Atelier of a Writer

5 Min Fiction: Memory - Heat

2012-01-21T19:16:00.000-08:00

Five minute fiction is a prompt where I give myself five minutes to write an intro. Sometimes it's good, sometimes it's crap. Either way I'm writing, and that is better than not writing at all.

Memory: Heat

It was Bakersfield hot. Hot like you wish you could take off your skin and lie around in your bones. When sitting inside your house was hotter than being out under a tree. Where a swamp cooler would blow air that felt like, it was fresh, from a lava tube. Days like that, all you could do was hope someone would let you play under their trees.

I remember Jess’s front yard. It was more than a yard. From my apartment dwelling viewpoint it was a park. There were two trees, one that stunk of magnolias and the other that ripped at our fingers when we would climb it. On those hot Bakersfield days we prayed, thanking God for her dad’s ability to flood the street with a single sprinkler. This day, her dad left the sprinkler underneath the tree that enjoyed our bloody, raw fingertips. Jess and I found a new enjoyment. Tied to the tree was a tire swing. It was there for as long as I could remember, but on sweltering 105 degree days it would make our thighs smell of liquid rubber. “Thank god for that sprinkler,” we would say. Our feet would hit the water first, toes pointed to the sky. Drops of joy kissed our feet then dribbled back towards our hips.

We moved the sprinkler closer to the tree in hopes that more than our feet would be refreshed. Delicately, Jess or I would maneuver the sprinkler head closer. It took several attempts to act natural while moving the spewing, silver plated nozzle. Her dad would come out and yell, “Don’t move my sprinkler,” in a long southern draw that sounded of biscuits, gravy and chitins. But it was accomplished; the water drenched the tire swing. Beads would build up in the grooves of the tread and trickled down into the inner well of the tire. Before long we realized, we could fill the inside with water. We would push each other. The rope would rip our fingers raw as the dirty water sloshed around our sides.

The heat must have made us delirious because on that day we decided to claim that tree as ours. We were prepared to fight anyone who tried to take our water, tree, or swing. It wasn’t long before the boys came out of the house. And like all brothers, they wanted to have more fun than we were having. But they were not prepared for us, the two best friends who could read each other’s mind.

Tales from an almost relationship P1

2011-12-20T22:08:00.000-08:00

“Why hello Samantha Hanley,” he said with a smile in his voice. He was over the top and animated when he answered the phone this time, not his normal mild mannered self.

“Well, hello Mr. Bell,” I replied back in an equally animated quality while suppressing a giggle. I couldn’t help but to smile when I talked to him on the phone, no matter how small the matter may be. Our conversation was quick. I wanted to catch a ride with his car group. The night’s festivities seemed more elaborate than I had originally expected. It seemed multiple destinations were on the table and an opportunity to couple up in cars—to couple with Mr. Bell was in order. Of course it didn’t surprise me one bit when he stated the only other person in his car was the woman I’ve deemed as ‘The Cockblock.’

“Do you want to meet me at my house? Or at [Cockblocker’s]?” he asked.

I thought for a moment or two with the stammer of, “I don’t know” and “I don’t really care,” when in fact, I did. I didn’t want to be at someone’s house who I didn’t like, waiting for him to pick us up. Eventually I spouted, “I’ll just meet you at your house. It’s closer.” And he gave me a time to be there.

This conversation went on while I was shopping. I filled my cart with this and that, nothing I needed. They say shopping is good for the economy, but in fact I think shopping while under the influence of love is better.

Comfortable to fantastic and back in Morro Bay

2011-06-12T14:43:00.000-07:00

Life is too short to waist on days filled with normalcy and redundancy. I may not be the most adventuresome—while some may say otherwise—I somehow fell into a comfortable routine over the last couple of months with a friend. However, comfortable is apparently not the same thing to everyone. Only after I decided to be brutally honest with myself I remembered I do not settle for less than fantastic. In an attempt to bring fantastic back to my daily activities nature called. The beach beckoned. I answered.

This wind is crisp for June. More brisk than any day I can remember for Morro Bay. In the twenty something years of coming to this rock that juts into the skyline, imposing its mass into the heavens as a sanctuary for Peregrine Falcons, I’ve never needed to buy a sweatshirt. And still, the wind brings a shiver to my bones as I wait for the others who meander through the gardens I fell in love with so many years ago. Gardens laced with art. Sculptures inspired by life, by religion, and sometimes by nature itself. Echo’s of the otters and wails from the seals reverberate—lonely calls into the air for something more than this—amongst the gallery’s wooden beams and perfectly placed art. The aquarium only a few steps away caters to those too tired to drive to Long Beach and to those too cheap to stay in Monterey, is a host to sad fish in ancient tanks slapped with a new coat of sea-foam green paint. We walk through. I shake my head and buy a souvenir in hopes the next time it will be different. That maybe, next time, the sea-foam green will change to navy or chartreuse.

I tug my hat down tightly while walking toward the harbor. The others still enamored by the aquarium, I try to find solace in the boats that bob gently in the wake of the incoming tide. These are not the vessels like the ones in San Diego. They do not look as if they cost more than the average home in Beverly Hills. They’re deceptively simple, sailboats with an actual sail and rigging lines that run from mast to mast. Small windows which barely peep over the water’s edge lapping at the hull. Working boats with rods sticking out from the stern as the smell of bait, I can only imagine, wafts off the deck into the cabin corners. Lockers of raw fish which smell, no doubt permeates down through the skin of the working boat’s fisherman. A smell the locals describe as "money".

Eventually the sun starts to lower playing peak-a-boo with the marina layer that stretches wide like a thin veil of surgical gauze. My sunglasses now off as the drive home starts. The car is quiet with contemplation. Two backseat passengers sleep under a blanket of soft, brown synthetic fibers while the third twirls the wheel of the iPod compiling the drive-home playlist. My best friend in the driver’s seat focusing on the big rigs which block both lanes on the 46HWY. She is afraid to pass. There is a reason why the James Dean HWY is also nicknamed Blood Alley. And me? Between the quips and snide comments, between the laughter and arguments I recognize that while this day was fantastic I’m not ready to give up comfortable just yet.

Scenes from Starbucks

2011-04-19T17:35:00.000-07:00

You can sit in one place, watch the world pass by. Let the music play between your ears. Help you to drift up and away to that magical place no one else can scrutinize. Cars pass beyond the glass, streaks of colors pure, so fast across your view that they blur into brilliant streaks of shapes, red and blue. But the music makes you focus to the trees just beyond the other side’s curb. They sway and dance to notes only you can hear. They twist and bounce in a lover’s embrace as the flute teases with the bass. The song changes, your eyes linger on. The sway of apple green leaves, an intoxicating swan song. Until that is when the cyclists catch your interest with spokes and petals, all hitting the beat. A rush of the wind flicks back the bandana around one’s head, sun hitting the gold rimmed glasses in perfect chime. The cymbal strikes. This song is done. A brief pause, the station changing tracks, a man walks along, tall, strong, with a wide brimmed hat. The mood changes, this song is new. I focus closer with these strings that play, I see the lovers over coffee with little to say. Her hand in his, they look into each other so deep. He leans in; she kisses him on the cheek. The orchestra quiets, the moment so dear. But with a clash the percussion breaks, the man next to me tapping his fingers while he waits. He flips the paper and grips it tight. You can see where he’s crunched it preparing for a fight. Pepper hair he’s combed to the side. Glasses round—just a hint of silver—sit high. The timpani strikes and so does his feet. “Up and at ‘em,” he says with all his might. And with the final taps on the tubular bells I watch the magic come to a close, when I realize I’ve written some wonderful prose.

Random Writer Workshop-Poem

2011-04-08T12:31:00.000-07:00

We all know I'm rubbish at poems. Wednesday was poem night at RWW. You can see the dilemma. But I push. I am a writer after all. This is the one and only poem I wrote during the night.

Je suis,
"Daddy,"
sharp and sweet,
round & round chasing,
water splashes,
pants, shoes, skin all wet,
"Daddy, Daddy",
blanc comme neige.

28 Lessons Learned in 28 Years

2011-04-04T12:25:00.000-07:00

I saw this the other day with someone who was 27 and I thought, since I'm turning 28 this year it would be a great list to put together. After all, we all know I'm on the backward slide to 30 maybe my experiences can help others.

No matter how you try, bad designers keep designing
Just because his car is hot doesn't mean you should drive both
You have to like yourself before anyone else will like you
If you can, always help someone else
Your heart will break, be smashed, and crumble but your friends will hold it together for you
Growing up is scary
Eat dinner before looking for a new car. You'll never know when they'll let you back out of the dealership
Time doesn't heal wounds, you just have to move on
Talking to strangers is not all that bad
If you don't know something, call an expert
Laughter will get you through almost anything
You can't control everything. If you are trying you'll never move forward
Listen to your gut but think it through
Don't tweet everything
Don't buy a house
Being single is a curse
Being single is a blessing
Great relationships, if ended, fuel massive creativity
You always will have that "one" person that everyone is compared to
You are allowed ice cream for breakfast if you're best friend broke up with their longtime "other" and is sleeping on your couch
Dinner requires four hours of laughter between each course when with friends
Pay for someone lunch
Expect nothing from other people so you can be overjoyed when they do something
If you have a bad feeling about something, trust it
Share your pain
If you've yet to be rejected you're not trying hard enough
When in doubt, Google it
It's okay to turn off your phone and email for a weekend

What's worse - lying to your partner or cheating on your partner?

2011-03-28T16:05:00.001-07:00

Lying to your partner about cheating on him/her! Seriously, cheating. Sometimes you have to lie in order to keep the peace.

I'm an 8-Ball, what say you?

Portraits of Ireland: Conversations at the Pub

2011-03-01T11:53:00.000-08:00

Photo credit: keeshu from morguefile.com

“She was a vision,” he said after he took a swig off the bottle of Bulmer’s Irish Cider. “I just couldn’t believe it. She was wal’n tru the smoke and I had to wipe my eyes. Well, da visor anyways because she just came out from nowhere.” Pat’s eyes were so wide his dirty blonde eyebrows merged into his hairline. His hand made wiper movements in front of his face. "She was in this silk, red nighty and I t'ought I had died. I t'ought it was the devil coming for me." His jaw dropped, eyebrows pushed forward and he shook his head, but continued, “We took her back to da main house. By dis time da back house was completely engulfed.”

“And her mom was waving us over,” Colin, the friend, turned to me with a can of Bud Light in his hand.

Pat’s hand ran down his face and lingered on his chin, mouth agape. His cheekbones rose and his gut fell when he started to bellow in laughter. “Dat’s right. Her mom was waving her arm, yelling at us saying, ‘boys come in and have some dinner. Don’t worry about the back house.’ And she wouldn’t let us go back until we ate.”

“And it was a proper meal. Full roast, veg and mash.” Colin said after he almost chocked on the American beer.

“I know,” Pat sat forward on the chair. His hands rotated wildly in the air with his words. “Eventually I had to tell her, ‘Ma'am. We're da Fire Brigade. We have to put out yer house!’”

Road to Revolution: Excerpt

2011-02-24T18:38:00.000-08:00

He didn’t hear the window crinkle, the glass break, or the splintering of the frame from the force which the car drove through the front door. When he turned, he didn’t smell the fuel that leaked on the carpet, soaking into the concrete underneath. All he focused on was the shape of the human under the car frame. It was twisted, almost unrecognizable. The only sign that it was Trisha was the ring on her forefinger. The silver encased emerald that signified her as an artificial intelligence’s mother.

So far, what would you say has been the most important lesson you've learned about life?

2011-02-18T07:29:00.001-08:00

I like the quote from Contact, "It would be an awful waste of space." I think it is arrogant of us as a species to think we are the only intelligent species around.

I'm an 8-Ball, what say you?

Lost and found: starter paragraph

2011-01-29T20:44:00.000-08:00

I found this start in a notebook. Oh, the brilliance of something like this hitting you while you’re out and about. This is why if you are a writer you should always have something in your bag to jot down notes. I’d love to take this starter paragraph and make it into something awesome. But I think that is for after my query letters are sent out.

“I swear this time I didn’t do it,” I said with a handful of wires in one hand and a CB handle in the other. Rob looks up at me from between the two suited men. I could tell he was worried. The men in black suits and skinny ties did nothing to hide their girth. My brother looked like a toddler between the two.

Mementos from ghosts

2010-12-13T23:56:00.000-08:00

She sat looking at her desk. Memories of times past floated like ghost with little concept of time. Each memento on the dark oak held a special meaning to her, reasons why she now regretted her decision. A flower crown rests atop a carved wooden Buddha head. The flowers dried and entwined with leaves given to her at the same time as the Buddha. A village, so thankful for her work, the time she spent with them as she helped the political climate transition around them with as little effect as possible. They thanked her with one of the garden Buddha.

Rebecca smiled as she continued writing. Her mind wondering through the ghostly memories as her hand slowly moved across the slightly yellow parchment. Her eyes focused on a picture of her John, sweet, beautiful John standing next to his vintage motorcycle during their trek through Siam. His hair covering his eyes as his hand shielded his face from the brightness of the recently cleared forest. “We were so,” she thought but her hand continued moving, writing constantly in perfect lines of ink. Her eyes moved on to the gold locket which hung half open from a branch of a decretive tree. The pen stopped. She stopped. Trembling fingers traced down the side of the engraved gold until she twisted the images toward her. John’s blue eyes peered at her, opposite his image— their boy, Daniel. Rebecca picked up the pen and finished her letter.

“After such a loss, I am regrettably unable to fulfill my duties.”

If you have an image you'd like for me to write a bit of dribble for please feel free to email it to me hart(dot)jeannie(at)gmail(dot)com

It's a rainy day, would you rather cuddle up at home and watch movies, go out and have fun, or do something else?

2010-12-13T07:48:00.001-08:00

Totally cuddle up and watch movies. In fact there would probably be hot coco, my windows open and my kitties curled up around me.

I'm an 8-Ball, what say you?

First dance with a Pomegranete

2010-12-02T12:44:00.000-08:00

She saw it sitting on the shelf. It was perfect. Shades of red speckled with pink spots as if hand painted by God. He dipped a paintbrush into the paint of life and threw it at his trees. So random, she thought, her hand ran along the curvature of the pomegranate. Its color accentuated by a soft, slow fade from bright red into the dark, fire burnt red. Hard, sharp pentacles jutted outward against her soft, delicate hand. She's never had one, not a real one. They've been blended into drinks and in folded into breads but she holds the pomegranate in her hand and realizes—Persephone had the right idea—this is lust.

Wooden Hangers

2010-11-19T22:40:00.000-08:00

I’m twenty-seven and I have a closet full of wooden hangers. This may not amaze anyone. There are plenty of people out there with wooden hangers. Though, I never thought I’d be one of those people. The hangers which have hung so brilliantly in my closet over the years have been made from shades of plastic and metal, sometimes just plastic, sometimes metal wrapped in paper. The kind you get back from the dry cleaners. Only we never took our clothes to the dry cleaners. Our family always found ways of washing those items that were cleverly labeled “dry clean only”. It’s what families do. My family was neither rich nor poor we were careful and conscientious.

But today the world got to me. I don’t mean ‘the spirit of the world’ and all its self indulgent, narcissism but a week of work culminating into a tumbling down of emotions. My boss, his son and the shop manager have all been out of town this week. I thought it would be an easy week with room to write here and there. Didn’t happen. All week I kept fires at bay, babied employees, and managed to get through a mountain of drawings. This is normal. Work is work and I’m happy the recession never hit me hard. However, on top of this was a monumental fail and subsequent pick up of responsibility I didn’t want nor needed on such a short notice. Beer-thirty came and passed me by, not even glancing in my direction, just whooshed on down the railroad while I watched from the not so comfortable office desk chair. And at that moment I realized I needed retail therapy.

Earlier in the week, while talking with a fellow writer, I’d come across the fact that I can’t multitask nearly as much as I thought I could. Chatting and trying to get my NaNoWriMo word count up wasn’t working so I ended up chatting and shopping online. Now I don’t have a huge disposable income, let me get that out there first of all. But unlike my parents who at my age had four kids (between them both) and already had a path set for them to follow, I do not. So if you hear of me shopping more than twice a week you run the chance that I might be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. After a 14 hour workday I chatted with Lee and bought a new Kate Spade wallet. That was Tuesday. Seriously, the second day of the work week and I needed retail therapy. And as I watched that beer-thirty train passed me by today, blowing that horn to make me hate it just a bit more, I found myself at Bed Bath and Beyond with an arm full of wooden hangers.

Now, I look in my closet and see all the brilliantly arranged blouses and trousers and I have an odd sense of accomplishment. Sure the hangers were on sale and they cost less than the Kate Spade wallet I’d bought earlier in the week. But the pile of plastic hangers that sit awkwardly in trash bags is more satisfying than the actual retail part of therapy. Seeing those hangers made me realize that in a nation filled with recession and hopelessness, I’m okay. I may not own a home, have a brand new car but you know what, I have a closet filled with wooden hangers.

A local night of dangerous writing

2010-11-17T09:14:00.001-08:00

This event is open to everyone but it is to support Bakersfield NaNo writers. If possible check in at the Facebook event so we can know how much coffee needs to be provided. Facebook event: http://is.gd/hi9xt

When: Nov. 20, 5pm-11pm
Where: The Foundry (1700 Chester Avenue)
Cost: FREE!
Reservations: Open to All, not just NANOWRIMO participants

From 5pm-11pm, you can meet other writers, win prizes, and make headway on your great American novel as you complete your journey. As part of NaNoWriMo the Random Writers Workshop is providing a night of writing and prizes!

FOR MORE INFO: Contact Jeannie Hart – hart(dot)jeannie(at)gmail(dot)com

Word War Schedule:
6pm: 30-minute Word War
7pm: 30-minute Word War
8-10pm: 2-hour Word War
10:30pm: Most Words of the Night

NaNoWriMo 2010: It's me but in video form

2010-11-02T10:56:00.000-07:00

NaNoWriMo 10210: "Magic"

2010-10-22T21:19:00.000-07:00

Each step I took the sound of pine needles crunching echoed through the forest. The tall trees stretched upward like giants. My head trailed along the thick, cracked trunks until I felt I would fall backward. I breathed in, closed my eyes and listened to what mother earth created. Winds whispered as they wrapped themselves around my skin, a warm bath of love drawn by the mother herself. She rustled the boughs of Quaking Aspens that filled the underbrush with a blue and silver hue. Silver dollar leaves shook as they announced the Goddess presence, the sound of a creek side awakening. Ferns rippled, bending their bright green limbs gently to her waves of caresses. I was simply an observer in this dance between lovers.

She stopped, her whispered love faded. The meadow opened in front of me. I didn’t know what she wanted me to see. Her whispers maneuvered me to this spot where the grass grew in a chaotic jumble of colors. Green brush dotted with flowers only painters and poets could describe. Away from the cover of the giants the sun blazed down. I shielded my eyes as the grass turned a blinding white and back to their rich greens. The petite peddles tickled my hand as I walked into the unknown, desperately trying to connect with the force that guided me here.

It was there in the meadow, I found it, a connection with something more than myself. I sat amongst the grass, my hands in the earth. The dirt cold, clean, pure, I was rooted. I looked out from eyes which were no longer disconnected from my subconscious. A sway came over me, the rhythm of the grass vibrating with life, induced my mind to open and she returned. No longer a whisper mother earth lifted my hair, swirled it into the air like a tornado of happiness.

Earth’s winds blew, bending row after row of grass. She let her lover bow. Grasses pressed against my skin. Every kiss created a sparkle within my heart, they radiated outward until the sun was eclipsed by the otherworldly glow. The Goddess approved, my hair dropped to my shoulders. I breathed deeply and inhaled the life-force she bestowed. My fingers wiggled in the dirt, I knew it was time to uproot myself.

I lay on my back and looked at the luminous blue sky. My hand rested on my forehead, I could feel the coolness of dirt as it soaked into my skin. I didn’t want to wipe it away; I wanted to have this feeling forever. It was magic.

More NaNoWriMo 10210 prompts

Red Room Contest: Bakersfield Dragons

2010-10-21T14:00:00.000-07:00

I've just submitted a story for this week's Red Room contest. The prompt is "time I won". Here's an excerpt, read the full story on redroom.com

Bakersfield Dragons

The Chinese restaurant danced with life as my classmates filled the room. We laughed as the candles flickered from the center table. Flames illuminated shadows on the rich red and fake gold walls. Dark figures cavorted with overlooking dragons as we finished our meal. It was the last time the senior art class would meet like this, carefree and uninhibited with our artistic styles.

Our teacher stood, his gray goatee trimmed perfectly. Even in this dimly lit buffet room, his aura glimmered. A glow mixed from equal parts love, pride, and melancholy. He spoke of his years of being a teacher. How this mix of students could be the best class he'd ever had.

The full story.

NaNoWriMo 10210: "Secret"

2010-10-20T22:50:00.000-07:00

     "Momma, I have a secret.” The girl’s curls bounced as her head bobbed back and forth. Blonde pig tails made her head look abnormally square. “But no one can know,” she said.
     “Sweetie, you can tell me. I promise not to say a word to anyone.” Her mother looked down at her blue eyed daughter, a color so rich even the ocean’s depth could not compare.
     The little girl started to sway back and forth as a devious smile crossed her face. Her pink dress swished softly as her hand caressed the hemline. “I don’t know mama.” She said. She shrugged her shoulders and bit her bottom lip. The dress moved upward as she shrugged exposing soft white knees, a porcelain doll with skin practically crafted to perfection.
     Her mother kneeled down, scrunched her nose and brushed it against her daughter’s. She smelled like clean skin and powder which made her mother grin for raising such a perfect replica of herself.
     “You can tell me anything baby.” Her mom said with conviction.
     She looked around and gestured for her mother to come in close. Those brilliant blue eyes twinkled as her mother moved in. The little girl cupped her hand around her mom’s ear, ready to impart her secret through a hushed whisper which tickled her mother’s skin.
     She grinned as her breath pushed through her dainty vocal cords, “It wasn’t the dog.”

More NaNoWriMo 10210 prompts

NaNoWriMo 10210: "Gloves"

2010-10-19T17:37:00.000-07:00

     I looked at those gloves. They stood for everything I hated. They were prim and proper. White and pure, everything I was not. But I sat and looked at them. The poof under me contoured my curves, my knees together and tight but ankles spread wide in protest. My thumb and forefinger pulled at my bottom lip. Would I go through with it? I thought. It was more than a thought then. I remembered how nothing was right. The dress was too tight, my heels too tall, and those gloves sat in front of me like a final mockery of everything I’d ever wanted to do with my life.
     “I can’t do it.” I said crossing my legs. “I just can’t.”
     “Mon cher, it’s not the time to have these thoughts.”
     “Daniel, you don’t understand.” I picked up the white gloves and held them, fingers caressed each silk hem. “Did you?”
     “Not for a second,” Daniel shook his head as his thick Louisiana accent floated from his lips like leaves from a Live Oak drifting on the bayou. “Cheri, it’s normal to be scared but de’s thoughts, they do you no good.”
     “There are so many things I won’t get to do.”
     “How you know that?”
     “I just do Daniel. He’s boring.” I placed the gloves in my lap. “What if I want to go to Paris? He’ll tell me he has to work.”
     “True, but Chari, you love him no?” Daniel dipped his head and looked at me with those green eyes, like moss under a shade tree.
     “I…” my cheeks flushed pink. I pulled the gloves up to my face letting the cool silk press against my hot skin.
     “You cannot fool me mon cheri.”
     I closed my eyes and I could see him standing there, the oak trees branches swaying in the breeze as the sun drizzled through the leaves. The table behind the priest filled with white roses and green moss. I could smell the earth as I watched my fiancée smile at me. Greens and browns swirled together bringing only him into focus. I opened my eyes. Daniel stood there and smiled.
     “How ‘bout we get you down that isle.”

-End-

More NaNoWriMo 10210 prompts

NaNoWriMo 2010

2010-10-18T11:49:00.000-07:00

We have ten business days leading up to NaNoWrimo. There are several new things I'm doing this year to promote NaNoWrimo which you'll see next month. One of the things I'm doing in October is Ten Days till NaNo 2010. I'll be writing ten flash fiction/short stories/whatever I feel for the next ten business days. Each day will be taken from a prompt below. I hope you enjoy my knuckle cracking while I gear myself up to NaNoWriMo!

Evidence
I'm here
Funeral
Puppy Love
Gloves
Blackboard
Muse
Magic
Clean
Secret

My NaNoWrimo handle is *snort* you've guessed it surferartchick. Feel free to buddy me!

Thankful Thursday

2010-09-23T09:44:00.000-07:00

Thankful Thursday by way of a list

A job
I'm very thankful that I have a job that supports my writing addiction, art addiction, and book lusting. It's important to keep that in the forefront.
My Nick
A writing mentor of awesome, even though he's since moved to another city I have nothing but good thoughts for him and his family.
My Morgan
Every time I get all hate'n on my life I remember her and how close San Francisco actually is. Then I remember my stay here is only temporary and soon there will be karaoke made of win.
That I think in 3D
Our engineer made the comment that he had a hard time seeing if something would work because he thinks in 2D. As a writer and artist, I always think in 3D. I'm thankful that I can do this. I don't screw up on Technical Drawings nearly as much. When writing I can fully visualize scenes and see how my characters can interact within the space.
Headphones
Starbucks is distracting. People coming in and out, music that's played either too loud or too soft. It all makes for distraction. Headphones bless the inventor, allows me to sit in a room of people and be completely isolated at the same time. It's bliss.

Fiction Friday

2010-09-10T08:57:00.000-07:00

Photo by Gerry

The car door is open. Dew gathers and falls from blades of grass which vibrate gently as the car hums with the electric propulsion system suspending it in air. Sunshine drizzles through the leaves of a dense orchard. Soft, rhythmic dinging pierces the morning haze.

Deep amongst the almond blossoms birds gather. Black and white striped feathers flap while brown eyes watch carefully. They look for signs of life. The Red Shouldered Hawk’s attention is sharp. Only one section in this grove, bathed in light as the morning sun rises higher, interests these birds of prey. Between the rows of bark, between the sunspots on the earth lies a hand straining forward. His fingers convulse slightly as the blood drains from his body. Two gunshot wounds ooze as his heart pumps the life giving force out, staining the dirt red.

The hawks start to circle. Landing close they peck at spots which are easiest to break away from the flesh. Other birds smell the freshness of the meal. More gather to this feast. They peck and tear until there is little left. A breeze passes through the almond orchard, ruffling the leaves and kicking dust into the air. It scares the birds of prey. They scatter like water to thrown rocks, leaving behind a corpse of wires and circuitry. Another mechanical murder, two days before the Magistrate is anointed.

***
I’ve been away for a while. I wish I could say it was something exotic like a vacation to Angkor Wat but no, I’ve been sick. I’m thinking of keeping Fridays as Fiction Fridays. I think it’s a bit fun and will allow me to do more writing related blogs during the week. What do you think? Good? Bad? Let me know in the comments.

350 Words: Death in a claw foot tub

2010-07-27T11:04:00.000-07:00

I feel dead. Water caresses my body as I lay in this porcelain tub. Lavender salts soothe my skin but not my heart. The hurt is too deep for comfort to reach. My battle scars tracing wounds which form rivers of pain running through my soul. Can I return from this? Is there a way to recover?

The faucet leaks, gentle ripples of warmth touch my skin, a body limp. Eyes gazing upwards to the ceiling, counting cracks along the white peeling paint anything to keep the tears back. Lessons learned long ago. No emotion. Not even when alone. Fingers tingle as they hang over the lip of the claw foot tub. My hands are numb. My heart is cold. Feelings of being ripped apart crawl up my legs, not even the warmth of the water can keep it away. Eyes glaze, my head dips, and worlds collide.

Cold, otherworldly fingers touch my face. They are mine but they’re unfamiliar. My forehead sears with pain. Such cold hands on my face, hot with anger. Hot with pain. Hot with tears.

Tears? How? I can't feel.

My mind focuses realizing, counting cracks only took me away from the pain. The pain didn't stop. I didn't stop. Fingers wipe away tears as quickly as they come yet they fall into the water. I gasp for air. How can anyone make me feel this way? How is it these limbs, this skin, this life feel so dead? Feelings I can't comprehend and yet I look out my bloodshot, puffy eyes to see a shell. It looks like me but I am lost.

The water is cold.

I turn to my side as my breathing trembles and shivers. Arms wrap around my chest as I try to stay warm. Trying to shield my heart or burry it deeper. Whichever brings the warmth I want, what I need. The water lapping softly, there’s no comfort now. I sob. Her words reverberate in my ear, "I've never met him. I have no clue who he is. I don't know why you believed me."

The Importance of Design in Science Fiction Writing

2010-07-19T09:27:00.000-07:00

When talking to other novelist I always ask if they have an interest in technology. It’s a diverse response. Most are in love with all things gadgetry. The iPhone, iPads, Droids of today catch their eye. But what about the physical design of the world around us? This is important to me as I am a futuristic social commentary writer I need to have realistic ideas of the future. Yes, a science fiction writer must be able to come up with their own ideas of how the future will run, work, even play while dispending belief for the reader in our world. However, we are not engineers or designers so when I see something like this video, I have to take notice.

In science fiction writing, to me, it’s so important to use design elements to help perpetuate the idea of the future. In my writing I do not focus on the tech too much but I do place odd design elements into the story. After all, futuristic social commentary is not about the technology, it’s about social elements in the future. The story is not based on the tech but by using suspended animation gel rather than a refrigerator it helps the reader take that step with you into the future. Would Star Trek’s social message be any different if they used a microwave instead of a food replicator? No. But you, the reader, would not be so inclined to listen to a social message without that step into the future.

Poem: Hemp Lotion

2010-07-07T11:24:00.000-07:00

Hemp Lotion
smelling of good clean dirt
growing green grapes
and red watermelon
all across the central valley floor

Wrist deep in dirt
day after rain
water flowing freely
like a loquacious teen
talking of the boy she loves

Smelling of Mother Nature’s
ripe fruits being plucked
Tomato pickers, Bee keepers, Almond growers
all reminding me of
Hemp Lotion

Editing and Revising

2010-07-01T09:16:00.000-07:00

You’ve finished the first draft of your novel. You’ve let it sit on the back burner for a few months but now it’s an itch under your skin. Festering in your mind and it’s time to go back and scratch. Picking up your novel from the stove, before it starts to burn, you decide it’s time to revise.

But it’s perfect! You think. This is the first irritation you need to apply ointment to. It’s not. First drafts are called drafts for a reason. In reality you will use probably a hundred words from your first draft. The rest will come from editing. But don’t let this dismay you, revision is a brilliant process.

I can’t tell you the perfect formula for editing and revising. However, I can tell you what works for me. This habit developed after hearing the above sentiments of how many words we actually use from the first draft. Knowing ahead of time that my first draft is crap I understand most of it I won’t use. It’s too raw. The story arch is there, the main plots, and characters are there but it needs to be refined. To do this I start fresh. I do not edit the word document that holds the first draft; I start anew. The blank page, cursor blinking in front of me, and the first draft beside me—these are all keys in my map to the second draft.

By rekeying my second draft it allows me to zero in on the areas that don’t work. Bits you think are brilliant may stumble and fall flat as you are reading it in your head. Reading your first draft, even if it’s in your mind, is an important step to editing your work and revising. Once a chapter has gone through this process and I think it’s perfect, I edit some more.

The third revision, I use my microphone and record myself reading the chapter or chapter’s I’ve rewritten. When I play it back I’ll follow on page and write down areas I stumble over when I read. Obviously these are the areas I need to rework. Otherwise my reader (whom should always be on your mind) will stumble too. Sometimes as you read you automatically switch words without knowing it, subconsciously you know it works better. On the playback you have an easier time catching these instances.

Once the third draft goes through this process I find that I’m pretty happy with the manuscript. Most of the kinks are gone and it’s ready for a critique group or peer review. I can’t stress how important a peer/critique group is. Three extra sets of eyes can identify problems you don’t see. Often we are still too close to the work in progress. However, this is usually the last step before querying. By the fourth revision, after your group identifies the smaller problems, you can be confident that your work is ready to query.

Character Development

2010-06-24T10:46:00.000-07:00

What happens when you come across information you don’t want to know?

I now understand the mindset of my mother when I told her I was moving out for the first time. Her typical response was, “Sure. Whatever.” That was the response six months before, three months before, and two months before. When I told her I’d put down a deposit on my apartment she looked at me in utter shock and said, “What? You never told me you were moving out!”

I ran into someone that we had mutual acquaintances. We talked for a good hour about many things, but the main subject being my significant other. By the end of the conversation I could tell that she was really upset. Not knowing why and being I didn’t know her very well, I didn’t pry.

Now I get an email saying, “You need to think long and hard and then ask yourself if you really want to know why I’m upset.” Do I? I mean really, If it’s going to affect what I have going on, really? I don’t reply. It’s not important to me. She is not a friend, not even an acquaintance that I like, so let it go.

The next email, “or you can keep living in ignorance... and have him try to explain that I'm delusional (as he tried to say about you, yesterday)” I shake my head. This is not happening. I really think she wants a chick fight. I don’t bite. I don’t care. Maybe in six months I’ll look back and say, “What you never told me …” but for now I’m blissful living in ignorance.

If time and money weren't relevant, what project would you work on and why?

2010-06-22T10:29:00.001-07:00

I would start an after school program for the arts. Fine, Literary, and Music in one place where kids can come and actually learn the arts without worry of renting an instrument, buying art supplies, or getting the ‘you’re not good enough to write’ from overworked teachers.

I'm an 8-Ball, what say you?

Paris

2010-06-04T10:09:00.000-07:00

Green leaves smelling of clean, fresh earth, dangling above us like strands of fine pearls glistening in the sunlight. Wisps of bright, warm light stings my eyes as a cool breeze crosses my cheek I raise my hand, shielding myself from the elements. The stone statues come into focus, carved perfection looming over us in romantic protection.

I feel Christopher stir. His head still on my abdomen, arm wrapped around my legs. This is what we were meant to do. Days as beautiful as these are for picnics under the trees. Parisian fountains to sing soft lullabies as they gurgle forth with refreshing wisdom.

Speed Writing part deux

2010-06-02T10:38:00.000-07:00

At the Random Writers Workshop we were given a picture of a person. From that picture we had to write three different viewpoints of the character. We were given five minutes to write each one. Enjoy!

From the character’s viewpoint
I’m a hard worker. Most of us in this sector are we have to be. My hair is long, longer than most of the other women in this village. It helps that I have the ability to say no in five different village dialects. Most are still surprised to see someone with such dark skin and yet still having a full head of hair. Many of the planet’s decedents are caramel in color, short and plump. I tend to tower over them, my frame slender but muscular. Sometimes though, I wonder with technology so advanced, they can fly me to this barren planet. Why can’t they pump water to the village?

From the character’s worst enemy’s viewpoint
I hate that she uses me. Thinking she’s better than everyone around her. As if that long ebony hair is something special. She comes with the rustic basket looking for my fish. Her nets plunge into my water with those slender arms. When she barks to her followers, she tries to show authority. It makes me gurgle with laughter. With one swift current I can take those long legs from under her, drowning that dark skinned creature, covering her bright clothes with my silt. Never again would the two legs drink from my well again.

From the viewpoint of someone who realizes they don’t know the character at all
I looked up to her. Her eyes were so bright with ideas. Deep brown jewels of wisdom that spout ways we can better ourselves. I could have watched her mouth forever as it moved with such fluidity. Dreams of irrigation, feeding our fields, thoughts rolled off her tongue. I thought I knew her. I knew of her, but did not know her. Reality set in. That muscular but slender figure, so strong, set her outside our people. She came from far away to try to help us and now she says, “We must pump the river.” I shake my head. Despite her lavish words of hope—she will never know our River God. And we really, don’t know her at all.

Speed writing

2010-05-13T09:48:00.000-07:00

Quick, you have five minutes to write. What do you write? You start somewhere. Is it interesting enough to keep a reader? Let’s see. Start the clock.

Today is one of those mornings where I should have just stayed indoors. Snow gently falls outside like feathers drifting from a freshly plucked duck. Pure, clean, foreboding white crystals stick to the pavement. Little Cecilia sits, wrapped tightly in an overstuffed jacket, on my hip. An Eskimo venturing out into the cold, she blinks. The floating, white magic tickles her nose. I try to remember which roads they've plowed. I can’t be late for work, not again.

Novel Excerpt: Protests at MASBE

2010-05-09T13:41:00.000-07:00

“Thanks Tom, the sight you see is a growing theme across the country. Many people are wondering what this new protest means. As you can see here, the MASBE Corporation is taking little note of the protests. We’ve tried to contact MASBE for a response but they have declined to make a statement. We are all curious what will happen at the press conference today at 8pm. The picketers seem to think the announcement will be one that will declare their sentiments true, peace or die.” The field reporter says as she stands in front of the picketers. They chant, “Peace or Die” as their signs, as varied as the crowd, move up and down. Participants walk along an unseen yet predetermined path, a circle of history.

Evolution of storytelling

2010-05-03T11:56:00.000-07:00

Image via Wikipedia

We all know the publishing industry is changing. It’s going through the digital revolution. But my question is: what do you think the next evolutionary stage of storytelling will be? Will it be twitter novels, E-books, or something else? Recently, I was involved in a discussion with Joseph Matheny—owner of Hukilau—about how storytelling is changing. He explained that independent movies are changing due to budget cuts, but the one thing that remains the same is the ability to effectively tell a story.

What would we do if we could not publish (traditionally) our work in novel form? Can we tell the same story via a camera lens, or through flash fiction? Would you, the reader, want to listen to podcasts of literary goodness?

So my question to you: where do you want storytelling to go? What medium are you willing to adapt to?

Style Tray

2010-04-09T03:36:00.000-07:00

So I’ve been looking around for cute ideas for my little patio at the new apartment. There is no way that I could do something like this picture from Better Homes & Gardens. But I’m putting it on my inspiration tray anyways. I think I want the feeling of comfort and relaxation while still being able to breathe. After all I live in one of the hottest parts of the great state of California. The best thing, I think is to decide on an umbrella that I like, or at least is the style that I’m going for. That way no matter what at least I’ll stay a little bit cool when I’m lounging after work.

Working with Narrative

2010-04-08T12:20:00.000-07:00

Last night we worked on narrative at the Random Writers Workshop, as usual Nick got my brain all lubricated with creative juices and this was born. Enjoy!

Never say, "she can't"
Spotlights on the pavement, an empty parking lot stretching for miles, we shouldn’t be here. Yet, here we stand. Friends gather looking for validation through the push of a pedal. Keys askew, waiting for more to join--we need others to witness this.

Another car pulls up.

Tonight my boy, a red, 93, 5.0, convertible mustang, sits just out of sight, still unsure if he wants to be let loose or not. Friends gather. We talk shop. Nothing planned, other than tonight someone will be going home a winner.

A Shelby speaks first, his voice a growl of almost primitive desire. He wants to be let loose. He needs to feel the open pavement under his tires. And yet, his owner--prim and proper--never taking time to see the coiled snake is ready for a strike.

    “Man that is one beautiful machine.” I lust this car. It makes my Mustang cower in the corner full of shame. My 5.0 engine breathing through modified headers it spits and sputters in comparison to the American Series Shelby. “When’s the last time you’ve really let loose?” I ask.

    “This car is not for racing.” The Middle Eastern man stands, hands in his jeans. Clearly this is his gift for his fading masculinity. My hand gliding over the slick top coat, buffed to perfection.

    “Give me five minutes with him.” My lip curls into a sweet smile.

    “Excuse me?”

    “Five minutes is all I need to drive him better than you do.”

He bellows. Friends start to gather around. Eager eyes, hungry for something to happen before the cops break us up. Sparks fly along the beach lined parking lot. Energy circling, feeding, and egging on our emotions which root deeply: it’s man vs. woman. A constant hum of ocean behind an uncomfortable silence, each wave saying, ‘bet him. Beat him. Show him you are valid.’

    “Please, girls can’t race,” words drip venomously from his mouth. That was all I needed.

    “I bet, with the crowd as the judge--I can drive circles around you. Make your knuckles white from holding on so tightly. And when I win, I get to race him,” I smile pointing to the midnight black Corvette hiding the LT1 engine.

    “And if you don’t? Do I get to drive you?“ Innuendo not subtle, he chuckles. Smiling I nod in agreement. This will be easy.

I turn the key and he purrs for me. There’s no glub, glub, only that sexy sound of raw power that vibrates my foot gently under the pedal. His owner sliding in as a passenger; unnerved by the role reversal--I smile. My hand grips the shifter and waits for the soft click of his seatbelt. Foot firmly on the clutch the other on the break. Breaths calm, noise disappears, and a route establishes in mind.

Click.

Gas pedal to the floor, foot work equal to a dancer. Speed shifting through first, second, third, redlining each gear until the snake rears his head demanding me to shift. Laughing as the wind whips my hair around my face. Adrenaline pumping as the lights blur. Streaks of incandescent yellow bleed through the cover of night. Bulbs spilling forth just enough light to cut through this parking lot pavement: ending soon. My passenger slams his foot down as if he’s breaking. His hand grips the door handle, he’s praying. I’ve won.

I slam the clutch. Throw it in neutral. Pull the e-brake. Cut the wheel. And we slide. The snake hissing through his tires as his owner pushes into the door through pure g-force.

Clutch in. Second gear. Redline. 80, 100, 200 redline. Redline. Clutch slam, neutral, e-brake, full stop: it’s done.

His feet unsteady as he steps out. Flat feet on concrete or quicksand, he’s unsure which yet. The crowd laughing at him as he stumbles trying to find his place. Heels clack as I walk around the Shelby. I stand too close to him, breathing the same salty air which connects our personal space. A coldness rushes between us, the crowd feeding off the kinetic energy passing through us. I whisper, “Never tell a woman, she can’t.”

If you liked this you might enjoy:
Family Antics
Writing Prompt: 30 Seconds
Siblings: Part One

Style Tray

2010-04-07T15:33:00.000-07:00

It’s technically still Sunday my time so I am not disqualified for BEDA. But to my defense I only found my laptop a few hours ago. Because you know it had to be in the very last box I opened and I do mean the VERY LAST BOX. I’m finally in my new apartment. All the boxes are open, all my stuff is relatively in place and I’m starting to finally relax! Furthermore, I did just finish filming my fivedotnerds video for tomorrow. Which incidentally is all about my moving. Funny how that works huh?

My niece and nephew’s measurements were spot on too. Everything in my apartment fits exactly were I drew it. Though, I did hop on the USS Failboat when it came to my bedroom. For some reason I didn’t think about where everything would fit there. So when the movers came and I told them were everything went I didn’t say any specifics about my bedroom and I paid for it. A day later and I’m still trying to figure out how they got my bed to fit in the position it’s in. Oh well.

The cats are slowly acclimating to the place. One cat is completely comfortable with the move while the other, older cat spends most of the day under the awkwardly placed bed. He only comes out when I taunt him with canned cat food and drinks with little umbrellas. Right now he’s lying on the carpet on his back, ears flicking to and fro listening intently for me to call him. At least that’s what I think he listening for. One can hope that her cat still loves her after a move from house to home.

Style Tray

2010-04-06T15:27:00.000-07:00

I got some great news yesterday. I was approved as a participant in the International Sketchbook Project. Basically it is an art project that involves 50 artists from around the world. Each artist gets 4 pages in a sketchbook and then sends it on to the next artist on the list. I can’t wait to do it! Right now I’m the 12th person on the list. Once I’m done I get to send it to Korea. Words do not describe how I feel right now. However, I digress and onward to apartment goodness we go.

Last night I spent most of the evening packing boxes. It was a harsh reality when I took down the curtains that even though I am moving on Saturday I will still be in this apartment for another two weeks. Really, that is the downfall of living in an apartment. When you do move, you have to clean the apartment, fill nail holes, and shampoo carpet in order to get most of your security deposit back. And since we are in an economy that is, how shall I say, not the greatest, a security deposit is like free money coming to you. My deposits total almost $1600 and I hope that most of it comes back. I’ve been good to my apartment; most apartment lovers are good to their homes. After all my security deposits equal more than my tax returns combined.

Having paid my apartment’s rent for two weeks after I move out. I’m trying to figure out the best possible way to go about cleaning it. If I had a little bit more money allocated to the move, I would hire someone to clean it, working full time and volunteering leaves very little time or energy to clean two apartments. However, I think I’m going to do the room by room method. Fix, patch, and clean each room until it’s done, hoping that I get through it in time to have my rent prorated for the last week. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? But what are your ideas? Do you have a way to clean an apartment that is efficient? Let me know in the comments below!

Style Tray

2010-04-05T15:24:00.000-07:00

Wow, it’s really a new year. I find that as the seasons change and the months linger on I am changing, moving things around in not only my life but in my home. After I completed my dining room, I moved my room around. Call it winter depression or economic downturn blues, either way I took my home and flipped it around. The main thing that changed was my front rooms. I took my bookcases and put them in my dining room. This well, just MADE the room. I was surprised how much of a difference that was. I love my bookshelves in my living room but when they were up against the Eddie Bower Fig of my dining room wall, it was perfection. I did have to move a few things around, but really it was worth it. After I did that I felt that void in my living room. So of course I had to rearrange my furniture to make it perfect. I flipped my couch to the other side of the room my piano behind it. Changed out the color of my hanging fabric, added some lamps, greenery, and started 4 new paintings to set things right. Though none of the paintings are actually finished, it still feels right. I’m a designer that likes to have the feeling of a refreshing atmosphere, and when you rearrange your own furniture without spending money it refreshes more than the room. It really refreshes the soul.

Writing prompt: what would have happened if...

2010-04-05T12:15:00.000-07:00

This is a little experiment. The prompt was for the first line, “what would have happened if he skipped breakfast, just once?” But instead I thought this would be fun, make the prompt the last line. I hope you enjoy!

What if

“I won a million dollars,” he shouted waving the lotto ticket in the air. His smile so big the bystanders on the other side of the street can see the glimmer off his teeth. David jumped up and down like a mad man. He couldn’t believe he won, he never won anything. And in fact he didn’t, because just before he neglected to tip the cabbie.

Really though, the cabbie didn’t need to be tipped. All he did was his job. Taking David from point A to point B. The cabbie shouted as the bike messengers zoomed by the parking lot of New York. David tapped his fingers on the door handle as he waited and wished he had a bike. It was firmly planted in his mind that there was no reason to tip the cabbie, if only he knew. Though, he wouldn’t be in the cab if it wasn’t for the man who ran into him in the subway.

“David, how the hell are you?”

“A little crunched on time,” David looked at his watch. He could still make it to work on foot if he stepped up his pace a bit.

“I haven’t seen you in forever. Bev, my wife, she just had our beautiful…” he trailed. David looked at his watch. Time ticked by as he stood politely and listened, obviously not a native. “To make a long story short, there was a fire. The dog died.”

“Man, I’m sorry. Hey, we’ll catch up soon. I’ve got to grab a cab.” David spouted as he took the steps to fresh air two at a time.

That of course, was the conversation he would have had if it weren’t for the fact that he missed the first train. He stood there cursing as the doors slid shut, an outward mockery of his tardiness, for all to see. Something nagged at him, as he stood, pacing amongst the other waiting passengers. He would not be in this situation if his wife wasn’t so hell bent on him having breakfast. She argued with him for so long, he skipped it and left angry.

Though, David is a good husband. He didn’t deviate from his routine. He got up kissed his wife. Ate her beautiful meal, and left for work on time. If only he knew what would have happened if he skipped breakfast, just once.

If you liked this you may like:
Writing exercise: Love Letter
Twitter prompt: Stripes
Writing prompt: Firefighter

Style Tray

2010-04-04T15:00:00.000-07:00

Being an artist both fine and commercial I find artwork everywhere. One of my best resources though, I have to admit, is my camera and a good roll of film. Since culture has pushed the idea of local everything. Which I'm not downing because face it local+money=A strong town. However, I think local art can be cheesy. When you find artwork that is both affordable and good, it's like a gold mine. I've known of many artist over the years that have one or two locals that snatch up all of their artwork.

In talking with some gallery owners I've been told that you buy art because it 'moves' you. You enjoy it because it 'speaks' to you. In the same way our homes are that way, though if your home is really talking to you you might need a good doctor.

With that said, art in the home. Do you buy art for your home with the express idea of where you will put it? Or do you buy art because it fits your lifestyle? I myself don't buy art as I usually make it for my home. But still in the same aspect I see a wall, the attitude of the wall and paint/photograph what I consider the best piece for that space. For me then, the space speaks to me and I fill it.

Artwork on the walls is a unique situation as artwork for the masses is usually so commercialized that the meaning you are trying to convey in the space is often lost in translation so to speak. However, if you are looking for some great one of a kind artwork you should spot it here at Etsy Art.

Style Tray

2010-04-03T15:20:00.000-07:00

I must admit I'm addicted to signage. In college there was one person I aspired to be and that was David Carson. Only after conversing with him over the years did I realize that most graphic designers LOVE signage. It's one of those things that can make you fall in love with a company. Branding through a sign, a decal, even through subliminal messages... Okay maybe not the latter but signage to me is the epitome of design. Anyone can make a layout in any various computer programs, but not everyone can make you say, 'wow! I wonder what's in there' like a great signage can.

You may be wondering where I'm going with this. Well I was thinking of using signage in my kitchen. And not that cheesy 'live, love, laugh' bit but real signage from say a coffee house or restaurant. Now I just have to find my inspiration muse and let her whisper in my ear. I have a few ideas involving a chalkboard and a good book. And since I'm painting one wall the same brown as my dining room reds, whites, and blacks should look lovely!

Style Tray

2010-04-03T14:22:00.000-07:00

My picture of my living room was featured on Apartment Therapy how cool is that! I sent it in but didn't think it would make it! :D It actually popped up a while ago but I haven't been able to post about it until now! *does happy dance* that's so cool!
JG8D69D

Style Tray

2010-04-02T23:10:00.000-07:00

So this post has nothing to do with my kitchen and dining room but it was just too much to pass up. I got my lanterns in from eBay yesterday. And I lust them. They are perfect for my bedroom. I hung them from the ceiling simply with white ceiling hooks and raffia. What do you think? That means my room is just about done! All I have left is my two palms, one ikea lamp, and the three paintings that I’m doing for over the bed. (It’s quite bare if you can’t tell)

Just for your reference. The bed is from Mor Furniture and is their Mission Styled bed. The red fabric is a 150 ish inch curtain swag courtesy of JC Penney and my Bedding is a mix from JC Penney's and Mervyns.

Style Tray

2010-04-02T15:00:00.000-07:00

I don't know if you've noticed or not but I've added a Flickr account to help my journey to a beautiful home. I did want to share with you some of the recent mucking about I did. I had to put my kitchen and dining room on hold until the end of this month. However, I did get to rearrange my living room in order to help break up the manoteny.

I know have my piano away from the wall so I can face people in my living room while playing. That was very important to me. Also I brought out my antique cabinet my brother and his girlfriend gave me. It was hiding away in my hallway where no one saw it. Now it's out and proud. I've had many people comment on my wall of bookshelves. It's amazing what you can do with $120 bucks and chain stores. The 3 short bookshelves are from Target and the 2 tall ones are from Walmart. Both are from the 'basic' collection and cost between $20-$30. Other accent pieces are from Ikea (coffee tables), Pier One (Wicker Chairs), and Ross (Odds & Ends)

The fabric drape that hangs in the middle of the room is simply a Martha Steward window scarf attached to two wooden (painted) dowels from Osh, hung with raffia to ceiling hooks. All the paintings and photography are mine with the exception of the two original Boris Chapialin paintings I found at Goodwill. :D

The full Flickr stream can be found here

Style Tray

2010-04-01T23:03:00.000-07:00

Count this under inspiration! Apartment Therapy New York blogged this picture this morning from Architectural Digest. I am in love! Yet it is still not a dining room. Though elements of this relaxing bedroom I will be taking into my dinning room. The lanterns I will find. I'm in love with lanterns. and the blue would complement the room very well. I love the dark brown walls so that might be added into my style tray as well. It's all about the pops of color and the the ocean brings a bit of serenity to the whole kabootal.

Style Tray

2010-04-01T22:55:00.000-07:00

I’m still debating on whether to do the deep treatment in my Apartment Therapy or to do the one room treatment. My apartment is pretty much the way I want it except for my dinning and kitchen room. I still have the weekend to decide but I thought I would go ahead and find some images that I liked for dining rooms.

I really like this image, even though it’s not of a dining room it consist of colors I love. This is really the colors of my living room which is directly across from my dining room. I particularly love the way the warmth of the red vibrates so clearly with the coolness coming through the window. I have very little light coming into my home through my windows. To see how well this can work is music to my ears.

The second is well perfection in a restaurant inspired picture. I really like this. The main element that I like is the tables. I love black tables. My room is kind of a beige color so I can really see a dark table and chairs in my room. Right now I have maps covering a part of the wall to add more color (blue) and a bit more interesting flair. I really like the large palm tree in this picture. A palm tree would look so great in my room, though I don’t think there is enough light to support healthy growth. And I’m all about healthy growth.

This image is of the Rainforest Café. While I don’t want my dining room to look like this, the feeling of the Rainforest Café is what I want. The lighting there is spectacular, calming and relaxing. However, I think that most of all its entirely natural, and I like that. I think the more plants I bring into this area will definitely get me into that natural state of relaxation much quicker than if my walls were ‘just painted’. I’m noticing too that I’m a 3D person. Flat walls and a table just won’t do it for me. I love all the textures at the Rainforest Café.

Style Tray: the first

2010-04-01T11:50:00.000-07:00

Over the next month you will be seeing some odd posts. Basically I’m merging another blog which I’ve let fall to the wayside, into this one. Posts with the title Style Tray are from this other blog. I’ve taken the best of from that blog and will be posting those throughout the month. This post was taken from the blog almost a year ago when I moved into my new apartment.

Today I sat and basked in the on again off again sunshine, which is, so very not like California. I realized that my apartment, even though messy, and really I’m still living out of boxes, this apartment, is mine. Every so often it’s important that we do this. It’s important that we sit back and realize how much we love our home. It might be a cracker box of four walls or an honest to god real house with three or more bedrooms. In any case we need to show our appreciation for our home. Let’s face it if we own or rent, it’s a fact that we may take for granted—we actually have a roof over our head. With the economy the way it is, we should all take a moment to soak it all in. Go ahead and take that contented sigh of relief.

I truly believe the amount of effort we take in making our home a safe haven, for our journey’s end will reflect in the amount of solace we take, while sitting on the sofa. Do we take time to listen to anything other than the low hum of the accoutrements that dawn our surroundings? Can we sit and read a book, drifting in and out of sleep on a leisurely afternoon as if we were on vacation? Or instead, do we come home plop everything at the front door and flick on the television. Is that really what our home should do? Inspire us to be listless?

It might be that I’m one for a recentralizing to the one place we can find respite. Maybe by finding our homes as a place of calm we can move forward into a place inspiration. Who knows, inspiration may strike as we are sitting quietly in the sun waiting for our apartment to really feel like home.

Photo from singhajaykr25

Science Fiction makes people think

2010-03-22T20:43:00.000-07:00

I’m always fascinated by science fiction writers and their vision for the future. Most of the time they are spot on, and the few times when their ideas are so far out there, it inspires those to reach higher and farther than what is expected. So for this post I bring you two quotes I found while re-reading Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. Remember this book was published (in shorter form) in 1950

“If the government is inefficient, topheavy, and tax-mad, better it be all those than that people worry over it. Peace, Montag. Give the people contest they win by remembering the words to more popular songs or the names of state capitals or how much corn Iowa grew last year. Cram them full of noncombustible data, chock them so damned full of ‘facts’ they feel stuffed, but absolutely ‘brilliant’ with information. Then they’ll feel they’re thinking, They’ll get a sense of motion without moving. And they’ll be happy, because facts of that sort don’t change. Don’t give them any slippery stuff like philosophy or sociology to tie things up with.” (pg 61.)

Remind you of anything?

“…the architects got rid of the front porches because they didn’t look well. […] that was merely rationalizing it; the real reason, hidden underneath, […] they didn’t want people sitting like that, doing nothing, rocking, talking; that was the wrong kind of social life. People talked too much. And they had time to think. So they ran off with the porches.” (pg. 63)

I like the second one more for the fact that people don’t think that often. Not by choice, but their heads are full of music, TV, and movies. We don’t have the time to talk, to think. And without that social interaction, what are we doing with our lives?

Writing Exercise: Love Letter

2010-03-17T14:09:00.000-07:00

I saw some link to a list of open love letters on twitter yesterday. I thought it would be a fun exercise to write a break up letter to someone you love dearly. I know, I'm messed up.

My Love,

I know you don’t deserve this. But I’m afraid, if we see each other, face-to-face, I may not have the courage to tell you what needs to be said.

Whenever I get close to you there’s a spark. It makes the hair on my neck stand on end. My skin burn when you graze your fingers along my leg. These are the reasons I can’t say this face-to-face. Fear that lust will overcome reason.

I may look back on this decision and regret it. More than likely when I feel alone in a loveless marriage, looking down at my children and wishing they were yours. That’s when it will hit me. This moment when I’m at complete clarity in my purpose, will be considered ill-advised. But looking now, with my head and not my heart, I know we are not in the same place. If we stay together—if we continue this course—I will have to put my life on hold. Call me selfish, call me whatever names you need to—just know—I love you. If only we could have met later in life. When our paths were the same and not these mixed signals we call relations.

But for now, I can’t.

Yours always,
L.

Ten reasons I write

2010-03-17T08:38:00.000-07:00

Ten reasons I write.

It has to be easier than cutting off an ear
To keep the crazy out of my head and safely on paper
Reading a thousand words is better than one picture
It pushes my linguistic abilities
Forces me to spell correctly on a regular basis
Keeps my caffeine addiction well supplied
Allows me to look at life through different eyes
Gives me a reason to blare classical music, in my headphones, at the local indie coffee house
Lets me escape life for a bit
I have something to say

Sunday: birthdays, death, and uncontrolled emotions

2010-03-14T20:40:00.000-07:00

I went to the movies, a completely innocuous thing to do on a Sunday. Who knew I would come out, rush to my car only to weep uncontrollably for the drive home and much of the afternoon. Now before you start, I am not one that gets overly emotional when watching a chick flick. However, this was different. The movie should have had a warning label: may cause PTSD symptoms to those who’ve had family suicides or traumatic 9/11 experiences. Because of this movie, I found myself realizing three things. First, yesterday was my deceased brother’s birthday. Second, that he killed himself at 27. And third, I am still not over it. To quote badly, “to write is like taking a knife to the vain and bleeding for your work.” So as to hopefully heal old wounds I find myself, once more taking a knife to my emotional vain.

There are things which I detach myself from. Unfortunately I remember them quite clearly. Thanks to an artistic mind, even sketchy details—which were thrown around the dinner table—can bring full blown memories of events passed. A friend once told me that I have the uncanny ability to look at a personal situation from the outside, watching it unfold and later recording it. There were many events in my life when I had to do this. I had to step outside of the situation just to make sure I could survive it. These events usually started with my brother Matthew.

Very rarely did it happen in which I was the reason for his abuse. It trickled down, rippled out, whatever metaphor you wish to use, I was never the cause which made it worse. As a kid you think if someone is yelling at you, yelling horrible things it has to be because of something you’ve done. Because of this I grew up with the viewpoint that I was worth less than the air between your computer and its WiFi signal.

When Matthew killed himself it was a relief. I know that’s horrible. I know that makes me sound horrible, and maybe I am. But his death meant I was no longer under a constant barrage of mental and physical abuse. I’ll be clear it was more mental than physical. There was an occasional kick here and there. But my brother Mike always stepped in. He stopped it from going any further than the initial strike. Eventually Matthew knew he could not get away with it and returned to belittling his only sister.

To show how much of an ass he was, he didn’t just kill himself. He took the life of his children’s mother as well. He couldn’t let the world be better without him, so he had to leave his beautiful children under the care of two families rather than their mother. Selfish bastard.

I can still remember—word for word—my mother’s conversation with him over the phone. Till this day it’s a haunting reminder of why we must choose our words carefully. And I am sorry that I cannot relay that conversation to you. Still, ten years later it hurts too much to write in detail about that night.

When watching the movie this afternoon. A movie all about birthdays, death, and how one person can help rejuvenate—it hit me. I am the same age as my brother when he took his life. And as the movie is ending, a happy note—the family is starting to work once more—I see that I’ve never gotten over what he did. I compartmentalized the tragedy. Packed it away in little boxes around my emotional baggage and left them taped loosely, only to have them roll over and spill at will. I am not over it as proven by today’s emotional spill, toxic waste oozing out. Yet, I look at each box which has sacrificed its life already. I’ve broken each one down and realized each spill means one less in the future.

Patience: virtue or burden

2010-03-12T12:03:00.000-08:00

I have no witty story or funny comments today. This is really more of a personal outlet for my brain to hopefully wake up and smell the roses. You see I’ve been down the last couple of days. I’ve felt that I’ve let myself be walked on by a few people and I didn’t know why. Some days it seems that my patience is less of a virtue and more of a burden. It really is hard to be that nice all the time.

Yesterday I received a Facebook message from a friend which I’ve known since high school. A teacher I used to have. We’ve made several failed plans to reconnect and catch up. (Before you think it, I will never complain about him. He means so much to me) He made the point that I’ve been way to patient with him. However when he continued, it made me realize why patience is so important.

“I literally felt pain at the thought that I could not have that cup of coffee with you. […] Your talent, your passion, your joie de vivre which are so evident on your site as the woman of substance you are—who would not want to meet with that person? […] You deserve this note because you have been way to patient with me but you had to know how important you are to my growth as a person and as a teacher. It’s individuals like yourself who just radiate talent and curiosity about life who make the world a better place.”

It hit me like a brick. The people who I have in my life are there because I’ve been patiently waiting. I feel like it’s a tricky line I dance on. When those days of self doubt creep in, because I’ve patiently built friendships, it seems they are always the first to brighten my day. So yes, while it’s hard to keep patience in its place, I find having the occasional run in with a steamroller hurts less when patience is liberally applied.

Writing Exercise: Fear

2010-03-11T08:39:00.000-08:00

This is a little exercise I found on Meredithsuewillis.com #37 A character (or you, if you are writing memoir) thinks about a fear. This could be something practical, like the upcoming results of a medical test, or something vague and indefinite... While I admit it's not that practical, it is my fear.

Fear

“I’m not going any further until you kill it.”

“I can’t even see it? Point to it.” My mom is examining the ceiling outside her entryway.

“If I point to it, it’ll look at me. It’ll see me. If it comes any closer I might scream.”

“Jeannie, I don’t see it. It’s either too small for it to hurt you or it’s gone.”

“No, it’s not gone. It’s right there. And he’s watching me. Stupid spider, yes, I see you.” Squinting my eyes, I look directly at him swinging gently by a single strand of his super strong silk. Every time I move, his body shimming around the web to follow me. He takes no notice of my mom as she tries to find him. His focus is solely on me.

“This is ridiculous. Jeannie, come in the house. We’ve been out here, in the cold, for almost ten minutes. I’m not going to get sick because you’re afraid of a spider.”

“It’s not just any spider.” I scoff, “he is the spider that scared the crap out of me in my car.”

“You can’t know that.”

“No? I can’t? How do you know he’s not? He’s got the same beady eyes. That stocking personality as I try to go around him.” I bend to my left trying to get around it. The spider shimmies on his silk, following my movements. “I’m telling you it’s the same spider.”

“Well if that’s the case,” she swipes her hand in the air unhooking the spider’s lifeline and throwing him to the ground. My mother stamps her foot down on him.

“You’ll never have to worry about him again. And I don’t have to worry about buying you another car.”

“I’m telling you when you have a spider reared on his hind legs ready to strike; you’d jump out of your car too.”

“Doubtful, if it was as small as this one. Though, I’d probably have the good sense to put on my parking break before diving into the bushes and letting my car run me over. Now come on, it’s cold. Your spider is dead. Come in the house.”

Twitter Prompt: Stripes

2010-03-10T14:11:00.000-08:00

This is a belated twitter prompt from not_a_zartac via twitter. I actually took two of her prompts stripes and tie and merged them in. I do love writing from a prompt.

Stripes

He looks down at his tie. The alternating pink and grey stripes make him sick. Letting out a sigh he blinks at himself in the mirror. His lip curls in disgust. Admittedly he looks good, the suit hangs perfectly. But it’s not him. “Do you like it?” Maria asks from the other room. He takes a deep breath before answering.

“It’s great.” He replies thinking how it would stand up to a weekend trek up the mountain. If the delicate stitching would handle the constant barrage of bushes snagging at him as he blazes through an unknown path. “Who is it?”

“Dolce, babe,” she says. He nods, no clue what that meant. “Wear the black loafers will you?” Turning to see they are already set out for him. He is a kept man and not sure what to think.

He wonders if these shoes are any more comfortable than his mountain boots. They aren’t.

Walking out he meets his wife, his beautiful, soft, delicate wife. She is why he wears a suite which he could care less about the label. Why he wears shoes she picks, all because of her softness. He stands up strait, puffing out his chest flaunting the last bit of masculinity he has. Her hand lifts to her mouth as she giggles. “My Superman.” She says.

He’ll never admit she is his kryptonite.

If you liked this you may like:
Twitter Prompt: Hati
Twitter Prompt: If he were any hungrier, he might have eaten her cat
Writing Prompt: Firefighters

Siblings Part Two

2010-03-08T16:57:00.000-08:00

(part one here)

Part Two
I flirted with a cop. My brother watched from the hood of his Cadillac.

The night my brother and I partied we went from the typical sibling rivalry to a brother and sister relationship. That relationship was much different from the squabbling siblings we once were. There was a mutual respect. However, I will never forget the next step. We went from a mutual respect into a friendship. And it all started with a phone call.

“Mike, I’m taking a friend to the airport. She needs to be there at 4AM so; can we come up and hang at your place until then?”

“I don’t care. What did you want to do?”

“Anything to keep us awake until then.”

“When are you going to be here?”

“Class is done about 10. We can make it in maybe 20mins so 10:30ish. Will that work?” I say. You know you are completely acclimated to the LA area when you think you can make it from Long Beach to Oxnard, in less than 20 minutes.

“Yah, I’ll be at the bar.”

“Oh? That one bar with the stools?” I giggle trying to be sarcastic.

“Considering there is only one bar, yes.” He says and continues telling me how to find the one bar in Port Hueneme. How there is only one entrance to the area, meaning only one exit as well.

***

“Where are you?” Mike asks my friend. My cell held up to her ear. I can’t talk while driving on highway one through Malibu. It’s hard enough to shift while driving over 80 mph, let alone skid around the curves while talking on the phone.

“We’ve just passed that big rock.” She says, typical of someone not from the area.

“Tell him, we’re past Zuma” I yell. Driving this fast with the top down is why god invented the convertible Mustang.

“Fuck. OK well I guess I’ll have another beer. It will be a while before you get here.” He says hearing me yell through the wind.

***

Finally we pull into the entrance of a small community. Silver Strand is not gated, but might as well be. Two cops sit guarding the exit like hawks waiting for prey. We pass houses until we finally see lights beaming out of a small bar, the only life on the residential street. There’s no mistaking Mike. His uniform is still one of black Dickies. I slow the car and he walks up.

“Yeah, um. I’m a bit drunk.” He says, not that he needed to it was obvious. “I thought you would be here an hour ago. So…I need you to drive behind me on the way home. I can’t get pulled over.” He pauses to burp.

“Why don’t I just drive you home?” I ask.

“Because the last time I did that the neighbors had the cops boot my car. I can’t do that again. Just follow me. Don’t go fast, just follow.” He says, I nod as he gets into the white monstrosity he calls a car. I follow him diligently.

The two lane street gets crowded as a police car drives next to us. I think, ‘crap they are going to pull him over.’ I see the lights flash. They are flashing at me.

“Ma’am can you step out of the car?” The cop asks after I’ve pulled to the side. I can see my brother pulling into the convince store parking lot across from us. He gets out, climbs on the hood and sits back, watching everything that’s happening. I do step out. I think the cop is surprised by my height. Being 5’-7” and wearing 4” heels made me just a bit taller than he. “Do you know why I stopped you?”

“Honestly no.” I flick my hair and wrap my sweater tightly, the V-cut shirt not really keeping me warm like the car’s heater.

“Your tail light is busted.”

“But my brother,” I unconsciously point across the street. “Told me if I had a red bulb in the socket it would be okay.” I play dumb very well, but it is the truth. He’s a mechanic, I’ll listen to him. The cop shakes his head.

“No ma’am, it’s still broken.”

“But it’s like, $200 to get a new one.” I whine.

“Do you have your license?” I nod and he lets me return to the car. My friend sitting in the passenger seat trying to figure out what’s going on, I just shake my head. Handing the license to the officer he takes it and returns to patrol car. I’m shivering. Without the heater it’s downright cold. “When was the last time you were in the area?” He asks. I shrug.

“Years.” I lie.

“Apparently, because your license is suspended.” My hand touches his shoulder ever so slightly as I respond.

“No, oh my god, what am I supposed to do?”

“Well, you have to pay the ticket. But I have to take your license.” I turn on the doe eyes which work on men so well.

“But, how? I can’t drive if I don’t have a license.”

“Well ma’am.” He says leaning in close. “I can’t watch you drive away.” I blink a few times. It takes a moment for me to realize my friend is sitting in the car. I laugh flicking my hair, my hand lingering on my jawbone.

“If my friend drives away would that be okay?” I smile.

“Like I said, I can’t watch you drive away.” He smiles back. I nod and walk to the passenger side.

“I hope you know how to drive a stick.” I say as I open the door.

***

Mike is laughing as I’m retelling him the conversation. He offers me a shot of Yagger as we stand in his kitchen. “Jeannie you’re such a flirt.” He says as show my disgust of the Yagger, mouth agape and tongue out—hand motioning for another. “I was cracking up watching you. That cop could have easily taken you in with how many times you touched him inappropriately.”

“What? I didn’t inappropriately touch him.”

“And what was with the hair flicking?” He laughs more. “Okay, I have to know, why didn’t he let you drive back.”

“Because he took my license. It’s been suspended for a year apparently.” Mike stops laughing and then burst forth in a fully belly bellowing roar.

“Jeannie, you flirted your way out of jail time. And,” his finger is in the air, “and your car should have been impounded.” He says, and this is the point in which our relationship, changes into a friendship. I look at him and smile.

“And you would have watched as I got handcuffed and lead off to jail wouldn’t you.”

“Damn strait. And then I would call all our friends and reenact the entire thing for them!”

***

To this day, he still tells the story of how I flirted my way out of jail. Complete with hair tosses and over exaggerated movements. It gets funnier as the years go by. Yet, I know this moment was when he and I became friends. It took 20 something years for it to finally happen but it did. Like any friendship, it was a slow becoming but well worth the wait.

If you liked this you might enjoy:
Siblings Part 1
Family Antics
Writing Prompt: 30 Seconds

Siblings: Part One Redux

2010-03-04T11:01:00.000-08:00

After some advice, I've rewritten Part One in first person. Part two will come soon and will wrap up this little jaunt through creative nonfiction. I would love to hear what you think of it.

Siblings: Part One Redux
My brother paints me a picture. I hang it on my refrigerator. He is 30. I am 27. It’s funny how relationships change over time. Especially the differences between siblings, the longer we tend to be around them, dynamic changes are sure to ensue.

I hated my brother when we were young. I hated him when he tried to burn my hair in high school. The times he tried to curl my hair with combs, and when I heard the words, “trust me. I’m your brother,” I knew to run. Growing up though, he was my closest sibling. There are two other, older brothers, one deceased now and the other twice my age. Mike was and is my confidant within our family. Over many years, we have had long talks about life and the pursuit there of.

Our relationship changed the first time we partied together.

It’s the last weekend before moving away to college. My co-workers decide a keg is in order. Mike offers up the usual party spot, a friend’s home in the middle of nowhere. I head to the impromptu party, driving the dark foggy streets of Bakersfield. I hate the fog. You can’t drive fast in the fog. Why have a Mustang if you can’t drive fast. With the fog, I have a hard time finding the house. It should have been easy, with all the cars that line the street and the people funneling into one spot. ‘Hell,’ I think, ‘I’m not going to find a parking spot. Screw it I’ll park in the driveway.’ Getting out, the fog has cleared. I should realize there will be a problem. The guy two doors down has a phone to his ear and I can hear him say, “there is a possible party in progress on Warrington, yes I’ll hold.”

There are about 400 people in the backyard. Some I know, some I don’t. Most are from a fraternity at CSUB which I partied with on a semi regular basis. Finding Mike and his group of friends I say my hellos.

“Jeannie, when are your friends going to show up.” He asks. I look around as people interrupt our conversation by saying hi.

“Um, what do you mean? These are my friends.” I say holding out my hand to the crowd. Mike just sits back. He didn’t know his little sister was so popular.

Flashlights shine into the crowd. Yep, the neighbor called the cops. I’m the only one underage. Thankfully though, cops like me. I leave with only a ticket, my car’s butt stuck into the sidewalk. People split. One party turns into two. Co-workers in a church parking lot while my brother and I head to another friend’s apartment.

“Crap, Jay Rod has the keg.” I say to Mike.

“Jesus is out of town.”

“What? Why? He’s always good for a party.” Jesus, not as in the son of God, but our very own miracle worker made alcohol magically appear when he invited.

“Alright everyone,” Mike turns to the much smaller crowd. “Ante up.” Everyone pitches in, five bucks, ten bucks, two bucks, whatever we have. Into the capable hands of my brother, dressed in his signature black fedora, matching Dickies jacket, pants and shirt he heads out.

***

“I’m surprised you didn’t get pulled over.” I say as he shrugs. His toothpick hangs from the corner of his mouth. He is the guy you avoid in the market because it’s so bright he obviously needs to wear his sunglasses at night. Shorter than me, his personality is taller than anyone in the room. One of the reasons I love him so much. He is the only person I feel safe around.

“It’s time for Jungle Juice!” He announces as we climb the steps to the apartment. Arms full of alcohol and juice. Mike decides then and there, it’s get Jeannie drunk night. I suppose it’s one of those rituals which friends go through, to see if you are worthy of staying in the clan. Mike is inducting me into his clan. The night moves on with a dizzying speed. Drinking games, video games, and music all entwine into a drunken stupor.

You grow up and sober up quickly as you watch your brother do a line of coke.

I know he smokes pot. Everyone in this town does. Really pot never bothered me that much. After smoking one in the backyard with your dad, it becomes passé. I even understand it. He deserves freedom from life every so often. Living in the home we grew up in, it is almost a right. However, I watch him as the white line disappears and immediately I think, ‘oh shit.’

***

“Mike we have to talk.” I say with my best friend standing behind me for moral support. She had witnessed it too. He motions us to sit at the dining table. “Last night, you did a line of coke. I want you to promise me you won’t do it again.”

“Fuck, no I didn’t.” He crosses his arms and leans back. Looking to my friend she nods, confirming that she watched him as well. “I would remember doing something like that.” He leans forward.

“If you don’t even remember doing it, there’s a bigger problem.”

“I would never do coke. There’s no fucking way.”

“Michael,” I pause. I never use his first name. “We watched you. I saw you cut it, snort it, and enjoy it. You can’t tell me that you didn’t. Promise me.”

“Shit. Jeannie, I swear I will never do it again.” He says. He’s serious, the first time he listens to me. Truly listening to what I say. And it happens, he dips his head, our relationship goes past siblings and heads into a true brother and sister relationship.

If you liked this you might enjoy:
Family Antics
Writing Prompt: 30 Seconds
Writing Prompt: Death

Whittling down a story

2010-03-03T22:50:00.000-08:00

This was an interesting exercise from tonight’s Random Writers Workshop. Nick had us write a story in 100 words then whittle it down to 50 words, 20, and then 6 words. I think I failed miserably at the 6 words. Another reason I write novels not flash fiction. Still it was fun.

100 Words
Lights flicker as the hard government chairs mold around us. “Everything will be okay,” I tell her.

“I know,” she looks down. “I’m glad you’re here.” She says to me.

Another joke made about the pregnant women. Kids running amuck, we thank god none of them ours. We giggle. Hiding the reason we’ve come.

“Evette” The nurse calls out. My friend stands and walks behind the door. Four hours later she comes out. I ask how she feels.

“Empty” she says eyes looking at her feet. Quietly we walk to my car. No words as we leave the abortion clinic.

50 Word version
“Everything will be okay,” I say.

“I know,” she looks down. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Another joke made about pregnancy, an uneasy laugh.

“Evette,” a nurse calls. My friend stands. Four hours later she returns.

“How do you feel?” I ask.

“Empty.”

Quietly we walk away from the abortion clinic.

20 Word version
“Everything will be okay.”

“I know. Thanks.”

Another joke about pregnancy, she stands when called. Hours later returning empty.

6 Word Version
Friends Laugh. Baby dies. All’s quiet.

Writing Prompt: Siblings

2010-02-21T23:24:00.000-08:00

Part One

My brother painted me a picture. I hung it on my refrigerator. This would not be a peculiar statement if it wasn’t for the fact that my brother is 30. I am 27. Yet it’s funny how relationships change over time. The difference between siblings, the difference between friends, and the difference between casual encounters are all so peculiar the longer we tend to be around them. And now my brother’s watercolor, which may be childish—hangs on my refrigerator, proudly.

When we were young, there were many times that I hated him. I hated when he tried to burn my hair in high school. The times when tried to curl my hair with combs, and especially when I heard the words, “trust me I’m your brother.” However, as we grew up he was my closest sibling. There were two other older brothers, one deceased now and the other twice my age. However, Mike became the confidant within our family. Over many years, we have had long talks about life and the pursuit there of.

The first time our relationship changed happened actually the first time we partied together. If partying is what you would call it. It was my last weekend before moving away to college and my co-workers decided I needed a keg party. That party ended up being split. One party became two parties when the cops showed up and broke apart the original one. Most of my co-workers dispersed and reconvened in a church parking lot. Brilliant I know, but let’s face it when the nerds at RadioShack want to get drunk, they find a way. My brother and I on the other hand headed out to a friend’s apartment. Oddly enough, their parents lived next door to the first party. What can I say, it’s a small town.

Unfortunately my co-workers had the keg and Jesus was nowhere to be found. No not Jesus as in the son of God, but our very own miracle worker. When our Jesus showed up alcohol magically appeared. He was a saint. However, even saints have to take a night off—so we all pitched in five bucks, ten bucks, two bucks, whatever we had. In the capable hands of my brother, dressed in his signature black fedora, matching Dickies jacket, pants and shirt he headed out in the white Cadillac he loved so much.

I’m still amazed he didn’t get pulled over that night. He always had a toothpick in his mouth and sunglasses on. Yes he was that guy the one you avoided in the market because it was obviously so bright he had to wear his sunglasses, at night. Shorter than me, his personality was taller than anyone in the room. This is partially why I think I loved him so much; he was and is to this day the only person I’ve ever felt safe around. Though, with as much alcohol as he carried in the trunk that night, it would be hard, even for him to talk his way out of going to jail.

Jungle Juice, that name should say it all. The contents of the Cadillac trunk, which just so happens fit 12 full grown bodies—don’t ask—ended up being the makings of a great Jungle Juice. However, I didn’t know that my brother had secretly announced that it was ‘get Jeannie drunk’ night. Trust me, they did. I suppose it’s one of those rituals that friends have to go through. You know, to see if you are worthy of staying in the clan. Apparently I made it because the next conversation I with my brother—whom never really listened to my advice—was had with a heavy heart.

You grow up and sober up quickly when you watch your brother do a line of coke.

I’d always known he smoked pot on more than the regular occasion. Everyone in this town did. Really, that never bothered me so much, after all smoking one in the back yard with your dad, well— after that it becomes kind of passé. My brother deserved the freedom from life every so often. When living in the house we grew up in, it was almost a right. However, I watched him do that line of coke and immediately thought, ‘oh shit.’

The worst part was when my best girl friend and I confronted him the next day; she had seen it too. He said no, he would never do that. There was no way in hell he would do that. But we just looked at him. That was the first time our relationship went past siblings and headed directly into a true brother and sister relationship. I can remember him dipping his head and trying to remember what happened that night. I tried to console him; I suppose console is the best word to use when you show someone a mirror of themselves as they start to descend down a path that is rickety.

That night he promised me he would never do hard drugs. The next day, being only 18 I moved to LA. Our relationship changed again, that story however, is for another day.

If you liked this you might enjoy:
Family Antics
Ravi Shankar, Nora Jones, and random connections
Writing Prompt: 30 Seconds

Ravi Shankar, Nora Jones, and random connections

2010-02-18T12:19:00.000-08:00

Last night at Nick’s workshop (The Random Writers Workshop) he had us do an exercise in creative non-fiction. We needed to depict a moment in our lives when we talked to someone in another country. Quickly I jotted down a conversation I had with my longtime friend over the phone, while visiting my brother. Those of you who attended heard the quick conversation; well this is the complete story.

Enjoy!

Ravi Shankar, Nora Jones, and random connections

     My brother’s home teamed with life as we gathered for a not so random, ‘glad you’re visiting’ make shift party in honor of me. It could have been in honor of the sun rising, but I’d like to think it was because of me. A martini glass perched on my knee; I sat in my brother’s Papasan chair, discussing the intricacies of the documentary playing behind the hum of the guests. Michael and I had seen the George Harrison Tribute so many times it was a rare occurrence when something new, could be pointed out. Other people joined around us, sitting wherever a free space opened and they could cop a squat. Eventually the room calmed and the only noise was my brother and me bantering along with the tribute.

     “This sitar player is awesome.” He pointed to the TV as if I didn’t notice the beautiful woman that just took the stage.

     “I know. Seriously, she is the best female sitar player I’ve ever seen.” I replied while I sipped gingerly on my chocolate martini.

     “You know its Ravi Shankar’s daughter right?” He asked and I rolled my eyes, I knew. Every time we watched it he pointed it out. Ravi Shankar was one of my hero’s. His sitar style so brilliant it would bring me to tears. So yes, I knew it was his daughter, the style was unmistakable. “And her sister is Nora Jones.” I remember feeling my eyes widen, memories flooding my mind. I did not, know that Nora Jones was her sister.

     “Wait, Nora Jones? Nora Jones is her sister?”

     “Yes,” Michael looked at me like I was crazy. He probably thought my Martini’s were finally going to my head.

     “No—that’s not true.” I crinkled my nose and shook my head. “I would’ve known that.”

     “Really, it’s the truth.” He said as others confirmed that my brother’s words were true.

     “It can’t be, Zabs would have told me—Nora Jones is his cousin.” I said nonchalantly as I shook my head. Michael paused the DVD, turned to me and tapped his fingers on the remote.

     “Jeannie. You mean to tell me. That Zabs is related to Ravi Shankar.”

     “I don’t know, I mean he would have to be if Nora is his cousin. He told me his uncle was pretty musical. I didn’t ask any more questions.” I shrugged as now I felt the room looking at me. “Look there’s an easy way to figure this out.” I said as I pulled my cell phone from my pocket, scrolled through the phone book and dialed. I know he won’t pick up; it’s much too late in Bangladesh. However, I heard a click and a cheerful voice connected on the other end.

     “Jeans! I just thinking of you!” He said in the broken English I’ve learned to love over the years.

     “Zabs—your uncle. He’s a musician right?” I asked quickly as the crowed glared at me.

     “Yes why?”

     “I’m sitting with my brother and he said the sitar player we’re watching is related to Nora Jones. Isn’t that your cousin?”

     “Yes, my other cousin plays sitar.” He said so matter of factly. My cheeks burned as all these people listened to my conversation.

     “Zabs, when you told me your uncle and his family were musical, you didn’t tell me he was RAVI FREEK’N SHANKAR!” He couldn’t see me, but my hand rose above my head and made wild gestures. It was quite possibly the most exciting news ever.

     “Oh, Jeans! I’m sorry; I didn’t think it was important.”

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Her laugh broke the silence
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The quick brown fox...

2010-02-18T09:21:00.000-08:00

The quick, brown, fox jumped over the lazy, stupid dog. She lashed her tail furiously at the dumb dog, a chase never given, an adventure never had. Damn dog; lazy, stupid dog. All he needed was to open his eyes, to see the magnificent chase before him. But no, he sleeps, as the fox tears over, around, and away from him. A white tail flicked back and forth in anger. If only the dog knew. If only he would open his eyes and see, this fox, trying so hard to grasp his affections.

The importance of Twitter

2010-02-16T09:55:00.000-08:00

So, yeah – crazy, almost two years ago I found a random twitter message from the Uncultured Project. It was something like, ‘does anyone know how to do illustrations in the John & Hank style.’ I replied saying it’s not that difficult of a style and yes I knew how to mimic it. That was the beginning of a brilliant relationship with Shawn. Of course I wanted to kill him when he told me that it was actually 11 portraits in the course of 6-10 hours. And since he was in Bangladesh I was working between the wee hours of sleep time. Still the project finished. I saw the results but had to wait until it was unveiled as it wasn’t my project to announce. 2009 came around as well as his Youtube corporate visit where I almost cried when I watched his video showing the final results. Then 2009 P4A (Project for Awesome) came and once more I was touched not only by Shawn’s work, but also because there sat my artwork on Youtube’s most discussed video’s front page. One word: Brilliant. This is the final sign, with all my portraits below and all because of a chance twitter reply.

Poem: Winter

2010-02-13T07:58:00.000-08:00

Inspired by D.R.’s post on The Nervous Breakdown I decided to do a little poem. I am rubbish at poetry I’ll be the first to say it. Though, like Maureen Johnson says, ‘when you are learning to write you are going to suck [...] and that's the sign you are on the right path’.

Leaves drop
air cools
time stops.

Evenings quiet
nights lengthen
faces worn.

Lights dim
sheets pulled
love made.

Writing Prompt: Firefighters

2010-02-03T11:00:00.000-08:00

Last Wednesday Nick gave us a prompt for homework via the Random Writers Workshop. It was simply, come up with two characters based off of the following scenario: Fire captain pulls his crew back thinking the fire won't jump the road. A woman on the crew tries to get him to realize that it's potentially dangerous.

#

An angry beast
“Pull that line back.” Todd barked at the remaining firefighters. “Get out of there!” He looked frantically back and forth counting his men. The smoke and heat played with his vision, he was one shy of a full crew. “MICHELLE! Get your ass back here!” He yelled at the petite mirage like figure which stood much too close to the flames.

“Capt’n,” her voice strained as the beast roared. “We’ve got to make that break larger.” She looked up at the flames which seemed to lick the trees across the narrow road. Sweat gathered in the wrinkles of her forehead. Enough battles with this beast and so many like it made her realize it wasn’t a matter of if the fire jumped, but when.

“Fuck Michelle, do what I say.” His brow furrowed. Thin lips pursed. Square jaw locked. “We’ve got to move back. I shouldn’t have to explain it to you.”

“If that fire jumps all our work,” Michelle paused and looked back. She understood it was not the time to be pensive but there was no reasonable explanation why they had to pull back. Just a little larger that’s all it would take to make sure it would stay in place. Todd’s eyes narrowed as he stepped closer.

“Get on the fucking rig.” He growled. Michelle looked up, she was not impressed. For all that he was, the man he portrayed himself to be – he was still just a boy trying to prove himself. Todd looked down at her. His fire gear dangled precariously as the conversation turned - like the fire - into something much more. “You will do what I tell you.” She smirked; it was no longer about the fire. It was about her.

Michelle had long known about his views towards women. The whispers from the firefighter’s wives as they sat together during BBQ’s; stories of anger unleashed. They justified his actions. “You would have to be angry after seeing as much as he has,” they said. “If she was right for him, they wouldn’t fight as much as they do,” they said. It was horse shit. Anyone that angry at the world, constantly on edge and ready to fight had been that way their entire life. Still, the boy trying to be a man directed it to the only one he thought wouldn’t fight back – a woman.

“Why? Because you said so? Fuck Todd listen to me.” She hated cursing, but out here it was the only way she could get through to them. “Open your god damn eyes,” Michelle pointed to the trees across the road. They had started to singe. Her frazzled brown hair stuck to the sides of her face as sweat trickled down giving her an otherworldly glow – a glimpse into what would happen if they stopped: death. “We can contain it. Here. Now,” her nostrils flared she would not back down from this. Todd was half her age he had to see the wisdom in what she said.

“If you don’t get on that rig,” Todd’s words came out like poison. One brow cocked as he smiled; a twisted, sadistic smile. “I will leave you. And the headline will read, ‘Woman firefighter died when flames jumped.’ Not if but when. You think I don’t know they’ll jump? My men are tired. We’ve stalled long enough anymore, and accidents will happen. So. Get, on the fucking rig.” She took a step back. The reflection of the fire burned in his eyes. He knew this fire would jump. It was a matter of time, but he knew. Michelle walked to the rig, it was no use. She saw all she needed to know in his eyes. The hatred he had was not towards women but towards the living, breathing beast of a fire. He was angry because he couldn’t beat it – a failed battle of human strength.

© 2010 - Jeannie Hart

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Creating yourself as a character
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Essay: Falling out of like

2010-01-26T15:18:00.000-08:00

There are times in everyone’s life when they have to face the hard fast truth; they are no longer in love with someone. However, before we -- as humans -- hit that wall. Before we realize all the pain we’ve gone through outweighs the bond that ties us. We fall out of like.

It’s not something as simple as you wake up and realize the person sitting next to you is a moron. Their mannerisms irk you beyond belief and there is no way you could love this person. No; if only we could spare our hearts with something as simple as that. Instead we fight; we fight for days on end. Sometimes a month will go by and you won’t acknowledge the person that shares the most intimate spaces with you. It’s not a physical space, as most might think – it’s a space that is only reached through talking. And this-–well--this is where we start to fall out of like with someone.

It’s a slow becoming. Different from when we fall in like with someone. When we fall in like: it’s as if all our cares fade into a seemingly bottomless void of hope. While that may sound ineffective this is what happens. That hole inside our soul begins to fill with all our worries, coated nicely with thin layer of trust. Eventually that hole fills. Trust established. Hope confirmed. Intentions sealed. We are no longer in like. We are in love.

However when reversing that process, we constantly fight with ourselves. Our inner demons take perch just out of sight. They stay far enough to be out of mind, but ready to swoop in for the kill. Ready at any moment to land on that nicely, tucked away heart, and peck through all the armor we try to coat it with. We start thinking about how he or she never talks to me about --- fill in the blank. Everyone’s different; everyone has their own something that they wish they could speak more freely about. For me, it was that he never spoke to me as a person. It was always about my accomplishments, the talent that he saw never who I am -- outside of those specific lists. Our conversation filled with, what are you going to do next? Have you called that artist you met last week? When do you expect projects X, Y, & Z to be done? In these moments all I wanted; all that I needed in order to keep those demons at bay was a simple question. How are you doing?

Yes, I know every man reading this just rolled their eyes shook their head and uttered, ‘feelings.’ However, looking through your eyes I’m sure there are times when all you wished your partner would do: is summed up by this question. Will you rub my feet? While men and women are wired differently, the road leading to the fall of like is the same. Questions we can’t ask. Communication we can’t follow.

In my case it was that I couldn’t express what I needed and he couldn’t see I was drowning. My demons kept me from explaining that it was too much. Everything was too much. However, I didn’t want him to see me as weak. I didn’t want him to think I was a lesser woman because his mind made me out to be larger than life so I worked harder becoming more exhausted with the situation. I watch as those figurative demons circle. I submit more to him thinking he will see this as a call for help and yet – nothing. A heart: fully exposed, open and waiting for justification to stay in the relationship. Sadly -- we as humans – are the most open before the end.

This falling out of like, can take months. For some it may take years and you know it is happening as it continues. More and more things start to build up because of it. Communication breaks down further as those demons chew on the fleshy bits of your heart. The things that made you fall in love with them in the first place. The idiosyncrasies which drew you in – a snort perhaps when they laugh – eaten from your heart, now it’s just a flaw you cannot look past. Until finally one day you wake up and realize the person sleeping in the bed next you is a stranger. The void’s trust broken and spilling forth all those worries you thought so nicely bound. You are no longer in like with them. You are no longer in love with them. You are no longer in a relationship with them.

© 2010 Jeannie Hart

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Bountiful Greens Quiche

2010-01-25T23:26:00.000-08:00

Pictures here

Preheat oven 425
Prep Time 20 mins
Cook Time: 35 mins.

Crust:
2 cups of flower
1 Tbs salt
½ cup water
½ cup olive oil

Quiche
1 bunch Bok Choy
1 onion
3-4 sprigs of Broccoli
6 eggs
Herbs to taste
Dry Red Wine to taste
Feta Cheese to taste

Cut up Bok Choy halving the leafy greens into a large bowl. Stems and ½ onion coarsely chopped start to sauté on med high with 1-2 tbs of olive oil. Chop broccoli and the other half of the onion move to the same bowl as Bok Choy

Mix flower and salt in a medium bowl with fork. Mix water and oil in small bowl with a whisk. Drizzle into flower mixing with fork. Dough will form balls, press into quiche tin.

Check on the Bok Choy and onions stir them as needed. When onions start to turn caramelize add wine (I like about a half cup) to taste. Stir and let onions caramelize.

Add eggs, herbs, salt & pepper (to taste) into leafy Bok Choy and uncooked onions. Wisk together and add to the hot pan. Let cook over medium heat for 5 mins. Transfer mix into quiche tin and cook in preheated oven for 30-35 mins.

Let cool on a cooling rack for 5 minutes before adding feta to top of Quiche.

Enjoy!

Essay: family antics

2010-01-23T21:39:00.000-08:00

I've been working hard on my Novel this week hence no updates. I have several prompts to catch up on next week. I have not forgotten about you twitter prompts! I did however, want to post this bit of fiction, bit of reality, bit of history that inspired me. The prompt came from WritingFix.com Don't forget to follow me on Twitter if you like my writing or even just my antics. :D Enjoy!

Family Antics

There were noises coming from the next room. Jessica looked at me, her blonde hair bouncing as her head swiveled towards me. We heard footsteps running down the hall and we both knew something was going on. She opened her bedroom door where we see my brother Michael trying to sneak into her brother Jason’s room. He paused, looked at us, looked down the hall and back to us. “You can’t tell anyone.” He said as his eyes narrowed. I looked at Jessica and smiled, I knew this was going to be fun.

“Promise,” we said in unison. He motioned for us to follow. We creped down the short hallway; our footsteps masked by the carpet below. Michael looked back and forth making sure that there were no parents around. I was in awe; my older brother was including me in one of his escapades. There, at the age of twelve I knew this was going to be brilliant, or extremely stupid. He slid behind the door, his hand held up for us to wait. Eventually it motioned for us to follow and follow we did.

“We have to get this mattress out the window.” Michael said as he opened the standard size, 60’s home window. Jessica and I looked at each other confused but unquestioning as we headed to the end of the twin bed. Stripped of all the garments it was naked and awkward, springs poked upward as we angled it towards the window. Jonathan, Jessica’s other brother popped up just outside. Michael grinned, “where’s Barbara?”

“She’s in the garage,” Jonathan looked all around making sure the coast was clear. “She won’t be there for long. She’s folding.” Michael turned to Jessica and me then motioned for us to push. The old used mattress folded easily in half as we pushed it through the window. It snagged midway through. Michael panicked as he heard the garage door slam shut. Barbra was in the house.

“Jeannie, you need to keep her out.” I shook my head; this was not in the contract. I was not the patsy. “Do it, trust me.” The famous words that every child hears before something terrible is about to happen. I nodded my head and snuck out the door.

“Barbara, I’m hungry.” I said in hopes she would stay in the kitchen while my brother and Jessica got the mattress through the window.

“Would you like me to make you a sandwich,” Jessica’s mom said as I stood blocking her way out. I nodded once more and she started to pull seemingly random items from the cupboards. I heard a bang from the backroom; looked back hoping that was the last of it. Barbara paused, shook her head and continued with the knife. I saw Jessica’s head pop out of the last bedroom door on the left. Her hand waved vigorously to get my attention. My eyes shifted and she mouthed the words ‘come on’. I nodded my head in acknowledgment.

“On second thought, maybe I should wait until dinner.” I said as I run out of the kitchen not waiting for her response.

“Jeannie you will not believe what’s about to happen.” Jessica spouted as excited as a puppy waiting for a new owner. Michael stood outside the window as we closed the door behind us.

“Come on. Out the window if you want to watch.” He said as we jumped up on the desk. It was positioned perfectly for us to hop out. There in the expansive back yard were three twin mattresses on top of each other. I looked at Jessica, she looked at me and we both looked up. Jason--her oldest brother--sat on a bike; on the roof. I was right. This was going to brilliant.

© 2010 Jeannie Hart

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Her laugh broke the silence

Writing Prompt: Haiti

2010-01-15T15:53:00.000-08:00

This prompt was tweeted to me by OddOneDesigns I do apologize if it is sad, but do we really need happy about the earthquake in Haiti yet? When OddOneDesigns tweeted it to me I immediately thought of children being separated from their mother and how they would have to instantly grow up. I hope you enjoy but also please help out Save the children through the banner below.

"Maman? Maman!! Where are you?" Emmanuel calls out frantically. He is only twelve. Never in his life has fear gripped him, until today. “Maman, please! Where are you?” He yells at the top of his lungs. The building in rubble: he stumbles over the fragments that used to be his home.

“Manny,” a girl’s voice rings forth from under rubble. “Manny, help me!”

“Mika? I can’t see you.” His eyes dart back and forth as he tries to listen for his sister’s voice. “Mika keep talking.”

“Manny, maman went to the store.” Emmanuel follows her voice to a pile of rubble. Looking up he notices the roof collapsed on top of their dining room.

“Mika are you okay? Are you hurt?” He says as he starts digging through the debris. Holding his breath as the dust from the concrete -- which he moved -- floated up, covering his skin in a thick white ash.

“Manny my leg hurts.” Emmanuel starts digging faster. He didn’t know what that meant. From the look of their home, he hoped that it was just pinned down. “Manny it hurts really bad.” She says and he knows at that moment it is more than just pinned. Her voice quivered which means she was trying really hard not to cry.

“Mika, listen to me.” He says in the best soothing brotherly voice he can. “Mika I’m almost to you. Be strong. Remember when we were playing football and you fell in the street?” Emmanuel pauses making sure she is listening. There was a sniffle; he was close to her.

“Yes,” she whimpers.

“You remembered how much you cried? And how much it hurt? What did I do to make you feel better?” He asks as his hands strain to move the chunks of fallen roof.

“You bought me ice cream.” She says after several moments of silence.

“Mika, if you’re brave and strong I will buy you ice cream for a month.” He promises as he starts to see the edges of the dining room table. He thinks to himself, ‘good girl, under the table that’s what they always tell us to do during an earthquake’.

“Promise?” her innocent voice ringing through the last few fragments which stand between her and her brother; a voice like a bird’s song on a clear, blue, spring day. Emmanuel forces the last few stones away as he reveals his six year old sister -- shivering with fear. She looks down to her foot which is under the rubble. “I didn’t get all the way under,” she says as her breaths grow shakier. He knows she is about to break into tears.

“It’s okay Mika. I’ll get you out.” He watches as she bites her lip and tears start making tracks on her ash covered face. Taking off his belt he wraps it around her leg. Watching American television reruns of ER – whether true or not – he didn’t want to move the stone and her loose blood. ER always tied something around a wound. Hands tremble, he pauses before moving the stone. ‘What if maman didn’t get to a safe place,’ he thought. Shaking his head he continues. There was no place for thoughts like that in his head right now. “Mika, I need you to look away,” Emmanuel moves to the large concrete fragment that is on her foot. “Don’t look back until I say. This might hurt but promise me you won’t look at me until I say. Yes?” Mika turns her head and closes her eyes tight as she nods yes. She screams as Emmanuel moves the stone. He was right to have the belt around her ankle. Her foot is limp, crushed, and raw. Quickly he removes his shirt and wraps it around the broken and bleeding flesh. Releasing the belt only for a moment, repositioning it, and then tightening it around his shirt: keeping it in place. “Mika, look at me.” Her brilliant brown eyes peered up to him -- eyes bloodshot with tears looking to him with the need to be reassured. “Mika we’ve got to get out of here. We need to find maman.” Mika nodded her head and tried to stand up. “No Mika, I don’t think you can walk. Here,” he offered his back to her, “wrap your arms around my neck I’ll carry you.”

This is the moment Emmanuel became a man, at twelve, his sister dangling precariously on his back while he traverses the ruins of a town. No boy should have to do this. To tell his sister to bury her eyes into his back as they pass bodies.
Feeling her tears run down as they continue through the devastation. Churches toppled over and spilling into the streets, roads littered with fragments of homes, lives thrown askew as he walks among a handful of the living. They walk in the same direction – hopefully in the direction of help. Emmanuel sees a woman on the side of the road, her hands in the air as she screams; her son at her knees, limp and lifeless. He walks on wondering if his maman is grieving for her children, or if she is already dead. A tear escapes his eye as he realizes he may never see his mother again.

Finally up ahead there is hope. A small medical clinic is taking names of the injured. Emmanuel’s pace quickens as he sees the line starting to grow. Maneuvering his way through the crowd he makes it to the front of the line quickly. There sits a man in a ball cap and polo shirt – despite his appearance Emmanuel sees the same worry and frustration that is on everyone’s face. “Name?”

“Emmanuel and Mika Jean-Baptiste”

“age?”

“Twelve and six,” Emmanuel says as the man looks up from the sign in sheet. He didn’t realize how young they were.

“Emmanuel, where is your maman?” The man asks in a soft voice. Emmanuel stares over the man’s head, if he looks into his eyes he might break.

“I don’t know.”

Writing prompt: death

2010-01-13T22:45:00.000-08:00

Her head lies on my lap, my eyes watering realizing that these might be the last moments I will ever spend with her. I stroke her hair as her chest staggers and fights for breath. “Why did you have to do that? Why?” Tears start to flow freely now, it’s uncontrollable. The fleeting thoughts of hope wander in and out of my mind as her eyes close. ‘Maybe she is just resting,’ I think, trying desperately to fool myself that this is not happening. Exhaling her final breath, her chest stops moving. “No, NO, no, no, no, no, no!” I lift her body to me. Her short hair scratches my cheek as they soak up my tears. “You can’t do this to me. I need you,” my voice quivers as the words drop from my lips. “You’ve been with me for so long. I don’t know how I can do this without you.”

A hand rest on my shoulder, it is heavy with remorse. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean – I mean I didn’t see her.” It is a man’s voice: soft and respectful. I sniffle as my arms wrap around her neck, this is my only friend. She had been with me for so long that time has faded into just a spinning reel of memories. Joyful memories filled with laughter and long days; memories of perfect sunsets growing up under the large oak tree in the front yard. Some days she would be my pillow, and other days I would be hers.

Cheeks pink: mad bumps dot my face as I turn up to the man— which in my eyes is a murder. “You didn’t see her? That’s all you have to say?” My eyes burn with anger they don’t look at him, but they burrow through him like the sun through the atmosphere: unrelenting. I turn to her once more stroking her head like a lover.

“I’m sorry; I don’t know what else I can say. I’m just so, so sorry.” His voice drops. His head drops. There is nothing he can say that will make the situation any better and he knows that.

My breath quickens heart heavy and full of grief but I know these things happen. I just didn’t think it would happen to her. Turning to the man, the accidental murderer I tell him, “It was my fault, I should have held her leash tighter. She’s never darted into traffic before. I thought she would be fine. We are still new to the city. I, I, thought,” my eyes close as I stand up. Letting my lifelong friend, my companion, my Labrador lay motionless on the pavement. She didn’t look hurt; there was no blood, no mangled body, just the breathless form that was my dog. “I thought as long as she was with me, she would be okay.”

© 2010 Jeannie Hart

Writing Prompt: Wine Tasting

2010-01-12T13:12:00.000-08:00

I fanned myself with the brochure. For some reason I didn’t think California would be so hot. The group clustered around a large oak barrel as the Master wine maker, or whatever they called him spouted the, ‘brilliance’ and ‘bouquet’ of this vintage. Still, as I fanned myself – I couldn’t believe that I was roped into taking this wine tasting tour.

“Silvia, you have got to try this. It tastes like the sun kissed meadow after a spring rain,” one of the cohorts said to the woman behind me. All I could think about was how gross that sounded. Who would want to taste a meadow? Eventually we made it to the tasting room. My best friend at my side: nodding and crinkling her brow as if she understood the explanations given to the group. Apparently I did not keep my distaste hidden. My eyes roll when the ‘Master’ started talking about strong starts and quick finishes which prompted her elbow into my ribs while I opened my mouth to reply.

“Ouch.” I threw an evil glance to her. “Why did you do that?”

“Because I knew what you were going to say.”

“I doubt you could know what I was about to say.” I snort. “All I was going to say was that a strong start and a quick finish.”

“Sounds just like every man you know.” She interrupts my sentence.

“Oh, um – then you did know what I was going to say.”

© Jeannie Hart 2010

San Francisco

2010-01-09T08:29:00.000-08:00

I actually hand wrote this in San Francisco, but only have updated it into the blog. Enjoy!

The sun filtering through the window warmth drizzling just enough to wake me. I stretch on the gray modern couch that tinges a bit purple. It’s chilly but I’m still not wearing socks. They’re restrictive in this city of loose acts. I may dress conservative, my hair and makeup refined but I rebel when it comes to my feet.
Some days it’s through shoes—4” black stiletto boots. I teeter high over the mundane. Other days—like today—I wear nothing at all. My feet: naked and pure.

The coffee is brewing in the other room like Pepe Le Pew I follow the aroma. My eyes not open yet; just my nose as I drift along that zigzag line. Rounding the corner she stands with a cup. Her hair messy with that just got out of bed look. She turns and greats me. The only greeting I could ever agree and laugh at this early. “Normally I’m a zombie in the morning. Mmmm all I think of is brains.”

© 2010 Jeannie Hart

Prompt: Answering Machine

2010-01-08T20:21:00.000-08:00

My hand sits motionless over the small blinking box; trembling as the message continues. The voice, crackling sounding otherworldly as it comes through the archaic speaker. This answering machine has seen better days. A crinkled forehead with squinted eyes, I concentrate on the words spoken. The only clue that something is wrong is my hovering hand that dare not move. I can feel my cat rub against my leg but my mind is racing hardly noticing the soft purrs issued forth. ‘It’s not possible.’ I think, ‘there is no way that message could be left on an answering machine.’ Rewinding and pressing the play button I listen to it once more.

“Some days, some days you are the most brilliant woman in the world. There are days I just want to wrap my arms around you and make sure that the whole world fades away. Then there are days like yesterday.” He pauses, and releases a deep sigh. “Days like yesterday, where you make me feel this small. Not that you can see my hand gestures but it’s small, very small. It’s as if you enjoy making me feel like I crap. You frustrate me so freak’n much that I lose my words around you.” Another long pause as I hear traffic behind him. Of course he would find the only working telephone booth in London. “I just, I just, god damn it---I just love you.” My jaw drops and I realize those were the words I heard. My hand trembles, if those words were what I heard the first time then what’s next must be true as well. “Wow, I love you,” his words softened, the background noises becoming more apparent; the sound of traffic rushing past. Horrible sounds of screeching tires – no doubt from the fog. I stand and listen. I know what is about to happen and there’s nothing I can do but to listen. Wheels skipping as he speaks in the phone, “I love you, I want to.” The shattering of glass: deafening.

I jump as I hear the engine rev. Tears stream down my cheeks as screams from passersby’s reverberate into my ears, down so deep – touching my brain and shaking loose emotions I never knew were there. Dropping to my knees my hands covering my face as I hear more voices, louder voices, voices trying to help, yelling voices saying, “get him out of the car! Bloody hell, get back.” A woman’s voice pierced through the crowd.

“Oh my god, there was someone in the booth.” I could picture her pointing at the booth as she screamed the words. Tears seeped through my fingers and land on my shirt soaking it through. The car engine finally cut---the silence so loud that the crackles of my answering machine hurt my ears. I strained to hear the words I knew were coming.

“Maria,” his voice breathy, raspy, and so faint, “Maria, I want to marry you.” My breaths shallow, heart racing as the crackles turn to static. Static lasting for a mere second before the disconnected signal rings and the machine stops.

© 2010 Jeannie Hart

Writing Prompt: If he was any hungrier, he might have eaten her cat.

2010-01-07T10:15:00.001-08:00

This prompt was tweeted to me by not_a_zatarc Seriously guys I love you for tweeting me prompts. Follow me on twitter and tweet prompts at me. See what I come up with your 142 character limit. Now on with the prompt!

"What do you think about this one?" She asked while holding up a red, obviously form fitting dress. He smiled, half crooked with bad thoughts running through his head. "You right, it doesn't say 'I am a sophisticated artist' it's more of a date night dress." She walks back into the bedroom making comments to herself that are only distinguishable to her. He looks down at his watch and rolls his eyes. His head hits the back of the couch. A black sleek cat with copper eyes stare up at him as it thrashes its tail. "What do you think of just a black outfit? Would that be better?" She yells from the bedroom.

"Does it really matter? I mean the only people you are going to see you already know." His wrist high in the air as he looks at the watch once more, it has now been three hours.

"You’re right; I need to wear something none of them have seen!" His hand runs down his face as he realized what he just did. He allowed her the opportunity to go back into her closet. A large sigh is exhaled as his head turns to the cat that sits next to him.

"I bet you see way to much don't you." He says softly towards the cat. The cat’s ears slick back as if to say, 'you have no idea'. "Yeah I figured."

"It will be just a few more minutes I promise." Her voice rang out. He nodded as if she could see him and then looked at his belly.

"It will be okay; she said it would be just a few more minutes." He patted his gurgling gut. "I know the last thing you ate was a cereal bar this morning. But you can make it. I have faith that you will make it." His gut growled in argument. The cat’s head cocked as the curious noise came from the belly. "Seriously, no back talking," he shook his finger at it as if it were a child that needed a stern talking to. It just growled louder in protest.

"How’s this?" She said as she waltzed through the doorway showing off the outfit picked for the night. His eyes widened as he knew that his words had to be chosen perfectly otherwise food might never enter his stomach.

"My god, you are beautiful!" He stood up and took her hand leading her towards the door. "Let's get to the restaurant. Lord knows if I were any hungrier, I might have eaten your cat."

© Jeannie Hart 2010

Space Goats

2009-12-22T14:46:00.000-08:00

You can thank Daniel for this prompt. I thought a brief dialog creation would be awesome for this prompt.

Space Goats
"Intergalactic planetary, planetary intergalactic."

"Seriously Steve, quit singing that song.” Todd said as he looked at Steve. “Every time we are launched from the space port you start singing. You can’t sing you know you can’t sing right?"

"You’re just jealous you don’t have my mad rapping skills." Steve rolled his eyes.

"Really? Really? That’s what I’m jealous about? Not for the fact that you’re sitting in the captain’s chair while I’m back here dealing with your back draft? Yes, I’m jealous of your rapping skills. That’s what I’m jealous of."

"Wow Todd, you really need to calm down. You remember what they did to you the last time you got all worked up about my rapping."

"And yet-- you STILL SING THAT SONG! You know what it does to me! I think you do it just so when we get there they have no choice but to tranq me!"

"Todd, cool it. Fine, I’ll stop. I didn’t know that I annoyed you so much."

"Of course you annoy me! Everyone in this place annoys me. I have no say over where I go what I do! All I want is to be on some slope somewhere eating grass and soaking up the sunshine, but no. I’m here. With you, with a rocket strapped to our tails and being hurled across space like a gigantic game of intergalactic ping pong. Why the heck are you laughing?"

"Intergalactic." Steve holds his breath trying not to laugh.

"Crap."

"INTERGALACTIC PLANETARY, PLANETARY INTERGALACTIC!"

"I swear, I WILL END YOU!"

©Jeannie Hart 2009

Writing prompt: Couples

2009-12-20T11:54:00.000-08:00

The restaurant is busy. Hustle and bustle all around as the aging couple sit. Drinking coffee – they sip as he reads the times. She glances through a novel that would pass as a beach read. Fiddling with his round, gold rimmed glasses as the waitress taps her foot. She is impatient. She has no time for the slowness of a bygone era. There are mouths to feed at home. The more mouths to feed at home, the more people she needs to get in and out of this booth.
“Are you ready?” she asks.
“You know give us two more seconds.” He says with a smile. He peeps over the rims of his glasses, batting his blue eyes. It used to work. However, now most people—-like the waitress—-roll their eyes and walk away.

©Jeannie Hart

Writing prompt: first line - her laugh broke the silence

2009-12-19T09:34:00.000-08:00

Her laugh broke the silence. Head lifting back in a roar – unexpected, uncontainable laughter burst forth. Everyone turned their head looking at her like she was insane. The dark movie theater, filled to capacity was staring at her. A black and white, French movie droned on behind them. Light from the projector booth shined down on each face looking up at the bellowing voice. Her face turned red. If the lights were up, they would see several different shades of crimson wash over her. She smacked her boyfriend in the arm who just sat – grinning; Cheshire cat looking off into the sea of people. One by one the audience started refocusing on the art film noir that flickered in front of them. She recoiled back into her chair, burying her face into her hands— whispering to her boyfriend, "next time, wait to tell me that this movie stinks more than the fart you just let out."

©Jeannie Hart 2009

Writing Prompt: 30 Seconds

2009-12-18T10:05:00.000-08:00

I sit at the light, singing at the top of my lungs—top down in my just washed, red mustang convertible. Looking to the left I smile at the driver. It’s a beautiful warm day; perfect for cruising. The sunshine warms my cheeks as only the Californian sun can. Eyes pressed close as I feel the rejuvenation take place—this moment, so sweet, so intoxicating, so brilliant.

I’m flying across the intersection. My hands holding my neck— keeping it from snapping back – I brace myself. ‘Oh God, what the hell,’ I think as the car spins once, twice, three times. Somehow I manage to pull the car over to the right. It’s really just a blur. Getting out I hear crying, I’m looking at my car: mangled, twisted, and abused. The driver I smiled at is helping me to the curb. My words can’t come out, they are so angry but they won’t come out. All I hear is crying. Looking down I see my leg is cut. Blood is running down my bruised skin. The cries are mine.

©Jeannie Hart

Breakdown

2009-12-17T08:19:00.000-08:00

©2009 Jeannie Hart

Her eyes wide open as she lays motionless in the bed – knees to her chest, the world around her just background noise. The old, rotary style clock flips in front of her as the minutes pass by. She listens to the noises from the kitchen— they make her pull the white duvet closer to her chest. She realizes he is still here. Tears start dripping from the corners of her eyes as the wet spot on the crisp white pillow grows.

He stands in front of the stove. Moving quickly as he beats eggs, pours just a bit of milk, and moves them over to the hot pan. The messy, dirty blond hair that she always loved about him—flops in his face as he cooks. Silver pendent lamps shine down over the dark granite countertops, it’s still early. The sun not up yet. Looking out over the loft as he adds in onions and bell peppers, he realizes how cold the apartment is. Modern design has its price. The only warmth the kitchen, which is rarely used: unless he is there. Pulling out dishes from under the counter he moves the eggs to a plate. He pours orange juice into a small glass as he arranges a flower in another. Smiling he takes the small tray up the loft stairs and sets it down— next to her curled up body. Sitting on the edge of the bed he puts on his shoes. Reaching out to touch her shoulder only to recoil quickly and grab his watch and wallet that sits on the mirrored side table. His head dips as his words drop from his mouth; they are heavy and thud into the silence like a gunshot on a foggy day. “You don’t have to act like this.” His torso twists as he faces her, “be an adult. We’ve both seen this coming for a long time.” He exhales a sigh as he gets up and returns down the stairs.

Her hand wipes her cheek as he walks down the stairs. She can’t turn to face him, not like this. She can’t call out to him to tell him that she loves the way the room dissolves around him, how life fades when around him. Not with tears in her eyes and emotion on her lips. So she lays there listening, straining to hear his every move. The soft shuffle of his feet; he gathers his things, the door opening and closing behind him as her gut wrenches.

She blinks. The clock flipping forward through time and yet she stays still. Propping herself up on her elbows she can feel the sun dancing on her feet. Glancing over—her eggs cold—she realizes, he walked out. The plate flies across the room. She yells as she throws the tray against the wall. Tears stream down her face as the perfect bed that they bought together is ripped apart. Pulling covers, throwing pillows, trashing the things they cared about. Her back against the wall, she slides down – pooling into the emotions that all women have but cannot show.

Preview: Human Invasion - A Novel

2009-12-16T10:09:00.000-08:00

Human Invasion has been in revision for almost a full year. However, as the revisions close and the novel starts to become more of a realization. It’s time for it to see some light. So this is just a glimpse at my hard work from the last year. Enjoy!

©Jeannie Hart 2008

Economic Crash of 2008
Fallout from the stock market crash was far worse than anyone anticipated. The housing market slowly pushed to a rupture point, which there was no return. The Nation, the great United States of America, thought that greed coupled with an apparent abundance of the American Dream could allow for a bigger and better slice to be taken from the people. Each piece carved out from this diminishing pie cracked the foundation – those whom strived to keep up with the everyday – to the brink. Until finally it was impossible to ignore the realization; the United States as everyone knew, loved, and remembered was about to change for the worse. The table many leaned so heavily on was breaking.

The Nation’s Quiet Fall
The market continued to plummet. A gain here, losses there, but the market kept falling. Newscasters claimed stock markets go through ‘these sort of cycles.’ Blank, rehearsed stares as they talk to the camera. Crack. The President stepped forth - a calm voice amidst the storm - assuring the nervous population that this recession would go no further. Crack. The recession spiraled downward, each crack becoming wider, deeper and more unstable. But it was only after the President’s 3rd inauguration, did the people realize how far they had fallen. Somewhere the power of democracy vanished. They did not view the bailouts for what they were – a ploy to beg, buy and borrow confidence. Democracy died to the sound of an increasingly desperate chant, ‘yes we can.’ Crack.

Universal Healthcare
It took several years for people to understand how universal health care crippled the nation. Though, there were those who saw it coming. They tried their best to warn the nation about the unknown effects of daily mandatory ‘vitamins’ – what were these vitamins for - they questioned.

The President stood, gathered around by bright-eyed, naive young adults with hope and change dangling off their lips. All eyes upon him: as he danced around the Town Hall. He explained in a calm, soothing voice that was almost hypnotic. “If we,” he paused as he walked around the room. “If we are healthier, if we exercise the way we should, if we eat right and get the appropriate vitamins, universal healthcare is not only a benefit to us as a nation – it is a benefit to the future of our nation. Our children and their children's children will reclaim this country through the science of preventative medicine.” Smiling, he held up a simple oval pill; a ready-made image for a glossy print advertisement.”

There were always protesters on street corners when these meetings were held, not many, but enough to grab the passerby’s attention. Signs, which read, ‘Universal Health Care is Death,’ or ‘Drugs – What affect?’ However, there were no horn honks, just dirty looks from drivers as they pretended to look the other way. People wanted to be healthier. They couldn’t be richer, at least in days like this, so a compromise was struck: their health guaranteed. They wanted that miracle pill which would increase their lifespan; making them happier, and hopefully better. That, unfortunately, was not what they received.

T7 was the artificial protein, which bonded the mandatory vitamin components together. It was brand new, created by the MBI Corporation. Put into production with limited but successful testing. Three years later, a daily dose of T7 was found to cause stillbirths, miscarriages, and abnormal growths resulting in the vast majority becoming sterile.

The people were outraged.

The nation unwittingly played into the President’s hand – handing more power to him, as they’d now lost wealth and health. He was the only one who could right the wrongs of the MBI Corporation. Focus could no longer be shifted away from the fractured and failing foundation. The people had to be appeased; a nation had to be renewed. The announcement was quick and concise. No pomp and circumstance as genocide took place.

“Change is in the air.” He said with a solemn tone as the address was televised nationally. “The only way we can move forward – to address these challenging times is to focus on our foundation, you – the people. Starting tomorrow we are withdrawing all troops from abroad, saving billions in operating costs and bringing our nation’s greatest resources back to us. Yes, we are bringing our troops home.” The President walked off stage and returned behind his curtain. Minions scurried about making preparations for the public relations blitz surrounding the pomp and circumstance of bringing home so many men and women from abroad. Appearances would be deceiving. These heroes were coming home for only one purpose, to help clean the nation and save it from us.

Ripple Effects
Meanwhile, people did everything they could to keep up the appearance of a good, solid, quality lifestyle. Though, in the light of the fallen stock market, a devalued dollar worth less than the paper it was printed on, a housing market that burst, and a misbegotten implementation of universal health care, hope became just another four-letter word. Some struggled to keep just above the rising tide of desperation; they did not want to see the nation fail. They continued soldiering on as the tide kept rising. The President’s word that things would be okay, that hope – always dangled in front of a populace hungry for the promise of a better day - kept them paddling, seeing refuge just on the horizon. However, one by one people started to sink beneath the dark waters. Their strength alone could only keep them buoyant for so long. So many mass layoffs overtook businesses that entire towns and cities became vacant, ghost towns of suburbia. Families started to migrate into fast-growing shantytowns that popped up seemingly overnight. These were homes to those out of money and out of hope. People watched from the squalor that smelt of despair, disease, and desperation as the President spouted ‘how much they’ve accomplished, although the road ahead was still difficult.’ Yet, people in these makeshift towns all wondered how much more they could endure. Universal health care rendered them sterile from drugs or reproductively challenged through government-manufactured hybrid food – genetically altered to increase yield and have a longer shelf life. It seemed a small price to pay for a cheaper costing food which was not naturally grown, but kept the population fed.

Yet, as terrible as things were, the tide was about to rise, so fast, so overwhelmingly, that those who were already struggling were certainly going to drown. The government, the savior of the people was going to balance an unfavorable and embarrassing balance sheet.

Genocide
The troops came home. There was fanfare, streamers, and bunting. They came off planes, off ships, and out of trucks, and marched through towns – never stopping – waving enthusiastically at the crowds. The fanfare stopped. The parade route finished. The soldiers moved on. Into planes, boats and trucks, from one war to another, from democracy to marshal law overnight.

Communities teeming with life, brought together by the plight of humanity suddenly woke to notices of official condemnation. Leave or be forcibly removed, was the warning posted. A warning to all, that these places of refuge would be destroyed for the betterment of the country. Some fled, though most stayed. A residual sentiment of a bygone era, most people still clung to the belief that the government would never go so far.

They were wrong.

The truth revealed itself in a form as vicious as it was unexpected. It happened in waves. A shantytown surrounded by troops advising people to stay indoors. Those who were on the streets would be shot – no questions asked. Families huddled inside. Gunfire could be heard in the distance. At first it seemed random. An odd pop here and there, but the rate grew more consistent, more rapid and repetitive. Soldiers rushed in, opened each door looking around the room or rooms, gathered the huddled, scared families into a main area and opened fire on the wide-eyed humanity who had nothing more in common than a desire to live. The soldiers around the perimeter laughed and high-fived each other as they heard the screams mix with gunfire. These soldiers did not care who they were killing, just that the job was getting done – and seemed to be enjoying themselves in the execution of their task. As the gunfire turned into a steady stream of popping the people started to understand what was happening. They started to flee, or at least they tried. Squads of troops walked the streets and shot anyone who ran. They kept score with each other as if they were playing some sick twisted game. “42!” One officer yelled to his subordinate who immediately laughed for the accomplished. These soldiers killed with methodical precision. The officer raised his gun and started firing in the air. Others under his command did also, signaling the end of this stage of the operation. Troops around the edges of town stopped their chatter; the next wave was about to begin.

In every shantytown they moved through, the troops all stopped at the same point. 2/3rds of the way in they would pause, they enjoyed pausing. It was a simple pleasure to watch the people peep outside their doors, become afraid and then try to run for their lives. Townspeople who ran towards the soldiers received one bullet to the head; they were the lucky ones. Those who watched -- watched in horror as they were herded deeper into town. Herded by soldiers marching forward shooting their guns in the air randomly shooting at the crowd when they started to slow. It was like a massive feed ball in the middle of the ocean being circled by dolphins. Forcing the fish to become tighter and tighter as they nipped a bite here and there. Hundreds of townspeople pushed together, frightened, praying, and being trampled. Gunfire ceased, the troops smiled, and the ground started to shake.

Helicopters filled the air. Time stood still for the people. When it resumed it resumed with an agonizing slowness that made many loose complete control. Flames shot down like a meteor shower, rows of death that mowed anything that moved. Almost all humanity removed as little cameras controlled these bringers of death, stats on a screen miles away proving that this was only a little more than a game to someone. Those that survived the rain of fire did not survive for long, the ground troops made sure of that. As the day started drawing to a close, the troops started to retreat. Their job was done. The clean up crew was next.

Men in heat resistant suits walked through the town with flamethrowers, burning everything that was dead or dying. Homes, flimsy and failing were awash in flames licking their innards. Behind the flamethrowers were firemen who doused the fires with a ‘cleansing’ bath of water; cooling it down just enough so the bulldozers could carry out their task without being slowed down or damaged. A faint cry from a surviving baby echoed eerily through the winds of the town’s silenced streets, but not for long – as the bulldozers moved in to level everything, debris, mangled bodies, and those unlucky enough to still be breathing. Before the sun set, the once vibrant, but struggling shantytown was a mere bump on a charred, plowed-over landscape. The troops had moved on to the next town. Over and over, across every corner of the United States, this extermination-and-erasure process repeated.

The only people whom survived were those whom left as soon as the condemnation was posted. Those people had instincts about their peril. They spread the word, as the skies grew darker. This was the only forewarning, as those in the shantytowns did not have the luxury of cell phones or Internet access. All they could rely on was the face-to-face communication received from those whom witnessed the beginning, never the aftermath.

Life inside the nation was no longer the glistening, bright beacon of the world. It was now gangrene infested, imploding, and devoid of the hope so generously promised in years past.

Months turned to years as people finally started to adjust to the new realities. The burnt landscape reminded them everyday – if you did not fit in, if you did not comply, you will be swept away. Cars, trucks, buildings, or people, it didn’t matter. Vast swaths of land outside the well-controlled major metropolitan cities were charred and left in the open. A visible expression of what happens to those who voice discontent.

The joys and pitfalls of weight loss

2009-11-11T09:09:00.000-08:00

There is something to be said about my journey through the weight loss valley. Let me briefly catch you up to speed if you do not know what I’ve been going through.

You see two and a half years ago I went to the doctor and they told me I was borderline diabetic. I’ve always been big but I’ve always been healthy. The doctors before then had never even mentioned that I was overweight or that I was on the road to diabetes. What I was told was that I was healthy, so I figured while I was not too happy with my size -- at least I was okay. The day I got results back from the doctor telling me I was borderline diabetic at age 24 was the wakeup call I needed. I went to the nutritionist covered by my healthcare plan but she didn’t tell me anything that was new. In fact she told me that my 1200 calorie diet was good for me. And the diet that I had been using for the last 6 months was the correct diet for me. The only problem being I hadn’t lost any weight in six months and still felt horrible.

Image via Wikipedia

Enter Vinca, oh Vinca I love you.

I was sitting at home watching Supersize Me and being disgusted like the rest of America – when I noticed the ending, Alex (Morgan’s soon to be wife then) Jamieson had helped her husband loose all but 30lbs that he had gained in 8 weeks. However, her approach was not through calories, but through eating correctly. I called her up after emails and such and was sadden to hear that she worked mainly with men clients and was about to have her first child so she would not be able to work with me but referred me to Vinca.

Vinca was not covered under my insurance, but I knew that I needed an expert. I promptly signed the six month contract and started down the holistic health food goodness track. Over the course of the six months I lost 45lbs through eating alone. When I started that journey I remember telling Vinca, "What would be the point of working out if I didn’t know how to eat correctly." By the end of the six months, I was elated but sad. I had gotten very attached to Vinca and her German accent. The giddy "Yah" that instantly brought joy into my day – it was infectious, perfect and soon to be over.

Though, I did not know that I would lose my very well paying job the next month. As anyone knows this is not conducive to a weight loss plan. I soldiered on keeping my head up, and thankfully found a new job and was able to continue on. After about a year of readjustment and learning to live on substantially less I found myself actually still living through Vinca’s holistic health goodness. I was surprised that I had kept the weight off through the tumultuous transitions in the work place. But now, I was ready to work on the working out part.

I started with three days a week, 15 minutes on the recumbent bike and then a lot of weights. Eventually that was too easy so I upped it to 30 minutes on the recumbent bike. That worked for a while, but I knew I would have to work my way up to the upright bike which worried me. See, I nurse my back, after carrying around the girls up top for so long and adding in some fairly massive damage done to it in a car accident -- well you would too. However, eventually I got there. I could ride tall for 30 minutes without hurting my back. My weight loss though had dwindled to a hope filled glance at the scale.

I didn’t know what I was doing wrong. I was working out semi regularly I should have seen results. But alas nothing – I was maintaining the same weight. I wasn’t gaining or loosing but stayed the same. This is when I decided I needed an expert. It’s funny how those experts can help. I talked to a friend of mine, who just so happens to be really, ridiculously handsome and toned – and he agreed to help out.

You may have seen me update my Facebook with accomplishments and such. I know I was extremely happy when I walked 1.8 miles in thirty minutes and even more so now that I walk 2 miles a day, something I never thought I would be able to do. Though I’m not at my goal of 180lbs I am ready and willing to share with you the fruits of my labor. After all I think by January I will hit my goal, but I’m too excited to share with you my progress. Especially after today when I did my weigh in and was saddened to see no weight loss, but 5+ inches lost from my body.

Starting weight: 307
Current weight: 219
Total Inches lost (since June): 17.5"

Prologue - Novel Wordle

2009-10-19T10:49:00.001-07:00

I love Wordle, and this is the wordle for my Human Invasion Prologue

3rd Person Objective POV

2009-08-03T10:15:00.000-07:00

Every story that you love, every story that hooks you has a purpose. You are getting from point A to point B as smoothly as possible without loosing your focus, your interest or your way. Narrative is the same, because without it you loose the reader; narrative without purpose will irritate readers.

Image by churl via Flickr

Many of you are probably familiar with the 3rd Person Objective point of view (pov), even if you are not a writer. The best way to think of it is to visualize your favorite movie and then describe a scene from it. You are not in the movie; you are a nonparticipant in the events that take place in front of you. When you write from the 3rd person objective, you are not a pivotal character in the eyes of your readers. You are the camera operator. One advantage while being in this point of view is that you can really control the pace of your story. If you chose, you can either set up a scene or summary in a lengthy and incredibly descriptive way or you can be short, sweet and concise, depending on what your story calls for.

When you are writing in the 3rd person objective POV you need to make sure you have all the necessary elements of the story. Journalists use this rule, "the five W’s and H."

1. What happened?
2. Who took part?
3. When?
4. Where?
5. Why did the event take place?
6. And how did it happen?

How and what are not the same, a how in the 3rd Person Objective is an exact replica, or under what, certain circumstances took place. What happened? A man was murdered. How? The man was murdered with piano wire. If you state that someone was murdered, you can draw your reader in with the narrative of what was used, thus explaining the how and enticing the reader to continue on with the story.

Writing in 3rd Person Objective POV can vary greatly depending on whom you are writing for. Just as when you are outlining your story, and figuring out the style or genre this POV can change depending on the reader. Would your reader hear the descriptive yet hilarious overtones of a person tripping into the love of their life, would they consider it poignant or dismiss it without a thought. Just like a movie, you must consider whom you are writing for. If you miss this, even the greatest POV will fall flat.

In the 3rd Person Objective POV there are two types of narration -- summary and scene. Summary narration is done as a strict observance of what is going on. You do not depict people and their surroundings in great detail. It’s a summary of what happens, the essentials. For example, ‘the man walked from east to west, crossing the street and dodging cars.’ It is concise, correct, and has no extra non-essential thrills.

Narration in scene form is the most often used by novelist. While summary narration plays an important part in the 3rd Person Objective POV, scene narration can help to set the tone of a story, pace the piece, and hook the reader into continuing on. When telling a story in a scene narration, it is of the utmost importance to vividly draw out the scene in your mind. As a writer you must think like a camera operator. You must understand the scene before you can write it. Think in terms of analyzing a film’s cinema photography. Can you set the tone of the scene through description? Would someone be able to read a scene, thinking that it is dark and unabashed in detail? Instead of simply describing a person, can you portray them? The scene narration can deepen the viscosity that moves your story along. In Maya Angelou’s Champion of the World she masters this rich tapestry of 3rd Person Objective POV. Half of the story is written from the narrator’s POV. She is descriptive, pensive, and portrays the people with such a vivid quality that you can see how it would play out on screen.

"The last inch of space was filled, yet people continued to wedge themselves along the walls of the Store. Uncle Willie had turned the radio up to its last notch so that youngsters on the porch wouldn’t miss a word. Women sat on kitchen chairs, dining-room chairs, stools, and upturned wooden boxes. Small children and babies perched on every lap available and men leaned on the shelves or on each other." – Champion of the World by Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou uses only two of the 5W’s in this paragraph, who and where. When you look at this narration it is ripe with personality and information. The use of youngsters rather than kids, paints a picture indicating this is a story set in the past. While we can also see anticipation of the next question, what is happening, by the people wedging into the room. The vibrancy of the remaining story continues with the desire to enrich the reader’s appetite by narrating the remaining questions.

On the other end of the spectrum scenes can also be brief and concise while still painting a vivid picture. W. Jackson Bate uses such a scene to help portray his subject -- Samuel Johnson – as a lovable and down to earth man. He continued painting the scene by using descriptions such as portly, imposing, and gentleman. However, when time to actually show that he was a lovable soul he continued by narrating Dr. Johnson with some friends at the top of a hill where the great man,

"delighted by it’s steepness, said he wanted to "take a roll down." They tried to stop him. But he said he "had not had a roll for a long time," and taking out of his pockets his keys, a pencil, a purse, and other objects, lay down parallel at the edge of the hill, and rolled down it’s full length, “turning himself over and over till he came to the bottom." – Biography of Samuel Johnson by W. Jackson Bate

In this small yet pertinent paragraph we find what happened, who took part in it, where, when, why and how the roll took place. This scene was put in to portray Samuel Johnson as a person, no more, no less. The narration in this instance moves the story forward quickly but is not a summary because it uses the five W’s and elaborates on the scene to engulf the reader in the moment. A summary could have read, “Samuel rolled down a hill.” It would still be an accurate statement, but it does not clearly portray the idea behind the scene.

Both Summary and Scene narration methods are really dependent on the writer’s preference. In some cases a summary is needed to keep a story moving along while in other cases a scene can help control the pace or feeling of your narration. The main point of 3rd Person Objective POV is to emphasize the story. Using he/she/they maybe a 3rd person point of view, but when you add in the objective you have a chance to paint an oil painting. By developing a scene or summary that will engross your reader in a brilliant world of description that leaves you, the narrator as a camera operator directing what they are seeing.

Source: Bedford Reader - Eighth Edition, "Narration" (75)

Science Fiction for Today's Writers

2009-06-29T10:08:00.000-07:00

Image via Wikipedia

Last night on 60 minutes there was a segment about mind reading. One of the professors mentioned the following, “I tell my students that there is no such thing as Science Fiction anymore. All the Science Fiction that I grew up reading has come into realization.” To me this is a sad statement about imagination in today’s society. It leads me to believe that one, while people are imagining what is next no one is taking the time to write brilliant and thought provoking Science Fiction. And two that administrators in schools are adding to this by stating the above.

I have really yet to read really good new Science Fiction novels/stories/novellas that are not linked somehow to Star Trek, Star Wars, or Stargate. It seems as if my generation is simply regurgitating old ideas that are classic -- yes, but original -- no. Science Fiction on television is becoming more and more brilliant while literature is sadly falling to the wayside. Really I don’t know what’s worse; the fact that reading in general is considered passé or that our voyeuristic side would rather watch someone else’s imagination at work, rather than thinking for ourselves. What really bothers me though is that professors such as the one I’ve quoted above -- think this is okay. It’s okay that his students believe that Science Fiction is a thing of the past. Without Science Fiction greats like Ray Bradbury, Jules Verne, & Galileo we would not have the scientific basis that encourages each of us to push further. To find that spot over the rainbow where technology has not caught up with our imagination. The day our imagination catches up, we might as well buy the farm.

However, I am not saying that technology that exceeds expectations should be out of the ordinary or even unheard of. What I am saying though, is that writer’s need to step up to the plate and realize that the world of fantasy – while a broader market – is just fantasy. Science Fiction can help shape and mold the minds of future generations. I for one would rather be known for writing visions of the future that are not so far off. Visions that could inspire someone to try and build something I’ve mentioned. Literature we consume, ingest, and take deep into our core. Would you rather it be something completely impossible or just improbable but doable?

Building Worlds

2009-06-23T13:11:00.000-07:00

Image via Wikipedia

Through this writing series, you all know that I’m not that into writing fantasy which is where creating worlds is extremely important. So I’m going to enjoy listening to the other nerds this week to see how they go through the creative process.

I -- on the other hand will tell you how I develop situations that turn our earth into something different, odd, and even otherworldly. Like most writers, I observe. I take in as much information as my little brain can hold until finally it burst with everything that I’ve consumed flying about and mixing, and meshing and contorting into an idea of what we could become. If the road that’s before us is forked what would happen if we went left or right – and what about the next fork?

I’ll give you a for instance. What if high fructose corn syrup, while it’s easy to produce and excellent in ‘moderation’ –- well what if after 30 years it rendered the human population barren? Is that so far out? Do we really know what it will do to us? As a writer I can build on that one fork and create something different, unique, and improbable but it’s a basis for a new world.

With any process there is always a mound of back work to go through. Sometimes it comes naturally as you write and sometimes it’s confusing as all heck and there is no way to keep it all strait without pulling your hair out. And that’s when it’s nice to have some sort of time line. You can keep your date’s strait, your events inline, and your vision of the new world in focus. And while this is not the most concise way of building a world, it’s how I do it. And I hope that it will help you to get creative and then do a little writing.

Novel News

2009-06-19T08:20:00.000-07:00

Image by [phil h] via Flickr

It’s now the middle of June and it’s time for me to start thinking about NaNoWriMo. Last year I didn’t think I was going to participate in National Novel Writing Month mainly because I didn’t have a clue of what I was going to do. That is until I had a funny dream that took me a month to outline the basic plot. Well this morning on my way into work, my muse struck me with the beginning of a new novel. My muse has a habit of hitting me over the head with a hammer on occasion and today it was while I passed a crop of tall, foreboding, and dense corn -- a perfect place to hide a body. Or in my case stumble upon it while harvesting.

So naturally I’ve started to think about outlining for NaNoWriMo. After all it was last year’s product of NaNoWriMo that has launched my hopeful novel writing career. Outlining is a new thing that I’ve been doing. When writing for a newspaper or blogs outlining isn’t really that important. Your articles are short (usually) and you have in your head what you want to say. On the other hand when you are writing something as long and as detailed as an 80k+ novel things usually get confused. Inconsistencies pop up in the least likely of places and some in the most blatantly obvious places. While NaNoWriMo is a marathon of writing and these inconsistencies tend to creep in anyways, it is the outline that keeps the majority of the story in place and correct. A great editor will help with the other selective reading omissions after you’ve bribed and pleaded enough to get on their nerves.

With that said, the other novel news that I have is that my current work in progress has progressed to an editing in progress. I’ve sent it off and it’s going though the ringer with another set of eyes that are not tied so closely to the project!

Creating Yourself

2009-05-27T11:46:00.000-07:00

I was asked by another creative person to create myself as a character. I've never thought about doing this in a literary way. There are always reasons why people write, I write because I enjoy telling other people's stories. So when this proposal was brought to my attention i found it quite intriguing.

The first question asked, "if you were an inanimate object what would you be?"

I would be a piano, classic, stoic, and beautiful in any situation. Through a soundboard taught strings run; like thoughts connecting in the mind - hammers of inspiration tapping in rhythmic, melodic succession until finally gushing forth with an abundance of thoughts, joy, or sadness. Strings that are played, tickled, or caressed, yes I would be a piano.

The next question involved how we described ourselves.

26 the age that makes me think that I am no longer in my early twenties, and sliding ever closer to thirty. I am well adjusted enough, last year I had to come to grips with filing my taxes under a new age box – 25-35. However, I did go to a bar afterwords, not to drown my sorrows but to prove I was still young. Single, but not really worried I have more things I need to do than I have hands to do them with. And just like Peter Parker's uncle said, "With great power comes great responsibility." Do I really want the power of a couple in an economic downturn, the power of two incomes? What if the other loses his job, would I be able to step up my responsibility? No I think its best that for now, single will be the way I describe myself.

At this time of year, summer, I realize how awkward I look in Southern California. While most women walk around semi nude, tan, blond hair blowing in the wind; I sit -- under an umbrella -- worrying whether or not my SPF-70 will be enough to keep my Scottish skin from blistering. My auburn, shoulder length hair blowing in my face, I understand that this attempt at the beach would better be served from the comfort of café. Packing up I head to Urth.

Tan capri pants, that are surprisingly tanner than my legs fit smoothly over my red and white modern halter top bathing suit. A delicate silver necklace with chunks of brown, polished stones interjected in elegantly jingles as I walk through the door. I order my drink, Moroccan Mint – and find my spot on the patio. This is more my atmosphere, nestled in with the ivy sipping my tea and reading through my oversized prescription sunglasses, my blue eyes easily hidden from onlookers. If only they knew that between page turns I would think up stories about how their day had gone so far.

I could spend hours sitting and watching. Making up stories about people and the imaginary lives I can see them in. It’s only in these moments, the uncanny free time when people allow themselves to relax; these are the moments that I can script their lives. Traits that come out only when you are relaxed I see, expand, and abound to my whim - ensuring in my mind whether their day will end up satisfied or glib. As I sit and observe, pretending to read my book I realize that if I ever really grew up, I would want to be a writer.

So there you have it. A brief look into how I would be if I were a character in one of my novels.

Fan Fiction

2009-05-11T16:50:00.000-07:00

Fan fiction is one of those things where when it’s good it’s really awesome but when it’s bad which most is, well it’s really, really, really… bad. However, can be a useful tool to get people writing. It takes out all the really hard stuff, character development, world creation but leaves in the most important part a story. After all Timothy Zahn wrote Fan Fiction technically when he wrote his Star Wars Novels. And those are held in the highest regard by most Star Wars aficionados. The character’s were known, they were beloved by millions and yet Timothy’s stories made the novels unique.

Though, he did write other books and was loved by many people before he undertook the Star Wars project. Which many fan fic writers have not. They write it to have fun. And if it gets people to write there’s no harm. The harm is when you try to publish it. Twilight girl you know who you are.

I also think it’s like what Allie said last week about popcorn novels, if it’s the only thing you read or write then there’s a problem. It is lazy and doesn’t allow you to grow as a writer. However it can be fun and always helps to get your creative juices flowing. Plus if something I write inspires someone else to write, well that’s kind of cool. I would be flattered by it, unless you know, they want to publish it. Then I would probably have to read it and okay it and stuff.

Character Naming Further Explination

2009-05-04T12:14:00.000-07:00

Over at Fivedotnerds there has been a lot of talk about my viewpoint on character naming. Apparently I don't do things that are normal. Who knew! Well as a counterpoint I'm filming today the rebuttal. But I thought I would put up the transcript here for you all to read.

Almost everything I write is character driven. They are the tools that move the story forwards, backwards, sideways – whatever direction that the story needs to go. Bottom line, characters make the story. Though, I personally don’t feel that names in the beginning of crafting a story matters mainly because the writer is creating the individual. Yes in real life people are named usually before birth. We are given a name that is filled with hope, imagination, or nostalgia by our parents. And yes, dependent on how we are raised our brain chemistry we could become either a good or a bad person. However, when we as writers create we have an idea of who the character is. What they are going to do, are those things dependent on the name of a character? Could Miss Parker from the Pretender be Peter Parker’s mother? Would Spiderman be different? As writer’s we have the unique opportunity to change people’s perspective by creating characters that are memorable and well rounded.

In college we had a writing exercise that I loved and really it influenced my thought process now on character building. We would have to write a 500-1000 word description of an individual without using a name. When we used real people, at the end the class had to guess who the person was. It was amazing how by just describing actions, personalities, environment, temperament, all the external factors that influenced the person – the class could guess who our person was.
Take for example the second son born to a Joseph in Brookline, Massachusetts. His mother was the oldest child from a prominent family in Boston. He attended public school continued on to a catholic school, but had to withdraw from catholic school after having an appendectomy. This description could be 100’s of children but once you append the initials JFK, it changes. Would it have made a difference if John F. Kennedy was never president? If he was never shot? The initials JFK are only memorable because of the character he became. Writers are trying to craft characters that are memorable to start with.

I am by no means downplaying the importance of a character’s name in a story. After all without memorable character names there would be no Juliet, no Jane Eyre, no Margo Spiegelman. What I am trying to say is that if a name is blocking you from writing the story that you want to tell, put in a place holder. Once your story is completed, or your description of the character is done – you will have a name. It might be the same as your placeholder, or it might be something completely different. But in the end, you will have a character that is a fundamental tool in your storytelling; a character that is flushed out and complex that really, you couldn’t see them being named as anything else.

Character Naming

2009-04-28T10:11:00.000-07:00

Character naming is one of those problems most writers have. Though, as this video brings out, yeah, apparently I'm not the greatest at naming my characters, mainly because to me, it's such a mute point.