deadly circumstances

Posted on January 7, 2012 by Cynthia G.

art by gregory colbert

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

Chapter Eleven

Manuel slid the Rolls Royce into the Hart’s driveway on wheels silent as death. “Here you are, Mr. Hartos.” Manuel got out and opened Hart’s door. Hart stepped out and shook Manuel’s hand.

“Thanks, Manuel. You’re a lifesaver.” Manuel returned the gesture, but didn’t make eye contact. Apparently, Bicky Coleman never shook Manuel’s hand.

“Anytime, Mr. Hartos. Give Mrs. Hartos my best.” The car pulled out as silently as it came. Tired and disheveled, Hart watched Manuel leave before heading up the walk.

The front door of the house was slightly ajar. Hart stared at it then back over the expanse of the lawn. His heartbeat quickened yet his hands were steady as he opened the door in infinitesimal increments so as not to wake, or alert, anyone inside.

He saw no one in the foyer and swung the door open wide, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. He peered into the silent study and saw a single ray from the streetlight, the only illumination. Nothing appeared amiss. He looked across the hall at the formal sitting room, useless space they never set foot in. Even with just the paltry single streetlight to illuminate it, one could attest to the pristine condition of this room. The couch cushions, plush, white and fluffed to capacity were offset by the deep red, hand-stitched Moroccan pillows, an attempt to convey reckless indulgence, except they were exactly where they always were. Sonia couldn’t go to bed at night until the magazines were in the rack, the recycling in its bin, and all errant glassware stashed neatly in the dishwasher, as if a careful regulation of her home before bed would afford her an ordered night’s sleep. When she couldn’t sleep, she sorted tupperware.

Hart continued down the hallway past the stairs. The kitchen was dark so he turned back to the stairs and crept slowly up to the landing. The effect was comical and he suppressed the urge to laugh. Just who in the hell am I sneaking up on? Sonia was probably asleep, and Hart’s overtired, overactive imagination stressed beyond endurance. The light from their bedroom spilled into the far end of the hall. Hart inhaled deeply and let out a sigh of relief as he strode toward the bedroom door, the monotonous drone of the television growing louder with each step.

“Geez, you had me so worried,” he said, crossing the threshold. The bed was empty, but a light from the bathroom escaped from under the door. “Why didn’t you pick up the phone?” he shouted to the door, shutting the television and crossing the room. “Sonia?”

Hart turned the handle, pushed open the bathroom door and pulled back the bathtub curtain. He found the tub filled to capacity, the water cold. Small rivulets of water cascaded over the side. “Jesus.” He reached in and shut the dripping faucet. “Sonia?” He turned and ran out of the bathroom, fear spilling out of him like the bathtub water.

“Sonia? If this is a game, it isn’t funny,” he said loudly. A growing terror gripped him as he tore down the hallway and hit the stairs, taking them two at a time. “Sonia?”

He rounded the steps at the bottom and ran back into each of the rooms he had already inspected, flipping on the lights and scanning their perimeters in urgent, yet methodical fashion, opening closet doors and checking behind furniture. The rooms were as empty in the light as they were in the dark.

“SONIA!” After a brief glance outside, Hart bounded down the hallway and into the kitchen. He reached for the light and tripped over something solid and inert. He half fell, half flew headlong across it. He crashed with a loud thump, his head hitting first, and lay sprawled on the floor.

“Jesus Christ.” He rubbed his head and sat up, looking back at the source of his precipitous fall. Sonia’s prone body stretched in front of the kitchen door, as if in sleep. “Sonia?!”

Hart scrambled over to her and put his fingers to her neck, checking for a pulse. He recoiled in horror as his fingers touched her cooling skin. He wavered, dizzy and gulping air to keep from passing out. He shook his head, trying to regain his dwindling presence of mind. He tried CPR, a rotation of pumping the chest followed by mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, cringing each time his warm, twitching lips touched her cool, lifeless ones. She made no move to breathe on her own. His large rough hands, the same hands that stroked her gently during their afternoon lovemaking, now shook her gently at first, and then, as realization dawned, more violently.

“Sonia! Wake UP.” Gripping her by the arms, he shook her again and again, her hair, wet and sticky, flipping back and forth around her face with each surge. Her neck jerked and bobbed like a rag doll’s until Hart heard a snap that brought him round and he abruptly stopped shaking her. He looked at her face, illuminated by the night light in the corner, her eyes closed, her mouth agape. He laid her back on the floor, smoothed the hair back from her face and kissed her cool lips tenderly.

“Sonia. Please. Wake up.” His voice, contorted by fear and sorrow, seemed to hover above them, alien and disengaged. His fingers reached again for her soft, white neck. There was no pulse to enliven that hardening, dead body.

As if he just remembered something, Hart’s head jerked toward her belly and his eyes grew wide. In that moment he tasted eternity for time stood still. One second, and then a million passed as he held his breath and looked – not with the detachment of an ascended master, but the calm of one in a state of shock – at what should have been his son. His eyes observed the splayed legs of his wife’s body, her twisted arm, the displacement and slight concavity of her stomach as a result of the partial delivery. And then….

Hart shuddered a pervasive, body-wrenching shudder that cascaded from the top of his head to the very soles of his feet. He was back, lucid and substantial, with full awareness of the surreal snapshot lying before him. He made no move to turn on the light, perhaps to hide her visage for a moment longer from the pain that would surely color her face and stay with him for a lifetime.

He inhaled raggedly and gripped his hands together to stop their shaking. Sonia’s robe, her only garment, hung loosely around her body. Unwilling to look on the child just yet, he steeled himself and began an examination of his wife. He inspected her body inch by inch looking for signs of injury, using his powers of analysis, long honed in the field, all the while trying to maintain a clinical, dispassionate attitude. If he thought for a moment that this was his wife, the woman whom hours before had been alive and vibrant in his arms, he would surely crumble on the spot.

Hart noted no bruising around her neck. No large hands held her, squeezing the tender blood vessels beneath the surface until they were pinched and bruised and dying. He took another deep breath and ran his hands through her hair starting at the face and coming around to the back where his fingers intertwined in something sticky. His heart jumped and he raised her head to find a large welt and a small cut at the base of her skull, misleading because of the amount of blood in her hair and on the floor. Head injuries bled profusely, but this bump didn’t cause her death.

He continued his foray downward, slowly, haltingly, stalling the inevitable. His fingers probed her belly, still plush, although somewhat less than round now that its occupant was only partially home. He steeled himself for the final examination, letting his glance fall between her legs. Tears welled in his eyes and he turned away, his body shaken by paroxysms of vomiting.

After several minutes, he stopped, wiped his mouth and looked again at the gruesome scene. Protruding from his wife’s vagina, approximately half a foot into the world, lay the legs and torso of his dead baby. Hart touched the curled, little legs, clammy with the blood of childbirth, noted the fingers of one hand protruding from Sonia’s body. He tried pulling the baby the rest of the way out, but he was stuck. Rigor mortis was already starting to set in for both mother and child. Even without the rigor mortis, Hart knew from the parenting classes he and Sonia had attended, that breech births were the most difficult and delicate and that the baby was likely not coming out without assistance.

Whether it was the need to know, to see his child at least once, or to set him free in the world even if only in death, Hart couldn’t say for sure. But he began pulling and prodding and adjusting until he had managed to wedge the chest out. He continued wiggling the baby back and forth until he heard a crack. He reached in and pulled out a tiny arm, broken now from all the jostling. And still he pulled until he reached the neck and only the head remained inside.

The neck was wrapped tightly with the umbilical cord, three times around, leaving no more give in the line. Hart stood and walked calmly to the counter and pulled a large pair of scissors, used for cutting meat, out of the knife rack. He took a deep breath and began cutting the cord, still slightly warm to the touch, the tendency toward life the last thing to go. He worked one piece at a time until he’d cut it thrice, then pushed it away. He pulled again and this time the baby emerged with a pop, his lackluster, unblinking eyes fixed on his father.

Hart cradled the head, a halo of blood forming beneath it. He leaned over and kissed the tiny cheeks, touching the faintest line of the small eyebrow and ran his finger over the little nose and then the whole face, the color of a midnight blue sky. He closed the baby’s eyes and laid him on his wife’s belly. He stared at them for several minutes, tears spilling down his cheeks, anointing their bodies like holy water. He wiped his eyes and clawed at his face, the blood and ooze of the afterbirth smearing it, a warrior preparing for battle.

The scream started as a low moan, growing in intensity and fury, building and climbing toward the crescendo, a high-pitched wail which ended when Hart was out of breath and fallen, left with his only remaining partner, the shadow of grief, lying prostrate across his past and future.

to be continued. . .

to read what came before, click here. . .

fire and icicles

Posted on January 1, 2012 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

Chapter Ten(b)

A crowd had gathered around them. Bicky was going strong, telling tales about the early days in the oil business. Hart had made several valiant attempts to part company, but each time Bicky pulled him back into the fold, talking, joking, making introductions. Right now, Hart was sitting at the center of Houston’s power base and decided it was in his best interest to humor his father-in-law. If he were going to quit as he’d promised Sonia, he’d need a new job and the people sitting around this table listening to Bicky wax prolifically were the very people who employed ninety percent of Houston’s employable.

By 10 o’clock, Hart was feeling the effects of the past two days of travel and two hours of alcohol consumption. He wanted nothing more than to lay his head on the nearby rosewood table. He decided to call Sonia while he could still speak coherently and let her know of his plans: a brief respite in one of the alcoves to clear the cobwebs in his head; he’d drive home later.

Hart rose on unsteady legs and left the room. Raucous laughter followed him out, seeping into the hallway’s wide-open spaces only to be absorbed by the elegant, plush carpet and thick walnut walls. A series of dimly illuminated sconces lined the hallway; overstuffed leather armchairs dotted the landscape. Hart flopped down in one and rubbed his face with both hands to revive or steel himself, he wasn’t sure. He checked his watch. If only he could keep his promises. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed home.

The phone rang six times before the answering machine picked up. Hart blathered into the phone, his words tumbling out in a self-effacing rush. “Hello? Sonia? Pick up. Are you there? Are you asleep? In the shower? I know it’s past 9, and I’m not home yet. Will you pick up the phone, please? Alright. Well, I’m still here and I probably shouldn’t drive home. I’m really tired. I’m going to take a short nap in a corner somewhere and then I’ll see if I can. . .”

“Beeeeeppp.” The machine ended his little speech.

Hart banged the phone shut between his hands, “Damn.” He punched in the numbers again. The phone picked up after three rings this time. “Sonia. Pick – Up – The – Phone.” Hart waited several seconds before continuing: “Listen, Babe, don’t be mad at me. I’ll be home as soon as I can. I’ll wake you up when I get there.” Then he added as an afterthought: “Let’s sleep in all morning tomorrow.” He waited a few seconds before hanging up. “Damn.”

He replaced the cell phone on his hip and stood with a slight waver. Though only seconds had passed, he checked his phone to make sure Sonia hadn’t returned his call. The face glowed a phosphorescent green, but did little else. “No calls,” he said to no one in particular and staggered to the men’s room.

Hart washed his face and stared at his intoxicated reflection in the mirror, looking for hidden clues. A sudden, unsettling thought gripped him. What if Sonia’s not asleep, but on her way to the hospital about to give birth to their baby? He didn’t travel 6,000 miles in seven minutes only to have the baby born while he was across town. He willed his reflection to give him an answer. His normally handsome, exuberant face peered back at him, pale and haggard. He head throbbed like he was being riven in two: a meat cleaver to the head, a ragged split down the middle.

Hart loved his life and was reluctant to give up the part of it that made him feel so viable, so indispensable. How many people took the physical risks he took on a daily basis without even a second thought? His occupation, not the engineering part, even Sonia could live with that, but the field work – that’s what set him apart from the average guy, and Hart liked it that way. Hell there wasn’t enough money in all of Akanabi Oil for Hart to take a desk job, toiling away under the leak and glow of florescent lighting. Damn her need to control. Hart had noted the similarities between Sonia and Bicky long before he married her. The attributes that lurked just below the surface of genteel southern behavior had formed more distinctly with time. Some parts had broken off or withered away, while others were polished to a smooth, impenetrable finish that only water and a million or so years would be able to alter in any appreciable way. He married her because of, and in spite of, those attributes. That, and the fact that she was beautiful, and probably the most passionate woman he had ever met.

Hart himself was from a family of academics. His father was a professor of law at the University of Penn and his mother a professor of Shakespearean minutia, one of only a handful of scholars across the country with that particular nomenclature, which put her in high demand in academic circles. His mother was constantly being wooed by competing universities desirous of her services. Sabbaticals and six-week architectural tours of Europe were the norm when Hart was growing up. He’d read more literature by the age of fourteen than most people read in a lifetime. It was no surprise then, that his parents weren’t exactly thrilled when Hart went to work for Akanabi Oil. They had wanted him to choose a more scholarly occupation – as if chemical engineering was for slackers – something with a professorship attached. But his parents’ reticence, or perhaps inertia, was so entrenched they couldn’t arouse sufficient passion to convince him otherwise, so off to Columbia he went, which is where he met Sonia. To Hart, Sonia Coleman was the antithesis of his beige upbringing. Her colorful, passionate outbreaks about everything from Goethe to guacamole were something Hart had never known on any intimate level, and something he soon found he couldn’t live without.

But Hart also found that passion and the need to dominate often went hand-in-hand. Thankfully, Sonia was more like her mother than her father, and lacking Bicky’s mendacious spirit, her demands on life in general and Hart in specific were guileless, prompted by a need to be loved. He pandered to her whims when he could, and when not, they fought an aggressive fracas that could reach levels of inanity for which Hart had no frame of reference. Despite their different temperaments, they hung together. The battle scars did not run all that deep, not yet, and were still easily erased by the night of intimacy that inevitably followed. Hart knew this kind of behavior would eventually catch up with them, but they were young and he believed in the power of love.

He shook his head to clear the sense of foreboding that had begun creeping into his grey matter, checked his cell phone again. Nothing. What if something really was wrong? He closed his eyes. Sonia knew where he was and could have had him paged if he didn’t answer his cell phone.

But what if she couldn’t get to the phone. He shuddered involuntarily, threw the towel in the trash can and sprinted out of the bathroom intent on coaxing Bicky into handing over his car and driver. He found Bicky sitting in the place he’d left him, gesticulating with abandon.

Hart begged the pardon of the gathered crowed and pulled Bicky over to the bar.

“What?”

“Hey, thanks for the madcap evening, but, I gotta go.”

“Stay. Have another drink.” Bicky’s tone was sharp.

“Can’t. It’s Sonia. I can’t get her on the phone and I’m just…worried. You know, with the baby and all.” His voice cracked uttering the last bit, and Hart felt a little foolish given the way Bicky glared at him. Bicky attempted a thin-lipped smile, his head bobbing up and down mechanically, the closest thing he could manage to empathy.

“So be it. Who am I to stand between a man and his wife.”

“Do you think Manuel could run me home? I’m a little tired.”

“Sure. Sure.” Bicky snapped his fingers once and Manuel, his driver, materialized out of the shadows. Hart started, wondering how much you had to pay someone to stand within finger- snapping distance.

“Would you see to it that Mr. Hartos arrives home safely, Manuel? And come right back. I suspect I’ll be ready to leave by then.” Bicky patted Hart on the back and shook his hand. “Give my regards to my daughter,” Bicky said. His voice was sad, but Hart’s slushy brain didn’t pick up on it. Instead, he nodded thanks and followed Manuel out the door.

to be continued. . .

to read what came before, scroll down. . .

be a tourist in your own life

Posted on December 31, 2011 by Cynthia G.

Journal THAT

A Guide to Writing

cynthia gregory

One way to journal is to forget everything you know about the place where you live. You learn to look at the world as if you just popped through a worm hole from some other verdant, vividly lush and distant planet. Instead of going about your regular routines, I bet you would begin to really see the world you inhabit.

How many times do you go about your business and then suddenly realize that you can’t remember the last ten minutes? That you had been on autopilot, with your body operating the family car, stopping at lights and pausing for pedestrians while your mind had zipped off to distant canyons and gullies of memory and illusion? You’ve arrived safely and no one was hurt, thank goodness, but what would happen if you were fully embodied, fully present, each day of your life? Would you see the world differently? My vote is yes.

It’s a fact that we do not cultivate the practice of notice very well. We are bombarded by television, radio, the Internet, literally thousands of messages a day and so it’s natural that we begin to shut down. In many cases, shutting down is a natural mechanism of survival. The trouble is, once you begin to shut out the ugly of the world, you inevitably begin to shut out the beautiful and remarkable and miraculous, too.

In Eastern traditions people are taught to breathe mindfully. They are taught to sit quietly and focus on their breath for five, ten, fifteen minutes or more. They are taught to let their thoughts go, like confetti in a balloon, to just float away. If minutes pass and you realize that you have got caught up in your thoughts again you simply put those thoughts in a balloon, release them, and return to focusing on your breath. This is a powerful practice, one I heartily advocate not only because it inevitably brings you to a state of poise and charm, but because when you then turn your attention to the world around you again, it looks fresh and clean and lit from within. This is an excellent perspective to bring to your journaling.

So instead of tuning the world out, set the dial on high and tune it in. Begin to notice things like what is the sound of your breath entering and exiting your body? Is it a soft hush or is it a turgid gasp? Listen to your breath for five minutes and then begin to notice the other sounds you’ve been filtering out. Do you hear the sound of warm air blowing through the vents to heat the room? The ticking of the mantle clock in the den? Can you distinguish between the sound of a car going by outside and a truck? Does the lamp you’re writing under emit a faint buzzing noise?

Put yourself on a notice diet: but notice more, not less. Go for a walk and pay attention. How many varieties of garden sculpture do your neighbor’s exhibit? What kinds of flowers are in bloom just now? Have you noticed the faces of the people waiting at the bus stop just as someone who has a story that is probably quite interesting if you had a chance to ask?

Almost no one I’ve ever talked to about it thought their story was interesting. But I’m telling you, their story is remarkable. They just stopped noticing the details. They forgot that their life was miraculous in about a million ways.

So where’s an idea: write about your life like you don’t own it. Write about last Christmas like you’re a staff writer at a big agency and you’re creating a storyboard for a movie that will be seen around the world and sent into space by powerful satellites and viewed by people who have no idea what Santa is about, and why people decorate trees with shiny glass orbs. Explain what your house looks like as if you were describing it to a blind person. Paint a picture with words to describe your dog to a boy who has never seen a dog in his life. Illustrate a journal entry about last night’s dinner with words so smoky and succulent that your nostrils twitch and your stomach yowls. Visit your local grocery store like you’re a tourist from Hungary. Have you ever noticed, really noticed how many different brands of bread there are? How many varieties of potato chips are sold? Go to your local Chamber of Commerce and ask for a directory of its members and marvel that people do the kinds of jobs they do. Lick the inside of your wrist and then sniff it to see what your breath smells like.

Stop living on auto-pilot. Cultivate an appreciation for each Now that shows up. Now, I reach for my water bottle and the cool liquid slides down my throat. Now, my fingers pull away the skin of an orange. Now, I call on inspiration and she takes my hand and we walk.

the night was about to get long

Posted on December 26, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

Chapter Ten(a)

There were few people that gave Bicky Coleman pause, but William Graighton was one of them. A large man in all respects, Graighton was also the most powerful man in the oil industry and had the last word on a host of things that the oil companies did together. If OPEC could have their little coalition, so could the giants of U.S. oil, and William Graighton was the glue that held them all together. Bicky thought he had a slightly unorthodox way of dealing with things, but Akanabi had made a ton of money since Graighton took over, leaving Bicky to assume the man was prescient. Given the state of things, having a cocktail with Graighton this evening was downright unnerving.

“Have a seat,” Graighton said.

Bicky slid into the plush velvet armchair. Two drinks were already on the table. Bicky raised his glass. The ice clanked against the sides in his shaking hands. He took a sip.

“Nervous?” Graighton asked. “You think I’d poison you?”

A corner of Bicky’s mouth quirked up in response; he coughed.

Graighton laughed out loud and grabbed Bicky’s arm, applying pressure with a firm grip. “Lighten up. It was a joke.” Graighton flashed a half-smile and took a slow slip of his whiskey. When he spoke again, it sounded gravelly and harsh, like the bottom of the barrel.

“Where’s the report?”

Bicky pushed it across the table toward Graighton who laid a gentle hand on it.

“How’d you know?”

Graighton laughed again. “I have to know.” He pushed the report back toward Bicky. “Next time…” he flashed Bicky a wry smile punctuated by the beep of his cell phone. Graighton looked at the number, waving away the rest of his words.

“Yeah,” he said into the tiny mouthpiece, all but dwarfed by his beefy hands.

Bicky tried to gauge the substance of the call, pretending to sip his drink. He watched Graighton’s large hand, resting on the envelope. Surely, he couldn’t have guessed. Graighton had his back to Bicky and was speaking in hushed tones. Despite their proximity, Bicky couldn’t hear what Graighton was saying. Well, to heck with him.

He tapped Graigthon on the arm and the big man stiffened. An electric shock ran through Bicky’s fingertips and he yanked his arm back. He mouthed the word bathroom to Graighton and rose, laying a hand across his lower abdomen. Graighton gave him a disgusted look, waving him away as one would a gnat. Bicky left the alcove and headed for the front door.

&&&

He stood on the front steps of the Union Club, waiting for his car. The valet arrived and held the door open.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to call your driver, Sir?”

“Yes.” The response was curt and conclusive. Bicky handed the valet three $100 dollar bills. “As far as you know, I never left.”

The valet nodded and shut the door as Bicky pulled away.

It was only after Bicky was out of sight that he looked down at the bills in his hand. He smiled and pocketed the money, turning up his collar against the cool night air, then turned and walked back into the foyer. A second car crept out of the parking lot, following Bicky’s car at a safe distance. The valet never saw the second car leave.

&&&

Forty-five minutes later, Bicky was at the bar, Chivas in hand, his full attention on Hart.

“So. Tell me,” Bicky said. Despite the central air conditioning, Bicky pulled out a handkerchief and wiped at the beads of sweat forming on his brow.

“Well, it’s hot. And sandy. No humidity though. Which just goes to prove that those people who say it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity, have never been to the desert.”

“What else?” Bicky arched an eyebrow and waited.

“It’s state of the art stuff. Really. Those guys didn’t skimp when it came to installation. The problem is all the sand. The finest equipment in the world doesn’t hold up with all that stuff blowing around. And it can get windy as hell there.”

“Can we make money?”

“We can always make money. You just gotta keep somebody on the job is all. But a couple hundred thousand in salaries is nothing compared to what you can pull out of the ground there. It’s like a geyser.”

“Like our wells used to be before we pumped the crap out of them?” Bicky said with a trace of melancholy. He sipped his whiskey and stared off into the alcove across the room for so long that Hart finally turned around to see what in the hell his father-in-law was looking at: empty space.

“You alright?” Hart asked.

“Yeah. Sure,” Bicky said.

Hart eyed his father-in-law with mild curiosity. “We can finish this tomorrow.”

Bicky looked to his watch. “Nonsense. Too early. Have a drink with me, boy. Wash that road dirt away.” He motioned to the waiter to bring two more whiskeys. Hart checked his own watch. The night was about to get long.

to be continued. . .

to read what came before, scroll down. . .

embrace the writing geek

Posted on December 10, 2011 by Cynthia G.

Journal THAT

A Guide to Writing

cynthia gregory

The practice of becoming a writing geek will show huge rewards almost immediately. If you have mastered the rock concert, the dinner in a five star eatery, the transcontinental journey – utterly and completely alone, there will be rewards, there just won’t be as much contrast because you already know what it’s like to push the far edge of discovery, to test your parts.

You can’t write a journal or anything else if you aren’t ready to go out on your own. It’s true that writing is a solitary act, but you must take your act on the road because there just ain’t enough material hidden away in the attic. You must get out, you must. If you need fortitude, and this is so delicious, grab a book. Going out alone is easy, if you carry a book with you. With a book you can go anywhere. A book is a passport. You can go anywhere with any book and you will be assumed a) intelligent, or b) important. Once you begin to carry a journal and a novel around with you as backup for solo social adventures, you become a writing geek. You have earned your membership card, and are almost a candidate for the secret geek decoder ring.

As a writing geek, I am imminently qualified to offer the warning signs that you too, are becoming a writing geek. These traits are not listed in any particular order of importance; your characteristics may have a remarkable quality all their own.

You carry your journal around with you everywhere, and when you don’t have it with you, your brain becomes stuffed to overflowing with provocative ideas.
You have a favorite style of pen you like to use because you like the way it feels moving across the page. You actually write so much that you can tell the difference between different kinds of pens, and you have one kind that you highly favor.
You will not, under any circumstances, let anyone ‘borrow’ your favorite pen. No sirree, no way.
Sometimes your favorite pen leaks and gives a great, huge blotch of blue stain over to your fingers that no amount liquid detergent can erase. These distinguishing marks afford you great satisfaction.
You take your journal everywhere. Did I already mention that? I mean seriously, everywhere.
You take notes like a mental patient. Standing in line at the grocery, waiting for your double deluxe non-fat extra dry, no-foam latte, sitting on a stone bench at the car wash. Everywhere.
You write in the morning, you write at night. You write fast and furiously, lazily and languidly; you write like you’re making your own life up as you record each savory verb, each tangy noun.
You dream of writing and may actually be jealous that your dream writer is a more resolute wordie than you.
You arrive early at the movies and sit in the semi-dark, jotting notes about the way the place smells, the distant sounds that penetrate the think walls between auditoriums, the ordinary quality of light.
You sit in public places writing, and ignore the sideways glances of strangers who imagine that you’re a journalist, traveling through exotic locations to record the behavior of native dwellers in their habitat.
You keep more than one journal at a time, separating journals by subject and/or reference to time, distinguished by a a shade of nuance that only you understand.
You have a voracious appetite for fiction and non-fiction, in no apparent order.
Words dance around your head like the little birds in the animated version of Snow White. They even dance on your fingers when bidden.
You copy entire phrases out of books you love or by poets whose babies you would birth if only you could.
Your journals are filled with your inspired works and the works of those who inspire you because imitation is the highest form of flattery and beside how else will you fake it until you make it, and it’s okay as long as credit is given where credit is due?
You have journals so precious they never leave a particular room in your house, much less the house itself. You have traveling journals – so tattered from wear of the smashed in handbags, book bags, grocery bags, briefcases, that they have grown soft around the edges. But inside, they are clear and crisp as a mountain stream.
You mercilessly shun bad writing of any kind, lest it taint your own art. You eschew bad television, bad movies, even bad music as a bummer influence on your writing vibe.
You elevate your skills by seeking the company of other, equally intense writing geeks.
You are bewitched by punctuation, even the magical, seductive, subtle nuance of the semi-colon.

So get out there you geek, you, and be a secret agent for journaling. Be a reporter, a spy, a great, groovy Kerouac of a rebel, and write publicly, proudly. People may think you’re important. People may think you’re sent by the government to record their covert movements. People may worship you as a pagan goddess sent to illuminate their meager lives. More likely, they will take no notice of you; being too preoccupied with their own epic lives. That’s okay. You’ve become one of the proud and prolific, you are: The Writing Geek.

jackets required

Posted on December 5, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER NINE (c)

Hart walked into the Union Club – an oxymoron since union workers were the last people that this particular club would ever admit – wearing a polo shirt and a pair of dockers and carrying his worn but stylish leather briefcase. The maitre d’, a tall man, about fifty, with jet black hair and eyes as warm as the inside of a root cellar, scanned Hart’s periphery, a distasteful job if his twitching mouth was any indication. He asked Hart between pinched lips whether he had a jacket, perhaps in the car.

Hart shook his head. “No jacket. Bicky Coleman, please.” Hart scanned the room and spotted his father-in-law holding court at the far end of the room with four expertly-tailored gentlemen. It was hard to tell one tanned face and Armani suit from the next. Hart sidestepped the maitre d’ who protested until he saw Mr. Coleman coming toward them.

“About time,” Bicky said gripping Hart’s hand in a firm, as opposed to bone crushing, hand shake. “Where the hell’ve you been?”

“I told you I was going to spend the day with…”

“Leave your Goddamn cell phone on next time.” The corners of Bicky’s mouth quivered as he attempted a smile. Hart struggled not to laugh. Bicky wrapped what might be termed an affectionate arm around Hart’s shoulder and led him to a pair of leather arm chairs set in a private alcove. A waiter materialized and asked if the gentlemen would prefer a cocktail. Bicky ordered Chivas, Hart a Jamieson, both with rocks. Hart noticed that some of the thick, brocade curtains were closed. Apparently, the rooms could get pretty cozy. Maybe I could take Sonia here sometime….

“Did your wife give you a package for me?” Bicky asked nonchalantly.

Hart opened his briefcase as the waiter set two whiskeys before them. Bicky looked at his watch and took a sip. He swirled the ice in his glass, transfixed by the beverage.

“Is this a bad time?” Hart asked. Bicky took another drink, a swig this time.

“I’m scheduled to talk to Graighton at 7:30.”

“Bill Graighton?” Hart asked. “About what?” Hart followed Bicky’s glance at a shadowy figure sitting alone in an alcove across the room, talking on the phone.

Bicky snapped his fingers and held out his palm. Hart’s remorse for Sonia’s hasty actions was replaced by a protective annoyance. Hart pulled the report from his briefcase and slapped it into Bicky’s outstretched hand. Bicky gazed at his daughter’s handwriting before opening the envelope. He scanned the cover and shoved it back in the envelope. Hart thought he caught a grimace on Bicky’s face, but the man couldn’t smile to save his life, so he wasn’t sure. Bicky nodded once, an almost imperceptible nod, and the figure in the alcove rose, closing the curtain.

Bicky turned to Hart: “I shouldn’t be more than half an hour. Go have a drink. Talk. It’s time you started making these people your own.”

Hart was about to protest, but Bicky was already standing. Hart grabbed his drink and briefcase and did the same.

“Just leave the briefcase. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

Hart looked at his watch. The image of crawling in bed next to Sonia was already dimming, but if the cloak and dagger stuff had something to do with the report, he’d better oblige Bicky for Sonia’s sake. Hart waited until Bicky entered the alcove, and headed to the bar.

to be continued. . .

to read what came before, scroll down. . .

love and deception

Posted on November 26, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER NINE (b)

They window-shopped along the streets of Houston in a haze of love and Hart admired his wife’s reflection in every storefront they passed.

When Sonia’s feet were so swollen they seemed to spill out of her shoes, she finally called the game. “How about a decaf cappuccino? There’s a little outdoor café a couple doors up.”

Hart carried a giggling Sonia the last three hundred feet and they sat down at a corner table with an umbrella for shade. The waiter materialized, took their order, disappeared. Hart placed Sonia’s feet on his lap and began to massage them. She groaned with delight.

“So what’s in the envelope?”

“Nothing.”

“You are the worst liar.”

Sonia’s blushed and tried to remove her feet from Hart’s lap but he held firm.

“Why do you have to be so nosey?”

“Just trying to keep you out of trouble, is all.” He tweaked a baby toe.

“Ooowww.”

“Spill.”

Sonia appraised her husband with narrowed eyes, the broad shoulders and chiseled arms, the blue eyes and wavy brown hair, the air of confidence that surrounded him, the gentle look he reserved only for her. With him, she was safe. She drew a breath.

“I was at Dad’s office. There was a report sitting on his desk written for that coalition of oil companies. So I looked through it.”

“And…?”

“And, I borrowed it. I wanted to read the rest.”

“When was that?”

“Yesterday. Bicky told me that if I didn’t give it back I’d be in danger. And if I told you about it, you’d be in danger, too.”

Hart guffawed. “He said danger, not trouble? And you believed him?”

“It says we don’t have much oil left,” Sonia said in a whisper.

A light flashed in Hart’s eyes and he snickered.

“What?”

“It’s only dangerous for the oil companies because it’s overt admission. A smoking gun. If they didn’t write the report themselves they could dismiss it as rubbish. But to be caught red-handed with the information and do nothing to rectify the problem. It’s a time bomb, even to a largely self-regulated industry.”

“But Dad really believed…”

“Well, he may be right. But more than that, I think he senses a possible corruption of his power base and he’s trying to cover his tracks. He doesn’t know that you won’t do something stupid like give it to the newspaper. Not just the altruistic are passionate about causes, Sonia. I’m sure Hitler believed his own hype.”

“Are you comparing Bicky to Hitler?”

“No. Bicky’s got a better schtick. But there are one or two people that can still dwarf him in the power broker department. And he doesn’t want to piss any of them off. Sonia rubbed her head as if the whole conversation were giving her a headache.

“Why didn’t you just give it back to him last night?”

“I don’t know. I was thinking of using it to force his hand.”

“To do what?”

“To get you a job closer to home.”

Hart placed Sonia’s feet on the floor, leaned over and kissed her. “Well, I am home. For good.”

“What do you mean, for good?” Sonia asked.

“I mean, that was it. The last job for your Dad. Time to do something for us.”

Hart smiled and massaged Sonia’s fingers. Sonia stared at her husband for several moments before dropping her head back to smile at the sun.

&&&

Hart roused Sonia from a half-sleep as they pulled into the driveway sometime around 7 o’clock. He had plied her with all kinds of hot sauces at dinner because he’d heard they bring on contractions. Sonia had appeased him until her mouth couldn’t stand anymore. Hart laid a hand on Sonia’s belly, the only part of her not sleeping, when Sonia stirred.

“I think he’s doing backstroke,” he whispered. “C’mon. Let’s get you both inside.”

“Just take me with you. I’ll stay in the car.”

“And what? I go inside and drink cognac with your father? How’s that going to look?”

“It’s going to look like you can’t stand to leave me.” Sonia smiled and pouted at once. “Pleeeaaaase. Take me with you.”

“No. You need to rest. We’ve been going all day.”

“I’ll sleep in the car. I promise.”

“What if something happens. What if your water breaks? You’ll be in the car.”

“Helloooo.” Sonia pulled out her cell phone and jiggled it in Hart’s face.

“Alright, Miss Smart-Ass. Get your butt inside or I’ll kick it from here to Broad Street.”

“What if the boogy man gets me?”

“Sonia, c’mon. The longer we do this, the longer it is until I’m lying in bed with you.”

Sonia gripped the dashboard.

“Have it your way.” He ran around to the passenger side and hoisted his wife out of the car. She flailed and Hart buckled under the weight which got Sonia’s attention. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pantomimed the part of the damsel in distress. He staggered into the house and after several false starts because of mutual bouts of laughter, managed to navigate the stairs without mishap. He ceremoniously draped her across the bed, covered her with a hand-woven quilt and handed her the remote.

“There’s nothing I can say to make you change your mind?” she asked.

“It’s 7 o’clock now. I’ll be home by 9. Promise.”

“Enough of your promises, David Hartos. Call me later and let me know how late you’re going to be.” She smiled, tight-lipped and sad, and he brushed a lock of hair back from her eyes.

“Hey,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

“I missed your face.”

“After tonight you can look at it as much as you want. All day in fact.” The corner of her mouth suggested a smile. He stroked her belly gently in response, slowly moving his hand lower. Sonia moaned, rising to his touch.

“Based on field research, conducted today, I’d have to say that it’s not true what they say about pregnant women?”

“At least not this pregnant woman,” she replied, kissing him.

“Maybe I should just tell Bicky I’ll see him tomorrow.”

She grabbed his hand and kissed it. “I can wait. But hurry home.” He kissed her hard and turned to go, hesitating at the door to look at her.

“What?”

“It only takes seven seconds to imprint an image in the mind forever. I’m fixing you in mine.

“Who told you that?” Sonia asked, smiling.

“My high school art teacher.”

“Well get going, Rembrandt. I’ll have use for you later.” She tossed a pillow at his head. He dodged it and headed down the hall, whistling.

Hart stood at the base of the stairs in the foyer and called up. “I’ll take the envelope for Bicky,” he yelled. From their bedroom on the second floor came Sonia’s muffled assent.

&&&

Sonia watched from their bedroom window as Hart’s car pulled out of the driveway. When he was gone she switched off the T.V., and reached in between the mattress and box spring, her hands coming to rest on a manila envelope. She pried the coffee-stained report free, made herself comfortable and began to read.

to be continued. . . .

to read more scroll down. . .

the voyeur as writer

Posted on November 20, 2011 by Cynthia G.

JOURNAL THAT

a guide to writing

cynthia gregory

Journaling isn’t, as they say, rocket science. You don’t have to be especially creative or hold an advanced degree to do it.. The barest minimum skill you must own to successfully journal is to be an unrepentant voyeur. Oh sure, you can go at it with purpose, review your day and record your thoughts, deeds, wishes, regrets, passions, traffic backups, lunchroom gossip, career conundrums, or epic visions. This is all very useful but as you can see, you are limited to one specific experience: your own.

Have you ever run across a photo album at an antique or thrift store? I adore old photos; especially the black and white ones with the little scalloped edges. I love to study the faces, wonder what their lives were like, who they loved, what they cared about. Photos are so wonderful because they record a single, simple moment in time. There is a girl in a light-colored dress. There is a dog. A clapboard house. A black car. There are no add-ons. There are no subtractions. The camera capturing a scene is emotionally blank, it just records the picture that appears in the lens. The best journaling does this too.

What you can also do – and actually what I whole heartedly recommend that you try – is to observe the world you inhabit not as if you were the master of it, but as if you are a camera. No feelings of good or bad, right or wrong, but impersonally. It’s good practice to have a regular place to write, but it’s also good to mix it up a bit. If you’re not in the habit of eating alone, go to a restaurant and bring your journal. Is there a waterfront park that you are especially drawn to? Book yourself out for half a day and take your journal along for the ride. Take a ferry boat across the water, park yourself on a bench at the mall, tuck into a table at the newest, hippest coffee house, and bring your journal as your sole companion. Draw it out with a flourish. Observe your surroundings. Dip your head. Listen to your heartbeat for a minute, and then write. Write about the rich detail of the scene around you. No aspect is too small to notice, not one so big you can’t break it into pieces and focus on a part of it. Who is sitting around you? What are they eating, and how do they approach their food? Do they savor each flavor or do they shovel it in with gusto? Is that nanny with the toddler a gentle grandma, or is she a young immigrant with an interesting accent? Details.

We live in a voyeur culture. Strictly speaking, we’re not talking voyeur here in a lurid, creepy way. It used to be that a voyeur was a guy who skulked around and peered into ladies’ bedroom windows. Now everyone is famous, and everyone has a Facebook page. Privacy and solitude have become quaint ideas – artifacts of another century. In the age of reality shows, underwear models, celebrity wannabes, and You Tube, the very idea of privacy is an antique notion. It’s all about the details, baby! Not that I’m suggesting you sink so low as to reveal all. Not at all. I’m just saying look around. Notice the world around you. It’s bright, it’s wired, it’s delivered to you in dazzling color.

So become a literary voyeur. One who observes the delicious soup of life in order to enrich art. Become a human surveillance camera. You think that geezer who peers in through a strangers’ is looking for generalizations? Not close, my friend. He’s looking for the distinguishing marks: the moles, the birthmarks, the ear hairs. They – you – me, we’re looking for those details that are not-me. She is not me – in a hundred ways. You know the love poem even Bugs Bunny could recite: “how do I love thee, let me count the ways”? Don’t let that be an idle promise. List those 100 ways and make every one of them sweet and juicy and poignant.

Don’t just write from the surface, dive in. Write about what is remarkable in the world around you, like an unblinking camera. Go deep and observe acutely. Nothing is good or bad, it just is. Look, and really see. Let go of who you are; who you think you are. Let go of the photographer; be the camera. Allow the photograph.

get lost in it

Posted on October 31, 2011 by Cynthia G.

JOURNAL THAT

a guide to writing

cynthia gregory

Have you ever noticed that something you love to do takes very little effort and time seems to evaporate before you like mirage waves on the desert? Meanwhile, tasks that you’re not so eager about drag on and on and eternally on, like the distance between your body scraping across the desert and that oasis on the horizon?

But when it’s good, it’s hypnotic. Its almost like falling in love; and who doesn’t love love, for goodness sake? It feels good, it lowers your blood pressure, makes you feel lithe and alive, and boosts your endorphin levels. You love your writing, and oh, my stars and garters, your writing loves you back! It’s a total adoration fest. The words flow. Your descriptions sing. Your hand is a conduit for a genius stream of words as they spill and tumble through your mind, down your arm, to the very tips of the fingers that push your pen across the page. Each brilliant thought is a nebulous cloud of interstellar dust from which dozens of giant, dazzling stars are born. There has never been a journaler in the history of this whole watery planet who has managed to capture the essence of your subject the way you have, just now, and forever more, amen.

But when you don’t feel ‘on’ and there are pages to fill? That, mon amie, is the desert of the soul. Some might call it writer’s block, but I don’t believe in writer’s block. The only time you have said affliction is when you’re not writing.

Conversely, if you’re writing, you’re not blocked. Period. You just do it. You may not do it with enthusiasm, but just try going through the motions and before you know it, you’re not minding it so much, in fact you find that you’re actually enjoying yourself and if you let yourself be totally honest, you’re glad you forced yourself in to the fulfilling the journaling promise: just write. That’s all that’s I ask of you: just put a little effort into it.

I’ve had a painting project hanging over me for awhile now. The majority of the project is completed; now it’s just the detail work. Most people hate the painting chore; I don’t mind it. I actually find it to be a very relaxing activity that occupies my body and allows my wind to wander. At any rate, I had been putting off putting the finishing touches on my project, and finally decided to do it. I gave myself an hour to paint, “even if I don’t finish the job entirely.” I gave myself into it. I taped off the edges, stirred the paint, picked up the brush, and surrendered to the project. Before long, the hour was up, I was humming a happy little tune, and I continued to paint for a little while longer. I wrapped the project up for the day, put my tools away, and can I just tell you about the sense of satisfaction that I get each time I pass by the newly painted hall? It’s not a masterpiece, but it pleasures me to know that I create a little piece of beauty by not letting my resistance get the better of me, talk me out of doing something I promised myself that I’d do.

What do you do when you are obligated to journal and don’t much feel like it? Well, you can adjust your journaling goals and motivations, or you can break the project into bite size pieces. You don’t feel like writing? Write for ten minutes. Just write one page (I double-dog-dare you). Write about anything meaningless; what you ate, who was on the commuter train, the ten musical instruments that can make the sound of rain. If you can’t write about the big things, write about the small ones.

Write until you remember why you wanted to write in the first place and fall in love with the process. Because you never really get to that place you’re going. There is no absolute there, there – at least, no destination you can find on a map. Allow yourself to get lost in writing and let the writing remind you of who you are. Just give in to it, immerse yourself in it, let go of all the edges that you know, that you cling to, just let yourself get lost in it. I offer a double your genius back guarantee: you’ll fall in love with the place it takes you.

she was not fooled

Posted on October 25, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER EIGHT (c)

Sonia laughed in spite of herself, but she was not fooled. Under Bicky’s shiny veneer there lurked the soul of a survivor, one who made no pretense of not taking anyone with him.

“There’s got to be a way for the rich to keep on being rich and the rest of the planet to be comfortable. Not everyone longs for world domination, you know,” Sonia said.

Bicky watched the sprinkler throw tiny droplets in wide, circular arcs. The street light lent his face a preternatural glow. He shook his head and sighed, a deep heaving sigh to indicate that nothing that came before and certainly nothing that will ever come after carried quite as much weight.

“If I could do something, I would. But it’s beyond my frail powers,” Bicky said.

Sonia laughed and started the car. “Frail is not an adjective I’d use to describe you.”

Bicky stood motionless, arms locked on the door, looking like an old, weary man. His fuzzy gaze fell on Sonia’s belly and after a few moments the spark returned.

“Bring me the report in the morning, please. And don’t say anything to your husband. A little knowledge can be life threatening in certain situations. He doesn’t need that kind of information coloring his field work.” Bicky’s vacant stare signaled the end of the conversation. .

Sonia nodded. A tight, pinched smile graced Bicky’s lips. He banged twice on the car door, dismissing her. Sonia pulled out of the driveway and didn’t look back.

to be continued. . .

to read more of what came before, scroll down