7 posts tagged “writing”

Orange Sestina

We used to lie in the dark, the trees heavy with oranges.
Out of our houses, through windows we would sneak.
The car had to be pushed down the road, stuck in neutral
waiting for the right moment to start.  Do you remember
giggling and shushing each other, dancing in the shadows
made by the headlights.  We thought we were in love.

She was the first girl who ever used the word love
in reference to me.  I panicked, I pulled an orange
down from the nearest tree and threw it into the shadows.
She frowned and looked like she wanted to sneak
away.  And you came around, do you remember,
and you said that's too bad, your tone so void, so neutral.

Emotions played across my own face, not one neutral
I know.  I think I turned to you then and asked for your love
but I may have just imagined that.  I don't remember
anything clearly except the deep scent of the oranges
in the night.  But you kept close to me and we would sneak
kisses in between jokes and always only in the shadows.

She saw us then, whispering and laughing in shadow
and this time it was her voice that was kept neutral
as she called me a liar and you a whore both of us sneaks.
But we said it did not matter, not because we were in love
or anything like that.  But because it was summer and oranges
were made not for avoiding, but for eating.  Remember?

She left and took our friends with her, do you remember?
She left and we were there, in my car, in the shadows
in the desert, near the canal, deep in the groves.  Orange
peels littered the ground and our hands were far from neutral
as we felt and fumbled and clumisly played at our love.
Later, I think, I laughed at us being called sneaks.

As if we were spies, educated and trained to be sneaks
instead of fools who thought oursleves clever.  Remember?
It would not have been so bad had we had truly been in love,
I think but we did not learn.  Our affairs last in others shadows
and now I no longer know how to keep my face neutral
when I grow melancholy for the acidic taste of an orange.

Now you speak of me and of love, and ask me again to sneak
through the orange grove and it seems you don't remember
promises we said in shadows:  I do not love you, I am neutral.

Under Glass, Sepia

Bound in leather, volumes linger on the walls,
Scribbled, flooded, and annotated, lining breaks,
Lost and confused, Beauty, thought crawls,
Try to spare the lash of your tongue; my eyes only take.
Our memory locked in silver frame resides,
Smiles lie still imprisoned on faces sepia,
Colors leach from imprisonment; chemical hides.
Sunlight glimmers from hope, winter nostalgia.
Never reconciled have we ever tried to be,
Neither missive nor epistle ever have we sent;
And regrets are easier for fools wishing for free.
Still there has been no sin, so shall I not repent.
    Yet thought slinks back, in pain and meant to rend:
    If only my eyes could clear, this light would never end.

Last month I entered the Escape Pod Flash Fiction contest.  I didn't win but I thought I'd put my entries up here on Vox, just for the fun of it.  Comments are welcome.

Anxiety Closet

Robert lay in bed, frowning. He kept wondering why he had gotten stuck in the room with the glowing closet.  First the mosquitoes, then the snakes, then that bully Williams, and now, this.

He frowned again, and sat up.

He walked to the closet and thrust the door back.  The small, wizened, old camp gardener sat on a stool watching something like a grainy-screened, portable television.

Robert blinked in surprise.  "What are you doing in here?"

The man looked around at Robert, scrunching up his nose to push his glasses farther up his face.  "Eh?  Oh, I get better reception in here."  He pointed at the rabbit ears on the device.

"That's not a t.v." 

The old man shrugged.  "Yes it is." 

"I have to sleep."

The old man seemed to notice Robert's official Camp Hibiscus pajamas for the first time.  "Give me five minutes?"

Robert frowned.  "Five minutes."  He slid the door closed and walked back to his bed, taking off his slippers and laying down.  Robert sat back up and put the slippers back on.

He shuffled back over to the closet and whipped the door back.  The old man glared at him.

Robert said, "What are you really doing in here?  Really?"

The old man sighed.  "I'm trying to contact any passing aliens to come get me out of here."

Robert, still frowning, said, "Oh."

"Yup."

"Any luck so far?"

The old man said, "Not yet."

Robert said, "Ok then.  Goodnight."

Robert slid the door shut again and shuffled back to bed.  After a few moments he got up and walked back to the closet.  The old man looked at him.

"Can I go too?"

The old man nodded, once.  Robert went back to bed, smiling.

Lost to Translation

"Ma'am, I'm sorry but I have to take the child."

"No!"  Theresa knelt in front of the Translation Services trooper, clutching the child to her.  "He's my nephew.  I have papers that say so!  You can't take him!"

"Ma'am, we know he is your son."  The trooper frowned in professional sympathy.  "I promise you that no harm will come to the boy.  He will lead a full and active life in the service."

"He'll be all alone out there, with the Xylth."  Theresa continued to hold the child to her, rocking him gently.

"Ma'am, I am a Translator myself and I can assure you he will grow up with many friends and will fulfill an important role in society."

"We'll never see him again.  He'll never know his family."

A second trooper sneered.  "You should have thought of that before you had him then, huh?"

Theresa sobbed.

"Garcia, outside, now!"  The first trooper turned back to Theresa.  "Ma'am, I'm sorry, but it is the law."

"But our boy was killed so we thought we could just..."

"Ma'am, I'm sorry for you loss but the Breed Law is for there for the protection of all of us and there are no exceptions. I'm sorry."

"You were a translator?"  Theresa's hold on the child gradually eased.

"I am a translator Ma'am.  I grew up on Waith.  I am fluent in the languages and the cultures of the Leeth Empire and consider it home." 

"You will look after him?"

"I am his transfer officer, Ma'am.  I will see him safely established in his new home."

"But will you care for him?  Play with him?  Read him stories?"

In answer, the trooper knelt down and reached out to the child.  "Hi.  I'm Sam.  Do you like spaceships?"

The boy nodded and Theresa let go.

Caught Out, Again

"Where the hell have you been?" Angela said, her voice flat and hard with anger.

"Out.  With the guys."  John looked down at his feet and tried not to sound petulant.

"Really."

"Yeah."  John straightened.  "Really."

Angela walked forward, a quick two steps, and slapped John across the face, leaving a hand print and a sting.  "Then why," she said, her voice rising with each syllable. "Is there",  she pushed him. "Lipstick", she slapped him again. "On your," she said, her voice breaking as she screeched "collar".

"Aw, c'mon.  It's just the guys pulling pranks." Anger made John's voice high and brittle.  "She didn't mean anything!"  He backed away from Angela, hands clenched at his sides.

"She?  She?"  Angela's eyes welled with tears and John's anger vanished.

"No...I mean, the guys hired...what I mean is..."

Angela turned from him and put her hands in front of her face, muffling the sound of her crying.   "John, how could you."

"It was a mistake baby. C'mon baby.  Baby?"

Angela had not moved.  John walked over to her and touched her lightly.  Angela still did not move.  He stepped in front of her, and peered at her eyes for a while.  Then he sighed.

John reached into his pocket and pulled out a small phone.  "Jerry?  Yeah, look, she shut down again.  Yeah, right before the good part, wouldn't you know.  Anyway, you think you'll be able to get her up and running before the weekend?  Ok, just charge my accont? Thanks."

John walked to his bedroom closet and turned on the light.  He brushed past several pressed suits and shirts until he found a bright white dress shirt.  Sitting down on the edge of his bed, John took the shirt from its protective covering and began smearing lipstick on the collar.

Well.  I managed to submit four items in the month of February.  I know three have been rejected, although the fourth was just sent out tonight, so here's hoping.

In the meantime, should anyone need me, I'll be in the corner, hyperventilating.

I AM a writer, a photographer, painter, blogger, husband, teacher, persuader, convincer, conniver, coaxer, pusher, junkie, monkey and monkey trainer, and in no particular order.

I am working on the zero draft of a mainstream novel called "The Search," the first draft of a science fiction novella called "Shudder," and the second draft of another mainstream novel called "Sitcom Semester".

I am devising, scheming, plotting, or generally thinking about a painting called "Purple", a list of classic novels I have never read, a list of movies I want to watch, a series of texts purporting to improve my Japanese, Don Quixote, again, and buying a house.

But mostly, I write.

Always,

Smiley