Fiction Friday: A Falling Leaf

Explore : February 9, 2008 (#41)

Explore : February 9, 2008 (#41) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The moment Patrick opened the door, heat punched him in the chest, so heavy with moisture he had to lean on the car to withstand it. A few yards away, grapevines shimmered in the bright sunlight as they marched like stiff toy soldiers toward blue-shrouded heights.

“Germans,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Well, those rows were the reason he was here. He struggled forward through liquid air and fingered a leaf edged with brown, tested the weight of a clump of grapes. Very different from those he knew from home, the ones whose contours and colors he knew better than his own face.

And this was supposed to be his big chance?

Whenever God closes a door, He opens a window, his mother’s voice whispered.

Yeah, right. If God was anywhere in his life, he sure was hiding pretty well.

He retreated to the shade of a line of trees grown wild and unkempt along the property line. The smell of half-dry leaves rose to meet him as he sat and rested against rough bark. Behind his eyelids floated a vision of green eyes that saw right to the core of his being. Don’t lose faith now, they seemed to say.

Fine. Patrick turned his hands upward. “If you’re there, prove it,” he said defiantly.

For a moment, all was still. Then a breeze whispered, rose, passing from one treetop to the next. A rain of gold fell all around him, and a single yellow leaf came to rest on his palm.

Write On Edge: Red-Writing-Hood

Published in: on May 25, 2012 at 7:53 am  Comments (9)  
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Fiction Friday: A Cry in the Dark

Photo by Wonderlane, via Flickr

Those damn yellow shoes.

Zin massaged her ankle as she watched Ned disappear into the gloom of overhanging oak with the rest of the party. Flashlight beams danced on the thick canopy as their voices chattered. Soon even that was gone, and she was left on the porch with nothing but an ice pack, the peep frogs and crickets for company.

Click-click-creak. Click-click-creak.

Oh yes. And Dee’s Grammy, knitting in the corner.

Click-click, creak. “I toldja not to wear them shoes out in the yard.”

Presumably, Grammy had perfected the art of “I told you so’s” long before the Flood. “It’s all I brought.”

“Whad’ja trip on? Rabbit hole?” Click-click-creak.

Zin jammed her fist into her hand. “A stump.”

“Well, leastways you kin keep an old lady company. I got a shiver in my bones tells me this here blanket’s gonna be needed soon.”

Zin stifled a groan. She’d spent two hours assembling exactly the right look to impress Ned, and in the end all she’d gotten was a solicitous arm, helping her up to the porch. Somehow, when Dee had talked about her great-grandmother’s house in the country, she’d neglected to mention it was more Deliverance than divine. Now Dee was out spelunking with Ned, probably finding some secluded avenue to explore two by two. Maybe Dee’d planned it that way.

Her ankle throbbed; she bent, adjusted the ice pack and slapped a mosquito.

“You’re goin’ about it the wrong way, y’know,” Grammy said.

“About what?” she snapped.

“Catchin’ the boy.”

Zin looked up over her knees and was surprised by the sympathetic smile. “What do you know about it?”

Grammy uttered a short bark of laughter. “You think I was never young? There’s boys you catch with stilettos, girl, but that boy ain’t one of ‘em. Take my word for it. It’ll take somethin’ real to get his attention.” Click-click-creak. “Now, in my day there was a boy I liked, name of John. I like to never catch his eye.”

“Sounds familiar,” Zin mumbled.

“Tried everything–clothes, perfume, makeup. Wasn’t ’til I–”

“What was that?”

Click-click-creak. “What was what?”

“That sound. There it is again.”

Grammy paused, cocked an ear. “Coyote pup, maybe.”

Zin stood. “That’s no coyote.” Gingerly, she limped down the stairs and started into the trees.

“You be careful, girly!” called Grammy. “I cain’t come git you if you sprain your other ankle!”

The mewling cry came again, weaker this time. Zin stumbled into a fold in the ground, black against charcoal earth. Her skirt snagged on a thorn; she clung to saplings to keep her balance as she struggled downward toward the patch of white at the base of a tree. She moved the threadbare fabric and caught her breath.

It was a baby.

*

The theme du jour is choice and its consequences. I can’t explore either the choice or the consequence properly in 400 words (this is pretty far over, in fact), but I hope I’ve at least intrigued you. :)

Published in: on May 18, 2012 at 5:35 am  Comments (11)  
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Fiction Friday: Body Language

Photo via Wiki Commons

His crossed arms answered her question before he spoke. “I’m sorry,” he said. “There’s nothing more we can do.”

Molly placed her hands palm down on her thighs and rubbed down her legs, then crossed her arms and slid her palms up opposite arms. “Well,” she said. “Well. In the end, it comes to us all, doesn’t it?”

“Mrs. Folk?”

She looked up, met his gaze. “I’m all right, doctor. It’s just…it’s so beautiful. I never realized.”

“What’s so beautiful?”

She blinked. “My body.” She held out her hands, opened and closed them. “Look at that. Until today, all I saw was freckles and calluses. But think of the meals these hands have made. The babies they’ve rocked. The rows they’ve hoed.” She shook her head. “It’s just beautiful, that’s all.”

Dr. Wheeler ran his tongue over his lips. “Mrs. Folk, would help if I brought in someone for you to talk to?”

Molly expelled a sound, one part sigh, one part laugh. “You think I’m in shock, don’t you?”

He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. “Well…”

“What kind of people do you normally see?” she said, exasperated. “You act like you’ve never told a woman she’s going to die before.” Molly fiddled with the sloppy hem of the examining gown, fat and skinny side by side. “At times like this, you look back on your life. You wonder if you’ve done everything worthwhile you could. If you’ve done anything worthwhile at all.”

He clicked his pen three times. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “You’ve done worthwhile things, Mrs. Folk. Think of the library, and the scholarship.”

“Oh, I know.” She waved it all away. “I’ve used my money for good. But I never really did anything. Myself–with my own body. My own hands, my own feet.” She held them up, flexed her toes. “Just marvelous,” she said softly. “I never even paid attention. I could have done so much more with all this.”

He cupped her elbow and ducked his head to meet her gaze. “There’s still time, you know.”

She looked up then, and he was relieved to see at last the shine of tears in her eyes. “You’re right, doctor,” she said. “Six months is long enough to make a difference.” She drew a deep breath and smiled. “I think it’s time I join my boys at the mission in Haiti.”

Write On Edge: Red-Writing-Hood

Published in: on May 4, 2012 at 8:14 am  Comments (7)  
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Fiction Friday: Makeover

Was that her?

The image reflected in the window of a real estate office arrested Alison’s forward motion abruptly, and two young honeymooners ploughed right into her, knocking her leather attaché case out of her hand. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said as papers flew everywhere in the hot wind.

The boy smiled. “Oh, that’s all right.” He and his companion bent and swept the pages together.

“Uh-oh!” The girl darted after a stray sheet flicking hither and yon on the vagaries of a hot, dry wind, swatting at it midair until at last she managed to pounce upon it just before it plastered itself to the front of a delivery truck. She swept her hair out of her face as she returned. “I’m afraid they may be out of order, but at least we didn’t lose any.”

“Thank you,” Alison said.

“Don’t mention it.”

Alison watched them walk on, entranced by the easy companionship, the way their hands brushed, then entwined unconsciously. Had she and Carlo ever looked like that?

She glanced again at the reflection in the window. In the hot July sunlight, an old lady stared back at her.

Well, perhaps that was overstating it a bit. Still, her face had sagged beneath the burden of grief and alienation, and in the glare of the hot noonday sun her ponytail hung stringy and mousy, peppered with gray. In her housecleaning clothes, she looked like a worn-out new mother. Only older.

How long had she been sliding into self-neglect without realizing it? Months? Years? Decades? So much of her identity had been tied up in Jeremy, and now that he was gone, she wondered if all this time she’d been getting by on her son’s reflected glory. Time was, she would never have left the house in her cleaning clothes.

She couldn’t stand by Carlo’s side tonight, not looking like this. Men had it so much easier. A man ages, and he becomes distinguished. A woman ages, and she becomes invisible.

Debra glanced up when she walked into the salon. “Well, hello there, Alison! What can I do for you today?”

“Do you have time for a cut and style?”

“Sure. What do you need? Just a trim?”

Something wild and restless took hold of her, an urge to cast off and begin anew. “No,” she said. “I need a change, Debra. I don’t really know what. I just want to feel like me again. Like the girl I used to be.”

Debra’s plain face split wide. “You know how long I’ve been waiting to hear you say that?” She clapped Alison on both shoulders. “You leave it to me.”

Two hours later, colored, bobbed, and made over, Alison stepped back into the heat and turned to face her reflection in the window of the salon. Ghostly in the depths of the reflection, Deb smiled and waved. Alison returned the gesture. The sunlight and the hot wind blew the haze out of her consciousness, waking parts of her she hadn’t been on speaking terms with in months. Years, maybe.

Maybe she could do this, after all.

Write On Edge: Red-Writing-Hood

I had to put this one together more quickly than I’d like, and the idea never developed as fully as I had hoped, so be gentle–but at the same time, please don’t hold back. I love concrits!

This week’s “Makeover” prompt sent me back to my novel about Carlo and Allison. If you haven’t read any of the others, of if you’re interested, here are the prompts about this troubled marriage. (But don’t expect them to make any logical sense, exactly. I’m just feeling out the characters and learning what this novel is about.)

Heartbreak

In The Mist

The Magic Hour

David

Published in: on April 20, 2012 at 8:10 am  Comments (17)  
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Perfect Moments

Photo by j neuberger, via Flickr

There are days that are full of moments. Moments of pristine clarity, the colors jewel-bright, the sight and the scent and the feel of them fusing into a single point so intense, it sears itself into the surface of my brain, and out of the pinprick point comes a single word: perfect.

I want these moments indelibly imprinted on my memory, not only to hold them for my own sake–because the camera is never on hand–but also so that I can draw on the details that can bring to life the words and scenes I write somewhere down the line. If I want to write stories that hinge on the drama in ordinary lives, I need these moments.

But how do I internalize them so deeply that they spring forth when they’re needed? How do I draw a word picture of a three-year-old sitting in a toy Jeep wearing homemade monkey ears, his face perfectly completing the image of monkey mischief? How do I hold on to the timbre and mannerisms of small childhood, of Nicholas singing “Twinkle Twinkle/Baa Baa Black Sheep/ABC” from the moment he wakes in the morning until the moment he falls asleep at night, until I want to build a time machine just so I can shoot Mozart before he writes it?

How do I capture the feeling of amused tenderness as Alex, playing Spiderman, whisper-shouts to himself, as he pirouettes and rolls to the ground, posing against soft emerald grass in the evening twilight? The awe in trying to comprehend how the baby of my heart can get so big on nothing but food, air and sunshine?

How do I remember Michael leaning back in the Snugli, his eyes bright with wonder as he looks up at the trees on a woodland hike? How do I preserve the holiness of the moment when I realize he can’t make up his mind what makes him happier: looking at the trees and the sky, or looking at my face?  How do I evoke the path, pebbles and sand and rock and clay, or the liquid light of near-sunset falling across Michael’s face as his mouth splits open in a soundless shriek of joy?

How do I put you in the moment when I enter the room to see Julianna lying in bed with her bottom bouncing up and down under the covers in the darkness? How do I make you feel the warmth of her small hand as I whisper to her and lead her to the bathroom in the middle of the night?

How do I remember the exact sensation of nursing and playing handsies with a baby whose fingers wrap perfectly around my thumb. How is that even possible, a whole hand wrapped around my thumb?

I think Heaven must be made of those perfect moments. A whole mountain of those lost, perfect points of time. Moments when that which is sensed and that which is beyond sense reach across space and time and, oh so fleetingly, touch.

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Published in: on April 11, 2012 at 7:38 am  Comments (6)  
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The Drama Next Door

Photo by Tiger Girl, via Flickr

It was 6:20 a.m. on Palm Sunday when I smelled smoke. I sat trapped in my chair by the open window, Michael nursing greedily after sleeping all night, and peered out at fog hovering in the yard. But was it fog? Or was it smoke? It sure smelled like smoke. I knew it wasn’t our house, because I know how well our smoke detectors work. So I returned to playing handsies with Michael, and the next time I looked outside, the haze had cleared, though the smell remained.

Finally the sirens started up. I relaxed; somebody got the fire department called, anyway, even if I couldn’t get it done. I braced for Julianna’s waking wail of terror, but it never came. Oddly, the sirens never came anywhere near our neighborhood.

By the time we left for church three hours later, the fire department had put out a release: an auto parts store was burning a mile and a half directly south of us. After church, as we prepared to exit the highway, we spotted the cloud of smoke glowering just over the rise. What do they do, I wondered, when they’re fighting a fire at a busy intersection? Do people drive by on the way to Sunday brunch and gawk? Or do they reroute traffic altogether?

It got me thinking how much drama plays out just off-camera in our humdrum little lives. Whenever people start discussing 9/11, they begin by talking about their own lives–where they were, what they were doing. It’s always something ordinary made unforgettable by what followed. My memories of that day, for instance, begin with a drive down the highway, and a feeling–that gorgeous-morning feeling, that feeling that anything is possible, in the best of ways. It was a school Mass day, and I remember a little second grader sitting at the end of the pew by the music area, his legs swinging, and I almost laughed out loud, it was so cute. Wholly ordinary. I had no idea that in a place I could reach in a few hours by air, people were dying and buildings crumbling.

We gravitate toward the dramatic, but as I navigate the blessedly ordinary paths of parenthood and work, I realize that the humdrum and the dramatic are separated only by a thread–a yard, a street, the passing of one second to the next. There is a home next door to that burning business, and a parent staring down from the patient tower of a hospital, her baby fighting for life as thousands of us drive by without sparing a glance. We are caught up in our own fears and broken relationships, our own worries, our own frustrations, until the moment our lives collide with the more dramatic events happening next door.

These stories, when people share them, are riveting, ordinary though they are. And for that reason, I am committed to finding a niche for the stories of ordinary people in my fiction writing. The collective wisdom of the literary world says no one wants to read those stories. We need bombs counting down and body counts climbing; we need fabulously rich and angelically gorgeous protagonists who act and in fact are larger than life.

And although those stories certainly entertain, surely I can’t be the only person in the world who also longs for fiction that uplifts and sheds light on my own life. If I can learn to write characters so real that you forget you can’t pick up the phone and have a nice long chat with them–characters you care about so much that you forget their problems are not yours, or those of a dear friend–if I can learn to do that, I am sure there will be room in the market for it. Even if there’s not a bomb or a sculpted Adonis anywhere in it.

What do you think? Would you read such a book? What is it that you want from your fiction?

Published in: on April 3, 2012 at 7:45 am  Comments (7)  
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Fiction Friday: Hatchet Job

Hatchet?

Hatchet? (Photo credit: Benimoto)

Don’t you get up on your high horse. You woulda done it, too.

I carried that man’s babies, all five of you. Walked the floors with you, kept you quiet so’s he could sleep, fed you, kept you entertained, helped with your homework,  put you to bed while he planted hisself in front of the TV every night. Cuz he needed to relax after a hard day.

I fixed his meals–grew the vegetables, raised the chickens, butchered them and picked them clean (you remember? There was a time you liked to help), because no store-bought chicken was good enough for his mama’s fried chicken recipe. I cleaned his house, dressed pretty when he came home, never once told him no. You know that? Not once.

You know I never went to college, because that man was in such a hurry to get hitched?

He had no cause to go lookin’ for greener pastures. He’s in for a rude awakening, let me tell you. No one’ll do what I did for him.

But I woulda been okay. Really. I was mad, sure, but I can’t deny it was kinda restful, after thirty years, to buy a TV dinner and watch a chick flick without nobody complaining about it. No, it was when he took my mama’s diamond and gave it to his tramp, that’s when I decided enough was enough!

You didn’t think I had it in me, did you? Thought I was some mousy, obedient little wifey who’d just lay down and take it. Just sit by an’ smile while she charmed all y’all, all his friends, all his family. Thought I’d smile while she took over my house, repainted my walls, tore out my mama’s heirloom roses an’ put in that ridiculous topiary.

Well, I learned all of you better, didn’t I?

See, I knew where the hatchet was, and more important, I knew how to use it. Them fancy-pants sculpted shrubberies didn’t stand a chance against me. Who sculpts Buddha out of an evergreen tree, anyway? Waste of good money, that. Only seemed proper to start in on the shutters and the windows.

Do I regret it, now that I’m spendin’ a few weeks in jail? Naw. It felt good. What’s that word they use? Cathartic? The look on his face was worth every blessed minute, an’ then some.

But you shoulda tol’ me it was you had my mama’s diamond.Write On Edge: Red-Writing-Hood

Several years ago I overheard a conversation at the pool. “I live in an AWESOME neighborhood!” said one girl. “This guy’s ex girlfriend came over and took a hatchet to hishouse!”

Now that, I thought, is a story waiting to be written…and I’ve been trying ever since. I’ve tried it several different ways, and I’m still not sure I’ve got it. What works? What doesn’t? Would it work better to see the scene in action? (I’ve done that.) Really looking for in-depth critiques here. Thanks all!

 

Published in: on March 30, 2012 at 6:55 am  Comments (11)  
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The Determination of Dandelions

I’ve got a busy day ahead of me, starting early, and anyway, those maddening yellow heads are popping up all over the neighborhood again. So it seems a fitting time for a little repost today…

*

I am at war with dandelions.

Dandelions (mlecz)

Dandelions (mlecz) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I know, go ahead and laugh. Project your shaken heads over the e-waves, passing me subliminal messages about futility. I know it’s futile. At noon, I pick off every yellow head within a three-house radius of my yard, and by nine the next morning, each plant has sprouted three more. I clear the neighborhood at three and by seven, yellow spots are popping up all over the grass again.My theory is exhaustion of resources, till the weed & feed arrives on the premises—at a bare minimum, no white fluffy seed heads multiplying the madness by exponents. But never have I seen such a determined plant. As I chase my kids up and down the sidewalk, the wreckage of my battle confronts me on every side: shriveled, dried-up buds and flowerets littering the concrete while right beside them, bright, perky baby florets smile up at me. And I think, if I had half the stamina and perseverance of these nasty little weeds, what couldn’t I accomplish?

And in some ways, I empathize with the poor unwanted dandelions. The remains of my assault on the mighty curtain wall around the literary world lie banished to a folder in my email account. Shriveled little florets that read “Thank you for considering us for your submission. Unfortunately…” The first I handled with a philosophical shrug; at the appearance of the second, I went all Don Music and shrieked, “I’ll never get it! Never!”

Unfortunately, this bad habit does not limit itself to the submission of music and novels. Nope, I’m pretty much like that in everything I do. If I can’t figure out how to fix something in the first five minutes, I call for backup. That goes for computers, broken objects, and any toy that needs assembly. Not to mention exercise. And spiritual pursuits. Like finding mental quiet when kids are around. There’s got to be a way to do it, but I’ve never figured it out—mostly because at the first hurdle, I give up.

I need to learn a lesson from the dandelions. A lesson in determination and stamina. Because I’m well aware that the dandelions are going to outlast me. After all, they have nothing else to do, and everything to lose.

Published in: on March 27, 2012 at 7:34 am  Comments (4)  
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A Welcome Detour

Photo by Fuyoh!, via Flickr

Call me dense, but I just realized the other night that the ability to multitask has a downside. Namely, a person who can split hands into one task and brain to another is never fully engaged in either…which means she (read that: “I”) cannot block out distractions.

In the last few weeks, I’ve found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on my work, when it’s time to work. (Yeah, right.) Everything came to a head on Thursday, when I was trying to knock out a rough draft of an assignment that’s been causing me trouble. I don’t want to spend my life repeating I HATE age three, so Friday I resolved to take a day off work and just focus on family and home.

I probably started in the wrong place: two hours in the grocery store and several dozen variations on the words “Julianna, STAY HERE.” Then it was lunch and a conference call about our new local Down syndrome parent network, and up to school to go to Stations of the Cross with Alex. Lo and behold, the day was over, and not one lick of housework had been done. Suddenly I realized why it’s been so hard for me to make headway lately.

And then, of course, there was the swing.

Our wind-up swing is a hand-me-down that looks like this, only with a vinyl seat cover. I love it because it does NOT require batteries, and the wind-up status prevents you from going off and ignoring your child for long periods of time. It’s a tool to be used when Baby really needs movement and Mommy really needs her hands.

I love this swing. So, unfortunately, do the kids. Unfortunately, because a swing that old is not replaceable. The mechanism jammed once before when we over-wound the spring, and Christian spent almost an hour working on it before he got it fixed. So ever since I pulled it out a week ago, I’ve been trying without success to keep little hands off it. We had several battles on Friday, two more at dinnertime–during which Nicholas pushed it higher than it ever swings with a baby in it–and when I went to put Michael in it while I did dishes, it was jammed. Christian tried to fix it, but the old plastic parts inside snapped. Bye-bye, swing.

My frustration reached epic levels. I sometimes call Nicholas a “Destructicon”–rip books, turn off computers, get things out, throw them on the floor, break baby gear. I just want him to STOP IT. But I also know me choking on rage isn’t going to make it happen. I want to enjoy parenthood, not stew over what cannot be changed. And I remember that when Alex was going through this stage, I was the one who had to change first. Only…how? How do you take perfectly justifiable frustration and simply turn it off?

“Tell you what,” Christian said that night, as I vented about the project I couldn’t finish and the kids who break everything and the desire to simply bury myself in a hole where nobody could demand my attention. “Tomorrow I’ll take them to the park for a couple of hours so you can get this writing project done.”

Saturday morning, we tore into housework while we waited for it to get warm outside. And at 10:00, they left. Michael fell asleep, and without two little screaming children in the house, he stayed that way. I sat down at the computer with one final prayer for divine help…and I got the darned thing drafted.

When my family returned home shortly before noon, I felt like a new woman. I hadn’t realized how heavily that particular project was weighing on my stress level. For the rest of the day, I didn’t fret over deadlines or the length of my to-do list. I actually felt like I was taking a day off. I cooked up a table full of unhealthy appetizer goodies to accompany a family movie. I gave baths and got kids ready for bed without once raising my voice. I enjoyed a nice evening with my husband, and at bedtime I felt only lightness and gratitude, where for so long there had been murky, bilious ick.

Sometimes, you just can’t do it by yourself. Thank God I have such a wonderful man to share my life (and my frustrations!) with.

*

Sharing my gratitude with Ann’s community at A Holy Experience

Published in: on March 12, 2012 at 8:19 am  Comments (7)  
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Fiction Friday: Revelations In Song

The convertible sped at breakneck speed along winding roads wreathed with green. Nicole closed her eyes against a wave of vertigo as the car listed dangerously around a tight curve. She inhaled the smell of sunshine and dirt and vines, fixed her attention on Joel’s hand resting warm atop hers. The car straightened out, and she glanced over at the man sitting beside her, brown hair ruffling and whipping in the wind. She was running out of time to do what she’d flown halfway across the world to do.

“Joel,” she began, at the same moment he said, “You want some music?” He left her hand chilly in the sunlight and flipped on the radio.

“You’re havin’ my baby,” crooned the male voice.

Joel laughed. “I haven’t heard this  song in forever.” He reached for her hand again, caught it against his heart. “You’re havin’ my baby! You’re the woman I love, and I love what it’s doin’ to ya…”

Hot and cold flashed over her as he sang, his face rapt with the joy of performing one of the weirdest songs ever written. He frowned slightly, breaking off mid-phrase. “What’s wrong, love?”

“I have something to tell you.”

Joel’s phone rang. “Hold that thought,” he said.

The conversation lasted all the way to the small local airport. Joel made an apologetic face but he kept talking sales strategy as he hauled her suitcase out of the trunk and handed it to the staff member for loading into the private jet. Nicole waited, feeling increasingly frantic.

“Mrs. Summerhill, we need to close the doors,” the uniformed man said.

She turned to Joel, who addressed his phone: “Hang on a minute.” He dropped a quick kiss on her lips. “Sorry, love. Have a safe trip. I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

“Joel,” she said firmly, but he was already turning away. She grabbed his elbow. “Joel, I’m pregnant.”

*

This week’s Red Writing Hood prompt was to take the #1 song the day you were born and write a piece inspired by it. The song is “You’re Havin’ My Baby” by Paul Anka, and my first thought was that this is the creepiest song ever written. I’ve stepped back from that a bit, because some of the sentiments are really nice…but I can’t help feeling they’re just really, really weird in song format.

This is a scene I’m working out for a novel-in-progress.

Published in: on March 9, 2012 at 8:31 am  Comments (12)  
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