This is my Picasso. Acrylic on Canvas, 18"x24"
2010
15.3.11
9.3.11
Fraternal
The cat twirls himself
Through Joe’s legs, but he doesn’t
Think, just pushes him away,
And pushes through the torn screen door
With a beer in his hand.
He’s met with a glare so he
Smirks and makes his eyes real thin so
They look closed, and he says,
Look, dad, I brought you a beer,
And grins a cheeky metal grin
And everyone thinks,
Oh, that boy.
Jake thinks if he closes his eyes
Maybe he can hide or disappear
From all those strangers
He’s known for years.
If he shuts the door and puts his hands
Over his ears
Maybe they won’t know he’s there.
Where’s Jake,
They say.
Oh, you know Jake.
But he can’t hear.
The cat scratches on the door but he can’t hear.
Simple Misunderstanding
Miranda stood at the altar staring down into her own pale, dead face cushioned in satin pillows. At the pulpit behind the open casket the priest mused on finer points of her life – frolicking at the beach in Rhode Island as a child, graduating summa cum laude from Boston U., her recent safari adventure in Africa. She only half-listened – the details were much gloomier than the priest made them out to be – and instead memorized the outline of a face she’d never get to see again. In the pews behind her, she heard her mother sobbing loudly, her shrill wails rumbling in the cavernous hall. The woman loves to go into hysterics, she thought. Miranda didn’t bother turning around to witness her feigned grief. If she knew anything about me, she wouldn’t have held the funeral in a Catholic Church.
What a bitch.
The priest waved his arms around dramatically, fluffing his billowy white sleeves as he thrust his fists to the audience. “I ask of you, do not mourn the passing of our beloved Miranda Davis, for she sits beside our Lord in heaven. God has granted her eternal life through death!”
She rolled her eyes and sighed. What a load of crap.
“She is an angel now! She makes her home among the golden archways of Heaven, and looks down on you lovingly. Our God is benevolent and will forgive her for her transgressions!”
Transgressions? I wasn’t that bad.
“So do not fear, you shall see her again someday.”
He paused and glanced around the pallid faces.
“Ahem. So. Miranda’s fiancé has asked to say a few words. Henry?”
Suddenly, her cheeks felt hot. Slowly she turned toward the pews and watched his reticent stroll to the pulpit. He thanked the priest quietly, who turned to sit in a throne-like chair facing the mourners. Henry cleared his throat and shuffled papers in front of him.
“I want to thank you all for being here,” he started. Miranda watched his dry eyes intently. “I know she would have loved to know all of you are here. Miranda loved her friends and family very much.” He cleared his throat again. “I’m sorry, it’s really been a hard week. I loved Miranda very much, and the way she left us was just… unbecoming of her.”
Unbecoming? Miranda held her uneasy stomach.
“She was truly a wonderful person and should be remembered as the kind, giving, selfless Miranda she was her whole life, not the woman she became… near the end….”
No… way….
Miranda rubbed her temples. Rage seared her eyes and crept down her cheeks. She was beginning to remember what had happened.
- - -
It was a very cool, blustery evening. The wind blew the screen door open, then slammed it shut, over and over, and the noise echoed through the little cabin. Miranda sighed, annoyed.
“Henry!” she called. “Henry! I thought you were going to fix the door?!”
Henry came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel.
“There aren’t any tools in this cabin. I have to go into town in the morning.”
Miranda closed her book, set it beside her on the couch, and looked at him sternly.
“Well can’t you do something about it now? It’s driving me crazy!”
“What am I supposed to do without any fucking tools? Deal with it, or close the front door!”
Henry turned and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Henry! Geez….”
Miranda uncurled herself and leaned on her knees with her head between her hands. Oh god, she thought. This vacation was supposed to bring them closer together, give them a chance to relax and forget about their respective jobs and the wedding planning. Instead… all this bickering, and over nothing, really. For three days they’d been trapped in the stuffy two room cabin, watching the rain and fighting with each other. Her throat tightened and she swallowed the tears.
I can’t do this, she thought, and rocked herself slowly. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.
- - -
Henry sighed. “No one who knew Miranda would have ever dreamed she could do… to herself… but that wasn’t her. Remember her gentle nature. Miranda always wanted to help people. She just wanted to save everyone, to solve their problems. Everyone just loved Miranda, and she loved everyone.”
He stopped, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Carefully he placed his glasses in the front pocket of his suit. Miranda wiped her cheeks but found no tears.
Huh. Of course, I have no body, and so no tears.
“Remember her sharp wit, her intelligence. She read every book on our shelf, most of them twice, and could recite her favorites word-for-word. And she loved a solid debate. Beat me every time!”
Henry chuckled lightly and the grieving bodies cooed in polite unison.
But they feel so real…, she thought, and rubbed her face again to be sure.
“Remember her zest for life. She took that trip to Africa on her own, and saw so much more than a single lifetime could handle. She could’ve conquered mountains….”
Her mother cried out audibly and muffled herself with a hand kerchief. Miranda whipped around and screamed, Shut up, you old cow! But to no avail. No one heard her. She threw her arms in the air and popped beside Henry amid a veil of ethereal vapor.
What else? She whispered in his ear. He shuddered.
- - -
They sat on opposite ends of the narrow kitchen table, sipping coffee in silence. Miranda watched the clouds through the big double-paned windows and Henry studied the tabletop. His hulking, boxy body cast an oblong shadow that reached the living room. Without looking up he said, “It’s supposed to be nice today.”
Miranda looked at him. “What? What did you say? I can’t hear you when you mumble!”
He glowered at her.
“Goddamnit, Miranda. I said it should be nice today. Outside. Maybe we should go and get some fresh fucking air.”
She lowered her head, suddenly irritated and a little ashamed of her own behavior.
“Well, maybe you could fix the screen door today,” she half-whispered.
Henry stood up forcefully, pushing the chair back against the kitchen cabinets. He tossed his cup of coffee in the sink.
“What is it with you? This whole vacation you’ve been picking fights with me. It’s never enough. I fixed the truck, I got the heater to work, I cook breakfast… what do you do? Read? Fuck you, I want to relax too!”
“Henry, Jesus Christ!”
He exhaled loudly and ran his hand over his head.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Look, I’ll fix the screen door if that is what will make you happy.” He snatched the keys off the table and heaved himself violently through the door. The truck rumbled as the engine turned. Miranda watched it weave through the trees until she couldn’t see it anymore, then stared absently out the window. Gently, she lifted herself from the kitchen chair and took her cup to the sink, washed the dishes in grey soapy water, and thought about Henry.
The wedding is very stressful, she reasoned. Everything would be normal after it’s over.
- - -
Henry thanked everyone again and made his way back to the pews. Miranda stood next to the pulpit and, for the first time, took a long look at the people who came to mourn her. In the front row, her blubbering mother sat with her face buried in her dad’s shoulder, her brother and his wife held each other with their heads bowed, and Henry, who had just slid into the booth, wrestled with his poorly fitted suit. The small church was about half-full – some coworkers, a few childhood friends, and extended family members whose names she struggled to remember. No doubt they had been invited to her wedding next month.
The priest made the announcement for pallbearers to close the casket. She took one last little glimpse of her lifeless body and felt a momentary, fleeting touch of sadness in her chest. Her brother, her dad, Henry, and a few cousins picked up the casket and synchronously carried it down the altar steps. She hurried passed them to stand at the front of the procession, the invisible girl leading her own funeral march.
- - -
It was very late that night when Henry returned. Miranda, who had gone for a hike to the river at the bottom of the hill, felt refreshed and calm, and ready to smooth things out with the man she’d soon pledge to spend the rest of her life loving and obeying. She relaxed on the couch, reading her book, and trying not to watch the door. She heard his heavy boots on the porch’s stairs and looked up to see him enter the kitchen, his mouth set in stern, sallow grimace. He stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room.
“We need to talk.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve calmed down. I got out of the house today. I really think it helped.”
She marked her page and set the book down on a side table. Henry moved toward her and she stood up, almost on eye level with him. He moved quickly, striding the room in only a few steps, and pushed her back onto the couch, pinning her with his forearm.
“No. We fucking need to talk. I’m not putting up with your shit anymore.”
She grabbed his arm with both her hands.
“You’re hurting me…”
He leaned in close to her face and the bitter stench of liquor engulfed her.
“Listen to me! You’ve been on my shit for too goddamn long, always nagging me, Henry do this, Henry do that, Henry why haven’t you done all that already? Nothing I do is ever good enough. But I know what I could do that would fix everything. So I’m not taking it anymore! You hear me!”
She gasped harshly. His arm jammed her head against the couch’s back and she struggled to breathe.
“You start listening to me, for a change, doing what I say, or… or you don’t want to know what I can do to you! You got it?”
She closed her eyes tightly and tried to turn herself to the side.
“I said, do… you… get… me?!”
She sputtered, “Yes! Please let me go!”
He relaxed his arm and she twisted herself from under it. He stumbled back a few steps, stunned and wavering. She stared at him, almost paralyzed, then quickly bolted passed him, through the kitchen, and down the porch steps.
- - -
The plot her mom chose was fairly ordinary, in the middle of a cemetery near the church, situated on a bit of a slope. The hole had been pre-dug and was fascinatingly cubic, nearly perfect on each side. Miranda stood where her gravestone would be, crouched down to see the hole where her body would rest eternally. Mourners stood around the grave, dabbing their eyes with the corners of Kleenex tissues. The priest uttered a prayer and her mother, ever seeking attention, threw herself onto a nearby relative. Miranda clicked her tongue and stood up as they lowered her into the grave. When the coffin rested on the dirt floor, everyone began staggering back to their cars, headed to the reception promised them for their patience and sympathy. Henry tossed a rose into the grave. Miranda walked up behind him, standing close enough to touch his ear with her nose, and stared over his shoulder. She thought she heard him say, in a whisper so inaudible she must have imagined it, “I’m sorry.”
- - -
Tiny, sharp rocks tore gashes in her bare feet. She scuttled blindly down the path, avoiding the trees and trying to remember the way back to town. Her breath quickened and she whined lightly with every exhale, symptoms of childhood asthma. She glanced behind her several times and saw the flicker of a flashlight searching for her in the forest.
“Miranda!” His voice reverberated in the still mountain air. She stumbled over a large rock and fell heavy on her knees. Stunned, she looked around, and saw the light drawing closer.
“Miranda!” He roared again. She gathered herself up and lurched forward, running only a few paces before she lost her footing on the sharply pitched path. She rolled over her right shoulder and the momentum tossed her down the hill. Her body, just a pawn to gravity, launched itself off a high cliff and tumbled into the rushing river below. As she fell, she saw a bright spot of light peering down at her from atop the craggy precipice, and she tried to cry, “Henry!” but the name drowned in the icy water filling her lungs.
What a bitch.
The priest waved his arms around dramatically, fluffing his billowy white sleeves as he thrust his fists to the audience. “I ask of you, do not mourn the passing of our beloved Miranda Davis, for she sits beside our Lord in heaven. God has granted her eternal life through death!”
She rolled her eyes and sighed. What a load of crap.
“She is an angel now! She makes her home among the golden archways of Heaven, and looks down on you lovingly. Our God is benevolent and will forgive her for her transgressions!”
Transgressions? I wasn’t that bad.
“So do not fear, you shall see her again someday.”
He paused and glanced around the pallid faces.
“Ahem. So. Miranda’s fiancé has asked to say a few words. Henry?”
Suddenly, her cheeks felt hot. Slowly she turned toward the pews and watched his reticent stroll to the pulpit. He thanked the priest quietly, who turned to sit in a throne-like chair facing the mourners. Henry cleared his throat and shuffled papers in front of him.
“I want to thank you all for being here,” he started. Miranda watched his dry eyes intently. “I know she would have loved to know all of you are here. Miranda loved her friends and family very much.” He cleared his throat again. “I’m sorry, it’s really been a hard week. I loved Miranda very much, and the way she left us was just… unbecoming of her.”
Unbecoming? Miranda held her uneasy stomach.
“She was truly a wonderful person and should be remembered as the kind, giving, selfless Miranda she was her whole life, not the woman she became… near the end….”
No… way….
Miranda rubbed her temples. Rage seared her eyes and crept down her cheeks. She was beginning to remember what had happened.
- - -
It was a very cool, blustery evening. The wind blew the screen door open, then slammed it shut, over and over, and the noise echoed through the little cabin. Miranda sighed, annoyed.
“Henry!” she called. “Henry! I thought you were going to fix the door?!”
Henry came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel.
“There aren’t any tools in this cabin. I have to go into town in the morning.”
Miranda closed her book, set it beside her on the couch, and looked at him sternly.
“Well can’t you do something about it now? It’s driving me crazy!”
“What am I supposed to do without any fucking tools? Deal with it, or close the front door!”
Henry turned and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Henry! Geez….”
Miranda uncurled herself and leaned on her knees with her head between her hands. Oh god, she thought. This vacation was supposed to bring them closer together, give them a chance to relax and forget about their respective jobs and the wedding planning. Instead… all this bickering, and over nothing, really. For three days they’d been trapped in the stuffy two room cabin, watching the rain and fighting with each other. Her throat tightened and she swallowed the tears.
I can’t do this, she thought, and rocked herself slowly. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.
- - -
Henry sighed. “No one who knew Miranda would have ever dreamed she could do… to herself… but that wasn’t her. Remember her gentle nature. Miranda always wanted to help people. She just wanted to save everyone, to solve their problems. Everyone just loved Miranda, and she loved everyone.”
He stopped, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Carefully he placed his glasses in the front pocket of his suit. Miranda wiped her cheeks but found no tears.
Huh. Of course, I have no body, and so no tears.
“Remember her sharp wit, her intelligence. She read every book on our shelf, most of them twice, and could recite her favorites word-for-word. And she loved a solid debate. Beat me every time!”
Henry chuckled lightly and the grieving bodies cooed in polite unison.
But they feel so real…, she thought, and rubbed her face again to be sure.
“Remember her zest for life. She took that trip to Africa on her own, and saw so much more than a single lifetime could handle. She could’ve conquered mountains….”
Her mother cried out audibly and muffled herself with a hand kerchief. Miranda whipped around and screamed, Shut up, you old cow! But to no avail. No one heard her. She threw her arms in the air and popped beside Henry amid a veil of ethereal vapor.
What else? She whispered in his ear. He shuddered.
- - -
They sat on opposite ends of the narrow kitchen table, sipping coffee in silence. Miranda watched the clouds through the big double-paned windows and Henry studied the tabletop. His hulking, boxy body cast an oblong shadow that reached the living room. Without looking up he said, “It’s supposed to be nice today.”
Miranda looked at him. “What? What did you say? I can’t hear you when you mumble!”
He glowered at her.
“Goddamnit, Miranda. I said it should be nice today. Outside. Maybe we should go and get some fresh fucking air.”
She lowered her head, suddenly irritated and a little ashamed of her own behavior.
“Well, maybe you could fix the screen door today,” she half-whispered.
Henry stood up forcefully, pushing the chair back against the kitchen cabinets. He tossed his cup of coffee in the sink.
“What is it with you? This whole vacation you’ve been picking fights with me. It’s never enough. I fixed the truck, I got the heater to work, I cook breakfast… what do you do? Read? Fuck you, I want to relax too!”
“Henry, Jesus Christ!”
He exhaled loudly and ran his hand over his head.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Look, I’ll fix the screen door if that is what will make you happy.” He snatched the keys off the table and heaved himself violently through the door. The truck rumbled as the engine turned. Miranda watched it weave through the trees until she couldn’t see it anymore, then stared absently out the window. Gently, she lifted herself from the kitchen chair and took her cup to the sink, washed the dishes in grey soapy water, and thought about Henry.
The wedding is very stressful, she reasoned. Everything would be normal after it’s over.
- - -
Henry thanked everyone again and made his way back to the pews. Miranda stood next to the pulpit and, for the first time, took a long look at the people who came to mourn her. In the front row, her blubbering mother sat with her face buried in her dad’s shoulder, her brother and his wife held each other with their heads bowed, and Henry, who had just slid into the booth, wrestled with his poorly fitted suit. The small church was about half-full – some coworkers, a few childhood friends, and extended family members whose names she struggled to remember. No doubt they had been invited to her wedding next month.
The priest made the announcement for pallbearers to close the casket. She took one last little glimpse of her lifeless body and felt a momentary, fleeting touch of sadness in her chest. Her brother, her dad, Henry, and a few cousins picked up the casket and synchronously carried it down the altar steps. She hurried passed them to stand at the front of the procession, the invisible girl leading her own funeral march.
- - -
It was very late that night when Henry returned. Miranda, who had gone for a hike to the river at the bottom of the hill, felt refreshed and calm, and ready to smooth things out with the man she’d soon pledge to spend the rest of her life loving and obeying. She relaxed on the couch, reading her book, and trying not to watch the door. She heard his heavy boots on the porch’s stairs and looked up to see him enter the kitchen, his mouth set in stern, sallow grimace. He stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room.
“We need to talk.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve calmed down. I got out of the house today. I really think it helped.”
She marked her page and set the book down on a side table. Henry moved toward her and she stood up, almost on eye level with him. He moved quickly, striding the room in only a few steps, and pushed her back onto the couch, pinning her with his forearm.
“No. We fucking need to talk. I’m not putting up with your shit anymore.”
She grabbed his arm with both her hands.
“You’re hurting me…”
He leaned in close to her face and the bitter stench of liquor engulfed her.
“Listen to me! You’ve been on my shit for too goddamn long, always nagging me, Henry do this, Henry do that, Henry why haven’t you done all that already? Nothing I do is ever good enough. But I know what I could do that would fix everything. So I’m not taking it anymore! You hear me!”
She gasped harshly. His arm jammed her head against the couch’s back and she struggled to breathe.
“You start listening to me, for a change, doing what I say, or… or you don’t want to know what I can do to you! You got it?”
She closed her eyes tightly and tried to turn herself to the side.
“I said, do… you… get… me?!”
She sputtered, “Yes! Please let me go!”
He relaxed his arm and she twisted herself from under it. He stumbled back a few steps, stunned and wavering. She stared at him, almost paralyzed, then quickly bolted passed him, through the kitchen, and down the porch steps.
- - -
The plot her mom chose was fairly ordinary, in the middle of a cemetery near the church, situated on a bit of a slope. The hole had been pre-dug and was fascinatingly cubic, nearly perfect on each side. Miranda stood where her gravestone would be, crouched down to see the hole where her body would rest eternally. Mourners stood around the grave, dabbing their eyes with the corners of Kleenex tissues. The priest uttered a prayer and her mother, ever seeking attention, threw herself onto a nearby relative. Miranda clicked her tongue and stood up as they lowered her into the grave. When the coffin rested on the dirt floor, everyone began staggering back to their cars, headed to the reception promised them for their patience and sympathy. Henry tossed a rose into the grave. Miranda walked up behind him, standing close enough to touch his ear with her nose, and stared over his shoulder. She thought she heard him say, in a whisper so inaudible she must have imagined it, “I’m sorry.”
- - -
Tiny, sharp rocks tore gashes in her bare feet. She scuttled blindly down the path, avoiding the trees and trying to remember the way back to town. Her breath quickened and she whined lightly with every exhale, symptoms of childhood asthma. She glanced behind her several times and saw the flicker of a flashlight searching for her in the forest.
“Miranda!” His voice reverberated in the still mountain air. She stumbled over a large rock and fell heavy on her knees. Stunned, she looked around, and saw the light drawing closer.
“Miranda!” He roared again. She gathered herself up and lurched forward, running only a few paces before she lost her footing on the sharply pitched path. She rolled over her right shoulder and the momentum tossed her down the hill. Her body, just a pawn to gravity, launched itself off a high cliff and tumbled into the rushing river below. As she fell, she saw a bright spot of light peering down at her from atop the craggy precipice, and she tried to cry, “Henry!” but the name drowned in the icy water filling her lungs.
9.9.10
Haiku for Life Story
Big brother attacks
With tickling fingers, both
Crying and laughing.
Childish arguing;
Shakes fists, shakes lip-sticked collar,
But they can’t see us.
Bleary-eyed, blinking
Away such beautiful dreams;
Awoke ugly life.
Miles of green pastures:
Barnyards, cows, corn stalks; smiling,
Hand dance in the wind.
Strange faces don’t judge
Haggard woman, three loud kids;
They’ve all seen their share.
Stopping by the road,
Can’t see through defeated tears;
Wish I wasn’t there.
Four typical years,
They could have been anyone’s;
Teens running amok.
Azaleas grow
In a concrete park, summer
City, breathe relief.
With tickling fingers, both
Crying and laughing.
Childish arguing;
Shakes fists, shakes lip-sticked collar,
But they can’t see us.
Bleary-eyed, blinking
Away such beautiful dreams;
Awoke ugly life.
Miles of green pastures:
Barnyards, cows, corn stalks; smiling,
Hand dance in the wind.
Strange faces don’t judge
Haggard woman, three loud kids;
They’ve all seen their share.
Stopping by the road,
Can’t see through defeated tears;
Wish I wasn’t there.
Four typical years,
They could have been anyone’s;
Teens running amok.
Azaleas grow
In a concrete park, summer
City, breathe relief.
29.5.09
Some ideas.
Okay, I have to admit -- I might be the least motivated writer in the universe. (Or at least in the tri-state area.) But I do have some ideas... and one that I'd like to develop a little more thoroughly. So here it goes!
Based on my own childhood adventures, it's the story (actually, a series of stories) of 5-year-old twin brothers who get into all kinds of wacky hijinks and learn life lessons along the way. It's written for kids between 6 and 8 years old, so there are more small words than big ones but hopefully it comes off as still being an astute collection. Here is a little sampler platter.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Mom brought the box out of the closet. In big bold letters on the side it said, "Kip's Electric Obedience Training Collar!" Jake looked at Mom with wide eyes. "What... what is it?" He asked. Kristi narrowed her eyes as a grin split across her face. "A shock collar!" she said, hands on her hips.
"What!!" Jake screamed, "A shock collar?! Like to shock him?!"
Rascal whimpered.
"No, no, Jakey, it's to train him not to leave the yard," Mom said.
"But, does it shock him?"
"Only if he leaves the yard. I'll show you."
Mom lifted the collar out of its box. It was a thick black band with a little plastic box attached to it. Mom popped open the plastic box and stuck in two batteries. She put the battery case lid back on, took out a little black remote with a big yellow button, and gave the remote to Kristi.
"Okay, see this here?" Mom pointed to the little plastic box attached to the collar. "This controls how much electricity we use. See this switch?" Now, she turned it to its side and pointed out the little dial on the side of the box. "All we have to do is move this switch from here -- to here -- and voila! It's enough to surprise him, but not enough to hurt him."
Jake screamed again, "No! You're not hurting my doggy!"
"Jakey," Mom said calmly, "it doesn't hurt. I'll show you. Kristi, press the button on the remote."
Mom held the collar in her hand and Kristi pressed the yellow button. Suddenly, a little red light on the box flashed at the same time a little light on the remote turned on. The collar buzzed a little until Kristi took her finger off the button.
"Oh!" Mom said, "It tickles a little! But it doesn't hurt. Do you want to try it, Jakey?"
Jake look at it warily, but stuck out his hand. "If it hurts me, I don't want Rascal to put it on." He clutched the collar with both hands and Mom took the remote from Kristi. She pressed the yellow button and the collar buzzed. Jake squealed and giggled.
"It tickles!" he said as he dropped the collar on the couch.
"But it doesn't hurt you, right?" Mom asked.
"No..." Jake reluctantly agreed.
"I wanna try!" Kristi said and grabbed the collar.
"Okay, ready?" Mom asked.
"Ready!"
She pressed the button. Kristi let out a wail. She dropped the collar and fell onto the floor, clutching her stomach and laughing hysterically.
"It feels so funny!" she gasped between giggles.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
This story is based on a true story in which my mom bought a shock collar for my brother's new dog, who (as his name suggests) was pretty much a little brat (cute, but very untrained.) One day, the dog gets out of the yard and our vengeful neighbor (my mom always called her the witch) grabs onto his collar, intent to drag him back to our yard and scream at my mom for being irresponsible, but my mom notices Rascal's missing and presses the button to activate the collar, and our neighbor got quite a shock. It's a funny story, and I'm retelling it for the enjoyment of little children.
Based on my own childhood adventures, it's the story (actually, a series of stories) of 5-year-old twin brothers who get into all kinds of wacky hijinks and learn life lessons along the way. It's written for kids between 6 and 8 years old, so there are more small words than big ones but hopefully it comes off as still being an astute collection. Here is a little sampler platter.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Mom brought the box out of the closet. In big bold letters on the side it said, "Kip's Electric Obedience Training Collar!" Jake looked at Mom with wide eyes. "What... what is it?" He asked. Kristi narrowed her eyes as a grin split across her face. "A shock collar!" she said, hands on her hips.
"What!!" Jake screamed, "A shock collar?! Like to shock him?!"
Rascal whimpered.
"No, no, Jakey, it's to train him not to leave the yard," Mom said.
"But, does it shock him?"
"Only if he leaves the yard. I'll show you."
Mom lifted the collar out of its box. It was a thick black band with a little plastic box attached to it. Mom popped open the plastic box and stuck in two batteries. She put the battery case lid back on, took out a little black remote with a big yellow button, and gave the remote to Kristi.
"Okay, see this here?" Mom pointed to the little plastic box attached to the collar. "This controls how much electricity we use. See this switch?" Now, she turned it to its side and pointed out the little dial on the side of the box. "All we have to do is move this switch from here -- to here -- and voila! It's enough to surprise him, but not enough to hurt him."
Jake screamed again, "No! You're not hurting my doggy!"
"Jakey," Mom said calmly, "it doesn't hurt. I'll show you. Kristi, press the button on the remote."
Mom held the collar in her hand and Kristi pressed the yellow button. Suddenly, a little red light on the box flashed at the same time a little light on the remote turned on. The collar buzzed a little until Kristi took her finger off the button.
"Oh!" Mom said, "It tickles a little! But it doesn't hurt. Do you want to try it, Jakey?"
Jake look at it warily, but stuck out his hand. "If it hurts me, I don't want Rascal to put it on." He clutched the collar with both hands and Mom took the remote from Kristi. She pressed the yellow button and the collar buzzed. Jake squealed and giggled.
"It tickles!" he said as he dropped the collar on the couch.
"But it doesn't hurt you, right?" Mom asked.
"No..." Jake reluctantly agreed.
"I wanna try!" Kristi said and grabbed the collar.
"Okay, ready?" Mom asked.
"Ready!"
She pressed the button. Kristi let out a wail. She dropped the collar and fell onto the floor, clutching her stomach and laughing hysterically.
"It feels so funny!" she gasped between giggles.
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This story is based on a true story in which my mom bought a shock collar for my brother's new dog, who (as his name suggests) was pretty much a little brat (cute, but very untrained.) One day, the dog gets out of the yard and our vengeful neighbor (my mom always called her the witch) grabs onto his collar, intent to drag him back to our yard and scream at my mom for being irresponsible, but my mom notices Rascal's missing and presses the button to activate the collar, and our neighbor got quite a shock. It's a funny story, and I'm retelling it for the enjoyment of little children.
5.3.07
Prediction (Old and unedited)
The last time he saw her they were children, cloaked in blankets and regarded as “playthings” or amusing trinkets by towers of parents and parent-friends and whatnot who sat at the spokes of a round table and discussed semi-appealing things. The last time he saw her, she blinked warmly at him and cooed a little, he giggled in childlike amour: their love was naïve. This time -- she wore a long fitted gown, trailing around ankles like a goldenrod snake and cupped at the end by fistfuls of plastic flowers. He donned a loose linen garb lined with alabasteresque jewels and quarry minerals. She looked down forever at her toes, marveled by the purity of shape, roundness, deep brown tanned toes: they were so much more fascinating than this event, for sure. The parents of each discussed dowry and money and other not-so-appealing things.
Her father-figure relative took the hand of one and placed it in the hand of the other as each were escorted to the front of a crowd of gold and silver and brown people, the plucking of a mandolin and the occasional percussion bellow echoing in the walls. Barely had his face begun to sprout the most masculine aspect, just a small patch of stubble around the chin, maybe a few hairs above his lip. She hadn’t finished growing, either, just scarcely touched the Point of No Return, after all she was there and not with her dolls and her tea and her lovely porcelain dressing counter. They were corralled around a hoop, a link, or something that bound them together, cattle to be herded and fed and walked and whipped; she was still watching her feet and this made him queasy cause what if she spend the rest of their days with her feet, what would he do then alone and cold on some silky or dusty or straw-ridden bed, play with himself? And he thought of why this thought might have possibly sprung; does it make him a man or a coward and had his father told him earlier that maybe this thought would plague him on his wedding day? He thought not and they were led to a stop, whereupon she looked up and their eyes met. She blinked warmly at him and cooed a little, he giggled in childlike amour: their love was naïve
Her father-figure relative took the hand of one and placed it in the hand of the other as each were escorted to the front of a crowd of gold and silver and brown people, the plucking of a mandolin and the occasional percussion bellow echoing in the walls. Barely had his face begun to sprout the most masculine aspect, just a small patch of stubble around the chin, maybe a few hairs above his lip. She hadn’t finished growing, either, just scarcely touched the Point of No Return, after all she was there and not with her dolls and her tea and her lovely porcelain dressing counter. They were corralled around a hoop, a link, or something that bound them together, cattle to be herded and fed and walked and whipped; she was still watching her feet and this made him queasy cause what if she spend the rest of their days with her feet, what would he do then alone and cold on some silky or dusty or straw-ridden bed, play with himself? And he thought of why this thought might have possibly sprung; does it make him a man or a coward and had his father told him earlier that maybe this thought would plague him on his wedding day? He thought not and they were led to a stop, whereupon she looked up and their eyes met. She blinked warmly at him and cooed a little, he giggled in childlike amour: their love was naïve
27.2.07
I'm a wretched photographer.
This is home. Well, this is Manhattan. This is looking south-west
from Central Park (approx. 65th st.)
20.2.07
Last Resort?
Scarlet blood smeared across a thin, faded mattress
Drips
Drops
Splatters
An ivory cardigan is marred by innocence.
No, naivety...
Despair.
Anger.
Contempt.
Her mind: the war,
Her wrist: the front line,
The weapon of choice: a blade, carefully positioned,
Slices her silky pink flesh,
And another thread is spun into her red lace of hate.
One more, she thinks...
She wonders what heaven’s like.
With each slash
There is less pain,
There is less life,
Till the window’s fogged, and the image wanes,
And there is nothing
But a battered radio humming bleak Pink Floyd
And scarlet blood smeared across a thin, faded mattress
Dripped
Dropped
Splattered
A young girl is marred by innocence.
6.2.07
Train (working)
Six people on a train. Late in the day. Weekend? Monday. Where they've been, only they know. Where they're going, they don't even know.
Will finish later.
Will finish later.
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