December 2012

08 December 2012

The prompts were:
1. Wait, who is in...
2. Where am I?
3. I forgot it at my...

Begin writing
Wait, What does it say about a man who is in pursuit of stuff for the bulk of his adult live?
     Perhaps not tangible but, stuff nonetheless.

Wait, What does it say about a woman who is in servitude for the bulk of her adult life?
     Perhaps not in chains, but in servitude nonetheless.

 Wait, What does it say about a man who prides himself on his ability to communicate but, cannot tell his children that he loves them?

Wait, What does it say aobut a woman who knows what is right, who knows what is true but, cannot convey it to her family?

Wait, What does it say about a man and a woman; a couple, if you will, who fall in love, endure one another for years, and then fall in love again ... and again?

Is it possible to reduce all things profound to the skeletal and still have them be understood?  Does the paring of words make what remains stronger? cleaner? more direct?

I do not research my poems. So, where do they come from? They come from life... They come from living... They come from love... They come from loving....
They come from you!

 Where am I?  I am in the auditorium of Santa Cruz High School.  The room is darkened but a spotlight illuminates the reader, standing at the lectern on the stage.  She is a reader, not a speaker.  She is but one in a long line of readers interpreting the words penned by the one we are remembering tonight.  There are speakers too.  Family members.  Michelle and Pablo dusting off a few memories to share.
I thought about how Pablo, Jacob and Ann were insistent that Bradly attend tonight.  Adrienne was especially fond of Bradly and loved to watch him get on the bus in the morning.  She loved to ask him, what was new... What he had been up to and he loved to answer her questions because she truly listened.
"I didn't even know she was famous until after she died," he confided to us on the way out to the car after the event.  "She was just my friend."
Time is up. Put down your writing implements and step away from the paper.

 15 December 2012

The prompts were:
1. To whom it may concern.  I think I've lost my way.
2. Only worry in the world... Is the tide gonna reach my chair?
3. I won't dance - don't ask me.

Begin writing
Picking my way carefully down the cliff I arrived, unscathed on the beach.  A narrow spit of sand and rock that would not be there at high tide.  I made my way to the rocks and started looking in the tide pools to investigate the creatures that might be stranded and look for treasures that might be found.  There was the usual assortment of anemones and star fish.  One of the larger steep sided bowls contained an assortment of finned creatures.  Not being a fisherman I was unable to name a single one and none of them looked large enough to eat, so I let them be.  There was a good sized sea cucumber in the next pool but it did not look very appetizing either.  I kept looking.
After  a little less than an hour I had studied all the pools and found no treasures or anything out of the ordinary.  "Oh well, guess I'll move on then."  I headed back to the cliff to start my ascent.  Something shiny was rolling up and down on the sand - moving to and fro with the water and it rolled onto the beach.  "Gotta go check this out then."
There it was,  the beachcomber's holy grail.  A clear bottle with a cork stopper - rolled inside, I could see there was a note.
Rescuing my treasure, I plopped down on the sand.  Careful not to break the bottle, I uncorked it and used a small twig of driftwood to fish out the note and unrolled it.  To Whom it May Concern," it read, " I think I've lost my way. I was not expecting to see ice this thick.  I must have drifted further north than I thought was possible."
There was more writing, or at least there had been, but a some point saltwater must have entered the bottle and all that remained were smudges and smears.
Who was the note from? When was the note written? Where was the bottle set adrift? How far had it traveled? Ice?  Probably was not tossed in the vicinity of the central California coastline where I now stood.
Time is up. Put down your writing implements and step away from the paper.

29 December 2012

The prompts were:
1. On the drop of a snot
2. I told you, never come in here any more
3. Old man take a look at my life
4. But times make you bolder

Begin writing
It was dark, very dark.  My mouth was so dry it was stuck shut.  There was a loud ringing permeating everything.  The ringing was omnipresent.  It was tangible.  I peeled my eyes open and suddenly it wasn't dark anymore.  Time sped up to warp speed.  The lights were blazing - the sun was blazing - the ringing was not really ringing at all.  But, the phone was off the hook and making that noise.  You know that noise.  That sharp stacatto, drone designed by Alexander Graham Bell to be so obnoxious that no one will ever leave their phone off the hook.
I hung up the phone and started the long crawl to the kitchen - Root Beer would be great.
My stomach hurts.  I look down, is that a napkin taped to my belly?"  Peel it off. "Is that a tattoo?  How did that happen? She is a cutie though; and almost life size, I gotta lose some weight."
"What a night.  I hope I had fun." Copious amounts of coffee, a shower, and about a dozen aspirin help.  "What time is it? Four PM. God, I need breakfast." Good thing the diner is just downstairs.
Taking a seat at my normal booth I wave at Naomi. She glares at me and picks up a knife.  Pointing it a me she starts moving slowly in my direction, "I told you never to come in here again.  Stand up, back slowly towards the door and leave!  Keep your hands where I can see them."
"Naomi, what's wrong?"
"What's  wrong? WHAT'S WRONG? Artie," she yells back to the kitchen, "call the cops... now."
Discretion is the better part of valor. At least that's what I've always been told.  I stand, put my hands in the air and head for the door.  Maybe I didn't have as much fun as I had hoped.  I gotta find out who gave me this tattoo.  I don't remember being in a tattoo parlor since I was a sailor and went to Hong Kong.  I think this cutie was newer than that though.
Time is up. Put down your writing implements and step away from the paper.

November 2012

03 November 2012

The prompts were:
1. Time stopped when the clock broke
2. A little yellow birdie with a little yellow bill
3. The wind howled and silence reigned
4. That was the sound of awesomeness exploding

Begin writing
The day had been rife with colour.  More so than normal.  The green of the sage was greener than I had ever seen before.  The sky was not only big, but it had taken on an azure hue that was a color only women know the name of, at least that was where I filed colours like this. Chartreuse and fuchsia had been there before I learned their true names.  A small yellow billed bird lit on the barbed wire fence at the property line.  His lemon coloured feathers paled in comparison to the colour of his beak and the contrast of that bird against the sienna earth was striking.  Something about that bird on that wire fence made me wish I could draw and paint.  I did a double take.  The bird was staring at me.  I could sense that he wanted to tell me something.  His beak parted and I waited for him to speak.  He didn't though.  He did treat me to a short melody before spreading his wings and heading south.  I watched him grow smaller and smaller until he disappeared from sight.  I wonder what he wanted to say.  I could never work for Pixar or Disney as I am not one of those people who expects animals to speak or dance.  I am not one of those people who can assign human characteristics to inantimate objects but damn, that bird wanted to tell me something.  I will probably never know what though.
I turned, sighed and got back to work.  There was still a lot of fence to ride.  Maybe it was the day,  maybe it was the bird, maybe it was something else but the fence became unimportant to me.  The colours, shapes, and textures of the land were everything and all I could do was revel in the day.
Daydreams?  Maybe...
Attention Deficit Disorder? Probably...
The soul of an artist? ... Doubtful, but I found that I had been engrossed in the study of brown on brown and the different lines and textures revealed
Time is up. Put down your writing implements and step away from the paper.

10 November 2012

The prompts were:
1. Regrets and mistakes, they're memories made
2. Your lips move but I cannot hear what you are saying
3. We traded in our innocence and sacrificed our youth

Begin writing
I closed the menu and looked a the waiter hovering at my shoulder, pencil and paper at the ready, his face twisted up like a constipated pretzel. "I'll have a bleu cheeseburger with green chili and avocado please."
"Very good sir," he intoned as if by rote, while the pencil scratched furiously on his pad.  It looked to me like he was drawing squiggles and squares on the paper but, as long as he got the order right, what did I care.
"Honestly, Thom" Nancy said, " It took you that long to order that?"
"Sorry darling, I don't want to order the wrong thing. I would regret it all night.  The last time I made that mistake I was reminded of the error of my ways all night long.  Don't want to do that again. Especially with my delicate digestive system."
The waiter finished his doodling and headed off to the kitchen.  Nancy smiled, "Delicate digestive system, my ass," she said, "You can eat anything you've ever wanted.  You've always been able to do that and probably always will."
"Yeah, I'm cursed that way" I said, " but it really can be a problem.  Sometimes things sound great and look even better but the taste doesn't live up to the promise.  Nothin' worse than expecting gastronomical ecstasy and getting some gut bomb instead.  I still believe though that if I ordered it or cooked it then, by God, I'm gonna eat it.  I will search every morsel for some scrap of social redeeming value."
Nancy grinned and shook her head, "Only you would order a cheeseburger in a seafood restaurant!  How long do you think it will take?"
"Not long, here comes Alfred now," I pointed at our waiter who was making his way across the crowded restaurant back to our table. "He did say his name was Alfred , didn't he?" I whispered to Nancy.
"Alfred is Batman's butler our waiter told us his name is Seth.  Don't you dare call him Alfred!"
Seth stopped his journey at our table, as I knew he would, "I'm sorry sir, the chef advises that the green chili's did not arrive today."
Time is up. Put down your writing implements and step away from the paper.

17 November 2012

The prompts were:
1. She dropped the basket and began to march
2. They spoke softly and without clarity
3. Who will guide you in the ways of wisdom and lead you along straight paths?

Begin writing
There was an almost palatable sense of expectation in the air when we arrived.  The small crowd was seated in the "stadium" seating in the theater.  Two groups of spectators, physically divided by a center aisle. On the low stage sat and empty table with two chairs facing the audience.  A smaller desk was positioned in front of it for the moderator's use.
There was a low buzz of conversation in the room; people murmuring and whispering to one another.  They spoke softly: so softly, in fact, that the words were unclear to me as I stood at the door.  Handing our tickets to the usher, I tried to pick up scraps of conversation around me.  Picking our way to the seats all I could hear was a completely unintelligible language; modulated on a carrier resembling the low hum of a large electric motor.
As we sat, a hush came over the room and the candidates stepped onto the dais.  There was a tall, well dressed dark woman standing next to the desk.  She spoke softly to the candidates and then turned to the audience, "Senbility anos exultabum" she said the she gestured to the candidate on her right "Elvecchio arientel." She turned and smiled to the left, "Aristone Lomeli." A small and polite smattering of applause ensued.
The candidates turned and retired to the chairs, obviously there for their benefit.
The dark lady leaned against the desk and studied the small crowd, " Ariste ignobum alcatel, deringo versalla." she summed up, turned and took her chair.
"Elvecchie, que wala estuaium hi?" she asked.
The first candidate began to speak earnestly. I did not understand a word he said. Apparently, no one else in the crowd did either, as the buzz of conversation began to grow from the audience again.
Time is up. Put down your writing implements and step away from the paper.

October 2012

October 2012
The prompts were:
1. If I had my way
2. The silence was deafening
3. It was the last thing I expected to find in a pumpkin patch

Begin writing
The silence was deafening. I could see people moving, moving fast.  There was a sense of urgency apparent in everything they were doing.  I could see them speaking to each other. I could see them rolling carts and moving equipment around.  I could see a cop at the edge of the crowd talking into a walkie-talkie.  Logically, I knew they were making noises, too many people doing too many things not to to be.  My head was a little foggy and thick when I moved it.  It felt a bit like a water balloon about 3/4 full of water.  I would stop moving but the inertia would try to carry the liquid forward.  The immovable wall, the balloon, or in my case - my skull would stop it; but then it would roll back.  The effect was similar to that of waves against a cliff.  I couldn't hear that either.  I held my head still and watched what was going on in front of me.  That's when I noticed something was wrong with my peripheral vision.  The edges of my field of vision were broken and disjointed. Like a mosaic.  Like a mosaic done by an artist who had a short attention span.  ADD.  Grey at the extremes.
Why couldn't I hear them?
There was, oddly, no panic in my mind.  Curiosity was the primary motivator here.  I was calmly taking in what I could see and feel.  Where was the sound? - I don't ever remember such quiet.
I realized I was sitting, not standing.  When did that happen?  My back was resting against something but the way my head felt I determined that it was unimportant what I was leaning against.  I did not want to turn my head to check.  Avoid those oscillations at all costs.
Turning my attention to the people working around me, I tried to ascertain what was up.  They obviously had a singular purpose.  They were all quite intent on what they were doing.  What exactly were the doing?
Two people with a stainless steel rolling cart passed in front of me.  A tall slender woman and a dark haired man.  They passed, stopped, appeared to study me, spoke briefly to one another and then moved on.  They broke into pieces and scattered as they moved into my periphery.  Then, I realized they had been dressed alike.  Must have been uniforms.  I should have spoken to them.  I should have asked them for an explanation.  Shit.
Time is up. Put down your writing implements and step away from the paper.

Still October 2012
The prompts were:
1. Huge, zombie, alien planet rises from the dead
2. Whale tried to speak in human voice
3. Nazi Buddah from space might be fake

Begin writing
I wheeled my car into the lot and looked for a space to park.  There, at the back of the lot! Damn, a motorcycle, not my day.  Giving up, I pulled back into traffic and headed for the multi-story 3 and a half blocks away.  I did find a spot there on the 4th floor.  Walking to the building I glanced up at the sun.  At least the rain had quit, I headed on.  I did see the approaching bus, I did not see the large puddle at the curb.  The tsunami created by the collision between the bus and the puddle washed over me in an instant.  It's gonna be one of those days.  No time for a cup of coffee, the traffic on the motorway and the shortage of parking ensured that I was 15 minutes late to the staff meeting.
"Apologies all, sorry I am late" I muttered as I made my way to a seat at the conference table.  Mr. Ward had ceased speaking the moment I opened the door, remained silent and staring while I picked my way to the only chair.  Paused a bit longer and watched me sit down, looking like a drowned rat.  "Nice of you to join us," he said, "now where were we?"  Amy, the brown nose spoke up with a smile, "We were discussing the lead stories for this weeks edition" she said smugly.  "Yes, thank you you Amy.  I am glad someone's been paying attention."  After patting Amy on the head, figuratively speaking, of course; Mr Ward continued to drone on like the blatherskite he is prone to be.  I drifted off.  Motorcycles, rock music, and groupies were all that I was thinking about when I realized everyone was looking at me in anticipation.  I quickly studied the white board and tried to discern the topic of the conversation I was obviously expected to contribute to.  The white board was blank - no help there.  Amy, the brown nose was beaming at my pending embarrassment and Mr. Ward was scowling in my direction.  "Well," I spoke up, "the Nazi Buddha from space might be fake.  I think we should lead with coverage from the debate."  Mr. Ward nodded his head, "I think so too" he said thoughtfully.  Damn, I pulled it off again.  I'll take blind luck any day.  Amy, the brown nose looked crestfallen.
Time is up. Put down your writing implements and step away from the paper.

September 2012

Early Sep 2012
The prompts were:
1. That's what happens when you ___ ...
2. What is that smell?
3.  It was her favorite ___ until...

Begin writing
It was her favorite drink until the accident.  It was a Tuesday about three or four weeks ago.  She was driving east on the boulevard.  The day was clear and warm, not a cloud in the sky.  Traffic was almost non-existent.  A beige Buick station wagon was moving west on the other side of the divider. A delivery truck was about half a block in front of her.  There had been quite a few cars parked along the curb back by the high school where people were enjoying the tennis courts and running track.  The baseball field is on the other side of the school and there were probably people there too but she couldn't see them when she drove by.
The truck in front of her had the back open and she could see some barrels and canisters loaded inside.  There was a bit of bluish smoke coming from the tailpipe of the Buick.  "Probably burning a little oil" she thought to herself as she passed the firestation.
Looking ahead she saw the delivery truck pulling away from the stop sign at Main Street and head into the dip on the other side.  She did not see the strap come loose, perhaps it had been loose all along.  Maybe the loader had carelessly not even fixed the strap but, as the truck began to climb out of the dip she definitely saw the barrels and canisters slide to the back and fall onto the boulevard in front of her.  She heard the noise as they clattered to the asphalt and split open.  She could smell the sweet aroma of the liquid pooled into the dip just in front of where she stopped behind the mess.
The truck driver has also heard the crash and pulled quickly to the side of the boulevard to assess the situation.  Five hundred gallons of root beer syrup lay pooled at the bottom of the dip.
Time passed, police came, streets were closed and traffic diverted.  Decisions were made and the Fire Department was called to clean up the mess.  They were just down the street after all.
High pressure hoses directed a stream of water on the mess and the root beer foamed up, and foamed up more, and foamed up more.  The ensuing tsunami of foam engulfed her car, still parked behind the dip and filled the windows.

Time is up. Put down your writing implements and step away from the paper.


15 September 2012

Root Beer II

I was unable to attend on the 8th of September but made it on the 15th.  Much to my dismay I learned that we were going to try something completely different.  The idea was that for the month of September we should attempt to continue to story we had started earlier.  I had to keep going with the root beer story.

The prompts were:
1. This time she had gone too far
2. The garden was overgrown now
3. It's my favorite place to be
4. A flourish of hate

Begin writing
Months later life had almost gotten back to normal, sans root beer. Her insurance company had made arrangements to clean the car although occasionally the faint, sweet smell of sarsaparilla would waft from the air conditioning vent.
She suffered through all the jokes and teasing that she had anticipated.  Most of it came from her sister Cindy.  Most had been good natured, coming from friends and family.  Occasionally an anonymous can of Bargs would appear in the mail box.
Last night she had loaned the sedan to Cindy.  PTA meetings waited for no man or woman and Cindy's car was in the shop.  About noon, she heard her car pulling into the drive and knew Cindy was here.
Glancing out the front window she froze. This time Cindy had gone too far.  From all appearances Cindy had gotten her car painted.  The candy apple red was now a red umber metal flake.  It looked just like root beer.
The front door flew open and Cindy burst in, she was beaming and laughing so hard that tears were running from her eyes. "Do you love it?" she asked.  "Doesn't it make you thirsty just to look at it?" Cindy kept talking but most of what she said was not registering.  A closer inspection was warranted.
It was a wonderful paint job. Very well done. Good quality paint.  This seemed like the ultimate practical joke.
"Cindy," she said "don't you have anything else to spend your money on?  Let's go for a drive!"
The got in the car and headed east on the boulevard. Past the fire station, through the dip in the road, where she still fancied that she could hear the rubber of the tires sticking just a bit more to the asphalt than they had a block back.
Wheeling into the strip mall she guided the freshly painted vehicle into a parking spot in front of the market.  "Wait here Cindy," she ordered her sister and she ran into the store.
When she returned she placed a bag in the back seat, slid behind the wheel and started the car.  Back on the boulevard she continued east, ignoring the flourish of questions about "What's in the bag?" from her sister
Time is up. Put down your writing implements and step away from the paper. 

22 September 2012

Root Beer III

The prompts were:
1. The old room reminded me of ___
2. I wish someone had told me
3. It was a tempting offer, but...

Begin Writing
"What bag?" she came back. "The bag from the market." Cindy said. "I don't know what you're talking about."
They drove for about an hour into the countryside.  Cindy had given up trying to learn more about their destination, or the bag.  They rode in silence for most of that time. Smooth jazz emanated softly from the door speakers of the root beer car and it was a pleasant day.  The silence between the two was not awkard or pensive.  It was natural.  She and Cindy were sisters after all, often they could intuit what each other were thinking.  Often they did not even bother to try.
That is the thing about siblings.  Familiarity and love could replace a need to entertain or fill silence with blather.
Just about the time that Cindy was going to demand a pit stop she pulled into a narrow lane that disappeared into the trees.  She put the car in park and set the brake, got out and went to open the gate.  Too late Cindy realized she had missed her chance to peek into the mystery bag.
They left the gate open and drove about 1/4 mile further up the lane.  As they crested a rise there appeared a ramshackle old cabin with a couple of small outbuildings.
"What is this place?" asked Cindy, previous urges for a rest stop now completely given over to curiosity.
"This is Mr. Wilson's hunting cabin," she answered.  "He doesn't hunt much anymore and he loaned it to me for a few days.  Hope you don't have any pressing appointments.  Mom agreed to take care of the kids.  You and I are going to spend two days in the country, no TV, no newspaper and no distractions beyond what is already here."
"What is already here?" Cindy asked.
"A forest, a stream, fresh air, sunshine and quiet." she replied. "What more do we need?"
"Maybe a root beer colored car and some ice cream" Cindy quipped.  "We have the car but, if that was ice cream in the bag it is undoubtedly liquid by now.  We've been driving forever."
"Not ice cream, something better." She reached for the bag and smiled.  " Come on, I'll show you the cabin."  They went into the cabin and it was a single room shack.  The old room reminded her of one of those western themed restaurants with all the old stuff nailed up on the walls.  These things
Time is up. Put down your writing implements and step away from the paper.
 

29 September 2012

Root Beer IV

The prompts were:
1. I'd give anything for the chance to ...
2. It didn't seem right to anyone to be so...
3. The sound of footsteps behind him/her caused him/her to shudder

Begin Writing
After a quick tour of the hunting cabin, Cindy looked in the fridge and grabbed a couple of root beers.  Opening hers she took a long draught and wiped the back of her sleeve across her mouth.  She handed the other to her sister who politely declined.  "Sorry Cindy, I still can't imagine drinking root beer ever again."
They sat at the table and Cindy said, "As excited as I am to spend the rest of the weekend with you it is now time to show me what's in the bag sis."  Cindy reached for the bag and peeked in the top.  Her eyes widened and she turned the bag over, spilling the contents on the table.  Lots of green banknotes piled up.  Mostly 20 dollar bills although she could see several 50's and quite a few 100's as well.
Also clattering onto the table was a large butcher knife.  Looked brand new, not even scratched. Cindy looked her sister in the eye, "Tell me you didn't rob the grocery store" she admonished.
"I can't tell you that, I did rob the grocery store.  Lets see how much money we got." she smiled.  It didn't seem right to either of them that it would be so easy to rob a grocery.  "The beauty of hitting a market is that you don't need to bring anything with you to succeed.  The butcher knives are on the rack in the kitchenware department.  You can just help yourself and there are bags at every check stand.  "I meant to get some cookies too.  Must have forgotten them.  I was so excited."
They counted almost 9000 dollars on the table.  Most of it in small bills, easy to pass. The butcher knife went into Mr. Wilson's cutlery drawer.  She looked at Cindy, "I haven't had that much fun in years" she said. "It reminded me of when we used to hit the photomat on 17th Street.  Those guys never realized that all we had was a water pistol and the thrill just got better each time.  Sometimes I am amazed that we actually robbed the same photomat 5 times in two weeks.  Lets stop at the grocery store again on our way home."
Time is up. Put down your writing implements and step away from the paper.