like war orphans

Posted on April 26, 2012 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Twenty-Four

On the eve of Robbie’s departure, the party at the Tirabis’ had been seven days in the making and it showed. There were kids everywhere, the youngest, a ten-year old girl named Arianna who lived across the street, and had snuck out of her bedroom window to see Gil, her secret crush. They’d been palling around all night, hanging together on the tire swing and talking about “stuff.” Gil tolerated her attentions with more than the modicum of interest he reserved for family members and appeared to be enjoying himself until Arianna tried to hold his hand. Rattled, he mumbled something about forgetting to feed the fish, ran inside and locked himself in his room for the duration of the evening. Robbie checked on him around 10 o’clock, picking the lock with a dexterity indigenous to burglars and jewel thieves, and found him lying on his bed, fully clothed and dead asleep. No amount of nudging would rouse him so Robbie removed Gil’s shoes and turned off the light.

For her part, Aunt Stella sat in the kitchen like a sentry on her watch, guarding the troops, restocking and rearranging the platters of food, and looking for signs of unruly visitors. When the cops came, drawn by complaining neighbors, Aunt Stella sent them packing, a meatball sandwich in one hand and a baggie full of her homemade goodies in the other. She and Avery had spent every day after school huddled together in her kitchen, churning out cookies by the hundreds, along with appetizers, salads and sides, tireless kitchen warriors armed only with whisks, spatulas and carving knives.

But now, at 11 o’clock, Aunt Stella was feeling the pull as she wearily collected the night’s refuse.

Robbie burst in as if escaping. “All this talking and hugging and girls crying. I’m starving. Anything left?” He peered under the lids of the various crock pots lining the counter, savoring the aromas in each. “I haven’t eaten a thing since lunchtime,” he said, spearing a meatball with a plastic fork. He popped it in his mouth and slumped against the counter, eyes closed, chewing.

“What do you want? Pork, chicken, or meatball sandwich?” Aunt Stella asked.

“One of each,” he said. He grabbed her around her substantial mid-section, picked her up and squeezed her.

Aunt Stella blushed, at a loss for words. “Oh my.”

Robbie set her down and kissed her on both cheeks.

“You’re the best, Aunt Stella. Thanks,” he said, waving a hand over the mounds of food still crowding the counter. He grabbed a plate and made a sandwich. “For everything.”

“What about this plastic ware?” she asked, holding up a grimy spoon. “Shall I wash it?”

“Nah. What for?”

“I was thinking of your mother and how that would probably be something that would happen in Ruth’s kitchen,” Stella answered.

Robbie’s face changed, but he kept chewing. “Fair enough,” he said, mouth full to capacity. “In honor of Ruth.” He stuck a used plastic fork in the dishwasher.

Aunt Stella loaded the cache of utensils awaiting dispensation from the sink into the dishwasher. “In honor of Ruth,” she said. She closed it, turning her attention to the disarray of the dessert tray on the table, less to restore order than to avert her watery eyes from Robbie’s careful gaze. When she had regained her composure, she said. “This is your two-hour warning. At one o’clock, the entire lot of them in the backyard are going to turn into pumpkins. That means I want to see them getting in their cars and heading home. Those that can’t drive can sleep down there,” she said, indicating the basement. “And if anyone thinks there’s going to be any funny business, they better think again. Cause Aunt Stella’s on patrol.”

She smacked Robbie’s arm and shuffled off to the living room to catch the 11 o’clock news and a catnap before her next shift began.

➣➣➣

The next morning, Robbie rose at four so he could shower and collect his thoughts before his ride arrived. At six a.m., a car horn beeped. They were all sitting in the kitchen again, drinking warm beverages to fight the chill of the coming loss. Robbie gathered his brothers and sisters to him, one by one, enveloping them in his large, bear-like arms before collecting his things.

He climbed in the back seat, rolled down the window and patted his heart twice while the rest of the Tirabi’s stood on the front porch, waving, holding each other like war orphans. Robbie watched them watching him as the view diminished and the space between them stretched out into infinity.

to be continued. . .

to read what came before jump here

wise + woman

Posted on April 23, 2012 by Cynthia G.

Well, we’ve blushed again. Read it here . . .because you can.

please don’t save me

Posted on April 11, 2012 by Cynthia G.

we’re seriously blushing. you can read all about it here.

meet me at the bodega

Posted on April 11, 2012 by Cynthia G.

Journal THAT

a guide to writing

Cynthia Gregory

Journal writing got you down? Does the pen weight fifteen pounds, the paper cut you to ribbons? Does the shifting light hurt your eyes? Are you feeling totally uninspired, pooky? I have good news for you.

This may be the best ever secret weapon nearly guaranteed to make your journaling a pleasurable and inspiring experience. This information is so good it could be considered cheating – except it isn’t. It’s so good it should almost be illegal or sold with a special license. Nevertheless, here it is for you, the solid gold journaling tip of the year: pick up your journal and walk. Directly to the busiest coffee shop you can find. The kind of coffee shop is entirely up to you.

The place itself can be a youthful hipster java cave where a black tee shirt is very nearly the required uniform and where you are soo out of touch with the music, the cultural references, the technology. It can be a very groovy in a retro kind of place where the waitresses wear those polyester pseudo nurse outfits, with crisp white aprons tied in bow in the back and where the donut case is always stocked with powdered sugar sprinkled old fashioneds. Doesn’t matter.

Once you select your target, enter the writing zone with all the necessary tools and secure a table. So much is negotiable about this drill, but this part is not: you must order enough beverage and/or food to ensure a dependable cover. Your passage on this part of the journaler’s journey requires that you honor your host – the one who provides you with the context of all this rich material – with an offering that reflects appreciation for all the trouble he or she has gone to in order for you have a nice, clean, well-lit writing surface, a place to rest your iced tea, a den peopled with characters to sketch, a platform upon which to balance a snack while you go about your journaling duty.

Here is the question: how can you not find something to write about here? My goodness, there is so much material in this fabulous den it’s almost immoral to shrink from the duty to write. Did you know that in the archetypal studies of fiction, the coffee house, the bar, the watering hole is one of the most holy places in which a plots twist, where complications arise, transactions occur? The Mos Eisley Cantina, the bar in Star Wars, the Whistle Stop Café in Fried Green Tomatoes, the Tropicana where Ricky Ricardo occasionally allowed Lucy to perform as an outlet for her outrageous talent? The watering hole is where information is exchanged, a place that urges the hero to fulfill her next mission in the quest. In this context, the watering hole is wherever you choose it to be and the hero is you.

The bodega is like the telegraph office, where lessons are imparted, instructions delivered. By placing yourself squarely in the heart of your local cantina, you are putting yourself smack in the middle of the most strategically magnetic place in which to attract writing material. (I recommend against writing in an actual bar where alcohol is the beverage of choice, for the obvious reason that while it might make good fiction, it makes lousy writing practice).

So here you are in your café; look around. There are so many topics to bounce into and fill all those crisp empty pages. There is food. Check out that menu! There are customers you couldn’t make up on your best, most fecund day. The décor is an encyclopedia of material. The foot traffic going by outside the window is a screenplay waiting to happen. Maybe you’ve got a host of memories stirred up by the smell of grease, fantasies ignited by the sound of a steamer frothing up milk in a pitcher. Did you waitress your way through college and learn how to balance eight plates on your arms? What is your favorite café experience? Your worst? What about that woman you saw that firm morning in Paris when you finally made it there after so many years of promises to yourself, and found that café in the St. Germain de Pres just blocks away from the Pont Neuf? There she was, sitting in that sidewalk café looking like something out of central casting, with her black sleeveless dress, black, wide-brimmed hat, sunglasses, perfect blond chignon, sipping a glass of chardonnay at nine o’clock in the morning, sharing a table with a man who was maybe her nephew, her grandson, her lover? You savored your own cappuccino and croissant with a fabulous mysterious cheese and felt as if in that moment, you were somehow bigger than life.

You see where you can go with this?

So on those days when you know you should be journaling but just can’t find it in you to examine your own life? Get thee to a coffee shop. Let that java jolt seep into your blood and see where it carries you. This may just be the best tip ever. Use it, and then use it again.

salmon with lime and wasabi

Posted on April 6, 2012 by Cynthia G.

Oil in Water

Pam Lazos

Chapter Twenty-Two

Street lights struggled against a foggy, moonless night, their beams of light crashing to a halt against the first heavy water particles they met. Only intermittent porch lights remained aglow; the occupants of the homes on Willow Street were asleep for the night. A car crept down the road, pulled into the Tirabi driveway and killed the lights and the engine.

Upstairs, Gil flicked on the small light next to his bed, his own invention, a forearm and claw. The light emanated from the palm of the claw and down toward the base which held it in place. Kori had helped him with the design.

Gil held his breath to better hear the outside world. He threw the covers back and walked on silent feet to the window. Despite the chilly November air, Gil slept with the window cracked. He drew back the curtain a hair’s breath, allowing only enough space for one eye to peer down to the car parked in the driveway. A Pacifica, Gil thought, but his one eye couldn’t confirm it.

Muffled sounds emanated from the car and Gil could see the windows starting to fog a little bit. The door opened a smidgen and then swung wide. Gil drew a sharp intake of breath and pulled back from the curtain. He stood in silent contemplation, eyes rolling back and forth as if trying to deduce further information. After several seconds, he bolted out the bedroom door and ran down the corridor, taking the steps two at a time. He grasped the door knob with both hands and yanked the door open where it banged against the wall, sending a shiver through the spine of the house.

“What the heck are you doing?” a disembodied voice asked as it rounded the corner and came up the front steps. Gil let out a short whelp and jumped full on at the approaching figure, wrapping his arms around its neck and squeezing for all he was worth.

Robbie dropped his bags just in time to catch his brother, but not in time to get his balance. The pair went clattering to the ground in a confused tangle of limbs, their fall broken only by the bags at Robbie’s feet. “Gil,” he grunted, more of a guttural sound than a word. Gil released his death grip and Robbie wheezed, regaining his breath. He raised himself on one elbow and Gil did the same as if lying on duffel bags on the front stoop in the middle of the night was a normal thing.

“I knew you were coming back tonight,” Gil said. “Kori said not until tomorrow, but I knew it would be today.”

“Well, technically Kori’s right since it’s after midnight, but we’re not going to tell her that, right?” Robbie asked. Gil nodded and lunged for his brother again, toppling him back and onto the ground.

“It’s been three months and twenty-seven days,” Gil said into Robbie’s neck. Robbie rubbed Gil’s back in a circular motion.

“I missed you, too, buddy,” Robbie said. “What do you say we get out of this fog. It’s creepin’ me out a little.” Gil helped Robbie to his feet and grabbed his duffle bag, grunting with the strain of it. Robbie smiled watching him crash and bang his way into the foyer. A light crept out from under Kori’s door and spilled down the stairs.

“Hawk at twelve o’clock,” Robbie said and Gil looked up the stairs to see Kori’s slippered feet standing at the top.

Kori’s voice spilled down the steps: “Gil. It’s the middle of the night.”

Robbie’s voice was hoarse from lack of sleep. “He did the hospitable thing and came to greet me.”

“Robbie!” Kori ran down the stairs and jumped into Robbie’s arms, knocking him down for the second time in the last five minutes. He lay sprawled out on the floor with Kori straddled on top of him. She blushed, mumbled an apology and pulled him to his feet. She held his grip and stared at him intently for a moment, a specimen under a microscope. He folded her into his arms and in a heartbeat she returned the mantle of responsibility to her younger brother.

“That bad, huh?” She shook her head and stifled the urge to cry. He squeezed tighter. “Hey, how about a drink?”

“Yeah, hot chocolate!” Gil yelled. A moment later the hall light clicked on and a crusty-eyed Avery stumbled out of his room and into the hallway.

“Gil?” he called downstairs. “Are you alright?”

“He is now,” Robbie called back.

“Robbie!” Avery said, taking the stairs two at a time.

“When did you get home? I mean…that’s a stupid question. Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?”

“The element of surprise, my brother.” Robbie and his lopsided grin were home. “C’mon. I’m starving. What’ve you got to eat in this place.

“A little salmon with lime and Wasabi sauce,” Avery said. “My own creation.” Robbie crinkled his nose.

“A little spanikopita from Aunt Stella,” Avery said. “And some baklava for dessert.”

Robbie’s eyebrows shot up in appreciation. “God, It’s good to be home.” He wrapped his arm around Gil’s shoulder and they headed for their midnight raid on the refrigerator.

to be continued. . .

to read what came before click here

coup de grace

Posted on March 30, 2012 by Cynthia G.

we have a new post @ first blush. join us here. or else.

100 things

Posted on March 26, 2012 by Cynthia G.

Journal THAT

a guide to writing

Cynthia Gregory

Every once in a while I get the feeling that I’ll crawl right out of my skin unless I clean out a closet. Nothing makes me happier than to fill bags and bags of unused stuff to haul off to the Goodwill store, where they always ask me if I want a receipt and I always say no. I have a theory is that everything ends up where it needs to be and if I don’t need it, it doesn’t belong to me, and how could I possibly take a receipt for someone else’s stuff?

Closet cleaning. It’s a useful skill. Some people like a clean stovetop or a clean floor; I like a tidy closet. This isn’t just me being obsessive – well maybe, but I like to think that I am not so much a collector as an experiencer. I am not so much interested in getting stuff as I am in having insights and impressions wash over me like high tide on a blue moon.

Once, when I lived in Pennsylvania, I tried to temp my Amish neighbor into letting me take photographs of her beautiful young sons with their straw hats and wide blue trusting eyes. “For later, when they grow up, to remember them by,” I said, and she turned me down flat. “It’s not our way,” was all she would say. And I got it. She didn’t need to take measure of the moment to save it for later. She wasn’t keeping a piece of now to reminisce; she was fully present. I liked that. I wanted to emulate that.

So, I like to throw/give stuff away. Make no mistake, I don’t exactly shun materialism, indeed, I find that a certain measure of pretty things make me happy and content. However, truth to tell, I find that I can’t quite think as clearly or creatively when things all around me are jumbled up and drowning in clutter and I can’t find my car keys.

Writing is like that, which is why I think I’s so important to write. A lot. If not every day, then several times a week, at least. It’s not because all that practice makes you a better writer, even though it does. It’s not because all the best writers do it and you’ll become a best seller by osmosis, because that’s just silly. No, writing every day is important because it gets all the clutter out of your head so that when you have something really important or profound or dazzlingly brilliant to say, it will be seen as diamonds sparkling on the sand, instead of dull objects half obscured beneath a verb-dump.

Timed writing exercises or list making exercises are great ways to purge the shrunken tee shirts and torn jeans of your brain. Oh sure, you think you’ll wear them again, but you’re just kidding yourself. They’re hanging out reminder you that the time is passing you by and those jeans will still be waiting there for you. Some day.

I used to think that I need to save my creative stuff up, like there was a limited supply of juicy ideas. You laugh, but it’s true. I thought, “well, I’ll just save that good idea for later, because then I’ll really have time to develop it and it will so rock.” It seems strange to think that now, but why else would I want to withhold my creative spark? Because, I thought, maybe that creative sliver of divine creative spark might be too good or not good enough to share with the world.

Let me just make one thing perfectly clear: there is no shortage of good ideas. If you use up one good idea, three will appear in its place. It’s when you stuff a good idea or ignore a good idea, that they stop flowing in through the open window of your mind. So use them up! Fast! And then use them some more!

And you know what else? When you use up all your good ideas, when you pour them onto the page like good maple syrup on homemade sourdough pancakes, you’ll get to a place much sweeter than the place you’re at now. I totally promise.

Do this: write a list of the 100 things you know for sure how to do. I bet you’ll dash off ten things you’re good at without breaking a sweat. You’ll push on to twenty and start to chug. Climbing up to thirty, a little voice inside your head will start to sound like The Little Train That Could. Forty? You may feel like giving up. But here’s what you get when you push past the point that you thought was the outer edge: the ideas dam has burst and they start to flow fast and frenetic and suddenly you see the wisdom in the 100. It’s not the first or second or even the fifth ten things, it’s the ones past where you thought you knew where you were going that are the really interesting ones.

You can do this for a year. Write about the 100 things you look for in a soulmate. The 100 things you learned in college. The 100 places you want to visit while you still inhabit the planet. This is important stuff. Not because of the things themselves, but because of the process of learning to open up to the place in your heart that exists beyond everything you think you know. It’s the stuff beyond that, that gets really good. Use it up! Use it all up as it comes in. You can never use it up completely. Unless you want to, and that’s an entirely different choice, baby.

is my blush on straight?

Posted on March 23, 2012 by Cynthia G.

we have a new post @ first blush. read it here and rejoice.

an accidental blush

Posted on March 19, 2012 by Cynthia G.

we have a new post @ first blush. read, rinse, repeat.

brothers in arms

Posted on February 20, 2012 by Cynthia G.

Oil In Water

Pam Lazos

Chapter Fifteen

Robbie backed out of the driveway and cranked up the volume on the radio to override the noise of the engine. Ten minutes later, he pulled into a strip mall and parked in front of the Army Recruiting Center. Sweat formed on his upper lip and his knuckles bulged white from his vice-grip on the steering wheel. He realized he was holding his breath and let it out. After a single, agonizing minute, Robbie grabbed the keys and his backpack and strode inside.

A young, pimply-faced young man, no more than twenty-two with a well-pressed uniform and excellent posture sat behind the reception desk. He stood when Robbie walked through the door.

“Can I help you?”

“Captain Russell, please.”

“Your name?”

“Robert Tirabi.”

The young man disappeared and after several moments returned. His stone face beckoned Robbie to enter.

“The Captain will see you now.” The boy stood aside allowing room for Robbie to pass, and closed the door behind them.

➣➣➣

Captain Russell occupied a spacious office that overlooked the shopping center’s parking lot. He knew better men who’d risen to lesser ranks and, although the Army didn’t pay well, he’d enjoyed a modicum of success first in Grenada and then in Desert Storm. More importantly, his men respected him. But his last combat mission was fifteen years ago and he’d be the first to admit his reflexes had slowed since then. Now he was killing time until retirement.

“C’mon in, son. Sit down.” He pointed to a chair. “I understand you’re having second thoughts.”

Robbie nodded and shifted uneasily in his chair.

“Well, how bad do you want to get out?” asked the Captain.

“Pretty bad. I told you over the phone what happened to my parents…”

“It’s a damn shame, that.” Captain Russell sighed. “Unfortunately, I can’t help you. The army’s desperate for bodies. You signed. I’ve got you scheduled for a six-week basic training starting end of the month. Think of it as a sixteen-week crash course. We’ll teach you how to shoot. How to survive with just a pocket knife and an aspirin. That kind of stuff.”

Robbie stared, wide-eyed, managing little more than, “But, I…”

“Look, I’m real sorry about your folks. You can appeal. Might be out by Christmas next. But unless you know somebody.” Captain Russell leaned forward, folded his hands. “You know anybody?”

Robbie shook his head, a helpless look overtaking those few facial muscles that hadn’t gone numb.

The Captain smiled. “Hey, those siblings of yours can use the money. You do get paid, you know.”

Robbie nodded

“You’re a car guy, right? Stuff’s always breaking down there in the desert. Something about the sand causes everything to go to crap ten minutes after you get there. You’ll be in demand. Probably pull the beauty duties because of it.” He laughed, an infectious, light-hearted laugh. Robbie smiled in response.

Captain Russell paused, stood up, and looked out the window across the parking lot like a man surveying all he owns.

“It’ll be over before you know it. I promise.” Captain Russell handed Robbie his business card. “Call me if you have any other questions.”

➣➣➣

Gil sat on Robbie’s bed asking a million questions as Robbie packed his life’s essentials into two large duffle bags. After throwing in several pairs of jeans and a bunch of underwear and socks he routed through the closet, talking to himself. “How many shirts….”

“But why do you have to go?” Gil asked. While Robbie’s back was turned, Gil pulled out the seven pairs of socks Robbie had just stuffed in the duffle bag and hid them under the bed.

“Because I’m doing my duty for my country,” Robbie replied. “And besides. I can’t get out of it. I tried.”

“What’s duty, anyway? Duty to who?” Gil removed Robbie’s underwear and placed it underneath his pillow.

“I have a duty to my country just like you had to feed ZiZi every day. We all have obligations.”

“But why do you have to go so far away? Don’t they have people who live there to do their own duty?” Gil removed several pairs of jeans from the duffle bag and shoved them under the night stand. Robbie turned and tossed his shirts onto a pile on the bed. Gil leaned back nonchalantly, distancing himself from the duffle bags. Robbie began taking his shirts off their hangers and folding them neatly.

“Yeah, but sometimes people need more help.”

“But we need more help. Especially because of Mom and Dad.” Robbie stopped folding shirts and knelt down next to Gil.

“Hey. C’mon.” He held his arms out and Gil jumped into them. He cradled Gil as best as you can a 5’2″ baby.

“I’ll be back before you know it. You’ll see.” Gil crinkled his nose and buried his face in Robbie’s shoulder.

“Are these people more important than we are?”

“Nothing’s more important than you are.” Robbie rubbed Gil’s back. “It’s just that some people don’t have the same freedoms we have and so that’s why I have to go. It’s about democracy.” Robbie shifted Gil back to his spot on the floor.

“Isn’t democracy when you get to choose for yourself?” Gil asked. Robbie nodded.

“Then maybe they’ve already chosen.”

“Well said, little brother.” Kori tossed several books on the bed and flopped down after them. “Some of my favorites. For the plane ride and apres.” She smiled at Robbie. “Sorry. I was eavesdropping.”

“Since when did you become a philosopher?” Robbie asked.

The lock sprung open in Gil’s hand and his smile spread-eagled across his face. He closed it and tried again. It pinged open and he began anew.

“Since my brother became a right-wing bonehead. What’s next? White cloaks? Skinheads? Listening to Rush Limbaugh?” Kori laid down on the bed next to the books.

“Kori, weren’t you an apolitical arteest like two minutes ago?” He pronounced the word with a mock French affectation. “What the hell happened?”

“Mom died. And someone had to take over for her. Besides, the more I think about it, the more I realize that Mom and Dad died for oil the same way you will if you go.” She bit the nubby nail of her right index finger.

“Yeah, well, Mom knew what she was talking about. You haven’t got a clue.” Robbie walked to the hall closet, pulled his shoe shine kit out and tossed it onto the bed.

The roar of a motorcycle could be heard coming down the street. The driver stopped in the Tirabi driveway and cut the engine.

“Jack!” Gil jumped off the bed and ran downstairs.

“Great,” Robbie said. “Who invited him?” Robbie glared at Kori and strode to the window. “If that mother is riding without a helmet, I’ll kill him myself. Then he won’t have to worry about wrecking.” Robbie peered down to confirm that Jack was not wearing a helmet. He watched as Gil ran out the door and jumped into Jack’s arms. “Stupid Jackass! He turned to Kori grimacing. “And I mean that in the nicest way.”

“Why are you getting so bent out of shape? They passed the no-helmet law, ya’ know.”

“Yeah, but if anyone truly thinks it’s safe to be riding anywhere without a helmet, they don’t have two brain cells to rub together. You know why they did it, don’t you? Because you’re more likely to die in an accident if you’re not wearing a helmet. The other way, you just run up exorbitant medical costs.”

“You’re so critical.”

“Did you ever see a guy driving down the highway at sixty miles an hour with no helmet? His skin’s plastered to his face, rippling in the wind. Even with glasses, your eyes are squinting and tearing from the pressure. Let that guy get hit with a bug, like a bee or a cicada or something, and at that speed, I’ll bet you he gets a welt the size of a half dollar. And that’s if he doesn’t wreck first.”

“Enough. I’m going out.” She tossed the book she was fingering back onto the bed.

“Will you watch Gil, please?” Robbie nodded and turned back to the closet.

“Take the helmets off my bike,” Robbie warned.

Kori slammed the bedroom door in reply.

“Like talking to a wall,” Robbie muttered. He peeked out the window, careful not to let Jack see him. Once Robbie’s best friend, the partnership had waned when Jack started courting Robbie’s sister in earnest. It was just too tough for Robbie to be best friends with the guy who was sleeping with his sister.

Kori walked over to Jack and handed him a helmet. He shook her off, but she cocked her head, a coquette, and he obliged. He looked up to Robbie’s window and saluted. Robbie flashed him the finger and resumed packing. The roar of the motorcycle filled the room then faded into the distance.

to be continued. . .

to read what came before, click here. . .