A Random Memory

This is the first part of what will hopefully be a nine-part entry in the River of Mnemosyne challenge that’s going on over at The Tenth Daughter of Memory.

Sunlight glints under a clear blue sky, glistens in long chestnut hair that frames a pale, perfect face.

She stands in front of me, smiling, eyes bright and shining. Long, elegant fingers hold her mortarboard in small, fine-boned hands as she leans in to kiss me. “Hi, Mommy.”

So tiny, so happy, so proud.

The scent of vanilla, coconut, and lily of the valley tickles my nose, tightens my chest with memory. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

“That’s ok.” Her lips slide into a quiet smile, and I see the echoes of the child in the exquisite young woman she has become. “We just have to go.”

She turns and I fall into step. The staccato click of her stiletto heels pounds a backbeat on the pavement as we make our way over to State Street.

It’s more crowded here now, as we thread our way through the ebb and flow of the masses, the sea of black robes bobbing and weaving among the bodies wrapped in brightly colored fabric and finery.

The warm, mid-afternoon breeze stirs memories of late spring and the sun on my skin brings a full-body feeling of joy that anchors itself deep in my cells. An undercurrent of anticipation hums in the sun-warmed air like electricity.

I resist the urge to slide my hand around hers as we thread our way through the crushing throng. Once I had slowed, waited, her tiny hand in my mine as little legs struggled to keep up. Now I push hard not to slow her down as the rush hour traffic crawls by.

We catch a light and cross the street. The sounds of the city slip away as we climb the stairs to East Hall, push through the shiny glass and steel doors for our first stop on the evening’s program.

She herds me gently through the hallway into line.

I hate myself in pictures. They shame me. My hair is still pulled back in my teacher bun. It’s shot through with grey. There’s no makeup on my face to cover the unevenness of my skin, and I’m still in my teacher clothes.

But when she presses close I smile dutifully as our moment is captured for posterity. And then we’re off, down another hallway filled with bodies milling and gathering.

Her hand on my arm stops me and a long, elegant forefinger finds her name on the list on the wall, her achievements there for all to see.

I take the picture this time, so very careful to capture the cap and gown and the gentle curve of her smile as she stands there and I see her at five, so tiny, so happy, so proud, handing me her handprint for the refrigerator.

The memory shoots straight to my heart, my chest tightens and I can’t breathe. I lower the camera, hold it out to her.

She drops it into her bag without looking. “Want to get something to eat?”

I blink once and swallow, paint on my own smile. “Sure.”

We move down the hall shoulder to shoulder, make our way into the Psychology Atrium.

Crystal and silver gleam in the soft light spilling on white-robed tables, the dull murmur of muted conversation hums in the background as we follow the line snaking toward the Third Floor Terrace buffet.

************************

The wind’s picked up. There’s a chill in the air and the clear blue sky has given way to a purple-pink as the sun slides lower on the horizon.

We flow with the river of people, down the sidewalk, up the white stone steps warmed by the last of the dying sun, into the Mendelssohn Theatre.

Soft, yellow light spills over the solid oak paneling, pools on the marble floor, the weight of a century of history and tradition pressing down on us as we negotiate our way down the hall for the evening’s La Celebración Latina.

There’s another line and more pictures. She slides her arm around my waist as mine goes around hers and we smile. The photographer shows us what we will look like and then we’re off, moving into a private dining room just off the hallway.

Another line, another buffet, set up along the far wall. There’s a trio playing softly in the corner of the room as we thread our way between the small groups of people seated around small-circle tables and those standing in groups.

I can tell that we’re late by what’s left on the table. I skip the salads and find the deserts, pull something that’s chocolate onto my plate, and turn, run my eyes over the room searching for a seat.

It’s been a long day. I’m tired and my feet hurt.

I find her. She’s found her friends.

Plate in hand, I watch her, the child who used to sit in my lap, and it’s a strange kind of time travel. She moves with such self-assured grace, quick kisses and hugs for everyone.

And when I look at her I see my life, my love, my dreams, my hope, the very best of me.

Her eyes come up and find me, and a delicate hand waves.

She introduces me to her friends, Roxanna and Paula, Claudia and Monica and their mothers from Ecuador and Venezuela and Mexico who don’t speak English.

I smile and nod and extend my hand and wonder what they’ve given up, what they’ve gone without to get their daughters here.

They’re calling us to line up again, parents and family in one line, graduates in another room. I check her cap and gown again before she leaves me and find my dutiful place in line.

We move in lockstep down the hall and into the darkened theatre. Running lights on the floor and the glow of the sconces on the walls guide us. I duck out of line and into a seat at the back of the theatre as the river of people flows past me.

The music starts and we stand, eyes glued to the doorways. My eyes run over the processional and finally she’s there, so tiny, so happy, so proud.

I blink against the crystalline sheen in my eyes as I take my seat and the speakers begin.

Welcome. Opening remarks. The student and keynote speakers. The awards.

I float on a river of memory. The images play in vivid technicolor and soundless, seamless progression in my mind, punctuated only by the sounds of laughter and applause.

And then it’s time. The Class stands and their names are called, loud and clear.

Tomorrow her father and brothers will sit beside me in the Big House for all the pomp and circumstance befitting a graduation. Tonight I sit wrapped up in my memories in the stillness and dark of an auditorium.

I hear her name and watch my little girl walk across the stage.

Award!

PW over at Piedmont Writer gave me this award so a big thank you to her. Now I have to try and come up with one word answers. Here goes:

Your cell phone: rarely
Your hair: dyed
Your mother: dead
Your father: dead
Your favorite food: comfort
Your dream last night: none
Your favorite drink: tea
Your dream goal: writer
What room you are in: computer
Your hobby: writing
Your fear: success/failure
Where you see yourself in six years: older
Where you were last night: home
Something you aren't: vivacious
Muffins: yes
Wish list item: home office
Where did you grow up: Chicago
Last thing you did: make dinner
What are you wearing: sweats
Your tv: which one?
Your pets: none
Friends: real 12, online lots
Your life: exhausting
Your mood: down
Missing someone: not really
Vehicle: Pontiac
Something you aren't wearing: hat
Your favorite store: Pottery Barn
Your favorite color: black
When was the last time you laughed: hysterically?
Last time you cried: can’t remember
Your best friend: Jaime
One place you go over and over: my head
Facebooking: sometimes
Favorite place to eat: diners

And there you have it. My list. I have to pass this on so it goes to:

Eva at Writing Between the Lines because she likes shiny things. :)

TGIF

It’s Friday of another long, brutal week. And once again my brain is fried. But I’ve been thinking about voice and POV, and so I leave you with 915 words of an experiment in second person.
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You know it’s your fault. You know it when you look at her. When you watch her, knowing that she doesn’t know you’re there.

You remember kissing her, promising her things that you couldn’t possibly ever give her.

Life. Love. Hope. Happiness.

A promise that everything would be all right.

You lied.

You remember kissing her, the familiar tingle of electricity shooting from the tips of your hair straight down your spine to curl your toes.

Almost.

You remember holding her on your lap, pressed tightly to you, arms and legs and lips tangled. Feeling her under your hand as her body collapsed against yours.

It’s been five years.

Life goes on.

You remember promising her love, kissing her with all the passion, hope, truth you still had left to offer her to seal your covenant, putting your mother’s ring on her finger.

Love endured.

She is yours and you are hers. Finally. Always. It’s as simple and as honest as that. You’ll follow her anywhere, beside her all the way. You won’t be left behind.

But there are ghosts here. Her. You. Your unborn child who lingers in the walls, whispers in the silence and the shadows, echoes in your heartbeat.

You step into your room. Not quietly like you used to, when she used to hear you. You don’t have to be quiet anymore.

She doesn’t hear you.

You wonder what she thinks. What she sees when she searches that blank void with dead eyes.

Can she see him? There in the cobweb of memory? Your eyes, her hair, your wits, her skills?

Everything that isn’t. Wasn’t. Wouldn’t ever be.

You see untold stories, a fairy tale with a happily ever after, untossed balls, and laughter. You remember laughter. With her.

You don’t think she does.

You come to stand behind her, rest your hands on her shoulders and she shifts away, tries to hide something.

You know what it is. A possibility. Taken a life time ago. The image black and white and grainy. A small thing, really. No bigger than your thumbprint.

Something beautiful you both still remember.

It was more.

You take the picture from her gently; lay it reverently on the table next to her brush. You turn her in your arms, skim your fingertips lightly down her arms, and entwine your hands.

She’d loved you, given you your future, and a happiness you’d only dreamed of.

You let your fingers move to circle her waist, brushing lightly against satin skin as you lift the hem of her shirt. She puts her arms up obediently and you slide it off, toss it into the corner.

You’ll get it tomorrow.

You broke her. You’d tried to fix her, but she was never the same. She’s your dead girl walking.

But you’d grinned your half-assed grin at her, pressed your lips to her scars, and watched her paint on her porcelain smile, shroud her bruised eyes.

And then you broke her some more.

It’s what you did.

What you couldn’t fix, you broke. And every day with you, you watched her die a little more, killing yourself.

Tears like rain, flowing like wine, like the sky bleeding.

Your fingertips slide down the silky trail of her spine, under the waistband of her pants and around. You undo the fastener and zipper as you gently kiss her mouth, rest your forehead against hers, and breathe the same air.

You slide the leathers over her hips to pool on the floor at her feet.

You take her hands again and she steps out of them. Long, pale legs and still graceful, she stands before you. You still think she is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.

The more you wanted to fix her, the more you broke her.

It’s what you were good at.

She’s the only thing you’ve ever been afraid of losing. You’re here. She’s here. You won’t waste another second of time apart from her.

You’ll go down with your ship.

You sit her down in the chair and begin your nightly ritual.

You breathe deep as you run the brush through the waterfall of ebony that cascades down her back. You’ve always loved running your fingers through that river of silk, the scent and feel of it.

She hasn’t brushed her own hair in five years.

It’s all kinds of wrong, on all kinds of levels. Different shades of grey.

But it’s everything you always wanted. Everything you’d ever dreamed.

Your perfect circle.

You want to live with her. Want to give her what she needs. You want her to know that.

Touch. Warmth. Strength. Connection.

You’ll never let anything ever come between you again.

You put the brush down, pull her up close and wrap her in your arms. She nuzzles at your chest. It’s almost like she’s searching for your heart, where it should be but isn’t.

She’d taken it the first time you’d laid eyes on her.

Beautiful. It’s what she is. What she’s always been. What she always will be to you.

You lead her to bed, lay yourself down beside her. She nestles in your arms, scoots herself back. You spoon yourself around her, hand tangled in her hair, her back to your chest, your legs tangled in hers.

“We’re gonna be okay.”

Hope.

It’s not a lie, just a necessary untruth. She believes it because she trusts you fully.

Happiness.

You whisper a kiss into her hair and close your eyes.

My first blog award

Roni over at Fiction Groupie gave me this Happy 101 Award so here’s a big shout out and my thanks to her. I’m supposed to make my happy list, so here it is.

10 Things that make me happy:

1. My hubby and kids
2. My friends
3. My students
4. Reading
5. Writing
6. Learning
7. Teaching
8. Chocolate
9. Carbs
10. Flying

And I’m supposed to pass it on, so I'm passing this along to these blogs that make me happy...

Eva at Writing Behind the Lines
Piedmont Writer
Carol at Carol’s Prints
Lotus Rising
Amy at She Writes

Reading all of these lovely people makes me very happy indeed. So thanks again to Roni, and go check out my happy places. :)

All about everything

The Hathor Legacy has a fascinating interview with Robert V.S. Redick, who wrote The Red Wolf Conspiracy and its sequel, The Rats and the Ruling Sea. It’s a long, but really, really interesting read covering everything from narrative structure and writing choices, to research and world building, to POV, to theme and character and voice.

I was particularly happy to read about his choices for framing his narrative, as I’m thinking, and have been thinking, of framing mine with journal entries. I was also really thrilled with his words about the value of an honest narrative, and about writing as a labor of love.

All in all it’s just a fascinating tale of his journey to professional writer which really made me feel good when I was finished reading it. Since not much makes me feel all that good lately, I thought that was a pretty good thing.

So go check it out.

Fear and focus

I'm a disciplined, dedicated person. I know what I have to do, and I know what I have to do to get it done.

I subscribe more to the 'sit down and figure it out then write' theory than I do to a muse. I subscribe to the theory that writer's block is really just fear. Fear of failure. Fear of success. I have them both in spades and sometimes they just paralyze me.

And as I'm trying to be more disciplined in my writing, do more writing on a more regular basis, I've ping-ponged between my fears.

I think I can write. Short stories and novels. I have two novels that are WIPs and one completed novel that could be rewritten, if I felt up to the heavy lifting, into something I think would be marketable. I have tons of bits and pieces that could be fitted into a coherent something.

Whatever comes though, I need to focus.

How about you? Discipline or muse? Biggest fear in writing? How do you focus?

On the naming of names

I hate naming things. Kids, characters, anything.

I drove people, mostly my husband, nuts when I had to come up with names for our four kids. They had to be a certain number of syllables, had to be from certain groups of names I had already chosen, had to flow with the sound of our last name, blah, blah, blah.

I'm happy with how it all turned out, but I find that my hate on of naming continues. I hate to name characters and love the use of pronouns.

He/She works for me. I've been told it can get hella confusing for readers though. So I'll ask you. How do you come up with names for your characters? Or titles for that matter? Cuz I suck at titles.

And having thusly ranted and left you questions to consider, I'll leave you with a small snippet of something.
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She’s been here a solar week, stalking her prey, before she finally decides on the killing ground. She knows the when, the how, and now the where.

She also knows the why; she just doesn’t care.

Objective.

She’s trailed him four times now, marked his route. He’s always in early and out late; straight shot, no stops. And he always uses the level risers to enter and exit the skyway that connects the spaceport with the high-rise tower that houses his small, low-level government minister’s office.

Mission.

At this point of convergence in time and space, she times it perfectly.

She knows the lower levels are empty, and smiles up at the wizened little man hurrying down as she climbs.

The landing is narrow where they meet, and she nods as he angles slightly to give her room enough to pass. She steps and pivots as her right hand pulls up her pistol and fires into the back of the little man’s head.

The suppressor is more than worth its cost. There isn’t a sound except the snick of the trigger as the man’s thin hair puffs out in a splash of pale pink and crimson.

She fires a second shot as the body begins to fall and follows it down; fires three more times into the head as legs and arms splay on the ground.

Execution.

Stepping over and away from the body, she heads back down the level risers and out into the quiet of a dark, empty street.

In less than an hour the planet’s twin suns will rise and she will be gone.