Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Paradise

This exercise required that I write about a series of arrivals at different places-with no other explanation of how I got there.

Paradise

My breath caught as we came upon the island. It was all luscious greenery, pure white beaches, and crystal clear water. The scene looked like it belonged on a postcard or a movie set. A rainbow even stretched from one end of the island to the other. I knew I should find it hokey and cliché. In reality, the paradise inspired awe in me and it would be my homed, at least for a few days.

Natives crowded the length of the dock. I learned that I had arrived on a national holiday. I overheard one man as he complained about the absurdity of celebrating the birthday of a monarch, who lived on the other side of the Earth. I had figured he would be happy to have a day without work but he wanted independence instead of a vacation. I could respect his sentiments.

I stopped on the dock and watched the sunset with the natives. Then we waited for wild dolphins to approach. They came to this beach every night. I paid for the privilege of feeding one. The researcher gave me one fish and explained that the dolphins could touch me but under no circumstance was I allowed to touch a dolphin. Up-close, the dolphin was not that special. Nothing I imagined. The dolphin ate my fish and I walked away feeling under whelmed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It seemed like I stood on top of the world or at least on a step that lead to the top of the world. I looked down into the deep crater beside me. I watched the group descending its step sides until they became ants and I wondered how they would ever make it back out. On the other side of me were more mountain tops. Clouds filled the space between this mountain and the others. Someone near began to sing a hymn and I understood why the native tribes considered the mountains sacred.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The outside of the marea intimidated me. Red angry faces covered the wings of the rooftop. Still, my hosts had invited me inside so I bolstered my courage and walked through the door. More angry pagan faces were carved into the walls but what surprised me were the cross and the portrait of the Virgin Mary that hung from the central post. It made me realize that the past cohabitated with the present in this sacred building.

My hosts waited for me at the front of the room. I greeted them according to their custom by bumping my nose against theirs twice. This intruded on all my perceptions of personal space but not participating in such a greeting would have insulted my hosts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I walked along the cobbled street that led me from one city square to the next. Occasionally, a horse and carriage passed me. As I stared up at the historical homes bordering the street, I felt like I had gone back in time. There was no separation of past and present in this city.

I rested in one of the squares and took in the wonder of it all. Spanish moss hung from the ancient oaks. A statue loomed in the center of the square. In a city like this, every branch and stone whispers their stories to anyone who knows how to hear them. I closed my eyes and I listened.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I walked down the streets of another city. This one was all concrete and asphalt and very much in the present. The bright neon lights chased away the darkness until I all but forgot it was night. The crowded busy streets left me feeling alone and homesick. I needed something green and natural to sustain me.

Then I stumbled upon the park. There was so much wild greenery here that I got lost in it. I did not mind losing my way. As long as I was with nature, I would survive.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

Black Mud

This story comes with a soundtrack. The exercise required that I listened to a piece of instrumental music over and over again until a narrative formed in my mind. I chose Black Mud by the Black Keys, which I have included, and this is what developed from the music. Please, let me know what you think.




Black Mud

It seemed to take an eternity for my driver to bring the car around. I had spent the past three hours forcing myself to stay composed before the ladies in our country club and now my nerves were almost at their breaking point. These elite events always strained me. Between closely guarding all my actions to avoid making a slip in decorum and my mother-in-law, Barbara, criticizing every little thing I did, I always returned home with a headache. Today brought the extra stress of being stuck in a room with my husband’s lover.

Her name was Georgiana Worthington. She exemplified Barbara’s ideal woman and everything I had spent the past ten years trying to be. She was tall, blond, thin, genteel, and charming. She was bred to be the perfect wife for a power man and her husband was quite powerful and influential. As any perfect wife would, she hosted today’s luncheon to gain support for her husband’s cause. I wondered if that is why she slept with my husband. Had the plan been to woo the ladies with food and woo the gentlemen with sex? No, I could not see her husband agreeing to that idea.

Finally, I was alerted that my car waited for me but I could not make my escape that easily. Since she hosted the event, I had to speak to Georgiana before I left. Barbara spoke to her first. I watched Georgiana closely. Neither she nor my husband knew I had uncovered their dirty little secret. I had not made up my mind how I wanted to confront them. Right now, I only wanted to see if Georgiana would show any sign of feeling guilty. I should have known she was too perfect to give herself away. When she turned to me, all she did was make some comment about how lovely it always was to see me and she thanked me for my support.

I walked out of the room, amazed at Georgiana’s audacity. She truly thought she would never be caught. I was still reeling from her behavior, when Barbara said something that sealed everyone’s fate. “You know I had always hoped that my Thomas would marry Georgiana but then he brought you home . . .”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was late but then that was all part of the plan. Thomas waited for me inside his ancestral home, where the elite of the elite had gathered for one of Barbara’s legendary dinner parties. The second I walked through the door, I heard a gasp. I let myself smirk. One perk of doing everything necessary to achieve perfection was that I still fit into the skintight low rise jeans and tiny halter top that I had worn the first time Thomas and I met. I kept walking through the house without bothering to take in all the shocked faces around me. The tapping of my scarlet hooker heels alerted everyone to my presence and anyone I passed got an eyeful of the word “Wicked” stamped across my lower back. I had hid that tattoo for years but now I wanted everyone to see it.

I found my husband in the library with his parents and several other guests. They were all too stunned to speak. I grabbed a drink right out of a guest’s hands, while giving him a flirty grin. Then I winked seductively at Senator Schumer as I passed him.

“What do you think you are doing?” Thomas gritted out as he grabbed my elbow.

“You don’t touch me!” I shouted and then punched him in the jaw.

Thomas and I stared each other down as my father-in-law ushered all the guests out of the room. “I want a divorce,” I demanded.

“Well, thank God,” Barbara chimed in, “You will get you divorce but you are mistaken if you think I am going to let you walk away with anything belonging to the family.”

“Unless Thomas would like me to explain to Mr. Worthington that he has been sleeping with his wife, I will get whatever I want.”

“What do you want?” Thomas surrendered.

“Your balls in a jar.” Barbara hit the floor in a dead faint.

Thursday, September 30, 2010

French Toast

This weeks creative writing exercise was more straightforward than the last two. Still, it proved to be challenging in its own way. I loosely based it off a memory from my own childhood.

For the assignment I had to use cookery-menu preparation, the love of this essential process-as a way of understanding a man and a woman's relationship to each other.


French Toast

Standing on a kitchen chair, Emily surveyed the chaos covering the stove and counter. She couldn’t understand what she was doing wrong. She had helped Mama make French toast enough times that she thought she would have no problem cooking it all by herself this time.

“What do you think you are doing?!” Daddy stood in the door way of the kitchen with that stern frown on his face that always made Emily nervous. She knew he had just woken up because all he wore was a pair of gray shorts and his hair stood up in odd places.

Emily glanced back at her failed plan, seeing what her father saw. Blackened pieces of toast were piled high on a plate and oozed egg that somehow managed to still be raw. Splatters and spills coated the stove. Broken eggshells littered the floor and chair around Emily’s feet. Even though she had turned the stove off and had removed the last slice of toast, smoke continued to rise up from the frying pan in front of her. Emily had no idea that it was the assertive smell of the smoke that had woken Daddy up in a panic and sent him rushing to the kitchen. All she knew was that this mess wasn’t the picture perfect breakfast she had wanted Daddy to wake up to.

“I was trying to make you breakfast,” Emily explained with tears pooling in her eyes and her bottom lip quivering.

Her two step-brothers chose that moment to poke their heads in and check out what all the fuss was about. While Emily had been hard at work in the kitchen, they had been content to lounge on the sofa in the living room. Now that it looked like Emily would be getting in trouble, they wanted a front row seat for the show. The “Ooooo”s and “tsk”s that the boys contributed to the growing suspense proved to be too much for Emily to bear. She closed her eyes as the tears trickled out and hung her head.

Daddy sent the boys out the room and then walked across the kitchen so he could stand next to her. With a knuckle under her chin, he tilted her head up until he was looking into her eyes. Then, he smiled sadly at Emily. “You are using the wrong kind of bread, baby.” He opened up one of the cabinets in front of them and pulled out a loaf of bread that had been cut into much thicker slices. “This is what you need.”

Emily only uttered a soft “oh” but she listened closely as Daddy began to explain the proper way to make French toast. He replaced the smoking pan with a clean cast iron skillet and Emily threw out the burnt toast. It took until Daddy had mixed all the eggs, milk, sugar and cinnamon together for him to coax a smile out of Emily. She giggled as she dipped a slice of bread into the egg mixture and Daddy scooped it out to put it on the skillet.

“What a mess.” The step-mom entered the kitchen and the boys once again watched from the doorway. Despite the early hour, the step-mom’s face was fully made up and she had curled her hair. She looked like perfection as she moved towards them, being careful not to step on any egg shells and frowning at the stains on the stove.

“Emily and I will clean it up when we’re through,” Daddy promised. The step-mom stood on the other side of Daddy so he had to turn his back on Emily to look at her.

“Oh, I’ll take care of it. In fact, I can take over now if you like.” Something in Emily’s stomach twisted as the step-mom smiled up at Daddy.

“No, Emily and I will do it.” Emily released the breath she had been holding. The step-mom frowned but only for a moment.

“Fine. The boys and I will set the table.” The boys groaned and grumbled at this promise.

As Daddy and her continued cooking, Emily felt like she had won some kind of game or fight. Still, she remained on edge as the step-mom and the boys moved around the kitchen.

Saturday, September 25, 2010

Ode to Addie Mae

This creative writing exercise was a challenge but it was also a lot of fun. This time I will give you the directions I had to follow first. Otherwise, you will think I was on something when I wrote it.

The 3 A.M. Epiphany #25 Names: Take the full name (including middle name) of someone you love. Write down as many words from this name as you can. You can repeat letters from the name as many times as you wish. Treat the letters of this name as the only letters in a new alphabet. You cannot use any words containing letters that do not exist in this name. Because this is so difficult, you'll probably be able to come up with only about 200 words for this exercise. When you have built a sufficient list of words, write a fragment of fiction that has to do with a fictionalized situation this person, or someone like this person, would be involved in.

One last suggestion, try reading it out loud.

Ode to Addie Mae

Adwyn Lorelei Brown born on a rainy day. A woolen eyebrow. An airy eyelid. A ready eye. A doll baby weaned on yellow red dawn. A ballerina wobbled on rollerblade.

We adored Addie. Addie wailed and we ran. We were barren low alone. We were wayward. Addie rallied we on wine and ale. We banded daily. Addie nabbed away old air and worn yarn. We were renewed.

None denied Addie. No barn door barred. No boar brayed. No line drawn. No one banned Addie. We were rabble. Addie owned all land. Addie owned all we. Addie owned all lady and baron.

A liar named Addie a drain on noon. A deadly adder yawned lamely. We roared. A rabid bee brawled airborne. A roller derby winner bore down on banner.

In a diner, Addie dialed a bad man. Bad man banned from land. Bad man rode alone. Bad man dined on adder. We learned bad man was no really bad.

Liar died. Deadly adder rode away.

Bad man wedded Addie. Addie was a belle bride. Addie drew we near. We were wowed by Addie. Addie yelled “yey!” We were rewarded by Addie. We dined on a dill meal.


Now y’all bray. Now y’all dare. Y’all are a beady eyed eel. Y’all are all yellowed ill. Addie warn we on y’all. Now we wary. We are redwood arrow ready. Y’all roll web. Bad man bare blade. We are ire.

We will win. Y’all will be bald bear. Y’all will wallow. Y’all will bow down. Addie will allow y’all a deal. Bad man will allow no denial. Addie will bill y’all. Y’all will dine on bean and labor on we land. Y’all will dwell in a barn.

Monday, September 6, 2010

End of the World Beach

This started as a writing exercise for my Narrative Techniques class. I'm really proud of how it turned out.


End of the World Beach

I sat in the idling Oldsmobile and stared out the windshield. I stared at . . . dirt. No, not dirt . . . sand. I glanced to my left and spotted a tourist shop overflowing with seashell “art” and tacky t-shirts. I was at the beach. Definitely sand, then.

Why was I here? Oh, I remembered. There had been an overwhelming urgency to move so I jumped in my car and drove. The urgency returned so I pulled the key out of the ignition and climbed out. I couldn’t recall the drive. I didn’t know the name of the beach. It didn’t matter. I had driven to the end of the world.

The chill bit me the second I opened the door. Looking at the sand had made me forget it was winter. I remembered now as I lamented having only a thin jacket between me and the harsh wind. I almost returned to my climate controlled car but then I tasted the salty sea on the wind and it beckoned me.

I followed what planks in the wooden path I could find buried beneath the sand. I always hated walking through this same dry bank of sand that made up all beaches. My foot would sink with each step as I drag my other foot out of its hole only to create a new one. I never felt the panic of drowning more than when I trudged through that loose, white sand.

It was with relief that I reached the firm, molasses-colored sand that greeted the sea. I had the place all to myself, except for a handful of fishermen on the pier to my right and the seabirds. Looking out over the Atlantic, I noticed it mirrored the grayness of the January sky. At the horizon, I found it impossible to tell where the sea ended and the sky began. This bothered me. My eyes couldn’t separate heaven from earth, though I tried. I lost time trying.

Something shrieked nearby. My gaze tore away from its desperate mission to land on a couple of seagulls fighting over a potato chip. They screamed at each other, wings flapping, beaks open. I could no longer bear the violence so I retreated to the pier.

Faded blue paint chipped off the splintering boards that made up the pier. More white sand hid the first half of its stairs but I didn‘t let that stop me. I headed for the tip of the pier. I passed several fishermen on my way. Some nodded hello. Some ignored me. I preferred the ones who ignored me.

At the end, I gingerly rested my arms against the railing and looked down. I remembered summers in the gulf with water so crystal clear that I could view all its wonders. I found the Atlantic much more secretive. Murky, gray-green water filled my vision as angry, little waves kept the surface boiling. They walled me out. Anything and everything could be hiding just below those waves. Including the end of the world.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

The directions of the exercise: Describe briefly a lake or a backcountry mountain trail (in other, words, a beautiful natural setting) as seen by a person who had just lost a parent in a sudden, unexpected death. The last time thia narrator saw the parent, they argued violently. In you narrative do not mention the death, the parent, or the argument. Do not tell a story. Simply show us what the lake or forest or street looks like to someone under these circumstances.

Do you think I accomplished the exercise? What should do to expand it? Or should it be left as is?