Margot, Dancing Slowly

This is a piece of new writing that I did in the Fall. I just felt like posting some original work today!

Margot could not figure out why she kept coming back here. She took a long sip of her vodka spiked lemonade, knowing that she wasn't supposed to drink, yet doing it anyway. It made her feel grown-up and sneaky. Tonight she wore a short and very tight black mini dress paired with bright red pumps and naked hose. On a larger woman this outfit would of looked slutty, on Margot's small, childlike frame it almost made her look like she was dressing up in her mother's clothes. Only the small, deep lines on her face gave her age away. Margot took another sip of the slightly sweet beverage and wiggled her shoulders in a pathetic attempt to make her size A chest look larger. Margot had put her hair in a conservative upsweep and applied minimal eyeliner and lipstick in an attempt to make her daring outfit seem more innocent. It didn't matter, no one was looking.

The dance floor was full. From her perch in the balcony, Margot saw things like dry humping, hands roaming in clothes, and kisses that were far too sensual to be seen in public light. The Disco Zone was not well lit. The music was pulsing and the lights were blinking. Margot had been coming here every weekend for the last six months. The wait staff recognized her. Jesus always gave her vodka lemonade. Both Janet and Jesus waited on the balcony. They knew that Margot would drink exactly three of these drinks. They remembered from week-to-week and she tipped well.

Sometimes Margot felt the urge to join the pulsating amoeba that was the dance floor. Secretly she had hoped that by coming to the same place often that she would meet someone who would take her down there himself. Margot both wanted and feared such involvement. The last time that she allowed herself to get involved an explanation about the faint scars lining the insides of her wrists was requested. When she gave it, the relationship was gone, couldn't get his pants on fast enough, they weren't even buttoned when he stumbled out the door. Margot smiled to herself and signaled Jesus that she was ready for another round.

Tonight Margot felt different. They didn't know that she went on her unsupervised outings to a bar. They didn't know that she had enough family money to keep an apartment on the side. Dear old doddering Dr. Winnepeg pinned high hopes on Margot's ability to get better. Her fragile childhood and adolescent abuse, the impulse of her family to wipe away these transgressions through gifts and money, Dr. Winnepeg did not label them insurmountable obstacles. He took professional pride in her challenging case history of doing poorly in institutions. This time would be different Dr. Winnepeg told her, this time she would overcome.

She had overcome a lot. The Bulimia for starters, although Margot still could not seem to gain weight. "Hey, look up there, grandma's back!" The group of young men who pointed her out every week smiled maliciously from the dance floor. "Oh just leave the poor old lady alone. She's just a barfly," said the girl, the one with bleached blond hair piled in waves atop her head. They made their way out onto the dance floor. Margot lost them in the dark. She took another sip of her drink and tried not to cry.

The night that she jumped from the balcony, Margot was wearing shimmering silver tights, ankle high black boots, and a deep purple colored Flashdance sweater. Her hair was down and fanned out around her small head when she hit the floor. This was her third attempt and they say that the third time is always a charm.

My Favorite Short Story

Charlotte Perkins Gilman, The Yellow Wallpaper (1899)(Printable version in PDF format)

It is very seldom that mere ordinary people like John and myself secure ancestral halls for the summer. A colonial mansion, a hereditary estate, I would say a haunted house, and reach the height of romantic felicity--but that would be asking too much of fate! Still I will proudly declare that there is something queer about it. Else, why should it be let so cheaply? And why have stood so long untenanted? John laughs at me, of course, but one expects that in marriage. John is practical in the extreme. He has no patience with faith, an intense horror of superstition, and he scoffs openly at any talk of things not to be felt and seen and put down in figures. John is a physician, and perhaps--(I would not say it to a living soul, of course, but this is dead paper and a great relief to my mind)--perhaps that is one reason I do not get well faster. You see he does not believe I am sick! And what can one do? If a physician of high standing, and one's own husband, assures friends and relatives that there is really nothing the matter with one but temporary nervous depression--a slight hysterical tendency-- what is one to do? My brother is also a physician, and also of high standing, and he says the same thing. So I take phosphates or phosphites--whichever it is, and tonics, and journeys, and air, and exercise, and am absolutely forbidden to "work" until I am well again. Personally, I disagree with their ideas. Personally, I believe that congenial work, with excitement and change, would do me good. But what is one to do? I did write for a while in spite of them; but it does exhaust me a good deal--having to be so sly about it, or else meet with heavy opposition. I sometimes fancy that in my condition if I had less opposition and more society and stimulus--but John says the very worst thing I can do is to think about my condition, and I confess it always makes me feel bad. So I will let it alone and talk about the house. The most beautiful place! It is quite alone standing well back from the road, quite three miles from the village. It makes me think of English places that you read about, for there are hedges and walls and gates that lock, and lots of separate little houses for the gardeners and people. There is a delicious garden! I never saw such a garden--large and shady, full of box-bordered paths, and lined with long grape-covered arbors with seats under them. There were greenhouses, too, but they are all broken now. There was some legal trouble, I believe, something about the heirs and coheirs; anyhow, the place has been empty for years. That spoils my ghostliness, I am afraid, but I don't care--there is something strange about the house--I can feel it. I even said so to John one moonlight evening but he said what I felt was a draught, and shut the window. I get unreasonably angry with John sometimes I'm sure I never used to be so sensitive. I think it is due to this nervous condition. But John says if I feel so, I shall neglect proper self-control; so I take pains to control myself-- before him, at least, and that makes me very tired. I don't like our room a bit. I wanted one downstairs that opened on the piazza and had roses all over the window, and such pretty old-fashioned chintz hangings! but John would not hear of it. He said there was only one window and not room for two beds, and no near room for him if he took another. He is very careful and loving, and hardly lets me stir without special direction. I have a schedule prescription for each hour in the day; he takes all care from me, and so I feel basely ungrateful not to value it more. He said we came here solely on my account, that I was to have perfect rest and all the air I could get. "Your exercise depends on your strength, my dear," said he, "and your food somewhat on your appetite; but air you can absorb all the time. ' So we took the nursery at the top of the house. It is a big, airy room, the whole floor nearly, with windows that look all ways, and air and sunshine galore. It was nursery first and then playroom and gymnasium, I should judge; for the windows are barred for little children, and there are rings and things in the walls. The paint and paper look as if a boys' school had used it. It is stripped off--the paper in great patches all around the head of my bed, about as far as I can reach, and in a great place on the other side of the room low down. I never saw a worse paper in my life. One of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin. It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate and provoke study, and when you follow the lame uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit suicide--plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard of contradictions. The color is repellent, almost revolting; a smouldering unclean yellow, strangely faded by the slow-turning sunlight. It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly sulphur tint in others. No wonder the children hated it! I should hate it myself if I had to live in this room long. There comes John, and I must put this away,--he hates to have me write a word.
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We have been here two weeks, and I haven't felt like writing before, since that first day. I am sitting by the window now, up in this atrocious nursery, and there is nothing to hinder my writing as much as I please, save lack of strength. John is away all day, and even some nights when his cases are serious. I am glad my case is not serious! But these nervous troubles are dreadfully depressing. John does not know how much I really suffer. He knows there is no reason to suffer, and that satisfies him. Of course it is only nervousness. It does weigh on me so not to do my duty in any way! I meant to be such a help to John, such a real rest and comfort, and here I am a comparative burden already! Nobody would believe what an effort it is to do what little I am able,--to dress and entertain, and order things. It is fortunate Mary is so good with the baby. Such a dear baby! And yet I cannot be with him, it makes me so nervous. I suppose John never was nervous in his life. He laughs at me so about this wall-paper! At first he meant to repaper the room, but afterwards he said that I was letting it get the better of me, and that nothing was worse for a nervous patient than to give way to such fancies. He said that after the wall-paper was changed it would be the heavy bedstead, and then the barred windows, and then that gate at the head of the stairs, and so on. "You know the place is doing you good," he said, "and really, dear, I don't care to renovate the house just for a three months' rental." "Then do let us go downstairs," I said, "there are such pretty rooms there." Then he took me in his arms and called me a blessed little goose, and said he would go down to the cellar, if I wished, and have it whitewashed into the bargain. But he is right enough about the beds and windows and things. It is an airy and comfortable room as any one need wish, and, of course, I would not be so silly as to make him uncomfortable just for a whim. I'm really getting quite fond of the big room, all but that horrid paper. Out of one window I can see the garden, those mysterious deepshaded arbors, the riotous old-fashioned flowers, and bushes and gnarly trees. Out of another I get a lovely view of the bay and a little private wharf belonging to the estate. There is a beautiful shaded lane that runs down there from the house. I always fancy I see people walking in these numerous paths and arbors, but John has cautioned me not to give way to fancy in the least. He says that with my imaginative power and habit of story-making, a nervous weakness like mine is sure to lead to all manner of excited fancies, and that I ought to use my will and good sense to check the tendency. So I try. I think sometimes that if I were only well enough to write a little it would relieve the press of ideas and rest me. But I find I get pretty tired when I try. It is so discouraging not to have any advice and companionship about my work. When I get really well, John says we will ask Cousin Henry and Julia down for a long visit; but he says he would as soon put fireworks in my pillow-case as to let me have those stimulating people about now. I wish I could get well faster. But I must not think about that. This paper looks to me as if it knew what a vicious influence it had! There is a recurrent spot where the pattern lolls like a broken neck and two bulbous eyes stare at you upside down. I get positively angry with the impertinence of it and the everlastingness. Up and down and sideways they crawl, and those absurd, unblinking eyes are everywhere There is one place where two breaths didn't match, and the eyes go all up and down the line, one a little higher than the other. I never saw so much expression in an inanimate thing before, and we all know how much expression they have! I used to lie awake as a child and get more entertainment and terror out of blank walls and plain furniture than most children could find in a toy-store. I remember what a kindly wink the knobs of our big, old bureau used to have, and there was one chair that always seemed like a strong friend. I used to feel that if any of the other things looked too fierce I could always hop into that chair and be safe. The furniture in this room is no worse than inharmonious, however, for we had to bring it all from downstairs. I suppose when this was used as a playroom they had to take the nursery things out, and no wonder! I never saw such ravages as the children have made here. The wall-paper, as I said before, is torn off in spots, and it sticketh closer than a brother--they must have had perseverance as well as hatred. Then the floor is scratched and gouged and splintered, the plaster itself is dug out here and there, and this great heavy bed which is all we found in the room, looks as if it had been through the wars. But I don't mind it a bit--only the paper. There comes John's sister. Such a dear girl as she is, and so careful of me! I must not let her find me writing. She is a perfect and enthusiastic housekeeper, and hopes for no better profession. I verily believe she thinks it is the writing which made me sick! But I can write when she is out, and see her a long way off from these windows. There is one that commands the road, a lovely shaded winding road, and one that just looks off over the country. A lovely country, too, full of great elms and velvet meadows. This wall-paper has a kind of sub-pattern in a, different shade, a particularly irritating one, for you can only see it in certain lights, and not clearly then. But in the places where it isn't faded and where the sun is just so--I can see a strange, provoking, formless sort of figure, that seems to skulk about behind that silly and conspicuous front design. There's sister on the stairs!
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Well, the Fourth of July is over! The people are all gone and I am tired out. John thought it might do me good to see a little company, so we just had mother and Nellie and the children down for a week. Of course I didn't do a thing. Jennie sees to everything now. But it tired me all the same. John says if I don't pick up faster he shall send me to Weir Mitchell in the fall. But I don't want to go there at all. I had a friend who was in his hands once, and she says he is just like John and my brother, only more so! Besides, it is such an undertaking to go so far. I don't feel as if it was worth while to turn my hand over for anything, and I'm getting dreadfully fretful and querulous. I cry at nothing, and cry most of the time. Of course I don't when John is here, or anybody else, but when I am alone. And I am alone a good deal just now. John is kept in town very often by serious cases, and Jennie is good and lets me alone when I want her to. So I walk a little in the garden or down that lovely lane, sit on the porch under the roses, and lie down up here a good deal. I'm getting really fond of the room in spite of the wall-paper. Perhaps because of the wall-paper. It dwells in my mind so! I lie here on this great immovable bed--it is nailed down, I believe--and follow that pattern about by the hour. It is as good as gymnastics, I assure you. I start, we'll say, at the bottom, down in the corner over there where it has not been touched, and I determine for the thousandth time that I will follow that pointless pattern to some sort of a conclusion. I know a little of the principle of design, and I know this thing was not arranged on any laws of radiation, or alternation, or repetition, or symmetry, or anything else that I ever heard of. It is repeated, of course, by the breadths, but not otherwise. Looked at in one way each breadth stands alone, the bloated curves and flourishes--a kind of "debased Romanesque" with delirium tremens--go waddling up and down in isolated columns of fatuity. But, on the other hand, they connect diagonally, and the sprawling outlines run off in great slanting waves of optic horror, like a lot of wallowing seaweeds in full chase. The whole thing goes horizontally, too, at least it seems so, and I exhaust myself in trying to distinguish the order of its going in that direction. They have used a horizontal breadth for a frieze, and that adds wonderfully to the confusion. There is one end of the room where it is almost intact, and there, when the crosslights fade and the low sun shines directly upon it, I can almost fancy radiation after all,--the interminable grotesques seem to form around a common centre and rush off in headlong plunges of equal distraction. It makes me tired to follow it. I will take a nap I guess.
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I don't know why I should write this. I don't want to. I don't feel able. And I know John would think it absurd. But I must say what I feel and think in some way--it is such a relief! But the effort is getting to be greater than the relief. Half the time now I am awfully lazy, and lie down ever so much. John says I mustn't lose my strength, and has me take cod liver oil and lots of tonics and things, to say nothing of ale and wine and rare meat. Dear John! He loves me very dearly, and hates to have me sick. I tried to have a real earnest reasonable talk with him the other day, and tell him how I wish he would let me go and make a visit to Cousin Henry and Julia. But he said I wasn't able to go, nor able to stand it after I got there; and I did not make out a very good case for myself, for I was crying before I had finished . It is getting to be a great effort for me to think straight. Just this nervous weakness I suppose. And dear John gathered me up in his arms, and just carried me upstairs and laid me on the bed, and sat by me and read to me till it tired my head. He said I was his darling and his comfort and all he had, and that I must take care of myself for his sake, and keep well. He says no one but myself can help me out of it, that I must use my will and self-control and not let any silly fancies run away with me. There's one comfort, the baby is well and happy, and does not have to occupy this nursery with the horrid wall-paper. If we had not used it, that blessed child would have! What a fortunate escape! Why, I wouldn't have a child of mine, an impressionable little thing, live in such a room for worlds. I never thought of it before, but it is lucky that John kept me here after all, I can stand it so much easier than a baby, you see. Of course I never mention it to them any more--I am too wise,--but I keep watch of it all the same. There are things in that paper that nobody knows but me, or ever will. Behind that outside pattern the dim shapes get clearer every day. It is always the same shape, only very numerous. And it is like a woman stooping down and creeping about behind that pattern. I don't like it a bit. I wonder--I begin to think--I wish John would take me away from here!
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It is so hard to talk with John about my case, because he is so wise, and because he loves me so. But I tried it last night. It was moonlight. The moon shines in all around just as the sun does. I hate to see it sometimes, it creeps so slowly, and always comes in by one window or another. John was asleep and I hated to waken him, so I kept still and watched the moonlight on that undulating wall-paper till I felt creepy. The faint figure behind seemed to shake the pattern, just as if she wanted to get out. I got up softly and went to feel and see if the paper did move, and when I came back John was awake. "What is it, little girl?" he said. "Don't go walking about like that--you'll get cold." I thought it was a good time to talk, so I told him that I really was not gaining here, and that I wished he would take me away. "Why darling!" said he, "our lease will be up in three weeks, and I can't see how to leave before. "The repairs are not done at home, and I cannot possibly leave town just now. Of course if you were in any danger, I could and would, but you really are better, dear, whether you can see it or not. I am a doctor, dear, and I know. You are gaining flesh and color, your appetite is better, I feel really much easier about you." "I don't weigh a bit more," said 1, "nor as much; and my appetite may be better in the evening when you are here, but it is worse in the morning when you are away!" "Bless her little heart!" said he with a big hug, "she shall be as sick as she pleases! But now let's improve the shining hours by going to sleep, and talk about it in the morning!" "And you won't go away?" I asked gloomily. "Why, how can 1, dear? It is only three weeks more and then we will take a nice little trip of a few days while Jennie is getting the house ready. Really dear you are better!" "Better in body perhaps--" I began, and stopped short, for he sat up straight and looked at me with such a stern, reproachful look that I could not say another word. "My darling," said he, "I beg of you, for my sake and for our child's sake, as well as for your own, that you will never for one instant let that idea enter your mind! There is nothing so dangerous, so fascinating, to a temperament like yours. It is a false and foolish fancy. Can you not trust me as a physician when I tell you so?" So of course I said no more on that score, and we went to sleep before long. He thought I was asleep first, but I wasn't, and lay there for hours trying to decide whether that front pattern and the back pattern really did move together or separately.
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On a pattern like this, by daylight, there is a lack of sequence, a defiance of law, that is a constant irritant to a normal mind. The color is hideous enough, and unreliable enough, and infuriating enough, but the pattern is torturing. You think you have mastered it, but just as you get well underway in following, it turns a back somersault and there you are. It slaps you in the face, knocks you down, and tramples upon you. It is like a bad dream. The outside pattern is a florid arabesque, reminding one of a fungus. If you can imagine a toadstool in joints, an interminable string of toadstools, budding and sprouting in endless convolutions--why, that is something like it. That is, sometimes! There is one marked peculiarity about this paper, a thing nobody seems to notice but myself, and that is that it changes as the light changes. When the sun shoots in through the east window--I always watch for that first long, straight ray--it changes so quickly that I never can quite believe it. That is why I watch it always. By moonlight--the moon shines in all night when there is a moon--I wouldn't know it was the same paper. At night in any kind of light, in twilight, candlelight, lamplight, and worst of all by moonlight, it becomes bars! The outside pattern I mean, and the woman behind it is as plain as can be. I didn't realize for a long time what the thing was that showed behind, that dim sub-pattern, but now I am quite sure it is a woman. By daylight she is subdued, quiet. I fancy it is the pattern that keeps her so still. It is so puzzling. It keeps me quiet by the hour. I lie down ever so much now. John says it is good for me, and to sleep all I can. Indeed he started the habit by making me lie down for an hour after each meal. It is a very bad habit I am convinced, for you see I don't sleep. And that cultivates deceit, for I don't tell them I'm awake--O no! The fact is I am getting a little afraid of John. He seems very queer sometimes, and even Jennie has an inexplicable look. It strikes me occasionally, just as a scientific hypothesis,--that perhaps it is the paper! I have watched John when he did not know I was looking, and come into the room suddenly on the most innocent excuses, and I've caught him several times looking at the paper! And Jennie too. I caught Jennie with her hand on it once. She didn't know I was in the room, and when I asked her in a quiet, a very quiet voice, with the most restrained manner possible, what she was doing with the paper--she turned around as if she had been caught stealing, and looked quite angry-- asked me why I should frighten her so! Then she said that the paper stained everything it touched, that she had found yellow smooches on all my clothes and John's, and she wished we would be more careful! Did not that sound innocent? But I know she was studying that pattern, and I am determined that nobody shall find it out but myself!
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Life is very much more exciting now than it used to be. You see I have something more to expect, to look forward to, to watch. I really do eat better, and am more quiet than I was.John is so pleased to see me improve ! He laughed a little the other day, and said I seemed to be flourishing in spite of my wall-paper. I turned it off with a laugh. I had no intention of telling him it was because of the wall-paper--he would make fun of me. He might even want to take me away. I don't want to leave now until I have found it out. There is a week more, and I think that will be enough.
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I'm feeling ever so much better! I don't sleep much at night, for it is so interesting to watch developments; but I sleep a good deal in the daytime. In the daytime it is tiresome and perplexing. There are always new shoots on the fungus, and new shades of yellow all over it. I cannot keep count of them, though I have tried conscientiously. It is the strangest yellow, that wall-paper! It makes me think of all the yellow things I ever saw--not beautiful ones like buttercups, but old foul, bad yellow things. But there is something else about that paper-- the smell! I noticed it the moment we came into the room, but with so much air and sun it was not bad. Now we have had a week of fog and rain, and whether the windows are open or not, the smell is here. It creeps all over the house. I find it hovering in the dining-room, skulking in the parlor, hiding in the hall, lying in wait for me on the stairs. It gets into my hair. Even when I go to ride, if I turn my head suddenly and surprise it--there is that smell! Such a peculiar odor, too! I have spent hours in trying to analyze it, to find what it smelled like. It is not bad--at first, and very gentle, but quite the subtlest, most enduring odor I ever met. In this damp weather it is awful, I wake up in the night and find it hanging over me. It used to disturb me at first. I thought seriously of burning the house--to reach the smell. But now I am used to it. The only thing I can think of that it is like is the color of the paper! A yellow smell. There is a very funny mark on this wall, low down, near the mopboard. A streak that runs round the room. It goes behind every piece of furniture, except the bed, a long, straight, even smooch, as if it had been rubbed over and over. I wonder how it was done and who did it, and what they did it for. Round and round and round--round and round and round--it makes me dizzy!
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I really have discovered something at last. Through watching so much at night, when it changes so, I have finally found out. The front pattern does move--and no wonder! The woman behind shakes it! Sometimes I think there are a great many women behind, and sometimes only one, and she crawls around fast, and her crawling shakes it all over. Then in the very bright spots she keeps still, and in the very shady spots she just takes hold of the bars and shakes them hard. And she is all the time trying to climb through. But nobody could climb through that pattern--it strangles so; I think that is why it has so many heads. They get through, and then the pattern strangles them off and turns them upside down, and makes their eyes white! If those heads were covered or taken off it would not be half so bad.
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I think that woman gets out in the daytime! And I'll tell you why--privately--I've seen her! I can see her out of every one of my windows! It is the same woman, I know, for she is always creeping, and most women do not creep by daylight. I see her on that long road under the trees, creeping along, and when a carriage comes she hides under the blackberry vines. I don't blame her a bit. It must be very humiliating to be caught creeping by daylight! I always lock the door when I creep by daylight. I can't do it at night, for I know John would suspect something at once. And John is so queer now, that I don't want to irritate him. I wish he would take another room! Besides, I don't want anybody to get that woman out at night but myself. I often wonder if I could see her out of all the windows at once. But, turn as fast as I can, I can only see out of one at one time. And though I always see her, she may be able to creep faster than I can turn! I have watched her sometimes away off in the open country, creeping as fast as a cloud shadow in a high wind.
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If only that top pattern could be gotten off from the under one! I mean to try it, little by little. I have found out another funny thing, but I shan't tell it this time! It does not do to trust people too much. There are only two more days to get this paper off, and I believe John is beginning to notice. I don't like the look in his eyes. And I heard him ask Jennie a lot of professional questions about me. She had a very good report to give. She said I slept a good deal in the daytime. John knows I don't sleep very well at night, for all I'm so quiet! He asked me all sorts of questions, too, and pretended to be very loving and kind. As if I couldn't see through him! Still, I don't wonder he acts so, sleeping under this paper for three months. It only interests me, but I feel sure John and Jennie are secretly affected by it.
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Hurrah! This is the last day, but it is enough. John to stay in town over night, and won't be out until this evening. Jennie wanted to sleep with me--the sly thing! but I told her I should undoubtedly rest better for a night all alone. That was clever, for really I wasn't alone a bit! As soon as it was moonlight and that poor thing began to crawl and shake the pattern, I got up and ran to help her. I pulled and she shook, I shook and she pulled, and before morning we had peeled off yards of that paper. A strip about as high as my head and half around the room. And then when the sun came and that awful pattern began to laugh at me, I declared I would finish it to-day! We go away to-morrow, and they are moving all my furniture down again to leave things as they were before. Jennie looked at the wall in amazement, but I told her merrily that I did it out of pure spite at the vicious thing. She laughed and said she wouldn't mind doing it herself, but I must not get tired. How she betrayed herself that time! But I am here, and no person touches this paper but me,--not alive ! She tried to get me out of the room--it was too patent! But I said it was so quiet and empty and clean now that I believed I would lie down again and sleep all I could; and not to wake me even for dinner--I would call when I woke. So now she is gone, and the servants are gone, and the things are gone, and there is nothing left but that great bedstead nailed down, with the canvas mattress we found on it. We shall sleep downstairs to-night, and take the boat home to-morrow. I quite enjoy the room, now it is bare again. How those children did tear about here! This bedstead is fairly gnawed! But I must get to work. I have locked the door and thrown the key down into the front path. I don't want to go out, and I don't want to have anybody come in, till John comes. I want to astonish him. I've got a rope up here that even Jennie did not find. If that woman does get out, and tries to get away, I can tie her! But I forgot I could not reach far without anything to stand on! This bed will not move! I tried to lift and push it until I was lame, and then I got so angry I bit off a little piece at one corner--but it hurt my teeth. Then I peeled off all the paper I could reach standing on the floor. It sticks horribly and the pattern just enjoys it! All those strangled heads and bulbous eyes and waddling fungus growths just shriek with derision! I am getting angry enough to do something desperate. To jump out of the window would be admirable exercise, but the bars are too strong even to try. Besides I wouldn't do it. Of course not. I know well enough that a step like that is improper and might be misconstrued. I don't like to look out of the windows even-- there are so many of those creeping women, and they creep so fast. I wonder if they all come out of that wall-paper as I did? But I am securely fastened now by my well-hidden rope--you don't get me out in the road there ! I suppose I shall have to get back behind the pattern when it comes night, and that is hard!It is so pleasant to be out in this great room and creep around as I please! I don't want to go outside. I won't, even if Jennie asks me to. For outside you have to creep on the ground, and everything is green instead of yellow. But here I can creep smoothly on the floor, and my shoulder just fits in that long smooch around the wall, so I cannot lose my way. Why there's John at the door! It is no use, young man, you can't open it! How he does call and pound! Now he's crying for an axe. It would be a shame to break down that beautiful door!"John dear!" said I in the gentlest voice, "the key is down by the front steps, under a plantain leaf!" That silenced him for a few moments. Then he said--very quietly indeed, "Open the door, my darling!" "I can't," said I. "The key is down by the front door under a plantain leaf!"And then I said it again, several times, very gently and slowly, and said it so often that he had to go and see, and he got it of course, and came in. He stopped short by the door. "What is the matter?" he cried. "For God's sake, what are you doing!" I kept on creeping just the same, but I looked at him over my shoulder."I've got out at last," said I, "in spite of you and Jane. And I've pulled off most of the paper, so you can't put me back!" Now why should that man have fainted? But he did, and right across my path by the wall, so that I had to creep over him every time!
Charlotte Perkins Gilman, The Yellow Wallpaper, first published 1899 by Small & Maynard, Boston, MA.
Click here to read Gilman's "Why I Wrote The Yellow Wallpaper," from the October 1913 issue of The Forerunner.

A Really Great Short Story

Jeffrey Eugenides, Fiction, “Baster,” The New Yorker, June 17, 1996, p. 82
Read the full text of this article. (Registration required.)

I thought that this was a really great short story. I read it recently in a collection of short stories from the New Yorker about New York. The ending of this one was quite good. It is going to be a movie or is a movie with Jason Bateman and Jennifer Aniston. The movie version might be quite good as long as they don't alter the story line, it doesn't need any changes.

ABSTRACT: Short story about a forty-year-old unmarried woman named Tomasina who decides to become pregnant by inseminating herself using a turkey baster and the sperm from a married friend named Roland. The story is narrated by Wally Mars, who many years before dated Tomasina and conceived a child with her, which she aborted. . . Tomasina had to give up the idea of meeting someone she could spend her life with. Instead, she had to give birth to someone who would spend life with her. Once she made her decision, she began to see men as walking spermatozoa. Wally suggests that she go to a sperm bank. “I don't just want smart. Brains aren't everything. I want the whole package.” It was becoming clear to me what my status was in the state of nature: it was low. It was somewhere around hyena. . . Tomasina invites him to a party on the day she plans to inseminate herself. There were a lot of people, maybe as many as seventy-five. Nobody was young. The men looked the way men have generally looked: uncomfortable yet agreeable. They looked like me. . . Mars meets the designated sperm donor, Roland, who showed up early and deposited his sperm in a cup hidden in the bathroom. At the party, Mars talks to Tomasina, who says, “This is depressing, Wally. This isn't how I wanted to have a baby. I thought this party would make it fun, but it's just depressing.” “Do you ever think about you and me?” “Wally, don't.” “Do you ever think about our kid?” “That was a long time ago.” Later in the evening, Mars goes into the bathroom and replaces Roland's sperm with his own. Ten months later, when the baby is born, Mars goes to see him and notices his own potato nose and buggy eyes.


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James Surowiecki and Ryan

The Whore of Mensa by Woody Allen

The Whore of Mensa
A Short Story by Woody Allen
From his book "Without Feathers", Random House, 1975 (tr.it.: Citarsi Addosso, Bompiani, 1976)Estimated Online Reading Time: About 10 Minutes

THE CLIENT
One thing about being a private investigator, you've got to learn to go with your hunches. That's why when a quivering pat of butter named Word Babcock walked into my office and laid his cards on the table, I should have trusted the cold chill that shot up my spine.
"Kaiser?" he said. "Kaiser Lupowitz?"
"That's what it says on my license," I owned up.
"You've got to help me. I'm being blackmailed. Please!" He was shaking like the lead singer in a rumba band. I pushed a glass across the desk top and a bottle of rye I keep handy for nonmedicinal purposes.
"Suppose you relax and tell me all about it."
"You ... you won't tell my wife?"
"Level with me, Word. I can't make any promises." He tried pouring a drink, but you could hear the clicking sound across the street, and most of the stuff wound up in his shoes.
"I'm a working guy," he said. "Mechanical maintenance. I build and service joy buzzers. You know - those little fun gimmicks that give people a shock when they shake hands?"
"So?"
"A lot of your executives like 'em. Particularly down on Wall Street."
"Get to the point."
"I'm on the road a lot. You know how it is - lonely. Oh, not what you're thinking. See, Kaiser, I'm basically an intellectual. Sure, a guy can meet all the bimbos he wants. But the really brainy women - they're not so easy to find on short notice."
"Keep talking."
"Well, I heard of this young girl. Eighteen years old. A Yassar student. For a price, she'll come over and discuss any subject - Proust, Yeats, anthropology. Exchange of ideas. You see what I'm driving at?"
"Not exactly."
"I mean my wife is great, don't get me wrong. But she won't discuss Pound with me. Or Eliot. I didn't know that when I married her. See, I need a woman who's mentally stimulating, Kaiser. And I'm willing to pay for it. I don't want an involvement - I want a quick intellectual experience, then I want the girl to leave. Christ, Kaiser, I'm a happily married man."
"How long has this been going on?"
"Six months. Whenever I have that craving, I call Flossie. She's a madam, with a Master's in Comparative Lit. She sends me over an intellectual, see?"
So he was one of those guys whose weakness was really bright women. I felt sorry for the poor sap. I figured there must be a lot of jokers in his position, who were starved for a little intellectual communication with the opposite sex and would pay through the nose for it.
"Now she's threatening to tell my wife," he said.
"Who is?"
"Flossie. They bugged the motel room. They got tapes of me discussing The Waste Land and Styles of Radical Will, and, well, really getting into some issues. They want ten grand or they go to Carla. Kaiser, you've got to help me! Carla would die if she knew she didn't turn me on up here." The old call-girl racket. I had heard rumors that the boys at headquarters were on to something involving a group of educated women, but so far they were stymied.
"Get Flossie on the phone for me."
"What?"
"I'll take your case, Word. But I get fifty dollars a day, plus expenses. You'll have to repair a lot of joy buzzers." "It won't be ten G's worth, I'm sure of that," he said with a grin, and picked up the phone and dialed a number. I took it from him and winked. I was beginning to like him.

THE SETUP
Seconds later, a silky voice answered, and I told her what was on my mind. "I understand you can help me set up an hour of good chat," I said.
"Sure, honey. What do you have in mind?"
"I'd like to discuss Melville."
"Moby Dick or shorter novels?"
"What's the difference?"
"The price. That's all. Symbolism's extra."
"What'll it run me?"
"Fifty, maybe a hundred for Moby Dick. You want a comparative discussion - Melville and Hawthorne? That could be arranged for a hundred."
"The dough's fine," I told her and gave her the number of a room at the Plaza.
"You want a blonde or a brunette?"
"Surprise me," I said, and hung up.
"I shaved and grabbed some black coffee while I checked over the Monarch College Outline series. Hardly an hour had passed before there was a knock on my door. I opened it, and standing there was a young redhead who was packed into her slacks like two big scoops of vanilla ice cream.
"Hi, I'm Sherry." They really knew how to appeal to your fantasies. Long, straight hair, leather bag, silver earrings, no make-up.
"I'm surprised you weren't stopped, walking into the hotel dressed like that," I said. "The house dick can usually spot an intellectual."
"A five-spot cools him."
"Shall we begin?" I said, motioning her to the couch. She lit a cigarette and got right to it. "I think we could start by approaching Billy Budd as Melville's justification of the ways of God to man, n'est-ce pas?"
"Interestingly, though, not in a Miltonian sense." I was bluffing. I wanted to see if she'd go for it.
"No. Paradise Lost lacked the substructure of pessimism." She did.
"Right, right. God, you're right," I murmured.
"I think Melville reaffirmed the virtues of innocence in a naive yet sophisticated sense - don't you agree?" I let her go on. She was barely nineteen years old, but already she had developed the hardened facility of the pseudo-intellectual. She rattled off her ideas glibly, but it was all mechanical. Whenever I offered an insight, she faked a response: "Oh yes, Kaiser. Yes, baby, that's deep. A platonic comprehension of Christianity - why didn't I see it before?" We talked for about an hour and then she said she had to go. She stood up and I laid a C-note on her.
"Thanks, honey."
"There's plenty more where that came from."
"What are you trying to say?" I had piqued her curiosity. She sat down again.
"Suppose I wanted to have a party?" I said.
"Like, what kind of a party?"
"Suppose I wanted Noam Chomsky explained to me by two girls?"
"Oh, wow."
"If you'd rather forget it..."
"You'd have to speak with Flossie," she said. "It's cost you." Now was the time to tighten the screws. I flashed my private- investigator's badge and informed her it was a bust.
"What!"
"I'm fuzz, sugar, and discussing Melville for money is an 802. You can do time."
"You louse!"
"Better come clean, baby. Unless you want to tell your story down at Alfred Kazin's office, and I don't think he'd be too happy to hear it."
She began to cry. "Don't turn me in, Kaiser," she said. "I needed the money to complete my Master's. I've been turned down for a grant. Twice. Oh, Christ."
It all poured out - the whole story. Central Park West upbringing, Socialist summer camps, Brandeis. She was every dame you saw waiting in line at the Elgin or the Thalia, or penciling the words 'Yes, very true' into the margin of some book on Kant. Only somewhere along the line she had made a wrong turn.
"I needed cash. A girl friend said she knew a married guy whose wife wasn't very profound. He was into Blake. She couldn't hack it. I said sure, for a price I'd talk Blake with him. I was nervous at first. I faked a lot of it. He didn't care. My friend said there were others. Oh, I've been busted before. I got caught reading Commentary in a parked car, and I was once stopped and frisked at Tanglewood. Once more and I'm a three time loser."
"Then take me to Flossie."
She bit her lip and said, "The Hunter College Book Store is a front."
"Yes?"
"Like those bookie joints that have barbershops outside for show. You'll see."
I made a quick call to headquarters and then said to her, "Okay, sugar. You're off the hook. But don't leave town."
"She tilted her face up toward mine gratefully. "I can get you photographs of Dwight Macdonald reading," she said.
"Some other time." FLOSSIE'S
I walked into the Hunter College Book Store. The salesman, a young man with sensitive eyes, came up to me. "Can I help you?" he said.
"I'm looking for a special edition of Advertisements for Myself. I understand the author had several thousand gold-leaf copies printed up for friends."
"I'll have to check," he said. "We have a WATS line to Mailer's house."
I fixed him with a look. "Sherry sent me," I said.
"Oh, in that case, go on back." he said. He pressed a button. A wall of books opened, and I walked like a lamb into that bustling pleasure palace known as Flossie's. Red flocked wallpaper and a Victorian decor set the tone. Pale, nervous girls with black-rimmed glasses and blunt-cut hair lolled around on sofas, riffling Penguin Classics provocatively. A blonde with a big smile winked at me, nodded toward a room upstairs, and said, "Wallace Stevens, eh?" But it wasn't just intellectual experiences. They were peddling emotional ones, too. For fifty bucks, I learned, you could "relate without getting close." For a hundred, a girl would lend you her Bartok records, have dinner, and then let you watch while she had an anxiety attack. For one-fifty, you could listen to FM radio with twins. For three bills, you got the works: A thin Jewish brunette would pretend to pick you up at the Museum of Modern Art, let you read her master's, get you involved in a screaming quarrel at Elaine's over Freud's conception of women, and then fake a suicide of your choosing - the perfect evening, for some guys. Nice racket. Great town, New York.
"Like what you see?" a voice said behind me. I turned and suddenly found myself standing face to face with the business end of a .38. I'm a guy with a strong stomach, but this time it did a back flip. It was Flossie, all right. The voice was the same, but Flossie was a man. His face was hidden by a mask.
"You'll never believe this," he said, "but I don't even have a college degree. I was thrown out for low grades."
"Is that why you wear that mask?"
"I devised a complicated scheme to take over The New York Review of Books, but it meant I had to pass for Lionel Trilling. I went to Mexico for an operation. There's a doctor in Juarez who gives people Trilling's features - for a price. Something went wrong. I came out looking like Auden, with Mary McCarthy's voice. That's when I started working the other side of the law."
"Quickly, before he could tighten his finger on the trigger, I went into action. Heaving forward, I snapped my elbow across his jaw and grabbed the gun as he fell back. He hit the ground like a ton of bricks. He was still whimpering when the police showed up.
"Nice work, Kaiser," Sergeant Holmes said. "When we're through with this guy, the F.B.I. wants to have a talk with him. A little matter involving some gamblers and an annotated copy of Dante's Inferno. Take him away, boys." Later that night, I looked up an old account of mine named Gloria. She was blond. She had graduated cum laude. The difference was she majored in physical education. It felt good.

Gilbert by the Light of Day by, Myself

Gilbert sipped on his mug of strong, black coffee as he gazed out of his front room picture window, the only window n the house where the shades were not drawn. That was the first thing that Gilbert did every morning after he woke up, go around the house and draw all of the shades. When it got dark, he would open them, especially tonight, when the moon would be full. Gilbert would have a perfect view of the full moon when his picture window shades were open. This morning, however, as Gilbert was drawing the last shade, something caught his eye. It was the little girl next door. She was alone in her backyard. In her hand she held a crystal. The little girl was using the crystal to capture rays of sunshine. Mesmerized, she turned the crystal in all different directions, studying it carefully from each angle. As Gilbert stood at his window, drinking his hot, black coffee with one hand on the pull cord, he flashed back to his own childhood.

Gilbert had not been interested in the sun since childhood. He was trying to remember when he lost interest in it, when that loss of interest turned to distaste and finally to avoidance. Even thinking as far back as he remember, he did not recall ever studying the sun with as much intent and purpose as the child before him on the lawn. “Coming!” she yelled suddenly, shaking Gilbert from his memories as she tore across the lawn-a flash of blue and white-the crystal, dropped on the grass, continued to catch the suns light. Gilbert pulled the cord on the blind to shut out the glare.

Taking his memories with him, Gilbert sat down to his computer, trying to get some work done. The last five years had been heaven for Gilbert. His position as an independent web-page designer meant that he never had to leave his house during the day and he hadn’t left his house even once that he could remember during daytime hours in five years. Sometimes he had to meet with clients in person. Gilbert made them come to his house, to his home office, if you could call it that. Always they found a way around ever having to come for a second in person meeting. Maybe it was the dust or the dark. Gilbert looked at his front room/office, it was piled high with books, banker boxes, and files, Gilbert had a hard time throwing anything away. After a client heard about his reputation and insisted on meeting him in person, Gilbert would oblige, warmly seating them on his chair, worn thin by his cat Oscar or his small couch, made homey by his mutt dog, Ralph. The client would drink Gilbert’s bitter coffee and ask to see samples of his work. Gilbert would show them, give them options, and remind them that they could do all of this via e-mail or his web page. Gilbert’s lack of social graces and inhospitable living environment soon drove even the most persistent clients away from future personal interactions.

Gilbert liked the night. Through the years he had learned how to structure his life so that everything that needed doing or any meager entertainment that he desired could be done just as easily after the sun set. A few nights ago, Gilbert was walking Ralph around the neighborhood at midnight. He often saw other dog walkers in the neighborhood at that hour. This made him feel less conspicuous and maybe even a bit main stream. Ralph had seen a rabbit and bolted from Gilbert’s hand. A fellow night time dog walker had caught Ralph by the leash and returned him to Gilbert. The woman, Doris, lived two doors down from Gilbert. They had never met, she was genuinely surprised to discover that he had lived in the neighborhood for five years and she, who had known everyone for twenty, had never even seen him before. Yes, Gilbert could remain quite hidden when he wanted to.

Late at night, pushing his grocery cart down the vacant aisles, Gilbert was sometimes privy to things that weren’t meant to be seen by others, things that he suspected didn’t happen during the day, young couples making out behind store displays, people eating almost freely from the produce section, a shoplifter hiding items in a pocket, coat, or purse, store employees smoking and talking causally at the front registers. It was a whole different world at night. Sometimes Gilbert found it more entertaining than going to a movie.

Gilbert awoke to the light of the full moon outside his bedroom window. It was his habit to retire to bed soon after lunch time, usually around 1:00pm in the winter and 2:00pm in the summer. He allowed himself eight hours of sleep, arising to shower, shave, and dress as one would do in the morning. Tonight Gilbert would do his grocery shopping, make a delicious dinner for himself, walk Ralph, and watch movies. He thought briefly about getting some work done. In addition to web design and maintenance, Gilbert also wrote blogs for several clients. He could put that off until the early morning though. The night was his to enjoy.

A knocking sound broke through Gilbert’s ocean dream. He opened sleepy eyes and fumbled by his clock for his glasses, 4:00pm. He was in the deepest part of his daytime sleep. Not wanting to be bothered, Gilbert rolled over and put a pillow over his head. The knocking continued, then stopped abruptly, only to be replaced by a ringing doorbell. Gilbert thought that it had been disconnected, but remembered through his sleepy haze that he had reconnected it in order to not miss his most recent client, a high profile attorney. Slowly, Gilbert climbed out of bed and into some pants. Knocking he could ignore, but this incessant ringing was giving him a headache. As the doorbell continued to chime in the background, Gilbert fumbled for a shirt. “Coming,” he shouted, pushing his glasses up his nose.

At first he didn’t see her when he opened the door in a fury, ready to shout insults at the doorbell ringing fanatic. She stood at his doorway, the little girl from next door, sobbing, shaking piteously, “My, my, my…mom,” she choked, “Please help me mister, my mommy…my mommy…just fell.” Choking down his fury, Gilbert searched for the right words. How long had it been since he had actually talked to another person, two weeks, a month? Conversational interaction was not a frequent occurrence for Gilbert. “I…I’m not sure what to do.” Truly, Gilbert was not sure what he could do, the emotion, the possibility of a medical problem. “Please,” the girl begged, “No one else is home, I tried Mrs. Jennings and Auntie Doris’ house and no one is home.” Gilbert paused, he had no idea who these people were, were they his neighbors? The little girl stood there clad in jeans and a pink “Hello Kitty” t-shirt, she wore flip-flops on her feet. “Mister…please,” she grabbed Gilbert’s hand and pulled him out onto the porch. The late afternoon sun bore down like a hot ball of flame scorching Gilbert’s night eyes. He put a hand up to shield them as he stumbled down his own front steps. “Are you sick?” We need to hurry, my mommy,” the little girl implored him. Gilbert knew that he would have to find the strength to do this, to come out in the light of day. He looked at the little girl, “What is your name?” “Mandy,” she looked back at him with innocent blue eyes, “What’s yours?” “Gilbert.” “My mommy says that I have to call adults by Mr. or Mrs., I will call you Mr. Gilbert.”

Mr. Gilbert entered Mandy’s house in a daze. His whole body was shocked by the sunlight. He felt disoriented, his chest was constricted, his throat dry. Mandy’s house was cool and light. All of the blinds were open. There was almost as much sunlight in the house as there was outside. “She’s in here,” Mandy steered Gilbert to the right, into the kitchen. Mandy’s mother lay in a crumpled head at the base of the cooking island in the center of the kitchen. Gilbert heard crying. “Is the radio on?” “No, that’s my baby brother, Kennedy, he’s just waking up from his nap.” Gilbert paused, a baby, what would he do with a baby. “Mr. Gilbert, can you please check on my mom, will she be all right?’ Gilbert bent down, Mandy’s mother was tall and slim, her long brownish hair fell over her face. Gilbert brushed back the hair from her mouth, his knowledge of first aide was rudimentary, Gilbert didn’t think he felt any breath coming from her nostrils. Clumsily she grasped her narrow wrist and attempted to find a pulse. He didn’t feel anything resembling a pulse, but was unsure if he was checking in the right spot, he reached for the phone and dialed 911.

Mandy appeared with a chubby baby boy on her hip. “Ma!” he pointed, Mandy let him down and toddled and crawled over to his mommy, climbing on top of her and trying to get her to wake up. With a gentleness that he didn’t know that he had, Gilbert lifted the baby off of his mommy. Kennedy looked squarely at Gilbert and started to scream. Gilbert tried to soothe the distraught infant. He felt a tapping on his leg, Mandy was there holding a sippy cup. “Here,” Kennedy grabbed the cup and began sucking hungrily. “Is my mommy going to be O.K.?” Gilbert looked at Mandy, he had no idea what to say. His head was reeling with his new foray into daylight, he had never spent any time around children, he had in fact, never been by himself with children. “Where is your father?” “He’s travelling for work, Mr. Gilbert, will my mommy get better?”

The sirens shrieked in the background, they sounded like they were coming closer. Mandy grabbed Gilbert’s leg with both arms and buried her face in his knees. When the paramedics arrived, they talked to Gilbert like he was the husband/father. Gilbert tried to explain that he wasn’t, but his voice was rusty and he couldn’t get the words out. That was how Gilbert found himself in the family car, driving two distraught children to the hospital.

Both of the children were crying as Gilbert struggled to park the car at the hospital. He was confused by driving in the daylight and the screaming children caused him to become completely disoriented. He lost his way several times.

As he stumbled into the emergency room, weighted down by the screaming children, a nurse approached him, clipboard in hand, “Are you Mr. Smith?” “No, I’m…” “We have Mrs. Smith here, the ambulance said that you were right behind,” she waved the clipboard furiously, “Mrs. Smith needs emergency surgery, we need your consent.” “I’m…I’m not her husband,” Gilbert stammered. The children, huddled around his knees, wide eyed and sniveling as they looked up at the nurse, thankfully they had stopped screaming. “Well, where is he! And who are you?” the nurse shouted at Gilbert. The emergency room appeared to be close to capacity, all of the helpless, waiting patients seated in their plastic chairs turned to look a the scene unfolding between Gilbert and the nurse. “I am the neighbor, I only just met them today.” “Never mind, we’ll find him.” “What do I do? Where do I take the children?” Gilbert called to the nurses’ wide, white receding behind. Gilbert tried to think of what he had seen fathers do on T.V. in similar situations. Slowly, Gilbert squatted down, taking Kennedy in one arm to stabilize him, “How would you like a cookie?” “Really?” Mandy looked at Gilbert, wide-eyed and sniffed, “We have to be careful of Kennedy though so that he doesn’t choke.”

After treat time in the hospital cafeteria, Gilbert and the children returned to the emergency room. “So there you are,” the same nurse from earlier scolded Gilbert, “We tracked down Mr. Smith, he is on his way and he doesn’t know who in the hell you are.” “I am from next door, I keep to myself, I never met the Smiths before today when Mandy came to my door…” Gilbert realized by the suspicious look that the nurse was giving him, that he was losing ground. She squinted as she looked him up and down. “I think that you had better go. We have a social worker here to look after the children.” The nurse scooped up Kennedy and took Mandy by the hand. Mandy was reluctant, looking back solemnly at Gilbert, he watched them fade down the dingy hallway.

Gilbert tried once to talk to the Smiths. He rang their bell to return the car keys. Nobody was home, Gilbert wrote a quick note and left the envelope on the front porch. He surprised himself by leaving his phone number, asking them to call. Several weeks later, the house was up for sale. Gilbert ventured out to attend the first open house. He had found himself longing more and more to be awake and active during the daytime. He found out from the real estate agent that Mrs. Smith had died, a brain aneurysm. Mr. Smith and the children were moving in order to be closer to his parents. Gilbert felt grief in his heart when he remembered Mrs. Smith lying on her kitchen floor. He found himself wishing that he had gotten to know the family. What had Mrs. Smith’s laugh sounded like, did it sound like Mandy’s? Gilbert reached up to adjust his glasses and felt a damp spot near his eye. Embarrassed, he moved quickly through the house and out the back door. Gilbert stepped in into the center of the damp yard. He caught a rainbow glint out of the corner of his eye. Bending down to get a closer look, Gilbert saw the crystal. Mandy’s crystal in lying in the soft mud. Feeling his heart lighten, Gilbert grasped the crystal in his hand and held it up to the bright afternoon sun.

@2009

Burning Snow by, Myself

“We shouldn’t be here,” Debbie leaned close and whispered into Ivan’s ear. “It feels so clandestine, so wrong, “ Debbie laughed wickedly as she shrugged out of her faux fur jacket, scarf, and gloves. Ivan reached forward to smooth down her hair that sprung up when Debbie snapped off her cap. “Champagne my darling,” Ivan handed her a flute of sparkling champagne. “My, my do you get paid to drink on the job?” “This bottle was just going to waste sitting in the back of my refrigerator, I guess that I was just looking for a special occasion to open it.” Debbie raised her eyebrows at Ivan as she took a sip, “And this is special because??” “Because the economy sucks, I don’t know if I will meet my commission this year, and I have to sit in this damn office all day because I am the only broker with an SUV and thus the only one who could make it to work on a snow day.” “That doesn’t sound special.” “Maybe I just wanted to share it with you.” Ivan grabbed Debbie around the waist and planted a hard kiss on her mouth. “Just a minute, just a minute, this romance in the work place stuff is new to me. What if someone I know or you know stops by today and wants to see a lot?” Ivan grinned lasciviously before grabbing her again and kissing her on the neck. He started undoing the buttons of Debbie’s blouse. “There is no school today, everyone is home with their little ones. Who would risk life and limb to come in today and tour vacant lots that they can’t even see?” Debbie gently moved Ivan’s hand away from her blouse. She took another sip of champagne as she raucously pirouetted around the show room.

Ivan watched, amused. This love affair was everything he could have hoped for. It helped that Debbie was married like him. Ivan had vowed long ago to quit having affairs with single women, they all ended up wanted more than he was willing or able to give. Outside the snow continued to fall in graceful sheets across the empty housing development. Ivan didn’t want to look at the empty lots for long. Only one lot out of thirty had sold. Prior to this economic downturn, Ivan had hoped that the sales from this development would be enough to carry him for the next couple of years. Enough of the negativity now, Ivan told himself. Flashing his newly whitened teeth, he advanced confidently towards Debbie and took her in his arms. She smelled of designer perfume and all things perfect. Like an old married couple, they stood, arms and waists entwined, sipping champagne and watching the crisp snow fall from the grey sky. Ivan started kissing Debbie’s ear, slowly this time, working his way down her neck. She responded, draining her flute of champagne and returning his kisses. “Oh look, a family.” There they were, a happy family of four, sledding on the hill outside of Debbie and Ivan’s love nest. Debbie laughed loudly, one of the children turned and peered intently through the showroom office window. “It looks like we have an audience,” Ivan joked. Ivan and Debbie waved at the child who scampered quickly back to the sledding hill. Ivan took Debbie’s hand and led her into the back room of the small building, a storage area of sorts for real estate signs and building supplies.

“Oh you shouldn’t have!” Debbie exclaimed when she saw the two sleeping bags and fluffy pillows laid out on the floor. She laid down on the soft bedding and pulled Ivan on top of her. As it always had been, their lovemaking quickly became passionate, Debbie could feel the heat, like fire, scorching her naked body. Debbie felt delirious, she thought she saw a shadow outside the window. Ivan’s body was like fire on top of her. She arched and tried to shake free. The shadow in the window came closer. A fist broke the glass. Debbie felt like she was suffocating. She tried in vain to move Ivan. He was passed out, dead to the world. Debbie felt dizzy and unbalanced, what was in that champagne? The flames where coming closer, invading their love sanctuary. Debbie grabbed a sleeping bag to cover her naked body. She stumbled as she lurched towards the broken window, her one chance to reach safety. Sirens sounded in the distance. The shadow become more distinct, through her blurred vision. It was a woman wearing a huge ski parka. A fur trimmed hood surrounded her unrecognizable face. Like the grim reaper, she beckoned Debbie to come through the broken window. Debbie felt the glass cutting into her bare feet. She twisted and turned her sleeping bag covered body through the window frame. The parka-clad woman pulled her through the last part. “There is someone else inside,” Debbie whispered as she fell into the snow. She looked up, but the woman was gone. That was how the firefighters found her, partially covered, surrounded by blood, face down in the snow.

Pill Boxes and Hat Bottles By, Myself

Maggie sputtered and coughed as she slowly awoke from her drowsy nap. Her eyes took in the blur of the small room. In the corner, a television quietly droned. The peach colored curtains were parted slightly, letting in the filtered sunlight of late afternoon. Maggie’s head was positioned at an angle, one of the pillow supports had fallen away during her nap. Maggie felt like she was falling. She tried to will her left hand into moving, to reach for the small red call button. Why do they make these damn call buttons so small? Maggie thought. Maggie scanned the horizon of her crème colored bedding. Trying to look left, Maggie saw the black partition that emerged every time she tried to use her peripheral vision on her left side, the black blank that let her see only nothingness when her artist’s vision used to be so full of color. Moving her eyes to the right, Maggie spied the elusive call button, the small red orb protruding from the long white cord, snaking around her bed rail. Flailing as she reached, Maggie put all of her effort into nabbing the call button with her right hand. This wasn’t easy to do. Dense hemiplegia caused her left side to be heavy and useless. Where there was once lineless beauty that captured every boys attention at the dance hall on Saturday nights, there were now deep wrinkles with sagging mouth and eye. Maggie knew that she drooled. The nurses were constantly using fresh towels to wipe at her mouth. They seemed to know how much it bothered her even though she couldn’t really feel it. With a huge effort, Maggie attempted to lunge for the call button without supporting herself. This effort caused her to land with a crash against the metal bed rail. Maggie felt the cold against her cheek and tasted metal in her mouth. The right side of her face felt wet. She was crying again, over nothing, the tears just came, they always came. Maggie tried to tell people, but knew that they didn’t understand. In her mind she was saying, “I have just had a massive stroke, it makes me emotional.” It came out as “Daaaaaat, daaa, daaat doo doo” or some other ridiculous combination, never real words, causing Maggie to sigh frequently in exasperation over her inability to communicate. Maggie felt something hard and small in her right hand, as she peered downward through the bed rail, she realized that she had captured the call button. This new, small joy made the tears come even harder.

“Oh, Mrs. Smith, let me get you fixed up.” Jerusha, the most attentive nurses aide by far, was always quick to answer Maggie’s calls. She was different from the other nurses aides who let call buttons ring like chimes up and down the halls while they sat at the nurses station drinking soda and gossiping. No, Jerusha was always prompt. She took pride in her work and made sure that all of the residents in her care were toileted, cleaned, and cared for. “Now Mrs. Smith,” Jerusha continued, “You can’t use your left hand. That’s why I put the call button on your right, next to your hand. Quit trying to reach over with your left hand and you won’t have these nasty falls.” Jerusha patted and smoothed and adjusted the sheets. She had the bed pan in and out from under Maggie before Maggie even realized that she had used it. “The occupational therapist will be in this afternoon to help you learn how to transfer to a bedside commode. Then we can be done with these silly bed pans.” Jerusha winked at Maggie like this would be a good thing. Maggie was horrified by the thought of sitting by her bed on a toilet where any old passerby would be able to watch her go about her private business. Jerusha seemed to read her thoughts. She put her large, dark chocolate hand over Maggie’s and gave her a squeeze. “I can tell that you are a real lady. Don’t worry, they won’t leave you out here. They’ll pull the curtain.” Jerusha gave the curtain that went around Maggie’s bed a little shake. “See just like in the hospital, you will have your privacy.” Maggie noticed the hat when she looked up at Jerusha to communicate a wordless “thank you.” There it was, a little red pillbox hat, with a small piece of netting that just covered Jerusha’ forehead. Jerusha had stuck a small peacock feather in the ribbon that was wrapped around the hat for added flair. “I see that you like my hat.” Jerusha reached up and patted the hat, perched lightly atop her tight afro curls. “That was my grandmammy’s church hat. I like to wear it now and then because it seems to make everyone happy.” Jerusha flashed a brilliant white grin. She stooped closer to Maggie and whispered, “My grandmammy was like that, always bringing cheer everywhere she went. You remind me of her.” Maggie started to respond, “Doooo, daaat, daaa dooo,” Jerusha gave her a quick hug and was off to spread her loving care and cheer to the lucky residents assigned to her this shift.

The hat, the hat, the hat, something about that hat, Maggie inwardly cursed her ageing memory addled more by this recent stroke. After another nurses aide, a rushed and solemn young African (at least he looked African to Maggie) fed her dinner in bed, Maggie remembered the hat, her hat, hidden somewhere in the recesses of her attic at home, the brilliant blue pillbox hat. It looked just like a Tiffany’s box with netting. Maggie kept meaning to clean out the attic. After Joe died, she dealt with cleaning out the house, his office, and study room. That had been an overwhelming task. Joe had been a collector, never throwing anything out in their fifty years of marriage. Joe’s death had been quick, a massive coronary infaraction, he was dead 24 hours later after all of the heroic acts of medical science had failed to save him. Maggie was alone in the big Cape Cod house. Her children tried to make her move out. Once the strokes started, she had no choice. Assisted living was cramped. It took her back to her days of living in a college dormitory only without the freedoms and with the added discomfort of being set in her ways and routines, but not being able to live them.

Maggie wished that she knew what had become of her house and the stuff in it. Her son, Jack, had come around with some papers for her to sign when she first moved into the assisted living facility. She had been too tired and wasn’t up for a long conversation of legalese. Jack had gone away, disappointed in her and mumbling something about getting rid of assets and the high cost of medical care. Maggie didn’t know much about those things. Joe had handled all of the finances. Jack tried to help her sort things out in the years following Joe’s death, but she never really understood it. She had to remember to ask Jack or her daughter, Ruby, about the house the next time they came to visit.

Over the course of the next several days, memories of the bright blue hat played at the corners of Maggie’s mind. “Paintbox, paintbox,” she had shouted emphatically when learning to use the commode with the occupational therapist. “Pink-it, pink-it,” she said rhythmically while learning to use a walker with an arm support during physical therapy. Speech therapy was the best because the therapist always made an effort to try and understand what Maggie was really trying to say. She got close, “Pill bottle, pill bottle,” she had chanted in speech therapy. She had really meant to say, “Pillbox, where is my beautiful blue pillbox hat?” She couldn’t form the words even as she thought them in her mind.

Maggie awoke in the middle of the night. It had come back as if in a dream, the story of the hat and its importance. This was how her memory worked these days, sometimes empty and, at odd times, full. That hat was a gift from John, her first and maybe her only true love. They had met in high school, promised to each other when they left for college. Maggie knew why she had tried to forget this story so often throughout her life, buried it deeply all of these years along with her grief. The hat was the last thing given to her by John before he left forever, dropped out of college, joined the service and was sent to the South Pacific. At first there were letters, love letters that made Maggie blush to remember them. Because both of their names started with “J,” Maggie had lived in fear of accidently calling Joe, “John.” She had put John away in the dark corners of her mind. Over the years she remembered gifts as she had run across them, a scarf, a bracelet, a handbag. John had been sentimental and eager to please her and win her heart. Maggie’s family was poor and the nice things drew her in, but she did love him. The grief that she felt when he didn’t return nearly ate her alive. Joe returned though and Maggie thought that his love would be enough to see her through. The damp spots on her lap robe grew and spread like raindrops in a puddle, Maggie couldn’t stop crying.

The next day, Jerusha was back caring for Maggie. “You seem so sad today Mrs. Smith,” Jerusha commented as she combed Maggie’s hair and helped to put her dentures in. When Jerusha bent down, Maggie brought her right hand up to touch Jerusha’s tight black curls. “You miss my hat? I’ll wear it again soon just for you my dear Mrs. Smith.” Jerusha looked warmly at Maggie. Maggie’s dark mood persisted, even a visit from Ruby, bearing fresh tulips, Maggie’s favorite, was not enough to cheer her. Talk of Ruby’s daughter’s up coming wedding made Maggie feel worse. She knew that Ruby and her granddaughter, Rosa, both wanted her there. Maggie was dreading it, the drooling octogenarian wheeled around and cajoled by everyone. They would quickly lose interest in her gibberish and she would spend the evening alone in a corner unable to eat or go to the bathroom. No, it would be better to stay here at the care center and skip the wedding all together.

Jerusha was on Maggie’s wing a few days later. The sight of grandmammy’s red feathered hat was enough to make Maggie smile a bit, however brief. Jerusha caught her eye, “You really like this hat” Maggie nodded, she hoped that her head was making a “yes” movement, these days she could never be sure what her body was doing. “Do you want to try it on” Jerusha removed the hat from her own head and placed it atop Maggie’s gray hair. “Now don’t you just look smart. I wish that I had my camera. We will have to get you a hat of your own.” Maggie’s ears perked up when she heard this, “Blue box, blue box, “she stammered, trying to get the right words to come out. At least she was using words even if they weren’t always the right ones. Jerusha said, “I’ll see what I can do about getting you a hat of your own Mrs. Smith.” She gave Maggie’s arm a quick squeeze and was gone. Maggie knew that Jerusah did her job well, but she had never seen her move that quickly before.

That night Maggie’s dreams were a blur of hats, all kinds of hats making their way through the centuries with bows, feather, flowers, netting, and ribbon, always ending in a bright blue pillbox hat, a beacon from a long dead lover. Maggie had a sense that John was calling her, asking her to not be afraid and assuring her that he would be on the other side, waiting. She was ready now she told him. John appeared to her, young and strong, dashing in his military uniform with an enigmatic smile and dark, laughing brown eyes. He placed the hat firmly on her shiny long blonde curls, took her hand, and together they flew out of the night.
“What’s in here?” Rosa blew the dust off of yet another of grandma’s boxes. Grandma had died one week before Rosa’s wedding. They had carried on with a gay celebration in her honor. Grandma had always loved parties and pretty things. Rosa tried to imbue as much of her grandma’s spirit as possible into the wedding. Since she had returned from her honeymoon, she and her mother had been working non-stop, taking apart a home that had taken grandma a lifetime to build. A young couple had just bought the house they were ready to begin re-modeling, settling in, and making a home here for themselves. Ruby stood next to Rosa as Rosa pried the lid off of the small white box. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper turned yellow by time, was a perfect bright blue pillbox hat. “What a unique color,” Rosa commented as she gently lifted the hat from the box. “Strange, I never saw mom wear that. In fact I never saw her wear a nice hat.” “What’s this?” Rosa reached down into the ageing crackled tissue and pulled out a faded note card: On leave Nov. 20. Stop. Wear hat. Stop. See you in crowd. Stop. Have surprise. Stop. Love, John

@2008

The Teeth of the World by, Maryam, Megan, Karen, and Monica

Here is another short story done by our writing group. Like the first one, we started out with a line from a novel and each wrote a contributing part.


He was wearing the old flip flops that he had brought to New York City when he’d moved there about two years ago. The flip flops that had been covered with blue paint stains from when he painted the walls of the small, basement studio apartment that he’d rented on the East side two years ago.

In the past two years, he’d thought of moving out of the apartment so many times, but never did. It seemed as if the little apartment defined New York city for him.

He dragged the flip flops as he walked on Fifth Avenue without really going anywhere, without having a destination, without a plan, aimlessly. He was high again. He looked lost. He didn’t know where he was going.

He had come to New York City two years ago, with a big dream, to become a successful artist. He wanted to have his own exhibition. He wanted to sell his paintings and drawings, but now he was walking in his flip flops, lost. His dream seemed too far away, so unreachable.

For a moment he felt exposed. He thought everybody was staring at him. Everybody wanted a piece of him. At that moment, the world had teeth and it could bite him with them anytime it wanted.

It was early September when Shane moved to New York City. He hated the farm house where he lived with his parents in Kentucky. More than anything else he wanted to get out of there and move to a big city and pursue his dream. His art teachers always loved his work and often encouraged him to pursue his talent further. So as soon as he graduated from high school, he bought a bus ticket to New York City. He had some savings and borrowed some money from his parents and left.

He never imagined that he would be a heroin addict one day. It all started with a little bit of Hashish, and had moved up the drug ladder ending up with heroin. He forced a nervous laughter out, walking aimlessly, thinking that now he was a heroin addict with no future dragging his flip flops on the streets of the city he had come to in order to be someone.

The pavement was slightly uneven, and he stumbled. His blue, paint-splashed flip flop caught in the gap between the big, square paving stones, supposedly straight and perfect, but actually rather uneven. His foot slid out of the flip flop and he fell with a thud to the ground. His hip hurt, where he landed, but he laughed because it was only half-an-hour since his last hit and he felt fine and light. He laughed because perhaps the flip flop symbolized something. Laughing, he slipped off the other painty-blue flip flop, hauled himself up and kept on walking, barefoot, down 5th Avenue. Nobody noticed. He wandered at the fate of his flip flops, in such a world where huge teeth poised waiting to bite, waiting to bite them, but not him.

He passed the Metropolitan Museum of Art and kept walking. He passed the Neve Gallery and kept walking. He passed the Guggenheim and kept walking. Art, art, art he hated art. He hated himself for hoping that art would redeem him. He hated the rough sensation of the sidewalk beneath his feet, trying to configure itself into a painting in his mind, textured, layered, pressing art from inside him despite his determination to resist it.

Shel Flumegan followed the odd bare-footed fellow up 5th Avenue, past the Met, past the Neve, past the Guggenheim. Her junior art class had been dottering around the impressionist rooms of the Met all morning and she was bored. She wanted to encounter real life, real people, real today. She wanted to get out of her own skin, so had van Gough in those curled up paintings of himself and his chair and his bed. Shel wanted to know something new, something outside the neat, perfect Burroughs of the upper West Side private school life.

A lithe, perfect young woman was walking next to him. Her legs looked as if they were made of light brown plaster. “Hi,” she said. He looked over at her, feeling embarrassed and remarked, “I lost my flip flops. They had blue paint on them, from when I first moved to New York.” “Would you like for me to help you find them?” Shel asked, uncertain as to why the man was giving her information about his flip-flops. His manic laugh startled her as he gazed up and down her body. Shel noticed that his pupils were the size of pin tops. “Hell no! I can’t even find myself, let alone some shitty pair of flip-flops that I probably should have thrown away years ago.” He gave her another full body glance. Even though she was only seventeen years old Shel could see the hunger, the sexual hunger in his eyes. It was almost like he had sharp teeth in those eyes, ready to reach out and bite her. Shane was thinking that the girl’s body looked delicious, he was tempted to bite into it. His high had reached a point where he was really quite horny, but even in this state he could recognize that she was jailbait and he really didn’t need to add any more illegal activities to his current repertoire. “Gotta go! Gotta fly!” Shane yelled as he stretched his arms wide and zoomed like a crazed albatross down Fifth Avenue. Shel was left standing in the middle of the sidewalk as she watched the barefoot man dressed all in blue disappear down the street scattering pedestrians in his wake.

Shane arrived at his blue studio apartment dripping with sweat. His feet hurt to walk on and were covered with cuts that oozed into bloodstained footprints onto the hardwood floors as he paced his apartment. Time to get to work, time to get some painting done, I really hate art, Shane thought again. Gotta work, gotta sell, gotta get the next high. Shane walked on sticky feet to the supply drawer in the kitchen. All of the necessary paraphernalia was there, except the junk. Shane rummaged through the drawer, spoon, tubing, needle, portable torch, syringe. He saw something white and powdery on the bottom of the drawer. Shane licked his finger and used it to pick up some of the white powder, he brought it to his tongue. It was good, or maybe he just imagined it was good, in his current state he wasn’t even sure exactly what it was. He had energy now and he knew that he would have to get some work done. Shane decided to start by walking his bare, bloody feet over a white canvas, kind of Jackson Pollock he thought with amusement. It seemed to take him hours to complete the piece. Shane knew from experience that heroin did not eliminate his creative process, it just caused the process to move more slowly. In this case, today, time seemed to stand still. He couldn’t remember how many pieces he owed his art manager, Vulture. Vulture wasn’t really much of a manager, he had yet to book any exhibitions for Shane. What Vulture had in abunShanece though was drugs and that was usually how Shane was paid. Shane had no idea what Vulture did with his art pieces. He was slutting his talent and it made him ache. It just didn’t make him ache as much as not being able to get high though.

Vulture took the three pieces in his thick hands and handed Shane the packet of white powder. No comment was made during the transaction. Shane gave over his art, his soul and Vulture fed him what he craved. He was shaking and craving another hit, at this point nothing mattered, not even the red notice regarding past due rent that he found taped to his door this morning. The white powder would save him from the brutality of the real world, it would save him from having to feel real feelings, and mostly it would save him by disguising the wasteland that his life was becoming. On heroin, Shane could feel deep peace and satisfaction. This didn’t happen with every high and had never been as good as the first time that he got high. Shane lived his life trying to obtain that elusive peaceful power instilled in him the first time that he got high on heroin. He watched with nervous eyes as Vulture disappeared from view into a waiting Cadillac on the corner. Shane clutched the bag of white powder closed to his bare chest as he rattled home, rasping with desire for his next high.

Shane couldn’t complete any art pieces. These last few highs were devastating to his creative process. The paintings looked like preschool drawings, he couldn’t show them to Vulture, he wouldn’t even be able to show this crap to his mother. Shane shook as he walked down the street. He was in an area heavily populated with art galleries. Not big name art galleries, small, just starting out galleries. A place where two years ago he had hoped to make his start, before he met Alicia who introduced him to addiction, she had loved him because she knew that he wouldn’t ever get completely attached to her and her addiction could always come first. Shane dabbled in drugs with Alicia as his guide, he kept going up the drug ladder stopping with the king of all drugs and staying on his filthy throne with nothing to show for his life but disgrace. Shane almost missed the gallery window, he was so deep in his thoughts that he almost passed it right by. In his peripheral vision he noticed a distinctive shade of red, his favorite shade of red, a shade of red that he had learned to mix in high school in Kentucky, a special shade taught to him by his oldest and dearest art teacher. Shane stepped back and gazed into the window of the dingy gallery. The gallery didn’t look like much “Blue Heron Art Gallery” Shane saw stenciled above the doorway. Shane forced his fuzzy eyes to gaze through the street side window and he counted at least six pieces of his own art on display under the name, Andrew Osprey. “Well I’ll be damned,” Shane said to the air. It wasn’t clear to him how, he was still a bit too high to work it all out, but it made perfect sense why Vulture was so willing to trade his shabby pieces of art for drugs. He saw a price card by the blood piece, the piece he had walked on to create, $1500.00. With a fury welling up inside, Shane pushed open the door to the “Blue Heron Art Gallery.”

“Hello, my name is Edward, how may I help you?” Shane turned to see a small man, bearded and bespectacled, wringing his pale hands while lisping his introduction. “I see that you find the Andrew Osprey collection interesting.” Something about the smallness of the man, his lisping and wheezing deflated Shane’s rage. “Yes, he seems to make good use of that shade of red.” “This is a fairly recent installment, we haven’t seen any new pieces lately.” The man continued to push his hands together, kneading them, like dough. Shane noticed the suit that Edward wore, not overly expensive looking, but tailored well to fit his small frame. Shane remembered that he was wearing Levi’s with holes in both knees, a button down shirt missing half of the buttons, and green flip-flops-his latest investment in self care. “This Andrew Osprey, does he come in often?” Edward looked startled and put a slim, pale hand to his mouth as he cleared his throat. “We have never seen him in this gallery, I hear that he is a recluse and doesn’t like to appear in public. It is a shame, we have sold a fair number of pieces by him, I think that he could get more money for his art if he made appearances in public.” Edward blushed and looked away, “maybe that is too much information, I should respect the privacy of the artist, especially one as good as he.” “Andrew actually sells his work then,” Shane mused half to himself and half to Edward. “People ask about him all of the time. The red is what draws them in, the red is a distinctively earthy experience for people in the city, so far from their roots is nature.” Shane had to suppress a laugh, all of this nature talk coming from a man who looked like Edward. Shane didn’t think that Edward looked like he spent any time outside, let alone actually getting close to nature. Edward coughed again and turned as the bell on the front door rang. A woman wearing a large black hat was attempting to enter the studio, so encumbered was she by shopping bags that she couldn’t get through the door. “Mrs. Fitzgerald, please let me help you with that.” Edward quickly abandoned Shane to assist Mrs. Fitzgerald with her journey through the front door. They began to talk in low voices and Edward disappeared behind a curtain in the back of the studio, Mrs. Fitzgerald trudging behind in spiked black heels that belonged on a woman about fifty pounds lighter. Shane heard them laughing and exchanging pleasantries about a piece of art Mrs. Fitzgerald had commissioned for her husband’s 60th birthday party. Shane took this opportunity to grab the blood painting and rush out the door. He took off running down the street and didn’t stop until he reached his own block, a flash of blood red zooming brilliantly through a quietly lit afternoon.

Too soon for a man his age, he lost his stamina and stopped to catch his breath. He walked along for another couple of blocks, then took a seat on a littered stairwell leading to a dirty basement. Without any warning, he was passed out, still clutching the painting tight to his body.

When he awoke there was no trace of sunlight left in the sky, though it was still almost as hot and humid as it had been in the daytime. Shane picked himself up and continued to trudge back slowly to his little blue apartment.

The blocks passed by without notice until Shane found himself in the quiet streets of his neighborhood. He let his senses awaken and began noticing his surroundings. He held the blood-covered canvas out at arm’s length. In the streetlight, he could see into it, past its carnal origins. He felt the artist inside bubbling back up again into his conscious. He very nearly smiled.

He looked back at the city surrounding him, and something caught his eye. A Cadillac was parked haphazardly at the end of the block, its lights flashing evenly in the night. Shane approached the familiar vehicle and found Vulture there, leaning against the car, his thick hands tucked under his even thicker biceps.

“I believe you have something of mine,” growled the dealer.

Shane had a surge of self as he replied, “That depends on how you define ‘mine.’ I’ve got just as much claim over it as you, if not more.” The dome light was on inside the car, and Shane’s eyes flicked over to see Alicia in the back seat. Her eyes were dark circles, but her body was sunk into the leather seat as if she had sat there many times before.

Vulture picked himself off the side of the car and reached for the canvas. Shane’s body filled with adrenaline, and he wouldn’t release his grip on the painting. The two men struggled and Shane fell back against a green lamp post that marked the entrance to the subway, finally letting go of his art. His green flip flop caught in the cracked lip of the subway entrance. Time slowed and Shane saw himself falling into the gaping maw but couldn’t stop himself. His body was crushed as it hit each snaggled step on the way down.

Vulture stood at the top of the stairs looking down at Shane’s limp and broken body. He looked up and down the deserted street, picked up the discarded canvas and took a step toward the Cadillac. As he walked away, he heard a train roar like a belch into the station below and the gasp of the brakes as it came to a stop. He slid back in next to Alicia, and in another moment, they were gone.

The Televison, by Karen, Monica, Maryam, and Megan

This piece was a joint effort by my creative writing group. We were each given a line from a novel and asked to start a story about it. Then we passed it on to the next person (kind of like a progressive writing dinner). Here is one of our efforts.


I went into the faded yellow bedroom and looked at the small bed in the center of the drab room. Under the thin polyester bedspread, dingy and matted with age lay my mother. She had summoned me for the third time that morning. First she wanted hot tea, then the curtains opened, and now she summed me again to close them.
“The bright sun, it hurts my eyes.” She squinted and turned her face from the window. I shut the curtains and leaned over the bed. Slowly I brushed my lips across the paper thinness of her flaky forehead.
“I will come back on my lunch hour to see that you get some hot food. Nurse Lucinda will be here in about ten minutes.”
“Not that witch!” my mother hissed through tiny discolored teeth. “She steals from me!” “There, there mother, if Lucinda doesn’t work out we can always call the agency and see if they will send someone else.”
“You see that you do. I can’t have a thief in my house.”
“I will mother, I will. I have to go not. I need to get to work.”
“When will you be back?”
“I will come back at lunch time to see that you get some hot food.”
“See that you do, that bitch of a nurse may try to poison me.”
“Bye mother.”
I passed Lucinda coming in as I was leaving the house. She waved and smiled. Such a pretty young girl, I thought. She really wants to help. I waved back. More than likely my mother would have changed her mind about Lucinda by lunch. I made a mental note to hold off calling the agency for a replacement
My mother wasn’t always like this. She used to be so warm and vibrant that it was contagious. In one of my earliest memories, my mother and I are on the front porch of our rented Carter Avenue house watching two delivery men carry our brand new television set up the steps. It was our first house alone together after dad left. This was soon after my mother made it clear that the bottle and her philandering would always come before her relationship with him.
I loved that television set. It was the first new thing that my mother ever bought in our new life together. I can’t remember when we lost it. Was it move number fifteen? or twenty? Somewhere in all of the moves the television, along with most of our possessions, was sold or left behind when my mother was unable to pay the rent and we had to move out in the dead of night. I don’t remember how the television left us, but I do remember crying sad, bitter tears when I realized that it was gone.
It was over fifteen years before I had my own television again, now isolated and lonely in my own little apartment, work and caring for my mother kept me from having the time to enjoy it. It wasn’t like the brand new one that I used to sit in front of and try to wish my life into something different when I was young.
Korsakoff’s Syndrome was taking my mother’s mind. Daily I watched her deteriorate into a skeleton of her former self, becoming isolated and violent in the confines of her rotting mind. I didn’t want to put her in a nursing home. If we lost Lucinda, I don’t think that the agency would send us another home health aid. My mother was becoming more dangerous and unpredictable with in-home help.
After work, I stopped at my mother’s house to feed her dinner. The savory smells wafting up from the stew did not disguise the putrefying odor emanating from mother’s body.
“Are you listening to me?” her shrill voice startled me. “I said you can leave me now. I can ladle this swill myself.”
“Sorry mother. I just lost myself. It was a long day at work.”
“Sorry? I don’t need your sympathy.”
In spite of her, I smiled gently and lifted another spoonful of broth to her pale, thin lips. Lucinda came in to take the tray away. A few minutes later she came back to give my mother her bath. I left the room in a daze and found myself at the hall closet. It was filled with a variety of useless things, not looked upon since my mother was bedridden, and probably some time before.
I poked around, looking for anything familiar. I found a tattered shoebox on the shelf and brought it down. Inside was on old Instamatic camera and few handfuls of snapshots I had taken with it. Why my unsentimental mother would keep such a thing, a box of precious memories, was beyond me. She probably thought it was really a pair of sexy pumps, some vestige of her whoring days.
Lucinda approached me in the hallway where I sat on the floor. Her purse was hanging from her shoulder and her car keys were in hand.
“Your mother is asleep now. I will see you in the morning.”
I pulled myself together and off of the floor. “Oh, maybe I might swing by on the way to work, definitely at lunchtime.”
Lucinda lingered there as I got my sweater on and my own purse on my own shoulder. I tucked the shoebox under my arm and ushered the nurse out the front door.
“You know, she does appreciate all the help you are giving. We appreciate it. My mother’s not good at showing it, but she’s happier when there’s someone around.”
“Oh, I’ve been with worse patients. No worries.”
I found that hard to believe. We smiled at each other and that was that.
Once I was at my empty apartment, I scattered the photos from the shoebox across the kitchen table. I pushed them around attempting to create a story from them. A story I knew by heart, but had never told anyone, not even myself.
And there it was. The television set peeked out from behind my mother’s skirt as she posed with one of her many suitors. She used to be so beautiful. But the TV is what held my attention. I scoured the whole batch of photos, setting aside every one that captured even a glimpse of the cabinet. I arranged them neatly in the center of the table, pushing the rest of the photos back into the box.
I warmed up some leftover Chinese food in the microwave. I sat at the table eating, staring at the photos of the TV. I was exhausted, and I went to bed.
I looked less and less forward to my weekly overnight stay at mothers.
“Where the hell is she? She took my earrings.”
I woke up, startled, hearing my mother’s voice yelling. I jumped out of the bed and ran to her bedroom.
“What is it mother?” I asked, feeling disoriented. Although I was awoken with her scream, I still felt sleepy.
“I told you she steals from me. My gold earrings are gone,” my mother screamed.
“Where did you put them last?” I said yawning.
“In my jewelry box, where else do you think I would put them?”
My mother was standing beside her bureau, looking angry, yet fragile. The first drawer was half open and she was holding her small jewelry box in her hands that shook subtly. I got closer to her. The clock that sat on the bureau read 5:12.
“Mother, do you know what time it is? It is 5 o’clock in the morning.”
“I don’t care. I want my earrings back. I told you that bitch is a thief.”
“Can I see the box please?”
“Bruce gave me those earrings. It doesn’t matter that they are small. They are real gold and my favorite earrings. You and everyone else keep telling me that they are small,” she said, her voice had become calmer.
I took the box slowly from her weak hands and searched through it. I couldn’t find the gold earrings. I knew exactly which ones she was talking about. They were two tiny four petal gold flowers with a little emerald in the middle. I raised my head to ask her where else she thought that she might have left them when I noticed that she was wearing them. By then I was completely awake.
“Mother, could you please look in the mirror,” I said.
“As she looked in the mirror, I pulled her short silver hairs aside and carefully placed them behind her ears.
“Look mother, you are wearing your beautiful gold earrings,” I told her gently.
“Yes they are beautiful and they are not small. You know who gave them to me?” her voice was soft.
“Yes mother, Bruce gave them to you.”
“You remember Bruce?”
“Of course mother.”
“He was so generous and beautiful wasn’t he?” my mother said smiling, as she still stared at her image in the mirror, adjusting the earring on her left ear with her fingers.
I remembered Bruce very well. I think he was the only man that my mother ever loved. She met him in her early 30’s. I must have been about eight years old. Whenever he visited, he brought me something, a lollipop, cookies, a pack of gum, and a little red plastic ball. Once he even brought me a little Barbie doll, my first and last Barbie doll ever. It was so beautiful with its long blonde hair and big blue eyes. Bruce had blue eyes too.
I lead my mother back to her bed.
“It is too early mother. You need to get back to bed.”
“Where are you going?’
“I will be in the other room.”
I tucked her in and went to the kitchen. I knew I couldn’t fall asleep again. I put a kettle on to make a cup of coffee, when I saw the old shoebox that I had brought along. I made myself a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table to go through the pictures again. There was a picture of me sitting right in front of the TV, holding my Barbie doll. I couldn’t remember who took the picture. I was staring at the TV and looked mesmerized by it. I didn’t even notice the picture was taken.
My pale blue fitted sheet never stayed on the bed, and was twisted like a tornado under my naked body. The mattress felt rough where the sheet should have been. I scrolled down through the list of big, old TV’s being auctioned on ebay, and found one whose woody grain and honey tones matched my childhood TV. I made a bid - $12.50, and mouse-cruised back onto Facebook , and the photo of my second-to-last ex, which I was attempting to enlarge in order to see him better. He had a goatee now, which looked a bit silly, I thought. I stretched across the bed, reaching for my Cooper’s Dark Ale, and took a swig. No soothing, thick liquid oozed into my mouth just a faint taste of beer around the rim of an empty mug. “Bugger it,” I said. ‘There’s no point in trying to enjoy myself.” I dragged my tired body into a leopard skin mini-skirt which had once been my mother’s and a velvet top I’d made from a cushion. It didn’t fit right, and reflected my frustration, hanging in ripples which never had and never would unwrinkle.
The light from the hallway illuminated the shaggy lime green mohair rug next to mother’s bed, making it look like scenery in a cheap sci-fi movie I remember watching on our TV when I was small. I stepped onto it, and poked my toes into the soft fibers. Mother’s body on the shadowy bed looked like a mountain range or a pile of coats, but not like a person. I turned on the light to make sure she was still alive. Her chest was still, and I felt a familiar tight feeling in my lungs. Her chest moved, slowly, silently, air and life and breathe still energizing her crumpled brain. I touched her cold hand, feeling a thick, snaking vein near her wrist. “Hi mother, it’s me,” I whispered. She didn’t awaken. “I’m getting our TV back.” She exhaled. I touched her arm. “Remember the time we watched that funny show together, the one with the lady who had a saucepan on her head?” Mother turned over, pulling her arm away from me. I reached out and touched her knobby spine. “You laughed and laughed, and I was leaning on you and your laughing and wobbling made me wobble too.” She was silent, and I waited for her to breathe. Her spine moved under my fingers. I leant gently against her chest as she exhaled again. Her heartbeat sounded loud and constant in my left ear. Her chest slowly rose, and I rose with her. Momentarily I felt supported by her, held, remembered. She pushed me off her and spoke, her voice soft and husky. “Get the fuck away from me. You’re not having my earrings, you hear? They’re from Brucey.”
“Mother, it’s me, Miranda.”
“Fuck-off”
“I’m your daughter.”
“I don’t care whether you’re the cat’s bloody mother, you’re not taking my earrings.”
I swallowed hard and tried to speak again, and couldn’t. I turned out the bedroom light, stepped onto the soft rug and walked out into the bright hallway.
“Don’t you come back here again, bitch.”
I pushed the yellow switch on the yellow stucco wall and felt the soothing darkness caress me.
“Turn the light back on fucking witch.”
I pulled her heavy door closed behind me. I could hear her yelling something indiscernible. I whispered an answer. “Gotta go mother and see if we got our TV on ebay. Maybe we could watch that show again together.”
I walked onto the cracked pavement and turned my face towards the pale, silvery-gray sky.