5 Sentences 10:03 PM

Each morning as she made her daughter’s school lunch, Samm drew an anarchy insignia in the bologna sandwich. The mustard nozzle was like a fine-point pen. She had no problem putting a perfect circle on the top slice, then the firm letter A with each straight line outgrowing its limits. By lunchtime, the bread would absorb her bitter little rebellion the same way distortion neutered so many punk anthems. Her daughter always swallowed the message fuzzy and indistinct.

A Story. (in five sentences) 9:35 PM

When I got home from work and found only my mother, she told me that my father had turned into a sparrow and had joined the others making a mess in the attic’s drafts and rafters. She had caught him in a plastic basket and was keeping him trapped there, fluttering and frantic, with a large leather-bound atlas to cover the top. The poor thing bore no resemblance to my father, but I fixed my mother a cup of chamomile tea and put her to bed early, my hand resting on her dear, troubled head until she fell asleep. Then I took the basket up to the attic and switched the bird out for the right one. My mother’s eyesight had never been good.

The Long Winter 6:17 PM

December: The snow wraps around the bars of the courtyard gate like hands grasping at your ankles.

January: In the orange midnight dawn, the streetlights are glowing discs floating in the fog.

February: Bobcats and dumptrucks spirit the snow away in the dead of night, turn the city into an Arctic wasteland.

March: New flour coats the black glaciers; the banks of the mall, battered into crystals by rain shrapnel, look like coral reefs covered in dirt or sand, piled over brick walls and benches like a tumor of barnacles.

April: Pink tree petals fill the sidewalk cracks like streams of blood.

Karen Russell, y'all 8:52 PM

You guys are all probably sick of hearing about her, but she seriously rocks my socks. She writes with tons of energy and boldness. Her narration is both hilarious and fun; she captures the goofiness and magic of childhood really well. A few of my favorite excerpts from Swamplandia!:

"sproingingly" [adv.]

Every gator in the Bigtree family's alligator park is named Seth. Here is one of the sweatshirts they sell at the gift shop. "This is what the sweatshirt said: 'STOP IN THE NAME OF SETH, BEFORE HE EATS YOUR HEART.' So far as I knew, nobody in the history of our gift store transactions had ever exchanged legal tender for one."

The narrator's brother, Kiwi Bigtree, gets a summer job at an amusement park called the World of Darkness. Re his uniform: "'Wait, they made me pay for this shirt?' Kiwi stared down at his chest, which glowed like a barbecue coal. 'Is that hopefully against some law?'  This uniform was starchy, ill-fitting. It had a huge puffy flame exploding out of it. 'Like a blister,' Kiwi told Scott. Kiwi was no expert, but it seemed like the World of Darkness employees should be the ones receiving extra money to wear these suits. Yvans liked to jog around the ladies in his outfit and blow into an invisible whistle. 'Margaret!' he'd shout. 'Look! I am the referee for a girls' soccer game in hell!'"

Relating the life story of a ghost the characters encounter: "The doctor lit a Turkish cigarette and let out a little cry, a sadness that registered in decibels somewhere between a gambler's sigh and the poor woman's grief-mad wailing at the end of her labor--and then another cry joined the doctor's. The stillborn's blue face opened like a flower and he started crying even harder, unequivocally alive now, unabashedly breathing, making good progress toward becoming Louis. The baby's face kept reddening by the second, and the doctor plucked the cigarette from his lips like a tar carnation. He would have liked to keep on smoking, and drinking, too, but babies--you could not just stand there and toast their voyage back to nothingness! Although. If the room had been emptied of witnesses, no nurses, no mother, just this baby's squalling eyes, and your own...? Could you maybe then...? No, the better doctor inside the doctor insisted. We can't do that. So the doc put on his self-prescribed green eyeglasses and massaged air into the baby's chest with the flats of his hands; and when blood and air started to work in tandem and the midnight pigments in Louis's bunched-sock face brightened to a yellowish pink, the doc stared down at the baby and said, 'Well, pal, I think you made the right choice.' The mother's cracked heels were by this time cooling to putty on the table."

Two paragraphs later, he's taken in at the foundling hospital: "Louis lost his true past in a few squeaks of her nun shoes on the linoleum."

"the chief, whose voice rumbled like a washing machine full of shoes"

"pinball-whizzing" [v.]

There are tons more, you guys. Also, since this is her later work, she's "grown up" a little, aka gotten a little more sophisticated, ie less crazy-funny since her short stories, which I think are awesome too.

Quotations all from Russell, Karen. Swamplandia! New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2011.

Because I didn't do the NPR challenge... 9:27 AM

Here's my piece from our Flash Fiction challenge!

Calvin Foster

by

Blue McNiel

            Calvin Foster launched kick balls over the moon and took his time orbiting the yellow, painted-on bases of the York Elementary blacktop—bases which held so much meaning during recess that it seemed criminal for parents to drive atop them during band concerts and back to school nights when the blacktop was used as additional parking.   Blonde hair blowing in the breeze and breathing out of his mouth as usual, Calvin walked those bases with pride while some children scurried to retrieve the ball from a nearby yard and others waited impatiently for their turn to kick. 

            “I’ll probably play in college,” Calvin said, carrying his tray of rectangle pizza, corn and chocolate milk from the cafeteria window to his usual table by the stage.  “That or wrestle.  I want to hit a guy with a chair someday, on TV,” he’d later add on the walk walking back to our classroom.  “You’d be a fine wrestler,” the teachers often told him, and they meant it. 

            With winter came a mean streak in Calvin.  It could have been the fact that indoor recess did not allow kicking any balls of any sort, it could have been the fact that Calvin and his 7 siblings, who also had C names, lived in a three bedroom house with a basement full of pug dogs that constantly bred with each other and spread parvovirus back and forth again and again, none of them eating much—the children or the puppies—because Mr. Foster couldn’t get work in winter and Mrs. Foster daydreamed too much.  She daydreamed herself out of the house and the neighborhood and the city, out of any sort of reality at all, and she’d never come back as long as long as she lived. 

            The last winter Calvin lived in the neighborhood some men went into their house and took his mother away.  I rode my bicycle by his house that afternoon and I saw him and his older brother out in their backyard trying to dig a hole in the frozen ground.  I heard from a girl who lived in the same cul-de-sac that after I rode by they raked all of the puppies out of the basement and into the hole and covered it up with snow from their dad’s truck bed.  Someone came back the next day and took some of his siblings away, and then took him away, and no kids at school ever saw him or kicked as far as him ever again.  Long distance running became the new craze that spring.  

Old News 10:17 AM

Albert Flemming drummed his fingers anxiously on the table as he hunched over the newspaper in front of him. It was nearly a week old and rather tattered, but Albert was scrutinizing the page in front of him intensely. He had circled an ad on the page in blue marker. DF. 40-ish. Hates animals. Loves food and antiques. chiccollector595@yahoo.com. In the breast pocket of his flannel shirt, Albert carried a small stack of printed e-mails folded into a neat square. Chiccollector595 was beautiful over e-mail. She had responded to his introductory e-mail in short, colorful sentences, making quips about everything from the weather to the government. Albert had known he was being tested by her delicious words, so he did his best to respond as quickly and interestingly as possible. Chiccollector595 responded a second time, and a third, and finally requested the meeting in the tea parlor in SoHo.

Albert was not the kind of man who frequented tea parlors, but he had gallantly and enthusiastically accepted the invitation. He had arrived at said tea parlor, SubtleTea, an hour early so he could have time to appear relaxed and inviting before Chiccollector595 arrived. Albert’s only experience with tea had been the glass bottles one could buy at a convenience store. The miniscule, multicolored chalk on the menu blackboard unnerved him. He had no idea there were so many kinds of tea and ways to drink it. What kind of tea would Chiccollector595 order? What if she was a tea aficionado and judged him by his order? He decided his order should reflect some kind of individuality, but not be so adventurous he couldn’t stand to drink it. He had asked the girl at the counter for suggestions, and after he fumbled through an unenlightened explanation of what tea flavors he liked, dancing around references to ascorbic acid or petrol fumes, he had ended up with a steaming cup of earthy green tea with honey melting in the cup and a thin lemon slice floating on top.

Albert was settled in to a two-person booth in the back corner of the tea parlor which gave him a clear view of the door. Beside his cup of tea and worn newspaper he had carefully placed a folded dog leash. Chiccollector595 had suggested the dog leash would be a funny way to identify each other since they both hated animals. Really though, Albert did not hate animals. In fact, until his beagle Buford died six months ago, they had been close companions. It was the absence of Buford that made Albert realize he missed human society. Female human society. Nevertheless, he had purchased the new leash from a pet store, and it sat pristinely on the table, a beacon for Chiccollector595.

As their meeting time neared, Albert held the newspaper high enough that he could move his eyes slightly and sneakily up to view patrons entering the tea parlor. He lowered the newspaper whenever a female patron walked in, searching intently for signs of an empty dog leash. He became hopeful when a bold looking woman with raven hair looked searchingly around as she entered the shop. He had been almost ready to raise his hand in a wave when a fit man with salt and pepper hair swooped in and pecked the woman on the cheek. Albert looked down at his belly pooching over his belt buckle, stretching the flannel shirt. His hair had not started to gray, but he nervously brushed his hand over the thinning patch of hair near his crown.

Another woman entered the shop. She was small and slightly mousy. She looked furtively over her shoulders as she made her way to the counter and ordered. She did not look around again until she grabbed her cup of tea and found a seat in a corner across the parlor from Albert, who had started to feel very nervous indeed about meeting Chiccollector595. People, especially women, were sometimes difficult to handle. Buford’s worst day might mean a little poopy on the carpet, which, when dry, could be easily gathered by a gloved hand and flushed down a toilet, the carpet cleaned. Women sometimes cried, Albert knew. They wanted to go out on dates, and Albert suddenly saw more tea parlors and anxiety ridden ordering in his future. What if she found wine romantic? Albert knew nothing about special wine, or special cheese, or special chocolate. He had begun to feel very warm and sweat beads pricked out of the pores on his forehead and neck and under his arms. And what if she really, truly hated dogs? Albert was not yet ready to replace Buford, but someday, wouldn’t he like another cuddly companion to take to the park or share the couch with him as he watched the evening news?

Albert, breathing heavily, was snapped out of his fretful fit when he saw another woman, larger, walk in the door. She had poofy, curly red hair that sprung from her head at all angles, and she was draped in an assortment of colorful, patterned fabrics that he supposed were composing a dress. The woman loudly approached the counter, commenting on the crowded streets and angry that a favorite drink had been removed from the menu. She was demanding the tea girl make her drink anyway when she upended her own purse with a particularly exuberant gesture. The contents were scattering on the counter, some rolling to the floor, when Albert saw a red dog leash dangling half-in, half-out of the emptied purse.

Albert hastily snatched his windbreaker from the booth next to him and threw it on. He grabbed his dog leash and nearly ran between the closely set tables for the door. His gut swung dangerously at tea patrons as he moved quickly so as not to be noticed by the strange, loud woman. His hand was pushing the door open when he heard the woman shouting, following him to the door. Albert did not wait to listen. He broke into a run. As he was puffing away from the tea parlor, he heard the woman yelling, “Come back! I’m Chiccollector595! I’M CHICCOLLECTOR595!! COME BACK!!”

The Second Section 8:34 AM

In a lonesome cofferia, a gal and a newspaper sit unread. She has been brooding, as some people are wont to do, and probably feels that she doesn’t deserve to be alone in a cofferia. And yet, her present loneliness is undeniable. It is this kind of conundrum that keeps her enthralled, being the recipient of situations undeserved; and it leaves her chasing her figurative tail. Like a puppy.

Puppies love newspapers.

She is standing now. She approaches the newspaper. Her sneakers make squeeping sounds on the hard floor. There’s a tremble in her lip. She reaches out, as one petting an exotic animal, and strokes the floaty corner. It is like a leaf, and bobs under her fingertips. In that moment her trepidation is funneled into wonder. Disbelief spills onto her face. And it is a NEWSPAPER MONSTER ACTUALLY! IT JUMPS UP IN THE AIR, HOVERING AT HEAD LEVEL, AND IT UNFOLDS! IT IS FOUR TIMES BIGGER THAN YOU THOUGHT! BWAHAHA! IT COVERS HER LIKE A BLANKET AND THEN SWALLOWS HER UP AND SHE WILL BE DIGESTED ETERNALLY WITHIN ITS LABYRINKTHINE BOWELS—UNTIL ALL THAT REMAINS OF HER IS THIS MISERABLE, TWO HUNDRED WORD EPITAPH!

Pho-To Contest 6:28 PM

David O’Halleran, 38, tells Barbara Zanjicek, 84, that few things in life can be said for certain. Words are, by their definition, too passing a thing to hold onto, much less count on. I can promise you, he says, that your health will hold out, strong and steady, until an altogether pleasant evening when you pass on peacefully in your sleep. Would you believe me? Of course not. You’d be foolish to do so. You’re weighing the words of some man sitting across from you at a table against your whole life; a life lived through the tumult of the 20th century and filled with trips to the drug store, the supermarket, the hospital.

We hope with words. We act, we build, we control with money and transaction. Hm? Well, cold isn’t the first term I’d use, Mrs. Zanjicek. I’d prefer solid. He pulls out a handful of quarters. Metal can be cold but I can build a shelter for my family out of it, either with tin sheets or by giving its paper equivalent to the folks over at Lowe’s. Either way, however, you can’t deny its potency. Compared to hopeful words, anyway.

He calls a server girl over, hands her the quarters and requests a paper. She comes back and gives him the Times. See? Now perhaps I can’t be sure that I’ll like anything in today’s paper, but I can be sure that it’s mine. I’ve ensured that anything in here that I might want to know is now available to me. And I’d rather have more news than I want than not have the news that I need.
Barbara thinks and David leans back. He likes that people at nearby tables could think that he’s her son, sitting across from his elderly mother and conversing. The stereotypical totems of his trade, the scuffed briefcase and the health-disaster brochures and the desperate cologne of need, these are waders and training wheels. He’s a swimmer in the English Channel. He’s biking the Tour de France. He needs naught but himself, he thinks, when Mrs. Zanjicek stands up.

No, I’m afraid I didn’t experience the depression. He reminds her of his age. He assures her that he didn’t ever mean that money is the world’s only certainty, but it’s all automatic now. He knows that she’ll soon leave and that there won’t be a sale. This is acceptable. Lesser men quail at rebuffs, forget their own mantra. But all aspects of insurance are matters of uncertain turnout, and this can not be forgotten at the point of sale, else the whole philosophy be built upon sand. Yes. This is all part of a larger wheel, David thinks, and he feels so good that he lifts his hand to order a coffee. Thinks he’ll stay a while. But his eyes settle not on the waitress. Instead, they fix on an old windbreakered man approaching the cafe’s window.

Of course, he can’t be certain of the old man’s identity, beneath a baseball cap and thirty more years, but here might be the birth of David’s philosophy, out there on the sidewalk.
At eight years old, the law had told David’s mother that there was no way to prove with any certainty that this man had done anything to her son. It was too unlikely, their relationship too limited and random. Any ire David might have had at that verdict had been gone by the time he was fourteen, whereupon he’d decided that the life of a boy who wasn’t really sure what had happened was infinitely preferable to the life of a boy to whom certain things had definitely been done.

Abandoning his paper, David rushes for the restroom. He doesn’t stop when he bumps into the serving girl, he only mumbles something as he continues to surge for that precious men’s room door, an opaque barrier that can protect him from a never-forgotten glance, an eyebrow raised just so, that could instantly cause a life built upon the certain-ness of uncertainty to come crashing down.

The Portal 6:24 PM

            The giant chesspiece of a lamppost marks the gateway, the only spot in the city where the twin dimensions press up against each other like sticky fingerprints on a waterglass. You’d hardly guess you’re achieving interdimensional trans-carnation as you pass through the doorway. The latch clicks shut as any ordinary door clicks shut. You notice the light first of all. Rather, I should say I noticed the light above all. I’ve yet to meet someone else who succeeded in crossing the worlds. The light-mutation, the optic warp, hit me as the door clicked shut. It was a bloodred glare, like a rainy afternoon aurora borealis. It was the coming-true of countless dreams I’ve had in which colors rippled out before me like rainbow shook foil but no matter how hard I tried I could not focus my view, could not open my eyelids wide enough to see clearly.

But a dream moment later—both snap-quick and lifetime lasting—this visual disorientation passed and I stood in the high-definition new world. Everything was sharp, so sharp I felt the air cutting across my pores. This new world reminds me of a coffeeshop, a bar, a music club? Some kind of public place empty of all people, that I can tell. Wooden café chairs sit in a row, their smooth curved backs facing attentively toward a stage, as if waiting for a string quartet to open a set. Music plays incessantly here, music I know but don’t recognize, and I can’t find its source anywhere.

There is one table, right by the door, and on this table a newspaper lies, its wings flayed open like a spine-broken bird. I can’t read the newspaper. Its words are quantum particles, moving and changing the moment you lay eyes on them. It’s alarming. I feel like I’ve wandered into the negative of a photograph. I think I can still see the real world outside these panes of doubled glass. But it’s gloomy and spectral. Things can be seen through other things, like a movie scene fading from son to flashback father. I think I want to leave. I want to go back out there where lines are scrubbed away by raindrops dissolved in air. But somewhere in my mind, I know that I can never really leave this place, that real things will always be two-thirds transparent. I am afraid that if I click that door shut behind me it will be the last click I ever hear.

NPR photo challenge 6:23 PM

Based on this photo, we set ourselves a challenge to write a 600-word-or-less story that could be read in 3 minutes or so.

Welcome 2.0 1:25 PM

If you are here, reading this post, you no doubt realize that this is only a shell of a blog. I prefer the term embryo. Either way, we have a great title for our collective: The Pilcrows, and if I do say so myself, we look spiffy with our current theme. Beyond that, we are full of energy and ideas. But we presently lack execution. Which is to say there isn't much for your eyes and heart to devour.

This is a temporary state. Much like a cold. We had some hiccups on our get-go and now we are mired in the trudge and fudge, if you know what I mean.

Likely you don't. Hopefully you don't.

Regardless, we would like to thank you for your time. We apologize for our lackluster introduction and we invite, nay, beg you to please check back later. I promise that we will dazzle you. It's our MO. We are full of boom and splash. That's a guarantee.

If you are wondering what we look like, here is a group photo taken yesterday. Personally, I think we are a cute  bunch .

Image taken from http://www.typography.com/ask/showBlog.php?blogID=84