i don't like this one...but, i promised myself i'd post good and bad.
it had burst.
that big earthen damn dam built back in 1943 by my great granddad who said he had learned the skill working for the wpa in the depression.
he must have learned it well, since it held up 60 someodd years before it popped like a water balloon, sweeping up everything we owned before the swath of water pouring out of the crack.
the last i saw great granddad, his casket was surfing the crest of that wave, flying forward into the cold spring day.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
to top it off
i wrote this piece for a contest over at clarity of night--finally posting it here.
he has another contest going, have a gander if you feel like something that can earn you some cash!
So, I just talk into the microphone?
Right. We’d met via the internet, the shadkhen for the 2000’s... who needs a person? You use the internet for dating, hooking up...marriage. We met, we courted.. we had our first sexual experience . On computers. A year of talking, emails and a lot more virtual sex later, he flew to Chicago from Los Angeles, I’m at baggage check, holding a sign, in case the real me didn’t look like the virtual me. We had the initial greeting, our faces not sure which way to go as we moved in for the hug/kiss--awkward, right?
So, off to a great place that served famous pizza in a town known for pizza. There, it all started to crumble. I noticed when he spoke to me, he moved his fingers on the table as if typing. I ordered a beer (with pizza, you have beer, right?) and he chose “...a nice red wine, not too earthy”. Then, then, he did something that proved this had become a momentous FUBAR. I could have lived with the girth I’d never seen before, his staring at my chest when he spoke, even the fuckin’ pretentious wine. It ended when he eschewed my suggestion of sausage and olives, choosing ham and pineapple.
Ham. And. Pineapple.
Okay, granted, sending him back to L.A. was a smarter choice than the one I took--that whole stabbing him in the eye with my fork.
But, really, ham and pineapple?
he has another contest going, have a gander if you feel like something that can earn you some cash!
To Top it Off
So, I just talk into the microphone?
Right. We’d met via the internet, the shadkhen for the 2000’s... who needs a person? You use the internet for dating, hooking up...marriage. We met, we courted.. we had our first sexual experience . On computers. A year of talking, emails and a lot more virtual sex later, he flew to Chicago from Los Angeles, I’m at baggage check, holding a sign, in case the real me didn’t look like the virtual me. We had the initial greeting, our faces not sure which way to go as we moved in for the hug/kiss--awkward, right?
So, off to a great place that served famous pizza in a town known for pizza. There, it all started to crumble. I noticed when he spoke to me, he moved his fingers on the table as if typing. I ordered a beer (with pizza, you have beer, right?) and he chose “...a nice red wine, not too earthy”. Then, then, he did something that proved this had become a momentous FUBAR. I could have lived with the girth I’d never seen before, his staring at my chest when he spoke, even the fuckin’ pretentious wine. It ended when he eschewed my suggestion of sausage and olives, choosing ham and pineapple.
Ham. And. Pineapple.
Okay, granted, sending him back to L.A. was a smarter choice than the one I took--that whole stabbing him in the eye with my fork.
But, really, ham and pineapple?
Saturday, December 26, 2009
one word~blinds
i sit and look out of our pristine windows, neatly topped with the precisely drawn thick venetian blinds he insisted upon. they can't be any higher or lower than the mid point of the window, thus rendering the upper portion of the scenes outside hidden from our viewing... and the lower portion open and vulnerable.
i look at the heavy hanging cord now neatly wrapped around his neck, his red face with it's bulging eyes.. looking so startled as he discovered death was waiting for him...and i think i may want to change those window coverings before the spring.
i look at the heavy hanging cord now neatly wrapped around his neck, his red face with it's bulging eyes.. looking so startled as he discovered death was waiting for him...and i think i may want to change those window coverings before the spring.
Monday, December 21, 2009
luck
Amanda loved gambling...so much so, she was feeling guilty over the frisson of excitement she had entering this one.
Standing in line, she dropped the paper with her name on it into the kettle....then stood back with the rest as Michael reached into the pile of 39 pieces of paper, one from each of them, and paused before he read it aloud. Around her, cheers broke out, the frail volume masking the sounds of sobbing from the person who was named. Amanda sighed--wondering if Michael had fixed the outcome, wondering how long he could continue to do so without being caught.
That night, Amanda and Michael sat with the other 36 survivors; each enjoying their first meal in weeks, each accepting there would be another lottery, and soon. Amanda put her concerns and fear aside, turned to her husband with a smile and remarked she was surprised the meat didn’t taste like chicken, but, like salty pork instead.
Standing in line, she dropped the paper with her name on it into the kettle....then stood back with the rest as Michael reached into the pile of 39 pieces of paper, one from each of them, and paused before he read it aloud. Around her, cheers broke out, the frail volume masking the sounds of sobbing from the person who was named. Amanda sighed--wondering if Michael had fixed the outcome, wondering how long he could continue to do so without being caught.
That night, Amanda and Michael sat with the other 36 survivors; each enjoying their first meal in weeks, each accepting there would be another lottery, and soon. Amanda put her concerns and fear aside, turned to her husband with a smile and remarked she was surprised the meat didn’t taste like chicken, but, like salty pork instead.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
sunday scribblings~brave
the only thing to fear
it had taken everything shelly had to sign up for the event. she knew that she’d be there, in front of so many, exposed for all to see, all of them--waiting. standing backstage, there in the wings, she rubbed the material of her dress between her fingers...her chewed nails catching on the fabric. she worried it was too long, too plain, when all the other girls had on much shorter, much prettier ones...hers was simple, theirs sparkled and glittered in the reflected lights. she noticed their hair was perfect, while hers tended to go wispy, and they stood in circles whispering and giggling to each other. sure, a few stood alone, as she did, some with eyes closed, some looking about, all of them with the look she knew she wore--a bold facade overlaying a intense fear.
in the midst of her stress, ana baker pinched her arm, hissing, “they called your name... GO!!”. shelley moved forward, a stumble of a move, almost falling as she went into the bright lights, sensing the crowd beyond them, hearing the gasp that arose over her ungainly entrance.
there she stood...the others already in place; she was feeling isolated, feeling she had made a mistake. it was silent, still... coughs coming from the place beyond the lights, all of them in the line breathing lightly, rapidly. the group waited, to see how they’d do, how they’d be accepted.. if they’d be laughed at---this, this was their greatest fear.
“shelley? will you step up here, please?” she followed the disembodied voice, her throat dry, her brain skittering from what was going to happen.
“shelley podber? it's time. now, please spell the word, ‘brave’ for us.” the voice of her second grade teacher spoke out of the dark.
licking her lips, hands locked together, she faced the microphone and opened her mouth....
Saturday, November 28, 2009
margaret and johnny were lovers
i've created two characters on my www.quinbrowne.com blog... they are based on real people--their lives are completely my own invention.
i've moved over the three part ending to my outrageous telling of their lives; from children to careers to silly things they've done. the actual couple are quite serene, very amusing, and devoted to each other.
so, here is part 1 of the telling of neville and margaret:
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It's something she never talks about.
Long ago, and far away, our Margaret had a secret life. It started the summer before she and Neville married. They had met at a mutual friend's home...she found him dear and sweet, and knew from the moment they shook hands he would be her future husband--a man of stability and kindness and, she knew, never ending British middle classness; she knew and accepted that would be her place in the world.
She yearned for one bit of life to hold on to, the thing she knew in her bones she'd been created for, the something to take out of her memory chest late at night in her old age... that she could roll over in her mind, so crisp and clean she'd again be able to taste and smell and touch all that occurred in that time.
Our Margaret wanted An Adventure.
So, in her Gap Year, she took her future in her hands, packed her bags, and hopped the train and boat to Paris with her best friend, Amanda Smythe-Barnes of the Malmsbury Smythe-Barnes', going there to seek their fortunes.
Amanda fancied herself an artist, and our Margaret was svelte, and blessed with clear skin and intense eyes. They roomed in a garret in Saint-Germain-des-Pres, surrounded by students, artists, and jazz clubs. They absorbed everything around them, dwelling in that place of living forever you have only once in your life. They were alive and careless of that fact and nothing could touch them.
Margaret found modeling for the House of Dior and Oleg Cassini along with other famous designers, she was never a top model, still, she made enough to make her portion of the monthly bills. She and "Mellie" spent their nights dancing with the various friends they made or being taken out to dinner and being wooed by a few of those older, wealthy men who purchased the designer clothing for wives and mistresses; this was, of course, Paris.
Margaret wrote Neville, who was slogging out at University, light frothy letters telling him of the art work and simple things, never mentioning the men who asked her to be their mistress, or the artists who begged her to become their lover, men she laughingly refused. Her way of defusing the situation was always so light, egos were never damaged, friendships ensued, she carried on immersed in all that was young, free and Paris. This was going to be a part of her life she would never share, a part that would shape her, changing her from the untrained dabs of Mellie's art to the defined intensity of Dali.
Tragedy struck, and Mellie was called home, her Father had gout, and her Mother needed help getting the dogs ready for the round of shows coming up, the spaniels always listened to Mellie's brash voice, and off she went, her time done, ready to face life as a country wife. With a month left on their lease, Margaret chose to stay on, to finish out Spring in Paris.
It was two weeks later, on the 14th of April, it happened. Walking down the street, the last of her modeling done, determined to do nothing more but enjoy Paris as a tourist, the heel of her shoe broke, she tripped... and fell into the arms of a man so beautiful, her breath caught in her throat... He tried to speak to her in terrible French, and she laughingly told him in her clean British tones she was fine. He insisted on giving her a taxi ride to her flat... by the time they reached it, they were in each others arms, something a small portion of Margaret's mind told her was very, very wrong. The larger portion said, "The hell with it!" and she sank into the world she'd waited for, prepared for, longed for--this was what she had waited to find.
They spent the next two weeks lounging about, talking, touching, passion interspersed with laughter as it should be... doing all the things you do when you are young and in love and in Paris. Sprawled on her bed, drinking wine, strolling the City of Lights in the dark, holding hands. They spoke of their lives before each other, but, never mentioned a future--they knew they didn't have one. It was the now that consumed them.
One afternoon, she went to meet him, and their embrace was so intense, so telling of a couple bound to each other, a photographer snapped it, giving them a copy that Margaret keeps hidden away; it is the essence of all they were to each other.
Time is not always our friend, it was not theirs, and, like all love stories, this one has a sad ending. The man had to go on to his future, mapped out for him long before he met Margaret. She closed up the flat, touching the sheets, looking out over the roofs, breathing in the last of him in the air around her.
A month later, Neville proposed, she accepted, they married with a beautifully done wedding, her dress a gift from Cassini. They waited to have children... she wanted to see if she'd ever find the same layers of knowledge in this man that she found in the other in those 14 days... Although they found comfort and a deep respect, with Neville adoring Margaret, and her initial knowledge of who he was in her life settling into an abiding love... she never understood him in the same way, and he found her looking over the garden at times, wondering what she was thinking about.
He wondered about the interest she took in American politics for a time, and supported her belief the bright young President would change how America took on the world. He was puzzled by her deep grief and depression following that day in November, putting it to her pregnancy and her soft heart.
She thinks on those days in Paris, and feels his presence, waiting for her.
i've moved over the three part ending to my outrageous telling of their lives; from children to careers to silly things they've done. the actual couple are quite serene, very amusing, and devoted to each other.
so, here is part 1 of the telling of neville and margaret:
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It's something she never talks about.
Long ago, and far away, our Margaret had a secret life. It started the summer before she and Neville married. They had met at a mutual friend's home...she found him dear and sweet, and knew from the moment they shook hands he would be her future husband--a man of stability and kindness and, she knew, never ending British middle classness; she knew and accepted that would be her place in the world.
She yearned for one bit of life to hold on to, the thing she knew in her bones she'd been created for, the something to take out of her memory chest late at night in her old age... that she could roll over in her mind, so crisp and clean she'd again be able to taste and smell and touch all that occurred in that time.
Our Margaret wanted An Adventure.
So, in her Gap Year, she took her future in her hands, packed her bags, and hopped the train and boat to Paris with her best friend, Amanda Smythe-Barnes of the Malmsbury Smythe-Barnes', going there to seek their fortunes.
Amanda fancied herself an artist, and our Margaret was svelte, and blessed with clear skin and intense eyes. They roomed in a garret in Saint-Germain-des-Pres, surrounded by students, artists, and jazz clubs. They absorbed everything around them, dwelling in that place of living forever you have only once in your life. They were alive and careless of that fact and nothing could touch them.
Margaret found modeling for the House of Dior and Oleg Cassini along with other famous designers, she was never a top model, still, she made enough to make her portion of the monthly bills. She and "Mellie" spent their nights dancing with the various friends they made or being taken out to dinner and being wooed by a few of those older, wealthy men who purchased the designer clothing for wives and mistresses; this was, of course, Paris.
Margaret wrote Neville, who was slogging out at University, light frothy letters telling him of the art work and simple things, never mentioning the men who asked her to be their mistress, or the artists who begged her to become their lover, men she laughingly refused. Her way of defusing the situation was always so light, egos were never damaged, friendships ensued, she carried on immersed in all that was young, free and Paris. This was going to be a part of her life she would never share, a part that would shape her, changing her from the untrained dabs of Mellie's art to the defined intensity of Dali.
Tragedy struck, and Mellie was called home, her Father had gout, and her Mother needed help getting the dogs ready for the round of shows coming up, the spaniels always listened to Mellie's brash voice, and off she went, her time done, ready to face life as a country wife. With a month left on their lease, Margaret chose to stay on, to finish out Spring in Paris.
It was two weeks later, on the 14th of April, it happened. Walking down the street, the last of her modeling done, determined to do nothing more but enjoy Paris as a tourist, the heel of her shoe broke, she tripped... and fell into the arms of a man so beautiful, her breath caught in her throat... He tried to speak to her in terrible French, and she laughingly told him in her clean British tones she was fine. He insisted on giving her a taxi ride to her flat... by the time they reached it, they were in each others arms, something a small portion of Margaret's mind told her was very, very wrong. The larger portion said, "The hell with it!" and she sank into the world she'd waited for, prepared for, longed for--this was what she had waited to find.
They spent the next two weeks lounging about, talking, touching, passion interspersed with laughter as it should be... doing all the things you do when you are young and in love and in Paris. Sprawled on her bed, drinking wine, strolling the City of Lights in the dark, holding hands. They spoke of their lives before each other, but, never mentioned a future--they knew they didn't have one. It was the now that consumed them.
One afternoon, she went to meet him, and their embrace was so intense, so telling of a couple bound to each other, a photographer snapped it, giving them a copy that Margaret keeps hidden away; it is the essence of all they were to each other.
Time is not always our friend, it was not theirs, and, like all love stories, this one has a sad ending. The man had to go on to his future, mapped out for him long before he met Margaret. She closed up the flat, touching the sheets, looking out over the roofs, breathing in the last of him in the air around her.
A month later, Neville proposed, she accepted, they married with a beautifully done wedding, her dress a gift from Cassini. They waited to have children... she wanted to see if she'd ever find the same layers of knowledge in this man that she found in the other in those 14 days... Although they found comfort and a deep respect, with Neville adoring Margaret, and her initial knowledge of who he was in her life settling into an abiding love... she never understood him in the same way, and he found her looking over the garden at times, wondering what she was thinking about.
He wondered about the interest she took in American politics for a time, and supported her belief the bright young President would change how America took on the world. He was puzzled by her deep grief and depression following that day in November, putting it to her pregnancy and her soft heart.
She thinks on those days in Paris, and feels his presence, waiting for her.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
one word~spotlight
my friend, walter conley, asked me if i'd write something about the theater (my great love!)
here it is, walter... not much, only a minutes worth of writing...but, it's all yours.
----------------------------------------------------------
it was there, in the middle of the stage, that single spotlight where his mark was set. moving into it, he gave himself over to something he'd never known before and he knew his character had become his reality, his soul, his self.
opening his arms to embrace all there, to pull in the feel of the energy of the audience, the crew, the words he was to speak... the eternal power of the stage itself. with the first words, he went from simple man to legend.
here it is, walter... not much, only a minutes worth of writing...but, it's all yours.
----------------------------------------------------------
it was there, in the middle of the stage, that single spotlight where his mark was set. moving into it, he gave himself over to something he'd never known before and he knew his character had become his reality, his soul, his self.
opening his arms to embrace all there, to pull in the feel of the energy of the audience, the crew, the words he was to speak... the eternal power of the stage itself. with the first words, he went from simple man to legend.
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