"The Common Garden" by Martha Moffett Opening Chapter

THE COMMON GARDEN

JUNE

Sow half-hardy annual seeds in protected frames; late in month, sow tender annual seeds . . . . Start mowing the lawn as soon as it begins to grow. . . . Set the blades of your mower high for first trim. . . . Shade young and newly set out plants. . . . Plant caladiums, tuberoses, and cannas. . . . Choose seedlings with stems the thickness of a pencil; avoid leggy, yellowing seedlings. . . .  Hand weeding is laborious but effective. . . . Transfer pollen from male flowers to female flowers with a small paintbrush, or push the male flowers into the female ones. . . .  Sow a second lot of candytuft, nigella, and cornflowers. . . Watch nasturtium seedlings closely for aphids. . . . Summer mulch may now be applied to everything.

CHAPTER ONE

Robin telephoned Paul.  She telephoned him at the office if he was there.  If he was at home and she was out, she called him from all over town, from the first-floor telephone bank at Lord & Taylor; from the telephone arcades in the library at Columbia University where from time to time she did some of her husband’s research on Common Market countries; from the phone booth outside the charming little restaurant on Madison and Sixty-first to tell him that a mushroom omelet and a small carafe of white wine had cost her fifteen dollars.  Calling Paul was a way of staying anchored while sailing through the streets of the city.  It was her first taste of life in a metropolis and she set out—relentlessly, Paul said—to explore every avenue.

            She had him summoned from a sales conference to tell him that she had found an entire undiscovered area of New York City.  His secretary sniffed at the end of every phrase, letting Robin know how frivolous it was to summon one’s husband from a sales conference at Marketing Associates International.

            “Paul, it’s under this bridge—I think it’s the Manhattan Bridge—and a million Mainland Chinese are living here.  I’ll swear, it’s more like Kowloon than Manhattan.  Come see it.  Come and have Dim Sum with me.”

            “Robin, I’m busy.  I’ll take your word for it.  I’ll see the New Territories some other time.”

            “Oh, all right.  Sorry I bothered you.  Wait a minute.  Now I remember what I really called about.  Can you leave the office at least long enough to dash out and buy a new tie?  Summerish?  St. Laurentish?  Tomorrow’s the garden party.  The Beckfords, in the middle house in the block.  Remember?  They invited us last week.  Our first big New York party.”

            “But not our last, one supposes.  I’ll try.  Now, Robin, get off the phone.”

            “I will—no, not yet!  Wait.  Wait, Paul.  I’m jammed in the phone booth.  The door won’t open.  Paul, I’m lost.  I can’t see a street sign from here.   I can’t tell you where I am.  What’ll I do?”

            “Oh, Robin, for God’s sake.  Push the door in the middle.”

            “I did.”

            “Pull the handle.”

            “There is no handle.”

            Paul let a long sigh pass down the line to Robin’s anxious ear.  “Tell you what you do next.”

            “Paul—what?”

            “Are you wearing a bra?”

            “No.”

            “Open your purse, put on your sunglasses, let your hair hang down, write ‘Help! I am Gloria Steinem!’ on a piece of paper, and hold it up to the glass.  Someone will come along and let you out.”

            “Paul!  Wait!”

ζ

            Toward the end of the day, Robin hurried up the stairs at her stop on the IRT local, her calves aching.  No wonder the women in New York had such great legs; it took a lot of muscle power to sprint for trains and buses, up and down stairs, across streets, covering block after block, downtown, cross-town, uptown.  She must have walked miles today, she thought.  In addition, she was weighted down by the bundles in her arms.  She had checked out half a dozen new cookbooks from the main library at Forty-second Street and lugged them with her to cooking class; now her arms were full of books and groceries.  Out of breath, she emerged from the subway exit and headed in the direction of Park Avenue, toward the bright, sinking sun.  At last she knew which way to go when she came up from underground without having to say to herself, “Let’s see, north, south, east, west.”  She made herself wait for the green light at Park Avenue, although some hardened city dwellers lined up next to her on the curb decided to make a dash for it.  Two nuns, the white hats of their order like paper boats, sailed unconcernedly across without even glancing at the oncoming traffic.  How do they know they’ll make it to the other side? marveled Robin, sure that the driver of one yellow taxi had tried to come as close as possible to the billowing black skirts.  She wondered when she would get over her self-consciousness at living in New York City and learn to walk blindly through the city like everybody else.

            Her block—the block between Park and Madison—was putting out its best small-scale charm today.  Not much longer would the high-rise apartment buildings that were creeping up the East Side allow this little remnant of an earlier New York to escape destruction.  The line of contiguous narrow brownstone homes stood behind a row of plane trees.  Each front stoop led to solid double doors with polished brass fittings.  Through windows at different levels she could as she walked catch a glimpse of chandeliers, a wall of books, a flight of stairs.  The winter jasmine vine from the Jensen house near the middle of the block had inched its way abroad for so many summers that it now hung like a great hairy green curtain over the fronts of five of the neighboring houses; Robin had welcomed a curling green tendril into the window of her upstairs  study, thinking that all too soon, when the time came to close the window against the autumn chill, she and Paul would be gone, their time in the sublet brownstone up, and Paul’s stint in the home office completed.

            Robin glanced along the street.  In the distance, Central Park turned lilac under the trees.  She bypassed the flight of stairs leading to the formal first floor of the house and let herself in by the door under the stairs, which opened into a cheerful blue and white tiled kitchen.  There was no time to change.  She threw down her bags and books, placed the braided loaf from cooking class carefully on the counter top, and began to prepare the evening meal.

            She had started the countdown toward dinner that morning soon after clearing away breakfast and getting Paul off to the office.  She had taken two chicken breasts from the refrigerator, inserted her thumb at the pointed end and peeled them like a glove, then holding a breast firmly at both ends bent it back until the prow-shaped breastbone popped out.  She pulled the bone out and with a sharp knife cut the breast into halves.

            Shaping the meat into flattened ovals, she carefully rolled each supreme around nuggets of sweet, chilled butter into which garlic, parsley, tarragon and lemon had been smoothed with a wooden spoon. The herbs she grew herself, in pots in a sunny spot on the terrace.  Next she had wrapped the filets carefully, sealed them with egg yolks and breadcrumbs, and lined them up on a platter to sit on the refrigerator shelf until cooking time.  Removing them, she checked her watch and saw that Paul would be home any minute.  She’d better get a move on.  As she began to drop the filets into the hot oil, one by one, she rehearsed the rest of the menu: with the chicken, they would have newly shelled green peas and diced cucumber, warmed in sour cream, with a pinch of fresh dill thrown in; the braided brown loaf still warm from the cooking-school oven, kneaded and punched with her own hands and rating the qualified approval of a hard-to-please Cordon Bleu-trained instructor; wine; and freshly ground coffee.  Back home, she’d probably be frying pork chops.  It was paradise to practice the culinary arts in New York City, where every ingredient, no matter how exotic or out of season, could be found, and any dish could be assembled. 

            Peering in through the steam that had collected on the kitchen window, Paul rapped for Robin to let him in.  “Easier than fumbling for my keys,” he explained as Robin tripped the latch and threw open the door.   “What are you cooking in here—steamed pudding?”

            “That’s the coffee!” Robin said.  She had an automatic coffeemaker in her kitchen in Ohio, and was not used to remembering to turn off the stove.  She ran for a potholder, snatched up the steaming coffeepot from the burner, and advanced with it to the center of the room, where she hesitated as if lost in thought.  Paul circled her warily on his way to deposit his briefcase and jacket in the hall closet.

            “Robbie, what the devil are you doing?”

            “What?  Oh—it’s funny,” she explained.  “The coffee is still perking.  It feels like a heart beating, in my hand.”

            “Put it down, for God’s sake, and I’ll give you the hausfrau’s reward—what every noble American woman is getting at this time of day in this time zone from every red-blooded American husband—”  Paul gave her an exaggerated wet smack on her cheek and went on to nuzzle her neck.  His arms went around her and his hands slid down to her ass.  For a minute, as he hands reached lower, his weight on her shoulders was oppressively heavy, so that she twisted away and began busily to pile dishes and silverware on a tray.  They had made it a practice, since taking temporary possession of the house, to eat supper in the big candlelit dining room that opened onto the tiny terrace at the back of the house, even when just the two of them were there for dinner.

            In the two years they had been married, this had always been the most important part of the day, the time when they seemed most connected.  At the table, with everything in place, Robin looked across at Paul a little anxiously.  It’s ridiculous, she thought, to feel that every meal is crucial, to think that the success of the dish is somehow equal to the success of the relationship.  She breathed a sigh of relief as Paul’s raised fork pierced the chicken and a jet of hot, aromatic butter shot forth—the test of this particular dish.  He tipped his glass in her direction in a toast.  All the light in the dim room gathered on the surface of her wine and mooned up at her.  Idiot, she said to herself, dismissing her anxiety, her desire to please.

            Paul reached for the loaf of fresh bread, breaking off a piece.  “Is this the product of today’s labor at M’sieu Henri’s establishment?”

            “Yes.  I passed bread with flying colors, but I flunked brioche.”

            “How’d you do that?”

            “My brioche looked like a muffin.  It didn’t have a bump on top.  It had sunk to nothing.  The bump’s obligatory.  I said I had made an American brioche by mistake, and I think some of the other pupils accepted that.  Not M’sieu Henri, of course.”

            “Naturellement.  M’sieu Henry wasn’t fooled for a minute.” 

            Contentedly, Robin watched him enjoy the meal, as if she were watching, through the candlelight, one of the shadowy figures she sometimes ministered to in dreams.

ζ

            They spent the evening watching old movies on Channel 13.  “Again?”  Robin had protested as the credits for The Maltese Falcon rolled across the screen.

“Pipe down.  I love it,” said Paul, playfully settling her on the couch, his hand warm under her blouse.

It was after eleven o’clock when Robin, on her way to bed, glanced out of the window, looking down from her bedroom at the back of the top floor to the small flagged area where she sometimes sat in the thin spring sunlight.  I must do some work there later in the week, she reminded herself.  The potted geraniums needed topping, and there were winter leftovers of dried vines and leaves to be cleared away.  It would be fun to do the small-scale gardening that city living allowed.  Beyond the paving at their back door there was a small pear tree, bravely blooming in the city air.  She could smell the rising scent of the pear blossoms.  And beyond that, there was a central area, consisting of a formless garden with a pebbled path, a few lilacs and ailanthus trees and a sentimental fountain, the common property of all the householders whose homes opened onto the center court.

Looking down the length of the garden, at the lights spilling from rear doors, Robin was struck by the thought that, in a way, in opening onto the common garden all the doors also opened into each other.  Probably some of the neighbors knew each other well enough to use the back door, as informally as in a small town.  Perhaps tomorrow, at the Beckford’s party, they would meet most of the people who lived in this double row of brownstones and put names to the faces she had already begun to identify as people from their block.  She was looking forward to it; she loved parties.

The summer’s arrangements had really been more for her benefit than for his.  Paul, spending time in both Ohio and New York, could as easily have been based at home, commuting to New York during the week, but they had decided that a summer in the city would be enlightening that it was an opportunity to get a taste of city life before they were tied down with kids.

“We were really very lucky to get this house,” said Robin as she slipped a nightgown over her head.

“What?  Hey, don’t put that on.  I’ll only have to take it off again.  Oh, the house, yeah.”

“I’m so glad the Leas went to Europe.  You know, they really wanted us to have the house, didn’t they?  Funny how people who love New York always want everybody to see the city the way they see it.”

“Don’t be naïve, Robin.  What they probably wanted was the rent, which the company was willing to subsidize to have this summer training program work.”

“No, they really wanted us to live in their house.  Remember, they were talking about it last year, when we first met them at the new products market.   They said then that someday they wanted us to love New York the way they did.”

“Well, enjoy it while you can, baby.  In three months, it’s back to the suburban split-level for you.  How long will it take your New York veneer to wear off?”

“Wasn’t aware I had one.  In fact, I was thinking today when I was crossing Park Avenue that I’m still in culture shock,” answered Robin absently.  She stripped off her gown and stood scratching her thigh, a slender woman with long limbs and narrow wrists and straight shining brown hair that fell below her shoulders.

“Come here and I’ll do that for you.”

Robin bounced onto Paul’s side of the bed for a good scratch.  Like a kitten, she responded to the long, luxurious strokes.  Gradually his nails dug deeper until she started and rolled away when one long scratch furrowed the skin on her back and ass, but Paul’s heavy leg came over and pinioned her.  What did it mean, she wondered, when his caresses began to hurt?  In the first months of their marriage, it had been her unspoken fear that Paul harbored a secret antipathy toward women—toward her, toward her sexuality—but later she came to feel that what she was seeing was simply the form his curiosity took as he studied her body and its responses.  Thinking about it again, she wondered now if it was actually Paul—offering this playful roughness—who liked it?  Was he inviting her to treat him violently in return?  She shook her head.  What could she do to Paul?  He was a big man, a head taller than she.  Nothing she could do would hurt him.

His curving fingers had turned into probes now, jabbing at her, just missing the clitoris; why couldn’t he remember it was more to the front?  She clasped his hand and guided it forward.  In, out; in, out; the growing moistness made it better.  Friction, moistness, warmth . . . nice.  Wouldn’t it be nice to come like this and then be ready when he entered her to come again?  She was almost there when disappointingly he shifted his fingers, and the signal was lost, Robin fading and confused on its trail.

Now Paul’s full weight rolled upon her, and he lifted her legs, creasing her into the tightest possible casing for himself.  He kissed her, his tongue entering her mouth at the same moment he penetrated her.  She gasped.  Then there was a long, timeless pounding until he released her and she straightened her limbs in a long stretch.  Had she come, finally, had she finished, or had she been on her way to another level of response?  She felt a spasm in her belly and decided that wherever she had been going, she hadn’t quite reached her destination.

Robin pulled the top sheet from the bed and wrapped herself in it like a cloak.  She paused on her way to the bathroom and leaned her head against the cool windowpane, rolling her forehead back and forth.  The scent from the little pear tree flowed across the windowsill in a wash of air that moved around her ankles.

She realized she had been staring down into the middle court for several minutes.  There in the common garden, the abandoned fountain stood half in deep shadow and half in the perpetual soft light of Manhattan’s night.  Robin was still.  She could see a woman leaning against the fountain, her hips braced against the broad lip of the bowl.   The woman’s hair hung loose about her shoulders; light gleamed along her cheek when she raised her head to let it fall back against her shoulder, pillowed by the flowing hair.  She had the full, heavy-breasted figure of a classical statue . . . perhaps it was a statue?  I must go out and look around tomorrow, Robin told herself.  The common garden is not uncharted territory . . . I won’t fall off the map.

Her eyes sharpened their focus.  No, it was not a statue.  It was perfectly clear that it was a woman, resting languidly against the side of the fountain.  Robin’s eyes swept the length of the garden.  There were no lights burning at the backs of the houses, everyone was asleep then—or, like her, sleepy spies on their way to bed, hesitating invisibly at darkened windows.

The tight shadows across the garden shifted and broke up, and another figure stepped from the row of lilac trees and walked slowly forward, not stopping until he stood between the woman’s legs.  He came so close that he might have overbalanced her except that his hands went out to anchor her hips, and her hands came up to hold his shoulders, as her skirt fell back and her legs came up to wind and clutch. . . .

“Paul!” Robin whispered urgently.

“Hmmmmm?”

“Oh . . . nothing.  I think I must be dreaming.  Or there must be some other explanation.  I mean, they can’t be—” Why, she thought, that looks like—oh, who is he, the man who lives in the house with the skylight.  But what is he doing?

Robin found a fresh pane to rub her cheek against.  The cool glass flashed on her hot face.  She knew she couldn’t really be dreaming because her eyes had that strained, dry feeling that comes from the lids having been pulled back too wide.  The scene in the garden below was real.  The man was real.  He was moving his body against that of the woman in long, perceptively powerful strokes.  At each slow impact, her body was almost lifted from the edge of the fountain where it rested.

The woman’s head snapped far back on her neck.  Robin could see her face.  She opened her own mouth in a silent moan that matched the unheard one below.  The woman must have cried out.  But upstairs, closed away in her bedroom that seemed suddenly airless, her hands before her wide-open eyes, Robin did not hear a sound.

ζ

The empty garden had grown darker when Robin stumbled to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face.  She dried her cheeks with a rough towel, and then rubbed away the stickiness between her thighs.  Lying on her side of the bed, still wrapped in the sheet, she tossed from side to side for a while, then fell into a restless sleep, later sliding into deep slumber, where she dreamed of a man whose hand would touch her sex like the bell of a flower.

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"Dead Stick Dawn"Opening Chapter by Sharon M.

PALM BEACH, FLORIDA

APRIL 27

En route to Palm Beach International Airport at thirty-one thousand feet, I heard a violent explosion in the passenger cabin. The cockpit rocked, followed by loud whooshing outside the Boeing 767 cockpit door. My copilot and I pulled on our oxygen masks. The cabin intercom chimed, and I heard noise and screaming as a flight attendant said, “Captain Starr, it’s Kimberly, aft cabin. A bomb exploded, and a man was sucked out!”

I scanned the instrument panel. “Where and how much damage?”

“Under the last window seat, left side, four-foot hole.”

“We need to dive to a safe altitude.  Everyone buckled in?”

“Yes. Oxygen masks deployed. They’re putting them on now.”

“Okay, sit tight.” I turned to my copilot, Lance Calder. “A bomb exploded in the aft cabin—initiating emergency descent. Check passenger oxygen system is on, seat belt/no smoking signs are on, and set transponder to emergency code. Notify air traffic control and read the emergency descent checklist.”

“I’m on it, Sam.” Lance pulled out the checklist and entered the emergency code.

While he radioed the Miami Air Route Traffic Control Center, I throttled back our wounded airliner, extended the landing gear and speed brakes, and began a diving right turn to exit the jet route. Lance read the checklist out loud to ensure nothing was overlooked, as we plummeted to ten thousand feet above the sea.

I scanned the gauges when we reached our target altitude. “We’re level at ten, Lance. Remove your oxygen mask and take control. Then I’ll remove mine and call the cabin.”

I asked the flight attendants at every seat station for status reports.

“The hole isn’t getting bigger, there’s no fire, and the passengers are buckled into their seats with their oxygen masks on,” Kimberly reported.

“Good, I’ll talk to the passengers now.” I flipped a switch. “This is your captain speaking. Now that we’ve reached a safe altitude, everyone may remove their oxygen masks. Everything’s under control. We’ll be landing soon.” I took a deep breath and resumed flying.

The air traffic controller’s voice filled our headsets, “Luxury 434, Miami Center, state number of souls on board, fuel remaining, aircraft status, and intentions. Radar shows you ninety miles northeast of Palm Beach International Airport, level at ten thousand feet.”

I pushed the transmit button. “Miami Center, Luxury 434, a bomb blew a four-foot hole in the aft left fuselage. We lost one passenger. Could be more bombs and terrorists onboard. We’ll fly over water near the coastline and land south on the Kennedy Space Center runway, approaching over the unpopulated area north and east of the Space Center. Notify law enforcement and emergency services. ETA: fifteen minutes. One hundred and ninety souls on board and forty-five minutes of fuel remaining.”

The controller spoke in a dismissive, matter-of-fact voice, “Luxury 434, Miami Center, turn left heading one-eight-zero. Descend to six thousand feet. Plan to land at Palm Beach International Airport. Kennedy Space Center is not available to civilian aircraft.”

Nice try. “Negative, Miami Center, too many lives will be at risk if more bombs explode. The Space Center’s long, isolated runway is our only safe option. No launches or landings are posted for today. Deal with it.”

“Luxury 434, police may not have time to secure the area before you land.”

“Call the military base on Cape Canaveral. Ask them to establish a tight perimeter around my aircraft. We have the Cape in sight, descending to six thousand feet.”

Another explosion rocked the cockpit, followed by loud ringing and a bright red light.

“Captain, the left engine is on fire.” Lance pointed to the lighted number one fire handle.

The cabin intercom bell chimed. “Captain, it’s Tiffany, forward cabin. A bomb exploded under the empty left window seat, front row, first class—blew debris into the left engine. It’s burning.  I put out the cabin fire, but I’m scared there’s a terrorist. Please send Lance to help us.”

Won’t be suckered into that mistake. “No, Tiffany. Everyone’s best chance for survival is if both pilots remain locked in the cockpit. Suck it up and prepare the cabin for an emergency landing and evacuation.” I ended the call and focused on saving the aircraft.

Lance tapped the glowing red fire light. “Captain, number one is still burning.”

The radio blared, “Luxury 434, Miami Center, the Space Center wants thirty minutes to prepare for your arrival. Hold twenty miles northeast of Melbourne VOR on the zero-six-zero radial at six thousand feet, right turns, ten-mile legs, until we clear you for the approach.”

“Negative, Miami Center, another bomb exploded. Left engine is on fire. Stand by.” I shut down the left engine and discharged the remote fire extinguisher into the flames. “Lance, call out the engine fire checklist followed by the single-engine landing checklist.”

As we ran through the checklists, the red fire light went out. After shutting down the number one engine, the aircraft yawed to the left. I pushed hard on the right rudder pedal. “Call Miami Center and declare a MAYDAY.” How many frickin’ bombs are there?

Lance pushed the transmit button. “Miami Center, Luxury 434 has significant bomb damage and only one engine operating. The fire is out, but we need to land immediately—declaring MAYDAY.”

“Luxury 434, understand MAYDAY. Be advised most of Florida, including Cape Canaveral and Kennedy Space Center, is covered in a low cloud base with continuous heavy rain, ceiling one hundred feet, visibility one-half mile, and wind one-two-zero at thirty knots. State your intentions.”

Bad weather. What next? “Luxury 434 will land on Runway One Five. I want fire equipment and EMS standing by. Warn them we may have more bombs. We’ll evacuate as soon as we’re stopped on the runway.” I gripped the control yoke and focused on the flight instruments, expecting another explosion any moment.

“Luxury 434, descend to two thousand feet. Turn left to one-eight-zero. Cleared for the Runway One Five ILS approach. Contact the tower on one-two-eight-five-five. Good luck.”

Lance called the tower, and I concentrated on the instrument panel as we descended through the storm clouds. My right leg vibrated from the constant strain of pushing hard on the right rudder pedal, compensating for the dead engine rolling our aircraft to the left. My proper use of ailerons and rudder was the only thing preventing our aircraft from rolling upside down. Adrenaline surged through my veins with my senses tuned to high intensity.

“Lance, we don’t know if we have wing damage, so I’ll do a no-flap landing, rather than risk control issues close to the ground. Extra speed won’t be a problem on that long runway.”

“Final approach, Captain. We’re centered on the localizer and glide slope, but we’re still in the soup. Will we do a go-around if we don’t see anything at decision height?” 

“No, the airplane might not survive a go-around. If we don’t see the approach lights, call out our altitude every ten feet below one hundred feet until we’re on the runway. Signal the flight attendants to assume the brace position.”

Lance gave the six-bell signal to the cabin. He scanned between the altimeter and the view outside. “Five hundred feet . . . four hundred . . . three hundred . . . two hundred . . . one hundred, ninety, eighty, seventy, sixty, RUNWAY IN SIGHT.”

“Runway in sight—landing,” I declared. “Notify the tower.”

Just as the landing gear touched down, I heard a loud noise and felt the aircraft swerve. Employing the rudder and asymmetrical braking to keep the airliner’s forward motion centered on the runway, I noted the red fire warning light on the front panel.

“Captain, we have a wheel well fire and probably some blown tires.”

“Notify the tower, and tell them we’re evacuating the aircraft.” I wrestled the massive airliner to a stop, set the parking brake, shut down the engine, and announced to the cabin, “This is the captain speaking. Evacuate the aircraft using the forward and aft exit doors. Do not use the wing exits. There is a fire under the wings. Move as far away from the aircraft as possible and follow instructions from law enforcement personnel waiting on the ground.”

I wiped my sweaty hands on my jeans and looked over my shoulder at the check pilot seated in the back of the Boeing 767 flight simulator. Over four frickin’ hours in the sweatbox! My test had better be over.

“Excellent check ride, Sam,” Check Pilot Jim Rowlin said. “We threw every emergency in the book at you. Your selection of the Space Center runway was unexpected, but you showed good judgment.” He glanced at the man to his left. “Unless the FAA examiner has anything to add, I think we’re done here. Congratulations, Captain Starr. Not bad, considering you’ve been a copilot only six years.”

“Piece of cake, Jim,” I said, grinning.

“Miss Samantha Starr, the first female captain at Luxury International Airlines! How does it feel to be the big cheese with the most prestigious charter airline in the world?” Lance asked.

“I’ll let you know when my muscles stop twitching. Jim gave my right leg quite a workout with the left engine failures.” I turned to Jim. “You do know the 767 has two engines? At least one right engine failure would’ve been nice to balance out my leg muscles.” I rubbed my right thigh and smiled. “Now I’d like a long shower and about thirty minutes in my hot tub with a bottle of ice-cold Champagne.” 

“Well, I had to make sure you have what it takes to do a man’s job,” Jim joked. “The hot tub sounds tempting, but you’ll have to settle for celebratory beers at the bar instead.”

I saw the men nod in agreement when I released my hair from the clip behind my neck. “Uh huh, I don’t know any men who’ve had five consecutive left engine failures in their entire lives. Good thing a woman was at the controls.” I laughed and followed the men out. “Jim, when do I start the line checks, flying regular passenger flights with check captains?”

Jim checked the calendar in his Blackberry. “Ah, you’ll start in three days. We’ll head to the briefing room, finish the paperwork, and meet at The Sound Barrier Bar and Grill.” He started down the hallway with the FAA examiner at his side.

“Great job, Captain!”  Lance gave me a big hug, lifting me off my feet.

I kissed his cheek. “Thanks for your help.”

“You can always count on me.” He gave me a confident wink and escorted me down the hall.

My right leg stopped vibrating during my walk to the briefing room. I caught up to Jim. “Thanks for the fair check ride, but I think I’ll pass on your drink offer.” I wrinkled my nose. “I really do need a shower.  After four hours in the sweatbox, I reek.”

Jim put his arm around my shoulder.  “Nonsense, you need adult beverages. The flight simulator was so realistic, your subconscious believed you were in mortal danger and flooded your system with adrenaline. A few beers will help you relax. Besides, this is a major milestone in your career. Come and celebrate. Drinks are on us.”

Jim sat at the desk and filled out the forms for the Boeing 767 type rating to be added to my airline transport pilot certificate. “Sign here and we’ll head over to the bar. Are you coming, Lance? You’re invited too, Dick. We don’t mind drinking with a fed.”

Lance grinned. “I wouldn’t dream of missing Sam’s celebration party.”

FAA Examiner Dick Farinati glanced at his watch. “I’d love to join the party, but my wife will have dinner on the table in fifteen minutes.  It’s not worth the grief if I’m late. Thanks anyway, guys.” He shook my hand. “Congratulations, Captain Starr.”

I smiled at the eager men, deciding the politically correct choice was to join them at the bar for a few rounds, even if I felt like collapsing into my hot tub. I enjoyed their company, but navigating through the minefield of male egos was just as difficult as my toughest flight test, and mistakes in either could jeopardize my career.

Jim and Lance were handsome, but Jim was married, and Lance had a reputation for running wild with the flight attendants. I didn’t want to complicate my captain qualification flights by dating a company pilot. The men tended to gossip, and my recent breakup with a fellow pilot had registered on everyone’s radar in record time. As the sole female pilot at elite Luxury International Airlines, my life was always under a microscope.

During my short drive to the bar, I pulled out my cell phone and called my mother. “Hey, Mom, I passed! You’re talking to the world’s newest Boeing 767 captain. Not bad for a twenty-six-year-old woman. Wish Dad was alive to see my fourth stripe.”

“Congratulations, Sam! I knew you’d ace it. Your father would’ve been proud. Are you going out to celebrate?”

“I’m meeting the men at the Sound Barrier. After four hours of extreme emergencies, my nerves are shot, and my muscles feel like mush. Wish I didn’t have to wait until August for my vacation. I need it now.”

“I can relate. I’m writing the first chapter of my new romance novel, and I’m having trouble creating the lover for my Highland chieftain.” 

“Why not pretend you’re the one enjoying the hot Scot?” I asked.

“Good idea. I’ll make the main characters my age and let the middle-aged damsel marry the handsome warrior for a change. My mature readers deserve a steamy fantasy.” 

“Your novels have me fired up to visit Scotland this summer.”

“You’ll love the Highlands. I have a strong feeling it may turn out to be your most exciting vacation ever.”

“I’m counting on it. Your intuition has never been wrong. Gotta go, Mom, love you.”

______________________________________________________________

Robert L. Bacon
theperfectwrite.com
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ANDROMEDA'S TALE Opening Chapter By Sirena G.

Chapter 1

A Future So Full of Promise

            The smell of sulfur hung in the air for several seconds after the match was lit. Nadia was curled up, asleep, atop a bookshelf. She was small and fit nicely on this high perch in the greeting room. No one would ever think to look for her there.
            The sound of people shuffling in woke her. Nadia studied the man who had lit the cigarette. She wanted him to turn so she could get a better look at his face. From the side, he was not of any race she had ever seen before. She considered he might be a weird third rung, a mixture of races so deep that he did not qualify as anything, one of those who were often kept as guards.
            He wore baggy thick canvas trousers, excellent for hiding weapons. He was accompanied by a tall, stiff-looking human woman. Nadia could never tell humans apart, with their pudding faces. This was indeed an odd couple. And up to no good, Nadia was sure.                                             
            Loeman had lined up the young women in two rows. Nadia always found it amusing to look at the rugged girls of the Common House after they had come from the groomers. This lot wore pink skirts with ruffles and white gloves to cover their knuckle tattoos. They had sausage curls attached to their bad haircuts, and every cheek was circled with pink rouge. Thick coral lipstick had been smeared on their mouths, and heavy false eyelashes were also stuck on. The result was the appearance of a phalanx of hastily manufactured dolls.  

Nadia couldn't stifle a giggle. The woman whipped her head around and locked her blue eyes onto Nadia's big gray eyes. Nadia’s long, pointed ears perked. A slow smile crept over the strange woman’s face. Nadia did not like this at all. She did not want to be picked by these sponsors--or any sponsors. Her dumb luck to be here during a showing. She had to act quickly. She picked up a dusty book and chucked it at the woman's head. She was sure to get a month cleaning toilets and a good beating for it, but at least she wouldn't be chosen to serve.

            Before she could do anything else, the man snatched her and dangled her upside down by one ankle. Then the man hoisted her up until they were face to face. He cocked his head to one side and inspected her. Nadia gasped when she saw him up close. His profile had not prepared her for what he really looked like. His face was very wide, and his gold eyes spanned from the bridge of his nose to each temple. His mouth was curled in a permanent sneer as a result of deep scars across his cheek. His teeth clenched a roll-me-own so tight, the cigarette looked as if it were in pain.

            “Put me down, insidious wild boar hybrid, and do not eat me!” Nadia yelled. To call someone out as a hybrid was a dangerous insult, but he didn't react in an overly violent manner.  He just hoisted Nadia a little higher and shook her like a toy.
           “Barius!” the woman snapped. “Put the girl down.” Barius flipped Nadia over and set her on her feet.   The Loeman stammered while explaining that Nadia was in the process of being trained, but was proving to be intractable. He apologized and gestured to a guard to take her away.  The woman stopped him.

            “This young lady has been brought to us by the forces of fate and chaos," she said. "We would do well to at least review her file. We should not dismiss hastily the possibility she has been delivered to us by providence." The Loeman stared at Nadia, then back at the woman, then at the rows of sour young ladies dressed like party favors.

            “Of course, as you wish. This is Nadia, 18. I must make it clear that this young lady has been a disciplinary problem from the day I began my tenure here two years ago. I will say in her favor that she has not caused any great harm or damage to anyone. Still and yet, I do not believe she is ready for service. I have had many years of experience as a Loeman. I am skilled enough to reason with even the most hardened delinquent. Yet even under my tutelage, she remains recalcitrant, disobedient, and mischievous. Her race is the most difficult to assimilate. So I don't know if I would place too much merit in the idea of good fortune having to do with your selection. I am a man of logic and not passion, so I implore you to balance the pros and cons of....”

            “Blah blah blah blah!” Nadia slapped her hands over her throat. “Stop talking, Loeman. You are using up all the air in the room. Leave some for everyone else to breathe!”

            Barius grunted. Nadia thought he might be agreeing with her. She did not care if he did. She tried to run out of the room, but found her feet firmly affixed to the spot on which she was standing. Then she felt the light touch of the woman's hand on her shoulder. Nadia twisted her body from side to side. “Hey, she put a spell on me! I'm not going anywhere with you, witch. Witch! Witch!” 

            Barius frowned at the girl, then looked at the woman. “Think maybe you could turn her volume down?” His voice was deep, loud, and rough, sounding to Nadia like a rumbling truck engine in need of a good mechanic.

            The Loeman said, “Ah, Lady Salvin, you are a practitioner of the arts, I see. Well, then, perhaps providence may play a role in this selection after all....” He was sweating. He obviously feared practitioners. He made a gesture to dismiss the girls, and all of them left the room sullenly.

            Nadia watched them go with sad amusement. The dumb little bitches were disappointed not to

be chosen. They were all fake, dreaming of being swept away to new homes. That was the fallacy the institution kept trying to convince them of, that being selected as a ward to serve wealthy--usually human--families was their best hope. The very idea revolted Nadia.

           The Loeman motioned for the three of them to follow him. “Let us go to my office and pull Nadia's files. We usually take a few days to clear a petition, but in your case, I will file it under ‘Special Need.’  Will that be all right, Lady Salvin?”

            “Please call me Iris.  And, yes, I think that will work out just fine.”

            Nadia groaned. She could not believe it. She was wearing the most tattered shorts she owned. Her chest was bound in a winding cloth that should have hit the rag pile ages ago. She had not bathed in a week and her feet were black with grunge. She howled in protest. The Loeman gave her a sharp look.

            Barius pulled out Nadia's long pointed ears from her nest of tangled red and black hair. He grabbed her ears and wiggled them. “Erinian," he proclaimed and shook his big head. "They are all like this, thorns in the shoe, all of ’em.” Barius rolled a new smoke and lit it. He turned to Iris. “You sure this is what you want, then let's deal, but what you see is what you get.”
              “Touch not my supple ears, fuzzy butt!” Nadia yelled. Barius pinched her cheeks. They headed down a garishly appointed hall to the Loeman's office. Nadia looked at the posters of ragged children taken in by smiling True Bloods. One caption read: A future so full of promise. Nadia disagreed and retorted, “A future so full of compromise.” She was no longer amused. They would have to send her to the reservation at 21 if she was not chosen. She had only three years left. She couldn't believe she was being picked. The witch held a hand on her as if it were a harness.
             What could they want with her, she wondered? Certainly she was adorable and sexy, with her big eyes and curvy figure, but she was also filthy, rude, and obnoxious. She was every inch Erinian, and everyone hated Erinians.

            Barius looked back at the girl, who was not keeping up. Normally, he would have been attracted to her. She was cute enough. Right now, though, he was tired, hungry, and anxious to get the hell out of this Common House, free of the fat windbag of a Loeman, and away from the cursed perfumes that had been sprayed on the girls. The perfumes had given him a roaring headache. At least the Erinian smelled like hay and horses.

 In the office, the Loeman addressed Barius, as he was cowed by Iris. Barius grunted while the man read through a litany of disclaimers, fees, licensing, taxes, contractual agreements, and other crap Barius did not care about. The Loeman occasionally punctuated the monologue with little anecdotes about his life. He talked about his education, his credentials, and his accomplishments. Meanwhile, Nadia had quietly checked to see if the door was locked. It was. She looked at books and furtively glanced out the window. Barius' headache raged. He finally snapped, “Just tell me if she's a virgin. If she is, we'll pay you and go.”

            The Loeman stared open-mouthed at him. “We do not sell girls for sexual purposes. We do not sell girls at all. These fees are part of the processing. Her sexual experience is not a question for you to ask."

            Barius grunted louder. Nadia snorted derisively. Everyone knew that most girls in the care of the State were sold either as mistresses or prostitutes.

            Nadia watched closely. She sensed a menace and a challenge in Barius. Perhaps the Loeman would throw him out for asking aloud a question meant to be whispered.

            Lady Salvin held up her hand. “The question is appropriate. I am of a celibate order. The girl could benefit from our intensive training, but not if she is corrupted. We cannot accept her if she is defiled.”

            Nadia snorted again. Her sense of smell was keen. The woman might be celibate, but Nadia could smell juice on Barius. Stale, maybe from last night.  He probably got "defiled" any time he could find someone who would hold still for him. Nadia opened her mouth to say something. Barius came over and pushed her down on an ugly plaid couch in the back of the office. She sat with a weak protest.

            Barius produced something from his vest. It looked like a misshapen globe of red gel. Gold sparkled deep inside it as lights seemed to go on and off in the heart of the blob. Nadia could not help but stare hard at it and be drawn in by its power. She took the globe and rolled it in her hands. It had a wonderful warmth and weight. She stretched it, and each time she did it slid back into its relaxed shape.

            The Loeman watched nervously as Barius let the force subdue the girl. He did not want to tangle with these two. Celibate order or not, they obviously had the magic. “Oh, do forgive me, I apologize for questioning your motives. It's just that we receive some visitors who have less than honorable intentions. Let me assure you, as of her monthly medical examination, the last of which   was two weeks ago, her hymen was intact.”

            Barius gave the Loeman a stern glare. The man hurried through the paperwork. When it was done, Barius snatched Nadia from the couch as she was braiding three long strands of red goo. Then the braids melded together and became the configuration of a smushed globe once more. She continued to play with the globe as Barius carried her out of the office. She watched dark red flecks collide with tiny sparkles deep inside the greasy interior of the mass. They performed a slow, orchestrated dance. Nadia

had to pay close attention to see this. And if she concentrated hard enough, she could direct the movements.

            Nadia was in a deep trance as the Loeman fitted a thin black snake of leather around her neck. The collar served both for identification and as a tracking device. It expired after three solar years, at which point it would fall off. Attempting to remove it before then would result in burns, and a permanent mark of Common House registry would be branded to her skin. Inside the brand, the expiration date would show for the convenience of bounty hunters. A thin chain was attached to the collar.

            Barius carried Nadia outside, and as sunlight hit her face the spell was broken. Nadia threw down the enchanted toy as if it were a poisonous snake. She bit Barius on the arm. She planted her feet on his chest and pushed.

            “I will not be fed to a Borack. I am not your virgin sacrifice. Let me go! I have sour blood. I taste awful. I steal. I burn things. I'll escape. Put me back in the ward. I'm trouble, bad trouble!” Nadia kicked out of Barius' arms, but he grabbed her and placed her under an armpit. She kicked and punched but hit nothing except air. She did not see Lady Salvin approach. The woman placed her hands on Nadia's face. She went limp.

            “You didn't need to do that,” Barius said, holding Nadia's wilted form. Iris did not answer him. She started for the truck. Barius followed. Barius' dog, Soko, danced in excitement at their arrival and let out a curious bark. Soko was tall, with long legs and expansive ears that ended in dark tufts. Barius gave the dog's muzzle a quick rub. He climbed into the driver’s seat while Iris worked on unknotting the tangles in Nadia's hair.

“I thought we agreed I was to do the talking,” Iris said in a quiet but firm tone.

            Barius peered at her profile. The sun was low and its angle revealed a glimpse of her age in her face. It was not a matter of lines or sagging skin, but instead a tightening that created a certain sheen on her skin as it stretched across the bone. With each year she appeared harder and harder. In more direct  light he could even make out the exact shape of her skull. She was still beautiful, although in a severe fashion, since no one would ever refer to her as cute or pretty. But of greater significance, no one would have guessed her real age either.

            “I have a headache from that shit they sprayed on the girls to make them smell better," Barius said. "The whole time in there I was suppressing an urge to beat that Loeman into a bloody pulp. Then  I had to keep an eye on this kid so she wouldn't chew a hole in the wall and escape. And I'm damn hungry. I was daydreaming about killing someone. It was the only thought that gave me peace. I know you love to pass judgment and everything, but I wouldn't right now, not until this headache goes away.”

            A slight smile turned the corners of Iris' lips. “That was some truly revolting perfume. And those costumes! I have never seen rats in pinafores before. Roll your window down, the fresh air will clear your head. Then, when you feel better, I can light into you about running your mouth.”

            Barius let the last comment pass. “All that crap you were talking about--fate and providence--is that why you picked the dust devil that's now in your lap? I mean, there were some young ladies who looked a hell of a lot easier to get along with than an Erinian. Of course, they'd have to ride in the back with Soko to blow the smell off. I think you just picked her because the rest of the lot looked like Navian wharf trollops.”

           Iris tilted her head defiantly. “I always make well-calculated decisions. Erinians are, as you say, thorns. But they are also physically strong and emotionally consistent. They can suffer a great deal of corporal punishment and mental turmoil and still keep their spirits intact.”

            Barius snorted. “I still say you picked her on a whim. You could have done a little better.”

            Iris' jaw tightened. She spoke in carefully measured words. “I'll have you know that I can trace this girl's lineage back many generations. She is directly descended from one of the oldest original families. In fact, she is the last surviving member of that family. She is pure Erinian. Do you understand?”

            “That's all I wanted to know,” Barius said as Iris stiffened her back. Barius smiled. His headache was receding.

            They drove in silence. Nadia began to squirm. Iris put her hand on the girl’s face. Barius gently placed his great hand on Iris' back. “That's not necessary,” she told him.

            Nadia did not wake, but her fingers involuntarily tugged at the collar around her throat. She moaned when it did not release. Barius reached toward her, but Iris said, “Let her have her dreams.   Let her sleep. Don't push her under.”                                                               

GINGERSNAP by Karen E.

ONE

My name is Ginger and I just killed myself.

OK, I lied. My name’s not Ginger.

All right, I’ll stop. Actually, I told myself when I sat down just now that if I do this, I’m going to do it right: I’ll tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. If that means “no more fooling around,” so be it. The truth is, that’s just me, being silly. Honest. All that happy shit about killing myself is just a bunch of crap that I threw in there because:

A.       I thought it was funny (I mean, come on);

B.        I thought it would be a real kick-ass story starter (which it was, by the way); plus,

C.        if I started writing extraneous bullshit, I wouldn’t have to deal with the dreaded “main issue,” which is the real reason I sat down at this computer in the first place.

OK, then. No more fun and games; quit wasting time; it’s time to tell the truth:  My name is Mary. God help me, it really is.

Funny, and now I‘ll hop off the pity potty and talk “truth” here for a minute. The truth is, my name doesn’t matter one little bit right now. What matters is how I got here, how I got to this place, and I don’t mean “here” in the physical sense; what I mean is, how did I get into this mess, the mess I’m in right now?

This mess—

I’ve got to wonder if I’ve really, finally done it, e.g., snapped, dove off the deep end, lost my fucking mind. The truth is, I may be, at this very moment, a few clowns short of a circus. . .and if that isn’t bad enough, I can’t stop singing that Kinks song:

‘Cause there’s a red, under my bed

And there’s a little yellow man in my head--

Hey! Maybe that’s my problem. . .but seriously, folks,  I think I’m in dire straits here. Maybe I’d better rewind for a minute.

OK, try to picture the scene: I’m driving in my car and thinking about nothing in particular; just cruising along on autopilot, listening to my Best of The Kinks CD and savoring that sweet, delicious cigarette—

Sidebar: In keeping with my "truth theme," I confess that I was on the road yesterday, not because I had to buy toilet paper (although we did need some; we were almost out), but because I had to fulfill that nagging urge to sneak a Marlboro out there on the road, away from the loving but watchful eyes of my husband. (No matter that he wasn't even home; he was at work. I just didn't want my smoke to mingle with his lingering presence and permeate everything.) Anyway, if that's the worse thing I ever do, it's not so bad, and anyway, it was going to be just the one; my first this week--

(Actually, the truth is, I’ve already had four this week and it’s only Wednesday. It usually happens five or six times a week: I’m folding laundry and suddenly I think, I could go for a cigarette; I’m making the bed and I think, I sure could go for a smoke right now. I drink a beer. . .)

Anyway, back to my story: I bought TP and a pack of cigs and I was back on the road, smoking that cigarette and kicking out the jams and thinking about nothing much at all. I remember looking at the clock and it was almost “on the twos,” as they say, so I shut off the music and switched on the radio to catch the weather report. A commercial came on: it was with this guy who owns a ritzy grocery down on Main who’s always pitching some new product or another, and he’s always trying to sound real “down-homey,” like he’s Garrison Keillor or somebody--

“When I was a young’un,” he starts, I wince, “my mother told me, ‘Little Joe, everybody’s got problems, but here’s something your Grandma taught me years ago: any problem you ever face in life can be solved by one fantastic gingersnap cookie.” 

I’m thinking, Did he just say what I think he said?

He keeps going. “Now, folks, ever since then, I’ve made it my life’s work to find such a cookie, and now I can say that I’ve finally done it:  I’ve finally found the best little gingersnap cookie in America, and it’s made right here in Ohio!”

I’m thinking, What? Is this guy nuts? What does he think we are: morons? Does he actually think we’ll believe that any problem can be solved by a fucking gingersnap? I mean, come on—

And the next thing you know, I’m driving my car right into the path of a big Mack truck and--

OK, let’s stop right there. I swerved my car, that’s true. But I didn’t go through with it; I didn’t do it. The proof is in the fact that I’m sitting here right now, listening to The Kinks and typing away on this computer, and not flat on my back in some basement morgue wearing nothing but a toe tag.

That was yesterday.

So, today (no surprise), I’ve been sitting here, trying to figure out what happened, and I’ve come to the conclusion that yesterday’s event was a red warning flag flapping in front of my face; no, it was a freaking neon sign flashing an inch from my eyes; a blinding pulse of neon, warning me to

DO SOMETHING--DO SOMETHING—DO SOMETHING--

I’m taking this thing seriously.

Needless to say, I’ve thought long and hard about what that “something” should be, and I know this is going to sound ludicrous, but here’s what I came up with, not ten minutes ago: I think I’m supposed to sit down and write myself a book.

No, that’s not true: I know I’m supposed to write a book.

And then (not five minutes ago), I knew exactly what my book should be about. Let me set the stage for you:

The title came to me like a bolt out of the blue: GINGERSNAP It makes perfect sense: Ginger, because that’s going to be my name, and snap, because what happens: I go for a drive and then I snap, just like that.

Now, picture this: GINGERSNAP is an “autobiography.” We meet Ginger (that would be me) at a moment of crisis: she’s a writer, but she cannot seem to find the words; her inspiration has run dry. Her distress blooms into crisis—she snaps (the truck!)—and then she finds herself slip-sliding toward deep despair. In a flash of clarity (insanity?), Ginger realizes that this could be her defining moment as a writer—so (in the first half of her book), she forces herself to chronicle her journey down, down, down; writing everything, sparing nothing, laying herself bare.  .  .

Then (in the second half of the book), Ginger takes us along for the ride of her life as she stumbles and falls and rights herself again; as she confronts her demons and struggles to find her way back. . .

And she succeeds! By the end of the book, Ginger has healed herself and, in the process, she's written a best-selling autobiography and that's exactly what I'm going to do with this book Ginger I love you--

Stop. Hold on.

Why? It’s brilliant.

No. It’s. . .unrealistic.

I disagree.

Well, what makes you think you can actually do it?

Do what?

Write yourself out of all of this. Come on, Mary, you nearly plowed your car into a truck. This is serious business. You need to talk to somebody, a professional--

Probably. Maybe. Bullshit, I can do this by myself. Why not? I’m smart, I’ve been through it before, and anyway, I’m a writer, that’s what I do. I’ll figure it out. And the best part? When all is said and done, not only will I have written a kick-ass novel, but in the process, I’ll get what Ginger gets: a big, fat, juicy dose of sanity, wrapped up in a nice, warm, sesame seed bun. Plus, the cost to me this time will be zilch, zero, nada, which is a shitload less than a bunch of actual therapy sessions would cost; plus, I’ll make myself some major dough from the thing. OK, that’s a “maybe.” But do you know what? It doesn’t matter. I have it all figured out: it’s “win-win,” as they say. I just have to tie up a couple of loose ends first. Cases in point:

A.                It’s Ginger’s autobiography.

B.                 I ain’t Ginger (minor sticking point).

C.                 The “snap” part is still being debated by certain individuals (e.g., me, myself and I, ha ha).

Here’s a sidebar to point C: Actually, I don’t think that yesterday’s event was actually a “snap,” per se; at least, not yet. What I think happened yesterday was that I had myself a little epiphany of sorts; what Oprah might call an Aha! moment; what Little Joe might call a li’l ol’ jolt of veracity. The truth is, I don’t care what they call it, here’s what I think: I think that I haven’t snapped yet, but it could happen, I could lose it, I’m definitely bending in that general direction; I haven’t snapped yet but I’m pretty damn close; I’m close—

I think you understand what I’m saying. OK, back to business:

D.                As far as the whole “story” idea goes, well, that’s something to consider, too, because that would mean I’d actually have to write something (funny, I know), and it would have to be something substantial; something coming in at what. . .60,000 words, absolute minimum? I just checked: I’m only at a little over 2,500 words right now and anyway, I can’t count any of this ramble as part of my story, so I’m actually holding steady at a big, fat zero

Crap. Anything less than 60,000 words won't be an easy sell; it won't be something I could easily peddle; it won't have the weight of "import" behind it that will allow me to saunter into some agent's office, swinging my big ol' balls of confidence, knowing for a fact that I wrote something good, something to be reconed with, something--dare I say it--marketable. . . 

No doubt about it, it would have to be marketable: first, to a go-getter agent; then, to a powerhouse publisher; then, to some high class book reviewers; and then--maybe, if I’m lucky--to a statistically significant portion of the U.S. population.

But then--if I were extremely lucky--that thing might make me some serious dough; and then, finally, it might prove, once and for all, that YES, that gal’s got some serious talent; there is no doubt about it: that hot little gal can write--

Funny, but true: I’ve wanted that since the day I was born. OK, that’s a slight exaggeration; but honestly now, I’ve always felt like writer, I love to write, and I want the world to know that I bloody well can write.

I’ve been a writer my entire life. You want cases in point? All right, let’s see:

When I was a kid, I was always writing poems and cute little plays and stuff like that. (Admittedly, this fits the proverbial “Everybody has to start somewhere” model; in other words, it’s trite, but true.)

When I was eight or nine, I switched to writing scary short stories and they were pretty good, I don’t mind saying; hell, I even scared myself. Seriously.

At thirteen, I started a diary and I’m still keeping a journal, which is what--twenty years later? Yep, I’m thirty-three, so it’s been over two decades now.

Anyway, when I was about nineteen, I put pen to paper in a serious way--

OK, sidebar:  It was all—choke--poetry, and if I’m going to be truthful here, I’d have to admit that probably ninety-eight percent of it was nothing more than cheesy crap. If you think I’m being too hard on myself, here are two examples that I thought of, just now:  

What does it mean? I mean, what do I do?

I mean, scared and alone, I feel lost, frightened, too.

Not good. Not good.

Lay still, open handed; there a butterfly has landed.

Ouch.

I did write a couple of things that didn’t outright suck, if I recall, like the poem that started:

Though rarely be the brilliant wrath,

Attained through sorrow, midnight blue;

Attained through love lost, ethereal flight—

That one wasn’t too bad, but oh, the misery: those poems reeked of it. No wonder: I was awash in angst when I wrote that stuff--no, I was enveloped by it, consumed by it--for what, three months? I was nineteen and crazy in love with a jerk who didn’t love me back, and for three months, all I did was cry and drink cheap wine and write bad poetry. (Sidebar Number 2: I’ve kept those poems all these years. They’re in a beat-up yellow folder in my top dresser drawer, under the socks, still stinking up the joint and oh, Sidebar Number 3: The asshole wasn’t worth it.)

Anyway, then there’s the novel I wrote the spring before I started college. I was just twenty-one when I wrote “The Great American Novel” (aka: WEB OF LOVE): one hundred-and-two pages; typed, single space); banged out in three weeks’ time on my weary Smith-Corona.

Here’s another little nugget of truth for you: it wasn’t very good. I still have the five (brutally honest) rejection letters to prove it, and although I am loathe to admit this, I deserved every one of them because that novel was bad and I’m not just talking about the writing now; I’m talking about the story itself. (Case in point: there were pirates in it, and I’m not making that up.)

Still, I wrote a novel and that’s something, right? Of course, I’ve kept that momentous (if ridiculous) achievement, too: it’s in a floppy old cardboard box in my bedroom closet, shoved way in the back behind my tennis shoes.

I kept writing, and when I cranked out some pretty decent work then; sometimes, more than decent:  I still have the stuff with red A-pluses scrawled across the top, and accolades from professors like Wow! and Can I keep this? and Keep on writing! Never stop!

Now, to be truthful, I must admit that, for a few years there, I didn’t follow their advice. My output was spotty; most of the time, I just wrote in my journal. You might be wondering what was happening during that time and I guess my answer would have to be “Life,” and some of it wasn’t pretty. If you were so inclined, you could fast-forward through that bad movie in 20 seconds flat:

There she is, sweating in her wet, food-splattered uniform, piling a never-ending stack of dirty dishes into that steaming industrial dishwasher; there she is, hunched over her tiny desk, cranking out newspaper ads for men’s cologne and cat food; look, she’s getting married and now she’s struggling to balance marriage and homework and everything else so she can get that teaching certificate; there she is, exhausted after another day teaching those little kids. . .oh, no! The accident! And there’s the aftermath, and there’s the moment when she realizes she’s too messed up, she’ll have to resign, she just can’t do it anymore--

Last year was the worst year of my life.

I think that’s when I started to bend again. Before that, I’d always be able to pull myself out of it—clinical depression, I mean. Writing helped, I know it did. I wrote a lot as a kid after my mother died. I wrote after that asshole stomped on my heart. I wrote in my journal after the accident and again, last year, when I realized I couldn’t handle teaching anymore, but that last time was the toughest. I felt like everything good in my life just slipped away and I found myself slipping away right along with it; slipping down into that deep, dark well of despair again. No, the truth is, I sank right down in there, just like a rock and the worst thing was the sound when she hit the water. I don’t know where that just came from, but that’s exactly how it felt. The point is, it took a lot of crying on my husband’s shoulder, and hours of introspection in my therapist’s office, and Percocet and Flexeril and spilling my guts out in my journal. . .all of that, together, to drag me up, up, up and finally, out of that dark and hopeless place.

I thought I was all better. I thought I was OK. Then came yesterday, when I almost made a great big mess out of everything; when I almost splattered myself like a stupid little bug across the grill of that big Mack truck.

Maybe I shouldn’t try to do this by myself.

_________________________________________________________
Robert L. Bacon
theperfectwrite.com

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