Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Saturday, November 01, 2008
Thursday, January 31, 2008
We listen to your wishes
I strutted into the ignored yard of a family. The mom worked full time and had two high school kids. Julie was pretty swamped at work, and trying desperately to save for both her kids' college educations and her retirement. She longed to spend more time traveling and taking photographs. She loved to travel on her own since it meant she would meet new folks. Meeting new people brought her true joy.
Sarah was like her mom. Not quite as warm with strangers but really put herself on the line with the things she loved, especially sports. She was always named captain and everyone relied on her to be the ultimate team player. When I knew her she was 14 years old and still liked being the tom boy she had been as a young girl, although she longed for someone to talk to her about what it meant to become a woman. She was nervous, scared of it and Julie was too distracted to notice.
The one Julie did pay attention to was Andrew. He was a mystery to her. He was the oldest at 16 and kept that crazy, hyperactive energy of his 7 year old self. Julie kept rationalizing that each year he would calm down. He never did. He loved watching old science fiction movies on television and building models of World War II airplanes. He hated school and being with his peers.
The day I appeared, Sarah and Andrew were literally on the floor of the kitchen beating each other up. Sarah had a bloody nose and Andrew had a scratch on his cheek that would've made a cat cringe. I watched them from the kitchen window, having reached up my front paws into the planter full of dried dirt and even drier remnants of flowers. I always had a hard time getting used to the body I was in at the beginning. My last one had been a club kid in Wales in the 1990's. My favorite was as a turtle during the French Revolution. But after being in human form, I needed to remember the front appendages weren't hands.
They both stopped fighting and opened the door. I started licking her nose then went to his cheek. They forgot the fight and found me some chips. While stale potato chips weren't my idea of an ideal meal, that was all they had.
"We've got to get him real food" said Sarah.
"Mom won't go for this" said Andrew.
She got a look in her eye. "I bet she won't notice the dog for days. Let's not even ask."
So they pooled their money and Andrew ran down to the corner store to get dog food and a collar. They agreed that the unused rope for the clothing line would make an appropriate leash.
"I think her name is Crow" said Andrew after I ate a bowl of food and drank water.
There was a pause. Great, he thinks, another fight. His shoulders start to rise.
"I like it" his sister nodded.
My first task was complete. I had them united in a common effort. Taking care of me. And I hadn't used any magic.
***
It took Julie three days to notice me. And while I had calmed things down between Sarah and Andrew, there was still that simmering tension. Sarah made friends easily and Andrew wishes he could too. He feels his little sister has and gets everything. And Julie just didn't notice.
But she did notice when I needed to go for a walk. She told the kids to take me to the park across from the corner store. Sarah brought a ball to throw and Andrew had me on the leash. I did the pull really hard thing I've seen other dogs do. I kept forgetting the slobbering tongue part but I new at being a dog. I was going to be with this family for a while so I would have some time to get it all down.
We got to the park and Sarah saw one of her teammates with her golden retriever-poodle mix. Sitting on a bench was another girl Andrew recognized. Sarah ran off with her friend to kick a ball, leaving Andrew alone with a tennis ball, me and this really weird looking dog also wanting to play ball.
"That's a beautiful dog" said the girl. "Where did you get her?"
"Uh" he looked at the ground "um.... she found us."
I walked over to her and nudged her leg. "What's her name?"
"Crow" as the other dog kept jumping on Andrew.
"Because she is so black?"
"Yeah."
"I'm Teresa's sister, Collette. You're a junior right?"
The dog nearly knocked him over. "Right."
"Look why don't you give me the ball and I'll throw it. I think my dog is going to eat you if he doesn't get a chance to chase it."
Andrew grinned as he sat down on the bench.
I played along until I realized he wasn't going to join in. So after Collette threw the ball I ran in the opposite direction and knocked her over.
"CROW!" shouted Andrew. He ran up to me and shoved me off. Collette laughed as he helped her up.
"Now we know what it takes to get you up. Your dog has to maul me."
Andrew apologized, shot me a grateful look, then joined in throwing the ball. He and Collette talked.
***
This was an easy one. Andrew got his bearings and started leaving Sarah alone. He hung out with Collette, not in a romantic way but as friends. It was a relief to see him feel comfortable with another person. Sarah too started talking to Andrew. Asking him about his day, learning about him as a person.
Getting Julie to notice either of them was trickier. A year later, I had to do something drastic.
I ran in front of a car.
Once I'm freed from a body I only have one day to see what happened. Julie woke up. She brought her crying children into her arms and hugged them. Kissed the tops of their heads. She asked them about me, what was special about me and then started to hear what was special about them.
She stopped dreaming about meeting the perfect strangers in far-away lands. She pulled close the strangers in her house.
So now I'm back in the stars. It is where we go to recover and listen. We listen to your wishes. We have been since time began.
***
I'm playing Jen in Michigan's Writing Game. Go to a brand new website, The Writing Game, to read all of our stories. The ideas and characters for my story came from Capitol Lady. This is what she wrote for the story:
Black Lab- named Crow, with the power to heal, a grant wishes to worthy people.
Owner Julie - 40 something woman, 2 kids and a full time job in heath care. Loves computers, photography, quirky fun loving, happy go lucky, never met a stranger because she talks to everyone.
Sarah - Daughter of Julie, same traits as mom but not quite as out going. Loves and is good at sports, a tomboy of 14 trying to find her way in the world
Andrew - Son of Julie,16 yr old hyperactive, tv/movie enthusiast. Loves science fiction and building models. At home very out going but a recluse in the
world.
conflict-Sarah and Andrew hate each other as siblings can, Sarah is outgoing and makes friends easy a trait that Andrew wishes he had. Andrew feels that Sarah has everything and gets everything.
Crow wants to heal everyone but can't her powers are limited to healing only 1 worthy person a month. She If she chooses someone in her immediate family she can't use the power again for 2 years. If she has healed a person she can't grant wishes to them. she can't be bribed and if she uses her power for evil it is taken from her.
This was fun and definitely pushed me out of my comfort zone. Feel free to tell me never to do this again. But I won't listen. I'm a Writing Game junkie now. Jen, can we do this next week?
Monday, November 12, 2007
Be true
Beatrice was running late to the café. Malcolm had opened up for her and he needed to be at a job by 10:00 am. As she hustled down the street, turning the corner by the flower shop with the sunflowers leaning into the sidewalk, she marveled at the sunlight. She had a painting in her head, one that captured fall on the Lake. It wasn’t a literal image of a tree or leaves but more the essence of the season. The crispness in the air, the smell of the leaves, the brightness of the sunlight as winter was looming.
But first she needed to get to the shop she owned with her husband. Both the café and his side work as a handyman helped pay for their tidy little house nearby and covered their student loan payments. They didn’t need or want much more and had no plans for children.
What they wanted was to find more time for their art. Bea tried to paint while at the café. There were quiet moments and it was easy for her to have the watercolors out. Sometimes the occasional brown smudge of coffee added a hue she had never considered. Malcolm though was often too tired to write after a job. Lugging wood for flooring jobs or reaching up all day for molding installation just drained him. While racing down the street it struck Bea as a bit odd that the one who only needed a pen for his craft couldn’t grab snippets of time to make art while she could set up a virtual studio next to the cappuccino maker and create two paintings in half an hour.
But she loved him. She loved her life. Growing up in San Francisco she never envisioned she would be happy in a mid-west town.
The phone rang in her bag. Bea assumed it was Malcolm calling for an update on where she was. While she was only three storefronts away she loved to hear his voice on the phone. It reminded her of their year living in different cities when he would read her his poetry late into the evening. She didn’t bother to look at the number on the screen. She loved the idea of being on the phone with him as she walked into their shop.
“Beatrice!” the stern voice demanded. “Why didn’t you take my call yesterday?”
She stopped walking. Malcolm could see her and immediately opened his phone to call the house were he was installing a new banister. He explained he would be a bit late. He then started frantically waving in Bea’s direction, pointing at his phone, telling her to hang up.
“Mom?” Bea studdered, “How…. How are you?”
“Well, I could be better if I knew what you were doing. Going to that little coffee place of yours?” she asked, tilting more towards a sneer. “And” she always paused before saying his name “Malcolm? How is he? Still being a day laborer? When will he write that epic poem?”
Suddenly the painting, the image Bea was forming in her head was shriveling. Going from vibrant reds and oranges to a dull, lifeless brown.
Malcolm explained to the two customers sitting in the café that he needed to step out. He nearly leapt to Bea. He wanted to fold up the phone and throw it down the gutter yet he knew Bea could not step away from a call with her mother. He lowered his head to be at her eye level and so his voice could be heard over a thousand miles away.
“Bea, I need you in the store.”
“Oh he needs you at the store,” her mother replied. “And what about me? Don’t I need you too?” This last comment was torture for Bea. Her mother never paid attention to her as a child and when she did it was simply to criticize or compare her to another, more perfect, child. Her mother suddenly needed Beatrice. She called her daughter daily but not to ask how Bea’s life was or if she was happy. She called to continue the criticism. Yet she cloaked it with a claim of need.
Suddenly Bea was tired. Too tired to face the shop, face her watercolors, face the day. Malcolm knew the look, knew the stooped shoulders and watery eyes. He needed her to get it together because of one of the customers in the shop. He looked in her eyes and silently pleaded with her to pull away from the voice that caused her pain.
“Mom, I need to go” she finally said. Quietly but firmly. Then she folded the phone without waiting for a response.
Malcolm didn’t give her a chance to cry. “Bea” he said as he took hold of her shoulders to straighten her up, “there is a man in the shop wearing a polka dot shirt under a sweater. He has on those glasses you keep telling me you like and wish I would get.”
Bea smiled a bit. She had been nagging Malcolm to replace the glasses he keeps together with a safety pin.
“Anyway he was asking about your paintings” he continued. “ Said he liked how you weren’t literal in your imagery but still conveyed something concrete.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t make sense to me but he sounded convincing.”
He hands her a business card. It was from a well-known gallery in New York City. Under the gallery imprint is a name with “Owner” printed underneath.
“He said he was pulling together a watercolor show next year. He wants to showcase ‘non-New York’ artists. I‘d say Ann Arbor is pretty ‘non-New York‘”
“Bea, this is a chance to prove your mother wrong. You can be a painter and be happy contrary to what she thinks. This is your chance to be true to who you are, not the failure your mother keeps putting you out to be.”
This was the first time one of her mother’s phone calls hadn’t reduced her to tears. While the knot was still in her throat, it didn’t seem so all-encompassing as it had in the past. Malcolm reassured her he would stay a bit longer. He pushed the door in and held it for her as she walked into the café, her hand outstretched to the man in a polka dot shirt standing to greet her.
But first she needed to get to the shop she owned with her husband. Both the café and his side work as a handyman helped pay for their tidy little house nearby and covered their student loan payments. They didn’t need or want much more and had no plans for children.
What they wanted was to find more time for their art. Bea tried to paint while at the café. There were quiet moments and it was easy for her to have the watercolors out. Sometimes the occasional brown smudge of coffee added a hue she had never considered. Malcolm though was often too tired to write after a job. Lugging wood for flooring jobs or reaching up all day for molding installation just drained him. While racing down the street it struck Bea as a bit odd that the one who only needed a pen for his craft couldn’t grab snippets of time to make art while she could set up a virtual studio next to the cappuccino maker and create two paintings in half an hour.
But she loved him. She loved her life. Growing up in San Francisco she never envisioned she would be happy in a mid-west town.
The phone rang in her bag. Bea assumed it was Malcolm calling for an update on where she was. While she was only three storefronts away she loved to hear his voice on the phone. It reminded her of their year living in different cities when he would read her his poetry late into the evening. She didn’t bother to look at the number on the screen. She loved the idea of being on the phone with him as she walked into their shop.
“Beatrice!” the stern voice demanded. “Why didn’t you take my call yesterday?”
She stopped walking. Malcolm could see her and immediately opened his phone to call the house were he was installing a new banister. He explained he would be a bit late. He then started frantically waving in Bea’s direction, pointing at his phone, telling her to hang up.
“Mom?” Bea studdered, “How…. How are you?”
“Well, I could be better if I knew what you were doing. Going to that little coffee place of yours?” she asked, tilting more towards a sneer. “And” she always paused before saying his name “Malcolm? How is he? Still being a day laborer? When will he write that epic poem?”
Suddenly the painting, the image Bea was forming in her head was shriveling. Going from vibrant reds and oranges to a dull, lifeless brown.
Malcolm explained to the two customers sitting in the café that he needed to step out. He nearly leapt to Bea. He wanted to fold up the phone and throw it down the gutter yet he knew Bea could not step away from a call with her mother. He lowered his head to be at her eye level and so his voice could be heard over a thousand miles away.
“Bea, I need you in the store.”
“Oh he needs you at the store,” her mother replied. “And what about me? Don’t I need you too?” This last comment was torture for Bea. Her mother never paid attention to her as a child and when she did it was simply to criticize or compare her to another, more perfect, child. Her mother suddenly needed Beatrice. She called her daughter daily but not to ask how Bea’s life was or if she was happy. She called to continue the criticism. Yet she cloaked it with a claim of need.
Suddenly Bea was tired. Too tired to face the shop, face her watercolors, face the day. Malcolm knew the look, knew the stooped shoulders and watery eyes. He needed her to get it together because of one of the customers in the shop. He looked in her eyes and silently pleaded with her to pull away from the voice that caused her pain.
“Mom, I need to go” she finally said. Quietly but firmly. Then she folded the phone without waiting for a response.
Malcolm didn’t give her a chance to cry. “Bea” he said as he took hold of her shoulders to straighten her up, “there is a man in the shop wearing a polka dot shirt under a sweater. He has on those glasses you keep telling me you like and wish I would get.”
Bea smiled a bit. She had been nagging Malcolm to replace the glasses he keeps together with a safety pin.
“Anyway he was asking about your paintings” he continued. “ Said he liked how you weren’t literal in your imagery but still conveyed something concrete.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t make sense to me but he sounded convincing.”
He hands her a business card. It was from a well-known gallery in New York City. Under the gallery imprint is a name with “Owner” printed underneath.
“He said he was pulling together a watercolor show next year. He wants to showcase ‘non-New York’ artists. I‘d say Ann Arbor is pretty ‘non-New York‘”
“Bea, this is a chance to prove your mother wrong. You can be a painter and be happy contrary to what she thinks. This is your chance to be true to who you are, not the failure your mother keeps putting you out to be.”
This was the first time one of her mother’s phone calls hadn’t reduced her to tears. While the knot was still in her throat, it didn’t seem so all-encompassing as it had in the past. Malcolm reassured her he would stay a bit longer. He pushed the door in and held it for her as she walked into the café, her hand outstretched to the man in a polka dot shirt standing to greet her.
***
Wait? What's going on? Is this a piece of FICTION? Yes, inspired by Jen at A2eatwrite, I joined in a writing exercize. We had to send Jen our ideas for a story, she mixed up those ideas and sent them back out to us. I got Anno's ideas and she got mine. Go see what convoluted plot twists I sent to Anno and commend her for making sense of them. Then go visit Jen for more short-stories.
But where is Music Monday? This week the music has spilled over to Jenn in Holland and Flower Child. Thank you ladies for keeping the tunes going while I played along with Jen.
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