Opening My Vein

Meditations on Winter

2012-01-14T15:57:00.000-08:00

dark winter way, a photo by Laenulfean on Flickr.

Today I discovered one of the startling graces of God: winter. The sleeping, the resting, the apocalyptic desertion. Look at the landscape with fresh eyes--it's bleak. A nuclear attack has reduced every twig and flower to paper-dry shadows, shearing the trees, sucking the life out of every living thing. Even the sounds have ceased--no more thrumming insects or croaking frogs or twittering birds--only the rustle of brown thorns against dead bark.

But the world is not dead, only sleeping. Sap is gathering, stirring, replenishing. The forest is dormant, but not frozen; those old, itching fingers are preparing to be new again. People need to listen to the trees. They need to notice that for one season out of four they rest. They let go of their bloody leaves and shrink into themselves, fading into the rest of the world.

We can see things in wintertime: landmarks on distant hillsides, always cluttered with green, stand out starkly. The underbrush has retreated: feet wander aimlessly over miles of forest without tripping. The sun's heat is, for once, tamed: we can exert ourselves, sweatless. It's a gift.

Here is the crux: shouldn't we winterize ourselves? When was the last time that you stopped, stopped dead, and cast off the burdens you've worked so hard to bind onto your back? When was the last time you rested? There is no restoration without rest. God's grace is this: He created nature for times of rest as well as for times of activity. He did the same thing for you.

It's Not Dead. It's Only Sleeping.

Meaninglessness and the Artist’s Glory

2011-11-09T10:29:00.000-08:00

I suppose it’s easy to believe in the Big Bang andevolution…when you’re sitting inside reading textbooks. But when you stepoutside, when you walk down paths surrounded by trees that flame in a thousandshades of orange, when you walk beside pools as still as solid glass that gleamwith the fallen jewels, when you prick your finger on sculpted thorn, or try tounderstand the cheeps and splutters of an angry songbird, that’s when you realize God’s creative genius.

In Jesus lies the creativity of all peoples and all ages, theinfinite supply of originality, wit, pleasure, purpose, genius, efficiency, andcare. Every artist from Vivaldi to Van Gogh, from Michelangelo to Melville,claimed only a part of our Lord’s creativity, skill, and capacity for wonder. Onlywalk in a field of grass, with papery dried seed pods dangling and flutteringin the wind, and pick one plant, then one pod cluster, then one piece of thecluster, then open to reveal one tiny, dark, slender brown seed and see theintricacies of that tiniest of things, and remember that every pod, everypiece, every cluster, every plant, every field on earth has a seed as beautifulas this one, and marvel.

It’s just like the movies: set designers create a scene withsuch depth of detail, such painstaking accuracy, that 99% of viewers will nevernotice half of what they see. Hundreds of hours of work, millions of dollarsare poured into making every frame a rich, complete experience. And why? Is itbecause they enjoy sweating blood over details that will never be appreciated,or because they’re paid extra for attention to perfecting the invisible? Theonly explanation is love—love for the work, love for the purpose, love for theactors, love for the audience.

Why didn’t He create a dystopia, the sort of world we imaginein a more technologically advanced future? Why isn’t this a bleak andfeatureless world that works like a motor, grinding out sustenance andsubsequent generations with the ease and monotony of a canning factory? Could He have accomplished His Will for theworld without beauty, without spectacle, without awe? Perhaps. Could He havedaily communicated His overwhelming love for mankind in a better way? I thinknot. The frivolity, the triviality, the playfulness, the lighthearted whimsy ofthe world we live in—with all its exotic insects, curious plant life, hiddengemstones, all its capacity for sensation, confusion, and enjoyment—shows thatthere must be a brazen artist behind this earth.

I see two horses running, running as if they’re just so happythey can’t help themselves, around and around their pasture. Why do they run?Why do they toss their manes and kick clods of dirt into the air in an attemptto go ever faster towards no goal whatever? It’s pointless, meaningless, andyet it’s the entire meaning behind the horse. If they were only something likean engine, a mechanical mode oftransportation only, they would not be what God created them to be; instead theyare alive, strikingly and tangibly alive.

The whole world looks alive sometimes, from a smooth purpleshell to a rainbow cast across the arc of the sky, and it’s because it was all created by something alive, somethingvibrantly, beautifully, unapologetically alive. Chance is no such god; aninvisible principle guiding a random assortment of amino acids is nothing toworship, nothing to thank. And thanksmust be given, it is required by the world around us, by every breath webreathe and every sound we hear and every texture we feel. The God we worshipis alive, without Him nothing was made, without Him this is a world withoutmeaning. Our world is full of meaningless trivialities, details that no onewill ever notice, and so proves the glory and mastery of its loving artist.

A Sentence on Walnut Picking

2011-11-02T09:16:00.000-07:00

A family works together in the fading light of an evening in late October, kneeling on the grass beside empty buckets, picking at the soil, unearthing the mottled green-black walnuts that litter the ground by dozens, breathing in their spicy-lemon tang, lugging full buckets to the rickety wooden trailer, eyes combing the ground to spy out the hideaways that are camouflaged both by blackness and greenness, but that squish unmistakably, like overripe apples, between tannin stained toes.

New Employers

2011-09-24T22:14:00.000-07:00

Her first impression ofAlane Gylmyn was not promising. He was a tall, thin man with a shock of blackhair falling into a white face with two wide, staring eyes—almost comical—and adrooping chin. He looked alarmed to see a pretty young woman standing on hisdoorstep, looking up at him with a nervous, but obviously determined, face.

“May I see Madam Gylmyn,please?”

“Why, why, yes of course.May, may I get your name please?”

“Alyssum Bourne, fromSaltersgate.”

“Saltersgate, you say.You’ve come quite a long way then?”

“Yes, sir, I have. May Ihitch my horse?”

“Of course, yes, pleaselet me help you.”

Cecily smiled for thefirst time in days as the awkward young man took Grane’s reins from her hand andled him away, leaving her to go inside alone.

The house was pleasant,whitewashed, simple. Though this was presumably the home of a “fallen” family,it was far and away more modern than Cecily had ever seen, even in GrantonCastle. A small fireplace was set into one corner of the room with a tidy rowof ornaments gracing the mantle and a neat little fire burning away inside. Thesimple chairs, doors, and tables were all immaculate, the rugs on the well-sweptfloor had been painstakingly straightened, and even the shafts of sunlight shiningthrough spotless windows had the decency to be an impeccable white. This room,and presumably all rooms beyond and above it, was utterly irreproachable, trim,and orderly. Cecily ran her finger along the top of a tiny side table andwondered why this family needed a maid, when she looked up to see that a grayfigure had silently appeared in the room.

“Good morning. Are youhere to answer for the position?”

Cecily locked herquivering legs and got out the words, “I am here to apply for work as a maid.”

The woman was obviously aclose relation to the man who had opened the door, they had both been paintedwith the same unflinching brush. This person (whom Cecily would soon learn tocall Muire) was spare of frame, very pale, and dressed in the most efficientmanner possible. She sat down in one of the hard wooden chairs and gestured forCecily to take a seat. What followed was a battery of questions, delivered in aclipped and decisive manner, that made the cottager girl from Whitcrowe squirmhelplessly in her seat.

When the interview endedCecily remained seated, looking at Muire’s bowed head as the woman scribbledsomething on a thin sheet of paper, silent as the grave. Finally, she raisedher ashy eyes to Cecily’s face and folded the paper, running her fingernaildown the fold so that it flattened in a perfect half. “I will have to see whatMother has to say.”

As soon as the words lefther mouth a door opened to reveal a dark hallway beyond, and the figure of abent little woman. This woman was also thin and white, but with the tiniest sparkof color in her crinkly cheeks; she walked with the aid of a gnarled stick, butit didn’t seem to inhibit her movement much because she hobbled rapidly over toCecily as soon as she saw her and leaned in close with her bird-like face. “So thisis our new maid, Muire? Quite pretty, isn’t she, I wouldn’t have believed it.Didn’t think God made girls like that nowadays. So pleased to meet you dearie,what did you say your name was?”

“I, I didn’t. It’sAlyssum—”

“Ah, alyssum. That’s thesort of flower you put in rockeries isn’t it? Lovely name dear, our garden usedto be bursting with alyssum, that isuntil Muire pulled it all up and put in those dreadful weedy things.”

Muire Gylmyn looked likea candle wick that’s just been doused with cold water, practically drippingwith outraged self-importance and all but glaring at her mother from behindlowered lashes. Cecily felt like congratulating the garrulous old woman.

Soon Cecily was ensconced in arather more comfortable chair and sipping strong black tea while Madam Grambled along, relating the entire family history back to the time of theCampaigns. Muire had gone to visit some ailing relative, Alane was curled up ina corner with a book half the size of a horse, and a third sibling, Deirdre, satacross from Cecily with a half-finished quilt in her lap. Deirdre was slightlyplumper than the rest of her family, but came equipped with some of her sister’sclean practicality. There had been another sister, Cecily soon learned, a womannamed Eithne who had made a very nice match about a month ago and then goneaway to raise chickens in the Fornaway Islands.

Medieval Houses, a photo by stevecadman on Flickr.

Reading is Serious Business

2011-09-17T21:27:00.000-07:00

This is an excerpt from the 1985 book Amusing Ourselves to Death: Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business by Neil Postman. Read it. Drink it in. It's not simple, it's not easy, but it strikes a chord not often struck in these days of sound-byte media.

A written sentence calls upon its author to say something, upon its reader to know the import of what is said. And when an author and reader are struggling with semantic meaning, they are engaged in the most serious challenge to the intellect. This is especially the case with the act of reading, for authors are not always trustworthy. They lie, they become confused, they overgeneralize, they abuse logic and, sometimes, common sense. The reader must come armed, in a serious state of intellectual readiness. This is not easy because he comes to the text alone. In reading, one's responses are isolated, one's intellect thrown back on its own resources. To be confronted by the cold abstractions of printed sentences is to look upon language bare, without the assistance of either beauty or community. Thus, reading is by its nature a serious business. It is also, of course, an essentially rational activity.

Untitled, a photo by db Photography | Demi-Brooke on Flickr.

A Dialogue Dilemma

2011-09-10T03:00:00.000-07:00

I've been having a rough time trying to decide how to write realistic, believable dialogue for the characters of my "medieval" fantasy book (www.BeastAndBeauty.com). I wonder if I should make their language archaic and flowery, or more palatable to the modern ear. I don't want to sound pedantic, but am afraid that if the words coming out of my characters' mouths are too modern, it will seem anachronistic. I'm not sure that I'm capable of writing absolutely "authentic" dialogue, anyway!

For example, how do I get the point across in this passage of dialogue, staying true to the setting but also using vocabulary that is readable?

“Cessy, are you happy here?”

“I think so.”

“You don’t sound very sure.”

“Perhaps it’s because I’m not really sure what happiness is. Is it adventure? Is it greatness? Is it meaning? Is it love? Is it contentment? Is it wonder? Is it skill? Is it a little bit of everything? How can I tell if I’m happy if I hardly know the meaning of the word?”

Alis gave a low, husky laugh. “I’m afraid that there isn’t a set definition, dearie. It’s different for everyone. I was happy with your father, happier than I had any right to be, but he would have driven another woman half mad with all his quirks and follies. That was my happiness—my home, my friends, my daughter. Your happiness may be very different indeed.”

I asked a fellow authoress her opinion of my predicament. Betsy St. Amant from the Scribble Chicks blog says this:

This is a tough one. The same rule sort of applies here as to dialect, such as someone who speaks with a strong southern accent, or any accent, etc. You don't want the dialect to be so strong and in every sentence so the reader gets frustrated and puts the book down. The way experts advise handling that is to introduce that character with a slightly strong first sentence. Then the next scene, tone it down to maybe two or three dialect words. Then from then on, only one per scene or so. Enough to remind the reader of their accent so they can "hear it" without bombarding them with it to the point of having to wade through dialogue.

Your question is similiar though not identical. Could the same rule somehow apply to your situation? Maybe start a little archaic and flowery, and immeidately tone it down and keep it subtle as the novel progresses? If you set it up the way you want it, then you can trust your reader to continue to "hear it" and understand as they go.

This is probably going to be a trial and error type of situation. I'd recommend trying what I suggested and having a reader or friend give you their honest opinion as to how it flows.Also, think about what YOU like - because you're a reader too. When you read a medieval fantasy novel, do you like reading poetic dialogue that might take you longer to comprehend but is true to the times? Or would you rather get on with the story?

What fantastic advice! I'll try my best to implement it.

What is your opinion of this dilemma?

women talk, a photo by hans s on Flickr.

Building Great Sentences

2011-09-07T10:09:00.000-07:00

The journey of a million miles begins with a single step.The full bucket begins with one small drop. The beach begins with a grain of sand. The book begins with a sentence.

Sentences are the building blocks of stories,epics, manuals, songs, plays, novels, etc. etc. etc., but when was thelast time you examined one of your sentences with a crucial, perceptive eye todetail?

I am watching a series of lectures on DVD (also available in audioformat) by Professor Brooks Landon called Building Great Sentences: Exploring the Writer's Craft. He is an entertaining wealth of information, and I'mlearning boatloads of new things every day! Professor Landon covers suchintriguing subjects as narrative style, figurative language, hiddenpropositions, density, and the techniques of the masters. You can tell that heis passionate about his subject.

If you're in the market for learning something to revolutionize the way you look at the foundations of writing, you mightwant to check this one out!

www.thegreatcourses.com

Quill and Ink, a photo by acroamatic on Flickr.

Samaritans

2011-08-21T23:00:00.000-07:00

From www.palestineremembered.com

Lorena PinUp, a photo by Wiros on Flickr.

Act I

I examined my face in what was left of the water.The skin around my eye was turning dark purplish blue, and it was throbbing sohard I thought for sure that I would see the reflection pulse to the painfulrhythm. Eli had hit me again, but what of it? There were worse things in theworld than getting smashed in the face one more time. Like feeling you wereworthless. Like waiting for the day when your neighbors would finally throw youout on the trashheap where you belonged.

The chores wouldn't wait. I did all the usualthings, filling that big empty hole inside by planning what I would cook forhim tonight. I had all kinds of ideas, new experiments that he would certainlyenjoy. He liked it when I cooked new things for him. He liked it when I paidattention to him.

Noonday came—as it usually did—and the waterwouldn't fetch itself. I wished it would. But at least I wouldn't have to goout with all the others, feeling their eyes on me, seeing them talking to oneanother, saying things behind their hands that they would never say straight tomy face. At least if I went out at noon they would all be in their littlehouses where it was safe and cool and clean. I would go out to Jacob’s wellalone.

My village of Sychar sat on the southeastern slopeof Mount Ebal, not far from the gloomy ruins of old Shechem. Below, shimmeringin the noonday sun, lay a crossroads, a little plain, and Jacob's well. MountGerizim, the holy mountain, frowned at me from across the valley. It was only afifteen minute walk from my house to the well, not unpleasant in the cool oflate autumn.

It was usually a lonely walk, but of course I didn'tmind. On that day though, I met a group of men coming from the south. Jews. You could tell it by theirclothes, their mannerisms, and the way they wrinkled their noses as if smellingsomething nasty. What they smelled wasSamaritan flesh and Samaritan homes and Samaritan mountains. They looked likebutterflies forced to feed on dung. They were taking the shortcut throughSamaria, no doubt, the "unsavory" way to get from Judea to Galilee.

I kept my head down, sticking to the opposite sideof the road, ignoring them as best I could. I felt their stares, but shruggedthem off. When I got to the well, though, there was another one there. A Jewlike the rest, he had apparently lingered by the well to rest himself while theothers went into the village to conduct their business. He was staring into thewell as I approached, then he looked up at me and I put my head down.

Jewish men don't talk to women out of doors. Much,much, much less a Samaritan woman. Iprepared to lower my waterpot into the well, but almost dropped it when I hearda low voice say, "Give me a drink." I looked around, as if there weresomeone else—a Pharisee or something—standing nearby whom this man might havebeen talking to. No such thing. I noticed his soft brown eyes following me as Idrew the water.

"How is it that you, a Jew, ask me for drink,since I'm a Samaritan woman?"

"If you knew the gift of God, and who it is whosays to you, 'Give me a drink,' you would have asked him, and he would havegiven you living water."

I don't know what I was expecting, but that wasn'tit. I looked at him. Hard. Should I be skeptical? Should I be amused? I decidedon somewhat sarcastic. "Sir, you have nothing to draw with and the well isdeep (about 100 feet deep). Where doyou intend to get that living water?" He didn't respond, Just sat there,placid. I wanted to needle this man, this Jew who was sitting on our well as ifhe owned it. "You are not greater than our father Jacob, are you, who gaveus the well, and drank of it himself and his sons and his cattle?"

"Everyone who drinks of this water will thirstagain, but whoever drinks the water that I will give him will never thirst. Thewater that I will give him will become a well of water in him, springing up toeternal life."

I barely stopped myself from snorting in his face.He sounded like a madman. We had some of those living on the outskirts of town,maybe the Jews did too. Perhaps the group I'd just met on the road had leftthis one here for his own safety while they did the work. I drew up my jug and set it on the ground."Sir, give me this 'living water,' so I will not be thirsty or have to comeall the way here to draw!"

He looked at his hands--dark and calloused--and saidwithout glancing up, "Go, call your husband and come here."

I flinched.What right did he have to say that? He assumed things like everyone else did.He assumed that my life was just perfect, that I’d had all the chances that he’dever had, that I should be just like him. He deserved at least an answer,though. "I have no husband."

Then he stared straight at me with eyes that seemedto plumb the depths of my soul, seeing everything, knowing more. "You'recorrect when you say, 'I have no husband.' You've had five husbands, and theone whom you now have is not your husband. You've told the truth." I couldonly stare, then drop softly to my knees. Was my entire life branded on my forehead?How did he know? How could he see all that? Did he know someone in Sychar? Hadthey told him about the 'immoral woman?'

No, he was a stranger. And he was no madman. Hiswords seemed—inexplicably— kind. "Sir, I perceive that you are aprophet." He didn't move. Those eyes were watching me, delving deeper. Icould read so much in his own eyes. It was as if he were drawing my past out ofme, every word I'd ever said, every deed I'd ever done, and pulling them intohimself.... "Our fathers worshiped in this mountain," I motioned inthe direction of Mount Gerizim, "and you people say that in Jerusalem isthe place where men ought to worship." I bit my lip and wondered if hewould understand.

"Woman, believe me, an hour is coming whenneither in this mountain nor in Jerusalem will you worship the Father. Youworship what you do not know; we worship what we know, for salvation is fromthe Jews. But an hour is coming, and now is, when the true worshipers willworship the Father in spirit and truth; for such people the Father seeks to beHis worshipers. God is spirit, and those who worship Him must worship in spiritand truth."

This was remarkable, world-shattering; you mustbelieve me when I say that no one had ever talked to me like that in my entirelife! He seemed to believe that I was something that could understand his words—highas they were—and not only was capable of understanding, but worthy of beingtold. How many questions had I kept bottled in my own heart with no one tospill them out to? How many times had I wanted, longed, sweat blood for someonewho could tell me all the things I needed to know? "I know that Taheb iscoming; when that One comes, He will declare all things to us."

I hardly believed I’d said that, but it was out now.A slow, sweet smile spread across his face and he leaned in toward me. In thesoftest but strongest of whispers he said, "I who speak to you amHe."

I heard laughing and chattering in the distance.Whipping around, I saw the crowd of Jews coming back to the well. No! No! No! Why did they have to comeback now? I turned back to the man (Ihadn't even learned his name), and he continued to look at me kindly. Hisfriends were coming closer and closer, and he didn't shove me away, didn'tpretend that he hadn't been talking to me. Any other man....

I fled.

Running faster and faster, kicking up sprays of dirtand tasting the grit in my teeth, I pelted into Sychar. At this time of daythere was always a group of men clustered together in the shade, debatingeverything from unclean food to purification to warts. I don't know what theywere shouting at each other about on that day, because I flew into their midst,panting and gasping, demanding that they follow me to the well. "Come! Seea man who told me all the things that I have done. This isn't the Taheb, isit?" For two seconds they all looked skeptical, and I cursed them under mybreath. My Eli was there with them and he looked unimpressed, disdainful (Icould tell what he was thinking, “You?You find the Taheb?”). After those two seconds, though, they must haverealized that I wasn't just being stupid or playing a trick. One by one theyhoisted themselves onto their fat feet, shook the dust off their sleeves, andplodded behind me as I led the way.

With every step I tried to beat back the crushingidea that he had left—that his friends had taken him away, that they had gonealready to get to Galilee as soon as possible. Eli tried to talk to me and Ipushed him away. No. He had to knowthat I was coming back. He had to answer my questions. I had to know!

He was still there. Laughing, shaking, leaving therest behind, I rushed up to Him and fell at His feet. The other Jews werelooking disgusted and uncomfortable, but He was smiling the same smile. Ihadn't thought of it at all on first meeting Him, but this man was actuallyquite good looking. In a rough way, of course, but you could almost see Hissoul shining through His face. And that soul spoke to my soul.

I soon found out that the man's name was Jesus. Hewas a teacher and the other Jews were His disciples. Perhaps the thing thatamazed all of us the most was that He stayed in Sychar for two days. He was theonly Jew I've ever met who didn't make me feel I was just a locust who wasuseful for only a moment, to be discarded as soon as possible. Many of myneighbors believed that Jesus was the Taheb, some because of what I told them,but most because of what they heard from Him in the days after. He healed sickchildren and a crazy old woman, and told us things that no one had ever caredto mention before: about the Kingdom of Heaven, and the poor and hated beingblessed of the Father. It was like being let out of a cage full of rottingmeat, out into the sunshine where fresh breezes drove away the stench that clungto us.

Act II

I examined my face in the speckled mirror. The skinaround my eye was turning dark purplish blue, and it was throbbing so hard Ithought for sure that I would see the reflection pulse to the painful rhythm.John had hit me again, but what of it? There were worse things in the worldthan getting smashed in the face one more time. Like feeling you wereworthless. Like waiting for the day when the world would finally throw you intoa dumpster where you belonged.

I had to get to work. My job wasn’t the kind withbenefits, sick days, I-hate-my-life days or anything like that. It was a seedydiner not far from the airport, and the only patrons were people with nowhereelse to go. I grabbed my car keys and headed out the apartment door, stumblingdown steps and praying that the pain would go away.

That was a pretty typical workday. I got in at anunearthly hour, shouted at my coworkers, fired up the vats of grease, and setto work. It was a job, it paid the bills. More than could be said for John’s“job”: holding a storewide closing sale sign at the corner of 5^thand Weston streets.

When the place finally opened I was forced out ofthe warm, smelly kitchen and into the dining room where I was supposed to bepolite and earn my tips. Writing down order after order on a dirty pad ofpaper, I felt numbed by countless pairs of hopeless eyes staring up at me.Drug-dealers, hookers, filthy teens, transvestites, drunks—my friends and family.We were all in this sinking boat together.

At about noon a couple walked through the door,bringing an entirely different atmosphere. It was a man and a woman: married, middle-aged,and rolling in the dough by the looks of them. They were nervous, fidgety,looking around like they’d rather be anywhere in the world but here. They’dmissed their flight or something; they sure weren’t locals.

My usual tack with customers was thehalf-brutally-honest-friend-half-sexy-showgirl persona, but that didn’t seemquite right for these folks. I bit my lip—still trying to get used to the feelof a piercing there—and tried to squeeze myself into the hello-I’mSuzy-Q-perfect-waitress gig that would get their tip. I grabbed up a couplemenus and walked over to where they’d seated themselves in the darkest, farthestremoved booth. They cowered there as if they expected to be mugged any minute.Their eyes widened as I walked toward them, and I saw them give each other the look.

They stared at their menus for five minutes beforeordering coffee and two burgers with fries. When I came with their tray Inoticed the woman staring shamelessly at my tattoos. It’s a good thing thediner didn’t have to-go boxes or I probably would have shoved them in theirfat, arrogant faces and told ‘em to take a hike. They assumed things likeeveryone else did. They assumed that my life was just perfect, that I’d had allthe chances that they’d ever had, that I should be just like them.

Cursing under my breath, I filled up my friendRandy’s coffee, pinched Petra and gave her a smile, then went to the sink toscrub the greasy crust off of pots and pans. A few minutes later I headed backout to the dining room and saw that the rich couple had gone; I grabbed mydishpan and went to clean up their table. I immediately saw that they hadcleared off the center of their table, and right in the middle where I couldn’tpossibly miss it was a piece of paper printed with the words “Heaven Or Hell!”and the image of a hand reaching out of leaping red flames. I lifted it up bymy fingernails and checked underneath. No tip. Nice.

The New Piano: Part 3

2011-08-20T23:18:00.000-07:00

This is a short story that I wrote after a moment of inspiration. I was practicing piano (very badly, I assure you) and suddenly "heard" what sounded like an angelic choir coming through the music. That was enough to get me thinking: what if my piano had the power to make every piece I played sound extraordinary? It was an intriguing concept, and I immediately began formulating a plot. This story distracted me from my novel for a good long while, but I finally got it all down.

This is the third and last part of the story.

___________________________________________________________

Thenext school day was not an enjoyable one. Mama was at home scrubbing Pippa’sbest dress for the performance the next evening, so Pippa was forced to wearthe one with a stained hem and torn shoulder. Even as she walked alone towardthe school she imagined the looksthat would greet her.

Andthere were looks aplenty, especially from Gabriela’s coterie. Pippa tried tostick to dark corners, slipping along the walls and bolting into classrooms toget the most obscure seat. “How I wish….”She never let herself finish that sentence. She must be brave. She must makethe best of it.

Pippawas brave, but she was also very glad to get home. Mama would be waiting for her—perhapswith a warm slice of tart or a fruity crumble. Almost skipping now, Pippaneared the flat in eager expectation, barely noticing the birds in the trees orthe large wagon that was pulling away down the street. When she entered thefront door she sniffed the air and decided—in the absence of a bakingsmell—that Mama might have fixed her a bowl of cherries and cream instead.

Thepiano was gone. Pippa couldn’t believe her eyes at first, but there it was. A new piano—almost brand new, by the looksof it—was sitting where David’s ancient, scuffed, brilliant piano had been thatmorning. She rushed into the kitchen to find Mama rolling something out on thecounter. “Mama! Where is my piano? What’s happened to my piano?”

“Hush,dearest, it’s all right! You’ve got a better piano now.”

“ButI don’t want it! Where is the old one? Where is my old piano?” The world seemedto be spinning around. She could see the looks of devastateddisappointment—Mama, Dada, Madam Loisette—when they all found out that the“protégé” was nothing more than a talentless schoolgirl.

“MonsieurCupide said that this one would be much better for you. The old one had goneout of tune, so he said that if you were to make any progress you’d need areally good piano. In fact, he was generous enough to trade us that old one forthe lovely thing in the sitting room right now. Try it, dear, it sounds ever so much better.”

Quickand jerky like a frightened puppet, Pippa rushed out of the kitchen and burstthrough the front door, barely hearing Mama’s shouts to “come back, dearest”.

Sheran flat out down the pavement—jumping, stumbling, and picking herself back upto keep on. It seemed as if she was running in place, or having to swim throughvery heavy water. Houses, gardens, trees, statues flashed by her, but thelumbering wagon that had been in front of the flat was nowhere to be seen.Heart pumping, hair flying out behind her, the stained hem forgotten, Pippa’sonly thought was to find her piano and somehow get it back.

Sherounded the corner of a small park near the library, and that’s when she sawit. Up ahead was a big brown horse, drawing behind him a low wagon that containedsomething large and bulky wrapped in brown cloth. A curly haired youth in adirty jacket was driving, and Monsieur Cupide sat on a piano bench in the wagonbed.

“Stop!Please stop!”

Thewagon would not stop. Pippa bolted out into the street, throwing herselfdirectly in front of the horse so quickly that the driver had barely enoughtime to rein the animal in before it trampled her.

“What’reyou doin’ that for, miss? You could’ve been killed!” The curly haired youth hadbroken into a sweat.

MonsieurCupide slowly stood up in the wagon. His short, stout body and red face withthe bushy eyebrows looked rather absurd up there, like a hairy potato up on astage. “What are you doing here, Philippa? You should be at home.”

“I’mnot going home without my piano.” Feet planted apart and eyeglasses glinting inthe sun, Pippa was a force to be reckoned with.

“Nosuch thing, ma fille, it is yourpiano no longer. Your mother traded it to me for a much better instrument.”

“Butit’s not better! I have to have that piano, Monsieur. Mama didn’t know what shewas doing. Just give me back my old piano and I’ll give you your new one!”

MonsieurCupide gave a loud, purring laugh. “Non,non, it is a done deal. Fini. I’mafraid that you and your family have made me a very, very rich man.”

Pippaheard heavy feet coming toward her at a run and saw Dada flying around thecorner, coattails flapping. He stopped abruptly when he saw his little daughterstanding in the middle of the road in front of a wagon containing her pianoteacher and a very confused driver. “Pippa, what’s the meaning of this? Yourmother’s half out of her mind not knowing what’s gotten into you.”

“It’sMonsieur Cupide, he’s taken my piano!”

Dadasmiled and came over to her, putting an arm around her thin shoulders. “He’snot taken it, love, didn’t you hear what Mama said about your new piano?”

Pippashrugged his arm away. “I don’t wanta new one. Don’t you see, it won’t be the same!” Dada looked confused, andPippa knew that she couldn’t keep her secret any longer. “It’s never been me,Dada, it’s only ever been the piano. I wasn’t any good without it, and I’m notreally any good now. The piano has the magic.”

“Nonsense,Pippa. Pianos don’t make musicians, it’s the other way ‘round!”

“Sheis right, Monsieur Walsh.” Father and daughter jerked their heads up to see atriumphant M. Cupide standing, arms crossed, beside the brown bulk that wassecured to the wagon by ropes. “She is right. I have always known she was amediocre student at best. When she began to play such beautiful music I knewthat something must be wrong. Sure enough, this is in fact the piano of mystudent, the great David!” He reached inside his jacket to draw out a crumpledpiece of paper—the illustration from the library book. David’s face stared atPippa and Dada, and Monsieur Cupide laughed again.

Pippalooked up at Dada with tears in her eyes. “I tried to tell you….” She expectedhis face to fall, and look like it always did when something horrible hadhappened. Instead, he brushed the tear-soaked strands of hair away from hereyes and smiled down at her.

“I’mproud of you, Pippa. I’m proud that you told the truth.”

“ButDada, I’ve got to play for everyone tomorrow, and I can’t do it!”

“Sureyou can. You will.”

“Notwithout my piano. Everyone will be so disappointed!”

Heknelt down beside her in the dusty street, ignoring the impatient coughs fromMonsieur Cupide. “Do you know, my father once told me a story. He was supposedto play for a very large crowd in a grand concert hall with red velvet curtainswhere they served champagne and caviar. There were a lot of bigwigs there, andeveryone knew he was a genius. He always made music come alive, gave it wings.He sat down to a shiny, black, grand piano, and you know what happened?"

"What?"Pippa asked breathlessly.

"Hefelt nothing. That night the keys were dead for him, and his fingers were numblike they'd been left out in the snow."

"Whatdid he do?"

"Heplayed anyway."

Pippaheld her Dada’s eyes for a moment, drinking in his faith and confidence. Thenshe slipped her little hand into his big one and they stepped back onto thepavement. Together they watched the brown horse pull the wagon down the street.“Dada?”

“Yes,Pippa?”

“Pleasedon’t tell Mama, not yet.”

MadamLoisette’s drawing room was every bit as grand as Mama could have hoped. Thefloors were covered in thick pile carpets, the ceilings were very tall, andhuge chandeliers hung in most rooms. Men and women with very long titles stoodin clusters, sipping expensive drinks and eating things Pippa had never heardof. Mama and Dada looked rather uncomfortable at first, but then began to talkwith Ms. Carlisle and were introduced to a few of her friends. Pippa hardlyknew what to do with herself and just stood in a corner, until something caughther eye.

GabrielaMason was standing by the punch table beside her elegant mother, wearing afoamy white dress covered in little rosebuds. Shrinking into the darkness of aheavy velvet curtain, Pippa tried not to lose what little nerve she had. Notonly would she be humiliated in front of all these rich and famous people, shewould be humiliated in front of the girl she envied most in the world. Tryingto look everywhere but in her direction, Pippa saw Dada looking right at her.He smiled, and she smiled back.

Minuteslater Pippa was ushered to the instrument. It was easily the largest piano shehad ever seen, much less played on. The keys seemed to stretch out forever—glossyand white like so many sharp teeth—and the bench was much lower than the oneshe was used to at home. The room quieted as guests settled into plushfurniture, and Pippa’s eyes were dazzled by the sparkling jewels and shiningsilks all around her. Mama and Dada, dressed simply but well, were seated inthe very front row nearest the piano, with Madam Loisette on one side of themand the Mason family on the other. Pippa faced Mme. Loisette’s pinch-facedscrutiny, Gabriela’s mocking glance, and then her parents’ hopeful expressions.

Silentlywhispering a prayer, Pippa laid her shaking fingers on the keys and started toplay one of her earliest pieces. The first line was all right, but theneverything went wrong. She forgot what note came next, flushed beet red, andflailed about for a minute before picking the tune back up again.

Butit wasn’t the same tune. It was something quite different—light, lively,spirited. It made her feel like the times when she had gone out at dawn togather strawberries with Mama. She could almost taste the strawberries: plump,warm, and sun-kissed in her mouth. The melody was flowing along, taking shapeunder her fingertips, cascading up and down in perfect rhythm.

Whenshe finished the whole room erupted in applause. Mama was beaming, and therewere tears in Dada’s eyes. Madam Loisette’s eyebrows had climbed halfway up herforehead and her withered hands clapped vigorously. Pippa looked Gabriella straightin the eye, and for once didn’t even notice her lovely dress or curly goldenhair. At that moment Pippa felt just like her genius grandfather, like she hadgiven something wings.

I hope you enjoyed it!

-dusted, a photo by ercwttmn on Flickr.
Chandeliers & Piano, La Fenice - Venice, Italy 2011, a photo by Mark Heard on Flickr.

The New Piano: Part 2

2011-08-18T22:14:00.000-07:00

This is the second part of the story.

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Therest of that day was spent helping Mama make cherry pies to sell to theneighbors, but the next afternoon Pippa returned to her piano. Instead ofsitting down on the bench she examined the instrument from top to bottom,poking and prying and stroking. It was in better condition than she had thoughtat first, though the top was warped and it was very scratched, the rest wassound enough.

Shedidn’t know what she was looking for—perhaps a secret drawer that would pop outall of a sudden and tell her the secret of the piano’s great powers. Perhapsshe searched for little elves that made the music. Whatever she was expecting,though, it probably wasn’t what she found.

Asshe crouched underneath the piano, staring up at the underside of the keys, shenoticed faint scratch marks that seemed curious and deliberate. Pippa got adamp rag from the kitchen and bent to scrub the grimy markings. Gradually, shemade out a single word: “David.”

“Itfrightens me, Philippa. Three years and you still know nothing!” MonsieurCupide glowered under his bushy white eyebrows. Pippa often wondered if all thehair he had lost from his head had migrated to the spots right above his eyes.

“Nowplay that drill again. Light, quick, excellent.That is all I ask.”

Pippatried again. And again. And again. Finally she cried out, “It won’t let me!”

“Pardon?”

“Thepiano won’t let me play the drills. Can’t you let me try a real piece?” Hisface began to swell and turn red, but before he could speak Pippa flew into aflurry of chords and trills, racing up and down the keyboard like lightning toa melody that had been playing through her head all night long. It lasted agood five minutes, and there was silence for another two after she hadfinished. She didn’t dare glance at M. Cupide.

”Where did you hear that?” She swiveledto face him, and saw with alarm that his face had blanched white.

“I—Iheard it in my sleep Monsieur.”

“Impossible!”

“Idid! I was just about to fall asleep—”

“Buthow could you play it? You are pathetic, you are an embarrassment to myteaching! How could you play a piecewith such spirit, such expertise?”

“Isthere nothing I can do to please you?” Pippa was sitting up straight, glaringat the short Frenchman with all the sternness she could muster. “If I playpoorly, you hate it, if I play well you don’t believe me. Can any of yourstudents ever please you?”

MonsieurCupide looked dazed. A moment later he mumbled, “Yes…yes…long ago. David….”

Pippa’sface transformed into eager curiosity, “David? Who was he? Was he a musician?”

Heturned away from the girl and began to pace back and forth across the tinyroom, scratching behind his protruding ears, mumbling to himself. “Yes…yes. Hetoo had a piano.” Turning all of a sudden, he blurted, “Where did you get thatpiano?”

“Atthe piano store, of course, where else would we get a piano?”

“Youlie. It was at a junk shop, was it not?”

“Monsieur!”

“Ahwell, it hardly matters.”

“Whois David?”

“Onlythe most talented musician to bless this miserable little country in a century!Only thecreator of a fine, new, expressive style that no one else could imagine intheir wildest dreams! David was a prodigy, a genius, brilliant, genial, and I am the one who taught him his Cs from his Fs.”

“Is he still alive,Monsieur?”

The old man’sface fell. “Non. That was a very longtime ago. And he was one of those whom Nature takes too early. If he had lived,though, he could have been the richest man in the world! People would payanything to hear that boy play.”

Pippaglanced at the abused piano, wondering if, justpossibly…. “Do you want me to play the drill again?”

“Nom de nom, certainly not! That will beenough for today.” And with that M. Cupide took his leave.

That evening Pippa continued topractice. Her fingers tripped lightly over the keys and a thrill unlike anyshe’d ever felt filled her body. She knew it wasn’t her, but it felt like her. It felt like she wasbringing the piano to life instead of the other way around.

All of a sudden she heard a floofing sound from behind. Spinningaround, she saw that Dada had just fallen into his armchair, and there was alook on his face that he only ever had when he listened to an especiallybeautiful record. “That was you,love? I was so sure someone was playing a Haydn record.” Pippa bit her lip andstared at him for a minute, desperately trying to decide whether she shouldtell him or not. It’s not me, Dada, it’sjust the piano! But she couldn’t bear to wipe that look of pride and joyoff his face. So she turned back to the keys and played another piece, just aswonderful as the last.

Thepublic library had always been Pippa’s haven when things did not go right.Sometimes Dada came home with a sad look in his eye and he and Mama would closethemselves up in their bedroom for a quarter of an hour. When they got out theywould be very quiet. Pippa knew it was about money (it was always about money). She also knew that Gabriela’s parents werenever upset over money. And that is why Pippa went to the library.

Butshe was not going to bury herself in bright-backed novels today. Instead, Pippawent to a section she rarely explored and pulled down a few musty volumes. Shethen sat down to a rickety table to peruse her findings. For several hours sheflipped the thick old pages, flinging dust into the air, scanning reams of textlooking for a certain name. After dredging up countless old musicians,composers, performers, writers, poets and vagabonds, she felt lightheaded andalmost tearful. Finally she gave agasp and pulled a huge tome closer to her, staring at a lovely sketchedportrait and the name beside it, “David.”

Sheread and read and read it again. It seemed that the handsome youth in thepicture (“What curly hair!”) had been a genius of his time, able to create andplay music that no piano had any business making. Crowds were awed, ladies fainted, men stakedfortunes on his career, and David was catapulted to great heights of fame.

Butthen something tragic happened—he caught a cold. Just a simple head cold atfirst, but then something highly technical happened and he was dead at the ageof twenty-one. Pippa almost cried at the description of his funeral, andvividly imagined the grief that engulfed the musical world when that brightsoul passed into a place where no one could hear his angelic music. Dada musthave been around at that time. Had he never spoken of it? She could almost hearhis voice, “Pippa, that was the saddestday in the all the world; the day that David died.” Maybe he had told herabout it, and she hadn’t been interested.

Shewas interested now. Her piano had made her play as she’d never played before,and her piano said, “David”. It hadto be this David. Placing one finger at the top of the page, she ever-so-gentlytore out the sketch. Folding it two times she slipped it into her pocket andput the pile of books back onto the shelf. When she got back home she took apot of glue and stuck the picture up underneath the keys beside the name, rightwhere it belonged.

“Don’tyou think it’s time we had some guests over?” Mama looked expectantly at Dada,who retreated into his wooly cardigan. Poor Dada hated company, but Mama hadspent the entire day scrubbing the flat from top to bottom and was now lookinghot and dirty and very pleased with herself.

“Why,love? Didn’t we just have the Becks over?”

“Threemonths ago! I want to have a lovely little party—finger sandwiches and all—sothat all our friends can hear Pippa’s wonderful playing.”

Pippablanched and glanced from parent to parent. She had never played for an audience before. Dada smiled wanly andgave his girl a pat on the back. “Of course, why hadn’t I thought of that?”

Mamaburst into a huge smile. “Oh, Seamus, she’ll be playing at the Royal AlbertHall in no time!”

Pippagulped.

Mrs.Blacklock and the Evansons arrived first, then the Denbys with their cherubictwins. Three spinster sisters and one of Dada’s clerk friends turned up andthen the party was ready to begin. Finger sandwiches in hand, the guests seatedthemselves around the room, and Mama barely grimaced when Ms. Schultz sat onthe wobbly settee.

Pippahadn’t eaten anything, she was too busy thinking of music. She had greeted herfriends with glazed eyes, half hearing them and half hearing chords and trillsand movements. When the whole room got quiet and Mama and Dada looked at herwith expectant expressions, she knew it was time. She took her seat at thepiano and slowly, surely, began a piece she had just discovered yesterday. Asmall gasp circulated the room, and by the time she was finished she could seetears glimmering in the corners of Dada’s eyes.

Sheplayed on, and with every note grew less and less conscious of the eleven pairsof eyes boring into her back. Then, near the end of a melody reminiscent of aChopin work, Pippa’s ears perked up at the sound of a spinster’s voice, “Neverseen such talent in one so young. Laura, doesn't she remind you of David? Herstyle?”

Suddenlythe music went dead and Pippa lost the feeling of magic. She played for a fewmore lackluster minutes before turning to Mama, who immediately said, “Well,hasn’t this been a lovely evening? But Pippa’s tired now, everyone. She needsher rest.” Pippa said quiet goodbyes and fled to her room. She couldn’t bearthe look of satisfaction and pleasure in Dada’s face. He was so happy that hislittle girl was turning out to be just like his genius father, when in fact itwas nothing but an old piano from the junk shop.

Twodays later Pippa heard her parents talking together before going to bed. Mamasaid, “I’ve talked to Laura Carlisle, and she seems to think that she could getPippa an invitation to play at Madame Loisette’s next event! You’ve heard ofMadame Loisette’s events, haven’t you? Some of the greatest names in music playin her drawing room.”

Thenext day a letter came from Mme. Loisette, and Pippa learned she was to performfor a circle of the lady’s most influential friends on an evening next week.She felt a stone drop into her stomach and left the room where her parents weresinging her praises, saying they “always knew this day would come.” Pippawalked over to her piano—David’s piano—and all of a sudden felt as if she couldsmash it into little pieces. They all thought it was her, thought it was her “genius”. But how could she play at a poshevent—in front of all those people—without her piano? Madame Loisette wouldhave a great, expensive instrument, and Pippa would be able to play nothing butdrills.

Herface was covered in hot, bitter tears, and she slammed down on the keys with afurious fist…only to produce an infuriatingly beautiful chord.

Atthe beginning of her next lesson Pippa got up the courage to ask MonsieurCupide, “Would it be possible for me to take this piano to play at MadameLoisette’s? Could we bring it to her parlor?” There was just the slightestchance….

“Absurdité!This is a terrible piano.”

“It’snot terrible!”

“Iknow pianos, and this one is a bad egg, a very bad egg indeed. In fact…” hebanged a few keys. “Go and get me a screwdriver.” Perplexed, she obeyed theorder, and was horrified when her teacher pried open the top of the piano andbegan fiddling around inside.

“Monsieur!What are you doing?”

“Thereis a note that is flat, my girl, and I am fixing it.”

“There’snothing flat about it!”

“Youknow nothing. I am a tuner, I do this for a living.” He grunted, hit somethinginside the piano very hard, and then emerged with a triumphant flourish.“There, it is all better now. Try it.”

Itwas awful. Suddenly everything Pippa played seemed a bit off. “Look at whatyou’ve done! You’ve ruined it. Get it back to what it was, get it back,please!”

“Nonsense.It is just as it should be.” He looked very pleased with himself.

“Butit’s not all right!” He would not listen to her. When Pippa left the room toput the screwdriver away she returned to find him fingering the keys and hummingto himself.

“Thisis a very bad piano. It cannot even hold a tune.” He almost sounded happy aboutit.

Pippatried not to be upset. She tried to act as her genius grandfather might have.Holding her chin high, she took her seat on the bench and continued the lesson,haughtily ignoring Monsieur Cupide. She would have to think of something else.

To be continued....

-dusted, a photo by ercwttmn on Flickr.
St John's College Old Library - Corner Shelf, a photo by ben.gallagher on Flickr.

The New Piano: Part 1

2011-08-17T14:13:00.000-07:00

Hope you enjoy it!

___________________________________________________________

There was always music playing in the Walshes’ flat. It usually came from a scratchy record player that sat beside a well-beloved armchair. Beethoven, Clementi, and Mozart were enjoyed there by a thin, bespectacled Irishman and his English wife and daughter. Dada had always been very fond of music—though he said that he couldn’t play Twinkle, Twinkle to save his life—and when he returned home after a hard day of clerking for a small-time textile manufacturer, he liked nothing better than to sit back and listen to the warbling strains of a spirited sonata.

Dada’s genius father (Pippa’s genius grandfather) had once been a well-known pianist, and Dada wanted his little girl to play as well. “He could play a piece of music and give it wings,” he would say in his sweet Irish lilt. “You can give it wings, too Pippa.” And Pippa would look up over the top of her book (she had spectacles just like Dada) and give him the look. Mama would come over and give her a big hug, rubbing her red nose in her girl’s hair, and say, “Pippa, you do like playing, don’t you? You’ll play in a big concert hall one day.” Mama’s voice was the best in the world, low and brusque and comforting.

So Pippa played piano. She didn’t do it very well, but perhaps she would have done better if she had truly enjoyed it. She didn’t play for the music—the rise and fall of notes and the feeling and sense of a melody—she played for Dada and Mama. She played for the dreamy look she saw in Dada’s eyes whenever he sat beside his record player, and she played for the sad way Mama tried to get the spots out of their ancient tablecloth. In a few years she would be playing in a concert hall like her genius grandfather and making buckets of money to buy her Mama a new set of sitting room furniture.

Her piano teacher was a certain Monsieur Cupide, who didn’t speak very good English and was a mediocre player at best. He was, however, the best that the Walshes could afford. Pippa squirmed every time she heard his thumping tread in the hall, and never looked forward to seeing his stout figure, eagle eyes, and bushy eyebrows. His wrinkled jowl always wiggled unpleasantly whenever he said, “Now, Philippa, to your lesson.” He always said “lesson” with a special French flourish, and Pippa shuddered.

One day Pippa’s piano fell apart. She was going through the hundredth drill in the key of F and suddenly one key went dead, then another, and then another. Monsieur Cupide frowned and muttered some words in French (Pippa imagined they were probably not very polite words) and borrowed a screwdriver from Mama. Half an hour later the piano was in a dozen pieces on the floor and Monsieur threw down the screwdriver with a flourish. “Ruined, Madame, ruiny. It must be taken away.” Mama’s face convulsed for a moment, and Pippa watched as she raised a trembling hand to her chin. They both glanced at the sitting room settee—the fabric was worn away in places and one leg had broken off. There would be no replacing that if they were to have a new piano.

But all Mama said was, “Thank you, Monsieur.” And Monsieur Cupide left the flat.

Pippa had grown up hearing about her genius grandfather. For a long time she had thought that Genius was his given name, but Mama corrected that. Pippa was sure that she wanted to be just like him one day, but she could not imagine playing the piano for so long that she got to be a genius. Monsieur’s interminable “drilling” had not made her a genius in three years. She wondered how long it would take.

One day after the collapse of her piano, as she walked home from school, Pippa noticed Dada standing in the doorway of the flat—half in, half out. His thin face was unusually red, and he seemed to be pushing against something big inside. Skipping up the pavement, Pippa said, “What are you doing? Fighting someone off?”

Dada gave her one of his smiles. “Nah, love. Just see what we’ve got for you.”

Peeping inside, she blinked twice before she quite comprehended it. It was a piano, of course, but what a piano. The finish was worn off on all sides, the keys looked battered and bedraggled, the music rack was hanging on by one narrow pin, two of the pedals had gone missing, and one of the legs had cracked and been clumsily patched. Dada was beaming, though, running his hands over the scratched surface and murmuring something underneath his breath. “A really nice one this, it’s a Corklin. I’ll be you’ve never played a Corklin before, have you?” Pippa had only ever played two pianos in her life, the one that had fallen to pieces and the big black one that belonged to Aunt Madge. But of course she didn’t say that.

She didn’t dare to say anything as Dada hauled the cumbersome thing into the sitting room and set their old piano bench in front of it. She was not exactly displeased, but perhaps the smallest bit disappointed. She imagined that if she had hated to play drills on their late piano—which had been shiny, with little curlicues in gold paint on the upper panel—what would they be like on this ancient monster? She stood silently in the middle of the room, pushing her glasses up on the bridge of her nose, until Mama came in and started smoothing down her unruly brown hair. “Isn’t it sweet, Pippa? Your Dada got a real bargain.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Well, at the piano store, dear, where else?” There was a look of evasion in Mama’s eyes. Yes, thought Pippa, they’d got it at the junk shop, where they got everything. Once, just once, it would be so nice to get something that didn’t come from the junk shop. Gabriela never got anything from a junk shop. Gabriela Mason was a golden-curled girl who went to school with Pippa, and she was always talking about her parents’ “income.” She got all of her dresses with all the latest frills and furbelows, and even her books came from a bookstore, not rented from the library or falling apart at the binding like Pippa’s. But she wouldn’t think of that. She had to try out her new piano.

“No, love, don’t try it now! It’ll sound that terrible. Give Monsieur Cupide a chance to tune it for you. Probably hasn’t had a proper tuning in years.” Dada looked excited, but Mama turned pale and sat down on the settee, which promptly buckled beneath her.

“Oh, this leg is done for. Pippa, do prop it up with a few of our old books.” Biting her lip, Pippa picked up a few moldy volumes—the very thickest she could find—and shored up one side of the settee. Dada put on one of his favorite records, and the smell of sausages came swimming out of the kitchen.

Monsieur Cupide came the next day to tune the new piano. Huffing, snuffling, and rattling his dangerous-looking toolkit, he disassembled the instrument and began plinking notes. Dada had been right, the thing sounded awful. Pippa sat in her chair by the window, feet tucked beneath her, nose buried in the pages of The Grindensag Locket (a riveting story of love, loss and betrayal). Mama clanked pots in the kitchen—presumably to drown out Monsieur’s discordant banging.

At last the ordeal was over and M. Cupide called Pippa over to the bench with pride in his voice. “Despite being the worst piano I have ever played, I must say that I have tuned it to perfection. Try out your Bagatelle. Biting her lip, trying not to notice Mama standing in the kitchen doorway drying her hands on a tea towel, Pippa sat down on the creaky bench and placed her fingers on the keys. With tremulous, slow movements she picked her way through an old piece she had almost forgotten. It went very badly, but she got through it in the end.

Monsieur had that stiff upper lip that signaled displeasure, and Pippa gently extricated herself from the piano bench, walking to her room without a glance at Mama. Monsieur sighed. “It will get better with time. A few more drills and she will be—er—competent.”

The next lesson started off terribly. Pippa was not yet used to this new instrument, and her fingers felt large and clumsy on the keys. M. Cupide did not help much. “Faster, faster! You are so dull. Pitoyable. You know nothing.”

Finally Pippa turned to face him and said, “I am awfully tired of drills. Can’t I learn another piece? Please? I haven’t tried a new one since autumn.”

“No, no, and no. You cannot expect to have skill if you do not work at your drills.”

“But it’s been three years, Monsieur. Can’t I—”

“Absolutely not.”

And that was that. Pippa wondered how she was ever going to become like her genius grandfather at such a rate.

When M. Cupide left Pippa remained on the bench, overcome with that youthful kind of despair that makes the whole world feel bleak and empty and hopeless. Listless, with a heartless languor, she poked at the F drill. Slowly at first, then faster and louder, banging at the helpless ivory and hitting more wrong notes than right ones.

“Pippa, dear, maybe you ought to try playing something you like.”

Pippa swiveled to face Mama, who was cleaning the tablecloth, scrubbing a hole right through it. “I’m awful at all my pieces, they never sound right.”

“Oh just try, dear. It can’t hurt to try!”

Mama was always optimistic.

The little musician tried a simple, slow movement she had once been able to perform quite well. It started out all right at first, but soon slid rapidly downhill and her fingers struggled to hit the right keys. She tried another piece, then another. It wasn’t working; it was worse than before! Almost in a panic now, Pippa stared at the dusty keyboard in horror. It’s not letting me do it! It’s not letting me! The piano was like a living thing—ugly, damaged, old, fractious—preventing her from playing anything.

“How about you make something up?” Mama sounded desperate.

Pippa gave a sigh, then tentatively fingered the keys, as if fearing to be bitten. She played a C, then she played an F. She’d never improvised before. Remembering a simple chord progression she went into that, then complemented it with a simple tune on the right hand. Slowly, a theme began to emerge. D, F, G, A, G, F…. The melody was sad, slightly sinister, and it held Pippa’s imagination. She played the notes over and over again; they made her think of a poor little orphan boy in a book she’d just read.

A moment later she realized that her left hand had begun to accompany the right in a sing-song pattern. Her excitement began to build as she heard herself—felt herself—playing a piece she had never heard before. But at the same time it felt as though she had heard it, heard it in every sad story she’d ever read, heard it in every one of Mama’s little crying fits. And it had come to her now (into her head or into her fingers, she wasn’t sure). It was a song that needed to be played, and somehow this old piano was doing it.

Because it had to be the piano. Pippa wrapped up the first song and went right into another one; this one was like a chase—first suspenseful staccato in a minor key, then a rush and a thrill. Later a kind of rainy day melody came to her, and the sound of cool spring raindrops filled the dusty flat. Two smaller pieces came next, and though it was a bit difficult at first to get the right chords, she managed at last to bring out a happy, skipping kind of tune, and then a sweeter, lovesick thing with a fingering Pippa could hardly believe. She couldn’t believe any of it, really, but had to keep going for fear it would stop and she’d have to go back to drills again.

Mama’s fluffy, curly head poked out of the kitchen door. “My word, Pippa, you’re goin’ on like a real concert pianist! All your hard work is finally payin’ off.”

“It’s not my hard work, Mama, it’s this piano! I don’t know how it works, but it’s magical!”

Mama gave a small smile and shook her head, as if it would be quite a few more years before Pippa knew exactly what she was talking about. “It would seem that Monsieur Cupide was a better investment than we thought.”

“But is wasn’t Monsieur Cupide!”

There came that smile again, and Mama disappeared back into the kitchen.

Pippa was confused, but very, very happy. It didn’t really matter how this was working, only that it was working. But had telling Mama broken the spell? Pippa fingered the keys once more, half afraid that everything would now be different and it would be an ordinary, broken-down piano and she would be an ordinary, lousy pianist. She played a few halting notes, then fell into step with a tune that somehow sounded familiar. The longer she played it the more she realized—it was a tune that Mama sometimes hummed. Charming, and strangely reminiscent, the melody ebbed and flowed around the room until Pippa was almost certain she heard sniffling in the kitchen. Stopping abruptly, she ran and hugged her Mama tight around the waist.

To be continued....

-dusted, a photo by ercwttmn on Flickr.

joe's hands, a photo by katinalynn on Flickr.

Darling

2011-08-15T14:05:00.000-07:00

Liquid brown eyes like deep poolsof dreamy sleep, delicate hair that’s as soft as a cloud could ever dare to be.An inquisitive look, that quirk of the head, one twitch of your curvaceousnose, and I’m gone.

bella-white in window, a photo by Christoffer Mørch on Flickr.

Answering Machine

2011-08-11T15:46:00.000-07:00

I sat in my brother’s stiff office chair—the one thatdidn't even swivel—and heard a man’s mechanical voice clip out, “End ofmessages.”

He didn’t even have any tissues. Why didn’t he have tissues? Everyone else in this building boxesand boxes of Kleenexes. The woman in the lobby had her desk stacked withtissues like she had some kind of tear duct infection. My darling brother hadnothing but a couple of pens and a pad of post-its.

That’s when my inner self smashed the answering machineinto the carpet. I saw the black shards fly across the room time and timeagain, heard the mechanical voice screaming for mercy. What really happened wasthat my very physical self sat in stunned silence while annoying voices in theoffices around me droned on and on about loans, mortgages, and satisfiedcustomers.

What had he said?Was I unreasonable for being offended, nay, enraged? My brother and I hadalways had a pretty good relationship. Maybe touch and go at times, but we hadquick reconciliations and easy laughs after tiffs. Sure, he had called me ashrew before—to my face. But somehow this was worse…much worse. He had spokenwith Justin in a moment of anger. He had said things he should have kept tohimself. He had spoken behind my back to someone I loved.

What was I to do?

land line, a photo by mangpages on Flickr.

Write That Book NOW!

2011-08-05T07:16:00.000-07:00

I'm involved with a writing community on www.48Days.net, and recently learned about an $8 ebook that looks to be very helpful for people like me. It's by Mildred Talabi and it's called Write That Book NOW. I was just talking about how I deal with execution in writing, but sometimes it's very difficult for me to go beyond the first few pages of a project. In fact--I've yet to finish a single book.

So maybe this is just what I need, and maybe you need it too! If you've read it be sure to leave a review in the comment section.

Pure. Simple. Writing. Tool.

2011-08-03T21:08:00.000-07:00

This program is like a zen experience.

From a creative team in Barcelona comes a word processor unlike any you've ever used. Clean, seamless, intoxicatingly simple, OmmWriter is a tool that gets you away from distractions and back to the whole point of writing: writing.

This is a great resource for writers! There's nothing between you and the words; it's a place where you can escape the internet, taskbars, rows upon rows of icons, and spell check. It also comes with--get this--ambient music. Imagine the possibilities for a stream-of-consciousness rant! Simply bask in the pleasure of a naked. raw. field. And enjoy the wind-chimes.

And the best part is that it's completely free! You can pay a little extra to add more sound effects and background options, but you don't have to. Simply go onto www.ommwriter.com and download it for the Mac, PC, or iPad.

Then sit back and enjoy the zen.

Inspiration or Execution?

2011-08-02T07:12:00.000-07:00

What is your writing gift? Hopefully you have both inspiration and execution, but are you especially skilled in either one? I have a couple of friends who are always coming up with story ideas--practically a book a minute. However, only one of them really gets down and dirty and writes things down. Personally, I am less likely to have that kind of "plotline epiphany," but more likely to actually sit down and write it when I do.

How about you?

Gotta Love 'Em

2011-07-27T02:12:00.000-07:00

dusted, a photo by ercwttmn on Flickr.

Don't you love those random story ideas that just hit you out of the blue, almost fully formed?

The New Piano, coming soon to bookstores ;)

Sense vs. Sensibility

2011-07-23T22:07:00.000-07:00

E: I can feel my heart break and not cry. I can watch someone laugh and only smile. I can think and never let anyone know. I understand things. I think them through. Am I wrong? Am I repressed? Am I missing something beautiful? Am I blind?

M: You've always played it safe. Look up! Stop staring at the ground, afraid of making a misstep. Smile! Don't be afraid that someone won't understand. Love! Stop fearing the possibilities. Can't you say something? Can't you let us know you feel? Sometimes I wonder if you ever feel anything. You show a smile but I can't see anything behind it! Have you ever loved? Have you ever hated? Are you capable of heartbreak and heartjoy?

E: I am capable! I feel every time the wind touches me, I hold a friend close, I paint a flower. I could sing, I could dance in the rain...but then who would be sensible? Someone has to balance, someone has to stop mistakes before they're made. I whisper to myself when I walk alone. No one hears me then.

M: Why?

E: Because if I tell, then it won't be a secret. If everyone knows--my heart won't be special, won't be mine anymore. Things happen when you tell people; the magic goes away. I can't share my heart with everyone, I can't let them know how much I feel! I must be circumspect, must be cautious.

M: You can't keep it a secret. Do you know what happens to secrets when they're kept too long? They crumble into dust and ashes and burnt memories and suddenly the world doesn't look as bright anymore and your heart is brittle as glass.

E: But who will be sensible? If I make mistakes....

M: The world won't end.

E: Life isn't easy in an empire waist.

Photo cropped from ELIZABETH EN PEMBERLEY, a photo by /colorinchi on Flickr.

11 Secrets of Getting Published

2011-07-12T22:30:00.000-07:00

Get it. It's a $2.99 download.

I just started reading this ebook by Mary DeMuth, and I'm hooked. Simple, short, to the point, there's nothing like investing a little money in something to make you pay more attention, and hopefully learn something. Learn about writing nekkid, overcoming fear and rejection, how to write a great query, and how to excel in your genre--to name a few.

Happy Writing,
Abigail

Alone, Out of Love

2011-06-24T11:36:00.000-07:00

We came here to have a really good time. Why, oh why does it always turn out like this?

I’m standing very close to the concert stage now, the bass is beating rhythmically through my body, the vocalist is making out with the microphone, and rainbow light effects dance overhead to the crushing applause of the crowd. It’s one of my first concerts, one of my favorite bands. Nissa and I have the same taste in music—bold, vibrant, cutting-edge—and you should have heard our squeals when we realized that we were actually going to see this group in concert.

Then Nissa said we had to take Brian along with us, and everything changed.

The hall erupts into piercing screams, the thudding of hundreds of pairs of feet, and I’m pummeled from every side by shrieking fans. But where are they? Where have they gone? I’m all alone by a concrete wall, all alone in a packed concert hall. Brian and Nissa are somewhere—but how on earth am I supposed to find them in this crush of bodies? Stubborn tears needle the corners of my eyes.

The way they were looking at each other in the car on the way over here. The way their hands were touching. It sent a shiver down my spine and I didn’t know why.

Jealousy? Distaste? Discomfort? I hardly know what it was but I can feel it now: a slimy dark monster filling me up from the inside and making me loathe the little sister I love and the boy she loves. Why should their affection affect me like this? Why do I want to gag every time they kiss? Why do I feel waves of revulsion when I think of them touching each other? Is it because I want what they have? Is it because—to me—Nissa is still a girl playing with my makeup? She’s 17 now. Get a grip.

I shove myself away from the wall, angry now. They just went off and left me. They weren’t supposed to leave me. We’ll have to go soon if we don’t want to get stuck in traffic. I look around, straining my eyes in the purple darkness, fingering my car keys, thinking that maybe—no, it’s not her. I’m really alone.

Pushing through tattooed arms, pierced ears, short skirts, and long hair, I begin to hear a ringing in my ears. All the noise, no doubt. I can hardly hear myself think. Then it’s a turn to the left—past more bodies—down a short flight of stairs to haven of cool darkness. I’m choking down sobs, now. Where are they? Stumbling, nearly frantic, feeling completely miserable, I realize they’re nowhere to be found.

Surfacing into the chaos again, I work my way back up to the front, to my cold concrete wall, and lean against it, gasping. Nissa and I—so close, and now so far away. Blocked by some happiness I can’t understand, and don’t really want to. Brian—a fairly good-looking guy with nice manners; they’re perfect for each other, really.

Suddenly I catch a glimpse of Brian’s white shirt and eyeglasses reflecting the psychedelic light. I wrestle through to him, “Where did you go?! I’ve been searching all over for an hour!” He looks annoyed.

“Geesh, we didn’t go too far. What’s the big deal? Oh, please, don’t start crying.”

I turned around to face the music and began clapping in time with everybody else, bobbing my head, leaning from side to side, trying to get into the mood of the evening. Not feeling it. Trying to fight back emotion.

Then Nissa comes up from behind with one of her impulsive hugs. I all but shove her away and the tears finally spill over; I’m wiping and wiping and wiping my eyes, contorting my face into a miserable smile. The next time I look back both of them are gone.

All of a sudden, Brian and Nissa are right beside me—arms linked with mine—hauling me away from the pounding drums. I know it’s their way of trying to make up, but I shove them away. “Get away from me!”

“Please, we’re sorry for running away, please, listen to us. What’s wrong? Is there anything we can do?” Nissa’s looking so apologetic, so concerned, and Brian is biting his lip. They love me. They might love each other but…they love me too. They didn’t want to hurt me. They’re growing up. They love each other but they love me too. And before I know it I’m doing what I’ve been wanting to do all night long. Crying like I’ve never cried to anyone but Mom: as if my heart would break, wracked with sobs that shake me and make my legs weak. Suddenly Nissa is holding me tight against her, and Brian’s arms are around me too. They seem to understand, even if I don’t.

Photo Credit: Girl against the wall, a photo by Maxime Guilbot on Flickr.

A Cloud of Witnesses....

2011-05-21T18:22:00.001-07:00

It's fantastic to have a circle of fellow "writing-fiends" gathered around you. The companionship is amazing because a cluster of Writers is not like an affinity group of "piano tuners", "gym-goers" or "arborists" (or at least I imagine not, despite having never been any of these): being a writer seems to me more like being a man, a woman, or an African-American. It's an identity that goes beyond a hobby and into the way our brains work and the strange things we do to our lives. Being a Writer is more than a pastime, it's a lifestyle.

I love sitting around with my Writer pals and having heated discussions over characters, plot-twists, favorite authors, and the frustrations and joys that come with opening your vein and putting it all on paper. I could jabber on for hours about my ideas and brainstorms, and it's fabulous to have someone who knows that feeling to bounce it all off of. It's the lovely presence of audience, interest, and appreciation--not to mention the "lightbulb moments" that sometimes get kickstarted in that kind of atmosphere.

That's why I would highly recommend any Writer to join a club or support network of some kind--on the internet or in the real world--where you can be criticized, awed, and inspired. There's really nothing like it.

Betrayal

2011-05-11T13:47:00.000-07:00

Please Don't Go, originally uploaded by Brandon Christopher Warren.

I'm not begging. Who's begging? I only asked. You never gave me a chance.

Wouldn't you like it if I just gave up. Wouldn't you laugh? I'll bet you would. You'd like to see me writhing on the ground under your cell phone camera, begging you not to do it, hoping you'd have mercy.

That's what you get for trusting someone.

And so you'll share those pictures. You'll mock what we had. You'll smile--showing all your pointy white teeth--and spit profanities with your friends. My future employer is going to see those photos, and maybe he won't be my employer after all. My mom might come across them. My next boyfriend...my children. All thanks to you.

I'm not begging, just asking. You'd love me to get on my knees and beg, to offer anything for the chance to smash that thing into 1,000 pieces. But you wouldn't give me the chance, would you? You're just too good for that.

That's what I get for trusting you.

Rampant Starlight

2011-04-27T07:20:00.000-07:00

B33 - HorseHead Nebula, originally uploaded by Skiwalker79.

Rampant starlight—like profligate tinsel—luxuriating in its own radiance. Infinitely shameless, proud, self-conscious, the stars are like humans used to be.

Humans built towers, ploughed fields, break wilderness into cities, wrote symphonies with their fingers, invented the subway. But somewhere they lost their pride. It flew out the window at miles per hour, striking passerby and rising, rising, to fall madly in love with the Heavens. The theme music of humanity was broken—shattered into one billion pieces.

And did they care? No. They had gained their shame. They knew, and that was enough. Free will with costly knowledge, that was their consequence. Now we wander in pathless desert-land, wandering for our home—the home of our minds. And all we can do is look to the stars and admire their brilliance.

Veiled and Dangerous

2011-04-25T08:05:00.000-07:00

Morning Cup of Tea, originally uploaded by dragonflysky.

Raining again. It had been pouring for three days and nights, and Ilskya had tired of watching drop after drop plash in quick succession onto the puddles that pockmarked the lawn. Lowering gray skies and plans for entertainment that crumpled and disintegrated in the downpour were wearing on her, and there was nothing to do but stay inside. With Papa and Katya.

They were in the drawing room, drinking tea from paper-thin china cups and murmuring about nothing in particular. But that "nothing" had bothered Ilskya for weeks now--there were tones underneath the words that rippled and slunk and made motions to take some sort of action. The words themselves were almost meaningless, but the manner in which they were said was the real purpose of their conversations. A touch of impudence from Katya, a smiling indolence from Papa. A testing, trying tone from Katya, a look of approbation from Papa. She was speaking about social functions, carriage rides, gentleman callers, and he was talking of traditions and a lady's place--but she was also speaking of revolution, and Papa was silently mocking the old ways and letting her see that a better way was needed.

Every now and again Ilskya would glean something meaningful (a failed assassination attempt on the king: Katya had expressed condescension disguised as horror, Papa's words were angry, spoken with a dreamy voice). Her sister wanted
revolution--a successful one--and Papa wanted revolution--the right kind of one. Ilskya hardly dared to ask herself what she wanted. She told herself that she only wanted peace. Only wanted what had always been theirs.

During a particularly hard rain, the most inopportune time for visiting in the world, the Olvichs' had a visitor. Madame was very tall, very thin, and topped off with a very large hat. She strode into the foyer, handed her umbrella to the butler as if it were a scepter, and proceeded to the drawing room where the little family was awkwardly chatting. "Sir Olvich, you do not know how I have been longing to see you! How dare you stay out of society during this dreadfully dull time. We have missed your company as we have missed the sunshine." Ilskya immediately recognized Madame as one of "them". Her words were cordial, even effusive, but the voice was sharp, businesslike, purposeful.

"I thought I would just drop in on my way to Lemaud's to wish you my congratulations on entering your daughter into the finest university in the city." Her snake eyes gleamed at Katya. "You must be very proud."

Papa gave a knowing smile and patted his eldest on her knee. "Ah, yes, Madame. There are few papas in the country who are as proud of their daughters as I am."

"She will do a great service to her country someday, Olvich. She will prove herself to be a very valuable woman." Katya purred, and would have twitched her tail had she owned one.

Ilskya went to get tea. When she returned she heard the three talking animatedly. She hovered on the edge of the doorway, hidden in shadow, and listened for a few seconds. Almost immediately she realized that they were speaking her language--words and voices going together, matched in stride and vision. They were discussing Kolgarten and his plans for the nation. They were saying how important he was and how nothing would ever be the same if he were to "get in." As frightening as their meaning was, the true fright was their faces: unashamed, interested, wholly honest, and looking as if everything had already been arranged. Somehow Kolgarten and Katya's university was going to change the history of the world. Ilskya dropped the tea tray and their eyes turned to her.

"You can't do this!" She meant to speak. She screamed. "You can't bring it all down, you can't change everything! What's wrong with freedom? What's wrong with our life? What's wrong with you?"

Their faces became blank slates that would not be written upon. "Ilskya," it was Papa's silky voice, "Please don't be angry. We haven't said that anything will change."

"But it's what you all want, it's what you're all working for! You want power, don't you? You want power and you don't care how you get it. You're all snakes pretending to be mice so you can slither your way into the mousehole, so that you can eat every mousling and say it was your right." She had never seen Katya look that way at her before. It was the look she gave filthy vermin before crushing them under her boot.

The Gylmyns

2011-04-17T22:14:00.000-07:00

But Heaven is not idleness, and Cecily had no delusions of resting for three solid months. If nothing else, the indefatigable energy of Deirdre and Muire would be enough to drive an idle person to distraction, wearing away at a tender conscience with every yard of lace tatted, every potato peeled, and every piece of pottery scrubbed within an inch of its destruction.

Fatality in the Rain

2011-04-07T19:33:00.000-07:00

The Rain-Collecting Road, originally uploaded by ashleigh290.

This is a bit of a spoiler (in case anyone intends to read the book I'm working on), but is one of the scenes I'm most proud of so far. Enjoy!

________________________________________

A cart was rattling rapidly down the street, the farmer was impatient to get home. Rain had been washing the world into a giant mud puddle for the past four days, and this street (nothing more than a narrow dirt track that caught the runoff from every other street in town) was becoming nearly impassable.

Most of the townspeople were sitting inside their warm, brightly-lit homes—the tall imposing ones that only well-to-do merchants could afford; the kind that seemed to lean in to touch each other over the street, blocking out the light. The farmer sneered at the tall houses as he passed under them, and was drenched with a bucketful of water from one of their rainspouts for his pains. Cursing and shivering, hunching up his shoulders against a world that hated him, he neglected to see a small child playing at the edge of the road. It was a little girl with golden hair, a red dress, and small white fingers that were making two wooden dolls fall in love.

The farmer did not see her. The horses did not see her. All they saw was the mist of rain that fell like a sodden gray blanket on the air. The girl did not see the cart or the pounding hooves of the horses. All she saw was her dolls. The only one who saw anything and everything was a woman with strands of wet, gray hair who stood at the other side of the street.

In a moment it was over, and someone screamed. The farmer lay unconscious, bent into an unnatural position. The girl was mud-spattered and shaking; it was she who had screamed. The woman was nowhere to be seen. Deserted as the street had appeared, at the sharp sound of alarm dozens of villagers materialized from shadowy entryways, inadequately dressed and apprehensive. One of them had turned white in that moment, dropping her basket and sending its burden of rosy pink apples rolling away—bouncing down the narrow lane, splashing through the rain and muck. She felt as though she ran in slow motion, her nerves sluggish, none of the emotion she should be feeling making its way to her face.

Cecily collapsed by the side of Alis’s broken body, holding her mother’s head between her knees and kissing the bloody mouth. The cart creaked and moaned and dug one of its wheels harder into the woman’s body. Alis let out a whimper and shut her eyes. “Mum, Mum, Mum. Please hold on, will it, only will it. You have to make it, please, you have to make it. Don’t let it end this way! Oh, Mum, I saved you once...” She choked on the words before she said them, knowing that it would take all of her strength and more to bend power to her will as she once had, as I swore never to do again. It gets out of hand. It takes over me. I said I’d never let it take me again. But I’d do…anything….

Alis suddenly flung out her hand to grasp Cecily’s in a death-grip. “Don’t help me, Cessy. It is my time. This has—been long delayed.”

“I need you!” The words were a shriek that grew louder with every syllable. A housewife stopped to stare. The horses had been led away and a few men were now trying to heave the cart off of its victim, but only succeeded in grinding it deeper into the mud.

“No, Cecily, you need the One who gave me to you and you to me. Talk to Him, my dear. Never let Him go.”

“How can you talk about me at a time like this? Mum, you’re the most important thing in the world!”

Alis’s look could have frozen stone. “Never say that, dearest one.”

Cecily lifted her tear-stained, rain-smattered face to the dreary heavens and wondered at the turns of life—like a road with so many twists that there was never any hope of seeing more than a few feet beyond the place where one stood.

The hand that held hers squeezed a little tighter, and a spasm of agony shot across the dying woman’s face.

“Mum.”

“Cessy, darling, I told you that we weren’t alone.”

She was gone.

What Makes Me Mad

2011-03-31T00:01:00.000-07:00

hot water, originally uploaded by Micah A. Ponce.

Can I start this in the winter? Can I start the story on a sad note? Can I start it on the morning when we ran up to see the sunrise from the water tower and I realized I had lost my friend forever?

______________________

That is an old Word document on my computer that I randomly stumbled upon. It was named "What Makes Me Mad" and the few sentences above were all I wrote.

So what happens next? Where was I going with this?

Naming Your Character

2011-03-29T00:01:00.000-07:00

Absolutely wonderful post from www.babynames.com!

There are many literary and movie characters that become everlasting brands in our culture—Atticus Finch,'Ratso' Rizzo, Holden Caulfield and Scarlett O'Hara, for example. If you name your character right, you will choose a name that is unique to your character and memorable to your story. The names you choose should reveal something about your characters: who they are, where they come from or where they are going. Here are several tips we compiled for writers of stories, novels, tv and movies to help you choose the perfect name for your characters.

Tip 1: Make the name age-appropriate

The biggest mistake we see writers make is choosing a character name that is not age-appropriate. Many authors make the mistake of choosing a name that is popular now for an adult character—name that would have rarely been used around the time of the character's birth. Decide the age of your character and then calculate the year your character was born. If your character was born in the U.S., browse the Social Security Name Popularity List for that year. You will also want to take into account the character's ethnic background and the ethnic background of his/her parents.

Tip 2: Choose a name by meaning

Many writers give their characters names that have significance in the story. It could reflect major personality traits, or the character's role in the story. You may want to use ouradvanced search to search by literal meaning, or think of ways to incorporate other meanings into your character's name. For example, if your character is a botanist, you may not want to name her Flower (too literal), but you may want to consider the names Linnea or Sage. Even if you choose not to name a character by meaning, you should look up the meaning of all your characters' names—there may be something that inspires you or, on the other hand, conflicts with your message.

Tip 3: Exotic names are for romance novels, soap operas and strippers

Romance novels and soap operas and strippers all have one thing in common—they evoke a fantasy of romance and/or sex. Characters in these genres tend to have names that are more exotic, like Chesapeake Divine or Rod Remington. If you are not writing a romance or soap opera, however, this kind of name can sound silly and out of place.

Tip 4: Science fiction names don't have to sound alien

It's difficult to predict what names will be popular in the year 3000, however you don't have to make your science fiction characters sound like they are from Mars (unless they are). When a person reads (or watches) your story, you don't want them to stumble over a name. The name Zyxnrid, for example, would be difficult to read or listen to every time the character is referenced—and may detract from your overall story. If you do choose to create your sci-fi name, you may want to:

Combine two common names to make a less common, but pronounceable name. Example: Donica (Donna and Veronica).
Use ancient mythological names, or combine two of them. Example: Ceres or Evadne.
Make it easy to pronounce and spell. Example: Bilbo Baggins from Lord of the Rings.

Tip 5: Terms of Endearment

When writing your story, be aware that people who are close rarely use each other's full names. Couples will use nicknames, terms of endearment (honey, dear, boo). What nickname have your characters come up with for each other? Also, parents rarely call their children by their full names--unless they are admonishing them for bad behavior or testifying in court. If you have loving parent characters that are addressing their kids, use a nick name or term of endearment (sweetie, baby, D.J.). An exception to this would be if you want to show the parent character being cold and distant to their child.

Tip 6: Overused Names

For some reason, every writer loves to name his hero JACK. I know it's a tough-sounding, honest-working name, but naming your hero Jack is like naming your son AIDAN. It's overdone. Be a little more creative, so your reader will remember your particular protagonist as opposed to the umpteen-million other books they've read about Jack. Also, do not give your protagonist the initials J.C. as an alliteration to Jesus Christ. That tactic was overused in 60's/70's fiction and is almost laughable by today's standards.

Tip 7: Loaded Names

Watch out for what we call "loaded" names--names that have a popular association. These could be names associated with celebrities, historical or infamous people like Adolf, Oprah, or Kobe. They could also be names of famous literary, tv, or movie characters: Hannibal, Scarlett, Romeo, Bart. If you do choose to use "loaded" names, then you really should make it part of the story, part of the character. Your character's mother was obsessed with Gone With the Wind, so she was named Scarlett--how has it affected her throughout her life? How does it affect her in the story?

Tip 8: Have Fun With Names

Have fun with naming your characters and take time to see what "fits." What was your character's childhood nickname? Is that an embarrassment when his parents address him in front of his friends? Did your character change his name at any point in his/her life? If so, why? Does your female character want to change her surname when she gets married? Why or why not? Names are such an important part of one's identity, don't take it lightly with your story!

Soulless

2011-03-25T10:29:00.000-07:00

2006-04-23 Melaten cemetery, Cologne 3, originally uploaded by [ henning ].

Cecily was on her way to the only place she could think of to find answers. She walked down the road leading to the castle, passing the barley fields and turning to the right when she came to where the little chapel stood bathed in cold moonlight.

Slipping in unnoticed by a couple of people talking in a corner, she walked up one of the shadowy side aisles to find a place near the altar. Kneeling down with an awkward finagling of skirts, she bent her head as she’d often done and folded her hands together, squeezing her eyes shut and summoning up a feeling of trust and reverence. She tried to concentrate on a prayer, tried to mouth the words, and almost cried with frustration. How many times had she done this? How many times had she sought solace in the dim smoky chapel, filled with statues that seemed to mock her with their silent lips.

How broad and great and fantastic God seemed when the vicar spoke on frosty Sunday mornings. How her heart flew at the thought of His power when the choir sang their rough impression of and angel’s hymn! Any height of ambition or fantastic imagining seemed possible at those times.

But what was left on a Tuesday night with a drizzle just starting and Mum hacking herself to death at home alone? Cecily bowed her head even lower, concentrating on her heart where something or someone was supposed to live. She tried to break open her soul before an almighty God, before a Someone who was limitless and magnificent. She tried to love Him, tried to rouse an attitude of wonder and respect.

But her thoughts would not stay quiet. One more unanswered prayer, how can I keep this up? I know it’s all right with my head, but there is nothing else. She gritted her teeth, determined to wait for an answer, for a voice from Heaven, for anything that could signal a response. What good is information separated from awareness? What are facts apart from passion? Why are they asking me to believe something I’ve never felt much less seen? She banged her fist on the railing and stood up to stamp down the central aisle, purpose in the movement of her body. The statues were left to themselves, staring into space out of blank, soulless stone eyes.

Silencing the Babble

2011-03-23T21:37:00.000-07:00

Though I've rarely delved deep into writing advice, it seems as if I am always hearing snippets of advice from out of nowhere: Show, don't tell. Strong dialog sells. Don't get into too many people's heads! Adverbs are the devil incarnate. Write what you know. Write what you don't know. Eliminate all passive voice. Pay attention to rhythm, sentence length, the tone of your voice. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. It's that old adage: a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.

Anne Lamott writes about a lovely little radio station called KFKD (not going into what that stands for). It is constantly bombarding the airwaves with negative vibes, criticism, and self-doubt. Authors can tune in at any time to hear the lovely strains of despair and defeat. I hate that station, but for some reason my brain's internal dial feels compelled to turn there.

I don't trust myself to write well. I never think I'm good enough. I probably need to be an mathematician: a job where when you're done, you're done. You don't have to wonder if you did a "great" job or not, it's not subjective. But the creative side of me balks at that. It wants to create something so beautiful that it sings, so different that it touches people and makes them want to imagine. Something that must necessarily be subjective.

I know that if I'm going to write I'll have to silence that stream of hate-speech targeted at my work. I have to suck it up and turn off KFKD radio, then glue my fingers to the keyboard. I'm like so many other authors: I love having written, it's the writing part that gets me.

But I can do this. I can work in peace.

I can wait to criticize until I've actually written something.

Snow Walk: Stream-of-Consciousness

2011-03-02T10:39:00.000-08:00

It’s a snowy glade.

The sun dripping in streaks of white, or silver, or cream. And every dead branch is cloaked in a white sheath--whiteness clings and melts and crystallizes over everything. They look asleep under a blanket as if the snow were warming, providing protection from cold winter winds.

Going up the hill it levels out onto small plateaus with spring pools, pools from springs sliding down the hill that ripple the snow into humps and hillocks. Snow is untouched save for the leaves that have fallen, broken sticks, and springs cutting through the snow to bubble up and sun warms snow.

Glisten,

sparkle,

and little clumps of snow cling to smallest of trees.

Everything is silent save for the wind, sort of building pressure, jostling and rustling leaves.

Slip and slide down hill, treading untrodden snow and as tree limbs go past, new glades form; you see places with tracks and no tracks. Ducking under snowy boughs and coming out on other side to a new opening all filled with sunlight, turning from silver to gold as clouds roll away.

The snow makes a sound underfoot. Soft and powdery, makes a munching sound. Like a giant eating a bologna sandwich. Crunching, that’s the cliché. The annoying thing about clichés is that they’re so often right. It’s because they’re perfect, that’s why everyone uses them all the time. Not because they’re bad, but because they’re perfect. They’re clichés, they’re the best.

Walking paths again, rubber boots sinking into the snow, very nice indeed. Dim shadows, wind kicking up gusts of snow that glide across the surface of the ground like spirits, swirling, effervescent spirits of light and shadow. Snow spirits, the ghost of snowflakes, icicle fairies, something snow obliterated. Kicking up mimics of snow spirits,

oh!

Plunging unexpectedly into drifts. Analyzing tracks on the ground, trying to pinpoint what on earth they are. The embalmed bodies of streams motionless in the snow--gray, sooty, broken. Snow is magical, but frost is what really transforms the world. Snow is nice too, though. Nice. Very nice.

Ennui

2011-02-26T16:18:00.000-08:00

Blowing Bubbles, originally uploaded by Justin Shearer.

What is this dim, purplish monster? This cuddlesome virus that stalks in the midafternoon? It lulls one to sleep, beckoning from the tepid waters of a bath heaped high with frothy bubbles. Turn the corner of pleasure and it is there, staring you in the face. You have been satiated, satisfied. What could be left?

Pleasure can be a heartless taskmaster: exacting what everyone wants to give, but disappearing so quickly that it must immediately be replaced by a different kind of pleasure. A constant cycle--the Ouroboros--and it bores in the end. Even the beautiful, tickling, majestic power of self-fulfillment can leave a sullen aftertaste.

Still, this monster is a cannibal, a creature that feeds on its own flesh. It would suck you into the bubbles, stroking your eyelids, making you believe that there is but one alternative to pleasure-seeking. But it is harmless, really. Apathy. Inertia. Beautiful ennui....

Little Green Lizard

2011-02-19T20:30:00.000-08:00

sisters, originally uploaded by Erathic Eric.

We had started walking in the fields, dressed in the usual high-waisted jeans, casual denim overshirts, and snug rubber boots. Thin wisps of hair fluttered in front of my eyes as I tried to shield them from the glare of the lowering sun that still hovered above the nearby wooded hill. The air was balmy--freakishly so, it being February--but with the slightest chill in the breeze. It was the kind of day when Winter taunts the world, making everything believe she's given up, when Spring is yet far away.

Jetta's long strides soon outstripped me, but I wasn't trying to keep up. We weren't headed anywhere in particular, just in the general direction of the woods and bluffs. For some reason that was where our steps had turned to say our goodbyes, to the place where we'd spent so many hours as children.

We slowed down upon entering the forest, mostly because we had to dodge trees, thorny undergrowth, rocky outcroppings, and wet-weather streams. Leaves crunched under our boots and we started talking again. "I wish the visa hadn't caused such trouble. I might've bought my tickets long before, and now I'll have to pay an arm and a leg. I hate international travel." Jetta snapped off a twig that was blocking her way and continued tromping up the slope. "Good thing you don't have to go through all that, eh?" When I didn't say anything she turned her head slightly and looked back at me. "All right, Magda?"

"Oh. Yes."

"I guess you'd give just about anything to go to England, wouldn't you? Isn't that funny! And you'd love to be engaged, too. Here I am, the homebody of the family, finding the perfect job and it just happens to be in England. And I've never cared much for men except as friends, then I meet one who decides he wants to be my friend for the rest of his life. Odd, isn't it? You're always dreaming of oversea travel and chasing after boys, and it all happens to me." She put out her hand to lean against a mossy tree trunk while I trudged to catch up to her. "But you aren't the least bit jealous, are you, Magda?"

"Me? Of course not. I'm happy for you." Do you ever talk and have the words sort of claw their way up your throat, like they don't want to come out? I couldn't help but notice that tilt of my sister's head, the way her jaw sort of jutted out. Confident. Beautiful. Talented.

"What do you think my wedding colors ought to be?" We were going on now, stumbling slightly over the rough ground, clambering up the bluffs and sliding back down as we cut across the side of the hill.

"That's really your decision, isn't it?"

"Of course it's my decision, but I think I can take a little advice! I was thinking aquamarine and white, or perhaps black and coral. What would you have your wedding colors be, Magda? Have you ever thought about your own wedding?"

I couldn't help gritting my teeth. A Celtic wedding--ladies in medieval gowns, men in classic suits, harp music up the aisle, fluttering banners, cascades of fresh flowers.... "No, not really. I've always loved forest green and silver, though."

She gave a little laugh and stepped over a collapsed fence of rusty barbed wire. "Yes, I think you're right. In fact, I think that green is Michael's favorite color! We might just have to do that. Green and silver--yes, it would fit the time of year, too." Another laugh. "Dear Magda, I don't know how you put up with me sometimes. At least I'll be in England in a few months, hmm?" We went on, slipping, climbing, panting, regretting the rubber boots, until we came to a large, smooth-topped rock. It jutted out above the narrow valley, and there was pile of rocks many feet below where bits of the bluffs had fallen down over decades. We stood on that rock, the sun already down behind us, watching purple shadows slowly but surely wrap up the forest. The only sounds were the chattering of a few squirrels and birds, what might have been a rabbit in the undergrowth, and the blowing of the breeze.

Jetta was standing right at the edge of the rock with her back to me, hands in her pockets, her hair slowly uncurling in the wind. My own hands came out of their pockets to hang at my sides, and I tried to bring down the heat in my cheeks. "One little shove is all it would take."

My sister's voice shocked me into stillness. Then I choked, "Wha--what did you say?"

"I said that one little push would take care of everything." Her tone was suddenly violent and bitter. "It's a steep fall, and I might survive if I fell just right, but more than likely I'd land on my neck, and then it'd all be over. I wouldn't bother you anymore."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Jetta. Don't be stupid." There was an unwonted quaver in my voice. How had she known? Why would she think?

She pivoted around to look at me. "I know you wouldn't do it. You're too scared."

"Jetta! Are you accusing me--"

"I didn't say anything." She slid down off the rock and began working her way down the hillside. "Come on, it's time we go back toward home."

"Why are you talking about falling off rocks? What could you possibly be upset about?"

"Do you recognize this place?" I couldn't say that I did. "It's our fairy bower. Just a rotting log overhung with vines, but we used to tell each other stories under here. Stories about the things we'd done and were going to do. About the little people in woods and fields.... Things were very different then."

"We were shorter."

"Ha! Yes, that's true. You hardly ever spoke to me unless we were out here."

"Hardly spoke to you? You're kidding. You were always underfoot. I couldn't get rid of you." Was it my fault that there was vinegar in my voice? It had been bubbling in my heart for so long without an outlet. Jetta gave a deep sigh and sat down on the overgrown log, tucking her feet under her and settling her chin on her hands. I stood.

"Did you have any idea how much I wanted to be with you?"

"If your constant nagging was any indication, yes."

She shivered and wouldn't look at me. "You had the power to give me everything I wanted, Magda. Can you imagine how I looked up to you? My big sister?"

"Good grief. I think I spent enough time with you. We lived together for many years, in case you've forgotten."

"No, I haven't forgotten. But of course, it wasn't the same as it might have been. You were always so much closer to Daniel and Bethany--the older crowd--never to me. I guess I was...off your radar."

A little shimmer that might have been a tear showed on her cheek and she nervously adjusted her hair. How could I be feeling sorry for her? Jetta? The one who had everything? The one who was going to live in England? The one who had Mr. Darcy as a fiancé? My blood began to boil in earnest. "That's nothing, girl! You have nothing to complain of. You're asking me if I know how you felt, do you have any concept about what I felt?" That got her. "Every time we did anything together--and Mom made sure that we did absolutely everything together--you were always, always, always in the lead. Drama class. We were having a little improv excercise, then all of a sudden the teacher announces that you are going to be one of the main actresses in an upcoming play. What do I get? A bit-part that was shoved in at the last minute. I didn't even get the pleasure of being the comic relief! I was older and I knew that I was a better actor than you. But no, Ms. Marin liked your smile, liked your enthusiasm, said you had 'promise'. You're not the only one who's had disappointments, Jetta, not by a long shot!"

My breathing was so heavy by now that I felt I was going to suffocate. I decided instead to stagger off a few steps away from the "fairy bower" to try regaining my lost composure. I didn't hear a word from Jetta. She was in shock, probably. The girl had probably never been talked to like that in her life, certainly not by me. Just thank Heaven that she'll be leaving soon, not to return for several good, long years. I looked back and caught a glimpse of her, just getting up to walk over to me. I leaned against a tree and breathed the odor of wet moss and sawdust, then said quietly, "Sorry. It's just that when you gloat like that it--irks me."

Her voice was soft and deep. "Did you think I was gloating back there? Really, I've never been very happy being ahead of you in anything, Magda. It's never been enough for me. You have no idea how much it hurt--still hurts--that you don't love me, don't respect me, don't really want to be around me. I've never wanted anything so badly."

I almost shook her hand off my shoulder, but stopped just in time. What good would it do? Shouldn't I try, at least try, to turn over a new leaf? Try to forgive? "I'm sorry, Jetta. I'm very sorry if I've snubbed you or treated you unfairly. I didn't really mean to. I do love you."

"And I'm sorry that I've rubbed it in. I'm not really more gifted than you are, you just aren't confident enough! In fact I've always envied what you can do with music, the way you can compose something that sounds like it should be on a movie soundtrack--it's always amazed me. I guess we're both jealous, in our own ways." Isn't jealousy described a big green monster? It shouldn't be. It's more like a lizard that slithers into tiny cracks and stays there so long you forget about it, then blinks it glassy eyes at you when you least expect it.

I laid my own hand on Jetta's and we stood there like that for several minutes as the temperature dropped and a mist began to rise. I remembered her face as we stood on that rock, and marveled at a depth of pain I'd never known in my sister. Did I have the power to inflict that on someone? "It's all in the past, Jetta. Let's move on now." She gave a happy little sigh and we linked arms, then walked down the homeward path.

-----

"Magdalene, we got the invitation in the mail!"

I opened my bedroom door to see Mom flourishing an envelope of heavy cream-colored paper with an elegant wax seal. Nice touch, that. I plucked it out of her hands and took out a sheet of forest green stationary with lines of silver calligraphy. "The proud parents invite you, etcetera." Hmmm. Green and silver. I guessed that that had just become her habit. Then I caught myself. Yes, that had become a habit for both of us. A sort of vicious cycle.

Book Title Fun

2011-02-04T12:35:00.000-08:00

Scarlatti Day: Memoir of a Strange Teenage Girl

OMNIPOTENCE and peanut butter

Cancel My Appointment, or, Life Waits

Understanding Egglantine: Why Stories Matter

By Life and My Love of It

Sentinel Watching: Childhood on Rainy Days

chess master

Horizon-->Brought

Fields of Gold: And Why We Have to Wait

Do any of these strike ideas for you?

From Ashes

2011-01-30T12:12:00.000-08:00

In a small alcove, almost hidden from sight behind a collapsed staircase, lay a crumpled heap of charred clothing. Smoke and ash floated up from it and a distinctive odor—sulfur, charcoal, tanning leather, burning meat, a smell so thick it was almost a taste—permeated the dry, crackling air. Rivens, an old man ten minutes ago but an ancient one now, stood over the heap with an empty bucket, cursing the minutes it had taken to gather enough life-giving water. It was a sin, a horror, a shock and shame that such a thing should be. And yet it was.

His first urge was to stay, but he knew that there were others who needed to know. He walked back the way he had come, his feet dragging as if made of lead, unconsciously wiping his nose on his sleeve as if to get rid of that smell. Granton had calmed down a bit by this time, it was relaxing, though still on edge. There would be no sleep tonight for many but thank God there was no more danger of the entire castle crumbling in flames. The Western Tower was gone—the stone walls and a staircase were all that remained. Destruction had seethed into the Great Hall, but had not gotten far past the industrious cottagers.

In quiet tones Rivens asked information of those he passed and went on to the courtyard where he finally reached his goal—Lord Geoffrey and Lady Mallkyn sitting on two crates looking dazed and bewildered. The humbled gardener gave them a bow and cleared his throat. “Errr, milord there is something I think you must see.” In response to Geoffrey’s glazed silence, “It’s important, your lordship.”

“If you have business with my husband you have business with me.” Mallkyn stood, regal and imposing despite her sooty gown.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, milady, but ‘tis no sight for a woman.”, The earl followed his wife’s example and Rivens led them both back into the castle.

The heap of clothing had not been moved but seemed smaller and more pitiful than ever. At first the lord and lady looked at it blankly, turning to Rivens as if to say, “What on earth did you bring us here for?” The gardener stooped and picked something up from the rubble. A beautifully decorated dagger sheath. Mallkyn began to scream—the kind of scream that makes ice under your skin and pierces your ears. The faintest moan was heard from the heap of clothing. Geoffrey fell against a charred wall for support. Mallkyn continued to scream.

“No! No, no, no, no, no….”

It was more than a heap of clothing after all. There was a face in there, a face with red flesh that had melted, dripped, twisted and deformed. It stared straight ahead, but all one could see of eyes were the whites, sheathed in a greasy film. It was a travesty of a face.

Mallkyn’s own eyes were shut tight, but as if that were not enough to block out the sight she was digging her fingernails into her eyelids, her screams coming through the palms of her hands. Rivens was standing by the body, rigid, like a guard on duty. When the screams finally died away and were replaced by violent sobbing he dared to speak, “The boy is not dead, milord. He needs a doctor though, as soon as can be. If he lives it’ll only be by a miracle.”

Geoffrey thrust a shaking hand into the inner pocket of his velvet robe and brought out a bulging bag. He tossed it to Rivens, who caught it up and knew the contents immediately. “There, that is enough gold to get him the best care you can. And take him away. I can’t have that creature here in this castle.” Mallkyn let out a strangled wail.

Rivens, noble and erect, stepped closer to the body. “I will do as ye wish, milord. I will do all I can for Lord Auvray, and serve him with my life.”

Geoffrey gave a frantic nod and laid a hand on his wife’s arm. “Come, dear, let’s go to your solar and see—” Mallkyn did not stay to hear the rest but flew back down the passage.

Lament of the Ghosts

2011-01-07T08:16:00.000-08:00

On A Dark Trail, originally uploaded by bogenfreund.

Here you are in the center of our midst. How came you here? By wandering paths you treaded? Nothing will be left by morning.

See cold specters overarching you? Can you hear that mournful scraping sound? Can your ears detect a solemn wail? Understand, that is the voice of regret...a voice that whispers in stillness and entreats the wind. Fluttering creatures rest on us and fall to untimely deaths. We have no patience, we have no pity. We have only sap that runs down our cheeks like tears. We stand here where memories of pain remain--soaking deep into the ground. We are rooted here where our own darkness did once reside.

We are the ones who have made mistakes. We were the ones who trusted; we were the ones who tried and failed.You see one of us alone in an empty field? That one has no remorse. We broken ones gather here, all together, fearful of solitude. We bend beneath our sheltering arms, and tremble at the slightest breeze. We cling to one another.You see an evergreen--it pines away. And the willows weep.

See our fallen sisters? They are lying prostrate on the ground, pale skin peeled away to reveal the bone. They are the lucky ones. To forget is a luxury denied to most. Oh! To be stuck by fire from heaven. Oh! To be felled by blades from below. To be turned to ash and disappear on the wind.... 'Tis a thought far too great for comprehension. We can only hope for that inevitable day when we finally crumble to be devoured by worms.

You stay here. You keep us solemn company. That is good--it will not be long now. Your own seed will fall and take root just like ours. Then you can huddle here, where memories of pain remain--soaking deep into the ground.

Prayer

2011-01-01T13:04:00.000-08:00

the praying [duotone], originally uploaded by TheAlieness GiselaGiardino²³.

I pray that this year You would

bind up the broken,

be a father to the fatherless,

be the joy of the despondent,

be the hope of the hopeless,

be the light of those in darkness,

be the dream of those in shadow.

Make me an instrument of your peace, oh Lord Most High, may I glorify Your name in all I do. Have mercy on me, a sinner, and give your light and grace to those around me and in the world.

I pray that this year You would be my focus, always before me, humbling me, keeping my eyes fixed on You.

Bless you, Father, for Your goodness in the midst of sin and doubt.

Day in the Bottomland

2010-12-29T15:48:00.000-08:00

On a chilled morning near the end of December we drag on our thickest clothes and outsize leather gloves. We’re going to cut firewood for my great-grandparents’ monster wood stove (which keeps their tiny house at a constant temperature of roughly 150 degrees). We drive to Granny and Pa’s house (miles deep in the backcountry), which is surrounded by mountains of rusting junk and the remnants of about ten ancient automobiles. Granny, in her pink knitted bonnet, watches us from a tiny back window as we drive the rutted dirt road in our 4x4 pickup truck, down to the cutting site.

In the hills of West Tennessee there is a kind of terrain called the bottomland. This is a place by a river where the sediments have been washed down from the slopes above and settled into rich farmland. When the rains come this is where the water settles, and the ground can become wet and boggy. The soil, which is a strange mixture of sand and red clay, forms giant puddles, erodes into gullies, and splits the land into jagged wrinkles. This is where we are heading.

The four-minute journey is a constant barrage of jolts, and the windshield wipers vainly attempt to clear the glass of the constant sprinkle as we slide our way downhill. Mom’s afraid that the old stick-shift might not be able to make it over a sharp ditch formed by a small creek. We in the backseat brace ourselves for impact as we jerk, bounce, and jar our way down into it and up the other side.

Turning to the left we come in sight of Uncle Gayle, who has been splitting the huge chunks of wood cut days before. He has a huge wood splitter with 22 tons of power behind the massive blade. Once we’re out of the pickup we can hear its rattling roar and the cracking of wood as the iron wedge cuts through half a century of hard red oak like butter. Beside the splitter is a pile of fresh-cut firewood—growing larger by the second.

We get our marching orders and set to work. Everyone grabs a giant piece and pitches it (gently) into the bed of the old farm truck, trying desperately to not shatter the back window into a million pieces. Heave ho, heave ho; it’s a steady rhythm of breathing and heaving, one piece at a time. Pa at 87 years old is still finding ways to be useful: tossing the split wood onto the pile. He lost his right eye a couple of years ago and isn’t as strong as he once was, but he is still out here in the field he once cultivated—with the cold drizzle dripping off the end of his nose. We begin to heat up, despite the cool weather. They say wood warms you twice—once when you cut it and once when you burn it.

When the bed of the truck is heaped high we slam the doors and rattle back up the steep hill, through the cavernous ruts, and to the house where we back up to the front porch. There isn’t much room for wood there, but once we remove a washing machine and freezer there is only one refrigerator and two more freezers left to take up space. We start heaping the wood high on one end. The reddish pieces are oddly shaped, some torn and mutilated by the splitter so that they resemble strips of raw meat, and others covered with lichen and fungi. They’ll burn well, though, and keep the old couple warm during the winter.

Back down in the bottomland we get back into the spirit of loading. The camaraderie is contagious, and we laugh more than anything else. Jokes and witticisms fly back and forth over the rumble of the splitter, and we tacitly compete to see who can toss wood the fastest. We roll huge stumps over to Uncle Gayle on our hands and knees, then watch for a moment in silent wonder as he moves them into position and the blade comes slicing down, narrowly missing his fingers every time.

Another two trips and we start singing—old gospel tunes that seem just right for the occasion. We slip into an off-key but enthusiastic rendition of a Garth Brooks song as we tumble our way through the creek ditch once more, then pile out of the old Dodge for yet another load. Almost before we know it we’ve done five loads, the porch is full, and my breakfast of Pop Tarts long-gone. It’s time to head over to Aunt Lynda’s for some warm, cheesy chili dogs.

It’s a great feeling to strip off our grimy, damp clothes and step inside the cozy house. Lunch is filling and delicious, and as we sit around the table munching on the last of the Christmas candy we can rest assured that there’s been a job well done.

The Path that Runs by Frostlight

2010-12-21T14:28:00.001-08:00

Bench, originally uploaded by The Neepster.

Slight and all alone, where will you go?

The frost beckons down the path,

will you follow,

will you follow it?

Sit down on this bench and rest,

no hurry now to run.

The path that runs by frostlight

will not perish in the sun.

And So, Here We Are.

2010-12-13T20:32:00.000-08:00

So I didn't finish NaNoWriMo. That's OK, though! it was my first try, after all. I am roughly 16,800 words through my novel (which I'm temporarily calling B and B), and that's huge as far as I'm concerned.

Here is a snippet from the second chapter of my book, one of the "turning point scenes". What do you honestly think of the style and content? I'm looking for feedback.

Gracia was a woman who knew things. All of Whitcrowe was aware of it. She was spoken of as a wise woman. An interesting lassie. A queer one. A woman ye would’na want to cross. She was sweet, pretty, plump, and hospitable. She was also Bess’s mother, and Cecily thought of her as a second mum.

Bess’s face showed in the window before Cecily had even reached the door, and a line of concern spread across her brow as she disappeared to open the door. She stood there with her mother in the back, wringing her hands in her apron. “Dice and bones, Cessy, what’s bringin’ ye here at this time of night?”

Cecily gave an uncomfortable look towards Gracia, who quickly put a hand on Bess’s shoulder and whispered something in her ear. Still frowning, her friend moved out of the way and Cecily ducked inside the entrance.

The cottage was furnished almost exactly like Alis and Cecily’s, only with a tall piece of furniture from the wealthier days of Lander’s ancestors. Gracia intimated that they climb the ladder into the loft above and Cecily followed her up, carefully avoiding Bess. Once up in the sleeping-storage area, the two sat down on the floor and Gracia looked deep into Cecily’s eyes. “You’ve sought me out, Cessy? I can see you are terribly upset.” The girl gave a little nod and sat silent, rubbing the tips of her fingers with her thumb. “I understand that your mother is feeling no better?” Another nod. Gracia sighed. “Dearie, you’ll have to tell me what the matter is if I am to help in any way! Do you need food? Herbs? Any care that we can give?”

Cecily shook her head and tried to articulate, “Ms. Gracia, I’ve tried so hard—prayed so much—said all I could,” she started to choke and Gracia laid one work-worn hand on her shoulder.

“I’ve seen it all, dearie. You’ve aged several years over the past months, and I’ve been wondering if there’s aught the rest of us could do.”

“Give me answers! That’s all I want. I’m tired of asking others for what I should be able to do by myself. I’m tired of going to someone else.”

Gracia lifted one eyebrow and folded her hands in her lap. “Contrary to popular opinion, I am not a worker of miracles. I cannot heal the sick or answer great questions. But before the tears start up in your eyes again, I will share something I’ve learned over the years.” She leaned in close as if to give the full impact of her next words, “God does not share power. We have to make it from what we are given. We all have power, power that our vicar can only imagine. It is the energy to do great things, make things happen that would not happen otherwise. You’re afraid, aren’t you, Cessy? Do not be. This is all a part of learning. You must learn what kind of potential is in yourself. You don’t have to come to me, anything is possible if you will but think it so. Spend time thinking, Cessy. Cultivate that power. It will serve you well when the testing comes.”

Cecily was perfectly still for several long moments without noticing the passing of time. It was something to think on, something different. She stood to go and Gracia went down the ladder before her. On her way out Cecily’s gaze met Bess’s and they smiled at each other. All would be well.

P.S. I don't exactly agree with some of the sentiments expressed! It's all part of my convoluted plot....

P.P.S. I have started a blog for this project: www.beastandbeauty.com

NaNoWriMo

2010-11-01T09:51:00.000-07:00

So, in case anyone out there in Blogland is wondering why I've been absent lately, there are two major reasons:

October has, quite possibly, been the busiest month of my entire life.
I've been developing a story idea, gearing up for NaNoWriMo.

Yep, that's right. I'm taking the plunge. No short, quippy, introspective sketches for me this month. No sir, it's hard-core writing time!

I commit to at least attempt (I will not say succeed) to write a 50,000 word novel in the next thirty days. I can't promise it will be good, or even readable, but I do promise to write. And that's what counts, isn't it? For me at least.

I am my own worst critic (unless there's some horrible person out there I'm not aware of), so it has always been hard for me to follow through on a big writing project. This time, I'm committing. Aggh!

If anyone else is doing NaNo, I'd love to be your buddy! My username is: LearningLark

Wish me luck!

Demolition Derby

2010-10-04T18:38:00.000-07:00

Spicewood VFD 2009 Demolition Derby, originally uploaded by jrandallc.

Entering the rodeo grounds we are immediately conscious of the crowds, swarming like so many flies. My eye roams over a multi-colored mob, searching for someone I know, and hoping to God that they don’t notice me. Hairy legs and scruffy beards migrate through the dust and fading sunlight, and you wonder if the girl in stripes is pregnant or just fat. Probably the latter.

An assessment of a cross section of this fearsome crowd would be an examination of an entire caste. This is a society distinct from any other, most similar perhaps, if any similarity could possibly be found elsewhere in the semi-civilized world, to the savage Romans of old. The pagan Romans, however, had the added advantages of Cicero, Lucretius, Seneca, and Musonius Rufus, some brilliant minds amongst them, some shining stars whose light glanced through despite their heathen culture. This class would seem to have few such stars.

Civilizations are perhaps most often characterized by the works of architecture they leave behind. If so, the Arkansan hillbilly would be defined by his aluminum bleachers and stadium flood lights just as the Romans are by their Coliseum. The inflatable pig (that resembles no such animal) atop the concession stand mocks its merchandise, the corn dog and inevitable funnel cake booths dot the small strip of dirt. The glamorous Parsons Stadium itself is commodious and crude, but accomplishes its purpose well.

The real spectacle here, however, is the people. A description of various representatives of the crowd would run thus: A man with a glaring t-shirt sporting a barely clothed blonde; the teenage girl with a pink stud in her tongue; a fellow with short cropped hair and scrawled over with two arms’ worth of tattoos; one curious stranger who could easily slip into the role of Judas Iscariot (his hair and lowering brow closely resemble one’s mental image of the betrayer); the untold dozens of men and women wearing one piece or another of hunting gear, and numerous other eccentric persons.

Of course, this humorous and mocking account of the attending crown would not be entirely accurate if I insisted on the point that not a single decent person was in attendance. Indeed there are, scattered in amongst the camouflage baseball caps, several people who appear to belong to other strata of the human race. Some women comb their hair and dress nicely, some men have the audacity to tuck their shirts into their jeans (and shirts with collars, no less). However, in describing my overall impressions of the melee, I must necessarily gloss over such irregularities and glaring contradictions.

I imagine that one unique feature of traveling abroad in a foreign country would be the sensation of hearing a different language spoken all about one. It is here I learn that one need not cross the border to experience this sensation. The language is entirely foreign to me, and I feel entirely immersed in a culture diametrically opposed to that of my native land. The sounds, sights, and smells have all the glamour of a circus sideshow, and all the excitement of a dogfight.

This being the prevailing atmosphere of the place, predictably, the exalted spectacle is likewise singular. Battered vehicles, years past their prime, are smeared over with gaudy paints and support fiendish mascots. Mangled hulls plunge and strike, careening wildly over the track. The more perilous the position of the driver, whether trapped in an overturned automobile or driving a vehicle erupting in flames, the more the crowd shouts, stamps, and roars. The only exception to this general rule is their enthusiastic applause when the driver is safely delivered and performs a celebratory victory dance.

When each new heat begins there is such a stamping and hooting that the stands seem about to collapse. The derby drivers’ parallels in the Roman world, the gladiators of old, would no doubt find the clamorous event a familiar one. The cheers of the crowd greeting the victor of a head-on collision between two wailing derby cars is more than reminiscent of those of the raucous Roman nobles lauding the skill of a roaring lion tearing at the flesh of the hapless martyr.

The intermission brings with it a blessed respite from the squealing of tires and the revving of motors devoid of mufflers. The John Deere ‘zamboni’ smoothes the dirt of the arena, scored as it is by screeching wheels and spattered by fluid from crushed radiators. After an absence all too short for my liking, the man with the obscene shirt comes back and sits in front of me…empty handed. They’ve stopped selling beer down below.

Everyone stands for the commencement of the final round. 79 ploughs into 51, yellow, blue, and orange flags flap in the wind from the windows of the machines of destruction. 73, 51, and 69 are smashed together, 13 flies about like a madman. The roar is deafening and my right earplug is falling out. A thrill of excitement ripples through me, despite the ludicrous nature of the scene below. The carnage is great as lumps of twisted and distorted metal lie scattered like gore in the arena. A black, hood painted with the colors of the Mexican flag, huffs and puffs about, smoke pours from car hoods and 56 seems possessed of the Devil. One dusty, nondescript vehicle is pushed over the barrier till he is half in and half out of the arena. The despairing driver drops his flag. 12 and 13 seem exhausted, but fight on for the glory.

I am an outsider and have no special partiality, but most everyone else seems to be rooting for their favorite scrap of metal. There is a smell of beer on the breeze and clouds of smoke and dust billow up from the track, illuminated in the stadium lights. Sparks fly from ‘Johnny 77’, and the insatiable 69 screams forward at an alarming pace. Flames leap from the red car and are quickly extinguished by someone on the edge, his flag yet hangs aloft. 43, looking much the worse for wear, clatters back and forth, wreaking havoc. Black smoke, white smoke and various other unidentified and indigestible fumes fill the air. The contestants are like three-legged dogs with one eye apiece. They fight till each one oozes with blood. Another flag down. They fight to the last. $3,000, a fine quarry for such sport.

Entering into the spirit of the game, my eyes stay riveted in spite of myself. All aflame, will the Mexican car retreat? The crowd stamps its feet and the valiant little blue flag goes down in the smoke. Countdown to the finish. Three cars remain. Deadlock. Collision. 13 is primed for victory, hitting 7 and 69 in turn. A great pop is heard as 13 pummels 69. The orange car is full of bravado, but is in pretty bad shape. 7’s flag falls. The driver of 69 snaps his off before being rammed again for the hundredth time. The little gray Chevy triumphs.

As the crowd cheers and roars and runs down into the arena to congratulate the winner and sympathize with the losers, I see an overweight woman wearing a Bass Pro T-shirt wobbling down the rows of bleachers and hear the announcer’s pronounced Southern accent boom out over the stadium. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

That Simple?

2010-09-16T13:24:00.000-07:00

Free Mall Girls Riding on The Escalator Creative Commons, originally uploaded by Pink Sherbet Photography.

There she goes, walking down the street. She's wearing cheap crystal jewelry and shorts too small, but she looks like she's on top of the world. What puts the spring in her step, the light in her eyes? What rocks her world? What makes her shine? Is it as simple as it seems to be? Simple as it seems...I wonder.

She's arm in arm with a girl her own age and they're giggling at overpriced shoes. Smiling at a baby boy, trying on matching blouses, seeing how ridiculous they can look. Is it as simple as it seems to be? Simple as it seems...I wonder.

Hershey chocolate. Pink mechanical pencils. Hannah Montana hats. Homework together. Glittery green eyeshadow. Girl talk and texting. Tears on a shoulder. Splitting a sandwich. Is it as simple as it seems to be? It's just as simple as it seems.

Studying in Comfort

2010-09-13T09:25:00.000-07:00

The intricate patterns left by rain originally uploaded by GirlReporter

A hot cup of chai by the rainy window;

my day slips behind a cloud and I'm so grateful.

Try to bother me with future responsibilities.

I'm doing my work and it's all I can do

in this moment.

Rain on my Parade

2010-09-02T08:25:00.001-07:00

Return to Washington Square Park, Aug 2009 - 43, originally uploaded by E

Nothing like a couple of lovers to ruin a perfectly beautiful day.

The temperature is ideal--balmy with a slight cool breeze. I am sitting on a sturdy park bench, soaking up the dappled shade of the humongous tree overhead, and delving into a favorite book. It is so easy to imagine that the world holds nothing but promise, nothing but peace, nothing but pleasure. I am alone and thriving on the deep musings of my favorite theologian.

And then I see them enter my fuzzy peripheral vision.

I don't quite care about the intrusion at first. They are walking hand in hand, tripping over each other's feet and giggling under their breath. Then they sit down on the bench right across from me as if they mean to stay. The woman is a curvy tart in a red dress (startling cleavage) and the guy's heavily gelled hair positively screams "Look at me, shouldn't I be in the next issue of GQ?" But even that would be tolerable. If they'd just sit there on the bench, admiring the grass and commenting on songbirds, it would be just fine with me.

But are they content with that? No. They have to start kissing.

I know it's a free country. They have every right to slaver all over each other's necks if they want to. But do they have to do it here and now to blight my picturesque landscape? You'd think that they would like to do this sort of thing in private, away from the madding crowd as it were. But no, they seem just fine with a studious college girl gawking at them from across the gravel path.

Why does this bother me so much? Is it petty jealousy? I can't imagine that I'm as shallow as all that. Sure, I've never had a guy stick his nose in my ear before, but it doesn't exactly strike me as a pleasant sensation in the first place.

Perhaps it's because I'm just downright pessimistic. I can see Mr. GQ dumping this tart for an even smaller dress in a moment. I'm already seeing the day when Miss Cleavage gets a phone call, bursts into tears, and then goes to dinner with some other random guy the next week.

But maybe that isn't so.

Maybe I'm completely wrong about those two. What if they are actually falling in love, real love, lasting love? Maybe he got up this morning and gunked his hair up just for her. Maybe she put that dress on because it's his favorite color. Maybe they are going to Mary Kay to pick out matching rings right after they leave this park. Maybe, in the year 2070 they will still be together, sitting on a park bench, whispering sweet nothings to one another.

I can't concentrate, so I pick up my book and walk back down the path in search of a more secluded spot. I leave that funny little couple, still locked in a passionate embrace, and try once more to reverse my thinking. Try to think positively. Try to convince myself that this world does hold nothing but promise, nothing but peace, nothing but pleasure. If only for a moment.

Dialog in L'Orangerie

2010-07-29T09:30:00.000-07:00

Château de Versailles - L'Orangerie - 26-05-2007 - 17h31, originally uploaded by Panoramas.

Le Compte de Dumazet and Madame Baudoin (of Louis XIV's court) are strolling about the orangery at Versailles when we drop in to overhear their fascinating conversation.

"She is la belle dame sans merci."

"Who, Madame Clairvoi?"

"Oui, that is the one."

"Why, Count, I think you rather unkind! What crime has Madame ever committed against you?"

"She has ignored me and scoffed at me. And I am only one man! The entire court has been riddled with the woman's bullets."

"Truly, has she broken all your hearts? Perhaps she merely does not want to be paid attention to."

"How can she not be attended? The way she dresses, walks, speaks in one's ear, it is too much! One cannot help attending."

"Surely she is not all that attractive. If she does not want to be bothered why do you men insist on wooing her?"

"She is the most irresistible woman in the world."

"Goodness! Have you any idea how many women here at court would give their front teeth to have such a man as you thinking that way about them?"

"Many of them have lost those bargaining chips already."

"What are you insinuating, Count?"

"Only that Madame Clairvoi is one of the few women at this court who are still possessed of the teeth they were born with."

"Oh, how cruel of you! You know that it is hardly these womens' fault. Do we not all fear the barber's weapons? Surely even you tremble before a dentist."

"I may tremble, Madame, but I overcome my fear."

"Lest you lose what you value most in the world? Namely your beauty? What do you value most, my dear Count? I should really like to know."

"The love of a good woman."

"Oh, most unfortunate of all men! What a terrible curse to wish for that which is completely impossible in this day and place. Perhaps a good game of tennis would calm your yearning."
"Nonsense, Madame. My romantic notions refuse to be quelled."

"On the contrary, I believe that a man's sporting nature often rivals and can overcome his romantic spirits."

"We are come to an impasse. I believe myself hopelessly in love, and you believe that my ailment may be cured by tennis. I say that the only cure is a kiss from Madame Clairvoi."

"You are incorrigible! That woman is not worthy of your high praise and approbation, no matter how many teeth she may have in her head."

"Shall we walk once more about L'Orangerie, Madame?"

"Yes indeed, that I may convince you of the foolishness of your infatuation...."

Prelude to a Dance

2010-07-15T17:00:00.000-07:00

She ducked into the cool air conditioning and realized that she was sweating. The dim room filled with people and the sound of idle chatter. She had been right. No one else there was dressed in a formal gown. Much less a hot pink one.

Glancing around the room like a frightened animal, Hester could feel every vein and capillary in her body fill to bursting. Patrick wasn't in here. Suddenly Isabel was standing directly in front of her. "Hester! Hey girl, I'm so glad you could come! The rain has ruined the outdoor setup so we've moved all the tables we could into the dining room. The food is in the living room and some people are eating in there on the couches. Eat as much as you can, the caterers made enough to feed an army!" She gave Hester a peck on the cheek and with a flash of black silk and sequins walked off to congratulate the county sheriff on his recent election, leaving the new arrival feeling slightly dazed.

Hester moved quietly into the living room, pouring herself a glass of iced green tea as she listened hard for the one voice in all that crowd that mattered to her. She thought she heard something familiar...and set down her glass to look around again. There was a little cluster of businessmen in one corner, looking very serious; a middle aged woman in a ridiculous leopard print hat nibbled a tea sandwich by the window. Two teenage boys were snickering and loading up their plates. A few young girls sat around a coffee table, earnestly conversing. Isabel was going back into the foyer in answer to the tinkling doorbell, ah! There he was.

In a large chair across the room Patrick was whispering something to a tall blonde young man eating a Brie-smeared water cracker. It was a little shocking to see him after three long empty months. His face was still as kind as ever, and that little brown curl fell just so over his left temple. If she stood here he probably wouldn't notice her any time soon. Hester summoned up all the courage she had left to pick up one grudging foot off the floor and move it a few inches ahead.

At that moment the large, boisterous Mr. Montez came up to her, flashing a huge smile. "Good evening Hester! It's been far too long since you've been here. Can I get you something to drink? I believe that this is Amelia's famous green tea." She glanced at her full glass sitting on the table as her gracious host started filling another with ice. "Yes please, that would be great."

Moments later she was by herself again. Biting her lip she swayed a little from side to side, forgetting where she was in the stress of wondering what on earth to do. Once again that awful temptation - If he doesn't see me I can always leave! I'll just slip out of the room and...he was coming toward her. What do I want from him? What can I expect? Patrick was now a few feet from her. "Hello, Hester. I didn't know that you would be here."

"Mom is friends with Mrs. Montez."

"Oh, is that it? I went to school with Isabel. Well, it's good to see you again! How have you been these last few months?"

How have I been? Without seeing or hearing from you? What do you expect? "Oh, I'm still working at Twig's. Same old thing. I heard about Mona." There she had finally said it.

Patrick looked down at his shoes and answered, "Sorry I haven't called. It's been a rough few months. How was your trip to Maine?"

OK. He didn't want to talk about Ramona. She could understand that. Hester gave him all the details she could recall about that happy weekend - the sunshine, the waves, the Portland Head Lighthouse, the perfect photo ops, and picnics in the sand. He listened with polite attention, his eyes never straying from her face. It was rather unnerving, really. Those bright blue eyes, lit by a fire from the inside, were two lamps set deep into his face.

Gradually, they both became aware of a change in the atmosphere. The little clots of guests began to break up and mill around the room, men and women began pairing up, and there was a general shift toward the living room door. After a brief surge of noise and laughter, the room got much quieter. Isabel's songbird voice called from the foyer, "All right, everyone, it's time for the graduation waltz! Come out to the patio and we'll try to stay dry." All of a sudden, Patrick was moving away from her, and a piece by Bach began to play. "Excuse me, I've got to go. Be back in just a minute."

He strode across the room towards the door and disappeared into the foyer. Everyone was moving, but Hester was one of the still. Come, come here; I want to dance. Why should they get to be close to one another and I have to stand here? I want to feel that we're close, just for a moment. I want to have a part of me fulfilled, just one dance would do it. Surely one dance would do it. It was the desperate cry of her heart, a longing that made her feel like crying and screaming all at once. Why did Patrick have to leave just now? Why did she have to think of him this way? Why, Why, Why couldn't she just let Ramona have him? Why wouldn't Mona let him go?

English Tea at the Sheraton, originally uploaded by Steve & Jemma Copley.

Rain and Anxiety

2010-05-31T19:47:00.000-07:00

Rain had been threatening for the past few hours, but all she could think about was the stain on her left shoe. Dark and splotchy it was, marring an otherwise perfect pink high heel. Looking up, a single humid curl fell across her left eye, and she surveyed the lowering sky for the first time.

Desperation seized her, and an image of Patrick flashed across her mind. Standing up quickly, so quickly that her head spun and darkness swam around the edges of her vision, she took a few jerky steps down the gravel path. She could almost hear him calling her, but did she have the strength to go? Others were filtering in through the door, a flash of thunder cracked against the sky, but the rain held off. The car was still parked a little beyond the front gate, it would be so easy to dart back inside to the warm, comfortable upholstery, forgetting about Patrick and all that might happen if she crossed that threshold.

Ramona had been dead only three months, it was too early. The rain would ruin the party anyway; no would expect her to come, so none would miss her. The dress was probably too fancy for the occasion, and Maude had said that it didn't suit her coloring. The stain on her shoe, everyone would notice it. Patrick might not even recognize her with her hair done up in beautiful braids and curls instead of wadded up in a ponytail; he might not know her in a rustling gown after only ever seeing her in her old jogging shorts. Yes, it would be so much better to go back to the car and forget the whole silly business.

And then she heard a laugh from inside the house. That ringing, high-pitched, contagious laugh that made you break into a smile just to hear it. It was a laugh that had echoed through the last three years of her life with startling clarity and frequency. The laugh seemed to tie everything together in one massive bundle of nerves and expectation and memory and joy and pain and longing and eagerness. She hadn't even noticed that she had been slowly walking away toward the front gate, and suddenly turned on her heel, walking back to the house as fast as her heels would take her. A cool wet breeze swept across the lawn and the first sprinkles began to fall as she took a deep breath and gathered up her skirts to enter the house.

Late for the Ball, originally uploaded by BdwayDiva1.

My Explanation

2010-05-24T20:26:00.000-07:00

Dear Polly,

You can't seem to imagine why I've made this decision. You think it entirely unlike me, and in some ways I admit that you're right. When I was growing up I had no idea that I would turn down this path, it was the last thing on my mind, but I believe that there has always been something in me from the very beginning that was bringing me to this place, and if I may, I'd like to explain as much of that as I can to you.

I grew up in a small town, a very small town. Full of small brown houses, small minds, and small stray cats. I was a small girl with dirty blonde hair, who hoped and dreamed and prayed that there was something beyond Bayden, Iowa. I knew next to nothing of the outside world, but I did imagine what might be outside.

Sometimes when I was walking up and down Bayden's wide main street, feeling the summer sun scorch my bare feet, I would look at the ground and then glance up, very suddenly, as if hoping to surprise a wild animal. There were days when I thought I could glimpse something as my head jerked up, a fleeting image of a fairytale castle, perhaps, instead of sun-baked suburban storefronts. Once I half believed that I had really seen a shining white unicorn in my Uncle's corn field, just for a moment before the breeze blew by and the long stalks stiffened. I would climb high up on mossy stone bluffs and look out over the forest floor, staying very quiet lest I disturb the fairies I was sure were hiding under every leaf and rotting log.

Of course, when I got to be a teenager I tried to forget that I had ever been foolish enough to believe in that sort of childish thing. But I still imagined that there had to be something beyond the smallness of Bayden. Even now, whenever I hear an especially loud air conditioner with a peculiar rattle, I'm back in the town library, where I spent hours sitting in a folding metal chair reading books on New York City, Chicago, Los Angeles, and any other big cities I could get my hands on. My castles in the air turned into skyscrapers, and I spent insomniac nights fantasizing about what it would be like to ride in a bright yellow taxi down crowded streets between those behemoths of modern architecture.

I can't say that my parents liked the idea of me going to the city, but it became such a fixation of mine that they finally gave in. After working at Arby's for a couple of years and establishing a great relationship with a little-known cousin in New York City, I was ready to spread my wings and fly to the only solace my aching heart could imagine.

That's where you met me, in The City that Never Sleeps. I know that I didn't sleep for those first few days, I was intoxicated with the sheer contrast of this place to the one I had left behind. All of a sudden I was catapulted into a world where there the corn was in the greenmarkets, the houses were in the sky, and the people were everywhere. You were my first real friend in NYC, and I'll always be grateful to Mona for introducing us.

On fire for everything "un-Iowan" that I could find, I was so eager to learn all you could teach me, and I think I learned quickly. Too quickly, perhaps. One rainy October day I realized that the skyscrapers were no more magical than my cornfield unicorn. The city didn't satisfy me. I will always love hustle and bustle: the noise of thousands of people doing fun, exciting, meaningful things; New York City will never leave my heart. Nevertheless, it didn't fill that gap in my life.

A week after my revelation, Mona told me something that revolutionized me. I had asked her if she had ever had a deep yearning for something unreachable, and what she said was like electricity skimming through my veins.

That is why I became a nun.

Disappearing Tower, originally uploaded by *PaysImaginaire*

Young Lady in a Carriage

2010-03-20T17:06:00.000-07:00

It was half past six on a snowy evening when an attractive young lady with a very bad head cold could be seen driving home in a coach. Her usually creamy complexion now reddened to an unnatural color, deep chocolate eyes rather puffy, and nose rubbed raw, she clutched a sodden handkerchief with desperate gloved fingers.

Yesterday had been quite different. It was an uncharacteristically fine spring day, full of sun and birdsong and the promise of picnics. Now the world was transformed into a cold, blustery gray thing with every tree and hedge covered in a thin sheet of wind-whipped white. Our young lady thought Nature's tricks quite disgusting.

Bumping and jolting over rutted roads, she couldn't think what to do with herself after this. The party at Lady Langdon's being cut short, there would be no end of dullness waiting at home. Mother would be sitting in the corner, covered in black lace, pointing accusatory eyes at her needlework. John would be locked in his room, studying (as usual). Why on earth did this horrid weather have to come at this time of all times? The pathetic lady blew noisily into her handkerchief, disturbing the sleep of a fat gentleman seated in the opposite corner of the coach. With a sigh, she turned once more to the foggy window, a glass which obscured a world she would rather not see.

Suddenly, she heard a rather alarming noise...

Snow 2010, originally uploaded by Ian Webb (jukebox).

The Figure

2010-03-01T20:33:00.000-08:00

img001-i, originally uploaded by *Zephyrance - don't wake me up..

Standing alone, you can see beauty in the dullest things. Browned weeds, trembling in a little breeze; concrete pillars between metal bars; street-lamps high and garbage low upon the street-side. Standing alone, it all harmonizes. Colors meld and blur, coalescing into a subtly varied palette of wheat and barley, flax and iron. Old stones, new pavement, thrown together into this scene and somehow making it, no matter how contrasting.

Standing alone, you can see that the beauty is in the way the golden light of afternoon slants over the street-side, and how a figure in purple sets off the deeper tones in everything around her. The weeds are now picturesque--waving tendrils of deadened springtime--and the pavement is romanticized--an empty road leading somewhere. All because of that figure, standing alone.

Morning

2010-02-22T07:54:00.003-08:00

It was a morning heartbreaking in its beauty. Clouds had been spread generously, like butter, across the sky. Gentle light showed through them and melted over the dewy fields.

Gardens trembled in anticipation as the cool breeze came to meet them; it swept back leaves and ruffled petals, ever so lightly. The tall, woody zinnias swayed to the zephyr's gentle touch. Tiny flowers with tissue-petals drank in the cloudy light while succulent herbs stood patient and erect. Damp soil called to graceful tree, and the trees whispered secrets to the wind. It was still early and the insects of the night continued to sing in defiance of the sun. Birds in the treetops began to awake, however, and a rooster trumpeted his ultimatum to the dawn.

Another morning had begun.

Indulge Me

2010-01-30T15:24:00.000-08:00

A thrill of music and a sudden look across the room. Our eyes meet and you look away. Always so shy, why can't you say something, why can't you look at me? Everyone is moving, but we are two of the still. Come, come here; I want to dance. I want to feel that we're close, just for a moment. I want to have a part of me fulfilled, one dance would do it.

Then we're meeting, clasping hands, and in one wild moment you spin me around. I'm flying on golden wings! Stepping in time to the music, we may be dancing badly, but who cares? Just a twirl here, a graceful sweep there, and it feels as though the world is revolving dizzily around us, leaving us all alone in the eye of the storm.

Don't think about tomorrow, don't think about today. Don't think about where we'll be when this music ends! Just hold on tight and look into my eyes for once. This won't go any deeper, it can't, but for one moment I want to feel that we're close. I want to feel fulfilled, I must, for a moment. Just dance. Just dance. And somehow there won't be consequences, no repercussions, no second guessing. It will all end with the music, and my golden moment will be over. I'm selfish, I can't give you anything, but just dance. Please. Just dance.

Baklava and Broken Dreams

2010-01-18T18:08:00.000-08:00

Flames to dust,

Lovers to friends.

Why do all good things come to an end?

-Nelly Furtado and Chris Martin

She relished the moment of slipping the little metal key, still warm from the pocket of her wool overcoat, into the lock of her bakery’s back door. Stepping out of a cold alley into the cozy kitchen was always the highlight of Lisbeth Arrow’s day. Sometimes she would hang her coat on its peg behind the door and delay the switching on of the lights for as long as possible. As she stared at the kitchen it would begin to solidify in the hazy predawn. Barely lit by the blue of a streetlight outside the front windows, pots and pans and stainless steel countertops would shine bright against soft shadows. Then the brilliant flash of the fluorescent lights, a flick of a switch and the entire bakery would stand illuminated, ready to give her whatever she desired, to move under her fingertips into the creations she had in mind. Rolling up her sleeves Lisbeth would glance at the clock and throw on an apron, eager to delve into that morning’s baking.

Bakery assistant Heidi Calloway always arrived at six o’ clock sharp, usually standing still for a few moments, jingling keys in her pocket while appraising Lisbeth’s culinary progress. Once satisfied she went to take stock of the pantry, then joined her comrade in the kitchen. Kurt would come half an hour later to find the two of them giggling over stacks of muffin tins, hands white with flour.

Then the magic moment would arrive--the moment when morning sun illuminates the puffs of chimney smoke from snug little houses and traffic begins to flow in earnest. Lisbeth was always the one to fling open the front door, welcoming the morning with open arms. Serving the day’s first customer was always a fresh, exciting experience. The man or woman would exchange a smile with Lisbeth over the counter, then tentatively point to a flaky pastry or thick slice of warm banana bread in the shiny glass case. Bending down, Lisbeth lovingly folded the desired treat into a sheet of waxed paper, handing it over to the delighted customer. There was no feeling like it in the world.

Lisbeth had given a lot for this bakery. It had been a slow, agonizing process. Four years ago her parents had enrolled her in the local community college with the idea of an associate degree in public relations. One month into the semester Lisbeth threw her family for a loop when she told them that she wanted to own a bakery. Everyone was incredulous and decided that the ambition would soon wear off. It didn’t. She dropped out of college as soon as possible and started researching small business practices. A couple months later she got in touch with some realtors and began shopping around for a suitable building. She knew when she saw the small old-fashioned stone structure on the main street of a small town that it was the fulfillment of her dream. Using all the money she had ever saved and what had been allotted for her higher education she bought the building and fitted it out as a bakery. There was no going back to college after that.

The one thing that might have dissuaded her from running her own bakery was Jared Bancroft, the dreamy twenty-four year old who had stolen her heart. They had been going steady for almost a year when he began asking her whether or not this was a feasible enterprise. Lisbeth was confident in it, but Jared seemed doubtful. After the business had been up and going for three months Jared had started saying that Lisbeth cared more about the bakery than she did about him. She assured him that of course it wasn’t true, and that she would be able to spend more time with him…very soon. About a year or so after that Jared had all but stopped speaking to her, but she was too busy to do anything about it.

On the morning of January 6 Lisbeth was spreading spoonfuls of orange marmalade (the slightly bitter kind with lots of lovely rind) over rolled-out dough, then she ladled on just the right amount of melted butter and brown sugar for her signature marmalade rolls. Humming to herself, she pondered her secret plan for that evening: she was going to make something she hadn’t attempted in years--baklava. This Greek dessert had always beaten her in the past, as she was not the lightest hand at delicate pastry. 20 layers of butter-brushed phyllo dough were required for the perfect baklava, interspersed with honey, nuts, nutmeg, cinnamon, and cloves. After this the baklava is cut into diamond shaped pieces and baked until golden brown, then drizzled with a special syrup. A challenge, but a greatly rewarding one, resulting in a gorgeous, addictive dessert. She was looking forward the time when Heidi and Kurt would leave and she would have the entire kitchen to herself.

Several hours and not too many customers later, it was closing time. As she began to wash a ginormous cookie sheet, Lisbeth noticed Heidi in her peripheral vision. The wispy little bakery assistant (Lisbeth had no idea how she kept that figure, despite the dozens of chocolate chip cookies the girl made daily) was walking toward the sink, a vexed look of concern glinting through her small eyeglasses. She mumbled something to Lisbeth and motioned her employer over to one of the small Formica tables, over which was scattered dozens of papers and a calculator--Lisbeth’s mind began to reel.

It only took about two seconds for her to realize that the bakery was gone, forever. The imminent danger had been festering in the back of her mind for months, maybe years. She had never feared failure, but always met difficulties head-on. Success was something she had never doubted, until now.

As she had examined the ledgers, stared at receipts, and tried to be optimistic, Lisbeth had pushed all the numbers and vague suspicions into dark corners of her mind, forgetting it all and delving deeper into vanilla beans and fresh pecans. But that didn’t change the inevitable truth. Heidi was here to tell her that the bakery would have to close. And Lisbeth knew that she was right. This little town couldn’t support a bakery, taxes were too high, and what little she had to keep the place afloat disappeared long ago. An alien blindness began to creep over her, blurring her vision.

Heidi blinked. “We can’t get away from it. What are we going to do?”

“I love that ‘we’.”

“Come on, Lizzy, you know what I mean. We’ll both be out of a job.”

She knew it was weakness, but tears came shooting into the corners of Lisbeth’s eyes and the tip of her nose began to prickle ominously. A job? The bakery was more than a job--it was her life! Heidi had family, friends, college studies, a life outside Danishes and apple fritters. Lisbeth had given up her other life for this little piece of Heaven. She’d sacrificed her higher education and life savings, even her boyfriend, pouring everything into it: time, effort, blood, sweat, and tears. And it had been worth it for so long. Though barely supporting her financially it had given her a feeling of purpose and fulfillment she had never had before. Now? It had ceased producing money and so it would soon cease producing pleasure. Heidi pushed her glasses higher up the bridge of her nose. “Lizzy, what are you going to do?”

“Oh, get a job at Wal-Mart I guess. Isn’t that what every entrepreneurial failure does?”

Heidi gave her a pair of soft eyes and a sympathetic half-smile. “It wasn’t your fault, you know. It’s this economy; everyone’s getting hit hard these days.” These days. What was it about these days? How could people sacrifice the bliss of biting into a warm buttered blueberry scone, no matter what the crisis?

“Thank you, Heidi, but I’m a very realistic person. I’m finished with optimism and I’m facing the world as it is.” Lisbeth swiped at a renegade tear, slipped out of her chair and went back to the sink to finish the cookie sheet. Kurt had gone home and Heidi whispered that she had to help her roommate with a paper, so Lisbeth was left alone in a kitchen full of soapy water and crusty pans. All thoughts of baklava had long since flown, replaced by that creeping darkness and a clammy knot in her throat.


What do you do after facing the fact that you will have to leave behind everything you’ve lived for for the past three and a half years? There’s no simple answer in a dry county. But the town did have one very special place where every poor unfortunate went to drown their sorrows. It was a quiet little restaurant on a back street, the windows lit up with neon lights. Outside hung a sign with big blue letters: The Bar - Ice Cream ‘til Midnight.

That’s where Lisbeth headed on the night of January 6. The front door swung open, shaking a strident little bell, and she stepped onto the cold linoleum. The Bar was full of people though it was already eleven o’clock. She wedged herself onto a bright red swivel stool at the counter, brushing the shoulders of a haggard middle-aged man on one side and a punk teenage girl on the other. What might have been a humorous scene at some other time was now just a little clot of humanity, trying to force its way through the world in one piece. They all gathered here for strength, in the knowledge that none of them was alone, and some solace could be had in a double scoop cone of rocky road.

Lisbeth ordered, and the chubby waitress shuffled back into the kitchen. She stared at the scratched stainless steel of the countertop and traced little designs on the greasy surface with her index finger. Someone had used a key to scratch “Jackie + Mark”. How sweet.

The cone came, and she marveled at the globs of marshmallows and toasted almond slivers swimming in slippery balls of chocolate. She stared at it long enough to see a long drip start from the east side and begin slipping down onto the cone. Lisbeth expected the first bite to be ecstasy, but the knot in her throat had dulled her sense of taste, adding insult to injury.

Before Lisbeth had finished her first scoop the customer on her left changed, and in the place of the tired man with strawberry came a good-looking brunette woman of thirty-odd years who ordered pistachio. Disappointed in her ice cream, Lisbeth decided to distract herself by striking up a friendly little conversation with her neighbor. She began by remarking on the lady’s bandaged right hand. The hand was jerked back and hid in the lady’s lap. “Oh, that? It’s not much, just ten stitches.” Noticing Lisbeth’s inquiring look she added, “I was in a car wreck a few days ago.” She sounded nonchalant enough, but a few seconds later Lisbeth saw a suspicious glimmer in the corners of her eyes.

“Was it a bad wreck?”

“Totaled my car.”

“Oh, how awful.” They sat in awkward silence for a moment.

“Ah, it’s all my fault.” The glimmer intensified and became angry. The brunette’s next words were inexplicable. “Flames to dust, lovers to friends.”

“Excuse me?” Lisbeth had once heard that you should never trust anyone who liked pistachios; she began to wonder. Another woman came in to take the punk teen’s place--a blonde who ordered cappuccino chocolate in a bowl.

The brunette seemed to be in a talkative mood. “When I was a girl my uncle owned a BMW convertible, and sometimes he would take me out driving on the highway. I absolutely loved the wind in my hair and the sun on my face…when I was ten I promised myself that I would have a Bimmer of my own someday. It seemed impossible when I married John, my husband is a plumber, but I went to school to become a surgeon. For years I worked and saved and worked and saved until I finally had enough money. After driving a ‘99 Honda Civic for nearly a decade I found the car of my dreams--a 2007 BMW 335i Convertible, gunmetal gray with red leather interior.”

Lisbeth had begun to nibble at her chocolaty cone. The blonde on her right gave the waitress a smile when she got her ice cream. The brunette ate a spoonful of her melty green glop. A moment later her eyes turned again to Lisbeth’s face with a peculiar look of mingled glamour and ecstasy. “Driving it off the lot was one of those things I’ll never forget as long as I live. The spring and energy of my convertible was…unparalleled. I poured myself into that car, treated it like my own child. I must have washed, waxed and polished it nearly every day.”

Her eyes were staring into space now, reliving the feel of an engine leaping forward, bounding ahead of her, eager to flash past the next curve in the road. Then she collapsed and her voice lost all sparkle and verve. “I wonder how many hours I wasted. A few weeks ago I lost it all in one of those one-car accidents where you wonder what on earth the driver was thinking. It just goes to show that no matter what you gain in life, it can all go away like that.” The bitterness in her voice was unmistakable. Shoving her empty bowl away she gave Lisbeth a last pitying look. “Take it from me, kid, never pour too much of yourself into any one thing. All good things come to an end, sooner or later.” With a dry, bitter smile, “Now I‘m back to driving the Honda.” The door of The Bar banged shut behind the brunette.

Lisbeth had worked her way down to the very base of the cone and now wiped sticky fingers on an insubstantial napkin. It seemed odd that on the very night she realized that her lifelong dream was going to disappear forever, she should meet this total stranger and find out that her story of loss was just a repetition of someone else’s. She felt that God must have been trying to teach her something--something that might break her heart if she ever wrapped her mind around it.

Before she could take the last bite of cone the blonde on Lisbeth’s right leaned over confidentially. “Excuse me.” Her soft Southern drawl was a quite a change from the brunette’s bitter tone.

“Oh, hi.”

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing that other lady’s story. Friend of yours?”

“No, uh, we just met.”

“Well, I was, I was just gonna say, um, well…maybe I’d--what she said just then, about good things coming to an end, it’s sorta, well, I want to tell you my story, if I may?”

“Uh, yes, of course! Feel free.” Lisbeth felt that someone must have put a large sign on her back saying, “Tell me your life story.”

The blonde woman pushed away her cappuccino chocolate and began. “I met the love of my life two years ago. His name was Christopher. We met at a Christian singles retreat and got to know each other. Before I knew it we really fell in love. We dated for about eight months and I began to think that this was gonna go somewhere and we might get married someday. But while we were still dating Chris was diagnosed with terminal lymphoma.”

The last sentence hit Lisbeth like a shockwave as she imagined the sweet Southern woman in front of her hearing this news about the man she loved. “I’m so sorry.”

“Well, ‘course, I went through some pretty rough times. The cancer had already spread from his abdomen to his chest and he wasn’t given very long to live. I fought and I prayed and I asked questions; I didn’t know what I was gonna do. And then he proposed to me. He said that we both knew he was dying, and he didn’t want to hurt me or anything, but he just couldn’t live the rest of his life knowing he’d let me go. And I realized that I felt the same way!” For a moment the woman shut her eyes tight and clenched her fingers, then went on. “I made up my mind to marry him, just because I couldn’t live without him.

“We were married on January 23, and I tell you, my marriage was the best six months of my life. I laughed more and cried more during those six months than I ever have and probably ever will but, oh, it was amazing! It was absolutely the time of my life. I loved Chris with everything I had, and when the Lord took him away from me I could only thank Him for those six months, with Chris being there for me as I was there for him.

“Chris taught me something that I’d never learned before: that good things may come to an end, but it’s worth every moment of it! You can’t stop loving now just because you’ll have to one of these days. And I still love Chris, I haven’t stopped loving him! Yes, he’s gone, but I wouldn’t take anything in the world for those few months that we were together. Yes, it’s hard, it was much harder losing a husband than it would have been to lose a friend. I lost Chris after we’d made a commitment, made all those hopes, and dreams, and plans; it was so much harder, but so much more worth it. And I just wanted to let you know that that woman is right when she says that all good things will come to an end, but she’s not right when she says that you should stop loving just because it hurts. True love is something that sacrifices and gives of itself. If you don’t give anything in return for love then it’s worthless.” Her words came to an end with an unexpected suddenness and she began putting on her coat. Tears streamed down her face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t get all emotional. I just…couldn’t let you go without telling you. Good night.” In a moment she was gone.

Lisbeth sat silently at the counter, pondering, twirling the last of her cone between her fingers clockwise, counterclockwise, clockwise, counterclockwise. She’d poured herself into that bakery. She’d sacrificed a higher education, she’d probably ruined her relationship with Jared…had it been worth it? She had to say yes.

She walked out into the nipping air and unlocked her car, sliding into the driver’s seat. She had to ask herself, what about the now? What about the moment? Why couldn’t she glory in the few weeks she had left before the bakery would be forced to close? Was she going to cheat herself out of every last pleasure just because of the inevitable day? Lisbeth glanced at the radio’s digital clock. 11:45. The first few flakes that foreshadowed a heavy snowstorm fell soundlessly on the windshield. There was no phyllo dough back at the bakery. But Wal-Mart was open.

The Old Year Displaced

2009-12-31T15:11:00.000-08:00

The Old Year plays a mournful dirge

On his organ dusty, dim.

He awaits the full, hateful hour

When the New Year will march in.

A blast flinches the candle flames

The Old Year’s strength grows feeble.

Dark tear glistens on hoary cheek

Against the coming evil.

Hark!

And see the New Year coming;

Mark her blithesome pipers.

A wreath of blossoms crowns her brow

A gladdened tune she’s humming.

She treads a path of melting snow,

Winter shivers in her wake.

Up to the church where soon she’ll reign.

Icicles snap, fall, and break.

The New Year dances up the aisle

Young and light and bright is she.

The Old Year turns from organ keys

Fearing, to face the beauty.

Hark!

Seeing her young girlish face

The Old Year does recall,

That mirror of springtime whispers

Echoing his former grace.

Casting out all anxious keening,

New Year clasps the Old Year’s hands.

They dance through caliginous dusk

Laughing at the night’s demands.

This in past and this in future

Always then shall be the way.

Darkness falls and dead men lecture

Never marring break of day.

Hark!

Mourn not for Old Year’s leaving,

Lest springtime pass you by.

Stroking the bark of withered trees

Leaves April’s blossoms grieving.

As he passes into the night

The Old Year turns ‘round once more.

The New Year’s pipers warble sweet

Up and up the glad notes soar.

The Old Year passes silently;

Light from windows fades away,

Leaving the steady candlelight

To brighten each song, each day.

A Sketch of a Morning Walk

2009-11-16T08:44:00.000-08:00

A girl with a cold nose and sloppy galoshes stepped out into the pre-dawn of an early winter day. Chapped hands stuffed deep in her pockets, piercing eager eyes looked out from a mess of tousled hair. Sloshing though a field of puddles the tops of her boots slapped against her calves, and a light breeze swept up to chill her face. She drank in the expanse of mottled gray sky overhead and the small thicket of deep red berries swaying lightly to her left. After ascending a mild slope she climbed up on a sturdy bit of fence, and taking an apple and a crisp new book from her ample pockets, began to read. The crack of tight binding was the beginning of a grand symphony that began to play in her head as she swept through the white pages. The two ships becalmed on a torpid sea, I believed to be marine phantoms.
It seemed only a few moments later that a golden glow began to suffuse the distant hills. The girl shut the book with a snap, and hurried back down the slope. She slammed the door on cunning Jack Frost and set to cleaning dishes in the still-silent semidarkness of the kitchen, every now and then pausing to glance out the grimy window to marvel at tossing fir trees and fat little birds that scampered over wet and tangled grass.

My First Post

2009-11-13T13:20:00.001-08:00

I love to write, and though I don't write often, I feel that I have to have an outlet somewhere. Why not in a blog? So here, every now and then, I'll get my thoughts out and regale you with them. Perhaps someone out there will enjoy them, perhaps it will just be a place for me to keep my words for further reference. It remains to be seen.