As Mike bent to his task, she realized she had disappeared from his consciousness, at least temporarily. His immersion in the work at hand was clear; the joy he felt as he imbedded the drops of color into the submissive form on the table was palpable. Markie couldn’t help but be pulled into the process, even as a spectator. She felt safe for the first time upon entering the shop, and she relaxed a little into the chair. As her breathing steadied, she looked again at her friend.
Toni’s eyes were shut, and her jaw clenched. She grasped the sides of the massage table, and Markie noticed how her knuckles were white with the pressure. As Mike pulled back to reload the gun with ink, Toni arched her back a little and shifted her hips. Bringing her hands together, she cracked her knuckles.
“You doing okay?” Mike asked and placed a hand flat on her belly above the job site. The gentle gesture and concern in his voice pulled Markie’s attention from her friend to the artist. He was looking intently at Toni’s face, reading her pain tolerance. “You need a drink of water or something?”
Toni rose up on her elbows and looked down at the area under assault. “Yeah, I’m good. How much longer? It hurts like a motherfucker.” She tried to smile at him, but the look was more of a wince. She lay her head back down on the table and regrasped the sides.
“Oh hon, we just got started. It’ll be a while. You need something for the pain? I got some Ibuprofen if you want it. Anything stronger you got to supply yourself.” He wheeled his chair back and pulled a bottle from the drawer. Shaking four tablets into his palm, he grabbed a water bottle from the table and wheeled back over to Toni. “Here, babe. Take these. Believe it or not, it’ll help.” He slid a hand under her neck and pulled her head up far enough to swallow the pills and a drink from the bottle. Laying her head gently back down, he rested his hands briefly on her shoulders, then pulled away to grab the machine.
Markie was surprised at the gentleness she had just witnessed. The menace seemed to have disappeared as soon as the machine began its whine and the process began. He had softened perceptibly, and Markie suddenly felt very drawn to him. She shook her head in disbelief and again felt discombobulated. It’s as if the tattoo shop were a hall of mirrors, and things appeared distorted then clear, only to become distorted again. This unsettling was unfamiliar to Markie. Having been at her job for as many years as she had, not much surprised her or shook her – she felt at 31 she’d seen about all the dark side of humanity had to offer. But this place, this feeling, this man, were all new, and along with the discomfort, she felt a slight tingling between her legs as if something had awakened that had long slept.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
16 of 100 - After the Show
The cold, bright sunlight of the January day stung Sam’s eyes when she opened the theater door. The air reached down her throat and grabbed at her windpipe, clenching and squeezing the wet warmth there.
“Jesus fucking Christ, it’s cold” she gasped and pulled the collar of her jacket up to cover her mouth. Squinting against the light, she grabbed her little sister’s hand and dragged her across the parking lot, racing for the car. Her little sister, yelling at Sam to slow down, tried to move her feet fast enough to keep up. Half dragged and half running, she just managed to keep from falling.
“Stop it Sam! I’m gonna fall!” She began to cry, the tears stinging her cheeks as they combined with the arid air. “Let go of me!” She finally managed to pull her hand from Sam’s and stopped to take a breath. She bent, hands on her knees, and coughed against the frigid air. The cough, dry and hard, brought Sam around from her movement toward the car.
“You okay, Mand? Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry. I’m just so fucking cold.” Sam reached forward a gloved hand and wiped the freezing tears from Mandy’s cheeks. Mandy pushed Sam’s hand away and glared at her.
“You don’t care. And I’m telling mom you said the f-word like 10 times. She’s going to be mad.” Mandy tried to regain her dignity and held herself as tall as she could. Sam shook her head and turned back toward the car. Pushing the remote unlock, she sprinted the rest of the way to the car.
“Fine then, you little brat. Freeze your ass off. I don’t care.” As she reached the car, she turned back toward her sister, just in time to see a pickup truck turn to come down the row of cars. The truck came on fast, and Sam had just enough time to realize the driver didn’t see her sister. Screaming, she raced back toward her, and as she grabbed for Mandy’s jacket, it was jerked from her grasp.
“Jesus fucking Christ, it’s cold” she gasped and pulled the collar of her jacket up to cover her mouth. Squinting against the light, she grabbed her little sister’s hand and dragged her across the parking lot, racing for the car. Her little sister, yelling at Sam to slow down, tried to move her feet fast enough to keep up. Half dragged and half running, she just managed to keep from falling.
“Stop it Sam! I’m gonna fall!” She began to cry, the tears stinging her cheeks as they combined with the arid air. “Let go of me!” She finally managed to pull her hand from Sam’s and stopped to take a breath. She bent, hands on her knees, and coughed against the frigid air. The cough, dry and hard, brought Sam around from her movement toward the car.
“You okay, Mand? Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry. I’m just so fucking cold.” Sam reached forward a gloved hand and wiped the freezing tears from Mandy’s cheeks. Mandy pushed Sam’s hand away and glared at her.
“You don’t care. And I’m telling mom you said the f-word like 10 times. She’s going to be mad.” Mandy tried to regain her dignity and held herself as tall as she could. Sam shook her head and turned back toward the car. Pushing the remote unlock, she sprinted the rest of the way to the car.
“Fine then, you little brat. Freeze your ass off. I don’t care.” As she reached the car, she turned back toward her sister, just in time to see a pickup truck turn to come down the row of cars. The truck came on fast, and Sam had just enough time to realize the driver didn’t see her sister. Screaming, she raced back toward her, and as she grabbed for Mandy’s jacket, it was jerked from her grasp.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
15 of 100 - Two Weeks In
Well it’s been two weeks now, and I have managed to stay abreast of these self-imposed assignments. I fell a little behind this weekend; I was out too late Friday and Saturday night (doing research) and had to write those day’s posts the following day. But I’ve done so, and with this entry, I’m caught back up.
The greatest outcome of this project is this: the process has finally freed the novel that’s been waiting to be released from my subconscious. The kernel had emerged earlier this summer, but it was still a bit unformed. Then the form began to take shape, and I felt ready to embark upon this writing journey. I still hesitated, keeping the actual writing in my mind, opting out of actual fiction copy and instead writing character lists, plot scenarios, and outlines.
Then I began this project. When I wrote about Markie in post number nine, Duck Duck Goose, I felt her come alive after years of dormancy. Markie is the protagonist of the novel, and had been the protagonist of my master’s thesis, a novella called Dancing with the Dragon that I wrote in 1995. That had been a feeble attempt, I’ve always thought, and the first chapter was the only memorable part of the writing. That chapter, revised and amended, will appear in the novel. However, it will not be the first chapter, but a few chapters in.
The outlines, plots scenarios, and character lists I wrote earlier this summer are morphing and shifting with each installment I write, but the novel has captivated my being. I think of Markie and her struggles, her trials, her challenges, much of my waking hours now, and she’s always just below my conscious thought when I’m pursuing other ideas. I can’t seem to let her go now, and what happens to her has become my obsession.
That is why, for most of the posts following that number nine, you’ve seen Markie and her adventures. I can’t let go of her to allow another fictional character or world intrude.
I do believe that is my challenge, however. I don’t want to keep writing the novel and putting it here, in public, as I create. It feels, as I said in another venue, as if I’m showing my cards while the game’s still being played. It’s time to take Markie and her story into private. I’m not sure how I can do this, as I don’t have as much free time for writing as I’d like.
And so lies my challenge for next week. I hope to write not about Markie here, in this public venue, but about other characters, other stories, other dreams. But I must continue to write daily of Markie’s story. So although the “real” world beckons and demands, my intention is to give this world, the imaginative world, legs and wings and heart, and let it fly in many different directions – both as Markie’s story emerges and others are discovered.
Come along for the ride if you wish, and we’ll see what happens.
The greatest outcome of this project is this: the process has finally freed the novel that’s been waiting to be released from my subconscious. The kernel had emerged earlier this summer, but it was still a bit unformed. Then the form began to take shape, and I felt ready to embark upon this writing journey. I still hesitated, keeping the actual writing in my mind, opting out of actual fiction copy and instead writing character lists, plot scenarios, and outlines.
Then I began this project. When I wrote about Markie in post number nine, Duck Duck Goose, I felt her come alive after years of dormancy. Markie is the protagonist of the novel, and had been the protagonist of my master’s thesis, a novella called Dancing with the Dragon that I wrote in 1995. That had been a feeble attempt, I’ve always thought, and the first chapter was the only memorable part of the writing. That chapter, revised and amended, will appear in the novel. However, it will not be the first chapter, but a few chapters in.
The outlines, plots scenarios, and character lists I wrote earlier this summer are morphing and shifting with each installment I write, but the novel has captivated my being. I think of Markie and her struggles, her trials, her challenges, much of my waking hours now, and she’s always just below my conscious thought when I’m pursuing other ideas. I can’t seem to let her go now, and what happens to her has become my obsession.
That is why, for most of the posts following that number nine, you’ve seen Markie and her adventures. I can’t let go of her to allow another fictional character or world intrude.
I do believe that is my challenge, however. I don’t want to keep writing the novel and putting it here, in public, as I create. It feels, as I said in another venue, as if I’m showing my cards while the game’s still being played. It’s time to take Markie and her story into private. I’m not sure how I can do this, as I don’t have as much free time for writing as I’d like.
And so lies my challenge for next week. I hope to write not about Markie here, in this public venue, but about other characters, other stories, other dreams. But I must continue to write daily of Markie’s story. So although the “real” world beckons and demands, my intention is to give this world, the imaginative world, legs and wings and heart, and let it fly in many different directions – both as Markie’s story emerges and others are discovered.
Come along for the ride if you wish, and we’ll see what happens.
14 of 100 - Spinning Images
“Why don’t you grab that black chair over there and sit while we do this. It’ll take a while.” Mike directed Markie without looking around at her. She stood for a moment or two more and then moved over to the chair near the room’s opening. It was a low-slung fabric chair – large and round with three or four small pillows scattered on it. Markie lowered herself into the fabric, glad for the protection of her own clothes to keep her skin away from the cloth of the chair.
“So, Markie, you want to get inked today too? I’ll give you girls a two for one special if you do.” He finished cleaning Toni’s skin and looked at the drawing again before beginning to transfer the design. “This should be bigger you know,” he said. “Hold on while I blow it up.” Mike rolled his chair over to a paper-strewn desk and laid the drawing on the copier sitting on the corner. In a moment, he wheeled his chair back over with the enlarged drawing.
“I don’t know,” Toni answered. “What do you think Markie?” Toni looked over from the table, raising her head to catch Markie’s eye. Before Markie could answer, Mike laid his hand on Toni’s forehead, pushed it back to the table and interrupted. “Hey sweet cheeks, I’m the artist here. I know this is what you want.” He moved both hands down to the prepared area and began the process of transferring the enlarged design to Toni’s skin.
Markie watched him control the girl on the table and shuddered slightly. Not sure how it had happened, she realized he was undeniably in charge of everything in the room, including herself. Markie suddenly imagined Toni, stripped completely nude, her large breasts exposed to the harsh brightness of the room, restrained and immovable. It was almost as if she could see wide leather restraints holding her friend’s wrists and ankles and a large band across her forehead, anchoring her solidly to the table. The image passed as quickly as it had appeared in Markie’s mind, and she closed her eyes and shook her head as if to clear the horror of the illusion.
When she opened them, Mike had wheeled his chair around the table, and he now faced her over Toni’s prepared pubic area. She wondered how he had moved so quickly and silently, and the room began to feel hot and little floaters of silver light darted across her vision. Putting her head in her hands, she reclosed her eyes and held herself still.
“What’s the matter over there?” Mike asked. Markie braced herself and looked up again. He was looking at her, and she quickly shifted her gaze down to Toni’s prone form.
“Nothing. Just drank a little too much last night. Just resting my eyes.” Markie lied and hoped she sounded more solid and sure than she felt. She picked up the magazine lying on the table next to the chair; it was some trade magazine with a woman, naked except for the ink covering most of her body, lying across the hood of a red Dodge Viper. The designs on her body were all done in the earthy tones of greens, browns, and grays, so the contrast between the hard, bright, red of the car and the soft tones of the young woman’s inked flesh jarred her senses. Markie threw the magazine back on the table and turned to watch Mike etch the hearts into Toni, hoping to regain control of her spinning thoughts.
“So, Markie, you want to get inked today too? I’ll give you girls a two for one special if you do.” He finished cleaning Toni’s skin and looked at the drawing again before beginning to transfer the design. “This should be bigger you know,” he said. “Hold on while I blow it up.” Mike rolled his chair over to a paper-strewn desk and laid the drawing on the copier sitting on the corner. In a moment, he wheeled his chair back over with the enlarged drawing.
“I don’t know,” Toni answered. “What do you think Markie?” Toni looked over from the table, raising her head to catch Markie’s eye. Before Markie could answer, Mike laid his hand on Toni’s forehead, pushed it back to the table and interrupted. “Hey sweet cheeks, I’m the artist here. I know this is what you want.” He moved both hands down to the prepared area and began the process of transferring the enlarged design to Toni’s skin.
Markie watched him control the girl on the table and shuddered slightly. Not sure how it had happened, she realized he was undeniably in charge of everything in the room, including herself. Markie suddenly imagined Toni, stripped completely nude, her large breasts exposed to the harsh brightness of the room, restrained and immovable. It was almost as if she could see wide leather restraints holding her friend’s wrists and ankles and a large band across her forehead, anchoring her solidly to the table. The image passed as quickly as it had appeared in Markie’s mind, and she closed her eyes and shook her head as if to clear the horror of the illusion.
When she opened them, Mike had wheeled his chair around the table, and he now faced her over Toni’s prepared pubic area. She wondered how he had moved so quickly and silently, and the room began to feel hot and little floaters of silver light darted across her vision. Putting her head in her hands, she reclosed her eyes and held herself still.
“What’s the matter over there?” Mike asked. Markie braced herself and looked up again. He was looking at her, and she quickly shifted her gaze down to Toni’s prone form.
“Nothing. Just drank a little too much last night. Just resting my eyes.” Markie lied and hoped she sounded more solid and sure than she felt. She picked up the magazine lying on the table next to the chair; it was some trade magazine with a woman, naked except for the ink covering most of her body, lying across the hood of a red Dodge Viper. The designs on her body were all done in the earthy tones of greens, browns, and grays, so the contrast between the hard, bright, red of the car and the soft tones of the young woman’s inked flesh jarred her senses. Markie threw the magazine back on the table and turned to watch Mike etch the hearts into Toni, hoping to regain control of her spinning thoughts.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
13 of 100 - More of Toni's Tattoo
As Markie followed the artist and his subject through the opening at the back of the room, she was struck by the stark contrast from the gloom she’d just left. The room was bright with artificial light. Not a window in the place, the walls were bright white with slick industry posters of tattooed women and men placed around the room. Between those hung many photographs of tattoos Markie assumed had been done in the shop. In addition to men with tattoos covering their whole backs and others with intricate designs running up legs from ankle to thigh, there were many many photos of tattooed body parts tacked up like this place was some kind of chop shop for legs and arms and asses and breasts.
There was something disturbing about these floating body parts that Markie couldn’t quite put her finger on. She kept looking, trying to figure what seemed wrong about those photographs. She was pulled back to the complete human forms in the room by Toni’s voice.
“So do I just take everything off or what?” The tattoo artist had finally released Toni’s neck as he directed her to the dentist’s chair in the middle of the room, and she had turned to face him before hoisting herself into the raised chair.
“Sure honey. Just strip down so I don’t get any ink on those pretty panties of yours. You can leave your top on – if you want that is.” He reached forward and, laying his hands on her shoulders for a moment, moved them lazily down to her waist, brushing the sides of both breasts lightly on the way down. He kept his hands on her waist as she pushed her shorts and thong to the floor, and then tightened his grip and lifted her effortlessly into the waiting chair.
Markie winced at the thought of Toni’s bare ass against the vinyl of the chair, and wondered what else could have been there and happened there before Toni’s ass settled in it. Markie knew Toni would never even consider the idea to have reservations about her exposure there.
Working with so many different women for short periods of time, Markie had realized she had become somewhat of an amateur behavior analyst. She had no interest in really knowing any of the women she encountered on the circuit, but she wasn’t interested in alienating them either. She walked a tight line of compassionate disinterest with most of them, and paradoxically, they were drawn to her detachment. And she was fascinated, looking from the outside as she always was, in trying to figure what made them tick, as her father used to say.
Markie knew Toni feared little but intimacy. She’d worked with her at a number of gigs, and had watched the woman squat squarely, naked, on bar stools and stained sofas, never minding what her bare pussy came in contact with. Many of the girls shared Toni’s nonchalance about their pussies. It’s as if, Markie thought, they no longer cared for that part of themselves and had embraced all the connotations of the word cunt. These same women kept manicured finger and toenails, spent hours on their hair and hair products, shaved, waxed, and lasered body hair, pampered and cared for their physique obsessively, but abused and neglected the wet opening between their legs. It, of all the parts on their bodies, seemed to become simply an object, a tool of the trade. Even the breasts were more revered and pampered than the pussy. It’s as if that one part of their body was disconnected from the rest.
Markie suddenly realized what bothered her about the photographs tacked to the walls. She looked again, walking from photo to photo to check her hypothesis. None of the photos were of men’s body parts, and none of the full body photographs were of women. It’s as if the women had all been dissected and displayed exclusively as the artist’s canvass – there were no faces of women anywhere. Sure, Markie noticed as she walked among the photos, there was a neck here, or a cheekbone there, but the tattoo was the focus of the image, not the woman on whose body the ink was embedded. Markie felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up, and she turned from the pictures to the scene unfolding in the middle of the room, shocked to meet the steady gaze of the tattoo artist. She wondered how long he had been watching her.
“Nice pictures here,” she lied and kept her voice light. “I’m Markie, by the way,” she added, realizing no introductions had been made.
The big man raised the corners of his mouth slightly and raised his eyebrows a little more. “I’m Mike,” he said. Then after another few seconds of holding her eyes, he turned back to Toni. “And you are . . . ?” As he asked her name, he reached his large hand – one covered with a spider web design with the image of about half a spider appearing to crawl up from his palm over the web of skin between his thumb and first finger – down to cup the mound of flesh rising from between her legs.
Toni jumped, then settled in against the pressure of his hand, breathed audibly, and said, “Toni. I’m Toni.”
“Okay Toni. Let’s do this.” He squeezed gently and then slid his hand up to her belly, keeping it there while reaching with the other hand to grab the spray bottle of alcohol needed to prepare for the needle and ink.
There was something disturbing about these floating body parts that Markie couldn’t quite put her finger on. She kept looking, trying to figure what seemed wrong about those photographs. She was pulled back to the complete human forms in the room by Toni’s voice.
“So do I just take everything off or what?” The tattoo artist had finally released Toni’s neck as he directed her to the dentist’s chair in the middle of the room, and she had turned to face him before hoisting herself into the raised chair.
“Sure honey. Just strip down so I don’t get any ink on those pretty panties of yours. You can leave your top on – if you want that is.” He reached forward and, laying his hands on her shoulders for a moment, moved them lazily down to her waist, brushing the sides of both breasts lightly on the way down. He kept his hands on her waist as she pushed her shorts and thong to the floor, and then tightened his grip and lifted her effortlessly into the waiting chair.
Markie winced at the thought of Toni’s bare ass against the vinyl of the chair, and wondered what else could have been there and happened there before Toni’s ass settled in it. Markie knew Toni would never even consider the idea to have reservations about her exposure there.
Working with so many different women for short periods of time, Markie had realized she had become somewhat of an amateur behavior analyst. She had no interest in really knowing any of the women she encountered on the circuit, but she wasn’t interested in alienating them either. She walked a tight line of compassionate disinterest with most of them, and paradoxically, they were drawn to her detachment. And she was fascinated, looking from the outside as she always was, in trying to figure what made them tick, as her father used to say.
Markie knew Toni feared little but intimacy. She’d worked with her at a number of gigs, and had watched the woman squat squarely, naked, on bar stools and stained sofas, never minding what her bare pussy came in contact with. Many of the girls shared Toni’s nonchalance about their pussies. It’s as if, Markie thought, they no longer cared for that part of themselves and had embraced all the connotations of the word cunt. These same women kept manicured finger and toenails, spent hours on their hair and hair products, shaved, waxed, and lasered body hair, pampered and cared for their physique obsessively, but abused and neglected the wet opening between their legs. It, of all the parts on their bodies, seemed to become simply an object, a tool of the trade. Even the breasts were more revered and pampered than the pussy. It’s as if that one part of their body was disconnected from the rest.
Markie suddenly realized what bothered her about the photographs tacked to the walls. She looked again, walking from photo to photo to check her hypothesis. None of the photos were of men’s body parts, and none of the full body photographs were of women. It’s as if the women had all been dissected and displayed exclusively as the artist’s canvass – there were no faces of women anywhere. Sure, Markie noticed as she walked among the photos, there was a neck here, or a cheekbone there, but the tattoo was the focus of the image, not the woman on whose body the ink was embedded. Markie felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up, and she turned from the pictures to the scene unfolding in the middle of the room, shocked to meet the steady gaze of the tattoo artist. She wondered how long he had been watching her.
“Nice pictures here,” she lied and kept her voice light. “I’m Markie, by the way,” she added, realizing no introductions had been made.
The big man raised the corners of his mouth slightly and raised his eyebrows a little more. “I’m Mike,” he said. Then after another few seconds of holding her eyes, he turned back to Toni. “And you are . . . ?” As he asked her name, he reached his large hand – one covered with a spider web design with the image of about half a spider appearing to crawl up from his palm over the web of skin between his thumb and first finger – down to cup the mound of flesh rising from between her legs.
Toni jumped, then settled in against the pressure of his hand, breathed audibly, and said, “Toni. I’m Toni.”
“Okay Toni. Let’s do this.” He squeezed gently and then slid his hand up to her belly, keeping it there while reaching with the other hand to grab the spray bottle of alcohol needed to prepare for the needle and ink.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
12 of 100 - Toni's Tattoo
Pushing the door open and walking into the cooled air of the shop raised goose bumps on Markie’s flesh. She instinctively raised her hands to her bare arms and rubbed as a shiver raced through her from scalp to toes. She waited a few moments, blinking then squinting, waiting for her eyes to adjust from the humid, sunlit day outside to the cool, dim, cave-like gloom where she stood.
The door chime clanged again as Toni came in behind her.
“Shit. It’s dark in here,” Toni spoke quietly just behind her friend and, like Markie, held her arms in a semi self-embrace. “Cold too.”
The two girls stood waiting, and looked around at the walls. They were covered with designs – some simple line drawings in black and white of Celtic knots and Chinese characters and some intricate colored drawings of skulls and women and bleeding hearts.
“How the fuck could you pick something out of all that?” Toni asked. She carried a sheet of paper that showed a simple design of two hearts, one flipped upside down and overlapping the other. She held it up to Markie. “So what color do you think I should do these?”
Before Markie could answer, a man came from a back room. He was a large man; Markie guessed he had to be over 6’4”, and he was thick. Not fat, but solid and thick. Not surprisingly, he was covered in tattoos.
“Hey girls. Want some ink?” He set down the large box he carried, and Markie noticed the muscles moving his skin, his tattoos writhing and undulating like each picture lived independently of its host. She shivered again.
“Yeah, I do,” Toni said. She thrust the sheet at him as he straightened and approached them. He came close, and Markie took a half-step back. Her personal space was wide, unless she was working, and she recoiled whenever anyone encroached it uninvited. And this man was uninvited. Something dark there, she thought. Something dark. She stayed back a few steps as Toni looked with him at her design.
“Hmm. Yeah, I like this. Cool. Where do you want it?” He looked up from the paper at Toni, taking her in with his eyes, slowly raising them from the paper to her bared belly and moving up, leisurely and, Markie thought, hungrily, through her breasts, shoulders, neck, her mouth and finally her eyes. He stayed there, holding her gaze, until she looked away and nervously laughed. The control he exhibited was masterful, and Markie was suddenly glad she was not the one who was going to have his hands on her.
As if reading her mind, he looked over at Markie, raised his eyebrows, lingered there, then looked back to Toni. Toni missed the whole exchange as she pulled the waistband of her shorts down low, to just above her pubic bone.
“Here. I want it here. With the two bumps of the upside down heart kind of framing my clit, you know? And the right side up heart’s point kind of, you know, pointing at it like, ‘here it is guys!’” She laughed at herself and looked up at the man. “Can you do that?”
He reached down and laid his hand flat on her belly. He moved it down slowly and pulled away, leaving one finger against her skin. “Like this?” he asked and traced the design on the bare skin where there once had been pubic hair. Toni gasped slightly at his touch, and then laughed again, this time less lightly.
“Yeah. Like that. Can you do it now?”
He moved his hands from her skin and took the paper.
“Well, turns out it’s your lucky day, sweetheart. I just had a cancellation for a Prince Albert piercing, so I’ve got an hour to spare. I’d much rather have my hands on you than be handling some guy’s dick.” He raised his hand and set it lightly on the back of Toni’s neck. “Let’s go back here and pick out some colors.” He turned back to Markie, “You coming too? Or you just going to stand there?”
Markie followed as he walked Toni, still holding her neck, back through the opening.
The door chime clanged again as Toni came in behind her.
“Shit. It’s dark in here,” Toni spoke quietly just behind her friend and, like Markie, held her arms in a semi self-embrace. “Cold too.”
The two girls stood waiting, and looked around at the walls. They were covered with designs – some simple line drawings in black and white of Celtic knots and Chinese characters and some intricate colored drawings of skulls and women and bleeding hearts.
“How the fuck could you pick something out of all that?” Toni asked. She carried a sheet of paper that showed a simple design of two hearts, one flipped upside down and overlapping the other. She held it up to Markie. “So what color do you think I should do these?”
Before Markie could answer, a man came from a back room. He was a large man; Markie guessed he had to be over 6’4”, and he was thick. Not fat, but solid and thick. Not surprisingly, he was covered in tattoos.
“Hey girls. Want some ink?” He set down the large box he carried, and Markie noticed the muscles moving his skin, his tattoos writhing and undulating like each picture lived independently of its host. She shivered again.
“Yeah, I do,” Toni said. She thrust the sheet at him as he straightened and approached them. He came close, and Markie took a half-step back. Her personal space was wide, unless she was working, and she recoiled whenever anyone encroached it uninvited. And this man was uninvited. Something dark there, she thought. Something dark. She stayed back a few steps as Toni looked with him at her design.
“Hmm. Yeah, I like this. Cool. Where do you want it?” He looked up from the paper at Toni, taking her in with his eyes, slowly raising them from the paper to her bared belly and moving up, leisurely and, Markie thought, hungrily, through her breasts, shoulders, neck, her mouth and finally her eyes. He stayed there, holding her gaze, until she looked away and nervously laughed. The control he exhibited was masterful, and Markie was suddenly glad she was not the one who was going to have his hands on her.
As if reading her mind, he looked over at Markie, raised his eyebrows, lingered there, then looked back to Toni. Toni missed the whole exchange as she pulled the waistband of her shorts down low, to just above her pubic bone.
“Here. I want it here. With the two bumps of the upside down heart kind of framing my clit, you know? And the right side up heart’s point kind of, you know, pointing at it like, ‘here it is guys!’” She laughed at herself and looked up at the man. “Can you do that?”
He reached down and laid his hand flat on her belly. He moved it down slowly and pulled away, leaving one finger against her skin. “Like this?” he asked and traced the design on the bare skin where there once had been pubic hair. Toni gasped slightly at his touch, and then laughed again, this time less lightly.
“Yeah. Like that. Can you do it now?”
He moved his hands from her skin and took the paper.
“Well, turns out it’s your lucky day, sweetheart. I just had a cancellation for a Prince Albert piercing, so I’ve got an hour to spare. I’d much rather have my hands on you than be handling some guy’s dick.” He raised his hand and set it lightly on the back of Toni’s neck. “Let’s go back here and pick out some colors.” He turned back to Markie, “You coming too? Or you just going to stand there?”
Markie followed as he walked Toni, still holding her neck, back through the opening.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
11 of 100 - Character Sketch - Ned
At 5’2”, Ned was never taken seriously. As a child, his peers and the older kids always included him in their games, but never as an equal. He was always the bat boy for the baseball team, the ball boy for the football team, and the towel boy for the basketball team. He never played any sports past second grade, when it became evident he would always be of a cartoonish size.
Throughout high school, Ned continued to be the mascot whenever one was needed. He rode on the homecoming float, not as the king or a male attendant, but dressed in a beaver suit, waving the school colors. The large mask would have fallen from his small head if it hadn’t been padded and adjusted to accommodate his size. It was during these high school years that Ned began to gain weight.
At first, he told himself he was gaining to fill out the mascot suit. Then, as his girth increased, unlike his height, which had stopped just shy of 5’2”, he told himself he would be more respected with a little meat on his bones. The additional bulk did make him more visible, but perhaps, in retrospect he realized, not in the way he desired.
By the time Ned graduated, he weighed close to 300 pounds, and on his small frame, he appeared to be about as big around as he was tall. After high school, he opted out of college for a job at the print shop in his home town., and as the years passed, Ned became more and more isolated.
Moving from his parents’ house at 22, he found a small basement apartment just 3 blocks from the shop. He hadn’t wanted to move, but his mother and father had insisted. They were tired of taking care of him, his father told him one night. He had just dropped onto the sofa with a fresh coke and bag of movie butter popcorn, preparing to watch reruns of Mash as he did every night. His father turned off the television and stood between it and him as his mother stood in the kitchen, pulling dishes from the dishwasher and stacking them loudly in the cabinet.
“Son, it’s time you took care of yourself. You mother and I would like to do some things now that you’re an adult, and we want to sell the house. We’ve found a small condo near your Aunt Sal, and we’re moving at the end of next month. Your mother has circled some apartments you might be interested in.” He thrust a folded newspaper at Ned.
Ned looked at the folded paper, dotted with red circles, and then took it from his father’s hand and set it on the sofa next to him.
“Sure, Dad. Whatever. Now can I watch my show?” Ned looked past his father to the television, blocking out the rising fear he felt.
Moving out had not been as bad as Ned had thought it might be. He found the apartment within a few days, and with his father’s help, moved his things there. His mother joined them as they went to Wal-Mart to pick up a few necessary items: a small kitchen table and chairs, a television stand with matching end tables, and towels for the bathroom and kitchen. His mother helped with these items, but Ned insisted on everything being black or white. He did not like the idea of bright colors.
Because the new apartment was only two blocks from the print shop, Ned began walking to work. The first few weeks were hell. The farthest he’d walked for years was from the closest parking place he could find to the door of wherever he was going. The two blocks seemed impossible at first, and he would arrive at work overheated and breathless. But as the weeks wore on, he found the task much less daunting and even enjoyable.
Then, in an office contest, he won a year’s membership to the local health club. The membership included full use of the facilities and nutritional counseling. Ned, at the urging of his boss, went to the health club to check it out.
And once he walked in those doors, Ned’s life began to change in earnest.
Throughout high school, Ned continued to be the mascot whenever one was needed. He rode on the homecoming float, not as the king or a male attendant, but dressed in a beaver suit, waving the school colors. The large mask would have fallen from his small head if it hadn’t been padded and adjusted to accommodate his size. It was during these high school years that Ned began to gain weight.
At first, he told himself he was gaining to fill out the mascot suit. Then, as his girth increased, unlike his height, which had stopped just shy of 5’2”, he told himself he would be more respected with a little meat on his bones. The additional bulk did make him more visible, but perhaps, in retrospect he realized, not in the way he desired.
By the time Ned graduated, he weighed close to 300 pounds, and on his small frame, he appeared to be about as big around as he was tall. After high school, he opted out of college for a job at the print shop in his home town., and as the years passed, Ned became more and more isolated.
Moving from his parents’ house at 22, he found a small basement apartment just 3 blocks from the shop. He hadn’t wanted to move, but his mother and father had insisted. They were tired of taking care of him, his father told him one night. He had just dropped onto the sofa with a fresh coke and bag of movie butter popcorn, preparing to watch reruns of Mash as he did every night. His father turned off the television and stood between it and him as his mother stood in the kitchen, pulling dishes from the dishwasher and stacking them loudly in the cabinet.
“Son, it’s time you took care of yourself. You mother and I would like to do some things now that you’re an adult, and we want to sell the house. We’ve found a small condo near your Aunt Sal, and we’re moving at the end of next month. Your mother has circled some apartments you might be interested in.” He thrust a folded newspaper at Ned.
Ned looked at the folded paper, dotted with red circles, and then took it from his father’s hand and set it on the sofa next to him.
“Sure, Dad. Whatever. Now can I watch my show?” Ned looked past his father to the television, blocking out the rising fear he felt.
Moving out had not been as bad as Ned had thought it might be. He found the apartment within a few days, and with his father’s help, moved his things there. His mother joined them as they went to Wal-Mart to pick up a few necessary items: a small kitchen table and chairs, a television stand with matching end tables, and towels for the bathroom and kitchen. His mother helped with these items, but Ned insisted on everything being black or white. He did not like the idea of bright colors.
Because the new apartment was only two blocks from the print shop, Ned began walking to work. The first few weeks were hell. The farthest he’d walked for years was from the closest parking place he could find to the door of wherever he was going. The two blocks seemed impossible at first, and he would arrive at work overheated and breathless. But as the weeks wore on, he found the task much less daunting and even enjoyable.
Then, in an office contest, he won a year’s membership to the local health club. The membership included full use of the facilities and nutritional counseling. Ned, at the urging of his boss, went to the health club to check it out.
And once he walked in those doors, Ned’s life began to change in earnest.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
10 of 100 - More Fun and Games
Markie walked back in the bathroom and pulled the towel from her hair, letting the wet mass fall on her shoulders and against her back, water droplets wetting her skin and forming tiny rivulets as they traced the rises and contours of her body. Reaching for her brush, she began to work it through.
“So what happened after I left? Did I miss anything good?” she asked while Brandi pulled a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand and lit it. “Hey, smoke your own damn cigarettes,” she added, half-joking.
“I’ll get you back. And no, I fucked around a little longer with those assholes, then I went home. Where you headed tomorrow? I think I’m going home for a week. I made pretty good cash the last few nights and my mom keeps wanting me to visit. It’s my sister’s birthday so I thought it’d be a good time to make an appearance.”
Markie had no doubt that Brandi was flush at the moment. When she’d pulled in late Monday morning, Brandi was already in the bar, working over the owner and bartender. That was the one thing Markie disliked most about the young dancer. She unapologetically used her body and sexuality not just on the stage, as they all did, but also to further her ambitions, which amounted to having money to buy coke and clothes. Markie looked at her while she dried her hair and half-listened to the girl’s monologue.
Brandi was beautiful. With long long legs and long blonde hair, she was the stereotypical all-American beauty. Perfect white teeth evidenced her parents’ orthodontist bills, and large, firm breasts a past boyfriend’s obsession with “perfect tits.” She also had a long scar just under her flawless left breast where this same boyfriend cut her when she broke up with him. This day, Brandi was wearing short orange shorts and a cut off Hooters shirt that showed her flat stomach and bejeweled navel. Lying on the bed, the lower globes of her breasts and the long ugly scar caught the sunlight coming in. As much as Markie resisted, she couldn’t help but feel a stirring between her legs looking at the girl on her bed.
“Do you have to do that right now?” Brandi asked as if reading her thoughts. She rolled on her side, sliding one hand over her scar and following the raised and knotted skin gently and pushing the other down inside the waistband of her shorts. “Come play with me. Please?”
“Brandi, I got to get ready. It’s already after one and I have to run to Target before we go on tonight. You want to ride along?” Markie walked through the room to her suitcase and pulled a pair of shorts and t-shirt quickly on. “I’m out of clean undies and I have to pick up a couple pair. God, I hate doing laundry.”
On her way back to the bathroom, she noticed a big bruise on Brandi’s thigh. “What the fuck happened there?” she asked. She bent to grab a cigarette and pushed the hair from Brandi’s face where it had fallen forward. “You know you’ll have to cover that somehow.”
“Oh nothing. I fell off the bar last night after you left. Should have known better than to wear those fucking heels that drunk. Just lucky I didn’t sprain my ankle or anything – I actually fell on that big fat guy that was at the end of the bar all night. Made his night, I tell you. Tits and ass all over his ugly self. Good thing, though. It’d suck if I couldn’t dance tonight.”
Markie half-listened while she finished getting ready. She wondered how much longer she could do this. Would she be 40 years old and lying about her age, dancing naked in front of horny guys? The thought made her head ache even more, and she threw four ibuprofen down her throat, chasing them down with the beer Brandi had brought her. She finished by applying a little mascara and pulling her hair back in a low ponytail. She couldn’t think about all that right now, she decided, and swallowed the rest of her beer in one long drink.
“So you coming with me or not, sweet cheeks?” Markie grabbed her keys off the table and turned for the door. Brandi jumped off the bed, grabbed her friend around the waist, and kissed the back of her neck.
“You know it, bee-yotch!” She pulled away, slapped Markie’s ass, and rushed past her through the door. “Last one to the car is a rotten egg!”
More fun and games, Markie thought. More fun and games.
“So what happened after I left? Did I miss anything good?” she asked while Brandi pulled a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand and lit it. “Hey, smoke your own damn cigarettes,” she added, half-joking.
“I’ll get you back. And no, I fucked around a little longer with those assholes, then I went home. Where you headed tomorrow? I think I’m going home for a week. I made pretty good cash the last few nights and my mom keeps wanting me to visit. It’s my sister’s birthday so I thought it’d be a good time to make an appearance.”
Markie had no doubt that Brandi was flush at the moment. When she’d pulled in late Monday morning, Brandi was already in the bar, working over the owner and bartender. That was the one thing Markie disliked most about the young dancer. She unapologetically used her body and sexuality not just on the stage, as they all did, but also to further her ambitions, which amounted to having money to buy coke and clothes. Markie looked at her while she dried her hair and half-listened to the girl’s monologue.
Brandi was beautiful. With long long legs and long blonde hair, she was the stereotypical all-American beauty. Perfect white teeth evidenced her parents’ orthodontist bills, and large, firm breasts a past boyfriend’s obsession with “perfect tits.” She also had a long scar just under her flawless left breast where this same boyfriend cut her when she broke up with him. This day, Brandi was wearing short orange shorts and a cut off Hooters shirt that showed her flat stomach and bejeweled navel. Lying on the bed, the lower globes of her breasts and the long ugly scar caught the sunlight coming in. As much as Markie resisted, she couldn’t help but feel a stirring between her legs looking at the girl on her bed.
“Do you have to do that right now?” Brandi asked as if reading her thoughts. She rolled on her side, sliding one hand over her scar and following the raised and knotted skin gently and pushing the other down inside the waistband of her shorts. “Come play with me. Please?”
“Brandi, I got to get ready. It’s already after one and I have to run to Target before we go on tonight. You want to ride along?” Markie walked through the room to her suitcase and pulled a pair of shorts and t-shirt quickly on. “I’m out of clean undies and I have to pick up a couple pair. God, I hate doing laundry.”
On her way back to the bathroom, she noticed a big bruise on Brandi’s thigh. “What the fuck happened there?” she asked. She bent to grab a cigarette and pushed the hair from Brandi’s face where it had fallen forward. “You know you’ll have to cover that somehow.”
“Oh nothing. I fell off the bar last night after you left. Should have known better than to wear those fucking heels that drunk. Just lucky I didn’t sprain my ankle or anything – I actually fell on that big fat guy that was at the end of the bar all night. Made his night, I tell you. Tits and ass all over his ugly self. Good thing, though. It’d suck if I couldn’t dance tonight.”
Markie half-listened while she finished getting ready. She wondered how much longer she could do this. Would she be 40 years old and lying about her age, dancing naked in front of horny guys? The thought made her head ache even more, and she threw four ibuprofen down her throat, chasing them down with the beer Brandi had brought her. She finished by applying a little mascara and pulling her hair back in a low ponytail. She couldn’t think about all that right now, she decided, and swallowed the rest of her beer in one long drink.
“So you coming with me or not, sweet cheeks?” Markie grabbed her keys off the table and turned for the door. Brandi jumped off the bed, grabbed her friend around the waist, and kissed the back of her neck.
“You know it, bee-yotch!” She pulled away, slapped Markie’s ass, and rushed past her through the door. “Last one to the car is a rotten egg!”
More fun and games, Markie thought. More fun and games.
Monday, August 10, 2009
9 of 100 - Duck Duck Goose
Markie slowly moved the pillow from her face and waited until her eyes, through the thin lids, adjusted to the early afternoon sun. While she prepared herself for the day’s light to reach her bare eyeballs, she groped blindly for her cell phone on the night stand. Putting it up to her face, she squinted open her eyes to see the time.
“Great. Just fucking great.” She kicked the sheet and thin blanket from her legs and turned to her side. Pulling the pillow once more over her face, she braced to pull herself from the bed. In a quick motion she threw the pillow to the floor and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Putting her face in her hands, she bent almost double to try to minimize the effects of waking to a new day.
“God damn,” she moaned as the throbbing settled in just behind her eyes. “I will never fucking learn.” Markie drank too much. She knew she drank too much, but that knowledge didn’t seem to stop her. She also knew if she didn’t drink too much, once the night was over she wouldn’t be able to sleep. But the headaches every day were starting to make it harder and harder to start a new day. Maybe, she thought more and more often these days, she should just figure out something else to do. But she never thought that for long.
The room was small, as were all the rooms where she spent her nights. Moving the few steps to the bathroom, she turned the water on as hot as she could stand it and stood for a moment, looking at herself in the mirror. As the steam began to fill the small room, she pulled her hips to the side, turning her bare ass to the mirror. “No cellulite still,” she said aloud, slapping the firm muscle. She stepped into the tub, pulled the shower curtain closed, and turned her face to the spray, enjoying the slight stinging of the water on her face.
Markie was 32 years old, but continued to tell people she was 28. She knew 30 was the kiss of death for a dancer, and she refused to be branded by her age. Not much fat on her body – just enough to keep from having sharp edges and a bony ass as she liked to say – she was in exemplary physical shape. She worked hard at it. In addition to the nightly dancing, she traveled with a set dumbbells for weight training and tried to run a few miles ever few days. She’d seen too many dancers who were thin enough but their bodies had lost their hardness. Little flaps began to form under the arms and their calves, firm enough, had lost the contour of the muscles below the skin. Markie prided herself on the definition of her muscle and the flexibility of her form.
Stepping out of the shower, Markie threw her hair up in a towel and dried herself with another. She sat on the edge of the bed, spreading lotion on every square inch of skin. She knew the year-round tanning and smoke-filled late hours could wreak havoc on a girl’s skin, and she did all she could to maintain her skin’s suppleness and softness. She had been told more than once that her efforts had been successful.
Finishing with her feet, rubbing lotion carefully between each manicured toe, she was startled from her ritual by a knock.
“Markie! Hey bee-yotch! You up yet?” It was Brandi, one of the girls she’d traveled with off and on over the last few months. Brandi was 22, a youngster on the circuit, and had been dancing for a few years already. She told everyone she was dancing to pay off her school loans. Markie knew she was dancing to keep herself supplied with cocaine. And the rush. But they all danced for the rush.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m coming” Opening the door, Markie was not surprised to see Brandi holding an open beer and another stuck in the waistband of her shorts. “What’s up? I’m just getting out of the shower.”
“Yeah, I see that,” Brandi said and reached out and pinched Markie’s nipple gently. “Want me to help you with that lotion?” She left her hand on Markie’s breast, cupping it and bending her mouth toward it.
Markie pulled away laughing. “Don’t you ever think of anything else, girl?” She reached into Brandi’s pants and grabbed the beer there. Pulling it out she twisted the cap off and took a long drink.
Brandi threw herself on the bed and spread her legs, rubbing the insides of her thighs. “I’m sore as shit today, Mark. I shouldn’t have tried that last trick. I ‘bout killed myself.” She laughed at the memory.
Markie barely remembered the end of the night, but she did remember Brandi duck walking the length of the bar and back, wearing only a thong and 5-inch heels. The dances were over for the night but about ten regulars were still finishing their drinks, sitting along the bar. Brandi, Markie, and a few of the other dancers had gathered their things for the night and come out to have a last few cocktails. Somehow the talk had turned to childhood games – Hide and Seek, Marco Polo, Duck Duck Goose. Of course sexual innuendo had rung in every comment, and the men still there were looking for any sign that they might be able to have some hands-on experiences with the girls. Brandi had exclaimed that in Duck Duck Goose she was the best in the neighborhood at duck walking. To prove it, she dropped her over-clothes and jumped up on the bar. From one end to the other, she duck walked. The men, every one of them, slapped her ass or grabbed her tits as she passed them, and she laughed and squealed every time.
Markie, even in the haze of a long night of physical exertion and alcohol consumption, had been just a little nauseated to watch Brandi’s last performance of the night. She’d left for her room when Brandi turned to make her third trip down the long expanse of bar.
“Great. Just fucking great.” She kicked the sheet and thin blanket from her legs and turned to her side. Pulling the pillow once more over her face, she braced to pull herself from the bed. In a quick motion she threw the pillow to the floor and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Putting her face in her hands, she bent almost double to try to minimize the effects of waking to a new day.
“God damn,” she moaned as the throbbing settled in just behind her eyes. “I will never fucking learn.” Markie drank too much. She knew she drank too much, but that knowledge didn’t seem to stop her. She also knew if she didn’t drink too much, once the night was over she wouldn’t be able to sleep. But the headaches every day were starting to make it harder and harder to start a new day. Maybe, she thought more and more often these days, she should just figure out something else to do. But she never thought that for long.
The room was small, as were all the rooms where she spent her nights. Moving the few steps to the bathroom, she turned the water on as hot as she could stand it and stood for a moment, looking at herself in the mirror. As the steam began to fill the small room, she pulled her hips to the side, turning her bare ass to the mirror. “No cellulite still,” she said aloud, slapping the firm muscle. She stepped into the tub, pulled the shower curtain closed, and turned her face to the spray, enjoying the slight stinging of the water on her face.
Markie was 32 years old, but continued to tell people she was 28. She knew 30 was the kiss of death for a dancer, and she refused to be branded by her age. Not much fat on her body – just enough to keep from having sharp edges and a bony ass as she liked to say – she was in exemplary physical shape. She worked hard at it. In addition to the nightly dancing, she traveled with a set dumbbells for weight training and tried to run a few miles ever few days. She’d seen too many dancers who were thin enough but their bodies had lost their hardness. Little flaps began to form under the arms and their calves, firm enough, had lost the contour of the muscles below the skin. Markie prided herself on the definition of her muscle and the flexibility of her form.
Stepping out of the shower, Markie threw her hair up in a towel and dried herself with another. She sat on the edge of the bed, spreading lotion on every square inch of skin. She knew the year-round tanning and smoke-filled late hours could wreak havoc on a girl’s skin, and she did all she could to maintain her skin’s suppleness and softness. She had been told more than once that her efforts had been successful.
Finishing with her feet, rubbing lotion carefully between each manicured toe, she was startled from her ritual by a knock.
“Markie! Hey bee-yotch! You up yet?” It was Brandi, one of the girls she’d traveled with off and on over the last few months. Brandi was 22, a youngster on the circuit, and had been dancing for a few years already. She told everyone she was dancing to pay off her school loans. Markie knew she was dancing to keep herself supplied with cocaine. And the rush. But they all danced for the rush.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m coming” Opening the door, Markie was not surprised to see Brandi holding an open beer and another stuck in the waistband of her shorts. “What’s up? I’m just getting out of the shower.”
“Yeah, I see that,” Brandi said and reached out and pinched Markie’s nipple gently. “Want me to help you with that lotion?” She left her hand on Markie’s breast, cupping it and bending her mouth toward it.
Markie pulled away laughing. “Don’t you ever think of anything else, girl?” She reached into Brandi’s pants and grabbed the beer there. Pulling it out she twisted the cap off and took a long drink.
Brandi threw herself on the bed and spread her legs, rubbing the insides of her thighs. “I’m sore as shit today, Mark. I shouldn’t have tried that last trick. I ‘bout killed myself.” She laughed at the memory.
Markie barely remembered the end of the night, but she did remember Brandi duck walking the length of the bar and back, wearing only a thong and 5-inch heels. The dances were over for the night but about ten regulars were still finishing their drinks, sitting along the bar. Brandi, Markie, and a few of the other dancers had gathered their things for the night and come out to have a last few cocktails. Somehow the talk had turned to childhood games – Hide and Seek, Marco Polo, Duck Duck Goose. Of course sexual innuendo had rung in every comment, and the men still there were looking for any sign that they might be able to have some hands-on experiences with the girls. Brandi had exclaimed that in Duck Duck Goose she was the best in the neighborhood at duck walking. To prove it, she dropped her over-clothes and jumped up on the bar. From one end to the other, she duck walked. The men, every one of them, slapped her ass or grabbed her tits as she passed them, and she laughed and squealed every time.
Markie, even in the haze of a long night of physical exertion and alcohol consumption, had been just a little nauseated to watch Brandi’s last performance of the night. She’d left for her room when Brandi turned to make her third trip down the long expanse of bar.
8 of 100 - Reflections on the First Week
"Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others."
Virginia Woolf (1882-1941)
This seems like a good night to reflect on this process so far. This might seem self-serving, but of course this entire endeavor is self-serving, as all writing should be. If writing is for any other purpose than to express and please the writer herself, it seems to ring hollowly to anyone who reads it. And it also becomes victim to the whims and tastes of others, as Virginia Woolf so poetically says in the above quote.
That said, one of the real benefits of this project is hearing how my writing is affecting those who read it. It is very interesting to hear and weigh the feedback I’m getting. After the first installment, I heard from a reader that I needed to let go more with the short sex scene and really give it some balls (pun fully intended). I heard the same night, from another reader, that the sex scene was probably too explicit and the language gratuitous. My answer is to make the sex scenes more explicit or less explicit when the story or piece warrants doing so, and to use the language I hear my characters using and the language my narrator, whether first person or third person, feels is appropriate. If the narrator or a character would say “fuck,” then of course he or she is going to say “fuck.” If he or she would not say it, then of course it won’t be said.
That really says what I feel about fiction – much of it is best left to the characters and the subconscious scribe that I channel as I type. Of course I intentionally bring the story to the page, I begin the story and sometimes (but certainly not always) have a frame for it, but when I let the characters and the events lead the narrative, my best writing ensues.
Another benefit of this undertaking is the pressure to sit my ass in the chair and write every day. Even if it’s under duress and I feel I have nothing to say, I sit and write. I was also thinking about the amount of writing I am producing and will produce by the end of the project. Say the average post would be two to three manuscript pages. That is 200 to 300 pages by the end. That is the length of a novel. Sooooo, if I were to do this with a single project . . . I think you see where I’m going with this train of thought.
And finally, I am doing something every day that I love to do but for years have found some excuse not to do. I am embracing that part of myself I’ve let lay dormant for much of my adult life. I am freeing the artist within, that creative impulse, by opening the door every day, for just a few minutes, and letting her run around and play. I am playing with words, how they feel, what they can do, and the power they hold. As James Michner says: “Writing: I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions.”
So if you are so inclined, join the dance and see what happens here.
Virginia Woolf (1882-1941)
This seems like a good night to reflect on this process so far. This might seem self-serving, but of course this entire endeavor is self-serving, as all writing should be. If writing is for any other purpose than to express and please the writer herself, it seems to ring hollowly to anyone who reads it. And it also becomes victim to the whims and tastes of others, as Virginia Woolf so poetically says in the above quote.
That said, one of the real benefits of this project is hearing how my writing is affecting those who read it. It is very interesting to hear and weigh the feedback I’m getting. After the first installment, I heard from a reader that I needed to let go more with the short sex scene and really give it some balls (pun fully intended). I heard the same night, from another reader, that the sex scene was probably too explicit and the language gratuitous. My answer is to make the sex scenes more explicit or less explicit when the story or piece warrants doing so, and to use the language I hear my characters using and the language my narrator, whether first person or third person, feels is appropriate. If the narrator or a character would say “fuck,” then of course he or she is going to say “fuck.” If he or she would not say it, then of course it won’t be said.
That really says what I feel about fiction – much of it is best left to the characters and the subconscious scribe that I channel as I type. Of course I intentionally bring the story to the page, I begin the story and sometimes (but certainly not always) have a frame for it, but when I let the characters and the events lead the narrative, my best writing ensues.
Another benefit of this undertaking is the pressure to sit my ass in the chair and write every day. Even if it’s under duress and I feel I have nothing to say, I sit and write. I was also thinking about the amount of writing I am producing and will produce by the end of the project. Say the average post would be two to three manuscript pages. That is 200 to 300 pages by the end. That is the length of a novel. Sooooo, if I were to do this with a single project . . . I think you see where I’m going with this train of thought.
And finally, I am doing something every day that I love to do but for years have found some excuse not to do. I am embracing that part of myself I’ve let lay dormant for much of my adult life. I am freeing the artist within, that creative impulse, by opening the door every day, for just a few minutes, and letting her run around and play. I am playing with words, how they feel, what they can do, and the power they hold. As James Michner says: “Writing: I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions.”
So if you are so inclined, join the dance and see what happens here.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
7 of 100 - Make Me a Salad
WARNING - MILD EROTICA FOLLOWS WITH ADULT CONTENT. JUST SAYIN' . . .
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“Make me a salad.”
She says this and looks across the large island anchored to the floor between the walls of cabinets and countertops. She sits on one of the high chrome bar stools lined up across the back side of the island. She has chosen the middle barstool, centering herself. Turned just enough to allow her feet to rest on the seat of stool next to her, her legs bend sharply, forming upside down vees of flesh. Her hands are linked behind her head as she leans back, allowing the front legs of the stool to rise ever so slightly from the floor. She is naked.
He stands across from her, the three foot width of the island between them. He’s just asked her what she would like to eat. He smiles broadly at her request, and turns to the massive chrome refrigerator behind him. She can’t keep herself from admiring his firm ass and feels herself beginning to moisten. He swings the door open and begins to pull out the ingredients he will need: fresh spring greens, newly picked asparagus, whole mushrooms, a container of small red tomatoes, and a large, knobby cucumber.
“You grew some of that, didn’t you?” she asks as he sets the items on the granite countertop and nods. “I love fresh, homegrown veggies.” She pulls her arms from behind her head and leans forward to reach across the expanse of the island. Her breasts fall against the cool smoothness of the polished granite, and her nipples harden at the feel of the stone. She allows her hands to slide smoothly across to the veggies, colorfully sitting as if posing for still life. “God, I love the feel of this stone.”
Turning back toward her, he sets the jar of dressing next to the vegetables and reaches for her hands. Lifting each, he turns them over to examine her palms, then brings them to his mouth and he kisses first one and then the other, moving his lips lightly over the creased skin. He allows his tongue to lick along first one lifeline and then the other, then sets them gently back down.
“I’ll never get you fed if I don’t focus here,” he scolds and turns to the sink. She fingers first the asparagus, then the tomatoes. She cups the cool, tight skinned tomato, marveling how it feels so firm when whole but will burst with juicy seeded pulp once cut, and she fingers the heads of the asparagus, running the tips of her fingers over the stacked, orderly points of green. She then lets her hand find the cucumber, stroking its length, enjoying the similarity she finds there – just minutes before it was his cock she stroked. She smiled.
“This is almost as nice to hold as you are,” she says as he washes each vegetable, stacking them, clean and ready, in a chrome colander. The warmth and color of the vegetables, and the tones of their skin, stand out in bright relief in his chrome and black kitchen. The first time she’d seen it, she had been amazed how welcoming something made of all hard metals and monochrome accents could feel.
He turns from the sink, reaching for the black dishtowel hanging from the hook on the end of the island, drying his hands, and setting them, flat palmed, on the black granite. He leans forward, across the expanse, and kisses her lightly on the lips. “That was entirely too easy,” he says. “Cucumbers as dicks? You can’t get more clichéd than that.” He keeps his mouth close to her lips, and his warm breath, smelling of her pussy, fills her senses. She leans forward for another kiss, but he instead puts a finger to her lips and slowly kisses her chin, sliding down to suck ever so slightly at her neck and the small hollow at the base of her throat.
She feels her body imperceptibly moving toward him, everything straining for more contact. He pulls away and comes around the end of the island, moving behind her stool. She lets the front legs drop to the floor, and her knees fall open just a bit as she leans back toward him. He reaches her and, staying behind her, slides his hands along her sides from armpit to the rounded curves of her ass. His touch is slow, leisurely, unhurried. He lingers with his hands cupping her ass, and leans into her to kiss the back of her neck, sliding his lips from there down each knob of her vertebrae until he reaches the small of her back. He pulls his mouth away but leaves his hands warmly holding her.
“Oh baby,” she breathes, feeling her heart beating and leaning back against his torso. She feels the shaft of his cock against her back, and she begins to turn toward him.
He stops her. “No. Wait,” he says, and he picks her up, sliding one hand up her back and the other under her knees. Holding her against his body, he kisses her again. She takes his nipple between her lips and sucks it gently, then moves her hands up around his neck. She again notices the hard of his cock against her skin and she moans slightly.
“Wait,” he says again, and he walks around the island and then lifts her onto the granite. He lays her down gently, setting her ass and back down first, then disengaging her arms from around his neck. “Wait.” He then takes her legs, one at a time, and straightens them out on the cold, deceptively porous surface. Running his hands down those legs, he admires them. “You are so beautiful,” he says and he leans to kiss the soft insides of her thighs. She jumps, and then allows her legs to part just so much.
He kisses each leg all the way from thigh to ankle, then kisses her feet and toes. “You have beautiful feet, “ he says and she arches her back with pleasure. He pulls away and looks at her slowly, taking her in with his eyes. He reaches for the lettuce and pulls a handful out, then drops it slowly over her breasts, her belly, her cunt. The coolness of the leaves shocks her system, and she involuntarily jumps. Taking a small tomato, he rubs the tight skin of the fruit across her belly, sliding it down through her pubic hair to rub it on her erect clit. He then leans toward the tomato, raises it just off her clit to his mouth and bites into it, splattering her clit, her thighs, and the wet opening between them. He slowly licks the pieces of meat, seed, and juice from her body, lingering just a few extra moments as he sucks the juices from her clit.
Straightening, he reaches for the asparagus. He had blanched it earlier in the day, so the green is vibrant and the stalks are a little flexible in their firmness. Pulling a few stalks from the bunch, he trails the small heads over her breasts and nipples. He runs along the small concaves of her armpits, and down her sides. He slides them along the hollow where her legs meet her torso, and then slides them toward her waiting pussy. Dipping them into her waiting wetness, he bends to again suck her clit. He pulls them back out, wet with her cum, and sucks the taste of her from the stalks.
She watches as he works. His cock is always within inches of her, but she stays still, her hands grabbing the edge of the countertop. When his cock rubs against her knuckles, she reaches to stroke him, but he stops her.
“This is for you,” he says. “I want to make you a salad.” And he reaches for the mushrooms.
********************************************************************
“Make me a salad.”
She says this and looks across the large island anchored to the floor between the walls of cabinets and countertops. She sits on one of the high chrome bar stools lined up across the back side of the island. She has chosen the middle barstool, centering herself. Turned just enough to allow her feet to rest on the seat of stool next to her, her legs bend sharply, forming upside down vees of flesh. Her hands are linked behind her head as she leans back, allowing the front legs of the stool to rise ever so slightly from the floor. She is naked.
He stands across from her, the three foot width of the island between them. He’s just asked her what she would like to eat. He smiles broadly at her request, and turns to the massive chrome refrigerator behind him. She can’t keep herself from admiring his firm ass and feels herself beginning to moisten. He swings the door open and begins to pull out the ingredients he will need: fresh spring greens, newly picked asparagus, whole mushrooms, a container of small red tomatoes, and a large, knobby cucumber.
“You grew some of that, didn’t you?” she asks as he sets the items on the granite countertop and nods. “I love fresh, homegrown veggies.” She pulls her arms from behind her head and leans forward to reach across the expanse of the island. Her breasts fall against the cool smoothness of the polished granite, and her nipples harden at the feel of the stone. She allows her hands to slide smoothly across to the veggies, colorfully sitting as if posing for still life. “God, I love the feel of this stone.”
Turning back toward her, he sets the jar of dressing next to the vegetables and reaches for her hands. Lifting each, he turns them over to examine her palms, then brings them to his mouth and he kisses first one and then the other, moving his lips lightly over the creased skin. He allows his tongue to lick along first one lifeline and then the other, then sets them gently back down.
“I’ll never get you fed if I don’t focus here,” he scolds and turns to the sink. She fingers first the asparagus, then the tomatoes. She cups the cool, tight skinned tomato, marveling how it feels so firm when whole but will burst with juicy seeded pulp once cut, and she fingers the heads of the asparagus, running the tips of her fingers over the stacked, orderly points of green. She then lets her hand find the cucumber, stroking its length, enjoying the similarity she finds there – just minutes before it was his cock she stroked. She smiled.
“This is almost as nice to hold as you are,” she says as he washes each vegetable, stacking them, clean and ready, in a chrome colander. The warmth and color of the vegetables, and the tones of their skin, stand out in bright relief in his chrome and black kitchen. The first time she’d seen it, she had been amazed how welcoming something made of all hard metals and monochrome accents could feel.
He turns from the sink, reaching for the black dishtowel hanging from the hook on the end of the island, drying his hands, and setting them, flat palmed, on the black granite. He leans forward, across the expanse, and kisses her lightly on the lips. “That was entirely too easy,” he says. “Cucumbers as dicks? You can’t get more clichéd than that.” He keeps his mouth close to her lips, and his warm breath, smelling of her pussy, fills her senses. She leans forward for another kiss, but he instead puts a finger to her lips and slowly kisses her chin, sliding down to suck ever so slightly at her neck and the small hollow at the base of her throat.
She feels her body imperceptibly moving toward him, everything straining for more contact. He pulls away and comes around the end of the island, moving behind her stool. She lets the front legs drop to the floor, and her knees fall open just a bit as she leans back toward him. He reaches her and, staying behind her, slides his hands along her sides from armpit to the rounded curves of her ass. His touch is slow, leisurely, unhurried. He lingers with his hands cupping her ass, and leans into her to kiss the back of her neck, sliding his lips from there down each knob of her vertebrae until he reaches the small of her back. He pulls his mouth away but leaves his hands warmly holding her.
“Oh baby,” she breathes, feeling her heart beating and leaning back against his torso. She feels the shaft of his cock against her back, and she begins to turn toward him.
He stops her. “No. Wait,” he says, and he picks her up, sliding one hand up her back and the other under her knees. Holding her against his body, he kisses her again. She takes his nipple between her lips and sucks it gently, then moves her hands up around his neck. She again notices the hard of his cock against her skin and she moans slightly.
“Wait,” he says again, and he walks around the island and then lifts her onto the granite. He lays her down gently, setting her ass and back down first, then disengaging her arms from around his neck. “Wait.” He then takes her legs, one at a time, and straightens them out on the cold, deceptively porous surface. Running his hands down those legs, he admires them. “You are so beautiful,” he says and he leans to kiss the soft insides of her thighs. She jumps, and then allows her legs to part just so much.
He kisses each leg all the way from thigh to ankle, then kisses her feet and toes. “You have beautiful feet, “ he says and she arches her back with pleasure. He pulls away and looks at her slowly, taking her in with his eyes. He reaches for the lettuce and pulls a handful out, then drops it slowly over her breasts, her belly, her cunt. The coolness of the leaves shocks her system, and she involuntarily jumps. Taking a small tomato, he rubs the tight skin of the fruit across her belly, sliding it down through her pubic hair to rub it on her erect clit. He then leans toward the tomato, raises it just off her clit to his mouth and bites into it, splattering her clit, her thighs, and the wet opening between them. He slowly licks the pieces of meat, seed, and juice from her body, lingering just a few extra moments as he sucks the juices from her clit.
Straightening, he reaches for the asparagus. He had blanched it earlier in the day, so the green is vibrant and the stalks are a little flexible in their firmness. Pulling a few stalks from the bunch, he trails the small heads over her breasts and nipples. He runs along the small concaves of her armpits, and down her sides. He slides them along the hollow where her legs meet her torso, and then slides them toward her waiting pussy. Dipping them into her waiting wetness, he bends to again suck her clit. He pulls them back out, wet with her cum, and sucks the taste of her from the stalks.
She watches as he works. His cock is always within inches of her, but she stays still, her hands grabbing the edge of the countertop. When his cock rubs against her knuckles, she reaches to stroke him, but he stops her.
“This is for you,” he says. “I want to make you a salad.” And he reaches for the mushrooms.
Friday, August 7, 2009
6 of 100 - Soft Seventeen
Sitting at the blackjack table, Ande looked around the near-empty casino. It was a Tuesday afternoon, and a blizzard had set in just north of the small Indian casino, stalling her progress to the writing conference. The conference, still four hours away, promised interaction with other writers, something she didn’t have much of where she lived. She had been irritated with the delay but was making the best of it by playing a little blackjack before going back to her room to do some reading.
The dealer called out last hand of the shoe as he pulled the cut card off the shoe and flipped it over in front of her, pulling her attention back to the table.
“Oh, God,” she said, flashing a smile. “I hate the responsibility, but I’ll do it I suppose.”
The other players at the table laughed as they all played out their hands. While the dealer cleared the cards from the table and combined the played cards and dead cards left in the shoe, she turned to the man to her right.
He was a big man with calloused hands and a face etched by years of exposure to the wind and sun. He’d been quiet most of the two shoes she’d played since arriving, not smiling much and focused on his play.
“You stranded too?” she asked as he pulled a cigarette from the pack in front of him and lit it. Pulling a long drag of smoke and releasing it over their heads, he nodded.
“Yeah, I’m headed up to Fargo to clean up flood damage. Where you headed?”
“I’m on my way to Grand Forks,” she said. “I’m going to a writer’s conference. Fortunately, it doesn’t start till tomorrow afternoon. I won’t miss anything if the roads open back up in the morning.” Ande realized her answer gave a lot more information than he’d been seeking, but it was one of her foibles and she’d come to accept it. As her father used to say, “Ask Ande what time it is and not only will she tell you how to build the clock but she’ll tell you why you need to know how to build it.” She knew this habit was partly what made her a good teacher; she also knew it annoyed a lot of people and was one of the things her ex-husband grew to despise about her.
The dealer pushed the clean stack of shuffled cards in front of her, and she stuck the cut card about halfway back in the stack. “No complaints, y’all,” she said to the table.
Just as the dealer began putting the cards out, Ande heard a voice to her left. Looking up, she saw a dark-haired man standing behind the chair next to her. His eyes looked as if he knew a really decadent secret, and they crinkled at the corners as he smiled, looking intently at her.
“Is this seat open?” he asked.
As she nodded, she felt a slight tightening between her legs and shifted her weight in surprise. She hadn’t had a man look at her with the kind of interest he was showing for a long time, and her body’s unexpected response surprised her. But it also pleased her. And she realized suddenly that the blizzard that had stranded her might just in fact be releasing her.
She broke away from his gaze and turned back to her cards. There sat a soft seventeen. Looking at the dealer’s up card, an eight, she weighed her options. Deciding there really was nothing to lose, she asked for a card.
A four of spades finished her hand, and she sat back and smiled. Oh yeah, she thought, this will be a good night.
The dealer called out last hand of the shoe as he pulled the cut card off the shoe and flipped it over in front of her, pulling her attention back to the table.
“Oh, God,” she said, flashing a smile. “I hate the responsibility, but I’ll do it I suppose.”
The other players at the table laughed as they all played out their hands. While the dealer cleared the cards from the table and combined the played cards and dead cards left in the shoe, she turned to the man to her right.
He was a big man with calloused hands and a face etched by years of exposure to the wind and sun. He’d been quiet most of the two shoes she’d played since arriving, not smiling much and focused on his play.
“You stranded too?” she asked as he pulled a cigarette from the pack in front of him and lit it. Pulling a long drag of smoke and releasing it over their heads, he nodded.
“Yeah, I’m headed up to Fargo to clean up flood damage. Where you headed?”
“I’m on my way to Grand Forks,” she said. “I’m going to a writer’s conference. Fortunately, it doesn’t start till tomorrow afternoon. I won’t miss anything if the roads open back up in the morning.” Ande realized her answer gave a lot more information than he’d been seeking, but it was one of her foibles and she’d come to accept it. As her father used to say, “Ask Ande what time it is and not only will she tell you how to build the clock but she’ll tell you why you need to know how to build it.” She knew this habit was partly what made her a good teacher; she also knew it annoyed a lot of people and was one of the things her ex-husband grew to despise about her.
The dealer pushed the clean stack of shuffled cards in front of her, and she stuck the cut card about halfway back in the stack. “No complaints, y’all,” she said to the table.
Just as the dealer began putting the cards out, Ande heard a voice to her left. Looking up, she saw a dark-haired man standing behind the chair next to her. His eyes looked as if he knew a really decadent secret, and they crinkled at the corners as he smiled, looking intently at her.
“Is this seat open?” he asked.
As she nodded, she felt a slight tightening between her legs and shifted her weight in surprise. She hadn’t had a man look at her with the kind of interest he was showing for a long time, and her body’s unexpected response surprised her. But it also pleased her. And she realized suddenly that the blizzard that had stranded her might just in fact be releasing her.
She broke away from his gaze and turned back to her cards. There sat a soft seventeen. Looking at the dealer’s up card, an eight, she weighed her options. Deciding there really was nothing to lose, she asked for a card.
A four of spades finished her hand, and she sat back and smiled. Oh yeah, she thought, this will be a good night.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
5 of 100 - Long Loves
Today my 19-year-old daughter and I were talking about some of my past relationships. The topic of my “drug dealer” boyfriend came up and she was shocked that we dated for three years. The topic then moved to my “sober” boyfriend, whom I dated for two years. Knowing her dad had also had a few long-term relationships before marrying, she commented that apparently none of her dad’s and my dating patterns rubbed off on any of our children.
She was alluding to the fact that, with just a few exceptions, neither she nor her older brother had stayed in any relationship for more than a few months during high school and later. She dated a boy off and on for around eight months her senior year, but that relationship was an anomaly. Her brother’s longest relationship lasted just a few months.
And she’s right. While many of their friends keep girlfriends and boyfriends for a year or longer, my children bounce from attraction to attraction like sampling entrees at a buffet. Once, when indicating he was thinking of ending a relationship, my son confessed that even when he liked a girl he was dating, within a few months he realized that there were others just as or even more interesting to meet and get to know.
Did I fail to supply some fundamental ability to bond with another human being? Have I, in my parenting ignorance, deprived them of the need for human companionship? Their father’s and my relationship had not been perfect, but it was never ugly, and even though we're divorced now, we still respect and care for each other. And after years of wondering about this, I have reached a conclusion.
My children were spared my insecurities. For some reason, although I came from a stable, loving, and supportive family, every boy I dated felt like the only one who would ever love me, so I hung on to him as long as I could. Instead of acknowledging or admitting the incompatibilities, the fading attraction, the signs of impending disaster, I would stick it out and hope the initial passion, the initial infatuation, the initial connection would come back and it would all be wonderful again. Imagining no other possibilities of love, I was sure each relationship was the “right” one.
I’ve decided this tenacity I had in trying to make fading love revive and renew stemmed from a fundamental feeling that only a few can care for me, and if I found a man who seemed to do so, I better hang on to him. This basic insecurity is deeply ingrained still, and I’ve found similar feelings as a newly single woman after years of marriage. Apparently, the lessons inherent in these experiences were not learned all those years ago, and now are being revisited. But I’m more aware now. My children teach me today – their self-confidence and willingness to trust that if a relationship does not fulfill all it promises in the fresh innocence of its first breaths, it is okay to let it go. That we are, all of us, fundamentally lovable. That connections don’t have to last forever to be valuable, and that the universe holds promise in its uncertainty.
So yes, Anna, you and your brother and sister are different. You do not believe you need the same things we thought we needed. And I hope you go on trusting that you don’t have to hold onto a relationship that has ripened past its prime and you will welcome new connections and experiences as they come to you.
And I, I will learn from you this time.
She was alluding to the fact that, with just a few exceptions, neither she nor her older brother had stayed in any relationship for more than a few months during high school and later. She dated a boy off and on for around eight months her senior year, but that relationship was an anomaly. Her brother’s longest relationship lasted just a few months.
And she’s right. While many of their friends keep girlfriends and boyfriends for a year or longer, my children bounce from attraction to attraction like sampling entrees at a buffet. Once, when indicating he was thinking of ending a relationship, my son confessed that even when he liked a girl he was dating, within a few months he realized that there were others just as or even more interesting to meet and get to know.
Did I fail to supply some fundamental ability to bond with another human being? Have I, in my parenting ignorance, deprived them of the need for human companionship? Their father’s and my relationship had not been perfect, but it was never ugly, and even though we're divorced now, we still respect and care for each other. And after years of wondering about this, I have reached a conclusion.
My children were spared my insecurities. For some reason, although I came from a stable, loving, and supportive family, every boy I dated felt like the only one who would ever love me, so I hung on to him as long as I could. Instead of acknowledging or admitting the incompatibilities, the fading attraction, the signs of impending disaster, I would stick it out and hope the initial passion, the initial infatuation, the initial connection would come back and it would all be wonderful again. Imagining no other possibilities of love, I was sure each relationship was the “right” one.
I’ve decided this tenacity I had in trying to make fading love revive and renew stemmed from a fundamental feeling that only a few can care for me, and if I found a man who seemed to do so, I better hang on to him. This basic insecurity is deeply ingrained still, and I’ve found similar feelings as a newly single woman after years of marriage. Apparently, the lessons inherent in these experiences were not learned all those years ago, and now are being revisited. But I’m more aware now. My children teach me today – their self-confidence and willingness to trust that if a relationship does not fulfill all it promises in the fresh innocence of its first breaths, it is okay to let it go. That we are, all of us, fundamentally lovable. That connections don’t have to last forever to be valuable, and that the universe holds promise in its uncertainty.
So yes, Anna, you and your brother and sister are different. You do not believe you need the same things we thought we needed. And I hope you go on trusting that you don’t have to hold onto a relationship that has ripened past its prime and you will welcome new connections and experiences as they come to you.
And I, I will learn from you this time.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
4 of 100 - Feeding the Beast
Sam surveyed the room hungrily. Hungry defined everything about him – from his desire for the ability to finish the project he’d pursued for years to the desire for warm flesh under his hands and against his skin. He was married, but was living above the hardware store his 75-year-old father had run for 40 years. His wife, Janine, had asked him to leave if he wasn’t going to begin “acting like an adult.” So he left.
It wasn’t that Sam didn’t want to act like an adult, he just had a nagging desire for something other than a job he had to return to day after day after day. Although he’d worked at the store on and off for years, helping the old man when he needed it, the idea of taking over the family store at 50 years old just didn’t seem like his destiny. He was destined for something bigger, something more important, something more dangerous. So he’d chased real estate deals and equipment sales, making good money in some and losing too much in others.
But his heart belonged to a dream he’d held for years. He had been working on a project, something that he felt could change the world when it was realized, for more than five years. This project drove him, the idea that he could create something that would change how people behaved on a massive scale actually hardened him occasionally. But the project had stalled. The design had a flaw that needed working out, and his vision refused to shift and he was stalemated.
So he had left home, then left the small room above the store, and had holed up in a nearby casino hotel to sort things out. Normally strapped for cash, a property transfer had put some money in his pocket, so he ran for fresh ideas, for fresh faces, for the possibility that the dam blocking his next move would burst and life would rush back in on him.
So Sam was hunting. And that’s when he found her. Checking the blackjack tables for an open spot at third base, he saw a woman laughing. Not really beautiful, and not much younger than he, she had an arresting presence about her. Maybe it was the way she laughed or perhaps it was her dark hair and eyes, but he was immediately attracted to her. As luck would have it, there was seat open just to her left. “Maybe my luck will be good tonight,” he said quietly, and walked to the open spot.
Settling into the chair, he pulled out a hundred dollar bill and pushed it across the table to the dealer. The woman turned to look at him, making eye contact, and smiled.
“Hey,” she said. That was all. Then she looked down at her small stack of chips and rearranged them into stacks of five, then ten, then looked at the man sitting to her right. “So what kind of projects you doing up there?”
The man pushed back his chair while the dealer changed Sam’s cash into chips, lifted his hat slightly off his head and scratched. “We’re clearing out the damaged shit. Someone else’ll come in and begin the reconstruction. They’re estimating more than 5,000 structures have extensive damage.”
Sam, after having worked on and off in the store since he was a child, knew how to pull gently into a conversation, giving the others already there just what they needed to feel comfortable and important.
“So you headed up to Fargo to clean up flood damage?” he asked as the dealer pushed his stack of chips across to him. He turned to the man, looking across the woman and smiling briefly as his glance passed. As he pulled two red chips from the stack and placed them as his first bet, he noticed she was not wearing a ring. Suddenly he felt that this was his lucky night, his lucky week, his lucky year – something was shifting and moving under his feet. And he began to play.
It wasn’t that Sam didn’t want to act like an adult, he just had a nagging desire for something other than a job he had to return to day after day after day. Although he’d worked at the store on and off for years, helping the old man when he needed it, the idea of taking over the family store at 50 years old just didn’t seem like his destiny. He was destined for something bigger, something more important, something more dangerous. So he’d chased real estate deals and equipment sales, making good money in some and losing too much in others.
But his heart belonged to a dream he’d held for years. He had been working on a project, something that he felt could change the world when it was realized, for more than five years. This project drove him, the idea that he could create something that would change how people behaved on a massive scale actually hardened him occasionally. But the project had stalled. The design had a flaw that needed working out, and his vision refused to shift and he was stalemated.
So he had left home, then left the small room above the store, and had holed up in a nearby casino hotel to sort things out. Normally strapped for cash, a property transfer had put some money in his pocket, so he ran for fresh ideas, for fresh faces, for the possibility that the dam blocking his next move would burst and life would rush back in on him.
So Sam was hunting. And that’s when he found her. Checking the blackjack tables for an open spot at third base, he saw a woman laughing. Not really beautiful, and not much younger than he, she had an arresting presence about her. Maybe it was the way she laughed or perhaps it was her dark hair and eyes, but he was immediately attracted to her. As luck would have it, there was seat open just to her left. “Maybe my luck will be good tonight,” he said quietly, and walked to the open spot.
Settling into the chair, he pulled out a hundred dollar bill and pushed it across the table to the dealer. The woman turned to look at him, making eye contact, and smiled.
“Hey,” she said. That was all. Then she looked down at her small stack of chips and rearranged them into stacks of five, then ten, then looked at the man sitting to her right. “So what kind of projects you doing up there?”
The man pushed back his chair while the dealer changed Sam’s cash into chips, lifted his hat slightly off his head and scratched. “We’re clearing out the damaged shit. Someone else’ll come in and begin the reconstruction. They’re estimating more than 5,000 structures have extensive damage.”
Sam, after having worked on and off in the store since he was a child, knew how to pull gently into a conversation, giving the others already there just what they needed to feel comfortable and important.
“So you headed up to Fargo to clean up flood damage?” he asked as the dealer pushed his stack of chips across to him. He turned to the man, looking across the woman and smiling briefly as his glance passed. As he pulled two red chips from the stack and placed them as his first bet, he noticed she was not wearing a ring. Suddenly he felt that this was his lucky night, his lucky week, his lucky year – something was shifting and moving under his feet. And he began to play.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
3 of 100 - Rachel's Ending
Rachel sat at the bar, swirling the melting ice cubes around in her Crown Royal. It was going to be another long night, she imagined.
Chris had left her three weeks before. They’d been together for 15 years, and she thought they’d be together another 15. That is until he walked in one day after work, tossed his jacket on the bar stool as he always did, settled into another barstool as he always did, pulled his glasses from his face, setting them carefully on the counter, as he always did, and said to her back as she chopped onions and green peppers for her famous spaghetti sauce, “Rach, I’m not happy. I’m moving out.”
She remembered pausing, holding the knife carefully poised just above the onions, the peppers, and her wrist, and then carefully placing the knife on the cutting board, turning slowly to face him, wringing the remnants of water, onion skin, and pepper seeds from her hands.
“You’re what?” She brought the back of her hand to her face, moving her hair off her forehead and catching the tear pushing from the corner of her eye. Determined not to lose control, she repeated carefully, “You’re what?” when he didn’t respond immediately.
He sighed. Rachel suddenly realized that she hated it when he sighed, and he did it a lot. She waited. After sighing again, Chris began, “Rach, now you know we haven’t been happy for a while. I just can’t do it any more. I need to move out and sort things through. You can have the house and everything else. All I want is Dad’s gun cabinet and I thought I’d take the guest room furniture. I’ve found an apartment and Ben said he’d help me move everything this weekend.”
“So Ben knows. Who else have you told?” Rachel’s face burned with the knowledge that others knew more about her marriage and its problems than she did. She’d always thought that was the worst part of a breakup. Having others know your business. And knowing others would know Chris’s business before she would from now on. She looked down quickly at her chest to see if by chance she’d accidentally stuck the knife she’d been using in below the breastbone and up into her heart. The stabbing she felt there was more physical than she imagined it could possibly be – without the knife.
“Just Ann. I called and talked to her last night. She sends her love.” Chris’s sister Ann had always merely tolerated Rachel. Possessive of her brother since their mom died when they were teens, she resented his wife from the start. She tried hard to mask it when they had family functions, but the tension rode always just below the conversation.
“Great. Just fucking great. What do you want me to say, Chris? You’ve made up your mind. I’ll leave early tomorrow so you can move your shit out in peace. Better yet, I’m going over to Jill’s house tonight and you call me when you’re pulling out of the driveway tomorrow.” She left everything as it was in the kitchen, knowing he’d clean it all up, and she walked out the door. That was the last time they’d been in the house together.
Now Rachel sat waiting for Jill to meet her for drinks and a movie. Always there for her, Jill had tried to cushion the fall as she sorted through ending a life she’d thought would not end. Rachel felt guilty for taking so much of Jill’s time away from her husband and children, but appreciated the care her friend gave. This night she had arrived a half hour early and had started numbing the pain with Crown and water. Looking at the baseball game above the bar, not knowing who was playing or caring, she thought about the emptiness engulfing her every move. Interrupting her thoughts, her cell phone vibrated on the bar in front of her.
“Hey Jill, what’s up?” she answered.
Jill, clearly shaken, apologized that her youngest had fallen from her bike in the driveway and they had to take her to get stitches.
“My god, girl. Take her. I’ll be fine. Let me know how she is and give her kisses for me.” Rachel’s emptiness grew in size and form as she pushed the end button on her phone. Settling her head in her hands, she pulled a few deep breaths and said quietly, “Fuck fuck fuck.”
Finally raising her head and looking up, she was startled to be looking into the bartender’s chest. Moving her gaze upward, she found his eyes watching her. When they connected, he smiled and asked if she was okay.
“Yeah, sure. Just found out I got stood up is all.” She shrugged her shoulders as if to toss the pain away.
“Well he must be batshit crazy is all I can say,” he said, reaching for a clean bar rag to wipe the condensation from below her glass. She hadn’t realized she’d shredded the napkin the glass had been sitting on. He replaced the napkin and looked again at her.
“It’s not a him. It’s my friend and it isn’t her fault. Family emergency. He stood me up a few weeks ago – for the rest of my life.” She tried to laugh, but it came out as a rather pathetic croaking sound.
“Well how about another drink and you can tell me about it. I’ve got another hour before I can go and it’s pretty clear I won’t be too busy.” He gestured to the near-empty room and she looked around politely. He reached across the bar and settled his hand on her bare arm. The touch startled her. He added, “It’ll be okay. I’m Matt.”
“Nice to meet you Matt. I’m Rachel.” She smiled at him and realized she meant it.
Chris had left her three weeks before. They’d been together for 15 years, and she thought they’d be together another 15. That is until he walked in one day after work, tossed his jacket on the bar stool as he always did, settled into another barstool as he always did, pulled his glasses from his face, setting them carefully on the counter, as he always did, and said to her back as she chopped onions and green peppers for her famous spaghetti sauce, “Rach, I’m not happy. I’m moving out.”
She remembered pausing, holding the knife carefully poised just above the onions, the peppers, and her wrist, and then carefully placing the knife on the cutting board, turning slowly to face him, wringing the remnants of water, onion skin, and pepper seeds from her hands.
“You’re what?” She brought the back of her hand to her face, moving her hair off her forehead and catching the tear pushing from the corner of her eye. Determined not to lose control, she repeated carefully, “You’re what?” when he didn’t respond immediately.
He sighed. Rachel suddenly realized that she hated it when he sighed, and he did it a lot. She waited. After sighing again, Chris began, “Rach, now you know we haven’t been happy for a while. I just can’t do it any more. I need to move out and sort things through. You can have the house and everything else. All I want is Dad’s gun cabinet and I thought I’d take the guest room furniture. I’ve found an apartment and Ben said he’d help me move everything this weekend.”
“So Ben knows. Who else have you told?” Rachel’s face burned with the knowledge that others knew more about her marriage and its problems than she did. She’d always thought that was the worst part of a breakup. Having others know your business. And knowing others would know Chris’s business before she would from now on. She looked down quickly at her chest to see if by chance she’d accidentally stuck the knife she’d been using in below the breastbone and up into her heart. The stabbing she felt there was more physical than she imagined it could possibly be – without the knife.
“Just Ann. I called and talked to her last night. She sends her love.” Chris’s sister Ann had always merely tolerated Rachel. Possessive of her brother since their mom died when they were teens, she resented his wife from the start. She tried hard to mask it when they had family functions, but the tension rode always just below the conversation.
“Great. Just fucking great. What do you want me to say, Chris? You’ve made up your mind. I’ll leave early tomorrow so you can move your shit out in peace. Better yet, I’m going over to Jill’s house tonight and you call me when you’re pulling out of the driveway tomorrow.” She left everything as it was in the kitchen, knowing he’d clean it all up, and she walked out the door. That was the last time they’d been in the house together.
Now Rachel sat waiting for Jill to meet her for drinks and a movie. Always there for her, Jill had tried to cushion the fall as she sorted through ending a life she’d thought would not end. Rachel felt guilty for taking so much of Jill’s time away from her husband and children, but appreciated the care her friend gave. This night she had arrived a half hour early and had started numbing the pain with Crown and water. Looking at the baseball game above the bar, not knowing who was playing or caring, she thought about the emptiness engulfing her every move. Interrupting her thoughts, her cell phone vibrated on the bar in front of her.
“Hey Jill, what’s up?” she answered.
Jill, clearly shaken, apologized that her youngest had fallen from her bike in the driveway and they had to take her to get stitches.
“My god, girl. Take her. I’ll be fine. Let me know how she is and give her kisses for me.” Rachel’s emptiness grew in size and form as she pushed the end button on her phone. Settling her head in her hands, she pulled a few deep breaths and said quietly, “Fuck fuck fuck.”
Finally raising her head and looking up, she was startled to be looking into the bartender’s chest. Moving her gaze upward, she found his eyes watching her. When they connected, he smiled and asked if she was okay.
“Yeah, sure. Just found out I got stood up is all.” She shrugged her shoulders as if to toss the pain away.
“Well he must be batshit crazy is all I can say,” he said, reaching for a clean bar rag to wipe the condensation from below her glass. She hadn’t realized she’d shredded the napkin the glass had been sitting on. He replaced the napkin and looked again at her.
“It’s not a him. It’s my friend and it isn’t her fault. Family emergency. He stood me up a few weeks ago – for the rest of my life.” She tried to laugh, but it came out as a rather pathetic croaking sound.
“Well how about another drink and you can tell me about it. I’ve got another hour before I can go and it’s pretty clear I won’t be too busy.” He gestured to the near-empty room and she looked around politely. He reached across the bar and settled his hand on her bare arm. The touch startled her. He added, “It’ll be okay. I’m Matt.”
“Nice to meet you Matt. I’m Rachel.” She smiled at him and realized she meant it.
Monday, August 3, 2009
2 of 100 - Sunday Afternoon
Julie looked across the long stretch of lawn as she shook the week’s dusty accumulation from the foyer rug. As the rug snapped and bits of dirt stung her bare legs and arms, she watched Ronnie mow. The riding lawnmower lumbered along as her husband peered over the side, making sure he missed the landscaping blocks that edged the yard.
He was shirtless, and small rivulets of sweat rolled down his chest and back, detouring around his nipples and rolling smoothly over the lines of muscle across his abdomen. Julie noticed, as usual, how he’d kept so muscular and thin over the years. She’d always had to work hard to keep the pounds off, but it seemed effortless for him. Sensing her eyes, he looked up to catch them. He smiled and held up a can of Bud Light, slightly shaking it to indicate its emptiness. She nodded, finished up with the rug, and went inside.
Retrieving a fresh can, she bent into the refrigerator, resting her forehead on her arm, letting the chill settle over her face. The hum of the water filling the automatic ice trays lulled her briefly and she wished just for a moment she could stay there all day. Then she heard the mower catch and stop, and she straightened and shut the door.
Out in the yard, Ronnie was crouched behind the mower, looking where he’d just mown. Walking out across the newly cut grass, she noticed his jaw working back and forth, a trait she’d come to associate with anxiety.
“Hey, what’s up?” she called as she approached his bent figure.
“Don’t come over here, Jules” he called out quietly, stopping her. “I’ve hit a nest of rabbits.”
Julie hadn’t known that wild rabbits had nests for their young until ten years before. She and Ronnie had pulled into a flea market to look for old furniture to refinish, and when they got out of the car, they realized they’d driven the front tire right through one of these nests. Five or six tiny rabbits lay maimed and broken, driven into the ground by the Jeep’s weight. She’d cried and Ronnie had walked her away from the carnage, stroking her head as she leaned into his shoulder and pressing his hand into the small of her back. That evening, she lost their first baby.
Four pregnancies and four miscarriages later, she approached another nest of mangled rabbits. She peered over Ronnie’s shoulder, and he looked up in her face, ready to put his arms around her. There was no need. She looked at the small carcasses and then into Ronnie’s face.
“Clean it up, will you?” she said as she handed him the beer and turned toward the house. “I don’t want the dog getting into that and dragging it around the yard.”
He was shirtless, and small rivulets of sweat rolled down his chest and back, detouring around his nipples and rolling smoothly over the lines of muscle across his abdomen. Julie noticed, as usual, how he’d kept so muscular and thin over the years. She’d always had to work hard to keep the pounds off, but it seemed effortless for him. Sensing her eyes, he looked up to catch them. He smiled and held up a can of Bud Light, slightly shaking it to indicate its emptiness. She nodded, finished up with the rug, and went inside.
Retrieving a fresh can, she bent into the refrigerator, resting her forehead on her arm, letting the chill settle over her face. The hum of the water filling the automatic ice trays lulled her briefly and she wished just for a moment she could stay there all day. Then she heard the mower catch and stop, and she straightened and shut the door.
Out in the yard, Ronnie was crouched behind the mower, looking where he’d just mown. Walking out across the newly cut grass, she noticed his jaw working back and forth, a trait she’d come to associate with anxiety.
“Hey, what’s up?” she called as she approached his bent figure.
“Don’t come over here, Jules” he called out quietly, stopping her. “I’ve hit a nest of rabbits.”
Julie hadn’t known that wild rabbits had nests for their young until ten years before. She and Ronnie had pulled into a flea market to look for old furniture to refinish, and when they got out of the car, they realized they’d driven the front tire right through one of these nests. Five or six tiny rabbits lay maimed and broken, driven into the ground by the Jeep’s weight. She’d cried and Ronnie had walked her away from the carnage, stroking her head as she leaned into his shoulder and pressing his hand into the small of her back. That evening, she lost their first baby.
Four pregnancies and four miscarriages later, she approached another nest of mangled rabbits. She peered over Ronnie’s shoulder, and he looked up in her face, ready to put his arms around her. There was no need. She looked at the small carcasses and then into Ronnie’s face.
“Clean it up, will you?” she said as she handed him the beer and turned toward the house. “I don’t want the dog getting into that and dragging it around the yard.”
Sunday, August 2, 2009
1 in 100 - Susie at the Bar
Susie walked into the bar, looked around at the few other patrons, and seeing no one she wanted to talk to, pulled out a bar stool and hoisted herself up. Pulling her yellow and red cloth bag down from her shoulder, Susie watched it as it dropped it unceremoniously to the ground. The dingy, stained fabric of the bag, with a muffled clatter, sank down around the objects hidden inside. She pushed the pile under her feet and rested them there, touching it lightly as if to reassure herself that it was safe.
“Hey girl. What’s up with you?” The bartender put down the menus he was wiping clean and took the few steps to stand in front of the girl. Dan was a big man, pushing six foot six and weighing more than 300 pounds. He moved, incongruously, with the light step of a dancer. But this evening he leaned heavily into the bar, reaching across it and brushing Susie’s unkempt bangs back from her eyes. His touch was light, but his mass would have challenged a less solid structure. Susie allowed the gesture and then grabbed his hand, holding it against her cheek.
“Dan, I don’t know. Everything. Nothing. Life just sucks, y’know?” She looked up, still holding his hand, and allowed a few tears to spill over from her filled eyes. “Just get me drunk, would ya? I told Evan to split yesterday, and I haven’t talked to him since. God, I miss him when he’s not around, but I know I’m better off without him around. Fuck.”
As Dan moved down the bar to grab a beer for her, Susie reached down into her bag and fished around for something with which to wipe her face. Coming up with a square of slightly soiled napkin, she flattened it out on the bar and then worked it around her eyes, careful to leave the remnants of makeup intact.
Susie had been seeing Evan for about six months. He was younger than she, exactly by how much was not clear as Susie was rather ambiguous about her age. When pressed, she had said for years she was less than 40, but that was as far as she’d go. Evan was in his late 20s and Susie had met him when she had taken her car in to be fixed for the last time. He had been the one to give her the bad news – the 20 year old Honda had coughed up its last carbon. That’s the way he broken the news: “Susie, honey, I have some bad news for you. This little gem of a car has breathed her last carbons into our already fucked atmosphere.” At that moment, Susie had fallen hard.
They began fucking that night. He took her home, and she invited him in for a beer. The beers were only half gone when he reached across and pulled her onto his lap. Feeling his stiffness through his jeans and her skirt, she’d turned to straddle his lap, hiking the already short skirt up above her hips. As he bent to taste the day’s sweat on her chest, moving her small breasts out from under the fabric stretched across them and holding each one as if it contained nitroglycerin, she slid her hands under his belt and freed his penis. They explored each other’s bodies for the rest of the night, touching, tasting, and listening to the responses. It had only taken a week and a half until he’d moved in.
Susie found out early that Evan wasn’t to be controlled. He came and went as he pleased, and there were days at a time she had no idea where he was. He’d show back up, and while she yelled and cried and threatened, he’d hang his head, apologize, and begin to touch her. She always forgave him, but over the months, those absences and his inability to give her more than the current moment, wore away at her love for him. This time, when she threw him out, she thought she meant it. But, of course, she’d thought the same the other times too.
“Hey girl. What’s up with you?” The bartender put down the menus he was wiping clean and took the few steps to stand in front of the girl. Dan was a big man, pushing six foot six and weighing more than 300 pounds. He moved, incongruously, with the light step of a dancer. But this evening he leaned heavily into the bar, reaching across it and brushing Susie’s unkempt bangs back from her eyes. His touch was light, but his mass would have challenged a less solid structure. Susie allowed the gesture and then grabbed his hand, holding it against her cheek.
“Dan, I don’t know. Everything. Nothing. Life just sucks, y’know?” She looked up, still holding his hand, and allowed a few tears to spill over from her filled eyes. “Just get me drunk, would ya? I told Evan to split yesterday, and I haven’t talked to him since. God, I miss him when he’s not around, but I know I’m better off without him around. Fuck.”
As Dan moved down the bar to grab a beer for her, Susie reached down into her bag and fished around for something with which to wipe her face. Coming up with a square of slightly soiled napkin, she flattened it out on the bar and then worked it around her eyes, careful to leave the remnants of makeup intact.
Susie had been seeing Evan for about six months. He was younger than she, exactly by how much was not clear as Susie was rather ambiguous about her age. When pressed, she had said for years she was less than 40, but that was as far as she’d go. Evan was in his late 20s and Susie had met him when she had taken her car in to be fixed for the last time. He had been the one to give her the bad news – the 20 year old Honda had coughed up its last carbon. That’s the way he broken the news: “Susie, honey, I have some bad news for you. This little gem of a car has breathed her last carbons into our already fucked atmosphere.” At that moment, Susie had fallen hard.
They began fucking that night. He took her home, and she invited him in for a beer. The beers were only half gone when he reached across and pulled her onto his lap. Feeling his stiffness through his jeans and her skirt, she’d turned to straddle his lap, hiking the already short skirt up above her hips. As he bent to taste the day’s sweat on her chest, moving her small breasts out from under the fabric stretched across them and holding each one as if it contained nitroglycerin, she slid her hands under his belt and freed his penis. They explored each other’s bodies for the rest of the night, touching, tasting, and listening to the responses. It had only taken a week and a half until he’d moved in.
Susie found out early that Evan wasn’t to be controlled. He came and went as he pleased, and there were days at a time she had no idea where he was. He’d show back up, and while she yelled and cried and threatened, he’d hang his head, apologize, and begin to touch her. She always forgave him, but over the months, those absences and his inability to give her more than the current moment, wore away at her love for him. This time, when she threw him out, she thought she meant it. But, of course, she’d thought the same the other times too.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
The Artist's Contract - 100 in 100 days
Ina the Atriot has inspired me. An artist who wants to push herself, she’s committed to creating 100 self-portraits in 100 days. Each piece is unique and pushes a different part of herself, and each is wonderfully interesting. On my long drive today, I was thinking about her creative commitment and my desire to begin producing regularly.
So I have decided to create 100 pieces in 100 days. Some of these will be self-portraits, reflecting the sometime insights I have into what makes me who I am, some will be character portraits of people I meet or imagine, some will be pieces of works in progress, and some will be vignettes I’ve imagined or witnessed, but all will be expressions pushing to emerge from my consciousness.
I feel I need to set some parameters for these works:
Each piece will be at least 250 words and no longer than 1000 words.
Each piece must be created the day in which I post it, and it cannot be a revision of an earlier piece. Each piece must stand on its own, even if it is a part of some larger whole that is emerging.
Each piece’s form must reflect the content. Poems, vignettes, character sketches, and even lists may appear here.
I considered whether this introduction should count as 1 of 100, and I decided it should not. This is simply the contract I am making with the artist within to create every day. These pieces, hopefully, will be the inception and origination of a lifelong commitment to writing the truth as I see it.
So here we go. Partake if you wish. Comment if you feel the urge. And welcome to my world.
So I have decided to create 100 pieces in 100 days. Some of these will be self-portraits, reflecting the sometime insights I have into what makes me who I am, some will be character portraits of people I meet or imagine, some will be pieces of works in progress, and some will be vignettes I’ve imagined or witnessed, but all will be expressions pushing to emerge from my consciousness.
I feel I need to set some parameters for these works:
Each piece will be at least 250 words and no longer than 1000 words.
Each piece must be created the day in which I post it, and it cannot be a revision of an earlier piece. Each piece must stand on its own, even if it is a part of some larger whole that is emerging.
Each piece’s form must reflect the content. Poems, vignettes, character sketches, and even lists may appear here.
I considered whether this introduction should count as 1 of 100, and I decided it should not. This is simply the contract I am making with the artist within to create every day. These pieces, hopefully, will be the inception and origination of a lifelong commitment to writing the truth as I see it.
So here we go. Partake if you wish. Comment if you feel the urge. And welcome to my world.
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