LIT 101 (and 202, 303)
Lit 101: A short story that is exactly 101 words. No more. No less. Get writing, do your word count, and email submissions to nocureforthat@mac.com or cwar.ncft@yahoo.com
(updated every Friday)
FRI. O12, 2007
- Home, by James DeLuca
- Not Strange Enough, by Freida Bee
Home
By James DeLuca
I kick the stones and watch the litter swirl in the wind, a city of steel and concrete guiding me through its maze. The maze, an infinite configuration only bound by direction or lack of direction has no end, no beginning and most glaringly, no reward.
Still I walk. At times cursing, other times oblivious, within the maze, but never outside. Is there an outside? Undoubtedly not. Still I walk. I curse with no end in sight.
Should I seek a new course? Forego cities and mazes?
I have no choice. I am very comfortable in this maze I call home
Not Strange Enough
By Freida Bee
I don’t really know who you are
Lying next to me for these nine years.
Civil roommate,
Comfortable fuckmate,
Father of the children,
I get the idea you don’t like me so much,
But how would I know?
You don’t really talk to me
The way I want to talk to you,
But don’t think I will.
Are we busy or flawed,
Mismatched with everything
In common, including a bed?
This divide provides the safety
And insulation we need
To remain unchanged,
Persistently, insidiously distant
Enough to close our eyes
And abide the pain inside
The space with which we reside.
FRI. O12, 2007
- Fall Ball, by DCup
- Breaking Omelettes, Mountain
- Questions…, by Rosalina Cantu Guzman
- Clean Feet, Clean Soul, by James DeLuca
Fall Ball
By DCup
The sound of the baseball coming to rest with a thud in the leather cradle of the catcher’s mitt punctuates the afternoon. A long-legged wasp drifts in the late afternoon sun on air flavored with the heavy scent of French fry oil. Buffeted by a slight breeze, the wispy flyer alights on the blue trashcan. Then up it goes, taking rapid flight to escape the sounds of ball on aluminum bat, scuffing cleats in the dry dirt, the promising hiss of Coke cans being opened, and cigarette roughened southern voices calling out words of encouragement and advice to the young players.
Breaking Omelettes
By Mountain
I’m here to fix her tile floor. It’s going to be messy. It always is. Loaded down with tools of the trade, I ring the doorbell and wait. The door opens a crack and an eye stares at me. “Will it be messy?” she asks. “It always is, but hey, you can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs!” I say smiling. She doesn’t smile. Rich people don’t like that joke, but they do like their omelettes. I enter her home like an unwelcome peasant. The work gets done and the cleaning ladies are called. I smile. Omelettes are ready!
Questions…
By Rosalina Cantu Guzman
She just stood there as she watched the roads; for a moment she wondered if they were answers to her questions. People crossed the roads. Some eyed her. Others ignored her. Was one of them holding her answers?
Do we all have a piece of the puzzle?
Is the meaning of life, a meaning for one? Does each one have hold a personal meaning? Or is there a whole truth?
Or are we too selfish to share what we found out to others?
Where lies the connection?
Where life communicates with the other? Is it just playing us?
Life answer me!!!
Clean Feet, Clean Soul
By James DeLuca
It was Tuesday night. I was tending bar.
In walked Jesus. There was no doubt. The man radiated divinity, intelligence and humility in equal measure. He asked for a glass of red wine and all he could do for payment was to wash my feet. I explained that while I was flattered, I could not take the time to have my feet washed. Pouring the wine I told him I would gladly pay for his drink. He declined, rose to his feet and said.
“All able bodied men must earn their keep, thank you for your kindness”.
He then quietly exited.
THUR. O4, 2007
- First Date, by Anna De Vaul
- Plum Moons, by James DeLuca
First Date
By Anna De Vaul
lutefiske@yahoo.com
You wear the mustache of the man who raped me. It sits
on your face smugly, like an oil slick, ready to ooze
across menus and plates to keep me from flight.
I can’t face your face. Instead I watch the way your
fingers stroke fork and knife. My own are under the
table, creating crop circles in my palms.
I itch to abandon my glasses, to see you through
honest superhero eyes. I cannot accept your kiss, the
tingling touch of hair on rigid lips. Instead I clutch
scarlet sleeves with fists and flee.
I will not call you again.
Plum Moons
By James DeLuca
jd19jd@yahoo.com
I sliced a watermelon and out fell a pineapple. I sliced the pineapple and out fell a plum. I sliced the plum and out fell a pit. I sliced the pit and out
fell a seed. I crushed the seed, found my pipe and lighter. After inhaling deeply I saw the plum colored moon from a perch in a sycamore tree.
Plums moons are often out of our grasp. The plum moon was a traffic light, the sycamore tree a fire escape.
Such aspirations of plum moons can lead to broken limbs. Broken limbs should never deter quests for plum moons.
THUR. S28, 2007
- Salvation?, by James DeLuca
- FASHION, by Joseph Riippi
Salvation?
By James Deluca
jd19jd@yahoo.com
I didn’t find salvation. Not in the holy water, the altar, the hymns,
the confessional, the mass, or the giant gleaming crucifix. Not in the
followers, a mix of hell bent devotees, mothers of illegitimate
children, career sinners and corpulent men with Sunday football on their
minds. Not in the priests who were loud or dull or falsely passionate.
A man on crutches was having some trouble entering a pharmacy. Several
strides away I couldn’t offer help. Finally, he propped the door with
his right crutch. As I reached him, his words made sense of my church
experience.
“After you.”
FASHION
By Joseph Riippi
josephriippi@gmail.com
“Know what you have?”
My boss looks down at my new shoes, their wooden soles having clacked
against the hallway tiles.
“You have a tabetic gait.”
I need to impress him, form some kind of bond with him, and so his
liking my fashion sense is good.
Now I look down too, lift a heel.
“When my heels hit first?” I ask.
“No. It’s something seen in people who’ve had syphilis for a while.”
He looks at me, starts walking.
“Well that’s good to know!” I say.
He laughs and smiles before rounding the corner.
I guess that’s a good sign.
Author bio:
A recent Pacific Northwest defector, Joseph Riippi was born and raised
in Seattle but currently lives at 91st and 2nd in Manhattan. A
graduate student in creative writing at the City College of New York,
he is a staff writer at several magazines and newspapers, and the Arts
& Opinions Editor at Beyond Race Magazine. In 2007, he won the 2nd
Annual Farmhouse Magazine Prize in Fiction.
WED. S19, 2007
Words I am Loath to Utter
By Freida Bee
Your hair is getting salt in it and I like it much better. I had my eyes downcast while you were getting strong and was, therefore, surprised when I woke up and you were holding me so firmly. My instincts were to get away, until I remembered that I asked you to do that, and relaxed and felt and thought. Words I am loath to utter came to mind, so I whispered them and you smiled for me. It is no secret that was what I had feared, your devotion. That reminds me we never deserved the good or the bad.
As I Lie
By Freida Bee
Rain steadily cleans my slate of mind where I alternate between resenting my untouched ass and visualizing understanding ears in which I wish to whisper. Secrets as of late are treasures buried beneath rows and rows of obligation, awaiting my revisitation. A place where I am wanted calls me and I recall I was always there and it is here until distractions and overreactions indicate otherwise. Lying in self-defending poses, I allow the status quo to go unkempt and awry, ushering in a time of change. Pretending I did not invite it, I quietly hope it will not leave me behind.
WED.,S12 2007
Guilt Trippin’ for Your Submission
By Freida Bee
I sit here all lonely because no one wrote a companion to contrast, contradict, or complement me. A mere one hundred and one words is all it would have taken for you to create a scenario involving kinky sex (involving or not corrupt politicians,) death, or other insecurities related to aging. But, since no one put forth the effort, I will sit here by myself (and punish you by omitting the erotic details I still have enough word space to include) while you watch. Just go watch the Hermit dance in drag. I admit without your writing here, it’s more interesting.
SEPTEMBER 5
- Saint Jenny, by Matt Jaeger
- Boiling Night, by the poetryman
- Develop Mental Divulgence, by Freida Bee
Saint Jenny
By Matt Jaeger
(mattjaeger@hotmail.com)
Her first miracle was darkening her toast. The following day she lightened it. Then she added blueberries to a muffin and compelled a bagel to rip itself in half. Each morning she manipulated her daily bread, differently.
One afternoon she saw a baby fall from a window. She turned the baby into a scone. It fell eight stories and broke into a thousand pieces which were snatched up by seagulls and two homeless men. An old woman, with face like cracked earth, passed by. She thought the baby should’ve been turned into a jelly doughnut, so she clucked, “Silly girl.”
BOILING NIGHT
By the poetryman
The moon wafts his breath through the houses; music so sad and awkward, even the wolves shrink back. A little girl stands naked in the street as a dog lifts its rabid eyes. Two cats hiss in the alley. Three men stumble to the curb. The moon shrieks overhead. People exit their homes.
“Why’s the moon so low?”
“Why’s the moon making a noise?”
“Terror causes him pain.”
“Global warming.”
Grown listless, the people return to their homes, the three men stagger away, the cats dart away screaming and the dog stares upon the naked girl who motions for it to come.
Develop Mental Divulgence
By Freida Bee
People reveal what they want to reveal, intentions, scars, fortitude, often seeking validation that supposedly fruitless efforts were not in vain. Regrettors mourn lost opportunities by reviling the choices they made while trying on new hats for size, hoping to find more perfect fits, whether fashionably, fleetingly, or futilely. Easily forgiven in time are failures which contrast complacent days of compulsive sitcom viewing, toilet dusting and needless shopping to taking more novel thought-provoking risks which can pole-vault couch potatoes over ever-compromising mental hurdles. Rarely do they make the jump unscathed, but sometimes they see it to the other seemingly bright side.
August 22
Is This Your Second Amendment Right?
By Freida Bee
Morbidity, as mundane as it may be these days, rampantly numbs onlookers to the searing pain of car bombs in foreign lands. Brutal fascinations with violence do not desensitize neighbors of school shooting victims, while hourly reports of civilian casualties accrue like achievement credits on sniper scenario screens. In these days beyond the superstitious worries of karmic retribution, we commute, for mere cents on the dollar above overhead costs, to achieve this marvelous standard of living. A minority consented to these conditions before kicking back in Hawaii, worried that all those damn hurricanes might cut available scuba diving days in half.
Johnson County Road
By Frieda Bee
A simple shiver alerted Karen to her surroundings some time after the onset of shock. Not sure how long she had been unconscious, she surmised from the sun’s position that it was nearly seven, two hours since she had crashed on the rural road. She knew her bleeding was severe, but endorphins were blocking the pain and now she was just thirsty. She was beginning to lose hope and was at peace with that. Amused by the suddenness that a country drive could bring her to view her last sunset, she slept, not hearing the truck pull up to the scene.
August 15
Get Off The Clock
by Freida Bee
Expectations and silly social reverberations create improbable scenarios for getting it on. Minor enticements mislead the minions into false friendships called marriages while excruciating thirsts remain unquenched. Exquisite predictors warn that what consumers are missing might reduce overtime production. Long gone are the days of shiny rocks and rockin’ boners in break rooms. Bosses with black belts in time management know the secrets to success lie in endorsing lackluster happy-hour romances. Contempt of courtship promotes profitability while table turners yearn for days before unhappy unions were just good for business. Hotels, lawyers, therapists, self-help books, and trite poetry state my case.
Touch Me
By Freida Bee
Let your finger linger and then glide down the smoothness of my strong arm. Breathing, heavy breathing begins softly with whispers and touches of lips on ears and eyes. Tears of relief are salty and sweet, welcome. Necks remember they were not involved when reminded and lead motion downward to chests rising and falling, ever more deeply felt. Bellies, shy and lonely, awake a new awareness of the present, of your presence. Furry hair, like pillows, draws the ear to listen to dreams innate. Tongues seek other tongues for kisses that are hard and meaningful and lasting until they’re not enough.
This Announcement is Brought to You by Viagra©
by Freida Bee
According to an elite team of appeasement strategists, deliberate innuendo bordering on subtle suggestion engenders compliance on subliminal levels previously underestimated by those obsessively dressed to impress. Authorities are pleased to report that panic caused by confusing concessions may prove habitual. They are warning television viewers to be on the lookout for gyrating youngsters as their studies have shown that hard-ons are the number one cause of pleasure, misleading millions of our nation’s innocents down terminal paths to personal empowerment. They are asking that if you do see evidence of confidence immune to condescension that you avert your eyes and run.
Election
by Freida Bee
“Don’t cry,” his father said as he was spanking George. “Sissies cry.” This confused George who was not crying because he was or was not effeminate, but, rather, because his butt hurt. “Don’t date hussies who call you,” his mother warned, to George’s disappointment. “They’re trash.” “Everything’s fine,” his parents told him time and time again as they drank their Bloody Marys. “I died for you. It’s your fault I’m dead,” Jesus told George through his preacher’s mouth on Sundays. (1) Dissociation occurred, denial prevailed and the American people elected leaders such as George until they themselves no longer told these lies.
(1) Quoth Jesus in a MySpace comment.
Diamonds in the Rough Times.
by Freida Bee
Experts and disappointments are as overblown as salad spinners and idle winners. Their discouragement is a specific brand of manipulation demanding nothing less than reciprocation. Amateurs and success stories come from out of the blue in shocking tales of triumph alerting viewers in all stages of professionalism that words are quieter than what you do. Cynical tots and the have-nots gather together in family locales while those with good credit go to the mall, preferring to consume rather than be consumed like the experts of disappointments who rise and fall like nature’s tides, slowly simmering thirteen carat diamonds on the inside.
Lit 202
Robert’s Rules of Order Get Revised
By Freida Bee
Day in and day out Robert went to his job. He got there by 7:45 so that he could get a space in the parking garage, pick up a bagel and coffee in the cafeteria, and clock in at 7:55. His boss, Gordon, seemed to have it in for him, but Robert had walked the straight and narrow in order to avoid his wrath.
This morning Robert woke to find that his wife did not come home from her meeting last night. He usually woke when she came in, but noticed he felt exceptionally rested today, not having his sleep disturbed. He left her a message on her cell phone and called in sick to work.
When she arrived to remove her belongings from their home, he had to admit that he was relieved. He knew that tomorrow he would tell Gordon to kiss his ass. He also knew that it had been a mistake to be living according to his wife’s wishes all along. He had been realizing that while his subordination made things peaceful in the short term, in the long term, well…. He was a little scared, but thankful she had made this one last decision for him.
The Ironic Consequence of Voluntary Confinement
By Freida Bee
The Hermit chose to be an instigator to those previously uninspired. His aspirations were lofty indeed; change is what he sought. His efforts created a ripple, the toll of which was beyond his control, the moment they were exerted. The ways these actions could be taken varied: the worst of which being dispassionately, the best of which were unexpected and unseen.
Apathetic individuals were heartened, close-minded folks guffawed and those who were simply discouraged that any significant change could occur fostered original ideas from unknown sources. Those who perceived themselves to be confined moved beyond repressive standards to the downright imaginative.
Grateful were those wives whose husbands mustered respect; thankful was one woman whose son’s life was spared when a war ended twenty-seven seconds earlier than it would have otherwise. Unanticipated desire emerged to the succor of some who languorously expected discontentment to persist.
These subtle, but lasting shifts did increase and proliferate endlessly, minimally affecting him directly by virtue of strange love letters one woman wrote despite his disinterest. It was not what was in him that she sought, but rather the possibility evoked in herself that compelled her to take such odd risks, which also produced waves of transformative consequence.
A Quick Study
By Freida Bee
Sean was fascinated by Tania’s writing. He read the neurotic love letters she sent with the zealousness of a Baptist grandmother and had even loosely based a character in the play he was writing on his pieced-together vision of her. He viewed her to be lonely and dissatisfied in a seemingly normal marriage. Her penchant for writing irreverent erotica didn’t quite suit the motherly role he knew she played in her “real life,” though her children appeared surprisingly well adjusted, even talented for such unfortunates to have a mother so deeply disturbed as he was beginning to think she was. This surprised
Tania as well as she continued to delve into the hole he’d exposed even more fervently after discovering his “anthropologic” interests.
She could not pinpoint the source of her own newly found creative streak that their strange interactions had inspired. Though she’d never bared her true nature so intimately with a stranger, she found her actions to be like the sparkly glove she had tragically lost in childhood and had sought to replace since. She feared that when Sean tired of her quirky façade or when she herself discovered its banal nature, she and her writing would lose their “edge.”
Lit 303
Inoperability
By Freida Bee
According to Theresa, Ben was sure that he had not lost his keys when they went to the movies. He’d had them since, but could not find them when they got home. When he was not to be found after that, she started to get concerned and that is why she’d called Andrew. “What is it, Theresa?” Ben asked, out of breath, coming from two blocks away on the drop of a dime, as he had assured his sister he would when she needed. He was glad that she even recalled who he was these days, but Ben had been dead for five years now and while he had sympathy for her loss, was suffering in his own life as a result of her calls.
Andrew’s wife, Olivia, had tried in her own way to be supportive, but caring for his sister this way was not maintainable. Her brain tumor was inoperable and while she had mostly normal days, she was increasingly losing her grip on reality. There were times when he wondered who had the better grasp of reality though. Somehow she’d know of matters between their mother and him that there was no way she could know. He’d been angered by this at first, likely out of fear, but had come to trust some of her insight as these abilities persisted and increased. When Olivia suggested that Theresa be put into full-time care facility rather than allowing her to stay with them, Andrew began the long process of falling out of love with her. He believed Theresa when she said she would die within a week of that. He hated to be the one to decide when that week would be, but it was either leave his wife of fifteen years or give his sister a better quality last six months.
