A Chip of Glass | Prose

May 4th, 2009

Tue, 12 May 2009 22:22:00 -0400

I never told my mom that I only spent $127 on textbooks this semester, even though on some level she would have been happy to hear it. My mom had brought me up to shop for bargains, choose the product with the highest quality at the lowest cost. If she had known how frugal I had been, her face would have had such a proud look--I'd have smiled, and she'd have congratulated me. Her smile, though, would have been a little stretched. Like her budget, I guess.

She started growing me up around Thanksgiving, when I came home for the fall break to tell lies to my family and gripe with my friends. At Thanksgiving dinner she poured all of us a glass of wine--Grandma, Grandpa, my two unmarried uncles, my drinking-age brother, and me. I seemed astonished and made it as obvious as possible that this was my first alcoholic beverage. Granted, it was light-years better than the "bargain" stuff we'd been indulging in at school. (I never told her about that, either, but my secrecy had less to do with me being fiscally irresponsible.) She said if I wanted her to pay for my school books like she had promised, I'd have to type up a report, like some business owner; in other words, she stopped checking my bank account. The glass of champagne at New Year's was another tip-off, as was her polite refusal to drive me back to school and her insistence that taking the train would be a great learning experience. When I needed more than ever to stay her little girl, when I was still settling into College-Me and couldn't yet let go of Home-Me, she was snipping strings. Unfastening chains, unbuttoning buttons, unzipping zippers, tearing the Velcro off my kiddy shoes in one fell krrritch. I figured she'd drop me outright by June. I started clipping rooms for rent out of the classifieds.

I never felt grown up, though, until I talked to her on the phone one Thursday night in January. I was talking about all the new-semester expenses I'd been incurring. I complained that my checking balance had fallen below $300. Below $300. It was unheard of. I had even asked my bank to send me notifications every time it happened, so I could be ready for action?so I could transfer wads of cash from my savings account. Below $300, I said. On the other end, she laughed shortly and told me she couldn't remember the last time she had had $300 in her bank account. She mentioned her business expenses and lack of revenue, my college tuition payments, my brother's rent, and she laughed again to keep some semblance of flippancy in her voice. I'm glad it was only a phone call--I couldn't have watched her eyes flicker nervously while she let slip that she was foundering.

That's the moment I felt grown up. Not because I felt included in her adult world, not because it was like she had spoken to me as a trusted friend, but because, for as long as I've been alive, I have never once heard her say how hard it is to raise two children and put them through college. Of course I hadn't thought it was easy--in truth, I had never thought about it at all. I childishly assumed everything was great, but now that I knew the truth, I couldn't be a child anymore. By default, I guess that made me a grown-up.

My logic was flawed. There must be some middle stage where you struggle to reconcile the two extremes. I handled being an adult poorly for quite a while. The first thing I did was tiptoe around money issues whenever we spoke. I decided it would be charitable to pay for dinner when she came to visit. I completely ignored her when she offered to put money into my account or pay for my new pair of shoes. I never told her about my textbooks--luckily, she never asked. And once it took root in my mind that my mom was poor and I was selfish, an ugly weed of misplaced heroism spread like kudzu through my brain, settling comfortably in those sectors reserved for creativity, ingenuity, and common sense. Around the same time, I dropped out of school.

My first job was at the Portillo's where we used to eat lunch with our Christian friends after church. I brought in a little extra cash at a music studio, accompanying out of tune instrumentalists and vocalists who sounded like Stevie Nicks or Celine Dion before they were good. I applied at a bunch of the places at which I had always thought I might one day intern: publishing houses, newspapers, photography studios, libraries and bookstores. After a while I picked out a common theme: "Go ahead and graduate college, dear, and maybe we'll call you."

I'm no accountant, but I think it's safe to say that my expenses exceeded my revenues. It took me a while to figure out that I couldn't keep buying groceries for my mom and stopping at Payless or Kohl's on the way home, and Starbuck's coffee is too expensive to buy every morning. My mom stayed pretty quiet about everything--that is, she had stopped talking to me. I had played the adult card too often, and I don't think she enjoyed being told that I didn't need her. And I'm fairly certain she resented the fact that I had decided she needed me. Every time I mentioned Dad I made her cry, and every time I cited the fact that her daughter was the only one who cared about her, she would yell and scream about how her daughter should be at school making something of herself. But I was an adult now. I made my own decisions.

I don't talk to classmates and friends much anymore. Whenever I say, "How are you?" they respond with long and amusing stories about college and dorm life and ten-page papers. I don't like hearing it, because I always get this strange feeling that I should have stories like that too. It's silly, isn't it? Because when you do something for love, there shouldn't be any regrets.

Jan. 27th, 2009

Wed, 28 Jan 2009 01:10:00 -0500

Brooke wrote to her mother, finished her French assignment, tidied her desk, folded the laundry she did last week, swore off potato chips, and made a long list of New Year's resolutions that she fully intended to keep this time. Normally she was only half as productive, usually less. But she vowed never to let anything go by the wayside, always to keep her promises, and never to doubt again, filled with something like ecstasy because Aaron had kissed her.

That is, she imagined he had. She imagined that he had walked up to her in the cafeteria and taken the serving spoon out of her hand and let it fall with a dull smack back into the mashed potatoes, and she imagined that he had knocked her plate out of her hand and never flinched when it hit the floor and shattered into seven oddly-shaped, spinach-covered pieces, and immediately after in front of all the students and their half-eaten chicken and mostly-full glasses of Dr. Pepper he had pulled her to him like an ottoman and kissed her. And there were fireworks and a mariachi band and all the ice cubes melted because of the heat of his embrace, and all the cookies trudged away because even they couldn't compete with the sweetness of this moment. And Aaron tasted like engineering major, just as she had supposed.

She also imagined that the moment he let her go he pulled out his wallet and gallantly paid for the broken plate, then and there, because that's what knights in shining armor do.

Brooke decided that moments of epiphany like the one she had just experienced call for incredible productivity, because the energy won't expend itself. Didn't matter that she had invented the whole scenario--hope was more than enough. She half-ran to the post office, grinning and panting and remembering.

Julia met her there, though she hadn't planned it. Usually Brooke would fall into her lap without Julia expecting it, and that's why they had to be friends.

Brooke mailed off her mother's letter and coyly alluded to her moment with Aaron. Julia frowned.

Quite suddenly, Aaron was there. In person, not a character in the poorly-written fiction piece in Brooke's head. Brooke stared, terrified that he might actually talk to her. Julia knew she shouldn't be worried.

Aaron nearly shoved Brooke out of the way to mail his letters, and as he did she found courage stashed away somewhere near her feet.

"Hi, Aaron."

Aaron looked at her and raised an eyebrow and snorted a little and left. His friend followed, and five feet away they burst into laughter.

Brooke stood still and pondered this until Julia smacked her across the face. Brooke's eyes got wide, and then she smiled.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"He really is a dick, isn't he?"

"He really is."

Brooke hiked her purse further onto her shoulder and sighed. "Same time tomorrow?"

Monday, Jan. 12, 2009

Mon, 12 Jan 2009 17:00:00 -0500

Valérie was at the mirror again. I had always thought one's skin tone was one of those characteristics you just can't change, but her tan was peeling off at an alarming rate and without the tropical sun of her home, she'd soon look just like me: average.

She scrutinized her glowing, exotic skin, rubbing her fingers over her cheeks and forehead to smooth the flakiness that resulted from her sudden plunge into winter.

"C'est trop sec," she complained.

"That's why I brought the humidifier."

"Il ne marche pas."

"We just turned it on, give it a few days."

She couldn't be bothered to look at me when she spoke. Her pores required more immediate attention, and besides, she was used to knowing that people always listened to everything she said. She never had to check.

"It stopped snowing."

"Vraiment?"

"Yeah. You can go outside now."

"Faisons une promenade."

I shrugged as if I wouldn't agree, but both of us knew I would do anything she said, even if it was in French. I couldn't pretend I didn't understand, because I had made the mistake early on of admitting my proficiency at her language. So had she, at mine. Now we were stuck, forced to hear each other and even listen sometimes. Almost like friends.

I wasn't terribly excited to take a walk, as Valérie had decided we would do. I'd lived in the climate long enough to know I hated the cold, and snow is prettiest through a window. Valérie had never seen it, though, until she came here, and it was sort of my job as her more-knowledgeable roommate to make her experience the things that were most foreign. She refused to go out while the phenomenon was actually occurring, though, because droplets of water, however frozen, are not kind to straightened hair.

My coat was on, my scarf securely around my neck, my hat squarely on top of my head before Valérie could pry herself away from the mirror. I marched out the door and she followed very soon after, wearing only a scarf and mittens with her long-sleeved shirt.

"Where's your coat?"

"Dis, Mama, laisse-moi seule."

I was pretty sure I wasn't her mama, but I left her alone anyway. She'd ask to go back to the room for her coat the second she walked out the front door.

The pair of us clomped down three flights of dirty, wet stairs in our snow boots. I looked clumsy. Valérie looked regal. As we reached the bottom of the stairs Andy was opening the door. A frigid Chicago draft whisked into the entryway, and Valérie gave a little French shriek.

"Merde! Eets cold!" Anger and surprise were in English, but she was kind enough to keep the profanities in French.

"Ouai," I replied calmly. I chose whichever language she wasn't using, and I had gotten so good at it I never noticed anymore.

"Tiens, I'm getting my coat."

I waited.

Valérie was back in two minutes. It took longer than I had expected, and I blamed the mirror. Now properly attired, we journeyed out into the winter air. The sidewalks were plowed and there were long, dragging footprints where others before us had skipped and scuffed through the untouched snow. In my opinion, the purity was lost. Valérie was ecstatic.

To be continued...

Sunday, Dec. 28, 2008

Wed, 31 Dec 2008 04:24:00 -0500

Each white button slipped out of its respective embroidered slit without much resistance, and after withdrawing her arms from the long sleeves, she let the blouse fall unceremoniously into a pool on the tiled floor. She stepped out of her khaki trousers and silently removed the matching lace undergarments, followed by her nude knee-high stockings. Gazing at herself in the medicine cabinet's mirror, she unclasped the barrette at the back of her head, her hair tumbling over her shoulders and shimmering like freedom.

The water began steaming mere seconds after she turned the knob in the wall. She ran both hands under the hot stream that gushed out of the faucet before tugging on the lever that redirected the water through the shower head. After a short delay, it sputtered out, driving onto the porcelain tub's floor like insistent rain. She stepped under it's wet heat and slid the glass door so that not even the mirror could see.

She ran her hands over her scalp and slid her fingers through the thick waterfall of deep brown hair that cascaded down her back. The soapy loofah skimmed her body in earnest, removing any traces of the world of a few minutes ago. She turned off the water and stepped out of the shower a new woman.

One thick towel mopped up the beads of water that clung to her skin, and another held her sopping hair captive in a tower atop her head. She stared for another moment at her reflection, wrapped the towel around her torso, and opened the bathroom door.

Her husband lay a foot from the doorway, his head and shoulders propped up against the wall, the rest of his limp form sprawled on the carpet. His boxers were hiked up a bit from his graceless slide to the floor, and his hands lay open at his sides. His eyes were weighed down with long, dark lashes like a porcelain doll's, and his mouth was just open enough to show straight white teeth stained with blood. If not for several knife holes in his chest, he would have looked to be asleep.

She regarded him for a moment, smiling at how peaceful he looked. She had to step over his legs to get to her room, and the door swung shut behind her.

The First Snow

Mon, 01 Dec 2008 03:20:00 -0500

The first snow is always the best. Even when things aren't going your way, you take a walk in the first snow and you're okay. It's therapeutic.

There's something exciting in knowing that you've made the first footprints in the snow on your driveway. And there's something thrilling in walking down the white sidewalk, knowing that that mulberry tree on the end of the street was the same one that your cousin fell out of one summer long ago. Now the tree is covered completely in snow, a ghost of a plant waiting for spring’s rebirth.

I don't know why I've always found it relaxing to stand under a streetlight in the freezing cold with the wind whipping at you and the snow caking your hair—for whatever reason, it just feels right.

It's sad how no one seems to have time to enjoy the simple things in life. I was in my room all day surfing the internet, that day when the forecast called for flurries from the northeast, and I didn’t notice it was snowing until my mom came into my room to tell me. When I was younger, I remember sitting at the window waiting so impatiently for the flakes to start drifting from the clouds. It’s as if I suddenly forgot how to enjoy the small things that used to make me happy.

As it approaches, Christmas day is losing its shimmer, too. I had always been the one to get everyone up at eight o'clock so we could open presents; I was always the little kid, wide-eyed and excited about that jolly old elf and his magic reindeer. Now I find myself wondering just how late I can sleep in before tradition guilts me into crawling out of bed. Getting older, I realize that Christmas doesn’t hold the same thrill: I think about how much money my parents and relatives and friends are going to waste on me this year, and I think about how much money I'm going to waste on them. Christmas isn’t a fairy tale, isn’t a picture book. It’s a commercial holiday, all plastic and aluminum and hooked up to the internet.

I battled such thoughts as I trudged down the muffled street one Monday evening after Thanksgiving, picking my way through the snow that had been falling nonstop since Wednesday afternoon. I hadn’t thought about it, but it really was beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

My mittens were hardly conducive to typing in that ten-digit number on my tiny cell phone, but somehow I fumbled through. When I pressed the green “send” button, the phone’s screen glowed white and reminded me that Jake was about to receive a call, as if that hadn’t been my intention. The only other kid remotely my age that lived in the neighborhood and also one of my closer friends, we had played together when we both moved here about ten years ago. At that time, the other kids were too old or too young, so Jake was my only choice, even though he was six months older than me and a year ahead in school. Now we were grown up: he was at college, studying hard to do well on his finals, and I was here, on break, alone.

A click interrupted that tinny ring in my ear, and his familiar voice was my world.

“What’s up, babe?”

I stopped under the streetlamp and shoved my free hand as deep in my coat pocket as I could. Though I knew he couldn’t see, I shrugged. “Just thinkin’, is all,” I replied, using a sort of Huckleberry Finn accent that I employed when I didn’t feel like saying what was really on my mind.

“Thinkin’ ‘bout what?” he queried, using my accent and doing it much better than even I could. His tendency to excel at everything annoys me to this day and he knows it, but that’s also what I love about him.

“Thinkin’ ‘bout stuff,” I retorted, not sure if I wanted to explain my train of thought just yet, even though it was the reason for the call.

Unfortunately, Jake wouldn’t take a hint. The warm smile in his voice melted me, and, using the name he had called me for so long to remind us that we were more like siblings than friends, he said, “C’mon, sis. Spill.”

Boy, was this kid persuasive. I had no choice, so I did spill.

I told him how I thought I was losing myself. How I thought Christmas would be awful this year because I just didn’t have any enthusiasm. He nodded and ‘hm’d as he listened, just like he always had.

The more I spoke, the more I moved. I shoved some snow into a neat little pile with my feet, then kicked it, then started another pile, then scuffed all the way down the sidewalk and back.

“I don’t know if I’m hormonal or just insane,” I told him as I kicked at another make-shift mouse igloo. Jake’s silence told me he continued to listen attentively. “I haven’t been enjoying or looking forward to anything lately. Everything’s just so hum-drum, and I feel like that should... you know, bother me.”

Jake grunted like he understood completely, which he probably did—understanding me is another one of his many talents. But then he surprised me by going completely off-topic, or so it seemed at the moment. “What do you want most for Christmas?” he asked with this distant inquisitiveness in his voice.

I opened my mouth, about to reply, “A digital camera and an iTunes gift card,” then stopped myself. Now that I thought about it, this was one of the reasons I wasn’t looking forward to Christmas. The holiday had been polluted by the prospect of getting stuff and more stuff from everyone that could afford to give you stuff and all you wanted was stuff. The point of Christmas was to count how many presents you had and to relish the thought of ripping the paper off each one, hoping that there would be some expensive technological gadget underneath. And when it was all done you sat there frowning, looking over your mound of gifts to make sure you had ripped off all the wrapping paper you could. That was what was wrong about Christmas, so I thought carefully about how I would answer him.

“Friends,” I slowly replied after a long pause. “What I want for Christmas is all my friends in one room, sitting around a fire and talking and laughing and sharing cookies and cider…” My voice trailed off when I noticed how foolish I sounded. Friends, when I could have a camera or a cell phone? But then I realized that friends don’t cost money. How wonderful that would be, not having to worry about how much money you spent, how many presents you gave and received, or if your friends liked your present, or which of your cousins got the most and best presents. It would be heaven. And if that wish could come true, I wouldn’t need anything else. Not even the digital camera I have been drooling over for months, nor the baby grand piano that would require my parents to take out a second mortgage when I didn’t really need one anyway.

“Well, sis,” Jake finally said, “I think you’ve got a deal.”

I stood still, surprised, instantly forgetting about the miniature snow fort I was building with my toes. If I know Jake well, which I do, he’s up to something. And I know exactly what that something is.

People today want things and will spend vast quantities of cash to get them: wine, jewelry, a humongous tree. And of course, you can never use the same ornaments two years in a row—you have to buy new ones, or else what will the Joneses think? In the midst of these materialists stand Jake and me, kids that can’t afford to go to Macy’s and buy happiness like they do. Instead we borrow happiness, take it from life, from something as simple as a snowfall, from something as simple of a group of friends sipping cider and celebrating Christmas.

I smiled and thanked Jake for always being a phone call away, and as I hung up I decided what I would get Jake this Christmas. Something that can’t be found on the World Wide Web, or in a department store; something that doesn’t require a monthly payment plan or the fine print next to an asterisk. This year, Jake will get a particularly warm hug, with no hidden charges.

Thursday, Oct. 16, 2008

Thu, 16 Oct 2008 11:48:53 -0400

In preparation for NaNoWriMo, I'm writing this as quickly as possible. Apologies for any spelling and grammar mistakes that occur.

I talk about him all the time to my friends, talk about what he did to me, what I blame him most for. I tell them how done I am, how over this I am. They nod and smile and pat me on the back with their words, because they're proud of me. What he did was cruel, they say, and we're just glad you're okay. I grin, laugh, shrug, and continue.

The notes he wrote me are still in my closet, even though they've told me countless times to just throw them away, burn them, tear them to shreds. I know I shouldn't have brought them, but a part of me still held onto a crumb of hope. What if it wasn't actually the end? I thought. What if?

I brought them with me to remember, but as the days passed and the wound scabbed over I shoved them in a box in a dark corner; hiding them to forget. I wouldn't look at them, which made it simple to forget about them. And in the process I forgot about him.

Relationships are tricky things. I found myself in another one before long, and I couldn't be sure that it was right, or fair. But again and again I would say, Anything to forget. Anything to heal. I was healing, and I was fine.

I talked about him last night as if he was just an old friend I hadn't seen for years. I recounted memories of good times, the last good memories I had of him. I grinned and laughed as I said it, shrugged as I said it, continued on into a new conversation when that one had died. I was healed, I decided. I was fine.

Things have never "hit me" with a force like bricks, as much as every novelist and songwriter insists that things should. It never hit me that our love was about to end, and it never hit me when it did. It never hit me that I was over him. Everything rolled in slowly, like mist.

Today, though. God, today. When I saw his picture again, saw how happy he was. The air chilled as I looked at him, remembering. Then my whole body began to tingle, as if I was just thawing from hours in the snow. I can't explain the writhing of my stomach, the strange palpitations of my heart, the shiver in my fingers. It was like the mist slowly clearing, everything slowly focusing.

And then, like whispers, I felt his hand on my waist, his fingers on my face, his lips on my neck. I could feel his breath, soft, unhurried, and his heart, its tempo matching mine. I shook, my legs and arms numb, my insides melting, my eyes unable to blink.

I had lied to myself--my mind had lied to my heart, and my heart had foolishly believed. My body in civil war, I closed my eyes and calmed my limbs. The whispers of memories disappeared, and the cold air was imbued with a subtle heat, like steam. Everything went back to how it should have been, save for a cold stone in my abdomen and goosebumps on the back of my neck. Deep, deep breaths. Total release. I removed the picture from my sight and wept.

Sunday, Oct 5, 2008

Sun, 05 Oct 2008 23:18:17 -0400

Danny is sitting at one end of a long table in a crowded cafeteria. Across from her sits a young-looking stranger, next to her is Lindsay's boyfriend Sam, Lindsay is next, and Matt is on the other end. Acrross from Matt is Keith, and next to Keith sits Robert.

Lindsay is smashing her casserole into a colorful mess on her plate as Keith, Sam, and Matt look on, chuckling. Robert looks over, seeming disinterested, and the stranger sitting next to him and across from Danny leaves without saying a word. Danny is focused on her mostaciolli, not speaking or looking at anyone.

Sam: God, Lindsay, that smells horrible.

Keith: I don't think obliterating it made it any worse.

Matt: No, it definitely smelled that bad to begin with.

Lindsay: (giggling) Well, at least it looks like I ate some of it.

Keith: The staff will still judge you.

Linsday: Shut up.

Matt: (rising) Well, I've got some work to do. Thanks for dinner, folks.

Everyone murmurs or nods as a sort of goodbye, and a moment later Matt has disappeared.

Keith: I should head out too.

Lindsay: Yeah, I've got so much Sociology homework I'll be awake 'til next month.

Sam: Didn't you need me to help you burn those CDs?

Sam gives Lindsay an obviously pointed look, and Lindsay's confusion turns into delight.

Lindsay: Oh! Yeah, the CDs. Sure.

Lindsay picks up her plate and cup and starts to leave. Sam also clears his place and begins to follow her, winding his arm around her waist as they walk away. Keith stands with his plate and silverware in his hands. He rolls his eyes and looks at Robert.

Keith: Burn, baby, burn.

Danny and Robert sit diagonal each other at a now empty table. Robert is watching her as he gathers his dishes together; Danny looks up, setting her fork down on the edge of her plate.

Robert: I should probably go study too.

Danny: Do you need me to quiz you?

Robert: It's up to you.

Danny: No, it's not. Do you need me to quiz you?

Robert: I know you have other homework.

Danny: I do, but I'm willing to put it off if you need my help.

Robert: Whatever you want, Danny.

Danny is gripping the edge of the table; her knuckles are white.

Danny: It's not my choice, Robert. Why can't you understand that?

Robert: (sighing) You can come up if you want. I don't know.

Robert stands and pushes in his chair. In her hurry to do the same, Danny knocks her chair over, causing enough commotion to turn several heads.

Danny: Robert, I need you to tell me point-blank, yes or no, whether you want to be with me or not.

Robert hesitates, avoiding her gaze.

Robert: This isn't about studying anymore, is it?

(I don't know how to finish this one yet, nor do I have the time. Hopefully the next one will have an ending.)

Diamond to Ash

Wed, 24 Sep 2008 02:05:02 -0400

(I'm hoping to submit this to my school's lit magazine, so your comments are especially welcome.)

He wrote a song for me, and I used to do it at the end of every Friday night show. As soon as echoes of the last chord of that snappy jazz tune had almost evaporated above the heads of my crowd, the lights would dim and the regulars would whisper, "This is it, this is the one I was telling you about." Almost in unison. And we would begin, Harry and I, piano and singer alone on a rose-colored stage. I'd always drift over and get lost in the red pools of light that gathered like spring rainwater on the top of his velvety baby grand. The piano seemed to play itself, allowing Harry to watch me with that look in his eye, the one that said, "Only you." And my crowd would fade away into the half-darkness, and my combo would melt into the floor of the stage, and the song would wrap around us like a fog. Just me and Harry and the music.

I saw a photograph of it once. Harry and I were alone in a crowded jazz club, and my right wrist glowed---I always wore that bracelet on Friday nights. In the photograph I was wearing my gold gown, the slinky one with the diamond brooch and the train. My twelve karat comb was nestled safely in my hair, and the cigar smoke seemed to swirl around me as if I were fresh air. It really was a lovely photograph, but the songwriter said it didn't do me justice. He said that, on that night, the rose-tinted lamps turned my hair into copper, and lit up my gown like an inferno, and turned my diamonds to fire. He held that I was aflame that night, and not just because I was the hottest thing in New York. Then he gave me the ring.

In Union Square, when all the mothers, children, and Christians were asleep and the streets belonged to jazz. We wandered past the dimly-lit windows of S. Klein, where I bought that bracelet---the first thing I paid for after my first gig. That was before I discovered Fifth Avenue and credit. And my songwriter. We crossed the street, stood by the statue of Georgie, and decided on forever. With the ring smoldering on my hand and my hand burning in his, forever hardly seemed like enough time.

The ring's still on my finger, where it's been for three years. It still sparkles like it did, still catches the glow of the stage lights, and it will until the end, just like a diamond should. I should've given it back to him when he left. Every day it reminds me of the things he said---the ridiculous accusations about my supposed affair with my best friend, Harry; the claim that I would never get better at what I do, that soon my crowd would fade away like I imagined them doing every Friday night; the threat to take back his song, saying he'd give it to a singer in Chicago who would do it justice. The ring reminds me of the moment he walked out of the club, taking my livelihood with him in the guise of a song.

When Harry asked me to marry him, I couldn't refuse. Harry had the means to pay my bills and buy my cigarettes, which were my only solace when I lost my youth and my voice. Harry was still a great piano player, accompanying all the finest new singers in New York, as I had once been. The crowds stay the same---it's the performers who fade into memory.

I heard the song on the radio yesterday. It was different than I remembered it, with odd vowels and harmonies. I laughed and took off the ring, setting it on my nightstand, next to the lamp with the rose-colored shade. It shimmered like fire for a moment before I put it back on.

Monday, September 8, 2008

Tue, 09 Sep 2008 17:06:11 -0400

Her breath was coming in white, wispy bursts as she walked, boots scraping against the wet concrete as if she didn't have the strength to pick up her feet. Hands shoved in the deep pockets of her sweatshirt, navy-blue hood hiding her long hair, dark-wash jeans clinging to her legs, she blended into the night sky behind her. Only the scuffing of her boots gave her away.

He watched her walk closer, watched her hips sway and her shoulders move. Her eyes were trained on the ground, and he knew she wouldn't see him. Quickly he judged how long it would take for them to meet, and calculated how many seconds he had to grab her attention before she passed and disappeared into the dark like some casually beautiful specter. Carefully he chose the proper moment to speak. She was six feet away, close enough for him to see her face amid the shadows cast by her hood. Close enough to see how her eyes stole light from every nearby source and reflected it in the most graceful way. Close enough to be absolutely terrified. But it was time.

"If you're going to he party at Kappa, I wouldn't recommend it."

She slowed, then stopped, boot-scuffing finally reduced to nothing. He waited for her to say something--anything, just as long as he opened that perfect mouth. She sniffed.

"Thanks, but I'm not really going anywhere. Just for a walk."

At 12:30 on a Friday night in November? He watched, fascinated, as her whole body shivered and her shoulders seemed to swallow her neck. Nothing covered her pale throat, and he saw her swallow, then cough conversationally.

"Listen, do you want to borrow my coat? You look freezing." He made to shrug himself out of the sleeves, but she smiled with a frown and held out a hand in protest.

"Being freezing leaves less room for being unhappy. At least, it takes your mind off it for a while."

With the red rims around her eyes, the sniffle in her nose, the slump of her shoulders, and the dejection in her low voice, she attacked his sensitivity. There was a whooshing sound as his heart broke and plummeted into his stomach. He let the silence fester for a moment, wishing he knew how to fix her, or if she'd let him. Then she spoke.

"I guess there's a moment in every girl's life when she finds out her boyfriend is an asshole. I just wish mine hadn't come right now, when I'm so far from home and without friends. You know?"

He didn't. But he resisted the urge to lower his eyes, nod and sigh, or make a profound statement about life. Instead he gazed at her, stared at her, took her in more than he ever had the hundreds of other times he had taken her in before. He decided it would be perfectly acceptable to take two more steps toward her, wrap his arms around her, and send her all the fierce emotion that had been layering itself inside him for weeks. He'd use telepathy, or osmosis, or something equally wordless. Then she spoke.

"So if you want to take advantage of the fact that I'm on the rebound..." She chuckled sardonically and waved a hand: "Please, go ahead."

Was this it, the proverbial "moment" that would save him from his own silent and tempestuous thoughts? Just to be sure, he asked, with the suavity of a fifth grader, "Really?"

She smiled and rolled her eyes, clearly embarrassed that she had said such a thing. "Why not?"

He took one of the two steps closer, stopped, and focused on her glimmering blue eyes. With all the courage he could summon, he breathed in and stated, "You are... breathtaking."

A moment passed with no reaction from the breathtaking girl before him. Then she replied, "What?"

"You're breathtaking." His car had passed the summit of the rollercoaster and there was nothing to do now but pick up speed. "Everything about you. The first time I saw you, I wondered how someone could be so beautiful. And then I met you, and talked to you, and I wondered how someone so beautiful could be so nice, and smart, and funny, and like everything I liked. I think you're perfect."

Again, no reaction. Or rather, a stunned silence served in its stead. He kept going.

"I just wanted to take advantage of the fact that you're on the rebound, because if you're feeling bad about yourself, it's easier to take compliments without thinking I'm some creepy stalker."

Her mouth opened, and a voice came out slowly like old honey. "That's a huge risk to take--to tell someone something like that."

With a grin, he responded, "Anything to keep you from being unhappy. Your smile is the best thing about you."

She was looking at the ground, and he couldn't tell if she was speechless or just chose not to say anything. Then something moved by her mouth, and the muscles bloomed, forcing her pink lips to spread into the smile that everyone loved. And she said the only thing she could:

"Thanks, Nick."

He nodded. "Let me walk you home." She turned back the way she came and leaned into him, begging him to put his arm around her. "So who is he? Can I beat him up?" A thrilling laugh escaped from her bare throat, and the rhythm of their feet synced up as they scuffed along the wet sidewalks of the quad.

Sept. 4

Thu, 04 Sep 2008 12:10:26 -0400

He wrote a song for me, and I used to do it at the end of every Friday night show. As soon as the last chord of that snappy jazz tune had almost disappeared above the heads of my crowd, the lights would dim and the regulars would whisper, "This is it, this is the one I was telling you about." Almost in unison. And we would begin, Harry and I, piano and singer alone on a rose-colored stage. I'd always drift over, forget about the silent sax and the still drums that made a fortune playing with me every night, and get lost in the red pools of light that gathered like spring rainwater on the top of his velvety baby grand. Harry knew it by heart, and he'd watch me with that look in his eye, the one that said, "Only you." And my crowd would fade away into the half-darkness, and my combo would melt into the floor of the stage, and the song wrap around us like a fog. Just me and Harry and the music.

I saw a photograph of it once. Harry and I were alone in a crowded jazz club, and my right wrist glowed--I always wore that bracelet on Friday nights. In the photograph I was wearing my gold gown, the slinky one with the diamond brooch and the train. My twelve karat comb was nestled safely in my hair, and the cigar smoke seemed to swirl around me as if I were fresh air. It really was a lovely photograph, but he said it didn't do me justice. He said that, on that night, the rose-tinted lamps turned my hair into copper, and lit up my gown like an inferno, and turned my diamonds to fire. He said I was aflame that night, and not just because I was the hottest thing in New York. He said I was "the most beautiful woman in America" and he gave me the ring.

The ring's still on my finger, where it's been for three years. It still sparkles like it did, still catches the glow of the stage lights, and it will forever, just like a diamond should. I should've given it back to him when he left. Every day it reminds me of the things he said, how he ridiculously accused me of having an affair with Harry, my best friend; how he sneered that I would never get better at what I do, and soon my crowd will fade away like I imagined them doing every Friday night; how he took back his song, saying he'd give it to a singer in Paris who would do it justice. How he walked out of the club, taking my heart with him. And after that, everything came true.

When Harry asked me to marry him, I couldn't refuse. He was still a great piano player, accompanying all the finest new singers in New York, like he had once done with me. The crowds stay the same--it's the performers who fade into memory.

I heard the song on the radio the other day. It was different than I remembered it, distinctly French. I laughed and took off the ring, setting it on my nightstand, next to the lamp with the rose-colored shade. It shimmered like fire for a moment before I put it back on.

Mid-July, 2008--inspired by Ian McEwan's Atonement

Tue, 02 Sep 2008 22:07:26 -0400

If the temperature had been three degrees cooler, Meg determined that today would have been the most beautiful Sunday afternoon in July since last week. Every Sunday afternoon before that, too, had been arguably perfect, weather-wise, as well as every afternoon of the Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday varieties. Wednesdays she volunteered most of the afternoon at a high-end retirement home, but the trips across the parking lot had always seemed pleasant enough. Meg could have easily generalized that the weather this summer had been beautiful, if not for the fact that such a generalization would point to the conclusion that summer was more than half over, and that eight of her twelve weeks of freedom were gone. Somehow she knew that the weather of Rhode Island could never be as wonderful as the weather of home.

The words on the open pages in her lap had begun to blur and twist together a good twenty minutes ago, but she held up the pretense of reading to avoid her parents (they respected her goal to read ten books before the end of summer, but they had no idea that this goal was only about twelve percent complete). They didn't nag, fuss, or yell, for which she was thankful, but both had a tendency to relate tidbits of church gossip, celebrity news, or Walgreen's sales. In short, they were tedious people, at least from the viewpoint of their college-bound daughter, who preferred the sound of the windchimes outside the screen porch being manipulated by a lazy summer breeze.

Meg let her eyes wander, slightly unfocused, landing first on the wicker furniture, each piece upholstered in the same bold flowers-and-stripes pattern that Better Homes and Gardens had adored six years ago. Her gaze settled on the sad little plant on the wicker coffee table, the slightly healthier one on the wicker end table, and the far too robust ones hanging above the wicker love seat, their tangled vines aspiring toward the ground, suffocating the fake birds artfully perched on each rim of the deliberately mismatched plastic planters. There were more feather-and-styrofoam birds on the shelf from which the planters hung, hiding obviously amid sprays of faded silk roses, sitting contentedly on carefully-positioned woven baskets, or slumping silently in antique wooden birdcages. Meg absently wondered where one found such brightly-colored, unrealistic creatures and, more importantly, why.

The breeze slowed, then stopped. The leaves of every tree, bush, and plant in the richly-floraed backyard ceased to stir. In the sudden silence, the tick-tocks of the clock above the door, painted in country blue and white as if it had been stolen from a 1930s farmhouse, became deafening. She stared at it, watched as it ticked from the five to the six, from the six to the seven. Taking each commanding click as an invitation, she began to count along--thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight. It shifted by degrees, from the eight to the nine. Her vision became foggy, and though she couldn't see the second hand, she continued to count--forty-two, -three, -four. Her eyelids drooped and her limps relaxed. Fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two. The ticks faded away, and in her mind the fifty-sixth sheep jumped over the fence. Then number fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine...

A loud buzz, plastic against wood, startled her awake. Junebug? No, cellphone. Haloed by a friendly blueish glow, the caller ID screen warned that "alex" was several miles away, holding a phone to his ear, having just dialed her number and pressed "send."

Meg glanced up at the clock that had until recently monopolized her attention. Twenty-five seconds had passed, she noted, then realized it had actually been forty minute and twenty-five seconds. A late afternoon sun was glazing the leaves outside in a fairy-gold shimmer, and in the sun room, long shadows had begun to attach themselves to tables, chairs, a single clot of dirt someone had accidentally kicked off his shoe on the fourth of July.

As if perturbed by her hesitation, the little black phone began to whine in an almost melodic fashion, suggesting Beethoven being played on a toy xylophone. And it was still buzzing, threatening to hop off the table and plummet to its melodramatic near-death on the thin blue carpet.

On a subconscious exhale, Meg reached for the phone and finally, if only to save the frustrated chip inside, gave the green button a gentle jab.

"Hello?" she asked, as if her caller ID had somehow failed her.

"Hey, it's me," the voice said, masculine and hiding nervousness well. Only two of her acquaintances were confident enough to refer to themselves simply as "me," and Alex was the less obvious one. But, as the more obvious one had once said,

"He's crazy about you, Meg. Always has been."

I know," she had replied. Not blaming, not condescending, not pitying. But there was a sort of sorrowful apology in her words, as if she wanted to add, "And it's a shame I never felt the same."

"But guess who won."

She had smiled, and he had kissed her.

"Are you home?" Alex continued, and the rising of his voice at the arrival of the question mark was full of hope.

"Yeah," she responded, then kicked herself. "Yeah, I'm home."

She could almost hear his Adam's apple bob over the scratchy line. "You wanted to see that horror movie, right? Deepness?"

Meg called to mind images of deep sea divers being devoured by ocean zombies while delivering lines written by the director's three-year-old daughter, and smiled. "Um, not really. Any movie that can't properly make the adjective 'deep' into a noun (which, of course, is 'depth') is probably not he first on my list."

Alex put on an audible pout. "C'mon, Em."

"He calls you Em?"

"You know, like, the letter 'M.' It's short for Meg apparently."

He stared in amused judgment. "He abbreviated your abbreviated name?"

"Who else is going?" she wondered innocently, letting Alex know it would never have been considered a date.

Without hesitation, Alex replied, "My friend Ryan. Ryan Gilbert? I was going to introduce you, but he says you've already met. That you worked together or something." A moment's pause, while a deeper voice muttered something incoherent. Alex added, "Apparently you still work together."

Meg smiled, suddenly remembering last night's phone conversation:

"Alex wants to go see that new horror flick. The one you hated after seeing th preview. So that will take up most of tomorrow afternoon. Unless you want to come with?"

"Wouldn't it be a little conspicuous if we showed up together? Isn't it too soon?"

"Three months? Meg, we've got to tell him some time. He's a big boy, he can take it."

"You two have fun. I've got some reading to catch up on."

"If you're sure..."

"Call me when you get home?"

"Sure thing, baby."

"I almost forogt you and Ryan knew each other." Meg swallowed and glanced up at the clock again, to give her eyes something to hold onto while she thought--quickly. "I know you two don't hang out much, so I'd hate to encroach on your boy time..."

...to be continued?

2007 semester project--A Shilling's Worth

Tue, 02 Sep 2008 22:00:00 -0400

The moon was undoubtedly out, it being nearly midnight, but if anyone had been on the street they wouldn't have been able to tell. The old wooden houses on each side of the road had not been built well or with any thought to the problems that could occur in the future. The "street," if one could call it that, was only about ten feet wide at its widest, and the wind and wear had persuaded the buildings to lean towards each other, creating a sort of vaulted ceiling like the one in St. Paul's cathedral down the road. Therefore, if the moon had indeed been eclipsed by the power of witches (or, perhaps, Catholics), no one on Taylors School Road, nor indeed half of London, would have known.

That was why it was a bit reckless of Anne to slip through the uneven doorway of her home and find herself gingerly stepping across the street, pretending that she was successfully avoiding whatever muck had been deposited there. She looked left and then right, scanning the road, praying harder for the presence of light than for the absence of bandits. Directly across from her, the slight glow from the moon betrayed the metal lamp hanging just by the doorway of Jack's house; as usual, it was unlit. Her house had a lamp too, as did every other house in London, it being a law, but most people "forgot" to light them, no wishing to waste candles. There was a law that every house should have a lamp, yes, but there was no law saying they had to be lit.

Anne continued her slow journey across the road, but once she had reached the middle, her excitement got the better of her, and she ran the rest of the way. Meeting Jack in the middle of the night was scandalous and dangerous, but she loved the thought of adventure.

An hour passed. The moon had moved in the sky, even further behind the buildings than before, casting the street into pitch blackness. Anne reemerged from Jack's house, her sudden fear of being caught allowing her maidenhood to remain unblemished. There had, however, been kissing and cuddling, and Anne was so blinded by love that she skipped, eyes half closed, across the narrow road.

Halfway there she hit something dark and solid, and all she could feel was pain before falling to the ground. Whatever was leaking from her abdomen was warm on her hands, but the voices above her were cold in her ears.

"Nedget!"

"She sneaked up on me!"

"You loggerheaded scut!"

"Look, she bumped into me, and–"

"Ne'er mind it, let's trip before someone sights us."

Their footfalls had nearly faded away before Anne's world went black.

The rest of the historical fiction novella A Shilling's Worth can be found at E.G.M.'s Notebook.

Mid-July, 2007

Tue, 02 Sep 2008 21:43:42 -0400

"Well, if it isn't Jamie Blackburn, come back to haunt us."

The boy who had been addressed turned apathetically and gave the girl before him a quizzical look.

"Have we met?"

The young woman flushed, having assumed that he would remember her after only two years apart. She had grown an inch and died her hair, but there was no other explanation for his sudden amnesia.

Before she could admonish him, though, his gaze became one of slight recognition, and he said, "Oh, right, you were the girl you used to stalk me."

There was a moment in which everything in the world was silenced except the pulsing blood in her ears, and she was almost sure her heart stopped beating as she gazed at the handsome boy with the little sneer his eyes. Finally, the earth's rotation resumed, and the girl narrowed her eyes in wounded confusion.

"Stalk you?" she repeated, shaking her head. "What makes you think I ever stalked you?"

He laughed, tossing his blond curls out of his eyes. "I dunno, the random yet frequent meetings, the flirting, the lingering gazes when you thought I wasn't looking..."

The casual attitude with which he accused her of having been anything other than friendly made her both chilled and overheated at the same time. "Okay, first of all, any random meetings were unplanned, as the word 'random' would suggest, so even if they bothered you, I couldn't possibly control how frequent they were. Besides, we have common interests. Why shouldn't I be allowed to make conversation about them?"

There was patronizing laughter in his eyes as he repeated, "Common interests? Like what? The fact that you used to play cello while I excel at it? The fact that I met someone you knew once and didn't even really like him? The fact that we've both acted in Guys and Dolls?"

The girl was red in the face, but not out of embarrassment. Jamie was forced to silently admit that her eyes became an irresistible shade of green when she got angry.

"As a matter of fact, yes, those could all be deemed perfectly acceptable topics of conversation."

"Even though it's common knowledge that you're not a very good actress, so the Guys and Dolls one doesn't really count..." he stated matter-of-factly, and the girl opened her mouth, shocked and indignant.

"How dare you?!" she cried. "What did I ever do to deserve this?"

"Besides the obvious, you mean?" he asked, defiant and stoic like some betrayed monarch or unrelenting general. The young woman's eyes softened a little, and she was clearly waiting for him to inform her of what "the obvious" was.

His mouth was set in a straight line and his high cheekbones were dusted with red, the only sign that he wasn't as calm inside as he appeared to be on the outside. She glanced at his hands, white-knuckled and balled into fists at his side, and realized that she had never seen anyone so enraged. Then he spoke.

"Next time the person you've fallen in love with starts going out with your best friend, let me know how you feel."

There were quite a few explanations that she would have more readily expected. PMS was one, and another was that she had pronounced his last name incorrectly, rendering him unable to be civil. But the words that fell from his lips were like a foreign language for several long, silent moments, until finally she could speak. Her voice was trembling and barley audible.

"I dated Nick two years ago, Jamie."

The corner of his mouth twitched, but his eyes were still unforgiving and cold. "Doesn't mean I stopped, Meg."

She searched for possible meanings of this last statement. Stopped hating her? Hating her old boyfriend, Nick, whom she had met and befriended the same day Jamie entered her life? Stopped wishing he had told her off sooner?

But she knew what he meant, and the fact that his eyes, blue like the sky between dusk and twilight, were not longer filled with resentment but rather with a sort of sad fondness made her even more sure. Jamie had never stopped loving her.

Megan had no idea when it had begun, no idea that Jamie had been anything other than a friend, and when he suddenly grew cold the moment she began dating Nick, she had hardly noticed. In hindsight, now that she was returning to those far away memories, Megan could almost pick out enough telltale signs to believe him.

"But... why would you call me a stalker?"

He first looked confused, then slightly ashamed as he replied, "I've had two years to find something that could make you even more the bad guy I wanted you to be. If I hated you, then..."

"You couldn't feel the opposite," she said softly, finishing his thought while carefully avoiding using the word "love." It was still quite difficult to believe, and the more distantly she addressed it, the more distant it would remain.

Jamie finally lowered his eyes, for the first time breaking their gaze, and nodded, once, slowly. "It took me all of freshman year to get to know you, and it took me two years at the junior college to forget everything I had learned. But it took a second for all of it to come rushing back, as if I had never left."

Megan was struggling to put her many confusing thoughts into words. In the end, though, she simply said, "I hope you'll find a way to forgive me."

He didn't respond, but instead looked into her eyes once more. She didn't look away until Ben Casey shouted Jamie's name and hurried over for a handshake and a hug. Ben began to lead him toward a group of his friends, and Megan, without thinking, opened her mouth.

"Jamie!"

The young man turned and waited patiently.

Megan swallowed, sighed, and said, "I'm glad you're back."

And though it didn't show on his face, Jamie's blue eyes were smiling.

Early July, 2007--inspired by some book, I guess

Tue, 02 Sep 2008 20:58:26 -0400

She had the nose of a Roman god and the chin of a Jewish fishwife. At one time she must have been handsome, if not pretty, but now her cheeks were scarred with pockmarks and her eyes were drooping with brown, wrinkled skin. ?Hair? could not describe the dense mass of copper yarn that emerged from her scalp, but it was tied nearly on the top of her head into what seemed to be a messy bun, though it could have just as easily been a rotting turnip. My eyes were instantly drawn to a tiny locket, shimmering blindingly against the yellow spotted skin of the woman?s chest, and her faded blue eyes narrowed to snake-like slits when she saw me appraising it. Her thin, wrinkled lips parted, framing mossy yellow teeth, and she was beginning to form a word when a crimson spot appeared on the front of her tattered chemise, just under the locket. The eyes widened, the mouth formed a soft ?O?, and the woman swayed forward. There was nothing I could do but catch her, and when I looked down my eyes were met with the sight of a crossbow arrow wedged between her thin shoulder blades, piercing her straight through. I dropped her like a sack of moldy vegetables, forgetting in my horror that she had been a living being. Raising my eyes from crumpled heap of clothing and flesh at my feet, I stared ahead of me, seeing nothing but the point of an arrow, then the wings of a crossbow, then the narrowed eyes of one of the king?s soldiers. The memory of the woman with the locket was swept from my mind as I faced something even more inconvenient?my own death.

Mid-April, 2007

Tue, 02 Sep 2008 19:03:46 -0400

"To Parliament? Whatever for?"

Mabel wrinkled her pretty brow and tugged her frothy shawl further up her shoulder, where it lingered for a second before falling back to the bend of her elbow. Her query was met with a cool silence, then:

"I have suddenly taken a very keen interest in politics, Mabel."

The young woman laughed at her terribly serious companion and replied, "I believe you must mean 'politicians,' Georgie."

Her friend raised her chin and refused to smile. "Not 'politicians,' Mabel. A politician."

"Ah yes," Mabel replied, her eyes bright with laughter. "I should have guessed. Lord Wakefield has become rather popular all of a sudden, has he not?"

"Harry Wakefield," Georgie replied haughtily, "is a god on earth. And I fully intend to become a goddess before the year is out."

Mabel grinned and picked a piece of lint from her otherwise spotless gloves. "It's Harry now, is it? I did not know the two of you were so well acquainted."

Her companion finally lowered her chin and sullenly replied, "We have not yet met. But that is a minor detail I am quite capable of correcting." Georgie tossed her head, coppery-brown ringlets leaping excitedly. Mabel sighed, but her breath caught in her throat when she happened to glance over Georgie's shoulder.

"Georgina," she muttered, "I believe you will have the chance to correct a few minor details momentarily."

The other girl froze, then turned gracefully just in time to bob a quick curtsey and smile unperturbedly. "Good morning, Lord Wakefield."