the telling word 'afraid' so there will be no doubt in the reader’s mind. He reworks it. I’m afraid because I thought I saw someone up on the ridge. Still unsatisfied, he asks himself what is wrong with the sentence. He reads it out loud. What do I want to convey? Fear. But also confusion in the reader. I want to draw it out. How can I do that? I have to chop up the sentence. I’m afraid. Still not right but what’s wrong with it? She’s afraid, that’s serious business. Aha. He’ll remove the contraction - I am afraid. Much better. I am afraid. I thought I saw someone on the ridge. Now the following sentence doesn’t mesh well. It must be reworked. He asks himself questions about fear, and why she’s afraid. Because she saw someone/ thought she saw someone. Keep it simple. Let’s focus on the person and remove the ridge as unimportant. Now she’s just spooked. There in is the truth. Fear comes by movement, being certain you saw something first before the doubt. The next sentence has to be as assuring as the first. I am afraid. Someone is coming. I won’t go deeper on the rest as you can see where it’s going. These exercises are mainly for fun but they do allow writers to see, by breaking it down, just how the author came to craft these amazing sentences. Going deeper, asking questions, is something to keep in mind even when writing the first draft as it will keep it clearer, cleaner.
In a recent forum discussion on setting ( not here elsewhere ), I noticed a lot of writers seem to think setting is not all that important to the story. I was flabbergasted. Others argued it was necessary but not the end all/be all of a story. As I was trying to argue my belief that Setting is not only important but extremely essential, I realized I couldn’t articulate on the fly, I had to think about it. Interestingly enough I had just finished a book by Debbie Macomber called Mail-Order Bride, a Harlequin romance ( don’t groan ), which can be used to make my point. Now for arguments sake if setting is merely a location as generic as say a home, or even as generic/specific ( if that’s possible - a location but not quite exact ) as Alaska than a writer who is working on a romance could build her characters - fiesty woman, stubborn hunk and plot - mail order bride and decide after where she wants to place them. She could even go as far as to tweak them to fit the location. For instance if she’s toying with location she must keep in mind that the cowboy would be wearing less than the Alaskan man. That Utah scenes might take place more outdoors than Alaska. And while the cowboy is clean shaven the Alaskan man might have a beard to protect him from the weather. The writer could even split the difference admitting the rustic cabins in either location are pretty much similar, each with the proverbial roaring fires. But what has the writer really done? She’s allowed herself to fall ( comfortably ) into the slot of genre and pretty awful genre as that. Why is this? Let’s take Mail Order Bride as an example. Here’s the story - Two Great Aunts, resembling the Baldwin sisters’ on the Waltons, brew up liquored tea, and an idea to get their great-niece’s mind off of being dumped at the alter. The idea is to send her off to Alaska under the guise of a paid vacation while waiting for her is a man whose mail-order bride ad they’ve answered. She is so drunk on her aunts ‘special’ tea that she goes through with the ceremony. In the morning however she’s horrified by her whirlwind marriage and tries to escape. He likes what he sees and plots to keep her. Now for the most part it’s a pretty generic idea that knows no bounds, it can happen in the 1800's or for this book, the year 2000. It can take place in the west or Alaska. Instinct, lead her to choose Alaska, and it’s a good choice. You can isolate the characters, the weather can stop the woman from fleeing, there are rough crews out there making her idea to travel alone dangerous. And here’s the big one; the cold can be used as a metaphor for her behavior. Oddly enough out of that list the obvious are used, the metaphor ignored. That is how setting can become cardboard backdrops. She’s picked the obvious things about Alaska: a beard, the cold, the isolation, and lack of travel. She’s even tossed in Indian friends, knitting for tourists, a mysterious fever epidemic. In the cabin there are quilts on beds, dinners are rich stews, and nights are composed of Scrabble games. But nothing is wrung from setting it has stayed completely on the surface of Alaska. Everything you expect has been covered. In fact without the cold any isolated place on the planet would suffice. Now what if to fix the book we added more detail. We could add descriptions of glacial waters, the aurora borealis, history of the town and people, detailed description of culture and fish recipes but would the story become better? Relatively speaking - yes. However, if nothing links back to the character, plot and theme, if the writer misses the opportunity to expose this place as an echo of deeper value, than the story remains in mediocrity. Here’s the kicker - all the detail in the world is not going to matter until you realize the setting must interweave character, plot and theme. First of all, the writer had good instincts to place this story in Alaska had she dug deeper, a better story might’ve emerged. Had she linked Alaska to the barren feeling of the heroine, the isolation of the hero, worked in the freeze out on her emotions, the beard not just as protective shield against frostbite but a shield against love than symbolically cutting it would’ve been to let down his guard. But every opportunity the writer had to go deeper she flubbed it by turning the beard cutting into a cute compromise with a look-he’s-a-hunk moment. The isolation was also a plot ploy and nothing emotional was culled from it. This is why certain genre can be destructive, the writers play it safe. In fact you could easily say Mail-Order-Bride has no theme, no character and no plot. What it has is an idea, stereotypes, and a formula. I’m being hard on her, I know but she can’t complain, she’s a bestseller. Now, here’s an example of how Setting links to character, plot and theme and delivers the payoff. Take We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver. ( I haven’t read it but I’ve seen the movie - there are several differences but it’s pretty close * spoilers upcoming if you haven’t seen or read it. ) There is an important setting scene in the movie in which Eva decides to redecorate her office. She glues maps, postcards old travel memorably up on the walls. The travel items are not just part of her past but future. She loves to travel. In the time it takes her to retrieve her husband to show him her handiwork little Kevin as destroyed the room by squirt gunning paint all over the walls. His act of ‘violence’ with a ‘weapon’ has not only destroyed memories but a future. At the end of the book she is stuck in her hometown facing the repercussions of Kevin’s actions and ironically working at a travel agency to make ends meet rather than traveling. Details are not as important as links. The travel theme is a link, the gun and the sight of sprayed walls are a link ( later the exterior of her own house will be doused with red paint - the anty is upped from the isolated and enclosed behavior of her son to everybody in town is now aware forcing her not to live with it - as she accepts the ruined room - but deal with it by scraping the paint off her house. ) Now, what if the writer had focused merely on details, not links. Well, then Eva could’ve decorated her office with paisley wallpaper. Kevin could have scribbled on the walls with Magic Marker - see, the difference? Details are an issue, yes, but the right details- the links are more important. When you break the links, the impact of the story fails.
Anyone know of any good poetry magazines? I'm in Canada and found the Malahat review which is really good. I also ran across one on the internet Mudfish but I'd have to order it. Jill Hoffman is the editor and I really loved her book of poems Mink Coat that I got last week at a used book store.
Usually I check out the contest theme. Sometimes it sparks a good idea, sometimes not. But if I go with it and start a story I - A. - never finish it in time or B. It's always too long and I can't enter. Today C. happened - I finished it! and ( wonders never cease! ) it was short. I've finally made a deadline and kept a word limit! Definitely a cheesy smile moment -
I was collecting new critiques on my old story Thunderbolt - and the consensus was - who is the narrator? I decided to clean up the story and give it a proper narrator. Here's the old version if you want to see the difference - http://www.writingforums.org/entry.php?b=63325 I think this version turned out pretty good. Not sure if I wandered out of the pov though. I struggle with that. Thunderbolt Collie got himself a roomie last week. Some white boy. Short, thin, he got pretty blonde hair but a big ugly-ass scar runs jagged cross his face like a thunderbolt. Nearly spoilt his good looks. Only nearly, cause Rudy-T and his gang a’ hussies, well, they jus don’t care bout stuff like scars or tats, or nothing. All they see is that nest of blonde curls topping that pretty little head, and soon some brick-red hand is gonna swoop down into that nest and make its home there. I bets two packs a’ smokes that hand will belong ta Rudy-T, Collie, who think maybe he’d like to keep that fine piece o’ sugar - ha, I see that eye-twinkle, bet first on himself with a great whoop, showing his gold front tooth, then he switches, maybe - Grotto, yeah, he stick with Grotto. Grotto, he somehow get all the pretty ones. He got technique. Be nice a moment like a snake charmer, next he got that snake round the neck, trapped in Grotto’s basket. Ha! Ha! Collie dubs him Thunderbolt, heard his real name once, think maybe it wer some watery, no-good name like Alan. But when those eyes hurl through you like a sickle, he need some biblical hammer of a name like Ezekiel - so Thunderbolt will do. Some just call him Goldilocks, or Goldfish or Scar until that reeper look hit ‘im, and a name like Goldilocks fades like dey memory of a woman’s kiss. He be a Thunderbolt, never mind that he slim, and pretty. We’s sitting at the caf table, Collie’s got one arm wrapped round his tray, though nobody stupid enough to steal even a wandering glance from Collie, let alone a fast scoop. He eat kinda dainty. Little spoonfuls, chewing with his huge eyes like elephant egg marbles rolled up. Today he be thoughtful. “I seen me Thunderbolt before, can’t place where. But ooh it buggin’ me. It stuck in there like a froze movie with some star grinning his teeth. And his name floatin’ away on a bubble - eh? You know?” Collie say this with his mouth full of mashed potatoes some slid off his gold tooth and it look like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “Saw him take out an ‘natomy book from the library yesterday. Think that fish like to look a’ naked folk without their skins on?” Collie had been there, he like to follow that Whitebread. He point to the page with the hang dog pecker on it then he say to Thunderbolt - “looky here, I see what interest you, now. Ha!” But Thunder-B doesn’t rile so easy, Collie will have to try harder. “Here, he comes now. You tell him Collie , no-white ass punk sits at this table. Tell him.” Josiah points his spork at Collie, real serious. Thunderbolt got his head down, not meek, but watchful like wary dog, he in lead with other cons winding through the maze of tables, but they fall away, filling empty spaces on benches till there’s only Thunder-B left. Collie waves to Thunderbolt. “What you want to be so mean for, gotta be friendly. He, my roomie, might come in handy.” Collie grin an’ give a hearty chuckle. Yeah, I’s gets his drift, handy - like he could be trading Bolt for a carton o’ smokes or home brew. Thunderbolt drops his tray on the table, drops himself down on bench, don’t look at us cons round him with our skin, dark an shiny as shoe-polish. He hook a finger in his mashed -taters and put it in his mouth. “Hol’s Pen?” Collie starts. “No.” Thunderbolt turns his slice of bread like record to see label, picks it up then takes big bite. Butter smears on his lips like gloss. Rudy-T takes notice from a table yonder and blows him a lil’ kiss. “Musta been State. State pen?” “Never been to jail. I told you that before.” “How’d you get that nasty scar than whitebread? Hmm?” “They got knife fights in suburbia now?” Meegar say and we all be laughing over dat one. “Lemme guess some Corvette-driving, manicure-flashing, big shit catches a little shit like you, humping his gold-card- carrying wife, and cuts you up.” “No.” Thunderbolt is one cool cuke. “C’mon aren’t we roomies. You can tell ole’ Collie. We sharin. ‘Bout all we got. Eh? Swapping da shit. Ha!Ha!” Collie got a wheezy laugh. Usually, everyone laugh when Collie laugh, not Thunder-B. “It’s shoot the shit.” Thunderbolt corrects. “Be friendly, Thunder-B. I’s friendly who tells ya not to walk down past Hurky and his boys on way to the store or he’ll jack yer shit. Who tell ya not to take shower near Rudy-T huh? Who tell ya how he got here, an show ya snaps of my most, beautiful ma - huh? You best be friendly Bolt or I gon sell you to Rudy-T for a carton. Eh? Mighty temptin. Now, you gon tell us, how you got that scar?” Thunderbolt’s still chewing his veggie-supreme, still sipping his Kool-Aid. Threats roll off him, like beads o’ water in the shower, like the whistles following those beads o’ water in the shower room. “I did it myself.” “Yo-self!” This hit Collie hard, he reeling, not that it take much to blow Collie’s mind. “Why you wanna cut yerself? Mess up that pretty face. You outta yer head, Thunder-B?” “Some crazy-ass woman.” Meegar mutters. “It’s always a woman. Wouldn’t be in here if it weren’t for that - that lousy, stinkin whore- ” Gobs fall from Meegar’s mouth. He a mess. Collie stop lookin’ a him. Look back at prettyboy. “How come?” Now, Josiah’s looking at Thunderbolt different like. He got maybe respect, for this white-boy that cut up his own face, an nearly spoilt his looks. Something psycho about that. Josiah got to admire that, they kindred motherfucks, now, cause psycho be stamped all over his shrink-form. Or so he says. Nobody really see Josiah as psycho, least he no crazier than anyone else you don mess with. “I was angry.” “Hhhrmph. Never cut my own face jus cause I’s angry.”Collie stirs the last little bit of mashed potatoes before scooping it up and putting it in his mouth.“Cut up a fella who made me angry, not me-self. Hhhrmph.” He have last say cause he get no arguments, most everyone agree with Collie, don’t nobody understand Thunderbolt, not at all. * * * Later that night, after lights out, when them guards shoo us back into our cages, us birds with clipped wings, I gets out my mirror so I can see if Collie gonna try anything tonight on Thunder-B. I gots a bet with Meeger. I say Thunder-B gonna put up a fight. Meegar bet that fish will float - he’ll roll on his back for Collie an takes it like the last roomie. Wailing. Collie swing his mammoth leg up and thump the top bunk where Thunderbolt is trying to sleep. Not as hard as he could though, I seen him launch his last roomie into orbit. Din quite catch Thunder-B’s reply he got his damn head under the pillow agin. “You don’t sound very friendly Thunder-B. You don know roomie protocol. You s’poused ta say, evening Collie, what’s up.” “What the Hell do you want.” Now if Collie be a good roomie, he’d pull Thunder-B down off his top bunk and shake him till all those smart-ass comments fly out o’ his head an never come back. That’d learn him. But I’m guessing Collie be thinking of Grotto, gotta be a snake charmer to get his hand around this one cause he say - “Now, now that ain’t friendly like. Someone gonna think you real sourpuss, Thunder-B an give you ‘nother scar to add to your collection. You got ta learn to be sweet n’ sociable. Lets start with how come yer here. I told yous alls ‘bout my armed robbery. Now it’s your turn.” “You didn’t tell me alls about it.” Thunder-B was really begging for a smack. “What?! You callin me a liar. You sayin I didn’t buy no ski mask at K-mart, you saying I didn’t go into the Royal Bank on Eastchester avenue with Harlan and Mack and stick a saw-offed shot gun in that ole lady’s teller’s face and watch the sweat jump out of her pores like I be waving a blow-torch, huh? You saying I didn’ hop in a green Trino driven by cousin Ernie, that shit-head, who crash us up on William street, and we spill out o’ there like rats from a garbage heap while them pigs be raining gunfire on our ass.” Collie shape his fingers into guns, he’s shooting at the top bunk. He need to catch his breath cuz he’s all outta ammo. His lungs heave like bellows. “You’re pissin’ me off, roomie.” He grumbles. “Sorry.” “You ever shoot rats in a garbage heap?” “No.” “Betcha you never kill nothing in yer whole life.” “I’m in for manslaughter.” “Eh? You! Ha!” “It’s true. I killed a man. A lawyer.” “Well, ha! Ha! A lawyer, eh? In your wet dream, Thunder-B. In your wet dream!” Collie rolls chuckling lookin’ all cozy. Nearly made me laugh - His roomie - a murderer? Ha. Collie was the murderer, not Thunder-B. “Did I eva tell you Roomie ‘bout my mama. How she believe God’ll throw thunderbolts, javelin style at anyone who gets away with murder. Law don getcha, God will.” Collie got a smirk in his voice. He laughs, and it comes up from deep down like a roll o’ thunder. Considering Collie been in jail four times and one for manslaughter already, he probably think this big pile o’ hooey, and don’t care what Thunderbolt think. But Thunder-B, he offer anyhow, “Maybe he will, Maybe he won’t.” “You got a pretty voice Bolt. Betcha you were one of them - whatchacallim? Them boys in church carrying candles and wearing nightgowns.” “Altar boys.” “Eh-ya!” Thunderbolt likes music, plays the guitar, dabbles with this n’ that- can play anything, Collie believe this like gospel, and spread the word at lunch -...
* Short poem I'm working on after being caught at my grungiest during an introduction. Ha. Chipped polish Sum of me today; Chipped lilac nail polish, Lank hair, Feeling like a squirrel has taken fussy residence in my chest. Over there is a woman with satin nails and satin hair no squirrel, but a smile that suggests a song bird flutters in her heart - Sum of her. What can I do? re-polish fluff kick out the squirrel, coax in canary birds? Why must I always feel like the chipped polish? - Something must be done about it.
Yesterday, I noticed the new theme for this weeks short story contest - Plan B. Last weeks Downtown through me for a loop. The city were I live has a pretty interesting albiet rather scummy downtown. Nothing spectaculuarly interesting but I do recall one drunk sitting in his apartment window threatening to drop empty beer bottles on the pedestrains below. Of course that was on a lively day. This week, however - Plan B revived an idea I had jotted down but forgot about because I couldn't pull it together. I was up till two in the morning writing the story.
** Some language ** The second short story I wrote- a humorous post apocalyptic vision. It’s long, but I’m hoping for some critique or comments NOT IF Tom sat on the barren museum steps scratching Lotto tickets. There was a dwindling pile of cast offs at his feet, whirling down Fifth avenue in pairs. The winners were pinned, growing wrinkly under a sweaty beer bottle. This could be it, he told himself, this could be the big one. Excitement fizzed within him, as the third 50,000 dollar symbol appeared. “I won!” He shouted, jumping up. “I won! Hot diggity-damn I won!” Hot diggity damn - where did that come from? Nobody congratulated him. He danced up and down the steps in celebration losing a flip flop and nearly his pajama bottoms. Making a quick grab for the droopy waist, glimmers of sparkly Square Pants Sponge Bob winked between his knuckles. Come on candy muncher where are you at? Get a grip. There’s nobody there. Killjoy. He hurled his beer bottle into the street and let the breeze carry off his winning ticket. Okay, take it easy, he told himself squeezing his head, it’s just a relapse. You’re fine now, not like before. Not like last year, when he shot hockey pucks of empty tuna cans down Wall Street, complete with running commentary, wore a diamond tiara and matching earrings, found a stick of dynamite and launched a Cadillac into orbit over 82nd street, smeared stale peanut butter over himself and ran naked through a shopping center, and finally hot wired an ice cream truck and roamed the empty streets of New York, hoping the monotonous, tinkling music would coax someone to come running. Anyone. Nobody came. Face it chump, there’s nobody left in the world but you. How depressing. He didn’t even like himself much, but with others around there was a buffer, he could preen, at least I’m not a total whack-job like so-and-so. Plus, there was always hope that each following girlfriend, taking him on as her own personal project would someday wave her magic wand and eureka - he’d become suave and cool. The ex-Mrs. Harding had given up after two years of wand waving. Her diagnosis - hopeless. Recently, he pulled himself together, as much as anyone can when they realize - okay, they’re the last person on the planet. Everyone else was vaporized by some mysterious oxidant, virus, who-the-hell knows, they all crumbled to dust like freaking cigarette ash. While he, Tom Harding had been spelunking. Ha Ha, spelunking sounds so rigorous and sporty, what he did was flail around in a cave, stumbling after a couple of pros, who unfortunately wound up buried in the rumble that had reduced a cave tunnel to cascading chunks. Tom had crawled out the only survivor, not just of the cave in - but whatever triggered the rumble. He wasn’t as cool as Charleton Heston in the Omega Man about it, he cried, okay - bawled. But shit it wasn’t even exciting. Bring on some taunting zombies, he was all ready for them. Found himself an AK-47 and tried it out. Nearly deafened him, but what the hell. He left the museum steps, and pushed a shopping cart heaped with junk er - treasures, bemoaning his transient state. A bum, that’s what I’ve evolved into. Before ground zero, he’d been relatively, successful a manager at the Brew Ha-Ha café, and by night he designed cd covers, though Vivian thought he’d lacked ambition. What the hell was wrong with being a manager? Anything more might’ve brought trouble, of which he was a lightning rod for: When he took up jogging, first day, he wiped out on some monster turd and broke his ankle, when he took a glass of Coke instead of wine at a party he started rumors that he was a recovering alcoholic and got talked into joining AA, when he bought a shirt he thought was cool ( how was he to know he didn’t have any taste, he was between girlfriends at the time ) he bumped into his ex-wife wearing the same top at a party. Not good. Of course there was an upside to the end of the world, when he fell into an open manhole, there was no one around to laugh their ass off over it, but then again there was no one to help him out, either. He was convinced that there was or could be someone out there as lately a phantom with a sweet tooth had begun swiping candy from the bottom racks in the convenient stores, hardly waiting to tear them open, just mindless gobbling. He was torn between hope - woman! - and despair - some stupid animal. He pushed his cart, with it’s one crazy wheel, back home towards the Plaza hotel. Muttering to himself, he bent, picked up a flipped baseball cap to add to his cache and rummaged in his junk til he found just the right spot to put it. As he rolled his cart off the curb, a stuffed gorilla fell out, diving head first into a puddle. Shouting incoherently, he picked up the gorilla , sobbed a minute, set him back in his perch up front, then hung onto the pushbar. Be cool man. Whistle. He whistled. His calm didn’t last and turning foul, he shook a fist at the Heavens, snarled at the sex shops. A nagging feeling pushed him on ... “I’m going, see! See! Sheesh, get off my back!” He passed the remains of Hot Tamale - an ironic name considering the fate of the boutique... On New Years eve Tom was feeling ambitious and decided to set off a batch of fireworks, unfortunately, he was half tanked when he decided this and misjudged the angle of several earsplitters which sputtered off into a boutique and set it ablaze. He staggered off to the fire station, hijacked a fire truck and came back sirens blaring, bashing through a couple of garbage cans that had been awaiting pick-up for over a year. Then, he spent two hours figuring out how to hook up the hose. Turning it on full blast, he was caught up off his feet and waved about, like he was bronco riding an anaconda. He was knocked out cold and woke up with water still spurting from the hose and the boutique reduced to one blackened I-beam surrounded by smoking ash. Just another day on Planet Tom.... Instead of going home, Tom settled on another stoop, with another bottle of beer. He opened an old Archie comic book, found the other day in a second hand shop, and started to read. Restless and needing noise , he dug out the See and Say from the corner of his shopping cart, and brought it back to where he was sitting. Pulling the string, he waited. “Mooooo.” Ahhh much better. “Baaaa.” He pulled the string, it snapped. “Shit!” He sent it skittering down the steps. He took another pull off his beer and turned his attention back to Archie. The sky was turning red gold as the sun began to slip toward the horizon, blocked by the jagged edge of the city. A clatter rang out nearby, a can clinking over pavement? A while ago, Tom would’ve chased down the sound to discover it’s source yelling, hello!hello!hello! Now, he merely shifted, rising up on an elbow glancing in the direction of the sound and dismissed it. Probably something he’d knocked askew and now it had fallen. A shadow seeped out from behind a mound of squishy garbage bags, it rose, swelling forth, a creature crawling from the rubble. An ugly snub nosed creature with a sphinx face. Tom froze, the bottle hesitated before his lips. Springing to life, he clamored for the gun in his cart, spilling beer over the gorilla and whooping - “Zombiepocalypse has begun!” He fired. The bullets sprayed wildly spitting up flakes of cement, nailing the shadow, then he lost control and the bullets arched up taking out the street lamp. Chunks fell, one slab conked him, and he dropped into the gutter like a sack of meat. *** Tom groaned. A zombie was tasting him. Shhiiiit. Tasting him! Licking him like a popsicle as if it couldn’t decide wether to eat him or not. He opened one eye cautiously. A dog with a gargoyles face loomed over him. A pug? He propped himself on one elbow. The pug continued to lick Tom’s chin wagging his curly tail. “How did you survive? Wait, don’t tell me you were spelunking too,” He rubbed his dusty forehead and continued guessing. “ ....secret bunker maybe?”He reached forward and fondled one of the pug’s silky ears, before moving over the fat neck rolls till he found a bone shaped dog tag attached to a collar - Mr. Wong. “You’re a package of mystery aren’t you? I don’t know how you survived.... you’re first name is a secret. This is no way to begin a friendship. I’m on to you though ....you’re the one whose been polishing off all the candy.” *** Tom was standing on a ladder hanging pumpkin lights from a marquee in an attempt to decorate the city for Halloween or rather, this block, he wasn’t too ambitious. Mr. Wong slouched nearby in the red wagon Tom fixed up for him. This way, whether he was sleeping or awake, Tom could pull him everywhere he went. He was a tolerant pug who, listened to everyone of Tom’s boring rants, allowed himself to be squeezed into various outfits and hats when Tom got bored and why not, Tom could work a can opener. Suddenly, Mr. Wong was alert and barking. Normally Tom ignored him. But this time he removed his earphones and reproached - “You know there’s nothing there. It’s a psychological effect due to the loss of society and you can’t deal with -“ “Get that ladder out of my way.” Tom wobbled clutching the rungs. Did he just hear... His head darted round, searching til he spotted a raggedy, old man trying to push his over packed shopping cart in front of the ladder , skimming one wheel off the curb into the air. His cart pitched. “Sonofabitch. You damn construction morons, always buggering things up with your digging and orange cones, and ra-ta-ta-ta.” “My God , a person! A person. Mr. Wong do you see him? A survivor. I can’t believe. Do you know how glad I am to see you.” Tom leapt off the ladder, slapped the man on the back releasing...
IS - WAS - A SENTENCE KILLER? I'm starting to think so. Yesterday, in Chapters I flipped through Douglas Glover’s Attack of the Copula Spiders - it looks interesting as writing manuals go. Not that any of them ever really help you creatively, per say, but some help you avoid writing down a dead end. This looks like one of those. The book rallies against the use of dead verbs - to be, was, am, is etc. which the author found an abundance of in his students writing and by circling each dead verb, he could link them into a visual spider hence the title. It’s not that was, am, to be, is etc. can’t be used, it’s that they’re over used. If you look up was in the dictionary - Was means - to exist or live - to take place, happen or occur - to occupy a place or position - to continue to remain as before - to belong, attend, befall ...All of which can provoke a static sentence. I.e. - The bottle is on the bar. I am chief of police. I was at the dance. It can even pull the reins on an active verb .i.e. I was dancing. I was sledding. Retuning my creative mode I began to rethink openings should I enter a scene on a flat statement, creating a stagnant image or a moving one - and wondering how many was's are plaguing my work? I dug up some books to see how the great ones handled verbs and made this list. Here are some amazing verbs all of which could’ve been killed by the virus - was. In Gravity’s Rainbow a man threads himself into a robe Another gobbles down croissants and coffee He sprints towards laughter People gargle wine Pinball machines writhe under their handlers In John Updike’s short story collection - a jet engine is haloed by a rainbow Lake water swallows two bather’s flesh up to their knees A bed is sluing like a boat on a wave Young girls throng a man’s vision A card shark sandbags with three kings A beer to soothe my mouth A woman’s agitation consumes a chrysanthemum ( by her Plucking and rolling the petals ) Hickory trees are clangorous The protoplasm of a house ebbs in stages Margaret Atwood - A mind shambles A car crunches to a halt fingers of snow creep over a road float ( in a hammock ) Bedsprings mourn Couples slither through slush a voice prods a thought is censored a woman clamps her skirt between her knees dancers whizz and careen Angela Carter pistons thrust a train forward A woman beggared herself for love sausages hiss in a pan a woman is unwrapped (undressed ) An opal spurts green flame ( a color in the firelight )
Over generalization is a voice killer. It can dilute your scenes, obscure your meaning, and worse yet, it can bore your reader. Generalizations are unclear words that settle for an idea rather than a concrete item or place. Think of it this way - do you ask a family member ( see there’s a generalization - family member ) to go grab you some fruit from the kitchen or do you say - Bring me back a banana. The notion of fruit rattles off so many possibilities that the reader has to wait for you, the author, to clarify it - and then if you decide to peel the now clarified fruit as a banana, the reader may be a little miffed that it wasn’t made clear in the first place. That’s another problem with using generalizations. By the time you clarify - you’ve added several extra sentences. That may not seem like much, but if you continue to use this technique they’ll add up, and explaining obvious things will take precedence over description or action, bogging things down. Why waste precious words? Here are some generalizations - fruit, man, woman, female, male, car, clothes, flowers, accessories, jewelry, hat, purse, animal, dog, drink, dishes, elegant, fantastic, excellent, wonderful, lunch, luggage, make-up, material, nick name, musical instrument, ornament, parent, spouse, perfume, pet, bedding, toy, snack, religion, restaurant, wealthy, rumor, art, toiletries, sibling, soap, stationary, talent, charm, candy, transportation, coat, vandalism, sports, meat, vegetables, young, old, kitchen, bedroom, nationality, etc. * It’s not that you can’t use these words. In fact some of them are downright necessary. It’s to know when and how to use them. Take the word fantastic - what’s wrong with it you say. First off it’s a great word for conversation, because it’s an expression that gives vague praise. That meal was fantastic. And it’s real meaning - as - yummy, delicious, exotic, tasty etc. is easily grasped by the reader. But to lean on it to describe something - like he had fantastic eyes - if your protagonist isn’t a 14 year old school girl, than Fantastic eyes is rather vague and lame - so is fantastic car, fantastic wife, and fantastic boy friend. None of these things are quite clear and unless it’s used in conversation where the real meaning can be quickly discerned, why bother? Better to say - His eyes made emeralds look like slag heaps. ( corny but memorable. ) He’s driving the new BMW, the lucky bastard. Or, Jim’s wife not only makes homemade lasagna, she also rubs his feet after his hard day at the office. These are concrete ideas that make clear pictures in a reader’s mind. This is every writer's goal - absolute clarity. Even if you don’t keep the sentence of a wife who makes lasagna from scratch or eyes that make emeralds look like slag heaps, the idea is to reach beyond cliches and generalizations. Paint a picture don’t give the reader a dot-to-dot and expect him to fill it in. Colors can become generalized if you let them - does a red t shirt fulfill a descriptive need? Or is it a cop-out. It can be either or depending on your style. It's the different between pink shoes and pink Converse sneakers. Remember every time you eliminate a generalization it helps you foremost before a reader even sees your work. When you snatch for something easy like flowers you box yourself in. Think of a scene - your protagonist Larry is wandering through a field of flowers and stops to pick some. - Larry wandered through a field of flowers on his way to Debra’s house. He picked some that caught his eye, some that he thought Debra would like. It’s okay, if a bit dull. What if I just change a few words. Larry wandered through a meadow on his way to Debra’s and lured by their scent, he picked some lily-of-the-valley. Perfect for Debra. I’ve managed to bring in some vibrancy with a few subtle changes. Anyone can use flowers, anyone can pick something by sight, anyone can dress up a field by adding the word flowers. But by eliminating generalizations you give your piece flavor, you give it voice. Lily-of-the-valley, meadow, scent. Notice how the new words even sparked a fresh verb - lured and punched up the final sentence. And the interesting thing is people assume being specific means more words when that can’t be further from the truth - even by counting every word in lily-of-the-valley I’ve still managed to eliminate four words. Whether or not those few sentences can stand on their own or need elaboration doesn’t matter - what matters is to get rid of generalized thought. Generalizations can dance around ideas - Harvey’s wife sent him to the store to pick up some toiletries. rather vague - Or - Harvey couldn’t believe he got talked into making a Tampax run. quite clear. Brand names can also help define things - The sheriff sat on the sagging porch drinking a bottle of cola. The sheriff sat on the sagging porch sucking on a bottle of Coca-cola. There is a warning with brand names though, remember when and where to use them. When you’re writing an action-packed scene or emotion fueled melodrama, the hero can hardly start rhapsodizing about the make and model of his car. To avoid generalizations start getting familiar with types of things - different flowers, different animals, fabrics, foods. This will stop the generalizations in their tracks - lunch will become anything from a greasy Big Mac at McDonalds to Jambalaya with a slice of lemon ice box pie. Anything but just lunch. And that is the biggest advantage of eliminating generalizations - it can stop you from telling your readers who your character is - the showing becomes so much easier. Instead of telling your readers that Elaine is fastidious - put her in a high class restuarant and have her send back the angel hair pasta for being gummy. Put two school boys David and Eric in McDonalds, Have Dave, a rather husky boy, continuously point out the pretty girls coming in knowing Eric will turn to look so Dave can steal Eric's french fries. The scene could easily show Dave is more interested in food and Eric is more interested in girls and it's all based on eliminating the generalization of a mere lunch - By giving it an exact place McDonalds and an exact food - French fries - it gives the reader a concrete visual.
* Snippet from a story I'm working on - mature subject, and some swearing. * Was going to post this in the workshop can't seem to do it - so for now I'll post it here. Comments - Critiques welcome! CHAPTER 1 September 18, 1986 Now, he wasn’t into this cloak and dagger shit, but Haider Loomis found himself at The Night Owl diner, waiting as ordered. It was past midnight. He took a smoke out of the pack he was instructed to buy, the one deviation from Salazars usual meetings and he lit it, puffing and pondering it’s reason as he watched silvery rain stream down the diner windows. He wedged open the red blinds wider, when he thought he saw headlights swing into the parking lot but it was just the neon sign reflecting off the puddles, a constant winking. A truck roared past illuminating an otherwise deserted highway. The vinyl booth seat crinkled as he shifted to take another swallow of his icy beer avoiding a second look at the yawning waitress. The scent of grilling hamburgers alerted Haider that the two truckers who arrived moments earlier, were staying. Witnesses. He didn’t like that. His leg began jiggling, vibrating the table. Enough of a noise to gain his attention so he stopped. Then he dropped his head onto his clenched fist. Breathing hotly, into the cove of his curled fingers he begged c’mon. C’mon. The tattoo on the curve of flesh between thumb and forefinger mocked him. It wasn’t so much the dark ring it was the letters within it. Or rather what they meant. The door opened jangling bells overhead. Haider cautiously lifted his gaze. If there was one thing he had learned in the last seven years it was keep cool, cracker. A trucker came in beating the rain off his adjustable cap by wacking it against his blue-jeaned thigh. “Wee ooooh.” He exclaimed. “I didn’t drive down that mountain fellas, I floated down.” There was a cackle of laughter from the two truckers and the cook. “Say where’s that little girl I came with? She in the john? ...Little girl. Couldn’t miss ‘er.” Haider couldn’t hear their answers but saw a lot of head shaking. The trucker plopped onto a stool, snatching a tattered menu. He was in the middle of ordering when the door opened again. More bells. A little girl strode in. “There you are! Where’d you disappear to? You just sit down here - ” The trucker slapped the stool next to him. “- and I’ll order you a ... hey!” The little girl breezed past him heading down the short aisle towards Haider. He glanced at her briefly before looking out the window. How had he missed the trucker’s arrival? Maybe, he parked by the adjoining motel and walked over. “Got a light?” Haider’s head jerked sharply. The little girl stood beside his booth, holding a cigarette snatched from his pack. The signal. Which he denied, flaring mad. A kid? F*ck you, Mr. Salazar. “Beat it.” He told her. “Beat it?” She echoed, her lips thinning. Water dripped from the edges of her short platinum hair falling onto the transparent raincoat. It wrapped her body like cellophane wrapping a sweet. The analogy was easy, triggered by her battered tote shaped and printed to match a roll of lifesavers. Haider saw the trucker glancing their way, debating before he got up to try again. The trucker called to the girl. “Hey there, sweetie. Let me buy you a burger. C’mon, now.” This was all Haider needed. “F*ck off.” Haider insisted under his breath. The girl raised a silvery eyebrow and turned to give the approaching trucker a scathing look which was ignored. “Pickles, relish, tomatoes, Baby, whatever you want.” “Look, shove your burger. Or maybe I should tell my dad, you played patty-cake with my knee all the way down here.” She gestured at Haider at the mention of dad. Lingering on the word. He was quivering with fury, bound not to create a scene, to pretend none of this had anything to do with him. He glared out the window. C’mon! C’mon. Where the Hell, are you? The trucker turned white and slunk back to his stool, muttering protests that Haider only caught snatches of. “I never! Kids nowadays. Think they’re so doggone funny.” “That was real cute.” Haider muttered, taking another look at the child as she pocketed the cigarette. She was eleven years old maybe twelve but her deep set, silver eyes were old, primordial in their cunning. There was a bump near her hairline that was purple and about the size of a small plum. A new mar for this strange beauty. Everything about her was sharp, nothing subtle. High cheekbones, hallow cheeks, square stubborn jaw. All of which seemed to have been scarred. There were small white flecks across a cheek bone. A ghastly line across her chin. A faint pinkish ridge below her left eye that jutted into an upside down flag, a cut that hadn’t healed right. Haider was familiar with scars. The girl hung her tote up on the coat hook post at the edge of the booth opposite from Haider. Then, leaning one knee onto the vinyl seat, closed the blinds. “Switch sides.” She ordered. “Excuse me?” “You heard me. Move to this side of the booth.” Haider gave her a level look, “And why would I do that?” he asked. “Because that gun you have in your lap would be better suited in our contact’s side, clean shot.” He said nothing for a moment knowing she was right, before getting up and sliding into the booth with his back to the door. The little girl reclaimed his spot, easing a second bag, a drooping purse, off her shoulder. Opening it, she yanked out a soggy pile of pastel tissues and swiped at her face. “Do you want something?” He asked feeling obliged. “Coffee, I guess. If it’s hot, real hot.” She didn’t look at him but tossed the tissues back into her purse. She didn’t zip it shut. For a bizarre moment he wondered if she was packing too. He called over to the waitress ordering the coffee. “How do you know Salazar?” “He’s my Brownie leader.” “Think I won’t hit a little girl? Now answer the question.” “You probably would -” “Salazar, alright! Sh*t. Don’t push me kid.” The waitress appeared setting down the cup of coffee. Haider instinctively reached into his pocket but the girl already had change out which was scooped up by the waitress. “Anything more for you, honey?” She purposely addressed Haider. He didn’t look up but drew his beer bottle across the table and answered. “I’m fine, thank you.” She lingered, before heading back to her counter. “Great. She’s got a thing for you.” The girl muttered wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “I can feel her hawk eyes on us.” “Bullsh*t.” “She reapplied her lipstick before coming over here. Frosted, it’s all over her teeth. Wasn’t for me or for the ass-crack convention over there. It was for you Hon-ey.” Haider looked around, her damn tote was in the way. But he caught the waitress watching him above her paperback romance. The little witch was right-on just like she pegged the truckers. Ass-crack convention, he would’ve laughed if he remembered how. Haider reached for the pack of cigarettes and lit the fresh one with the tail end of his previous smoke. The girl turned her attention to the jute-box selection at their table, turning the knob at the top to flip through the charts. “What’s your poison? The Outfield? Joan Jett?” “I don’t want to hear any music.” Irritable. “Need it hon-ey.-” “Quit callin’ me honey.” “Something’s not right, a little background noise would be to our benefit.” She took a dime from her purse. The beer bottle hesitated at Haider’s lips. “What do you mean?” He set down the bottle and went to force open the blinds. Her hand shot out and halted him. “Don’t do that.” “Why are you here? What’s going on?” His voice rose not in fear, that well had dried up years ago. Filled up, though with anger. And right now he was brimming with it. The girl dropped the coin in and pressed the button. “Siouxsie Souix and the Banchees, enjoy.” Music throbbed over the speakers. He grabbed her elbow before she could sit back down. “Answer me.” Her eyes flashed a dark warning, “Okay, but let go.” He obeyed. “They’re having a rather intense jaw-session out there in a black Buick.” “So, they’ve been waiting for us to arrive.” He tapped ash off his cigarette, casting a look at the closed blinds. Dying for a peek. “And now. We’re here what’s the hold up?” Her hand flipped up in the air in a you-tell-me gesture. She had a point. The door opened, Haider heard the bells. He resisted the urge to turn but shot a fierce look at the girl whose eyes glinted intensely. “It’s him.” Haider felt his Adrenalin surge as footsteps neared the booth. “Young, old?”He demanded to know. “Young.” She sounded disgusted. “Get you anything, mister?”The waitress called. “Nothing for now, thank you.” His voice was young but as he appeared before the pair in the booth, Haider realized he wasn’t as young as he thought. Early thirties. Haider wasn’t much older than him. There was something off putting about his smile, though. Maybe because it didn’t go with his attempt at playing the part of average. Oh, he had the executive suit, the carefully trimmed hair and nails. The hat was a bit much. “I’m wondering if you could help me find my way? I got turned around somewhere.” The man said. “My name’s Ed.” The signal. “Have a seat Ed.” Ed moved to sit beside the girl but she slid to the edge cutting off access. “Over there.” She ordered. He obeyed chuckling as if she amused him. And that’s when Haider realized why the smile was off putting. It was a bemused smile. What the Hell was he so bemused about? A sick feeling swept over him and as Ed's thigh bumped his own, Haider jabbed the gun into Ed’s side. It wiped the smile off his face. “Take it easy.” “Don’t...
Poem I'm working on - after watching a midnight rain. Song of Rain Moonlit rain Sing down on me! Silver whispers, Gurgling sea. Quivering bells along a limb plunge into puddle rings, offsetting the dim. Each shape a cliff for trumpeting waterfall, every gutter a purling lagoon. Clothed only in rain my skin is a drum for its endless mystic tune.
This is an attempt at keeping under a certain word count. I think 1500 words - though I could be slightly over. I was going to enter it in a contest but I was past the due date. Plus it might've been too weird. Every contest winner always seems to deal with death, or war, or something deep and searching. Everytime, I have a deep thought it transmogrifies. Oh, well. * there's a bit of language in this but not much. * Optical Meltdown Heard this fractured homily once, everybody is cut from the same sheet, like paper dolls. Don’t break the link. Be swingers in a chain, ditto, colorless voids. Sounds about right only this outline of mine begs “Fill me up. Use those blank nameless shades you’ve been given. Christen them like Adam with his bestial whoozits.” But I’m not Eden-born. I can not conceive a name from scratch. I can only find a symbiotic link to hook them to. Silver rain shimmers the night. A celestial theme: Comet Zoom, Star wink, Mars glow? Screw it. Nobody is interested in outer-space anymore. I watch the moonlit-rain stream down the windshield, following it’s sensuous sweep through the gutters. Another night, another rain, a final outline washed away. The car eased to a stop at the intersection and the let up allows a panoramic view in pointillism. The burning eye of a traffic light mottles over the pink stipple from a flashing neon sign. That’s been done hasn’t it? A young girl painting her nails in a Douglas Sirk movie. What color, traffic stop or traffic light? It won’t do anyway. Nobody wants a stoplight, they want a come-on; Go-man-go green. “You haven’t said a word all night Redmond.” Bibi looks first in the rearview mirror at her husband John, asleep in the back before sliding a glance at me. “Should I turn around and we can go home, forget the whole thing? I mean if you’re going to be like this.” “Just drive.” I said, frowning. What a harpy. “Such a sweetheart.” “I got a lot on my mind.” “And I don’t.” Oh, how wounded she sounds. “I got twenty six colors to name by Friday. Twenty six.” I open the cardboard portfolio on my lap and turn it for her perusal. “Twelve reds to be named without using the word red. No classic red, no rose red, not even Baboon-ass red.” “Shorten it to Baboon-ass, I’m sure it’d make a killer lipstick.” “It’s green.” I should’ve known I’d get no sympathy from my sister. Slapping the portfolio shut, I toss out my hand in scorn. “You can drive now.” “Shall we stop and put flowers on Elena’s grave?” A shaft of lightening bolts through me, illuminating what a cadaverous husk I’ve become. The hunger begins to gnaw at me. Starve it, master it. Shall I bring up the blood on my arm with a rake of nails and brighten my void. They dig in, waiting. “Flowers for the dead now there’s a color.” “Damn you Redmond. Don’t do that,” she’s pissed. “No, seriously, it could be a new line to go with our decayed youth. Zombie Rot, Atrophy, Funeral Rites, Rigor Mortis.” She relaxes, even smiles. I’ll yank that smile out from under her. “Road Kill, Chalk Outline, D.O.A.” “Stop! Redmond. Just..” Good, now she can just R.I.P, with her flowers for the dead. Close your eyes to the funereal night, Redmond to it’s darkness, it’s shade wet, nodding silhouettes. Because the color names that spring to mind are hopeless, anyhow. * * * Every time I drift off and awaken, a new world awaits me. Gone is the windshield and the night and morning. I catch a dead pheasant’s eye who couldn’t be more embarrassed had he been, me, caught asleep, as is it’s embarrassing enough to be the centerpiece for Anderson’s midnight feast. It or me. Does it really matter? I haven’t slept in ages. “We can’t keep you awake, can we Redmond?” It’s that ass Anderson. Everyone seated around the table laughs on cue at his so-called quip. “You certainly can’t.” Emphasis on the you. My bloodbath of borscht had been replaced by a tiny pillow of ravioli - not enough to sate an appetite or a need to hibernate. “Bibi tells me you ...name” Yes, draw it out for humors sake. “colors for lipsticks. I didn’t know that was an actual job. Don’t they just net a group of pansies?” “Sounds right up yours, why don’t you drop ‘em a line.” Some laughs. Not as many as Anderson got. They’re afraid of offending the host. And though he gives a touche smirk he’ll even the score. He signals a tuxedoed djinni , who responds as if this moment had been prearranged and my train-case of samples, and portfolio are handed off to Anderson, seated at the head of the table. I glare at Bibi through an opaque moon-spray of Lunaria annua. She takes a sip of claret wine and ignores me. A troupe of immaculate staff comes in to take our plates and replace them with our amuse bouche. Four little spoonfuls. Such bullshit. Anderson is opening the portfolio like a menu. The murmur of conversation dies off waiting for this moment. “Let’s help Redmond with his homework. So tell us, do we try this stuff on for inspiration?” His lover seated next to him gives his hand a behave-yourself slap only goading further acid. “Seriously, I’m intrigued. Most of my acquaintances have such dour, dull positions. Lawyers, stock brokers, plastic surgeons,” “Hey, hey, hey!” some jovial fool objects with a lift of his glass. Chuckles abound. “Will you wait until tomorrow and walk through a dewy meadow for inspiration or head to the beach and fondle a sea shell?” “That would be pointless. That kind of poetic shit doesn’t sell anymore.” A nice little jab as Anderson is full of poetic shit, one of those writers that churn out the high grade bull. He doesn’t sell much but is praised by all. “I bow to your powers of prismatic intuition.” he says with both arms waving in mock-grovel. This ass is really asking for it. The amuse bouche is swapped for an aquatic tower topped with bubbles of green spit. Murmurs of delight rise up, but I can only curl my lip at this dog vomit. “What does sell than?” He asks. “What always sells. Food and sex .” I use my fork to pull down the tower, a prawn swirls into the foam. “It’s what women want - to be stuffed, either orally or otherly. ” Bibi gives me a look that supposed to send my smirk back into hiding. Anderson throws back his head and laughs. “Why not Bend Ochre?” I begin. “Or... Ogle Me Peaches? Spank-me Scarlet? Lewd and Nude? Put-Your-Thrust-in-Me -” “Really Redmond!” “Don’t stop him.”Anderson is practically in tears, he’s laughing so hard. Other’s began calling out options but the finesse is gone, dirty words are dredged up. And the braying begins to grate on my nerves. There’s a ringing in my head. Not here , not now! My heart limps, as everything strobes; winks from the overhead crystals whose tintinnabulation sing down like charms, a revolving wheel of candlelight reflected in the claret, an upside down face in the bowl of a spoon, all these funhouse horrors. A guest shaking his wolf mane while aqua iris’ rise above the metallic shimmer of peacock feathers sprouting from a crystal bowl. Cavernous mouths chewing, swallowing, gulping, never a second to feel the void. Everything is quenched. Empty plates are whisked away. Color is squandered. And at its center that beautiful dead pheasant. An attentive waiter tries to refill my wine glass, I cover it with my hand. Droplets seep. “A whiskey.” I say. He brings it. I stand trembling and pour the whiskey over the dead pheasant. Then I dip a candle flame to the liquor. There’s a literal poof as fire explodes. Screams. “Viking Funeral.” I tell a bewildered Anderson tapping a smudge of color on the portfolio. “Make a note of that.” Wild commotion erupts as a errant napkin bridges the flames to tablecloth. Anderson is yelling for a fire extinguisher. I snatch my train case, take the stairs to the guest room. I sit on the bed outside the glow of a single lamp. Taking out the white lipstick, Chalk Outline, I set it down on the mirrored bureau and begin to undress. I see Elena baring a false flush from the road flares. Not far, a drunk is made to walk a yellow line. When they take Elena away, she is pale and cold. Only her chalk outline remains, the waste sheet of a paper doll broken from its chain. I take the white lipstick and I drag it across the underside of my foot right up over my body through to scalp. My outline. Nobody draws it for me. I flick the caps off the rest of the colors from DUI to Lacerated Soul. And finally Transmogrification. With these I color myself. I fill in the chalk line. I will not go out pale and fading. This dolly will not be one of the many voids, whose silhouette dissolves in the rain. I rub the lipstick over every inch. Till there is nothing left and no space left to fill. Twenty-six colors, this year’s colors. Heading off now to join Elena. What a sight I’ll be.
So far this is just jottings that I made coming home one misty day in late November. They're relatively unconnected but I'm trying to tie them all together. Apricot moonbeam in October distills a haunting light, stirring heart whispers of things that only a jack-o-lantern with his savage grin can comprehend. Grapevines are hair-netted after last leaf has dropped. Pink clouds shoulder the sun to bed. Mists obscure a violet escarpment. A bonfire in the distance curls it’s incense. Green has faded to yellow. Naked black trees stand lonely in the distance their limbs like their beginning. Wild and wanton shoots endlessly reaching. A hawk wheels over an motionless windmill. The mist rides in like an apocalypse erasing a world, starting new. Swallowing up violet mountains, barren trees, lonesome fields of barley and the tongue of road so that there is no tomorrow in the windshield and no yesterday in the mirror there is only now. Threatening to be engulfed. Snow twinkles at twilight aglitter over black pavement like fallen diamonds. I walk on stars and hear them crackle beneath my feet. If I close my eyes I can taste them crisp burning a flash out on my tongue. The iciest of fire.
Fishstix In the shadow of a bearded mangrove, the scuba diver tips backwards into black water silvered with coins of moonlight, making no noise, though he doubts if he did, the guard would notice. Since the two weeks, after the town of Sunny Beach had flooded, the guard rarely left the booth they erected John turns, righting himself, waiting for the bubbles of his entry to clear. The drowned town shimmers like a view through a wavy window with streams of moonlight striking its edges in silvery chalk outlines. His hand light illuminates little: a startled eyed snapper, the murky motes drifting in a constant powder-fall, a wink of reflecting glass. Pushing with rubber fins, he vaulted downward, swimming toward rooftops, and came hovering above a backyard. Currents’ play ghost with a swing-set and lace curtains billow from a neighboring window. Eerie unsettling illusions in a snow globe world. He pulls himself along, grabbing a corner of the house, turning his head when he glides over the front yard. Down there, confused candytuft, turning mushy and discolored, still line the walkway to a swallowed street. He floats over Palm Avenue allowing this midnight world to imbibe him. Waterlogged rose bushes splinter in slow motion at his wake. And undulating toward town, he spies the glitter of coins flashing on a sidewalk, hanks of slimy vegetable flesh float from the open door of a market like dead minnows. On toward Crocker street, he kicks, with its prize, the widow Matherson’s house. The water clear of shapes leading up to her drive cast the house in a luminescent hue, indigo edged, lighting the way. But up close the gabled relic grew dark, foreboding, causing John to hesitate. He wasn’t a person that scared easily, and the childlike fear of haunted houses, was drowned by the need for money. Turning the doorhandle, he drifts in, hovering a moment in the Victorian fossil. Not quite as creepy inside, as out he thought. Which place to search first? John slipping sideways into a drawing room, ran his fingers over piano keys, the notes struck him as currents, not as sound, bringing to mind childhood days, sunk in a bathtub repeatedly striking his finger against the porcelain to hear the dull ping as aquatic echo. A soggy poster under a fridge magnet shed it’s paint creating a misty swirl of colors to hang before it like clouds stained at sunset, dusty pink, mauve and blue. John drags his finger through the ribbons causing them to turn about and kite-tail. He floats up a staircase and into a bedroom. It’s as untouched as a dollhouse expecting its owner to return. The chenille bedspread pulled tight over sodden pillows, flickers as the pile twitches in the movement of water. The fringed canopy sways lazily, while some curtain bubbles and flutters at an open window. An awkward turn. He jerks in fright, catching movement out of the corner of his eye - there! He sends up a flurry of exhaust bubbles to roll along the ceiling and nearly laughs. It’s his reflection in the vanity mirror. But what’s this? A murky haze of lilac dusting power drew his curiosity, for it swirled above the vanity like a conjurer’s trick. Something has set it off and recently. He pokes the soaked powder puff releasing a lackluster surge of motes. He turns. His mouth lunges open to scream. His hose falls out. A corpse? No! Black, demonic eyes, tilted like distended teardrops, glittered at him from within a corpse white face, whether with curiosity or malice, he can’t tell. Now, a slash of red mouth gapes showing shards of teeth, overlapping, broken, razor edged teeth, with a moving tongue as blood-red as a wound. A skee sound hits him like a shove, tilting him. It came out of this, this... thing like a roar. Sinewy arms reach out. It had arms, not tentacles, and hands! Hands that snatch his arm, digging in nails sharp as broken sea shell, but glowing like pearly undersides pink, dusky gold and deadly. The head of the creature darts down, as cutting a move as a shark. The teeth sank, ripping into his arm. He howls, gulping in water. He pulls trying to escape. Feathery wisps of his blood thread the water. Need air. Got to surface. He yanks a handful of swirling black hair, kicking out with his flippers. The thing lets go , turning so quickly, the current sends him reeling. He catches the glitter of blue-black scales and a caudal fin, transparent as a wedding veil, disappearing through the window spiraling off into the dark depths. Kicking and clawing, he fought for the surface. Breaking into air. Choking, til he was sick, he paws toward the bank, pulling himself ashore by the root of a cypress tree. Whatever it was, it had torn through his wet suit. His arm’s bleeding, bad. He heads for home. Sylvia , his wife works wordlessly, sowing up his wound. She’s a nurse, recently laid off and the sight of his blood doesn’t frighten her, but her disgust sparks when he answers her question - “Did you get it?” with a very quiet, No. He’s annoyed by her calmness, her disgust. He takes a sip from her beer. “Hold still.” She complains. Tying off the last stitch, she puts up her feet on his lap and takes back her beer. “Okay, what happened? ...Don’t tell me Sunny Beach is now infested with sharks?” “I don’t know. I didn’t get a clear look.” What could he say, it was a demonic mermaid? “Gallagher stopped by today-” “Don’t start.” “What? Am I starting, something? You’re the one who came back empty handed. Don’t think that scratch is going to keep you -” He rises leaving the sunny, too bright kitchen with its fluorescent wallpaper, naked lights, as raw as Sylvie’s complaints and heads down the hall to his son’s room. “Don’t you wake him up!” Sylvia’s threat fades like a shout into the wrong end of a cheerleader cone. John opens a door, a shaft of light brightens his son’s face who sleeps rather like a fish with lips open, gasping breaths, over the chewed on cheek of a teddy bear. He shuts the door and goes to bed. It was ridiculous. There had been no murderous mermaid. And nothing, no fantasy, no reality was going to stop him from finding Matherson’s jewels. * * * His wife had the same idea. Despite his loss of blood, and the threat of infection, she fingered a stack of bills in the morning and gave him a look that said, you’re the man, make them disappear. He sighs breaking off a piece of hush puppy, eating slowly, tasting nothing. His arm throbs but the pain is muffled, not quite what he was expecting. But the wound pulsed with heat, flaring up whenever he touched the bandage that Sylvia wrapped around it. After finishing his coffee, and the last of his hush puppy, he gives his son a quick kiss goodby. Timmy is squalling under roving cotton, Sylvia is practically sanding his face with a washcloth and in protest he throws his paper lunch sack to the floor, and kicks off one sneaker. John smiles leaving Sylvia to handle it, and heads for the bathroom. He locks the door before unraveling the gauze. A stomach lurching stench of pus hits him, not just pus but decomposing fish matter like scales under fingernails, days old. The wound is puffed up, bruise black, with yellow green pus burping out from between the stitches. He takes the end of his wife’s toothbrush and gives it a poke. The pain flares hot for a moment but the action rent only relief. He presses down until the wound heaves, squirting out a mess of pus till in runs clean. The wound mollified, simmers like a rotten tooth pulled. He douses the wound with antiseptic and winds on a clean bandage. High noon, he returns to the lake, sneaking past a guard, who’s chewing his lunch of fried fish caught from the lake and cooked over a hotplate. He slips in and with the sun gleaming a path makes his way to Mrs. Matherson’s house. He flutters around it cautiously, peeking in through her upstairs window just to make sure. Fish or figment, he doesn’t want another run in. He slithers about - opening drawers, sheets of paper take flight, and like some crystal octopus an overturned bottle shoots an ink-cloud into the water but his ransacking of the den isn’t a total loss. He finds a small lockbox and smashes it open against a brass doorstop. Inside is a wad of bills, coming close to three hundred bucks. Twirling in victory, he returns to the second floor. Opening a jewelry box, which tries in vain to tinkle forth a tune in this plethoric underworld, he scoops up a mass of dripping, tangled baubles; necklaces, earrings and bracelets like a jumble of pirate booty and crams it into a pillow case. Dammit. His tanks are running low. He would have to come back at night. Sylvia paws through the jewelry with a critical eye - “You know this is mostly costume don’t you? Can’t you tell the difference?” John sweeps the last bit of bread around his plate, soaking up dribbles of clam chowder and puts in his mouth, taking the time to chew. “I know that.” He says, finally. But she insists on holding up a tangled necklace, “You don’t think anyone would treat real jewels, emeralds like this, do you? Not even an old bag like Mrs. Matherson.” He wishes she wouldn’t sit like that. One leg propped up on her chair, with the crotch strip of her underwear for anyone to see. And would it kill her to run a brush through her hair? It was more tangled than the waterlogged roots of a mangrove tree. “I’m going back, later on tonight. I’ll try again.” “Damn right you will.” She hadn’t even asked about his arm. Behind a locked door, he removes the bandage and his stomach plummets - gangrene! Don’t panic. He tells himself, examining the wound. It isn’t gangrene it doesn’t even smell bad, and the flesh isn’t rotten, but the skin had gone hard. Right up to his elbow. Hard and slightly green and shiny. Also, it itched. “Everything all...