Reservations?

(Originally written for a short-short fiction course focusing on dialogue)

The little white man turned into a flashing yellow hand and both Veronica and Morgan stopped. The noise of the traffic couldn’t drown them out.

“I can’t get over that! What has gotten into him?”

Veronica continued with her rant, “Oh yeah, listen to this one. Yesterday I called him, like I usually do, just before I come home to let him know I am on the way and for him to know when to start making dinner. When I asked him he replied, ‘the only thing I am making for dinner is a reservation.’”

Veronica left only a brief gap in her speech, just enough for Morgan to slip in, “What a complete ass!”

“I know! He hasn’t worked in the past 4 months, and here I am working my butt off to pay OUR bills, to decrease OUR debt, to put food on OUR table and he can’t seem to get off the bloody couch to make dinner, especially this one night. I can’t afford to pay for his father’s birthday dinner at a restaurant. Why can’t he make a nice dinner?”

Veronica’s voice drowned out the traffic.

“I ask him to do laundry and his excuse is that he couldn’t figure out how to sort the clothes. I ask him to wash the dishes and yet I come home to find the pile in the sink getting bigger. I ask him to vacuum the floors and he does one room.”

Veronica stopped to catch her breath and jostle her purse back on her shoulder.

“But when I ask him what he does all day he proceeds to tell me the latest episode of Oprah and how to visualize my stress away.”

A car passes with two young guys who can’t pass up the opportunity to honk. Morgan smiles back, but Veronica, completely oblivious.

“Or he says, ‘I walked the dog and we had a great run at the beach for almost 4 hours.’ I just don’t know Morg, do I call it quits? Do I tell him how I feel? But why should I tell him how I feel all the time? I am sure he knows how I feel.”

“Christ!” Missing the crack in the pavement Veronica’s left sling-back got caught and snapped off the 2-inch heel.

“Damn, I just bought these." She picked up the heel from the sidewalk and clasped it in her hand.

"Cheap bastards! Oh well, only one more block to go.”

The two continued to walk, Veronica on one heel and one tippy-toe.

“Anyway, what do you think Morgan, I could really use some advice. Any ideas, feedback, comments, anything. Arggh, goddamn shoes.”

Morgan just followed along and was thankful they had reached Veronica’s condo.

“Well, here I am and back to the mayhem. I wonder what my ‘mister’ did today. Or perhaps I should say what he didn’t do. I suppose I will get the synopsis of the Oprah show, and with any luck I’ll get some advice on how to improve this god awful relationship or maybe some ways to remember my spirit. Anyway, thanks for the talk Morgan.”

And even before Morgan could say good-bye, Veronica flew into the lobby and was gone.

Nonchalant Soiree

(Originally written for a short-short fiction course. Focus was to start with a stolen paragraph and make the rest of the story your own.)

I first saw Shaun Warner in his khakis and a plaid shirt, his blonde hair gelled perfectly in place and his face shining in the neon glow of the hot dog stand outside of Orsini’s. People who recognized him were giving the knowing nod and bubbly girls threw back their shoulders as they smiled their way past. I didn’t take too much notice. I was waiting for Joanna and Mike to stumble out of the bar, and was fixated on finding myself some alcohol-absorbing-non-meat-product nourishment. The closest I would get was a bun jammed with cheese and sauerkraut. You don’t think twice when you are drunk.

Shaun glanced over, “What are you eating?”

I managed to mumble my through the dry bun, “I dunno, do you wanna try?” I held out the half-eaten tube and tucked the stray bits of cabbage into my mouth.

Shaun laughed. His friend Dean didn’t hesitate ripping off a bit. “Tastes like shit! How can ya eat this?”

I smiled, “After eatin’ kangaroo and emu, I can eat just about anythin’.”

Shaun shook his head, “So you did the outback thing to the extreme huh?”

“Something like that,” I nodded and shrugged, managing to down the rest of the bun and chase it with the beer I had hiding in the back pocket of my jeans.

“Got any more of those?” Shaun asked.

Hands up and I twirled around to show that all other pockets were empty. “Nope, but we can share.” And I handed the bottle over. A quick brush of our hands in the exchange sent a sudden surge of electricity through me. The look in Shaun’s eyes and smile told me that he felt it too.

He took a few swigs and passed the bottle back, “Why are you here by yourself?”

“I’m not, waiting for my friends to come out.”

And that is when Shaun made the offer, “Look, Dean-o and I are headin’ back to the hotel, we’ll probably hang out by the pool, have some beers, get some real food. Yer more than welcome to join us.”

It was 3AM, the bars were closed, and sleep impossible at a sweaty 32 degrees.

“Yah, sure. Is it cool if my friend joins us?”

And just as I finished my sentence, Joanna and Mike walked out of the bar. Mike went for the hotdog stand and Joanna approached us.
Dean’s eyes lit up, “Of course she can join us!”

I grabbed Joanna and we went over to Mike.

“Mike, Jo and I are heading off, you OK on your own?” I asked.

His mouth full of a real hot dog, “Sure. Where ya goin’?”

“Swimming,” I smiled and lifted my head to show our new found companions and Joanna laughed at the announcement.

Mike choked down his dog, “What? You’ve gotta be kiddin’! Do you…nevermind.” He never finished his sentence and shook his head in disbelief.

We walked in the direction of Shaun and Dean who had now hailed a cab and were waiting for us to climb in.

I turned back to Mike, gave a quick wink and said, “Black Pearl for breakfast, 11?”

Mike nodded and gave a thumbs up, and Joanna, Dean, Shaun and I crammed into the back of the cab.

Joanna and Dean went into the hotel for the air conditioning. Shaun and I swam, drank, ordered room service, had sex, and watched the stars fade and the sun rise. I liked him, but not enough to see him again. He wrote his cell number on my hand but as I left the hotel I licked my palm and rubbed it off.

I found Mike and Joanna at the Black Pearl later that morning. Mike was buzzing and could hardly get words out of his mouth.

“Whadja do last night, whad happened?” he asked.

I just smiled and exchanged a quick glance with Joanna, figuring she had already filled him in on her part of the story and briefly mentioned mine. Besides, it was fun tormenting Mike.

“You did it didncha? I can’t believe you! You are unreal, but you have no idea do you? Do you know who that was?”

I shrugged my shoulders, shook my head, “Sure, his name was Shaun and in town for a tournament of some sort.”

Mike seemed to stutter over his words. “That guy Shaun, is a cricket player, the best cricket player in Australia. You just fucked the Gretzky of the cricket world.”

I laughed at my own naïveté and looked for any trace of the number on my hand, but it was gone.

He’e nalu

(Written for short-short fiction course focusing on writing from an image)

He has been awake for hours and the rising sun warms his tanned face. His bleached hair is tossed to the side and he continues waiting. Sitting cross-legged, he looks at her sensuous curves, watching her every move. His heart throbs and seems to clump in this throat. This is it! He has played the scene a thousand times over and yet is still flooded with fear and respect.

She whispers to him and eventually her pouty lips gently break and rustle upon the sesame seed granules of beach. He has come to this one spot, the place where his mind has drifted to again and again; where he hopes to turn his pipe dream into reality.

The odor of touristy coconut balm hangs in the air as he fixes his gaze on the blatantly real 10-foot swells. Butterflies churn in his gut, but he defies defeat. And with one quick motion he swiftly glides into the liquid blue and paddles his way to dance with the unpredictable.

"He'enalu, a Hawaiian term adopted by ancient poets to describe their spectacular sport of surfing, is a word rich nuance. Like many subtleties expressed by this highly-evolved civilization, the world for this popular form of recreation is rich in what Hawaiians call kaona, or hidden meaning. The first half, "he'e," can mean for instance, "to change from a solid to a liquid form, or to run as a liquid"; the second part, "nalu" can refer to the surfing motion of a wave, or the foaming of a wave, hence he'enalu, wave-sliding. " www.surfart.com

143 Dufferin Street

(Written for short-short fiction course. Focus was a childhood memory)

It was a shabby red brick house. Home of Claudette Blevins; my second mom and my second home. It stood in the middle of a block lined with trees and patches of well-groomed grass. At the back of the house there was what used to be a large porch, but converted to a playroom; a place of wonder and fantasy. To this day the smell of musty books still triggers the memories of that dim, dusty room – the wood paneling, the boxes of abandoned clothing, strewn toys, and a large green and brown plaid sofa that seemed to encompass the whole room. Affectionately known as The Monster, it became our island, our ship, our home-free and anything else we could imagine.

My belly full of pancakes, I lied on The Monster secured within his cushiony mouth. The uneven polyester curtains drawn but the sun trickled in, highlighting dust particles. They wafted from The Monster, dancing and floating around my hands and through my fingers. Mesmerized. Time stood still.

Clunking sounds of Debra’s Buster Brown loafers drew my attention. She twisted her burly locks and wiped her syrup-rimmed mouth. The Monster and I welcomed her as she curled into us.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

Without hesitation I replied, “Catching fairy dust.”

We exchanged a conspiratorial glance and The Monster once again magically transformed; this time into a lush green water garden where we flitted and swirled from lily pad to lily pad.

Lessons Learned :: Karma (Part II)

http://adeepbluesky.blogspot.com/2004/09/lessons-learned-karma-part-i.html

Use the link if you haven't read Part 1

Once the Captain returned below, I could feel tears streaming down my face. I was sorry that I wasn't stronger to help them. I was sorry for them. I was sorry for the stubborness of the Captain. And this guilt and remorse overcame me as I watched the two men melt into the horizon like they appeared...

I couldn't look at the captain, I couldn't be reminded of his stern no's, I couldn't face the fact that I was so powerless and tried so hard to avoid wondering what would happen if the supposed pirates didn't have water. I wanted to scream, I wanted bury myself and hide but instead I sat on the deck still with my head clenched between in my hands and watched the sun slowly set.

It was hours before the Captain and I spoke and in some way I think he was showing remorse. He admitted that he was so afraid that they would board the boat, although to me, the two men seemed very cautious of the space between both boats. We talked and no matter how many times he seemed to rationalize his behaviour, I still couldn't stomach the fact that perhaps our actions determined the fate of individuals halfway between land and open sea.

The Captain left me with my own thoughts on the deck as I scribbled in my journal, and I watched night come quickly. In some odd way I felt so alone, so distant from everything and yet so confined to the 34 feet of this boat.

I balled up in my sleeping bag and harnessed myself in for the night; bobbing in the ocean and watching the stars dart across the midnight sky. Sleep took forever to come. My gut was in knots, my heart in my throat and the warm breeze seemed so much colder. But I began drifting into that sleepy state, until finally the concious thoughts seemed to disappear all together and it was just me with my dreams....

It was the loudest bang I had ever heard and it jarred every part of me. I shot up in a daze, forgetting where I was and wondering what the hell that noise was. In the haze of it all, scrambling from the zipped up bag and forcing my eyes open, I could have sworn that it was the mast that fell down. Struggling, unzipping, tangled legs between the fleece covers, eyes opening, tugging, trapped in the harness, still in complete confusion. Eyes now open, mast still up, legs almost free and then the voice of the Captain, "Are you OK, are you hurt?" My voice, silenced by the struggle and confusion, couldn't respond. But I peeled myself up and out of my bag and harness and found the Captain behind the wheel, frantically looking at the depth finder.

"Get down below, now," he barked. I still couldn't speak and scrambled down the 4 steps into the galley.

"Lift up those floor boards and you will see some water, how much is in it? How deep?" he asked.

I pulled the floor boards and saw what looked like a box filled with water a few inches deep.

"Keep your eyes on it, we may have punctured the hull," he ordered. "Tell me if it becomes deeper." And there I sat, sprawled among the floor boards in the galley. My heart racing and asking myself questions; were we going to be taking on water? Was this going to be a slow leak? Were we doomed? The reassuring thought was the Australian Coast Guard that would be flying over sometime in the late morning.

"What was that? What did we hit?" I yelled up.

"I don't know! I don't know," as the Captains voice faded into the night.

Minutes passed that felt like hours, my eyes watching the water slosh around. This hole in the floor boards stayed the same, no water was coming in. So I climbed back up and poked my head out.

"No extra water, looks like it is OK," I said.

"Fine start pulling down the sails."

And once the sails were down we started the engine and began motering our way through the darkness. There we were, in the fucking middle of nowhere and the darkness was so thick you couldn't see 10 feet in front of you. We couldn't see if what we hit was floating on the surface; you couldn't see a bloody thing. The depth finder was going nuts, bouncing from 3 feet to 33 feet in a matter of seconds, darting from deep to shallow. The Captain left me to steer and started to unlatch and inflate the dingy.

Fuck! I can't believe this. What has happened here. We are going to be adrift in the middle of nowhere, in the dark with nothing, bobbing around the Timor Sea. This is a bad dream coming so close to being true.

The Captain returned, "We have to be over a reef, but..." He momentarily froze, darted down into the cabin and brought out a map and his head lamp. There was no indication of a reef, not on the first map, not on the second. Then what the hell was it?

For over 3 hours we motored away from the bump in the night. We held our breath and exchanged only a few words while eyes were on the galley hole and the depth finder. I held onto the idea of the Coast Guard's daily flights; it seemed to slow the heart rate and plant hope.

The sky began to lighten and the motor hushed. The sails back up to catch the slow wind and we were on our way. We still had no idea what we hit. And through the early morning silence I asked myself 'why'. My thoughts drifted back to our encounter several hours ago and in some saddistic form of a smile, I knew the answer; it was karma.

Snippets, Slivers and Other Tidbits

So there I was one day, flipping through my old travel journals and scraps of paper capturing my thoughts and I decided to put together all the bits of ideas here. These ideas do not flow, they do not connect, but just some old words that I still enjoy. The words here all come from my journals written while exploring the West Coast of Australia and Indonesia.

The most beautiful deep blue sky hangs above me, dotted with puffy white clouds, and trimmed by lush green palm and terracotta roofs.

(April 10th)

Margaret River
Endless sheets of blue
Smeared
Blotches of white
Encompassing a bubble
White turns grey
From calm to a turbulent growl
Colliding
Covering the blue
Grey dominates now
Pushing out the rain
Winds on the verge
of violence
Whipping through trees
Carrying the scent of the sea
Salt, fresh
The ocean blue

"Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean - roll!"

BYRON

Days pass quickly and time, as usual, continues forward, waiting for nobody or any one thing. Sometimes I wish for the pause button; to be able to sit and reflect upon things that otherwise just pass through.

(June 13th)

Aboriginal Woman

I look into your eyes,

Dark, dark

Dark shades of brown,

And black,

Dark shades of beauty.

I see your warmth,

Your compassion,

Your pain.

Your fingers long

And spindly,

Which give you grace.

Your roots are strong

And your blood is thick,

Unashamed,

Proud you are,

And right to be.

Behind the Counter

"They're chips, not fries"

Okay, whatever pleases you.

"Would you like small or large?"

"For here or to go?"

"To go?"

"Yes, to go, or should I say take away?"

"Yah, take away."

Biting tongue, grinding teeth.

You ungrateful son of a bitch.

To you I am only the chicken girl.

Is this all that you can see?

Behind the red apron

You see my life

Revolving around serving you

and serving dead birds

Can't you see beyond that?

My life expands much further than you will ever know,

It reaches beyond these counters I stand behind.

But you would never know that

Nor would you really care.

I dream, you know.

"Quarter or Eighth of a chicken?"

I have aspirations too.

"Would you like gravy with that?"

Creativity harbours my imagination.

"Three or six nuggets?"

My passions consume me.

"That will be $1.40, thank you."

And go to hell,

Cause I'm just not the chicken girl,

I am me, a person.

Ode to Mark

The lethargy of the day's heat stiffles my mind. Thoughts of you drift through my memory; scattered pieces of a puzzle. Replaying our encounters like an old film, jumping and flicking during the story.

The colour of the sea mixes and blends into the sky. Hues of blue, so diverse, so deep, so true. I remember your eyes; honest and pure. They dance with the light, and smile with their innocent gaze.

Mark Parish, where are you now?

Are you driving illegal speeds in your Volvo?

Or hashing out the consequences of bygone relations?

Do you sip wines of red which stain your lips with its sweetness in trendy cafes?

Or do you still scamper along dunes of sand with waves crashing into the dark windy nights?

I wonder as I sit here now, absorbing the almost tropical sun, watching the hulls of boats bob with the gentle breeze and lapping sea. I wonder if things might have been different if we met sooner. And I wonder if we will ever meet again.

As the sun starts to progress west, my mind floats on. A slide show of memories, pressing the foward button, shuffling through. But as I jump from frame to frame, I reassure myself of several things:

I left Perth with some new found knowledge,

A journal full of stories, poems and writings,

An inspired mind,

An array of friends,

And best of all; no regrets.

Pavement,

Hot and grey

Slips beneath the ute

And stretches into the distance.

Wheels turning; we push along

The clanging and jostling

Adds to the sound of the diesel engine

Spitting out occasional gulps of black,

Dispersing into the dusty air.

Wild flowers, purple and yellow

Cling to the red earth,

Choking from dust spewed

by cruising tourists

And hide from the heat.

A Chance

Fading Away
Slipping through my hands
Trying to grasp at anything,
Grasping for you.
Am I just clinging to the memories
or diminishing hopes?
I wonder.
Or is there a chance,
You know the one.
Is there still one left,
With you and I?
Is there a chance to catch on
to the time gone past?
A chance to catch up
where we left off?
Standing on enigmatic ground
with fingers crossed
waiting to catch the ebb.


The Gypsy Spirit
Gypsy kings and queens, we travel in a caravan moving onward. Trails of thick red dust lurk behind and disperse into the clean air; unlike our adventures. Concrete memories built into our minds and envelope our lives. Further we go, the more we see and create.

A unique way of life. Nature's nomadic children, we live on the land, and explore the beauty surrounding us. She wraps us tight with trees and clouds and bathes us with crashing oceans and calm ponds. Warmed by the sun and cooled by the breeze, the wind blows through out hair as we drift on. The earth is our provider and graciously we take, but with unconditional respect.

Did ye not hear it?--No. 'Twas but the wind, or the car rattling over the stoney street; on with the dance! Let joy be unconfined; no sleep till morn; when you and pleasure meet to chase the glowing hours with flying feet.
-BYRON

Windjana Gorge..
I've always been fascinated by the way people meet, but this time in particular I was most intrigued. We never really formally introduced ourselves, but more or less stumbled into each other. Pieces of a puzzle drifting and when joined, fit. It's strange, we are all unique and different people, and get along well. To be honest, I am unsure of what brought us together, but I am beginning to understand what binds us.

Some would say that the reason we get along is the fact that we are all disillusioned youth coming from the same lost generation. It's true, we may not know what we want, but we know what we don't want; the complexities of our modern society. Perhaps we are just running from things, a form of escapism, or maybe we are just searching for something better, but can you blame us? Life is much, much simpler our way.


September 26th - Timor Sea

It has been 3 days since the crew began to disassemble, and since I left Australia. I left on a great note. No regrets and loads of memories. The friends, the crew of nomads may be gone physically, but I take a piece of them with me which I will cherish forever. And from all of you this is what I take:

Pete:: Your adventurous spirit is contagious. Always pushing the boundaries for more hedonistic fun.

Craig:: Your ability to seek out the best in any situation and be content with the simplest results. Not only have you made me see this, but also to see the best in anyone and the best in me.

Dave:: Your easygoing, laid back attitude. You would do anything for anyone without batting an eye.

Danny:: Your quiet introspection and watchfulness. You gave me comfort in seeing the ways to communiate without words being shared. You made me look.

Mel:: Your confidence of being a strong woman. Your smile that sparks anyone's spirit and the pressence of beauty.

Neale:: Your passion for life. To suck the marrow, to lap up every drop.

Jo:: Your kind words, your gentle touch, your joie de vie. I never thought I would meet my twin, but am glad to call you a sister.

It is an honour to call of you friends. It was an experience of growth and the essence of life we lived for over a month together. A memory that will stay with me forever, and am glad that I have shared that with all of you.

Cheers to all of you.

Memories of Cambolin

Blazing fire

The centre of our momentary world

We sprawl around its warmth

The light reflecting upon our faces

Eyes dancing, smiles forming

Ready to perform

Makeshift instruments,

Start to tap a beat

Echoing into the night

Carried by the river

Percussion concerto

The water drum hums

The sticks join in

A tin can

Snaps of thumbs

Stomps of feet

The cooler

Play for ourselves and

Anyone who happens to hear

A release of energy

Yet returning to us

To keep the rhythm going

Into the night

Odd to The Lady in the Boat
There you sit, so pretty, so proper
In your wooden boat
Afloat on a pond with lush green trees amungst you
Like your chin, your parasol held high shading the sun
A faceless visage and a stiff upper lip
So dignified you are.
But wait...
Is that a smirk I see?
Of course!
You know all to well
The poison for which you pose
You know how it stirs anger,
Induces foolishness,
And creates havoc within one.
You know, don't you
Lady in the boat,
You are one sly bitch.

There is a wine that you buy in a box called Coolabah. The aboriginals don't call it by the proper name, but refer to it as "Lady in the Boat" from the picture on the box. The Lady in the boat was our staple. It washed away the dry thirst from the red dust and enhanced the atmosphere of our nightly campfire in the middle of nowhere.


TED

Ted was his name. He introduced himself as our new neighbour. This Midwestern corn-fed kid with the whitest corn-fed teeth you have did see had the most innocent eyes. Pools of brown; drawing you in.

Looking into his eyes you could see the tall sprawling fields of green fading into the vast horizon. This was the place of his childhood. The place where he spent countless lethargic summer days around the farm, swigging back bottles of coca-cola quenching his thirst from the hot Midwest sun. And as the summer days of baseball changed into autumn, his days of freedom would end. He would return to school and await the following summer.

The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.

-PROUST