Assignment Number Thrice

How’s about we try writing a story about a picture of a landscape/scene we connect with. This picture can be of a real place or a painting. You can put your character in this scene or talk about the place itself.
Example:

Staring at the Sun

“Harold, stop picking at it.”

Harold continued to pick.

“Harold, don’t.  It’ll get infected.”

“You don’t know that, Diane,” Harold grumbled as he let his hand drops from the thin crust that had formed over his eyes.  

He was still in bed. Two weeks had gone by and he had only gotten up to be led to the toilet, to the shower and to have his clothes changed. He hadn’t imagined it going quite like this.  

“I still don’t understand why you did it,” said Diane.  He could hear her tapping her wedding band against the kitchen chair that she had pushed up against the bed.  

He turned away from her. How soon could he bring up the dog?

They sat this way in silence until the doorbell rang.  Harold heard Diane get up out of the chair and rush out of the room.  

Almost immediately, Harold started picking.  The scabs were easier to pick off then he thought, for they weren’t really scabs, but dried ointment that Diane had administered the first day. For the first time in two weeks, he was able to crack his eyes open.  The sliver of white light sliced across his scope.  This was curious.  He expected to see nothing but black.  Inky darkness for the rest of his days.  He squeezed his eyes shut. It didn’t hurt exactly, but the light was so bright, it felt like it should have been painful.  He took a deep breath and tried again, slower this time. The light distilled into the familiar shapes of the furniture in his room.  Everything looked fuzzy and out of focus. He zeroed in on his walnut bureau that sat squatty across from his bed. Three feet tall, five feet long. He tried to focus on the knobs, round and shiny.  Suddenly, the outline of folded clothes emerged.  Stacks of clothes, neatly folded.  The clothes insidethe bureau. They were morphing from outlines to the actual clothes.  He could see his fisherman sweater, the ribbed knit of the wool, the color of oatmeal.  He scanned to his underwear drawer.  Folded plaid boxers.  The blue, green and black tartan, the red and black buffalo checkered.  He shut his eyes.  How could this be?  How did this happen? He knew how it happened, he just didn’t think it would happen.  What did he think would happen, when over his lunch break, he stood in the parking lot of his office and had a staring contest with the sun?  He thought he’d go blind or close to it, that’s what he thought.  He didn’t blink for over ten minutes.  And even after he blinked, he continued to stare for another twenty.  And then everything faded to black.  Until now. He heard Diane’s footsteps coming back down the hallway. He cracked an eye open.  She stood at the foot of the bed.  He opened his other eye. 

“Harold!” she gasped.  “Your eyes!”

He saw her, dressed in a pale floral dress, then her underwear and bra came into vision, white and practical, then just her flesh, the body he had known for over thirty years, then muscles, tendons, bones, organs, veins. The body of his wife stood before him, her insides seemingly on the outside. He squeezed his eyes shut.  He had not planned for this.  All he had wanted was a dog.  He had wanted to go blind and to be led around by a trained golden retriever. He would name it Murray if it was a boy and Rose if it was a girl.  He had always liked dogs but Diane didn’t think a house was a place for animals. 

Suddenly Diane was beside him, fussing over him and burrowing her face into his neck. He felt a tear drop from her face and slide over his collar bone.  He wiped it away.

“Diane,” he said. 

“Your eyes,” she said into his neck.  

“I can see, Diane. Better than before.  Things I’ve never seen.”

He opened his eyes and pulled her away so she could face him.  There she was again.  First Diane with her large brown eyes and grey hair, full lips and slender nose.  And then red gleaming muscles, white tendons pulled taught, her skull, the color of cream, her teeth, the gold fillings in her bottom molars, her wet tongue inside her mouth. He stared at her. 

“Your eyes, Harold.  They’re completely white.  Like crystals.” 

He watched her jawbone hinge, up and down.  

“Your iris, your pupils, they’re…gone.” 

He watched her spit slide down her esophagus.  

“Harold, I’m serious. I don’t see anything.  There’s nothing.”

He looked at the bumps of her slick, pink brain, the strands of nerves sprouting from the stem.

“That’s funny, Diane, because I see everything.  And I want a dog.”  

August Assignment: Plot Twist

Write a short story (don't worry--it can be reeeeeally short if you want) with a plot twist.  It can be in the beginning, middle or end.  Whatever.  Just stick one in there.  Somehow, surprise your readers...which would be us.  And if you haven't done your July assignment, don't feel like it'll be lame to post it late--it won't be!  Or don't do it and do this one.  Whatever!  Let's just keep this thing going.

PS

I know I took liberties with this assignment and didn't end up writing what was asked.  It started out as one thing and became something else. I  had planned to do it over since it was so off the mark but never did, so this is what I have to submit!  I am next down the alphabet so I will be posting a new assignment tomorrow.  Huzzah!

Pen Pal

It’s in the evening and I’m still wearing the same decade-old reunion tee and home-sewn flannel pants that I’ve had on for the past three days.  I shuffle out the door and down to the mailbox.  I look forward to the next two minutes that are to follow.  No one will be asking me for anything, spitting up on me or wiping their nose on my pant leg.  I inhale deeply while I walk, enjoying my uninvaded personal space, ignoring the scent of sour breast milk that has crusted into my hair.  Though I appreciate the solitude, pulling the mail out of the box is always a disappointment—someone demanding money or someone advertising something I can’t afford…until one evening, I get something out of the ordinary: I get a letter. 

It’s a small envelope and in the middle, my name is printed neatly in block letters, my address underneath. In the upper right corner, is an unremarkable Forever Stamp.  In the upper left, is written J. McDonald followed by an unfamiliar address in a neighboring township.  I squint at the name, trying to access any sort of familiarity.  J. McDonald...J. McDonald.  I scan my memory bank while I walk up the sidewalk towards my attached townhome, parking lot and common driveway, the sun melting into the bare trees that only somewhat block the view of the freeway behind me.  I rip the envelope open to find a single sheet of lined paper folded into beautiful origami.  I hold it in my hand, then turn it over and examine the intricacy.  It’s so pretty, I don’t want to ruin it, but my curiosity trumps my sentimentality and I unfold the paper while slowly crossing the parking lot to my front porch.  J. McDonald, J. McDonald, I silently mouth the name, hoping to trigger some muscle memory in my lips or tongue, but I come up with nothing.  I open my front door so I can hear a baby squawk and sit down on the front step.  

The letter is written in pencil with the same neat handwriting that is on the envelope, a date at the top.  “Dear Ann,” it begins.  No one has called me Ann in a long time.  Ann sounds proper.  Ann sounds like someone who doesn’t buy thirty-two jars of baby food every week.  Ann sounds like someone who gets regular manicures and meets up with her friends for lunch. Ann goes to cafes, to bistros, even.  I read on.  

J. McDonald opens with the hope that they are writing to the correct Ann.  Oh, this is the correct Ann, I decide.  Ann is someone who receives letters.  

J. McDonald continues. Is this the Ann they grew up with, they muse, who they went to high school and attended senior prom with, who, in the end, they treated poorly and have regretted doing so ever since? 

I squint into the parking lot from my porch.  Who did I go to senior prom with, again?  I reach back into my memory but only bring back a fuzzy mannequin with a blank face wearing a tuxedo.  Jason? John?  Jared?  I need to be this Ann.  I need something.  Jared McDonald…Jared McDonald, was it?  And did he treat me badly?  I can’t remember, it seems like a lifetime ago.  He could have treated me badly, couldn’t he have?  He must have. I read on.   

J. McDonald wants to apologize for the way he treated me, “for the things he done.”  He wants me to know that he has changed, that he has found Jesus. 

Well, that’s nice. Good for J. McDonald.  He must be a swell guy.  Of course he is. 

J. McDonald writes on. If I am the Ann who he knew from so long ago, would I kindly write him back? He doesn’t have much in his life to look forward to anymore, he claims.  

Well, I can relate to that, Jared.  Jeremy? Jack. Jack McDonald, that rings a bell.    

Am I the same Ann who he has loved for twenty years?  

Jack!  I’m flattered!   Heat rises to my face.  My heart thumps in my chest.  Wow, twenty years?  Jack McDonald.  Jack McDonald?  Was that his name?  Sure.  Wow, imagine that.  I must be something special!   Someone has been pining for Ann!  Me!  For twenty years!  Jack McDonald!  Jack?  Or was it Jerry?  

He goes on.  If am not the Ann who J. McDonald (Justin?) knew from so long ago, would I kindly write him back anyway?  Being incarcerated is extremely boring and he needs something to continue living for.  

Jacob?  Jonath—

Wait, incarcerated?  

I reread his last sentence. 

All at once, it becomes clear to me that I have been written to by a prison inmate.  

He has included the best address to write back to, which is directly to the Camp Hill Penitentiary.  He ends the letter with a plea, that I write him, even if I am not the Ann he has been loving all these years.  He needs to know if he has found her or not, plus he needs something in his life besides prison, beside his cell walls. 

I look at the creases criss-crossing over the surface of the letter, the complicated chaos. From inside, I hear a baby wail.  I stare at my townhome.   Suddenly, I feel like I’ve never been more understood. 

Roger Federer...I mean, Venus Williams

I am transported to a time in my mind to Saturdays in my childhood spent lying on the tan carpet in our living room with my hands under my chin. The carpet is digging into my elbows and my fingers are sticky from an orange popsicle (the kind with two sticks). Despite the heat of the summer, my eyes are glued to the TV. My dad is watching tennis again. We don’t have cable, so tennis only comes around a couple times a year, and mostly on a Saturday. 

My sisters are likely swooning over Pete Sampras: something about his chest hair makes them giddy. I find him a bore, emotionless and a bit cocky. Serve and volley, serve and volley…blech. I like Andre Agassi. His long hair (apparently, it was a toupee!), short shorts, and earring dangling are shocking, but his tennis is beautiful. I carefully watch the way he moves, the way he returns Pete's serve. No one else can return Pete’s serve. I am fascinated by the movement of it, the emotionally grueling nature of it. I am clearly falling in love. 

Inevitably upon completion of the men’s battle, there commences a women’s match. In those days, it was Steffi Graff vs Monica Seles. Monica is screeching and crying out every time she hits the ball, as if every swing is meant to bludgeon Steffi to death. Steffi calmly slices the ball back, dancing across the grass of Wimbledon. I am drawn in by Monica. I am moved by her determination and precision. She moves back and forth, taking the ball early with her two-handed groundstrokes, the very strokes I would come to emulate in my adult years. I find myself holding my breath as the rallies lengthen and the tension builds.

"BORING!" one of my brothers moans, getting up from the couch and walking into the kitchen. My siblings would slowly file out of the room. Even my sisters readily abandoned their own sex at the loss of Pete Sampras’ air time. I am alone. I smile. I can finally concentrate. 

The crash of the Williams sisters on the tennis scene created a seismic shift on the WTA (Women’s Tennis Association). Their power game and overall fitness changed women’s tennis in dramatic ways. Many, like myself, fell in love quickly, while others begrudged these two women who were changing the game they loved.

In my senior year of high school, we were asked to make a vision board out of magazine clippings in my English class. Once the assignment was complete, our vision boards would be randomly selected by other members of the class and each of us would write a short paper about our assumptions of the creator based on the content presented. I rifled through National Geographic and Sports Illustrated magazines trying to piece together things I felt describe who I am. I have no recollection of the board I critiqued, but I do remember receiving Danny Lange's analysis of my vision board. It read, "I can safely assume this vision board was created by a woman because she likes Venus Williams." I was horrified and embarrassed that my good friend assumed the things I valued were feminine. 

The year is 2016. I am 32. I am in a conversation with someone about tennis, which is my favorite subject (the quickest way to my heart is to ask me about my views on tennis). He asks me who my favorite current tennis player is. “Venus Williams” comes to my brain, but I hesitate. My vision board experience is lurking back in the recesses of my mind.

“Male or female?” I ask. 

“Male,” he responds without a second thought. 

“Oh…uh…probably…uh…Roger Federer.” The conversation continues, but I am no longer interested. I had abandoned Queen V. I half-heartedly watch Federer. I have been moved to tears by Venus’s come-from-behind victory over Lindsay Davenport at Wimbledon. I am a fraud.

Women’s tennis is more compelling than men’s tennis in every way. I would rather watch women’s tennis over men’s tennis anytime, anywhere. It isn’t even a competition. I find women’s matches to be more dramatic, more emotional, and more human. I have woken up at 3am simply to watch Lindsay Davenport in the Australian Open try to make a comeback as a mother. I have witnessed Elena Dementieva take it to Serena William at Wimbledon only to falter in self-belief just long enough for Serena to mount a comeback. Elena didn’t believe she could beat Serena even though she was better. I have watched Su-Wei Hseih confound and confuse players ranked hundreds of points above her that are stronger and faster simply because she is smarter and delights in the game. Time and time again, these women amaze and surprise me. They let me down and they make my dreams come true (they let me down way more than they make my dreams come true). It is brutal. The relationship feels abusive, controlling at at times, but I’m in too deep. 

Please just leave me alone with my popsicle on the carpet with my chin in my hands. I want to be left alone. I just want to watch beautiful tennis. 

I Have Something to Say, SiR, MaAm.

Happy July 1st!

Our first writing assignment/exercise thingy is based in ANALYSIS, otherwise known as breaking down and making meaning out of something. I want us all to practice sayin' somethin'. Go on and say. SAY SOMETHING WORTH SAYING.

You can choose any topic for your piece. Some ideas:

Sports Team, Athlete

Food, Restaurant, Spice

Pop Culture, Celebrities

Music or a Musician

Your Favorite Baking Pan 

TV Show, Episode, or Movie

There are so many endless possibilities, but don't let that paralyze you..

Just Do It.

The length is up to you, but I recommend 500-750 words-ish.

I'm thinking to write about Taylor Swift.
But I may just choose to write about drinking through a straw instead.

Go team.