By the time I drank my coffee it was too late. I had already exploded and my madness spread like a wildfire in a bushel of tinder and everyone had died or nearly so. Bodies fell out of the truck where they had failed to escape, others were still under their winter blankets. Dead in bed.
By that time. at that moment, I was saddened, but not sorry for what I'd done.
By the time you read this I’ll be sitting in your cupboard. Please don’t open it. There’s a man outside who is watching you on his phone. Don’t have sex or look around
Stop! You’re putting all our lives in danger.
Hold hands and stare at the ceiling for two hours. Our only chance is to bore the tits off this man who holds our lives in his putty flesh hands.
Pray to whatever God you’re in touch with, ask for nothing with wilting timidity and thankless thanks. Then lilt softly lightly and whisper don’t beg. Give more thanks, and inspect that ceiling. It is holding you in, it is stopping you floating out to where the man wants to twist your humours with his putty white hands.
Give thanks. Don’t look at the mouldings or the light just the ceiling - it is enough in Stage One
Signed
Clarrie from next door
By the time.
By the time you read this I’ll be sitting in your cupboard. Please don’t open it. There’s a man outside who is watching you on his phone. Don’t have sex or look around
Stop! You’re putting all our lives in danger.
Hold hands and stare at the ceiling for two hours. Our only chance is to bore the tits off this man who holds our lives in his putty flesh hands.
Pray to whatever God you’re in touch with, ask for nothing with wilting timidity and prostrate thanks. Then lilt softly lightly and whisper don’t beg. Give more thanks, and inspect that ceiling. It is holding you in, it is stopping you floating out to where the man wants to twist your humours with his putty slim hands.
Give thanks. Don’t look at the mouldings or the light just the ceiling - it is enough in Stage One
Signed
Clarrie from next door
We might be able to move up if you make it to Stage Four. There’s apartments people died in last week and they’re not even reported yet - I know Gemma from the Body Corp. It has nothing to do with the Situation but asking Gemma suddenly seems less daunting. Don’t think about it but you could look right through the ceiling at your new life. If we get through this we’ll really have earned a break and you guys deserve the best of everything. I’m more subtly deserving. Stay focused. This guy outside. I don’t know if he’s human. If you have any paranormal powers or favours from Governments or Gods, by all means let her rip. I don’t want to be Captain
Mind-blowing. Oh, my god, JDA, your writing keeps me going. Do you ever send your stories out to be published? You must have about ten books by now and i want to read all of them
I've said it before and I'll say it agaIn: This is so amazingly creepy and good and I want to know more. Last time I said it all I heard was crickets. Also, J.D.A., I love your punctuation (in your name and in your writing).
"One night, Mary follows mysterious cries that echo through the house. She is startled to find a boy of her own age, Colin, living in a hidden bedroom."
A children's classic I somehow missed out on. It sounds pretty weird...
Yep there’s a Clarrie Grimmet in the Aust Cricket hall of fame, it’s Clarrie…I just saw a name Clearnce? Have you ever heard of that? Ppl were wondering how to shorten it. I didn’t say it had already been shortened
By the time I opened this Substack, it was already filled with comments and suggestions.
Why do I even bother, I wondered, as I opened my laptop to view yet another list of things and events - ideas to do or ignore, places to imagine or weep over, all those lists. Reading, as I have been lately, about literary ruins, abandoned places and objects that are no longer useful, piled in places and poems that haven’t connected to each other yet, I see that by the time I get to the end of this piece, I will have added one more literary object to the pileup. Let’s just say meaning is elusive, but humanity has to go into that junk pile from time to time just to see if there is a pony in there after all. And so I clear the space, and by the time it is all sorted, I’m able to see what had always been there, just waiting. Or so I thought. Don’t anthropomorphize this, nothing visible is waiting, and certainly nothing that is like a human being. What I imagine is waiting is actually a present tense opening - threshold they say, but I say it is just a clearer mirror. By that time I catch a glimpse of my own reflection, written as an object of perception, I hear the song Mary invoked, and there is love and loss and the idea of the wandering minstrel calling to his love throughout all time. As if a pay phone meant love, right? It isn’t Glen Campbell, singing someone else’s song about leaving and loving and travelling far away from that love. It’s me, calling in my own voice to reach that part of me that I somehow left behind when I went out into the wide world as if it were more important.
I never wanted a pony, but my sister did and every birthday she expected a pony and I once gave her a little wooden one when she was 80 and she cried. Oh dear!
I thoroughly clean out my garage~~no more piles of shape~shifting cardboard boxes piled haphazardly
on top of each other, no more 4 foot canvases splattered by a wanna~be artist’s abstract painting stacked like playing cards against a ping-pong table unused for years, by the time the garage is squeaky clean and cleared out
of all this ancient history, I will be in my ninth or tenth decade of life and Barron Trump will be a philanthropist six months of the year and a contemplative Buddhist monk the other portion of the year ministering to the homeless of Philadelphia….
By time I wake up, David’s been up for at least two hours, which makes sense because he goes to bed several hours before I do, at least. This works well for us. I have complete control of the remote from about 9:00 on, and he has time in the early morning to wake up very slowly, without having to say a word to anybody.
One thing I like about the schedule is that the coffee is ready when I get up. I pour a large cup, add some Half & Half and Stevia, stir it in with a spoon. Then I place the spoon in the sink, not out of laziness, but because I will be returning for a second cup, and I want to reuse the spoon.
A few months ago, I began to notice that David always washed the spoon and put it on the counter on a paper towel. We generally have a very harmonious relationship, but occasionally the smallest issue can blow up into an instant fight, if he feels reproached. So I asked him rather guardedly why he removes the spoon, as I did not put it there arbitrarily, I wanted it for my second cup. He said he realized that, but he kept seeing that spoon and imagining it was gathering all manner of bacterial ick at the bottom of the sink. I suppressed the impulse to roll my eyes, and just told him I would rinse it off before I used it for the second cup, after which I would put it in the dishwasher. I just saw no reason to waste a good paper towel.
This Treaty of the Spoon lasted for months, but this morning, he again removed the spoon,. He was leaving for work just as I searched for it. “I’ll be back at 5,” he said,. What I wanted to say was, “Where’s my [unsaid f-word] spoon?” but caught myself. The hesitation lasted a second, or a non-contiguous 35 years, depending on how metaphysically you want to view our marriage.
“Have a great day,” I said instead, remembered that he had just ordered for me a thermos that will keep 2 cups of coffee hot all morning, solving both the spoon problem and the problem of my heating up a second cup in a pan, which I don’t mind doing but seems to irk him.
This story! So good! And a reminder of the time my mother in law came for a visit. She used to set her coffee spoon on the counter next to the sink, and I'd see it there and stick in the dishwasher. One day, she said to me, "Please do not obsessively clean my spoon, I'm going to use it again, that's why I put it there."
Treaty of the Spoon! I love it. We have the Treaty of the Cutting
Board Across the Sink--mostly one-sided--and we're working on the Treaty of the Clothes Dryer Setting, but I don't hold out much hope for that one. My parents had the Treaty of the Toothpaste Tube Cap. Funny, the little things that curl themselves under your skin.
The first fight we had about one of his annoying habits, he countered with one of mine, and then we had it out, and I discovered he matched my running list with one of his own. Very humbling. Especially when I could actually understand how irritating my outlined habits might be. Now I say, "Okay, I'm going to tell you something that irks me, and you can tell me right back something that irks you."
Since we covered this here on What Now? (cue significant other to the other significant other's complaint: "Sigh. What now?"), we have the Slimy Sponge at the Bottom of the Sink Treaty. Holding good.
Said treaty contains no provision for such an extraordinary event. So would call for renegotiation wrt that case. Or renogotiation of the entire framework.
I think there is more play here, with the word treaty, as in how we treat each other, and the treats we share with each other . . . . another prompt for another day!
It's funny, David is simple black coffee but I am strict lover of the creamy mellowing of its bitter strength, plus I need some sweetness. We will always be at war on the details, but are united on an underlying love for the drink and the CAFFEINE!
“Hi! I’m Glen Campbell. I wear tight pants and leather vests with fringe and I have fluffy blond hair. Or is that Jon Voight? How can I remember? Doesn’t matter, does it. Cowboys, fake cowboys, like us, we all look alike. Morning noon or midnight a fake cowboy will surely break your heart one way or another. And by the time you realize it’s broken he’ll be on the A train going uptown, giggling with his little friends about the one who thought he’d be in Albuquerque but instead ended up in Harlem. Of course that’s himself he’s laughing at because he went from Phoenix to Albuquerque (actually he went through Rio Rancho, but that’s close enough to Albuquerque) and missed Wichita altogether. Still, on the line from here to there, Oklahoma is where the wind comes sweeping down the plain and the waving wheat has nothing to be happy about because the plow is coming, for the wheat, for us all. Can’t you hear it? The wheat crying? By the time you dry your eyes and you realize your heart is broken for good the fake cowboy, late of the A train, will be wearing pinstripes and slicked-back hair and will be on the 1 train in the other direction to Wall Street. That’s how fake cowboys roll.”
By the time I woke up the first time whatever I was dreaming washed from my mind like the image from an Etch-a-Sketch. By the time I woke up a second time I was preparing pizzas and burgers in a windowless basement with a roaring pizza oven and a griddle sizzling and popping with oil for NBA tryouts held at a track and field complex. Men raced in the center of the track doing long jumps, their arms and legs wheeling through the air and landing with a spray of sand from the jump box. One of the trainers held a conference to announce results wearing a police uniform. Granny rested in her green and white floral chaise lounge by the window of her bedroom sniffling into a white handkerchief and looking out onto the porch at some birds pecking at seed. Well, I did the best I could, she said. She wiped her nose, adjusted her glasses, and opened a magazine. In the basement I worked with a man with a big pot belly wearing a sweat-stained tank top and brown apron and ratty khakis with shredded hems and black stubble over his cheeks. It’s time to get things going, he said. From a freezer we pulled some pizzas and put them on the griddle. From a cardboard box I unwrapped blocks of ground beef. After flattening one I tossed it onto the griddle. Hot oil splashed over the side. Hey, watch it! the man said. He glared at me. What’s that smell? he asked. He poked at a chunk of gray-brown meat that had appeared on the side of the grill. Should we test it? I asked. Nah, he said. He broke off a piece with a pair of tongs and a barbeque fork with two long sharp tines. Inside the meat was pink and cooked perfectly. This is what smells, he said. He looked disgusted. Cheese on the pizzas began to bubble and puddle. We have way too much, I said. Yeah, but I don’t think it’s enough, he said.
(This is from my series based on my journal and it just happens I used the phrase By the time...)
Indeed! My journal since I started the series in the fall totals about 260,000 words. The series I am writing based on it totals about 180,000 words. And counting. I don't put any meaning into my dreams. When I can remember them I just find that writing them down is good practice writing description and detail.
By the time the man called my number, I was late for school pickup and had phoned a friend. Stef had agreed, not enthusiastically, to cover. I stepped up to the window.
“Busy day, huh?” I said.
The man didn’t look up. “Every day is busy,” he said. “ID and documentation, please.”
I slid them through the slot. He shuffled papers.
Something caught my eye. The woman on the line to my left. That sleek black hair, the well-cut clothes. She reminded me of that woman who’d died some months back. The banker who jumped. She looked at me and I froze. It had to be her twin. Even in bad newspaper photos, those ice-gray eyes were the same. I looked at the man behind the glass. There was the shadow of a smile.
“Don’t worry about ghosts,” he said. “Everyone needs their papers renewed, you know?” He winked. I was aware my jaw was hanging, and I shut my mouth.
“That’s it,” he said. “Four to six weeks.” He looked up again. “You’re good.”
I walked off, afraid to look back. The man called another number.
not at all! it's eye-opening and fun. of course, it can be all fun and games until someone gets their eye poked out, but, in cyberland noone is wielding a sword.
Ok. I wrote this too fast and not clearly enough. Neither of them are ghosts. The woman is alive, having used her influence to fake her death earlier. The guy at the help window is in on it. Probably the other workers as well. There are clearly holes in this story—a woman with enough power to fake her death but she still has to stand on line in person to get her paperwork done? But that was the premise.
I thought I might work out the lyrics to something Country Western, but songwriting takes time... So I was writing and scratching out and looking for beat. I didn't get as far as melody.
By the time I got home from the architect’s office, my marriage was over. After getting children through college, it was time to renovate and redesign. Do the thing we dreamed of. After months of discussion, this was the day we finalized the work. And I learned my stupidly awkward husband was having an affair. Had been having affairs. Plural. He was always socially awkward and physically awkward. A big, tall oaf. But he was tall, mathematical, logical, serious. In that moment of realization that I would have a new master bedroom, whatever appeal he held disappeared. I couldn’t remember. Who would have an affair with him? The shock and betrayal were overcome by confusion. And the knowledge I was moving forward with this remodel.
"Who would have an affair with him?" Oh, how i loved this. I used to ask, who would ever marry my ex-husband? Then the women came flying out of the woodwork and he chose the one 15 years younger. Go figure.
By the time we smelled smoke, the fire was upon us, which wasn’t surprising because we’ve always been unfortunate. The promises were so wonderful. A new world where folks like us would get the honor and money and all the good things we deserved. Who wouldn’t want that? Well, at this point, maybe all we can do is fight fire with fire. What do you think? Shall we burn the whole thing down?
By the time Emorie tugged on her sweatpants and slipped the old, holey t-shirt over her head, the doorbell pealed its plaintive notes again. Someone was impatient, but they would have to wait until she could locate her socks. Where had she–? Oh yes. She dropped to her hands and knees. Ooof! That used to be so much easier–and scrounged through the dustbunnies–where did they all come from and which one was hiding her favorite socks? She extracted one navy blue no-show sock. Dangled it from one hand.
“Ding-dooooonnnngggg!” A portentous note at the end this time. Was the dang battery low?
“Yes, just coming!” She yelled and her scratchy, unused tones surprised her. Emorie tipped forward, and dug once more through the woolies guarding the unknown country beneath her bed. Her fingers seized one end of a likely suspect, but something was resisting her on the other end. She reared back, balanced on one hand and yanked.
FFFFFOOOMM! Three socks flew out in a plume of dust, and Emorie tumbled to the floor. She sat up, wheezing, her arms flapping to clear the air. The hand with the socks brandished them above her–a victory banner–and she sat up to take stock of them.
One pink crew sock, an orange knee sock with virulent yellow spots, and a lime green thigh high sock. When had she worn that one? She eased it on as a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Oh yes–that night! A wave of heat spread through her chest and into her cheeks. The memory unspooled as she stood and sauntered to the front door.
She thrust the door open, the momentum nearly knocking her down.
It was him. Of course. Should have known.
“Did you forget our date, Emorie?”
Same smug look to his mouth. Same thick, dark curls. Same twinkle in sapphire eyes that swept over her her appearance and zeroed in on the lime green sock crawling up her leg, the pants leg bunched above it. He smiled and lifted his eyes to hers.
“I should change.” She said.
“No need.” He cocked his head and touched her hair with his fingers. Pulled something away and held it up.
“Is that a dust bunny?” He burst out laughing.
She took his hand and they walked down the trail together and into the trees. By the time she realized she was gone, she had remembered where the other lime green sock was. He laughed when she told him.
Thanks, Janet! I have a story of yours to catch up to. The first couple of lines pulled me right in! A dead man next to someone else on Thanksgiving? Quite a wake up call.
By the time his wife got home from work, Ralph was out chasing some crazy kid in a souped-up Rambler who had dared to peel rubber on Main Street. Ralph was a mean sonofabitch but what good did that do him when he was driving a squad car that had absolutely no meanness in it? By the time his daughter got home from school, Ralph was cruising down Main Street, his metaphoric tail between his legs. The kids in front of the bars were jeering at him and throwing beer cans onto the hood of his car. By the time his son Tom got home, Ralph had come back with the rest of the city police force, persuaded the mayor to call a curfew and make those kids leave the bars right away, pronto. By the time Ralph realized what he was doing, the kids had set fire to a trash can, the National Guard had been called in and four of those kids had been shot down.
She had told my sister she was going to the temple for the weekend ceremony. She had done that for over two decades. That my sister and I had no idea what the weekly ceremony entailed may have been part of the whole problem we were about to face. But this did not occur to us when I arrived that night.
Diwali time, people come home and celebrate. Ma was not home.
We kept calling her phone. It was raining outside. She is a working lady but does not know how to book an Uber. She is fragile and has trouble climbing more than a few flights.
The night deepened and our hearts sank. This was supposed to be a homecoming break. I had spent the past few years in a trance, thinking that my life was untouched by sadness, of course there are some issues, but I always felt secure.
I had a feeling of waking up from this trance as dawn came upon us. We were in separate rooms: me, my sister, and my father. For some reason we wanted to be left alone that night. We waited.
As we made our way to call the authorities and inform them about a missing person, my phone ringed. My sister answered it. It was one of Ma's friend. She said to my sister 'I have spoken to your mother, and she is fine, she asked me to tell you she is not a baby and can take care of herself'.
I started crying at the moment. This would plunge us in years of conflict, of figuring out why we knew so little about Ma. But in that moment they were tears of gratitude.
"she is not a baby and can take care of herself." What interesting characters you have created here. You could keep going with this one, I think. It's a really great start to a story.
By the time I drank my coffee it was too late. I had already exploded and my madness spread like a wildfire in a bushel of tinder and everyone had died or nearly so. Bodies fell out of the truck where they had failed to escape, others were still under their winter blankets. Dead in bed.
By that time. at that moment, I was saddened, but not sorry for what I'd done.
RUTH! That ending is KILLER
Yikes! What would you do with a puppy-dog prompt?
hahahhahaha
Well, I wouldn't kick a dog!
Ruth wow. You are RUTHLESS.
so I've been told!
Whooooosh! Not sure what hit me, but this kept me reading, then reading it again. Well done!
Woah
Love this!
Good work Ruth Frenetically paced, never boring
Well, they drove you to it, didn’t they?
Wow! not sorry indeed! You pack a mean punch!
Oooooo! Evil!!!! Good morning, Ruth!!!! So good!!!
Hello Miss Sea, where have you been?
I've been here "lurking"! I am a lurker...
an appropriate word to use :)
Our theme today!
now you write a story titled "The Lurker"
By the time.
By the time you read this I’ll be sitting in your cupboard. Please don’t open it. There’s a man outside who is watching you on his phone. Don’t have sex or look around
Stop! You’re putting all our lives in danger.
Hold hands and stare at the ceiling for two hours. Our only chance is to bore the tits off this man who holds our lives in his putty flesh hands.
Pray to whatever God you’re in touch with, ask for nothing with wilting timidity and thankless thanks. Then lilt softly lightly and whisper don’t beg. Give more thanks, and inspect that ceiling. It is holding you in, it is stopping you floating out to where the man wants to twist your humours with his putty white hands.
Give thanks. Don’t look at the mouldings or the light just the ceiling - it is enough in Stage One
Signed
Clarrie from next door
By the time.
By the time you read this I’ll be sitting in your cupboard. Please don’t open it. There’s a man outside who is watching you on his phone. Don’t have sex or look around
Stop! You’re putting all our lives in danger.
Hold hands and stare at the ceiling for two hours. Our only chance is to bore the tits off this man who holds our lives in his putty flesh hands.
Pray to whatever God you’re in touch with, ask for nothing with wilting timidity and prostrate thanks. Then lilt softly lightly and whisper don’t beg. Give more thanks, and inspect that ceiling. It is holding you in, it is stopping you floating out to where the man wants to twist your humours with his putty slim hands.
Give thanks. Don’t look at the mouldings or the light just the ceiling - it is enough in Stage One
Signed
Clarrie from next door
We might be able to move up if you make it to Stage Four. There’s apartments people died in last week and they’re not even reported yet - I know Gemma from the Body Corp. It has nothing to do with the Situation but asking Gemma suddenly seems less daunting. Don’t think about it but you could look right through the ceiling at your new life. If we get through this we’ll really have earned a break and you guys deserve the best of everything. I’m more subtly deserving. Stay focused. This guy outside. I don’t know if he’s human. If you have any paranormal powers or favours from Governments or Gods, by all means let her rip. I don’t want to be Captain
Mind-blowing. Oh, my god, JDA, your writing keeps me going. Do you ever send your stories out to be published? You must have about ten books by now and i want to read all of them
I really appreciate the encouragement. I’ve been quite flattened.
Perhaps a well organized Substack will help. When I get there I’ll let you know. Mary G’s What Now has helped a lot.
Just got Deb Olin Unferth’s book of short stories,the audiobook, it’s her voicing I guess, very good reading.
No I don’t send them out. I’ve only published as. A musician/ writer not a writer- writer
Yes. You have to publish! That last line--cuts off--"I don't want to be Captain"--and a shiver ran down my spine.
I've said it before and I'll say it agaIn: This is so amazingly creepy and good and I want to know more. Last time I said it all I heard was crickets. Also, J.D.A., I love your punctuation (in your name and in your writing).
Do we really want to know more or are we asking for trouble like humans always do…mmm…youve got me thinking Kevin. I like you too
Barry, huh? I might've guessed!
Barry. I should change his name because of Barry. John any idea Does Clarry or Clarrie, if it is male have the y or the ie spelling?
So. Re-edited comment to throw me off the trail.
How's about Gary? Larry? Harry?
I think Clarry is short for Clarence or was…in my parents circle
That would work.
I’ve used Gary and Harry, and deliberately havent used Larry, or might’ve,
You never heard of a man called Clarry? Clarrie? Is it an Australian thing ?
Colin I’ve used many times but always think of the kid with polio, was it the Secret Garden?
"One night, Mary follows mysterious cries that echo through the house. She is startled to find a boy of her own age, Colin, living in a hidden bedroom."
A children's classic I somehow missed out on. It sounds pretty weird...
Could be. I've never heard of one. Might be Laland Scots for Claymore.
The -y ending is more masculine, seems to me.
Don't try Colin either.
Thanks John
Yep there’s a Clarrie Grimmet in the Aust Cricket hall of fame, it’s Clarrie…I just saw a name Clearnce? Have you ever heard of that? Ppl were wondering how to shorten it. I didn’t say it had already been shortened
I can just see Clarrie Grimmet as wicketkeeper sledging the hell out of the English batting order. That's a name that should have been invented.
Enigmatic
Oh, how delightfully dark.
Creepy!!!! Love it.
By the time I opened this Substack, it was already filled with comments and suggestions.
Why do I even bother, I wondered, as I opened my laptop to view yet another list of things and events - ideas to do or ignore, places to imagine or weep over, all those lists. Reading, as I have been lately, about literary ruins, abandoned places and objects that are no longer useful, piled in places and poems that haven’t connected to each other yet, I see that by the time I get to the end of this piece, I will have added one more literary object to the pileup. Let’s just say meaning is elusive, but humanity has to go into that junk pile from time to time just to see if there is a pony in there after all. And so I clear the space, and by the time it is all sorted, I’m able to see what had always been there, just waiting. Or so I thought. Don’t anthropomorphize this, nothing visible is waiting, and certainly nothing that is like a human being. What I imagine is waiting is actually a present tense opening - threshold they say, but I say it is just a clearer mirror. By that time I catch a glimpse of my own reflection, written as an object of perception, I hear the song Mary invoked, and there is love and loss and the idea of the wandering minstrel calling to his love throughout all time. As if a pay phone meant love, right? It isn’t Glen Campbell, singing someone else’s song about leaving and loving and travelling far away from that love. It’s me, calling in my own voice to reach that part of me that I somehow left behind when I went out into the wide world as if it were more important.
Oh, so lovely. And I love the idea of heading into the junk pile just in case there's a pony in there. And that last line--so very poignant.
I was going to cite the same line as Mary. We are always looking for the pony or hoping we are the pony.
I see this line stuck with everyone. It a great title to use for a memoir or a novel: "Pony in the Junkpile"
OH YES, looking for that pony is wonderful.
Me three. What a lovely take on this one.
Beautiful. And I always believe: There must be a pony.
Oh my gosh, I love this! "It's me, calling in my own voice to reach that part of me--"
Always look for the pony, by the way.
I never wanted a pony, but my sister did and every birthday she expected a pony and I once gave her a little wooden one when she was 80 and she cried. Oh dear!
Beautiful
By the time
I thoroughly clean out my garage~~no more piles of shape~shifting cardboard boxes piled haphazardly
on top of each other, no more 4 foot canvases splattered by a wanna~be artist’s abstract painting stacked like playing cards against a ping-pong table unused for years, by the time the garage is squeaky clean and cleared out
of all this ancient history, I will be in my ninth or tenth decade of life and Barron Trump will be a philanthropist six months of the year and a contemplative Buddhist monk the other portion of the year ministering to the homeless of Philadelphia….
Hahhahaha! Yeah, some things will never happen
sadly, I think if BT were to become a philanthropist his siblings would take his money and kick him to the curb.
What about a Philatelist would that go down any better wif da fam
Nah. They would stamp that out of him.
Oooh. I have some of that shape shifting cardboard in my garage. Until I need it, and then where the heck did it go?
Barron Trump likely absconded with your cardboard!
I do hope you live to see it.
We shall see. Thanks!
From your mouth to Gods ear.
Got a tin ear, God.
Yup. Natch!
I've worried about that, but then I've also read your account of Eden and beyond.
With more to come...
Dear God~~ come help me clean out the garage before Baron takes his final vows
Anything is possible Peter, I feel your optimism
So you're saying there's hope for Barron?
About as much hope as for my garage…
It's nice to dream.
It’s becoming positively essential to Dream
By the time you read this letter - no wait - will I even send this letter?
That’s the real conversation. We should have had, but didn’t, because
You’re such a jerk, acting like a teenager again. A drunk teenager at fifty five.
Are you ever going to grow up and not be any fun any more?
I hope not. Really, I hope you stay crazy and get naked once in a while.
Jerk that you are, and drop dead blah blah, you know, in a trashy sort of way.
That brilliant flippance, so goddamned smart and a fashion plate
Against the odds. Too bad.
Times up, here goes, you jerk, you’re all but forgotten, just, take care.
That last line is so good. All but forgotten--not quite!
Well-placed comma example.
And the "just, take care." It's never really over, eh?
ah, the struggle when fatal flaws are also the qualities you love...
Yes.
This Jerk sounds like a really good friend!
By time I wake up, David’s been up for at least two hours, which makes sense because he goes to bed several hours before I do, at least. This works well for us. I have complete control of the remote from about 9:00 on, and he has time in the early morning to wake up very slowly, without having to say a word to anybody.
One thing I like about the schedule is that the coffee is ready when I get up. I pour a large cup, add some Half & Half and Stevia, stir it in with a spoon. Then I place the spoon in the sink, not out of laziness, but because I will be returning for a second cup, and I want to reuse the spoon.
A few months ago, I began to notice that David always washed the spoon and put it on the counter on a paper towel. We generally have a very harmonious relationship, but occasionally the smallest issue can blow up into an instant fight, if he feels reproached. So I asked him rather guardedly why he removes the spoon, as I did not put it there arbitrarily, I wanted it for my second cup. He said he realized that, but he kept seeing that spoon and imagining it was gathering all manner of bacterial ick at the bottom of the sink. I suppressed the impulse to roll my eyes, and just told him I would rinse it off before I used it for the second cup, after which I would put it in the dishwasher. I just saw no reason to waste a good paper towel.
This Treaty of the Spoon lasted for months, but this morning, he again removed the spoon,. He was leaving for work just as I searched for it. “I’ll be back at 5,” he said,. What I wanted to say was, “Where’s my [unsaid f-word] spoon?” but caught myself. The hesitation lasted a second, or a non-contiguous 35 years, depending on how metaphysically you want to view our marriage.
“Have a great day,” I said instead, remembered that he had just ordered for me a thermos that will keep 2 cups of coffee hot all morning, solving both the spoon problem and the problem of my heating up a second cup in a pan, which I don’t mind doing but seems to irk him.
Another marriage saved by technology.
This story! So good! And a reminder of the time my mother in law came for a visit. She used to set her coffee spoon on the counter next to the sink, and I'd see it there and stick in the dishwasher. One day, she said to me, "Please do not obsessively clean my spoon, I'm going to use it again, that's why I put it there."
Are you saying I'm not completely unique? Drag.
There is no one like you in the universe!!!!
Treaty of the Spoon! I love it. We have the Treaty of the Cutting
Board Across the Sink--mostly one-sided--and we're working on the Treaty of the Clothes Dryer Setting, but I don't hold out much hope for that one. My parents had the Treaty of the Toothpaste Tube Cap. Funny, the little things that curl themselves under your skin.
The first fight we had about one of his annoying habits, he countered with one of mine, and then we had it out, and I discovered he matched my running list with one of his own. Very humbling. Especially when I could actually understand how irritating my outlined habits might be. Now I say, "Okay, I'm going to tell you something that irks me, and you can tell me right back something that irks you."
Good plan!
Since we covered this here on What Now? (cue significant other to the other significant other's complaint: "Sigh. What now?"), we have the Slimy Sponge at the Bottom of the Sink Treaty. Holding good.
Is the treaty broken if one party flings said sponge at the other?
Said treaty contains no provision for such an extraordinary event. So would call for renegotiation wrt that case. Or renogotiation of the entire framework.
Diplomacy's a bitch.
I think there is more play here, with the word treaty, as in how we treat each other, and the treats we share with each other . . . . another prompt for another day!
everyone should drink black coffee and this war would be over
I LOVE this story
It's funny, David is simple black coffee but I am strict lover of the creamy mellowing of its bitter strength, plus I need some sweetness. We will always be at war on the details, but are united on an underlying love for the drink and the CAFFEINE!
“Hi! I’m Glen Campbell. I wear tight pants and leather vests with fringe and I have fluffy blond hair. Or is that Jon Voight? How can I remember? Doesn’t matter, does it. Cowboys, fake cowboys, like us, we all look alike. Morning noon or midnight a fake cowboy will surely break your heart one way or another. And by the time you realize it’s broken he’ll be on the A train going uptown, giggling with his little friends about the one who thought he’d be in Albuquerque but instead ended up in Harlem. Of course that’s himself he’s laughing at because he went from Phoenix to Albuquerque (actually he went through Rio Rancho, but that’s close enough to Albuquerque) and missed Wichita altogether. Still, on the line from here to there, Oklahoma is where the wind comes sweeping down the plain and the waving wheat has nothing to be happy about because the plow is coming, for the wheat, for us all. Can’t you hear it? The wheat crying? By the time you dry your eyes and you realize your heart is broken for good the fake cowboy, late of the A train, will be wearing pinstripes and slicked-back hair and will be on the 1 train in the other direction to Wall Street. That’s how fake cowboys roll.”
That was def Jon not Glen
oh my god, well done! And it's so true about the Glen Campbell/Jon Voight thing. Can barely tease them apart in my visual memory
I may not want to.
And center stage, that man sweeps his arms out and bellows out the name of that state--you all are full of earworms, today!
Once you get started!
“Cowboys, fake cowboys, like us, we all look alike” - nice!
By the time I woke up the first time whatever I was dreaming washed from my mind like the image from an Etch-a-Sketch. By the time I woke up a second time I was preparing pizzas and burgers in a windowless basement with a roaring pizza oven and a griddle sizzling and popping with oil for NBA tryouts held at a track and field complex. Men raced in the center of the track doing long jumps, their arms and legs wheeling through the air and landing with a spray of sand from the jump box. One of the trainers held a conference to announce results wearing a police uniform. Granny rested in her green and white floral chaise lounge by the window of her bedroom sniffling into a white handkerchief and looking out onto the porch at some birds pecking at seed. Well, I did the best I could, she said. She wiped her nose, adjusted her glasses, and opened a magazine. In the basement I worked with a man with a big pot belly wearing a sweat-stained tank top and brown apron and ratty khakis with shredded hems and black stubble over his cheeks. It’s time to get things going, he said. From a freezer we pulled some pizzas and put them on the griddle. From a cardboard box I unwrapped blocks of ground beef. After flattening one I tossed it onto the griddle. Hot oil splashed over the side. Hey, watch it! the man said. He glared at me. What’s that smell? he asked. He poked at a chunk of gray-brown meat that had appeared on the side of the grill. Should we test it? I asked. Nah, he said. He broke off a piece with a pair of tongs and a barbeque fork with two long sharp tines. Inside the meat was pink and cooked perfectly. This is what smells, he said. He looked disgusted. Cheese on the pizzas began to bubble and puddle. We have way too much, I said. Yeah, but I don’t think it’s enough, he said.
(This is from my series based on my journal and it just happens I used the phrase By the time...)
Great descriptions, intriguing action.
Thank you! I never try to interpret my dreams but I really enjoy trying to describe them. They have become a regular feature of my journal series.
You have one intriguing journal in progress!
Indeed! My journal since I started the series in the fall totals about 260,000 words. The series I am writing based on it totals about 180,000 words. And counting. I don't put any meaning into my dreams. When I can remember them I just find that writing them down is good practice writing description and detail.
By the time the man called my number, I was late for school pickup and had phoned a friend. Stef had agreed, not enthusiastically, to cover. I stepped up to the window.
“Busy day, huh?” I said.
The man didn’t look up. “Every day is busy,” he said. “ID and documentation, please.”
I slid them through the slot. He shuffled papers.
Something caught my eye. The woman on the line to my left. That sleek black hair, the well-cut clothes. She reminded me of that woman who’d died some months back. The banker who jumped. She looked at me and I froze. It had to be her twin. Even in bad newspaper photos, those ice-gray eyes were the same. I looked at the man behind the glass. There was the shadow of a smile.
“Don’t worry about ghosts,” he said. “Everyone needs their papers renewed, you know?” He winked. I was aware my jaw was hanging, and I shut my mouth.
“That’s it,” he said. “Four to six weeks.” He looked up again. “You’re good.”
I walked off, afraid to look back. The man called another number.
A mystery! And of course, by the time the number was called, she'd missed school pickup. Taking those numbers is always a nightmare
Oh, so weird and creepy. There's a lot of creepy in the air today.
You say that like it’s a bad thing.
not at all! it's eye-opening and fun. of course, it can be all fun and games until someone gets their eye poked out, but, in cyberland noone is wielding a sword.
I was kidding. Sorry…I keep meaning to brush up on emojis or write more clearly.
There is! I wonder what that’s about? Some kind of collective creepiness hive mind.
Maybe it's baked into the prompt...
It seems to be the case!
Yes.
Wow! What a great idea to have ghosts in the Social Security office! Great one.
Gripping. Made me wonder, could the man behind the glass be a ghost as well?
Ok. I wrote this too fast and not clearly enough. Neither of them are ghosts. The woman is alive, having used her influence to fake her death earlier. The guy at the help window is in on it. Probably the other workers as well. There are clearly holes in this story—a woman with enough power to fake her death but she still has to stand on line in person to get her paperwork done? But that was the premise.
You created a great character from that experience.
Wow. I love this one!
Thanks. Based on real life experience of being at the social security office and sitting next to a white haired man with an oblong face.
By the time the train left the station...
Nah, sounds like Love In Vain.
By the time the plane took off, no, not that, taxied out on to the runway? Hmmmph.
By the time – call that BTT.
BTT the taxi reached my hotel. Jeez that's naff.
BTT the waiter brought my order... It'd gone cold, or what?
BTT I realized... Better. Got wise? Cottoned on?
BTT I told you to get wise
BTT you said don't let me be misunderstood...
BTT you said you'd behave like you should (got a rhyme going there)
BTT you quit drinking and foolin' around (if only)
BTT I heard you promise to stand by me (he never said it)
BTT you quit saying that you loved me
BTT you said you di'n't love me no more
BTT I heard you walkin' out the door (slam!)
By that time it was too late.
(It doesn't matter anyhow.)
This is so good! Life is a song, after all. Don't think twice, it's all right.
Thanks Mary. But it would have taken more trial and error to knock it into the shape of a song, even just a four-line chorus.
Have you written the melody? This reminds me of Oulipo writer Eduardo Berti 's "proverbes greffés" :
À chaque problème suffit sa peine
Les bons comptes ont toujours tort
I thought I might work out the lyrics to something Country Western, but songwriting takes time... So I was writing and scratching out and looking for beat. I didn't get as far as melody.
I hadn't come across Eduardo Berti. Fun.
But the Animals found their way inside the song--please don't let me be misunderstood...
Thanks, John. You got rid of one earworm and replaced it with another!
Very good one, though.
Don't worry John, by that time there will be another train, a true love not in vain.
Great last line!
By the time I got home from the architect’s office, my marriage was over. After getting children through college, it was time to renovate and redesign. Do the thing we dreamed of. After months of discussion, this was the day we finalized the work. And I learned my stupidly awkward husband was having an affair. Had been having affairs. Plural. He was always socially awkward and physically awkward. A big, tall oaf. But he was tall, mathematical, logical, serious. In that moment of realization that I would have a new master bedroom, whatever appeal he held disappeared. I couldn’t remember. Who would have an affair with him? The shock and betrayal were overcome by confusion. And the knowledge I was moving forward with this remodel.
made me think of this song (one of my favorites): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=48pFXE28y8Y
"Who would have an affair with him?" Oh, how i loved this. I used to ask, who would ever marry my ex-husband? Then the women came flying out of the woodwork and he chose the one 15 years younger. Go figure.
Flying out of the woodwork? Sounds like she was a termite.
Going to see C. Junkies in the fall. Big anniversary. 25? 40? 100?
I saw them about 8 years ago. Her voice--still fantastic. Love love love them.
Wow, that song. I always loved Cowboy Junkies but wasn’t familiar with that tune. Thank you for your comment! So appreciate.
Like the use of the "remodel" metaphor.
Thanks!
By the time we smelled smoke, the fire was upon us, which wasn’t surprising because we’ve always been unfortunate. The promises were so wonderful. A new world where folks like us would get the honor and money and all the good things we deserved. Who wouldn’t want that? Well, at this point, maybe all we can do is fight fire with fire. What do you think? Shall we burn the whole thing down?
I hope we don't have to. But we shall see.
I'm going out to buy matches.
And kindling. Don’t forget that.
I'm close to agreeing to that.
Thanks so much for the ear worm, Mary!
Here's my contribution:
By the time Emorie tugged on her sweatpants and slipped the old, holey t-shirt over her head, the doorbell pealed its plaintive notes again. Someone was impatient, but they would have to wait until she could locate her socks. Where had she–? Oh yes. She dropped to her hands and knees. Ooof! That used to be so much easier–and scrounged through the dustbunnies–where did they all come from and which one was hiding her favorite socks? She extracted one navy blue no-show sock. Dangled it from one hand.
“Ding-dooooonnnngggg!” A portentous note at the end this time. Was the dang battery low?
“Yes, just coming!” She yelled and her scratchy, unused tones surprised her. Emorie tipped forward, and dug once more through the woolies guarding the unknown country beneath her bed. Her fingers seized one end of a likely suspect, but something was resisting her on the other end. She reared back, balanced on one hand and yanked.
FFFFFOOOMM! Three socks flew out in a plume of dust, and Emorie tumbled to the floor. She sat up, wheezing, her arms flapping to clear the air. The hand with the socks brandished them above her–a victory banner–and she sat up to take stock of them.
One pink crew sock, an orange knee sock with virulent yellow spots, and a lime green thigh high sock. When had she worn that one? She eased it on as a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Oh yes–that night! A wave of heat spread through her chest and into her cheeks. The memory unspooled as she stood and sauntered to the front door.
By the time she could grasp the doorknob:
“Ding-doooongggg. Ding–doooonggg. Ding-doooonggg!”
She thrust the door open, the momentum nearly knocking her down.
It was him. Of course. Should have known.
“Did you forget our date, Emorie?”
Same smug look to his mouth. Same thick, dark curls. Same twinkle in sapphire eyes that swept over her her appearance and zeroed in on the lime green sock crawling up her leg, the pants leg bunched above it. He smiled and lifted his eyes to hers.
“I should change.” She said.
“No need.” He cocked his head and touched her hair with his fingers. Pulled something away and held it up.
“Is that a dust bunny?” He burst out laughing.
She took his hand and they walked down the trail together and into the trees. By the time she realized she was gone, she had remembered where the other lime green sock was. He laughed when she told him.
Such a sweet story! i loved the "unknown country beneath her bed." I can relate!
Mine is a terrifying bit of terrain right now.
What fun characters!
Thanks, Janet! I have a story of yours to catch up to. The first couple of lines pulled me right in! A dead man next to someone else on Thanksgiving? Quite a wake up call.
By the time I had a sandwich…
I was already hungry.
By the time I finished my sandwich…
I was still kind of hungry.
By the time I thought about what to eat next…
I wondered if I’d think of something good.
By the time I thought of something else…
The chocolate was already in my mouth. 🍫👄
I feel this!
YES!
By the time his wife got home from work, Ralph was out chasing some crazy kid in a souped-up Rambler who had dared to peel rubber on Main Street. Ralph was a mean sonofabitch but what good did that do him when he was driving a squad car that had absolutely no meanness in it? By the time his daughter got home from school, Ralph was cruising down Main Street, his metaphoric tail between his legs. The kids in front of the bars were jeering at him and throwing beer cans onto the hood of his car. By the time his son Tom got home, Ralph had come back with the rest of the city police force, persuaded the mayor to call a curfew and make those kids leave the bars right away, pronto. By the time Ralph realized what he was doing, the kids had set fire to a trash can, the National Guard had been called in and four of those kids had been shot down.
Whoa! That got crazy! Nicely done!
Thank you Mary
This is intense. It builds relentlessly.
Thank you Kevin
I want to know more about the “squad car that had absolutely no meanness to it”
it was not built for high-powered chases.
Oh my god. That escalated!
Yow!
By the time I got home Ma had left.
She had told my sister she was going to the temple for the weekend ceremony. She had done that for over two decades. That my sister and I had no idea what the weekly ceremony entailed may have been part of the whole problem we were about to face. But this did not occur to us when I arrived that night.
Diwali time, people come home and celebrate. Ma was not home.
We kept calling her phone. It was raining outside. She is a working lady but does not know how to book an Uber. She is fragile and has trouble climbing more than a few flights.
The night deepened and our hearts sank. This was supposed to be a homecoming break. I had spent the past few years in a trance, thinking that my life was untouched by sadness, of course there are some issues, but I always felt secure.
I had a feeling of waking up from this trance as dawn came upon us. We were in separate rooms: me, my sister, and my father. For some reason we wanted to be left alone that night. We waited.
As we made our way to call the authorities and inform them about a missing person, my phone ringed. My sister answered it. It was one of Ma's friend. She said to my sister 'I have spoken to your mother, and she is fine, she asked me to tell you she is not a baby and can take care of herself'.
I started crying at the moment. This would plunge us in years of conflict, of figuring out why we knew so little about Ma. But in that moment they were tears of gratitude.
"she is not a baby and can take care of herself." What interesting characters you have created here. You could keep going with this one, I think. It's a really great start to a story.
Thank you for the kind words! :) Will do!
I agree with Mary—an intriguing beginning to a story. I want to know more about these characters.
Thanks Angela, will try my best to develop this further. :)
You have a great start!