The lovely Amalia T. is hosting her Dream Sequence Blogfest today. Click here to read the other wonderful entries by some really great writers. As for mine? It's part of a bigger something written a while ago. Anyway, happy Friday. Enjoy the blogfest and your weekend.
Your hand wraps the gearshift and your foot flexes against the accelerator as you slip through the sleeping city.
“John, John, John…”
Green lights stretch out in front of you, beacons in the pitch black that presses in on you. Dark, dull buildings stand silent sentry, and a line of parking meters and naked trees mark your passing.
“What’s the matter Harve? You don’t like the ride?”
“On the contrary, John, I love the ride and I love riding shotgun.” A long arm reaches out and a forefinger stabs random buttons, surfing late night FM stations again. “It’s such a beautiful night.” He settles back against the leather seat and sighs. “The sky is as black as Zoë’s hair. You should really…”
“No, no, no, no, no.” You force your fingers to relax, give up their death grip on the steering wheel. “You do not get to talk to me about Zoë.”
His slow, Southern drawl hangs in the space between you. “She walks in beauty like the night…”
“Give it up, freak.” You bank your irritation, let it ride. “You have no idea…”
“Which way, John? Right or left?”
“What?”
“There’s a fork in the road up ahead.” Harvey waves a dismissive hand. “Which way? Right or left?
You pull the car gently to the right as he opens the glovebox and begins going through the contents.
“Someone has to make you see.”
“Let me guess.” You keep your eyes on the road, your voice flat. “That someone would be you?”
“You really should pay more attention to her, John. And to what you’re doing.” He shifts in his seat, cocks a thumb and forefinger at you. “I’m not your enemy.”
“Tell me the truth, Harve.” You slide a sideways glance at him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“You know I’m only here to protect you.” Mirror-flat eyes lock you in their line of sight. “Among other things.”
“Don’t worry about me, Harve.” You flick your eyes forward and stare hard, navigating by the spill of light from streetlamps. “I’ve got it covered.”
“Right or left, John?”
“What?”
“Right or left?”
Another turn off and the car drifts to the left. Suddenly you’re on the parkway.
“All roads lead to Zoë.”
“I’ve told you before.” You turn and give him your best double-barreled glare. “You do not get to talk to me about Zoë.”
“Clowns to the left of me, Jokers to the right…” He drums a back beat on the dashboard. “And there she is, stuck in the middle with you.”
“I know what you’re doing.” The cold in the pit of your stomach claws its way up and out, sets up camp in your chest. “It’s not going to work.”
“You know that I’m only trying to protect you.” He jabs a long, strong finger into your shoulder. “Among other things.”
“Haven’t you learned? You…are mistaken.” You roll tight shoulders, crack your neck, and blow out a harsh, jagged breath. “I don’t need your protection. Or your help.”
“Yes, John. I do learn from my mistakes.” The unpleasant smile curving his lips doesn’t reach his eyes. “Unlike you.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“So much you misunderstand about me.” The observation is friendly, almost. “As if I didn’t know what Zoë is to you. If I wanted to…”
“You stay away from her, you freakazoid son-of-a-bitch.” You think the growl you hear is you, your self-control slipping.
“Right or left?” Harvey points forward at the orange barrels almost immediately in front of you.
“Shit.” The sibilant hiss hangs in the sudden silence as you pull the car hard to the right, pissed because the freak next to you is settled comfortably riding shotgun while you’re sweating bullets and lost on an endless looping freeway.
“Champagne dreams, John. Reality escapes you.”
“I’m sorry you’re so disappointed.” You dig deep and find some control again. “What did you expect of me?”
“You to see reason. To be reasonable and to see the truth.”
“What truth would that be?”
“You can’t protect her, you know. You can’t be her savior.”
You wait a beat, try to breathe. “Fuck you.”
“Right or left?” Harvey shrugs and points again, forcing your attention forward.
The concrete divider is coming up fast.
The car veers sharply to the left and suddenly your heart is in your throat and your stomach is in knots as you hear and feel the sickening crunch of the body meeting the front end.
You see it launch in the headlights and come to rest as your foot tries to go through the floorboard on top of the brake and your arms lock in a wrestling match with the steering wheel.
The car fishtails and spins wildly to a halt at the side of the road and you are out of it and moving before conscious thought has returned.
“Oh god, oh god, oh god.”
You skid to your knees at the side of the mangled body, unaware of the blood pooling beneath it and staining your pants. Shaking with adrenaline and fear, brushing the long twisted hair from the join of neck and shoulders you reach out gently place two fingers at what should be the pulse point.
There is nothing.
Oh god, oh god, oh god. The refrain runs like a freight train through your head.
“John, John, John.” Harvey’s voice cuts through the white noise and screaming in your head. “You only see the curve, not the road ahead.”
“What?”
“You can’t protect her. You can’t be her savior.”
Your gut is sending a message your brain won’t accept as you reach trembling hands out to gather the broken and bloody body to you. Cradling the twisted and bent form against your chest, you reach up to gently brush the eerily familiar hair from an obscured face.
You wake drenched in sweat, cold and clammy, pulse roaring in your ears as you jackknife to a sitting position.
Zoë.
Showing posts with label weekend. Show all posts
Showing posts with label weekend. Show all posts
Friday, June 4, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Transitions
If I haven’t been commenting much or eloquently lately, my apologies. I haven’t been around much. And while I don’t normally talk much about personal things, I’m going to take this post to do just that.
You might remember my taking off for a weekend wedding in Chicago a couple of weeks ago. That trip was also a journey home to see my father-in-law. Not very long ago, he was diagnosed with cancer. He underwent chemo and radiation and when all was said and done, the doctors said he was cancer free.
That didn’t last long. When he got sick again, he was told that the cancer had spread and he was Stage 4. His timeline was 6-9 months. As it turns out, that was optimistic. About a month ago, my husband went with his mother and father to Mexico, where they had retired ten years ago, to sell their home and set their affairs in order.
My father-in-law got so sick down there my husband had to stay three extra days just to get him well enough to fly home. They took him to the hospital and were told his kidneys were failing. The weekend I went back for the wedding, I took my kids back to say good-bye to their grandfather.
I went from sitting in the oppressive grief of a house waiting for death to a wedding in Holy Name Cathedral, a majestic building, to an elegant restaurant overlooking the lake and sailboats back to sitting in a room listening to my father-in-law laboring to breathe.
We came back late on Sunday. Early on Tuesday, he died, and last weekend we went back for the funeral.
In the 27 years since my in-laws embraced me as part of their family, they’ve treated me as one of their own. They love my children and have been generous, warm, and kind. I couldn’t have asked for better in-laws.
At the reception I met a friend’s brand new, month old baby. I remember the experience as surreal, the juxtaposition of life and death and the full circle of it all. And I thought about writing and how the experience of the last couple of weeks would shape me and my words.
We take what we know and through the alchemy of writing we create stories. Experience shapes us as people and writers. I am not the same in either capacity as I was last week. And while I grieve with my mother-in-law, I miss my father-in-law.
Rest in peace, David.
You might remember my taking off for a weekend wedding in Chicago a couple of weeks ago. That trip was also a journey home to see my father-in-law. Not very long ago, he was diagnosed with cancer. He underwent chemo and radiation and when all was said and done, the doctors said he was cancer free.
That didn’t last long. When he got sick again, he was told that the cancer had spread and he was Stage 4. His timeline was 6-9 months. As it turns out, that was optimistic. About a month ago, my husband went with his mother and father to Mexico, where they had retired ten years ago, to sell their home and set their affairs in order.
My father-in-law got so sick down there my husband had to stay three extra days just to get him well enough to fly home. They took him to the hospital and were told his kidneys were failing. The weekend I went back for the wedding, I took my kids back to say good-bye to their grandfather.
I went from sitting in the oppressive grief of a house waiting for death to a wedding in Holy Name Cathedral, a majestic building, to an elegant restaurant overlooking the lake and sailboats back to sitting in a room listening to my father-in-law laboring to breathe.
We came back late on Sunday. Early on Tuesday, he died, and last weekend we went back for the funeral.
In the 27 years since my in-laws embraced me as part of their family, they’ve treated me as one of their own. They love my children and have been generous, warm, and kind. I couldn’t have asked for better in-laws.
At the reception I met a friend’s brand new, month old baby. I remember the experience as surreal, the juxtaposition of life and death and the full circle of it all. And I thought about writing and how the experience of the last couple of weeks would shape me and my words.
We take what we know and through the alchemy of writing we create stories. Experience shapes us as people and writers. I am not the same in either capacity as I was last week. And while I grieve with my mother-in-law, I miss my father-in-law.
Rest in peace, David.
Friday, April 16, 2010
TGIF, Contests, and an Award
Happy Friday. It’s been a long stretch with posting both days last weekend with blogfest entries. It’s good to be looking at the weekend. Before we get there though, here’s the last post for this week.
We all know what a slacker I am about awards, so here we are again. It’s time for me to pass on another award that was given to me forever ago by the lovely Christine D and more recently by Tara at Feel of Something New. I don’t think I have to do anything here except pass it on to some of my favorite blogging buddies:
Elizabeth Mueller
Justine Dell
Lola at Sharp Pen/Dull Sword
Talli Roland
Niki at Wool ’n Nuts
and Lilah Pierce
There's contests, too. Rebecca over at Sonshine Thoughts is giving away the cutest owls to celebrate her followers. And Julie Dao over at Silver Lining is celebrating 200 followers. Go over and check them both out.
And that's it for this week. I'm off to Chicago after school today for a wedding this weekend. Have a great Friday folks, and enjoy your own weekend.
We all know what a slacker I am about awards, so here we are again. It’s time for me to pass on another award that was given to me forever ago by the lovely Christine D and more recently by Tara at Feel of Something New. I don’t think I have to do anything here except pass it on to some of my favorite blogging buddies:
Elizabeth Mueller
Justine Dell
Lola at Sharp Pen/Dull Sword
Talli Roland
Niki at Wool ’n Nuts
and Lilah Pierce
There's contests, too. Rebecca over at Sonshine Thoughts is giving away the cutest owls to celebrate her followers. And Julie Dao over at Silver Lining is celebrating 200 followers. Go over and check them both out.
And that's it for this week. I'm off to Chicago after school today for a wedding this weekend. Have a great Friday folks, and enjoy your own weekend.
Friday, January 15, 2010
TGIF
The conversation about story and storytelling continues unabated over at the Literary Lab and an incredible converation it is. Go on over and check it out.
For me, I keep coming back to honesty and respect in my storytelling. When all is said and done, when I've pared down my words, when I've found my theme, when the dialogue and action are sharp and clean, in the end is it honest? Not happy, but true to the story and the characters?
Because there is nothing worse for writer or reader to invest heavily and in the end to feel cheated.
Anyway, when all is said and done, right now I'm ready for the weekend. So I'll leave with a snippet of something else.
But before I get to that, Sara is having a contest for reaching one hundred followers. Go check that out.
----------------------
The working girls are working. Sharp eyes and bodies in colorful dresses cut low and tight cruise the crowd.
Garish faces plastic and painted with gilt-edged smiles whisper words promising pleasures carnal and venal to keep the fear and the cold and the lonely away.
She smells the desperation on them; knows the tricks of the trade. It’s just like old times, watching this dance.
She leans forward, arms crossed and resting on the table, runs her eyes around the room as the barmaid buzzes the table dropping off drinks.
She thinks they might have been pretty once, back in their other lives.
She settles back in her seat, knocks back another swallow.
She doesn’t remember when she started to feel so old, so empty and hollow, but she remembers pretty.
She misses it.
A young-old girl with fire-red hair piled high on her head slides into the dealer’s lap, fuck-me-red lips whispering in his ear.
She leans back, tilts her head, watching him through her lashes; sees hard, hungry eyes, a mean mouth; cheap clothes.
All this time and she still finds it hard to believe that someone with that much money in that many hidden places still has such a taste for the gutter.
She thinks this time she’s got a better hand.
For me, I keep coming back to honesty and respect in my storytelling. When all is said and done, when I've pared down my words, when I've found my theme, when the dialogue and action are sharp and clean, in the end is it honest? Not happy, but true to the story and the characters?
Because there is nothing worse for writer or reader to invest heavily and in the end to feel cheated.
Anyway, when all is said and done, right now I'm ready for the weekend. So I'll leave with a snippet of something else.
But before I get to that, Sara is having a contest for reaching one hundred followers. Go check that out.
----------------------
The working girls are working. Sharp eyes and bodies in colorful dresses cut low and tight cruise the crowd.
Garish faces plastic and painted with gilt-edged smiles whisper words promising pleasures carnal and venal to keep the fear and the cold and the lonely away.
She smells the desperation on them; knows the tricks of the trade. It’s just like old times, watching this dance.
She leans forward, arms crossed and resting on the table, runs her eyes around the room as the barmaid buzzes the table dropping off drinks.
She thinks they might have been pretty once, back in their other lives.
She settles back in her seat, knocks back another swallow.
She doesn’t remember when she started to feel so old, so empty and hollow, but she remembers pretty.
She misses it.
A young-old girl with fire-red hair piled high on her head slides into the dealer’s lap, fuck-me-red lips whispering in his ear.
She leans back, tilts her head, watching him through her lashes; sees hard, hungry eyes, a mean mouth; cheap clothes.
All this time and she still finds it hard to believe that someone with that much money in that many hidden places still has such a taste for the gutter.
She thinks this time she’s got a better hand.
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