Loose Leafs from a Commonplace

OneWord: Survive

2009-10-05T13:26:00.000-07:00

So much of those last moments are spent admiring the beauty of what is yet to come. But the darkness of the past lingers long enough to keep one grounded in reality: living, merely surviving just enough to make you remember you are only human.

The above has been modified from the original I left over at OneWord. But not by much.

Not that I follow a lot of prompt sites, but OneWord is interesting, fun, and sometimes it gets me thinking. And writing.

In a nutshell, a word is provided and you have 60 seconds to write something.

Most times I have nothing, but sometimes I do. And it is these moments that give me hope I can write again.

Just a moment. But I'll take what I can get.

PhotoHunt 178: Electric

2009-09-13T00:39:00.000-07:00

Summer baseball at night. Can't get any more electric than that.

Fear Is What You Make It. So is Failure.

2009-09-02T00:58:00.001-07:00

By the looks of things around here, I bet you thought the worst. So had I. I haven’t posted a damn thing in an entire month.

Hard decisions needed to be made. Do I stay, or do I go? And if I stay, what then?

The spark of creativity had not only gone out, but left a permanent scar where it had once burned fierce and bright, leaving a thickening of skin, a glaring and permanent reminder of what once was, leaving me to wonder if it ever will be again.

If you are wondering what I am referring to, consider the concept of writer’s block. To me it was as real as a brick wall. One I was constantly bashing my head against trying to keep up with others by challenging myself to write so much per day, per month. I can’t do that anymore. I simply can’t.

The only thing I succeeded in accomplishing, is creating and perfecting the art of suffering from anxiety attacks.

Many believe writer's block does not exist. Only barriers we make to subconsciously sabotage ourselves as we are that afraid of success. Oh it’s easy to accept failure. Painful too. But not as much as success.

Success changes everything. And let’s face it, most of us like that comfort zone we’ve become accustomed to and grip onto it as if our very lives depended on it.

But what has that comfort zone done for you lately?

Thrilled you? Made you feel so alive you see every single sunrise as an opportunity to face and conquer, well, everything?

Not here it hasn’t. So I’m kicking it to the curb.

This simply won’t do. Just as I stated in the title: Fear is what you make it. So is Failure.

And if that is true, so are the opposites: Courage and Success.

I am going to return to that which brought me here to begin with: flash fiction, short fiction, and poetry. Some photography too, but not much. Only if it can inspire one of those other things I mentioned. And, I will no longer begin each day with a task, particularly ones that begin with, “I must do [this] by the end of the day/week/month”.

I will have goals, but will not beat myself up mercilessly if I do not meet them. (Okay, okay, I may bash myself about a bit, but I promise no bloodletting or severe bruising.)

I want to do more, but baby steps are needed. I know I’ll fall flat on my face a few times, but why force the issue. I’m a miler, not a sprinter.

Flee, Fight, Or Fail: The Setting

2009-07-31T17:46:00.001-07:00

Through the open door of the trailer, I can see her walking unsteadily towards the pigpens at the bottom of the hill. The recurrent rainstorms make navigating the property treacherous enough, but along the hillside, the gouges in the path become nearly impassable by the end of the rainy season.

Luckily, their feed and water are next to the shelters so she doesn’t have to add insult to injury by having to lug heavy buckets as she performs her daily tasks.

I would’ve helped her, I asked, but she waved me off. When I think on it, she’s always been that way, shrugging off anyone’s help, especially if she thinks it’s patronizing because of her age. That woman’s pride can be a real pain in the ass.

It’s her way. It’s what’s seen her through those times in her life when most would have crumbled to dust under the weight of the bad luck and tragedy she’s experienced.

Many may not sympathize much with what she’s been through. Especially nowadays, when talking about your issues only seem to invite others to try and outdo you, by telling you theirs.

Thinking back on the last several days, I wonder if that is why I’ve come here. To get away from my problems, not to talk to anyone about them because every time I try, I get a speech about how it’s not that bad, lots of people have problems – worse ones.

This morning I learned it was true. Others have been through worse. And the regret. Not in what was done, but how, and the consequences for making bad decisions that at the time you thought were good, or were in denial over the fact they weren’t.

It’s bothered her. All this time trying to push it away has worn her down. You think you’re life’s been hard? You think you have problems you can’t deal with? Not sure she meant to outdo me, but she did.

In listening to her story, told while looking out the same door I’m watching her through now, unable to make eye contact as tears formed, fell, and dried, I saw a side of her few have ever seen, or will. She made it clear that this will be the last time she ever speaks about what happened when she left home. Seventeen, deathly ill, with a newborn, and just enough money and possessions to see her until she arrived at her new life away from the domineering husband she never would have married if she’d had the choice.

I never asked her to tell me all this. I’m not the one who should be sitting here possessing a knowledge I never wanted. She told me because she knew I would listen. Sometimes it’s better to share with someone not too close to the situation, someone who doesn’t have any prior hurts to distort the words, their meanings, and intentions in order to justify long held grudges.

The one who should be here, isn’t, and will never understand why. Now the burden is mine: the one where I bear two people’s pain. One will thank me for it. The other will condemn me. My relationship with either will never be the same.

Watching her return, stopping by the runner beans to check their progress, I’m not sure what to do other than pack. It seems when the shit hits the fan, the women in my family flee, fight, or fail when dealing with it all.

Well, I’ve done the first. I’m just not sure which of the other two I am destined for now.

© J.C. Montgomery

Reflections Of Her

2009-07-17T23:41:00.001-07:00

Crossing her arms, she watched as he strode away, leaning his head forward, as if trying to make headway against an unseen force.

She stood firm and solid. The air around her still - so still she took a deep breath to make sure it still existed. Why had he done it? Saying goodbye like this. Acting as if it were a natural thing to do, like it was something that happens every day, as if it was . . . nothing.

He stopped. Removing his hat, he wiped his brow, apparently overworked by the effort to make it to the corner merely a half a block away from where she stared. She’d been the one blindsided, yet he was the one showing the emotion; struggling it seemed, to accept what had just occurred.

He turned then with a look of second thought, the one when regret stops gnawing around the edges of your decision and finally takes a bite out of it.

By this time, her emotions had formed a barrier, trying to protect themselves from further abuse. It manifested on her face, her mouth still slightly agape, eyes narrowed, affecting a look that stops him in his tracks. Keeping her arms tightly to her, she refuses to offer redemption.

Expecting one thing, he sees another, realizing that he’s burnt a bridge he never meant to cross. The memory of one bad decision after another flash across this mind, but he knows this is the right one. He retreats and continues on his way.

This isn’t the first time someone’s left her. But it is the first time she didn’t feel like dying when they did. She turns to look into the shop window. Several images assail her all at once. Different views reflect her image in varying angles. Some full on, others displaying only a glimpse of the right or left side of her face. She wonders which one represents her best.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees it. Her image sliced in two, one side askew while the other stares back at her with perfect clarity.

Even though the sides cannot be reconciled, they are still part of each other. It’s only which side we choose to accept as our own that determines the perception we have of ourselves, and what we reveal to the world.

She walks into the crowd moving along the sidewalk, merging into their world, keeping close to the windows. She glances from time to time at her reflection, keeping track of her image as it changes. She’s still unsure which reality is hers, but she knows it’s always there, waiting.

© J.C. Montgomery 2009

Inspired by EasyStreet Prompt #604: She said, no more.

Fate’s Impatience

2009-07-10T17:04:00.001-07:00

“It looks like real crystal.”

“Would you expect anything less?”

Setting the glass down on the table between them, he looks directly at her, crooking the corner of his mouth in that familiar way, the one that tells her another long night lay ahead.

“You know, in the right light, I barely notice how dark those circles are beneath your eyes.”

“If you didn’t keep me up at all hours playing these games, there wouldn’t be any.”

She reaches out and pulls the glass closer, swirling it gently, feeling the weight of the liquid shift in her hand.

“Is this the last of it?”

“It was all I could salvage. I’m not sure what you hoped to gain. This changes nothing.”

He grabs her wrist firmly, just above the bandage, causing several drops to escape and land on her thumb. They both watch as the viscous fluid makes it way slowly down the back of her hand and soak into the gauze. She lets go of the glass, but his grip tightens.

Eyes lock as each waits to see whose weakness shows first.

“Tell me. Tell me why.”

“The truth . . . the truth is . . .”

“The truth is a sword dangling dangerously over our lives and you’d rather not be underneath when it falls. No one controls their own destiny. You should know better.”

He releases her and sits back in his chair.

“Drink up. The night is young, and fate is waiting.”

This is my entry in to The Clarity of Night Contest, “In Vino Veritas (Truth In Wine)”. Yes, it’s that time again where Jason Evans gives us a picture prompt and a limit of 250 words with which to work.

However, this particular contest is extra special. Jaye Wells, a former contest participant, is co-hosting and co-judging. This spring, Jaye released her novel Red-Headed Stepchild, a story which has it roots in a story entered the August 2006 contest.

Perhaps you will be next.

The contest closes 11:00pm, Wednesday, July 15th ET. Check out details by clicking the link above.

PhotoHunt 167: Flags

2009-06-28T13:34:00.001-07:00

If you are interested in conducting your own “PhotoHunt”, more information can be found at www.tntchick.com

Chasing Storms

2009-06-09T14:04:00.001-07:00

Not sure this will turn out to be a WIP. I’m up for suggestions.

I came across Denise Robbins via her Twitter account.

Denise offers some fun writing prompts and exercises. This one triggered something that took over and when done, left me thinking this is probably another one for the slush folder, but you never know. I’d rather have a slush folder bursting at the seams than blank pages constantly taunting me mercilessly.

This is a revised version of a piece I wrote inspired by the prompt, “She opened her email..”

She opened her email but decided to only read the one marked urgent. She pushed aside the mouse as she reached for her travel mug and wondered how much longer she had before they arrived.

What would it change if they knew the truth? They wouldn’t believe me anyway, so why should I bother?

The day had been going well. Nothing unusual, not even the green tint to the clouds had her worried. Tornado season was well under way and Longbow always saw its fair share of action. The town has a warning system, which seems pointless to Joanna since the storm chasers always hit town long before the weather, giving them ample time to prepare.

They’re a welcome sight. After losing the refinery, the town began to shrivel up and crack like a field suffering from a severe drought. Some days, the caravans heading out past the abandoned buildings reminded her of the images of fleeing refugees she once saw on CNN.

Swallowing the last of her coffee, she looks out the open window towards a massive shape swirling in the distance, moving slowly across the horizon. As the sirens begin to wail, she re-reads the message, its implications making it clear she needs to act quickly.

Joanna makes a couple of quick calculations and figures she has just enough time to make it to the gravesite and ensure it looks no different than the landscape surrounding it. They made her promise never to tell. No sense in it they told her. No one would listen, only believing what they want, never accepting the truth. Just make sure you visit us every so often, and remember us the way we were, not what we’d become.

She’d kept her vow. She’d taken care of everything. It’d been easy to explain that they’d left town while they still had the means to start over. But someone’s been talking and she has a good idea who. She curses herself for being stupid enough to trust him.

Deleting the message, she turns off the laptop and sets out to protect the world from a knowledge it isn’t ready for and couldn’t handle anyway. As soon as the investigators leave, she packs up the Jeep and heads toward Dallas. One more time she thinks. After him, I’m through.

Ruination

2009-06-06T23:56:00.001-07:00

Hostility thrives within the mind, starving creativity and ensuring the unchecked weed of doubt entangles an ordinary imagination, encasing it within a thick growth of apathy.

Arrogance tells us lies our ego makes us believe. Fantasy feeds this delusion until it becomes our reality.

Rationality has come finally to condemn me for my folly.

If you care anything for your sanity, heed my story and run when the muse calls you.

She only wants your soul and all that makes you human and when she’s done with you, there will be nothing left but the husk of a seed that never can be sown.

Inspired by this week's Three Word Wednesday: Hostility, Ordinary, Folly

Easystreet Prompts. A site you should know.

2009-06-05T17:20:00.001-07:00

At least in my opinion.

I wouldn’t call it a site to help with writer’s block since that term encompasses a myriad of symptoms, not the cause. It’s insidious and destructive and something I’ve been dealing with for some time now. I don’t know what has caused it, and I have no idea how to get my “muse” back.

But I do know I can’t stop writing. Ever. Will not happen.

To help me out, I visit numerous sites for ideas, hoping one or two may jiggle loose a thought, poem – anything just so I can write.

There are several listed on my sidebar. By no means is this list comprehensive. It merely reflects those sites I’ve found the most helpful.

One of my favorites is Easystreet Prompts, and the best way to describe it, is in the blog owners own words:

Easystreet Prompts provides inspiring visual ideas for writing and the arts. Use one of the prompts to get you started. Make something. A new idea will post every day. All you have to do is respond to it, so write, photograph, draw, paint, sew, paste, or whistle a happy tune. After you create, share it in the comments or post a link. We want to see. Tell us which prompts helped you get started, or restarted, or made you shake hands with the infinite. We want to know that, too.

Easystreet Prompts began as a daily prompt site for my creative writing students. It still is. I believe that the more open the prompt, the more likely you'll be to shake the cobwebs off of your creativity. That's why what you'll find here are random words, thought-provoking pictures, and an occasional video. Everyone is welcome to stop by and be inspired.

The following is a collection I made of the most memorable random words – at least to me:

Impatiently evil
Unflattering euphemism
Unexplainable engagement
Infatuated contortionist
Resplendent by degrees
Unevenly social
Re-baptized dogcatcher
Courteous antagonist
Persistent nymph
Cosmopolitan warfare
Refundable career
Gratuitously ornate
Vulgar ingenuity
Sacrificial bliss
Unchaperoned pagan

I don’t know about you, but I see quite a few possibilities in there for a poem, flash fiction, maybe even a short story.

Easystreet Prompts is well worth a visit regardless of the reason and I highly recommend it.

Do you have a favorite site? Let me know. I’ll be happy to check it out and add it to my list.

I hope you find as much inspiration there as I have.

Enjoy!

On The Other Side of a Wall

2009-06-02T18:14:00.001-07:00

Ángel Franco/The New York Times

On the other side of a wall is a list of those who fought and died, earning a place of honor on the plaque that bears their names. However, each is separate and in no way equal.

Every man named fought as hard or harder, bled as much or more.

Yet here, there is no equality of measure or merit. Here the distance is as great as it has ever been. The law states it must remain so. But there is no moral law that justifies the legal one.

Many a man has shed blood for a cause, the most precious spilled upon the place they called home, paying the ultimate price for a freedom denied them. How much different is this from that blood shed in France, Germany, and Italy? These men fought for our rights, yet were - and still are - denied theirs.

But is honor a place or a perception? Or are they both?

Another plaque has joined these two. Combining the names, but not the perception. How can it when a wall remains as a solid reminder of their differences?

Honor is more than a place on a wall. It is borne of integrity, and in distinguishing yourself by honest action and moral rectitude. No plaque or place can give it to you, and it cannot be taken away unless willingly given.

Times have changed from the one in which these men lived. Yet memories and prejudices remain strong, undeterred by rhetoric and logic. And until they succumb to the latter, the former will do no good.

Talk does no good, and action has done little more.

So I wait, and hope, for change to continue fighting for those who can fight no more; for voices to be heard who can no longer speak; for honor to be applied equally and fairly to those that deserve it.

Newspapers (online or off) are not merely for information. Many are amazing inspiration. This one has been sitting in my slush pile much too long. But perhaps the time was necessary to let it achieve its full impact.

Articles which inspired my thoughts above:
Killing and Segregated Plaque Divide Town
Answers Sought in 1946 Ga. Killing (A veteran listed on one of the plaques)
Taylor County Will Keep Segregated Plaques Of WWII Veterans

Writing Exercise: Drawers

2009-05-30T18:05:00.001-07:00

Pandora's Drawers by ~ShelseaRose on deviant ART

"Have you cleared out that old dresser yet?"

"No, I haven't had the time."

"You know it's being picked up this afternoon. It needs to get done - now."

I've been putting this off all week although I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because it was my granddads and it feels weird going through his private things.

Digging through the pantry, I find a stack of paper bags with handles that should hold whatever clothing I find. I also grab some wrapping tissue from the hall closet just in case there’s anything else that’s fragile.

I start at the bottom and work my way up. As I expected, all the lower drawers hold clothing. Surprisingly, there is one completely full of socks, rolls and rolls of them. What catches me off guard is their organization.

My granddad was in the military. I guess his sense of keeping everything in its place was something he never got over; that after being retired for years, he still held onto such habits.

Me? Hell no. The minute I was free from that type of constraint, my own drawers look like a grenade hit them. In fact, I make it a point to toss it like a salad every chance I get.

But here, in front of me, was my grandfather, a man who spent a lifetime giving and following orders - even internal ones. How could I share the same blood, yet be so completely different?

Obedience is required of children and soldiers. But I was never a soldier and I’m no longer a child. As soon as I earned any autonomy, I held onto it fiercely, refusing to concede it to anyone, even my parents.

Yet looking at this sock drawer, epitomizing a life spent in conformity, I see a small similarity to my own. I too have had to comply most of my life, although not willingly. But now that I have more choices and freedoms, I strive to do anything but behave as I should: tattoos, multiple piercings, hair in various lengths and colors, anything to symbolize the fact that I’m different, making up for all those years I did anything to prove I wasn't.

Here are the remembrances of my granddad, who when finally given the choice to be free of the constraints placed upon him, chose not to change, not to rebel, to keep everything the way it was, because that's the way it had always been. He obviously believed in the old maxim: "If it isn't broken why fix it?"

I on the other hand seem bent on fixing something I'm convinced is broken.

Disregarding my previous thought of dumping the contents into a bag, I carefully remove each roll and place it in neat, organized layers. Looking down into the mass of tightly packed cloth, I marvel at how much I’m like him, and how much I'm not. I miss him now more than ever and think that perhaps, when I'm done here, I may just try organizing my own drawer, because in thinking about it, that would be different, now wouldn’t it?

© J.C. Montgomery 2009

Relative Terms

2009-05-29T11:38:00.001-07:00

You have ugly feet.

He said it the way anyone would when finally coming to realize a truth that had escaped them until that very moment.

I have no idea why I didn’t respond. All I could do was stare at my feet and try to see what he saw, and wonder why the sudden announcement. Not long after, he left me and ended up with a goat farmer. I bet she has beautiful feet.

I wear socks, even in hot weather.

My husband could care less about how my feet look. Why then should the opinion of a man who barely lasted two years in my life bear more weight than the one who has committed spending his entire life with me . . . and my feet?

Is that the only thing wrong with me?

Is it my toes? How about the length? Are they too narrow? Whenever bare foot, I spend an inordinate amount of time assessing what is insignificant. They are important. I couldn’t stand upright without them. Maybe I’m looking at this the wrong way. Apparently some people care as much, or more, about the package than the contents. The man who loves me now could care less about what holds me together. He loves it when I smile, not because I have nice teeth, far from it. It’s because it means I’m happy. I am. Except when I look down and notice I’m not wearing socks.

My lips are nice. He liked those well enough.

I always get comments on my eyes. “Sparkly” as one boyfriend described them. My handshake is warm and welcoming, my hands easy to hold and always willing to help. But my husband doesn’t care about my body parts. I am a complete package to him. Yet he seems to care little for the actual packaging. Only that I face the day with a smile and always have one for him when he looks my way, which isn’t too difficult.

Why can’t I see what others see?

Many people think I’m funny and like my laugh. This is odd, as I rarely feel comfortable in social situations. I’m so afraid I will do or say something that reveals my true nature: shy and insecure. My friends could care less. They know they’ve done the same and will always laugh with me, not at me. They haven’t seen my feet.

There is nothing wrong with you.

My husband said it the way anyone would when stating a known fact.

I have no idea why I didn’t respond. All I could do was stare at him, and wonder why I ever cared so much for a man who loves goat farmers with beautiful feet.

© J.C. Montgomery 2009

PhotoHunt 163: Plastic

2009-05-23T13:18:00.001-07:00

First thing I thought of when I saw the prompt, was where I was going to be spending a better part of my Sunday and Monday. Of course we don’t stay in our seats long. The park is beautiful and the best vantage point is standing under this:

Because from there….you can see this:

Or this:

Who knew plastic could mean so much?

If you're interested in what PhotoHunt is all about, visit tnchick.com and see for yourself. Have a fun and safe holiday weekend!

Anticipation’s Desire

2009-05-20T00:19:00.001-07:00

Anticipation happens when desire is intensified to a point where nothing will do but to give yourself over completely to its will, yet you hesitate fearing the worst while hoping for the best.

It is this moment, between wanting and having, I live in a state I wish would last forever.

My breaths come quickly, my heart races so fast, so hard, I fear it will burst and what I want so much will dissolve instantly leaving me forever in a state of unfulfilled desire.

This is what I live for: when destiny beckons, I close my eyes and can taste it on my lips.

This is what I need: to give myself over to fate and hope it will catch me in its arms.

This is what I fear: that it won’t, and I will fall, never to rise again.

© J.C. Montgomery 2009

Inspired by Cafe Writing’s May/June Project, Option Two: Timed Writing.

We were to “take seven minutes and write on the subject of anticipation. I know it's not much for seven minutes, but I seemed to have done more thinking than writing.

I’m mad. You’re mad. We’re all mad. Or are we?

2009-05-16T22:23:00.001-07:00

“But I don’t want to go among mad people,” Alice remarked.

“Oh, you can’t help that,” said the Cat: “we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”

“How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice.

“You must be,” said the Cat, “or you wouldn’t have come here.”

Alice didn’t think that proved it at all: however, she went on: “And how do you know that you’re mad?”

“To begin with,” said the Cat, “a dog’s not mad. You grant that?”

“I suppose so,” said Alice.

“Well, then,” the Cat went on, “you see a dog growls when it’s angry, and wags its tail when it’s pleased. Now I growl when I’m pleased, and wag my tail when I’m angry. Therefore I’m mad.”

“I call it purring, not growling,” said Alice.

“Call it what you like,” said the Cat

The Cheshire Cat is explaining his logic regarding why he thinks he is mad by comparing himself to another animal – a dog. To him, all animals are, well, animals. Thus they all should be judged by the same standard. If a dog growls when it is angry and wags its tail while happy, then all animals should behave in the same way. However, as a cat, he does the opposite; therefore he must be mad, as he obviously does not conform to what he defines as normal behavior.

But clever little Alice responds by stating, “I call it purring, not growling.”

In essence, she is telling the cat that according to her belief system, his behavior is normal. This is because in her culture, dogs and cats are indeed animals, yet they are different; unique. They cannot be compared.

The Cheshire Cat, seeing things only from his point of view, answers tersely, “Call it what you like.”

This is not surprising as within each society or culture, each member has constructed a definition based upon his or her own particular and personal reality. Not only that, it eventually becomes a standard that they apply to themselves and to others.

In my opinion, the notion of madness is not a concrete concept, but a subjective perception. The exchange between the Cheshire Cat and Alice demonstrates that madness is a judgment derived from one’s own understanding, not anyone else’s.

So if I am indeed mad, then it is a madness of my own making; defined by my own beliefs of what I perceive madness to be.

Or is it?

Is the definition I use to make this determination my own, or one I have taken from the society in which I live? If I told you I were mad, what would you think? What is madness to you? I doubt your perception equals mine. So why does it matter? Why should I care what anyone thinks?

Especially when it comes to deciding whether or not I am a sane and sound member of society; that how I act or think should be judged by standards and morals upon which no one can agree; that what I say or do should be held accountable to what someone else thinks is right; that I should accept your derision of me based on a subjective perception rather than a concrete concept.

Why should I think myself ‘mad’ when I cannot conform to a belief system that is not my own nor anyone can clearly define.

I don’t think I should.

Do you?

Flash Fiction Fun: Barrage

2009-05-16T17:11:00.001-07:00

The trajectory of the shot was short, but the damage sustained was nearly the same as if it’d been a direct hit. Innocent bystanders nervously waited as the bickering had proven their capacity for reciprocity. Thus, it was only a matter of time before another barrage hit, threatening to finish off what was left of their tenuous grip on propriety, and any semblance of a marriage.

© J.C. Montgomery 2009

Inspired by this week’s Three Word Wednesday: Trajectory, Nervous, Bicker

Salvation's Curse: The Protector

2009-05-09T23:47:00.000-07:00

"She's been doing well."

"With her work and her writing, yes."

I hate eavesdropping. But as the conversation is about me, I didn't have the will power or the inclination to walk away and continue my chores.

"What am I missing?"

"Her smile."

I could hear the high-pitched squeak of the chair as my father shifts position. The pause before he answers makes the already thick atmosphere hover near smothering.

"She smiles."

"I've been doing this long enough Mr. Campbell to understand the difference between one that's given because it’s expected, versus one from the heart; an honest one."

"I see." More squeaking.

“This isn't about blame."

"Who said anything about that?"

My empathic sense tells me he's lying. Since mom died he's done his best to keep me from retreating into myself and getting lost there. But no matter what he does, he can't change the fact that my world is not the same and never will be. I would love to smile the way I used to before. But I can't. So I give what I can. Isn't that enough?

"All I've ever wanted for Jane is for her to lead as normal a life as possible."

"Perhaps that's the problem we need to address."

The stillness told me he's stunned at this observation. So am I.

"I don't understand."

"What is ‘normal’ Mr. Campbell? By which standards are you deciding what is or isn't normal for Jane?"

There was nothing I could do to hold back the gasp that gave me away.

"Janie? Why don't you come on in so we can talk?"

Stepping forward, I stood in the doorway looking at my father's stricken face.

"It's okay daddy, really."

As I sit next to my dad, he introduces me to my new psychologist Patricia Morrisey. Her smile is warm, welcoming, and genuine. I sense in her something I haven’t with the others. No wonder Dr. Davis recommended her. He knew I would immediately sense she is someone I can trust.

"As you've probably heard everything, let's just dive right in shall we? Tell me what makes you special. And as you do, try to listen to yourself, to the words you chose."

My father and I look at each other, shrugging our shoulders in unison, unsure of what she’s asking.

"You've always had to listen to other people describe you. When have you ever taken the time to do that yourself?"

Leaning forward in her chair, she stared at me intently, "Who are you Jane Rose Campbell? Who are you really?"

I stammered at first, not able to find any word that was my own. I kept hearing my mother's voice, then my father's. Doctors, friends, bullies all chimed in becoming a cacophony of sound drowning out my ability to think.

My head began to pound as I struggled to clear them away, seeking to find my own voice lost among the others.

"Take a deep breath and let it out slowly as you count to ten."

I did as she said, and by the time I got to eight, my mind began to settle. I took another breath and this time, as I counted down, all the voices had gone - all but one.

"I am my Voice - and my Voice is me."

No, this can’t be. How could I identify myself with something I've hated all my life for cursing me with a power I never asked for, or ever wanted? Slowly I realized the truth, and despised it even more. I responded in anger not thinking of what I was really saying.

“My Voice is a part of me that will never change. Because of it, I’m no more than a freak, an oddity of nature.”

"You're wrong Jane. We are made up of many things. But not one of them rules us entirely. You have more control than you think, and I believe it’s about time you learned how much you actually possess, and how to use it properly."

"No! "

Looking over at my father, I realize a lot more was going on than a simple introductory interview.

"It's time William. She needs to accept who she is and what she can do. I don't know if you've heard, but they began call ups yesterday. You no longer have a choice. Either she learns to harness her power, or others will do it for her."

She was afraid for me. I could feel it. And there was something else.

Danger coming. Listen to the Protector.

Protector?

"You're one of...them, aren't you?"

"Yes."

She tried to shift her gaze so I couldn't see with my eyes what my mind had already confirmed.

"How long do we..."

"They're on their way now. You and your father must pack, quickly."

Standing she walked over to my father and grasped each shoulder pulling him up from the chair. "Will. Listen to me. Her training must begin if we are to have any kind of chance."

"She's too young. Not ready..."

Must go…NOW.

“No, but I will be.” Hearing my own voice shocked me as much as them.

“I’m tired of hiding, tired of hating. I want to find out who…and what I am. Please dad, please say you understand.”

I never knew if he did or not. All I can remember of that moment was the look on his face as he crumpled to the floor. It wasn’t until I saw the trickle of blood trailing from his temple down across the bridge of his nose, did I realize he’d been shot. He fell where he stood, killed instantly by a single, silent shot.

Apathetic Hunger

2009-05-09T23:17:00.001-07:00

hurt and despair swirl within his eyes
yet somehow he remains blind

he looks into my soul
unafraid of the darkness

not until the monster strikes
does he believe there is no hope

his resignation is mine
to do with as I wish

so I feast upon a pain
more palatable than my own

PhotoHunt 160: Walking

2009-05-02T20:26:00.001-07:00

Walking Past

Through shadows
Upon the frozen cold
I step upon the past
The crumbled mass
Of nature’s debris
Reminding me
That even in death
What’s left behind
Is still felt
Still heard
Still there
Am I?

Click on the icon below to learn more about PhotoHunt.

Whatever Remains: Angry Karma

2009-04-04T00:02:00.001-07:00

Another excerpt from a work in progress. As I stated previously, I normally post these over at Project Foxfire. However, I wanted to share a couple of them here.

This is continued from "Whatever Remains: What Now?"

Advisory: Strong Language.

Horace and Hank stood there for a moment, each thinking of what to do next.

“So, you wanna get dressed first, or help me get her upstairs?”

“I’d say take care of her now, but what if she comes to while I’m carrying her and I’m still naked?”

“You mean after she’s noticed that the top of your head is missing?”

Hank looked upward and then down.

“Yeah, I see your point. I’ll carry her up while you get me those overalls and cap.”

“Good idea.”

As Horace passed his office, a hand magically appeared holding a bottle of whiskey with its cap removed. Not missing a beat, Horace took it and drank deeply while heading to the kitchen. As he passed through, he handed it off to Tom who in turn took a deep swig himself.

“Helluva night Hoffy. You sure do know how to show us zombies a real good time.”

“Fuck off Tom.”

“Love you too.”

“I just adore how you men get on. Makes me all gushy inside.”

Tom stood there looking at Anne reclining against the door frame. Walking over, he handed her the bottle and then returned to pour coffee for everyone. It wasn’t long before he heard her pad up behind him.

“So. You gonna tell me what’s going on around here.”

“Don’t know where to start. Not even sure I understand it myself.”

“Well how about you start with telling me why you were on your way to see me the night you were killed and then end with why Hoffy was with me when I woke up, not you.”

“Annie. Please. Why do this to yourself?”

Several moments of silence passed. Tom braced himself as he knew Anne was never one to let anything go that easily.

“The night you died. You weren’t coming to be with me, you were coming to say good-bye, weren’t you?”

Tom shuddered as memories of that night started creeping back into his consciousness. How did she know? Looking into her eyes he saw his answer. It was one of the things that had brought them together; her uncanny ability to read him perfectly, understanding him when it seemed no one else could.

However it wasn’t long into the relationship when he realized he’d made a mistake. Anne was merely a diversion; his relationship with her was just another way to push aside those things he needed to face head on. He cared for Anne, but not enough to turn his back on ten years of marriage and a daughter who adored him.

“Yes, I was going to end it between us. I love my wife Anne, always have. It’s just that our affair…”

“…was a way to run from your problems. Spare me the speech Tom. I’ve heard it before. You really think you’re the first to use me like this?”

“It wasn’t like that. I cared for you – still do.”

The hurt on her face was almost too much to bear, Tom reached for her, but as he did she backed away shaking her head.

“No Tom. I can’t deal with this right now. Not when there’s…there’s this.” Lifting her shirt, she stares at the coroner’s stitches crisscrossing her abdomen. “So is it true Tom? Are we really dead?”

“Actually, I’m not sure what we are. But Hoffy and I are working on it. He has a theory.”

“And that is?”

“I think we’d better wait until Hank is taken care of so we can all discuss this together.”

Horace returned just as Tom was finishing and shook his head furiously.

“Don’t think we have time for that now buddy.”

“Because?”

A piercing scream and a loud thud from the floor above them was Tom’s immediate answer. All three rushed upstairs to see a repeat of what had happened in the viewing room, but not exactly.

“Dammit Horace! Get your mother off of me!”

Horace would have if he’d been able, but at that moment he was immobilized by a fit of laughter making it impossible to respond to Hanks plea for mercy. There was no way for him to maintain his composure as he gazed in amazement at the sight Hank Daniels cowering in a corner, arms raised defensively as he tried his best to keep Horace’s mother from bashing in what was left of his skull with a lamp.

All he could manage was to motion at Tom and Anne to go help Hank. As he did, the only thing he could think of was how karma really does exist. Not only that, apparently it's pissed as hell.

From The Precipice

2009-04-03T01:52:00.001-07:00

cliff by ~freakme on deviantART

leaning towards oblivion
indecision as time slows
haunted by my past
unable to see my future
is change possible
am I strong enough
to pull away
from the precipice
of choice
to stay, to fall
to choose, to lose

Inspired by Poefusion #26:
Write about something on the verge of collapse: building, bridge, marriage, contest, institution, alliance, certainty.

Reformation

2009-03-26T22:04:00.001-07:00

Turning away from the cruel glare of the afternoon sun, I search the garden in earnest, looking for a shady spot in which to enjoy the few moments of peace I’ve stolen for myself. The days of my life have become layered in rote monotony, the reactive process of spontaneity sucked away one to-do list at a time.

Contemplating the reasoning behind my inability to rise above the rut I’ve fallen into, I soon lose hope of achieving enlightenment. I begin observing my immediate environment more closely, noting that despite the appearance of tranquility, the Eden that surrounds me is anything but.

In seeking a Zen-like stillness in which to ponder great things, I have found instead a bustling community of creatures unaccustomed to the demands of others expectations. There is no selfishness in their motivations, no greediness in their needs, the result being a world of indescribable peace and beauty.

Smiling, I realize the answer I sought from above was beside me, below me, and all around me - all I had to do was notice it. I rise and return to the day that began as any other, but will end like none before.

Inspired by this week's Three Word Wednesday (Earnest, Layer, Reactive) - as well as this month's Cafe Writing assignment Option Two: Fiction.

Whatever Remains: What Now?

2009-03-25T21:36:00.001-07:00

Two things: (1) I normally post these excerpts on Project Foxfire, but thought I would share one here, and (2) this excerpt contains foul language. If you are easily offended, please don't read it.

Horace stopped in the doorway, stunned at what he saw: Tom lying beneath one overweight, pissed off, and completely naked Hank Daniels. If it weren’t for the fact that Tom was already dead, the sheer force of the blows he was receiving would’ve been enough to do him in – again.

Turning his head toward the door while trying to deflect Hanks murderous rage, Tom forlornly looked at his friend with What Now? etched on his face. Horace could only shrug a response.

Tom’s eyes widened in horror as he watched Anne appear from behind Harace with a butcher knife and stride up to the angry mound of naked flesh sitting on his chest.

“Let go of him asshole, or I’ll make sure the next time you die there won’t be enough of you left to fill a condom. In fact, I think that will be the first thing I cut off.”

Hank, surprised by the female voice and the intent behind it, stopped the assault on his rescuer and looked up at Anne.

“What kinda bullshit trick is this? You’re dead. I saw it in the paper.”

“Yeah, well so are you. Now why don’t you get your fat sorry ass off my friend and help us figure out what the hell is going on around here.”

Stunned, Hank rolled off Tom and scooted against the wall furthest away from the knife wielding woman. Horace quickly grabbed Tom under the arm pits and pulled him up to a sitting position. Not once did any of them take their eyes off the glinting steel in Anne’s hand. It was obvious from the way she was holding it she meant business.

She pointed it toward Horace first. “You. Get Holyfield here some clothes.”

Tom was next.

“You. Go make some coffee. Me? I’m gonna get that bottle of Jack Hoffy keeps hidden in the bottom drawer of his desk. This calls for some liquid fortification.”

As she hit the doorway, she turned waving her weapon slowly in front of her, stopping briefly to point at each man separately. When done, she only said three words, “Behave. Or else.”

Spinning, she strode down the hallway toward Horace’s office.

A few moments of silence followed before a disembodied voice commanded, “Now, gentleman. I don’t have all night!”

Immediately, all three men got to their feet. Tom headed for the kitchen, while Horace looked at Hank trying to figure out if he had anything that would fit him.

Finally realizing he was naked, Hank looked down at himself and said, “What happened to my clothes?”

“Pretty much destroyed in the blast. And whatever was left, is still being held in evidence.”

“Oh. Can you fix me up or not?”

“Sure, if you don’t mind wearing the caretaker’s overalls. You and he seem to be built about the same. Also, as luck would have it, the man has a thing for baseball caps, I’m sure we can find one that fits.”

“Baseball cap? Why do I need one of those?”

Horace stared at the top of Hank’s head. It was apparent he must’ve been bending over the pipe bomb when it went off. At that point Hank reached up and realized himself why he’d been offered a hat.

“If you’d rather, I have some cowboy hats I kept after that stampede mishap at the county fair last year. One of ‘em should fit you.”

“I’ll stick with the cap if you don’t mind.”

“Good. Let’s get you dressed then.” Shaking his head as they started for the back, Horace wondered what else could make this night any more of a disaster than it already was.

Just then, fate decided to make Horace’s worst nightmare come true. A loud chime sounded as someone entered the front door.

“Horace? Horace, you here? I’ve got those Christmas car …”

Both men turned in time to see Horace’s mother faint face first into the entry way.

“Damn Horace,” Hank noted, “You really should keep that front door locked at night.”

“Ya think?”

Never-ending Spring

2009-03-21T22:57:00.001-07:00

In a long awaited Spring,
beauty wanders amid my garden
daring me, teasing me with
irreverent and bawdy revelry
opinionated Blue Jays chatter
inquisitive, beckoning,
wishing it would never end

In a long awaited Spring,
I stand admiring the beauty
its color and profusion daring,
alluring, and irreverent
and altogether opinionated
leaving me inquisitive
wishing it would never end

Poetry inspired by Cafe Writing's March/April Project, Option Five: Pick Three.
Of nine words, we could use three. I decided five would work best for what I wanted to accomplish.

As you will note, the beginning and ending lines of each stanza are the same. In the first stanza, the words I chose are in bold and begin each line. In the second, they remain in bold, however now they end each line.

Not sure this is any type of form, but I liked the idea and ran with it.