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I’m back and in.
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May 27, 2020 21:09
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| # ¿ Apr 24, 2024 09:29 |
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Choosing a Path 1218 words The black vaporous cloud doesn’t disappear. I know this from beneath my sheet because I feel things. See them too. It won’t stay hovering for long before dive bombing me, looking for entry. My eyes and mouth are closed. I’m holding my nose, but at some point I’ll have to breathe. It will seep up my nostrils or down my throat, coiling itself around my lung or kidney or heart, squeezing until I cry out and Mama comes running. Yelling, “Maria, give in, I beg of you. There are worse things in life.” I’m fourteen and have been chosen. For two years I’ve endured nightmares, visitors from the other realm and, more recently because they’ve grown impatient, bodily invasions. Papa says they won’t stop, even if I endure until I’m eighteen and leave this village for Quito to study art, they’ll follow me. He says I’m avoiding the inevitable. I hold my breath until I pass out. It’s not the first time, but before I always saw black. This time I’m floating in a sea of crimson. It’s neither pleasant nor foreboding; it just is. Until the cracking of bones echo like a voice traveling into the depths of a cave and back again puncturing my ears, traveling the length of my body, searching for an exit. At breakfast Mama places a mug of tea in front of me and insists I drink. She tells me when I was born, my “cabeza grande” forced itself into this world and broke her tailbone. The pain was unbearable, but she was comforted because it was a sign. “Of what? That I'd be a pain in the rear end?” Her gaze is silent and cunning, like a jaguar. “You’ll drink and listen and not disrespect me again.” Mama doesn’t usually talk like that, so I take a sip of tea to stop myself from more backtalk. “A spirit guide came to me that day telling me to swallow the pain, for one day she who caused it would become great and powerful. That she would have visions like no other shaman in all of Quichua history.” The spirit got that right. I continue to drink the tea. It tastes like brewed cacao leaves, but has an unfamiliar sweetness to it. Mama’s voice starts to sound like a lost howler monkey. “I know you’ve been visited by spirits since you were young, but they’re no longer willing to play your childish games. I have seen the marks on your body you’ve tried to hide with your scarves. They’re getting angry. It is time, Maria.” My head is growing light, and the walls of the room expand. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Papa and Tuntu, the elder shaman from our village, standing like statues. The pounding of a drum begins to beat time with my heart, and I am no longer in the room. I’m lying on a rock at the top of a mountain. An eagle swoops down coming within inches of my naked body. A whirlwind picks him up, swirling him around and around before dropping his stunned body upon my abdomen. I lie still waiting, for what I do not know. I only know I am to wait. When I lift my head from the table, Tuntu announces that I have not been chosen in vain. I have an extra rib bone on my right side. My destiny has been confirmed. And does tricking me into a trance count for anything? In three nights time there will be a dance ceremony and my fate will be sealed. According to everyone, I’m blessed with a sacred gift. I should be honored. So then why do I feel like my life is over? Tuntu calls me shamanka before he leaves and informs me the spirits will send me a new name soon. *** The drums are calling my body into involuntary movement. I’m wearing mock wings of feathers, since it’s been determined the eagle is my spirit animal. Oh that I could fly away. Claws have been attached to my sandals. They scratch the ground with every step. A fire burns, cuts through the darkness. Chanting surrounds me, but I remain silent. I am to wait for the words and sing them to the sky, but the words do not come. What comes is a pair of bear-faced spirits. They each hold one of my hands, sending my body into a frantic frenzy. Surprisingly, I am not afraid. With their other hand they peel away my skin, my muscles, my organs, until I am only bones. Bones clanging the hollowness that is my soul, as they jerk one direction then another. I’m still fighting it. I refuse to let the words escape my mouth. The bear spirits open their mouths wide and clamp onto my jaw. It cracks. A song I do not recognize soars from my lips creating a canopy above me. My body spins around until, at last, I fall to the ground. The drum stops. Tuntu comes to me, lifts me and chants the words scratched into the dirt: I am Kikoma. No one in the village calls me Maria again. The next morning Tuntu welcomes me into his hut. The walls are lined with dream catchers and headdresses and relics the likes of which I’ve never seen. A jaquar skin is on the dirt floor. He motions me to sit. Places a carved wooden box in front of me. “Open it.” Inside lies a collection of broken animals bones, mostly from chickens and other birds. “These are your tools. They are sacred. I will teach you all I know, but you must open your soul to the voices of your eagle spirit. He is your true mentor.” For a week I’m obedient. I listen to Tuntu’s every word, drink tea, and fall into trances that last for hours. On day seven, when I enter the hut, I find Tuntu dead in his bed. Finally free. The morning sun sends a beam into the open door, illuminating the box on the floor. While water is boiling for tea, I search Tuntu’s possessions for what I need. I choose the tea that earlier had taken me on a journey high above the earth: flying above the sea, feeling the wind ruffle my feathers, viewing the earth below as the artistic wonder it is. I drink and open the box. I reach into my soul and chant the words I find there. When I awake, I’m holding a mobile made of sticks, string, and chicken bones. It’s the most beautiful work I’ve created. I hang it on the threshold of the door. Watch as it blows freely in the breeze. The sun is setting, a red ribbon flaps across the darkening clouds. It’s then I notice the silence. Not a bird is singing. Not an insect buzzing. Not a child laughing. I walk the path leading to the village. Along the way, dead birds scatter the ground. Coming out of the brush, I see the first human casualties. My younger brother Julio and his friend Miguel are lying on the ground next to the river, lifeless. I go hut to hut. Find everyone resting in peace. Even Mama and Papa. An unexpected joy runs through my bones. I’m free.
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May 31, 2020 19:05
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In and flash me
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Jun 1, 2020 21:54
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Teamwork prompt Squirrel flash 1711 words June 1 Assignment: Write about a problem at your house and how it was solved. Teacher: Mrs. Mueller Grade 7 First Draft By Kim Lyons Bug Off, Bushy Tail Some people think squirrels are cute creatures with bushy tails that harmlessly go around collecting nuts. They’re wrong. They’re annoying thieves. Just ask the birds. Our family loves birds, especially my dad. So, there are multiple bird feeders in our yard. The problem is, the squirrels love the bird food and will do anything to get at it. My dad has tried everything to stop them. He even bought an expensive feeder that was supposed to keep squirrels off, but it didn’t work. I guess squirrels aren’t as dumb as they look. Anyway, my dad was at the end of his rope and decided he had to take drastic measures. He hatched a plan that included my mother, brother and me. My dad did the legwork by spying on the squirrels for over a week to determine their habits: when did they feed, how many were there, that kind of thing. My mom was the seamstress. My brother and I had the biggest job if you ask me. So, one Sunday morning at 6:30 dad woke us up and made us get into our costumes. My brother complained and mentioned something about his allowance better be double this week. I’m the good daughter, so I just did as he asked. In the yard, our dad put us into position behind two bushes and gave us our instructions. When we heard three knocks on the window, that meant the squirrel, for there was only one of them, was entering the scene. We were to jump out making loud shrieking noises and chase it. I tried to tell dad, I couldn’t see a darn thing in that costume, but he didn’t listen. Things were happening as planned. Knock. Knock. Knock. My brother and I ran out shrieking and running around, presumably in circles. I tripped and fell, breaking my ankle and my brother ran into the bird feeder knocking it down. Seed flew everywhere. We never even saw the squirrel. Because I broke my ankle, dad declared the project over. Rocky won. June 2 Peer Feedback Jack: I like your title even though it is kinda stupid. It’s in chronological order and I understand it. Your brother sounds cool. I liked when he asked for more allowance. How old is he though? I couldn’t picture him. How did you feel about getting up at 6:30 on a Sunday? Are you really that “good?” I mean I don’t want you to make things up, but wasn’t there any conflict about doing this from your family at all? What was your mother doing? Sammie: OMG, I love squirrels! I’m not all that interested until the squirrels come in, so maybe consider starting with that or something and then maybe give the background later. Like Mrs. Mueller says, “hook the reader.” Maybe give an example of something your father tried to do in the past. I’d like to know more about how you felt during this whole thing. Marissa: Good job following the topic of the assignment It’s solid organizationally and keeps my interest for the most part, but it would be better if you added some more description and maybe even dialogue. I don’t know if you realize it, but you never said what kind of costumes you had on. I was wondering the whole time. Think about adding some senses into it and describing the action scenes more. I like the “Knock. Knock. Knock.” June 3 Teacher Feedback Kim, You seem to have gotten some sound advice from your classmates. I’d consider what they had to say. I’ll add that structurally and grammatically it is a solid piece. It fits the assignment and you made attempts to engage the reader. You have an introduction and brief conclusion, so the piece works as a whole. You attempt voice (“I guess squirrels aren’t so dumb after all” and “I couldn’t see a darn thing…”), but I agree with Sammie. It would be nice to see more of you in the piece. Try to avoid cliches like “My father was at the end of his rope.” Nice try at using language, but this one is old. I bet you can be more creative. Finally, think back about the literary devices we learned this year: metaphor, simile, imagery, pacing, and see if there are places you can use them. Happy revising, Mrs. Mueller June 4 Enter the “Muse,” featuring…. Metaphor: School assignments are rule books. But, hey you need to make the most of it. Your family is ripe for a metaphor. Just saying, you guys are a bit fruity. Simile: I don’t know, I’m like, missing some similes here. Take your bro for instance, how was he running around? And, don’t laze out and use an adverb. They’re so lame. And like, what about your yard? You act as if you’ve never been in it. Hit me up, man. Imagery: I’m not seeing it. I want to see a movie in my head when I read. Put me in the scene, girl. I want to smell the birdseed and feel the costume. Fur me, baby. Pacing: What. Is. Going. On? This piece is putting me to sleep. Change it up and give me a squirrel scene that makes my heart race, my chest heave, my breath run out. I wanna pass out like I drank too much with Simile last night. Just kidding. But, seriously. June 5 Assignment: Write about a problem at your house and how it was solved. Teacher: Mrs. Mueller Grade 7 Revised Draft By Kim Lyons Saturday Morning Cartoon Our family is sitting at the breakfast table, a Saturday morning cartoon. Mom’s sizzling bacon, Robbie’s playing some video game, I’m reading Twilight for the third time, and dad’s staked out by the window with binoculars. “There you are, you bastard.” I’m the only one to look up, just in time to see Rocky, as my dad has unaffectionately named him, run like an Olympic gymnast, flip over the deterrent cone, and stick his landing. He proceeds to slide his tiny rodent hands into the feeder, stuff his cheeks full, and flee before my dad even hits the door. I have to be impressed with skills like that. The escape does not deter Dad who is screaming like a Cherokee going to war, running through the backyard brandishing a broom, telling Rocky if he comes back he’s going to be one dead squirrel. God, I hope the neighbors are away. To bring today’s episode to an end, Mom yells that breakfast is ready. As we swallow scrambled eggs and crunch toast, were blessed with Dad’s tirade about how people think squirrels are so cute, but they’re a menace, and how he doesn’t work hard to pay for bird food just to have them eat it, and how he feels sorry for the chickadees. As usual we’re mostly ignoring him until he announces “the plan.” “The plan” involves all of us working as a team. It appears Dad is the director and we’re the players, even though we never tried out. We have to show Rocky who’s boss. This includes intimidation using prey since he’s not afraid of humans. Mom is to be seamstress, Robbie and I the actors. Mom complains, “I don’t have time to make coyote costumes, dear.” “I’ll cook dinner this week,” Dad counters. “Operation Rocky happens in one week.” Dad’s tone signals the conversation over. I honestly don’t know if Robbie registered any of it, him being six and all. As for me, I hoped Mom would secretly rebel during a conversation in bed that night, like parents do on TV, or that Rocky would find an easier bird feeder to attack, and all would be right with the world again. Evidently that conversation never happens and Rocky likes a challenge. The next Saturday at 6:30, Dad rustles me out of bed, throws a costume at me and says it’s time. “Dad, it’s Saturday.” I roll back over. “Exactly. Be downstairs in ten. This isn’t an option.” As I’m slipping on the costume, it scratches my bare legs. I think how the military is the perfect job for Dad. Mom’s in the kitchen tying my brother into his costume when I slink in. He looks ridiculous. He turns and laughs. “You look funny,” he says. Ditto, Buster. The plan is Robbie and I will hide behind a bush until we hear three knocks in the window, at which point we’ll jump out and chase Rocky, supposedly scaring the bejesus out of him, and he’ll never return. As we’re heading out the door, Robbie says his allowance should be double this week, and I tell dad I can’t see a darn thing with the hood on, but he’s mission deaf. Robbie and I are in position. Presumably Dad is at the window with his binoculars. We all wait. And wait. Robbie starts digging a hole with a stick looking for worms. I elbow him, whisper to cut it out. Knock. Knock. Knock. “Go, and don’t forget to howl.” Robbie leaps from behind the bush and makes for the feeder with his stick like a sword-fighter. I let out a howl and run around in circles. I can’t see Rocky but I’m assuming he’s there somewhere. I step in a hole. Fall. Hear a crack. Cry out in pain. Robbie turns, bumping into the feeder. Birdseed flies like coins from a slot machine. Rocky’s on the ground stuffing his face, runs off. Mom and Dad hurry outside. Episode two is over. Rocky wins again. At dinner that night, after spending hours at the ER, Dad announces Operation Rocky is officially over. I secretly rejoice, thinking life can go back to normal. “Ah, man, I wanted to be a star.” Robbie says. “What are you talking about?” “Show her, Mom.” Mom hands me her phone. There on Instagram, in all our coyote glory, my brother and I are forever immortalized. 358 likes already. I want to die. Then I see Rocky dancing along the patio railing, and I have a new mission.
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Jun 8, 2020 01:39
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Jun 24, 2020 01:06
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| # ¿ Apr 24, 2024 09:29 |
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Paul Nash, Landscape from a Dream 1337 Words If Thunderdome was a Surrealist Painting of Words I don’t belong in this story. At least the “I” that none of you really know. To you, I’m a pseudonym, a person who attempts to write good words and take criticism from other pseudonyms who attempt to do the same. I mean I could be a pimply-faced teenage boy who just whacked off to a tittie magazine before starting to write this, or a middle aged woman with a masters degree in writing whose twenty-something son told her about a group that does writing comps every week. Let’s go with that one. So, here I sit, a middle aged woman who has been given a surrealist painting by Paul Nash, Landscape from a Dream to be exact, and I’m challenged to look into the painting, let it speak to me, and create good words, words to entertain, or make one think, but whatever I do, don’t be boring, or God forbid, don’t write a story that doesn’t go anywhere. There is a description of said painting that goes something like this: This painting sums up Nash’s surrealist work and Freud’s notion that dreams are the gateway into the subconscious, and there’s a hawk, and there are some spheres, yeah, yeah, yeah. I actually like the painting. It’s calm and it’s serene, even though I have no idea what the gently caress it means. But that’s OK. I really don’t give a horse’s rear end about Paul Nash’s subconscious. I do, however, on occasion, care about my own. So, I thought about my dreams. Often times, and I suspect this is true of you too, I forget them unless I write them down, which I’ve done periodically over the years, especially that time I was really into dream interpretation back in college, but mostly they ended up being about stress about money, stress about grades, stress about sex, stress about keeping a dream journal. However, there is one dream, and mind you it takes slightly different forms, that I have had recurringly over decades. It’s the one where I am on a journey searching for something, but I never get there. Perhaps you have had it too. I have been through subways, up mountains, in subterranean mazes, hallways, lots of hallways, jungles, fields, and, well you get the picture. I’ve read that it’s not so much the objects that are in your dreams that are important, or even the people, as often very strange people show up in my dreams, I won’t even go there, but it's the feeling you have during the dream. In these dreams I always feel frustrated. That may not be obvious, as I discovered when I talked to a friend who, in a similar dream felt excited and hopeful, even though she never got to a final destination. I asked her why and she told me the journey is a process and it’s not necessarily about the destination. I thought about that, but the next time I had the dream, I was still frustrated. At this point, no doubt, some of you are thinking, or even saying out loud, what the gently caress is this? And, I really don’t blame you. Surrealist art isn’t for everyone either. I mean, I ask you, how many of you have been to an art museum? Do you look at every painting equally? Of course not. I have been to quite a few museums in my day, and I tend to like a wide variety of styles, including surrealism. Still, I do not stand and stare at them all. I ‘m drawn to an image or colors or lighting, so I linger. Others I ignore. For some reason unknown to me, they don’t catch my eye, or even repulse me. So what? I have plenty of other paintings to gaze upon, paintings that cause an odd sense of pleasure deep inside me that I also cannot explain. It is not that I necessarily understand what is going on in the painting, or the intentions of the artist. I just like the drat thing. So, some of you, maybe many, or all, hate these words. So be it. Move on. I won’t take offense. Oh, I used to. I poured my heart into my first loss here, and yeah it was weird, OK really weird, but it had a beginning, middle and end, it fit the prompt, and in the end, I thought it was kinda funny. It wasn’t a still life, that’s for sure. It was, in retrospect, a surrealist painting of words. I wouldn’t try to get it published or anything because I didn’t write it for that purpose, but I reread it the other day and it made me smile. Literally, the corners of my mouth turned up. Oh, what was the story, you wonder? I will refer to it as the timetraveler-searching-for-his-cactus-brother story. If I was an artist, I think I could paint a picture of that story and pull it off as a painting called Landscape from a Dream. The judges took a knife to it and so now it hangs in the museum with shreds of canvas dangling down, this way and that, and some people think that’s part of the painting. But that’s called contemporary art. Where was I, ah, yes, frustration. The thing about those dreams is that they always happened when things weren’t going quite right in my life, my awake life. To me this makes sense, and I’m assuming to Freud as well, though I can’t ask him because he’s dead, and even if he was I couldn’t because as an American I can’t visit Europe, which makes me wonder if he would use the internet in which case I guess I could ask him, but let’s just go with I can’t. Thing is, I’m pretty content with my life right now. Not frustrated. I know this seems impossible since the world is imploding at record speed, but I lie not. I have been more creative and calm and free of any ailment, including a cold for over three months. So, not surprisingly, no dreams, except for that one where I got tested for covid and had a swab stuck up my nose. No worries, it came back negative. This made me wonder how hosed up artists’ lives were, I mean the really good ones, the surrealists for sure, that they not only had super bizarre dreams, but that they thought the public would like to see them represented as melting clocks, and morphed trees, and windows on the coast with hawks and spheres. Then, the epiphany came: if their lives were all rainbows and unicorns, we wouldn’t have the great art we have today. That art, thrives on hosed-upness, or at any rate, life being poo poo makes for more interesting art. So, being in my current content state, and trying to make good words, is not unlike a guinea pig spinning around on his wheel, yet I’m still here, writing. But, don’t fret, I’m almost done. I’m in this story, and I have no business being in it, not really. But I am because Thunderdome is a surrealist painting, and like it or not, I’m a part of it, and so are you, and these are my words, and they will be archived and last forever, or until the plug gets pulled, which I hear rumor it may because lowtax may be brilliant, but he’s also a pig. Or, should I say “may be” a pig, innocent until proven guilty. In which case I will consider it a temporary exhibition. But, in my dreams, my words live on, and it really doesn’t matter if you get it or not, or like it, or hate it, or if I lose or DM this week. Because what we do is subjective, but if it’s from the heart and soul, it has worth, even if that means it hangs from the refrigerator with magnets from Disney World or the Grand Canyon, or one that says, “Eat me,” instead of an art museum.
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Jun 28, 2020 15:27
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