As a writer trying to expose my work to the public eye, I receive my share of rejection letters. A couple weeks ago, I got this 8 x 11 sized envelope in the mail from the Writer's Digest. Last spring, I had submitted two short stories and three poems to their 78th Annual Writing Contest. I hadn't thought about it much lately, until I saw the envelope. I didn't expect to be one of the winners. They must get thousands upon thousands of applicants per each category of their contest. In fact, I had received two notifications of rejection within the month from other publications, so I assumed another rejection was what was inside this envelope. I opened it anyhow. I read the first couple sentences. Funny, I thought... I've never read a rejection notice that started it's first few sentences with "One of the most enjoyable tasks as editor of Writer's Digest is passing along good news to writers. This is one of those fun occasions."
About the time I finished reading these sentences, my mind broke into two. Part 1 of my mind couldn't quite process the data it was just given, and was stuck on the theory "rejection notice." However, the new data created a glitch in the system, and Mind Part 1 tried to reason how a rejection notice could begin with the prophecy of good news.
Luckily Part 2 of my Mind was able to process the information and was excited to continue reading the letter. However, it was in such a hurry to read further that my eyes almost couldn't keep up. They tripped over words, scraping their knees, but Mind Part 2 grabbed their hands and dragged them across the next sentence. "It is my pleasure to tell you that your manuscript, Indulgence, has been awarded Honorable Mention in the Mainstream/Literary Short Story category of the 78th Annual Writer's Digest Writing Competition."
So as a part of my blog entry this week, I am including an excerpt from my short story Indulgence, which was Honorable Mentioned in the 78th Writer's Digest Writing Competition:
Indulgence
Blaze added another coat of cover up to the wrinkles around her eyes, touched up her mascara, and repainted her lips a crimson red. She examined herself naked in front of the dressing room mirror; average height and weight, long, dark hair, and large, full lips. She saw the sagging of her breasts, the wrinkles around her eyes, the flabbiness of her stomach, and how her pale thighs jiggled when she moved. She was accustomed to hiding her flaws through make up and costume.
Blaze took out a black nightie that covered her belly. She always wore lingerie that covered her stomach since it was no longer tight and slim as the stomach of the young girl who stood next to her, applying pink lip gloss. The young girl couldn’t have been more than twenty-one years old. She was pixie like, with slightly pointed ears that poked through her blond hair.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Understanding Death
One day, my mom and dad were having a conversation about Aunt Gloria’s passing away, and funeral arrangements.
I was there too, playing with my parakeet. I absolutely loved that bird. I named him Punkin, P-U-N-K-I-N, because I didn’t know how to spell pumpkin. He was the most beautiful bird I had ever seen, with bright yellow feathers on the top of his head and little aqua blue feathers mixed with sea green covering his body.
I would run home as soon as school ended and take him out of his cage. He would perch himself on my shoulder, and we would share a cherry red popsicle as an afternoon snack. Sometimes I’d turn on the radio and he would start bopping his head up and down to the beat.
At some point in their conversation, my mom turned to me and told me that my Aunt Gloria had died. I had already figured this out from listening to their conversation.
“Oh,” was my only response.
My father looked over at my mom with a surprised expression.
“She’s too young, Gene. She doesn’t understand what death is,” my mother said.
I did understand what was going on. I knew what death was, at least I thought I did. Someone is no longer on the earth, taken away sometimes in painful ways. A lot of people are sad. Was I supposed to be sad? I felt guilty for not being sad. I wasn’t very close to my Aunt Gloria. The most I can remember her ever saying to me was “Take your feet off of my coffee table.” I didn’t want to be around my mom and dad anymore. I went to play with Punkin in the living room.
* * *
Several months later, I came home from a dentist appointment and ran into my room to play with Punkin. I then made the loudest scream I had ever made in my whole eight years of life, a shrill sound that penetrated through the walls of our home until it reached the ears of my horrified mother. She dropped everything and ran into my room.
Punkin was face down in the fish bowl. It was a fish I won at the carnival. The fish was fine, swimming at the bottom of the bowl. I thought it looked annoyed by the intrusion. My bird’s feet were wrapped around the rim of the bowl, it’s head inside, and eyes closed.
I sat on the ground, tears streaming from my eyes. “THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING! THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING!” I kept repeating.
I pleaded with my mom to do CPR on him. Afterall, she was a nurse. She looked at me helplessly, but refused to give him mouth-to-mouth. She said it was too late. He was dead.
I wouldn’t let my dad take Punkin’s body out for a garden burial. We stuck it in a shoe box, placed on top of my desk, just in case we were wrong. Maybe he was just taking a nap. Maybe I’d wake up the next morning and take a look inside the shoebox. He’d wake up from his sleep and perch himself on my shoulder as he usually did. This never happened.
By the second day, the smell of bird carcass started to stink up my room. So my father took him outside. I followed behind. And we buried him in the backyard. My father said that his body would fertilize the plants. I was glad that his remains would benefit the plants just as his life had benefited my own. Now no one could say I didn’t understand death.
I was there too, playing with my parakeet. I absolutely loved that bird. I named him Punkin, P-U-N-K-I-N, because I didn’t know how to spell pumpkin. He was the most beautiful bird I had ever seen, with bright yellow feathers on the top of his head and little aqua blue feathers mixed with sea green covering his body.
I would run home as soon as school ended and take him out of his cage. He would perch himself on my shoulder, and we would share a cherry red popsicle as an afternoon snack. Sometimes I’d turn on the radio and he would start bopping his head up and down to the beat.
At some point in their conversation, my mom turned to me and told me that my Aunt Gloria had died. I had already figured this out from listening to their conversation.
“Oh,” was my only response.
My father looked over at my mom with a surprised expression.
“She’s too young, Gene. She doesn’t understand what death is,” my mother said.
I did understand what was going on. I knew what death was, at least I thought I did. Someone is no longer on the earth, taken away sometimes in painful ways. A lot of people are sad. Was I supposed to be sad? I felt guilty for not being sad. I wasn’t very close to my Aunt Gloria. The most I can remember her ever saying to me was “Take your feet off of my coffee table.” I didn’t want to be around my mom and dad anymore. I went to play with Punkin in the living room.
* * *
Several months later, I came home from a dentist appointment and ran into my room to play with Punkin. I then made the loudest scream I had ever made in my whole eight years of life, a shrill sound that penetrated through the walls of our home until it reached the ears of my horrified mother. She dropped everything and ran into my room.
Punkin was face down in the fish bowl. It was a fish I won at the carnival. The fish was fine, swimming at the bottom of the bowl. I thought it looked annoyed by the intrusion. My bird’s feet were wrapped around the rim of the bowl, it’s head inside, and eyes closed.
I sat on the ground, tears streaming from my eyes. “THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING! THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING!” I kept repeating.
I pleaded with my mom to do CPR on him. Afterall, she was a nurse. She looked at me helplessly, but refused to give him mouth-to-mouth. She said it was too late. He was dead.
I wouldn’t let my dad take Punkin’s body out for a garden burial. We stuck it in a shoe box, placed on top of my desk, just in case we were wrong. Maybe he was just taking a nap. Maybe I’d wake up the next morning and take a look inside the shoebox. He’d wake up from his sleep and perch himself on my shoulder as he usually did. This never happened.
By the second day, the smell of bird carcass started to stink up my room. So my father took him outside. I followed behind. And we buried him in the backyard. My father said that his body would fertilize the plants. I was glad that his remains would benefit the plants just as his life had benefited my own. Now no one could say I didn’t understand death.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Affinity for the Wolf
My friend Valleah would sit in the grass by the shade, and wait for me to get out of class. She had classes of her own, but chose not to go to them. Instead, she would do her own independent studies. One day, I found her reading a book called “Totem Animals.” We searched through the book together, learning about the different animals and what significance they held in our lives. Valleah had an affinity for crows. I felt most deeply connected to wolves and dogs. The book said they were loyal and wise. They enjoyed the community of a pack, while having enough time to themselves.
Wolf (or canine) energy seemed to be the most dominant totem force in my life. I grew up with dogs as pets since I was three. My dog Rico, who was half husky, resembled a wolf. To this day, he is one of the most loyal beings I have ever met. One time, while crossing the street, a Toyota Corolla drove up too close to us before stopping. This alarmed Rico, and he pushed me out of harm’s way, leaving himself in potential danger. Luckily, the Corolla did stop, with several inches between him and the car’s front bumper.
In another incident, my friend Gina invited Rico and me to a canine birthday celebration she threw for her terrier Quentin. She also had a full bar. The humans drank alcohol and chatted while the animals chased each other around the house and backyard. I had a little too much to drink and forgot how to walk. Rico sensed that something was wrong. His big, brown eyes looked over at me with concern, and his wet, black nose twitched as if trouble were in the air. He left his group of canine friends and watched over me as I rested on Gina’s couch. When I got up to stumble to the bathroom, he followed me. And when I closed the bathroom door behind me, leaving him on the other side of it, he whimpered and scratched at the immoveable barrier blocking his path. I could hear Gina talking to him on the other side.
“Don’t worry,” she told him. “Your momma will be outta there soon.” I imagined her petting his head as she said this.
He whimpered something back to her in return.
Eventually, I emerged from the bathroom, and staggered back over to the couch. Rico didn’t leave my side until I sobered up.
But the most auspicious experience I had with wolf energy occurred when I first got involved with a Yogic Buddhist community. I was taking a bus to the yoga center to meet up with the rest of the group. From the center, many of us would carpool to the meditation retreat in Jacumba, California. I started to lose my nerve. It was my first spiritual retreat, and I began to have my doubts. What was I doing? Was I on the right path? Maybe I should get off the bus. I asked the universe to give me a sign that I was heading in the right direction. Otherwise, I was going to pull the dinger and get off at the next stop. The bus turned a corner, and on the side of a building, was an enormous mural of a gray wolf. His stance was powerful and still, his features depicted him as wise, like a sage. I became hypnotized by his deep, penetrating eyes. My hand released the dinger and I remained in my seat.
Eight years later, I’m still a part of that Yogic Buddhist community…
Wolf (or canine) energy seemed to be the most dominant totem force in my life. I grew up with dogs as pets since I was three. My dog Rico, who was half husky, resembled a wolf. To this day, he is one of the most loyal beings I have ever met. One time, while crossing the street, a Toyota Corolla drove up too close to us before stopping. This alarmed Rico, and he pushed me out of harm’s way, leaving himself in potential danger. Luckily, the Corolla did stop, with several inches between him and the car’s front bumper.
In another incident, my friend Gina invited Rico and me to a canine birthday celebration she threw for her terrier Quentin. She also had a full bar. The humans drank alcohol and chatted while the animals chased each other around the house and backyard. I had a little too much to drink and forgot how to walk. Rico sensed that something was wrong. His big, brown eyes looked over at me with concern, and his wet, black nose twitched as if trouble were in the air. He left his group of canine friends and watched over me as I rested on Gina’s couch. When I got up to stumble to the bathroom, he followed me. And when I closed the bathroom door behind me, leaving him on the other side of it, he whimpered and scratched at the immoveable barrier blocking his path. I could hear Gina talking to him on the other side.
“Don’t worry,” she told him. “Your momma will be outta there soon.” I imagined her petting his head as she said this.
He whimpered something back to her in return.
Eventually, I emerged from the bathroom, and staggered back over to the couch. Rico didn’t leave my side until I sobered up.
But the most auspicious experience I had with wolf energy occurred when I first got involved with a Yogic Buddhist community. I was taking a bus to the yoga center to meet up with the rest of the group. From the center, many of us would carpool to the meditation retreat in Jacumba, California. I started to lose my nerve. It was my first spiritual retreat, and I began to have my doubts. What was I doing? Was I on the right path? Maybe I should get off the bus. I asked the universe to give me a sign that I was heading in the right direction. Otherwise, I was going to pull the dinger and get off at the next stop. The bus turned a corner, and on the side of a building, was an enormous mural of a gray wolf. His stance was powerful and still, his features depicted him as wise, like a sage. I became hypnotized by his deep, penetrating eyes. My hand released the dinger and I remained in my seat.
Eight years later, I’m still a part of that Yogic Buddhist community…
Monday, September 28, 2009
Pizza Fusion = Wallet Transfusion
Pizza Fusion = Wallet Transfusion
Last week, I had lunch at the organic, earth friendly new pizza place, Pizza Fusion, located on 5th Avenue. I was there once before, lured in by the enticing window advertisement of gluten free (and organic wheat) pizza, organic ingredients, and being voted “Best Organic Pizza” by New Times and Citylink. I love pizza, and I try to eat gluten and wheat free as often as I can remember to, even though I do not have any allergies to them. I just do it for the sake of being health conscious. And yes, the pizza here is as good as they make it sound! However, it doesn’t come cheap, at least not the gluten free variety, which I had on my last visit.
Pizza Fusion does not have personal sized gluten free pizzas, only personal sized wheat crusted ones. One size fits all when you’re trying to void out gluten, and that size is colossal. The starting price for large in the wheat variety was $14, add an extra $5 for gluten free, then each topping, an additional cost. By the time the total is added up for the cost of the pizza alone, I was looking at $33. “And would you like a soda or small side salad with that?”
This time I decided to go the cheaper route. Luckily, the lunch special, and the friendly, tattooed waitress wanted to make this easy on me. You could get the personal sized pizza, with any topping you wanted, for only $10.99, and that low price included a small side salad and natural soda. Luckily, my stomach could handle the wheat, because my wallet couldn’t handle the down-payment for another gluten free pizza.
Last week, I had lunch at the organic, earth friendly new pizza place, Pizza Fusion, located on 5th Avenue. I was there once before, lured in by the enticing window advertisement of gluten free (and organic wheat) pizza, organic ingredients, and being voted “Best Organic Pizza” by New Times and Citylink. I love pizza, and I try to eat gluten and wheat free as often as I can remember to, even though I do not have any allergies to them. I just do it for the sake of being health conscious. And yes, the pizza here is as good as they make it sound! However, it doesn’t come cheap, at least not the gluten free variety, which I had on my last visit.
Pizza Fusion does not have personal sized gluten free pizzas, only personal sized wheat crusted ones. One size fits all when you’re trying to void out gluten, and that size is colossal. The starting price for large in the wheat variety was $14, add an extra $5 for gluten free, then each topping, an additional cost. By the time the total is added up for the cost of the pizza alone, I was looking at $33. “And would you like a soda or small side salad with that?”
This time I decided to go the cheaper route. Luckily, the lunch special, and the friendly, tattooed waitress wanted to make this easy on me. You could get the personal sized pizza, with any topping you wanted, for only $10.99, and that low price included a small side salad and natural soda. Luckily, my stomach could handle the wheat, because my wallet couldn’t handle the down-payment for another gluten free pizza.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Uncomfortable Silence
Published in Revolve
It is about noon and the heat is unbearable. Looking down at her arms, she sees that her skin is now a darker shade of brown. Her young legs take her everywhere in this small town and they too are darker. She wishes to put her long, black hair up.
With glistening brow and perspiring underarms, she makes her way through an apartment complex with white walls and chipped paint. She has entered the domain of several boys with shaved heads, some of whom she recognizes from school and a few that she hasn’t seen before. They stop their conversation abruptly as she approaches. Their silence makes her uncomfortable. Some of them look at her and then look away.
A rapid pulse is accompanied by fear. It subsides when she tells herself they are not really skinheads. Just young high school boys who think they are. She knew one of them, or had known one of them when she briefly dated his younger brother, who had briefly dated a girl everyone called Pocahontas. He hardly came around after he moved out of his mother’s house. Once, he grinned and handed her a joint, but now he says nothing to her. Just slouches against one of the walls, glancing casually at one of the other boys.
Her legs carry her passed the boys to the other end of the complex. When she is far enough away that she cannot see them but can still hear them, one of them lets out a whistle. The others laugh and their conversation resumes. She keeps on walking.
Uncomfortable Silence
It is about noon and the heat is unbearable. Looking down at her arms, she sees that her skin is now a darker shade of brown. Her young legs take her everywhere in this small town and they too are darker. She wishes to put her long, black hair up.
With glistening brow and perspiring underarms, she makes her way through an apartment complex with white walls and chipped paint. She has entered the domain of several boys with shaved heads, some of whom she recognizes from school and a few that she hasn’t seen before. They stop their conversation abruptly as she approaches. Their silence makes her uncomfortable. Some of them look at her and then look away.
A rapid pulse is accompanied by fear. It subsides when she tells herself they are not really skinheads. Just young high school boys who think they are. She knew one of them, or had known one of them when she briefly dated his younger brother, who had briefly dated a girl everyone called Pocahontas. He hardly came around after he moved out of his mother’s house. Once, he grinned and handed her a joint, but now he says nothing to her. Just slouches against one of the walls, glancing casually at one of the other boys.
Her legs carry her passed the boys to the other end of the complex. When she is far enough away that she cannot see them but can still hear them, one of them lets out a whistle. The others laugh and their conversation resumes. She keeps on walking.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Poetry in a Crowded Room
Poetry is aware
the moment, alive
illuminated by cherry red
and sky blue lights,
the clinking of glasses,
Chatter pervades
every crevice
every ear
of a crowded room.
Curly haired, glittery hat man
with thick, Italian mustache
strums his guitar,
sings boisterously,
"All I Need is Glue."
the moment, alive
illuminated by cherry red
and sky blue lights,
the clinking of glasses,
Chatter pervades
every crevice
every ear
of a crowded room.
Curly haired, glittery hat man
with thick, Italian mustache
strums his guitar,
sings boisterously,
"All I Need is Glue."
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