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Fix It Or….

May 30, 2017 By admin

F I C T I O N   Last night at dinner my neighbor the eccentric producer, floundering and slightly off her rocker after the latest divorce, pitched us an idea for a reality television show. The concept, she explained, is a sort of This Old House meets Dr. Oz where Katie, who plans to write, direct and host the program, will visit celebrity homes and help the owners identify household problems, then elaborate on the pros and cons of DIY instead of calling a plumber, painter, or contractor.

She wants General Motors as a sponsor so that she can arrive at the site in a different car for every episode. “Yeah, they get subliminal advertising every time I drive up to the site.” She wants me to write a theme song “that makes everybody sing along, you know the way they did about seeing the U.S.A all over again.”

“My opening monologue will outline the problem and hint at some possible solutions. You know, like, ‘Today we’re on our way to the west side to meet Paula Tilson, an Albuquerque attorney whose ten-year old entertainment center is on the fritz.’ We’ll have some local color shots of the neighborhood and me pulling up into the driveway.

“Paula comes out to the car and we chat about her options. I don’t want to discourage her so we ad lib the pros and cons of the situation. She’s sentimental about the old gear but doesn’t really play her collection of vinyl anymore, so she’s open to the idea of a shopping trip.

“We drive to a few select retail locations and compare the current offerings in home entertainment with their associated price tags. The drama really builds when I reveal my recent discovery of a repair shop in Denver that restores vintage electronics. Here’s my favorite part: in the next segment we insert an interview with a specialist regarding the emotional aspects of change. There are some candid shots of Paula sitting alone in a dark room, looking out the window and weighing her options.

“That’s where the background music shifts to a minor key, Paula stands up and looks into the lens, she gets all teary- something for everybody, you know- and there’s a voice-over asking, ‘Will Paula take the plunge for new gear, or hold on to her memories and busted turntable? Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion of Fix It or Fuck It. And now this.”

Annonymous is just what it sound like. And we don’t mean the famous hacker.

Filed Under: FICTION

Rosita’s Day

May 2, 2017 By admin

F I C T I O N   Rosita’s fifteen-year old son says, “Mom, seriously, no one wears that color.” Rosita pushes her arms through the sleeves, trying not to show how nervous and shaky she is feeling. Her son, Jonathan, is tapping a pencil on his teeth and it takes all of her fortitude to not say something. His dad, Jerome Anthony Fudge, had the same habit. Click, click, click; pencil against teeth. What Rosita really wants to do is grab it from her son and throw it against the wall. Instead, she continues adjusting the fluorescent orange XXL hoodie. Why, she wonders, would they send her, 5’1″ and 120 pounds, an XXL?

Rosita met Jerome in high school, immediately got pregnant, then married, and now at age 32 is the single mother of a brainy teenager who is clueless about how she feels. Jerome stays in touch with Jonathan, sends him money, a new laptop every few years, and pays the tuition to the genius school his son attends. Two separate lives coexist and Jonathan navigates the middle without bringing in any crossover complications. Rosita dearly loves her son for that.

Being a traffic guard was not how a young Rosita de Jesus had imagined herself as a grown up. She was a fashionista in high school, making her own clothes and using all the style sense her grandmother and mother bestowed. Rosita planned on going to college in New York City and then along came Jerome. She doesn’t remember even caring that much about him but he was nice enough and seemed like an OK boyfriend. Everything changed when she found out she was pregnant. He was vague and afraid. It didn’t take very long for his family to intervene. The marriage lasted 2 years and 2 days and then Rosita and Jonathan were alone. The Fudge seniors paid for an apartment, pre-school for Jon, and most of what cost only money. Their friends suggested paying off Rosita but in fact they call her an “employee” and send regular paychecks; just as they do to their gardeners and staff.

Today Rosita knows the eye-catching orange sweatshirt might keep her, and a line of kids crossing Mulholland, from getting hit by a speeding Porsche. She feels bitterness eating away at her and resolves to be more positive. There is a teenage girl crossing with the younger kids, probably someone’s older sister, who looks at Rosita with pity. Rosita wants to say, “Be careful” but knows that won’t ever really be enough.

Kim Kohler writes on the uncertainties of living in a liberal hot spot where everybody has an opinion, every opinion counts and nobody uses turn signals.

Filed Under: FICTION

Camus to You Too

April 10, 2017 By admin

 

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F I C T I O N   I ran into Albert Camus the other day. (it’s my fiction, I can meet up with anyone I want).

We were in front of Starbucks.

Quoi de neuf? I hailed.

“Should I kill myself, or have a cup of coffee?”

Jesus, you go dark all the time. Lighten up, I replied.

“To know oneself, one should assert oneself.”

Come on Al. It doesn’t have to be like that. Are you working on anything new?

“Idleness is fatal only to the mediocre.”

Oy, you’re killing me with these quotes. You’re like a one-liner factory. Just tell me if you’re working on a new book.

“Charm is a way of getting the answer ‘Yes’ without asking a clear question.”

See, this is why everyone thinks of you as an existentialist.

“We are all special cases.”

Enough! Are you seeing anyone?

“It is necessary to fall in love… if only to provide an alibi for all the random despair you are going to feel anyway.”

Can’t you ever be rational?

“Stupidity has a knack of getting its way.”

Totally! I have always admired the way you are in touch with your inner self.

“If something is going to happen to me, I want to be there.”

That’s what I’m talking about. And you know what you like.

“I may not have been sure about what really did interest me, but I was absolutely sure about what didn’t.”

That’s absurd. But then you’re absurd. Has anyone ever told you that?

“I draw from the Absurd three consequences: my revolt, my liberty, my passion.”

Right, right. Not like you’re some kind of fame whore or anything like that.

“To be famous, in fact, one has only to kill one’s landlady.”

Seriously? You’re going there?

“Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.”

Yeah, okay. Listen Al, it was great seeing you again. I know you’re still not speaking to Sartre but you know he thinks the world of you. Maybe it’s time you guys patched things up.

“Every man, and for stronger reasons, every artist, wants to be recognized. So do I.”

Okey dokey. Good seeing you again. You take it easy. Or take it any way you can get it.

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. He’s written a mystery novel, which therefore makes him a pre-published author.

Filed Under: FICTION

Not Really

April 10, 2017 By admin

F I C T I O N  Johnny quit the band to get married and start law school. We played together for the last time at their wedding reception, and then loaded the guitars and headed west for California without him. Another friend from school had rented a big house in Portola Valley and he was eager to become the new drummer who could book us into the San Francisco music scene.

We holed up to practice for two weeks, and then started playing the North Beach joints, including a few nights on stage with Carol Doda. The writing on the wall came after we cut the demo with Jim Lange in August. We listened to the playback and nobody, but nobody, thought there was a future. It’s a sad thing to see the dreams of artists dashed. The guys all drifted back to Houston, and I moved in with Bonnie.

We met when the group was playing Sunday nights in the Marina District. The Annex was a happening weekend scene, and she had come to town from Seattle with flowers in her hair. One thing led to another, and then she’s telling me I’m going to be a parent.

“Are you sure?”

She said she had not been to the doctor yet but had missed two periods and was absolutely never ever late.

“My parents will kill me. What are we gonna do?”

I was more than a little concerned that they might kill me first, so after some discouraging looks at options, I proposed, she accepted, and we drove her Austin-Healy down to Monterey where her parents lived comfortably and did the right thing with a lavish, if sudden, noon wedding at their church.

We were too young and stupid, and it turned out she wasn’t pregnant after all. What she was and continued to be was an actress, and a specialty model whose legs kept showing up in advertisements. She was doing a ton of local ads for the Bay Area papers, and that led to her working in Los Angeles, New York, Nice, and South America. I was spending a lot of my time alone and wondering about my pals back in Texas. Then I got the phone call I should have been expecting.

“We need to talk about this. When are you coming home?”

“That’s the point, you big dummy. We’re done. I’m really sorry, Rivers. This whole thing was a mistake.”

Harpeth Rivers is a New Mexico transplant from all over who has in the last year written songs about isosceles triangles, played bass guitar in a band, and declared himself “Retro-eclectic.” His novel-in-progress is entitled Last Year.

Filed Under: FICTION

Lonely River Village

March 13, 2017 By admin

hunanpalaceF I C T I O N   The last thing Lili expects to do this sunny day is take a two mile walk. She is comfy sitting on the edge of her bed and staring at her precious feet. They are the feet that have earned her a place in one of the best homes in Lonely River, a village in the Hunan Province of China. But they are not likely to carry her far from home because she can barely balance on them and when she does stand for more than a few minutes they begin to cause pain that starts at her toes and slowly travels all the way up to her hips.

Her feet are little more than three inches long, having been bound and broken so perfectly by her mother when Lili was six years old that the soles, all bent and cured up on themselves, resemble a lotus flower. It is not because of her lustrous black hair or smooth skin, but because her feet are so beautiful in the eyes of men that Lili was married to one of the richest, most important men in the village. And because she continued to keep her feet bound — did not loosen the cloths that wrapped them tightly at night as some women did once they had secured a good marriage — that she has been married now for ten years. And not cast aside, either, when a concubine joined the family two years ago.

Lili lets her eyes move slowly around the room, her own bedroom, that she occupies on the nights her husband does not call her into his room. She sees the elegant wooden dresser with the silver handles on the doors, carved with what she always imagines are scenes from life in the imperial palace. The curtains on the windows are of the finest brocade, colored in vivid reds and yellows. Even the chamber pot is beautiful to her eye. It has been painted by a fine artist with scenes of children picnicking in the lush Chinese countryside.

And at the foot of the bed is her favorite item of all: a huge travel trunk, exquisitely carved also, with a clasp as big as Lili’s fist. Folded on the chest is a beautiful bed cover, embroidered by Lili herself. The symbols she sewed around the edges hold a secret. They are not just a pretty design. They are Nu Shu, the secret writing of the women of Hunan Province.

Excerpt from Lonely River Village

Norma Libman is a journalist and lecturer who has been collecting women’s stories for more than twenty years. You can read the first chapter of her award-winning book, Lonely River Village, at NormaLibman.com.

Filed Under: FICTION

I’ll Give You A Driveway Moment

February 21, 2017 By admin

drivewaymomentF I C T I O N   You want a driveway moment? I’ll give you a driveway moment. No, it’s not some sad, uplifting, or enlightening story I’m listening to on NPR. And it’s not a favorite golden oldie on WWAM. Nor am I out here in the car contemplating the theory of relativity.

I’m sitting in the car that is parked in my driveway because I don’t want to go inside my house – at least not yet. Because when I walk through that door I have to be an adult who worries about my spouse (who thinks I take our marriage for granted), about my grown children (who won’t leave home), and about my parents (who may soon need to go into a home), and about planning for retirement (a train that has long since left the station).

Driving home from work I was able to find respite from all these wonderful topics, but now that I’m in the driveway, the only thing between me and the boogey man is the sanctity of my car. It may be old and have over 150,000 miles on it, but the seats still smell leathery and I am comfortable behind the wheel. I know everything about this car. The new tires on the back, each of the disc brake rotors I’ve had replaced, the new radiator hoses, it’s all documented in my mind. Really, when I think about it, I realize I have replaced 50-60% of the car by now. But the sound system is still A-1 so I can listen to some soothing classical music while working up the courage to leave the comfort of my “cabin.” Might as well put the seat in the reclining position to see if that will lessen the throbbing sensation in my frontal lobe. That’s working. I can already feel my heart rate slowing down, my hands have stopped clenching, and the damp brow is drying off.

I feel transported to a better place – a place where no demands are made of me. When I’m hungry, food appears. When I’m drowsy, a soft bed is there for me. Everyone speaks softly and we are gentle with one another. The sense is that everyone is solicitous without verging on obsequious. This is good – very good.

A loud rapping noise on my window shatters the reverie into a thousand tiny pieces. My son is staring at me through the fogged up window and mouthing some words. I’m confused – I don’t know what he’s trying to tell me. He makes a motion that I should lower the window, and I comply.

“Can you move your car so I can get mine out?”

No hello. No how are you. Doesn’t ask if I’m okay. Just stands there looking idiotic wearing a backward ballcap, waiting for me to move on, so that he can move on.

Fine. Until tomorrow then. This driveway moment is over.

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. He’s written a mystery novel, which therefore makes him a pre-published author.

Filed Under: FICTION Tagged With: boogey man, driveway moment, fogged window, NPR

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