Tremors

Sounds in the apartment hallway poked through the shroud of Richard's sleep.

There was a voice, rumbling and hot.

And pounding.

Pounding on a door.

It muffled a screech within.

Richard rolled. The sounds stirred dream colors. Dark, dripping reds and diseased mutations of green. He pushed the covers and gave them a kick. He squirmed away from the terror squeezing his belly.

A memory moved in the depths of his brain. Under his dream.

Something huge and vital and taken for granted. Like suddenly becoming aware of your liver, and its tireless transformation of your own pollution.

He imagined dark shapes on his old bed sheets. Snoopy with his food bowl. Snoopy sleeping on his red doghouse.

He wanted to scream for his mother.

So much, to scream.

But his mother was already screaming.

And the pounding shook the entire house.

"Open the fucking door!"

Richard flashed open his eyes. His rodeo heart thrashed in his chest.

"I have to take a piss! You fucking bitch!"

The high pitched reply dissolved.

As he woke, pieces of reality slapped back into his consciousness. He was in bed. In Philadelphia. Work tomorrow would suck because his asshole neighbors were drunk again.

The enormous, subterranean fear faded back into his viscera before he got a very good look it.

"Come on! Open the fucking door!"

Nice. Who in the building would call the police this time?

Richard rearranged himself in the bed. Folded his arms behind his head.

He spied the old clock ticking in the glow of his annoying clock radio.

He managed to relax, but couldn't completely shake the irrational fear that his mother was still screaming.


(I'm sad to say, and a bit embarrassed, that blog writing often competes with work on my novel. However, my creativity here has done amazing things for me, so I have no plans to stop. Once in a while, though, I think I can bring the two together. When a scene can stand on its own as a vignette, I may share small excerpts from my work in progress, So This Fish Walks Into a Cemetery. You know, kill two birds with one stone and all....)

Night Conversations: Still Calling

I'm happy to announce that the third installment of Night Conversations has been posted. This evening a young man in his twenties sits down with me to discuss the death of his father, haunting feelings of inadequacy, and his abiding passion to join the ranks in service of God. Stop over for a glass of home brewed mead and listen in on Still Calling. (As always, if you are interested in participating in Night Conversations, please contact me! Each experience has been meaningful not only for the guest and me, but for all who come to share in the conversation.)

Also, please stop by Ello's blog for a special event. Ello writes: "Dr. Gigi Durham, the author of the Lolita Effect, the media sexualization of young girls and what we can do about it, is guest appearing on my blog today to answer questions on this very important topic." Feel free to help spread the word and to join in on the Q&A discussions.

When, Then, Again

Let's say you've toiled on your writing, and finally you've conquered showing versus telling.

You've learned to describe objectively observable actions. You've stopped narrating and forcing your interpretations rather than let the reader make his or her own discoveries.

Congratulations! Showing versus telling is hard to nail down.

But check out this passage. It's got lots of action. However, there are a couple of subtle telling ghosts haunting it.

*****************************************
Cedric ducked.

The swinging sword sparked on the stone over his head. Metal sang like a battle cry.

He pounded his shield in the soldier's body. Threw him back.

When the man's foot missed the top stair, he clattered down, sword sailing and feet pitching skyward.

Then, the enemy line charged. He turned to the archers behind him.

"Retreat!" he screamed.

A black arrow pierced his shoulder and pinned him to the wall.

"Retreat!" he screamed again.
*****************************************

When. Then. Again. Little telling sprites that can still infiltrate my writing. What's the problem, you ask? Let's look at their usage above.

1. "When the man's foot missed the top stair...."

By using when, I'm communicating cause and effect and a sequence in time. The verb missed influences the verb clattered. But do we need it? The order of words already infers cause and effect. In the rewrite, after cutting when, I'd probably even try to split the sentence up: "The man's foot missed the top stair. He clattered down. Sword sailing, feet pitching skyward." The pause created by breaks is almost like that hanging breath just before the fall. Also, shorter sentences convey speed, and this is a fast scene.

2. "Then, the enemy line charged...."

Here, we have a similar communication, except here the prior action itself (clattered) is not contained in the sentence. Then simply reinforces the sequence. Again, not necessary. In fact, little insertions like this often feel like encroachments by the writer. Unless you're writing in first person, you don't want to remind the reader that you're there. No one likes someone talking to them during a movie, after all.

3. "...he screamed again."

Hmmm. So he's doing it again. Pretty obvious when you think about it. He already said it twice. Probably don't need to clobber the reader over the head. They get it. Really.

All this being said, I don't believe in "rules," so I'm not claiming that using when, then, or again means you flunk. It's just something to think about. There truly are characteristics which make writing strong, and other characteristics which make it weak. Weak writing removes the reader from the action, bogs down the experience, and forces the reader to work for the story. When, then, and again are often this sort of baggage. They're subtle. Often passable. But perhaps by rethinking their usage here and there, you'll be able to sharpen your writing that much more.

"So, I hear you're from Johnstown."

I was nervous.

I walked with the group, older students catching up from summer, and freshmen like me, wondering whether a work study job in the biology department was going to suck.

They tried to scare us kids. The mean, towering, white-haired professor loved his library. Handle the books right. Don't slack off. Do a thorough job.

We were going upstairs to do the annual cleaning.

There was a girl in the group I secretly watched. A little quieter than the others, more watchful, but still part of the action. She seemed so comfortable with college life compared with me. I knew nothing.

I caught her eye for a moment.

Dark in the distance. Mysterious and pretty.

Lingering a little longer than anyone else's.

In that moment, I saw something different--how aware she was. That she was not just floating on the surface. She might be someone searching the same depths that I was seeking.

Months later, when I was close to her, I learned that those dark eyes were really green.

--September 1988, Franklin & Marshall College. The day I met Aine.


**********
On May 23, 1992, we were married.
Happy Anniversary, Aine!!! Sweet 16th.
**********

Never Too Late

This world will never be
What I expected
And if I don't belong
Who would've guessed it?
I will not leave alone
Everything that I own
To make you feel like
It's not too late
It's never too late
        Chorus
        Even if I say it'll be alright
        Still I hear you say
        You want to end your life
        Now and again we try
        To just stay alive
        Maybe we'll turn it around
        Because it's not too late
        It's never too late

--Three Days Grace, Never Too Late


He fished the cell phone out of his sopping pocket. The ring tone played a wild organ prelude by Bach.

Streams of water blurred his eyes. The shapes of slippery dark trees and neighboring houses danced.

"Hello?"

"Dude."

His best friend.

"What's up?" he said.

"Not much. You?"

He blinked. It didn't shed the water. "Nothing much."

"What's all that noise?"

"Rain."

"Close the window, man."

He tilted his face upward towards the black clouds. "It's not open."

"But it sounds like you're in the middle of it."

A little thunder trembled.

"I'm sitting my back yard," he said.

"What?"

"I'm sitting in the rain."

He pulled in his legs to sit Indian-style. Rain dripped from his fingers. Cell phones were tougher than he thought.

"You're not joking?"

"Nope," he said.

"Have you lost your fucking mind?"

"Probably."

He gnawed down the urge to cry. Hearing a familiar voice was tipping him over the edge.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said.

"Bullshit."

The downpour blanketed the grass. He watched it. And wished the phone would short out.

"Are you still there?"

"I'm just tired, man. Real fucking tired."

"Then take a nap! Instead, you're sitting in a mud puddle."

Slimy cold slithered down into his underwear. "I should go."

"This is not cool."

"Bye," he said.

"Come on, man. Get up and go back inside."

He shook his head. "I can't go back in there."

"Look. You're at your wit's end. I know that. But can you do something for me?"

"No."

"It's something you want."

He squeezed his eyes shut. Trails cascaded down his face. "I don't know what I want."

"You'll want this. Are you ready?"

"No."

"How about now?"

"I'm going to hang up."

"I'll just call you back."

"I'm tossing the phone."

"Can you hear me now?"

"No."

"Can you hear me now?"

"NO! Jesus Christ! What?!"

"This one word will change everything."

"Spectacular," he said. "Let's hear it."

"Nachos."

He laughed. Or maybe something else. "Nachos?"

"I want you to go inside and make yourself some nachos. Put a mess of jalapeno peppers on it. I don't care that they burn your ass on the way out."

"She hates hot peppers."

"Exactly."

Lightning fried some tree in the east. He winced, but the boom was delayed.

The storm was shifting.

"Why don't I hear a bag of shredded cheese opening?"

"I'm not in the mood for nachos," he said.

"Number one, I didn't ask if you were in the mood. Number two, I don't care if you're in the mood. Now get going."

A few minutes later, his sneakers bubbled water on the way to the back door. Toweling off his hair, he reached for a bag of tortilla chips.

Breaking the smallest of smiles, he also snagged a lime and an old bottle of Tequila.

He giggled after the first shot of Tequila like always. And the burn on his lips felt divine.

Trillium

Painted Trillium*
(Trillium undulatum)

~~~
Three by three by three
Odd Trillium symmetries
Older than the stones
~~~


Red Trillium*
(Trillium erectum)

*Taken in the mountains of Northeastern Pennsylvania this weekend before a high spring rain.

After Midnight

"I'm not going to fuck you," she said, glaring at him through raccoon-black eyeliner.

He choked. "W-what?"

"I am not going to fuck you."

He tripped a step backward. "That's, um...."

She stayed frozen.

"...good to know."

He yanked his gaze over to the automatic doors.

What the hell? Did he look at her wrong?

He peeked. The raccoon eyes narrowed.

"I really wasn't going there," he said. "But thanks."

She picked up the bread, and the conveyor belt dragged everything forward.

"What do you call these?" she said, thrusting out a produce bag.

"Artichokes."

"What are they for?"

"You, um, steam them," he said. "You eat the leaves by scraping them with your teeth. The heart is excellent."

She wrinkled her nose.

Or not.

Behind him, the gentle sound of metal stacking on metal clicked. He turned to see a mouse scurry around a dude building a display of canned mushrooms.

It shot down the next aisle and triggered the automatic doors. The darting shape curved off into the sleepy street noises.

"This is a pretty weird grocery store," he said. "The lady at the deli told me about all her menopause periods. She pointed to the trashcan and said she runs through like a dozen maxi-pads a day."

No reaction from the cashier.

"I'm not sure I want to eat the chipped ham now."

"I've never had a period," she said.

He nodded a few times.

She dropped a bag of apples on top of his Wonder Bread.

He shrugged and handed her the twenty.

Lead Poisoning

                           delicious.
                  are
Bullets

I've been walking the beach the hot hissing beach with bullets thumping sand poomp poomp poomp daring the piss poor shooters like the Colonel in Apocalypse Now standing tall and yelling at the heads cowering under hands and fetal positions and bodies pressed into every burp in the Earth. I'm asking for it right in the Kevlar. You can hit that right? Sure you can because everyone can have good aim sometimes and punch I take it in the stomach because I'm pretty hungry anyway and I bend down to pluck the metal mushroom salivating already down my chin and bites feel weird anymore not having teeth or maybe I do have teeth just metal turned to metal grrrrrriiiiinding but I'll never know because I pass the mirrors instead of break and look down down at anything except the other me looking down.

And back at home the paint is crumbling around the windows but damn does that shit taste good because it's really fucking old and someone I probably would've liked painted those layers gold-red-mustard-mint-white-mustard-mint and I snack in the closet creeping out when no one is looking since I might be turning into a worm but the mirror thing and all so I'm not sure and yeah that's funny because you wouldn't be looking either if you didn't hear my voice because it's not everyday you pass a window in the mood to hear someone dying from munching lead paint and vomiting little soldiers and dreaming about sand between my toes and bad aim and dreaming about learning disabilities but back under the cartoon sun the bullets poomping so hard I'm screaming and my stomach is too full to crawl anymore and my tongue is sailing away battleship grey.

You can laugh.

Because my blood is mercury and pops the glass in my brain. Arteries like thermometers popping when you play with matches. So what if my teeth marks are on the window frame.

I'm planning on staying a while. Munching just munching.

I'm polishing a nice caliber.

And saving the last one.

For
        last.

Bathwater Days

Some days are poured
To be bathwater days
With soapy sun
Lifting
Every footstep
Away from the shade

The Cold Coat of Many Colors

Are you ready for a little candlelight?

Are you ready for a drink to warm you down to the tips of your fingers?

Are you ready for some good conversation?

Drop in over at Night Conversations to listen in on the evening with my latest special guest.

(Is there some important part of your life in which you've felt isolated or misunderstood? Night Conversations is place where you can be heard and feel less alone. Conversations are posted anonymously. I don't even have to know who you are. If that lonely part of you would like to participate, please consider contacting me at jevanswriter at yahoo dot com.)

Remember: Dr. William Darlington

The Remembrance Series: When I walk among old graves, I think about the voices struggling to endure. Someday not even stone will hold our memory.

We can give these voices a little more life in a way they never could have imagined. So please take a moment with me to remember....

IN
MEMORY
OF
DR. WM. DARLINGTON
Born April 28th 1782.
Died April 23rd 1863.

Plantae Cestrienses,
quas
dilexit atque illustravit,
super Tumulum ejus
semper floreant

(My translation: Pitcher plants, which he loved and drew, will always bloom over his grave.)

Plate: By kind permission of his descendants,
the grave of
Dr. William Darlington
is under the care of
the Chester County Medical Society,
which was founded by him
in the year 1828.

Noted physician and botanist, Dr. William Darlington life's adventures included traveling to the East Indies, fighting in the War of 1812, establishing a natural history society, publishing books of botany, and serving as a Congressman. One of those eerie convergence moments came when I read that Dr. Darlington gave "the right and privilege to occupy his land for picnic purposes or pleasure grounds" to Judge Thomas Mellon, owner of the Ligonier Valley Railroad. That land eventually became Idlewild Park, an amusement park in western Pennsylvania that was a favorite place to visit not only for me, but also my parents as children. The park would not exist but for him.

Dr. Darlington had a pitcher plant named after him called a Darlingtonia. It looks like the carving on his gravestone.

Quite a bit came from this random find in a cemetery near West Chester, Pennsylvania.

Lilac

She listened to the cricket song mixing with the rhythm of his heartbeat. The two Earth sounds harmonized. She loved the way he seemed to be part of any place he stood in.

She snuggled against the side of his chest and laid her hand in the dark curls. Despite the summer-like day, a chill tiptoed in the May night.

A breeze whispered, and a ribbon of sweet fragrance tickled past her.

"Do you smell that?" she said.

"Yeah. It's nice."

"It's lilac."

"If it's going to get breezy, I'll have to put my clothes back on. I kind of liked the quiet."

"I always thought lilac had a purple smell," she said.

"Like the color of the flowers?"

"They can be white," she said. "Maybe other colors too."

"Oh."

The leaves rustled. He sat and reached for his socks.

"Hey, you're messing up my warm blanket," she said.

"Shouldn't we be going?"

"Not yet. Come on, lay back down. I'm warm."

He tossed the socks aside and buried back under.

The ghostly threads of lilac thinned.

"There used to be a lilac bush under my window," she said, "when I was little. If the wind came just right, it would fill my room."

"Nature's air freshener."

"My mother would cut blossoms for the kitchen. She used to sit on my bed and tell me stories."

"Nice memories."

"That was before I hated her."

He turned.

The air leaned on the trees again. The skin of her face felt cold.

"We should probably--"

"No," she said. "I want to stay a little longer. Close your eyes. I'll tell you a story about the fairy kingdom that spanned the valley around our yard."

Under the Willows, Part 8, Final (narrative poem)

(A young man yearns to have the power to reach beyond mortal ends. A sensual vampire tale in the tradition of THE HIGHWAYMAN by Alfred Noyes. Just joining us? Go back to Part 1.)



The Earth's primordial flavors drew him
Lashed with divinity's soaring grace
Her body wrapped to consume his hunger
And cradle his precious face

He rode the tidal waves pounding through her
Clutching to match her abandoned pace
And when her gasping eruptions thundered
He preyed on her shrieking place

The whirlwind drained from the frenzied willow
Emptiness seeping from where they flew
And where a drop of her life blood landed
A burgundy primrose grew

      (And he said: will you come if I call?
      Darkness erodes every distance
      And nighttime conquers us all.)

--The End--


Go back to Part 7.