On a Snowy Afternoon

I hate this weather. I seriously do. I look out the window here at the Starbuck's and all I see is the heavy flakes of a witner that is encroaching. But it isn't heavy enough to clog the streets and give me the break I so need from working. No, it's just enough to annoy, and seriously, that is what it's doing. Annoying me.

And annoyance, as i probably already stated, means that something else is bothering me--I just can't put my fingers on it.

I think it is because I'm going through all of these life changes and rites of passage as of now but I cannot, for life of me, tell if they are what I am supposed to be doing. I'm a big believer in Fate. I equate the concept with God--in that, I cannot thinking that both have a plan that they are following and we are supposed to fall in line with. When Fate sends signals, its not because God wants me to know the path, but merely that I was attune enough to myself to read the symbols. Like this Florida stuff. I know I'm supposed to do something linked to Florida. Something. But am I supposed to go there? I just found out two of my coworkers are from the area I would like to find myself. Am I supposed to connect with them?

I wish, in my heart, I really could send an email. An emial to someone who would know. Some sifu or teacher or someone who has already reached a pinnicle and has soemthing to show for it. Someone like Oprah or George Clooney or even the President. I'd love to ask,"hey, what signs did you see? Or were there times when you were like...am I doing this right?"

That, in and of itself would provide me with volumes of information. That email would make it to a clear-view bulletin board so I can refer back and say, "SEE, you're not a total idiot!

"Just mostly one."

Until that time, I'll stick to meditating.

I ask this because a very obvious sign came to me. My husband and I LOVE the Space Coast. That is a place where we'd love to live and die. I applied for a teaching postion there, and was shafted by a cold hearted office assitant.

"Can you be here for an interview tomorrow?" The manx questioned, knowing full well i was in Colorado.

I was turned off the prospect of working there. If that was the kind individual they'd hire to answer thier phones, I could only imagine what else she was smoking.

So I shut down that blue chapter and went on living. I was saddened, to be sure.

And then, out of the blue...an email from the school district. They had all of my information for that district and I could now apply for positions. Not that there was any.

The door opened again. Why now? It was creepy.

But was it a sign?

I'm not a boss

I can't figure it out. I love my new job, I really do, but there is an aspect that is driving me zonkers.

I'm a boss.

Now, let's think about this, I teach children. One would think, with the supreme idiocy on the loose out there today, reining in adults would be a breeze. But the fact is, I have only read one management book: Mutiny on the Bounty. Beyond that, I've zero skills.

And I act more like their friend than their boss. I have the hardest time with that distance. I cannot do that. It is not the way I work. I see everyone as fully as I can. I've taken pride in that. It explains the success I have with my students, frequently. I know they are people with likes and dislikes and it would be silly for me to see them as cardboard cut-outs. Grant you, my government wants me to not care any more. That way, they can give their friends lucrative contracts, destory unions and earn more cash than everyone. And if they can disinfrancise use, sobeit.

Thanks Emperor Bush.

But I will continue to care, so help me.

it I do the same for my coworkers. I think of vets in war. No, not the kinds carrying kittens in trenches, but the kind wearing unflattering greens in the desert. They experience something unique between themselves and their units. How can they come back to reality and drop that.

I experience something unique with my coworkers. We all suffer the same amount of stressor in that classroom. How am I supposed to be above that? No. I can't tell them what to do. I ask. And I will continue to do so. But it's punishing really. I really, really like this job. I'd like to hold onto it, but this one thing is really weighing on my heart. I want those three people to be content enough to go to work. I need them to be. And I need to serve my students as well.

I hate it. I bring this up because my question for today was to think about a group project. Do I like to do them?

Fuck no. I've hated group projects and it only got worse. Teachers know about multiple intelligences. Yet they are seemingly the last to do use them. So I'm totally fucked in high school, undergrad and graduate school. I had to meet with others, usually off campus, to 'discuss.' We'd all decide to give each other A's. I hated it. Sure, I'd give ole lazy douchesnoozle an A, but I'd give myself a bad grade. I hated having to rate others who are more or less my supposed peers.

On the multiple intelligences, I was what was labeled 'self-smart.' Not people smart. Let them go get together. Let them party with their badass selves.

One wound i still have is one stupid project working for an 'ad' campaign. it was stupid from the start. It was all about money. How we could save money for college.

First off, when Mom and Dad are paying for a majority of students at the private school, do you think the froshlings care? whatever, the 'group' decided, and I was only one vote.

Moving on...I had to someone show enthusiasm for saving money on college, my last sememster of senior year. Thrillsville. But for the group I had to play along. I suppose this was training for real life. My group even asked if I'd do some articles for the school newspaper and for a local paper I wrote for. I did.

Then they got mad at me...because my articles were inaccurate. They had refused to proof what I wrote. But, boy, did they turn on me when I didn't do as they commanded.

I hate group projects.

And it's gotten worse over the years.

What's really bad? I realzied a chunk of that is borne out of my own social fears. Yea. I have them. And it has become more pronounced over the years. Perhaps it is from years of just seeing people pissing me off...and trying to really believe they are people. And getting more and more discouraged that, well, I cannot feel safe any more around adults I don't trust. I trust kids a bit more...they don't know any better.

That's two comments in one week. Good job.

What's your favorite color?

I suppose there is ome truth in this-some belief that people who like certain things like other certain things equally. It would make sense. Colors have long been linked to symbols of emotion, and since they are equivalent in some cultures, well, there you have it. The importance of stating your like your favorite color.

However, as I have grown older, the colors have changed. I'm not as to why. There was a time, when everything had to be blue, including my Slurpee. I couldn't eat raspberries in real life, but dang, I loved my blue razzberry lollipops. But, once, as I got older, i found a green sweater that cut me a better view and I noticed, I kinda like green a bit.

And no one held me to it. No one beat me up for liking both green and blue. I was into both and there was nothing. No violence, no color-guard to make me like one color.

What I did notice, however was a natural drawing to a specific spectrum. Blues, green and blacks tended to naturally pull my eyes to them. It wasn't until I was older that I got the picture. They had something in common.

The sea. The colors of the ocean. I loved their restful waves, their friendly apporach. My colors were now not a decision, but something that developed organically and wholly.

I like it over the pink triangle--a vulgar reminder of a days we should avoid thinking about frequently.

When no one really gives a ratz anus...

I've often wondered why I try. I mean, just today, my husband let me know he has an idea for a book. I knew it. Wanna make a bet, he'll write it whilst he's unemployed and sell it? Just *puft. I work my ass off for years and he'll get it out in one second or two.

I suppose I'm just trying to hard, but honestly, I don't think so. Look at this. July. The last time I wrote, it was July. That's not fair, it's just not fair. I gotta figure how the other writers do it. They have lives outside of their writing. They still teach and cough and raise kids and believe in goodness and, at the same time, pipe out enough vitrol that even Republicans might read it.

Not that Republicans can read. I don't wanna make any gross generalizations about something so obviously not true.

I quit my job. After so many years, I quit it. I needed something different. Something new. And it's facinating the change. Has the amount of work I do changed at all? Nope. In fact, it's a bit harder because of the expectations. But yet, look at me. I'm posting on my blog. I'm getting up in the morning refreshed. I am meditating again. I'm reading books and magazines. Even getting more nookie action then I've gotten in years.

But the job hasn't really changed. The needs and stressors are about the same.

It must be me.

I'm ready to be something else.

And I'm cool with that.

So, with this change, you'll see something here. I'm not going to post fiction these days. No. Instead, I'm thinking about the blogs I like to read. Those are the opinion pages. Those are the ones about some one writing about their passions and thoughts. Fuck it. I"m going to do the same.

My previous job, I recieved zero recognition for the tons of work I did. I was basically just given more work with the greatest statement ever to come from a superior's tongue--"you've done so well, we're giving you more work....because we trust you more now."

Did you hear a thank you?

No. Neither did I.

So now, I'm doing something else. I'm going to write so people will read. Obviously, my fiction can't cut it. Only gotten one post in several hundred months. If that doesn't work, I"m taking up archery.

That way, I nail those who refused me.

"Do you think boys or girls have it easier?"

Experience pretty much has shown me that everyone's life is pretty rough. There are no overnight starlets any more; there are no poor politicians. The world is set in it's ways, even if I've gone ahead and reappropriated my own. I would tend to think boys have it as a breeze. They own everything, they can pee standing up and not have to worry about dirty tiolet seats. You're allowed to pick your nose and fart and everyone just looks away.

But something happened this year past that changed the game. Obama was elected president. He is African-American. In an instant, those who were once put-upon are now in the highest seat of freedom in the world. This showed us all something. More can make it to the top than before. Even Hillary made a decent run to the position.

Things are changing.

What pisses me off? Those who don't want or are afraid of change. I heard a woman in the parking lot who's son wanted to carry her purse. She said no. "Boys don't carry purses." She saw me walking by, and in all my freakish-manliness and looked up, repeating, "right? Boys don't carry purses?"

"Only if it matches their shoes," I retorted. Fuck you old school bitch. The fact is its over. You want your kid to grow up your way? Defining a world that is dead and buried with ideals that stopped making sense about a week after they were established? Then take your tyke and lock him. Don't let him out. Don't let him watch television. Don't let him breathe either...the winds of change are in the air.

I'm not stupid, however. Think of it this way. My brother raised his little girl not to do girly things. No Barbies; no pink colors. But the shoes multipled. And toenails got painted. And the hair got done. Boys WILL be boys in many respects. Girls will be girls. it's working WITH those differences that make us who we are...it's not something to fight.

It's something to embrace. I know many a queer that is just into machinery as any straight guy, be it car, computer or stereo speaker. I know many a lesbian who actually does take a good 45 minutes to finish spiking her mullet to look pretty for all of her exes.

No. No one has it easy.

Louisa thought better about getting a job when she saw the mess waiting for her in the kitchen. She was surprised she had let it get to that moment, but the day was busy with laundry, as Thursdays always have been, and she was sure her constant munching and need for hot snacks paved the way for this demolition.
She looked to the clock again. She had time to finish the job and set about the task. A job would give her some extra cash then her allowance would allow, and that part she relished. On the occasions that Gary did let her go out, she was never really sure what to do anyway and the cash never really let her feel free enough.
Those choices removed, she came home still with a feeling of contentment. She said her prayers once more, knowing she was living the life her church had encouraged her to. She was doing God’s work by making the house fit for a home and family.
She knew that if she removed all the stressors for Gary when he got back from work, the dirty dishes, the laundry pressed, he would be relaxed enough to make love and she can finally create the child she was born to make. She just wished she loved the entire act of love-making. She felt much like the horses she saw as a child, forced into a stall until mated.
Silence is deafening. She banged the pots as best as she could. She had a radio once, but when Gary caught her listening beyond AM, that was a goner. He explained it well, but she missed that radio. She occasionally pondered what life would be like with a television, but Gary was quick to point out that it was highly addictive. She could not deny his evidence. All the people who owned one were fat and lethargic. She was fit and trim and he liked it.
Usually.
She was impressed with the work. She had the first half of the counter clean, and, after a glance at the clock, in record time. She waited two minutes until the clock changed to an even count and started on the second half, competing with her mental numbers. Both sides of the galley kitchen were exactly the same length, so she knew the tasks were equal.
She was about halfway when the ping of a cell phone found its way in through the kitchen window. In the rural areas of Iowa and South Dakota, fences are only if you have a dog or children. They had neither, though the child aspect was still being worked on. She was surprised at the volume of the phone, considering the young man wearing it was a good 25 yards away. He stopped. He was younger then her, a wrinked tshirt, clinging to his frame and lifting when he picked up the phone. He turned his back to her at this time, looking away to something in the distance.
She allowed her heart to swoon. But what would this young man bring to her that Gary did not? She had no idea if he had a job, though he looked a bit worn. He might be mean to her, meaner then Gary ever could be…and since Gary was the only man she’d ever known, well, the unpredictability of someone else was more then frightening. It was debilitating. She felt her heart rate rise without reason. She was loosing control. She glanced around the kitchen and by extension, the house. She’d lose everything by talking to that young blonde man. She’d lose what few things Gary had left for her—and she would have to adapt to things her mind could not imagine.
And she’d lose Gary’s respect if she didn’t finish cleaning the counter. She scrubbed harder now, making her knuckles go white with the pressure.

An Invisible Woman

An Invisible Woman

Elsie knew the change was coming; she had timed her whole day around it. She was waiting in the car, hoping against hope that it would go longer then ever before—but she could only predict the beginning. The last time she went see-through, it lasted a mere 20 minutes.
As she pondered the change in her light, she realized that it had already happened. She had wasted valuable time outside the door. Herb’s house was just beyond her line of sight and if she wanted to make use of her time invisible, she would have to hurry. But she hoped her aggravation would so worth it. She arrived at Herb’s house and used her key to come in the back door. She still looked around, fearing that is someone saw the portal open without help, phone calls would be made. Herb should be gone for another hour.
The boxes from her ex-husband still crowded the kitchen where she entered. There were the dishes he so argued for just a week ago, stacked as high as pancakes at a free breakfast. She discouraged her first impulse to hurl to the floor. He would know immeidiately she was there. And her advantage of invisiablity would be lost in a moment. She figured that the two rooms she needed to focus her search on was his office and his bedroom.
His office was the room most closely to completion. The boxes were present, but now empty, the computers and paper work neatly stacked like the previous plates. She had copied his keys long before the divorce, using the excuse that he might die before he gave her a chance to have a copy made. She knew that one day, some day, she would need to see if there was a will or other legal documents that could affect her.
But his journal was nowhere to be seen.
She moved to the bedroom faster then she probably had moved her entire life. She felt her hips brush the doorway as she moved in and wondered if that was the true reason he left. She found a full length mirror but remembered she was invisible. With a heavy sigh to add to her heavy panting she searched the boxes shrewn into Herb’s new bedroom.
Herb had always kept a diary before they even met. He wrote in it daily, every morning and every night, even when he didn’t have an assignment at the newspaper. She thumbed and thumbed. She looked for words that were scribbled hastily, signs of nerves and anger.
There weren’t any.
So she began to look for the time three years ago (yes, it was in there—he was a reporter by profession and kept his writing blissfully short) he did some work out in Washington DC. There were references to sights seen, coworkers and their affairs and food eaten. Occasionally, a political quip danced across the page.
But she found nothing that she was looking for. There was no lover, male or female, mentioned. Not even a mention of someone attractive.
Worse, there was no mention of her.
She searched further.
All mentions of her were also short. Without adjectives. Without emotion. Without feeling.
Once sentence stood out.
“Had to take Emily out to eat again so she’d look at me in the face.”
Emily wondered if she cried, if she would become visible again. As she looked down, she realized she had. And there was no one else to pin it on.

A new, third character

Okay, what you see down here is a third character built from the first two.....

And I think I might a use for him in my story!

A new character built from the two previous

JD thought the world had begun when he started that computer. With the amount of work he had to do each and every day, he loved to hear that hum before he even drank that first cup of coffee from the kitchen. He still liked to get ready for work, even treating himself to a tie or a bolo. They had stopped using the cameras for conference calls eons ago, most likely encouraged by his own self interests. He insisted that he was afraid to see his coworkers in their underwears. In reality, it was he was afraid to have to face a world that was so unlike the one he lived in.
Once that computer started, he’d do all the things need to live—eat, brush his teeth and such but still, he closed the door. He rationalized it as keeping the office cooler and keeping the bills from getting higher, but the fact was, he could handle the smaller spaces better.
He had friends he would call, but visiting with them was getting more and more strained and he could not understand why. His interactions with people were mere words on a screen; when he went to visit with them, he never could seem to get that his bluntness and lack of compassion was infuriating them. He supposed it would be easier to just hang up when they called-but they always called, so they must serve a purpose for him.
Everyone in the videos he watched, his nightly chore, had friends. He remembered a time, long ago, in private schools, when they all were on the same page. Nowadays, he could not figure out where this group was coming from. They told him he should date someone, ANYONE, but their needling was worth less and less in its repetitions.
One year, they bought him a social networking site. He thought it was just pornography and occasionally would browse. Slowly he realized, they wanted him to have MORE friends. What they neglected to let JD know was, you actually had to want friends.
JD just did not see it. Why need friends when the computer fills in those gaps?

Two Characters

Character ONE:

He was always burdened with self-hatred, a gift that no one could even match, even in the depths of teen angst. As a kid, he’d set up scenarios involving all the other kids involved in the neighborhood baseball games. He hated baseball and all sports. But he’d make an effort to invite these boys over and hang with them. Eventually, they would wander off, having nothing in common outside of the shared events of swimming in his parents’ pool. He’d run to his parents and complain of his new loneliness and they were always too busy to notice the fabrication. Even these days, after college, he would sit in his apartment and discuss the needs to leave and cook dinner and wash some clothes. But his daydreams would wander and he would see the repetition of it all and just decide not to do anything but stare at the walls. He had friends now, stronger people who could take the volleys of his personality traits a bit better then most—so he would find reasons to merely skip visiting with them, even forgoing answering the phone. All to keep the sad loneliness’ comforts in the front of his mind.

Character TWO:

Outside of the mirror the bathroom, the only thing one could fix their hair in would be their reflection in the oft polished tables and counters. The cleaning was a result of mere boredom. His whole life he had everything he could have wanted, so he never had to struggle. He thought undergraduate would have given him a chance, but when his parents saw he could get the same degree whilst living at home and saving cash, that idea was quelled. So he looked at all the people his age, like the couple that lived next door to him when he finally purchased the five bedroom, with a certain amount of awe and speculation. He felt nervous even when the invited him over for a BBQ, but he went, knowing he should try. But love? He read the poetry his English teachers provided, but they might have been written in mandarin. He had no point of reference. His only friends that were consistent were three computers. He talked to coworkers there; he spoke to his parents through them at this distance. Their lines were more comfortable then the couch, their images stronger then the nightly news.

A Letter From Inside the Story

Create a letter written by one of the characters in your story. The letter is not to be published as part. In this case, I’ll not tell you the story—but see if you are interested in it regardless.

To whomever finds this

I am writing this letter as an act of desperation. I have no will, I cannot think of any kind of line or note I left for anyone. There was always some time, I thought. Some time before this weekend. I came up here with my girlfriend. Her uncle’s cabin was a great idea, his buddies fun to be with. I am going to tuck this note away in my hip pocket in the hopes that his story will be found. I am currently hiding here in the crawlspace beneath the house, cabin, whatever. I can see the dark outside through some of the slots. I want to write this fast, so I can kill the flashlight and not attract any more attention.

I am torn. Do I tell you what happened? I don’t think these monsters that are after us clean up after themselves. I’m sure if you find me you will find that out. You will find my hide along with the rest of the rest of them.

Do I tell you what I wish? I know I am not a religious man. I could never relate to those neonazi groups that take up good television on Sunday mornings. But their message seems to have seduce many, many stupid people—and because of that, I know that when I die, it is okay. Losing so many of my friends in Iraq also confirmed that. So I am not afraid, totally, of being dead.

I am afraid of dying. The monsters surged at nightfall. They were smart, picking off many of us one by one. I cannot remember how we came across the first body. I thought it was even a joke, I laughed. And I know if anyone finds this note, I am truly sorry for that. I laughed because it was so far beyond normal, so horror movie-ish. They ate two people. And yes there were/are several. And they started at the throat and moved to where ever the soft flesh was, the places without bone. They saw the skin as nothing. The blood and stench did not frighten them.

Okay, I just graduated. Make sure that any money earned in this, like if someone sues someone or something, make sure my family is taken care of. Secondly, I have a series of sketches I made over the years—even after Ma told me to not be an artist—underneath the bed. I really think they are good and I was looking forward to using them as a spring board to take some extra classes in college. Do not destroy these. I thought I had everything. I thought this note would be my will. But as I lie here in the dirt, bugs in my hair, I realize I have a ton of stuff...but I have nothing to give to anyone.

If by luck I am found in pieces but alive, spare me the pain of being a burden to those I love.

The flashlight’s batteries are good. I can tell by the strength of the light. However, I hear heavy paws in the distance, probably up, upstairs, in the loft or on the second floor. I’m not sure how the beast got in there, but it means it’s above me and I cannot be found if I am to live through this.

I love you all.

Face Recognition

Face Recognition

*) 400 words

*) Write about recognizing a person’s face

I had climbed the same three steps three times. This was more of a task then it sounds, for the winter gifted a horrible snowstorm the day previously, those steps were more ice then all of Alaska. He knew I was coming, I could see him moving about in the kitchen off to the single story house’s right window. The yellow ceiling light bled onto the smooth blues of the drifts of his front lawn, his shadow cut a huge swatch as he moved from the kitchen to, I would later learn, to the small coffee table he used to serve dinner.
Lasagna. I knew he was going to make lasagna.
I stepped down the three steps again and looked at the rental. I could turn back now. My friends were having a shindig not too far away at their house. I knew everyone there. I knew I would have a guaranteed good time.
But I made a promise to this stranger. I would meet them, at least once, this New Year’s. One date at his house.
The shadow darted faster then before when I rang the doorbell, after going back up those three steps.
The light from inside flooded the doorway and framed his huge torso before me. I did not have to look up very far. He was my height. He had perfectly round glasses, a contradiction to rectangle face. His hair gene was not borne yet, for his coif was equal on all sides, proof that he had no cares about the quality of his ‘do. The ears framed his hair, but they were smooth and to his head. His nose was also nothing to brag about, a mere place for his glasses.
But the smile was perpetual.
His bottom lip seemed to underline that smile, like some kind of emphasis. It was larger then the top lip. The teeth were slightly crooked, but not minded due to their shine and sheen. The eyes also figured their way out from behind the glasses’ lenses, a sharp blue-gray that I would later find had the ability to make you confess.
The smile reflected more light. It was too cute to be annoying.
I recognized this face. It was the face of someone who would be my best friend ever.

The Epiphany

The Epiphany

*) Write about the unwritten epiphany in a person’s life.

300 words…that might make this difficult

The date had long been arranged before he even met Eric. He had know Teresa, or Tea as she liked to be called, for some time—her boyish cut of hair was unique at the college, her sports abilities meant that they kept bumping into each other at the school’s gym, either coming or going out of the weight room or locker rooms. So there they sat on the couch in his tiny little basement apartment and they were catching up on the better segments of Leno.
“You want something to drink?”
“Nah, I’m still good with this water. Could use some popcorn, but don’t wanna move much.”
Tea had moved to leaning on his shoulder and Bob had thought she might begin to drool if given half a chance. He checked his crotch, to make sure that his jeans had not bugled when he slammed down—he had no urge to make it look like he was interested. He reached out and remembered doing the same thing with Eric merely a week ago. Eric was looking at the school as a transfer and Bob thought it would be great if he hung for a night or two. Eric was independent and older, so the dorms were not where he had hoped to end up. They not only watched Leno together, they went to two different clubs the night prior and, even though they drank, their collective hearts and brains were very, very clear.
Eric wanted more popcorn, and it was evident he did not want to make Bob feel uncomfortable by his reaching across him—so he asked. And Bob started to talk over the television too much.
He handed Tea the popcorn bowl. She took it and moved back up. Bob check to see if he needed to straighten his shirt. He pondered if Eric was back to his college yet. He looked to the clock.
“You gotta be some place?” Tea looked. His repeated glances were not intentional. But they had their effect.
“Yeah, can we call this a night?”
Tea furrowed and polished off a fistful of popcorn. Annoyed, she stood and Bob did not walk her up the stairs.
Bob realized something he had known for a bit of time now.
And Eric was the first time his heart throbbed.