Author's Note

Hi there. This is where I'm going to be posting my writing, or at least the things that don't belong on my blog.

Here's the breakdown: The blog is (and always has been) non-fiction: true stories, personal asides, and musings about my life, my activities, or my ideas. In short: The blog = me.

On the other hand, this site, if all goes according to plan, will be where I post the rest of it -- i.e. fiction. Or things that are mostly fiction. Or partly fiction. Or things that might not be entirely fictional. You know, the things that I need to get out of my head by writing down, and will then pretend that they're fiction
, regardless of the degree of truth.

So, assume that nothing here is real. If you think it is, best keep that to yourself. (And if you think it's about you, well, just remember what Carly Simon said.)

And now, on with the show.

Thursday, April 12, 2012

The Guitar

He thought he had placed the dusty black case in the far corner of the closet, where no one would see it. But the grandkids, they get into everything, even by accident. The little one, the one that looked so much like her grandmother that it sometimes hurt to look at her, asked what it was, where it came from.

And so, he said, simply and sweetly, "That's my guitar."

He didn't tell her that, along with a small bag of clothing, the guitar was the only thing he brought with him to the city when he left his parents' farm at 17. He didn't tell her about how ridiculous he was, thinking that it would make him enough money to cover his rent.

He didn't tell her that, along with the two jobs, he played in dingy bars and dirty coffee houses just enough to to be able to take one college class at a time, occasionally with a little bit left over for replacement strings. He didn't tell her that it was how he met her grandmother, late one night, in one of those places, now long lost to time.

He didn't tell her how once the kids -- her father, her aunt -- came, he stopped playing out at all, and only occasionally took the guitar out of its case. And he certainly didn't tell her that, now with her grandmother gone and arthritis starting to kick in, he took the guitar out of the closet every once in a while and cried, a combination of sad tears over what was lost, and happy tears over so much gained.

He just said, simply and sweetly, "That's my guitar."

One of the boys came over and asked if he still played. "Not so much anymore," he said.

"Do you think you can teach me, Pop?"

He smiled, and opened the case.

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For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Allyson challenged me with "'That's what livin' in the city does, man. Stick your song in your throat.' -- George Carlin" and I challenged Tara Roberts with "'We don’t get angry because the glass is broken, we get angry because we thought the glass would never break.' -- Robina Courtin (Buddhist nun)."

Thursday, April 5, 2012

A Twist of Fate

The paperwork wouldn't be finalized for another couple of days, but as they were leaving the courthouse, the lawyer explained that that the judge had signed off on it, and now, all she had to do was wait to receive her final, certified, copy in the mail. She did, however, have to go back to the office to get her check: the last remaining joint account cashed out, the lawyer's fee deducted, and the rest -- a significantly smaller sum than she was expecting -- to be deposited into her account. Maybe she would buy some new shoes this weekend, to celebrate her new freedom.

In the car, windows down and radio blaring, she silently debated whether to use the drive-through or park and go into the lobby. The line of cars at the drive-through teller made her decision for her, and so she parked and walked inside. She was standing in the long line, absentmindedly filling out her deposit slip, when she heard a voice she recognized.

She tried and tried to place the voice. And then, just like that, a flood of memories. High school. A few parties here and there, some friends in common. He was in her World Lit class Junior year, sat in the back of the room. He was quiet and brooding, and back then, she had thought it was absolutely adorable.

She looked up from her thoughts just in time to see a flash of metal and a voice -- the voice she recognized -- yelling at them all to get down on the ground.

This was not the way she had intended her new life to begin.



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For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Fran challenged me with "Freshly divorced, you're waiting in line when you spot someone you had a crush on in High School. Write about it. " and I challenged Diane with "Go back through your archives (we all have them) and find your most embarrassing piece of adolescent writing -- 8th grade or so. Rewrite it in your "adult" voice."