My Bren LJ Idol Entries: Annotated: Part I
I'm finally getting around to doing this! I know it's kind of old by now, but I still wanted to do it! So here are annotations for my Bren LJ Idol entries!
Week 1: (I can be a bit of a cynic on occasion. The premise behind this entry was the notion that the journey is more important than the destination. Why? Basically, it's a story about despair and desperation, but also fear, and maybe a little bit of hope. I like to think the cutseyness of things like "clippity-cloppity" make her despair more wrenching by contrast.)
Clippity-cloppity, up the pea green stairs, between the lime green walls with the digested pea and lime woodwork, under the cigarette stained ceiling. The door latches behind her with a click like a gun cocking.
"Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me!"
She spreads her purchases on the table between the sofa and the refrigerator. One tube of chocolate chip cookie dough. One large bottle of Crystal Palace gin. A carton of crab Rangoon. A James Mason movie she's never seen. A new dress.
The dress is nothing special. Wal-Mart. Clearanced. But it's new. New and not for work.
She fills a clean mayonnaise jar with ice, gin, and a packet of Kool Aid. Lemon-lime. Lighter than the walls of the stairs. Shakes vigorously. Strains into a pitcher. She'll have a terrible headache in the morning, and she'll feel like she should throw up even though she doesn't, but she'll enjoy the gin tonight.
There are two doors inside her apartment. One is for the closet. The other is for the bathroom. The bathroom door closes behind her with a click like a bullet sliding into place.
Hot baths are her greatest luxury. Water, heat are included in her rent. She can soak and scrub all night if she so chooses. Twice. Ten times. But even she admits that might get boring after a while. That doesn't stop her from enjoying this one. A drink on the corner of the tub, steam rising from the water, she soaks until the water goes lukewarm. She drains the tub, fills it again, and scrubs.
The smell of other people scoured away, she tugs on a clean set of pajamas. Running shorts and a tank top, really. Enough for her nights sleeping wrapped in a quilt on the sofa. Besides, they're familiar. Comforting.
The crab Rangoon is cold by the time she emerges. No problem. A few seconds in the microwave takes care of that.
The movie was $2.99. Plus tax.
She had the DVD player from a friend. More like a co-worker, really. He bought a new one to replace it, and didn't want to throw it in the trash. Sometimes she has to jiggle the tray to close it or pick at it with a nail file to open it. But it works.
She pours another drink, settles herself on the sofa with the quilt wrapped around her legs and her fingers wrapped around her favorite chopsticks, and starts the movie.
The movie ends. The pitcher is empty. So is the crab Rangoon carton. The plastic sleeve from the cookie dough is peeled open, empty, and licked clean.
That's it.
"Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me."
She fights back tears.
The pitcher grates against the sink. The carton and wrapper settle into the trash with a sigh. Returning to the sofa to settle down for the night, she stubs her toe. Hard. One leg of the sofa is missing, replaced with a brick wrapped in an old pair of panties. It protrudes. Sometimes, like now, she catches her toe on it.
But this time it happens on her birthday. Alone. A month behind on the rent. With no savings. No boyfriend. Alone.
She puts on the dress and brushes her hair. Crying. She wipes her eyes and nose. She doesn't want to be found in her pajamas.
With a dish towel draped over the arm of the sofa and a glass of Crystal Palace on the floor in front of her, she pries apart her razor until she has one of the thin, narrow blades clenched in her lacerated fingers. When the plastic gives, it's with a click like a gun misfiring. This time.
The first attempt leaves a white line of flaky skin, like she hasn't used lotion in days. All she can do is stare. She thought it would be easier. She certainly isn't trying when she draws blood behind her knees.
The gin hurts more than the razor blade did. It has a greenish tinge from the Kool Aid, like the pinkish tinge in the water sometimes when she rinses her legs after she shaves.
Is this all there is to it? She sold her car to catch up on the bills, and now she's falling behind with no car to sell. She hates her job. Not really, but it's uninspiring. She wants to find whoever said life is a journey and kick him in the balls, kick him in the face while he's doubled over, stomp on his head, because the journey sucks.
On the fourth attempt, tiny beads of blood emerge, linked by a thin red line. Except where the line crosses the blue vein she can see below the surface. The vein retreats, hiding in her skin until the blade is past, leaving a break in the line. It hurts more than she thought it would. She blots it on the towel. No more appears.
She thinks she knows how hard she has to press. Just once. Quickly. One hard, quick movement and she'll never have to worry about bills or bricks again.
But she can't do it.
Would it be worse to be found in her pajamas or in this shitty clearanced Wal-Mart dress? What would happen to her? How long would it be before anyone found her? Would she be incinerated and tossed somewhere at government expense?
The debris from the razor rains onto the carton and wrapper. Crystal Palace tips once more into the glass. She wipes her eyes and nose, puts the dress behind that other door, and puts on her pajamas again. Tomorrow will be warm, but she's going to have to wear long sleeves.
Maybe the journey sucks, but she's not sure the destination can be any better.
She wraps herself in her quilt and lies down on the sofa. The lamp turns off with a click like a gun being uncocked.
Week 2: (I was cynical again with this one. Why are these two even together? Is their shared love of books enough to blind them to how badly matched they are? The inside joke here that I think only I got is the book in the second paragraph. Note the use of "smart" quotes. That was an attempt to throw off sosoclever and keep her from guessing I wrote this.)
“With her killer graces and her secret places that no boy can fill,” Barbara sang along badly but enthusiastically, “with her hands on her hips and that smile on her lips because she knows that it kills me!” Ray took his eyes off the road long enough to glance over at her.
Barbara’s head was thrown back with her long brown hair whipping in the wind. She had her right foot up on the dashboard and a well-thumbed volume of Chekov plays in the big patch pocket of her skirt. Even though Ray was the one who picked a convertible, he would rather have had the top up and the AC on. Barbara didn’t even bother getting the AC in her old truck fixed.
“You know, Barbara, there’s been plenty of good music since we were born!”
“Yeah?” Barbara stopped singing long enough to ask. “Like what?”
“Keith Urban. Darius Rucker. Even this guy has newer stuff.”
“Fine. You want to listen to that, you listen. This is what I like.” Barbara waved the empty CD case like it was the music itself. The conversation was one they had had before, only with different names. “Besides, you’re one to talk.” She reached across to pluck at his sleeve. “There’s colors besides black, you know.”
“Maybe for you. I like black.” It was another timeworn argument.
Barbara remembered when they met in high school. Neither was much different since then. Ray still dressed in black with razor-sharp creases. He still maintained a neat, precise two-inch ponytail. He drove a BMW now and wore a goatee as precise as his ponytail, but he was the same Ray to her. Barbara wasn’t just wearing the same kind of clothes, she was wearing the same clothes. Some of the grass stains predated their relationship, and he gave up trying to get her to replace that t-shirt back in college.
After high school, Ray went to college. He studied hard, made good grades, and immediately found a position with a successful company. Not Barbara. She borrowed enough from her grandfather to buy a used truck and some tools, supplies, and licenses, which she took with her when she followed Ray, and turned them into her own successful landscaping business. They married after he graduated, three years ago.
Looking at Ray, Barbara asked herself how she could be so crazy about such a stick in the mud! At the same time, Ray puzzled over his attachment to an undisciplined slob like her.
“It makes you look like you’re trying to be some kind of emo kid.”
“Why?”
“You know, the mopey blackness thing.”
“Hey, I invented the all-black look,” Ray said. “Emo kids might think they did. Beatniks might think they did. So might mimes, ninjas, and Benedictines. But I did it before any of them. They stole it from me.” He looked over at Barbara again, sternly refusing to smile or laugh. He knew she would laugh enough for both of them, especially if he didn’t, and he wasn’t disappointed this time.
“So who stole my look?” Barbara demanded.
“Cavemen.” That set her off again.
Barbara and Ray weren’t always this happy together. They fought a lot, resulting in them not talking to each other for hours sometimes, and even in Barbara sleeping in her truck once. The flying china that was such a cliché on TV was real sometimes. Sometimes Ray and Barbara couldn’t stand each other! Were all relationships like theirs? They both knew plenty were worse, but were any better? Could any relationship ever be perfect?
Maybe one.
Ray parked the car, put the top up, locked the doors, and set the alarm. Barbara impatiently hopped from foot to foot on the sidewalk.
As soon as they were through the door, they parted without a word. Barbara gleefully browsed through the Proust and Kafka while Ray blissfully checked out the latest graphic novels.
Week 3: (I like to work in as many levels of some things as possible I don't know if I even remember all of the different betrayals in this piece! From Lori's clumsy attempt to seduce her married friend to being unable to rescue her because she's betrayed by fate, I think I counted at least seven.)
A dream about chicken feet and North Carolina flowed seamlessly into a daydream about waking up beside Julie. Lori heard the telephone in the other room, but let the machine get it. Today was Saturday, and not a Saturday she was "asked" to put in extra hours at the factory, either.
Daydream-Julie was no supermodel. Her breasts sagged, she was a little heavy in the thighs, and her blond hair included wisps of white. Daydream-Lori wasn't perfect either. She was too tall, and in a gawky, gangly way, not a leggy, statuesque way, and her teeth could compete with Shelley Duvall's. Lori didn't care. What she felt for Julie wasn't physical. Not all of it, at least.
Okay, some of it was. Daydream-Julie wrapped an arm around Daydream-Lori and pulled her closer, while Lori tried to fall back to sleep, hoping her dreams would pick up where the daydream was going.
Instead, she got Torquemada and a scheme to take over the world with gerbils and cordless screwdrivers.
When she woke again, Lori lingered in bed trying to get the daydream back without success. She tumbled out of bed and dug up comfortable clothes for a lazy day and went to the other room in search of tea and a grapefruit or something, perhaps with some toast or leftover manicotti.
A mobile home, a trailer, whatever it was called, Lori was happy with her tiny little home. It sat in the middle of forty-eight acres, surrounded by farms. Sometimes in the summer, when the wind was just right, pushing the trees around the edges aside like giant fingers pushing away curtains, she could see the corn growing head-high around her land. In winter, she could look through the leafless trees and the cornless fields and see houses and barns, too distant to see anything smaller than cars moving. She stared out the window at the budding trees while she waited for the water to boil, and instead of daydreaming, she remembered and regretted.
Julie's daughter was in bed, and Julie's husband Dan was on a fishing trip. Her son wasn't born yet. Julie and Lori settled in for a night of movies, pizza puffs, and peppermint schnapps.
Two movies and half a bottle into the night, drunk enough to be brave and stupid, Lori took a chance.
The taste of the schnapps on Julie's lips was sweeter than it was on her own, and the flavor of Julie's breath was the sweetest thing Lori had ever tasted. An electrical charge streamed through the hand resting on Julie's breast, up Lori's arm and into her heart and spine, threatening to explode in a lethal burst of fear and pleasure.
Fear smothered the pleasure and defused the impending explosion when Julie turned her head, lifted Lori's hand away, and rose unsteadily to her feet.
"Lori."
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean it!"
"Yes. You did. I know, Lori. I've known for a long time. But you know I'm not like that. Besides, it wouldn't be fair to Dan."
"I'm sorry. I'll just go."
"No, Lori, wait! You know I love you, just not like that. That hasn't changed. Besides, there's no way you should be driving right now."
"But you must think I'm an idiot!" Lori wiped her blotchy face and pizza puffy eyes with a napkin.
"Of course I do, but not for that!" Julie laughed. Lori sniffled, stuck out her tongue, and smiled weakly. "You'd be an idiot not to want me!" Julie boasted, pirouetting and almost falling over the coffee table. The weak smile turned into a laugh. When they first met, sitting beside each other at a miserable telemarketing job, Julie could make Lori laugh no matter how bad a call went.
"I love you."
"I know. But it can't work."
"No, I mean I really love you. No matter what."
"And I love you. Now let's find out what's still in the kitchen and see if we can stay awake for one more movie."
They never talked about it again. Julie had another baby and worked part-time as a plumber's secretary. Lori made blister packs for something that must have been shaped like a giant Hot Wheels wheel on a lollipop stick with a rip cord. They still got together some weekends, and called each other frequently. Lori suspected all was not well between Julie and Dan, but hadn't asked yet.
In quiet moments like this, Lori sometimes tried to recapture that current, that explosive feeling, fear and all. Years in the past, now, without a repeat performance, she had more and more trouble recapturing the feeling, but she hadn't forgotten the flavor of Julie's breath. In her most hopeful moments, she wondered if maybe Julie hadn't kissed her back just a little, hadn't risen to meet her hand just the slightest bit, before stopping her.
The rest of the time, she knew it was wishful thinking.
The kettle whistled, and Lori took a teabag from the can beside the answering machine.
The light on the answering machine blinked like a light on a bomb in a movie. It blinked in a rhythm like a heartbeat. Blink blink. Blink blink. Blink blink. It was unwavering, unthinking, and relentless. Blink blink. Blink blink. Lori imagined her pulse rate altering to match the blink blink. Lori pushed the button to defuse the bomb.
The first message was identical to a message she and Julie had left on countless machines. Silence (one, two, three), without time enough to be absolutely certain nobody would start talking, and then the beep. She'd delete it later.
The bomb went off anyway.
"Lori? Are you there? Please be there!" Something was very wrong. "I'm… I'm leaving Dan. I'm taking the kids and leaving. He's on a fishing trip, but his rod and tackle box are in the cellar. It's not the first time. But I don't know where to go! All my friends are his friends… except you. I need to get out before he gets home, so if we can't stay with you, I'm going to the bus station and taking the kids to my mom's house in Florida. We can't wait for you to call, so we're leaving for the station now. The bus leaves at noon. I'll be watching for you, sweetie. Please be there. Bye." Bee-
The blink blink was gone, both from the answering machine and, Lori would have sworn, inside her. It was 11:49. Eleven miles. It was possible, but just barely, and only if she didn't get pulled over.
Did she want to do it? Julie wasn't changing her mind about Lori. She was asking her as a friend. Just as a friend. Lori wanted more, and now Dan would be out of the picture. Could she use this as leverage to convince Julie to give her a chance?
Really, could she? Was she capable of doing that to Julie? Julie might agree, but then if Lori was the kind of person she liked to think she was, she would have to hate herself.
Lori loved Julie. She should be helping her, not looking for her own advantage. Besides, she had no idea how to contact Julie's mother, and didn't want to lose touch with her friend.
-eep. Lori wouldn't have bothered with her coat if it didn't have her keys in its pocket.
Crashing out the door, Lori raced down the stairs, missing the last one. She landed hard, her ankle buckling under her. Her knee hit the brick border of the flowerbed with a moist crunch, but Lori didn't hear it. She had already fainted.
How long was she insensible? The sun was still high when her eyes opened. Minutes?
"Help!" she cried, but she knew as she did that her neighbors would never hear her. She had to hope she could crawl back up the stairs. "Julie," she sobbed. "I'm sorry."
Week 4: (I also like combining legends and myths. Here, I combine Prometeus, Loki, Thoth, Lucifer, Eris, Coyote, and a bunch of others to whom the gift of fire legend is attributed, either literally or symbolically. I was reading a lot of Tom Robbins at the time, and I wonder how much that influenced my vocabulary.)
The Rocks Said There's No Hiding Place
"Hey, hi there! I thought you were going to be late!"
"Late is an artificial concept. You should know that. You're responsible for it."
"You mean you can't keep to a schedule."
"How many hundreds of years have I been here, day in and day out, without fail? Thousands? Millions?"
"Now you're being ridiculous. What happened to the watch I gave you?"
"I can't wind it. No thumbs."
"It's digital, you turkey."
"I could make this hurt more, you know."
"No you couldn't. You might as well get on with it."
"Righto, chum."
The eagle rips at flesh with his awful beak. The titanic serpent with the baboon's head (but a fine, handsome specimen of serpent-with-baboon-headness, let's be clear about that!) winces, but doesn't cry out.
"Hey, chum," the eagle says during a leisurely pause, "lemme ask you something."
"Anything."
"What's with all the bunny business? I mean, I kinda get the coyote business and all, but why bunnies?"
"I don't know. I guess I like rabbits. And hares. Sometimes it was hares. That's not the same thing."
"You know I consider a good bunny something to snack on, don’t you?"
"Of course. Maybe that was it. Maybe I liked taking the side of the underdog."
"No kidding, chum!" the eagle snorts. (Have you ever heard an eagle snort? I'm sure there's a joke in there somewhere, but this isn't the time for it. The eagle is trying to tell his own joke, anyway, but he needs his companion to ask him a question first.) "I mean, isn't that what you were doing anyway? Thought you might as well dress for the occasion? Huh?"
"Yeah, sure," the serpent with the baboon head sighs. "Oh, hey! There was the spider! Spiders are predators."
"Spider? Oh, yeah! That little gender-bending incident! You know, we all kinda wondered about you for a while after that." The eagle goes back to work, tearing at skin and muscle, burrowing into the serpent.
"Hi, guys," chirps a visitor. Much smaller than the others, he's only a few inches long, only a few ounces. Either of the others could eat him in one bite. He's a swallow.
"Good morning!" the baboon head cries. "Is it a hundred years already? I didn't realize! If I'd known, I'd have baked a cake or some muffins! Now I feel bad!"
"Don't worry about it! It's not like I come around every day. Not like some. But I tell you what. Next time I'll try to come around a few years ahead, when I'm in the neighborhood, give you a reminder. Some of those poppy seed muffins would be a treat."
"I'll be sure to have them for you!"
"Much appreciated! Busy day, now. I'd best get to it."
"Hey, about that. The chain is really digging into my neck, just above where my left shoulder would be if I had shoulders. Any chance…?"
"No problem." The little bird hops up, in reach of those pointy yellow baboon teeth, and whets his beak (left, right, left, right) on the rock where the chain is snagged on a burr. He looks around (left, right, back, up) and with a quick dart of his head (left right) drags his beak against the burr again. Two sand-like grains sift down onto the mountainside.
"Thanks. You're a prince!"
"Don't mention it. Well, I'm off. See you in a hundred!"
"I'll have the muffins ready!"
The eagle mumbles something muffled by a mouthful of gore in the way of a goodbye.
As the eagle and the handsome serpent-baboon are going to be occupied with their own priorities that don't quite match ours, let me tell you a little about the swallow's actions. Those extra grains scraped from the boulder proved more troublesome than he realized. They added just enough weight to that side of the mountain to cause mudslides during the next rainy season. Entire villages shall be washed away. They would have been standing almost a hundred years hence, struggling with the final hurdles of a plan to protect the city (which would have been) from mudslides, but now the point is moot. Those two grains bounce to the ground unnoticed (contrary to popular and scientific belief, the truth is that the smaller they are the faster they fall), shifting the mountain prematurely and imperceptibly.
"Hey," the baboon-headed serpent whispers, writhing to nudge the eagle with a vital organ. "You've got an audience."
Two enormous one-eyed crows perch on a nearby boulder. They are gaunt, hunched, and predatory, like cartoon vultures, or cats waiting for the knitter's back to turn, or tax auditors.
"Oh, hey! Hi, guys!" Eagles' mouths are not built to grin. "Performance evaluation time already?"
"He doesn't appear to be suffering," one crow haughtily deigns to comment.
"Nowhere near enough," the second agrees. "Appalling."
"Don't blame him," the handsome serpent with the primate face and the gaping wound says. "It's kind of lost its charm, that's all. He does quite a horrifically painful job, really! But it's like flossing, or plucking unwanted nose hairs. The first few times it hurts, but you get used to it."
"Yes," one of the crows (or maybe the other) sneers. "Quite."
Under the crows' gaze, the coils of the serpent writhe between the rock and the chain. "Ooh! Aah! Please stop! I'll do anything!"
"Would you quit it, chum? I think you made me clip an intestine or something!"
"Sorry. I was trying to make you look good."
"Well, don't."
Whether satisfied one way or another or bored, the crows mutter between them and leave. The eagle and the serpent relax, only now realizing how tense they had become.
"Yeesh. All this for an apple."
"It wasn't just an apple. I've explained that."
"Yeah, well, we eagles aren't all that bright. That's part of why that Franklin character wanted the wild turkey instead of us."
"Really? I thought it was the rattlesnake."
"You would. But, yeah. Clever, gregarious, and brave, unlike eagles, who he said are cowards who steal from weaker birds. That wasn't a public opinion, mind! It's in a letter to his daughter, who he was writing to from someplace he was visiting."
"Huh."
"So why wasn't it an apple?"
"It was."
"I thought you just said it wasn't!"
"Well, it was, but it was more."
"To explain, please."
"The apple was a symbol. It was knowledge. Morality, right and wrong, good and evil. Technology, the alphabet, agriculture, fire. Defiance, independence."
"Except it wasn't really independence, was it?"
"Why not?"
"Well, it was you, not them. Where's the independence in being given all that shit? I think it looks like the only one being defiant was you. Maybe that's why you're all chained up here. Not for giving fire to a bunch of dumb apes, or teaching them to write their name in the snow, but for taking away their chance to learn it for themselves just so you could look all tough and be a rebel."
"Huh." That gives the baboon head something to do, all right. Could this self-professed stupid bird be onto something?
"Alrighty, then. I think that's about it for today." The eagle rummages for any missed chunks of liver, then preens, cleaning his bloody beak in the process.
"I've been composing a bluegrass operetta in my spare time. Want to stick around and hear it?
"Sorry, chum. Maybe tomorrow. I still have to be a vision, a totem, and an omen."
"I understand. Hey, why have you been calling me 'chum' all day?"
"I need shark bait for the omen!" the eagle guffaws. (Have you ever heard an eagle guffaw? Really, do you know if you would recognize a guffaw if you heard it? Anyway, there it is. The eagle got his joke in. At least he knows he's not too bright.)
The handsome serpent with the baboon head cringes, pained more by the joke than by the disembowelment. At least we aren't the only ones. The eagle unfurls its wings and plucks a gobbet of flesh from the rock.
"See you tomorrow, chum."
"I'll be here. Good night, Ralph."
Week 5: (It was early, and I thought I'd be experimental. I failed dismally. This is why I don't write poetry! Anyway, it's about fear of rejection.)
Coming Out
(Miss Cline, Miss Wynette, would one of you lend me your voice for a few minutes?)
When I was young
I looked at the girls
While they looked at boys
And that's when I started to wonder.
I told my mother
But she and my priest
Said that was wrong
So I had no choice but believing.
I suppressed what I would
And did what I should,
Gave it up fast and free
To whichever boys moved the fastest!
Eventually
One said he loved me,
And I loved him enough that we married,
And I thought that I started to live.
After quite a few years,
As much laughter as tears,
I opened my heart up
And told him about looking at girls.
He said to me,
"I love you still,
As long as there's room for me,
I don't mind you looking at the girls!"
I threw myself to him,
Gave him all I could give,
This man who caught me when I jumped.
And that's when I knew that I loved.
I went out the next day,
The same as before,
Eyeballing girls,
But still I would not leave him!
A weight had been lifted,
My conscience was clear,
My secret was shared,
And that's when I started to live!
But he eyed me with scorn,
Sneered at my tastes,
Demeaned my thoughts and opinions!
And that's when I started to fear.
Though he never said "hate"
His look might as well have,
Whatever his words,
And that's when I wanted to die.
Week 6: (I've always liked Ophelia. My first attempt was a "Small Talent for War"-like story about aliens, but it just wasn't working. I also rejected an idea having to do with chakras. So I did a little research into symbolism of flowers and came up with this. I had to put in the Neil Sedaka. Had to!)
Hamlet, Act IV, Scene 5 (alternate)
OPHELIA (distributing flowers)
There's fennel for you, and columbines: there's rue for you; and here's some for me: we may call it herb-grace o' Sundays: O you must wear your rue with a difference. There's a daisy: I give all of you violets, bundled with aconite and asphodel, vervain and veronica: yellow jessamine solely for me! I'll not share that. What does this mean, this purple that bounds my world? All else is tainted by jaundice. The pinks and reds of my life have flown from me, as have the blues of my love. Not to worry! All shall come clean. Whence this palid petalled thing like the cheek of a corse? Out, foul thing. We've enough of your like! Some of these violets are blue or white. Not all are royal purple! Caesars come to their ends, their purples pass on or fade, or rot in the mud, and rose petal pinks and strawberry reds, who put them there live and die unrecorded, unchronicled. No these violets remain for me, but I'll take some asphodel and aconite as well, and pin them to my sleeve. Time was I had a mother, and now I have bartered her jewels for blossoms from seeds of Nubia, Cathay, and Orbo Novo.
(sings)
Come-a, come-a down doobie doo down down!
Come-a, come-a down doobie doo down down!
LAERTES
Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself,
She turns to favour and to prettiness.
Week 7: (I was rather proud of this one, and disappointed it didn't do better. Again, I put in many layers: the physical metamorphosis of Midas's daughter into gold, the metamorphosis of the Midas legend, the metamorphosis of Midas's daughter over time as gold was removed, the metamorphosis of the world in general, the metamorphosis of specific locations, the metamorphosis of Midas's daughter slowly going mad. . . .)
All of the stray hairs, wire-fine strands of pure gold, are gone, wrenched away by accident or greed. She does not mind their loss. Hairs fall out unnoticed all the time, so why should the loss of a few stray hairs over the course of millennia concern her? She has more urgent concerns - not that her concept of urgency is as common as it used to be. In fact, no living person is likely to understand what she has come to mean by the word, no matter which of the many languages she has had occasion to learn she uses to express it!
Of the proud ringlets that flew about her face when she last moved, few remain. Sharp edges show where they have been cut or wrenched rudely away. She was bothered at one time, but resigned herself, again, to the knowledge that hair grows back.
After her father's palace fell to invaders, she was carried off as spoils of victory. That was when she had begun to lose her hair. First the stray hairs, easily tugged away, and then the curls. She was no longer cherished as she had been, as the King's daughter, but for the comforts her hair could buy.
Not even her new masters could last forever, and for treating her like an object, a possession, some kind of trophy, she reveled in watching them be slaughtered in their turn. Many of these new invaders were no older than she felt herself to be, although she was, by then, old enough to be their grandmother. Sadly, they were no saviors to her; they were another mob of plundering, pillaging brutes. Carried off again, with no easily removed hair, the fine folds of her skirts, formerly the best linens and wools but now foil torn and crumpled by this manhandling from one place to another, were torn away by the handful, as her hair had been. This was an offense to her modesty, and the laughing, jaded boys responsible did filthy things to her exposed thighs, alone and furtively or in groups and boastfully, but nothing that did not wash away easily, although washing away the shame and degradation took many more years.
She stood virtually unnoticed for decades, just one more nameless object in the halls of the palace of the pirate king who employed those perverted children, a part of the overflowing mercenary harem that included precious gems and jewelry and artwork from three - and possibly four or five - continents. Slaves dusted her regularly, but she hardly received the sort of affection she was accustomed to receiving from her father's servants.
A pirate king's lot is precarious, and she saw dozens come and go, each convinced of his own invincibility and the loyalty of his men or convinced his men were plotting against him and he must provide safeguards for himself at every turn. Few fell in the middle. None ever lasted more than a few years, and some not even one. Ten years, maybe twelve at the outside, and they would be dead, replaced by their killers. Curious, she thought, how they never seemed to be killed by their victims. Their men, certainly, but they themselves? Never! When they reached the top, they stopped being pirates and started being unauthorized provincial magistrates who sponsored and regulated piracy!
Centuries passed, not even bothering with a tip of the hat or a smile, leaving her standing in her corner, alone and unacknowledged except for the slaves with the dusters, who decreased in number and enthusiasm with the years. When the pressures of infighting and navies subsidized by offended merchants - not to mention the occasional natural disaster - grew too great, the attentions of the housekeepers stopped altogether. She could go days, weeks, and eventually months without seeing a moving biped. Birds rarely got in, and mice and rats were common, but people? A vanishing part of her world.
When the wall in front of her crumbled into the sea below, she knew the people were truly gone.
Tile by tile, the floor followed the wall into the sea. Why did the island on which she stood choose now to succumb to the might of the waves? Well, why not? Besides, it's not like it happened overnight. This palace of pirate kings went unplundered in part because it was designed to be unremarkable from without, and partly because it was situated in a location selected for being difficult to reach. Not much in the way of geological studies went into its positioning.
When she finally tumbled into the sea herself, she took a bit of a pounding. The worst of it was a solid blow to the head, flattening some of her remaining locks, and a vicious bounce off of a jagged rock, leaving a dent in the remnants of her skirt that pushed well into her left buttock. That was her first big scare. That was certainly more than would produce a mere bruise! And it would not wash away like. . . .
Actually, she had contemplated far worse outcomes, watching the floor shorten. She had considered that her entire head could have snapped off! Where would she be then?
At least her head was not dented. She would hate to see what her skull would look like (if she had still had one) if it was. The damage to her tender young backside (since she still could not think of herself as old, no matter how hard she tried) worried her, although she did not have flesh any more than she had bones.
She had plenty of time to worry, too. Sediment, silt, slabs of cliff, floor tiles, and her fellow plunder blanketed her, cutting off her view of the world, until she was deep in a five-year-old's nap (eyes closed, not asleep at all and determined to stay that way, possibly snoring comically if provided with lungs and adenoids of flesh), waiting until the next plunderer found her.
She was surprised to find that she did, in fact, hope that some other plunderer would find her!
And find her he did.
Nations rose and fell. On the cliffs above, in what remained of the ruins, not just generations but bloodlines of goats lived and died. Without a need for sleep, without the ability to drown, with no zeitgeiber to aid her, covered as completely as she was, she had to measure the passage of time by comparing it to the speed of thought.
The next plunderer operated under the aegis of archeology. He stripped away sediment left, right, and center, destroying evidence later generations would consider irreplaceable. He blasted and dug, preserving pots and bowls, statues and coins, leaving many bricks and buttons to fall aside. Bone? Who cares if it is older than Christ? Wood? It probably cannot be saved anyway!
But he wiped our little girl's eyes and made her wish she could blink against the (nonetheless welcome) light of day!
Except. . . !
Except. . . .
She was cast into a world at war like she never could have imagined! What were her father's archers and hoplites compared to these things that could hurl death from a mile away? And it never stopped! Soon, they came from the skies, as well (or worse), and none of them lived in the places over which they fought!
Between wars, she became important again. She passed from hand to hand (figuratively and literally), and occasionally lost weight, which distressed her to no end.
Had she worried about the fall on her butt? A kiss! One cash-starved owner (or employee thereof) shaved away at her back, on the left, above the hip, hoping it would not show. Another, less concerned with appearances, had sawn off two of her outstretched fingers!
Her fingers! Her fingers! Gone! For money! If she is ever relieved of this curse, will she bleed from the shavings on her back, deeper than her dress was thick, and from the stumps of her fingers, unable to grow back like her hair?
Of course, it was money that had brought her to this pass.
Her father was famous for his love of money. Legendary. Freakin' eponymous!
He was still eponymous, although the bad parts - the parts that have led us here - had been shed for the most part. It is a shame. We would do well to remember them rather than repeat them.
She has heard the stories. Heard them in many languages. She has heard them sung to the lyre's accompaniment and seen them on cathode ray tubes. Some of them come close to the truth.
Her father was greedy. He spent his entire life, as far as she could remember, in search of one thing.
He had his laboratory, harnessing the lightning, channeling it through one substance or another, always trying to convert one substance to another. His alchemic knowledge was vast, but his wisdom lagged behind. He had no one to tell him he should not usurp the power of the gods, he should think before he acted, he should not play Frankenstein. He would not have known who Frankenstein was, of course, but she did by now.
The day he succeeded. . . . She ran in from the rose garden he loved almost as much as his laboratory. She wanted to tell him that the rose he had bred to bloom a pure golden color had a bud! She ran through the laboratory, toward him, and her fingers (two of which were now lost forever, melted down as part of a mass-produced wristwatch, no doubt) almost touched his before she realized he was warning her away. She had stepped into the field of his experiment.
Some call it the Philosopher's Stone. Others some call it the Midas touch, forgetting the price he paid for it. The price she paid.
She stands, half-nude, agonizing over her fingers, worrying what will happen if she is ever restored to flesh. She has been in the same stance for centuries, and has been unable to draw a breath or utter a word. She is quite mad.
Week 8: (I had to do this! I knew hiding the punchline like I did was risky, but it was worth it! I still wish I knew if anybody got it!)
Okay, so a bunch of the regular crowd are sitting in their Tuesday corner at Goodfellow's. They pushed two tables together and gathered round.
The way they picked Tuesdays? You got seven days in the week, and none of them could assemble enough of a majority to pick a day, so Inari suggested flipping a coin. It came up elbows, so Tuesdays it was!
What we got today isn't all the gang. Coyote had to work late, doing product endorsements for explosives and hookers. Gwydion's blowing them off tonight. He's still pissed Eshu called him a dumb noob who's not a real god. That's okay. None of them like him much anyway. They think he's a nasty, incompetent little prick. Honestly, Eshu's not all that nice a guy himself and probably just wanted to piss somebody off.
Anyway, Ananse's trying to get out of paying his share of the tab. Typical. He's been putting away the calabash liqueur like it's going out of style. "Hey, I tell you what we do. We gots lots o' marks here. Best trick, the rest pay his drinks."
(By the way, Ananse's calling himself Parker tonight. Mr. Parker. It's on his driver's license and everything.)
Eshu makes these little self-important stabs at Ananse with his pipe stem. "One, it wouldn't kill you to pay your own drinks without kicking up a fuss. Two, why can't we do something hasn't been done to death for a change? Three, nohow we're gonna decide who wins."
"No, it's okay," Inari says. "I'll judge. I stay out of the game, I pay my own drinks."
"Okay, that's the way you want it." Eshu's not thrilled, but he's not arguing either.
"I'll start!" Loki volunteers. Like a dog he is, all excited to play. He takes a big swallow of mead, wipes his chin on the back of his hand, and looks around. "Hey, you see that table there, yeah? I'll buy a round of top-shelf drinks for the house and stick them with the bill, eh?"
"That still work where you come from?" says Eshu. "Me, I think they stopped biting on that one maybe about the time they come up with the idea of money."
"It's a good joke, hey? My buddy falls for it all the time."
"Yeah, but he's got maybe a couple brinks more missing than you got missing."
"Oh, yeah! Hey, I tell you about the time Thrymr-?"
"Only maybe every week." Eshu's looking around. "You think it's all that high, I do it with a twist. I order a round of dog piss. Pitchers of Black Label. Stick them with responsibility for that."
"That's different how?" says Ananse. They don't look like they much like each other tonight. They keep threatening each other with their canes. Not much, but little aggressive gestures, you know? "I'll make up something the bartender never did hear so he's in fine temper when the tab hits. I buy them the blame for a round of (um) Heart Attacks for the house."
"Can of Red Bull, two jiggers vodka, over ice in a highball glass," Sun Wukong hiccups. He's had like four bottles of Jade Emperor wine, and he's starting on a fifth!
"What I miss?" Kokopele asks.
When he went away, he didn't have a big red handprint on his face. Now he does. What do you want to bet it's the same woman who's done it to him the last three weeks running? As if to confirm the suspicion, he picks up his flute from off the table, picks something off his back, and stuffs it in the end of the flute. Ready, aim, fire! He blows it out of the flute and smack! onto the woman's back. She's pretty, in a Cosmopolitan kind of way, with wavy blonde hair and a deep tan. Kind of a bitch, though. And now Kokopele has stuck a "Kick Me" sign on her back that's not going away for eighteen years.
"Ananse trying to get out of paying his drinks."
"So, a contest?"
"Yah."
"Who's judging?"
"Inari," says the rabbit with the starlight in his ears. "Loki wants to stick that table there with the bill for a round of expensive drinks for the house. Eshu wants to stick them with the bill for a round of footwash. Mr. Parker wants to stick them with the bill for something made up, but he can't make up anything. That leaves you, me, and the monkey."
"I see a pattern. I gotta follow it?"
"I don't think so."
"Okay, then. Cement mixers. Doubles."
"That's it?" Sun Wukong says. "That's it?"
"And I thought Loki's idea was dumb," says Eshu.
Kokopele ignores Eshu. That's the best way to handle him. "What's your idea then, oh great sage?"
"Let's get sake and not pay!" Sun Wukong giggles. His tail has his chair in a death grip to keep him from falling over. "What? What? It was funny!"
All eyes are on El-ahrairah. Even his own. Arrogant bastard. Resigned sigh. Very artful. "I concede. I can beat all those except one."
"Hey!" Inari protests. "I judge!"
"You're right," the rabbit says. "My fault. I withdraw the observation."
"He meant me anyway," Kokopele preens. "The classics are the best, man!"
Too late, Inari gets El-ahrairah's angle.
"A classic? Sticking someone else with the bill is more of a classic!" "But it's stale! You gotta punch it up a little! Make it new!" "Making the mark drink something gross is punched up?" "You'll be punched up in a minute."
These guys are supposed to have a reputation for being clever.
Eshu alone smiles and raises a glass to the rabbit.
The mousy (big mouse-almost six feet!) woman with the unbrushed hair and scratched glasses, sitting one table over, looks up from her transcript of the conversation when the waitress asks if she wants a refill. Yes, actually, I do. "Put it on the glee club's tab?"
"As long as they haven't noticed. Thanks!"
Week 1: (I can be a bit of a cynic on occasion. The premise behind this entry was the notion that the journey is more important than the destination. Why? Basically, it's a story about despair and desperation, but also fear, and maybe a little bit of hope. I like to think the cutseyness of things like "clippity-cloppity" make her despair more wrenching by contrast.)
Clippity-cloppity, up the pea green stairs, between the lime green walls with the digested pea and lime woodwork, under the cigarette stained ceiling. The door latches behind her with a click like a gun cocking.
"Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me!"
She spreads her purchases on the table between the sofa and the refrigerator. One tube of chocolate chip cookie dough. One large bottle of Crystal Palace gin. A carton of crab Rangoon. A James Mason movie she's never seen. A new dress.
The dress is nothing special. Wal-Mart. Clearanced. But it's new. New and not for work.
She fills a clean mayonnaise jar with ice, gin, and a packet of Kool Aid. Lemon-lime. Lighter than the walls of the stairs. Shakes vigorously. Strains into a pitcher. She'll have a terrible headache in the morning, and she'll feel like she should throw up even though she doesn't, but she'll enjoy the gin tonight.
There are two doors inside her apartment. One is for the closet. The other is for the bathroom. The bathroom door closes behind her with a click like a bullet sliding into place.
Hot baths are her greatest luxury. Water, heat are included in her rent. She can soak and scrub all night if she so chooses. Twice. Ten times. But even she admits that might get boring after a while. That doesn't stop her from enjoying this one. A drink on the corner of the tub, steam rising from the water, she soaks until the water goes lukewarm. She drains the tub, fills it again, and scrubs.
The smell of other people scoured away, she tugs on a clean set of pajamas. Running shorts and a tank top, really. Enough for her nights sleeping wrapped in a quilt on the sofa. Besides, they're familiar. Comforting.
The crab Rangoon is cold by the time she emerges. No problem. A few seconds in the microwave takes care of that.
The movie was $2.99. Plus tax.
She had the DVD player from a friend. More like a co-worker, really. He bought a new one to replace it, and didn't want to throw it in the trash. Sometimes she has to jiggle the tray to close it or pick at it with a nail file to open it. But it works.
She pours another drink, settles herself on the sofa with the quilt wrapped around her legs and her fingers wrapped around her favorite chopsticks, and starts the movie.
The movie ends. The pitcher is empty. So is the crab Rangoon carton. The plastic sleeve from the cookie dough is peeled open, empty, and licked clean.
That's it.
"Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me."
She fights back tears.
The pitcher grates against the sink. The carton and wrapper settle into the trash with a sigh. Returning to the sofa to settle down for the night, she stubs her toe. Hard. One leg of the sofa is missing, replaced with a brick wrapped in an old pair of panties. It protrudes. Sometimes, like now, she catches her toe on it.
But this time it happens on her birthday. Alone. A month behind on the rent. With no savings. No boyfriend. Alone.
She puts on the dress and brushes her hair. Crying. She wipes her eyes and nose. She doesn't want to be found in her pajamas.
With a dish towel draped over the arm of the sofa and a glass of Crystal Palace on the floor in front of her, she pries apart her razor until she has one of the thin, narrow blades clenched in her lacerated fingers. When the plastic gives, it's with a click like a gun misfiring. This time.
The first attempt leaves a white line of flaky skin, like she hasn't used lotion in days. All she can do is stare. She thought it would be easier. She certainly isn't trying when she draws blood behind her knees.
The gin hurts more than the razor blade did. It has a greenish tinge from the Kool Aid, like the pinkish tinge in the water sometimes when she rinses her legs after she shaves.
Is this all there is to it? She sold her car to catch up on the bills, and now she's falling behind with no car to sell. She hates her job. Not really, but it's uninspiring. She wants to find whoever said life is a journey and kick him in the balls, kick him in the face while he's doubled over, stomp on his head, because the journey sucks.
On the fourth attempt, tiny beads of blood emerge, linked by a thin red line. Except where the line crosses the blue vein she can see below the surface. The vein retreats, hiding in her skin until the blade is past, leaving a break in the line. It hurts more than she thought it would. She blots it on the towel. No more appears.
She thinks she knows how hard she has to press. Just once. Quickly. One hard, quick movement and she'll never have to worry about bills or bricks again.
But she can't do it.
Would it be worse to be found in her pajamas or in this shitty clearanced Wal-Mart dress? What would happen to her? How long would it be before anyone found her? Would she be incinerated and tossed somewhere at government expense?
The debris from the razor rains onto the carton and wrapper. Crystal Palace tips once more into the glass. She wipes her eyes and nose, puts the dress behind that other door, and puts on her pajamas again. Tomorrow will be warm, but she's going to have to wear long sleeves.
Maybe the journey sucks, but she's not sure the destination can be any better.
She wraps herself in her quilt and lies down on the sofa. The lamp turns off with a click like a gun being uncocked.
Week 2: (I was cynical again with this one. Why are these two even together? Is their shared love of books enough to blind them to how badly matched they are? The inside joke here that I think only I got is the book in the second paragraph. Note the use of "smart" quotes. That was an attempt to throw off sosoclever and keep her from guessing I wrote this.)
“With her killer graces and her secret places that no boy can fill,” Barbara sang along badly but enthusiastically, “with her hands on her hips and that smile on her lips because she knows that it kills me!” Ray took his eyes off the road long enough to glance over at her.
Barbara’s head was thrown back with her long brown hair whipping in the wind. She had her right foot up on the dashboard and a well-thumbed volume of Chekov plays in the big patch pocket of her skirt. Even though Ray was the one who picked a convertible, he would rather have had the top up and the AC on. Barbara didn’t even bother getting the AC in her old truck fixed.
“You know, Barbara, there’s been plenty of good music since we were born!”
“Yeah?” Barbara stopped singing long enough to ask. “Like what?”
“Keith Urban. Darius Rucker. Even this guy has newer stuff.”
“Fine. You want to listen to that, you listen. This is what I like.” Barbara waved the empty CD case like it was the music itself. The conversation was one they had had before, only with different names. “Besides, you’re one to talk.” She reached across to pluck at his sleeve. “There’s colors besides black, you know.”
“Maybe for you. I like black.” It was another timeworn argument.
Barbara remembered when they met in high school. Neither was much different since then. Ray still dressed in black with razor-sharp creases. He still maintained a neat, precise two-inch ponytail. He drove a BMW now and wore a goatee as precise as his ponytail, but he was the same Ray to her. Barbara wasn’t just wearing the same kind of clothes, she was wearing the same clothes. Some of the grass stains predated their relationship, and he gave up trying to get her to replace that t-shirt back in college.
After high school, Ray went to college. He studied hard, made good grades, and immediately found a position with a successful company. Not Barbara. She borrowed enough from her grandfather to buy a used truck and some tools, supplies, and licenses, which she took with her when she followed Ray, and turned them into her own successful landscaping business. They married after he graduated, three years ago.
Looking at Ray, Barbara asked herself how she could be so crazy about such a stick in the mud! At the same time, Ray puzzled over his attachment to an undisciplined slob like her.
“It makes you look like you’re trying to be some kind of emo kid.”
“Why?”
“You know, the mopey blackness thing.”
“Hey, I invented the all-black look,” Ray said. “Emo kids might think they did. Beatniks might think they did. So might mimes, ninjas, and Benedictines. But I did it before any of them. They stole it from me.” He looked over at Barbara again, sternly refusing to smile or laugh. He knew she would laugh enough for both of them, especially if he didn’t, and he wasn’t disappointed this time.
“So who stole my look?” Barbara demanded.
“Cavemen.” That set her off again.
Barbara and Ray weren’t always this happy together. They fought a lot, resulting in them not talking to each other for hours sometimes, and even in Barbara sleeping in her truck once. The flying china that was such a cliché on TV was real sometimes. Sometimes Ray and Barbara couldn’t stand each other! Were all relationships like theirs? They both knew plenty were worse, but were any better? Could any relationship ever be perfect?
Maybe one.
Ray parked the car, put the top up, locked the doors, and set the alarm. Barbara impatiently hopped from foot to foot on the sidewalk.
As soon as they were through the door, they parted without a word. Barbara gleefully browsed through the Proust and Kafka while Ray blissfully checked out the latest graphic novels.
Week 3: (I like to work in as many levels of some things as possible I don't know if I even remember all of the different betrayals in this piece! From Lori's clumsy attempt to seduce her married friend to being unable to rescue her because she's betrayed by fate, I think I counted at least seven.)
A dream about chicken feet and North Carolina flowed seamlessly into a daydream about waking up beside Julie. Lori heard the telephone in the other room, but let the machine get it. Today was Saturday, and not a Saturday she was "asked" to put in extra hours at the factory, either.
Daydream-Julie was no supermodel. Her breasts sagged, she was a little heavy in the thighs, and her blond hair included wisps of white. Daydream-Lori wasn't perfect either. She was too tall, and in a gawky, gangly way, not a leggy, statuesque way, and her teeth could compete with Shelley Duvall's. Lori didn't care. What she felt for Julie wasn't physical. Not all of it, at least.
Okay, some of it was. Daydream-Julie wrapped an arm around Daydream-Lori and pulled her closer, while Lori tried to fall back to sleep, hoping her dreams would pick up where the daydream was going.
Instead, she got Torquemada and a scheme to take over the world with gerbils and cordless screwdrivers.
When she woke again, Lori lingered in bed trying to get the daydream back without success. She tumbled out of bed and dug up comfortable clothes for a lazy day and went to the other room in search of tea and a grapefruit or something, perhaps with some toast or leftover manicotti.
A mobile home, a trailer, whatever it was called, Lori was happy with her tiny little home. It sat in the middle of forty-eight acres, surrounded by farms. Sometimes in the summer, when the wind was just right, pushing the trees around the edges aside like giant fingers pushing away curtains, she could see the corn growing head-high around her land. In winter, she could look through the leafless trees and the cornless fields and see houses and barns, too distant to see anything smaller than cars moving. She stared out the window at the budding trees while she waited for the water to boil, and instead of daydreaming, she remembered and regretted.
Julie's daughter was in bed, and Julie's husband Dan was on a fishing trip. Her son wasn't born yet. Julie and Lori settled in for a night of movies, pizza puffs, and peppermint schnapps.
Two movies and half a bottle into the night, drunk enough to be brave and stupid, Lori took a chance.
The taste of the schnapps on Julie's lips was sweeter than it was on her own, and the flavor of Julie's breath was the sweetest thing Lori had ever tasted. An electrical charge streamed through the hand resting on Julie's breast, up Lori's arm and into her heart and spine, threatening to explode in a lethal burst of fear and pleasure.
Fear smothered the pleasure and defused the impending explosion when Julie turned her head, lifted Lori's hand away, and rose unsteadily to her feet.
"Lori."
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean it!"
"Yes. You did. I know, Lori. I've known for a long time. But you know I'm not like that. Besides, it wouldn't be fair to Dan."
"I'm sorry. I'll just go."
"No, Lori, wait! You know I love you, just not like that. That hasn't changed. Besides, there's no way you should be driving right now."
"But you must think I'm an idiot!" Lori wiped her blotchy face and pizza puffy eyes with a napkin.
"Of course I do, but not for that!" Julie laughed. Lori sniffled, stuck out her tongue, and smiled weakly. "You'd be an idiot not to want me!" Julie boasted, pirouetting and almost falling over the coffee table. The weak smile turned into a laugh. When they first met, sitting beside each other at a miserable telemarketing job, Julie could make Lori laugh no matter how bad a call went.
"I love you."
"I know. But it can't work."
"No, I mean I really love you. No matter what."
"And I love you. Now let's find out what's still in the kitchen and see if we can stay awake for one more movie."
They never talked about it again. Julie had another baby and worked part-time as a plumber's secretary. Lori made blister packs for something that must have been shaped like a giant Hot Wheels wheel on a lollipop stick with a rip cord. They still got together some weekends, and called each other frequently. Lori suspected all was not well between Julie and Dan, but hadn't asked yet.
In quiet moments like this, Lori sometimes tried to recapture that current, that explosive feeling, fear and all. Years in the past, now, without a repeat performance, she had more and more trouble recapturing the feeling, but she hadn't forgotten the flavor of Julie's breath. In her most hopeful moments, she wondered if maybe Julie hadn't kissed her back just a little, hadn't risen to meet her hand just the slightest bit, before stopping her.
The rest of the time, she knew it was wishful thinking.
The kettle whistled, and Lori took a teabag from the can beside the answering machine.
The light on the answering machine blinked like a light on a bomb in a movie. It blinked in a rhythm like a heartbeat. Blink blink. Blink blink. Blink blink. It was unwavering, unthinking, and relentless. Blink blink. Blink blink. Lori imagined her pulse rate altering to match the blink blink. Lori pushed the button to defuse the bomb.
The first message was identical to a message she and Julie had left on countless machines. Silence (one, two, three), without time enough to be absolutely certain nobody would start talking, and then the beep. She'd delete it later.
The bomb went off anyway.
"Lori? Are you there? Please be there!" Something was very wrong. "I'm… I'm leaving Dan. I'm taking the kids and leaving. He's on a fishing trip, but his rod and tackle box are in the cellar. It's not the first time. But I don't know where to go! All my friends are his friends… except you. I need to get out before he gets home, so if we can't stay with you, I'm going to the bus station and taking the kids to my mom's house in Florida. We can't wait for you to call, so we're leaving for the station now. The bus leaves at noon. I'll be watching for you, sweetie. Please be there. Bye." Bee-
The blink blink was gone, both from the answering machine and, Lori would have sworn, inside her. It was 11:49. Eleven miles. It was possible, but just barely, and only if she didn't get pulled over.
Did she want to do it? Julie wasn't changing her mind about Lori. She was asking her as a friend. Just as a friend. Lori wanted more, and now Dan would be out of the picture. Could she use this as leverage to convince Julie to give her a chance?
Really, could she? Was she capable of doing that to Julie? Julie might agree, but then if Lori was the kind of person she liked to think she was, she would have to hate herself.
Lori loved Julie. She should be helping her, not looking for her own advantage. Besides, she had no idea how to contact Julie's mother, and didn't want to lose touch with her friend.
-eep. Lori wouldn't have bothered with her coat if it didn't have her keys in its pocket.
Crashing out the door, Lori raced down the stairs, missing the last one. She landed hard, her ankle buckling under her. Her knee hit the brick border of the flowerbed with a moist crunch, but Lori didn't hear it. She had already fainted.
How long was she insensible? The sun was still high when her eyes opened. Minutes?
"Help!" she cried, but she knew as she did that her neighbors would never hear her. She had to hope she could crawl back up the stairs. "Julie," she sobbed. "I'm sorry."
Week 4: (I also like combining legends and myths. Here, I combine Prometeus, Loki, Thoth, Lucifer, Eris, Coyote, and a bunch of others to whom the gift of fire legend is attributed, either literally or symbolically. I was reading a lot of Tom Robbins at the time, and I wonder how much that influenced my vocabulary.)
The Rocks Said There's No Hiding Place
"Hey, hi there! I thought you were going to be late!"
"Late is an artificial concept. You should know that. You're responsible for it."
"You mean you can't keep to a schedule."
"How many hundreds of years have I been here, day in and day out, without fail? Thousands? Millions?"
"Now you're being ridiculous. What happened to the watch I gave you?"
"I can't wind it. No thumbs."
"It's digital, you turkey."
"I could make this hurt more, you know."
"No you couldn't. You might as well get on with it."
"Righto, chum."
The eagle rips at flesh with his awful beak. The titanic serpent with the baboon's head (but a fine, handsome specimen of serpent-with-baboon-headness, let's be clear about that!) winces, but doesn't cry out.
"Hey, chum," the eagle says during a leisurely pause, "lemme ask you something."
"Anything."
"What's with all the bunny business? I mean, I kinda get the coyote business and all, but why bunnies?"
"I don't know. I guess I like rabbits. And hares. Sometimes it was hares. That's not the same thing."
"You know I consider a good bunny something to snack on, don’t you?"
"Of course. Maybe that was it. Maybe I liked taking the side of the underdog."
"No kidding, chum!" the eagle snorts. (Have you ever heard an eagle snort? I'm sure there's a joke in there somewhere, but this isn't the time for it. The eagle is trying to tell his own joke, anyway, but he needs his companion to ask him a question first.) "I mean, isn't that what you were doing anyway? Thought you might as well dress for the occasion? Huh?"
"Yeah, sure," the serpent with the baboon head sighs. "Oh, hey! There was the spider! Spiders are predators."
"Spider? Oh, yeah! That little gender-bending incident! You know, we all kinda wondered about you for a while after that." The eagle goes back to work, tearing at skin and muscle, burrowing into the serpent.
"Hi, guys," chirps a visitor. Much smaller than the others, he's only a few inches long, only a few ounces. Either of the others could eat him in one bite. He's a swallow.
"Good morning!" the baboon head cries. "Is it a hundred years already? I didn't realize! If I'd known, I'd have baked a cake or some muffins! Now I feel bad!"
"Don't worry about it! It's not like I come around every day. Not like some. But I tell you what. Next time I'll try to come around a few years ahead, when I'm in the neighborhood, give you a reminder. Some of those poppy seed muffins would be a treat."
"I'll be sure to have them for you!"
"Much appreciated! Busy day, now. I'd best get to it."
"Hey, about that. The chain is really digging into my neck, just above where my left shoulder would be if I had shoulders. Any chance…?"
"No problem." The little bird hops up, in reach of those pointy yellow baboon teeth, and whets his beak (left, right, left, right) on the rock where the chain is snagged on a burr. He looks around (left, right, back, up) and with a quick dart of his head (left right) drags his beak against the burr again. Two sand-like grains sift down onto the mountainside.
"Thanks. You're a prince!"
"Don't mention it. Well, I'm off. See you in a hundred!"
"I'll have the muffins ready!"
The eagle mumbles something muffled by a mouthful of gore in the way of a goodbye.
As the eagle and the handsome serpent-baboon are going to be occupied with their own priorities that don't quite match ours, let me tell you a little about the swallow's actions. Those extra grains scraped from the boulder proved more troublesome than he realized. They added just enough weight to that side of the mountain to cause mudslides during the next rainy season. Entire villages shall be washed away. They would have been standing almost a hundred years hence, struggling with the final hurdles of a plan to protect the city (which would have been) from mudslides, but now the point is moot. Those two grains bounce to the ground unnoticed (contrary to popular and scientific belief, the truth is that the smaller they are the faster they fall), shifting the mountain prematurely and imperceptibly.
"Hey," the baboon-headed serpent whispers, writhing to nudge the eagle with a vital organ. "You've got an audience."
Two enormous one-eyed crows perch on a nearby boulder. They are gaunt, hunched, and predatory, like cartoon vultures, or cats waiting for the knitter's back to turn, or tax auditors.
"Oh, hey! Hi, guys!" Eagles' mouths are not built to grin. "Performance evaluation time already?"
"He doesn't appear to be suffering," one crow haughtily deigns to comment.
"Nowhere near enough," the second agrees. "Appalling."
"Don't blame him," the handsome serpent with the primate face and the gaping wound says. "It's kind of lost its charm, that's all. He does quite a horrifically painful job, really! But it's like flossing, or plucking unwanted nose hairs. The first few times it hurts, but you get used to it."
"Yes," one of the crows (or maybe the other) sneers. "Quite."
Under the crows' gaze, the coils of the serpent writhe between the rock and the chain. "Ooh! Aah! Please stop! I'll do anything!"
"Would you quit it, chum? I think you made me clip an intestine or something!"
"Sorry. I was trying to make you look good."
"Well, don't."
Whether satisfied one way or another or bored, the crows mutter between them and leave. The eagle and the serpent relax, only now realizing how tense they had become.
"Yeesh. All this for an apple."
"It wasn't just an apple. I've explained that."
"Yeah, well, we eagles aren't all that bright. That's part of why that Franklin character wanted the wild turkey instead of us."
"Really? I thought it was the rattlesnake."
"You would. But, yeah. Clever, gregarious, and brave, unlike eagles, who he said are cowards who steal from weaker birds. That wasn't a public opinion, mind! It's in a letter to his daughter, who he was writing to from someplace he was visiting."
"Huh."
"So why wasn't it an apple?"
"It was."
"I thought you just said it wasn't!"
"Well, it was, but it was more."
"To explain, please."
"The apple was a symbol. It was knowledge. Morality, right and wrong, good and evil. Technology, the alphabet, agriculture, fire. Defiance, independence."
"Except it wasn't really independence, was it?"
"Why not?"
"Well, it was you, not them. Where's the independence in being given all that shit? I think it looks like the only one being defiant was you. Maybe that's why you're all chained up here. Not for giving fire to a bunch of dumb apes, or teaching them to write their name in the snow, but for taking away their chance to learn it for themselves just so you could look all tough and be a rebel."
"Huh." That gives the baboon head something to do, all right. Could this self-professed stupid bird be onto something?
"Alrighty, then. I think that's about it for today." The eagle rummages for any missed chunks of liver, then preens, cleaning his bloody beak in the process.
"I've been composing a bluegrass operetta in my spare time. Want to stick around and hear it?
"Sorry, chum. Maybe tomorrow. I still have to be a vision, a totem, and an omen."
"I understand. Hey, why have you been calling me 'chum' all day?"
"I need shark bait for the omen!" the eagle guffaws. (Have you ever heard an eagle guffaw? Really, do you know if you would recognize a guffaw if you heard it? Anyway, there it is. The eagle got his joke in. At least he knows he's not too bright.)
The handsome serpent with the baboon head cringes, pained more by the joke than by the disembowelment. At least we aren't the only ones. The eagle unfurls its wings and plucks a gobbet of flesh from the rock.
"See you tomorrow, chum."
"I'll be here. Good night, Ralph."
Week 5: (It was early, and I thought I'd be experimental. I failed dismally. This is why I don't write poetry! Anyway, it's about fear of rejection.)
Coming Out
(Miss Cline, Miss Wynette, would one of you lend me your voice for a few minutes?)
When I was young
I looked at the girls
While they looked at boys
And that's when I started to wonder.
I told my mother
But she and my priest
Said that was wrong
So I had no choice but believing.
I suppressed what I would
And did what I should,
Gave it up fast and free
To whichever boys moved the fastest!
Eventually
One said he loved me,
And I loved him enough that we married,
And I thought that I started to live.
After quite a few years,
As much laughter as tears,
I opened my heart up
And told him about looking at girls.
He said to me,
"I love you still,
As long as there's room for me,
I don't mind you looking at the girls!"
I threw myself to him,
Gave him all I could give,
This man who caught me when I jumped.
And that's when I knew that I loved.
I went out the next day,
The same as before,
Eyeballing girls,
But still I would not leave him!
A weight had been lifted,
My conscience was clear,
My secret was shared,
And that's when I started to live!
But he eyed me with scorn,
Sneered at my tastes,
Demeaned my thoughts and opinions!
And that's when I started to fear.
Though he never said "hate"
His look might as well have,
Whatever his words,
And that's when I wanted to die.
Week 6: (I've always liked Ophelia. My first attempt was a "Small Talent for War"-like story about aliens, but it just wasn't working. I also rejected an idea having to do with chakras. So I did a little research into symbolism of flowers and came up with this. I had to put in the Neil Sedaka. Had to!)
Hamlet, Act IV, Scene 5 (alternate)
OPHELIA (distributing flowers)
There's fennel for you, and columbines: there's rue for you; and here's some for me: we may call it herb-grace o' Sundays: O you must wear your rue with a difference. There's a daisy: I give all of you violets, bundled with aconite and asphodel, vervain and veronica: yellow jessamine solely for me! I'll not share that. What does this mean, this purple that bounds my world? All else is tainted by jaundice. The pinks and reds of my life have flown from me, as have the blues of my love. Not to worry! All shall come clean. Whence this palid petalled thing like the cheek of a corse? Out, foul thing. We've enough of your like! Some of these violets are blue or white. Not all are royal purple! Caesars come to their ends, their purples pass on or fade, or rot in the mud, and rose petal pinks and strawberry reds, who put them there live and die unrecorded, unchronicled. No these violets remain for me, but I'll take some asphodel and aconite as well, and pin them to my sleeve. Time was I had a mother, and now I have bartered her jewels for blossoms from seeds of Nubia, Cathay, and Orbo Novo.
(sings)
Come-a, come-a down doobie doo down down!
Come-a, come-a down doobie doo down down!
LAERTES
Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself,
She turns to favour and to prettiness.
Week 7: (I was rather proud of this one, and disappointed it didn't do better. Again, I put in many layers: the physical metamorphosis of Midas's daughter into gold, the metamorphosis of the Midas legend, the metamorphosis of Midas's daughter over time as gold was removed, the metamorphosis of the world in general, the metamorphosis of specific locations, the metamorphosis of Midas's daughter slowly going mad. . . .)
All of the stray hairs, wire-fine strands of pure gold, are gone, wrenched away by accident or greed. She does not mind their loss. Hairs fall out unnoticed all the time, so why should the loss of a few stray hairs over the course of millennia concern her? She has more urgent concerns - not that her concept of urgency is as common as it used to be. In fact, no living person is likely to understand what she has come to mean by the word, no matter which of the many languages she has had occasion to learn she uses to express it!
Of the proud ringlets that flew about her face when she last moved, few remain. Sharp edges show where they have been cut or wrenched rudely away. She was bothered at one time, but resigned herself, again, to the knowledge that hair grows back.
After her father's palace fell to invaders, she was carried off as spoils of victory. That was when she had begun to lose her hair. First the stray hairs, easily tugged away, and then the curls. She was no longer cherished as she had been, as the King's daughter, but for the comforts her hair could buy.
Not even her new masters could last forever, and for treating her like an object, a possession, some kind of trophy, she reveled in watching them be slaughtered in their turn. Many of these new invaders were no older than she felt herself to be, although she was, by then, old enough to be their grandmother. Sadly, they were no saviors to her; they were another mob of plundering, pillaging brutes. Carried off again, with no easily removed hair, the fine folds of her skirts, formerly the best linens and wools but now foil torn and crumpled by this manhandling from one place to another, were torn away by the handful, as her hair had been. This was an offense to her modesty, and the laughing, jaded boys responsible did filthy things to her exposed thighs, alone and furtively or in groups and boastfully, but nothing that did not wash away easily, although washing away the shame and degradation took many more years.
She stood virtually unnoticed for decades, just one more nameless object in the halls of the palace of the pirate king who employed those perverted children, a part of the overflowing mercenary harem that included precious gems and jewelry and artwork from three - and possibly four or five - continents. Slaves dusted her regularly, but she hardly received the sort of affection she was accustomed to receiving from her father's servants.
A pirate king's lot is precarious, and she saw dozens come and go, each convinced of his own invincibility and the loyalty of his men or convinced his men were plotting against him and he must provide safeguards for himself at every turn. Few fell in the middle. None ever lasted more than a few years, and some not even one. Ten years, maybe twelve at the outside, and they would be dead, replaced by their killers. Curious, she thought, how they never seemed to be killed by their victims. Their men, certainly, but they themselves? Never! When they reached the top, they stopped being pirates and started being unauthorized provincial magistrates who sponsored and regulated piracy!
Centuries passed, not even bothering with a tip of the hat or a smile, leaving her standing in her corner, alone and unacknowledged except for the slaves with the dusters, who decreased in number and enthusiasm with the years. When the pressures of infighting and navies subsidized by offended merchants - not to mention the occasional natural disaster - grew too great, the attentions of the housekeepers stopped altogether. She could go days, weeks, and eventually months without seeing a moving biped. Birds rarely got in, and mice and rats were common, but people? A vanishing part of her world.
When the wall in front of her crumbled into the sea below, she knew the people were truly gone.
Tile by tile, the floor followed the wall into the sea. Why did the island on which she stood choose now to succumb to the might of the waves? Well, why not? Besides, it's not like it happened overnight. This palace of pirate kings went unplundered in part because it was designed to be unremarkable from without, and partly because it was situated in a location selected for being difficult to reach. Not much in the way of geological studies went into its positioning.
When she finally tumbled into the sea herself, she took a bit of a pounding. The worst of it was a solid blow to the head, flattening some of her remaining locks, and a vicious bounce off of a jagged rock, leaving a dent in the remnants of her skirt that pushed well into her left buttock. That was her first big scare. That was certainly more than would produce a mere bruise! And it would not wash away like. . . .
Actually, she had contemplated far worse outcomes, watching the floor shorten. She had considered that her entire head could have snapped off! Where would she be then?
At least her head was not dented. She would hate to see what her skull would look like (if she had still had one) if it was. The damage to her tender young backside (since she still could not think of herself as old, no matter how hard she tried) worried her, although she did not have flesh any more than she had bones.
She had plenty of time to worry, too. Sediment, silt, slabs of cliff, floor tiles, and her fellow plunder blanketed her, cutting off her view of the world, until she was deep in a five-year-old's nap (eyes closed, not asleep at all and determined to stay that way, possibly snoring comically if provided with lungs and adenoids of flesh), waiting until the next plunderer found her.
She was surprised to find that she did, in fact, hope that some other plunderer would find her!
And find her he did.
Nations rose and fell. On the cliffs above, in what remained of the ruins, not just generations but bloodlines of goats lived and died. Without a need for sleep, without the ability to drown, with no zeitgeiber to aid her, covered as completely as she was, she had to measure the passage of time by comparing it to the speed of thought.
The next plunderer operated under the aegis of archeology. He stripped away sediment left, right, and center, destroying evidence later generations would consider irreplaceable. He blasted and dug, preserving pots and bowls, statues and coins, leaving many bricks and buttons to fall aside. Bone? Who cares if it is older than Christ? Wood? It probably cannot be saved anyway!
But he wiped our little girl's eyes and made her wish she could blink against the (nonetheless welcome) light of day!
Except. . . !
Except. . . .
She was cast into a world at war like she never could have imagined! What were her father's archers and hoplites compared to these things that could hurl death from a mile away? And it never stopped! Soon, they came from the skies, as well (or worse), and none of them lived in the places over which they fought!
Between wars, she became important again. She passed from hand to hand (figuratively and literally), and occasionally lost weight, which distressed her to no end.
Had she worried about the fall on her butt? A kiss! One cash-starved owner (or employee thereof) shaved away at her back, on the left, above the hip, hoping it would not show. Another, less concerned with appearances, had sawn off two of her outstretched fingers!
Her fingers! Her fingers! Gone! For money! If she is ever relieved of this curse, will she bleed from the shavings on her back, deeper than her dress was thick, and from the stumps of her fingers, unable to grow back like her hair?
Of course, it was money that had brought her to this pass.
Her father was famous for his love of money. Legendary. Freakin' eponymous!
He was still eponymous, although the bad parts - the parts that have led us here - had been shed for the most part. It is a shame. We would do well to remember them rather than repeat them.
She has heard the stories. Heard them in many languages. She has heard them sung to the lyre's accompaniment and seen them on cathode ray tubes. Some of them come close to the truth.
Her father was greedy. He spent his entire life, as far as she could remember, in search of one thing.
He had his laboratory, harnessing the lightning, channeling it through one substance or another, always trying to convert one substance to another. His alchemic knowledge was vast, but his wisdom lagged behind. He had no one to tell him he should not usurp the power of the gods, he should think before he acted, he should not play Frankenstein. He would not have known who Frankenstein was, of course, but she did by now.
The day he succeeded. . . . She ran in from the rose garden he loved almost as much as his laboratory. She wanted to tell him that the rose he had bred to bloom a pure golden color had a bud! She ran through the laboratory, toward him, and her fingers (two of which were now lost forever, melted down as part of a mass-produced wristwatch, no doubt) almost touched his before she realized he was warning her away. She had stepped into the field of his experiment.
Some call it the Philosopher's Stone. Others some call it the Midas touch, forgetting the price he paid for it. The price she paid.
She stands, half-nude, agonizing over her fingers, worrying what will happen if she is ever restored to flesh. She has been in the same stance for centuries, and has been unable to draw a breath or utter a word. She is quite mad.
Week 8: (I had to do this! I knew hiding the punchline like I did was risky, but it was worth it! I still wish I knew if anybody got it!)
Okay, so a bunch of the regular crowd are sitting in their Tuesday corner at Goodfellow's. They pushed two tables together and gathered round.
The way they picked Tuesdays? You got seven days in the week, and none of them could assemble enough of a majority to pick a day, so Inari suggested flipping a coin. It came up elbows, so Tuesdays it was!
What we got today isn't all the gang. Coyote had to work late, doing product endorsements for explosives and hookers. Gwydion's blowing them off tonight. He's still pissed Eshu called him a dumb noob who's not a real god. That's okay. None of them like him much anyway. They think he's a nasty, incompetent little prick. Honestly, Eshu's not all that nice a guy himself and probably just wanted to piss somebody off.
Anyway, Ananse's trying to get out of paying his share of the tab. Typical. He's been putting away the calabash liqueur like it's going out of style. "Hey, I tell you what we do. We gots lots o' marks here. Best trick, the rest pay his drinks."
(By the way, Ananse's calling himself Parker tonight. Mr. Parker. It's on his driver's license and everything.)
Eshu makes these little self-important stabs at Ananse with his pipe stem. "One, it wouldn't kill you to pay your own drinks without kicking up a fuss. Two, why can't we do something hasn't been done to death for a change? Three, nohow we're gonna decide who wins."
"No, it's okay," Inari says. "I'll judge. I stay out of the game, I pay my own drinks."
"Okay, that's the way you want it." Eshu's not thrilled, but he's not arguing either.
"I'll start!" Loki volunteers. Like a dog he is, all excited to play. He takes a big swallow of mead, wipes his chin on the back of his hand, and looks around. "Hey, you see that table there, yeah? I'll buy a round of top-shelf drinks for the house and stick them with the bill, eh?"
"That still work where you come from?" says Eshu. "Me, I think they stopped biting on that one maybe about the time they come up with the idea of money."
"It's a good joke, hey? My buddy falls for it all the time."
"Yeah, but he's got maybe a couple brinks more missing than you got missing."
"Oh, yeah! Hey, I tell you about the time Thrymr-?"
"Only maybe every week." Eshu's looking around. "You think it's all that high, I do it with a twist. I order a round of dog piss. Pitchers of Black Label. Stick them with responsibility for that."
"That's different how?" says Ananse. They don't look like they much like each other tonight. They keep threatening each other with their canes. Not much, but little aggressive gestures, you know? "I'll make up something the bartender never did hear so he's in fine temper when the tab hits. I buy them the blame for a round of (um) Heart Attacks for the house."
"Can of Red Bull, two jiggers vodka, over ice in a highball glass," Sun Wukong hiccups. He's had like four bottles of Jade Emperor wine, and he's starting on a fifth!
"What I miss?" Kokopele asks.
When he went away, he didn't have a big red handprint on his face. Now he does. What do you want to bet it's the same woman who's done it to him the last three weeks running? As if to confirm the suspicion, he picks up his flute from off the table, picks something off his back, and stuffs it in the end of the flute. Ready, aim, fire! He blows it out of the flute and smack! onto the woman's back. She's pretty, in a Cosmopolitan kind of way, with wavy blonde hair and a deep tan. Kind of a bitch, though. And now Kokopele has stuck a "Kick Me" sign on her back that's not going away for eighteen years.
"Ananse trying to get out of paying his drinks."
"So, a contest?"
"Yah."
"Who's judging?"
"Inari," says the rabbit with the starlight in his ears. "Loki wants to stick that table there with the bill for a round of expensive drinks for the house. Eshu wants to stick them with the bill for a round of footwash. Mr. Parker wants to stick them with the bill for something made up, but he can't make up anything. That leaves you, me, and the monkey."
"I see a pattern. I gotta follow it?"
"I don't think so."
"Okay, then. Cement mixers. Doubles."
"That's it?" Sun Wukong says. "That's it?"
"And I thought Loki's idea was dumb," says Eshu.
Kokopele ignores Eshu. That's the best way to handle him. "What's your idea then, oh great sage?"
"Let's get sake and not pay!" Sun Wukong giggles. His tail has his chair in a death grip to keep him from falling over. "What? What? It was funny!"
All eyes are on El-ahrairah. Even his own. Arrogant bastard. Resigned sigh. Very artful. "I concede. I can beat all those except one."
"Hey!" Inari protests. "I judge!"
"You're right," the rabbit says. "My fault. I withdraw the observation."
"He meant me anyway," Kokopele preens. "The classics are the best, man!"
Too late, Inari gets El-ahrairah's angle.
"A classic? Sticking someone else with the bill is more of a classic!" "But it's stale! You gotta punch it up a little! Make it new!" "Making the mark drink something gross is punched up?" "You'll be punched up in a minute."
These guys are supposed to have a reputation for being clever.
Eshu alone smiles and raises a glass to the rabbit.
The mousy (big mouse-almost six feet!) woman with the unbrushed hair and scratched glasses, sitting one table over, looks up from her transcript of the conversation when the waitress asks if she wants a refill. Yes, actually, I do. "Put it on the glee club's tab?"
"As long as they haven't noticed. Thanks!"