Tuesdays with Story

Tuesdays with Story
WRITER’S MAIL for August 31, 2011

Good Words from Way Back
“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.” –from Walden; or, Life in the Woods (1854) by Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862)

“This statement, by one of the world’s free men, has captivated and enslaved millions…. Although he (Thoreau) sought to persuade through facts, through the testimony of the raw material, it is his craft as a writer that gives his facts conviction, and his example such power. It is his art, not his facts, that sent his readers to the woods.” –from The Territory Ahead (1957) by Wright Morris (1910-1998)

Fifth Tuesday
More than a dozen Tuesday With Story members and their guests attended the August 30 Fifth Tuesday festivities and heard the entries for the Writing Challenge “That is so unlike me!” which appear in place of “The Last Word” below.

Chris and Joe Lacey hosted this Fifth Tuesday, but could not hold the event in their backyard because of the rain. So, no marshmallows roasted on pointy sticks. Instead, they opened their garage and fired up the gas grill for brats and sweet corn to complement the long table of potluck delicacies.

Unfortunately, there was some confusion about the location of this event and a couple of members did not find the “country estate” at “49 London Road, near London Depot, north of Cambridge and east of Deerfield.” They discovered two roads called “London Road” both of which were north of Cambridge and east of Deerfield. London Depot itself had a “London Street” but no house numbered “49.” There also was an error in directions in one of the pre-event issues of Writers Mail.

So, future Fifth Tuesday organizers: Please provide detailed written directions – maybe even a map – and at least one phone number, just in case. Thanks!

Who’s Up Next?
September 6: Greg Spry (chapter 9, Beyond Cloud Nine), John Schneller (chapter, Final Stronghold), Jennifer Hansen (chapter 2, Shadows of Yesterday), Rebecca Rettenmund (journal entry), Liam Wilbur (chapter, Scott & Rory), and Jim Cue (short story).

September 13: Holly Bonnicksen-Jones (Coming Up For Air) and Terry Hoffman (The Great Tome). Room for four more! Contact Carol at chornung88@aol.com if you want to read!

September 20: Kim Simmons (chapter, City of Summer), Pat Edwards (poems), Judith McNeil (?), Millie Mader (chapter 28, Life on Hold), and Jerry Peterson (chapters 15-16, Thou Shalt Not Murder).

Writer’s Mail: Duty Roster
Bring your own perspective to Writer’s Mail: Become an editor for a month. Here’s our roster to date:
September – Carol Hornung
October – Need somebody!
November – Need somebody else!
December – Clayton Gill
January – Welcome the new year!

Please let Carol know the month of Writer’s Mail you’d like to edit. Thanks and write again!

Nine Ways
Terry Hoffman writes, “I came across this interesting article: 9 Ways to Create Creativity.”
Thanks, Terry!

The Last Word: “That Is So Unlike Me!”
The Fifth Tuesday Writing Challenge was “That is so unlike me!” Members were to write a story, poem, or essay in which the central character is so out of character….

Cobb
By Liam Wilbur
“Loop thread, guide the knot to the surface of the cloth, pull taught. Thread needle into the knot, be sure it is flush with the surrounding cross-stitches,” he muttered.
When it was finished, the tiny sampler was fixed to an equally small frame. This was set aside and left to settle before being mounted to the wall.
He stood back and surveyed his handiwork. The doll house was in its finishing stage and almost ready for shipment. All he needed to do next was put up a few little pictures and dab some touch-ups with the paint. He was especially proud of this one, as it even had a few little “critter heads” in the study. It was a right work of art, truth be told.
“Sheriff, there’s a mighty ol’ tussle at the Big Nugget! Some fool body’s liable to get ’emselfs shot!” his deputy shouted from the door.
Tim Cobb got up from his chair and threw the canvas cover over his masterpiece. Checking his pistols, he clomped out to face the drunken horde of unemployed trail hands.

Collect Them All
By Greg Spry
“Twenty pushups,” the Sergeant bellowed. “Now!” His chest and biceps stretched the fabric of a camouflaged T-shirt.
“Sir, yes sir!” Every soldier in his squad dropped, lowered their chests to the grass, lifted their bodies, and repeated.
The Sergeant paced back and forth in front of his men, hands clasped behind his back. “If you sissies answer the next question incorrectly, it’ll be forty.” He halted and spun. “Private Niebelberger.”
“Sir!” Niebelberger hopped to his feet and saluted.
“Niebelberger, you weak-limbed Nancy, which pony is my favorite My Little Pony?”
“It’s Moondancer, Sarge!”
“And what are Moondancer’s species and generations, soldier?”
Niebelberger stiffened his posture. “Sir, Moondancer is a Unicorn Pony from, um, Generation one and four, and…um…an Earth Pony from Generation three.”
“Correct. And in what episode did Moondancer first appear?”
“Um, it must have been the first episode of the new series, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic?”
“Wrong!” The Sarge lurched forward, knocking noses with Niebelberger. Blood vessels bulged from his forehead. “The correct answer is the 1983 special Rescue from Midnight Castle, you imbecile!”
“Sorry, sir.” Niebelberger trembled.
“Forty more!”
The squad stayed on the ground and continued their up-downs.
“Repeat after me, men,” the Sarge yelled. “What do we love?”
“My Little Pony!”
“And what do we do?”
“Collect them all!”
The Sarge’s voice boomed across the field. “I can’t hear you!”
“COLLECT THEM ALL!”

Scheming
By Judith McNeil
Scheming is something I just don’t do. Well, not as a practice. While on one hand, it could be fun as a creative exercise made manifest in time/space, the resulting blowback pain would outweigh the fun. But, I will indeed scheme when someone persists in trying to manipulate me on a regular basis. What can I say? It is just human nature.
At one point in my checkered career path, I worked as an eligibility technician for the Welfare Program in the Food Stamps and Medical Division. Each unit had six to eight techs paired up as desk partners to provide coverage of clients if one partner was unavailable for a short period of time, like a week or so. Each of us had a large caseload. Unfortunately, I was paired with a tech who decided that she could take off whenever she felt like it, because her dummy partner (me) would just go along with the program, not reporting her to the supervisor.
This situation came to a head when, despite safety regulations, she opened up the top two drawers of a four-drawer file cabinet, which resulted in the thing starting to capsize. She and another co-worker supposedly braced themselves against it to keep it from falling. This resulted in her having to take time off because of a sprained shoulder. My boiling point was reached when she returned a week later, regaling everyone with tales about her fishing adventures.
I didn’t respond immediately. A couple months later, a friend blew into to town on short notice, for a couple of days. I had not put in for vacation time, so figured I’d use my sick leave. I instructed my friend to call the supervisor, pretending to be the receptionist from the dental office, requesting to speak to me. I then registered utter surprise to be informed that I had an appointment that very day. I would have to leave at noon for the rest of the day. Well, my desk partner’s face immediately took on a look of disbelief. She was actually stuttering, when asking about my appointment. I feigned dismay, apology and disappointment, as I informed her of my clients coming in that afternoon, and gathering my things to leave for a leisurely afternoon with my friend, sailing on the bay.

Now, a Word from Our Bloodsucking Monster
By Clayton Gill
“Geo, what the hell are you doing?” Miker’s whisper hissed across the dark and spooky school laboratory. “It’s almost midnight. You wanted me to take a look at the fish. Okay, I looked. The monster’s healthy enough to bite your arm off. Now let’s get the hell out of here before we get caught.”
“Pas de problème, dude.” Geo’s spectacles reflected the glow of his laptop computer. “Un moment plus, s’il vous plait, pour Mademoiselle Pretty Puss.”
Geo tapped a key. An amber light flashed above the sixteen hundred gallon aquarium which held the slimy, six-foot, two hundred-pound, genetically modified catfish. Hundreds of fish like her had escaped into the river and now wreaked terror up and down the valley. Her venomous sisters almost killed the biology teacher, Mr. M., who still lay comatose in the hospital.
A soft chirping sound began, keeping time with the flashes illuminating the tank.
Miker saw the fish stir, slither into a coil, and press her gaping maw against the glass. Barbels writhed around the sharp-toothed, cavernous mouth. The pattern of flashes and chirps changed, speeding up, slowing down. Miker squinted over Geo’s shoulder. Bright lines zig-zagged across the computer screen.
“What’s going on?” Miker said.
“She’s saying ‘hello,’ rubbing the glass with those weird snaky things.”
“Barbels. How catfish find food in muddy water.”
“Alas, poor, poor Puss is on a diet. She’s always hungry. And grumpy.” Geo took a closer look at the screen. “Look at her whine.”
“That fish is talking to you? Now?”
“You may recall, ichthyology dude, that it was you who insisted these critters could communicate.”
“Yeah, but to each other. When they escaped from the truck. When they ganged up to attack people, including Mr. M. They were not, repeat not talking to us.”
Miker’s friend shrugged in a French sort of way.
“The sonar array picks up barbel-to-glass vibrations,” Geo said. “Then the computer applies fractal pattern analysis using open-source software from the SETI program. You know, algorithms to listen for aliens a thousand light years away. No offense, dude, but it’s beaucoup beyond decoding whale lingo. Anyway, I added a dash of off-the-shelf digital voice recog, and voilà, ‘Bon jour Puss’.”
“Okay, I’ll bite,” Miker said. “What does she have to say?”
“So far just a word or two, like ‘hungry,’ or ‘food,’ or ‘more food.’ The basics. But, par la suite, who knows?”
A deep buzz sounded from the tank, followed by a series of screechy beeps.
“Sacré bleu!” Geo said, returning to the screen. “Something new. Très abstract. Take a while to crunch.”
Miker gazed at the fish, which lay motionless now, looking a little deflated, watery eyes dim, barbels hanging limp around rubbery lips which sagged into a frown half a yard wide.
“Well,” Geo said, “It’s another request, I guess.”
“What’s the bloodsucking monster want now?”
“Un ami. A friend.”

Reflections
By Jennifer (Rafini)
Reflections Between You and Me
What do I see when you look at me
Is it the clouds, or is it – a honeybee
Atoms and molecules bring us together
Words and emotions, light as a feather
We are one, you and me, do you agree?

What do I see when you look at me
Is there a time when I must flee?
You speak and I listen
One more time, cheeks glisten
How is it possible not to foresee?

What do I see when you look at me
Your world and my world, what could it be?
No more questions, no more lies
How can you sympathize with your eyes
Walk away if you please, can you really set me free?

What do I see when you look at me
Only one here within a degree
Open your heart, open your mind
What does it take, for you to be kind?
Are you begging me upon your knee?

What do I see when you look at me
Long forgotten memories – where is my key?
Do not forget, here or there
It does not matter what you wear
We are one, you and me, do you agree?

What do I see when you look at me
It’s more than a reflection within a connection
Little by little we clear the debris
One face, one life. How else could it be?
A looking glass image speaks back to me

Reflections of You and Me
What do I see when you look at me
Clouds? Or is it – a honeybee
Faces I usually see
Beckon, and return to thee
Stand before me, sit or flee
A looking glass image speaks back to me

My Reflections of You
Look in the mirror
What do you see?
My own image
Looking back to see
Could it be clouds
or is it – a honeybee?
Friendly faces, smiling at me
Beckon, then return to thee
Round, and up or down
one more time without a frown
it does not matter, tears can’t drown
the looking glass image speaking back to me

This Is Not Like Me, Or Maybe It Is
By Millie Mader
I chide myself for over spending on best sellers—John Grisham, Michael Connelly, Pat Conroy, James Patterson—none gory, just clever and intriguing. Second string would be Nicholas Sparks, Mary Higgins Clark, and Jodi Picoult– who always has a message. Close behind is Nora Roberts, who has no message, but hot sex scenes. What follows next isn’t the real me. Or is it?
* * *
When I am about to board the little American Eagle, my guilty pleasures take over. If I’m going to Houston, my travelling companions are The National Inquirer and US. These enthrall me right up to the gate at DFW. For the forty-five minute flight to Houston, The Star captures me. If the stewardess—ah—the flight attendant has been pleasant, I hand them to her/ him. If not, I stick them in the seat pocket. On the return flight, it’s pretty much reversed, provided new copies of my favorites are on the shelves. Otherwise I’ll peruse Entertainment Weekly or Globe and Hollywood Reporter. A wealth of trivia. My daughters would call it pulp.
On a three hour flight to Nevada, I’ll pick up the latest editions of People, Inquirer, and Star. Just as I’m nearly through, we’ll be purring down the runway towards the gate. I really need a few more minutes to see who Jennifer Anniston’s latest ‘squeeze’ is, or if ‘Brangelina’ might be breaking up. Coming home, it’s the same song—second verse.
Jennifer has yet another guy; and there, struggling through some airport in Africa, we see Brad and Angelina herding their six kids for the zillionth time. The six nannies are obviously cut out of the film. Have I enriched my mind? No, but the time just flew by—right along with the seven thirty-seven.

Confessions of a Video Game Artist
By Rebecca Rettenmund
I’m a video game artist who doesn’t play games
I hardly know any of the titles by name
I’ve never played Halo, or Grand Theft Auto
The odds of me playing would be like winning the lotto
If my work only knew how I stink on joysticks
My hand eye coordination would make them sick
Super Mario Brothers is way out of my class
A second grader could kick my ass
When work asks me: Aren’t video games fun?
I say: First person shooters have been WAY over done
But I only say that because I always lose
At least I can draw, THAT I know how to do
So I scan my drawing into the computer
Port it to Flash, make it a first person shooter
So yeah, shoot em up games really do suck
But give me the art, and with a little luck…
I can make that game character look better than ever
But when work asks, wanna shoot him? I say never
I never shoot a plasma gun after work
And I don’t use avatars to woo cyber jerks
Because frankly, I’m not that kind of girl
The kind that hides herself in a virtual world
So I’m a video game artist, though go heavy on the art
Even if I’ve never put a game in my shopping cart
I’m an expert on Photoshop and Flash is my game
I might make game characters, but I can’t make them aim

Pfeffercorn v. Dingleberry
By Jerry Peterson
Tall, shadow-thin Arnold Dingleberry grabbed his fifty-first hotdog. Just before he stuffed it in his mouth, he peered across the table at the only other entrant remaining in the Green County Bar Association’s twenty-second annual Grand Eat Off – Big Ernie Pfeffercorn. “Squirt, I didn’t think you’d get this far, as small a stomach as you gotta have in that tiny frame of yours. What are you, ninety-four pounds wet?”
“About that,” Pfeffercorn said.
“What’s your secret?”
“Zumba dancing.”
“You putting me on?”
“No. It burns calories and builds an appetite.”
“Uh-huh.”
Dingleberry ripped into his hotdog, chewing like a rabid groundhog.
Pfeffercorn forced his dog – nakid – down his gullet whole, then crushed the bun into a wad and swallowed that. He licked at his mustache like a proud cat preening his whiskers.
Dingleberry whipped his hands up into a time-out gesture. “I’m sick of hotdogs. Let’s end this. I demand the Green County challenge.”
Pfeffercorn’s face screwed up in puzzlement. “The what?”
A judge came over. He hefted two plates of putrid-smelling sandwiches from a cooler. “It works this way,” he said as he set a plate in front of each contestant. “Over at Baumgartner’s, we call this a power lunch – braunschweiger, limburger cheese, and an extra thick slice of raw onion on black rye. First to put down two of these three-quarter-pound beasts wins the contest, the Baumgartner Trophy, and a free power lunch each week for a year.”
Pfeffercorn pried up the top slice of bread so he could sniff the ingredients. “Can I have a beer with this?”
The judge brought out a bottle of Minhaus Lager. He slid it down the table. “All right, gentlemen, the clock starts when I say mark. Ready? Three . . . two . . . one . . . mark!”
Dingleberry jammed the first sandwich into his mouth. He gnawed, his red face sheeting toward green with each chew on the sandwich that gave off the aroma of an old gym shoe.
Pfeffercorn balled the sausage and swallowed it whole. He mashed the onion into two wads and horsed them down, then attacked the stinky cheese. Pfeffercorn hammered the bread into a lump. He forced it down and chased it all with a half bottle of lager. Then he repeated his performance with the second sandwich.
Dingleberry, queasy, still with a hunk of his first sandwich in his hand, ran for a trash barrel. There his gut load of food came up in a rush.
The judge raised Pfeffercorn’s hand in victory. “The winnah!” he bellowed to the crowd. To Pfeffercorn, he whispered, “You really do the Zumba?”
“Hey, I’m a lawyer. Would I lie?”

The Baker and His Son
By Jeff Franz
The Queen was turning 103, and her life and 83-year reign were being celebrated. My son and I arrived at the Grand Square early, parking our bread cart in front of the bell tower, a prime location to sell our wares. The crowd began to filter in, happy to see the baker and his son in that chill morning and happy to shell out monies for our fresh and discounted goods. As I handed out the breads and my only son took the coins, he beamed his pride up to me.
By ten bells, our loaves had cooled and the Queen was arriving. The Square was overflowing with people in rooftops and hanging from windows. Security was there but unable to see everything. I could scarcely see the stage, let alone the crown little by little moving toward the crowd. The crowd in turn moved forward and I, leaving my son attending the cart, grabbed the largest, longest, most expensive loaf and faded into the background, into the bell tower, to find a better sight.
I ascended the steps, crumbs and crust sifting down upon my shoes. I thought of how the people had come to me, begging for assistance; how I agreed to help them, not only for the purse they offered me, but how I was really doing this for my son, monetarily and spiritually; and that the 83-year reign of terror would soon be at an end.
As I reached the belfry, I began to pull apart the bread in my hands, scattering the various-shaped pieces all around me, until only two pieces remained: one on the stock, and one on the barrel. I stepped to the window as dozens of birds arrived to enjoy their new found feast.
knelt down, looking through the scope to find first the stage, then the crown. I adjusted the sight and the Queen’s face was in view. I took in a breath, the lingering aroma of bread. I whispered the three word prayer I have so many times before. A bead of sweat ran down my arm, my hand, my finger, and I first pressed it against the trigger, then the trigger itself.
The sound no longer fazed me, but it reverberated off the walls of the Square and quieted the crowds. There was a blur, and then the screams commenced. The Queen was now in full view in my sight for I had missed, and as I readied for another shot, I saw her robe unfurl as she unholstered her guns.
Unholstered? Guns?
I stood and lowered my weapon in disbelief as the centurion opened fire. Bullets, birds, breadcrumbs and bits of brick bounced and ricocheted all around me. I dropped my rifle and I myself, losing my sense, my faith, my belief, and my balance, dropped out of the window and to certain tragedy.
As I plummeted, I realized there would be no escape this time, but that I may not die. What was below me was a cart full of soft, fresh baked bread. What I didn’t realized was even more directly below me was my son.

And WHAT a Character
By Brandy Larson
I was cruising craigslist at the truck stop when I saw the ad – “Miss Danu’s World Class Massage.” My low back and legs were already killing me on my drive from Chicago to Minneapolis. This should be just the ticket!
Over the phone she sounded like a sensible kind of bodyworker. Full body, professional, payment in cash. I gave her my estimated time of arrival, noon. Yes! Ready and set to break up the long drive with some hands-on relief and relaxation!
She came to the door, a woman of a certain age, hair longish and loose, dressed in black. The place looked respectable enough. There were Halloween decorations dotting the porch and living room. The hookahs on the shelves gave me cause for pause. She followed my gaze. “Oh those… a collection from my time in the Middle East. Strictly for smoking tobacco steeped in fruit syrup. Ever tried one?” “Not recently.”
She got me situated in the studio – candles, a fresh glass of ice and pitcher of water. Something was playing in the background, was it “The Phantom of the Opera?” I hoped she would put something more relaxing on in short order – maybe elevator music?
Knock, knock. In she came wearing a witch hat. “What’s this?” I asked. “Well, in keeping with the season I thought you might enjoy – massage by a witch.” “Sure, whatever.” I wouldn’t have to see anything anyway, face down in the headrest. Why not let her have a little fun, just humor her.
I was enjoying her skillful style and the tension was melting right out of my areas of concern. “Nice hands.” I complimented her. Too soon – “Time to turn over?” “Fine.” She switched the CD to something foreign and rhythmic, a little too upbeat for my mood. The next thing I knew she was doing something that looked like a belly dance.
Happily that only lasted for a minute or two. Is she a witch or a belly dancer?
At this point she put on some lush piano music. That’s more like it! Finally. I surrendered my feet to the start of side two. Love those pressure points! The massage moved right along as she struck all the right notes. Why not a little entertainment here? Got to give her credit for a little creativity. No harm done.
My hour of respite was fast coming to an end. It’s always over too soon. She was finishing with a scalp massage and a few light strokes on my face when an old, familiar song came on and she sang along…
(“Over the Rainbow”)

THE END (but no happy ending).

(Somewhere) Over the Rainbow
Lyrics by E.Y. Harburg
Music by Harold Arlen
1938 (#1 of the Top 10 Songs of the 20th Century)

Somewhere over the rainbow
Way up high
There’s a land that I heard of
Once in a lullaby.

Somewhere over the rainbow
Skies are blue
And the dreams that you dare to dream
Really do come true.

Someday I’ll wish upon a star
And wake up where the clouds are far
Behind me.
Where troubles melt like lemon drops
Away above the chimney tops
That’s where you’ll find me.

Somewhere over the rainbow
Bluebirds fly
Birds fly over the rainbow
Why then, why can’t I?

If happy little bluebirds fly
Beyond the rainbow
Why, oh why can’t I?

Please send Carol content for the next Writers Mail (chornung88@aol.com). Thank you!