Tag: NaBloPoMo

Not Their Real Names

 

From www.astorservices.org
From http://www.astorservices.org

Mrs. Steinbeck taught ninth grade English; Mr. taught social studies across the hall.

They were constantly feuding.

While we were diagramming sentences, she would moon about, saying things like, “If only I’d met Ted Danson before marrying Mr. Steinbeck.”

During tornado drills, we crouched in the hallway with textbooks over our heads, while Mrs. Steinbeck dropped bombs. “It would take a pretty big wind to lift you up, wouldn’t it, Mr. Steinbeck?” she yelled, trying to get a rise out of him. He narrowed his eyes and tightened his jaw, but always kept his cool.

Then one day, Mr. marched right into our class, raging that Mrs. had stolen his desk chair.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, shrugging. “I’ve had this chair since the beginning of the year.”

She tried to continue our lesson.

“I know my chair,” he huffed through clenched teeth. “If I pick it up, the back right caster falls off.”

Mrs. Steinbeck sat very still. Nobody breathed.

“If that’s really your chair, Mrs. Steinbeck, you wouldn’t mind if I tried picking it up, would you?”

Mrs. Steinbeck stood very, very deliberately, staring him in the eye all the while.

He grabbed and hoisted it triumphantly in the air.

It hung there for a long, silent moment.

Then, lo and behold, the back right caster hit the floor.

Nobody said a word as he wheeled it out the door.

Now, back to dangling participles.

How right you were, Mrs. Rosine

My eighth grade English teacher made us memorize poems and recite them in front of the class.

“Someday you’ll thank me,” she said. “What if you’re sent to prison? How will you make the time pass?”

Two years later, we stopped for tea with relatives before starting a 200-mile drive.

I gripped my warm mug and eyed the drifting flakes, tuning out my aunt’s cheerful banter.

Then, rolling at last,

The heavens opened

And deposited a great wall of snow in front of our Chevy.

Piled atop each other, we spent the next cramped hours

with

Emily Dickenson

Robert Frost

Edna St. Vincent Millay

and

William Shakespeare

Grown Up

I went to a party this weekend–the kind with save-the-dates and RSVP’s.

A twenty-four hour party, in a house full of favorite people.

We had long conversations,

and random, hilarious exchanges in the kitchen, doubling over and holding the counter for support.

As the light faded, a surf band materialized…

and a truckload of barbecue,

margaritas in mason jars,

ping pong, dancing,

and heat lamps on the giant patio.

Bliss.

Then, around 10 pm, I started thinking about that great book in my bag,

and the pile of pillows on my fuzzy blanket

and I wondered:

am I a little under the weather? Or just old?

****************

Special bonus! One of my favorite poems of all time:

Grown Up

Was it for this I uttered prayers,
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half-past eight?

– Edna St. Vincent Millay

The End

I had waited for this moment for years.

First with dread, of course–the inevitable fear of the inevitable.

Then I began to pray for it.

I prayed for some relief, some closure, a chance to worry about something completely different.

I punished myself for spawning such blasphemous thoughts, but they came all the same.

 

When it was time, I was ready.

I sat there all night, watching, breathing, waiting.

How did I miss it?

When had the last puff of air passed her lips and dispersed?

In the end, it was impossible to tell when it was. It just was.

Why did I wish for this–

this hole of nothing? This abyss?

****

Random stab at fiction inspired by artist Sophie Calle (long story), and A Night of Writing Dangerously.

 

 

Baggage

From www.zdnet.com
From http://www.zdnet.com

I had one job:

Bring the bag.

I was asked twice.

Of course, I said.

No problem, I said.

I thought a lot about the bag.

I determined a suitable size and shape.

I planned its contents.

I discussed possibilities.

I made lists.

Piece of cake.

I was reminded once more, which was a little annoying.

Even so, I wrote it on my hand.

I laid everything on the bedroom floor, then arranged it neatly in the bag.

Now what?

I added a few items.

I put the bag in a prominent place.

I put a note on my bedside table, and set a reminder on my phone.

I passed the bag six or seven times this morning…

Guess what?

Medicine Head

From www.farm3.staticflickr.com
From http://www.farm3.staticflickr.com…Oh, how I wish I had taken this photograph myself.

My brain is lodged in the trash compactor,

unmoved by children’s Tylenol.

I stare, glassy-eyed, at a blank and patronizing screen

wondering

will I ever coax this contraption to do my bidding?

Saliva snags the back of my gullet, and travels like a barbed mouse through a snake.

Thick rivers of mucus dislodge all thought from rational moorings

and press angrily against the inside of my face.

One more attempt to form a sentence and I’ll erupt–

Vesuvius-style–

without Pliny to document my self-destruction.

Dreams

From www.identifont.com
From http://www.identifont.com

I no longer recount my dreams to the spouse because one morning he said,

“What is the matter with your head, woman?”

To which I had no response.

Last night I was urinating in a restaurant, hovering off the side of my chair, hoping no one would notice.

I was giving a dying rat sips of water by squeezing a damp paper towel over his freakish gray face.

I was wandering, lost, lugging my severed leg.

But one perfect night I was in Italy, at a little restaurant on the side of a cliff. I was watching the light change, and laughing, laughing, laughing.

I keep hoping for another night like that.

The Brother of Invention

Our campsite--without my brother's addition.
One of our campsites–without my brother’s addition.

For years we slept together in one tent,

All six of us

Plus cat and dog.

As the youngest, I was tucked into the seams, farthest from the snoring heap of dad…

An unfortunate location on rainy nights.

When he hit high school, middle brother learned to sew.

Out of ripstop nylon and seam-sealer, he carved a modicum of personal space for the hours between dish duty and daybreak.

Groggy and stiff from hugging the lumpy terrain, we drank Tang out of Solo cups, stamped our feet to keep warm, and crammed back into the Chevy for the next 500 miles.

From www.etsy.com
From Happy Fortune Vintage on http://www.etsy.com

Potluck: A Brief Horror Story

From Wikipedia
From Wikipedia

The word potluck makes me anxious, even now that I am old enough to have scheduling conflicts.

I can still feel the warm weight of paper plates sagging precariously in my hands,

Odd juices running together as I make my way

Across gray, industrial tiles,

Fluorescent lights blazing upon:

Norwegian Chop Suey

Potato salad slathered in Miracle Whip and pickle relish

Jello with grated carrots and cottage cheese

Fruit salad with Cool Whip and marshmallows

Hamburger Helper

Broccoli with Cheez Whiz

“Hot Dish”

Anything involving a can of cream of something soup

Or canned peas

And then, at the end,

Mincemeat pie.

****************************

In case you’re wondering “Wait! What’s wrong with pie?”…let me assure you that real mincemeat pie involves meat. Like rump steak and beef suet. As well as piles of sugar and raisins. Don’t believe me? Click here for a recipe.

Lurching through Space

At last we wrest ourselves from gravity’s firm grip
And hurtle upward in our magic flying chairs.
The world expands.

Ant-sized creatures turn tiny switches,
Illuminating the place we just left like fireflies.

Ears pop;
Carts roll;
Bladders press against belts buckled low and tight.

Strangers brush limbs and stretch backwards into each other’s laps
without embarrassment or apology.

Reasonable standards plummet
to new depths–People magazine and snack packs and Bridezilla–
Because, now jaded,
Teetering in a tin can six miles off the face of our planet seems unremarkable.
The hours must be whiled
by any means necessary.

 

**Many thanks to Louis C.K. and last night’s flight for inspiring whatever that was.