10/13/13
Your mother lied to you. That’s the truth. She told you that you would meet Mr. Right. She told you that he would be lucky to have you. She told you all the other kids were jealous and that’s why they wouldn’t hang out with you. You want to know what the truth really is? Mr. Right is about as plausible as Prince Charming and the Seven Dwarves were. Mr. Right would NOT be lucky to have you. He would curse the day he ever met you. The other kids that wouldn’t hang out with you? They didn’t like you. And do you know why? Because you were, and remain to this day, a raging bitch! Good Lord! Have you ever looked yourself in the mirror and thought, “I should be a nicer person. That would make the frown lines go away.” Have you? NO. You make phone calls to the plastic surgeon. She can’t stand you either, by the way.
Remember what your dad did all the time, the thing he did with the newspaper? You always thought he was playing hide and seek with you. Until you moved out of the house you thought that. What the hell is wrong with you? His life, his thoughts, they don’t revolve around you. Nothing revolves around you. But you think I’m making this up. Because you think it all revolves around you. Wow. What a drag it must be to be your id. That’s the opposite of your ego. On second thought, you may not have one.
Do you remember the blackout of 2003? You were younger, but not so young that you weren’t already full of yourself. You and your mother ducked inside an open store to get out of the heat. It was so bloody hot that summer. What luck that it was the general store! Yep, they still had a few of them dotting the urban landscapes. Not many. This one had that forced old-timey charm that is supposed to be brought about by the installation of a throwback soda fountain and ice cream counter. What a stroke of bad luck those folks had! Just last summer is when they spent several thousands of dollars, trying to set their business apart from the large national chain that went in down the street.
They were giving away ice cream as fast as they could since the power was out. These nice people were doing what they could for their community instead of just waiting out the blackout and then throwing everything away that had gone bad. They couldn’t do any real business, just like everyone else. But they did what they could. If you really needed something, they would write out a receipt for you and have you sign it. Then they would give you what you wanted on good faith that when it was all over, you’d come back in, claim your tab and pay your bill. In the meantime they were trying to keep kids from complaining and babies from crying and old folks from succumbing to the heat by giving away the ice cream before it melted. Boy, they were taking it on the chin but they had smiles on their faces.
When you and your mother made it up to the counter, the gentleman asked how you were and if you’d like some ice cream and some for your mother and maybe some to take home to the rest of the family. Do you remember what you said? Thank you? No. Yes, please? No. You said you wanted more than anyone had in their dish, that your mother was too fat for ice cream and that you wanted to take loads home with you. It was clear from your snotty grin that you weren’t planning on sharing with anyone. Your mother tried to laugh off your rudeness. It didn’t work.
A few of the folks in the shop knew all about you from having to deal with you previously. The place started clearing out and an immediate pall fell over the place. What had been a community of folks dealing with their circumstances with humor and camaraderie suddenly became stifled and still.
Then you screamed. You screamed because someone else’s lemon sherbet that had melted all over the counter had gotten on your shirt and your arm. Man, you would have thought you’d been burning alive. It was just some melted ice cream. But you went off on the poor man. His wife tried to clean up your arm with a damp rag but you snatched your arm back as if she’s been trying to harm you. You screamed that the rag was dirty and how dare she try to wipe that muck all over you. Your mother stood by, not knowing what to do. She’d never really seen you go off like this, this violently, this vehemently, and she didn’t know how to defuse you. The lady with the rag tried to reason with you. That was a mistake on her part. The man just looked sadder and sadder and sadder.
Later that night the man killed himself behind the ice cream counter. He’d told his wife he had no idea children were so horrible these days and then sent her upstairs to the apartment they kept over the store. After he cleaned up all of the melted ice cream he took a hand ax from the back of the store and sunk it deep into the spot where that damn lemon sherbet had melted. Then he pulled the trigger.
Saturday, November 16, 2013
First short story using Writer's Toolbox
10/13/13
My grandfather lied to my grandmother. I guess it runs in the family. The only reason I ever discovered this was that I happened upon that rusted box in the eaves as we were taking the old barn down. I never was interested in my family history as my parents were both orphaned early, but something drew me to the property on barn-killing day. The ruined tools were being tossed out into a truck bed for hauling away. The clanging seemed to echo over the fallow fields for miles. I just wanted to see if there was anything cool left or remnants of the barn owl nests. Or anything I could have mistaken for my mother’s. I was up on the 2nd level, the bales long gone but their musty smell still hung in the cobwebs. A board popped up easily as I stepped on it’s loose end and that was all it took to unlock the past.
“She may be young, but she’s not stupid.” That what it said. I had to read it over and over to start figuring out what the hell it meant and what I had stumbled upon. I couldn’t even tell who it was that could have jotted this down. Crumpled paper, yellowed with age and this chicken-scratch handwriting. Written by a boy? A girl? Adult or child? I was starting to obsess over one slip of paper until I noticed all the little treasures in the box. Toys, play coins, what looked like it used to be a wax crayon, years ago having lost it’s shape to heat and gravity. More notes! I felt like I’d fond a box full of someone else’s secrets. But they were mot connected to me. No names. Nothing to identify the box’s owner - assuming he or she was long lost to time.
At the bottom, I found a slip of tissue paper that jogged a vague memory of a story…a local legend of a monster. The date was from March of 1938. Not the easiest time. I think the farm was starting to fall on hard times. I don’t think it ever stopped. The typeset was faded but I could make out the word “Grocer”. That was all I needed. My eyes started watering as it all started to fall into place.
This was the reason for the mystery and never spoken of death of an uncle that died long before he ever should have. I guess there was a brother, a half brother, never quite fully accepted in the family by the parents that were soon to lie down quietly, and not so quietly, themselves. He developed a habit of drinking to ignore the hard times coming. She, I imagine, would stand by the kitchen sink, the one with the pump for a faucet, and wring her hands or a dishtowel or the laundry. He had two modes of interaction: silence and belligerence. One, sometimes both, fueled by drink. She because increasingly confused and paralyzed by what was happening around her.
One day Ray, for that was the boy’s name, returned from the grocer with a slip of tissue paper upon which a bill was carefully printed out. He was not given anything except this paper by the grocer. The old man, hurting from the thought of having nothing more to drink, turned very, very red and yanked poor Ray’s arm so hard he yelped like a puppy. Out the back door and toward the shed. She knew what that meant. That boy was going to pay for what they couldn’t pay for at the moment. To drown out the sounds of the old man’s leather belt against the boy’s bare skin and the boy’s shrieking and sobbing for mercy, she busied herself at the washboard, trying to get out stains and stink with nothing but old bits and pieces and lye soap she kept pressing together into a cake.
When the sun was going down, the old man came in, smelling of all sorts of bad smells. Ray didn’t come back in. She decided it would be best not to question her husband.
My grandfather lied to my grandmother. I guess it runs in the family. The only reason I ever discovered this was that I happened upon that rusted box in the eaves as we were taking the old barn down. I never was interested in my family history as my parents were both orphaned early, but something drew me to the property on barn-killing day. The ruined tools were being tossed out into a truck bed for hauling away. The clanging seemed to echo over the fallow fields for miles. I just wanted to see if there was anything cool left or remnants of the barn owl nests. Or anything I could have mistaken for my mother’s. I was up on the 2nd level, the bales long gone but their musty smell still hung in the cobwebs. A board popped up easily as I stepped on it’s loose end and that was all it took to unlock the past.
“She may be young, but she’s not stupid.” That what it said. I had to read it over and over to start figuring out what the hell it meant and what I had stumbled upon. I couldn’t even tell who it was that could have jotted this down. Crumpled paper, yellowed with age and this chicken-scratch handwriting. Written by a boy? A girl? Adult or child? I was starting to obsess over one slip of paper until I noticed all the little treasures in the box. Toys, play coins, what looked like it used to be a wax crayon, years ago having lost it’s shape to heat and gravity. More notes! I felt like I’d fond a box full of someone else’s secrets. But they were mot connected to me. No names. Nothing to identify the box’s owner - assuming he or she was long lost to time.
At the bottom, I found a slip of tissue paper that jogged a vague memory of a story…a local legend of a monster. The date was from March of 1938. Not the easiest time. I think the farm was starting to fall on hard times. I don’t think it ever stopped. The typeset was faded but I could make out the word “Grocer”. That was all I needed. My eyes started watering as it all started to fall into place.
This was the reason for the mystery and never spoken of death of an uncle that died long before he ever should have. I guess there was a brother, a half brother, never quite fully accepted in the family by the parents that were soon to lie down quietly, and not so quietly, themselves. He developed a habit of drinking to ignore the hard times coming. She, I imagine, would stand by the kitchen sink, the one with the pump for a faucet, and wring her hands or a dishtowel or the laundry. He had two modes of interaction: silence and belligerence. One, sometimes both, fueled by drink. She because increasingly confused and paralyzed by what was happening around her.
One day Ray, for that was the boy’s name, returned from the grocer with a slip of tissue paper upon which a bill was carefully printed out. He was not given anything except this paper by the grocer. The old man, hurting from the thought of having nothing more to drink, turned very, very red and yanked poor Ray’s arm so hard he yelped like a puppy. Out the back door and toward the shed. She knew what that meant. That boy was going to pay for what they couldn’t pay for at the moment. To drown out the sounds of the old man’s leather belt against the boy’s bare skin and the boy’s shrieking and sobbing for mercy, she busied herself at the washboard, trying to get out stains and stink with nothing but old bits and pieces and lye soap she kept pressing together into a cake.
When the sun was going down, the old man came in, smelling of all sorts of bad smells. Ray didn’t come back in. She decided it would be best not to question her husband.
Black & White Stripes - writing exercise
11/2/13
I was dressed in a completely inappropriate shade of pink; which is to say any shade of pink. I woke up, dressed in pink, on a concrete floor. Not really sure where. The floor was reasonably clean was all I could discern. My head ached, my left ankle was swollen but not broken, it felt as if I’d been punched in the ribcage. I sat up very slowly - looking around to see if I was alone in this, I guess, warehouse. I took a deep breath, mostly to test my ribs for breaks and bruising. I noticed then that my breath was minty. Minty? I ran my tongue across my teeth. Clean. Seemingly freshly cleaned. I looked around to see if I had a bag of some sort with me. Nothing. I was really confused.
I heard a door squeal open in the distance but within the room. Man, this place was big! The sound of the door clicking closed echoed off the concrete and steel. Footsteps - is that what I heard? Like shuffling footsteps. This didn’t make sense. Then I heard a whisper of a purr behind me and turned just as a big black and white cat walked nonchalantly past me, giving me a purr-meow and nothing more. I smiled. I love cats. I watched it vanish from the light and, as it did, a human figure loomed out of the darkness. It was a man. And he wore black and white stripes. I thought for a moment that he was an escaped convict or was dressed up as Beetlejuice. Obviously, I watch too many movies. I didn’t say anything. I don’t even think I was breathing. Then I noticed the shuffling sound. I looked at his feet. He was wearing slippers. Okay, so he was wearing black and white striped pajamas. My confusion was starting to turn into something else. I was getting kind of frustrated with the level of ridiculousness that was going on. I thought about Twin Peaks for a second. How could I daydream at a time like this? Again…too many movies!
The man spoke “If you don’t take chances,” he said, “you might as well not be alive.” He then just stood, looking at me blankly. I felt the need to respond. “Hmm…” and I vaguely nodded my head. I really couldn’t think of anything else. I felt like I was in a fog but like my mind was clear. I was confused but not panicked.
The man started to shuffle off, heading back into the darkness that encircled but did not press in on me. “Whoa, whoa…sir, can you tell me where I am?” I asked. He answered quietly, “No.” “Can you tell me how to get out of here?” “You can figure it out for yourself, “ he said and then was swallowed up by the dark. Shit.
Well, it’s time to figure this out. Time to explore a little. I stand up and, except for that slight feeling of vertigo you get if you’ve been down for too long, I feel okay. Instead of trying to follow the man out, I’m going to head over to where he appeared and the cat disappeared. So I start walking. Something feels weird. You’d think nothing would seem weird at this point. I look down. No Way! Fucking pink slippers? What is happening? But really, except for the color, they are pretty nice. Super comfortable and warm but not overly. So…whatever. I start walking again. And I walk and walk and walk. I catch myself humming and realize I am not bothered at all by the circumstances I find myself in. I’m feeling…content? No. Happy? Not really. Carefree? Kind of. That’s it. Carefree. Without care, without worry. Hey, I’m totally in the moment. This is what they say nirvana is. No past, no future, only now. I get it! This is so cool.
I see a sliver of light up ahead so I keep moving. It gets wider as I get closer. Or maybe I’m getting smaller. Maybe I drank a potion…haha, I don’t know. So I get to where the light is and there’s this young guy in white and black striped pajamas, no slippers. Why am I even noticing these weird details? Anyway, he looks up and nods hello and I can tell he wants me to sit beside him on the pillow he is cross legged on. I smell the cool breeze of wild grasses, I see dragonflies dart and hover, I sit cross legged next to pajama guy and smile at the way he writes with both his left and right hands. He nods his head slowly and I realize I am humming again.
I was dressed in a completely inappropriate shade of pink; which is to say any shade of pink. I woke up, dressed in pink, on a concrete floor. Not really sure where. The floor was reasonably clean was all I could discern. My head ached, my left ankle was swollen but not broken, it felt as if I’d been punched in the ribcage. I sat up very slowly - looking around to see if I was alone in this, I guess, warehouse. I took a deep breath, mostly to test my ribs for breaks and bruising. I noticed then that my breath was minty. Minty? I ran my tongue across my teeth. Clean. Seemingly freshly cleaned. I looked around to see if I had a bag of some sort with me. Nothing. I was really confused.
I heard a door squeal open in the distance but within the room. Man, this place was big! The sound of the door clicking closed echoed off the concrete and steel. Footsteps - is that what I heard? Like shuffling footsteps. This didn’t make sense. Then I heard a whisper of a purr behind me and turned just as a big black and white cat walked nonchalantly past me, giving me a purr-meow and nothing more. I smiled. I love cats. I watched it vanish from the light and, as it did, a human figure loomed out of the darkness. It was a man. And he wore black and white stripes. I thought for a moment that he was an escaped convict or was dressed up as Beetlejuice. Obviously, I watch too many movies. I didn’t say anything. I don’t even think I was breathing. Then I noticed the shuffling sound. I looked at his feet. He was wearing slippers. Okay, so he was wearing black and white striped pajamas. My confusion was starting to turn into something else. I was getting kind of frustrated with the level of ridiculousness that was going on. I thought about Twin Peaks for a second. How could I daydream at a time like this? Again…too many movies!
The man spoke “If you don’t take chances,” he said, “you might as well not be alive.” He then just stood, looking at me blankly. I felt the need to respond. “Hmm…” and I vaguely nodded my head. I really couldn’t think of anything else. I felt like I was in a fog but like my mind was clear. I was confused but not panicked.
The man started to shuffle off, heading back into the darkness that encircled but did not press in on me. “Whoa, whoa…sir, can you tell me where I am?” I asked. He answered quietly, “No.” “Can you tell me how to get out of here?” “You can figure it out for yourself, “ he said and then was swallowed up by the dark. Shit.
Well, it’s time to figure this out. Time to explore a little. I stand up and, except for that slight feeling of vertigo you get if you’ve been down for too long, I feel okay. Instead of trying to follow the man out, I’m going to head over to where he appeared and the cat disappeared. So I start walking. Something feels weird. You’d think nothing would seem weird at this point. I look down. No Way! Fucking pink slippers? What is happening? But really, except for the color, they are pretty nice. Super comfortable and warm but not overly. So…whatever. I start walking again. And I walk and walk and walk. I catch myself humming and realize I am not bothered at all by the circumstances I find myself in. I’m feeling…content? No. Happy? Not really. Carefree? Kind of. That’s it. Carefree. Without care, without worry. Hey, I’m totally in the moment. This is what they say nirvana is. No past, no future, only now. I get it! This is so cool.
I see a sliver of light up ahead so I keep moving. It gets wider as I get closer. Or maybe I’m getting smaller. Maybe I drank a potion…haha, I don’t know. So I get to where the light is and there’s this young guy in white and black striped pajamas, no slippers. Why am I even noticing these weird details? Anyway, he looks up and nods hello and I can tell he wants me to sit beside him on the pillow he is cross legged on. I smell the cool breeze of wild grasses, I see dragonflies dart and hover, I sit cross legged next to pajama guy and smile at the way he writes with both his left and right hands. He nods his head slowly and I realize I am humming again.
Letter to 8 year old me - written at 51
You poor little thing.
I'm supposed to write a letter to you but I'm stuck before I even start.
Am I supposed to act as a source of comfort and tell you that it will be all right? I can't do that with a clear conscience because this is not a smooth journey. There will be ups and downs. People can be really shitty and there are a LOT of those kind out there.
I don't have any advice on how to avoid the pain of loneliness and rejection because I never learned how to. Other than to close myself off; but that's just as bad in the end.
Whatever disguise you decide to wear will have it's own pros and cons. You'll still have to deal with the real you that's inside - so try not to damage yourself too badly. It's in your nature but please know that there are long-lasting consequences. I can advise you to be careful, but I know you (because I am you) and I know you will do whatever you want to do.
I can say a few things that might make the road a little less bumpy. First and foremost; your dad doesn't know shit about being a dad. He doesn't know that but (as you have been reminded again and again) he is 100% sure that he is right about everything. Try to figure out a way to let those drops of criticism and impatience and lack of compassion and understanding roll off your back. Easier said than done; I know. He's going to be around for a long time (those recurring dreams will not come true) so you need to learn how to disregard his negative opinion of your abilities and worth. Lose yourself in your books: read, read, read. Sneak away more often and lay in the mint patch that surrounds the poplar tree at the back of the yard. Disappear into that vast fallow field and cuddle the bunnies, chase the snakes and field mice, keep tabs on the killdeer nest and other bird activities for the Audobon Society. Keep drawing. You'll start painting soon and you'll start to write. Let out all that is bottled inside. Don't let your fear kill your talent. Let your imagination fly. But remember to fly under his radar as much as possible. His wrath does not last forever. One day you'll realize you can tell him what he dd to you. You'll take the opportunity from time to time. But your gentle nature will not try to destroy him. You'll simply use your words to make him understand moments.
I wish I could urge you to become a good student. You are really smart, but you already know that. If you do your homework (and it's so easy), you won't be punished for bad grades. Probably. Imagine not having to look forward to the belt every night. Imagine not having to write lines until your hand can't straighten.
You are going to do a lot of pretty stupid things: promiscuity, drugs, overuse of alcohol, etc. Don't beat yourself up for the rest of your life. Shit happens. Just welcome each new day as an opportunity to start fresh. When you make a bad decision (and you will make more than one), remember that you can make another decision that corrects the last. It's really not that bad once you are on your own. Explore, immerse, love. Don't forget to love others and don't forget to love yourself. Time spent in any situation is simply time spent molding the person you are becoming, and will continue to become for the rest of your life. You'll turn out okay. I promise. I'll be here waiting for you.
I'm supposed to write a letter to you but I'm stuck before I even start.
Am I supposed to act as a source of comfort and tell you that it will be all right? I can't do that with a clear conscience because this is not a smooth journey. There will be ups and downs. People can be really shitty and there are a LOT of those kind out there.
I don't have any advice on how to avoid the pain of loneliness and rejection because I never learned how to. Other than to close myself off; but that's just as bad in the end.
Whatever disguise you decide to wear will have it's own pros and cons. You'll still have to deal with the real you that's inside - so try not to damage yourself too badly. It's in your nature but please know that there are long-lasting consequences. I can advise you to be careful, but I know you (because I am you) and I know you will do whatever you want to do.
I can say a few things that might make the road a little less bumpy. First and foremost; your dad doesn't know shit about being a dad. He doesn't know that but (as you have been reminded again and again) he is 100% sure that he is right about everything. Try to figure out a way to let those drops of criticism and impatience and lack of compassion and understanding roll off your back. Easier said than done; I know. He's going to be around for a long time (those recurring dreams will not come true) so you need to learn how to disregard his negative opinion of your abilities and worth. Lose yourself in your books: read, read, read. Sneak away more often and lay in the mint patch that surrounds the poplar tree at the back of the yard. Disappear into that vast fallow field and cuddle the bunnies, chase the snakes and field mice, keep tabs on the killdeer nest and other bird activities for the Audobon Society. Keep drawing. You'll start painting soon and you'll start to write. Let out all that is bottled inside. Don't let your fear kill your talent. Let your imagination fly. But remember to fly under his radar as much as possible. His wrath does not last forever. One day you'll realize you can tell him what he dd to you. You'll take the opportunity from time to time. But your gentle nature will not try to destroy him. You'll simply use your words to make him understand moments.
I wish I could urge you to become a good student. You are really smart, but you already know that. If you do your homework (and it's so easy), you won't be punished for bad grades. Probably. Imagine not having to look forward to the belt every night. Imagine not having to write lines until your hand can't straighten.
You are going to do a lot of pretty stupid things: promiscuity, drugs, overuse of alcohol, etc. Don't beat yourself up for the rest of your life. Shit happens. Just welcome each new day as an opportunity to start fresh. When you make a bad decision (and you will make more than one), remember that you can make another decision that corrects the last. It's really not that bad once you are on your own. Explore, immerse, love. Don't forget to love others and don't forget to love yourself. Time spent in any situation is simply time spent molding the person you are becoming, and will continue to become for the rest of your life. You'll turn out okay. I promise. I'll be here waiting for you.
Undisputable success
One thing about me. I see a psych therapist. I have off and on for many, many years. Some parts of me are fixed, some are not. I'm going to use this blog as an open forum in an attempt to get over my crippling fear of being judged. I've been bullied, ridiculed and talked about behind my back for the majority of my life. Or so I'm convinced. For many years I know it to be true, for those were the school years. Primary, secondary...I hated it all. I know there are some pleasant memories buried in there somewhere but all I remember is the shame and the feeling of being the ugliest, fattest, most disgusting creature on the face of the earth.
And so, of course, I created an alter ego and started a punk band. This was quite while back and, unless you lived in central or northern Ohio, it's highly doubtful that you ever heard of us. BUT for most of the years we were an all-female punk band that played 98% original songs. The covers we played were weirded up (Over The Rainbow, the theme from Sesame Street, and the like). We had at least 50 original songs and we rehearsed them all, all of the time. When we played, we played for a good 90 minutes, if not more. Our song lists were written on cardboard and laid on the stage in front of us so we could tick them off, one by one. It was exhilarating and exhausting. It was the best and worst time of my life. More of that later, I promise.
So, back to therapy. The therapist I'm seeing now has given me homework from time to time. Some of it, I'm unable to accomplish at this time (love letter to myself). Some of it, I am able to tackle and finish (next post will be one of them). Also, in order to get over the fear of being judged, the fear of getting negative feedback, the fear of feeling like I'm not good enough (good enough for what? I don't know!), I am going to share my little original musings with anyone who might want to have a read.
So, to wrap this up: please feel free to share your feedback. Positive is great but if it's negative, please make it more of a critique rather than just being mean. We have enough mean people in the world that I'm aware of. I'd rather not become aware of any more, thank you. That's it. Enjoy. Interface. Comment.
And so, of course, I created an alter ego and started a punk band. This was quite while back and, unless you lived in central or northern Ohio, it's highly doubtful that you ever heard of us. BUT for most of the years we were an all-female punk band that played 98% original songs. The covers we played were weirded up (Over The Rainbow, the theme from Sesame Street, and the like). We had at least 50 original songs and we rehearsed them all, all of the time. When we played, we played for a good 90 minutes, if not more. Our song lists were written on cardboard and laid on the stage in front of us so we could tick them off, one by one. It was exhilarating and exhausting. It was the best and worst time of my life. More of that later, I promise.
So, back to therapy. The therapist I'm seeing now has given me homework from time to time. Some of it, I'm unable to accomplish at this time (love letter to myself). Some of it, I am able to tackle and finish (next post will be one of them). Also, in order to get over the fear of being judged, the fear of getting negative feedback, the fear of feeling like I'm not good enough (good enough for what? I don't know!), I am going to share my little original musings with anyone who might want to have a read.
So, to wrap this up: please feel free to share your feedback. Positive is great but if it's negative, please make it more of a critique rather than just being mean. We have enough mean people in the world that I'm aware of. I'd rather not become aware of any more, thank you. That's it. Enjoy. Interface. Comment.
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