When I first, many years ago, started attempting to persuade editors to publish my stories and poems, the world was an offline place. One sent out queries by snail mail and waited, patiently or not, for a reply. I recall writing poems on my old manual typewriter, bundling them up and sending them off in large manila envelopes, several at a time.
I was still living at home, although I’d moved out of the main house and into a small, moldy guest cottage up the hill. I did not realize it then, but the best thing about writing at that time was that I did not have bills, no one breathing down my neck for monthly payment on anything. I could write, or not. I could party one night and not write for a few days, and it was the same as not partying and writing. No worries either way. Then, fool that I was, I decided I needed a job, money, and so forth. So, I went to work, and shortly afterward bought a used car and became a slave to monthly payments. It wasn’t until years later that I realized I’d passed up the direct road to becoming a writer. I was too busy working, paying my car payment, and saving up to move out on my own to realize I’d shot myself in the foot.
Some years later (and I’m not telling you how many!) I have come round again to the desire to spend my days writing. Now, however, I’ve acquired more financial responsibilities and spend ever more time fulfilling them by means of a job that connects me to a steady paycheck. This is a job in a field I entered almost accidentally, a field of numbers, financial reports, and bosses. The steady paycheck barely holds me from week to week, not much different than when I started this path. The amount on the check is larger now, but so now are the obligations that eat it.
I read – longingly – of freelance writers who make their living at it. Their days are filled with hectic writing, deadlines, researches of interesting subjects, and a neverending supply of new ideas. Can I go there? How do I transition? Where do I get clients? Especially clients who pay well. How long does it take to build a freelance business? Where do I go for help doing this?
When I became old enough to want to do something, the something I wanted to do was write, because the other thing I did was read. I wrote in a journal, wrote poetry, wrote stories. When I did not have a friend to talk to, I could always write. When I became old enough to take the classes I wanted to take, I took writing classes. All of the classes were different, and I learned many more things about writing than I knew existed. I learned poetry styles in one class, how to write articles in another, and how to listen and critique others’ writing in yet another class.
And I read, read, read. As a child, I would check out as many library books as were allowed. I would have four books in progress, reading one as the mood struck me. Even now, it seems strange to read one book at a time. There are very few books I do not finish reading, and I even finish the difficult ones, and most badly written ones that I start. The only books I refuse to finish are those that have an anti-protagonist who is so unlikeable that I can find no reason to find out what happens to him or her. Why find out what happens to someone that even the writer didn’t like? For that matter, why did the writer choose that point of view?
That’s rhetorical, in case you didn’t know.
So, here I am, looking for a change of careers and, by golly, the obvious is staring me in the face. Hmmm.
December 12, 2010 at 7:37 pm
“It was disgusting!” Nancy shivered. “He grabbed my shoulder with his fat gorilla paws and blew his slobbery beer breath all over me. He said, ‘I saw you lookin’ at me, babe’ and tried to French kiss me.” She grimaced, and hugged her knees to her chest, rocking in the shiny tan sand. “Lucky for me, some guys were coming to the bathrooms from the baseball field. I ran down to the swimming hole as fast as I could. I knew you’d be here.”
“Leonard Feeney,” muttered Zena. “Just because he’s the owner’s son, he thinks he can do anything he pleases.” She squinted at Nancy through her round tortoiseshell glasses. “Are you all right, Nancy? Did he hurt you?”
A tear rolled down Nancy’s cheek. “I was so frightened, I couldn’t move. I couldn’t stop him!” She began to shiver. “I wanted to stop him but I didn’t!” She hiccoughed and burst into tears.
“Shh, shh, everything will be all right. Shh, shh.” Zena draped her red “Camp Myrtlewood” towel over Nancy’s thin shaking shoulders and hugged her tightly.
Gradually, Nancy’s sobs subsided. With a shaky sigh, she sat upright, letting the towel fall behind her. “I’ve been calling my parents every day since we got here to try to get them to come pick me up. All they say is, ‘You’ll feel better when you make some friends, dear.’ Now this happens.” Another tear rolled down her cheek as she began picking at a thread in her tee shirt hem.
“My parents would be here in a flash if I told them about Leonard.” Zena shaded her eyes, watching Nancy.
Nancy picked up a long stick and began prodding a crayfish that had crawled up between the rocks near the shore. The crayfish shot backward into the middle of the river and settled to the muddy bottom. She shrugged, her eyes met Zena’s. “It wouldn’t matter. They’d think I was making it up just to get them to take me home.”
“You aren’t making it up,” Zena said, fiercely. Her frizzy brown hair danced behind her as she shook her head. “Did he have your permission to kiss you? Did you say to him, ‘Leonard, I love your little wormy pot-belly and chiselly teeth, so pop in a breath mint and kiss me’? Of course not! That’s why we have to do something.”
Nancy replied, tight-lipped, “All we have to do is stay away from him.”
“Oh, right. Do you think all we have to do is sit back and let God fry him with lightning? No, it’s up to us, campers and counselors.”
Nancy sighed and looked across the river. She began twirling her long blond hair with her index finger, and a sweat formed on her upper lip. “I don’t care about teaching him a lesson. I just want to go home.”
Zena leapt to her feet and began pacing, gesturing in broad, melodramatic sweeps. “Nancy Garland! You are so exasperating! Don’t you understand? You have a responsibility to yourself, and to every other person in this camp that Leonard has bullied. It is time to take revenge on that monkey in Bermuda shorts.”
“I don’t know if I can,” Nancy said, sniffing.
“It will be fun.”Zena grinned.
“Well…”
Zena bounded across the sand and dropped down next to Nancy. “Great! How do you want to get him? Put snakes in his bed? String his underwear up the flagpole? Short-sheet his bed?”
Nancy sat, thinking. “I can’t do it,” she said, finally.
Zena’s face fell. “Come on, Nancy, you wanted to go home, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Nancy said, eyes averted. “But I don’t want to get into trouble.”
Zena snorted, and began throwing small stones into the river. Clouds suddenly obscured the hot mid-day sun, and a breeze that whispered, “Rain, rain, rain” tiptoed through the thick trees across the river. The smell of cedar and myrtle wafted across the stream and settled like a mantle around the girls. Finally, she turned to Nancy. “I’m going to do something. Leonard should not be allowed to get away with kissing you. He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with teasing the younger kids, or running dirty underwear up the flagpole, or any of the other cruel things he does. He needs a real comeuppance. I’ll probably be kicked out of camp, but it will be worth it to see that egocentric earthworm squirm.” She jumped up and began climbing up the riverbank to the trail back to camp. “I have an idea. Come on!”
“What if he’s dangerous, Zena?” Nancy panted, running after her. “I’ve seen him carry a junior boy under each arm and walk down here to the river. This trail must be a hundred yards long.”
“He’s not dangerous, he’s disgusting.” Zena retrieved two bite-sized chocolate nuggets from her pocket and unwrapped one. She handed the other to Nancy without looking at her. Grasshoppers leapt ahead of the girls as they blazed a trail through the tall grasses at the top of the hill.
As the baseball diamond came into view, Nancy caught Zena by the arm, stopping her. “I really appreciate what you’re doing for me. I wish I was brave enough to help you.”
Zena grinned evilly. “This is going to be a pleasure.”
Zena strode into that afternoon’s counselor’s meeting like a gunfighter at high noon. All eyes were upon her as she sat in the empty seat next to Leonard, ignoring Nancy’s frown. Leonard, who had been slumping, sat up and slicked his stringy brown hair back, then wiped his hand on his shorts.
“What are you doing?” Whispered Nancy.
Zena shook her head, frowning, and put a finger to her lips.
“Zena,” the head counselor intoned, reading from a list, “you’re in charge of supper cleanup tonight.”
Zena groaned.
“If you need a volunteer, sweetheart, I’m always happy to help you.” Grinning, he ran his tongue over his overlarge teeth at her.
“Actually,” Zena said, “I’d love a volunteer.” She looked into his eyes and smiled.
“Great!” He yawned and stretched, then stood up. “Well, it’s been fun, but I’ve got to go. You mighty counselors will have to finish the meeting without me.” He sauntered out, pausing to wipe some dust off his very white high-tops.
“There goes proof of the theory of evolution,” said Zena. There was an assenting giggle from the rest of the counselors.
“Now back to business,” the head counselor said, sternly. Zena looked at Nancy and winked.
“Kitchen duty was horrendous,” Zena said to Nancy, later. They were sitting in the bleachers, watching their kids play softball in the twilight. “Everywhere I went, Leonard was right next to me, breathing spearmint in my face, leering at me as though I was a centerfold.” She made a gagging noise and shivered. “He kept trying to corner me in the dishwashing area. I kept dodging. He thinks I’m playing hard-to-get.”
“So, when do we get revenge?” Nancy wrinkled her brow.
“Tonight, but I’m going to need your help. Don’t worry,” Zena said, as Nancy opened her mouth to speak. “You won’t get into trouble. All you need to do is tell everyone to bring their flashlights to the river for a surprise party an hour after ‘lights out’.”
“A surprise party? It sounds crazy,” Nancy shook her head, “but, okay.” She turned her attention to the baseball game in progress. “Go, Adelaide!” she called to a small blond girl who was heading for home plate. The team cheered as she crossed it in a cloud of dust.
Leonard swaggered onto the diamond, followed closely by a small band of imitators. “Hey, Adelaide,” he called loudly, “Want to borrow my snorkel and fins tonight? I wouldn’t want you to drown in your sleeping bag!” The boys laughed appreciatively as Adelaide burst into tears and ran off the field.
“That bully!” Nancy jumped off the bleachers and ran after the little girl, shooting an angry look at Leonard.
“You shouldn’t hang out with her, she’s got a big mouth,” Leonard said, grinning at Zena. He sat next to her. “Mind if I sit down?”
“Gee, Leonard, it looks as though you’re sitting down whether I mind or not.” She flashed teeth at him without smiling. “At least you brought chaperons this time.”
Leonard frowned. “Get lost,” he said to the boys. They sauntered off toward the river. “So, Zena, baby. Let’s sneak away after the campfire tonight and go into town.” He leaned close to Zena, as she leaned away. “I’ve got the keys to the camp jeep and I know of a really happening bar.” He scooted closer to her. She moved away, toward the end of the bleacher. “The bartender will serve us, no questions asked, no I.D. required,” he grinned, following her and putting his arm around her. “We’ll have a great time, you and me together. Afterwards, who knows?”
Zena removed his arm from her shoulders and edged away. “You don’t take ‘no’ for an answer, do you?” She had reached the edge of the bleacher.
“Not where women are concerned,” he said, adjusting his sunglasses, moving with her. “A woman always means ‘yes’ when she says ‘no’. So, let’s do it!”
Zena took a deep breath and leaned away from him. “No.”
Leonard laughed and leaned with her. “Then let’s go swimming tonight, just you and me, alone. I’ll bring the booze, you bring your body.” He winked at her and stood up, whistling loudly. “Hey, boys!” His followers assembled at the foot of the bleachers. He leaned over and tried to kiss Zena, who moved away. “Keep it warm for me,” he grinned at her, and left, his boys following.
Zena exhaled loudly, and sat for a moment, feeling her muscles relax. “‘You bring your body’,” She snorted, and turned to watch the final inning of the softball game.
After campfire that night, an excited level of whispering reverberated through the dispersing crowd.
“I don’t understand it,” remarked the head counselor, shaking her head. “Usually, nobody wants to go to bed. Tonight, there were no pleas to sing ‘just one more song.’ Could mean trouble.”
She shrugged, then set off slowly up the path, swinging her light briskly back and forth. “Lights out!” she bellowed at a few lagging campers.
Zena shivered as she crouched behind a large rock. “Come on, Leonard,” she whispered to herself. “‘Lights out’ was an hour ago.” A bikini scar of a moon, fringed by the barest of clouds, and set off by a sweep of stars, lounged across the water. The river ran slowly and quietly beneath the transformed trees. What were branches during the day had been turned by the night into gnarled imps, dancing a slow two-step in the humid breeze. Zena pulled her towel around her shoulders and hugged the rock. An owl hooted. Again, then again. Zena looked toward the path and stood, pulling the towel closer.
Leonard appeared at the top of the embankment, carrying his trunks and a bottle. He jumped over the rock and landed near her. “How did you like my owl call?” He grinned. His mouth made a dark hole in the night.
“You’re late,” Zena said, hands on her hips.
“I hate women who complain. I hope you’re not going to nag at me all night.” He unscrewed the cap and took a drink from the whiskey bottle.
“Of course not, Leonard. I was just hoping we could have as much time as possible together.” Zena moved toward the water and stood. She saw a small, still figure in the brush. She heard a whisper, and knew the campers were gathering. “Leonard,” she said, smiling. “Let’s go swimming.”
Leonard took another drink, a long one. “No,” he said, swaggering over to her. “Let’s go skinnydipping.” He grabbed her bathing suit strap where it dug into her shoulder and pulled it down, laughing.
“Don’t!” She shouted, jumping away. She pulled the strap back up.
“I was just having some fun. Here, have a drink.”
Zena began walking deliberately toward camp.
“Hey! Come back here, girl! You’re going to go swimming with me.” Leonard trotted after her, spilling whiskey as he stumbled over the rocks.
Zena stopped and turned, facing Leonard. “You’d better put your trunks on, then.”
Leonard grinned. He loped down to the shore and pulled his jeans off. Hopping from foot to foot, he began to pull his trunks on.
Zena stood watching him.
“Aren’t you coming?” he called.
“I changed my mind,” she called loudly. “Let’s have a party instead. Come on out, guys!”
With a loud war whoop, a hundred campers flicked on their flashlights and descended around Leonard, who was hunched over, hopping and trying desperately to pull his bathing trunks over his knees.
“Hey, what’s this?” A camper yelled, dumping out the whiskey bottle and tossing it in the bushes.
“Hey! What are you doing?” Leonard reached for the bottle while trying to get the bathing trunks pulled up.
“Whose pants are these?” Someone threw Leonard’s jeans into the river.
“Hey, that’s not funny!” Leonard yelled.
“It looks like you’re the one who needs the snorkel and fins,” said Adelaide, laughing. “Your pants are wet now.”
Leonard threw one arm up, shielding his eyes from the light. The other hand held his trunks up as he waddled toward the bank. “Hey, this isn’t fair. What’s going on?”
Some of the larger boys grabbed on and held him as he struggled. Gradually, he slowed his fight, then stopped. The kids quieted, and looked up the path. Leonard followed their gaze.
Zena was walking toward him. Slowly, deliberately, as though she were a whole procession. She stopped, barely a pace away from him.
“No means no, Leonard,” she said, looking straight at him. “No matter who says it.” She slapped him in the face, then turned and walked deliberately up the embankment and back to camp.
By ones and twos, the campers slowly followed, leaving Leonard, trunks half on, sitting in the sand.
December 9, 2010 at 10:18 pm
“It is time,” said James Whalen to his reflection as he straightened his tie. He smiled and looked at his perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth. “It is time to find a wife.” He cradled the pair of stiff-bristled hairbrushes in his pink, fleshy hands and went to work on the sparsely populated edges of his head. When he finished he picked the brushes clean, hair by hair, dropping the residue into a small metal waste basket, then set the brushes side by side on a silver tray on his dresser. From a small wooden stand beside the tray he lifted a mass of wavy golden hair and placed it atop his pate.
He leaned into the mirror, moving the toupee this way and that until he was satisfied, then brushed a stray hair from his coat and left the room, whistling.
He was faced with the truth at his annual checkup.
“Step on the scales, please,” said the nurse. The name tag on her ample breast read, “Molly Whitfield, R.N., L.P.N., N.M.W., N.P., D.C.”
“Oh, you don’t need to weigh me, Miss Whitfield,” he said. “My scale at home says I weigh 287. I know it’s a little more than the national average for a man of my height and age, but it’s not an unreasonable weight.” James smiled, showing his perfectly straight white teeth.
The muscles around Nurse Whitfield’s eyes tightened. “Step on the scales, Mr. Whalen.”
“Really. Two-eighty-seven.” He took a step backward.
The nurse took a deep breath and came toward him.
He took another step backward and his hand found the doorknob behind him.
Just then, the door smacked into his back and Whalen found himself propelled toward the scale. Before he could regain his balance, Nurse Whitfield gripped his elbow and pulled him back into the room. A voice, a female voice, said, “Pardon me, wrong room,” and with a swish and the sound of receding footsteps, James Whalen found himself atop the scales.
“This will only take a moment, Mr. Whalen,” the nurse said. She flipped the weights to the far end of the scale’s balance beam, one after another, click, click, click. James Whalen closed his eyes and willed himself to levitate. Ah, there he was, in a golden field of daisies and butterflies, leaping higher and higher, moving closer and closer to his one true love. There she was, at the other end of the field, all in white, arms outstretched, dark hair streaming behind her as she ran toward him in slow motion. Soon, very soon, she would be in his arms and he would know the face of his one true love.
“Three thirty one,” said Nurse Whitfield.
“Three thirty one? But I’m not three thirty one, I’m two eighty seven.”
“Please remove your clothing. The doctor will be in shortly.” The nurse handed him a lavender hospital gown and whisked out the door.
James sighed and leaned against the wall. He closed his eyes again, willing the golden field back into existence, but all that appeared behind his eyelids was an afterimage of the scale, all the weights heaped on one side.
As he left the doctor’s office he peeled the bandage off and inspected the puncture on his arm.
“They got you good, huh?”
James looked up and saw the owner of the voice, a bleached blond with dark glasses, waiting for the elevator.
“That’s the worst part, the needle,” she said.
“No, she was very accurate and found my vein right away,” said James. “But they made a mistake when they weighed me.” He crossed over to the elevator as the doors opened, letting the woman enter first. “I’m just a little heavier than normal, you see. But the nurse misread the scales.” He looked earnestly at the woman as she nodded and pushed the button for the fourth floor.
“What floor you going to?” she asked.
James smiled his perfectly white smile and felt his knees buckle slightly as the elevator surged upward. “Fourth,” he said. He didn’t mention that he’d meant to get on the “down” elevator. He closed his eyes and imagined she was the girl in the golden field. But when she ran through the field of wheat and daisies, her arms stretched out like doll’s arms and her legs stayed straight at the knee. Her head was stuck straight on the top of her neck and bobbed when she ran, as though a spring connected her neck to her head. Her hair bobbed, too, white and stiff. James imagined the sun beating down on her, melting the stiffness in her arms and legs. Then she ran like a piece of yellow seaweed, arms slapping against her body, legs twisting under her. The sun melted her into a pool of pink and yellow, with a stiff bit of peroxided hair protruding from the center of the waxy mass.
“Aren’t you getting out?” The woman looked at James.
“I was mistaken. This isn’t my floor after all.”
The woman gave him a long look then left and he had the elevator to himself.
When he got home he noted the security gate was open. He entered, sighing, and locked the gate behind him. He could hear the shrill barking of a small dog, and a woman’s voice: “No, no, Donnie, stop it!” The woman appeared in the doorway of Number Two, dark haired, tanned and wiry, and waved at him.
“How are you? I haven’t seen you much lately.” The small orange dog snarled and tried to wrest himself from her arms. “Donnie, stop barking.” She kissed the top of the dog’s head.
“Hi, Liz, hi, Donny,” said James, smiling. His teeth were very white in the sun. “Have you lost weight?”
“Thanks,” said Liz as her phone rang. “Shut up, Donnie.” The dog leapt down in a graceful arc and careened out into the courtyard, and Liz rolled her eyes as she ran for her phone.
James stood there with the sun against his closed eyelids. He was running, leaping through the meadow. Poppies waved in the breeze and birds trilled as they flew by. His one true love was running to him, smiling, laughing. It was Liz. He recognized her shape because he’d seen her sunbathing in the courtyard last weekend; small-shouldered, compact, big-hipped. But the details were blurry, as though he were watching a badly focused movie. And there was something running alongside her, a small, ginger-colored animal, leaping and running in circles around her feet. It ran ahead and bounded toward James. He stopped running and waited. Then he felt a tugging downward on his neatly creased linen pants and heard a high-pitched growling.
“Donnie, no!“
James opened his eyes and looked down. Donnie’s teeth were firmly attached to James’s pants cuff, the dog’s ears were back and its feet were planted on his loafers.
“Sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into him,” Liz said. “Let go, Donnie.” James felt the linen give way as Liz pulled and Donnie resisted, then he heard the deeper growl of ripping cloth. Donnie came away gripping his prize, a large piece of neatly pressed linen. James felt the wind blowing the hairs on his left ankle and sighed.
After he brushed the lint from his jacket and hung it in his coat closet, James checked his answering machine. Nothing. Then his mailbox. Just today’s paper. He sat down and began to peruse the personals column.
A familiar item caught his eye. It was his own advertisement which he had placed at the beginning of the week. It was titled, “Come Run Through the Fields With Me” and was the first ad in the “Men Seeking Women” column. He picked up the telephone and dialed the number for his personals voice mail.
You-have-one-message,” said the electronic voice.
“I have always wanted to run through the fields,” the message began. It was a breathy, hazy voice, like a summer afternoon.
He closed his eyes and saw his golden field. Butterflies circled in the sun’s long rays as he ran slowly to the middle of the grass, waiting for the woman to appear. Then he opened his eyes and dialed the number she had left.
She answered on the first ring. “Hello.” It was that same summery, velvet voice.
“Uh,” said James. His hand was shaking.
“Yes?”
He opened his eyes and looked at the ad. “You called about my ad in the Times to come run through the fields with me.” What a stupid thing to say. Why hadn’t he said something debonair, something impressive? He closed his eyes again and the field floated into view. Sunshine engulfed him, filling him with the sound of bees and cicadas. The wind lifted the leaves of nearby poplars. He leaned his head back on the couch, waiting for her to speak.
“My name is Wendy,” she said. “I liked your ad.”
“James,” he said. He was running slowly across the meadow again and she was running in slow motion toward him. She was very close. The wind blew her hair in ripples behind her, and a blurry veil over her face was parting. “I just had a checkup and I am in perfect health. They made a mistake when they weighed me, though.”
“Oh.” The voice retreated a little.
“What about you?”
“They didn’t make any mistakes when they weighed me.”
“Oh.” He closed his eyes again. He was back in the field now, but he couldn’t run. He looked down and saw why. His shoes were stuck in gooey black mud, and each time he pulled his foot out, it made a sucking noise. “I can’t talk now, I have to go.” He hung up the phone.
He opened his eyes and looked over his stomach at his feet. He saw a hair on his pants leg and picked it off. It was rough and wavy, a dog hair. He leaned over and placed it into the ashtray on the coffee table then he went to the kitchen and washed his hands.
He picked up the phone and pushed “redial.”
She answered on the first ring. “Hello?”
They met at a coffee house a few days later. Wendy looked cherubic. Reddish brown hair, round cheeks, round body, round green eyes. She shook his hand with small, gentle movements that made the sides of her arm quiver.
“James,” she said. Her voice sounded like the wind laughing. Her eyes had golden flecks in them.
James smiled. “Wendy,” he said and he felt the word flowing from his throat. He closed his eyes and found himself back in his golden field. The sun burned bright and a haze drifted over the field. Birds took flight from clumps of daffodils, dragonflies flew over a pond filled with the steady croaking of frogs.
He opened his eyes. Wendy’s eyes were closed. “What do you see?” he asked her.
She opened her eyes and James took her elbow and guided her to a table on the sidewalk.
“Have you ever dreamt while you were awake?” she asked.
James nodded.
“I just had the strangest dream. I was in a meadow filled with poppies and daisies and daffodils, and there was a golden pond full of croaking frogs. You were there, too,” she said. “Running.”
James smiled and showed her his perfect teeth.
November 28, 2010 at 1:03 pm
It was just before seven o’clock on a quiet Tuesday morning when the alien ship landed on Jersey Street. The sky was clear, and the sun was barely topping the horizon, its rays spreading a tawny gold light onto the hills above the San Fernando Valley. Just like most mornings, I was being pulled along by my dog, Kiko, and wishing for another hour of sleep. Somewhere outside my sleep-deprived brain I heard, but didn’t register, the usual sounds of crows, seagulls and other birds fighting over the kibbles my neighbor left in his driveway for strays. I had taken this early-morning walk so often I could just about do it with my eyes closed. So when I rounded the corner of Jersey Street, I almost didn’t see the little round metal ship land about half a block away.
The neighbor who fed the strays was watering his lawn. He waved to me and kept watering. He was facing the ship, but he wore very thick glasses and either he had not seen it land or he had and was exercising his god-given right as a citizen not to get involved. All five stray kittens quickly scrambled through a hole in the fence. I admired their speed.
The dog lost interest in the cats once they disappeared and was pulling me toward this strange machine that had landed between us and our home. She was barking and straining at her leash, hackles raised, dragging me down the middle of the street toward the ship.
The machine was about the size of a squashed SmartCar, red with odd symbols painted in black on it. Some of the symbols were oblong with indented spots like potato eyes on them. As a fan of old horror movies I knew that an alien would soon appear and in all likelihood I would be captured and made to take him somewhere where I would probably find out his horrible plan with regard to the human race and have to find a way to escape and contact some governmental agency or television news anchor and convince them of my credibility and the urgency of acting upon my message. This directly clashed with my plans for the day, which included going to work in about an hour. It also worried me, because I didn’t know any news anchors or government officials. This would make following any orders to take the alien to my leader problematic. I was wide awake now.
There was a pneumatic “whoosh” and a lid-like door raised. I looked inside but all I could see was a few tiny flashing lights. I stood there, waiting for someone to debark. As I waited, I imagined what the creature would look like. It would have to be small to fit into such a compact space, not more than a foot or two tall. Not many could fit into a ship that size. I wondered what color they would be, and if they would have hands, legs and eyes, and whether they would be able to communicate with me.
We were now within about six feet of the little space ship. Kiko’s hackles were up but her tail was wagging, and she was straining toward the ship. From the doorway, a gangplank descended to the asphalt, and the ship lowered itself with a hiss like the hydraulic shocks on a tiny bus. The dog was now whining and panting with anticipation and her nose was just inches from the doorway. She pawed the ship, her big claws making a scraping sound on the metal. A blast of sound hit us so loudly that I felt the ground vibrate. I plugged my ears and Kiko put her head down between her paws and whimpered. On the other side of the street I could see little gray songbirds flying and landing in the trees.
Kiko bounded up, tail wagging as though she hadn’t just been subjected to aural torture, and again scratched at the ship. Again, the earsplitting noise hit us, and again we covered our ears. In between painful sound waves, I was amazed to notice that the birds were still not reacting, still sitting on the branches gossiping and arguing. Finally the sound stopped, leaving my ears ringing. I looked up and down the usually-quiet street, expecting to see a few neighbors peering out their windows or doors, but there were no signs of life. It was as though no one had heard. There were the usual faraway sounds of traffic, mixed with the bird songs and neighboring dogs barking. I wondered if the sound was directionally focused and decided to find out. I pulled a dog treat from my pocket, dragged the dog away from the machine, and threw the kibble so that it hit the far side of the ship. As it bounced off the hull with a “ping,” I felt the ground vibrate as though the airhorn were sounding, and saw a bird drop from a tree branch, but I didn’t hear a thing. Interesting.
The things that appeared in the doorway of the space ship were about three inches tall, with arms and legs and extra-large heads. They looked like animated Pez candy dispensers. Hundreds of them marched down the gangplank, row after row, all wearing red helmets and pink form-fitting suits like tiny long-sleeved wrestling singlets. Each singlet had a single black potato emblazoned on the chest, which, at that size, looked like a lopsided polka dot. Each alien carried a black stick under one arm.
They descended to the bottom of the gangplank and waited, standing at attention. Kiko was whining and wagging her tail, straining to smell the row nearest her, which was less than a foot away. One by one, the rows of aliens pointed their black sticks at the dog, who began dancing at the end of her leash, eager to meet these tiny aliens.
I was more or less forced to remain in place in order to keep the dog from attacking the ship and befriending—or angering—two hundred or so tiny aliens, much as I wanted to go home. My hands hurt from holding the leash, but I couldn’t let go for fear the dog would create an interspecies incident.
For a minute or so, the creatures stood motionless, except for the movement of their black sticks following the tugging, leaping dog. Then the rows parted and a larger, black helmeted alien strode out, clad in a long gray robe adorned with another black potato. Halfway down the gangplank it stopped and looked at me.
“Weee come in peeeeace,” the alien said. Its voice sounded like a speeded-up recording.
I wasn’t sure what to do, so I clasped my hands together and bowed in what I hoped was a respectful way. “Welcome,” I said.
All the aliens clasped their hands and bowed to me. The leader walked off the gangplank and stood facing the dog, then made a circular motion with his arm. Two hundred black sticks pointed at us, and a blue translucent fog poured out from the sticks and surrounded us. Then the little aliens ran into the street and encircled me and the dog, their weapons pointed at us from outside the blue stuff.
Inside, the fog felt sticky and I could see through it like it was old, cloudy glass, but when I puIled at it, it moved like Plexiglas. I couldn’t break through it. Kiko was barking and leaping against it, but the fog held. The leader tapped against the bubble.
“You are mine,” he said. “You cannot escape.”
I checked my pockets for anything useful and found two stale dog treats and a plastic bag. Not that I expected to find much, but I hoped to find some forgotten article that could be used as a weapon, such as a book of matches or a pen knife. I wondered how I was going to get home and leave for work in half an hour. The hope that the ship would find nothing here worth seeing and take off posthaste was fading.
“Why did you do that?” I said, pushing against the fog.
“Weeee have heard about Earth peeeeople,” the leader said. “Can’t be trusted.”
“Not everyone is like that. Just criminals. And politicians. You can’t believe everything you hear about us.”
Kiko leaped up at the wall of fog again, and I noticed it buckled slightly, like the side of a styrofoam cup when someone is squeezing it. I looked up and saw there was no ceiling to the fog. We were in a cylinder about eight feet high. If I could keep the dog leaping at it, the top might buckle in enough for her to push it down and escape. All I would need is a diversion to keep the little aliens from shooting at me and the dog while we raced home.
Two dog treats and a plastic bag were all I had. Plus a dog who would keep growling and leaping as long as she thought there was danger.
“What are those black sticks for?” I asked the leader. “Are they guns?”
“I do not know what ‘guns’ are. These are Permanent Immobilizers. They are for everyone’s protection.”
“Um, right. How do they protect me? They’re pointed at me.”
“They protect you from exiting the holding cell, which also protects you. We mean you no harm.”
“With that kind of protection you’d fit right in on Earth,” I said, thinking of such things as Mafia protection, overdraft protection and condoms.
The alien leader regarded me thoughtfully. “Others would like it?”
“Sort of.”
The leader leaned forward, listening.
“I mean, there are people who would like it if other people were inside of it, and they were outside.”
“That would not serve our purpose,” the leader said, frowning. He turned and marched around the bubble and about twenty little aliens trailed behind him. The dog barked furiously at them and followed them from inside the bubble. Down the block, my across-the-street neighbor, Lynn, and her two kids got into their SUV and pulled out, headed the other way to the kids’ school.
“Help!” I called, but she didn’t look up the street.
“They cannot hear you,” the leader said.
“I want out,” I said, hands on hips.
“Okay,” said the leader. He gestured to some of his crew, who pointed their black sticks at the cylinder. Laser beams shot out and melted the bubble. I and Kiko stepped out and started for home, but didn’t make it far before we ran into an invisible wall. It rolled with us as we walked, like a giant invisible hamster ball.
“What’s this?” I asked. “I thought we were free to go.”
“You are out of the bubble, as you asked. You can go where you wish.”
“But I’m still trapped. Why can’t you let me go? I have to go to work now.” I was trying to think of a plan but kept drawing a blank. What was I going to do with two kibbles and a plastic bag?
“That would not serve our purpose,” the leader said again.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s your purpose?”
“We are here on a research mission, to gather data about your planet. We come in peace.”
I thought about all the information-gathering satellites orbiting the skies and wondered why they couldn’t just gather data from outside the atmosphere. I assumed most other intelligent species were probably doing just that. “Why did you come here, rather than just observe from space?”
“We wanted to confirm our observations. Our instruments did not have the capacity for delicate measurement from far distances.”
I nodded, thinking. I was moving about, feeling the invisible wall, and had found several airholes that I could fit my fist through. I had an idea. I let Kiko off her leash and pulled one of the dog treats out of my pocket. I let the dog sniff it. Then I tossed the treat into the street by the space ship and said, “Fetch!”
The dog, thrilled to be off leash, leaped at the treat, making the invisible ball roll forward and onto the space ship. It bounced off, and the dog leaped again, trying to get the treat and making the ball hit the ship again and again. The ship’s directional noise alarm began sounding, getting louder then quieter, louder, quieter, as the ball bounced against the ship again and again. The little aliens were holding their ears and running en masse for the gangplank.
The ship went airborne and I could see black sticks pointing at us from holes in the hull. As the ball rolled forward, the sticks shot laser light that pierced the invisible ball and it popped, throwing Kiko and me to the ground. I scrambled to my feet, called Kiko and ran for home. The dog bounded after me, barking all the way.
The ship flew over our heads and landed directly in front of us, blocking the way to our house. It didn’t look like it was going to let us get home. Desperately, I grabbed the plastic bag and hooked it to the top and bottom of the little vessel, completely covering the gangplank. I could see it trying to open, but the plastic was preventing it. I ran into the house, with Kiko on my heels, and as I closed the door I saw the space ship take off.
I locked both locks on the front door and slid to the floor, breathing heavily.
“Did you have a good walk?” my son asked.
So I told him what I’m telling you now, sir. That’s why I was late for work this morning.
September 25, 2010 at 6:41 pm
OLD
By Sylvia Cumming
I call twice―once for you and an old fire that now lies as abandoned ash between frozen bricks, and once for me. Am I deaf against my own hearing?
I forget that I am supposed to feel things,
That coffee is not supposed to taste like cardboard,
That walking too far should make my feet hurt and not numb,
How to move my lips from muscle-less unbound shape into smile,
How to feel the presence of other people,
The small bustle of their moods graphed on their bodies.
I drink a glass of water and fresh lemon juice in an attempt to jump-start myself into feeling life again. Maybe I just need a liver detox.
The dullness of my stomach’s pit pushing against the soft outer flesh of my belly
Works a need for sleep into the repetitive predictability of my body.
From within the office as if it were my own skin
Laughter bulges the outer wooden frame.
These twenty-somethings who inhabit it along with me
Forget the old, sleepy ones who hire them and set them in motion,
They carry the distant possibility of age within their strength
As though death will never catch them and make them feel weight,
Make them forget how easily anything else can be caught and felt
Besides the joy of being able.
I am jealous. I want it to be my turn, again.
WAITING
By Sylvia Toor Cumming
I sat and waited by the window.
This was not the first time.
The Devil, if there is one,
Set the Seventh Level of Hell,
If there is one,
As Waiting.
It took me a long time to realize
That I was not condemned because I waited
So long and so often.
I think I used to think so,
Because Waiting felt so torturous,
That I must have done something to deserve the punishment.
Heroines of old books and even some old movies
Waited a lot.
Rescue was what they waited for,
Rescue from drudgery or torment or mistaken identity.
The old books and movies told a lie that Waiting was Good
Because good people Waited in them.
I found out after waiting for a while
That I could not Wait
Without becoming a victim.
Victims Wait in the Seventh Level of Hell
Which is a long way for someone to come
To rescue them.
I found out, too, that rescue was only easy
If I did it myself.
So I stopped Waiting.
September 7, 2010 at 3:56 am
At the risk of sounding too mom-ish, I’d like to glow for a moment regarding my daughter’s baking abilities. She’s been baking and blogging about it on her own site, replete with photos and explanations of each step of the recipe. She’s done some interesting things, unintentionally, that have been quite successful. Such as, accidentally double the butter in a butterscotch brownie recipe. Don’t ever accept butterscotch brownies without doubled butter. They suck, compared to the candylike result of too much butter.
Whoa, did I just say “too much butter”? Strike that. It’s not possible.
This week’s adventure was New York cheesecake, baked in muffin tins lined with really cute polka dot and leopard print muffin cups. So, yesterday, she was mixing away, dutifully blending the cream cheese, sugar and flour, when I dipped my finger into the mixture to sample it. It wasn’t very sweet. I could barely taste any sugar at all, so I asked her if she was going to be adding more sugar along with whatever other ingredients were coming next. She shot me a look that I couldn’t identify (I know now it’s her “what are you talking about?” look) and marched over to her recipe.
“Oh,” she said. “I reversed the amounts of sugar and flour. Do you think it will make a difference?”
Uh, yeah. “How much sugar and flour does it call for?”
Turns out she should have put in 3 tablespoons flour and cup or more of sugar. Whoops. How to fix it? she wanted to know. So I demonstrated my momly skills and gave her two options: one, increase the recipe to that it matched the proportion of flour she’d put in–i.e. make an ungodly amount of cheesecake–or, two, put in the amount of sugar the recipe called for and continue as if nothing untoward had happened. She opted for number two.
The cheesecake turned out fabulous. No one would suspect simply by eating it that anything was wrong.
This is a good thing and a bad thing. Yay that all those ingredients weren’t wasted, and it turned out yummy! But, this isn’t motivating her to actually read the recipes since her misreadings keep turning out so well.
Oh, well. I’m going to get her to make more of those butterscotch brownies and let her make some more mistakes. She’s doing well!
August 15, 2010 at 6:30 pm
I wrote this as a way to make fun of my coffee habit. And really, I haven’t found it necessary to use persuasion on others as a means to join in! As a justification of my habit, they’re all decaf…
(The music for this song is very fast, staccato and caffeinated. I hope to record and put it online soon for your sipping enjoyment.)
Chorus:
Yes, I think I drink a lot of latte,
I drink a lot of latte every day.
I drink four or five coz it makes me feel alive,
I drink a lot of latte every day.
Verse 1:
I drink a latte in the morning when I’m yawning,
Mocha latte for my coffee break,
Iced latte at noon–lunch couldn’t come too soon!–
A triple latte with my dinner steak.
Chorus:
Yes, I think I drink a lot of latte,
I drink a lot of latte every day,
I drink four or five and it makes me feel alive,
I drink a lot of latte every day!
Verse 2:
For Lent this year the priest said, “Give up latte.”
I said that I would rather give up Lent.
Fat Tuesday came around, I firmly held my ground,
I gave the priest a latte and he went:
Chorus:
“Yes, I think I like to drink a latte,
I’d like to dirnk a latte every day.
I’d drink four or five ’cause it makes me feel alive,
I’d drink a lot of latte every day!”
Verse 3:
I only drink my latte to be social,
I don’t need to but the hostess, she insists.
Everybody’s got a cup of steaming latt-a
And they drink it while they do the twist.
Verse 4:
The Tao of the Latte is what’s caught me,
I contemplate its flavor every day.
Nothing as cheap as a little bit of sleep
Ever, ever gets into my way.
Chorus:
Yes, I think I drink a lot of latte,
I drink a lot of latte every day.
I drink four or five and it makes me feel alive,
I drink a lot of latte every day.
Verse 5:
When things around me get a little boring,
And everybody’s moving way too slow,
I give them all a treat, put a latte at their seat
And the boring snoring starts to rock and roll!
…and they say:
Chorus:
“Yes, we’d like to drink a lot of latte,
We’d drink a lot of latte every day.
We’d drink four or five ‘coz it makes us feel alive
We’d drink a lot of latte every day!”
Chorus and out:
Yes, I think I drink a lot of latte,
I drink a lot of latte every day.
I drink four or five and it makes me feel alive,
I drink a lot of latte every day…
I drink a lot of latte and I like it that way!
c 2007 By Sylvia Cumming
May 9, 2010 at 10:01 pm
Verse 1:
Day after day Dan stands alone
Too shy to talk, too shy to walk
Up to a beautiful girl.
Too afraid of the unknown
Stiff and posed in the latest clothes
He’s missing love in his world.
Chorus:
Dan the mannequin
Everyone only sees his clothes
And his secrets will never show
Dan the mannequin.
Verse 2:
Across the store stands the girl of this dreams
Too shy to talk, too shy to walk,
She wishes she could meet him.
Everyday is the same, it seems
Always shoppers and bargain sales
Her chances for love are so slim.
Chorus:
Ann the lady mannequin
Everyone only sees her clothes
Her secrets will never show
Ann the lady mannequin.
Bridge:
They say on a full moon in July
Ann and Dan danced all night
How they did it we’ll never know
‘Coz their secrets will never show…
Verse 3:
Now Dan and Ann forever stand
Models of fashion for all to see
Dan in a tux and Ann in white
Standing hand in hand
Now they’re lovers, groom and bride.
True love can’t be denied.
Chorus:
Dan and Ann the mannequins
Everyone only sees their clothes
Their secrets will never show:
Dan the mannequin loves
Ann the lady mannequin!
by Sylvia Toor Cumming, 2009
May 9, 2010 at 9:44 pm
If you leave life alone and let it wend its way, it does interesting things, unexpected. Sometimes good, sometimes not so good, sometimes in-between. Not always ea.sy to tell which thing is good, which is bad, which is ugly. Life moves on and the good mixes with the ugly, the bad distills out and becomes good, and the only thing one can say about it all is, things change. Nothing stays the same.
Most of my life I’ve been involved in an internal debate–how much interference will life brook, and how much control am I willing to give up? I’ve gone back and forth on this, from completely allowing life to run its course (not satisfactory because there is no joy in non-accomplishment) to completely running it myself (feels a bit precarious and dangerous to do it this way). Part of the shifts have come about when my religious and spiritual viewpoints have shifted, which they radically do occasionally.
Currently I’m more conscious of spiritual connections than I have been in about 10 years or so. Not sure why. Maybe it’s part of some menopausal midlife crisis. Maybe not.
My opinion today (but only today) is that there are a lot of events happening out there, some of which I am aware of and some of which I can influence. I get to decide what, if anything, to do about any of them at any given time. I suspect there is a domino effect, but I certainly can’t predict all of the dominoes that will be affected or how they’ll react. Falling down is rarely an option for these dominoes.
The best I can do is based on using the information at hand plus my past experience to come up with the optimum path of action. I fight against the desire to wait until everything is “in place” or until someone else magically moves the pieces around so that there is no resistance to my actions. I worry that they will be perceived as “bad,” but actually that could only be so from someone else’s viewp0int. From mine, I am always right.
It’s easier to think than to act. This is because action assumes that someone else will conceive what I do to be wrong, bad, nonoptimum. Is this the same as worrying about what other people will think? I am amazed at how paralyzed I am by it.
At least I can write about it.
February 11, 2010 at 5:44 am
My son is at his maybe-girlfriend-maybe-just-friend’s house, my daughter is at work, my dog, sitting in the middle of the lawn looking intently at a spot near the concrete back porch where a cat may be sitting but I can’t tell from where I’m sitting, is still and quiet enough for me to wonder what she will do next, and I am grasping at literary straws and hoping for a magnificent stream-of-consciousness revelation to lift me into higher realms of writerhood.
Practice, practice, practice.
I want, I want, I want.
Description of a desk: two desk calendars, small; a spindly ficus; pencil sharpener; tape; stapler; two boxes of envelopes; a desktop file storage unit (plastic) with files (filled); a printer; a fax machine; two computer speakers (dirty off-white ones); random papers; two bundles of wires (one white, one gray); an A&W glass mug with a bunch of fake flowers, ruler, letter opener, two working pens, a blue Beethoven eraser and a one-hole punch; a calculator (hand-held solar) and a post-it dispenser. Oh, and a laptop, open and in use currently.
The thing about being too busy is not that I don’t have time to get ideas, but I don’t have time to write them down and pursue them. They get lost in the shuffle. I’ve speeded up to maximum speed now, and it’s time to slow down again. I’ve overvolunteered at Nishan’s school, plus there is Friday night football and generally one or two meetings a week for one thing or another. I’m in the Scientology choir, which practices one night a week but ideally I should be practicing at home during the week as well (am I? No. Too busy right now. Case in point.). I have animals who require more than cursory attention in order to do well. I have a job 40 hrs + commute time a week (which makes the job 45-50 hrs/week). After school I help my son with his homework. On weekends I have the house, laundry and shopping.
Here is the crazy thing: when I try to explain to my daughter, who has things for me to do in my spare time, that I need open time in order to create, I get non-comprehension. I get it from other people, too. I don’t think my husband gets it, either, although he graciously gives me the time and space I request. It’s fine–I don’t need understanding from him necessarily, just the time and space. I think with my daughter it will come down to her having the experience of needing space and time herself in order to understand my need for it
It comes down to me, understanding and making the time for myself so that I can create on a consistent basis, and not bending with every request that comes in on the wind.
So, here I sit, with a small bit of time, attempting to create. Words are going onto the computer screen so it must be working even though I feel like writing is the equivalent of having my teeth cleaned. Not bad, but not inspired. Maybe the end product will be worth the discomfort, but looking back on the above paragraphs, unless I get some epiphany out of it, it won’t be worth it this time.
Here’s a good question: How much writing does it take to achieve epiphany? How many hours on average? How much time does it take to get into the groove, get into the style of a certain piece I’m writing so I can continue it? I’ve got one piece I’ve been writing for about 3 years, but haven’t been able to finish because I have to be in a certain mood in order to write that style, and the only times I can achieve that are times when I’ve had plenty of open time and creating time…Someone should do a study on this. Is it consistent between artists, or does each artist have a different need for space and time?
Georgia O’Keefe needed space and time all the time, which is why she moved to New Mexico from the city (New York I think). I wonder how much space time Leonard Bernstein needed? Morten Lauritzen goes up to the Seattle Sound every year for a few months to compose. Gaugin lived on a farm with a large family — how much time did they take up? Or did his wife handle everything so he could paint? Is there an average amount of space and time that is needed or should I plan on making my whole life’s space and time creative?
Which is an argument for less non-creative commitments and more open space in my life.
October 12, 2009 at 12:19 am
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