Fever: A scene (De-familiarizing the familiar)

She was led outside into the sun. The courtyard was a negative, sliding, and the sky was white or silver—tinny when tapped. Dark silhouettes surrounded her body, and when one spoke, it moved to its haunches; she had become a small dot. The base of the lamppost was cold through her pants. She tried to be courteous by listening and, around her eyes, forming shades like finger goggles—a darkroom to develop the face of the one looking in. The rest of them were just shoes encircling her—pairs of shadows.

“We can’t let her go by herself,” she heard, but barely. They were trying to persuade her to let one of them drive her car home. She would rather have died there on the concrete under the dangling impatiens than allow her colleagues to witness the trash-strewn, coffee-cupped, dog-haired interior of the car. For a moment, she was shaken to clarity for the sake of image but could only struggle weakly.

The squatting one squinted into the goggle holes, striking cymbals: “You must drink fluids.” The biggest voice, coming from the longest shoes was saying, “I grew up with my grandmother who had no feeling in her left side, and I was always taught to let her take my arm, not to give it to her.” Smaller pointed shoes clanged, “Two years ago, I took my daughter to the emergency ward where they flushed her kidneys. You should go to emergency.”

Then a black bird swung low in the backdrop. A crow, maybe? She found herself awkwardly mounting its back while a feathered ruff fluttered in her face. Cherry season. They soared into a windy orchard near Woodburn and forcefully dived through the holes in the bird-proof netting—scavenging, stealing. The trees were stencils and the crow clipped and tore around the edges where fruit glared metallic. It was time to take all they could. She clung to a few of the stiff flight feathers by stretching her arms down the insides of the wings (“So, whose car?”) while being shot through cold: now a cinema. She ducked as, with beak, her crow split the screen, and this or that actor, gesture, word, for a moment, was impaled. Now black, now white. Black white black white black white. The screen flapped. Faces undulated.

Home

FRONT

The boy stands on the sidewalk.  He sees a one story ranch house, blue with white shutters, a white flower box under the windows.  The flower box is filled with geraniums.  Water drips from the box.  The boy's mother has just finished watering and has gone inside.  The boy sees a basketball hoop with backboard, orange and white, where he will one day learn to shoot baskets.  He sees a lawn he will mow when he's old enough.  He sees a dirty window looking into the garage.  Astroturf on the front step catches his attention.  The front door opens and the boy is startled by the sight of his father.

LEFT SIDE

The boy sits on the fence.  He sees the shuffleboard court where he will one day learn to play, slamming the pucks together as hard as possible.  He sees the wooden holder for the pucks and sticks.  He knows it's dirty and filled with cobwebs.  He sees the hammock where he will one day lie down, not realizing one side is unhooked, and crack his head open on the wall. He will go to the hospital and get four stitches.  He will remember how the thread feels going through his scalp.  The boy hears a voice and turns to see his father coming around the corner of the house.

RIGHT SIDE

The boy sits on this fence, too.  He looks down at the dog run, which will be clean for Poojie and Mindy and which will later become dirty and neglected.  It will be a place of filth and embarrassment.  He sees the storage shed where he will one day take off his pants, and so will Billy Bea, and she will sit on his lap.  Billy Bea will later pee into a cardboard box and the boy will watch.  He sees the kitchen window and into the kitchen, where he will one day throw a chair across the room and his father will tackle him.  Through the kitchen window, he sees his father now, grimacing.  

BACK

The boy stands on the lawn he will someday mow, where he will pick up dog turds until he doesn't care anymore.  He sees the homemade play house, two stories with a trap door.  He sees his bedroom window, and his sister's.  He sees the orange tree in front of his window, his mother's rose bushes throughout the yard.  He sees the cherry tree which will one day die.  He sees the patio, the ping pong table, the hot tub.  When he is older the boy will have sex in the hot tub with a girl he doesn't know well and later, when he pees, it will burn.  He sees the sliding glass door and through it, the dining room.  His father is sitting at the table.

TOP

The boy is floating above the house, looking down.  He sees the wood shingles, which will one day catch fire and burn.  He sees the chimney, television antenna anchored to it.  In the dirty rain gutters he sees pieces of Nerf footballs and balsa wood airplanes.   He thinks his toys look wrong in the gutters.  Suddenly everything looks wrong to him, everything looks dirty.  At this height, from this angle, he can't see his father. But the boy knows he is down there, somewhere, hating himself, ready to attack his family.

Mongolia (something inexplicable upsets the natural order)

She was flipping through a coffeetable book looking at photographs of snow-steepled mountains, children playing in front of yurts, herds of horses racing across the steppes. "I'd like to go to Mongolia," she said dreamily.

He was sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper, or paying bills, or cleaning his glasses, she didn't know what. He cleared his throat. She heard the sound of rustling as he unwrapped a throat lozenge; he was addicted to them.

"You can't go to Mongolia," he said.

"What?"

"You can't just go to Mongolia, people don't just go to Mongolia. It's a complicated place. It's primitive, it could be dangerous."

She had paused at a photo of five tribesmen mounted on shaggy horses. Some kind of festival. The riders wore lavishly decorated cloaks and carried silken banners. Crimson tassels hung from the horses' bridles. The sky was deep blue—cerulean, she thought that color was called. The men looked fierce and happy. The horses' tails streamed in the wind.

Can't just go to Mongolia. She heard him as from a great distance, though he was just across the room. His words dislodged a small stone that been pressing against her heart for 18 years. The stone dropped, clattering and echoing as it fell. She waited for it to strike bottom, but the space within her was bottomless, it seemed. She felt queasy. There were hoofbeats in her ears. She saw her marriage clearly for the first time--a pale river flowing through a featureless valley. For years nothing had altered or obstructed its placid current. The beat of hooves grew louder, and now she could hear the wild flapping of banners, the ecstatic shouts of riders as they urged their horses on across the great grassy plains of Mongolia.

Untitled

punkgirl61: hey dude whats up?
surfloverasta: Wouldn’t you like to know...
punkgirl61: yeah thats why i asked
punkgirl61: lol :)
surfloverasta: Nothing, I’m just waxing my surfboard.
punkgirl61: thats so kool!!! where are you going surfing today
surfloverasta: I’ll probably drive to Half Moon Bay with some of my buddies.
surfloverasta: You know, just the dudes :)
punkgirl61: sweet! im just sittin here chillin
punkgirl61: painting my nails
punkgirl61: i got grounded for 3 weeks so i am soooooo bored
surfloverasta: Do you want to come surfing with me?
punkgirl61: ummm yeah!!!! no brainer! but i don’t know how to surf
surfloverasta: I’d teach you
punkgirl61: ok but umm we’ve never like hung out before...
surfloverasta: I think it would be fun to finally meet. You said you live in San Francisco, right?
punkgirl61: yeah
surfloverasta: I live in Marin. I could pick you up on my way down to Half Moon Bay. It would be right on the way.
punkgirl61: wait how old are you again? i thought you said you were 16
surfloverasta: I am 16.
punkgirl61: do you have your driver’s license?
surfloverasta: Of course I have a license
punkgirl61: but you can’t drive me around without an adult until you’re 17 and a half right?
punkgirl61: i mean but we don’t have to follow the law, im just saying what you’re supposed to do when you first get a license
punkgirl61: whatever it totally doesnt matter, forget i said that
surfloverasta: Well, actually I just moved here from Massachusetts, and you don’t have to be 17 and half in Mass to drive minors around.... so I think I have a different type of license. I think it will be okay.
punkgirl61: ok kool
surfloverasta: So should I pick you up around 11:30?
punkgirl61: um yeah 11:30 sounds great
surfloverasta: Terrific. What’s your address?
punkgirl61: 4051 Folsom
punkgirl61: um can you park down the street a couple houses? i don’t want my mom to see that im leaving the house
punkgirl61: i’m grounded remember
surfloverasta: Right. Of course. I can certainly park a couple houses down.
punkgirl61: like maybe on the corner of folsom and 21st? i’ll just meet you on that corner ok
surfloverasta: Okay. I’ll pick you up on the corner of Folsom and 21st.
surfloverasta: At 11:30.

(pause)

punkgirl61: whats your name again?
punkgirl61: lol :)
surfloverasta: :) I’m Harry. You’re Kim, right?
punkgirl61: harry? dude thats such an old man name! that sucks. what’s your last name, bush?
punkgirl61: huh huh huh
punkgirl61: wait i thought you said your name was mike or matt or something
surfloverasta: No, my buddy’s name is Matt. I guess I must have been telling you about him?
punkgirl61: oh yeah what about your buddies that were going to go surfing with you???
surfloverasta: That’s okay, I can go with them another time. I wouldn’t want you to have to be the only girl hanging out with all the dudes, you know? ;-)
punkgirl61: ok

(pause)

surfloverasta: So see you at 11:30?
punkgirl61: um i guess so
surfloverasta: Are you ok?
punkgirl61: totally why
surfloverasta: You got quiet.
punkgirl61: i’m still here
surfloverasta: All right, so I’ll see you soon?
punkgirl61: ok
surfloverasta: Are you sure you’ll be there?
punkgirl61: i said i would, didn’t i
surfloverasta: Yes, but you also got quiet, so I’m thinking that you might be changing your mind.
punkgirl61: no, i’ll totally be there.
punkgirl61: corner of folsom and 21st
punkgirl61: at 11:30.
surfloverasta: Great. I’ll see you soon.
punkgirl61: totally
punkgirl61: l8er skater

(pause)

punkgirl61: harry? you still there?

The Visitation

I jumped at the touch.  "Don't touch me," I screamed, "don't ever touch me."

I rubbed furiously at the place where his hand had touched me.  I screamed and clawed at my arm.   He was stuck on to me and the pain was unbearable.  I screamed and ripped at my skin, my  burning, impregnated skin until they came and gave me the shot.   Then, as usual, I remembered nothing.  I woke in my bed in the small room next to the nurses' station.  The room was teaming with things crawling everywhere.  They did not frighten me so much because they don't touch me, in fact, they kept completely clear of me and my bed.  Writhing and creeping on the walls and ceiling, they were the size of small bats.

The nurse came in, walking through them as though she was invisible.  "How are you now?" she said cheerily. "Sorry about that earlier.  It was the new nurse - didn't know about not touching."

I watched as she began to change shape in front of me.  Subtle at first it was as though there was a shimmer around her, a glowing light.  Then slowly bits of her began to dissolve until she was only a beautiful, throbbing shadow.  I felt rested in her presence, the light making peaceful music and soft flutterings.

Suddenly she took form again, sharply and clearly.  "Your daughter, Christine, is coming to visit you."  I sat up suddenly, all the movement in the room ceased, and everything in me focussed on 'Christine'.  I felt a shock run through me.  I had not seen Christine in over a year.   Not since they had taken me away and said that I could not be at home with a child until I was better.

"It would unsettle her to see you this way," they said.

The nurse continued,   "She was so upset not seeing you that they decided to let her visit.

I have to ask you if you want to see her?"

I could only nod my head, words caught in my throat.

She walked into the small visiting room, her hair a golden halo, her eyes the same colour as mine -  hazel they call it.  Without hesitation she came up to my knees and climbed onto my lap and whispered in my ear,  "Daddy, I have  bats in my room too."

Blue Memories

FRAGMENTS EXERCISE

It was the last of the heavy gun cruisers. It was big, fast, and beautiful. It was my first ship and the one I really remember.

After weeks at sea, entering port was a treat. We would drop anchor in the harbor. The best place was Villefranche on the Riviera. the houses on the hills were pink, yellow, and tan. The mountains beyond still had snow in the spring.

The Captain would come onto the bridge in his bathrobe and slippers, usually on the mid-watch. Maybe he couldn't sleep or just wanted to talk to someone. It would be dark except for the running lights of the other ships in the task group.

Taking a taxi into Nice along the Grand Corniche, a thousand feet up, you could see the coast curving along the blue-green water toward Italy.

The club was below street level. As you entered , it was very dark. The band was playing "La Vie en Rose" and the dance floor was crowded with sailors and girls. A civilian in the corner was wearing very dark glasses. I was in France.

Leaving port early in the morning. Fog had rolled in from the Mediterranean obscuring the houses and the mountains behind them. The last boats were hoisted aboard, the anchors weighed, and we slipped out quietly. The water was glass-like and clear enought to see the bottom. A few girls on the dock waved. We were underway.

Ed

Blessings

1 original/ 1 changed

Narrowed shutters - desert so bright that northern hemisphere eyes become slits

        intensity of light burning her retinas - the world divided into horizontal lines of heat.

Desert sands are hazy, drifting, misting:  sand everywhere.

A donkey stands nonchalantly waving his head from side to side, gently and absentmindedly keeping the flies out of his eyes.

Old grey-wet country, cold in winter, lost in fog.

2/6

Every Friday he sat on his blanket by the wall, of noble mien, dressed in rags

back straight, hand outstretched

             I waited                                    all week

for Friday, to put pennies in his hand and receive my blessing in Aramaic.

What did he say? I never knew

One day he wasn't there 

Every Friday has been empty since.

5/3

She stands  by the grave.  He died six centuries ago.

"Bring me a child," she moans - and bribes him with money and honey.

"Circle seven times my grave ....  and laugh.   Laughing brings children."

                                                                                      sic:  Isaac

9/3

The Bride stood under the canopy and knew it was wrong. She looked into the eyes of her true love who did not stand beside her.  Heart traitor her blood sang.   She extended her hand for the ring 

and gave away her life

      But gained a daughter.

7/4

Under the palm trees, by the blue, coral waters they took their little baby;  let her crawl spider-style, naked, merging with sand, wind and waves.

.......stupid parents, thoughtless people, you'll lose the child, she'll get bitten, eaten, stolen...........

The child grew tall, strong and well - into a young woman - with distant memories of freedom in her soul - hands and knees in sand, eye level with coral waters.

8/5

Night-time prayers.  Send them free and the angels will pick them up.  They hover, you know, waiting.  She lifted her eyes, kissed her hands and prayed for the daughter in the army, at the front.

4/6

The dead face on the television screen.  A passport photograph or perhaps an army shot.

How old?   Sweet eighteen - never nineteen.

I hold your hand, child.  Die bravely.

That is what they will say - while your mother weeps.

3/7

Shots, shouts - silence.  Running feet.  Cries and screams and now the siren of the ambulance.

The moans of the wounded.  Fear - sick, cold and wet.  Run away too.   Fear -my feet move

taking me into the debris.

Go home           Go home          now

10/8

It was over and begun again.  Life lets go and carries on and the desert sands still swirl and the donkey blinks.   Blessings come in many forms and sometimes only stay awhile.  Blessings while they last, until the sand reclaims what has always been hers, and the star overhead stays lit and does not go out.

  

Jerusalem; Galilee; Negev

CHURCH

The fragrance is thick. Audrey imagines a thin, blue cloud swirling into her lungs. This is contested ground. At each corner of the sanctuary, separated by wooden screens of one sort or another, guards smile. The Coptic guard there; the Catholic guard next door. Here the Orthodox, there the Protestant. Audrey imagines God prepared for an operation by these theological surgeons, each ready to cut along his own dotted line. She remembers Solomon and the baby, She bites a cuticle and shifts her backpack.

GARDEN

They say that some of the olive trees are two thousand years old, and for the religious Christian tourists, that information itself is almost holy. They breathe out quietly: "Here, maybe," one says, touching the arthritic trunk of one of the oldest -- or at any rate ugliest -- of the trees. Maybe here Jesus prayed. Audrey has no idea who the "they" that "say" are, but she avoids this place except when the tour buses have gone. How do you live in a city that everyone else imagines?

MARKET

Her favorite vendor sells cucumbers: "Meh-la-fa-fo-neem!" he growls, waving his hand in the air. "Meh-la-fa-fo-neem!" This is the richest place in the city, ripe with the tang and sweetness beneath the skins of a thousand lemons, a thousand berries. At the edge of a poor neighborhood, in back of the narrow alleys of the ultra-orthodox, here there is only plenty, exuberance of color, and ripe, naked fruit. It has been the favorite place to bomb, not for the produce but for the people, bursting their skins, letting their juices cover the ground.

POOL

Which stones would she cast here? Anger. Bitterness. Envy. She watches from above as men and boys approach the water for tashlich. But even if she were to hurl the stones in her heart out of a boat in the middle of Galilee or miles out from Jaffa? Surely they would only drop to the bottom and shift, grinding against others' grief and hatred.

MOUNTAIN

A mountain, really no more than a hillside, but the orange trees have come into flower and the air is sweet with a perfume that is heady only because it is real. Until she came to this country, she had smelled that honeyed fragrance only from the necks of dime store bottles. This hillside is where Christ preached, they say, and this is where Mussolini built his ghastly church, the black excrescence high above the lake. Blessed are the orange blossoms, for they do not last, but neither do they intentionally betray.

DESERT

Near Bethlehem, Herod's palace emerges out of the dust at a great distance. A giant anthill. High up, they say. So high that he could see his enemies on the horizon like so many sand flies. Could prepare for them with his multitude of weaponry. What if I had seen it coming, Audrey wonders. Does a man's heart look like an army of insets if it marches forward to harm you? Herod was paranoid, they say. As if trusting were wisdom.

Fucking (Taboo Exercise from Weds)

By the time I was seven, my mother had probably fucked every adult I knew. Everyone except perhaps old Richard, the skinny man with tobacco-stained lips who had both a cane and a shotgun and lived by himself in a shack below the pond. My father had also fucked every grown-up around, including Richard. Man, woman, skinny or fat, black or white, cute or ugly, the etiquette was to call it “fucking” and to try everybody at least once.

I didn’t much notice or care. None of us kids did. It affected us only in that it was another game we’d play down at the old barn. Besides rocket ship and horses and kings and queens, we’d play fucking. Lying naked, stiff as boards, on top of each other, we’d try not to laugh. That corner of the barn was where Milky, one of the wild cats, had delivered her kittens and it always smelled like fur and damp hay. For a second or two we’d feel someones hipbones pushing into our belly or a knee poking into our thigh. Then we’d start to feel too squished or ticklish and we’d run off to go make a maze through the hay or go swim in the pond.

Sometimes, for organizational purposes, we’d line up girls and boys, other times youngest to oldest. It didn’t matter much, for we were always an odd number and fucking wasn’t even our favorite game. Our favorite game was to climb to the second story of the barn and then jump out of the window, a huge mountain of hay strategically placed below to break our fall.

Our other favorite game, especially when it was cold outside, was to sit around and talk about sugar: the best kinds of candy, what ice cream flavor you’d pick if you could have just one; we’d spend whole afternoons like this. I told the story again and again about the time someone came down the road with a pack of strawberry bubble gum. The grown-ups hid it and a few of us found it above the bookshelf and split the whole pack, just the three of us.

Late at night on the knoll, while drumming and peyote kept the grown-ups occupied and the stars were so bright we had to squint, we’d nestle our sleeping bags close together and whisper about the chocolate chips hidden in the back of the kitchen larder. We wished we were brave enough to scramble down the hill by moonlight, sneak into the kitchen and then open the door to the cool larder, darker even than the night outside, and make our way, hands grazing burlap sacks of brown rice, chickpeas, and black beans, until we’d reach the very back where the chocolate chips were waiting.

In summer, the sugar talk died down because there was so much fruit. Naked bodies everywhere—and watermelon! Walking across the rim of the pond to my mother it was hard not to trip on all those penises. Black or reddish orange, brown or pink, they were all such strangely lifeless lumps. The vaginas were better. Still at eye level, but mostly hidden behind curls. It was only when the women squatted down to pee, or bent over to pick up something left behind, that I’d get a glimpse of all the complications inside.

By the end of the summer, I’d turned seven and now it was only the older kids changing bodies that interested me. The kids that had taught us how to light fire to curled manzanita bark (raising the burning wood to our lips and loving the smell before we began the fits of coughing) were now going off in small groups on their own. We couldn’t find them anymore to ask them to play and when we did, they’d shrug, or say yes, and then soon forget us standing there. They still came to the pond, though. It was too hot to spend the whole day without getting wet. But now they kept their clothes on until right before they dove in. I’d get just a glimpse of a few black sprouted hairs, oddly drawn against pale skin or a blur of small breasts that drew in tightly at the nipples, like badly blown balloons. I wanted them to stand still, but they’d streak past and be gone, swallowed up by the pond. The water breaking then resolving back to it’s smooth surface. Their bodies just shadows below.

Short Sequences

From atop the brilliant structure, the city of Paris sparkled with its colorful lights. The busy street noises could not be heard from this high up. The arguments and deadlines all came to a halt. Everything looked pristine and neat. In the distance the Sacre Coeur glowed in its white light. The Seine River peacefully carried boats of tourists. Notre Dame’s belles were so faintly heard from the peak of the Eiffel Tower. I point out all the Parisian landmarks with complete ecstasy.

~ ~ ~

The grass is cool against my skin. We sit and admire the spectacular light show. The entire tower is completely engulfed by sparkling lights. Tourists and natives alike pause to see the glimmering tower. Some watch in awe. Others mutter about their tired feet. Some distance away a baby cries. Someone is hungry nearby. With the abundance of people around the tower, it’s hard not to be sucked into their conversations. While someone is laughing merrily by the fence, another couple argues about money or direction or something. I am only the silent observer sitting underneath the tower’s beauty.
“It’s not coming out correctly in my pictures!” I hear someone say.

~ ~ ~

There in our hotel room we collapse wearily into our beds.
“The weather is awful!”
“It’s humid and I need a shower!”
“We’ve been walking all day and my feet are aching!”
In the summer heat, everyone has become rather unpleasant. I sit and sigh, my travel book open, and I try to read.
There in a foreign city, all the comforts of home are gone. My own bed, my own shower, my own reminders of home. Instead, the luggage’s stand against the walls. Our toiletries line the bathroom counter. My personal space now includes three others. My bed doesn’t feel friendly.

~ ~ ~

Alas, I am alone. It is peaceful and quiet in my head. The surrounding tourists blur together and all I hear is me. The beautiful Italian ruins are reminders of the history of years ago. Their legacies and their mistakes. I bask in the beauty of the architecture as I am alone with my camera. A couple interrupts my reverie and asks if I can take a picture for them. I happily oblige and upon their thanks, I return to my personal bubble, intoxicated by the sheer excitement that I and the travelers around me feel. The amazing walls that have crumbled and weathered away show no signs of weakness. Their immense size, though beaten and damaged, stand ever so tall with their stories ready to be told. I close my eyes and listen.

~ ~ ~

The metal bars and gates are clear indications of the day and age we are in. everyone has a digital camera glued to their hands. What a different view it must be to see the brilliance of man in a two by three inch screen. I steadily climb the rugged steps of the Coliseum eager to absorb in all that has occurred here. The fights, the crowds screaming, the Emperor with his bemused smile. Then I stop and wonder what all these tourists are thinking. The immense capacity of man’s intellect. The power of man’s strength. All of it combined right here, right now. Thousands of years’ work present here all in the same place under the same sky.

~ ~ ~

There is a stone hallway in which I rejoin my fellow companions. Water bottles in one hand, cameras in the other, their faces show signs of exhaustion from the walking and the heat. I smile brilliantly in return.

Back on the Horse (Incorporating Someone Else's Dream)

“Incorporating a dream”/Getting Back on the Horse

The night after I almost drowned, I dreamed of drowning. It took much longer than I remembered and the river currents that had, during the day, been merciless, at night were gentle and comforting, coaxing me under. During the day, a small girl had panicked in the water and wrapped herself around me, inadvertently pinning my arms. When I struggled to free myself, she clung more tightly, and screamed. Down we went.

At night, the child was still there, her arms still wrapped tight, but she was quiet enough that I could hear the rush of the river filling my ears and the aborted shout in my own throat as water filled my mouth. Separated from air and sun, the current carried us down. Our upper bodies melded but our four lower limbs floated free behind us, as if dancing.

There was music. Not a typical funeral dirge, or even Brahms, but something that sounded like the melody of a popular television theme song. Something that stirred up sentiment not because it was good but because it was so reassuringly familiar.

When I woke the next morning it was as sunny as every day in August and we returned to the river. The day before, my mother had heard the girl’s scream and dove in after us, catching us on the river bottom and carrying us to shore on her back like a large turtle. Today, she said, it was time to “get back on the horse.” I splashed and played with the little girl for long enough that my mother was reassured. Then we got out and had lunch.

That night I dreamed again of drowning. The theme music was louder and began even before we’d gotten in the water. The current pulled us under. This night it was insistent, heavy-handed, pushing us down and then staying there on top of us, heavy. The little girl was blonder than before. She seemed to be wearing a light pink blush and a little lipstick, but perhaps it was just the light.

In the morning, we put on our bathing suits and sun screen while my mother packed lunch. At the river, we swam and played. At lunch, the young girl and I quarreled over the sandwiches. One had gotten soggy and neither of us wanted that one.

That night, I dreamed the forest was burning. I was on a log ride, sitting alone in the hallowed wood as it made it’s way up to the top of the chute. I could see the blue pines and madrones, their tips red with fire. Then, the log tipped forward, the chlorinated water spashing up onto the boat, and I raised both arms as I began my descent.

Going Under

You go, out. Like someone shut you off at the mains. One minute you're rattling down the hall on a gurney and the next minute there's a huge light in your face, a sun from somewhere else that's shining on you like they were going to extract information. You can feel the poke in your hand and the bruising push when they get the needle into a vein. And they tape the needle to you. You worry that they haven't given you enough juice, that you'll stay like this, feeling like a warm marshmallow, instead of going under. That you'll have to scream when they start to cut. So you try to tense up against the blade that you know is up there somewhere, but your stomach muscles have gone on leave.

And you do go, out. Like some big New York City power failure, all systems down. And you know it not because you feel a slide or a drop but because you're back again, all of a sudden, and if you're back, well, then you must have gone right off that cliff of consciousness.

When you get back, it's not like waking up, where wisps of what you were dreaming stay for a minute and then drift away. It's like somebody took a chunk out of your whole world. "Back then" is completely adjacent to "right now." And the pain. It isn't like then, in your hand, even though you're still hooked up to that jellyfish bag on a pole. Now it's your gut you can feel, heavy and stiff and old, tight in its bandages. And your throat sticks to itself, and your tongue has expanded while you were away so that now it fills your whole mouth.

So all you can do is bray for a nurse. Because you do and you don't want the doctor to tell you what they found while they were inside that missing piece of your time, cutting out whatever they finally found that doesn't belong. And you sure as hell wish somebody would come say something. Now that the power's back on, you really want to know.

Special Shoes (a foreigner's perspective)

Mr. El-Baz knew how to use his feet. Having relied on them as his main mode of transportation for most of his life, they were the one appendage that had not let him down. Leaving his brother-in-laws brick tenement building, his only directions had been to turn left and go straight until he had seen enough then turn around and retrace his steps. A religious zealot, his brother-in-law had no interest to explore a city so corrupted by sin. Mr. El-Baz wrapped his coat around his thin shoulders, turned left into the bitter wind and headed towards the heart of the city. A light snow began to fall as Mr.El-Baz passed a large green park lined by tall Mulberry trees, freshly dusted in crystalline powder. A few hundred yards away he saw what looked like heavily bundled people flying back and forth and round and round on a big flat pure white stone. Veering off course, Mr. El-Baz approached the flyers and squatted down by the edge of the circle feeling the ice with his ungloved hand. Mothers and fathers straddle frightened toddlers moving slowly, speaking in soothing tones. Young girls and boys joyfully shouted taunts as they pulled each other into their own respective vortexes of fun. Hand in hand, little girls flew by him singing beautiful folk songs. Stepping out on the ice to follow the beautiful sound, Mr. El-Baz soon realized he did not have the special shoes. Sliding towards the center of the rink, his steadfast feet gave way and down he went with a painful thud, knocking the back of his head on the ice. Momentarily dazed, Mr. El-Baz opened his eyes to see an official with a long white beard and thick red suit approach him. Frightened and embarrassed, Mr. El-Baz reached for his papers, not wanting to make any additional trouble. After examining his head, the official led him to the edge of the rink, laughing in a deep voice, and patting Mr. El-Baz on the shoulder. “Merry Christmas” he said as he sailed off. Mr. El-Baz held out his papers, that was not his name.

Octopassion (taboo exercise)

Two weeks ago, Mrs Greer, a widow with no children, agreed to take her young nieces to the aquarium. While the two girls ran ahead chattering with excitement Mrs Greer took her time, peering into each tank and feigning curiosity. Honestly she would have preferred a flower show.

And then it had happened—the experience she (privately) referred to ever after as the true beginning of her life. Mrs Greer had visited the aquarium at least ten times since then. Maybe more. She always returned to the same rectangular tank, and each time found herself more enthralled by what she found there. Glistening iridescent skin, sinuous tentacles, a gracefully bobbing head, and those eyes—bright and penetrating, eyes of extraordinary intelligence. This was no insensate fish; the octopus staring back at her had a mind, it had memories and emotions. From the first she never doubted it.

Mrs Greer put a finger on the glass, and on the other side, in the very same spot, the octopus placed the tip of a purple tentacle. It was their ritual. Each alone, yet together. As she met the creature's gaze she felt her cheeks flush and her chest constrict. When had she last been looked at in this way, what man had known her—had wanted to know her—so deeply and so well?

Mrs Greer looked around. It was late in the day, near closing time. She dipped a hand in the water and the octopus extended a tentacle. When they made contact she felt an electric shock of pleasure so acute she had to stop herself from plunging into the water. The octopus unfurled another tentacle. It was holding a lump of red coral; a gift. Mrs Greer's eyes misted over as she gently accepted the coral. There had been other gifts; a strand of shimmering kelp, a green pebble, the jet-black eye of a fish. She kept these treasures wrapped in silk in her jewelry box.

At night alone in her bed, Mrs Greer could hardly bear the pain of their separation. Those tentative daytime touches were not enough; she craved the embrace of all eight tentacles, imagined the exquisite sensation of the tiny suction cups on her bare skin, the beaklike mouth plucking gently at her earlobes. Mrs Greer knew that her octopus, having spent its life exploring secret caves and crevices, would eagerly investigate the most secret spaces of her body, and she cursed the chilly water and unforgiving Plexiglas that kept them apart.

"Logical Illogic"

All twelve of his ears burned when the suns collided. It happened all too often, or so the boy thought. It was a rite of passage, they said, it wouldn’t be that bad. But it seemed as the suns had a different agenda. It was as if the suns found humor in his dismal state. For everyone else, the suns’ collisions were a sight to behold, a reason to celebrate. But while everyone was dancing and singing in merriment, John’s ears burned with incomparable fury.

It was now three weeks since the last collision. With his ears still healing from its last unfortunate singe, john took solace in the peaceful hours when the moons pranced in the sky. John feared the day when the moons would fall away and the suns would collide again. It was only a matter of days. No one knew when it’d happen, but everyone was eager to see the spectacular sight. All but John. The mere thought of his twelve beautiful ears burning as the sky had its festivities caused his bones to shake.

“There must be a way to end this!” he grumbled.

With his bandaged ears, he set off to end his suffering. While everyone else had plants sprout from their palms, or water ooze from their pores, or something cool like that, John got stuck with burning ears. Not just one burning ear, or even a burning finger because that could come in handy at times, no, John had all twelve of his ears burn when the suns collided. Every single time too. Even his sister had fishes come out of her with each collision.

Least that had some economic value, he angrily thought. But burning ears? His head was literally on fire!

The following day as the seven moons drifted off into the horizon, the suns began their funny little dance. Below them, john felt his ears begin to twitch…

After Birth (First Sentence Exercise)

The baby clung to the vibrant motherstrand that floats in the air, sending glints of starlight out into the black night.

She had thought birth would be the hardest part: the head compressing as her skeletal plates overlapped, the tearing of her amniotic sac, and her body thrust into contact with blood, mucus, shit. The birth is what she had prepared for during her time in utero (exact time uncertain, no clocks in there, certainly no calendars). Her eyes, while still shut, had learned to differentiate light and dark. The webbing between her fingers had disappeared and her fingernails grown. Although she had not yet tasted air (her lungs still contracted like crumpled tissue paper), she had practiced slow meditative breaths to the pulse of the placental blood arriving through her umbilical cord.

Not once had she felt alone or unsure of herself. In the womb, each cell had whispered with the wisdom of the infinite births that had come before hers. Keep your chin down coming through the canal, they'd advised. Don't open your mouth until you know you're out. She had been coddled and sung to, had slept to the stories of ancestral labors. And only when her own cells had grown plump with knowledge and the walls of her heart become sinewy and strong, was it her turn to begin the journey outward.

All of that wisdom was no use to her now. Birth was not, as she had believed, the end of the story. Her fingers dug deeper into the motherstrand. She had been cosseted and fattened if not for the slaughter than at least for this, the unknown. Her skin was prickly in the night air. She inhaled her first breath of cold starlight. As her lungs expanded and her nostrils flared, she let out a howel, long and loud. Then, startled by the beauty of the unmuffled sound of her own voice, she loosened her grip on the motherstrand and discovered the immeasurable exhiliration of flying, falling, free.

Lago (first sentence exercise)

The second sunrise was ringed by a red haze that morning, as all second sunrises were. The first sunrise, always a moonspan before the second, cast electric blue light streaks across the verdant surface of Lago, fading to salmon pink shortly before its sister sunrise. We called the two suns Ameega and Maya, after the goddesses of joy and wonder.

Minstral was fluttering above the purple branches of the forest watching the second sunrise that morning. She was used to seeing the red haze, but noticed an unusual second ring, a barely visible emerald strand like the roots of a baby’s hair, and remarked on it to Virsal.

“The sign of the third coming,” Virsal said.

“The third coming?”

“Yes, the third coming of the mothership. An auspicious day.”

Minstral was born after the second coming and had only heard of the mothership through stories handed down by the eldresses sung at birth parties and high holidays.

“Shouldn’t we tell someone?” she asked.

“Oh, the eldresses will have seen the sign by now. But we’ll need to be at the grand steps by the fifth moonspan. It’s required of all winged and hoofed citizens.”

And so began a new phase for the inhabitants of Lago, our quiet world disrupted by something as simple as an emerald ring at second sunrise.

Heartless (first-sentence exercise)

He saw them, vaporized in an instant, and knew the trajectory—the path of the corpuscle that served as his ship—had to be altered immediately.

By injecting a stream of microionized particulates into the corpuscle's nucleus, the captain was able to pilot the madly careening corpuscle back into the Carrier's vena cava and away from the pounding, frothing aorta. The captain waited until the pounding of his own heart had subsided before he sat down. The colorless darkness returned and so did the silence, punctuated by the vibration of the Carrier's pulse, a sensation so familiar it governed the rhythm of the captain's steps, the drumming of his fingertips on the console, the ebb and flow of his dreams. He held his breath and listened into the darkness, an old habit rewarded only by the ghosts of memory.

The captain had heard no voice but his own for fifteen years. For fifteen years he had navigated the Carrier's circulatory system; a solitary voyage that, he now knew, would be an eternal one. There would be no rescue. He had undertaken a fool's mission—to explore the mysteries of the human heart, journey to the very source of love and bring it back to a cold and loveless world. As a young man the captain had readily accepted the mission. What choice was there? The world outside the Carriers, though still bright with sunlight, was drained of warmth and meaning, the hearts of the human race as empty of love as the skies had been emptied of birds.

turtles in space

Dear everyone,

I am not on drugs.  Really.

As the last rocket ship's fire faded orange into black, the crowd turned and scuttled home.  It was as if their euphoria had given way to nervous apprehension.  For 300 years they waited for the independence, for the turtles to give up their colony and return to their home planet.  But now, who would keep the peace when riots broke out?  Who would drive the economy?  Who would finish the half-completed solar sanitation system?

Nobody worried more about these questions than Blorak.  As chief administrator of the Yar Yar tribe, he had orchestrated the turtles' departure.  It hadn't been hard to do, really.  The turtles were already sick of the freezing, desolate Yar Yar landscape.  There was nothing good to eat.  And the turtles, though sometimes cruel and unyielding, were also cultured.  They had tried to introduce the beauty of their music, but the Yar Yar, who scuttled everywhere at hyper speed, had no patience for the slow--what they called plodding--pace of the turtle symphony.

"They are hopeless," the king turtle had said as he signed the separation agreement.  "They are barbaric.  Let them fend for themselves."

Blorak knew, even as he watched the document being signed, that he had probably made a mistake.  He didn't think the turtles would actually leave.  He was unaware that they had secretly decided to withdraw long before Blorak began his negotiations.  And now, as he realized that all security was gone, and that it was only a matter of time before the looting began, he felt like a fool.

Blorak's wife, Plonkrat, had already confirmed that he was an idiot.  She had pleaded with him to reverse course, to entice the turtles to stay.  Plonkrat was wise--a Yar Yar with vision.  She had also been having a two year affair with a sentry turtle.  She craved him now, how he took his sweet time with his slow moving tongue.  More than this, though, she worried about her children Beergup and Zizifit.  their school would go to hell now.  Not even the kind turtle teachers, who were actually committed to Yar Yar kids, had been permitted to stay.  Plonkrat shuddered when she thought about her children's future.  What type of work would they get without a proper education?  She clenched all ten of her fists and screamed through her blow hole.

Day 1 Exercise - POV Shift (though mine's really verb tense shift)

Otto got up every morning and walked to work, his sneakers squeaking like a metronome as he headed down Forest Avenue with a right on Ohio Street, left on Middle and right on Fashion Drive. When he first moved to town a decade ago, he sniggered at the name Fashion Drive with its Kelly-Moore paint shop, Ace hardware store, and Carl’s auto shop.

“Fashion indeed,” he used to say out loud to himself in his New York accent.

He always waved to Benny at the corner newsstand as he turned off Ohio, giving an a-okay sign with his fingers. Why he never stopped to pick up the daily newspaper from Benny was a source of conversation by those who knew Otto’s routine; instead he took an extra five minutes to stop at the Right-Aid drugstore two doors down from the auto shop. And today was no different as Otto pushed open the glass door promptly at 7:50.

Who is that new girl, Otto mutters as he looks over at the counter, expecting to see Alice in the white shirt she always wears. He has been saying, “Good morning Alice” every day for five years, and as the phrase slips out he catches himself before uttering the word Alice. The girl looks up with a youthful smile, her white teeth making her face sparkle.

“And a good morning to you too, sir,” she says.

Otto notices a faint southern twang and the long dark hair pulled into a ponytail and is reminded of his first wife the day they met in the high school cafeteria. He realizes it would have been their seventeenth wedding anniversary today. Overwhelmed by the thought, he walks out of the store, stands on the sidewalk staring into space, and heads back down Fashion Drive towards Benny’s newsstand.

- END -

Note: Exercise starters were auto mechanic for vocation, and he always bought the NY Times in a drugstore rather than the newsstand for unusual behavior.

Welcome to Fiction that Breaks the Mold

Please feel free to post your exercises here. You should feel no pressure at all to post your work, but I've found in the past that many students have enjoyed reading and responding to one another's writing. I do ask that you limit yourself to work that was begun in class and inspired by one of the exercises I assigned (though absolutely feel free to expand upon work we've begun in class and post as many pages as you'd like).