Scent

Scent
Nearly unseen
A breath from the shine of a shoulder
Or a neck
Flutter deeper
Calling
Calling
From the beginning
Of the centuries
Melting into skin
Crawling
Craving inside
The epiphany of birth
And the yearning to return
Darker still
Falling
Warm as pools
where first life squirmed
Diving
Dividing
Feeding
The total embrace
Panting panting
No thought
And every
Religion.

Little Known Facts #1

Pop quiz time! (Don't you hate when you get a pop quiz on Monday? Blah. I hate myself for doing this to you.)

But this is going to be easy. One question only! I guess that makes it pass/fail.

1. In high school, I was: (A) an English and art student who ended up a lawyer because it seemed to be a fairly decent job or (B) a science freak who planned to become a doctor or die, but burned out somewhere along the way.

If you answered B, take a bow!

Surprised?

Okay, you want proof. Well, I can tell you what I was doing the evening of November 11, 1986. I was staining and mounting skin cells taken from the inside of my cheek. Mind you, this was with my own equipment and supplies and on my own time. !!FOR FUN!! Holy crap.

I know, not normal at all for a 16 year old. I'm surprised my parents didn't plant me in therapy.

Oooh. Oooh. But wait! Look at this one! Oooh, yeah. Kickin' cool!

Yep, that's my blood. And I even snagged a couple white blood cells by the center. Note the lovely contrast between the nuclei (blue) and the cytoplasm (pink). That wasn't easy to achieve, my friends. Just the right staining technique. (You can laugh, really. I won't hate you. Much.)

My science teachers were great supporters. They let me order stuff to culture bacteria, stain specimens, and mount them on slides. They let me hang out with them in the back room when I had study hall.

Part of me feels like I let them down.

Wait, you say you're not happy with your grade? How about another question for extra credit. One of my teachers gave me a box of old slides from a local hospital. This one is intestinal tissue. Whoever leaves a comment correctly identifying the structures marked with the black arrows gets five bonus points! Woo hoo!

No peeking at the comments! (Hint: this isn't as hard as it might seem.)

UPDATE: A medical expert/Ph.D. friend of mine pointed out that this is clearly not healthy intestinal tissue. It appears to be a section of a tumor or polyp, likely cancerous. However, that doesn't change our little quiz!

(By the way, don't ask me about the pictures. I won't tell you that I took them last night. I don't want to admit that the science freak is alive and well, just not as visible as the good old days.)

Nocturne

In sleepy candlelight steps hides wakes
the notes
A motion sensuous flies shapes
the night
of
smiling warm rain

Enchanted eyes release wish thirst reach
the flames
Breaths pounding yearn to steal kiss kill
the sky
of
tinkling mirror tears

(Unlike the nobility of many baroque and classical pieces, there is something deeply human in a Chopin Nocturne. I've read that Chopin was a kind of rock star in his day. The women would swoon when he played. I wrote this poem listening to his Nocturne in F Sharp Major (Op. 15 No. 2). Perhaps someday I'll play you one I've been working on, the Nocturne in B Major (Op. 32 No. 1.) For now, I'll post a YouTube version of the F Sharp Major piece if you'd like to hear it.)

The Passions of Bryn: Requiem I*

(A series of vignettes about Bryn, a vampire tortured by the irresistible pleasure of feeding on the men she loves.)


After days of blanketing grey, Bryn walked the black night.

Gentle snow whirled between buildings still scattered with lit offices. She imagined them up there, saw them, isolated and alone. She sneered at the way they scurried, too crazed to feel their life squeezed.

Such a childish thing to call them, to take them, but it was meaningless death, and by polluting herself with it, she would itch with their decay.

The stillness sharpened the world, cystallized it, but she hated the precision. She yearned to close her eyes. She yearned to sway in the steamy air, when the darkness undulated with its own form.

Around a corner, the north wind roared through her strawberry hair.

From all directions, couples dressed in black and sparkles converged in the flicker of gaslights. She joined the little crowd, then slipped through the theater doors. For such a beautiful woman, she brushed through the salon to the velvet stairs unnoticed. The usher who took her ticket seemed to stare around her.

"Orchestra level," he said. "To your right. Row GG is halfway to the stage."

She exhaled slowly, just for a spark of fun.

He blinked.

He blinked as if something quite extraordinary materialized in front of his face.

"Thank you," she said, her voice low, weaving through his wavy, black hair.

Lips moving, he swallowed.

But she spun away.

Down into the gloom, she drifted among the murmurs and sat. The orchestra tuned and leaped through its arpeggios.

She did not look around. Not yet.

She would wait for Mozart, her beautiful Mozart, then offer herself.

She would open her eyes, lusting, and dare to hope.


Go to The Passions of Bryn: Requiem 2.

*You may remember my short piece "Winter Wind," from a week or so ago. Something about the way that story evolved resonated with me. Also, I haven't come across many stories which explore the eroticism of vampires in quite the way I envision it. Putting these two ideas together, I've decided to explore this character further. I won't be putting the pressure on myself of doing a true series, but I will be revisiting Bryn now and again. As usual, I have no concrete idea where I will take it, but I do like living on the edge of failure, LOL!

Bobby's First Long Pants

If there is one time when a male man is supremely self-satisfied and complacent, it is when he crawls into his first pair of long pants and stalks proudly around, with just the suggestion of a smirk on his manly features.

Oh that is a time to rejoice and be glad. It means more even than the first shave. That suit! Those cuffs on the trousers! No more knickerbockers! "But when I become a man!--" Note how he sticks out his chest and thrusts his hands in his pockets, the admired of all beholders, the observed of all observers, the cynosure of every eye.

(Montgomery Ward & Co. advertisement from The Fra, May 1914, published by the Roycrofters.)

* * * * *

I love old ads, especially the ones before the wide reach of electricity. They unfold so slowly, deliberately. They revel in language and literary structure, very different than the 12-year-old education level targeted by advertisers today.

Can you imagine the story of Bobby and his first pair of pants being used for something like a Macy's ad in this month's New Yorker?

So what's changed?

Writing reflects how we think, how we perceive, and our communication expectations are very different today. We are hit with images and color and speed. Information and emotion spins directly into our brains.

Radio, television, and films have altered the way we think.

As writers, we can't underestimate how much these modes of communication affect our approach to storytelling. Why is show, not tell such a mantra? Because media forms like film have made the membrane between reality and fantasy very thin. Now, with virtual reality experiences adding motion and touch and even scent to the experience, it's getting even thinner.

Showing draws in the events of your story tighter, like you're hovering close enough to touch. Showing is like looking through clear glass. If you don't bump your nose on the pane, you forget it's even there.

But each time you drop a filter between the reader and the action, the experience loses some vibrancy and immediacy. What kinds of filters am I talking about? Narrating. Summarizing plot, emotions, and motivations. Packaged exposition. All of these "filters" distort the fictional reality.

Does that mean you can never use a literary filter? No, they can be important and effective tools. However, they should be carefully and purposefully chosen for effect. They should not become automatic. They should not become the rule rather than the exception.

(Pssst! Bobby! You do look bitchin' in those pants, my man.)

Moments from Disney

Greetings from Florida! The week has been going well, even though the weather has been a little unsettled. Wednesday was close to 80, and today we were lucky to hit 60. The parks have been more crowded than we expected, but manageable. I thought I might share a few moments.

1. You Want us to be What?

So, we were approaching the test drive ride in Epcot with the usual heated debate: should we stand in line or get a Fast Pass and come back later? The negotiation spilled over to whether my younger daughter was going to get on at all. (Her--Is it fast? It sounds fast! Me--Not too fast. Kind of on the slow end of fast. Her later--You lied to me. Me later--Technically I didn't. Although, maybe I did on the no curves part.) When we finally approached the gate all decided, a Disney employee asked if we would like to be the family of the hour. Immediately, my lawyer brain kicks in. What's involved? Obligations? Photos with advertising rights? Will we have to sign waivers?

I'm in vapor lock when my mother pipes up, "what do we get?" The dude says, "cut the line and get two rides instead of one." Sold. Man, maybe I do need a vacation.

2. Close Encounters of the WTF Kind.

They travel in packs. They look alike. They speak a strange kind of language.

And when they get riled, they...well, I can't even describe it.

Yes, you know what I'm talking about. Cheerleaders. Some kind of national competition nearby. Enough said.


3. Dinner in Cindarella's Castle.

Nice to do once. I wouldn't go again, though.


4. Look at that Guilty Face.

I just found this scene silly. Is he selling fish traps, perhaps?


5. Buses Here, Buses There, Buses Everywhere.

(And an occassional boat.)

6. Hey Kids, You Want to Meet Ariel, Right? Right??

As promised, here's Ariel. I'm not stalking. Really.


7. Nice Time for a Nap in Animal Kingdom.


8. Who Can Resist Snow White?

And lastly, I just couldn't resist sneaking into a picture with Snow White.


See you all this weekend!

UPDATE: Yes, Anne, I did ride Tower of Terror today!! Very cool, even though I hate dropping rides. They did a great job with the hotel/twilight zone decor. Good thing I warmed up by riding the Aerosmith Rockin' Roller Coaster. Kodak moment: me turning to my wife deep in line when I overheard something she said. "You mean this thing goes upside down?" Whoops. That thing takes off so fast, my small intestine was trailing the car.

"You Ended the Story Where it Should Have Begun"

(First in a series on thoughts about writing.)

Once upon a time, I was watching "Party of Five." You know, Neve Campbell, that guy, and that other guy. Five kids try to hold it together after their parents died. The older brother has to go to work and sacrifices his dreams; there's lots of angst, everybody "hurting," etc.

But I digress.

In one episode, Neve Campbell's character was taking a college creative writing class. She wrote a very fine piece. I have to admit it sounded good. The professor had a blunt reaction, though. He said, "you ended the story where it should have begun." She was devastated and planned to drop the class.

I think I've come to understand what he meant.

This particular phenomenon lives in the old "show, don't tell" neighborhood, and in the spirit of showing, I'm going to demonstrate. For the first piece, imagine hearing the words of the narrator in a movie like "Stand by Me" or a TV show like "The Wonder Years." It might go something like this:

My mother always brought my lunch to class. Every single day. The other mothers packed lunches and were happy to send them crumpled in hands, dropped on buses, and shoved into corner of lockers. But not my mother. She kept mine in the refrigerator until ten minutes before noon. Then, she came. Right into the classroom to hand it me.

It made me ever so popular. I never forgave her for that.

As a writer, this paragraph was pretty comfortable to write. I explored the character, set the tone of the story, and gave you essential back story. Unfortunately, I've also failed. Why? Because I just gave you the Cliff's Notes version of my story.

Hidden in all that exposition, there's gobs of action. But I didn't deliver any of it. I've hoarded it all to myself.

Perhaps this would be better:

Mrs. Rose slashed the chalk on the blackboard.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

I misspelled the word "misspelled" again. Oh man, she hated that.

Her face flushed. "Billy! m-i-s...S! I've been quizzing you people on this word for two months! Do you think you can finally fit that somewhere in your brain?"

"Yes, Mrs. Rose."

"Two S's!"

"Yes, Mrs. Rose."

I glanced at the clock for the fourth time. The second hand kept sweeping. That's why I mispelled it.

I mean misspelled!

It was coming any moment. I sank down and begged my ears not to get red. She knocked when my eyes were closed.

"Mrs. Rose? Mrs. Rose?"

The teacher didn't even answer anymore. She just waved from her desk.

Is Billy here? I have his lunch for him."

Someone snickered, and a spitball smacked me in the hair.

Is the experience of reading that more engaging? The trick is to carefully weave in the back story while letting the readers live experience. By manipulating mood, description choices, character interaction, and dialog, the readers can piece together everything they need. A story created in the readers' minds will always be far more vivid that one we can package for them.

So what was Neve's problem in a "Party of Five?" Her piece was the back story, the narration. Almost like the notes a writer makes before diving beginning a story. When she was done, and we were ready to dive into the action, there was nothing more.

Let your characters live and breathe right away. By living with them a while, we'll get to know them. Just give them an exciting world to walk around in, and it will all come together.

Leaving on a Jet Plane

All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go...except unlike the song, I DO know when I'll be back again.

Saturday.

While I'm away, I'll be checking in and visiting in the evenings. I'll also try to maintain my posting schedule, although Monday's post will be in the evening rather than first thing at midnight. I thought I'd try my hand at offering some thoughts on a technical point of writing.

Wish me luck! My family is spending the week with Mickey in Florida, and I'm a little afraid about burnout. On the bright side, maybe I'll get to meet Ariel.

The Passions of Bryn: Winter Wind

He nudged his napkin along the dark wood.

A bulge of water on the bar feathered in and drained. The bartender got a little wild with the ice cubes.

He slipped ten dollars under his glass. Nice tip.

"Hey, thanks man," the bartender said.

He nodded and picked up his coat from the stool. Outside the door, the bitter cold peeled him. Wind chills way below zero. He buttoned down to the knees, but the blistering gusts ripped through.

He curled tighter and pressed into the night.

Block after city block, little worlds of light marched under lamp posts. He passed flights of stairs, brownstones glowing from their transom windows. Too bad chunks of color flaked off the masonry. Fakes, all of them. Nothing but stucco and paint.

He turned onto a street where bare trees jostled in the wind. Up the stairs, he raised a hand to knock, but the door opened before his knuckles fell.

She was there. The winter at his back pushed him into her eyes, clear like glass. He stood as the hall clock ticked beyond the hours.

She took him.

Hands under his coat. Rooms blurring. Cool skin sliding over his.

Then, the motion.

Whirling. Slipping. Reaching out to claw every inch of him down.

She was waiting at the bottom when he came.

She bit him, and he gushed into her. His blood. His semen.

The vampire yearned, and he delivered. Every last shiver. Every whispered wish. Every memory when the air smoothed over still waters. He delivered.

And for a moment after he died, she even loved him.


Go to The Passions of Bryn: Requiem 1.

Take a Walk With Me

Back in the fall, I visited the amazing Laurel Hill Cemetery of Philadelphia one late Saturday afternoon. It's like a secret world nestled on the edge of the inner city. Tough, crumbling neighborhoods lie just outside the walls.

Take a walk with me that day while I play the Scottish slow air, "Bonnie Strathyre," on the John Walsh Shuttle Pipes. Thanks for the company!

Anthropology

City blocks
Lights along the river
Ribbons of white and red
Like blood
Pumping in
Trickling out
I feel the patient dying
In the pavement

I know the woman
Standing over there
She doesn't know me
But thinks she does
I'll introduce you

Worm beneath the sewers
The conduits
There are hairpins in the latrines
Streets over streets
Over streets
I'm down there
Twisted with the victims
of yellow fever

Someone must have
Uncovered me

(Picture: The southern view from my office building, 32nd floor.)

The Fallen

(An island in the South Pacific, World War II.)

Dean's feet sprayed sand. He pounded towards the artillery crater.

Had to move. Had to move. Had to move.

Snipers were plucking them off, one by one.

Move, move, move.

Twenty more yards to cover, just twenty--

The world JOLTED. Spun.

Liquid beach. Liquid cliffs. Colors like mud.

Something crashed into his back. The air was gone.

The bright sky drained to midnight.


* * *


"What've you got?"

"Mortar blast. Abdominal wound. It's a fucking mess."

"You got him?"

"Don't know."

"You got him?"

"Jesus! Get down! They're firing everywhere."

"Fucking nightmare."

"They're cutting us up."

"I'm checking that man ahead. He might be breathing."

"Don't fuck around."

"I'll be back to help drag this guy."

"Hurry!"


* * *


Dean blinked at the blur hovering over him. He heard paper tearing. Someone muttering and cursing.

"Come on. Stop the bleeding. Stop the fucking bleeding."

Dean tried to speak.

"Hey, you awake? Stay with me, you hear me? Stay with me!"

Dean saw a splotch of color floating in the air. Red on white.

A medic? Had he been hit?

"You're pretty chewed up, man, but if I can just stop this bleeding-"

A whistle and metallic thwak sliced the medic's voice. His helmet landed next to Dean's head. The man pitched forward and across him.

Dean wheezed under the weight. Couldn't breathe.

Tingling in his hands and groin crept inward, then washed up into his brain.

Slipping away.

Slipping away.

The battle sprinkled off into silent white.


* * *


Two men walked among the bodies blown over with sand.

One by one, they pulled the stiffened limbs out of the dried mops of seaweed. Misshapen body bags lined the shore.

"Oh shit, I hate to see that."

"What?"

"Medic. They shot him right over a guy, for Christ's sake. Fucking animals."

"Yeah."

"Should've kept your head down, man."

"Too late now."

"No shit. You got him?"

"Yeah."

They unhooked the medic from Dean's body.

"Jesus! Look! This guy's soft."

"He's breathing!"

"Yo! Hey! Get the doc over here! We've got a live one!"

Feet scrambled on another part of the beach.

"Four days.... Holy Jesus Look at that guy's guts."

"It must've been the medic's weight. Like a huge fucking bandage."

"Yeah."

"Unbelievable...unbelievable."

"I hope he makes it."


* * *


Dean nodded. His son-in-law blinked. His granddaughter home from college looked at him like she never had before.

"Yeah, I had a lot of respect for the medics," he said with a gruff smile.


(This story is my fictionalized account of a true story. The father-in-law of a former law partner of mine recently told him a story of how he survived wounded for four days after a medic tending to him during the battle was shot in the head fell over him. The pressure of the body stopped his bleeding. I dedicate this piece to all of the soldiers whose stories we will never hear.)