sometimes love is a thought. sometimes its a sound.
hey. as long as it starts in the heart.
music valentine 1.2
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Tag Archives: genius
music valentine 1.1
sometimes valentines are prose. sometimes they’re 80s music videos.
come a little bit closer.
fiction valentine 1.3
we’re having fun sharing love stories this week. they come in all shapes and flavors. what’s yours?
It is not as you believe, my Angel. I am not a bad man. You may think it odd that we have never spoken. I stand within ten feet of you, my Love, and the words falter, trapped in my throat. I wait for you on the platform this morning and when I don’t see you I begin my search.
You are in the last car, walking to your seat. You prefer the solitude here in the “quiet car” over the chattering up front.
I juggle my briefcase and my coffee, taking up more than my allotted half of the aisle, but I see that you are nimble, my Love Light. I stop, and wait, and hope, but you have contorted yourself into a time-space continuum where anything is possible. You glide past me without so much as our arm hairs touching.
Now the interminable ticking of my watch is all that separates us. The train slows; the doors open. I walk from the platform to the street, jostled by the nameless, the faceless, carrying backpacks and briefcases. Their eyes do not shine like my Love’s.
And then you are there, barely yards from me, my Aphrodite, your white dress resplendent in the morning sun, your lush hair tousled by the gentle wind, surrounding a face that would make Venus jealous. Your long, sinewy legs stride with an athlete’s grace. I must hurry!
You sense me, but do not turn as I close the gap and we cross the street in tandem. What bliss! The sidewalk is deserted; just you, my Madonna, and me, our destinies intertwined, inevitable.
My footstep behind you, adoration at a glance. Did you notice? I run a hand through my thinning hair and smile. But what is this? What’s that look in your eye? Are you upset this morning, my Goddess? Perhaps tired? I walk on, exactly one half-step behind you, but your pace quickens. You are determined. The heat rises to my cheeks; the odd bead of sweat now joined by half a dozen others. I take several shallow breaths and plunge in; we walk side by side.
My ecstasy knows no bounds. How many times have you looked away? A hundred? A thousand? My Love, my Captive; now you cannot ignore me. We walk, not an arm’s length apart. I would encircle you with my own two, would you give me the slightest signal.
My eyes implore: LOOK AT ME; but your eyes look only ahead, my Angel, as you float along on winged feet. We cross the bridge in tandem. Your proximity is intoxicating. You smell like a breeze off the ocean. I open my mouth to speak, but you are looking away, to the river below, some distant prize on the horizon. Your feet belie their wings, my Love. Are you flying? My heart pounds the narrow walls of my chest seeking an audience. Another bead of sweat careens along my cheekbone before dive-bombing to the ground. I think I hear it plop. More stand ready. I steal a glance, but you do not notice.
Another breath, this one more shallow. Your pace is unwavering and I struggle to keep up. My lungs scream for a rest, a cigarette. Your pace is maddening. You pull away. Don’t leave me! Not now. Now that we are so close.
I glance at your face, a goddess carved by Michelangelo himself. Are you not tiring, my Love? My arms and legs pump wildly, valiantly, trying to match your stride. My love swells and my heart wrenches, threatening to burst its walls. You show no signs of slowing. Soon we will be at a cross street, the moment lost forever.
“It’s a lot easier walking than I thought it would be this morning. I thought it would be hotter.” Was that my voice? I do not recognize it.
You turn your head to face me, the Goddess in you saluting the God in me. But what is in your eyes? Hostility? Rebuke? Or maybe just the heat. Eternity passes. Did you hear me, my Queen?
“Just wait until midday.”
Your first words! But…now? Sarcasm? Vowels and consonants hang, suspended like greenhouse gasses. Your eyes lance my skin.
Beads of sweat form armies on my brow. Some disband, trekking out on reconnaissance missions. A millennium passes much too slowly. You walk faster still, if that is at all possible. Our thirty year age difference wears on me. I pray for rain that I might offer you my umbrella, but the cloudless sky just laughs. I am at a loss. We stop at a light and I squeeze all the words clawing their way up back down into my heart. I am reeling, all six acupuncture pulses echoing in my forehead. I suck in ambient air like a vacuum; it pummels my lungs like shrapnel.
The light turns green and I charge ahead, taking the first step, knowing you will match my pace. Half a block by I cast a cautious glance over my shoulder. But you are not there? I whirl around to see you buying fruit from a vendor. I retreat into the shelter of a doorway and from there watch you unnoticed. Your pace has slowed considerably. Are you tired, my Beguiling One?
You arrive and I am standing before you. You recoil, drop the fruit. Fruit salad sprays the sidewalk. Pineapple and orange and strawberry splatter your shoes. You mouth goes slack. The world tips on its axis. I stand there, silent, pleading. Your stare melts the glaciers.
“What?”
I swallow, but my throat burns like wildfire. I stoop, gather the fruit. Remnants of melon and cantaloupe and mango trip through my fingers. I offer them to you, my outstretched hands my reply. We could lie on the beach, my Sweet One, eat fruit until our bellies were full….
What’s this, my Beauty? Are you annoyed with me?
Juice slips through my fingers as a thousand needles pierce my arm. My vision diffuses, my chest seizes. I want to press my heart, but it’s my balls I grab. I leave a sweet, sticky hand print on my khaki trousers.
“I thought so,” you say, and turn to leave.
I open my mouth to speak, to cry, to confess, but the words splinter as my heart explodes. Oh, please, PLEASE, wait. Not this way, my Delicious One. I drop to one knee, then to the ground as my cheek buries itself in a slice of golden pineapple. The sharp, sweet aroma drifts into my sinuses. I watch your fruit-splattered shoes recede. I hear the distant wail of a siren. They come for me, I know. Will you ride with me, my Love?
(c)
Pam Lazos
fiction valentine 1.1
here is an except from a story I wrote called, “Not My Suicide.” It’s about how nothing is what it seems: not love, not time, not nature.
Some people, those who are either marginally motivated or marginally skilled, don’t manage to close the deal the first time and try again, compulsively. Psychologists say that some people go at it up to fifty times before actually making it. Strangely, you could say that one success in fifty is respectable. One hundred in-vitro attempts will statistically result in eleven babies. Edison, who was afraid of the dark, made three thousand attempts to create the light bulb before he succeeded. It’s a matter of perspective.
Finally, Viola had had enough. “Can we talk about something else?”
Marina straightened her spine, pointed toward the light fixtures overhead. “Global warming.”
Bibi choked on her biscotti. “Are you off your meds?”
Marina wagged her chin. “We’re murdering the planet.”
“Calm down.”
“Don’t mother me.”
Peace begins with me, I thought. Peace begins with me. “Please, ladies.”
“She’s in denial,” Bibi insisted. “A victim of the liberal media.”
“Liberal — are you nuts?” Marina was not having it. “They’re saying that global warming is a myth, that alternative energies cost too much.”
“Geez Louise, don’t have kittens. You want an almond cookie?”
“I don’t want an effing almond cookie. I want rain forests and tree frogs and glaciers.”
“You’ve never even been to a glacier.”
Water pooled in Marina’s cerulean eyes. “Scientists in Norway are finding industrial flame retardant in whale blubber.”
“Stop.”
“It’s true. Poly-something –they use it to make furniture, clothing, computer chips.”
“How did it get in the whales?”
Marina folded Bibi’s hands in hers, squeezed lightly. “Through the water table, Beeb.”
“What? That doesn’t even make sense.”
In the ‘twelve simultaneous versions of Now’ world view, it is possible to be both dead and alive at the same time, both here and there. As if our so-called lives aren’t complicated enough.
(c)
Cynthia Gregory
what’s your number?
We like to promote ideas that heal and help. . .like figuring out what your personal number for 2014 is. . .and what it means to living a fulfilled, happy, and prosperous year. Is happiness as simple as a number? Could be. See for yourself.
figure out your personal number here
the new normal
Having doubts about the whole global warming thing? Really?
It’s time to talk climate change, baby.
good fiction::fast fiction
this novelette has it all: sex, scandal, satire. the lead character is a mouse,and Barbie and Ken have an edge. it doesn’t get better than this!
read the review. buy the book. support the arts.
you’re in control
OIL IN WATER
Pam Lazos
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Fifteen minutes later due to Hart’s intercession, Bicky sat leaning against the wall of the TDU, his leg wrapped in a tourniquet that Hart was tying off. The tourniquet, made from pieces of an old ripped bed sheet turned rag, was streaked with dirt and motor oil; Jerry had refused to allow anyone in the house to get medical supplies. Bicky flinched as Hart secured the whole mess in place with a finishing nail.
“There are more civilized ways to get retribution, Jerry.” Hart snapped.
“Don’t tell me it’s not something you thought about yourself from time to time, Mr. Chief of Engineering.” Hart snorted.
“You know what surprises me, Hart? What surprises me is that a thousand freaking people a day don’t just get up out of bed, strap on a semiautomatic, and blow the crap out of something. That’s what surprises me.” Jerry’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat and scratched the barrel of the gun against his scalp. “And everywhere there’s death. People dying.”
“People are always dying, Jerry. It’s just the one that’s got you upset.”
“Actually, it’s two. And if you give me a minute, I’ll tell you about it. But first I want to clear some things up with your boss, here. Before he passes out, that is.” Jerry stooped down next to Bicky.
“You proved your point, man. You’re in control,” Hart said. “Now let me call an ambulance.”
“And then what? Have me arrested? I’m a rich man now. Rich men don’t go to jail.”
“Look, Jerry,” Hart said, watching Bicky. “Given the extenuating circumstances, I’m sure we can work things out,” Sweat poured from Bicky’s ashen face, but he managed a nod.
“I want to tell you a story first,” Jerry said. “Sit down,” he said to Hart. “Keep the kid over there on the hammock. Take the chair over next to him.”
Hart laid a hand on Gil’s shoulder and pushed him toward the hammock
“And get that beast outta’ here.”
Gil snarled at Jerry, but did as commanded. “Come on, Max,” Gil said. Max ran over and stood next to Gil, wagging his tail. Gil walked him to the door and ushered him out. “Stay,” Gil said. Max started barking as Gil shut the door on him.
“You better shut him up or I’ll shut him up for you,” Jerry said.
Gil’s eyes watered, but his voice didn’t waiver as he opened the door again. “Ssshhh! Sit, Max. Be quiet. Understand?” Gil raised his index finger to his lips and Max whimpered once, but sat down as instructed. Gil’s sad, brown eyes blinked, shutting the spigot on them as he closed the barn door. He took a seat on the hammock. A soft low growl rolled in like a wave through the crack under the door.
“You did the right thing,” Hart said, squeezing Gil’s hand. Gil returned a brave smile. Jerry’s face clouded with something akin to regret. He rubbed a rough hand over his eyes and it was gone.
“Story time, eh?” Jerry folded his arms across his chest, facing Hart and Gil, the gun poking out from under his arm.
“You see, one night, I’m sitting outside your house — ”
“My house?” Hart narrowed his eyes at Jerry.
“— and I’m watching, and I’m waiting, and I happen to see a familiar car pull into your driveway and lo and behold, who gets out, but your father-in-law. That means kin-by-law, you know, and brings with it a certain degree of responsibility which a lot of people don’t take seriously enough, I think. It’s not just about a seat at the holiday dinner table.” Jerry fixed Bicky with an accusatory glare and the two men could not let go the sight of each other.
“Anyway, he doesn’t knock, just goes right in like he owns the place. You know what I’m talking about, right?” Jerry tilted his face toward Hart for emphasis, but wouldn’t break eye contact with Bicky. “So I get out of my car and I walk around to the kitchen window to see what’s happening. Bicky’s in there and Sonia’s got the kettle on for tea and it’s steaming, but not whistling yet. She’s putting a tea bag in her cup and she’s got her back to him. The windows are open, which I don’t understand because it’s hot as hell out…”
“Sonia didn’t like air conditioning,” Hart said, his voice thick.
Jerry nodded. “And if not for that small fact, I wouldn’t be relaying this story to you now as I’ve witnessed it,” Jerry said to Hart, his eyes still glued to Bicky’s face. Anyway, I hear bits and pieces of things. Bicky says: ‘Sonia, enough,’…and then something something. And Sonia says: ‘Where’s what,’” and Bicky says, ‘You know what…’ and the tea kettle starts screaming and I can’t hear a thing for a minute, but this ear-splitting whistle and Sonia and Bicky stare at each other and words come out of their mouths, but I can’t make them out until finally, he yells at her to ‘shut the kettle’ and she very calmly walks over, grabs the kettle and pours herself a cup of tea.” Jerry smiled at Bicky as if he had just one-upped him.
Sweat continued its downward spiral, pouring from Bicky’s face and scalp while his face changed from pale grey to pale green. Bicky squeezed his right leg, but did not avert his eyes.
“You never could back her up, could you? That’s what always pissed you off about her,” Jerry said. “How did it make you feel, Boss, to finally have no control over something?”
Using his hands for balance, Bicky tried to stand, winced in pain and dropped to the floor, both hands wrapped around his thigh just above the entry wound.
“Kind of like now?” Jerry asked, the pleasure of the moment apparent on his face.
“Jesus Christ, Jerry. What the hell are you talking about?” Hart said.
Jerry sidled over to Bicky and put the gun to his face. “You want to tell them?” Bicky shoved the gun away, breaking eye contact.
“Uh oh,” Jerry smiled and patted Bicky’s face. “You lose.” Bicky said nothing.
Jerry sauntered over to Gil and Hart. “He’s quiet tonight,” Jerry said, a note of mock concern in his voice. He let out a long, labored sigh. “So – Bicky whirls on her, like this.” Jerry grabbed Gil by both arms and gave him a violent shake.
“Hey!” Hart said, jumping up. Jerry dropped Gil’s arms, stuck the barrel of his gun in Gil’s ribs and held up a single finger. Hart froze.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Jerry said, shaking his head and motioning for Hart to sit down. He grabbed Gil again.
“He was in her face, squeezing her arms, saying a bunch of what, I’m not sure, and it must have hurt because Sonia finally let out a yelp. So what’s the son-of-a-bitch do? He loosens his grip, but still doesn’t let her go.” Jerry shot Bicky a murderous look.
Jerry dropped his voice, his face taut with recall, one hand tightening around Gil’s arm, the other still poking the gun in Gil’s ribs. “I wish now I had gone through the window after him.”
“Oooww!” Gil said. Jerry jerked on Gil’s arm as if to bring him back in line, but when he looked at Gil’s small, pinched face, he released his grip.
“Sorry,” Jerry said. Gil inspected his reddened forearm, already forming a bruise.
Jerry’s eyes misted over, but he continued: “‘I don’t have it,’ she said. ‘Don’t lie to me,’ he said. ‘What you sent wasn’t what you took,’ he said, and then a bunch of stuff I didn’t hear.” Jerry swiped at his watery eyes with his free hand, then rubbed his forehead with the barrel of the gun, leaving a bright, red welt. He pushed Gil toward Hart and motioned them back to their seats. He shook his head like a wet dog, before pointing the gun at Bicky. “Son-of-a-bitch,” he said, drawing back the trigger.
“Jerry!” Hart yelled, and pulled Gil behind him.
Bicky braced for the bullet, his face scrunched and tense, but his eyes were unwavering in their gaze. Jerry leaned back, inhaled slowly and fired, lifting his gun slightly before pulling the trigger. The bullet drove harmlessly into the wall above Bicky’s head. Bicky began shaking and sucked in a long, raspy, breath.
Jerry stood up and walked over to the drawing table where Gil had laid out a blueprint of the TDU. He thumbed through the drawings using his gun as a finger to turn the pages. He turned back to Bicky.
“What were you thinking that day, Boss? Did you understand? Were you resigned? I’ll never get why you so uncharacteristically backed up. Why’d you leave without it, huh? When you knew she had it? Cause you know, she’d be alive today if you would have just done what you always do which is not taken no for an answer.”
“I was with Bicky at the Union Club that night, Jerry,” Hart said. “I left before he did. So he couldn’t have been at my house.”
Bicky looked at his son-in-law; his lips forming into a slow, sad smile.
“Loyal to the end, aren’t you, Hart?” Jerry sat down on Gil’s stool, pointed the gun and spun around once. The moment he was in a direct line of fire with Bicky’s head, he planted his feet on the ground with authority.
“I tell you your wife would be alive today if not for him and you defend him. You’ve been duped. We all have.” Jerry spun around again and came to another abrupt stop in direct line with Bicky. This time he fired. The shot went into the wall just above Bicky’s right shoulder. Bicky heaved out a lung full of air, but refused to utter a sound.
“‘Just tell me you didn’t go to the newspapers,’ he said, and she shook her head. Just the way he looked at her, trying to see inside her, to see what she was up to. But he never could, never did understand her. Not like I did. Jerry swiped at his eyes and stared at the floor.
“What happened next?” Hart asked.
Jerry spun around a third time and once again pointed the gun at Bicky who was now sobbing quietly, the muscles in his face tight with pain. “I’ll tell you what happened next.” Jerry fired and the shot drove into the wall less than an inch above Bicky’s left shoulder.
“Bicky left.”
to be continued
copyright 2013
fiction is a verb
high drama indie
THE SECRET LIFE OF WALTER MITTY
The Secret Life of Walter Mitty is the movie I longed for all year without even knowing it. It may be my favorite movie of 2013, not because of the high drama, indie chic, nail-biting tension, or classic one-liners, but for unraveling that tight knot inside my heart that I’d been carrying so long I no longer noticed its existence. Directed by Ben Stiller and based on a short story by James Thurber, the movie tells the story of Walter Mitty (Ben Stiller), an average guy doing a more than average job at Life Magazine, sadly on the verge of putting out its last issue. Downsizing sucks, but that’s not Walter’s real problem. His real problem is all those unrealized dreams that have been poking at him for years, adamant and demanding as they push to the surface, forcing him into a mini coma of a daydream. Walter’s boss, Ted Hendricks (Adam Scott), a know-it-all nothing of a man laughs at him, not behind his back, but square in the face when this occurs. Walter cares, but beyond daydreams of smashing Ted’s face in, does nothing. It’s not that Walter’s a loser. He’s any one of us who caught a bad break and once there, couldn’t make his way to a good one.
Walter’s bad break happened at 17 when his father died, forcing the former mohawk-wearing Walter had to stash his dreams to become the Man of the House for his mom and sister. Years later, in his job as a “negative assets manager” Walter’s put out some of the greatest magazine covers the world has seen, thanks to the work of colleague and photographer Sean O’Connell (Sean Penn), without ever leaving the dark room. O’Connell sends Walter what he calls possibly the best picture he’s ever taken for the final cover of Life as a gesture of their long productive working years together, along with a wallet engraved with Life’s motto: “To see the world, things dangerous to come to, to see behind walls, draw closer, to find each other and to feel. That is the purpose of life.” Walter is touched, but at a loss since the best picture ever, negative #25, is missing upon arrival.
When Walter’s mother, Edna (Shirley MacLaine) moves, and Walter’s sister, Odessa (Kathryn Hahn) finds Walter’s long-forgotten backpack along with a new travel journal, a long-lost present from Walter’s father, something infinitesimal shakes loose in Walter and he sets out in search of O’Connell to find what was lost — ostensibly negative #25, but we all know what Walter’s really looking for. O’Connell proves a tough guy to find; he shoots photos of snow leopards in the Himalayas and straps himself to the tops of biplanes to get the volcano shot, all heady stuff for the risk averse Walter. Thankfully, Walter is spurred in sideways fashion by co-worker and possible love interest, Cheryl Melhoff (Kristin Wiig), who gives Walter lift just being in the same room as he. Soon, Walter is traversing some of the world’s most satisfyingly brilliant places while Life’s motto is displayed in snippets across the backdrop. When Walter does find O’Connell, it’s worth the wait. “Beautiful things don’t seek attention,” O’Connell says as he watches the snow leopard.
In today’s world of reality T.V. and endless soundbites where everyone jockeys for attention, I need to believe O’Connell. See this movie if you feel stuck. See this movie if you have been toying with the idea of stepping outside preconceived notions of yourself. See this movie if you want the world as your backdrop to expanding horizons, or if you just want to revel in the wonder of an ordinary person doing extraordinary things even if no one sees him doing them. See this movie.
–Pam Lazos
persephone's step-sisters 