Thomas never doubted his wife. He would have been better off if he had. Instead, he defiantly disregarded all signs of her betrayal. He laughed in indignance at the concerned efforts of the boys at the firehouse. He shrugged off his daughter's suspicions as high school drama seeking to gain root in his happy home. No, he trusted Sherry. He had to. Couple's can't survive travel and schedules like theirs without it. He was proud of his blind faith. Proud of his unabashed hope. So the day his coworkers' fears were validated, his daughter's suspicions confirmed, he felt as though gravity itself had betrayed him. The world spun beneath his feet, threatening to toss him out of its gravitational pull. Nothing could be trusted. Especially not himself.
Friday, October 4, 2013
Thomas the Believer
Thursday, September 5, 2013
Dear Diary,
Would you call me weird if I told you I know a fairy? or would you lie and just think it like everyone else?
Well, think what you want, I don't care. My name is Lucretia Wilson, I'm 9 years old and I know a fairy. If you don't believe me, just ask Paul Carlo. He's my best friend and the smartest kid in school. I've known Paul Carlo my whole life and he's never told a lie. Even when John Dixon broke Mrs. Halloway's window and blamed it on Paul Carlo. John said he would smash Paul's face in if he told on him. Paul said it was worth it.
My mom says it's mostly because I bought Paul Carlo milkshakes every day for a week, and fed them to him by spoon. Mom says we're gonna get married, which just burns me up, cause I know I'm gonna marry Derek Jeter. Sheesh, you'd think she'd be happier to have a famous baseball player for a son-in-law than some smelly old kid who knows every star in the sky the way most boys know the Lakers' starting lineup. The problem is, Paul doesn't stink at all. He just smells like soap and bubblegum. But that's besides the point.
The point is we're in fourth grade and talking marriage is just gross. I wish that woman would get off my case sometimes. I'm sorry. It's just that I get all steamed up over this love and marriage business, and I have a mother who doesn't let things go once she gets an idea in her head.
Jewely says it's due to my impatience and that I ought to just let people be people. That's easy for her to say. Fairies don't have mothers. Oh yeah, that's the fairy's name: Jewely Patchouli.
Paul Carlo and I met Jewely that week after John smashed his face in. Like I said, I was buying him milkshakes that whole week because of how bad his face looked with his black eye and crooked nose. Anyway, we were sitting on the bench outside Clark's drugstore drinking our milkshakes when a butterfly landed right on my nose. It tickled so bad I burst into a fit of giggles and would you believe that butterfly just hung on for the ride? A dozen more butterflies came flying across the street to find their buddy.
That's when we saw her. I can't believe we never noticed her before. She's the most beautiful woman you've ever seen, with shiny yellow hair and bright blue eyes. That's nothing. It's her smile that's magical. Just as we were looking at the butterflies leaving her yard, she looked up from her gardening.
She smiled that Jewely smile and it's like the whole town looked like we just took off our sunglasses. That's how bright everything was. Funny thing is, we weren't wearing sunglasses. Next thing we knew, we were standing right in that lady's yard. I don't even remember crossing the street. Later, Paul Carlo and I decided she must have put some sort of spell on us because for one thing, we both know better than to just go in some stranger's yard and two, we certainly know to look both ways when we cross the street. Like I said, we're in the fourth grade. I ask you this, though. How can you be sure you looked both ways if you don't remember even crossing the street?
We looked around that yard with our mouths wide open. I'd never seen so many butterflies, but not only that, she had flowers even Thad had never seen in any of his books.
Aside from the palm trees, coco plums, and coonties typical in Florida yards, she had more species than any three proud families' tropical oasis.
Gazing over Jewely's roof, I saw the promise of a jungle paradise in the backyard. The luring hum and cool breeze of Jewely's luscious gardens put Paul Carlo in an almost hypnotic trance. I wasn't far behind him, but the glazed far-off look on my buddy's face pulled me back to my senses. I managed to eek out a weak introduction and, dragging Paul Carlo behind, high-tailed it out of there.
That night, I went to sit with mama on the back porch while she had her tea. "How's Paul Carlo's face these days?" she asked.
"Still pretty bad, mama."
"That's a shame. That boy never ceases to amaze me."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, just that Paul Carlo made a hard choice that I don't think most people would have the strength to make. Annie Halloway would've hollered for about a minute; nothing compared to John Dixon's sense of justice. I just respect that Paul Carlo would rather get beat up than lose his reputation. He took the longview; he knew his bruises would fade long before Mrs. Halloway, or any adult she complained to, would respect him again."
After mama braided my hair, and I was lying in bed, I thought about what she said. I wondered whether I would be smart enough to have the longview if I was called to it. I drifted off, thinking of ways I might impress mama someday.
Well, think what you want, I don't care. My name is Lucretia Wilson, I'm 9 years old and I know a fairy. If you don't believe me, just ask Paul Carlo. He's my best friend and the smartest kid in school. I've known Paul Carlo my whole life and he's never told a lie. Even when John Dixon broke Mrs. Halloway's window and blamed it on Paul Carlo. John said he would smash Paul's face in if he told on him. Paul said it was worth it.
My mom says it's mostly because I bought Paul Carlo milkshakes every day for a week, and fed them to him by spoon. Mom says we're gonna get married, which just burns me up, cause I know I'm gonna marry Derek Jeter. Sheesh, you'd think she'd be happier to have a famous baseball player for a son-in-law than some smelly old kid who knows every star in the sky the way most boys know the Lakers' starting lineup. The problem is, Paul doesn't stink at all. He just smells like soap and bubblegum. But that's besides the point.
The point is we're in fourth grade and talking marriage is just gross. I wish that woman would get off my case sometimes. I'm sorry. It's just that I get all steamed up over this love and marriage business, and I have a mother who doesn't let things go once she gets an idea in her head.
Jewely says it's due to my impatience and that I ought to just let people be people. That's easy for her to say. Fairies don't have mothers. Oh yeah, that's the fairy's name: Jewely Patchouli.
Paul Carlo and I met Jewely that week after John smashed his face in. Like I said, I was buying him milkshakes that whole week because of how bad his face looked with his black eye and crooked nose. Anyway, we were sitting on the bench outside Clark's drugstore drinking our milkshakes when a butterfly landed right on my nose. It tickled so bad I burst into a fit of giggles and would you believe that butterfly just hung on for the ride? A dozen more butterflies came flying across the street to find their buddy.
That's when we saw her. I can't believe we never noticed her before. She's the most beautiful woman you've ever seen, with shiny yellow hair and bright blue eyes. That's nothing. It's her smile that's magical. Just as we were looking at the butterflies leaving her yard, she looked up from her gardening.
She smiled that Jewely smile and it's like the whole town looked like we just took off our sunglasses. That's how bright everything was. Funny thing is, we weren't wearing sunglasses. Next thing we knew, we were standing right in that lady's yard. I don't even remember crossing the street. Later, Paul Carlo and I decided she must have put some sort of spell on us because for one thing, we both know better than to just go in some stranger's yard and two, we certainly know to look both ways when we cross the street. Like I said, we're in the fourth grade. I ask you this, though. How can you be sure you looked both ways if you don't remember even crossing the street?
We looked around that yard with our mouths wide open. I'd never seen so many butterflies, but not only that, she had flowers even Thad had never seen in any of his books.
Aside from the palm trees, coco plums, and coonties typical in Florida yards, she had more species than any three proud families' tropical oasis.
Gazing over Jewely's roof, I saw the promise of a jungle paradise in the backyard. The luring hum and cool breeze of Jewely's luscious gardens put Paul Carlo in an almost hypnotic trance. I wasn't far behind him, but the glazed far-off look on my buddy's face pulled me back to my senses. I managed to eek out a weak introduction and, dragging Paul Carlo behind, high-tailed it out of there.
That night, I went to sit with mama on the back porch while she had her tea. "How's Paul Carlo's face these days?" she asked.
"Still pretty bad, mama."
"That's a shame. That boy never ceases to amaze me."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, just that Paul Carlo made a hard choice that I don't think most people would have the strength to make. Annie Halloway would've hollered for about a minute; nothing compared to John Dixon's sense of justice. I just respect that Paul Carlo would rather get beat up than lose his reputation. He took the longview; he knew his bruises would fade long before Mrs. Halloway, or any adult she complained to, would respect him again."
After mama braided my hair, and I was lying in bed, I thought about what she said. I wondered whether I would be smart enough to have the longview if I was called to it. I drifted off, thinking of ways I might impress mama someday.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Mr. Darcy, I Presume?
Due to his mother's favorite holiday tradition, Pride and Prejudice and Christmas Dessert, Mike Darcy grew up painfully aware of his surname. When he began attending high school, where she taught literature, he braced himself for the inevitable greeting. He exhaled slowly when he realized on the second week of ninth grade that his mom taught American Lit. The seniors could razz him, but they would have to notice him first. By the time, in fact, that anyone who would think to pick on him for his name he had already made a name for himself on the field.
Mike Darcy's talent as a quarterback earned him a spot on the varsity bench freshman year. He even ran a couple plays that fall. By senior year, he was legendary.
Cherie was shocked to discover that he was single. Guys like that don't stay on the market for long. Yet, here she was, heading to the door of Sakuma on the arm of GC's most eligible bachelor. The group had begun their experiment on Tuesday, and by Thursday night, Mike had stopped by her house under the pretext of getting Economics notes from her. That alone was fishy because a) Mr. Moore doesn't give lecture notes, b) because he podcasts his lectures, c) Mike has a higher grade than her, and d) He wasn't absent. So, she already had put on lipgloss, changed her shirt, and straightened up her hair in the 10 minutes it took for him to come over. She didn't know why she was so nervous. This was only step one in her three step plan. If her endgame was Joe, why get gussied up (mom's word) over Mike? She knew the answer. She needed to feel pretty in the worst way. She didn't know why. She didn't bring it up to her ex-model turned feminist mother. She'd read enough of her mom's psychology texts to know it had something to do with her dad, and that made sense to even her, on some level. After all, you don't come out of a divorce in which your dad is thrown in prison for killing 3 people in a drunk-driving accident, one of the victims being his secretary/girlfriend, that led to your mom's lame reconciliation attempt and subsequent miscarriage without a few scars. Even so, knowing why something came about doesn't make it any easier to accept. Besides, there are worse things girls with daddy issues can do than wear a little lip gloss for a boy they only barely like.
She was at the bottom of the stairs before he could ring the bell a second time, and they were out of the condo before Kai could show Mike his turtle, Zeus.
"Bye mom, be back by midnight," she'd called as she reached the elevator.
20 minutes later she was sitting on a toilet at Sakuma wondering what on earth she was going to say to Mr. Darcy.
She was at the bottom of the stairs before he could ring the bell a second time, and they were out of the condo before Kai could show Mike his turtle, Zeus.
"Bye mom, be back by midnight," she'd called as she reached the elevator.
20 minutes later she was sitting on a toilet at Sakuma wondering what on earth she was going to say to Mr. Darcy.
Sunday, July 14, 2013
Apparitions
Renaldo was a ghost. A mere shell of the man he'd once been.
The oldest son of migrant farm workers, he was tasked as a child with not only keeping himself out of trouble, but his younger brother and sister as well. Of course, moving a lot and missing more school than they attended made it difficult for the Rivera children to gain the benefit of the doubt from their teachers. As kids, they were often unjustly punished and their protests were not well-received, to say the least. But, they all graduated high school. His little sister even went to college and is teaching in Orlando. For Tomas, though, the military was his best bet. Even if he had qualified to go to a university, he couldn't afford the costs of out-of-state tuition they charge non-citizens. Nevertheless, his bedroom as a teenager was decked out in orange and blue and he never left the house without his Florida Gators ball cap. Less than a week after he walked the stage at graduation, he was at MEPS in Miami, signing up for active duty. His mother was an emotional wreck, so it was his father who drove him to the bus station when he left for boot camp.
It was less than six months later that destiny showed her face. On leave for an Iron Bowl game that his bunkmate scored two tickets for from the local rock station, he saw her sitting on a tailgate and was done for. He struck up a conversation with some of her friends and when they ran into each other at a local bar late that night, it wasn't entirely by accident. He'd also picked up her brand of cigarettes on the way. Jeff was a perfect wing-man and by the end of the night, he'd snagged Jill's phone number and a piece of her heart. By the time he was shipped off to Iraq the following year, she was an army wife, much to her father's dismay.
Jill was as sweet as she was beautiful, and all that kept him sane these days. Dead now for 7 years, she was ironically the only thing keeping Renaldo alive. That, and Pabst Blue Ribbon.
The oldest son of migrant farm workers, he was tasked as a child with not only keeping himself out of trouble, but his younger brother and sister as well. Of course, moving a lot and missing more school than they attended made it difficult for the Rivera children to gain the benefit of the doubt from their teachers. As kids, they were often unjustly punished and their protests were not well-received, to say the least. But, they all graduated high school. His little sister even went to college and is teaching in Orlando. For Tomas, though, the military was his best bet. Even if he had qualified to go to a university, he couldn't afford the costs of out-of-state tuition they charge non-citizens. Nevertheless, his bedroom as a teenager was decked out in orange and blue and he never left the house without his Florida Gators ball cap. Less than a week after he walked the stage at graduation, he was at MEPS in Miami, signing up for active duty. His mother was an emotional wreck, so it was his father who drove him to the bus station when he left for boot camp.
It was less than six months later that destiny showed her face. On leave for an Iron Bowl game that his bunkmate scored two tickets for from the local rock station, he saw her sitting on a tailgate and was done for. He struck up a conversation with some of her friends and when they ran into each other at a local bar late that night, it wasn't entirely by accident. He'd also picked up her brand of cigarettes on the way. Jeff was a perfect wing-man and by the end of the night, he'd snagged Jill's phone number and a piece of her heart. By the time he was shipped off to Iraq the following year, she was an army wife, much to her father's dismay.
Jill was as sweet as she was beautiful, and all that kept him sane these days. Dead now for 7 years, she was ironically the only thing keeping Renaldo alive. That, and Pabst Blue Ribbon.
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Zumba Queen
Suzy is in her zone. At the front of the room, dark red hair down and dripping in her face, leading the charge. There are a couple of new faces this afternoon. In addition to the Samba girls up front and her loyal older crowd, there are a few newbies. A shy overweight woman with some rhythm but little enthusiasm, and a tall black woman, beautiful and vaguely familiar. She makes sure to give quick instructions before each dance, veiled as review for her more experienced students and reminds everyone to hydrate every third song. Aside from that, she doesn't acknowledge that everyone here isn't part of her Wednesday routine. They slid right into class just fine, for the most part. A few turns in the wrong direction, but nothing drastic. Good. She was free to just dance. This is the best part of the job. She got her certification really just for this. To dance. She was dancing when she met John, in fact. Mid-shift at Rick's down in Key West, someone had put on a very danceable number. She shimmied around, checking that everyone was okay when Tall, Dark and Handsome took her tray, handed it to a friend, spun her around and they salsaed until the next song was over. At that point, she realized her partner wasn't single, but her tray holder was. He smiled as he handed the tray back and ordered a round of tequila. The glare the blonde he was with was giving TDH sent her off in a near sprint.
The trio hung out most of the night. They took off at some point, but came back in laughing with their Fat Tuesday's cups. The blonde seemed far more relaxed and her tray holder's eyes were down right sexy. He was not her type, but he had the cutest boyish smile that drew her in something fierce. So she smiled, and laughed, and lit the couple's cigarettes, all the while aware of the looks old blue eyes was giving her. She was not typically fliratious, especially after a few years working Duval St. Lots of cuties, here only until their cruise ship heads out. She was used to being part of the scenery on other people's vacations, but this guy was different. When he'd handed her his credit card earlier, their fingers touched with a jolt of electricity and that was enough. She saw her own smile in his hands. She was the most important moment in his life. How could she be expected to act normal after seeing that? So, yeah, she smiled a lot that night, and most nights since.
She met up with the small group over lunch and learned her dance partner and the blonde were down for their wedding. John, she learned, was to be the best man, but the maid of honor had ditched them at the last minute. They were getting married at sunset, and did she want to step in to witness?
She left her apron at work two days later and gave John's address for Rick to send her last check. Despite their rocky start, she and Sherry became fast friends and she went on to be very supportive when Suzy and Tomas entered a dance contest together, holding JJ during their performance and cheering louder than everyone else.
Suzy also dances with an Irish group down in Naples on Sundays, but her Wednesdays and Thursdays are for Zumba. Here there are no rules, save her own. Here the music is all her. She loves to look in the mirror and see a room full of people dancing with her, sharing in this moment, without the burden of seeing their parents die, their children graduate, their rejections at the altar. Here, in this moment, she felt like a normal girl. She never did feel like that much, when she wasn't dancing.
At the end of class, the taller woman approached her. "Great class. It was a lot of fun."
"Thanks. Are you new to the gym?"
"New to town actually, I'm Marguerite."
The trio hung out most of the night. They took off at some point, but came back in laughing with their Fat Tuesday's cups. The blonde seemed far more relaxed and her tray holder's eyes were down right sexy. He was not her type, but he had the cutest boyish smile that drew her in something fierce. So she smiled, and laughed, and lit the couple's cigarettes, all the while aware of the looks old blue eyes was giving her. She was not typically fliratious, especially after a few years working Duval St. Lots of cuties, here only until their cruise ship heads out. She was used to being part of the scenery on other people's vacations, but this guy was different. When he'd handed her his credit card earlier, their fingers touched with a jolt of electricity and that was enough. She saw her own smile in his hands. She was the most important moment in his life. How could she be expected to act normal after seeing that? So, yeah, she smiled a lot that night, and most nights since.
She met up with the small group over lunch and learned her dance partner and the blonde were down for their wedding. John, she learned, was to be the best man, but the maid of honor had ditched them at the last minute. They were getting married at sunset, and did she want to step in to witness?
She left her apron at work two days later and gave John's address for Rick to send her last check. Despite their rocky start, she and Sherry became fast friends and she went on to be very supportive when Suzy and Tomas entered a dance contest together, holding JJ during their performance and cheering louder than everyone else.
Suzy also dances with an Irish group down in Naples on Sundays, but her Wednesdays and Thursdays are for Zumba. Here there are no rules, save her own. Here the music is all her. She loves to look in the mirror and see a room full of people dancing with her, sharing in this moment, without the burden of seeing their parents die, their children graduate, their rejections at the altar. Here, in this moment, she felt like a normal girl. She never did feel like that much, when she wasn't dancing.
At the end of class, the taller woman approached her. "Great class. It was a lot of fun."
"Thanks. Are you new to the gym?"
"New to town actually, I'm Marguerite."
Monday, June 10, 2013
Meet Joe
Starting high school is hard enough, but when you are walking the halls as a brand-new freshman amid pointed glares and whispers of "cold-blooded" and "murdered", and the halls part in a V before you, school takes on a special brand of dread. The ice began to thaw by lunch, when he found a couple kids from baseball, but you try finding a homecoming date when your big brother killed the prom queen.
Of course, Cherie didn't know the reason Joe was off limits. By senior year, no one talked about Ashley anymore. But the tepid air around Joe turned into icicles about 6 feet from him on all sides when his team or his family weren't around. To Cherie, he was just undateable. Too bad, he has really pretty eyes. Judging from the way he glared at her new crew, the feeling seemed pretty mutual.
She felt his gaze piercing into her back all through lunch, and considered calling him out. When she mentioned as much to The Twins, they responded with their eyes. Message received. Off limits. She couldn't help but wonder why. She seriously considered committing social suicide anyway, but knew such a faux pas would be detrimental. It's not worth it. Cherie knew the game, and how playing it just makes life easier. School is the one place life can be easy. No boat rocking. At least not yet. She shrugged him off, turning again into the conversation, laughing easily at the obvious jokes and twirling her hair around her fingers. Not yet.
Of course, Cherie didn't know the reason Joe was off limits. By senior year, no one talked about Ashley anymore. But the tepid air around Joe turned into icicles about 6 feet from him on all sides when his team or his family weren't around. To Cherie, he was just undateable. Too bad, he has really pretty eyes. Judging from the way he glared at her new crew, the feeling seemed pretty mutual.
She felt his gaze piercing into her back all through lunch, and considered calling him out. When she mentioned as much to The Twins, they responded with their eyes. Message received. Off limits. She couldn't help but wonder why. She seriously considered committing social suicide anyway, but knew such a faux pas would be detrimental. It's not worth it. Cherie knew the game, and how playing it just makes life easier. School is the one place life can be easy. No boat rocking. At least not yet. She shrugged him off, turning again into the conversation, laughing easily at the obvious jokes and twirling her hair around her fingers. Not yet.
Friday, June 7, 2013
Too White to Write?
When I told my friend, a writer, that my fantasy novel's main character was an 18-year-old black girl, he cut me off right away. "You can't do it." I fought, I resisted, I got defensive, but I knew he was right. After all, Toni Morrison's Playing in the Dark is one of two reasons I majored in English. The other reason was the Vietnam War, which I'll elaborate on in another post. My ancestry is French and Irish. What would I know of the inner life of a teenager raised in Hollywood by her Haitian ex-model mother and Brazilian producer father? But is the question of whether I should write this book a cultural or racial one? I don't think my hesitation, and my friend's warning, goes much further than skin deep. Cherie's experience isn't rooted culturally in the African-American community. Or is it? How much of her life in Beverly Hills would be different from her blonde besties'? I don't know. She is a mystery to me. Every bit of her life is a mystery to me, as I have only been to LA once.
The reasons I am writing this book includes the reasons it shouldn't be written at all. I don't know if I can pull it off. I don't know if I will make some egregious errors that I am inherently blind to, by my whiteness. It's entirely possible. Probably probable. Caucasian writers have created characters of color for years, that is nothing new. But how successfully? There is a range. Zora Neale Hurston, whom I consider my literary grandmother, for her writing has most changed my life, has most given me permission, no, an invitation, to write, was horrendously panned for her attempt at writing about a Southern white couple in Seraph on the Suwannee. This is her one piece I can't bring myself to read. Ironically, I should read it immediately before I get any further in FaerieWolf. We are all limited by the lens through which we see the world, and that lens gets manipulated and distorted based on how society treats us. I can take a hammer to my lens, and try to see the world through a myriad of perspectives, but it is my eyes, always, peering through.
The problem is, I don't just want to write a book about Cherie, who appeared to me, fully formed, on Ft. Myers Beach, I want to write her successfully. I want Cherie to be seen clearly by the reader for the person she is, not just the things about her. There are pieces of her that I don't really understand, can't really relate to. She is, after all, a fictional character, and not me. Most of those pieces have nothing to do with race, ethnicity, or culture. They have to do with her personal worldview and the way she interacts with the world around her. Our race, ethnicity, and culture inform who we are as people, but they are not who we are as people. We do not exist in homogenous groups based on demographics.
At the end of the day, we all write what we know. But we challenge ourselves as well. Isn't that what writing's about? Challenging the norms of the day? Seeking to elicit some fragment of truth within ourselves and share it with the world? Find one, just one, honest sentence? What I know of the world, the story I choose to tell that world has to do with many things, not simply race. This is not just a fantasy novel about a black female heroine written by a white female writer. That's something about it, but it's just one thing.
The reasons I am writing this book includes the reasons it shouldn't be written at all. I don't know if I can pull it off. I don't know if I will make some egregious errors that I am inherently blind to, by my whiteness. It's entirely possible. Probably probable. Caucasian writers have created characters of color for years, that is nothing new. But how successfully? There is a range. Zora Neale Hurston, whom I consider my literary grandmother, for her writing has most changed my life, has most given me permission, no, an invitation, to write, was horrendously panned for her attempt at writing about a Southern white couple in Seraph on the Suwannee. This is her one piece I can't bring myself to read. Ironically, I should read it immediately before I get any further in FaerieWolf. We are all limited by the lens through which we see the world, and that lens gets manipulated and distorted based on how society treats us. I can take a hammer to my lens, and try to see the world through a myriad of perspectives, but it is my eyes, always, peering through.
The problem is, I don't just want to write a book about Cherie, who appeared to me, fully formed, on Ft. Myers Beach, I want to write her successfully. I want Cherie to be seen clearly by the reader for the person she is, not just the things about her. There are pieces of her that I don't really understand, can't really relate to. She is, after all, a fictional character, and not me. Most of those pieces have nothing to do with race, ethnicity, or culture. They have to do with her personal worldview and the way she interacts with the world around her. Our race, ethnicity, and culture inform who we are as people, but they are not who we are as people. We do not exist in homogenous groups based on demographics.
At the end of the day, we all write what we know. But we challenge ourselves as well. Isn't that what writing's about? Challenging the norms of the day? Seeking to elicit some fragment of truth within ourselves and share it with the world? Find one, just one, honest sentence? What I know of the world, the story I choose to tell that world has to do with many things, not simply race. This is not just a fantasy novel about a black female heroine written by a white female writer. That's something about it, but it's just one thing.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Welcome to Summerlin
Cherie found herself in a cave surrounded by little naked winged people.
"Am I dead?" she asked.
"Not yet, but maybe if you don't stop yelling." One of them said. She faced the little squirt and opened her mouth to retort when she heard it.
A baying wolf. Then another. That shut her up. She took a second to breathe in her surroundings. Fifty or so little bug people and some birds. The ground felt dry like dirt. A couple fireflies lit up a corner across from her. The cave didn't really look like a cave now.
"Are we in a tree?" she asked.
"SSSSSHHHHH!" came the reply. From outside. And above. Like the tree itself was shushing her. She touched the tree where it hit her in the back, like rubbing someone's shoulder in condolence as a sign she'd gotten the message. Shutup. Loud and clear. The tree itself felt like it was shaking. She took some deep, calming breaths she'd learned in yoga and willed the tree to chill out. Willed all the damned buzzing things to just chill the fuck out. She breathed slow and deep like the gulf at the beach. Closed her eyes and went there, all the while stroking the huge ass tree giving them cover. She didn't know what was out there, but she sure as hell didn't want to. She thought about what Thalia told her about her weird dreams and wondered if it were true. Can you get hurt here and stay hurt in real life? God, she hoped to hell not. After what seemed like hours, when the baying seemed to have drifted much further south (is south still south here?), the creatures moved silently up the tree, beseeching her to join their ranks. She complied. What choice did she have? They moved as one body up and to another branch. It was dark, but she would recognize the smell anywhere. She was in that grove of trees again. The one with the weird fruit. She didn't have much time to ponder anything. The group kept moving. At one point, she looked down. It was dark, but she could tell it was quite a drop from where she stood. Cherie's legs began shaking and she pitched forward before she felt herself being lifted by her shirt and jeans (did she fall asleep in her clothes again?), little claws tickling her arms, hips, knees. She suppressed a giggle. This situation did not call for giggling and tried to wish herself as light as possible. These little bug people were weird, for sure, but she didn't want one of them getting hurt trying to save her. They were already scared out of their wits, poor little guys. They plopped her at a V in the trunk of a tree in the center of the grove. She felt the branches sort of move out of the way to catch her fall. These trees seem to be so alive here, it was freaky. But, when in Rome--"Thank you," she whispered.
The tree relaxed in response. "No, thank you." It seemed to be talking. She didn't know if she was hearing the tree for real or only in her mind. The thought she was dreaming, but didn't know for sure. She'd just convinced herself that she wasn't going crazy when the tree spoke again. "Thank you for saving my sister. I could feel she was very frightened. The wolves must have been very close. The People's Guard worked amazingly well. It doesn't always. Tonight would not have been a good night for a glitch to occur."
Cherie mulled this over, trying to make sense of it all. "You're welcome." was all she could muster. The bug people seemed much more relaxed here, but still regarded her with guarded eyes.
"Perhaps if you stopped calling them bug people to yourself, you'd find the People more friendly toward you. Before Cherie could deny it, one of the little bug--the little people stepped out of the crowd and flitted onto her knee. Cherie took the time to really notice her. If these things can hear my thoughts, they are going to like what they hear. This wasn't hard. She was breathtaking. Her skin was like camouflage, shifting colors before her eyes. All shades of brownish-orange with flecks of green thrown in. She had all the colors of the tree. Her wings were like moths, one with a big hole, right in the center, but when a firefly flew closer, she saw that it wasn't a hole, only transparent. The hole was filled with a clear skin, veined like a spiderweb. Breathtaking. Her little eyes sparkled just like Jewely's.
"Jewely, yes", the little girl whispered. She giggled. "Little girl, really? Not bad for 586." She did a little spin and finished with a curtsy. "Aidan Lavende, at your service. Please allow me to be the first to welcome you to Summerlin."
***
Meet Anastasia Acosta ---From FaerieWolf
Anastasia Acosta is tired of lies. She is tired of her Junior League efforts to keep her philandering husband's political career afloat. She is tired of watching her kids watch her keep up with the lies. Her son sees her as a second-class citizen, her daughter looks upon her with placid disgust. They have both pulled away so much that time with them feels as fake, plastic, and phony as "2 'tini Tuesdays" with her friends and going to bed with David. She makes it real easy for him anymore, anticipating his after dinner phone call (always between 8:30 and 9:00) and cutting him off before he lists the excuse by giving him one ("Oh that deposition ran late", or "You have to prepare for court tomorrow"). While it is true that he is next in line to make circuit court judge, and is on a number of philanthropic and community committees, she knows that it isn't his big heart keeping him from home night after night. What she also knows is that she is the core villain in the demise of her family. Nothing has been the same since the accident and, while she continues to go to therapy, it's just a show. There is something still horribly wrong in her mind, but bringing it to light and dealing with it would be more embarrassing for David than her quiet exit will be. This is the only lie she isn't tired of. The only reason she gets out of bed each morning with a smile. This is the only lie worth telling. She is faking it so good that no one will see it coming. Because no matter how big of a lying son of a bitch her husband has become and no matter how hatefully her children treat her, she truly loves them with everything she has. The problem is, she doesn't have much. That's why this time with them is so critical. She knows they love her too, and that they are as tired as she is of faking it. She can't imagine growing up with a crazy mom, or trying to be intimate with a depressed wife. Her suicide is a mercy. This won't be like last time. The kids were too small then. She'd been too distant. They knew something was wrong and when their greatest fears were realized, the whole world came crashing down for them. For all of them. David talked about going back into the public defender's office, the kids slowly dropped sports and dance. Everyone was as miserable as she'd become accustomed to being. Not this time. This time, everyone will be blindsided. Old friends will show up again to bring casseroles and all who knew her would breathe a silent, guilty, sigh of relief. Her death will hit Laural the most, but it will be better than the alternative. She will be drawn into the world of kids her own age who will accept her as is. The "mother" part of Laural's story is a tragic one. Always will be. At least with her gone it will be a tragic history. Perhaps people will love Laural a little more, being left behind by her selfish, crazy mother. Yes, better to be the leaver than the leavee. Anastasia knows she needs to be institutionalized, but she knows what that would mean for her family--it would be admitting defeat. It would be dull Sunday afternoons with unsalted green beans and warm milk on their obligatory visitations. It would be a death sentence for them--a lifetime of looking after Ana, who never really could pull herself together. Nope. Not if she has anything to say about it. She hears Laural slide the other chaise up next to her on the roof, the one place she and Laural still feel like mother and daughter. She squirts some SPF 8 onto her hand, handing the bottle to her left without looking. "How was school, dear?"
Why Like Pina Coladas, and I'm Not Lying!
Growing up in Florida, some songs were ever present. Among them, anything by Jimmy Buffet and Rupert Holmes' "Escape". You may recognize it as "The Pina Colada Song". As a kid, I liked to dance to it and dream about sipping a Pina Colada and seeming mysterious, but I never really listened to the lyric. The song later filled my house as my children watched Shrek again and again. At this point, I listened. I judged. I couldn't believe how the coupled chuckled away the other's indiscretions so easily. I could wrap my brain around people eventually getting over infidelities, imagined or otherwise, but in the song it was so off the cuff that I found it unsettling.
The song was on the radio this week and again I listened closely while, of course, singing along. What struck me this time was the idea that we hide from those we love out of fear that they won't like those parts of us. This was a familiar fear of mine. I was the youngest of 7, but I always felt very alone. My parents had three children each when they married (like The Brady Bunch) and later had me (not like The Brady Bunch). Joking that I was cousin Oliver was how I expressed my discomfort with the whole arrangement. I grew up feeling like an anomaly. I saw my siblings as having tribes and I was the anthropologist, the outside observer. I have one brother who was a singleton, like me, having a different set of parents than the rest. I used to call him the "other only child" in the family. But that was a lie. Shawn was absorbed into the Lisa/Gary tribe, and I was the only one alone. Part of my loneliness was imagined, but some of it was valid. Like many blended families, ours had a rich history of hurt feelings, disappointments, and favoritism. That history preceded me, yet I felt the one responsible. Now, before I receive an onslaught of calls from my very loving siblings who would never want to hurt me, let me jump ahead to the point.
My childhood isolation, real or imagined, created a fear to disclose my truest self. Anything my family would pick on me for betrayed a level of them knowing me that I wasn't comfortable with. So I lied. Compulsively. I lied about everything, and the dumbest things and, like many terrible actors, thought I got away with it. Withdrawing myself from family and ducking out on friends before they got too close were the only ways I could keep my secret identity, well, secret.
Fast forward to the present. I let someone in. All the way into the darkest recesses of my soul. And it felt great. My husband showed me the freedom of honesty. I have come to abhor lies the way ex-smokers view restaurants that allow smoking. This is not to say I don't have my secrets. Don't we all. But the mask has fallen away and I am less likely to smile when I'm hurt or angry or lie to make others not feel so bad when they hurt me. Lying is not my default any longer. I have, of late, ceased any attempts to hide my nerdy, quirky, anti-social tendencies and having come clean, have realized that my attempts to hide were futile all along. I failed to hide myself, and the pieces of me that I have hidden are met with open arms by the people who've loved me all along.
Writing, for me, has been just that, for me. But some of what I write is so infused with my mother, and I'm not the only one who misses her. I would be remiss to hide my secret memorials from those still spellbound by Julie's smile. The rest, the stuff just for me, well it is my honest-to-goodness self buried beneath countless lies. It is silly to think that my friends who laugh at my dumb jokes and hold my hand when I cry wouldn't love the people I've created in my strange little mind. As a teenager, I made silent threats to write books that would show the world how completely dysfunctional my family was. As I've gotten older, and gotten to know other families, that threat gets increasingly less threatening.
The truth is, I feel relieved to discover that people who care about me want to know what I think and want to like what I have to say, a silly excuse for an epiphany, I realize, but here it is nonetheless. Exposing our true selves is terrifying, especially when the stakes are high, when we are afraid of someone walking out of our lives. But the truth, always, sets us free. At least, isn't that the moral to every romantic comedy known to man? When people love us, they love us, warts and all. I think the moral of the song is to not hide. Instead, trusting that when our hidden selves are discovered, when we share who we really are, the people we love will smile and say, "I never knew".
The song was on the radio this week and again I listened closely while, of course, singing along. What struck me this time was the idea that we hide from those we love out of fear that they won't like those parts of us. This was a familiar fear of mine. I was the youngest of 7, but I always felt very alone. My parents had three children each when they married (like The Brady Bunch) and later had me (not like The Brady Bunch). Joking that I was cousin Oliver was how I expressed my discomfort with the whole arrangement. I grew up feeling like an anomaly. I saw my siblings as having tribes and I was the anthropologist, the outside observer. I have one brother who was a singleton, like me, having a different set of parents than the rest. I used to call him the "other only child" in the family. But that was a lie. Shawn was absorbed into the Lisa/Gary tribe, and I was the only one alone. Part of my loneliness was imagined, but some of it was valid. Like many blended families, ours had a rich history of hurt feelings, disappointments, and favoritism. That history preceded me, yet I felt the one responsible. Now, before I receive an onslaught of calls from my very loving siblings who would never want to hurt me, let me jump ahead to the point.
My childhood isolation, real or imagined, created a fear to disclose my truest self. Anything my family would pick on me for betrayed a level of them knowing me that I wasn't comfortable with. So I lied. Compulsively. I lied about everything, and the dumbest things and, like many terrible actors, thought I got away with it. Withdrawing myself from family and ducking out on friends before they got too close were the only ways I could keep my secret identity, well, secret.
Fast forward to the present. I let someone in. All the way into the darkest recesses of my soul. And it felt great. My husband showed me the freedom of honesty. I have come to abhor lies the way ex-smokers view restaurants that allow smoking. This is not to say I don't have my secrets. Don't we all. But the mask has fallen away and I am less likely to smile when I'm hurt or angry or lie to make others not feel so bad when they hurt me. Lying is not my default any longer. I have, of late, ceased any attempts to hide my nerdy, quirky, anti-social tendencies and having come clean, have realized that my attempts to hide were futile all along. I failed to hide myself, and the pieces of me that I have hidden are met with open arms by the people who've loved me all along.
Writing, for me, has been just that, for me. But some of what I write is so infused with my mother, and I'm not the only one who misses her. I would be remiss to hide my secret memorials from those still spellbound by Julie's smile. The rest, the stuff just for me, well it is my honest-to-goodness self buried beneath countless lies. It is silly to think that my friends who laugh at my dumb jokes and hold my hand when I cry wouldn't love the people I've created in my strange little mind. As a teenager, I made silent threats to write books that would show the world how completely dysfunctional my family was. As I've gotten older, and gotten to know other families, that threat gets increasingly less threatening.
The truth is, I feel relieved to discover that people who care about me want to know what I think and want to like what I have to say, a silly excuse for an epiphany, I realize, but here it is nonetheless. Exposing our true selves is terrifying, especially when the stakes are high, when we are afraid of someone walking out of our lives. But the truth, always, sets us free. At least, isn't that the moral to every romantic comedy known to man? When people love us, they love us, warts and all. I think the moral of the song is to not hide. Instead, trusting that when our hidden selves are discovered, when we share who we really are, the people we love will smile and say, "I never knew".
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Our Hero Meets Yoda: or Enter the Butterfly Queen
Cherie opened her eyes, startled. She was on a couch in what looked like a living room. Candles were lit and the open windows let in the balmy night air. Sitting up, she saw an older woman calmly working on a crossword puzzle. "Oh, you're up already," she said, taking a sip of coffee.
"Who are you? Where am I?" Cherie threw off the blanket covering her and ran to the door. As she glanced back at the couch, she saw the blanket move. To be precise, there were images on the blanket, like a tapestry. A moving freaking tapestry.
While Cherie was distracted, the strange woman made a phone call. "Oh yes, she's fine. She just woke up, actually." Pause. "Okay. We'll see you then."
"Cherie? That was your mama. She'll be here in a minute. Would you like a snack while you wait?"
Cherie's stomach rumbled around the same time she remembered that she didn't know where she was. However, she was a city girl. "How do you know my name? How do you know my mom?"
***
Cherie pushed the strange dreams out of her mind, but the moving pictures on Jewely's blanket haunted her that night. So did Jewely's eyes. They were mesmerizing, the way they danced. She seemed nice enough, but there was something very not normal about her. What bothered her the most about Jewely is that her mother seemed to know her. Seemed to know her well. That in itself wouldn't be so odd. Her mother knew a lot of people. As a hospital administrator, she has to. As a former model, people are naturally drawn to her. They seem to almost recognize her, but Marguerite always plays it cool. Honestly, who would imagine that her quiet, serious mother was the first face of color to grace Elle, Vogue, and Redbook in the same month? When Marguerite first pitched her plan for escape to Cherie, she was skeptical. How was the child of Hollywood's Golden Couple going to slip into anonymity at a public school in the middle of a Florida swamp. But the plan worked. Almost too well. Not one person has asked her for her autograph. Not one! That's understandable. But no one has asked her mother either. How did these backwoods hicks forget the first black face of Covergirl? You'd think that would be memorable. The upside of hiding out here on the Gulf is that no one knows who her dad is either. They avoid watching the news, as a rule, but Cherie knows that news of her dad is going to be on everyone's tongues when school starts in the fall. That is going to be hard to ignore. How is she going to play that? Back to her initial thought, who is Jewely and why does her mother, her mother, trust her? That woman doesn't trust anyone anymore. Not even her own daughter. Which would explain why she was so tight-lipped on the drive back to the condo. She didn't say a word. Like usual.
"Who are you? Where am I?" Cherie threw off the blanket covering her and ran to the door. As she glanced back at the couch, she saw the blanket move. To be precise, there were images on the blanket, like a tapestry. A moving freaking tapestry.
While Cherie was distracted, the strange woman made a phone call. "Oh yes, she's fine. She just woke up, actually." Pause. "Okay. We'll see you then."
"Cherie? That was your mama. She'll be here in a minute. Would you like a snack while you wait?"
Cherie's stomach rumbled around the same time she remembered that she didn't know where she was. However, she was a city girl. "How do you know my name? How do you know my mom?"
***
Cherie pushed the strange dreams out of her mind, but the moving pictures on Jewely's blanket haunted her that night. So did Jewely's eyes. They were mesmerizing, the way they danced. She seemed nice enough, but there was something very not normal about her. What bothered her the most about Jewely is that her mother seemed to know her. Seemed to know her well. That in itself wouldn't be so odd. Her mother knew a lot of people. As a hospital administrator, she has to. As a former model, people are naturally drawn to her. They seem to almost recognize her, but Marguerite always plays it cool. Honestly, who would imagine that her quiet, serious mother was the first face of color to grace Elle, Vogue, and Redbook in the same month? When Marguerite first pitched her plan for escape to Cherie, she was skeptical. How was the child of Hollywood's Golden Couple going to slip into anonymity at a public school in the middle of a Florida swamp. But the plan worked. Almost too well. Not one person has asked her for her autograph. Not one! That's understandable. But no one has asked her mother either. How did these backwoods hicks forget the first black face of Covergirl? You'd think that would be memorable. The upside of hiding out here on the Gulf is that no one knows who her dad is either. They avoid watching the news, as a rule, but Cherie knows that news of her dad is going to be on everyone's tongues when school starts in the fall. That is going to be hard to ignore. How is she going to play that? Back to her initial thought, who is Jewely and why does her mother, her mother, trust her? That woman doesn't trust anyone anymore. Not even her own daughter. Which would explain why she was so tight-lipped on the drive back to the condo. She didn't say a word. Like usual.
Thalia's Confession
Thalia stopped, her face pale, eyes wide in fear and shame. Cherie knew what her friend needed. She knew she should put her arms around Thalia and tell her it's all right, she did what anyone would do. What anyone would do. That's when she snapped.
"Jesus, Lia, you just stood there? And then you asked her what they did? What does it matter what they did!?" Cherie turned away from Thalia and to the mirror. "They held her down and she was crying and you let them do whatever they wanted to her. That's the point! It's not about what they did, it's that she couldn't stop them." Cherie closed her eyes. She couldn't see her friend's shame. "They took her control. And you just let them." Cherie stopped, allowing her voice to echo through the stalls.
"They took mine too!" Thalia's scream was a whisper. "I was scared too. I was scared of what they were doing and scared they'd do the same to me." Thalia fell to her knees, crying into her hands.
Cherie turned to Thalia, lifting her chin with a finger so Thalia had to face her. "That's my point, Li. You could have died. You both could have. She was powerless, but you could have done something." With that, she let Thalia's chin drop. She steadied her voice. "What if the tables were turned, and she was by the door. Don't you think she would have ran? Called someone? Jumped on one of their backs and started scratching their eyes out?" She challenged.
Thalia held Cheries gaze. "You weren't there. You don't get it." She glared at her before turning her face into her elbow.
Cherie softened again, hating herself as she did. "That's just it, Thalia. I kind of do. I know what it's like to be scared and alone." Her voice rose. "I've been in a bad room with a bad boy and wished there was just one person to see, to acknowledge, to get help." She shook her head, casting off the memory. "I've been there, and I'd do anything to save someone from living through that kind of fear." She let her forehead fall to the stall door. Her voice came out measured, even. Thalia needed to hear everything word. "Because whatever fear you felt from the doorway, you know is nothing like the fear Sarah felt on that table." She spat You knew it wasn't, which is why you didn't have the balls to stop them. Just the thought of going through what was happening was enough to make you let them do that to your friend. Your best fucking friend. Unbelievable."
With that, she pushed open the bathroom door with her palm, leaving a sobbing Thalia in her wake.
Of course, by the next day, after someone saw her emerge from the girls' room red-faced and pissed, and someone else saw Thalia run to the nurse's office crying with her hands covering her face, and her homeroom noticed Thalia was absent, the rumors flew again about Cherie and her violent temper. This only added to the general vibe of fearful awe from the general public at South Coast High, and Cherie's stock continued to soar among "The Group".
For the rest of the week, Cherie's dreams continued to haunt her. She was just running with these faerie-type things, running and flying and running from tree to tree. It didn't matter that she couldn't fly, they mostly ran. Treetop to treetop. She tried to get their attention, ask what they were running from, but something about their silence spurred her ever forward, and fast. To what she didn't know. From what, she didn't want to.
Cherie woke up every morning with her legs shaking in violent tremors. She didn't get it. She'd cut out all caffeine. Cold turkey. No Frappes, no more Diet Cokes. She slept like a log all night, with these weird-ass dreams and woke up every morning with her legs shaking worse than Bella's whenever a new dog came up sniffing from behind. It got to where she started lacing up her sneakers as soon as she could crawl her way out of the bed. She literally ran the shakes right out of her legs. This freed up her afternoons. It was around this time that despite the fact that her nights were dominated by monster-under-the-bed nightmares and her friendship with Thalia was in crisis and her mom was getting worse and Kai was starting to really get worried, that Cherie experienced the first real sense of calm she could remember. These morning runs created for her a sit-rocking-in-mama's-lap kind of calm. The hot,sticky air hugged her to the road. Her feet thudding out a slow, lazy heartbeat. Thud, slap, thud, slap. The birds. God, the birds. It was so loud here, between the bugs and the birds. She couldn't be lonely here if she tried. Bugs and birds flew along with her, past Genesis house, left at the ice cream shop, past the firehouse where, thankfully, Tomas had yet to spot her. Across the entrance of the weird "Edgar Allen Poe" Gated Community, and back home in time to wake up Kai, jump in the shower, and head to school.
The Catgirl. Awake. This is maybe the heroes' second call.
Cherie hauls Thalia into the nearest girls' room by her upper arm. "OOUUCCHH! That hurts!" Thalia yelps.
"I know. And I think I know why." Cherie says. She pulls up the girl's hoodie sleeve to expose the deep lines of scratches."What the hell is this? Are you cutting?"
"What?! No!"
"How do you know?"
"What do you mean, how do I know? Wouldn't I know if I was? Wouldn't I have a kit like Laurel?"
"Laural has a kit?! Wait, back to you. How do you think you're getting these?"
"I just wake up with them."
"How do you know you're not sleep walking?"
"I guess I don't, but they show up after my freaky dreams."
"What freaky dreams?"
"I'm just sort of running through these trees. It's like a video game. There are all these creatures that get in my way and I have to fight them off the branch. I'm getting really good. In fact, I took a programming course this semester and am thinking of creating a game based on my dreams."
"How do you know it's a dream?"
"Are you kidding me? I'm asleep."
"Okay, but how do you know you're not really fighting creatures, for real? How do you know it's not a parallel universe or another dimension?"
"Let me get this straight. I wake up with a few scratches and suddenly I'm an intergalactic fighter, for real, during my sleep?"
"Kind of. There's this scientist who thinks that the universes or dimensions or whatever are like sheets on a clothesline, sort of swaying in the breeze, like this." Cherie hangs her forearms parallel with each other. "And sometimes they zzzzzzpt." She touches her arms together for a second. "How do you know your dreams aren't a zzzzzzpt?"
Thalia laughs. "When did you become the weird nerd?"
"Oh, no. You are not the normal hotness right now either, Catgirl."
"What did you call me?"
"What, Catgirl?"
"Yeah, how did you know?"
"How did I know what?"
"That the scratches are from me, mostly. That in my dreams, I have claws."
***
"I know. And I think I know why." Cherie says. She pulls up the girl's hoodie sleeve to expose the deep lines of scratches."What the hell is this? Are you cutting?"
"What?! No!"
"How do you know?"
"What do you mean, how do I know? Wouldn't I know if I was? Wouldn't I have a kit like Laurel?"
"Laural has a kit?! Wait, back to you. How do you think you're getting these?"
"I just wake up with them."
"How do you know you're not sleep walking?"
"I guess I don't, but they show up after my freaky dreams."
"What freaky dreams?"
"I'm just sort of running through these trees. It's like a video game. There are all these creatures that get in my way and I have to fight them off the branch. I'm getting really good. In fact, I took a programming course this semester and am thinking of creating a game based on my dreams."
"How do you know it's a dream?"
"Are you kidding me? I'm asleep."
"Okay, but how do you know you're not really fighting creatures, for real? How do you know it's not a parallel universe or another dimension?"
"Let me get this straight. I wake up with a few scratches and suddenly I'm an intergalactic fighter, for real, during my sleep?"
"Kind of. There's this scientist who thinks that the universes or dimensions or whatever are like sheets on a clothesline, sort of swaying in the breeze, like this." Cherie hangs her forearms parallel with each other. "And sometimes they zzzzzzpt." She touches her arms together for a second. "How do you know your dreams aren't a zzzzzzpt?"
Thalia laughs. "When did you become the weird nerd?"
"Oh, no. You are not the normal hotness right now either, Catgirl."
"What did you call me?"
"What, Catgirl?"
"Yeah, how did you know?"
"How did I know what?"
"That the scratches are from me, mostly. That in my dreams, I have claws."
***
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Becoming Todd Jarren Andersen *** Short Fiction
Becoming Todd Jarren Andersen
December, 2010
No one was there when the boy appeared on the swingset at Palm Ridge park, but if they had been, they wouldn't have believed it anyway. Pat and Teresa Andersen were the ones to discover him, which made it all the more strange, especially that night. He was in shorts and flipflops and it was December,a cold one at that. They were walking home from dinner, on an anniversary of sorts, at around 11 oclock when they saw the boy.
He was unresponsive about who he was, where he'd come from. They didn't quite know what to do with him. They were more apprehensive than most adults in their situation would have been, but no one faults them for it. They finally agreed on taking him to the hospital to be checked for trauma and later, the police department to see if the boy fit any descriptions of a missing child.
Detective Burkie arrived at the hospital while the Andersens were still checking the boy in. She couldn't believe what she saw. It was striking, the similarities. She'd been at the call 7 years prior. More important than that, their boys' had swum together. TJ had joined them on vacation to Disney. He called her "other mom". But she was no rookie. The years had to swim together in the back of her mind, tomorrow morning on her day off, tonight with some wine when she could talk it over with Jack. Not now. Especially not when they have to be dying inside. All business."What's your name, sweetie?" she asked.
"TJ", the boy answered. He seemed oblivious to the gasps. To the clacking of a passing nurse's clipboard. It was a small town, after all.
Teresa turned inside Pat's arms and folded herself into his chest. She felt too wobbly to walk and as though she might get sick. Gulping big half sobs, she allowed herself to be led away. They stopped in front of a vending machine. She was too racked to ask the question on her lips, he was too consumed himself to answer. They rocked and swayed as Sarah questioned the boy.
They followed her to the precinct two hours later to reaffirm that he was not a missing persons case. Sarah called Judge Hack out of bed to determine placement. The social worker assigned to the case agreed with the judge: there was no better home for the boy than the Andersen's.
They traveled home in silence, which the boy seemed comfortable with. He smiled when they showed him his room, with TJ painted on the wall in bright blue letters. They tucked him in, by now moving in stiff detached motions, and stood by the door until they heard his soft, loud, almost heaving slow into a dreamstate.
They walked in a dreamstate of their own and crawled noiselessly into bed. They fell asleep facing each other, holding hands, knees drawn up as though in prayer, their tear-stained cheeks providing stripes of cool even as the furnace blew on their faces.
They awoke to the smell of burning toast, running out in time to fan the over-vigilant smoke detector. As if it were stage choreography, they each take a towel and begin to shake them in the air.
"What are you doing?" TJ asks.
"Fire drill", they both reply between giggles. They used to laugh all the time, but the years have drawn their mouths down into serious crescents. This old joke, from Before Disaster is the only thing that ever draws a smile these days, aside from the old stand-up tapes they have from college. They don't even have a player to play them, but they don't need one. The best clips are regularly sewn into their conversation. One last vestige of normal. In fact, that easy conversation point, that one parlor trick, saves countless uncomfortable moments around town. They provide the illusion that for Pat and Teresa life had the ability to surprise them, had joy infused in the small moments. Little did their townsfolk really understand that it was more muscle memory than a genuine response to life's little quirks. They didn't have much time to appreciate life's little quirks, ever since they became part of life's big joke.
But this was different. The sun shone in through the window just so, and their laughter had a bubbly quality of one truly amused. Not by a clever observation, but of the simple irony of the situation. This was a truly novel moment.
They laughed themselves into tears, and it took them until the eggs were cooked and the juice poured to bring themselves to explain the joke.
"I don't get it," TJ said.
"Okay" Pat tried again. He swigged some juice. "You know how when you have a fire drill at school, everyone lines up and the teacher gets the keys and you head outside to a designated spot?"
"Yeah, but..."
"Well, our smoke detector has always been hyper-sensitive. The builders put one on either side of the stove, so it goes off almost every time we cook."
TJ starts to laugh.
"Get it?"
"No, but I was afraid I'd ruined the morning with my terrible cooking."
"Don't get me wrong the toast is awful." Teresa choked out, struggling with a charred end. She smiled when she saw TJ's shocked face. "Just kidding, kid. This was sweet. Reminds me of something our boy would do."
"You have a son?"
"Yeah, and that was his first real joke. When the alarm would ring, he'd run and get a towel and yell 'Fire Drill!' The first time my mom heard him, it took us even longer to explain that TJ understood the concept of an actual drill than it did to explain the joke to you."
"Wait, you have a son...and his name is..." TJ chugged the rest of his OJ. "TJ?"
***
August 2003
TJ entered Ms. Sanchez's first grade classroom slowly. He was a good enough reader to know that none of his friends from kindergarten were inside. He found his desk and began putting his supplies inside, organized by color and smell. The smelly pencils belonged in the back, away from jealous eyes. They were his emergency pencils, for when he would undoubtedly need a pick me up. He worked methodically like this when he was 'scoping out the scene'. One of cool Uncle Jay's terms. He hadn't felt grown up enough to try it out loud yet, and was hoping today would be the day. Maybe in lunch line with Alex Dumfries or Serge Romansky. Not likely now that he's checked out his class.
"You dropped one."
TJ didn't look up to see the speaker, instead he eyed the ground for the missing pencil. He stole a look at the shoes, ratty gray converse high tops, before drawing a deep breath. "Thanks."
He looked up and saw a kid that could have been his cousin. Longer eyelashes maybe. Thinner lips, for sure. But enough similarity for him to smile wider than he wanted to. He stuck out his hand. "TJ".
"Kevin."
He used his phrase and three others of Uncle Jay's that day at lunch. Kevin cracked him up and ate the dried apricots mom insisted were as good as fruit by the foot. They weren't. Kevin was kind enough not to notice.
***
December, 2010
No one was there when the boy appeared on the swingset at Palm Ridge park, but if they had been, they wouldn't have believed it anyway. Pat and Teresa Andersen were the ones to discover him, which made it all the more strange, especially that night. He was in shorts and flipflops and it was December,a cold one at that. They were walking home from dinner, on an anniversary of sorts, at around 11 oclock when they saw the boy.
He was unresponsive about who he was, where he'd come from. They didn't quite know what to do with him. They were more apprehensive than most adults in their situation would have been, but no one faults them for it. They finally agreed on taking him to the hospital to be checked for trauma and later, the police department to see if the boy fit any descriptions of a missing child.
Detective Burkie arrived at the hospital while the Andersens were still checking the boy in. She couldn't believe what she saw. It was striking, the similarities. She'd been at the call 7 years prior. More important than that, their boys' had swum together. TJ had joined them on vacation to Disney. He called her "other mom". But she was no rookie. The years had to swim together in the back of her mind, tomorrow morning on her day off, tonight with some wine when she could talk it over with Jack. Not now. Especially not when they have to be dying inside. All business."What's your name, sweetie?" she asked.
"TJ", the boy answered. He seemed oblivious to the gasps. To the clacking of a passing nurse's clipboard. It was a small town, after all.
Teresa turned inside Pat's arms and folded herself into his chest. She felt too wobbly to walk and as though she might get sick. Gulping big half sobs, she allowed herself to be led away. They stopped in front of a vending machine. She was too racked to ask the question on her lips, he was too consumed himself to answer. They rocked and swayed as Sarah questioned the boy.
They followed her to the precinct two hours later to reaffirm that he was not a missing persons case. Sarah called Judge Hack out of bed to determine placement. The social worker assigned to the case agreed with the judge: there was no better home for the boy than the Andersen's.
They traveled home in silence, which the boy seemed comfortable with. He smiled when they showed him his room, with TJ painted on the wall in bright blue letters. They tucked him in, by now moving in stiff detached motions, and stood by the door until they heard his soft, loud, almost heaving slow into a dreamstate.
They walked in a dreamstate of their own and crawled noiselessly into bed. They fell asleep facing each other, holding hands, knees drawn up as though in prayer, their tear-stained cheeks providing stripes of cool even as the furnace blew on their faces.
They awoke to the smell of burning toast, running out in time to fan the over-vigilant smoke detector. As if it were stage choreography, they each take a towel and begin to shake them in the air.
"What are you doing?" TJ asks.
"Fire drill", they both reply between giggles. They used to laugh all the time, but the years have drawn their mouths down into serious crescents. This old joke, from Before Disaster is the only thing that ever draws a smile these days, aside from the old stand-up tapes they have from college. They don't even have a player to play them, but they don't need one. The best clips are regularly sewn into their conversation. One last vestige of normal. In fact, that easy conversation point, that one parlor trick, saves countless uncomfortable moments around town. They provide the illusion that for Pat and Teresa life had the ability to surprise them, had joy infused in the small moments. Little did their townsfolk really understand that it was more muscle memory than a genuine response to life's little quirks. They didn't have much time to appreciate life's little quirks, ever since they became part of life's big joke.
But this was different. The sun shone in through the window just so, and their laughter had a bubbly quality of one truly amused. Not by a clever observation, but of the simple irony of the situation. This was a truly novel moment.
They laughed themselves into tears, and it took them until the eggs were cooked and the juice poured to bring themselves to explain the joke.
"I don't get it," TJ said.
"Okay" Pat tried again. He swigged some juice. "You know how when you have a fire drill at school, everyone lines up and the teacher gets the keys and you head outside to a designated spot?"
"Yeah, but..."
"Well, our smoke detector has always been hyper-sensitive. The builders put one on either side of the stove, so it goes off almost every time we cook."
TJ starts to laugh.
"Get it?"
"No, but I was afraid I'd ruined the morning with my terrible cooking."
"Don't get me wrong the toast is awful." Teresa choked out, struggling with a charred end. She smiled when she saw TJ's shocked face. "Just kidding, kid. This was sweet. Reminds me of something our boy would do."
"You have a son?"
"Yeah, and that was his first real joke. When the alarm would ring, he'd run and get a towel and yell 'Fire Drill!' The first time my mom heard him, it took us even longer to explain that TJ understood the concept of an actual drill than it did to explain the joke to you."
"Wait, you have a son...and his name is..." TJ chugged the rest of his OJ. "TJ?"
***
August 2003
TJ entered Ms. Sanchez's first grade classroom slowly. He was a good enough reader to know that none of his friends from kindergarten were inside. He found his desk and began putting his supplies inside, organized by color and smell. The smelly pencils belonged in the back, away from jealous eyes. They were his emergency pencils, for when he would undoubtedly need a pick me up. He worked methodically like this when he was 'scoping out the scene'. One of cool Uncle Jay's terms. He hadn't felt grown up enough to try it out loud yet, and was hoping today would be the day. Maybe in lunch line with Alex Dumfries or Serge Romansky. Not likely now that he's checked out his class.
"You dropped one."
TJ didn't look up to see the speaker, instead he eyed the ground for the missing pencil. He stole a look at the shoes, ratty gray converse high tops, before drawing a deep breath. "Thanks."
He looked up and saw a kid that could have been his cousin. Longer eyelashes maybe. Thinner lips, for sure. But enough similarity for him to smile wider than he wanted to. He stuck out his hand. "TJ".
"Kevin."
He used his phrase and three others of Uncle Jay's that day at lunch. Kevin cracked him up and ate the dried apricots mom insisted were as good as fruit by the foot. They weren't. Kevin was kind enough not to notice.
***
How to Create Writer's Block Out of Nearly Anything!
I am a very creative person. I love to create things: appetizer dips, paintings, landscaping designs, people, strange desserts. But my secret passion is creating Writer's Block! It is so much fun and very easy to do. I've gotten to where I can do it in my sleep. What's really great about creating Writer's Block is that it is so versatile. There are so many ways to make it, and you can make it out of nearly anything, anytime, anyplace. I've gotten so good at it, I wanted to share some of my favorite ways to create Writer's Block, so you can get started not writing too!
Isn't Writer's Block fun? I love nothing more than finding myself in an empty house all day with ideas just busting out of my head and plenty of paper and pens lying around (not to mention my PC or phone) and not writing a blessed thing! Don't believe me? Let me show you how it's done!
100. Find something to clean. It can be anything, a shower, a counter. Doesn't matter as long as you're not writing!
99. Find something to eat. Nothing kills the creative juices like a big salty bag of chips!
98. Watch a marathon of a show you marginally like and don't normally record. This is vital because you must have at least 10 episodes you haven't seen. My favorites are Bridezillas, anything on HGTV, and What Not to Wear.
97. Read. They say to improve as a writer, read more. Not always true. Getting sucked into a great book can kill upwards of 10 hours of decent writing time. Just think: reading equals time not spent with loved ones, working, working out, or working around the house.
96. Make fun friends. They will fill up your schedule in no time. You'll have so much fun that when they ask how your book is coming, your only reply will be, "Book? What book?"
95. Preen. Detail yourself. Ladies, this could include painting your toes. Gentlemen, think Manscape.
94. Take a nap. Dreams can help you with your writing when you wake up, but a real pro will just roll over and take another nap.
93. Play with your pooch. Dogs don't care about deadlines, so go ahead, throw that squeaky toy!
92. Puzzles. Those addicting games or old-fashioned crosswords. Pick your poison.
91. Organize your closet. I don't know about you, but I can get lost in there for days!
90. Hit the gym. working out is great for your overall health, which is important when you want a long life of avoiding getting anything accomplished.
Stay tuned as the countdown continues. All this talk about Writer's Block has gotten me inspired. Happy not writing!
Isn't Writer's Block fun? I love nothing more than finding myself in an empty house all day with ideas just busting out of my head and plenty of paper and pens lying around (not to mention my PC or phone) and not writing a blessed thing! Don't believe me? Let me show you how it's done!
100. Find something to clean. It can be anything, a shower, a counter. Doesn't matter as long as you're not writing!
99. Find something to eat. Nothing kills the creative juices like a big salty bag of chips!
98. Watch a marathon of a show you marginally like and don't normally record. This is vital because you must have at least 10 episodes you haven't seen. My favorites are Bridezillas, anything on HGTV, and What Not to Wear.
97. Read. They say to improve as a writer, read more. Not always true. Getting sucked into a great book can kill upwards of 10 hours of decent writing time. Just think: reading equals time not spent with loved ones, working, working out, or working around the house.
96. Make fun friends. They will fill up your schedule in no time. You'll have so much fun that when they ask how your book is coming, your only reply will be, "Book? What book?"
95. Preen. Detail yourself. Ladies, this could include painting your toes. Gentlemen, think Manscape.
94. Take a nap. Dreams can help you with your writing when you wake up, but a real pro will just roll over and take another nap.
93. Play with your pooch. Dogs don't care about deadlines, so go ahead, throw that squeaky toy!
92. Puzzles. Those addicting games or old-fashioned crosswords. Pick your poison.
91. Organize your closet. I don't know about you, but I can get lost in there for days!
90. Hit the gym. working out is great for your overall health, which is important when you want a long life of avoiding getting anything accomplished.
Stay tuned as the countdown continues. All this talk about Writer's Block has gotten me inspired. Happy not writing!
Writing with the Door Ajar.
The writing advice from some of my favorite authors that I have the hardest time following is to write with the door closed. I don't doubt that it is the secret to success of the successful writers I love, and feel like a failure for not listening to their sage wisdom.
That said, I am not a successful writer. I am a successful wife, mother, and teacher who writes. I don't have a room of my own or money to ensure a quiet door to write behind. I am writing between appointments, soccer, work, dinner. My writing is a hobby, at best. How do I grant my life's work the respect it deserves in scant intervals?
I am hoping that by breaking the rule to write with the door closed, that I honor the intent. I have joined a small community of writers like me: teachers with full lives and the yearning to write. I will hold my door ajar for them. This blog will enable me a space where my work is given a room. My few critics will give me insight so I don't (in the words of the Indigo Girls) "miss 10,000 miles of road I should've seen". I know the work is best done hashing it out on your own, in your own time, in your own space, but who has time for that?
That said, I am not a successful writer. I am a successful wife, mother, and teacher who writes. I don't have a room of my own or money to ensure a quiet door to write behind. I am writing between appointments, soccer, work, dinner. My writing is a hobby, at best. How do I grant my life's work the respect it deserves in scant intervals?
I am hoping that by breaking the rule to write with the door closed, that I honor the intent. I have joined a small community of writers like me: teachers with full lives and the yearning to write. I will hold my door ajar for them. This blog will enable me a space where my work is given a room. My few critics will give me insight so I don't (in the words of the Indigo Girls) "miss 10,000 miles of road I should've seen". I know the work is best done hashing it out on your own, in your own time, in your own space, but who has time for that?
Monday, June 3, 2013
Suzy Q
Susie remembers when it started. She shook her new teacher's hand at open house and saw the accident that put his bride in the hospital and killed his newborn son. Just a flash, a moment. She remembers what she was wearing when she ran out of the room. Her red cordoroy romper with brassbuttons and the red and blue plaid shirt with short sleeves felt suddenly scratchy and burned her skin. She would have run straight home if she were certain she could find her way. She settled for the bathroom down the hall. She was too little to know she didn't need to unfasten them in order to undress when she realized she had to go really bad. She was crying big gulpy sobs that made it hard to catch her breath. She fumbled with her buttons through her tears, but it was too late. She tried to wash up but that only made her wet spot worse. Her mommy came in and picked her up without a word, just "shhhhh" and kisses in her hair all the way to the car.
Moments like that haunt her every day. Moments like that are the reason she left Toronto the second she graduated. She drove her little GM down I95 and didn't stop until it did. Over the next few years, she'd waited tables in every restaurant the Shidel's owned and touched a lot of customer's hands. A lot more than she'd like. Despite her move to a sunnier climate, moments like that followed her. They are unpredictable as hell, and they come every day. Sometimes she's right, as in Mr. Bluhd's sons rattle found on the side of highway 57 a mile north of the blue chevy Mrs. Bluhd was driving that night. Or the way she saw her own smile, sunlight glinting off her own hair the first time she touched John's hand. Yeah, that one was pretty cool. Sometimes, though, she's way off. Seriously, wolves chasing Thalia in a catwoman costume? Yet she saw it clear as day. And Renaldo's boy, PC, leading the charge with the arm from a werewolf costume holding a broadsword, his right arm, mind you. The one that can't hold a stick of gum. She is starting to think she really needs to lay off the coffee.
She's really ready for the snowbirds to head home in May, to be left alone with her visions, to be able to watch Days of Our Lives in the shop without families dripping saltwater and pralines and cream all over the tile.
Moments like that haunt her every day. Moments like that are the reason she left Toronto the second she graduated. She drove her little GM down I95 and didn't stop until it did. Over the next few years, she'd waited tables in every restaurant the Shidel's owned and touched a lot of customer's hands. A lot more than she'd like. Despite her move to a sunnier climate, moments like that followed her. They are unpredictable as hell, and they come every day. Sometimes she's right, as in Mr. Bluhd's sons rattle found on the side of highway 57 a mile north of the blue chevy Mrs. Bluhd was driving that night. Or the way she saw her own smile, sunlight glinting off her own hair the first time she touched John's hand. Yeah, that one was pretty cool. Sometimes, though, she's way off. Seriously, wolves chasing Thalia in a catwoman costume? Yet she saw it clear as day. And Renaldo's boy, PC, leading the charge with the arm from a werewolf costume holding a broadsword, his right arm, mind you. The one that can't hold a stick of gum. She is starting to think she really needs to lay off the coffee.
She's really ready for the snowbirds to head home in May, to be left alone with her visions, to be able to watch Days of Our Lives in the shop without families dripping saltwater and pralines and cream all over the tile.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Sean
Sean didn't know why he was taking his anger out on his chicken nuggets. While it's true they weren't crispy as implied on the container, the greasy hot smell warmed him the second his mom set the bag in his lap. Unfortunately, so did nausea. If only Thalia had come. Or if he could invite Kai. Kai stays over at dad's, what's the big deal? Why do the rules have to change just because mom had a meltdown. Sean's feeling pretty melty himself, lately. Why can't I run away from home? Of course, he knew the answer was a lack of job training. There's not a big market for people to solve crosswords or build replicas of famous buildings out of legos, or analyze the Star Wars saga. Not that there are legos or crosswords or Star Wars at mom's. You know what there are? Fake heads with real hair, nail polish, and a mountain of change. The only thing to do there, aside from his toes, is count change. When he gets a roll, he puts stacks of coins into rolled paper sleeves. She actually asked him, that first night, isn't this fun? Sean can't get a metallic taste out of his mouth, and in every bite, tasting fork, he thinks about his mom being spoonfed in the mental hospital, and later, at home, by aunt Sarah. Never him, though. No matter how bad it gets, Sherry never lets go of the charade that everything's fine, nothing's changed. And every weekend, he has to keep up the same act. Match her fake smile for fake smile. The chicken nuggets smell like fork, like pennies. Like lies. But he can't tell her that, so they're mushy, gross instead.
"Well, they're dinner."
Butterfly Queen
The Butterfly Queen/ A Wolf Among Men/ In Your Dreams/ My Worst Nightmare
It all started with a dream. Then again, doesn't it always?
Marguerite has been dreaming the same dream for 20 years. There have been variations, of course, but it's always the same dream. All she ever remembered was a castle. The first time she dreamt it, she saw it as a sign to leave Haiti. Then she saw it as a sign to get married, then to retire, and finally to move to Florida. What she sees every night is this: she is running through an empty castle, looking back, holding up the skirts of her gown. The gown is white, her nails a pale pink, and while her feet are bare, the click of her heels echoing off the stone floor is the only sound. She didn't know whether she was running to or away from something; she didn't know where she was headed, away from the past or into the future. Sometimes she was barefoot, and the pain was unbearable. She would wake shivering in her bed, the walls sweating in the summer heat, hot tears washing her burning cheeks. The clicking of the fan that woke her sounded like gunfire, bringing up fears of the regime change and its aftermath. Between the urgency of the dreams and the political maelstrom that year, she had the constant urge to leave Haiti behind. It took almost two years, and burying her father to convince her mother to leave with her. They moved, but the dreams persisted. The only time her dreams changed was during her pregnancies, when she dreamed the dreams of her children. Even then, though, her dreams would sometimes poke through.
***
Chapter 1
Few really important events can be trace to a single moment, a point of impact, but the day they met was the day everything changed, for everyone.
There is a wind that demands compliance, creates isolation. It brings both latent fear and a native consolation to surface, reminding all in its path of their utter smallness, their insignificance in life’s grand scheme. Cherie was standing in such a wind, at home for the first time since moving from California that summer. For six months, she’d been bored by the flat gulf waters, the flat landscape, the boring flat roads. Florida was just so flat. She missed everything about Cali, but mostly her dad, and her old life. She was too young to think of the good old days, but she hated that her family was wrenched apart. Ironically, she blamed her mother, although she’d done nothing wrong.
She was on her five oclock run, a regimine she started when her parents started having quiet conversations behind closed doors. That’s how she knew it was bad: her family didn’t do anything quietly, and they said everything as it came to mind, no filter. Even her meme was hush hush—meme who filled her days with funny stories and funnier criticisms about LA. At thirteen, she developed the need to run away from home, daily, for 45 minutes. Today was no different. After getting Kai off the bus, done with homework and safe in front of the Xbox, she headed downstairs for a quick swim and a run. Everything was normal, she climbed out of the pool, slipped into a rash guard and sneakers, grabbed her ipod and jogged down the deck stairs toward the beach.
Clicking her way to Incubus, she breathed in deep the gulf air. That’s a plus, she thought. Florida does smell clean. However, she did miss the ever present greasy smell of taco stands that lined the west coast. Not that it matters, home isn’t home anymore. About a mile in, Cherie became mesmerized by the sky. It was a weird purple, and the waves were swirling up to reach the sky. Not in theNeptune’s coming for you way of California’s surf, but in this almost calm, mournful way. She stopped to watch it. She didn’t know how long she stared,but when she became aware of what she was doing, she started up again, slowly, tiptoeing around mollusks in search of their shells. One eye was trained on the weird sky. Even the birds seemed uncertain by this dance of sky and sea. She sat down to watch the show they provided too. She became hypnotized by the sound of the beach; she even turned off the music. It seemed the beach itself was breathing. She leaned back to be part of the huge slow breath. She even made a few sand angels. Just as she was immersed in the greatest sense of relief and peace since her nightmares started, convinced she’d left the boogey man behind, that’s when she caught the wolf’s attention.
***
Cherie gazed into the new sky, amber, with three bright suns lined up one on top of the other, like a streetlight, each progressively warmer in hue than the last. She eventually realized that the bottom sun was a bird—a giant golden eagle headed straight for her. Within seconds, the enormous creature was perched on the high branches of a neighboring grove and staring right at Cherie. Cherie stared back. As she did, she glimpsed a peach glinting in the sunlight. She plucked the golden peach and examined it closely. It looked more like an apple up close, but still smelled like a peach, and it tasted like an orange. All three flavors mixed together like a trifecta for the senses. She ate ravenously, shocked by her sudden hunger. She stole another glance at the giant Roc and, as sleep took over, dropped the core to the forest floor.
Within minutes hounds and wolves descended on the scene of the crime. General Nox hovered over the core, thinking. She smell of the forbidden fruit still lingered in the air, but the culprit had vanished.He ordered troops up and wolves out with a nod of his head. At the command, 300 men scaled the sacred trees, knowing one wrong move would be their death. If any of the plumchard fell before harvest, Olrec would have the head of clumsy man by supper.
As the men surveyed the scene treetop, 300 wolves scattered to search the forest floor. Nox paced his horse back and forth at the scene of the crime. How could he explain the elusive thief without losing his job? Or his life?
Jewely and Cherie
Cherie and Jewely
"So what are the rules?" Cherie asked.
"What do you mean?" Jewely replied.
"I mean, there's always someone who knows the rules--in vampire or fairy or even zombie stories." Cherie asked.
Jewely coughed up a little of her coffee. "This isn't a movie, love. This is real life. Much like with everything else in life, there is no rulebook, no one answer. If you're asking how to defeat the tyrant, if I knew, don't you think my sisters would have done it already? What are you really saying?"
Cherie stabbed at her eggs. "You mean, you introduce me to your little dream world, make me love you and your friends, and yet you have nothing for me? Not a shield or an ancient book, a magic potion or a cloak of invisibility? So I have to solve all of my problems, not to mention yours, with what? My good looks? That's awesome. Thanks. So much." Cherie took a long gulp of tea.
Julie got up and tried to put her arms around Cherie's shoulders, but Cherie shrugged her off. Too late to hide her tears, Cherie stared into the gulf. Julie walked over to the railing, looking out into the setting sun. "I know you feel as though you've been dragged into my world, and that you alone must solve all your own problems, but neither are true. My world is your world; you dreamed in California. You were tied to the other dream walkers where you lived. I can't control that you never remembered your dreams. As for this, now, well we are connected to the world we live in, awake or not." Her eyes darted over to Paul Carlo's sleeping form in the hammock below.
Cherie point toward the hammock. "That's just what I mean! How can you tolerate that killer under your roof? Why don't you just kill him in his sleep?"
Jewely turned to face her, mouth wide open. "Do you really see other people as just a commodity to be expended if they prove to be no use to you? That tyrant is a scared little boy in pain. What would you have me do? Ban a depressed disabled boy form the only haven he knows? That would sentence him to even more ridicule and pain at the hands of his brothers. What do you think would happen to Summerlin then? Would he be kinder? No, for all I know, the sanctity of Genesis house is the only reason he hasn't sent his army to set the whole forest aflame. If you can't see that, maybe you're too young, too naive to help." With that, Jewely opened the slider and went inside.
A Hero's Welcome
JJ came home from Afghanistan a hero, received a hero's welcome in DC, but was met with icy stares from the customers at Hayford's. They had no reason not to, and their coldness only fueled his indignance. He greeted them with enough ice and rancor in his voice to put some of them off enough to go back to buying their meat at Publix. Warren noticed but said nothing to him. There were always customers and their prices could not be beat. He knew only bits and pieces of the story but it was enough for him to cut the kid a little slack. He'd come home last June in one piece, but the rest of his platoon were in bags. He was the lookout in his last exercise, and just happened to be on the other side of the hill when they were attacked. He ran toward his guys to warn them, and crossed into their field of vision in time for him to witness the explosion. His return home was called a miracle. He called it hell. He didn't sign up to be the sole survivor. He had enough death on his hands. He didn't want to outlive anyone. He had a deathwish. It was too strong for suicide. His death was so warranted, it had to come from fate. He couldn't deny her that. His night terrors were his cross and his due. His guilt, his punishment. He didn't deserve to lighten his sentence. And neither did God.
Becoming Todd Jarren Andersen
Becoming Todd Jarren Andersen
December, 2010
No one was there when the boy appeared on the swingset at Palm Ridge park, but if they had been, they wouldn't have believed it anyway. Pat and Teresa Andersen were the ones to discover him, which made it all the more strange, especially that night. He was in shorts and flipflops and it was December,a cold one at that. They were walking home from dinner, on an anniversary of sorts, at around 11 oclock when they saw the boy.
He was unresponsive about who he was, where he'd come from. They didn't quite know what to do with him. They were more apprehensive than most adults in their situation would have been, but no one faults them for it. They finally agreed on taking him to the hospital to be checked for trauma and later, the police department to see if the boy fit any descriptions of a missing child.
Detective Burkie arrived at the hospital while the Andersens were still checking the boy in. She couldn't believe what she saw. It was striking, the similarities. She'd been at the call 7 years prior. More important than that, their boys' had swum together. TJ had joined them on vacation to Disney. He called her "other mom". But she was no rookie. The years had to swim together in the back of her mind, tomorrow morning on her day off, tonight with some wine when she could talk it over with Jack. Not now. Especially not when they have to be dying inside. All business."What's your name, sweetie?" she asked.
"TJ", the boy answered. He seemed oblivious to the gasps. To the clacking of a passing nurse's clipboard. It was a small town, after all.
Teresa turned inside Pat's arms and folded herself into his chest. She felt too wobbly to walk and as though she might get sick. Gulping big half sobs, she allowed herself to be led away. They stopped in front of a vending machine. She was too racked to ask the question on her lips, he was too consumed himself to answer. They rocked and swayed as Sarah questioned the boy.
They followed her to the precinct two hours later to reaffirm that he was not a missing persons case. Sarah called Judge Hack out of bed to determine placement. The social worker assigned to the case agreed with the judge: there was no better home for the boy than the Andersen's.
They traveled home in silence, which the boy seemed comfortable with. He smiled when they showed him his room, with TJ painted on the wall in bright blue letters. They tucked him in, by now moving in stiff detached motions, and stood by the door until they heard his soft, loud, almost heaving slow into a dreamstate.
They walked in a dreamstate of their own and crawled noiselessly into bed. They fell asleep facing each other, holding hands, knees drawn up as though in prayer, their tear-stained cheeks providing stripes of cool even as the furnace blew on their faces.
They awoke to the smell of burning toast, running out in time to fan the over-vigilant smoke detector. As if it were stage choreography, they each take a towel and begin to shake them in the air.
"What are you doing?" TJ asks.
"Fire drill", they both reply between giggles. They used to laugh all the time, but the years have drawn their mouths down into serious crescents. This old joke, from Before Disaster is the only thing that ever draws a smile these days, aside from the old stand-up tapes they have from college. They don't even have a player to play them, but they don't need one. The best clips are regularly sewn into their conversation. One last vestige of normal. In fact, that easy conversation point, that one parlor trick, saves countless uncomfortable moments around town. They provide the illusion that for Pat and Teresa life had the ability to surprise them, had joy infused in the small moments. Little did their townsfolk really understand that it was more muscle memory than a genuine response to life's little quirks. They didn't have much time to appreciate life's little quirks, ever since they became part of life's big joke.
But this was different. The sun shone in through the window just so, and their laughter had a bubbly quality of one truly amused. Not by a clever observation, but of the simple irony of the situation. This was a truly novel moment.
They laughed themselves into tears, and it took them until the eggs were cooked and the juice poured to bring themselves to explain the joke.
"I don't get it," TJ said.
"Okay" Pat tried again. He swigged some juice. "You know how when you have a fire drill at school, everyone lines up and the teacher gets the keys and you head outside to a designated spot?"
"Yeah, but..."
"Well, our smoke detector has always been hyper-sensitive. The builders put one on either side of the stove, so it goes off almost every time we cook."
TJ starts to laugh.
"Get it?"
"No, but I was afraid I'd ruined the morning with my terrible cooking."
"Don't get me wrong the toast is awful." Teresa choked out, struggling with a charred end. She smiled when she saw TJ's shocked face. "Just kidding, kid. This was sweet. Reminds me of something our boy would do."
"You have a son?"
"Yeah, and that was his first real joke. When the alarm would ring, he'd run and get a towel and yell 'Fire Drill!' The first time my mom heard him, it took us even longer to explain that TJ understood the concept of an actual drill than it did to explain the joke to you."
"Wait, you have a son...and his name is..." TJ chugged the rest of his OJ. "TJ?"
***
August 2003
TJ entered Ms. Sanchez's first grade classroom slowly. He was a good enough reader to know that none of his friends from kindergarten were inside. He found his desk and began putting his supplies inside, organized by color and smell. The smelly pencils belonged in the back, away from jealous eyes. They were his emergency pencils, for when he would undoubtedly need a pick me up. He worked methodically like this when he was 'scoping out the scene'. One of cool Uncle Jay's terms. He hadn't felt grown up enough to try it out loud yet, and was hoping today would be the day. Maybe in lunch line with Alex Dumfries or Serge Romansky. Not likely now that he's checked out his class.
"You dropped one."
TJ didn't look up to see the speaker, instead he eyed the ground for the missing pencil. He stole a look at the shoes, ratty gray converse high tops, before drawing a deep breath. "Thanks."
He looked up and saw a kid that could have been his cousin. Longer eyelashes maybe. Thinner lips, for sure. But enough similarity for him to smile wider than he wanted to. He stuck out his hand. "TJ".
"Kevin."
He used his phrase and three others of Uncle Jay's that day at lunch. Kevin cracked him up and ate the dried apricots mom insisted were as good as fruit by the foot. They weren't. Kevin was kind enough not to notice.
***
Open Doors
I try to write with the door shut, and only mention that I write in passing to my students, but once in a while, their inquiries unravel the knots I create and can't undo easily. This feels like murky waters, ethically, on one hand, but like really great teaching moments on the other. This morning, a 10 minute conversation took my first period 6th graders to places like when irony stretches the readers suspension of disbelief and which tone is more appropriate for the piece. Their comments and inquiries were what I've been trying to pull out of them with Kipling, Cisneros, and Collins. I wonder: how to get them to see written works as malleable and debatable as works in progress. Letters to the author halfway through with suggestions? Are they intimidated by the permanance of a published work or are they simply uncomfortable arguing with adults they don't know. Either way, how do I ethically recreate these conversations without bringing in my writings for their parsing?
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