The story was that Mrs. Barrett caught Mr. Barrett in the back office with his pants down and the new girl on her knees. The story was that Dr. Akins put a hand on Lavonne Miller’s butt when they were dancing at Delores Martin’s wedding. The story was that Peter Baker’s mom put scotch in her morning tea and vodka in her afternoon cola. The story was that Mr. Von had his secretary in the car with him when he crashed into the divider on the freeway. The story was that Miss Collins was in love with Miss Feder and that someone had seen them kissing in Miss Feder’s Chevy Impala in the parking lot. The story was that Brian Dean lost his virginity to Mr. Anderson on that boy scout trip. The story was that Alice Plant was only pretending to overdose under the bleachers in the back field. The story was that Frankie Norman wore his wife’s underwear under his khakis. The story was that it was Bill Kemper who broke Frankie Norman’s jaw. The story was that Ben Lamer’s dad had a heart attack and died at the top of Glacier Peak. The story was that you loved me very, very much, and that you would never leave me no matter what.
I like that it's about the stories people tell, the ones that get told and passed on, because in that is also the implication that there are other stories that don't get told, some important ones, some that seem not so important, but they're still there.
Tell me about the day you met my father. What was it about him that caught your attention, besides being your charismatic, handsome teacher? Did you know he was a womanizer, but chose not to see it?
Tell me about the day you finally spoke to him. What did you say? Was it awkward, or something intelligent? Did he appreciate you then, before he learned to take your love for granted?
Tell me about the day he convinced you that you were special. Did you believe him? Did you think you could change him?
Please don’t tell me about the first time you made love. I rather not know.
Tell me about the day you decided to leave your husband for my father. How did he take it? Did you break his heart? Did you ever regret it? Was he kinder to you than my father?
Tell me again about the day you found out that you were pregnant. Were you happy, or sad? Frightened? Did you want me more than you wanted my father, or did you want us both, in equal measure?
Tell me about the day you showed up at my father’s house with a small suitcase and asked my grandmother to take you in. Where did you go when she refused?
Tell me about the day you told my grandparents that you were pregnant with me, and the father wasn’t your husband, but your university professor? Did they shame you, or accepted you? When did they agree to help you?
Tell me again about the day of your wedding at Budapest’s castle district. Who were the two witnesses, and why didn’t you want to have a party? Did you know already that the marriage wouldn’t last? When did you know for certain that the marriage wouldn’t last?
Tell me again about the day I was born, a month prematurely, a day after your wedding, on a Sunday morning? Were you happy to meet me? Was I good to you? Did you ever love me?
Thank you Mary! I just sat down to work on my book when your prompt came through and I couldn’t resist it. They are always so inspiring! I purposely gave myself up to 30 minutes to hit the 400 words mark without editing myself. I think I wrote this in 10 minutes. It just flowed. It is a bliss when it happens. Thank you!!
Thank you Mary! I just sat down to work on my book when your prompt came through and I couldn’t resist it. They are always so inspiring! I purposely gave myself up to 30 minutes to hit the 400 words mark without editing myself. I think I wrote this in 10 minutes. It just flowed. It is a bliss when it happens. Thank you!!
Breathtaking. As in my breathing is not normal right now, having just read that. As a father, with a daughter who means more than all life, this was a wrench.
Wow. I read your prompts most weeks, and you are a remarkable voice and writer. You're one of those here whose work I seek out and look forward to. Among so much really great material in this stack, yours always stands out. Always touches me in a way that surprises my heart.
I hope your writing brings you everything you want from it. It certainly brings much to me, and I'm sure to many others who read it here.
Omg, Fred, you have just made me cry… thank you, thank you, thank you!! I am a mother too and my girls are everything to me. Your daughter is lucky to have a father like you!!
Maybe, just maybe, she had shown me how to fold t-shirts squarely. A flat envelope of tie dye, stacked cheek to cheek, awaiting their turn to be waved full of air and fitted properly.
Maybe I did finally hear her explain the importance of cleaning behind the kitchen sink hardware. How tiny bits of discarded food would make their way behind the spray nozzle so that armies of ants had to be battled every couple of months just because one night we were both too exhausted to get off the futon.
Maybe every time we folded fitted sheets together I took a mental note as to how I could accomplish this alone. “Make a fist, drive through to the other fist.” Then she would drape them between her arms and make origami.
Maybe I was listening, really listening, when she told me stories about her twenties. All how she and her girlfriends would drink beyond excess. Her memory of this time brought her joy. Not the same joy as the longevity of our relationship. Not nearly the same sorrow which was brought on by knowing there was an actual expiration date set upon her.
Maybe I didn’t want to acknowledge her “I want you to meet someone, fall in love again” declaration. I hesitated, and maybe I said “if it happens, but I looked for you for so long, I cannot actively look again.”
He was surprised she even knew his name. He was surprised when she asked him to go to the cinema with her. He was surprised in the dark of the theatre when he felt her hand on his knee. He was surprised when her hand slid up past his thigh. He was surprised how quickly that episode was over. He was surprised when she agreed to go to the cinema again the next night. And the next. He was surprised that these episodes were unaccompanied by shame. He was surprised they never got caught by the ushers.
He was surprised she said no to other guys. He was surprised when he learned how to tie a bow-tie then stood on her doorstep with a corsage in his hand. He was surprised it was her who had opened the door. He was surprised anyone could look so beautiful.
He was surprised the mortgage company lent them the money. He was surprised she found the energy to work two jobs and still squeeze his thigh when she got home from her evening shift. He was surprised his roughening hands did not scrape away the skin on her cheek.
He was surprised she did not leave him after the accident left him unable to work. He was surprised she still wanted to do it every night.
He was surprised she never got pregnant. He was surprised when the doctor said it wasn’t to do with him. He was surprised they could even count those things.
He was surprised her hair turned grey before his. He was surprised she could live off such small portions at dinner. He was surprised to find her staring out of the window, just staring. He was surprised she didn’t seem to hear when he asked what she was looking at.
He was surprised she seemed to forget who he was. He was surprised they said she’d be better off getting proper care, from professionals. He was surprised he put up such a fight. He was surprised that they gave up in the end and he managed to keep her at home, with him.
He was surprised his hands could hold a spoon so patiently, and at the stories he found inside himself to tell her in their last week together.
He was surprised when he told the story of their first date, at the cinema, and at the details that came back to him after all this time.
I love the way this starts out so funny, Niall then turns so tender. The different shadings of surprise are interesting because for the reader the word suggests mystery and in your telling it's the narrator's journey of self-discovery that yields the surprises. Well done.
First take his hand and place it gently on your breast, that is, the hand of the Archangel Raphael, which you would not do if he were flesh and blood but as he is an angel and as no one is looking, perhaps you’ll take a chance.
First decide which archangel is the one for healing no, not Michael. No, not Gabriel with all his tidings, good tidings , what you haven’t heard in quite a while.
First meet the surgeon with her perky plastic clogs her sympathetic eyes above her facemask, what her draw you pictures of where she plans to excavate
First decipher the pathology report with words you can’t imagine ever knowing or wanting to know, how they string together in a sequence that seems to be a story with no plot, no characters, the ending impossible to imagine.
First place your breast in a vise, hold your breath as it is sandwiched into pain. Say it doesn’t hurt. Lie and say it doesn’t hurt.
First disrobe in a dressing room with an accordian folding door and cheerful posters on the wall, find a paper gown, tie it in the back, no in the front, no, it doesn’t really matter where you tie it, it won’t be tied for long.
First bury your mother, answer the condolence cards, thank you thank you thank you.
They said it was the worst deviated septum they’d ever seen
They said surgery could fix it
They said to choose what level of pain I was in
They said it was FDA approved
They said it was to get ahead of the pain
They said one dose relieves pain for 12 hours
They said it was a gift made from nature
They said it was controlled release
They said the sensation that my skin was crawling with tiny bugs meant that I had withdrawal
They said I should’ve tapered off, they told me to taper off
They said it was because I quit “cold turkey”
They said addiction was rare, that I must have other issues
They said I must’ve been prone to addiction
They said in the lawsuit that drug abusers are not victims
They said the Sacklers and big pharma companies earned billions
They said I was the face of the opioid epidemic
They said half a million deaths and rising from opioid overdoses
They said I was lucky
They said my doctor went to expensive resorts funded by Purdue
They said I could’ve taken Extra Strength Tylenol, next time take that, they said
Ok just so you don't worry, this isn't me. I did have the worst deviated septum two surgeons had ever seen, and when they gave me the opioids, I didn't take them, I took the Tylenol extra strength. I have an aversion to these strong prescriptions. This story was based on my friend's experience and I elaborated a bit and changed the surgery to the surgery I had. So basically, this is fiction, not memoir, but not fiction as it happened to so many people and every fact is true.
i never take the opioids, either, though I always want to. I love that you chose "They said." And that you took it from the very personal to the very global and back again. Those Sacklers--greedy monsters.
I've loved reading these - so creative and so moving. I didn't really have a story based on the prompt, but this morning I was reading about Taoism and had some questions, which turned into the words below using the format.
Maybe things aren’t meant to flow.
Maybe things are meant to cling to me and then burrow into the layers of my life, there to germinate and to express and to come forth as something new.
Maybe friction is good and maybe it creates the heat that incubates all that is waiting to be born.
Maybe the eddies that stop me and hold me and startle me and frighten me are really wombs.
They used to think they were funny and hip. That was before their biggest fear was breaking a hip. They were the cool ones, the ones who got invited to things, the ones whose words everyone hung onto. The ones who could break your heart without even trying.
They used to think that getting old was for others. They used to think they were like Robert DeNiro or Mick Jagger, ageless chameleons who reinvent cool and never die.
They used to think their bodies wouldn’t betray them, and their skin wouldn’t grow strange things, or their hair get thin or too thick in unpleasant places.
They used to think that that sly look or flirtatious line would always work. They used to think that the bored glance or fast exit wouldn’t happen in their company.
They used to think that money was easy, and people wanted to pay them what they were worth. They used to think they were in demand and never out of sync.
They used to think that their children would always worship them and take care of them when they were old. They used to think that they could ignore them and criticize them and still be in their lives.
They used to think that the life they had would always be the same. They used to think their town was wrapped in a timeless bubble and immune to change.
They used to think that problems happened to other families. They used to think if you followed the rules, it would all work out.
They used to think they had all the answers. They used to think they knew the right questions to ask.
Before you say anything to anyone at all at the event, check to see who’s in the room, and in earshot. Be sure there’s no one who shouldn’t hear what you are about to say. Try to think long term, outside-the-immediate: are there people here who might know people you would not want to have hear what you’re going to say? For example is a woman with a flag lapel pin likely connected to a group or person who might take offense or issue with what you’re about to say? Pay attention to jewelry and religious iconography. Be sensitive!
Before you say anything to specific people, be clear about your message, but not such that it might sound rehearsed, unnatural, or in any way inauthentic. As always, a key element to your success is 'warm' credibility. Be natural and believable, but not at the cost of clarity in what it is precisely that you will be saying.
Before you say anything to a potential contact, or link to a contact, run down the checklist in your mind of the type of things you can say or ask to elicit, in a friendly and disarming manner, information to determine if they are worth the time and energy of contact and conversation. Remember the axioms of marketing and advertising you've been taught and be sure those you invest your limited time and energy in are in your 'target demographic'. Yes, this is essentially a form of triage, but try not to think of it as only that. Warmth and connection are still vital.
Before you say anything privately, to just one single individual, with no one else in earshot, determine that nothing you say to them can be altered by them later via memory and recounting in ways that may distort your meaning or misrepresent what you said. Unfortunately such precautions are sometimes necessary. Some people may misrepresent what you said merely through selective or faulty memory, not necessarily ill will. Don't think of these precautions as a cold act, but do remember that in a competitive environment such as this, ill will can sometimes be a factor.
So, before you say anything, as cold as it may seem, make sure it cannot be used against your short term goals at the event. If it possibly can be, then before you say anything like that, be sure that more than a single person is present so that third party validation can be gotten later if needed. Hopefully it will not be.
Before you say anything, it never hurts to remind yourself that your words are your greatest tool, but others can alter your words, intentionally or not, if it's a simple case of he said/she said. Again, this is unfortunate, and rare, and should not be dwelt upon in a way as to sap warmth and genuine connection from the contacts at the event. Be relaxed and social in your intentions.
Before you say anything, after having made sure you’re in neutral company, vis-à-vis the above paragraph, take a breath, smile unselfconsciously, and make friendly eye contact, but do not stare. More than almost anything else, your success hinges on setting others at ease and one of the best ways to do this is to be at ease yourself.
Before you say anything, of course, make sure your earpiece and body mic are both functional with offsite support. You should have already made sure you’re sidearm and back-up deterrent are readily accessible yet fully concealed.
Before you say anything to anyone at all, remind yourself that the lives, of Jenny, Cal and Susan depend on your success.
Jeepers! This one got scary! I hope the person manages to save Jenny, Cal and Susan! (Not a big deal, but do try to stick to 400 words when you post. Your story can be longer--but just post 400 words of a longer piece in the comments. Sometimes it's interesting to write more than 400 words and then see if you can edit it down. A story can end up tighter that way in surprising ways.)
Oh, you're right, I see that in the earlier grafs. Hadn't occurred to me as such. But if you're referring to the last couple grafs, I fear there may well already be enough such bad behviour in the political world. Not necessarily on the stump but post stump. Wow, look at what stump rhymes with! Silly universe!
I know you're finding parallels to other works with this one. I have been reading Prophet Song by Paul Lynch. It's a bit of a struggle reading it and I don't normally hang in there when a book makes me work this hard. He doesn't use a lot of paragraph breaks or quotation marks, so it can be challenging. My point is, this short piece of yours reminds me of it from the standpoint that everyone in PS has to be careful what they say or they can be hauled off and never seen again. When you got to the part about Jenny, Cal, and Susan, I began to shiver a bit...Well done. I haven't read Black Box or Ghostwritten, so I'll check them out. Thank you.
sorry about the length, I'll be more mindful in future.
I don't know what's going on with the incidents of darker topics on a lot of these prompts. I suspect it might be just a cheap-trick cheat mentality to spark up the material, as opposed to doing the harder work. But maybe not. I'm not forcing myself into these directions, they are coming surprisingly naturally, and often not until mid piece.. It might also be the brevity of the prompt assignments, with such dramatic pyrotechnics being an easy appeasement.
It's really not a big deal. Plenty of people go over the word limit! I just feel it's my part as the moderator to remind people to keep their posts short enough that we all have time and energy to read them. Regarding dark topics: Sometimes, that's just what arrives! You're right that the brevity of the pieces may lead one to try to amp up the action. I think if a person does enough of these, that urge can calm down. The fact that these pieces are coming to you "surprisingly naturally" sounds great to me!
Thanks. I will still try to work on the length. my current job is tremendously specific and stringent on word count, so any writing I do for myself I tend to feel a little free of that concern.
I'm kind of surprised in a fun way that three of four of my prompt pieces have had darker turns since that's far afield from my overall writing. I just want to stay aware that it's not, as mentioned, 'cheating'. My tendency with many of the prompts is towards what I think of as punchline stories: a set-up for something that might potentially far exceed the eventual length of the piece - something more character/situation based along the lines of what I generally spend my time writing - and then a quick turn at the end to resolve/explain....i.e. the punchline. (Rim shot or organ stab here, your choice). Either way it's a version of , "thank ladies and gentlemen, I'll be here all week."
Revelation of the body mic and sidearm in my piece this week would be the punchline, followed by the last sentence, an epilogue in hopes of deepening, or at least rationalizing the punchline.
Nothing is cheating. Nothing. Write what comes, in whatever way it comes. Use whatever flows your way. It's all good. The only thing that is a cheat is outright plagiarism--unacknowledged copying or paraphrasing of another's work. Everything else is just dandy.
Black Box is a sensational work, to me. decades after it's New Yorker Publication, she sequeled her fabulous novel A VISIT FROM THE GOON SQUAD (highly reccomeded) with THE CANDY HOUSE and chose to resurrect Black Box as an unlikely, but successful Chapter within CANDY HOUSE.
I know GS is fond of Egan's writing, and I remember seeing a great onstage conversation between the two of them on YouTube a few years back. Her novels are hit or miss for me, but the two mentioned above and MANHATTAN BEACH I loved. GOON SQUAD is one I've reread multiple times for the sheer joy of her dizzying craft. Black Box would by no means be a spoiler and I'd reccomend anyone to read it:
With Goon Squad being as singularly great as it is, Candy House, while very good, can't compare, but it's a really interesting effort, revisiting the most peripheral characters from GOON SQUAD many years later in their life's journeys.
For anyone who loved GOON SQUAD, I strongly recommend David Mitchel's masterful debut GHOSTWRITTEN. Not similar to Goon squad, except in one narrative device, but so good. Made me a lifelong Mitchell Fan, and lead eventually to his THE THOUSAND AUTUMNS OF JACOB DE ZOET ranking among my favorite novels ever. The "Mitchell verse" and its artful interconnections among characters and events from unconnected novels is interesting as hell in an Otaku sense. GHOSTWRITTEN aside from being sensational storytelling, is the first step into that universe, which, in retrospect, and despite some offhand authorial denials, seems like he had in mind from the first book onward. I think it's just how his brain works, and his book about Autism is suppsedly excellent as well.
I am pretty sure his book is not about his own autistic son, but a non fiction look at another child, but I could be wrong on that. It's forever on my list, but I have the hardest time reading non fiction with so much fiction out there (says the guys who mostly re-reads the same books and stories over and over.....hmmm, maybe there's room on the edges of the spectrum for me?)
Anyway, merely as a debut, Ghostwritten is sensational, but also for many other reasons. I could have easily believed it was his fifth or tenth book had I been told so.
So many books....! I hate to think that I'll never get to all of them. I've not read Mitchell, either, though everyone seems to be a fan of Cloud Atlas. Sigh. One of these days...
I didn't come up with a literal anaphora but I think this has a feeling of anaphora.
During the years my friends and I contemplated careers in crime we were in the woods one night and noticed an eerie green light. It was nearby we thought because we didn’t have to look far it was just there, on a very dark night the way nights are in deep woods when you can’t see your hands in front of your face or anything else. We saw this green light we’d never seen before and sure as hell didn’t know what it was. It was vague, nothing like light coming out of a bulb, or a cigarette getting inhaled. Muted green, mashed baby pea green light diffused and not attached to anything just hanging ghostly in the darkness. We weren’t sure to be scared or not so we built up our campfire to warn anything out there in the woods off also thinking with enough light we might see enough to figure out the green thing which turned out was a big rotten log. By day the log was soggy and plain and falling apart rotten three feet across. By night it glowed green in the dark. Later I learned about bioluminescence, but I don’t know if the others figured it out or even cared. The green color was alive after all. I don’t remember what friends those were either, but whatever friends they were and I got the fire going pretty good and hot against that darkness and threw in some aerosolized cans of something and waited for them to explode and blow orange flame into the night. This was long ago, some time in those odd years in the dark woods when we thought about crime.
Love this. It feels like when we did that 50/200 exercise with George--the constraint of using fewer words in a story. Love the cans exploding. Glad you only contemplated crime... at least, I think you only contemplated it. You're still a mystery!
Clever, Tod. The rhythm of the repetition of light seems to enact the mystery of its persistence without obvious source. And the dark woods, classic locus of mystery and boyhood adventure. The exploding cans sound like fun! As long as you stand well back!
On the first day, she was flooded with relief: at last, she could get through a day without an argument. She took off her wedding ring and locked it in her jewelry box, then went out to buy herself a new ring – silver, not gold – to wear on her right ring finger.
On the second day, she began looking at other men. Or Other Men, as she thought of them. It had been a long time since she had looked at Other Men. This one has a winning smile. That one made me laugh. Is this other one flirting with me? She felt hopeful.
The third day was harder. There was a blowup at work, and no one to talk with about it. After work, she met her friend Amy for a drink, but Amy didn’t know the cast of characters in her office or their complicated relationships, and didn’t want to hear about them, either.
On the fourth day, her husband came to the apartment to pick up some clothes. They began to argue, as usual, and he revealed that he had moved in with the colleague he’d sworn he wasn’t having an affair with. When she started to cry, he said, “Well, I see you couldn’t wait to get rid of your wedding ring.”
On the fifth day, she had dinner with her cousin Margo and talked about her husband moving in with his girlfriend. “How could you not know about it?” Margo said. “Everybody knew about it.” Margo said there was someone she wanted her to meet.
On the sixth day, she met Margo’s friend Peter. There was nothing particularly wrong with Peter, as far as she could tell. He designed video games for a living. He had just emerged from a “bad relationship” and was looking for a better one. He had a dog and played soccer on the weekends. He kept brushing a lock of hair off his forehead when he talked. She had forgotten, after all those years, how awkward first dates could be.
On the seventh day, she stayed at home in bed and cried most of the day. Then she started searching Netflix for rom-coms.
When she walked into the lake, she hadn't had a dog for about ten years.
When she walked into the lake, the day was a little cool and overcast, but it hadn't started raining. It would have been raining for four hours when someone finally found her.
When she walked into the lake, she put stones in her pocket like Virginia Woolf. She had so admired Woolf when she was young and thought she’d be a writer. She thought she needed the weight and kept the large, round river stones in the patch pockets of her parka.
When she walked into the lake, she thought that she should have called Jean, but decided it was better this way.
When she walked into the lake, she stopped. She stood with the cold water pushing her jeans against her shins for ten minutes, then started walking again.
When she walked into the lake, she thought about her cameras, how she'd sold them because she stopped taking pictures, though she couldn't remember why she'd stopped. There were so many pictures. She’d gone to so many places. She had seen so many lovely things, but somehow, she had stopped looking
When she walked into the lake, she did not think about her parents., not the ones who had adopted her or the ones she had looked for.
When she walked into the lake, she was wearing sensible shoes, a light parka, and her favorite shirt.
When she walked into the lake, she heard the sound of ravens in the trees behind her. and stopped a second time.
When she walked into the lake, she didn't close her eyes, not right away. Not until she'd let the water close over her head and all she could see was the deep, deep green.
You never desire anything. In fact, I've never heard you use that word. Strawberry jam on a warm buttered biscuit with a cup of coffee. . . you want it, but never desire it.
You never wish for more or less of anything. . . more payment of coins of the land, less thunder before a storm, more sunshine in April.
You never say good morning, have a nice day, sleep tight. You rarely speak unless to admonish the barking dog.
You never say you love me as you caress the small of my back. You never say it.
I've been thinking a lot about this lately. As a kid I heard that Jesus loved me, but that didn't mean a lot to me. I never heard parents use the word love to each other or to us. I've lately learned the idea of love is worth exploring. :)
Anna and Jake had to die. He woke up that morning with the idea lodged in his brain. Anna and Jake had to die. As he made coffee and stalked, sipping its warmth and welcoming its aroma filling his lungs. Anna and Jake had to die. As he roamed the newly rented house. Anna and Jake had to die. As he packed a lunch and a backpack and made a plan to hike the cape trail. Anna and Jake had to die. As he navigated the winding road from Pacific City to the Cape Trail. Anna and Jake had to die. As he paused in the middle of the trail abruptly startling a squirrel that began chittering angrily from somewhere above him. Anna and Jake had to die. As he hiked, he began plotting ways to kill them both, or to kill one and let the other one take the fall for the murder. Anna and Jake had to die. But how?--they weren’t stupid or easily persuaded into much they didn’t want to do. Anna and Jake had to die. Maybe they were too strong and independent for their own good. Anna and Jake had to die. It had become a mantra propelling him down the trail to the end of the Cape. Anna and Jake had to die. The precipice at the end of the Cape Trail. Anna and Jake had to die. It was one possibility.
Anna and Jake had to die. It was his own fault; Anna and Jake–two quirky and well loved detectives. Anna and Jake had to die. They were his own quirky detectives; he’d breathed life into them in his first published novel. Anna and Jake had to die. He no longer controlled them; they controlled him. Anna and Jake had to die. The grim irony of deciding to kill both of the main characters in a popular crime fiction series wasn’t lost on Simon. Anna and Jake had to die. Their final, very final case. Anna and Jake had to die. Could he write it in a way to subvert the genre and poke fun at his readers? Anna and Jake had to die. And they had to die soon. Anna and Jake had to die. Would it mean the death of his writing career? Anna and Jake had to die. It was haunting him; a deadline loomed. Anna and Jake had to die.
All the Stories
The story was that Mrs. Barrett caught Mr. Barrett in the back office with his pants down and the new girl on her knees. The story was that Dr. Akins put a hand on Lavonne Miller’s butt when they were dancing at Delores Martin’s wedding. The story was that Peter Baker’s mom put scotch in her morning tea and vodka in her afternoon cola. The story was that Mr. Von had his secretary in the car with him when he crashed into the divider on the freeway. The story was that Miss Collins was in love with Miss Feder and that someone had seen them kissing in Miss Feder’s Chevy Impala in the parking lot. The story was that Brian Dean lost his virginity to Mr. Anderson on that boy scout trip. The story was that Alice Plant was only pretending to overdose under the bleachers in the back field. The story was that Frankie Norman wore his wife’s underwear under his khakis. The story was that it was Bill Kemper who broke Frankie Norman’s jaw. The story was that Ben Lamer’s dad had a heart attack and died at the top of Glacier Peak. The story was that you loved me very, very much, and that you would never leave me no matter what.
Some people get all the fun. Wish my life was half that interesting.
hahahaha!
oh boy. didn't see THAT ending coming. Yes!
Brought tears to my eyes.
Janet! Thank you!
And the ending is especially surprising and touching
!!! This is an incredible story Mary!!
Thank you so much, Imola!
Sounds like a lively town!! And a lovely ending!
I love that the story allows me to believe in any or all of the stories within it.
Thank you, Fred!
Great use of gossip to form a story. Very clever idea.
thanks, Niall. I think it could use some work, but I wanted to post. I'm going to mull it a bit and see if I can make it sing.
it's an opera!
That's funny--but also so true!
I like that it's about the stories people tell, the ones that get told and passed on, because in that is also the implication that there are other stories that don't get told, some important ones, some that seem not so important, but they're still there.
Yes, so true. And also that all stories are so unreliable and yet we believe them.
Wow. Well done. Nice journey to that ending.
Thank you, Angela!
I liked how you used details - the Impala, the Glacier Peak, they make the piece so lively!
Thanks so much, Bliminda!
Tell me about the day you met my father. What was it about him that caught your attention, besides being your charismatic, handsome teacher? Did you know he was a womanizer, but chose not to see it?
Tell me about the day you finally spoke to him. What did you say? Was it awkward, or something intelligent? Did he appreciate you then, before he learned to take your love for granted?
Tell me about the day he convinced you that you were special. Did you believe him? Did you think you could change him?
Please don’t tell me about the first time you made love. I rather not know.
Tell me about the day you decided to leave your husband for my father. How did he take it? Did you break his heart? Did you ever regret it? Was he kinder to you than my father?
Tell me again about the day you found out that you were pregnant. Were you happy, or sad? Frightened? Did you want me more than you wanted my father, or did you want us both, in equal measure?
Tell me about the day you showed up at my father’s house with a small suitcase and asked my grandmother to take you in. Where did you go when she refused?
Tell me about the day you told my grandparents that you were pregnant with me, and the father wasn’t your husband, but your university professor? Did they shame you, or accepted you? When did they agree to help you?
Tell me again about the day of your wedding at Budapest’s castle district. Who were the two witnesses, and why didn’t you want to have a party? Did you know already that the marriage wouldn’t last? When did you know for certain that the marriage wouldn’t last?
Tell me again about the day I was born, a month prematurely, a day after your wedding, on a Sunday morning? Were you happy to meet me? Was I good to you? Did you ever love me?
Please tell me, was I worth the trouble?
Wow. Imola. Brutal, honest, upfront, emotional, so very real....amazing writing here.
Thank you Mary! I just sat down to work on my book when your prompt came through and I couldn’t resist it. They are always so inspiring! I purposely gave myself up to 30 minutes to hit the 400 words mark without editing myself. I think I wrote this in 10 minutes. It just flowed. It is a bliss when it happens. Thank you!!
Yes, that is bliss!
Thank you Mary! I just sat down to work on my book when your prompt came through and I couldn’t resist it. They are always so inspiring! I purposely gave myself up to 30 minutes to hit the 400 words mark without editing myself. I think I wrote this in 10 minutes. It just flowed. It is a bliss when it happens. Thank you!!
Imola
Breathtaking. As in my breathing is not normal right now, having just read that. As a father, with a daughter who means more than all life, this was a wrench.
Wow. I read your prompts most weeks, and you are a remarkable voice and writer. You're one of those here whose work I seek out and look forward to. Among so much really great material in this stack, yours always stands out. Always touches me in a way that surprises my heart.
I hope your writing brings you everything you want from it. It certainly brings much to me, and I'm sure to many others who read it here.
Omg, Fred, you have just made me cry… thank you, thank you, thank you!! I am a mother too and my girls are everything to me. Your daughter is lucky to have a father like you!!
It makes me wish I had asked more.
I write what I don’t dare to ask… you’re not alone
Such a great one, moving and relatable. Makes me think… What are we allowed to ask?
That could be the starting point of your response to the prompt, Sea!
Great question! :)
Oh my, that's very powerful Imola. You use the repetition so effectively to build a story, implying another story inside it.
Thank you Aisling! Probably many more stories…
Folding Feelings Into Origami
Maybe, just maybe, she had shown me how to fold t-shirts squarely. A flat envelope of tie dye, stacked cheek to cheek, awaiting their turn to be waved full of air and fitted properly.
Maybe I did finally hear her explain the importance of cleaning behind the kitchen sink hardware. How tiny bits of discarded food would make their way behind the spray nozzle so that armies of ants had to be battled every couple of months just because one night we were both too exhausted to get off the futon.
Maybe every time we folded fitted sheets together I took a mental note as to how I could accomplish this alone. “Make a fist, drive through to the other fist.” Then she would drape them between her arms and make origami.
Maybe I was listening, really listening, when she told me stories about her twenties. All how she and her girlfriends would drink beyond excess. Her memory of this time brought her joy. Not the same joy as the longevity of our relationship. Not nearly the same sorrow which was brought on by knowing there was an actual expiration date set upon her.
Maybe I didn’t want to acknowledge her “I want you to meet someone, fall in love again” declaration. I hesitated, and maybe I said “if it happens, but I looked for you for so long, I cannot actively look again.”
The poetry of this one! I love how I can feel the pain inside of these simple acts--folding shirts, cleaning behind the sink, etc.
Very touching. Thank you.
So poignant this one. Well done.
He was surprised she even knew his name. He was surprised when she asked him to go to the cinema with her. He was surprised in the dark of the theatre when he felt her hand on his knee. He was surprised when her hand slid up past his thigh. He was surprised how quickly that episode was over. He was surprised when she agreed to go to the cinema again the next night. And the next. He was surprised that these episodes were unaccompanied by shame. He was surprised they never got caught by the ushers.
He was surprised she said no to other guys. He was surprised when he learned how to tie a bow-tie then stood on her doorstep with a corsage in his hand. He was surprised it was her who had opened the door. He was surprised anyone could look so beautiful.
He was surprised the mortgage company lent them the money. He was surprised she found the energy to work two jobs and still squeeze his thigh when she got home from her evening shift. He was surprised his roughening hands did not scrape away the skin on her cheek.
He was surprised she did not leave him after the accident left him unable to work. He was surprised she still wanted to do it every night.
He was surprised she never got pregnant. He was surprised when the doctor said it wasn’t to do with him. He was surprised they could even count those things.
He was surprised her hair turned grey before his. He was surprised she could live off such small portions at dinner. He was surprised to find her staring out of the window, just staring. He was surprised she didn’t seem to hear when he asked what she was looking at.
He was surprised she seemed to forget who he was. He was surprised they said she’d be better off getting proper care, from professionals. He was surprised he put up such a fight. He was surprised that they gave up in the end and he managed to keep her at home, with him.
He was surprised his hands could hold a spoon so patiently, and at the stories he found inside himself to tell her in their last week together.
He was surprised when he told the story of their first date, at the cinema, and at the details that came back to him after all this time.
Ohhhhh. This one kills. So nicely done, Niall.
It's beautiful and heartbreaking.
I love the way this starts out so funny, Niall then turns so tender. The different shadings of surprise are interesting because for the reader the word suggests mystery and in your telling it's the narrator's journey of self-discovery that yields the surprises. Well done.
Beautiful, Niall. Lovely renderings of the particulars of a life together.
Wow. So moving and sad this progression you build.
First take his hand and place it gently on your breast, that is, the hand of the Archangel Raphael, which you would not do if he were flesh and blood but as he is an angel and as no one is looking, perhaps you’ll take a chance.
First decide which archangel is the one for healing no, not Michael. No, not Gabriel with all his tidings, good tidings , what you haven’t heard in quite a while.
First meet the surgeon with her perky plastic clogs her sympathetic eyes above her facemask, what her draw you pictures of where she plans to excavate
First decipher the pathology report with words you can’t imagine ever knowing or wanting to know, how they string together in a sequence that seems to be a story with no plot, no characters, the ending impossible to imagine.
First place your breast in a vise, hold your breath as it is sandwiched into pain. Say it doesn’t hurt. Lie and say it doesn’t hurt.
First disrobe in a dressing room with an accordian folding door and cheerful posters on the wall, find a paper gown, tie it in the back, no in the front, no, it doesn’t really matter where you tie it, it won’t be tied for long.
First bury your mother, answer the condolence cards, thank you thank you thank you.
I feel this one, all of it. Really well done, Christine.
This is really powerful.
Beautiful and touching. Is it in reverse chronological order, as in the last thing happens "first"? Haunting.
They said it was the worst deviated septum they’d ever seen
They said surgery could fix it
They said to choose what level of pain I was in
They said it was FDA approved
They said it was to get ahead of the pain
They said one dose relieves pain for 12 hours
They said it was a gift made from nature
They said it was controlled release
They said the sensation that my skin was crawling with tiny bugs meant that I had withdrawal
They said I should’ve tapered off, they told me to taper off
They said it was because I quit “cold turkey”
They said addiction was rare, that I must have other issues
They said I must’ve been prone to addiction
They said in the lawsuit that drug abusers are not victims
They said the Sacklers and big pharma companies earned billions
They said I was the face of the opioid epidemic
They said half a million deaths and rising from opioid overdoses
They said I was lucky
They said my doctor went to expensive resorts funded by Purdue
They said I could’ve taken Extra Strength Tylenol, next time take that, they said
Ok just so you don't worry, this isn't me. I did have the worst deviated septum two surgeons had ever seen, and when they gave me the opioids, I didn't take them, I took the Tylenol extra strength. I have an aversion to these strong prescriptions. This story was based on my friend's experience and I elaborated a bit and changed the surgery to the surgery I had. So basically, this is fiction, not memoir, but not fiction as it happened to so many people and every fact is true.
i never take the opioids, either, though I always want to. I love that you chose "They said." And that you took it from the very personal to the very global and back again. Those Sacklers--greedy monsters.
Greedy monsters, indeed. My friend took the opioids, I didn’t— such different outcomes. It’s shocking what people went through.
My favourite line was They said I was lucky.
What a wonderful line. Could be a great first line too.
It's a good one to move things around to see what works, I like that idea, lucky first, then moving through the shit show.
Thank you for being willing to embody the character, Sea. It felt so real.
Thank you, Janet.
Interesting Sea. As you say, tragically, it happened to thousands of people just as you describe.
OK...true or not or partially true
its a grand "they said" story!
Thank you!
I've loved reading these - so creative and so moving. I didn't really have a story based on the prompt, but this morning I was reading about Taoism and had some questions, which turned into the words below using the format.
Maybe things aren’t meant to flow.
Maybe things are meant to cling to me and then burrow into the layers of my life, there to germinate and to express and to come forth as something new.
Maybe friction is good and maybe it creates the heat that incubates all that is waiting to be born.
Maybe the eddies that stop me and hold me and startle me and frighten me are really wombs.
Maybe.
A lovely prose poem. Love all the questioning, pondering.
They used to think they were funny and hip. That was before their biggest fear was breaking a hip. They were the cool ones, the ones who got invited to things, the ones whose words everyone hung onto. The ones who could break your heart without even trying.
They used to think that getting old was for others. They used to think they were like Robert DeNiro or Mick Jagger, ageless chameleons who reinvent cool and never die.
They used to think their bodies wouldn’t betray them, and their skin wouldn’t grow strange things, or their hair get thin or too thick in unpleasant places.
They used to think that that sly look or flirtatious line would always work. They used to think that the bored glance or fast exit wouldn’t happen in their company.
They used to think that money was easy, and people wanted to pay them what they were worth. They used to think they were in demand and never out of sync.
They used to think that their children would always worship them and take care of them when they were old. They used to think that they could ignore them and criticize them and still be in their lives.
They used to think that the life they had would always be the same. They used to think their town was wrapped in a timeless bubble and immune to change.
They used to think that problems happened to other families. They used to think if you followed the rules, it would all work out.
They used to think they had all the answers. They used to think they knew the right questions to ask.
They used to think they were happy.
So much truth in this small gem.
I feel this one. It’s great, Noreen.
BEFORE YOU SAY ANYTHING
Before you say anything to anyone at all at the event, check to see who’s in the room, and in earshot. Be sure there’s no one who shouldn’t hear what you are about to say. Try to think long term, outside-the-immediate: are there people here who might know people you would not want to have hear what you’re going to say? For example is a woman with a flag lapel pin likely connected to a group or person who might take offense or issue with what you’re about to say? Pay attention to jewelry and religious iconography. Be sensitive!
Before you say anything to specific people, be clear about your message, but not such that it might sound rehearsed, unnatural, or in any way inauthentic. As always, a key element to your success is 'warm' credibility. Be natural and believable, but not at the cost of clarity in what it is precisely that you will be saying.
Before you say anything to a potential contact, or link to a contact, run down the checklist in your mind of the type of things you can say or ask to elicit, in a friendly and disarming manner, information to determine if they are worth the time and energy of contact and conversation. Remember the axioms of marketing and advertising you've been taught and be sure those you invest your limited time and energy in are in your 'target demographic'. Yes, this is essentially a form of triage, but try not to think of it as only that. Warmth and connection are still vital.
Before you say anything privately, to just one single individual, with no one else in earshot, determine that nothing you say to them can be altered by them later via memory and recounting in ways that may distort your meaning or misrepresent what you said. Unfortunately such precautions are sometimes necessary. Some people may misrepresent what you said merely through selective or faulty memory, not necessarily ill will. Don't think of these precautions as a cold act, but do remember that in a competitive environment such as this, ill will can sometimes be a factor.
So, before you say anything, as cold as it may seem, make sure it cannot be used against your short term goals at the event. If it possibly can be, then before you say anything like that, be sure that more than a single person is present so that third party validation can be gotten later if needed. Hopefully it will not be.
Before you say anything, it never hurts to remind yourself that your words are your greatest tool, but others can alter your words, intentionally or not, if it's a simple case of he said/she said. Again, this is unfortunate, and rare, and should not be dwelt upon in a way as to sap warmth and genuine connection from the contacts at the event. Be relaxed and social in your intentions.
Before you say anything, after having made sure you’re in neutral company, vis-à-vis the above paragraph, take a breath, smile unselfconsciously, and make friendly eye contact, but do not stare. More than almost anything else, your success hinges on setting others at ease and one of the best ways to do this is to be at ease yourself.
Before you say anything, of course, make sure your earpiece and body mic are both functional with offsite support. You should have already made sure you’re sidearm and back-up deterrent are readily accessible yet fully concealed.
Before you say anything to anyone at all, remind yourself that the lives, of Jenny, Cal and Susan depend on your success.
Jeepers! This one got scary! I hope the person manages to save Jenny, Cal and Susan! (Not a big deal, but do try to stick to 400 words when you post. Your story can be longer--but just post 400 words of a longer piece in the comments. Sometimes it's interesting to write more than 400 words and then see if you can edit it down. A story can end up tighter that way in surprising ways.)
Oooo, so many different ways to place this. Mystery, intrigue. Could be a paranoid narrator, or a journalist, or a spy.
Sounds like good advice to politicians on the stump!!!
Oh, you're right, I see that in the earlier grafs. Hadn't occurred to me as such. But if you're referring to the last couple grafs, I fear there may well already be enough such bad behviour in the political world. Not necessarily on the stump but post stump. Wow, look at what stump rhymes with! Silly universe!
Aaaaghh! Freudian pun!!!
Not only was any pun unintended, but I can't even see it.
I was referring to my use of stump and your comment about what it rhymes with! Not quite a pun . . .
I know you're finding parallels to other works with this one. I have been reading Prophet Song by Paul Lynch. It's a bit of a struggle reading it and I don't normally hang in there when a book makes me work this hard. He doesn't use a lot of paragraph breaks or quotation marks, so it can be challenging. My point is, this short piece of yours reminds me of it from the standpoint that everyone in PS has to be careful what they say or they can be hauled off and never seen again. When you got to the part about Jenny, Cal, and Susan, I began to shiver a bit...Well done. I haven't read Black Box or Ghostwritten, so I'll check them out. Thank you.
Hang in with Prophet Song, Angela. It's excellent and relentless . . .
sorry about the length, I'll be more mindful in future.
I don't know what's going on with the incidents of darker topics on a lot of these prompts. I suspect it might be just a cheap-trick cheat mentality to spark up the material, as opposed to doing the harder work. But maybe not. I'm not forcing myself into these directions, they are coming surprisingly naturally, and often not until mid piece.. It might also be the brevity of the prompt assignments, with such dramatic pyrotechnics being an easy appeasement.
It's really not a big deal. Plenty of people go over the word limit! I just feel it's my part as the moderator to remind people to keep their posts short enough that we all have time and energy to read them. Regarding dark topics: Sometimes, that's just what arrives! You're right that the brevity of the pieces may lead one to try to amp up the action. I think if a person does enough of these, that urge can calm down. The fact that these pieces are coming to you "surprisingly naturally" sounds great to me!
Thanks. I will still try to work on the length. my current job is tremendously specific and stringent on word count, so any writing I do for myself I tend to feel a little free of that concern.
I'm kind of surprised in a fun way that three of four of my prompt pieces have had darker turns since that's far afield from my overall writing. I just want to stay aware that it's not, as mentioned, 'cheating'. My tendency with many of the prompts is towards what I think of as punchline stories: a set-up for something that might potentially far exceed the eventual length of the piece - something more character/situation based along the lines of what I generally spend my time writing - and then a quick turn at the end to resolve/explain....i.e. the punchline. (Rim shot or organ stab here, your choice). Either way it's a version of , "thank ladies and gentlemen, I'll be here all week."
Revelation of the body mic and sidearm in my piece this week would be the punchline, followed by the last sentence, an epilogue in hopes of deepening, or at least rationalizing the punchline.
Nothing is cheating. Nothing. Write what comes, in whatever way it comes. Use whatever flows your way. It's all good. The only thing that is a cheat is outright plagiarism--unacknowledged copying or paraphrasing of another's work. Everything else is just dandy.
I realize too, that this piece was not without a significant nod to Jenifer Egan's brilliant story BLACK BOX.
Haven't read that one. Will have to seek it out. Thanks!
Black Box is a sensational work, to me. decades after it's New Yorker Publication, she sequeled her fabulous novel A VISIT FROM THE GOON SQUAD (highly reccomeded) with THE CANDY HOUSE and chose to resurrect Black Box as an unlikely, but successful Chapter within CANDY HOUSE.
I know GS is fond of Egan's writing, and I remember seeing a great onstage conversation between the two of them on YouTube a few years back. Her novels are hit or miss for me, but the two mentioned above and MANHATTAN BEACH I loved. GOON SQUAD is one I've reread multiple times for the sheer joy of her dizzying craft. Black Box would by no means be a spoiler and I'd reccomend anyone to read it:
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2012/06/04/black-box
I absolutely loved A Visit From the Goon Squad. Have not gotten to her others yet, but hope to read them one of these days!
With Goon Squad being as singularly great as it is, Candy House, while very good, can't compare, but it's a really interesting effort, revisiting the most peripheral characters from GOON SQUAD many years later in their life's journeys.
For anyone who loved GOON SQUAD, I strongly recommend David Mitchel's masterful debut GHOSTWRITTEN. Not similar to Goon squad, except in one narrative device, but so good. Made me a lifelong Mitchell Fan, and lead eventually to his THE THOUSAND AUTUMNS OF JACOB DE ZOET ranking among my favorite novels ever. The "Mitchell verse" and its artful interconnections among characters and events from unconnected novels is interesting as hell in an Otaku sense. GHOSTWRITTEN aside from being sensational storytelling, is the first step into that universe, which, in retrospect, and despite some offhand authorial denials, seems like he had in mind from the first book onward. I think it's just how his brain works, and his book about Autism is suppsedly excellent as well.
I am pretty sure his book is not about his own autistic son, but a non fiction look at another child, but I could be wrong on that. It's forever on my list, but I have the hardest time reading non fiction with so much fiction out there (says the guys who mostly re-reads the same books and stories over and over.....hmmm, maybe there's room on the edges of the spectrum for me?)
Anyway, merely as a debut, Ghostwritten is sensational, but also for many other reasons. I could have easily believed it was his fifth or tenth book had I been told so.
So many books....! I hate to think that I'll never get to all of them. I've not read Mitchell, either, though everyone seems to be a fan of Cloud Atlas. Sigh. One of these days...
I didn't come up with a literal anaphora but I think this has a feeling of anaphora.
During the years my friends and I contemplated careers in crime we were in the woods one night and noticed an eerie green light. It was nearby we thought because we didn’t have to look far it was just there, on a very dark night the way nights are in deep woods when you can’t see your hands in front of your face or anything else. We saw this green light we’d never seen before and sure as hell didn’t know what it was. It was vague, nothing like light coming out of a bulb, or a cigarette getting inhaled. Muted green, mashed baby pea green light diffused and not attached to anything just hanging ghostly in the darkness. We weren’t sure to be scared or not so we built up our campfire to warn anything out there in the woods off also thinking with enough light we might see enough to figure out the green thing which turned out was a big rotten log. By day the log was soggy and plain and falling apart rotten three feet across. By night it glowed green in the dark. Later I learned about bioluminescence, but I don’t know if the others figured it out or even cared. The green color was alive after all. I don’t remember what friends those were either, but whatever friends they were and I got the fire going pretty good and hot against that darkness and threw in some aerosolized cans of something and waited for them to explode and blow orange flame into the night. This was long ago, some time in those odd years in the dark woods when we thought about crime.
Love this. It feels like when we did that 50/200 exercise with George--the constraint of using fewer words in a story. Love the cans exploding. Glad you only contemplated crime... at least, I think you only contemplated it. You're still a mystery!
You're right. Only contemplation. I knew I wouldn't like prison.
Clever, Tod. The rhythm of the repetition of light seems to enact the mystery of its persistence without obvious source. And the dark woods, classic locus of mystery and boyhood adventure. The exploding cans sound like fun! As long as you stand well back!
After He Left
On the first day, she was flooded with relief: at last, she could get through a day without an argument. She took off her wedding ring and locked it in her jewelry box, then went out to buy herself a new ring – silver, not gold – to wear on her right ring finger.
On the second day, she began looking at other men. Or Other Men, as she thought of them. It had been a long time since she had looked at Other Men. This one has a winning smile. That one made me laugh. Is this other one flirting with me? She felt hopeful.
The third day was harder. There was a blowup at work, and no one to talk with about it. After work, she met her friend Amy for a drink, but Amy didn’t know the cast of characters in her office or their complicated relationships, and didn’t want to hear about them, either.
On the fourth day, her husband came to the apartment to pick up some clothes. They began to argue, as usual, and he revealed that he had moved in with the colleague he’d sworn he wasn’t having an affair with. When she started to cry, he said, “Well, I see you couldn’t wait to get rid of your wedding ring.”
On the fifth day, she had dinner with her cousin Margo and talked about her husband moving in with his girlfriend. “How could you not know about it?” Margo said. “Everybody knew about it.” Margo said there was someone she wanted her to meet.
On the sixth day, she met Margo’s friend Peter. There was nothing particularly wrong with Peter, as far as she could tell. He designed video games for a living. He had just emerged from a “bad relationship” and was looking for a better one. He had a dog and played soccer on the weekends. He kept brushing a lock of hair off his forehead when he talked. She had forgotten, after all those years, how awkward first dates could be.
On the seventh day, she stayed at home in bed and cried most of the day. Then she started searching Netflix for rom-coms.
Yes, all of this sounds exactly how it would go.
Love this, love the ending.
When she walked into the lake, she hadn't had a dog for about ten years.
When she walked into the lake, the day was a little cool and overcast, but it hadn't started raining. It would have been raining for four hours when someone finally found her.
When she walked into the lake, she put stones in her pocket like Virginia Woolf. She had so admired Woolf when she was young and thought she’d be a writer. She thought she needed the weight and kept the large, round river stones in the patch pockets of her parka.
When she walked into the lake, she thought that she should have called Jean, but decided it was better this way.
When she walked into the lake, she stopped. She stood with the cold water pushing her jeans against her shins for ten minutes, then started walking again.
When she walked into the lake, she thought about her cameras, how she'd sold them because she stopped taking pictures, though she couldn't remember why she'd stopped. There were so many pictures. She’d gone to so many places. She had seen so many lovely things, but somehow, she had stopped looking
When she walked into the lake, she did not think about her parents., not the ones who had adopted her or the ones she had looked for.
When she walked into the lake, she was wearing sensible shoes, a light parka, and her favorite shirt.
When she walked into the lake, she heard the sound of ravens in the trees behind her. and stopped a second time.
When she walked into the lake, she didn't close her eyes, not right away. Not until she'd let the water close over her head and all she could see was the deep, deep green.
Wow. So intense. And sad.
"somehow she had stopped looking," And I love the way you bring back "all she could see" at the end.
I love that the ending is inevitable, so we can pay attention to all the details without wondering.
You never desire anything. In fact, I've never heard you use that word. Strawberry jam on a warm buttered biscuit with a cup of coffee. . . you want it, but never desire it.
You never wish for more or less of anything. . . more payment of coins of the land, less thunder before a storm, more sunshine in April.
You never say good morning, have a nice day, sleep tight. You rarely speak unless to admonish the barking dog.
You never say you love me as you caress the small of my back. You never say it.
Beautiful and sad. Why do some people find it so hard to say the words I love you...?
I've been thinking a lot about this lately. As a kid I heard that Jesus loved me, but that didn't mean a lot to me. I never heard parents use the word love to each other or to us. I've lately learned the idea of love is worth exploring. :)
Wow. Lonely while not alone.
Ain't No Use - a song for young lovers
-
Ain't no use you tryin' to persuade me
Ain't no use me sayin' nothing fits
Ain't no use you hangin' all around me
Ain't no use me tellin' you we're quits
-
Ain't no use, ain't no use
Believe me honey baby
'T ain't no use
-
Ain't no use you callin' on your mother
Ain't no use me draggin' in my dad
Ain't no use you dreamin' I'm your lover
Ain't no use me thinkin' that's too bad
-
Ain't no use, ain't no use
Believe me honey baby
'T ain't no use
-
Ain't no use me jumpin' 'cross the state line
Ain't no use you tryin' to pin me down
Ain't no use me callin' for some break time
Ain't no use you trailin' me round town
-
Ain't no use me climbin' up a mountain
Ain't no use you makin' up a spell
Ain't no use me drinkin' a beer fountain
Ain't no use you sendin' bats from hell
-
Ain't no use, ain't no use
Believe me honey baby
'T ain't no use
-
Ain't no use me duckin' any longer
Ain't no use you keepin' up the fight
Ain't no use me tryin' to be stronger
Ain't no use us runnin' from the light
-
Ain't no use, ain't no use
Fightin' love, honey baby
'T ain't no use
Oh, I need to hear you sing this while playing the guitar! I can almost hear it now...
Let your imagination rip... 'cos I cain't play no geetar :(
That had line feeds between the verses but ain't no use hopin' Substack will leave us some room for fancy stuff.
Found a work-around.
This is a really good. Have you considered collaborating with a musician on this and posting it on You Tube?
Honestly, no. I was just trying to do an anaphora and couldn't get a lead till "ain't no use" sailed in.
I think there was a David Lindley song, Ain't No Way Baby, that was at the back of my mind.
Ain't no way, baby
Ain't no way you get to me.
Ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe. (Dylan)
Oh yes. Don't Think Twice. Anthem of my youth.
Anna and Jake had to die. He woke up that morning with the idea lodged in his brain. Anna and Jake had to die. As he made coffee and stalked, sipping its warmth and welcoming its aroma filling his lungs. Anna and Jake had to die. As he roamed the newly rented house. Anna and Jake had to die. As he packed a lunch and a backpack and made a plan to hike the cape trail. Anna and Jake had to die. As he navigated the winding road from Pacific City to the Cape Trail. Anna and Jake had to die. As he paused in the middle of the trail abruptly startling a squirrel that began chittering angrily from somewhere above him. Anna and Jake had to die. As he hiked, he began plotting ways to kill them both, or to kill one and let the other one take the fall for the murder. Anna and Jake had to die. But how?--they weren’t stupid or easily persuaded into much they didn’t want to do. Anna and Jake had to die. Maybe they were too strong and independent for their own good. Anna and Jake had to die. It had become a mantra propelling him down the trail to the end of the Cape. Anna and Jake had to die. The precipice at the end of the Cape Trail. Anna and Jake had to die. It was one possibility.
Anna and Jake had to die. It was his own fault; Anna and Jake–two quirky and well loved detectives. Anna and Jake had to die. They were his own quirky detectives; he’d breathed life into them in his first published novel. Anna and Jake had to die. He no longer controlled them; they controlled him. Anna and Jake had to die. The grim irony of deciding to kill both of the main characters in a popular crime fiction series wasn’t lost on Simon. Anna and Jake had to die. Their final, very final case. Anna and Jake had to die. Could he write it in a way to subvert the genre and poke fun at his readers? Anna and Jake had to die. And they had to die soon. Anna and Jake had to die. Would it mean the death of his writing career? Anna and Jake had to die. It was haunting him; a deadline loomed. Anna and Jake had to die.
That's really killing one's darlings!
What a relief that second paragraph was! I loved this one. Just super fun to read.
Thank you.
Very fun. I was scared Anna and Jake were going to be pets...
This is a fantastic ride! Well done.
Thank you.
What a buildup! I love "the precipice....one possibility."
Thank you.
Oooou, I love this. Especially the way the details emerge.
Thank you.
[removed by author 7-sep-24]
So very ominous. Love the repetition you chose here.
Oh, I love this one! Those elephants scrambling sucked me right into it. And that last section...well done.
So cool, Mark. Love it!