10-25-12         The prompt:   A poem from Robert Zimmerman’s  From Where I Stand

“Hey, buddy.”

I started.  I hadn’t seen the man in the shadows of the doorway.  It was a dark and wet evening, chilly as late fall can be.  There was a hint of snow in the air, a feeling more than anything, that thin scent of winter anticipated.  I had my shoulders hunched, head down into the collar of my long coat, intent on getting home.  It was easy to miss the odd vagrant or two.

“You talking to me?, I asked.

“Yeah.  Can you help out a fella down on his luck?  I ain’t eaten in a couple of days, and there doesn’t seem to be a Mission around these parts.”

I was tempted to walk on, but  I had been in his shoes just a year or two ago.  The war had hit me hard, and the demobilization was an abrupt shock.  Others had gone back to school on the Bill, but I tried to go back to the factory.  That lasted for just a couple of weeks, until the memories and visions started coming back.  I pulled through.

“Would a square meal help?  There’s a diner the next block over.  It’s clean, and warm.  I’ll spring for supper, and you can get a bit drier.”  I felt flush next to my new friend, even though I knew it would be a little tight after a meal out.  I knew what he was going through, and it would help me as much as him.

“Sure.  That’ll be swell.  Name’s Jimmy.  What’s yours?”  He swung into step beside me as we headed off.

“Robert John Alouicios Halligan.  After the nuns.  Sister Alouicious thought it would make a very nice Confirmation name.  I think I was suckered.”  I laughed a bit at the memory, and my step lightened a bit as we walked.  Jimmy was an enthusiastic guest, and began to regale me with stories of the street and the rail yard.  We turned the corner, and saw the diner ahead with its dingy light spilling out onto the sidewalk and a halo around it from the mist.  We picked up steam at the thought of a warm place to sit.

I waved Jimmy ahead of me as I opened the door.  The cook looked up with a frown when he saw my companion, then a bit of confusion as I followed.  It turned to resignation as we sat in a booth.

The waitress slid off one of the stools, came over with her pad flipped open, and said “What’ll yiz have?” in a slurry kind of way.

I looked up and smiled at her.  “Coffee, and two Blue Plate Specials, please.”

She turned to grab a couple of sturdy mugs, and shouted out “Hey Ernie, two blue plates!”

Ernie poked his head out the window, and apparently hadn’t gotten over the surlies.  He scowled as though we didn’t rate a Blue Plate Special, pulled back into the kitchen and started to clatter things around.

“So, Jimmy, what’s the plan?

He looked sheepishly at me.  “No plan, Bob.  I’m just living.”

I knew exactly where he was.

5-10-12  The prompt:     Pick a song from your childhood and use the first lines as the starter, and in the body of the story

30-minute writing, fiction

“Playmate, come out to play with me.  Tell your mother can you come out!  I’ve got the stick from my Ma’s old broom, and we’ll use your ball.  All of the other kids in the gang are waiting down at the lot, except for Stinky and Max, cause they gotta work.”

The vacant lot between the tenements was our kingdom, and ocean, and battlefield, and Dodger Stadium.  We had a blast, cause there were no adults around, except for the old cripple from down the block who came back from the war deaf and shakin’.  He keeps staggering up and down the block, and one day he even walked right in front of the ice wagon and almost got run over by the horse.  He’s harmless, though, and he never bothers us when we’re playin’.  He even smiled at me once.

Today, we had enough for two teams, even if they were small teams.  I decided to be Babe Ruth, even if I am a girl.  He coulda been a girl if he was born one.  And he’d probably be the greatest girl baseball player of all time, too.  So I’m gonna be him.  Teddy, I bet, wants to be Joe DiMaggio.  He’s always spouting off about how Joltin’ Joe is the best, but I know he’s fulla baloney.  I’m the world’s greatest.  Anyone who says I ain’t will get a punch in the kisser.

When I got home, Ma had a whole pile of clothes to iron and fold, so I helped her fold.  I tried to help  her iron once, but she didn’t appreciate it too much. I don’t want anyone to think I’m useless, and throw me in an orphanage.  That would be awful.

I went next door to my friend Dottie’s house, except it ain’t really a house.  It’s a walkup just like I got.  We don’t know anyone who really owns a whole house.  Gee, that would be swell.  So I says to Dottie, her real name is Dorothy, but if I call her that she gets all heated up, and doesn’t play with me.  So I says, grab your coat, and bring your dollies three, and we’ll play like we’re Mrs. Hoffmeier from down the block, and take the kids for a walk to the park, except we can’t really go to the park cause my mother says its too far to go alone, and she’s still busy ironing and folding.

Dottie had her dolls in the carriage, and didn’t we look special strolling up and down the sidewalk like we was something.  The old cripple went by once, and he smiled at the dolls in the carriage, and smiled at us and drooled a bit.

When we got tired of strolling with the children, I told Dottie it was probably time to go home for supper, and I’d see her tomorrow, and maybe we could have an adventure in the park with the children and even go sailing on the ocean.  We’ll climb my apple tree, and watch Tom Mix at the theatre.

I ran home, and Ma had finished folding, so I put clothes away for a while, then just sat with her in the kitchen.  I told her all of the adventures I had with the gang, and how I wanted to be Babe Ruth when I grew up, and how me and Dottie looked so grand as we took the children out for a constitutional.  Ma smiled a lot, and just kept boiling the meat and cabbage for supper.  It’s usually just us, cause Pa has to work so hard, and he doesn’t get home until it’s time for bed, and then he comes in and reads a bit of the newspaper to me and kisses me on the forehead.   Bedtime sure seems to come early when you have a whole day of fun.

Gee, ain’t life just swell.

4-19-12     The prompt:     Hard room, soft colors. Soft squishy bodies. Berber carpet, nubbly.  Describe textures.

30-minute writing, fiction

He was a hard man in a soft town.  Why the hell did he get off that bus?  There’s nothing here for him, but everyone needs to be someplace.  The lady in front of him had stepped down just a bit too slow, and he pushed past her, in a rush to get away from the crowd behind him.  He stumbled onto the Common, and breathed in the soft air.  Slumped to the ground.  After three hours of a corduroy seat on a bus that still smelled of cigars and cigarettes decades after the ban,   the grass caressed and cooled him.  Earth beneath his fingers, cool and damp.

He looked around, trying to maintain situational awareness.  Students sunning themselves and smoking.  The smell wafting over him.  He stood and moved upwind, finding a tree for shade.  The sun was becoming brutal, drying and shrinking his skin.  Shade helped.  Another scan of the area, noting the placement of paths, cars sliding by, a police car sitting parked, the cop goldbricking.  No worries there.

He shifted again, the leather of the holster digging into his back.  He had to move, before people started to wonder why he was wearing a jacket on such a warm day.  Time to drift through the town, get familiar with it, and locate another target.

Donovan had slipped out of the last town a full day before the body was found.  It was a lot more run-down than this place.  An old mill town, sliding down into depression and grayness as only lost hope can produce.  Cinders in the streets, a sluggish river pulling dead branches through and away.   The target was tough, but not hard.  You need life to be hard.  All of the life had been sucked out of those folks years ago.  He had probably done the old guy a favor.

This new place had life.  Maybe he could find a bit of a challenge if he could just be patient for a while.  Maybe find the library.  They are usually air conditioned, so no one would care about the jacket.  And the people are so focused on their books that they find it easy to ignore you.  He could pick one lucky soul and live a bit of their life parallel to them, then follow them outside.  Maybe her.

4-12-12    The prompt:     Trivia: The average number of people airborne over the US at any given hour:  61,000

30-minute writing, fiction

61,000 made it to heaven before me.  Damn them.   Is that what frequent flyer miles are good for?  To get to see St. Peter before the earth-bound rabble?  I’m trying to be patient; God knows I try.  So why doesn’t he let me skip the queue and sit right down next to him and Jesus?  I don’t even know Saint Peter.  What would I say to him?  61,000 in the grand scheme of things may not sound like much.  Here at the time of the Rapture, I believe the population of the world stood at 6 billion.  So that’s like .00001 % of all of us get a golden ticket. And those lucky sods decided to go see Grandma on holiday at just that minute.

Wait.  That’s over the US.  What about all of the people in planes all over the world?  But that doesn’t matter.  If you’re a true-blue American, you know that heaven is hovering right above Kansas at all times.  It couldn’t be over Azerbaijan!  The heathens.  They can stay at the end of the line.  Wait again!  They have their own line!  There’s no way that they would get into the same heaven as me.  If they all get 72 virgins and all I get are a robe and a harp, that’s not fair.  There must be another heaven for Azerbaijanis.  And Russians.  They have Easter at a different time!  I’ll bet there were some Russians and Azerbaijanis in amongst those 61,000 lucky ones.  I hope their heaven is all the way over on the other side of the planet.  They’ll be last in line! And suddenly my line isn’t so long after all.  Maybe it’s only 55,000.

The bastards.

I’ll just get a peek at the fella ahead of me.  “Oops, sorry, ma’am.   If I may, could you tell me where you were when all of this fuss started?  Des Moines?  I suppose that makes sense.  You’re closer to Kansas than West Virginia is.  I just figured that I’d be around folks from my jobsite, you know.  Like we’d all stick together.  I guess some of them weren’t as good as me, and got held up a bit.  I guess sending Dan out for the beer might have delayed his arrival in heaven a bit.  Unless Saint Peter is a drinking man.  I’d hate to think that Dan could get in a bit before me.  What if I get up there and he’s sitting at Saint Peter’s right hand, sharing my beer?  Does that have the same import as God’s right hand?  But that’s reserved for Jesus anyway.”

It sure would be nice if there were a billion Saint Peters.  Then all the frequent flier bastards would zip right through and not hold it up for us decent folk.

Is the line moving?

4-5-12   The prompt:     There are four points of the compass   A fifth point is possible in some Asian cultures.

30-minute writing, fiction

I headed north from Chelsea, knowing the destination.  All of my fears followed me.  Some even led.  Funny that it seemed like time slowed.  The footsteps got smaller. The noise of the traffic faded a bit.  I felt yanked along, with Ma shouting in my ear to “Keep up!”  That’s what it’s like with the homecomings.

I circled the block, heading east past the mafia restaurant over to Sixth Avenue, then down again, south to 18^th, west to Seventh.  I had to go in sometime, but remained reluctant.  I was tempted to go back and dive down into the subway, but knew there was going to be no easy way out.  Maybe just once more around the block.

I surrendered, and went up the stoop, let myself in and climbed the 54 steps to the third floor.  Knocked, stepped back a bit when the door flew open and nieces and nephews flew out to greet their favorite Uncle.  From the kitchen, I heard Kathy yell out  “Ma, he’s here!”

Dragging the hoard with me, I stepped back into my mother’s heart.

9-27-12  The prompt:  A marble, chosen from a bowl     

Write for three minutes

It was a universe in my hand.  It’s amazing what you can pick up on the street.  Here I thought some kid had finally lost his marbles.  It was instead more similar to the Universe pendant from Men in Black.  A world of galaxies so dense you could look at it forever and not discover all its secrets.  I held it up to my eye, and imagined the terror or wonder of all of the inhabitants of all the planets in all the systems in all the galaxies at this giant eye appearing in the night sky.  I was God.  I looked up above me, a chill went down my spine, and suddenly I knew it wasn’t true.

6-14-12    The prompt:     Pick a person who is important. 

                                            Pick a photo of   that person. 

                                            Start with: “In this one, you are…”

In this one, you are… writing home to your mother and father.  The cover on your head is cocked jauntily, against all regulations.  There is no one around in the background, just sandy beach.  You probably got one of your buddies to take the picture.  Your smile says “Having a wonderful time, Mom.  Don’t worry.”

You had been on Saipan Island for two months, two years into your enlistment.  The action wasn’t bad yet.  Iwo Jima was quite a few months down the road, and you had no idea.  Most of the day was spent servicing the planes and going out on sub patrols in a borrowed Helldiver.  Nights were quiet, with the occasional siren and mad dash to the anti-aircraft guns, or to a bunker for protection.  I suppose for you it was the bunkers.

I’m following you now, retracing your footprints from Camp Lejeune and Parris Island to Quantico, then to San Diego, then off on the ships to the Islands.  I just want to know what was going on.  The stories turned out to be so sanitized or fictionalized that I lost track of you as a pre-Father doing whatever it was you did in the war.  The photo of you is all that was left of your war record after the fire.  I’m lucky it was on the desk in the living room, and that someone had the foresight to pick up the whole thing and dump it on the front lawn.

You gave me the gift of a few stories so that I could live the life of a World War II Marine vicariously through your eyes.  You must not have known that I wanted nonfiction.  The stories were thrilling enough.  I just wanted to know the truth.  I know now as an adult that telling the truth about war is never done lightly, never done with children, and only done safely with those who have shared the horrors.  I just wish now that I had the courage to ask later in life, and that you  had the courage to answer.

Through my explorations, all of the papers from the St. Louis records archive are in sleeves in a notebook.  Your complete military record is there. I have books about the Pacific war on the shelves, and the Marine Corps is digging up unit histories for me.  I have one of those cases for the folded flag.  It has room under the flag for the medals and campaign ribbons.  I’m slogging through the history, just as you slogged through making the history.  Perhaps this is how I keep you alive in my heart and mind.  Seeing you in your uniform, seeing you in the landing craft, seeing you with the rifle that used to live in the trunk in the basement of our old house after you were done with it.  I know that was real.  I held it.  I have your picture in a frame on my desk, you standing on the beach, hat cocked jauntily on your head.  I see you, and I remember.

5-17-12    The prompt:   It might have happened like this…

The three showed up late at the Ranger’s office, wanting permission to camp overnight in one of the rim canyons of Zion National Park.  The young man’s name was Jon, without an ‘H’, and his girlfriend Lou had brought along her best friend Beth.  They knew they were pushing it, but they flew through check-in, and headed up the trail around the rim of a smallish box canyon.  Halfway to their destination campsite, it was already getting dark, and the setting sun painted the walls of the canyon a deep striated red.  At the point of deep dusk, Jon called it quits, and he and the girls set up the tent in near darkness.

The next day, I had planned a trip to Zion with my new co-worker Steve.  We were mud loggers on a geothermal well being drilled just north of Beaver, Utah, and I had gotten my first paycheck after graduating from college.  Thrilled and flush with hard cash, I went out and bought a new camera, and wanted a chance to try it out on the scenery.  Steve had suggested Zion.  He had been in the area for two months already, and was there for the beginning of drilling.                                               Continue reading →

11-29-12  Use this quote         “It is not down in any map.
                                                  True places never are.”

                                                                   Ishmael, in Moby Dick

I thought it was a gopher hole.  More legs have been twisted and more horses put down because of gopher holes than I can possibly count.  I stumbled forward, and stretched out my hands to catch myself and prevent serious damage.  Oddly enough, there was nothing there to catch my fall.  The forward momentum continued, and I was head over heels before I knew it.  What the hell?

The fall was much too long to be a normal trip.  One second, one full and surprising second, was what it took.  The thud at the bottom shook the wind out of me, and I gasped at the suddenness of it all.  The first impression was the smell of warm damp earth.  The second was of darkness.  It wasn’t full darkness, as there was a small circle of light overhead. “It must be a hole I fell into,” I thought.

The third impression was of eyes.  Lots of eyes. Mostly in pairs, but some in shocking ones and threes.  As I sat up, the eyes resolved into little faces, moving forward out of the darkness to explore the intruder, me.  They were faces of wonder, with little open mouths all going “Ohhhhh!”  The bodies were small and deformed to my eyes, but these little people had no problems with them at all.  They crowded around me and chattered, touching my skin and clothing and plucking at me.      Continue reading →

10-18-12  The prompt:  Go to a unique place, spend time there, and describe it.

I love my clients.  Some of them have said the same about me after the work was finished, but I really love my clients.  My latest is a divorced woman who has moved from Amherst to Belchertown, from a five bedroom big standy-uppy house in a development to a little cottage on a lake.  She called to ask if I could look at her new house to see about a bathroom remodel and possibly, if there was time, a kitchen also.  I didn’t have anything pressing, so I agreed to meet her there the following weekend.

The walkthrough almost didn’t take place.  When I arrived at the new house, it turned out to be a little three-season cottage twenty feet from the most beautiful lake I had ever seen.  I was agog.  Struck dumb.  Walking across the lawn, I had the strongest sense that all would be well in the world if I could only sit down and take in the view for the next twenty years.  My feet slowed, I remembered to close my mouth, and I think I may have moaned quietly, but perhaps it was part of the dream.

The water was clear, and deep.  Ripples from the breeze moved across the surface, and water lilies bobbed in the water just away from the shore.  A small frog saw me and leapt into the lake, pumping its legs to escape the intruder.  It was late summer, and the breeze was warm on my face.  I just wanted to stay there forever.

Trees hung over the water, and a memory of a rope swing and laughing children came to mind.  Watermelon and sandwiches, cousins and grownups.  I could feel the water over my head, and the sandy rocky bottom of the lake, the slime of algae and floating green plants.

“Hi!  I see you found the place!”  Cynthia walked across the lawn with her hand held out.  I took it, gave a slight squeeze, and wondered if it would be appropriate to propose right there, before I even started work, before we had a contract.  I just wanted a way to stay.

“I love it,” I said.  My throat felt like cotton.  “The location is beautiful.”

The walkthrough began, and I could see the immediate possibility of rescuing a sad neglected bathroom and making it wonderful for Cynthia.  It would give me at least five weeks in heaven.  I told her I would draw up a plan and pricing for her approval, and a tentative contract.

Three weeks later, and I’m finished with the bathroom and standing in the kitchen.  I’ve finished the floor replacement and electrical work.  I just installed the window that will be over the sink and looking out over the lawn to the lake.  The old kitchen window was a piece of crap with two panes of glass separated by a vertical muntin that divided the view.  The new window was a single huge casement, which, when the protective film was removed from the glass, looked just like a framed photograph of the lake.  I stood there for fifteen minutes, silent and staring.

I shook myself back to reality, and moved away from the view to begin the drywall.  Two sheets later, I found myself back in front of the window.  The smell of wood smoke threatened to take me away again to some past life full of memories.  The view of the lake was still there.

I figured two more weeks, and I’d have to decide.  No one ever looks in the septic tank when someone goes missing.  Who would know that I had moved in?  Perhaps some weights and a short boat trip to the center of the lake.  The building inspector had told me recently that it’s actually eighty five feet deep.

I just stood before the window and smiled.