simple arithmetic

Posted on March 17, 2012 by Cynthia G.

Oil in Water

Pam Lazos

Chapter Eighteen

The walk-out basement was light and airy, one wall comprised completely of French doors, the opposite wall built into the bedrock below the house. Kori’s drafting table faced out to the back yard and the bucolic setting where, beyond the horizon a decomposing and noxious mountain hid at the edge of her tranquility, its spawn leaching exponentially into the groundwater while she worked.

Avery bounded down the stairs. “What are you doing?”

Kori was draped over the table. “A wedding invitation for Stacey Clinghoffer.”

“That cow?” said Avery. “Who would marry her?” Kori stifled him with a look. “Hey, Kori?” .

“What?”

“Since you’re bringing home the bacon, I want to do something to contribute – other than every single menial, yet necessary, task that goes into running a household, that is.”

“Why can’t you talk in English? I’m not sure I even understood what you just said.”

“That means, I don’t mind cooking and cleaning and helping with the laundry, but you’re not sticking me with all of it.” Avery picked up the medicine ball and bounced it off the wall.

“I never said you had to be my personal slave. It would be nice, but….”

“I was thinking of selling off all that gas and oil out in back of the barn. We must have more than a hundred of those fifty-five gallon drums. It would take a long time for us to use it all. We may as well make some money with it. At least until Robbie’s checks start coming.”

“We don’t need any trouble, Avery. I just paid off the porch repair.” She paused to look at her work. “As long as I keep getting jobs, you don’t need to. We’ll be all right. Just worry about school. You need the grades.” She flashed her steel blue eyes at him.

“I have the grades.”

“Yeah, well.” Unlike her average self, Avery was always a straight A student. Kori thought he could simply sleep with a book under his pillow and still get an A. And although he didn’t have Gil’s ingenuity when it came to inventions, he could recreate either from drawings or Gil’s verbal direction, anything Gil envisioned. Kori seethed at the ease with which Avery excelled, but then she discovered that art was her forte and forgave her brother his gifts.

“I was also thinking of creating a web page to sell some of Gil’s contraptions on the Internet. You know, he’s got that state-of-the-art juicer. And now that dog collar thingee,” he said, repeatedly tossing the ball. “A couple other things kicking around in the garage. Maybe some of the local hardware stores would want something.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Kori looked up at the incessant noise. “Could you please stop bouncing that ball. It’s hard to concentrate.”

Avery nodded. “I’m going to get started on the web page right away.”

“Let me know if you need help with the graphics,” Kori said.

Avery stood looking at her, but said nothing.

“What?”

“I could help with the checkbook, too, if you want. Especially if I’m going to start selling stuff. I’ll need access to the house account. For the deposits.” Kori didn’t even look at him.

“Robbie told you to do that, didn’t he?” she said.

Had Kori not suddenly been swamped with the responsibility of raising her siblings, the fact that she couldn’t balance a checkbook wouldn’t have bothered her. She could care less how much money she had as long as it was enough for art supplies. But phone, gas and electric bills, not to mention groceries, cost much more than art supplies and the need to know exactly how much money she had in her checking account took on new significance. She’d already been denied the use of her Mac card at the grocery store once and had to use a credit card to buy the weekly groceries because of bad planning. She was furious, and later determined there were insufficient funds in the account as a result of a simple arithmetic error on her part. Still she was too embarrassed to ever shop at that store again.

“Did he?”

Avery’s lips formed a tight line and he nodded once. When Kori didn’t answer, he went upstairs. Kori could hear him banging around in the kitchen. She wanted to jump at the offer, but to turn the checkbook over with a zero balance and not look like a moron would be tough. He’d press her to sell off that stupid oil.

“Avery!” she yelled up the stairs.

“What?”

“Let me think about it,” she said. Avery walked halfway down.

“Okay. Well do you mind if I take your car? I want to take a ride over to Cohen’s Hardware and see if I can unload a couple dog collars.”

Relieved to switch topics, Kori he tried to sound motherly, but remembered those first days, itching to get behind the wheel. She’d go anywhere with one of her parents: the gas station, the grocery store, even the dump, just for a chance to drive . “You don’t even have your license.”

“I have my permit.”

“For which you need a licensed driver.” She gave him a look, but wanted to giggle, and turned away before she lost her composure. “Take your bike.”

“Fine!” Avery stomped up the steps.

“Take Gil with you,” Kori yelled after him.

to be continued. . .

to read what came before click here. . .

a girl from the past

Posted on March 11, 2012 by Cynthia G.

I’m working on a new story. Here is an excerpt:

In part, Antonia returned to avoid the burden of regret. The old man is fading and there is only so much time left. Antonia knows that her father will not know who she is. He will know that she is familiar, that she is someone who formed aspects of his life. He may even think that she is his wife, but he will not know that she is the youngest daughter, the one to whom he gave pet names, the one he tossed up into the air and caught in his muscular hands. She will be for him a girl from a past whose context has leaked out. She will represent ambiguous youth.

definately coming back

Posted on March 8, 2012 by Cynthia G.

Oil in Water

Pam Lazos

Chapter Seventeen

Robbie, Kori, Gil and Avery stood in the middle Terminal C of the Philadelphia International Airport waiting on a round of coffees from the kiosk. Robbie wore the telltale uniform of a man on his way to basic training. Sunday morning terminal traffic was tranquil and, as a result, you could hear the music emanating from the stand. Gil tapped his feet and chomped on a chocolate chip muffin, his jaws moving in a ravenous, rhythmic dance.

“How many stars, Gil?” Robbie asked.

“Three and three quarters,” Gil responded.

“For a muffin?” Kori asked.

“Has he ever given anything four stars?” Robbie asked Avery.

“There was that gelati he had when Mom and Dad took us to Rome. I think he gave that four and a quarter stars. But nothing’s come even remotely close since.”

Robbie glanced over at Gil inhaling the remains of his muffin. “Well, I’d like a glimpse of whatever he deems worthy of five stars.”

“One mocha, two hot chocolates, and a decaf latte,” the coffee jock said, setting the cups on the counter.

Kori sprinkled chocolate on her latte, took a dainty sip and closed the lid. Robbie doused chocolate powder on his and took a big draw.

“Kind of redundant, don’t you think?” Kori asked as she watched Gil vigorously shaking chocolate powder all over his drink. She grabbed the shaker from Gil’s grasp and set it on the counter.

“Well, the whipped cream was still white,” Gil whined. “And the chocolate wasn’t coming out fast enough.” Avery steered Gil away.

They moved like an octopus toward the metal detectors that refused entry to all non-ticketed passengers while x-raying the bags, purses, pockets and shoes of the ticketed ones.

Gil pointed to a woman standing barefoot, one foot balanced on top of the other. “Modified flamingo pose,” he mused.

Robbie slung an arm around Gil’s shoulder. “Listen, buddy. While I’m gone, somebody’s gotta keep your sister in line. Think you can do it?” Robbie asked, poking Gil’s chest. Gil grabbed Robbie’s finger and pulled himself in close and tight, leaning into his broad chest, holding on to him like a lifeline when Kori leaned in to Robbie, too.

“I don’t know if I can do it alone,” she whispered.

Robbie smoothed her hair back and kissed her forehead. “You can. I’m only going to be gone for four months. Then I’ll be back.”

“Yeah, but once basic training’s over they’re going to send you somewhere and they’re not going to wait for world peace to do it.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “The world needs heroes, Robbie. I just wish you weren’t one of them.”

Kori slumped down in one of the quaint white rocking chairs in front of the window, closed her eyes and rocked to an internal rhythm. Robbie sat beside her and waited. Gil and Avery pretended to window shop, not wishing to disturb whatever fragile truce was being forged. After several minutes, Robbie grabbed her hand in his large paw and spoke softly to her.

“Look. I’m gonna do the basic training and then I’m going to find a way out of the rest. I won’t let you down, Kor.” His eyes searched hers. She looked down at her lap, voice cracking.

“It’s not just you being around. I can always hire someone to fix the plumbing if it breaks. But what about the money? We were barely making it with your paycheck?”

“Your business is taking off. Plus you can have my whole pay.”

She stared at the hands in her lap, hers and Robbie’s mixed. “I don’t know if I can raise Gil by myself. He’s…” she raised her free hand to her mouth to hide the treason, “…a handful .” She began rocking again, the weight of her confession resting between their hands.

“He’s work, but he’s no invalid. The kid could survive for weeks without us. He might eat nothing but cereal and never take a bath, but he’d be okay.” Kori gazed at Robbie, her eyes soft and moist. “It’ll be fine.” He squeezed her and released. “Now let’s go. I’ve got a plane to catch.”

They stood and in moments were flanked by Gil and Avery. Gil jumped on Robbie’s back and Robbie carried him until they reached the metal detectors.

“This is where you get off, Salamander.” He set Gil down and hugged him, then encircled Avery’s slender shoulders in a mighty bear lock.

“I’m trusting you with the finances,” Robbie whispered to Avery. “Kori’s a scatterbrain with numbers. You need to help her manage the books for her business, too, but without bruising her ego.” He squeezed the back of Avery’s neck and smiled. “I’ll get you through U Penn, but keep your grades up. You’re going to need at least a partial scholarship.”

“Hurry back,” Kori said. “And write to us, would ya’?”

“You’re leaving,” Gil said, a statement, not a question. Robbie put one knee on the floor and knelt at eye level with his brother.

“Are you coming back? Or are you leaving like Mom and Dad?”

Robbie did not take his eyes from Gil’s face. “Definitely coming back. That’s a promise.” A wide-mouthed smile broke across Gil’s face exposing all his teeth. Gil raised his hand for a high-five and Robbie smacked it.

“I love you,” he said, and before Gil could respond, he was up and through the metal detector, collecting his bags. “See you in a bit,” he said, and disappeared down the corridor.

to be continued. . .

to read what came before, click here. . .

not all happy campers

Posted on March 7, 2012 by Cynthia G.

we have a new post at first novels::reviewed. read and savor here.

spontaneous creation

Posted on March 2, 2012 by Cynthia G.

Journal THAT

a guide to writing

Cynthia Gregory

There are some conventions in writing that insist that you have a plan. For instance, back in high school when you had to write the dreaded five paragraph essay, there was a formula. Personally, I never understood the formula with its Roman numeral and abbreviated heading titles; it never made sense to me. How could you know what you were going to say before you said it? I quietly complied with the assignment and made an outline. And then I wrote whatever came into my head and aced the drill. Ha.

The idea of planning an essay is like reading a roadmap. Chances are, if you know that you’re going to drive from San Diego, California, to Lancaster, Pennsylvania, you will consult a map. You will choose one route or another, and more or less follow it. You’ll have a general idea of where you want to go, but will build in the flexibility to stop in Winslow, Arizona to see the Barrington Meteor Crater, or swing by Stanton, Iowa, to marvel over the giant Coffee Pot Water Tower.

I am told that there are some travelers who travel like it’s a race, speeding from the first rays of light until deep night – but I have never been that kind of traveler. I know writers, wonderful novelists in fact, who know every plot twist before they strike the first key on their laptop. There is a special place in heaven for these extremely organized and disciplined writers. The rest of us rely on bat sonar to get us where we want to go.

Journals do not generally have a plan. That is the great beauty of the process. You’re writing it pretty much for the satisfaction of the creative process. But what if you are journaling for a greater purpose? What if you are taking random notes with the hope that you will organize them into something more or less cohesive and useful? Maybe a plan will work for you.

If you need to have an outline, then write one. If you are the type of grocery shopper who carries an itemized list and ticks the products off one by one as they are dropped in the cart, you may need to make an outline. Go nuts. Use Roman numerals, capital letters, everything. If an outline will make you feel safe and satisfied that there is order in the universe, have at it. But if you are more of a right-brainer, someone more randomly creative – or a left-brainer with an appetite for adventure, you can safely forget everything your eight grade English teacher exhorted about the delicious conformity of the outline, the clear mesas of organization, and write without a road map.

I once had a (completely manic) writing teacher who said that creative writing does not need to conform to an outline because the issuer of thoughts and ideas, the subconscious brain, knows exactly what it is doing. It could be that if your subconscious has a plan, you should not mess with it. A journal does not need to proceed in a linear manner. That is, one thought need not link to the next thought and the next and the next after that. That’s the beauty of the journal.

For instance, say your vague, generalized plan for your journal is to write about childhood memories, a true and wonderful goal. You do not need to start with your first memory, move on to the birth of your little brother, then start working on the preschool years, graduate to primary school.

You can skip all over the place if you want. Write about that trip to the county fair. Pick up the trail of that summer vacation where the family hit all the national parks north of Bryce Canyon. Write about the winter you found out about the Tooth Fairy and Santa. Describe piano recitals out of sequence, your first love after the college years. Start at the end, finish in the middle.

Chronology doesn’t matter in your journal because your heart – arbiter of all that is true and good – knows how it all fits together and it is never, ever connected by a straight line. Creative juice likes backtracking. It adores leaps forward, sideways slides. Creative energy is a baby bird learning to fly – it swoops and swings, aims high and lands in the middle branches, totally content to have made it anywhere at all.

Carry your journal with you whenever possible. Pick it up spontaneously when you’re sitting at the gas station filling up your car. Bring it to your doctor’s appointment and write in it instead of reading six-year-old articles in a middling magazine. Keep it with you so that when you have those sweet, random, poetic moments, you can record them exactly the way they played in your head, sound by sound, because if you wait to write them down later, like a dream, you will find that the image have turned to vapor and faded.

Instead of sitting on the sofa watching TV at night, write in your journal. After you fold the laundry, write in your journal. Write at dusk. Write when Venus sits like a diamond on the tip of the setting moon. Instead of sitting at your desk at lunch, working, take a break and write in your journal. When you wake up in the morning and the house is still quiet and you haven’t so much as mumbled your first word of the day, write in your journal. Fill the quiet place in your mind between dream-time and day-time with filaments of creation so pure, so honest, you can almost taste the honey sweetness.

So many parts of our modern lives require control. We control our money, our electric bills, our newspaper subscriptions. We control how much access our children have to the Internet, how many ways they have of communicating with their friends. We manage what we eat, how much we exercise, and what kind of shampoo to use. We are dizzy with the need to control the million details of our modest lives.

So give up control in one area of your life. Give up control of your journal. Just give in to the spontaneous nature of your innate creative genius. That’s right: genius likes to be spontaneous. And play. And have fun. Just like you. Genius.

strangers in the night

Posted on February 25, 2012 by Cynthia G.

Oil in Water

Pam Lazos

Chapter Sixteen

A full moon glowed, casting an iridescent light over the farm-cum-landfill that loomed in the far distant corner of Kori’s bedroom window. The first inkling of the sun’s rays wouldn’t be seen for more than an hour on this chilly late October morning. Gil tiptoed into the room, hovering above the bed where Kori and Jack lay sleeping. He pinched his fingers around Jack’s nose, cutting off Jack’s oxygen supply. After several moments, Jack inhaled a frantic pull of air through his mouth and his eyes flew open to see Gil looming above.

“What?” Jack hissed, shoving Gil’s fingers away to rub the appendage.

“Are you awake?” Gil asked.

“I am now you, little jerk.” Face-to-face with Gil, watching his salamander eyes hold his own, Jack smiled in spite of himself. Gil could stare, unblinking, for well over ten minutes. Jack loved Gil like a brother and even with the little cretin’s exasperating habits, Jack would do anything for him.

“What time is it?” Jack asked, discouraged by the murky darkness still clinging to the curtains.

“Five o’clock.” Gil said. “C’mon. I want to show you something.” Intuiting that there would be no more sleep for him this morning, Jack allowed Gil to pull him to his feet.

“Hhhhmmmph. Briefs. I wear briefs, too,” Gil said approvingly.

Jack scrambled into his jeans, pulled a tee shirt over his head and a sweatshirt over top. He looked over at his boots and opted for bare feet. He took one more longing look at the bed, sighed and headed toward the door.

“I gotta take a whiz,” Jack announced, stopping at the bathroom. Gil tried to follow him, but Jack barred the way. Gil leaned against the closed door, tapping his foot in exaggerated fashion for the minute it took Jack to emerge, disheveled and still half asleep.

“Let’s go.” Gil led. A light clicked on in Robbie’s room as they walked by, but the door didn’t open. Gil put his finger to his lips and tiptoed down the stairs, Jack trailing him.

Once outside, Gil took off running across the lawn to the shed. Determined not to be outdone by a ten-ear old, Jack sprinted the hundred yards to the barn, but bare feet and the fact that Gil was more awake at this regrettable hour put him at a disadvantage, about fifty paces behind, he’d later estimate.

At the barn door, Gil found the lock laying on the ground, the door swung wide. “Huh?” A shadowy figure rooted through the drawers, a roll of drawings under one arm.

“Hey! What are you doing?” Gil demanded.

The figure ran, knocking Gil to the ground and whacking Jack in the face with the drawings in his bolt to the woods. The impact caused stars to jump before Jack’s eyes and he staggered, holding his nose.

“Hey! Come back here,” Gil yelled, and before Jack could clear his head, Gil took off running after the intruder. Jack ran after Gil, grabbing his arm moments before he disappeared behind the copse.

“Whoa, man. That wouldn’t be a good thing,” Jack said. Gil struggled, but Jack’s grip was firm.

“Jack. Let Go! He took something — some drawings.” Gil pried Jack’s hand off his arm and yanking free of his grip, dove to the ground. Jack grabbed his collar and pulled him back, surprised to hear his own heavy breathing. After a few deep breaths, Jack knelt down beside Gil and wrapped an arm around his waist.

“We can’t go, Gil. It’s too dangerous.”

“But he’s getting away,” Gil said.

“We want him to get away. Then he won’t hurt us.” Jack squeezed Gil’s arm gently.

“This isn’t a movie, buddy. It’s real life. And somebody really wanted something bad out here. Bad enough to break in.” Jack searched Gil’s eyes for understanding.

Gil grimaced at his besmirched barn and turned to see Robbie running toward them dressed only his underwear.

“What going on?” Robbie asked.

Jack pulled himself up to his full height. Despite their differences, at this moment they behaved as if nothing had ever come between them.

Gil darted over to Robbie and jumped in his arms, sniffling. “He took some drawings.”

Robbie ran his hands up and down Gil’s body, turning him around, checking for injuries.

Jack shook his head, reviving the dull ache in his own face. He raised his hand to his eye and probed delicately.

“He wasn’t expecting us,” Jack said. He winced as he touched his nose.

Satisfied that Gil was injury free, Robbie set him down and turned to Jack. “Did he hit you?” Robbie asked.

Jack shook his head. “Only by accident. The drawings caught me in the face when he was making his getaway. You know when people say they see stars, you always think like, ‘yeah, right.’ Well….” Jack rubbed his nose again, then his eyes. “Little brother here’s lucky he stepped aside. I think that guy was taking no prisoners.”

“Did he have a gun?”

“I don’t know. It’s so dark out here. It’s the middle of the night, for Chrissakes.”

“Yeah, so what are you doing out here?” Robbie asked.

Jack smiled and tilted his head in Gil’s direction. “The salamander woke me up.”

Gil toed the dirt in response. Jack scanned the treeline, but the light was still too dim to see anything clearly. In the opposite direction, the sun’s first rays whooped and hollered, mad streaks of reds and oranges overtaking the horizon like a five-star general.

“He’s long gone by now,” Jack said. Robbie nodded in agreement, folded his hands across his chest and rubbed his arms.

“Let’s go inside. It’s freakin’ cold out here,” Robbie said. Jack nodded and they hoofed it back to the house, pausing once to glance back over their collective shoulders.

The light clicked on as they entered the kitchen. Kori stood in the doorway wearing a revealing nightgown and suppressing a yawn. Jack shot her an approving glance which dissolved the camaraderie of the last few minutes when Robbie intercepted it.

“What are you doing? Don’t tell me you’re hunting? Why do you have Gil with you if you’re hunting,” she said to the room at large. “And why are you in your underwear?” she said to Robbie in particular.

“I heard a noise.” Robbie brushed past her on his way to the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Kori called after him.

“To put some clothes on, Kori,” he replied. “ I suggest you do the same.” Kori and Jack exchanged glances. Jack tightened his mouth so as not to smile in front of Gil and nodded in the direction of the stairs. Kori spun on her heel, leaving Jack and Gil alone.

“How about some breakfast, Salamander?” Jack asked, grabbing the coffee pot and filling it with water. “Sleuthing always makes me hungry.”

Gil said nothing, but walked out of the kitchen and to the hallway closet. He climbed way in the back in between bulky winter jackets, past umbrellas and over hiking boots. Jack heard an occasional grunt followed by several more minutes of rooting around and Gil emerged victorious, the precious bundle in hand.

He returned to the kitchen, the bundle of drawings hooked under his arm, and took a seat at the table waiting for Jack to serve him. Although already ten, up until now he had led the life of the pampered: there was very little Gilliam William Tirabi did for himself. Jack poured a bowl full of cereal, added some milk and set it before Gil.

“So they didn’t get what they were looking for?” Jack said.

Gil shook his head, set the drawings on the table and scooped up a heaping spoonful of Cheerios. His cheeks bulged and his words were drowning in milk and wheat. “After breakfast will you and Robbie help me find someplace safe to hide them?” Gil asked.

Jack nodded. “Sure.”

He pushed Gil’s hair back and sat down next to him to wait for his coffee. “Better eat up. My guess is the Spanish Inquisition’s comin’ down the stairs any minute now.”

to be continued. . .

to read what came before, click here. . .

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. . .

Posted on February 18, 2012 by Cynthia G.

We love this so much we wanted to share. Please read and comment. Do you agree or disagree? Love it or hate it? We honestly want to know what you have to say. Sincerely yours, PSS

Reading. Writing. Spying.

“A recent study has shown many people benefit from rereading familiar stories as the encounter “reignites” their emotions and increases their knowledge.

In broad terms the research found that people were generally keen to return to a well-thumbed book or to listen again to a favourite piece of music so they could gain a “richer and deeper insight” of the experience and increase their understanding.

The study concluded: “Consumers gain richer and deeper insights into the reconsumption object itself but also an enhanced awareness of their own growth in understanding and appreciation through the lens of the reconsumption object.

“Given the immense benefits for growth and self-reflexivity, re-consuming actually appears to offer many mental health benefits.”

“Vladimir Nabokov maintained that you couldn’t say you had really read a novel till you have re-read it. On the first reading you may be gripped by the story, and so you read fast…

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winning the word lotto

Posted on February 17, 2012 by Cynthia G.

Journal THAT

A Guide to Writing

cynthia gregory

I started playing golf a couple of years ago, and found that I loved it. I love getting all Zen with the process, holding my stance, addressing the ball, letting everything else in the world fall away except my focus on that girlie pink golf ball at the end of my six iron. There is a simplicity to the sport, an elegance. Never mind it was invented by the same people who invented the caber toss, or that it was first created as a diversion during the great plague, hitting balls from one great mound of dead people to another. Seriously? Yes. But there you are: those Scots are a resourceful bunch, and I mean that in the most respectful way . Golf: walk in a park, strike a ball, walk some more. Golf has to be one of the more refined sports in the world. Unless you count water ballet.

Whether you’re talking about water ballet, golf, or writing; sport or art, there is one consistent truth: practice. Terra ballet or aqua ballet requires a laser focus on practicing the fundamentals so that in performance, the movements flow. I went to the golf course the other day for the first time in about two years (short romance; long story) and decided to hit some balls at the driving range. When I learned to golf, I got over the stand-in-one-place-and-hit-the-balls quickly. I wanted to play. But after a hiatus, it seemed wise to hit a bucket of balls, get used to the weight of the club, the swing of the hips, the tock of the ball when you hit it just right. Or contrarily, the wild flailing that occurs when you fail to focus, jerk your head up in time with your spastic swing, and miss the ball entirely (hoping no one else has noticed the putz with the bad swing trying to look like she meant to miss the ball). Practice, baby!

I mentioned the Bear Street Writers group and part of our weekly ritual before, but would like to delve into it with more detail now. What made our practice effective was that we adopted certain rules, and fooled them to the letter. We wrote each week at the same bat time, same bat channel. We never deviated from the prime directive: write, read, NO COMMENT. The no comment part was essential, I think, to helping build trust among us, that no matter how weak our similes, how badly mangled our metaphors, how hackneyed our prose, no one was allowed to comment. Though really, we were more likely to burst into spontaneous applause at some incredibly clever turn of phrase than one or more of us had plucked from the air like filaments of spider web, than to boo and hiss.

The process is ridiculously simple. Here it is in six easy steps:

Assemble your group of writers in a place where you will not be disturbed during the writing or the reading process. Have extra supplies handy: pens, pencils, plenty of paper so you won’t be forced to beg off your compatriots. If you are meeting in a café, do the polite thing and buy a tea or coffee or pastry and support your local business owner.
Once gathered, have everyone write a word or phrase on a slip of paper. Fold the paper into a tidy package and drop it into a hat or cup or ashtray or whatever.
Over the agreed period, select one slip of paper from the stash, and write for a subscribed amount of time. For instance, begin with fine minutes. On the next round write for ten minutes. Hitting the zenith, write for fifteen minutes, and then begin the countdown. The next drill is ten minutes, and at last, wrap your session with a five minute free-write.
You can use a stop watch or egg time, or alternate watcher of the watch. But you must keep time. You can’t know how important it is to have one person keeping track of time – so everyone else is free to write.
After each round, read your work aloud. Do not use funny voices, do not use accents, to not alternate volume and tempo for emphasis. The writing, the words, grammar, syntax, sentence structure must stand (or fall) on their own.
Under no circumstances under the moon and stars are you permitted to a) apologize or warn about your writing, or b) comment on someone else’s work. If you feel badly enough about your writing, skip your turn to read but understand that if you do this too often, you will be dis-invited from the group because it is a shared responsibility to stand nakedly before your community and read what you’ve created. It doesn’t matter if you don’t feel worthy or good enough or saturated with talent, you signed up for this shindig, and now must exercise the real courage it takes to write and be public. Everyone else is shedding pretense and defense and about a million insecurities to participate in this process, so just screw up your best brave face and read. It won’t be nearly as bad as you think it will be. No giant, gaping maw will open and swallow you into the catacombs. No comets will burn out of the sky and drop on your head. All you do is write. And read. And you survive.

But you didn’t “just write.” You wrote. In a public place. With other sentient beings and then demonstrated the audacity to read those thoughts aloud, risking judgment, ridicule, persecution, love. And you were loved. How cool is that? The scary part is never what you think it is. And after you get this process down, you will know what it feels like to win the word lotto. The words will just come gushing out of you like the mother of all literary rivers. And you will know what it means to have written.