Name: Only the Wise
Prompt: You are a Siamese named Miniver living in a genteel household of intellectuals. Your household is the epitome of elegance, fine breeding and superlative taste. The only discordant note -- at least, as far as you are concerned -- is Zeus, that lower-class mutt who rampages through the house, causing havoc wherever he goes. You cannot understand how your humans could suffer such an uncharacteristic lapse in good taste.
"He's a rescue," the humans said. "We think he was abused."
Everyone thinks their rescue animal has been abused. If — perish the thought — Miniver herself had been found wandering the streets, they would've assumed she had been beaten by children, or run over by a car, rather than spending her days eating wild-caught Alaskan salmon from the fine china. That was the way of humans. They believed themselves to be saints in a world full of marauding demons. Messiah complexes, all of them. Not unlike cats in that aspect, actually.
Miniver licked her paws to settle her nerves. It usually worked, for a little while. Then Zeus would come galumphing around the corner or diving through the kitchen chairs, and the mere shock would send her pristine fur into a tizzy all over again. She spent an obscene amount of time bathing these days. Her poor nerves just couldn’t take it.
"We think he has some Pharaoh Hound in him, or maybe some Bernese Mountain Dog. The vet said he might be part Great Dane, even. A noble breed, of course. Whatever he is, I’m sure it’s a noble breed. Our Zeus is such a stately dog. Even his name — after the god of thunder, you know."
Miniver knew. The thundering sound of his bark. The thundering sound of his feet. The thundering sound of his gas after someone fed him under the table. Miniver knew it all too well. Her pedigree was studded with champions. She could have been one herself, if the show circuit weren't so . . . common. The breeder had said so. “The best kitten this cattery has ever produced, languishing in a pet home,” the breeder had mourned, but Miniver didn't cared. “Languishing” was exactly the sort of life she was cut out for.
If she had known this would be her treatment at home, she would have suffered the show circuit. Even the assault strange hands roaming across her smooth, sinuous body would have been less of an insult than living with this classless beast.
"But it's so strange," the woman said slowly to her dinner companion. "Our dear Miniver has been acting odd since Zeus came home. We think she might be sick. We think she might be allergic to dogs. Francine, darling, do you know anyone who might want a well-bred Siamese? We just couldn't give up Zeus again. He was abused; he's a rescue. I'm sure you understand."
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Skin Versus Soul, 05/28/11
Name: Play Big
Prompt: You are a musician in a sought-after jazz band. Your name is Clarence and you travel with the band for six months of every year playing concert halls and jazz festivals. How old are you? Give the band a name. Choose your instrument. Portray the other band members and the feeling you get when you play together. Eleanor, a high fashion model, is interested in one of you. She has wiles and she uses them. Will the band survive her foxy tricks and secretive smile?
I never liked that Eleanor chick. The Skin-Toned Skivvies didn't need her type hanging around our dive. She was all skin and no soul; all fur and no fire. Our Rufus could do better.
Well. He certainly couldn't have done worse.
And yet there she was, sitting across from me, the only one in the room without an instrument and somehow unaware of how awkward that made everything. Unless the Chinese crested dog counts as an instrument. He certainly thought he did. The yapping beast hadn't shut up the entire time we were playing. Intermission now and, predictably, the feist had finally shut its mouth once it didn't matter anymore. Eleanor and Rufus didn't seem to mind either way. They were chatting in the corner like a pair of gossiping women, Rufus petting that ridiculous dog and Eleanor running her fingers across the fur trim of her designer coat.
"Clarence," Walter whispered, "I can hear your teeth grinding from here."
"My teeth? Naw. Must be a squeak in my trumpet."
Walter snorted. "I've known Louise since the day you bought her, and that trumpet has never squeaked a day in her life." He paused. "You hate her that much?"
"Hate who?"
And that was enough of an answer for Walter. A slow smile spread across his face. "Me too," he confided. He blew a long note on the saxophone, rich and rumbling with just the right amount of texture. "That's what the band should sound like. That's what the Skivvies used to sound like."
I raised a brow indulgently. "And now?"
The saxophone screamed like a cat on fire. The noise ran the gamut of unpleasant sounds, shriek to yodel to flat, dry cough. Nothing like the elegant wail she normally put out. No sexy shiver crawling up my spine from that sound.
I added a discordant note on Louise for good measure, to show him my agreement. It was fun. It was good. It was boys being boys. It was like how the Skivvies used to be, before Rufus started to care about how we sounded and what we did. He liked to cut up just like the rest of us before Eleanor came along. Now it was all about "quality." Whatever that meant. At 78 years old, I think I've finally lost the distinction between "fun" and "quality." So I tickled Louise in all the wrong ways and let out a belching womph of a note. Cathartic. That's what they call it.
The damn dog barked.
"Rufus! They're upsetting Tybalt." Eleanor's perfect complexion was marred by two bright spots of color on her cheeks. We had flustered the empress. Cue tirade.
I would say, "I have never heard a woman so upset about a little bit of fun," but it's been months since Eleanor joined our practice sessions. I've about heard it to death now, I think.
"If the noise upsets Tybalt, then maybe Tybalt should--" Walter began.
"Walter," Rufus warned.
Enough.
I put Louise back in her case. "Too many women in this room, Rufus. If your Eleanor won't leave, my Louise will."
"Rufus! Are you going to let that man talk to me like that?"
Rufe just stared at me with broken eyes. No soul in him anymore, either -- all skin and bones and guts, that was all she left him. 32 years the Skivvies had been playing together. It hurt to see a friend drained dry like that. "You don't mean that, Clarence."
I hope to God he knew how wrong he was when he said those words.
I tipped my weathered cap to the boys, and even to the lady, noxious as she might be. I wished them all a good night, and I turned on my heel like a right gentleman, all elegance and class. If she wouldn't claim her composure, I would certainly show mine.
As I walked out the door, Walter let out a long, low wail on the saxophone. I fancied that said, "Don't leave me."
I left him anyway. The Skin-Toned Skivvies had no place for a gold-digging woman, but Rufus brought her in anyway. Now they've got a nice big place for a trumpet player all vacant and waiting for someone to step in.
Maybe the dog will suffice.
Prompt: You are a musician in a sought-after jazz band. Your name is Clarence and you travel with the band for six months of every year playing concert halls and jazz festivals. How old are you? Give the band a name. Choose your instrument. Portray the other band members and the feeling you get when you play together. Eleanor, a high fashion model, is interested in one of you. She has wiles and she uses them. Will the band survive her foxy tricks and secretive smile?
I never liked that Eleanor chick. The Skin-Toned Skivvies didn't need her type hanging around our dive. She was all skin and no soul; all fur and no fire. Our Rufus could do better.
Well. He certainly couldn't have done worse.
And yet there she was, sitting across from me, the only one in the room without an instrument and somehow unaware of how awkward that made everything. Unless the Chinese crested dog counts as an instrument. He certainly thought he did. The yapping beast hadn't shut up the entire time we were playing. Intermission now and, predictably, the feist had finally shut its mouth once it didn't matter anymore. Eleanor and Rufus didn't seem to mind either way. They were chatting in the corner like a pair of gossiping women, Rufus petting that ridiculous dog and Eleanor running her fingers across the fur trim of her designer coat.
"Clarence," Walter whispered, "I can hear your teeth grinding from here."
"My teeth? Naw. Must be a squeak in my trumpet."
Walter snorted. "I've known Louise since the day you bought her, and that trumpet has never squeaked a day in her life." He paused. "You hate her that much?"
"Hate who?"
And that was enough of an answer for Walter. A slow smile spread across his face. "Me too," he confided. He blew a long note on the saxophone, rich and rumbling with just the right amount of texture. "That's what the band should sound like. That's what the Skivvies used to sound like."
I raised a brow indulgently. "And now?"
The saxophone screamed like a cat on fire. The noise ran the gamut of unpleasant sounds, shriek to yodel to flat, dry cough. Nothing like the elegant wail she normally put out. No sexy shiver crawling up my spine from that sound.
I added a discordant note on Louise for good measure, to show him my agreement. It was fun. It was good. It was boys being boys. It was like how the Skivvies used to be, before Rufus started to care about how we sounded and what we did. He liked to cut up just like the rest of us before Eleanor came along. Now it was all about "quality." Whatever that meant. At 78 years old, I think I've finally lost the distinction between "fun" and "quality." So I tickled Louise in all the wrong ways and let out a belching womph of a note. Cathartic. That's what they call it.
The damn dog barked.
"Rufus! They're upsetting Tybalt." Eleanor's perfect complexion was marred by two bright spots of color on her cheeks. We had flustered the empress. Cue tirade.
I would say, "I have never heard a woman so upset about a little bit of fun," but it's been months since Eleanor joined our practice sessions. I've about heard it to death now, I think.
"If the noise upsets Tybalt, then maybe Tybalt should--" Walter began.
"Walter," Rufus warned.
Enough.
I put Louise back in her case. "Too many women in this room, Rufus. If your Eleanor won't leave, my Louise will."
"Rufus! Are you going to let that man talk to me like that?"
Rufe just stared at me with broken eyes. No soul in him anymore, either -- all skin and bones and guts, that was all she left him. 32 years the Skivvies had been playing together. It hurt to see a friend drained dry like that. "You don't mean that, Clarence."
I hope to God he knew how wrong he was when he said those words.
I tipped my weathered cap to the boys, and even to the lady, noxious as she might be. I wished them all a good night, and I turned on my heel like a right gentleman, all elegance and class. If she wouldn't claim her composure, I would certainly show mine.
As I walked out the door, Walter let out a long, low wail on the saxophone. I fancied that said, "Don't leave me."
I left him anyway. The Skin-Toned Skivvies had no place for a gold-digging woman, but Rufus brought her in anyway. Now they've got a nice big place for a trumpet player all vacant and waiting for someone to step in.
Maybe the dog will suffice.
The Purpose of the Blog
I'm so damn sick of talking about writing and getting nothing written. I call myself a writer. When the ego swells, I'll call myself an author, too. But the last novel I finished was in 2005, at the age of 17. It's 2011. I'm 22 now. I can't even say that I'm "resting on my laurels," because what sort of pathetic laurel is Harvest, anyway? It's trash. So I'm coasting on my past success, and that success was garbage. What does that say about me?
Don't answer that. Please.
I used to love writing. I think I've been going about this the wrong way the whole time. In recent years, I've started a dozen attempts to reignite my writing life, and every one has failed. I told myself I was scared of the blank page, which is true. I told myself that I'd gained my editor eyes and had trouble writing less-than-perfect prose, which was also true. But the part that I never managed to notice (despite the fact that everyone else noticed it) is that I just didn't love writing anymore. I knew I loved the idea of writing. I knew I wanted to be an author. But I had somehow forgotten the critical part where you truly enjoy the process of creating, playing in your mental sandbox. I forgot how much fun it can be to take a handful of ideas and smash them together like trying to spark a fire from flint and steel. I remembered how to write for a purpose, and how to express myself, but I forgot about the literary version of a joy ride -- not an attempt to get somewhere, but for entertainment. I was writing for the purpose of getting things written. I started things so that I could get to the end. That's rubbish! The point of writing is the writing. That's all it needs.
So that's what I'm posting here. This is my attempt to love writing again. It used to be what I did with all of my time. It was my preferred hobby, and my own mind was my best friend. (Don't quote me on that). So for a little while, this is my sandbox. As Ms. Frizzle used to say, "Take chances. Make mistakes. Get messy!"
Two weeks ago, Haven went to the dog park. She found the nastiest patch of mud in the whole place and proceeded to wallow in it until she honestly didn't look like a dog anymore. Her fur was plastered to her body in dirt-covered dreadlocks, her ears were slicked to her head, and her tail was wagging like she'd never had so much fun in her life. I want that feeling. This is my attempt to claim it.
Don't answer that. Please.
I used to love writing. I think I've been going about this the wrong way the whole time. In recent years, I've started a dozen attempts to reignite my writing life, and every one has failed. I told myself I was scared of the blank page, which is true. I told myself that I'd gained my editor eyes and had trouble writing less-than-perfect prose, which was also true. But the part that I never managed to notice (despite the fact that everyone else noticed it) is that I just didn't love writing anymore. I knew I loved the idea of writing. I knew I wanted to be an author. But I had somehow forgotten the critical part where you truly enjoy the process of creating, playing in your mental sandbox. I forgot how much fun it can be to take a handful of ideas and smash them together like trying to spark a fire from flint and steel. I remembered how to write for a purpose, and how to express myself, but I forgot about the literary version of a joy ride -- not an attempt to get somewhere, but for entertainment. I was writing for the purpose of getting things written. I started things so that I could get to the end. That's rubbish! The point of writing is the writing. That's all it needs.
So that's what I'm posting here. This is my attempt to love writing again. It used to be what I did with all of my time. It was my preferred hobby, and my own mind was my best friend. (Don't quote me on that). So for a little while, this is my sandbox. As Ms. Frizzle used to say, "Take chances. Make mistakes. Get messy!"
Two weeks ago, Haven went to the dog park. She found the nastiest patch of mud in the whole place and proceeded to wallow in it until she honestly didn't look like a dog anymore. Her fur was plastered to her body in dirt-covered dreadlocks, her ears were slicked to her head, and her tail was wagging like she'd never had so much fun in her life. I want that feeling. This is my attempt to claim it.
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