slush pile

A Prayer for My First Love

January 29, 2012 – 8:49 pm

Is there anything like first love?

If so, I don’t know it.

They might as well say “unforgettable” love, or “amazing” love, or “fucking asshole” love. You, my love, were all those things. And some of those weren’t even your fault.

Do you even know you were my first love? The first man to give me paroxysms of love, of lust, of wanting so deep that I still remember it as I push ever forward to middle age. Except you were a boy then. We were just kids then. I might as well still be when it comes to you.

How did I let you go? And find you again? And let you go?

I can tell you. Fear. And luck. And then fear.

This last time, the stakes were different. We met on the battlefield of wars already lost, the sea of ships that had sailed. We were to shake hands, to acknowledge our hard-fought skirmishes and become, at last, compatriots in the slog of the campaign that is modern life.

Except…

You waved a white flag.

And I didn’t see it until you were gone.

You took your troops and left the battle before I even knew there was a surrender.

I would have given in, you know.

I would have pulled my boys to the rear, laid it down, waited for you to come with terms, terms of friendship, and we would have had tea (more probably, a whiskey) and we would have chuckled. No need for wars. Not when a friendly cup could solve it.

But you’re gone. You left all the world to me and me alone. And I don’t want it.

Your arms have vanished, and with them, any hope of your wonderful trace, that scent, that feeling that runs from me to you and back again. Gone, without an explanation. Without a word.

I want to chase you down, ride my elephants across your Alps, ram your battlements, shake you, and make you explain. It’s extreme, I know. I’m extreme in my need for your words, your glance, the promise of the brush of your skin against mine.

Is there anything like first love?

Violence?

Battle?

War?

They all leave their scars. There’s no ridding them from the mind. There’s no reconciling them to the person I thought I was. One day, I was there, with you, and then, you were gone from the action. Yet- still, now, always- you are there.

You are there inside me, a still, stone obelisk.

A tall, hard place that my heart grows around.

A monument to the fallen, letters driven hard into marble, forming a prayer that softens yet remains as the years and the wind and the rain pass by.

And the prayer is “Love.”

Slush pile is a category I’m using for writing that just didn’t fit its intended audience, but wasn’t necessarily bound for the classic circular file. In short, it’s writing that I like, but don’t know what the hell to do with. So before it goes to the great computer file graveyard in the sky, it’ll get its first (and likely only) play here. I’ve got a few pieces currently that fit this description, including the above.

I wrote this piece for a character in an unfinished novel. Even as I was writing it, I thought, “This isn’t E’s voice AT ALL.” But I couldn’t stop myself. The emo had to come out. I knew I couldn’t include it in the book I was working on, but I held onto it. It’s sentimental, overwrought, full of not-so-great metaphors. I don’t know what it is I like about it, and I wish I could figure it out so I could save it and free it from all the problematic parts of this piece.

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nonfiction

Chuck Prophet’s Hair

November 1, 2011 – 6:26 pm

Chuck Prophet’s hair called to me from the stage, but I wasn’t listening. I was trying to pay attention to his guitar and the ladies he was singing with, not his hair. They finished, and he hugged all the girls, and one of them said his hair sure did smell nice. I laughed; we all did. You don’t think about rock stars smelling nice. He played good, though.

I saw him later, standing in a quiet corner, so I stopped just to tell him he did good, you know. People like that. He listened and nodded and smiled and that was all, except-

Except when I went to leave, his hair called out to me. Psst, it said in a half a second, over here. Smell this. I’m not the type to just lean over a strange man’s shoulder and smell of his hair- I’m a married woman, for God’s sake- but I did, and it was the best smell I ever smelled and it smelled like

…grapefruit and Jesus, Sexy Jesus, the one that would feed the poor and heal the sick and then go home and playfully suggest you take a shower together and he would wash his long, soft brown hair and the shampoo would smell just like Chuck Prophet’s hair, and while you drank in the smell, he would shampoo your hair, too, and then the rest of you, before he toweled you dry and laid you in bed for a nap while he cooked you dinner, maybe something with

…lemon and Henry Miller, and the sound of him taptaptapping on his typewriter and then cursing and then shouting in triumph or disaster, ripping out pages and pasting them to the wall or maybe just ripping them up, while you watch half in amusement, half in amazement from the bed and wonder if he’s writing about you this time, until he comes to bed, laughing, full of a bottle of wine and an appreciation for the female form and he makes you forget you cared what he was writing about in the first place, and when you are done, you sigh and take a deep breath and inhale this wonderful smell that comes from nowhere, and that’s what Chuck Prophet’s hair smelled like, it smelled just like

…rosemary and that girlfriend you had that loved to play in the woods, tramping through the underbrush all day long with her rescued dog, that copper-colored mutt that didn’t hardly look like any kind of dog but was smarter than any dog you’d ever met, and they’d come home, her covered in mosquito bites and him covered in ticks, and both covered in dirt and smiling, and she made you smile, and you’d gather her up in your arms and she’d throw her head back and laugh and you’d kiss her beautiful freckled throat and that is what it would taste like, it would taste just as fine as Chuck Prophet’s hair smells.

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Uncategorized

A Bird in the Hand

October 21, 2011 – 6:00 am

“A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush!” Shirley sang, fairly tittering with glee.

Get this fucking bird out of my hand right now is more what I was thinking. Shirley had dragged me here to this hippie restaurant in the middle of Atlanta. All I wanted was to stop at the Varsity, get an orangeade and a hot dog and keep driving through to Tallahassee, but no. No, we had to stop at some vegetarian place where they keep fucking birds and eat cabbage and hold a goddamned bird. I hate hippies, and I hate cabbage, and I hate birds. Shirley knows this.

She also knows that I won’t say much about it, not out loud anyway. Under the best of circumstances, I’m not a very vocal guy. I’d like to say that I’m the strong, silent, John Wayne type, but I can’t lie to myself- I’m really just a pussy. I’ve never seen much point in arguing with people. I’m not a tall guy, and not big, either. I wear glasses. I got a weak chin. I blend into the walls. No one even notices me, much less takes me seriously. So I don’t argue. Especially not with my girlfriend Shirley. Especially not while we’re on the way to Florida to go to her dad’s funeral. I’m a pussy, but I’m not an asshole. So when she wanted to stop at the hippie place and eat cabbage and get me to hold a bird, I didn’t say anything. It seemed to make her happy, and she needed some happy right then.

The bird seemed happy, too. It started tweeting a pretty little song, which I probably could have enjoyed if I didn’t hate birds so damn much. It unnerved me, this bird singing in my hand, and moving its little feet around and poking me and singing and all I could think was get this fucking bird out of my hand right now.

“Hold still, let me take a picture!” Shirley rummaged around in her huge purse for her tiny digital camera. It took forever for her to get it out of the padded case, then turn it on, then get the settings just right, and all the time, I still have this damn bird in my hand, tickling my palms with its tiny, dirty little bird claws and it’s driving me insane and I’m about to scream-

“Say cheese!” Shirley twittered, her voice shrill and tinny and loud.

It was real loud, loud enough to startle the bird, who flapped its wings in my face- right in my face, oh god- so I threw it out of my hand and it flew up and away from me and over to the hippie birdkeeper guy, who gave me a very dirty look. He held the bird tight and still, smoothing its feathers and speaking to it in a low, soft voice while he carried it back to its cage, never saying another word to us.

On the way back to the car, Shirley stopped and checked the picture.

“Oh, it’s so good! Look!” She thrust the camera into my hand. I’d moved too quickly, and the shot was blurry, off-center, and had only captured my open hand with the bird flying away.

“I want to paint this,” Shirley said with that dreamy look in her eyes that she gets when she’s being “creative” or “artistic” as she would say, or “a lazy fucking daydreamer” as my dad would say. Shirley painted, and she was alright, I guess- I’m no art critic, I didn’t even go to college- but she never sold any. I thought it was because her paintings all were kinda…I dunno- lazy and fuzzy- like the edges of everything were all smudged. She could draw really well, so why didn’t she just paint things the way they really were, I wondered, but I didn’t ask her, of course. She did the cooking and cleaning, and I didn’t bother her about getting a job, or her paintings hanging all over the walls, and that worked out just fine for us.

I didn’t think about the bird again for a while. The funeral and the trip back were really hard on Shirley (and me, honestly- I had to do all the driving) and then work picked up for me when we returned and I didn’t take much notice of what Shirley was doing. She painted during the day and then cooked and cleaned and I came home and we watched TV in bed until we fell asleep. It was a comfortable life.

Then one day, I came home and found Shirley cooking steaks in the kitchen.

“Steaks? I thought we were having meatloaf, babe,” I said as I set down my lunch bag. I liked steaks a lot, but I loved meatloaf, and I won’t lie, I was a little disappointed.

She turned to me with a huge smile. “I did it, sweetie! I finally did it!”

“Did what?”

“I sold a painting!” she said, throwing her arms around me in a huge bear hug. “One of the regulars down at the bar is redecorating her office and heard I painted, so I showed her some of my stuff and she bought four paintings!”

“Well, that’s nice, sugar,” I said, giving her a kiss on the nose. I was happy if she was happy. It was hard to believe someone actually paid money for one of her pictures, but hey, I’m no art critic.

“Her favorite was the new one I did- you know, from that picture of you and the bird.”

“Really? That picture was all blurry and shit. Oh well, I guess that’s kinda like your paintings, anyway, huh?”

Shirley pulled back from our hug with a frown. She didn’t say anything, but she stood there and stared into my face like she was looking for something. It was creepy. I put my hand up to my nose, thinking I had a booger or something.

“That was a mean thing to say,” Shirley finally said.

I wasn’t trying to be mean. I was trying to make a little joke. Why did I even say anything? This is why I never say anything.

“Naw, I wasn’t trying to be mean, baby! You know I just don’t get art. Come on, don’t be mad.” I pulled her back into a hug and kissed her forehead. She softened a little bit. I could smell the steaks beginning to char and looked over her shoulder at the stove.

“Those steaks smell real good, baby.” I thought I felt her get a little stiff, but she didn’t say anything, she just turned and flipped the steaks like she won’t ever mad, so I went in the living room and turned on Wheel of Fortune. Then we ate steaks and potatoes and went to bed like always and never said one more word about it.

I didn’t know she was still mad until I came home from work on Monday. All her stuff was gone, all the walls bare, all her fuzzy paintings gone. I had her in my hand, all quiet and still, until she started singing her own song- then, without meaning to, I opened my hand and tossed her out. And she flew away.

Originally published on Picture Worth 1000 Words on 1/27/11

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fiction

Mantra

October 20, 2011 – 6:35 pm

Ellen barreled down the singletrack on her new mountain bike, a cloud of dust and anxiety quickly forming around her and clouding her vision of the majestic mountains on the horizon.

Barron had convinced her this would be a fun trip, that she would love mountain biking, and that it would be a great vacation. They could leave the stressful year
behind them- the 80 hour weeks, the new investors, the app launch, the IPO, the wedding- the goddamn wedding most of all- and just relax.

“You’ve got to relax,” Barron was always saying. “Slow down. Sit with your feelings. Om. Ommmmmmmm,” he would say, fingers pressed together, head thrown back in his own special version of rich white boy Buddha.

And so she tried. “Om. Om. Ommmmm,” she said to herself when she was particularly stressed. “Om, goddamn it. Om.” This was her mantra.

Now she was flying down a dirt path, out of control, at 25 miles an hour, at once terrified and exhilarated.

“FUCKFUCKFUCK!” This was her new mantra.

It could have easily been her mantra the past five years. She signed on to work for LoveTrack as its second employee- Barron, the founder, was number one. They took his idea- mapping all the singletrack trails in the US, and then combining those maps with social media to help mountain bikers find a friend- or potential lover- riding their local tracks. It was like Active.com met eHarmony and joined CrossFit. LoveTrack developed a cult following, then mushroomed into a muscular, if dirty, player in the romance and fitness arena. At Ellen’s insistence, they hired developers, got an iPhone app, and exploded. Now they were rich at thirty-four, engaged, and in love. In love?

FUCKFUCKFUCK.

Ellen wanted to close her eyes, ignore the certain disaster that awaited her at the next turn of the trail, but she just couldn’t take her eyes off the developing trainwreck. She’d been letting life happen to her for the last five years, why not let it continue to its logical conclusion, she thought. She’d worked harder, created more value, and made more money than she’d ever imagined. And for her trouble, she got to be lectured on meditating, dragged mountain biking, and led along to the altar by Barron, she thought bitterly.

She should be happy someone like him loved someone like her, she heard the voice in her head saying. It sounded suspiciously like her mother. She wasn’t exactly a beauty queen- good thing she’d found someone that loved her mind, or at least wanted to use her for it. She ought to ride that train as long as she could, get a good prenup, a great accountant, and an even better lawyer. Turn a deaf ear to the rumors about Barron’s conferences in L.A., the whispers about the pretty new admin assistant, the drunken admission from his best friend, Jim, that she just wasn’t Barron’s type at all- “You can READ, Ellen. What are you doing with him?” Wait. Wed. Weep. Then win.

If she made it that long without breaking all her damn limbs, she thought, bumping down the track.

FUCKFUCKFUCK.

She was on this trip to please Barron, so he’d shut up about her being a nerd chained to a desk, so he’d stop dropping not so subtle hints about her pasty complexion and generous thighs. She would never be a tan hardbody, but she thought this might placate him until the wedding. She just wanted him to shut up. Shut the fuck up.

So she went. She got a mountain bike, got a quick lesson on brakes and gears from Jim, a seasoned biker, and got comfortable with the idea she had no fucking clue what she was doing but would fake it for a weekend- just like the wedding. Barron insisted she get clipless bike shoes, even though she was convinced she would fall over before they got a quarter of a mile down the road. Again, she called on Jim, who forced her to stand in the door of her office, braced in the doorway, clipping and unclipping, until she got the hang of it. And here she was, barreling down the singletrack, ahead of Barron, as he insisted, so he could keep an eye on her, just in case.

“Just in case of what?” she wondered. “In case I crash my fat ass, so he can be the first to see it?” She sighed. It was probably going to happen, so might as well give him a good–

FUCKFUCKFUCK!

Ellen’s body reacted before her mind registered. She had jerked to the side, braked, and unclipped before she realized that she’d almost gone over the edge of the mountain. She didn’t even know it was there. There was no sign!

Except the one up by the road that said the trail was closed.

But Barron had said it was alright! Barron said he knew this track like the back of his hand. He’d ridden it thousands of times before. It was perfectly safe, he said. It was perfectly safe for a seasoned rider. Perfectly safe for someone who knew what to expect. Perfectly safe for Barron to watch her crash her fat ass right over the side of the mountain.

She looked up the trail to see a cloud barreling down the trail.

Barron.

She saw it in his eyes.

FUCKFUCKFUCK.

Those eyes were still staring at her as he forgot to jerk to the shoulder, brake, or unclip, and as he went over the side.

FUCK?!?

FUCK!

Heh. FUCK.

Originally posted on Picture Worth 1000 Words on 10/7/11.

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fiction

Al’s Wild Ride

October 20, 2011 – 6:00 am

Al gripped the steering wheel tightly as the tiny, economy-sized rental car crept down the icy road. It was foolish to go out in this mess, but staying in was an even worse alternative. The thought of being stuck in the hotel, cut off from Cherise for days was too much to contemplate. Al had come all the way out here, got on a plane, flew over the border and halfway across a foreign country just to see her and damned if some winter storm watch was going put a stop to those plans. Plus, these were the Southern United States- from what little Al knew of the region, winters were mild and temperate. A winter storm watch probably meant a light dusting of photogenic snow, great for snapshots and paranoid school closing, but not even enough to make a good snowman. Al was from Toronto. Al was not afraid of a few snowflakes.

Al didn’t know that most Southerners are.

“Jesus Christ, does time itself stop here for a snowflake?” Al wondered aloud. Where were the snowplows? Where was the salt brine? Where were all the people? The road was deserted and slushy, the snow barely worn down on the road. With sunset quickly approaching and no de-icer on the pavement, it was only a matter of time before the slush on the road turned to ice. Al wasn’t afraid of snow, but had sense enough to be very wary of ice.

“Shit, shit, shit. Got to make it to Cherise’s before it gets dark.”

Frantic buttons were pushed on the onboard GPS. Clumsy, suddenly fat fingers screwed the address up not once, but three times, each resulting in loud curses and a quickening of the pulse. Finally, the right address, the right directions.

Estimated arrival: 17:32.

Al would really have to push it to get there in time. Heart racing, Al wondered if the light sweat that had suddenly broken out all over was due to the weather, or the realization that after so long, Cherise would finally be here, in the flesh, instead of on a computer screen. Or rather, Al would be there. What if they didn’t get along as well in person as on IM? Or on Skype? Or during their late night video sessions? The light sweat became heavier as Al recalled one particular video chat, mind wandering to a particular bourbon-fueled discussion that led to-

Brakes screeching. Car swerving. A bunny hopping by, unscathed, unaware of the nature of the tragedy he and Al narrowly avoided.

Al sat motionless behind the wheel, drenched with all kinds of nervous energy and perspiration. Life hadn’t flashed before the eyes, as they often say in near death experiences. Cherise in her peach chemise had. It wouldn’t have been a bad way to go out.

“Must. Pay. Attention.” Al said out loud, in a trembling voice, as a reminder.

Estimated arrival: 17: 41.

Al drove the remaining distance at a crawl, heart racing, palms perspiring, clock ticking too slowly and sun setting too quickly. No pondering mistakes. No wandering mind. No wondering heart. Just driving.

Estimated arrival: now.

And suddenly, there Al was, at Cherise’s address. A quick glimpse in the mirror, a check of the teeth, a moment to try and calm down before realizing that there was nothing more to be done but leap from the car and knock on the door, no matter how nervous or frightened or disheveled from the flight and the drive and the worry.

Al knocked on the door. It opened. There she was, Cherise, in her peach chemise. For a moment only. Then she was in Al’s arms, head nestled in the crook of neck, lips placing a sweet kiss just at the sweet spot in the bend where it meets the shoulders. Al sighed with a noticeable tremble.

“Oh, Allison,” Cherise sighed, “I’ve been waiting for you.” She pulled back briefly to look her in the eye and smiled. “Or do you prefer “Al”?”

first published on Picture Worth 1000 Words on 1/10/11

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fiction

A Siren Song

October 19, 2011 – 9:30 pm

“Come on, it’s just through here. We’re almost there,” the girl said, with a lovely half-whisper. She vanished into the mouth of the cave, leaving only a faint suggestion of her outline on the barely lit water.

“Man, this is a bad idea,” Billy thought as he followed the girl’s shadow into the cave.

Caves were bad news for a sailor. One way in, one way out, generally inhabited by large, slimy man-eating amphibians. If you were lucky.

If Murphy’s Maritime Academy had taught him anything, it’s that there was always a new and more terrifying way to die just around the corner. Sailors had to be on the lookout for all manner of dangers- bad weather, indignant sea gods, water dragons, Sirens-

Oh, shit.

His mind seized onto the new and terrifying knowledge, immediately realizing what kind of mistake he had made. The stories always painted Sirens as chicks on rock in pretty dresses, singing like Martha and the Vandellas, irresistible, booty-shaking wonders of women, lulling men into a false security that ended up dashed to bits on the hard rock of reality. Or a sandbar. Or into a cliff. Sirens weren’t picky about that part.

But what most people didn’t know, and what Billy had learned at Murphy’s Maritime Academy, was that Sirens weren’t just consigned to rocks. Nope, they were everywhere- in the water, on the shore, in the red-light districts of most larger port towns. Sirens had branched out, and a good sailor always had to be on the lookout.

Stupid Billy. He saw the young woman on shore, beautiful but dirty, dressed in tattered rags, and took pity on her. He pulled his tiny dinghy into the cove and ran right into her trap. She looked up at him with those amazing green eyes, opened her mouth, and- Billy couldn’t hear a damn thing she was saying. He leaned in closer. Nothing. Oh, his earplugs, he remembered. He’d put them in at the beginning of the trip to Seawell, like every good sailor schooled at Murphy’s Maritime Academy, out of pure and simple habit. He laughed at himself, shaking his head as he removed the earplugs.

And he didn’t remember a whole lot else, not until now at least. But it was too late. Now that he finally realized what this girl was, it was too late to save himself. His feet moved forward of their own volition. His limbs didn’t listen to reason. He was moving swiftly towards death and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

This is exactly how I got fired, he thought. One dumb mistake and that was it. How was he supposed to know that peeing off the left side of the ship was a personal affront to Neptune? They hadn’t taught him that at Murphy’s Maritime Academy, that’s for sure. But the other sailors noticed. It was hard not to, what with a forty-foot god standing over the side of your ship, booming, “Where’s the little asshole that pissed on my head?” Billy was lucky they put him out in a lifeboat and hadn’t chained him to a barrel of rocks instead. And now, he was going to die anyway, before he’d even had a chance to find a new job. His mother would be so disappointed.

Oh well. Might as well make conversation before she offs me, he thought.

“So, you’re a siren, huh?”

The girl didn’t even turn her head around as she noted, “Yes, took you long enough to figure that one out. Your crab pot isn’t exactly overflowing, Sailor.”

“Hey, I graduated second in my class at Murphy’s Maritime Academy!”

“That’s not saying a lot, is it?” she asked in that breathy, syrupy sweet voice.

Billy mulled it over. He supposed she was right. There had only been ten men in his class at Murphy’s Maritime Academy, and only five of those were actually literate. It was not the Ivy League of Sailing Schools, for certain.

“I didn’t mean to be harsh, Sailor. Just making an observation.”

“It’s alright. I don’t want to argue. Not when I’m so close to death. I’d rather my last minutes be peaceful ones.”

The girl snorted, a delightful, tinkling sort of snort. Billy had never heard anything like it before. “Last minutes? Do you think I’m going to the trouble of killing you?” She stopped in her tracks and looked back at him in shock.

“Well, that’s what you people do, isn’t it?”

The girl rolled her eyes. “You people? That’s awfully speciesist of you, don’t you think? Some of us have greater ambitions that simply lolling about on a rock all day waiting for ships to come near so we can send them crashing to their watery deaths. Let me tell you something- lolling gets pretty damn tiresome after a while. It’s boring as hell, what with all the waiting, and some of those rock lounging bitches are tough. They will cut you if you step one foot onto their side of the rock. Divas!” She snorted again in disgust. “And it’s not like any of them wear sunscreen- oh no, got to get that crispy fried tan! They’ll look like shoe leather in ten years. Screw them.”

Billy noticed her alabaster skin fairly glowing in the soft light near the mouth of the cave. “Sensitive skin?”

She sighed. “I fry like a damned conch fritter out there, man.”

“Well, what about one of the larger towns? I hear there are sirens…uh…everywhere,” he said while clearing his throat, trying not to intimate that she was cut out for the life of a lady of the night.

“There’s nothing wrong with that career choice, oldest profession and all, but my heart’s not in it.”

“Well, what do you want to do?” Billy asked, curious as to why he cared so much about a woman he thought was planning to kill him.

“This,” she said, and waved her arm with a flourish.

Billy gasped, There, on a platform, was a small, brand new submersible ship. He’d seen these in drawings at Murphy’s Maritime Academy, but he’d been taught that they were terribly expensive and that they’d never see one, much less pilot one, in real life.

“Where’d you get that?” he said, still awed.

“I built it,” the girl said proudly.

Billy’s jaw dropped. “But…how?”

“Lots of steel and rivets, lots of time spent in shop class. I had a nice voice, but I was no good at lolling, and not much for fashion or charm- so no rocks or whorehouses for me, I’m afraid. So yeah, I was the only Siren in shop class at Seldon’s Seashore Secondary School.”

“Wow.” Billy was impressed, but confused. “So, why did you make me follow you here?”

“I need a first mate. Need a job?”

Originally posted on Picture Worth 1000 Words on 6/1/11.

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Uncategorized

Hey, good lookin’

October 19, 2011 – 5:01 pm

What’s a sweet thang like you doin’ in a place like this?

Well, now that you’re here, you might as well stay awhile. You might need a drink, though.

I’m Gabrielle, and I like to write. I’ve been writing most of my life. The first thing I recall writing was an autobiography, at age seven. It was short. I wrote my first short story when I was nine. It was about a deranged murderer who liked to chop up old ladies in blenders. I hit my creative peak rather early, I suppose.

These days, I’m still writing short stories, notably absent of blenders, I can reassure you. I also write essays from time to time. One of my essays was published in Patti Digh‘s 2011 book, “What I Wish For You: Simple Wisdom for a Happy Life.”

I’m always open to constructive and/or creative criticism, coffee invitations, and blender recommendations. (Just kidding about that last one.)

Thanks for stopping in. Come by anytime.

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