Children's stories-Game on

I’ve planned my scheme perfectly. No longer will I sit back and waste my potential with my mouth closed and my chair flat on the floor during study hall. It’s been two whole weeks since I last visited the principal’s office, and three whole days since Mrs. Session sucked her breath in sharply, put her hands on her hips and said sharply, “Mortimer Sterling, sit down and stop causing trouble!” I’ve been quiet, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to return with a sly grin and innocent shrug. The plan unfolded perfectly on this day, when I realized how much I could accomplish and stir the pot of this school and become what it truly needs; a nemesis. I never fully knew what I had to offer until Mrs. Session stood squarely in front of the class for an announcement and said these two words:

Hall Monitor

And then this word:

Volunteer

My heart skipped a beat as I glanced around the room to watch everyone lower their heads and shift their weight, waiting for someone to raise their hand. Hall Monitor? No one wants that job; it was nothing more than being a known narc, a snitch. It was perfect. I smiled nervously as my hand slid up into the air.

Mrs. Session clucked for a moment, almost trying to seem like she didn’t notice my hand in the air, as she waited for someone-anyone- else to volunteer. But the damage was already done-everyone saw my hand up, my grin and my innocent eyes. Game on.

“Okay, well, Mort, I guess you are our newest hall monitor,” She said.

“Mortimer, Mrs. Session,” I corrected her with a smile bright as a spring morning.

“Well, MORTIMER,” she continued, moving to her desk and producing the Hall Monitor sash, “this belongs to you for the next week. Make our class proud.”

She smiled at me with a plastic warning and I returned her smile with a blink.

“Thank you, Mrs. Session. It will be my honor to represent our fifth grade class with the respect we deserve.” I heard a few kids in the back giggle underneath their hands. They knew. This will be a fun week.

On Monday, I began my hall monitor duty simply, smiling and proudly wearing my green sash as a badge of honor, with my tool of turtle wax tucked into my backpack. It was a simple plan, really. A quick trip to the bathroom to layer the slick stuff on the soles of my feet, and then a careful ice-skating lesson across the width of the hallway. No one even noticed the application, as the word had spread that I was the hall monitor, and they were probably afraid that I’d be up to something if they dare left class while I was on duty. How right they were. Mr. Bateman came to check on me five minutes before the bell rang. He found me sitting at attention, as a good Hall Monitor would monitor a hall. He stepped out of his Vice Principal’s office and muttered a, “How’s the hall, Morty?”

“Mortimer, “I corrected him, flashing a grin. “All’s well here.” He backed himself into his office again, and I waited for the bell to ring.

When the bell rang with a bleep, I quickly positioned myself at the water fountain, removing and stashing my sash into my bag. This is where the fun began. I leaned myself against the brick wall, as the hallway suddenly became full of the frenzy of switching classes. Bridget Marshall, the self-proclaimed “Most Popular Girl in School” led the pack, loudly gossiping with her friend Stacey Sargent, about the new hairstyle she was planning to get when, wwwwwhhhooopppsss! She slips and slides and falls quickly to the ground. Stacey follows, but doesn’t quite fall, just sort of tackles her, then steps on her hair as she regains her footing. As Rodney Mills rushes to help her up, whhhhooooppppsss! He slides, too, and I lean over the fountain to take a drink of water and hide my satisfied grin. Soon, it seemed like a scene out of a movie, with people sliding, yelling and laughing, and I knew I had done my job well. Even Mr. Bateman stuck his head out of the office and hollered, “What is going on here?” That was when I left the scene, plotting my second day on the job.

Children's stories-Desi's Midnight Storm-picturebook

Desi’s Midnight Shower

The moon hides tonight

beneath the cloak of grim and gray clouds

as I pull myself under my safe and strong covers

trembling in the dark.

Tap.

Tap. Tap.

Tap.

The old oak tree knocks

with his spindly fingers

warning me that trouble is rolling in.

In the distant growling

from up above and away

and the rushing scurry

of air as it runs in circles

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

“Let me in!”

I must be brave

and peek my head from my covers

only to see the flash of light

-A clap of brightness-

as the growl becomes a scream.

Then all is quiet

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Plop, plop

Trickle

Rush

Water falls in a comforting whoosh.

Washing the growl of the soaking sky,

The tapping tree is quiet now in his midnight shower

As the raindrops feed his thirsty roots

And his buds blossom into leaves

Lulling me to sleep, no longer nervous

I close my eyes to dream and sleep

Knowing that I will wake in a clean, new world

sparkling in the morning sun,

thankful for the midnight storm.

Children's stories-working Desmond and Genevieve-chapter version

The Sensible History of Desmond and Genevieve-Chapters 1-3

Inside the hollow of the tallest tree

in the Wood, a very important meeting is taking place.

“Attention, everyone…ATTENTION!”

Queen Justine the Royal Awesome twitters,

and flies to the ceiling

of the Great Fairy Hall,

changing color above the room

until she becomes a very important lavender.

As she does this, the room quiets down,

lights flashing, giggles softening, sparkles settling

until the room falls into a soft yellow,

all eyes set upon the Queen.

Queen Justine the Royal Awesome flutters

her regal wings and floats back down to the Mushroom.

“Hmmm… That’s better.

As you all know,

this is a very important day in our kingdom.”

The room bubbles in agreement

and burps of glitter.

“Today, we will be sending our

youngest fairies to their Grand Tasks.

I am giddy and proud

to present three very pleasing

young pixies, who have shown

extraordinary spunk and drive

as they have grown, and are ready

for their next step in Fairy training.

My fairy court and I have decided

that each of their strengths

would best be served under the study

of other animals in our kingdom.

When their education is complete,

they will return to our kingdom

and share their knowledge

and continue to strengthen our fairy

Wood as the most cultured

and successful kingdom in the world!”

The room fills with cheers, hoots,

hollers and flashing bubbles of bright colors.

“ATTENTION!!!”

The room softens back to yellow.

“Ahem. The first pixie I’d

like to present is Belinda”

A tiny orb of lime green

dashes up to the Mushroom

and bounces with glee.

“Belinda, you are the busiest

of the pixies. You shall be spending

your time learning from our friends,

the bees, who are waiting to teach you

about community, prosperity,

and honey production.

A loud swarm of BUUUUUUUZZZZZ

circles the outside of the hall,

and in flies the Queen,

fuzzy and fat, who takes

her place next to Belinda.

“We are very happy to zzzzpend

thizzz time with you, my

zzzweet.” She buzzes.

Belinda bounces with glee.

“Go on, then, Belinda,”

Queen Justine prods her.

“Make us proud”

Belinda grins and flies off

with the Queen Bee, as the

loud buzzing from the outside

of the hall becomes softer.

“Our next pixie is known for her

trickery and love of pranks,

Farrah, will you please come out here?”

Farrah jumps out from underneath

the Mushroom, where she had been hiding,

taking Queen Justine by surprise.

“Oh! Dear me!”

Queen Justine jumps and flutters her wings.

“Tee hee hee,”giggles Farrah, “Gotcha!”

“Yes, yes, you did. Farrah,

we have decided to embrace

your playful spriteliness…”

Suddenly, the air in the hall

becomes sticky and hot, as a

large, dripping, gray nose

pushes itself into the doorway.

“By having you study

with our friends, the foxes.”

“Yippee!!!” Chirps Farrah, as

she flies to the nose and

settles herself on top, waving

as it pulls out of the doorway,

and the air becomes fresh again.

“Our final pixie can’t be

here today because…well…

Genevieve is an extraordinary pixie.

Extraordinary in size, that is.

She is also extraordinary in love

and concern, and has proven

to embrace adventure and danger.

Her Grand Task is the biggest

we have ever granted, and

will test her talents to the fullest degree.

In fact, she has already begun

her journey into the land of Giants.”

The room suddenly turned a most

interesting shade of bluish pink,

and murmurs began to

rise in concern and joy.

“Giants!”

“Genevieve!”

“Danger!”

“Fun”

The room explodes in bouncing orbs,

and flashing lights.

Queen Justine the Royal Awesome

leads the group out of the big hall,

in the hollow of the largest tree

in the enchanted wood

and to the mushroom circle where

they will spend the rest of the

day and night dancing in celebration

of Belinda, Farrah and, most of all,

brave Genevieve.

Chapter 2: Genevieve’s Journey

“Don’t be scared.”

Genevieve’s cousin Frances says.

“I’m not scared. I’m excited!

I have so much to learn.”

Giggles Genevieve as she packs

up the last of her glittery

dust into her traveling bag.

“You are grayish blue,

with white dots, Gen.

You can’t hide your colors.”

“Maybe I’m a little scared.”

It is an early spring morning.

The Dew sparkles on the tall grass

that waves to the baby leaf buds,

holding tightly to their trees.

Genevieve waves to the buds, too.

“Don’t worry, little ones,

when I return, you’ll be full sized,

and we’ll share stories of how

we got from one size to the next!”

“Good luck, Genny!” winks the buds.

“We’ll miss you!”

Genevieve flutters down to the Roots

and whispers, “Take good care of them.

Remember, the more water you store,

the longer they’ll live.”

“I will remember. Be careful out there,

Genevieve.” Roots grumbles in his deep voice.

“Ready?” Frances asks.

“Ready.”

“I will lead you to the edge

of the Wood, but that’s as

far as I can go. My body is

too small for all of the power

I would need to go any further.

You’re very lucky, Gen.”

Genevieve is a wonder to all

of the Fairies. Most of them measure

out to be an inch or maybe two,

but Genevieve is a full two feet,

six inches long! Never, in the

history of their Wood, has a

fairy grown so big! The Fairies

decided it was due to the size

of Genevieve’s large heart,

helpful nature and curiosity for adventure.

Most fairies like adventure, mind you,

and these fairies are driven by

the love in their heart.

But fairies also like to cause mischief,

and they are good at it because

they are so agile, small and smart.

But Genevieve prefers to make

friends and solve problems.

As she grew up, making friends

with everyone in the forest,

listening to problems and solving them,

her heart continued to grow,

and her body followed. Now

she is the largest fairy of all time,

and has the most power and

strength for adventure. She will now make

history, and enter the land of the Giants.

At the edge of the Wood, Frances

stops with a bright purple tear in his eye.

“The rest is up to you.”

“Take care of the Wood, Frances.”

Genevieve squeaks.

“I’ll be back when I’m ready.”

She flies out of the Wood,

and into her new adventure.

Chapter 3: Desmond

Desmond likes many things.

He likes straight lines and right angles.

When he walks, he carefully

steps over cracks in the sidewalk,

and turns corners in perfect 90

degree turns. He likes Vanilla

ice cream, if it’s not too sweet,

and his favorite lunch is tomato

soup and grilled cheese sandwiches,

cut into triangles. He likes to

make sense. His favorite words are

logic, careful and build.

Desmond doesn’t like things, too.

He doesn’t like loud voices.

He doesn’t like bullies.

He doesn’t like when his brother

tells him what to do. He doesn’t

like crowds of people.

He doesn’t like that his best friend

just moved away. Most of all,

he doesn’t like to feel alone.

Desmond has friends. He is very polite,

and easy to get along with. Andrew was

his best friend. Desmond misses him terribly.

He misses the games they used to play

and the funny stories Andrew told him.

He knows that he and Andrew will

be lifelong friends, and write each other

letters and emails, and that makes Desmond

feel better. But right now, Desmond feels sad

and lonely. That makes sense.

In order to feel better, Desmond is building a fort,

just outside the woods behind his house.

He is using tree branches that had fallen

during a big storm the night before.

He likes to build forts, but he misses Andrew,

and wishes he had some help

lifting the heavier branches.

“Desi!”

His Mom yells from the back porch.

“Dinner will be ready in 15 minutes!”

“Be there in a minute!” He calls back,

loudly enough that she can hear,

but not so loud that he

feels like he is shouting.

He tries to pick up the heaviest branch,

but loses his grip as it falls

to the ground with a heavy thud.

“Hello, do you need some help?”

a tinny voices sails through the air.

Surprised, Desmond turns around quickly,

and sees a beautiful face beaming

from behind an old oak tree.

“I’m Genevieve, and I’m very strong.

Let me help you!”

Genevieve walks carefully, hiding her wings,

to one side of the heavy branch.

Desmond holds the other side and says,

“Um, I’m not sure you’re tall enough

to lift this to the top of the fort.

My name is Desmond.”

“Oh, I have a plan!” Genevieve giggles

“But in order for this to work,

we need to both use the plan

together! You in, Desmond?”

Desmond shrugs.

“I’ll try anything.”

“Great! Now, close your eyes reeeaaallly tightly.”

Desmond closes his eyes.

“Keep them closed, or it won’t work.

On the count of three, we’ll lift

the branch and place it in the right spot.”

Desmond doesn’t think this will work,

but Genevieve was being very kind

to help, so he did as she instructed.

“One, two, THREE!”

On three, Genevieve fluttered

her colorful wings and flew to

put the branch in place, quickly

landing back on the ground.

“Open your eyes.”

Desmond opens his eyes, amazed

that the branch was perfectly placed.

“Wow! Thank you! I couldn’t

do that by myself! Is there

any way I can help you?”

Genevieve smiles a big smile that

twists her face, making her even prettier

than Desmond thought when he first saw her.

“Will you be my friend?” she asks,

“I could use a friend, too .” He answers,

reaching his hand out to her.

She takes his hand and happily

shakes it, when his Mom

calls from the porch,

“Desi! Dinners ready!”

“Would you like to stay for dinner,

new friend Genevieve?” He asks.

“Thank you for the invitation,

but I can’t stay right now.

Why don’t I come back tomorrow

morning, and we can work on

the fort some more?” She says.

“That makes sense.” Says Desmond.

Children's stories-working Desmond and Genevieve

The Sensible History of Desmond and Genevieve-a short story

Desmond liked many things. He liked straight lines and when he walked, he would carefully turn corners in perfect 90 degree turns. He liked vanilla ice cream, if it wasn’t too sweet, and his favorite meal of tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, cut into triangles. He liked to make sense. His favorite words were logic, careful and build. He liked his best friend, Genevieve, who would tell him stories that made him knit his brow and pucker his lips.

Genevieve told stories of places he’d never heard of, and can’t be found on any map. He knows. He checked his map and the globe that sits on the table in his playroom, right next to his encyclopedias and dictionary. When she’d tell her stories, she’d bounce and giggle around the room. It made him happy. Her smiles would take over and twist her whole face, and when she giggled, her color would change from pink to purple to lavender and back to pink again.

She told him the story of the girl who loved colors so much that she turned into a crayon.

“Genevieve, that just doesn’t make sense. I can’t believe it.”

Genevieve looked him straight in his eyes.

“Use your IMAGINATION!”

Then she giggled her giggle, and flew across the room. Genevieve could fly. That made sense. She had wings. Genevieve was a fairy.

“One of these days, Desmond,” Genevieve would say, “You’re going to want to use your imagination.”

“I don’t like imagination. It doesn’t make sense.”

“It’s easy, close your eyes and look.”

Desmond didn’t like things, too. He didn’t like imagination. He didn’t like surprises. He didn’t like problems he couldn’t solve.

When a boy at school told him that fairies existed in imagination, he didn’t like that, either. It didn’t make sense. His best friend was Genevieve.

That night, as Genevieve giggled about a puppy that turned into a prince, she noticed that Desmond didn’t say anything.

“Desmond,” she asked, “is something the matter?”

Desmond looked away.

“Desmond, do you want to hear about Marshmallow Palace? I lived there for a while, but I didn’t find a marshmallow ANYWHERE. Years before, and evil tyrant had come in and stole the recipe”

Desmond opened his dictionary.

“Desmond, can you hear me?”

He turned a page.

Genevieve turned a color he had never seen. She turned dark blue.

Genevieve fell upon his shoulder and said, “What’s wrong?”

Desmond read from his dictionary,

“Fairy; a tiny imaginary being in human form.”

Genevieve’s color returned to pink. “Yes! “ she giggled,

Desmond sternly shut his book, closed his eyes, and said, “But that doesn’t make sense.”

Genevieve giggled in lavender and pink and flew to his other shoulder.

“But don’t you see? This is why you’re my best friend, am I’m yours! You teach me to understand your world, and I teach you to understand mine! It’s simple! Use your imagination”

Desmond opened his eyes and said, “But I don’t believe in you.”

That night, Genevieve flew to his sleeping ear and whispered, “I’ll miss you, my friend.”

When Desmond woke the next morning, Genevieve was gone. He felt sad.

“That makes sense.” He thought as he ate his breakfast and walked carefully to school, stepping over cracks and turning in his favorite 90 degree angles. His lunch was his favorite meal, but wasn’t hungry. He hoped Genevieve would be waiting for him when he got home. She wasn’t.

Weeks passed, but the sadness didn’t. He missed his friend.

He made a choice to find her. He closed his eyes. Nothing but darkness. He closed them again, tighter. He saw sparks and smelled molasses. He tried one more time, squeezing his eyes, concentrating on her stories. Colors began to stream quickly. He felt like he was flying. He saw the girl who became a crayon, drawing beautiful pictures, and the citizens of marshmallow palace, finding their recipe and defeating the tyrant who melted away in the morning sun. He heard songs and stories, and saw lights flash where no lights had been. He searched for his friend.

“Genevieve?!” he shouted, to no one in particular, and landed with a thwump at the feet of giant flies making peanut butter pie.

“Genevieve?” he asked.

The flies said, “Buzzzzzzzz.” Which made sense, then gave him a pie. He flew again and landed with a splat in a lily pad made of chocolate pudding.

“Genevieve?”

A frog croaked, “Mrrrraaaahhh”

Then he heard a giggle he knew like his own. He turned and saw his friend flying and changing colors.

She smiled the smile that twisted her face.

“I’m glad that you finally got here.”

“I brought a pie. It’s peanut butter. Made by flies.”

Genevieve giggled and Desmond laughed.

“Imagination makes sense.”

Common Objects-Solidarity

Chris opens the balcony doors to let the mid-morning air circulate throughout the apartment. At 10:30 AM, the city is already in its third lull in activity. Traffic has died down a bit on Lakeshore Drive, and the city sounds are less intense. Car alarms dwindle, wandering drunks have taken back to the more traveled areas, and most of the neighborhood had taken off for work a few hours earlier. Stepping briefly onto the shallow balcony, Chris inhales the air tinged with a fresh hint of morning breeze off the lake. Underneath him, young mothers, nannies and small children inch along the lakefront path amidst bikers and rollerbladers, taking in the summer day. Standing frozen, Chris greets the day in silence, as he does each morning.

With a deliberate breath, he backs back into the living room, selects an old Mazzy Star album, sets it on the turntable, blows on the needle to shoo any renegade dust, and carefully places the needle into the vinyl groove. As Hope’s plaintive voice slowly fills the room, Chris moves with it, eyes closed, steps sauntering to the kitchen for the next element in his ritual: coffee.

With languid lethargy, Chris reaches to the back of the cupboard for a mug, averting his eyes from the guilty overflowing pile of dishes that wait in mockery, threatening to dampen his morning mood. Perhaps today will be a cleaning day, he gulps. The cupboard is empty. He glances to the sink. Somewhere, he pleads, there must be a mug! No way would he stoop to use a bowl. This is a serious morning, too beautiful for imperfection. Hope’s voice is too intoxicating, the air is too sweet. He needs a mug-a real mug.

His quick surge of panic serves him well. He recalls a box in the back closet never fully unpacked from him last move. Chris is pretty sure it is kitchen shit. He runs to rummage. Sure enough, there it sits, untouched, pristine, a beacon labeled, “Random kitchen utensils-don’t do the dishes yet.”

“At least I’ve got my own back,” he thinks.

“Strange you never knew,” Hope drones.

Chris rips open the box and reaches inside. Potato masher-no. Plate-no. Blender bottom… This is not looking good. Wait… Here it is. It feels like a mug. It has a handle, yes! Dishes averted! Chris pulls it out in triumph, and lovingly admires this promise wrapped in tissue paper. Ah, yes, the saving grace of this mug. This chipped, ugly, chintzy mug that reads, “Eat in the BUFF.”

Chris stops. Hopes voice silences. The album is finished.

Grinning, Chris holds the mug up to the light. For five years, this had been the morning mug. How perfect that it was found today, of all days. He remembers Sandy. She used to relentlessly tease his silly loyalty as a testament to a trip they had taken in the early stages of their ill-fated relationship. Chris thought it was funny, “Eat in the BUFF.” Sandy would insist that they remove their clothes for morning coffee. She had been playing along, appeasing his awkward fascination with silly puns. Looking back, that had been the element of their personalities that worked so well. That’s how they had fit well together.

“If you’re going to drink from it,” she’d say, “you’ve got to follow directions!”

Chris smiles at the reflection.

Sandy has been long since gone, having run off with Solidarity during an experimental phase. Weren’t those her words?

Solidarity.

Fucking hippies-always giving themselves bullshit self-righteous names in order to commandeer some sort of mystical excuse for a mindfuck. Solidarity played a djembe in front of the Art Institute, and he’d use his pounding as a soundtrack for bad spoken word poetry. Although it had been impressive how he had managed to drum, speak, and chain-smoke clove cigarettes, Chris had never considered him as any sort of competition. In fact, he had initially though that Sandy’s appreciation of Solidarity’s “work” was a sweet connection to the city. It seemed romantic. They were both so young, and he can now recognize his naiveté. Solidarity’s real name was Frances Neel. Sandy was smitten. Frances, ahem, Solidarity, offered the hook, and Sandy bit, breaking Chris’ confidence. What could have grown was cut short. It happens. Chris continued to drink daily from that mug for at least three years after the fact. It wasn’t about Sandy after that. A few joined him every so often in his morning routine, but none so consistently to recognize the religion in that ceramic monstrosity.

After the move, Chris had gone crazy, thinking he had left it behind. Here it is. Chris giggles, removes his clothing and returns to the turntable to reset Hope and her longing drone.

Melodrama in blue 6

The girl of the night is counting up her suitors as Mattie stares at her hands, tracing the varnished wood with her broken fingertips. This winter cold and dryness have not been kind to her skin. The smoke has gotten so thick that her eyes are watering, and the tears have just begun to sting. She glances over at the barback, who is peering from underneath the locks of his hair at the girl of the night. Isobel is on tonight, which means they won’t be leaving for a good, long while. This is how it works, these nights out. Issy had called her at about eight, sad and frustrated at the state of the world, as usual. She needed “girl time,” she had said. Wasn’t that the wording? “Girl time” means dinner and conversation, which is always full, then off to a bar, where Issy is to ward off admirers, take numbers, and wait for the barback to approach her. Mattie stands with her friends and waits. When she deviates and actually enjoys herself, she never hears the end of it. Issy doesn’t mean to tease so unrelentlessly. She thinks Mattie enjoys it. Everyone likes attention, right? The morning after is the fun part, as it is. They get together for brunch, compare notes and phone numbers and giggle as high schoolers would. This is why Mattie isn’t complaining about the smoke or atmosphere. So, tonight nothing is going on. Last week, she had been making out with an adorable tattooed boy who had insisted on getting her number, then never proceeded to call. Why buy the milk, she supposed, as she ordered another beer from the barback.

“Your friend seems busy tonight.” Huh. The barback never talks to her, just Issy.

“ Yep. She comes here for you. She thinks you’re adorable.”

His features take on that look of manipulative dismissal.

“ Oh, yeah? Huh. That’s cool.” He steals another glance at her, catching her eye this time. He returns his look to Mattie.

“What do you need? It’s on me if it’s beer”

“Corona is great, thanks.”

Mattie throws a couple of dollars down on the bar. There are few places in the city she doesn’t drink free in with Isobel around. It kicks her a little that she is always the recipient of pity beer. She takes her place three feet away from the supernova and watches the television screen. It had been playing Lord of the rings, but was now some gritty, bad porn. Gotta love the punk rock bars. She turns her head to check in with her friend. She’s still at it. She is somehow entertaining four guys at the same time, each one staring at her as though she is celestial. Isn’t she? She’s probably talking to them about inspiration and drive. She’s probably convincing each of them to harness their inner passion and take on the world. She’s on fire tonight. She turns to catch Mattie’s eye, acknowledging the protective check. As though she needs it. The suitors all notice, and smile to her now. She takes a swig from her pity beer and snarls. Issy loves when she does that. They always laugh about that moment the next day. As expected, the suitors take their cue, write down their numbers, and peel off, one by one. Isobel turns to her.

“Nice work! You amaze me. Thank you.”

“Were you okay? You seemed fine.”

“Yeah, they were all sweet. How funny. I just wish my boyfriend would talk to me.”

“ The barback? Yeah, he gave me a free beer. I told him that you come here for him.”

“ No! I’m so embarassed. As if it’s not true. Look at him.” He’s charming some young thing at the bar. He looks up and meets Issy’s gaze, as always. “He’s so adorable. Not very bright, but adorable! He gave you free beer? What do you think? “

“It was pity beer. We were talking about you.”

“Come on, Matt.” She gives the look of “You were talking about me?”

“Who wants the girl with the most cake? He doesn’t give me free beer. He hardly puts two words together for me, damn it. You should go there, and give me details!”

“Whatever, Issy. He’s your toy, not mine.” Her focus has shifted to his constant gaze.

“ I’m sorry, honey, he’s not your type, I know that. He’s just so adorable.”

“He likes you.”

“ He grabs my ass every time he passes, and I let this for some unknown reason, but he stonewalls me every time I try to talk to him. He doesn’t like me, he thinks I’m hot.”

“Maybe he’s intimidated.”

“I’ve worked in loads of bars. I know the drill.” She takes on that look of experience which is always tinged with a tone of sadness.

“ Give him your number.” She laughs.

“I did! Last week. I told him to drop it in his bucket. I’m such an asshole!”

Mattie turns and notices the next wave of suitors lining up, waiting for a break in conversation.

“Issy, you’ve got a crowd behind you.”

She turns, smiles affably, turns back to Mattie and kisses her full on the lips. Mattie laughs as they leave, and her heart breaks.

Melodrama in Blue 5

At the moment of consistency, the cloud of diplomacy rolls in, leaving her exposed, with nothing but this hood to shield her from the drops. The wolves creep close, but to the sides where all blindness lies. She can feel them closing in, but does not falter with her widened eyes focused upon the path before her. She knows these wolves too well. they prowl at close distance, deeming themselves sleek and cunning, watching their prey, yet never approaching and claiming the desired victim. Their vanity is too great. They make their prey their leader and sacrifice her destination in order to adhere to the laws of terror.

Blinders on, she proceeds with a memory of wonderland in the days past. She hears a snap to her left and considers crumpling to the ground in a bright red snail shell, waiting for the darkness to fall and cover her unsuspecting intimidation. each foot falls in front of the other as the landscape moves in her sight. Hearing deadened, she creates her own soundtrack of the ravenous breath upon her heels, saliva dripping into the mud behind her every step.

She remembers the doors, each leading to the next; this one small, too small for her body to fit, yet she somehows makes it through. The next is too large. Her small hand cannot reach nor grasp the full doorknob, so she pushes through with all of her force and begins to fall. If she could fall now, she could release the sound of those steps behind her, and the howls of the unknown could finally begin. She begins to crave that sound; to hear those predators’ fear, just as they thought they had claimed hers.

This is when my laughter escapes, peeking through my cover, mocking the unseen guests as the host begins to skip, hood falling behind her, allowing the drops to cascade down her lightened face.

Melodrama in Blue 4

I was drunk on Christmas day. It was beautiful, really, appropriate to the world as I fantasize it with the eyes of stupor and disregard. I had woken from the haze of my Christmas Eve sobriety to the sound of the telephone ringing incessantly through my small studio, cluttered with the remains of gift wrappings, a dying poinsettia and a crass, Wal-Mart proud entertainment center stealing precious space from my world of small solitude. Holding fast to my comforter, I listened to the answering machine record holiday greetings from the family at the other end of the line. “Let them believe that I’m not alone this year,” I thought to myself as I crept into my morning ritual of molasses-thick coffee and V-8 splash. Back in Ohio, the family gathered around the telephone, chirping good tidings through the wire without me, just as I had done with them in previous years. I fell in love instantly with the idea that I have suddenly become one of them, the ones I never knew to any real depth whatsoever. I, however, still carry a certain weight, this being my first Christmas away, therefore requiring the morning wake up call, as opposed to the obligatory mid-afternoon “remembering your relatives” call. I would call them back in an hour or so with my seasonal greetings, and stories of long walks through a surprisingly desolate New York on this America-stopping holiday. I must admit, I grinned as the answering machine cut the voices off without warning, causing the ringing to return thirty seconds later. I can imagine their contempt biting off their cheer, and the heaving sigh, and rolling eyes as they dialed again.

Some would say that I’ve become a bitter soul. Others would say that I’m another martyr. Many have said that I am cruel. Most will say that I am sad. I, however, know that I am nothing more than a hopeless romantic, creating my own sense of what I want to experience, then following it up with the forms of those experiences. I create a script of what I find beautiful, and direct those in my life around it. These are my traditions. i have been working out the plans for this day for twenty three years, and here they are. This is my Christmas alone. I want to be drunk.

I open my cupboard to expose three bottles of red wine; one Italian, one French, and the final Australian. I smile and move five steps to the atrocious entertainment center. I peruse the CD selection until I come across the appropriate Leonard Cohen to appease the loneliness I have cultivated for this day, this time. Today, the literary beauty watches from her own eyes. Today, the narration shifts, not out of desperation, but acknowledgement. The stake is burning upon St. Joan as Anais is seducing Henry from her own voice. Simone has slapped Jean-Paul upside his weakened face while Paul is pining away in Chicago, and Nick is finally teasing Daisy as she has dreamed. All the while, the blue light still burns across the lake, and Brett is looking on with an actual longing. I am sitting in this windowsill now, and there is not even a dusting of snow on this merry holiday.

The time has come to begin drinking, as I reach for the telephone with one hand, and the cupboard with the other. I grasp the bottle of Italian for remembrance, and place it on the counter. I turn to my other hand and dial the number i know so well, waiting for the voice on the other line. Quickly, the voice is heard and the exchange of pleasantries begin. I fumble for the wine key, laughing at the obligatory jokes, preparing to perform my personal wine service. With the first story, I rip through the foil and plunge into the cork. i dig deeper, twisting both with the exchange and the metal implement of my chosen vice. this is gorgeous here. this is romance. this is all perfect and precise. I twist further and engage the leverage. Just as I hit the crowning stroke of my story, I pop the cork with a laugh, and the image has reached its climax. I listen in success to the reaction of my words with the telephone resting between my ear and shoulder as I pull out my chalice of choice for this glorious day.

The blood of Christ gurgles as it is poured on this Christmas morning, and I laugh with the disembodied voices and the image I am creating for no one but myself. In one moment, I an both young and deceptive, as well as old, wise and worn. With my images completed, I selfishly make my excuses for solitude and bid my goodbyes.

Pausing, I take my opportunity to relish this personal moment of deep-red, aliented bliss. The seduction pulls itself sluggishly from my chalice and engulfs my senses. I touch my lips lightly upon the entrance and invite myself into this wonderland with atease; a tip just to my lips, nothing more. the world around my body disappears, and nothing exists but the wetness upon my eager lips, and the explosion of life travelling from the tip of my tongue, quickly taking my entire mouth captive with the promise of a full sip. Dizzy with anticipation and swollen desire, I return to my windowsill, cupping my chosen vice just below my face, allowing its fragrance to circle my senses again, while the flavor still dances upon my tongue. I will wait before my first swallow, acknowledging that the first taste is the most beautiful. The first swallow is just a passage to the next, leading to a greedy intoxication. Savor the first, then combat for the next stage; this is my manuever for romance.

I light a cigarette and crack open the window. The voices of bundled carolers singing to the decorated tree in the park below drift in with the frigid December air. I draw my knees tighter into my chest, join their songs, and take my first full drink. the wine rushes in, taking control once again, just as the authority of the first tease had begun to dissipate. I fight at first, yet soon succumb to the unending stream of warmth trailing down my throat. The warmth spreads, filling my entire body, and I am taken. I am now the satisfied hostage, filling and refilling my chalice with the loyalty of a saint.

Hours pass before the knock comes at my door. Heather enters, beautiful, statuesque and poised, clad in black with the boa I gave her strung coyly around her neck. “Merry Christmas, my purple mouthed perfection,” she quips as I grin, displaying my stained soldiers,”I come bearing gifts.” She reaches into her bag and her hand returns, brandishing a bottle of Vueve Cliquot. My solitude has reached its end on this Christmas day. We sit upon the couch and wait for the new year to unfold before us. Heather pours the champagne, I place a candle in each empty bottle, and we grin at the success of our journey.

Melodrama in Blue 3

Marcus walks into the dingy, smoky bar and takes a deep breath. He sees her sitting there, laughing and pulling a drag off of her cigarette. Fuck, she’s still beautiful. Fuck, fuck, she’s still calm. He slides in next to her, “Hey you.” She lights up. Her eyes light into a brilliant open blue. Even now, is it possible? It’s been so long. She ruffles his hair, and he relaxes.Fuck, it’s still the same. She obliterated him years ago. She left with a skip. She left him alone, why is she happy to see him? What sort of game is this? Why is he feeling giddy? There is no time for small talk, they jump into banter, laughing, joking, teasing, staring. He is looking deep within those eyes again, and she is not faltering.

His boys appear as back up. They are out for him. They will fight for him. They will point out the absurd. Her flaws will become apparent, her facade will be broken! She will crumble and leave defeated! They are laughing at her jokes. They are carrying on intelligent conversations with her. Fuck, Hell, shit, they are fawning. She is looking back at him. He can do nothing but wink, and she softens. She has not spoken to her friend, her back up, in hours, it seems. She hasn’t needed to. She is comfortable. She is winning. She’s delving deeper, she is focusing on him. He sees love. Even now, he feels love. Why is she not breaking? Why is his panic subsiding? There are shouts, hoots, hollers. His friend is telling her she looks like a movie star. Oh, no. He’s asking if she gets that a lot. This is bad. This is very, very bad. No good can come of this. Except... He puts the thought out of his mind and orders another beer. They exchange another glance and he turns his attention to the band.

Melodrama in blue pt. 2

From the day she was born, everyone knew that the girl was a bit different from the rest. Her mother's doctor was the first to recognize with a gasp in the delivery room. "What is wrong?" the mother asked."Is my baby okay?" The doctor paused a moment, took a cleansing and fearful breath and responded, "She seems fine. There are no problems that I can pinpoint right now. It's just... strange." The mother's face twisted in concern. "Doctor," she said" I have had two children before this one. You can tell me if something has gone wrong. Is it a horrible birthmark? A scar? What? Tell me!"The doctor drew another deep breath and said with trepidation, "No, it's nothing. Don't you see? Nothing. Not a sound. You've had children, I have delivered many. This baby is perfectly healthy. She's not screaming, she's not crying. She is looking me straight in the eye and smiling. I've never seen anything like it. This is an exceptional delivery." The doctor shook his head again in fascination as he stared down at the newborn meeting his gaze. For years he would swear that, at the moment he said this to the mother, the child winked at him. The child understood every word. It was impossible.

During the next few years, the child grew in perfection, yet still never uttered a sound. The parents, frantic with confusion, took the girl in and out of different specialists, each of whom performed extensive tests. Why didn't she make a sound? Was she deaf? Tests indicated that her hearing was fine, if not exceptional. Perhaps she was autistic? Again, the testing proved nothing substantial for the parents. The girl was alert in an uncanny sense. In fact, she frightened all those who came in contact with her. She was obviously watching everyone and everything around her. The world moved around the girl and she watched, as though it were her own private screening of a brand new film. Eventually, after many bewildered doctors and specialists, the parents decided that the girl just needed her time to sort out the world as her own.

After three years of utter silence, the girl decided to speak. She began one morning in the kitchen as her mother was fixing breakfast. Her sisters were fighting, as usual, and the girl was sitting quietly in her high chair. "Mother?" She spoke with perfect diction. Her mother jumped, burning herself on the stove as she twirled around to stare at the unfamiliar voice of her youngest daughter."Could I have some juice, please?" Her two sisters stopped fighting and everything froze, as all eyes fixed on the child in the chair. The moment broke as the mother pressed further. "What kind of juice would you like, Sweetie?" "Apple, please,"she answered. The girl's mother quickly fetched the juice and jumped to the telephone, as the breakfast burned on the stove. They all ate burnt eggs and crispy bacon that morning in silence, waiting for the girl to speak again. She did not.

Throughout her childhood, the girl continued to speak seldomly, yet with clarity and importance. She never spoke in frivolity or carelessness. Each word was important and necessary. She felt no need to experiment in excess. She listened to her sisters fight, her parents bicker, and her schoolmates gossip. She listened to the television coerce the thoughts of those around her with an overt media morality. She was amazed by the noise which surrounded her at all times. She was a happy child, listening to these voices rise and fall around her in her own private symphony. The girl did not limit her listening to voices, however. Often, she would take off to the wood behind her house and stay there for hours, listening to the wind breath softly around her, the sound of animals scurrying past her. The most amazing sound to her was the sound that the sun made as it filtered through the leaves and danced upon the soil.

Her sisters teased her when she spoke of her favorite sound.

"You idiot!" they laughed,"The sun doesn't make any sound." She looked to them with sadness."You've never heard it?" She asked. "Of course not!The sun is silent." They answered. The girl shook her head, looked up to the smirking girls and spoke, "Then I am truly sorry. You are missing the most beautiful sound in the world." The girls just looked at her as though she were crazy and continued their fight over who they thought was the cutest boy in school. The oldest sister was sure it was Henry Odet, because he tried to kiss her during recess. The middle sister insisted that he had crooked teeth and a big nose and that Roy Eliot was definitely cuter because he had pretty eyes and always gave her cookies from his lunch. The girl sat and listened to them while she could, realizing that she could not share her treasured sounds so openly anymore. She quietly left without acknowledgement and took to the wood, where she could listen and learn.

The girl returned a few hours later to find her sisters holding their ground in front of the television. She was familiar with their battle; they sat there waiting for their favorite sit-com to come on, but they would stake their claim and watch whatever was on the hour before to insure that no one else would be so rude as to find something else to watch. They were in their waiting period when she found them, still fighting about boys as 20/20 explored an expose on the elderly. The girl was captivated by by the interviews of people in their sixties talking about their sleep patterns. A regretful woman of sixty five was speaking on the fact that she documented the amount of time she slept in her life, and realized that she had slept half of her life away. A man of seventy echoed the same ennui. The girl listened closely. Her family never understood why she never slept more than six hours a night. These strangers did. At the age of six years, the girl discovered a fear of sleep-a fear of missing.

For years, the girl listened and listened, until finally, the voices became cluttered, as they all spoke the same message of selfish discontent and ridiculous vanity. The girl found herself running for the safety of the wood, when she used to saunter. She used to return for a different perspective until she realized that she travelled for the truth that filtered in spots and shadows as comfort and awareness. The girl was not a child, however, and knew that this society of mundane and trivial remorse was her inheritance of life. She recognized her difference, as well as her need for assimilation. She realized that this relationship was private. This realization brought her comfort and grief.

At the age of thirteen years, the girl broke. She couldn't hear another word, or it would drive her mad. The more she listened, the more she grieved. She decided to fight back. At thirteen, the girl began to speak incessantly of the trivial world. She couldn't listen to her sisters speak of boys and eating disorders, she couldn't bear to hear her mother's discontent. Her schoolmates traumas added more banal idiocies, that she had to fill their vocal space before they could. She realized that their was no such thing as silence or attention in the world she found. She became what her family wanted; a girl of bubbly personality and unending jokes. She secretly mocked those in her life as she tossed her hair and regurgitated stories. She curled her hair and tightened her clothes. She insisted that no one take her seriously, as she could no longer take them seriously. The girl began to lie. She claimed to run off and do the things that were expected of her: shopping, movies, dating. In truth, she was running of to the wood to listen and breath a sigh of relief.

The girl who seldom spoke grew into the chattering woman. There was no subject that she couldn't comment on, no personal observation that could override the logic of high pitched banter. No one spoke to her of anything true as it was, so she accommodated with her chatter. If she were to be subjected to certain idiocy, she wanted to voice it before the sound tainted her ears with another voice. The chattering woman, despite her amiable demeanor and constant uplifting laughter, was very angry. This anger pulsed through each painful breath intended to support her lighthearted laughter. She was well liked by all of those who needed her presence. She represented life and happiness to each of them, as she cringed with disappointment and a smirking condescension. Secretly, when she stole off to the wood, she would pray for someone to open their eyes widely enough to see through her and challenge her insight.

The chattering woman began to fantasize, with her back propped up against the largest oak. One day, she would be taken by surprise when someone she knew found her here, her eyes brightened with amazement, rather than laughter. In her mind, they would catch her, she'd look away with guilt, and they would sit next to her and say nothing. Together, they would listen to the sound of the sun and never leave. They would keep this sancitity silent and pure.

The chattering woman recognized loneliness, and went on a search. She didn't, however, realize that she was disabled. She never recognized that she had become a pure cynic, and would only find attraction in the negative, lost soul. The chattering woman discovered the man of angst. She spotted him one day in the park, chain smoking and desolate, with his head stylishly poised upon his hands. She fell in love instantly. She walked up to him, and took her seat next to his crumpled frame and joined his assault upon the world. His black horn rimmed glasses seperated the two of them with a certain rebellion. "The world just seems so much more bearable when I can't see," he mused, as she wished that her vision weren't quite so perfect. She stared at his beautiful jet black hair falling recklessly around his composed misery and imagined that she wasn't quite so blonde, her eyes weren't quite so blue, her frame wasn't quite so petite. She became lost in his world. She almost looked forward to his over-privledged apocalypse. She acknowledged her purpose, and began her blue eyed banter of beauty and perspective, expecting him to challenge, to deny. Instead, he looked to her and growled. Behind his growl lay a smile. They created a new world of turmoil and necessity. He swung from his noose as she supported his feet, refusing to allow this selfish stupid suicide. After four years of this silly choreography, he let go and released himself. The sun broke upon his disshevelled hair and he replaced his glasses upon his face. She walked away while he danced in euphoria. She left ultimately unchanged and continued her chatter. When he finally stopped his dance to catch his breath, he realized that she was nowhere to be found.

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Beth began her day as she always does; the night before, monitoring her wine and marijuana with the appropriate rations of water, advil and sleep. Six hours guaranteed, with and hour and a half leeway for the snooze bar, or a potential amorous morning wake-up from Nick. The alarm was always set for 7:30, as Nick needed to be out the door by 9:00. He usually made it out by 9:45, but it wasn’t a problem with his job. He worked at a small print shop for a daytime alcoholic, who was content with his consistent tardiness, just so long as he could start drinking by noon, and Nick could deal with the clients and presses from that point forward. Nick and his boss had a symbiotic relationship which bordered on incestuous. His boss was a little proud when Nick arrived to work late, the prodigal son, and often, a bit rough around the sobriety edge. A perfect match. His boss could drink during the day, go home to sleep, while Nick handled the shop, then Nick would continue his debauchery when he left work and returned to Beth’s apartment, weilding either a magnum of wine(when he wanted her to join), or a six pack(or two) of beer. He’d load his bong and get himself suitably stoned, make some new discoveries on his computer, then resign to the couch and television until the next sound he heard was the alarm going off for the fifth or sixth time. In New York City, this was his dream job. This was a laughable life.

Beth, on the other hand, was still wandering, bouncing back and forth in circumstance. Her control, on which she had always held a firm grasp, had faltered somewhere along the way, and she couldn’t quite place where it had gone. She knew that it hadn’t escaped her yet, but it was merely hiding. However, she also understood that hiding was the first movement towards escape, and this paralyzed her with fear. When that alarm sounded each morning at 7:30, she’d wake in a fright, pause, press the snooze bar, knowing that she should, and sleep through the next four snooze intervals. When she awoke completely, she’d make the coffee, and jump into the shower, so that Nick would have plenty of time to relax into his morning routine, and show up to work late, as usual. The earlier his late time would be, the more time she would have to relax. Those mornings created a stress upon her greater than any other. She spent all of her time documenting moments, so when those moments were taken away, she began to mark off those things she had planned for her day, beginning with the things that brought her peace. This is how she lost personal control: when she alone made that decision to sacrifice her necessary peace. This is how she began each morning of each day for two and a half years. Nine hundred and thirteen mornings.

When he was finally gone, she’d move about her day: She had classes to teach, rehearsals to conduct, and a restaurant to run. In the past, treasured days of ambiguity, she had been an actor, moving from city to city, wherever work led her, but always returned to New York: the one city where she felt strong to be lost. What she was too naive to understand, however, is that when you finally find stability in this city, you’re still lost. Answers are not found, they are only suspended. They are suspended in the people you think you know, the world you think you have, and the promises you thought you made. You are left in the midst of it, throwing your hands into the air, knowing that you can go back, but being too proud to do so. This is how the city eats you alive. This is how it subtly robs you of your own peace. This is where she has found herself. She had no idea how to cope. She suspended herself, and held fast to the memories of people and times past. She just moved. She just breathed. She just fit. She hated herself for it at times, but understood the challenge which confronted her. She knew she could still get out, but she refused to do so before finding what she had lost. And so, she resumed, and quietly began adding points of joy.

She began in the museums, quietly building her own church in the time that she spent at the Cloisters, just a five minute walk through the beautiful park next to her house. She spent hours in the stone courtyards, with the withering, deep tapestries. She began to understand the pear tree flourishing up the side of the cold wall in the herb garden. She’d sit on the edge of the adjacent wall, looking out upon the river, clasping her unopened journal in her hand. Eventually, she’d come to this same place without her cell phone, without her notebooks of responsibility, and just write. She’d open her journal and record. She’d open her vault, and explore what lay inside again. Then, she would walk along the cliff by the river, and she’d glow in the fact that Manhattan still had a mystery in it. Manhattan still had a soul. Even Manhattan had peace. She began returning phone calls. She followed up on alienated friends. She got back on the East Village singing circuit, this time only doing back up, as her own songs had become an allowed sacrifice, but she felt better this way. She felt more honest helping a friend reach her intent. And so, she began to move again, still far from the girl in pigtails roller skating to a Joni mitchell album in a Memphis parking lot, but close enough that she could smile. She felt honest enough to continue with her world, understanding that it was stinted right now, but now was not always.

She knew she had to stop in at work tonight. She had been gone all week, and had to construct the schedule for the next week. She had it perfectly planned:she’d go in for half an hour, put the schedule together, run down to Bleeker street to do the show with A.J., then come back to the restaurant to meet Samantha. Time was a little tight, but hey, that was alright. As she was walking out the door, A.J. called to say that the show was cancelled, but they were on the guest list for the club, so they could meet there, anyway. Beth considered, but decided against it, she already had plans, and the show had been an hour set, and she could have easily left, but a night hanging out with A.J. always ended at some strange diner at 6:30, and she wasn’t up for that. She just went to work.

When she arrived at the restaurant, she holed up at a tiny table to schedule the staff. She had a few hours to kill before meeting Samantha, so she figured that she’d get her work done, stop over at the bookstore, then return and sit at the bar, reading, until she arrived. She stood, and looked to the right. This is when she saw him, sitting as he had been the first time she had seen him. He was wearing the same hat, skewed backwards, but this one was gray. When she first had met him, it had been blue. He looked exactly the same. She hadn’t seen true familiarity in so long, that she stopped. She looked to see that this person before her was only a resemblance, nothing more. She chided herself for her imagination.”The ruthless villain memory returns,” she thought. She inspected for flaws. This guy was too perfect of a facsimile, it couldn’t be him. He must have changed. She grinned as she reasoned, “Who wears their hat like that?!” She spoke his name. He turned. She felt joy, and ran to her friend without hesitation. “Thank the universe,” she mused, “someone whom I know. He knows me. How did he get here?” He greeted her with a quip, and a remembrance, and she took his cigarette out of familiarity. She saw how much of himself he had maintained, and she was proud. She understood how much she had fluctuated, and how strange she must seem, and she began to tremble. He was fine. He was wonderful. He was surrounded by amazing, good people. She could read that immediately. She became embarassed. She felt exposed as some strange charlatan. She hadn’t taken care of herself as she had promised that she would. She was caught between her own shame and her euphoria for his success. She wished for the innocence that he had known in her, and suddenly understood where it was hiding, lovingly intertwined with her control and her peace. She silently thanked him again, and awkwardly walked away, knowing how odd it must have seemed, but understanding how much this all would mean. She began again.