The morning mist lay on the meadow like a thin blanket. It almost seemed like there were layers in different dimensions rather than one cloud. I stretched out my hands and felt the dampness of the air pass through my fingers. I could feel the moisture collect on my skin forming tiny droplets barely visible to the eye. I breathed deep and took in the clean crisp air.
It was then that I first felt it. If it hadn't been for the peaceful state I was in, I would have passed it off for a wind chill or some other natural anomaly and kept on walking. Instead, I stopped. I noticed that it was more than just the morning breeze moving across the heather. At first I felt it in my chest, as if it had entered my heart. Then, like the blood being pumped through my veins, it radiated out to the rest of my body. My arms and hands tingled as if electricity were passing through them. I shuddered at the feeling for it almost seemed as if something was trying to enter me or already had. The air around me seemed to constrict and push in like a vice. My breathing started coming out in short rasps as it left my mouth in small clouds in the cold air. I wanted to run but felt helpless as I stoop there paralyzed.
Then, as if a small lantern were placed next to my body, I felt a warmth start to grow. It was hardly perceptible at first compared to the onslaught I was experiencing, but it was there. I could feel it. I focused on that small bit of hope and allowed it to expand and course through my body. Suddenly, I could sense the colder feeling fighting against this new force. The two unknown beings seemed to tear through my body as the unseen battle raged. I collapsed to my knees and fought to even take a breath as my mind tried to comprehend what was happening. My eyes rapidly searched the surrounding field for any sign of life to come and save me from the inevitable doom that I felt would take place. The mist seemed to thicken and darken in patches, whereas other areas caught what little light was filtering through the morning haze. They seemed to move around me and through me. I tried to cry out just to break the deafening silence, but all I could muster was a soft whimper.
Just then, when it seemed like the harsher of the two forces was going to win and conquer this fleshy tabernacle, the sun burst over the ridge and flooded the meadow with light. Rays of healing warmth shot through the fog and seemed to push it back like a knight with a magic sword. I inhaled sharp and deep as if I had been underwater for too long. I cried freely as the sun continued to rise and envelop me like a warm blanket. The cold air was gone. No longer did I feel under pressure. All I felt was a burning in my chest that extended through my whole body. I got back to my feet and stood there again, alone in the field with this pillar of fire as my only companion. I wiped the tears away from my eyes and smiled as strength entered my legs again and I walked towards the rising sun.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Friday, September 19, 2008
Unforgettable
This post is entirely new. I wanted to have something fresh for this Friday instead of "cheating", as someone said I was doing, and taking previous work and posting it. As I sat with a blank writing pad in front of me trying to think of what to write, I noticed the glasses I was wearing. As I looked at them and the reflection, I started writing. I didn't know exactly where the idea would take me, but that is nothing new. Whenever I write, I start with a general idea of what I would like to put down, and then the words take me where they feel I should go. It feels more natural to me that way.
He wore glasses. The hardened plastic softly shimmered with the reflection of the world around him. In them I saw a fireplace with a log slowly burning there. The flames licked up the sides of the wood as the smoke rose into the chimney and out into the night air. On the mantle sat a frame with a picture inside of a happy couple. It was their wedding day. I knew that picture well. The dress she wore had eluded her as she spent months travelling from store to store and trying on a thousand different styles before finding the perfect one. She remembered when the photographer had snapped the picture, feeling the elation again from when she first tried it on. She knew then that everything would work out. I could barely see the frame in the reflection of the man's glasses, but I knew she was smiling, her naivete all too apparent.
Next to it hung a stocking, trimmed with red and green. The bulges in the toe and heel gave away the goodies that hid inside. I thought of the owner of this treasure chest running down the stairs, anxious with the thoughts and curiosities of what Santa brought. He probably didn't sleep at all the night before. I imagined him tearing through gifts and presents and loving every minute of it, content and oblivious to the cares and worries of life.
I turned my head and looked around the room. The motley colored tree sat in a shallow stand that only held enough water for it to slowly fade and lose its vibrancy. The needles were brittle and fell at the slightest touch. The branches bent under the weight of the festive ornaments and decorations. I felt as if it were laboring to stay alive, even though its eventual death was imminent. Soon it would lay on the street curb, waiting to be carried away to its final landfill resting place.
I looked back to the glasses and to the reflected room in them. Though I did not want to acknowledge it, everything there was mine, even this man before me. I reached out my hand and touched his cold skin, trying to remember the first time he had held me and I had felt his warmth. The glasses now acted as a barrier between what was real and alive and what was not. I wanted to jump into them and relive that world again, but it was gone. He lay so still, and though his eyes were open, they did not see anymore. I leaned over him, and with my mouth inches from his ear whispered, "I love you." A tear finally fell as the reality sunk in, and I knew that Christmas from now on would never be Merry for me again.
***********************
He wore glasses. The hardened plastic softly shimmered with the reflection of the world around him. In them I saw a fireplace with a log slowly burning there. The flames licked up the sides of the wood as the smoke rose into the chimney and out into the night air. On the mantle sat a frame with a picture inside of a happy couple. It was their wedding day. I knew that picture well. The dress she wore had eluded her as she spent months travelling from store to store and trying on a thousand different styles before finding the perfect one. She remembered when the photographer had snapped the picture, feeling the elation again from when she first tried it on. She knew then that everything would work out. I could barely see the frame in the reflection of the man's glasses, but I knew she was smiling, her naivete all too apparent.
Next to it hung a stocking, trimmed with red and green. The bulges in the toe and heel gave away the goodies that hid inside. I thought of the owner of this treasure chest running down the stairs, anxious with the thoughts and curiosities of what Santa brought. He probably didn't sleep at all the night before. I imagined him tearing through gifts and presents and loving every minute of it, content and oblivious to the cares and worries of life.
I turned my head and looked around the room. The motley colored tree sat in a shallow stand that only held enough water for it to slowly fade and lose its vibrancy. The needles were brittle and fell at the slightest touch. The branches bent under the weight of the festive ornaments and decorations. I felt as if it were laboring to stay alive, even though its eventual death was imminent. Soon it would lay on the street curb, waiting to be carried away to its final landfill resting place.
I looked back to the glasses and to the reflected room in them. Though I did not want to acknowledge it, everything there was mine, even this man before me. I reached out my hand and touched his cold skin, trying to remember the first time he had held me and I had felt his warmth. The glasses now acted as a barrier between what was real and alive and what was not. I wanted to jump into them and relive that world again, but it was gone. He lay so still, and though his eyes were open, they did not see anymore. I leaned over him, and with my mouth inches from his ear whispered, "I love you." A tear finally fell as the reality sunk in, and I knew that Christmas from now on would never be Merry for me again.
Friday, September 12, 2008
The restaurant scene
This is an excerpt from a novel I have worked on. I could say I am currently working on it because it isn't finished, but I haven't focused on it in several years. I instead am focusing on a different novel, which will be the first one I publish.
A little background before I post ... The narrator is talking about her life as a child when her grandfather dies. She has been blind since birth and her grandfather was the only one who really understood her. This scene is in a restaurant shortly after they visited her grandfather for the last time.
The car pulled into a parking lot and I knew that we were at the road-side diner that we always stopped at on the way home. My legs ached from sitting for so long, and I was glad for the break. The loose gravel crunched under my feet as we walked toward the door. Immediately upon opening them the strong stench of burning vegetable oil violated my nose like a charging ram. I could hear the sputtering of the grease splattering off the skillets and onto the floor. My father led us over to a small booth, and we sat down. The rustle of fabric washed too many times confronted our family as a waitress placed menus before us.
“What’ll it be?” she asked in an unconcerned tone, barely audible through the gum she chewed.
“We will have two dinner specials and two children’s hamburger plates,” my father responded. The pencil of the waitress scratched furiously as she wrote our order down in her own language of shorthand. She quickly gathered the menus as she asked, “Anything to drink?”
“Just water will be fine, and maybe some milk for the kids.” The scratching pencil faded into the background as she walked off. Why my father always came to this place was beyond me. I knew my mother did not approve as she never said anything while we ate. Coming from upper-class society, she certainly did not want to be seen in such an establishment as this. However, I think my father just liked to take a risk every now and again.
The waitress came back with our drinks and set them down. As she passed, I caught the faint aroma of a perfume my grandmother wore, making me relive the memory of my grandfather. He was gone. The realization hit me again as if for the first time. I sulkily kept my head down and played with the fringe on my dress, not wanting to show the tears that were falling.
“Keep your head high and you’ll go places,” he used to say to me.
How can I, I thought. I’m too little.
“You’re never too little.”
But I’m not strong enough.
“Strength will always come when needed.”
I’m scared.
“Remember me, and I will be with you.”
I lifted my head with my eyes closed as the tears coursed down my cheeks. I let them fall freely as I opened my eyes to the darkness before me.
“Honey, are you okay?” my father asked. I could barely hear him as I let the emotions overcome me. I sat confused at what I felt. I should have felt grief, but I didn’t. I should have felt sorrow for losing him, but nothing was there.
Stop the tears. I sat silently as my mother wiped my eyes dry.
“It’s okay.”
Is it? I continued to stare out into nothing as the dark void that I saw enveloped what I felt.
No more tears. Don’t cry anymore. And I never did.
The heat of the restaurant created a stickiness between my legs and the vinyl seat in which I sat. I could feel a bead of sweat trickle down my calf. It tickled, but I didn’t touch it or wipe it away. I barely even breathed. I had no desire to move. The waitress soon arrived with our meals, and I could smell the greasy burger steaming in front of me. The stench rose up into my nose and through my cavity into my mouth as my taste buds told my brain what it was. But nothing seemed to register. It didn’t even seem like food, just a dead cow lying between two pieces of bread. More death.
“Honey, are you going to eat?”
I didn’t even acknowledge my father’s voice. I could feel all their eyes on me as I kept my own fixed on the emptiness before me.
“She doesn’t have to eat, if she doesn’t want to.” I was surprised that my mother would come to my defense, but I soon realized that it wasn’t me she was defending but rather her own desire to eat somewhere else. “I know I wouldn’t want to eat here.”
“Don’t start with that again. I’ve already explained that I just like to get away from the madness of the high life once in a while.”
“Yes, but do you have to do it in such a place? I mean, look at the floor. When do you think was the last time they mopped this place? I’m surprised they even pass inspection.”
“Look, if you want…..” My father’s voice trailed off in my consciousness as my thoughts wandered to my own grief. Thankfully, they had left me alone and turned to their own problems. The smell of the food before me drifted up to my nose once again. I could hear my brother smacking his food loudly in his mouth. I picked up a French fry and felt it in my hand. The grease seeped out of the previously frozen potato slice and ran down my finger. I couldn’t eat. I felt sick to my stomach. I put the fry down and hugged my belly, trying to make the pain stop.
A little background before I post ... The narrator is talking about her life as a child when her grandfather dies. She has been blind since birth and her grandfather was the only one who really understood her. This scene is in a restaurant shortly after they visited her grandfather for the last time.
*********************
The car pulled into a parking lot and I knew that we were at the road-side diner that we always stopped at on the way home. My legs ached from sitting for so long, and I was glad for the break. The loose gravel crunched under my feet as we walked toward the door. Immediately upon opening them the strong stench of burning vegetable oil violated my nose like a charging ram. I could hear the sputtering of the grease splattering off the skillets and onto the floor. My father led us over to a small booth, and we sat down. The rustle of fabric washed too many times confronted our family as a waitress placed menus before us.
“What’ll it be?” she asked in an unconcerned tone, barely audible through the gum she chewed.
“We will have two dinner specials and two children’s hamburger plates,” my father responded. The pencil of the waitress scratched furiously as she wrote our order down in her own language of shorthand. She quickly gathered the menus as she asked, “Anything to drink?”
“Just water will be fine, and maybe some milk for the kids.” The scratching pencil faded into the background as she walked off. Why my father always came to this place was beyond me. I knew my mother did not approve as she never said anything while we ate. Coming from upper-class society, she certainly did not want to be seen in such an establishment as this. However, I think my father just liked to take a risk every now and again.
The waitress came back with our drinks and set them down. As she passed, I caught the faint aroma of a perfume my grandmother wore, making me relive the memory of my grandfather. He was gone. The realization hit me again as if for the first time. I sulkily kept my head down and played with the fringe on my dress, not wanting to show the tears that were falling.
“Keep your head high and you’ll go places,” he used to say to me.
How can I, I thought. I’m too little.
“You’re never too little.”
But I’m not strong enough.
“Strength will always come when needed.”
I’m scared.
“Remember me, and I will be with you.”
I lifted my head with my eyes closed as the tears coursed down my cheeks. I let them fall freely as I opened my eyes to the darkness before me.
“Honey, are you okay?” my father asked. I could barely hear him as I let the emotions overcome me. I sat confused at what I felt. I should have felt grief, but I didn’t. I should have felt sorrow for losing him, but nothing was there.
Stop the tears. I sat silently as my mother wiped my eyes dry.
“It’s okay.”
Is it? I continued to stare out into nothing as the dark void that I saw enveloped what I felt.
No more tears. Don’t cry anymore. And I never did.
The heat of the restaurant created a stickiness between my legs and the vinyl seat in which I sat. I could feel a bead of sweat trickle down my calf. It tickled, but I didn’t touch it or wipe it away. I barely even breathed. I had no desire to move. The waitress soon arrived with our meals, and I could smell the greasy burger steaming in front of me. The stench rose up into my nose and through my cavity into my mouth as my taste buds told my brain what it was. But nothing seemed to register. It didn’t even seem like food, just a dead cow lying between two pieces of bread. More death.
“Honey, are you going to eat?”
I didn’t even acknowledge my father’s voice. I could feel all their eyes on me as I kept my own fixed on the emptiness before me.
“She doesn’t have to eat, if she doesn’t want to.” I was surprised that my mother would come to my defense, but I soon realized that it wasn’t me she was defending but rather her own desire to eat somewhere else. “I know I wouldn’t want to eat here.”
“Don’t start with that again. I’ve already explained that I just like to get away from the madness of the high life once in a while.”
“Yes, but do you have to do it in such a place? I mean, look at the floor. When do you think was the last time they mopped this place? I’m surprised they even pass inspection.”
“Look, if you want…..” My father’s voice trailed off in my consciousness as my thoughts wandered to my own grief. Thankfully, they had left me alone and turned to their own problems. The smell of the food before me drifted up to my nose once again. I could hear my brother smacking his food loudly in his mouth. I picked up a French fry and felt it in my hand. The grease seeped out of the previously frozen potato slice and ran down my finger. I couldn’t eat. I felt sick to my stomach. I put the fry down and hugged my belly, trying to make the pain stop.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Vanpool
5:45am ... The alarm on my cell phone jingles to the tune of the T-Mobile commercials, bringing me out of my recent dream. I haven't been asleep for long as I got up just barely two hours ago to bring my 5-month old son to my wife so she could breastfeed him. I shut off the alarm and lay there for a second to gently ease into the day.
6:00am ... A second turns into 15 minutes as I wake up again and look at the clock on my cell phone. I literally roll out of bed so as not to jostle my wife and son who fell asleep in the bed after being fed. I jump in the shower and let the warm water slowly wake me up as I think of what I have to do for the day. I don't spend much time in there, for I have a schedule to keep.
6:30am ... I put a hand on my wife and lightly touch her. She sharply inhales and looks at me with wide eyes as if I were coming to kidnap her. Now awake, I let her know that it's time to go. I grab our son and put him in the car seat as she gets up and trudges out in her pajamas. Not caring, since she won't be seen, she puts on her slippers and says she's ready to go. We pile into the truck and take off to the meeting spot.
6:45am ... We sit in the truck waiting for the rest of them to arrive. A few are already there, but not all. I kiss my wife goodbye and head over the van. We're waiting for one more person ... again.
6:55am ... The latecomer finally arrives and the vanpool takes off for work.
The front seats hold the two self-proclaimed leaders of the vanpool because heaven forbid that they should sit further back in the van. The driver holds herself as upright as possible, as if by doing so she can show how much better she is than the rest of us. Her partner in crime sits in the passenger seat a little slouched so as not to be higher than the other. I've nicknamed them the captain and co-captain, though Hitler and Mussolini would probably be more appropriate. One day the co-captain was off work and the front passenger seat was open. It remained empty on the ride to work and back because no one dared invade her space, even when she wasn't there. The whole ride to work they talk about the passengers in the vanpool, the money everyone's saving, the days people will be off work, and anything else over which they feel they can have control.
In the middle seat sits a man who lives vicariously through his son. Any comment made about anyone else's children will elicit a response from him about his. If this conversation doesn't revolve around children or sports, then he's usually quiet. The interesting thing is that he knows this and admits freely to it. Well, at least he's honest with himself.
Behind him in the back seat sits the talker. Studies have shown that women use around 3,000 words a day, and with twin teenage daughters she must need to use up her words with us because she can't get a word in edgewise at home. I've tried to count how many seconds of silence we have, and I haven't been able to get past five.
Next to her is the late-comer. Not one day has she arrived on time or before anyone else. She's the type that will always be 5 minutes late, no matter what time she leaves her house. The dictators of the van have talked about asking her to arrive just 10 minutes earlier, but I feel that would be like asking the earth to stop spinning. If it did, everything would fly off in chaos and destruction.
Finally is the mouse of the van. I've only heard him speak twice in a day, once on the way to work and once on the way back. Even when someone tries to start a conversation with him, they only get one-word responses. I wonder if he's like that at home. His wife must do all the talking. Back to that 3,000 words a day thing again. Good thing men only need to use 500 words a day, but I wonder if he even gets there. He must use them all up at work.
4:00pm ... I leave my desk and clock out. The day has been long and work tough. I am glad to head home where I can see my beautiful wife and child again. I think about what we'll be doing that night and the funny stories I will hear about what he did today. But, before I can see them, I must endure the menagerie of personalities in the carnival ride called "The Vanpool."
6:00am ... A second turns into 15 minutes as I wake up again and look at the clock on my cell phone. I literally roll out of bed so as not to jostle my wife and son who fell asleep in the bed after being fed. I jump in the shower and let the warm water slowly wake me up as I think of what I have to do for the day. I don't spend much time in there, for I have a schedule to keep.
6:30am ... I put a hand on my wife and lightly touch her. She sharply inhales and looks at me with wide eyes as if I were coming to kidnap her. Now awake, I let her know that it's time to go. I grab our son and put him in the car seat as she gets up and trudges out in her pajamas. Not caring, since she won't be seen, she puts on her slippers and says she's ready to go. We pile into the truck and take off to the meeting spot.
6:45am ... We sit in the truck waiting for the rest of them to arrive. A few are already there, but not all. I kiss my wife goodbye and head over the van. We're waiting for one more person ... again.
6:55am ... The latecomer finally arrives and the vanpool takes off for work.
The front seats hold the two self-proclaimed leaders of the vanpool because heaven forbid that they should sit further back in the van. The driver holds herself as upright as possible, as if by doing so she can show how much better she is than the rest of us. Her partner in crime sits in the passenger seat a little slouched so as not to be higher than the other. I've nicknamed them the captain and co-captain, though Hitler and Mussolini would probably be more appropriate. One day the co-captain was off work and the front passenger seat was open. It remained empty on the ride to work and back because no one dared invade her space, even when she wasn't there. The whole ride to work they talk about the passengers in the vanpool, the money everyone's saving, the days people will be off work, and anything else over which they feel they can have control.
In the middle seat sits a man who lives vicariously through his son. Any comment made about anyone else's children will elicit a response from him about his. If this conversation doesn't revolve around children or sports, then he's usually quiet. The interesting thing is that he knows this and admits freely to it. Well, at least he's honest with himself.
Behind him in the back seat sits the talker. Studies have shown that women use around 3,000 words a day, and with twin teenage daughters she must need to use up her words with us because she can't get a word in edgewise at home. I've tried to count how many seconds of silence we have, and I haven't been able to get past five.
Next to her is the late-comer. Not one day has she arrived on time or before anyone else. She's the type that will always be 5 minutes late, no matter what time she leaves her house. The dictators of the van have talked about asking her to arrive just 10 minutes earlier, but I feel that would be like asking the earth to stop spinning. If it did, everything would fly off in chaos and destruction.
Finally is the mouse of the van. I've only heard him speak twice in a day, once on the way to work and once on the way back. Even when someone tries to start a conversation with him, they only get one-word responses. I wonder if he's like that at home. His wife must do all the talking. Back to that 3,000 words a day thing again. Good thing men only need to use 500 words a day, but I wonder if he even gets there. He must use them all up at work.
4:00pm ... I leave my desk and clock out. The day has been long and work tough. I am glad to head home where I can see my beautiful wife and child again. I think about what we'll be doing that night and the funny stories I will hear about what he did today. But, before I can see them, I must endure the menagerie of personalities in the carnival ride called "The Vanpool."
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Free Write
In high school we were required to write in a journal each day for English class. I remember feeling like I was back in middle school having to drudge out mundane tasks just because the dictator (aka teacher) wanted it. Each day would greet us with a different topic on which to write, ranging from comparing and contrasting novels to opinions on current events. Being older and somewhat wiser now, I can see the benefits behind having us write each day. However, at the time it just sucked. The one highlight was on Friday when we were granted a small taste of freedom in what was called a "Free Write." It's interesting to note that we were still writing and yet we felt like we were given great liberties. It's like having casual Friday at work. You still have to go to work. Wearing a hideously ugly fake-Hawaiian shirt that you paid $9.99 for at WalMart doesn't change that.
At first, on my Free Write days, I wrote about nothing at all. I couldn't scribble, because we still had to turn in whatever we wrote, but I would just come up with nonsense. And then, I began describing different scenes and scenarios with vivid detail and description. Before I knew it, I was continuing with one scene from week to week that soon grew into a short story. I began to like writing. I'm sure my English teacher was reveling inside with her fiendish work to convert me to her literary side, but I didn't care. I was hooked. When summer came, I couldn't stop writing my short story. I had to finish it. This led to other short stories and ideas that grew into potential books.
This blog is to record some of my writings and post a few excerpts from my upcoming novels so that others can read my glorified Free Writes and hopefully provide some feedback, allowing me to improve and even one day get published. If I do, I promise to think of each one of you that commented as I deposit the check into my account. Heck, if you're really good I may even mention you in the Acknowledgements section (which seems to be like an Oscar's acceptance speech gone bad. Some authors get a little carried away as they start thanking everyone from their publisher to their neighbor's dog.)
I will post one entry a week on ... you guessed it ... Friday. So, come with me down the rabbit hole and where no man gone before as I try to use every possible allusion I can think of.
At first, on my Free Write days, I wrote about nothing at all. I couldn't scribble, because we still had to turn in whatever we wrote, but I would just come up with nonsense. And then, I began describing different scenes and scenarios with vivid detail and description. Before I knew it, I was continuing with one scene from week to week that soon grew into a short story. I began to like writing. I'm sure my English teacher was reveling inside with her fiendish work to convert me to her literary side, but I didn't care. I was hooked. When summer came, I couldn't stop writing my short story. I had to finish it. This led to other short stories and ideas that grew into potential books.
This blog is to record some of my writings and post a few excerpts from my upcoming novels so that others can read my glorified Free Writes and hopefully provide some feedback, allowing me to improve and even one day get published. If I do, I promise to think of each one of you that commented as I deposit the check into my account. Heck, if you're really good I may even mention you in the Acknowledgements section (which seems to be like an Oscar's acceptance speech gone bad. Some authors get a little carried away as they start thanking everyone from their publisher to their neighbor's dog.)
I will post one entry a week on ... you guessed it ... Friday. So, come with me down the rabbit hole and where no man gone before as I try to use every possible allusion I can think of.
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