What You Are Like
Mood:  cool
Now Playing: Radiohead - Kid A
Topic: fiction
You are like a house. You hardly know the stones in the yard. The living tendrils of your urban garden, full of cacti and pebbles. You don't notice the small hills and inclines around you. That you are standing on a slight grade, with a tilted world view.

You are like a house. Each room full of its own joys, comforts, raised and quiet voices. Floorboards creaking and feet padding along thick carpets. You are full of walls, cluttered and watchful. They are solid, unpenetrable.

Somedays you seem scarred by rainstorms, the red clay stains and fallen shutters. Sometimes you are overgrown, lazy, and hidden. You have the windows closed and the curtains drawn.

I am knocking and knocking.

Choose
Mood:  incredulous
Topic: fiction
As if I didn't have enough to do, to read, and to read online! I just heard about this website called Protagonize. Users not only write and share stories, but the readers can choose the twists and turns in the story, called branches, like in the old Choose Your Own Adventure books. Cool, eh?

I actually am going to try logging off for a while and knit or just sleep. But I'll spend some time Sunday indulging.

Material of Grief
Mood:  not sure
Topic: fiction

Walking up to the building, I could see patches where the grout had degraded and the steel wire mesh showed through, the remains of the custom fabrication done years ago. The trucks marked PWS lined the small country roads for weeks, not just here but also at the unmarked chemical company outside of the city limits. The salesmen of Petro Wire & Steel probably shook hands with men from all around the county, making deals and putting up the structures that would outlast even some of the families that lived here. The company's slogan, on the side of one van, I remember, read, "If you can envision it, we can supply it." Years ago, our town had dreams and the will to develop them. PWSteel.com was a major part of that, as much as the sweat and tears of the town founders and hard-working people. 

The Vietnam War had taken so many of those dreamers, or sons of dreamers, and never returned them. At least not with their dreams in tact. Nightmares filled the gaps and cracks. Looking at the old funeral home building, the graffiti was cleverly hidden under layers of fresh white paint. The building's style was quite timeless, I noticed.  This is the only funeral home in town, owned by an elderly man no one knew much about. He didn't have any children and his wife had died years ago. These small details kept my mind busy, made the nightmare seem far away for now.  I wished I could reach out and hold my father's hand, but he kept them both in his suit jacket pockets. His hands seemed cramped and stretched the fabric. Of course, my mother had stayed at home. Aunt Christie stayed with her there, whether consoling her or watching her, I was not sure.

Date Free Write
Mood:  energetic
Topic: fiction

Jenn stood on the sidewalk in front of the movie theater, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, fumbling with the phone card in her pocket. She resisted the urge to look at her watch again. Valeria was late. She went over everything in her mind, the way Rafael had called her that morning, excited like a mother hen. What are you wearing, what movie are you going to see, what are you going to tell her about yourself? "Don't tell her about Sarah," he had said. "Not yet."

"Duh," Jenn had replied. But in her heart, she wanted to say, "Ouch." She had just gotten out of bed when he called, before she had even had her morning coffee. Her head was groggy, still full of sleep, but even she had to admit she was excited too.  It would be her first date in six months. She had met Valeria years ago, at a gallery opening. Valeria was then the girlfirend to the artist, a woman who made strange vases shaped like bowling balls. Jenn had come by herself, had run into Rafael and his brother Alfredo. Rafael had whispered to her that Valeria and the artist were on the rocks, that Jenn should try to talk to her. Alfredo shook his head and brought her a dirty martini, too aware of his brother's pushiness and matchmaking tendencies.

Jenn had tried avoiding Valeria all evening, but ran into her in the ladies restroom. It was one of those quick hellos, with Jenn trying to be upbeat and talking about the art. She had noticed that Valeria stood nearly six inches taller than her, that her brown skin glowed against her white sleeveless blouse. Jenn's own reflection in the mirror did nothing to hide what she thought was desperation. Valeria, she was effervescent. When she walked out of the room, Jenn couldn't help but linger over the smell of jasmine and gardenias.

She thought she saw her coming around the corner, so she straightened up and reached for the lip gloss in her pocket. But after a few more steps, Jenn knew the woman coming down the sidewalk was much older, wearing boots that made her look much taller than she really was. "That's not her," Jenn thought. "It's not her."

Sarah. Why had Rafael mentioned Sarah? That was so long ago. Did Jenn talk about her too much, was that it? Did everyone walk on eggshells around her, expecting at any moment for her to fall apart? She took a deep breath. In fact, she knew she was over Sarah. It had been a year since they had split up. Since Sarah had broken it off. It was hard for a while, Jenn admitted. And seeing Sarah, last fall, with a new girlfirend, a younger, prettier version of Jenn, that had been hard. But Jenn was over it. She understood now that Sarah was a selfish person, who could never give Jenn the stability and support that she so desired.

"Screw Rafael. If this woman doesn't show up either, screw her too," Jenn thought. She looked across the street at the brick storefronts. There was a cafe that she could go to, after she had completely given up. Her stomach had started aching anyway. Maybe it was nerves.

"What do I have to be nervous about? I'm a good catch," Jenn reminded herself. She started making a list in her head of all her positive attributes. She was a successful freelance writer, she owned her own apartment, she had a great sense of humor, and she had great dental hygiene. Sarah had always complained about her insistence on flossing after every meal, carrying a pack of floss in her purse. She was a thoughtful lover too, and Sarah had never complained about that.

Jenn finally looked at her watch. Valeria was officially thirty minutes late for their date. Jenn took a final look around, the sidewalk full of people on their way toward appointments, classes, and dates all over the city. Buses churned down the streets like clumsy dinosaurs. The sky overhead was cloudy, but rays of sunshine still poked through here and there. She could still make a nice outing for herself, a tasty sandwich and bowl of soup, read the newspaper, and drink a latte. There was no reason she had to dwell on this. It wasn't a rejection, it was a missed opportunity.

She walked to the edge of the sidewalk, waited for an opportunity to cross the street to the coffeeshop, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned and there Valeria stood, breathless, breathtaking. Her eyelashes were longer than Jenn had remembered, her lips full and red, her black hair layered around her face like laughter.

"I'm so sorry," Valeria began. "The traffic was so horrible. I'm so glad you're still here."

"No problem," Jenn managed to say, an uncontrollable smile spreading across her face. All the tension and thoughts of the last half hour were gone. "We could still probably see that movie."

Valeria looked up at the marquee and eyed the surrounding street for a minute, while Jenn held her breath. "Want to just grab some lunch over there?"

Jenn smiled and nodded silently. They crossed the street, just as the last of the clouds moved away and sunshine filled the air. "It's her," Jenn thought.

***

If anyone else wants his/her persona in print, leave me a comment with your name and age.

free write
Mood:  not sure
Now Playing: Josh Rouse - Nashville
Topic: fiction

I got this idea from another blogger, who asks for a person's name and age and writes a short piece in response. It could be fantasy, romance, anything. I thought I'd give it a try. I'm going to start with myself, before I victimize anyone else. My name is Mary and I'm 30 years old.

****
The chickens will wait, she thought. Dawn had already crested the other side of the hill. It would still take a few more minutes for those first orange and pink and yellow rays to reach her bedroom window. For now, she steadied her breathing and tried to fall back asleep.

The air in the room was still and heavy. In the middle of the night, the door had slammed shut, while a thunderstorm rolled through the valley. There wasn't much rain, but the curtains spread themselves like wings across the room. With the door closed, they hung straight down like pressed clothes.

"Mary," his voice began, insistent like a child. "You'd better wake up."

"I will," Mary said flatly. She had not been able to fall back asleep afterall. Just listened to Brick, their rooster, crow over and over, thinking he was the only potent male in the whole world. The man next to her, face down in the pillows, turned toward the wall, he knew better. He knew a man wasn't worth much these days, not as much as farm land, a crop of soybeans, or the power of nature herself.

Still, Mary traced his spine with her hand. The skin on his back paler than the tanned skin of his arms, paler still than her own fingers and wrist. If only this moment would stretch on, the sun not rise beyond its reach to heat the world. If only she could lie like this, could listen to things growing, her love's heart beating, and rest, she might become whole again.

The chickens would not wait forever, though. She sighed and pushed herself out of bed.

****
If you want to be my next victim, leave me a comment! First name and age. That's it.