Primordial

Morning has broken
Cat Stevens sang
Who is now Yusuf Islam
Thank god the Earth
Is less changeable
Than religion
Because once in a while
The first morning dawns
And the air is as pure
As prehistoric forests
When no foot had formed
To walk among them

(Click HERE for Cat Stevens singing Morning Has Broken.)

The Finger, Part 6

(When a little girl finds a severed finger on the road, the finger evokes different responses in each person it passes to. If you're just joining us, go back to Part 1)

Thank God for late night fast food.

Sam scored a large chili before walking the dark parking lot to his car. Vending machines stopped you from gnawing your arm off, but it left you restless and a little sad.

The city morgue shared space at Our Lady of Victory Hospital. Sam planted the chili between his legs and eased out of the lot onto the empty streets. Once in a while, he passed a guy wandering the half-lit sidewalks. Other times, a homeless guy nestling on a bed of cardboard. Sam thought about what the beat cops said about the middle of the night. Nothing but lions and lambs. When the predators got too hungry, the cops mopped up the mess.

Sam held the chili and steered with one hand, and spooned with the other. He blew before each bite. Damn hot, but delicious. He drifted through several blinking yellow lights, then shoved the spoon back into the cup to free a hand to make a right.

A van lurched out of a blind alley.

Sam's car crunched into the side.

In the blur of impact, he saw light, his feet, the steering wheel, and a no parking sign.

He rocked back, his face feeling leaden and detached. Bad habit not to wear seatbelts in the city. He tasted blood where his ballooning lips hit.

Splattered chili on the windshield dripped down. Kidney beans fanned across the dashboard along with big chunks of meat. Through the mess, he saw his crunched hood venting steam.

"Jesus fucking Christ."

Sam dropped his head back on the steering wheel and closed his eyes. This was the best night ever.

Outside, a door slammed. Footsteps came closer.

Beautiful. Utterly tremendous.

Someone knocked on the window.

"Hey! Hey, bud! Are you alright?"

Sam wondered. If he wished hard enough, would it all go away?

The man outside screeched. "Oh my God! Oh my God! He's dead! This guy is dead! His brains are all over the windshield!"

Sam snapped up. The guy ran, smashed into a mailbox, and spun to the ground.

"Whoa! Wait!" Sam said. "It's just chili, man!"

The guy scrambled up and pounded on the dark store fronts. "Help! Help!"

Sam wiped the blood with his sleeve.

He checked his swollen face in the rearview mirror.

He reached to open the door.


Back to Part 5.

Literary Influences (A Non-Meme)

A little while ago, a meme bounced around blogland concerning literary influences. A couple people (not naming any names, Catvibe, Linda, and Sarah) encouraged me to do it. I found the task a bit daunting, however, because despite being a writer and a languages major/minor in college (Major: Latin; Minor: English), I always felt somewhat out of place in literature courses. Others could rattle off obscure writers and quote memorized passages they kept close to their hearts. My brain just doesn't work that way. So I'm going to approach this challenge a bit differently.

These books may have influenced my writing, but they also represent signposts in my growth, my development into the person I am today. You'll find that their influences on my writing are amorphous, because I believe copying others' styles produces flat, soulless writing. I've done a ton of work to develop my own writing voice. Over countless hours and more years than I have fingers. I'd like to think my style is largely sui generis (had to throw some Latin in, LOL). And why not? I'm the product of my unique experiences. A writing style flows from the same process.

So Let's Walk the Pages:

1. Edgar Allan Poe, Tell Tale Heart and Pit and the Pendulum. (9 years old.) My first foray into adult writing. I copied Mr. Poe for a long, long time afterward.

2. Jay Anson, Amityville Horror. (11 years old.) Began a long fascination with fear as an engine for stories. One night when we were visiting family in Florida, my cousin tried to terrify me with stories of Jodi the demon pig. Something about her passion for a good scare mesmerized me.

3. Stephen King, The Shining. (14-ish years old.) A tale of fear executed beautifully. I was mesmerized by the depth and skill and intricacy.

4. V.C. Andrew, Flowers in the Attic. (14 years old.) The first story I read that broke severely from human conventions. I thought something beautiful emerged from the horrendous circumstances the children were put in. It made me think about connections with people. Special people. Deeper and more meaningful connections than are commonly formed.

5. J.R. Tolkien, Lord of the Rings. (14 years old.) The first time I was swept away by a world so epic. This story, along with Forrest Gump, to this day represent a unique kind of pain. What if your life experiences pile up too early? If you experience hugely momentous things when young, what do you do with the rest of your years? How do you survive the let down?

6. Constance Westby, Night Stalks the Mansion. (16 years old.) A wonderful "true" ghost story set near where we live. It was the culmination of my feelings that ghost stories and hauntings represent an odd kind of romance. An enduring connection to the past.

7. Frank Herbert, Dune. (17-ish years old). Taught me that people can be read. That people have plans and thoughts hidden from you. It taught me that interactions can have many levels, and the stakes can be deadly.

8. Shirley Jackson, The Haunting of Hill House. (17-ish years old.) The beginning of the modern, Gothic novel. It taught me not to repeat the past. I saw how people like Stephen King had taken the concept farther. We need to take the next step, and the next, not go backwards to what was done before.

9. Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes. (36 years old.) Suggested to me by a blogger, who likened my writing style to this book. I was blown away. I felt validated that tight, but poetic and dramatic language, could carry a story and make it shine.

10. Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves. (36 years old.) An avante garde, groundbreaking, post-modern Gothic novel. I was challenged to push the writing experience farther. To make reading itself an experience that mirrors the action. A story need not be told from a distance. It can be brought to life directly. (If you've read it, you know what I mean.)

11. Alice Sebold, Lovely Bones. (37 years old.) Taught me that tough, intricate emotion can carry a story and make it unique and compelling.

12. Sara Gruen, Water for Elephants. (38 years old.) Taught me to strive for uncommon stories and plots. Don't just rely on convention and stories that have been told hundreds of times before.


So there you have it. A bizarre, but hopefully insightful, list.

Intimacy

If I let fall
My most precious tear
Into the warmth of your hand
I might baptize the stroke
Of my executioner
But how sweet
Would be the salvation
Reflected in the blade

The Finger, Part 5

(When a little girl finds a severed finger on the road, the finger evokes different responses in each person it passes to. If you're just joining us, go back to Part 1)

Sam collected the vials for the lab. Some bloody fluid. Tissue for DNA analysis.

He slipped the fingerprint sheets into an envelope to send to the FBI database. Maybe Jane Doe index finger had a criminal record. Or maybe she got into the system some other way. Lawyers get fingerprinted to join the bar in New Jersey. That's how they snagged that guy who broke into his ex-girlfriend's house to steal her underwear. An estates lawyer. People who make their living from the dead are all more than a little weird.

Sam yawned and picked up the phone. It was after midnight and sliding towards one.

It rang.

And rang and rang.

Sam kept on. He knew somebody was there.

At last, a groggy voice came on. "Morgue."

"Detective Slattery here."

"Right," the guy said slowly. "Um, who?"

"Didn't mean to wake you up," Sam said.

"Late night last night."

"I need you to check something."

"Now?"

"Yeah?"

"But it's like...and everyone's...."

"I'm trying to wrap up some work," Sam said. "I need to know if you have any bodies missing a finger."

"A finger?"

"Yeah. An index finger."

"You're kidding, right?" the guy said.

"Actually, no, I'm not kidding. Go watch Love Boat and fall asleep later."

"Star Trek," the guy said. "But I've seen this one a million times."

"Okay. Good. Now back to the--"

"Man, you're calling me about a finger? You know what kind of company I keep down here? We have bodies in every possible condition. We have fresh ones, cured ones, and ones so rotten they resemble a bag of soup. We have new arrivals, and old friends who have be in the fridge for years. We have heads with no bodies and bodies with no heads. Fingers on, fingers off. Rats like fingers, did you know that? Homeless people die in hidden, tucked away places. When someone finally shovels them out, rats have run away with all sorts of bits and pieces."

"This one is fresh. And cleanly cut," Sam said.

"Good for you."

"Someone intentionally did it. With a knife or cleaver. Or maybe it was piece of machinery."

"You mean, like an accident?" the guy said.

"I guess that's possible."

"Did you check the police reports? The hospitals? A little oops, and chop-o-matic goes the finger. People might have been looking all around for that thing. They can sew those things on really good now. Like it never happened."

"I checked the police reports."

"That would suck to have your finger ripped off, then miss out on the consolation prize of having it sewn back on."


"I can check the hospital reports."

"Did you ever see Saving Private Ryan? You know in the beginning, during the beach landing, when that mortar shell hits, and that dazed guy is looking around for his arm? He bends down, picks it up and carries it off with him?"

Sam sighed.

"You just made me think of that."

"I'll be over in half an hour," Sam said.

"Why?"

"To drop off the finger," Sam said, annoyed.

"Right. Great. A ton of paperwork for a measly finger."

"I'll bring you a can of Red Bull," Sam said.

"I hate Red Bull."

"Perfect."


Back to Part 4.

Paula-Cole Cool

A moment in the life:

I was motoring down a busy stretch of road on Sunday morning. Nice, bright weather. A good dose of warm. I was on my way to buy a new motorcycle battery. Aine and I wanted to fire up the bike for the first ride of the season. Unfortunately, I blew Saturday trying to get the old battery to hold a charge.

The wind blew through my open window. Paula Cole was singing, "I don't wanna wait, for our lives to be over...." (Not with me in the car, mind you. On the radio.) I was into it. I was digging it. The auto store came up on the right, and I hit the signal and started into the turn.

But Paula was belting it out of the window a little too loudly.

I scrambled for the volume to dial it down.

Rolling into the parking lot, I breathed a sigh of relief. None of the dudes heard my chick tune. Whew, close one.

You see, despite being mechanically inclined and a part-time lumberjack, I don't exactly look the part. (Well, at least with the studious glasses on.*) I try to dirty myself up before going into auto stores. You know. To "blend in."

I got a good laugh at myself that morning. Funny how those issues of self image can still move you.

Next time, I'll let it go. Next time I won't diss Paula.

(Unless, of course, I can snag myself some Sweet Home, Alabama really quick.)


*You can stop laughing, Aine.

Breathe

Whenever I'm alone and you're lost out there
I can feel you breathe 'cause our lungs we share
When I'm alone, anytime anywhere
I can feel your heart beat, 'cause our blood we share
I was scared when you came into my room
The walls became the sea, your voice was the moon
Oh, when you rocked me in your arms, like a song
A wave on the tide of you
     --Maria McKee, Breathe

She dragged her coat from the hook and zipped up against the April night. She didn't have to go out. Her house was lit and warm.

Outside, the chill air didn't move. The world perched, expectant, but winter refused to fade away. It hitched a ride on the cold rain. It crawled from the Earth. It traded sparkling snows for upturned mud and spikes of wild grass.

She walked.

Alone.

Thinking and thinking and thinking.

Clouds swallowed the moon as they swallowed the sun. Mists twinkled. The fog was too tired to spirit away the world.

Another set of footsteps clipped toward her.

A man.

She moved to the edge of the sidewalk to let him pass, but something in the way he moved made her slow.

She stopped. In disbelief.

"What am I doing here?" he said. "I don't know, really. I think I, um, felt like going for a walk. Or something like that." He gave it a moment of thought, then nodded, satisfied.

She felt the surprise on her face warm to a huge smile. "You live almost an hour away!"

"Really?" he said. "I mean, yes, I guess I do."

She shook her head, still smiling. No words came. Just disbelief. Unbelievably delicious disbelief.

He lowered his eyes. His hands in his pockets half shrugged.

She glanced back at her house. How could he have known? She never went for walks at night.

"So," he said. "Would you, um, like to go for a walk?"

He offered an arm.

She locked on, and although she didn't meet his eyes, she didn't care how tightly she took it.

The Finger, Part 4

(When a little girl finds a severed finger on the road, the finger evokes different responses in each person it passes to. If you're just joining us, go back to Part 1)

Sam heard the older detectives in his unit laughing.

Bastards.

They were coming in from the main hall after a smoke, or a bag of chips, or a visit to pester Nancy, the 8th floor receptionist. If they invited Sam to leave his makeshift office in the corner, it was only to give him shit. Or to boss him around. He was the entertainment on otherwise slow days.

As usual Rick's voice dominated. Sam heard his name. The usual insults. Another round of laughing. Sam made the mistake of introducing himself as Samuel on his first day. He didn't look up when the three of them came around the cubicle divider.

"Yo, momma's boy," Rick said.

Sam flipped the page in the report folder.

At the edge of Sam's vision, Rick's arm swung, and something crashed into the papers in front of Sam's face.

"Jesus Christ!" Sam said. "What the--"

"Congratulations!" Rick said. "You finally got the big case you've been waiting for!"

"What the hell is this?"

Sam dangled the baggie with the finger in it.

"Well," Rick said, "we were going to give you a hand, but we didn't think you were worth the whole thing."

"Thanks. Thanks a lot."

Fuckers.

"The grunts just brought it in. It was found this morning. Nice of them to let it ripen up a bit for you." Another folder slapped onto Sam's overflowing desk. "There's the report. Some little girl picked it up on JFK."

Sam peered through the plastic.

It appeared to be a woman's finger. Severed just above the knuckle. Index finger from the left hand.

"Go to it Sherlock. Put that private school degree to good use," Rick said. "Or then again, maybe you should call Mulder and Scully over at the FBI. Looks like an X-file to me."

Rick's audience chuckled.

"I guess you'll be pulling an all-nighter," Rick said. "I'd toss you a Snickers Bar from the machine, but I ate the last one. Smell you later."

"Hey, shouldn't this be at the morgue?" Sam called after them. "What are we supposed to do with it here?"

But the voices faded down the hall. The door slapped shut.

"Great," Sam said. "Just great."

He glanced at the clock. 4:55 p.m.

Well, nothing to go home to anyway. An empty apartment and cop show reruns. Might as well get a start.

He turned on the desk lamp and pulled it down. Leaning in, he held his breath and opened the bag.


On to Part 5.
Back to Part 3.

Embryo II

Pillow placentas
Smile and unfold joyful
Fingers innocent

Embryo

If I knew it was there
I wouldn't let it grow
If I knew the person it was
I'd tuck more blankets of snow
Boundless, I've marshaled armies
Obliterated my foes
Not knowing who was watching
Curled blindly below

The Finger, Part 3

(When a little girl finds a severed finger on the road, the finger evokes different responses in each person it passes to. If you're just joining us, go back to Part 1)

"Are you a professional asshole or something?"

"What do you mean?"

"Back there. That lady. It takes talent to be that big of an asshole."

"I've been taking classes."

"You must be top of your class."

"I'm no fucking teacher's pet."

"Someone must've pissed in your Cheerios this morning."

"She was too pretty. I hate bitches like that. They got their garlic bagels, their Starbucks coffee, their Coach handbag, their snooty fucking attitude."

"How do you know what a Coach handbag is?"

"Screw you."

"I just thought you might be holding out on me. You know, a few handbags, some high heels, pantyhose, who knows."

"You want to die today? Is that it?"

"And you're the one to do it?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely."

"I'm scared."

"You should be."

"So what are we supposed to do with this?"

"The finger? Looks delicious, doesn't it? I can think of some things to do with it."

"Seriously. Should we take it over to the morgue? Or over to the detectives? Nice of them to blow us off."

"Come here, big boy."

"Stop it."

"Come here...."

"Don't wave that thing at me!"

"Come.... Follow me...."

"That's sacrilegious, man."

"Or how about this?"

"Disgusting! Get that away from your nose!"

"What? Smells good."

"That's sick."

"No. This is sick."

"Oh, Jesus."

"You like?"

"What if that's a guy's finger? You want a guy's finger touching your crotch?"

"This is no guy's finger, dumbass. Look at it."

"I'm not looking down there."

"She's good. I'm telling you. You want some?"

"You wish someone would put their finger down there."

"Hey, I got an idea. You ever finger your wife?"

"Shut the fuck up."

"Well, have you?"

"I'm serious."

"She might want to be fingered. You wanna borrow this for a while?"

"You don't fucking talk about my wife!"

"Lookie here. You just-- OW!"

"I told you!"

"That fucking hurt!"

"Next one's in the head, I swear."

"Jesus. You're no fun."

"Just put it down and stop playing with it."

"Christ. Whatever. That better not bruise."

"Just show some respect, asshole."


On to Part 4.
Go back to Part 2.

Fish Anyone?

Aine and I have a bit of a picture posting rivalry going (although I'm clearly getting trounced in the volume department).

I can't let her totally own me when it comes to our fishing prowess, however. So, for a teenage pic, I'm giving you my "champion" (ahem) red snapper caught off the coast of Florida during a vacation. I'm doing my best lobster impression also. I'm not the best tanner. I have to go through a period of radiation burns before any color sets in.

Fried or Broiled?

Paradox

We used to live
In a first floor apartment
In a house
That haunts my dreams
With mildew and decay
Today

Last night I dreamed
I knocked on the door
Of that house
And visited the people
Who lived there

I told the dream people
In that bright apartment
Like it was real
How weird
This house won't stop
Twisting my dreams

Won't stop
Won't stop
How weird