Looking before the Leap

I'm at a precipice, peering over the edge. It's steep, a straight drop down the side of the cliff, and I'm keenly aware of my the parachute strapped to my back, separated from my skin by a thin layer of sweat-soaked cotton. I'm not sure what this parachute looks like. I imagine it is faded in color, maybe a red bleached nearly pink by the sun, and threadbare from rubbing inside the pack for so many miles. I finger the rip cord dangling at my side and pray it works, because I've never tried this before, never launched myself into free fall and the mercy of the wind.

A breeze brushes my cheek. Swallowing, I close my eyes. I can picture the trail behind me, the soft earth path, the green billowing trees. My heart is beating a racket in my chest, a warning, a plea. I clench my fists and feel the nails bite into the creases of my palms. I came here for a reason. I will not turn back. My heart is beating in my chest. I step forward. One foot. Two. I open my eyes. And my heart is beating.

Commuting in New York City: A Winter Haiku

Gray slushy puddle

Are you shallow or deeper?

I suck at gambling

Invisible but Present

Prompt: Write about an invisible condition or malady. An example is of something that qualifies is cancer. An example of something that does not count is an amputated leg.

Time: 10 minutes

Result:
I seriously fucking hate him. I know you're not supposed to say that about your dad, but it's true. He thinks he's helping, but he's not. "Just eat a candy bar." How does he not see that the candy bar is the whole problem?

I don't even like candy. I mean, obviously I do, or I wouldn't eat four bags of it in a row, but I'd rather have a milkshake or a Rice Krispy treat. Those things are hard, though.  Hard to get, hard to get rid of. Discreetly, anyway. Chocolate looks like poop, so even if there's any left in the toilet afterward, no one ever knows.

At least the nutritionist doesn't want me to eat a candy bar like my moron dad. "You need more protein. You're losing muscle mass. And stop skipping breakfast."

Like it's that easy. She's such a prissy bitch, with her cheap pink lipstick and growing-out dye job. I don't know why she things anyone would follow her food advice, the fat cow. At least she's the easiest to handle.  I just write what she wants me to eat in that dumb-ass food diary and tell her I have a fast metabolism. She would just about shit her pants if I wrote down what I really eat. Well, eat and then un-eat. You can't eat two bags of Lays, a half gallon of ice cream, twenty Chips Ahoy cookies, and a frozen pizza and keep a figure like mine.

Rage

Prompt: Write about rage.

Time: 10 minutes

Result:
The glass shattered against the wall. Shards tinkled as they rained to the floor.

"What the fuck did you think you were doing?"

A solid crack echoed across the dining room as a ceramic plate hit the door frame.

"Don't ever," crash, "ever," smash, "touch her. Ever."

Brad ducked as a vase hurtled past his head and made a defeated--whump--landing on the couch. He crept carefully backward, glancing down every few steps to avoid the glass.

"Mel, it wasn't what you--"

"Wasn't what? Wasn't what I thought? Wasn't what I saw?" Melanie had a cutting board in her hands and was advancing aggressively. "I swear to god Brad, I will murder you. Do not fucking lie to me right now."

"I'm not . . . just calm down, Meo. You don't want to do this."

"Oh believe me, I don't," Melanie's eyes glittered with hatred. "I want to do much, much worse. I want to rip off your balls and stuff them into your esophagus. I want to stick my fingers into your eye sockets and rub until every last little gooey drop of plasma has run down your shirt. Trust me, this cutting board is not what I want."

Memories of Pneumonia

Prompt:  Start by writing down your three earliest memories. Then try to incorporate all of them into a single cohesive piece.

Time: 10 minutes

Result:

3 memories:

1. Fingers shut in trunk.
2. Standing in an x-ray room, wearing a heavy metal vest.
3. Drinking watered down apple juice.

Her head is screaming. Not the way her fingers screamed when her mom closed them in the hatchback trunk, with biting razors of pain, but screaming the way someone in a scary movie screams: long, prolonged, echoing.

Her mother is there again, holding out the Pizza Hut cup with its plastic straw pointed at her mouth, but she pushes it away. She can't bear the thought of sweet ginger ale bubbles in her mouth again. Just the idea is making that prickling sensation in her throat, and she gags over the crinkly plastic garbage pail.

Robin Hood the fox and Little John the bear--they dance back and forth across the screen over and over again until her lids fall and black heat surrounds her again.

She is jolted awake. Somehow she is buckled into the back seat of their station wagon, wrapped tightly in blankets. For an instant she thinks she is on her way to the Carriage House, and that makes her think of snacks: apple juice--watered down of course--and animal crackers. But then the car jerks again and acid rises in her throat. One of the blankets is wet and smells sour. She begins to cry.

She is still crying when they Velcro the leaden vest across her chest and drag her, stumbling, into the dark, metallic X-ray room. She is trying to stay straight and stand still, but her chest just hurts so much, and her head is still screaming, and she can't seem to stop crying.

And then she is wearing paper, laying on paper, and she can't even feel the needle as she watches it poke under the pale skin of her arm.

"You're being so brave," the nurse tells her. She thinks of Robin Hood.

Riding the New Year's Subway

Prompt: Write a holiday story.

Time: 10 minutes

Result:

It's my favorite time to ride the train. Lots of the guys say to me, "Naw, Chad, you ain't wanna be around for that shit. All 'em floozies doin' nonsense and them guys itchin' for a fight." But I brush them off and ride anyway.

It's always been my favorite holiday: all the glam and sham all mashed together so everyone thinks it's a new beginning when it's just one more shitty year down the drain. You don't see sequins any other time of the year but New Year's Eve. All that glitz and gold twinkling and girls tossing their hair like they got money or something. I ignore most of the guys, 'specially later at night when their lids get lower, right along with their hand on their date's thigh.

But the kids you see, their eyes are always sparkling like all those sequins, and you can almost smell the whiteness of the snow on their boots. They can't sit still, all that limitless energy bound up in tiny little bodies . . . it's like they're ready to yank their parents into the new year instead of just off the train.

This year I'm following this one girl. Not like a stalker, nothing like that. She's just been up and down the One line four times already, carrying the same shiny red box. The silver bow fell off one time, but even though I saw it, I didn't pick it up, and eventually one of the guys by the door in a backwards baseball cap and Timberlands picked it up. He tried to get a kiss for it, too, but I guess she's saving her kiss for someone else.

I love her a little for not wearing high heels, and for obviously forgetting to put in earrings. If I still worked in Columbus Circle and dressed in khakis and shaved more than once a month, she's the kind of girl I'd have asked out. Maybe someday. For now I'll just ride the train into 2013.

Tin Man: The Beginning

Prompt: Write fan fiction using one of the following characters: Captain Kirk from Star Trek, Jacob from Twilight, or any character from The Wizard of Oz.

Time: 10 minutes

Result:

No one ever asked him how he lost his heart. Sure, sure, when Dorothy came along, everyone just thought he was delusional and had had a heart all along. But no one pounded on his chest to see. If they had, they would have heard the same hollow echo that had been there at the beginning of the yellow brick road.

This story starts far, far away; far from the yellow brick road; far from where Dorothy came upon the Tin Man, all stiff and hollow. There once was a time and a place where the Tin Man wasn't stiff or hollow at all, but was the strongest man in all of Oz. The time was many many years ago, when the Tin Man was still oiled and sleek and able to wield every tool with skill and dexterity, not just the sorry little hatchet he ended up with at the end. And the place was . . . well, the place was in Oz, but it was a place no one else had ever explored. A place anyone has yet to explore. The Elemental Mountains.

Three Metals

Prompt: Write a piece incorporating 3 metals.

Time: 10 minutes

Result:

There once were three little orphans: Tilly, Sally, and Sue. They were very poor and lived in a hut with their mother, where they all knitted small bits of yarn together, leftover from the nearby store, and sold the pieces for food at the market. One day, however, their mother lost her job cleaning the yarn shop.

"Tilly, Sally, and Sue, I'm sorry but we do not have enough food. I shall have to give you up."

Tilly, Sally, and Sue cried bitterly and begged her not to abandon them, but to no avail. The next day, their mother brought them to the local orphanage and left them huddled on the doorstep.

Sue, being the youngest and most frightened, began to cry immediately. Sally, the middle child, stood to the side, snuffling and rubbing her empty belly. Tilly, the eldest, did her best to comfort her sisters, but soon she too sank into despair. She collapsed onto the steps and buried her head in her hands.

Suddenly, a man was standing before them. He was grisled and without much hair, and Tilly would have thought him one of the town's vagrants except for his shoes--they shone with polish.

"What makes you weep so, little ones?"

"Our mother has left us," Sue whimpered.

"Well," said the man, "I cannot give you back your mother, but I can give you this." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tin cup, which he handed to Sue. "Whenever you are thirsty, put this cup to your lips and it will be full."

Sally stamped her foot. "I'm thirsty! Can I have a cup?"

"No," the man said, "That was my only cup. But here," he extended his hand, in which he held a brass ring. "If ever you are caught, twist this ring and you shall be free."

"You are an old man," said Tilly, "but very generous. Thank you for these odd gifts."

"For that compliment, my dear, you get this." He handed her a copper penny.

The Jeweler's Apprentice

Prompt: Draw a superpower out of a hat. I drew "ice."

Time: 10 minutes

Result:

It was the perfect job for her, really. Her friends had always called her the ice queen for turning away every guy who came calling. The guys called her "frigid bitch," both in front of and behind her back. Either way, landing this gig in the jeweler's shop on Brunswick Street was perfect. She could walk to and from work, she only had to work with one person--the jeweler, Stan--and she could be as snarky as she wanted to the foolish boys and even more foolish men who carted rings in and out of the place. Stan didn't care, and all of the clients were rich enough that one moderately attractive girl's sneer didn't faze them.

For the first few weeks, she played by the rules. Her work was flawless, and Stan was elated that she was willing to stay late and work weekends. She had always preferred hard, immobile objects to people, so working with diamonds late into the night suited her just fine.

But then the clientele started getting to her. The way one man pushed his wife out the door a little too roughly, or another haggled Stan down $300 when the watch the guy was wearing cost three times what they were charging for the ring. Finally, when one guy came in three times in one day to "check on" the ring they were making for him, with a different woman on his arm each time, she lost her resolve. That night, instead of making fine cuts to the surface of the diamond and removing material from the rock, she added a few fine layers of ice--just enough to add the same sparkle and shine the cuts would have made, but not so much that the diamond was noticeably larger.

The next day, the guy came back with yet another new woman on his arm. As he complimented Stan on his fine craftsmanship, she smiled sweetly and tucked the box into its neat little paper bag.

An Epitaph

I was cleaning out a drawer in my old Pittsburgh bedroom over this past Thanksgiving break, and I came upon this poem. I've never considered myself much of a poet, but I was actually a little impressed with this one, so I thought I'd share it. I have no idea how old I was when I wrote it, but I have very clearly lost my rhyming ability since then.

An Epitaph

There once was a child
and she loved to eat
spoonfuls of pudding
and salty fried treats

One fateful day
she caught her reflection
and saw every bulge
each imperfection

At about that time
she looked to the sky
wishing and dreaming
of kissing a guy

But as the time passed
and other girls dated
she began to feel
more and more deflated

So the girl began
to do what she could
she ate less and less
so she'd look as she should

But to her dismay
when at last she looked good
authorities caught her
and made her eat food

Angry and ugly
and out of control
she caved in and let
self-hatred take hold

Quite soon after that
she started to gain
more weight than she ever
had held on her frame

Her stomach bulged out
and she cursed its swell
as she stuffed her face full
and damned it to hell

She knew that the guy
who'd aroused her with lust
would now see her figure
and grimace in disgust

So she dressed in sweats
for she had much to hide
like her expanding waist
and jiggling thighs

This all made her sad
when she watched every other
girl that she knew
attract a new lover

At last one fine day
she looked in the mirror
and smiled 'cause she knew
she had nothing to fear

For she had failed once
but she would fix that
when she unsheathed the knife
and carved out her fat

A Nightcap

Prompt: Take an element from the first prompt responses and use that, somehow, in the a new piece. (My element was a line from J___'s piece, "A nightcap. Isn't that an odd word.")

Time: 10 minutes

Result:

A nightcap. Isn't that an odd word. It was usually more like a nightstart or a nightpour, at least with his mother. He couldn't think of one time when she sat down to have a nightcap and the cap actually stayed on the bottle. Usually, the refrigerator would rumble four or five times at least, ice plinking down into her newly empty cup. Then there would be a silence until the light creak of her footsteps on the stairs. Then silence again, until her lavender hair brushed his face, her sour breath mixing with the smells of summer.

Tonight was no different. At eight on the dot, she sent him up to bed. He climbed the stairs alone, wiggling his toes down into the worn carpet rectangle on each step before lifting his foot to the next. It lasted longer that way.

He would rather stay down with her, in the soft lamplight, snuggled under blankets with an ear pressed to the radio. Well, maybe not right against it. She only let him do that when she had already started, maybe one or two in. But with each step up the stairs, the air grew colder and the house grew darker, and when he reached the landing, he knew he was the last little boy left in the whole world.

It Started in an Airplane

Prompt: Write about infidelity.

Time: 10 minutes

Result:

Quite honestly, when he first sat down, I was pissed. Here I was, settling in for a ten-hour transatlantic flight, and who had to squeeze into the seat beside me but the six-foot muscly guy with a buzz cut. There were two skinny Asian women across the aisle and a fourteen-year-old in the seat behind me, but I got stuck with the giant.

Hunkering down, I settled in until the flight took off, trying my best to stay as far from the left armrest as I could. Inevitably, however, as I almost always do, I began to do the head nod . . . .

The next thing I knew, the ground was shifting beneath my . . . cheek! Jerking upright, I looked in horror at what I had been using for a pillow: my giant seatmate's shoulder. And that wasn't the worst of it. Right there, squarely atop the sleeve of his clean white T-shirt was a large, dark drool stain.

"I'm . . . I'm so sorry." I looked at the armrest, my lap, anywhere but his face. "I . . . this is so embarrassing."

"Don't worry about it." He grinned and waved away my apology. "Wasn't using that shoulder for anything else."

I laughed awkwardly, wishing I could have wiped the crust out of the corner of my mouth before he started looking at me.

"No really," he assured me, sensing my discomfort. "I kind of . . . liked it."

Boat on a Beach

Prompt: 

(Not this exactly picture, but something similar.)

Time: 10 minutes

Result:

"You promised. You promised!" I raced after him, kicking up sand behind me. With his long strides, he reached the boat well before I could catch up. His big callused hands scooped up the thick ropes and began to untangle them.

When I finally reached him on the dock, I stood there, panting and shaking hair out of my eyes.

"Dad . . . no . . . you . . . you promised . . .we could . . . we could take Charley . . . out."

We were supposed to go on our first fishing trip today. Today. My birthday.

"Son, I know I promised, but sometimes things get in the way of promises." He had finished untangling the ropes and was methodically wrapping them around his knuckles.

"But it's nice outside, look!" I waved my arms around. "See? It's not raining. It's not!"

"Not yet." My dad stared out at the bay, at the clouds gathering over the choppy gray water.

"See? See dad? We can still go. Real quick!" I slipped around him and stuck one leg into the boat. Into Charley.

"No." My dad stopped winding the ropes and stood silently staring at me. "Paul, get out."

"But Dad--"

"Out."

I yanked my foot out of the boat so hard I nearly fell over in the sand and stomped off down the dock. When you're seven, he had said. Seven's the magic age. I took my first fishing trip with my dad when I turned seven.

Magic age, huh. I kicked at a splintered plank of wood until a piece broke off and flew out over the end of dock. Yeah sure.

The Envelop Challenge

Prompt: Write using the randomly chosen following items:

• 2 Characters: a used car salesman and a garbage collector
• 1 Setting: hell
• 1 Object: a Chanel handbag
• 1 Genre: obituary

Time: 10 minutes

Result:

Bob Tarley, 1955-2008. Son of Penelope and Michael Tarley. Brother to Katie Tarley. Died on 29 December 2008 of manslaughter.

He was on his route through Hell's Kitchen, collecting garbage behind a falafel shop, when Lenny Freedman, a used car salesman who works part time as a cross-dresser, approached him and asked for a ride to Long Island. Bob refused, and as he turned to board his truck, Lenny embedded one of his 

Louboutin  heels into Bob's thigh and proceeded to strangle Bob with the leather strap of his Chanel handbag. 

Bob leaves behind two children, Mary and Gary, and his wife Susan, who mourns him even as she celebrates her newly acquired Chanel handbag.

May he rest in peace.

President: Past, Present, or Future

Welcome to the product of my first writing prompt, written with the Jersey City Writers Group!

Prompt: Write about a president: past, present, or future.
Time: 10 minutes
Result:

Amy had been standing in line for forty minutes already when she remembered.

"Oh shit."

She reached into her purse, rooted around, and came up empty.

"Shitshitshit."

The mother behind her glared as she pulled her son closer. Sighing to herself, Amy darted out of line. How could she have forgotten it?

Gritting her teeth, she raced back across the parking lot, toward her Mazda. If only Ron was still at home, she could call him. But no, he had to be all punctual and go this morning. Now, she knew, he was out drinking with his friends, celebrating what he was sure would be a forgone conclusion.

Actually, on second thought, it was probably a good thing he wasn't home. He would probably have had something condescending to say about women when he saw her rushing in. Women, and women candidates.

Careening onto the highway, she thought about what Ron had said that morning at breakfast.

"Babe, no one's going to vote for HIllary. All the blacks think she's butch, all the spics think she's Republican, the women are too busy wiping spit off their kids' mouths to vote, and the men know better. Why don't you just stay home from the polls this afternoon and save yourself some frustration?"

Well, she was going to make her vote count.

Lime Green Sneakers

On May 24th, I posted the first of two short prose pieces I wrote at a New York Writers Coalition workshop. I promised that the second piece would go up on the blog at some point, so here it is. Again, it's nothing polished, but for a piece written in 15 minutes, I'm satisfied.

The second prompt was to take something we heard while we were all sharing our first pieces and to use that, somehow, in our second piece. I chose the image of lime green shoes. Here is what I wrote:

His sneakers were the giveaway, how I knew he was cool. Lime green. With yellow laces.

Otherwise, he looked perfectly normal: stonewashed jeans, plaid shirt, silver watch (although he wore it with the face turned inside, so it rested against the inside of his wrist . . . but I didn't notice that until later).

I had never dated a non-Jewish guy. A "goy" as my sister would say. For a while I just figured non-Jewish guys weren't into me; after all, it takes a pretty mature guy to date a girl who won't wear short sleeves or pants. And let's face it: how many mature sixteen year old non-Jewish guys are there?

With Kevin, though, I couldn't pretend he wasn't into me. He put notes in my locker and told all my friends. He sent me flowers, and left me chocolates on Valentine's Day. It was kind of intimidating. But like I said, he wasn't Jewish. Which is why I turned him down. The first time.

The second time, I think I was just intimidated. Intimidated by those shoes, intimidated by the three friends standing behind him and the two standing behind me. I guess I just wimped out, because at that point, I really did want to try it, try dating this non-Jewish boy. Kevin.

And then, finally, we were on a date. By accident. Sort of.

His friends went to Applebee's the same night as my friends went to Applebees, and we all ended up at back-to-back booths. And then the boys started coming over, and stealing nachos, and licking the salt off of their fingers, and drinking right out of our straws. Mara and Caitlyn chased them back to their booth, but of course they had to linger, and steal a chicken wing just to "get back at them," and dip it in ranch dressing, once, twice, bitten part and all. Tammy and I were left alone at our table, crunching ice from our empty Cokes and wiping up chip fragments with the pads of our fingers. Then Tammy went to the bathroom, and the next thing I knew, Kevin was there, sliding into the booth next to me. He stopped about a foot away, and then inched closer and closer until his thigh almost touched mine.

"Why won't you go out with me?" his voice vibrated against my ear. I stared at my lap and saw a flash of lime green beneath the table.

"Just once," I told him. "We can go out one time. And you have to meet my mother first."

That's how it began, this affair with a non-Jewish boy. Kevin.

Five Words That Are Not In The Dictionary

Last Friday, I went to a free creative writing workshop, run by the New York Writers Coalition. It was a really neat event: about 25 people met at the Station Island Ferry terminal down near Battery Park. We were all given notepads, picked writing prompts out of a canvas bag, and boarded the ferry. Then, we all sat silently and wrote for the 10-15 minute ferry ride. When we reached Staten Island, we debarked, split into small groups of 4 or 5 people, and read our pieces to one another, giving one positive comment to each writer. Then, we reconvened in the Staten Island terminal, received our second prompt, and repeated the process (boarding the ferry, writing on the ride back, and sharing our pieces in small groups back in the Manhattan terminal).

It has been a very, very long time since I wrote anything purely fictional, and even longer since I wrote a timed fictional piece based on a prompt. I was wary going into the whole experience (would I be able to come up with any ideas? would I be able to find the right words?), but it turned out better than I could have hoped.

The feedback I received was so positive, in fact, that I decided to share the pieces I wrote here, on my blog. They are certainly not polished, nor are they complete, but I'm proud to finally have written something--anything--after such a long writing drought. And, of course, I have always loved writing for (and reading to) an audience.

My first prompt was: Write using give words that are not in the dictionary. Here is what I wrote.

"Katie, it's time to get up."

The bundle of sheets squirmed and then grew still again.

"No Katie, get out of the bed. It's time to go to church."

"Nooooo," came the high pitched whine. "Mommy, I can't."

"Yes you can." Laura leaned over the bed and tugged down the blanket, revealing two bright blue eyes and an impish smile that her daughter quickly contorted into a grimace.

"I can't, Mommy, I can't!"

Despite the protests, Laura tucked one arm under her daughter's body and scooted her toward the edge of the bed.

"Yes you can. Look, I laid out your pretty yellow sundress and your favorite pink shoes."

"But Mommy, I can't wear them!"

Laura started to peel back the blankets further, but Katie yanked the blanket from her grip.

"Mommy, don't!" She pulled the blanket up under her chin, protectively. "You'll see them!"

Laura tried not to sigh. "See what? Why can't you get up and put your clothing on? You know it's Sunday. On Sundays, we get up and get dressed for church."

"Because of them." Katie stared at her mother imploringly.

"Because of who?"

"The honk monsters!"

"The . . . honk monsters." Laura tried not to smile. "And what exactly are these honk monsters doing to keep you from getting ready for church?"

"They nommed my toesies."

Laughter bubbled up inside Laura's throat, and she gave an unconvincing cough. Katie continued to stare at her mother in horror.

They did, Mommy. My toesies are gone!"

When she had finally composed herself, Laura turned to fully face her daughter.

"Daddy is the only one who can nom your toesies, Katie. Remember?"

Katie shook her head.

"It's true," Laura said. "It is. Look what happens when I do it." Gingerly, she unwrapped one of Katie's feet from the blanket and then, bending over, she hovered her mouth right above Katie's toes.

"Ahhhh-nom-nom-nom. Ahhhh-nom-nom-nom."

Then she stood up and shrugged helplessly.

"See? Your toes are still right there. It didn't work."

Katie shook her head. "That's because you didn't do it right. Only Daddy does it right." With that, she began to unwind herself from the sheet. Then, suddenly, she stopped.

"But . . . the honk monsters. What if they come back?"

"No," Laura assured her. "They won't come back. Honk monsters are afraid of shunshi--I mean, sunshine.""

"Shunshine!" Katie leapt out of bed, knocking all of the sheets to the floor. "Shun-shine, shun-shine, who's afraid of shun-shine!"

Hopping from one foot to the other, she danced out of the room and down the hallway toward the bathroom. Laura sank down onto the bed and leaned over to pick the sheet off the floor. From there, she heard the bathroom door open and the rumble of her husband's voice.

"Turble burble, where's my little purble gurble?"

Katie squealed, and the bathroom door slammed shut again.

Shunshine, Laura thought. Banishing honk monsters for my purble gurble.