Posts Tagged fiction

“Literature; the most seductive, the most deceiving, the most dangerous of professions.”

Instead of a dedication for my upcoming release, I chose this quote by John Morley, for it contains the absolute truth of my passion; a truth that one day I hope my readers will come to know and understand.

While the foundation of my work is undoubtedly built on life, my stories, poetry and characters, are not always, but often times, larger than. It’s my prerogative as a writer, to exercise my poetic license at will, as I choose and see fit; and I do so quite often, with great ease, imagination and purposeful intent.

Yet there are those who take my words to heart, believing what they read to be total truth, while others read between every line, trying desperately to glimpse some semblance of, concluding what they will and often times missing the entire point of a story or poem.

I’ve often said, if instead of writing and selling books, I had a mere dollar for every time a friend, family member, acquaintance or stranger, read my posts, assume what they were reading is my absolute truth, contact me shortly thereafter to check on my mental status, or assume from my written word that they know my life inside-out, I would be rich beyond belief!

Needless to say, this can be extremely disheartening; continually being asked to explain myself, for the sole benefit of appeasing the perception of others; when it has always been my belief, as an avid reader and a writer, that it’s best to leave the imagination of the reader to wonder, long after the piece has been ingested.

You’re all familiar with the old saying, “You can’t judge a book by its cover;” well, my take on that would be, “You can’t judge a writer by the book.”

While reviewers have been quoted as saying, my work is often dark and cynical, and not for the faint of heart, I urge you to read with an open mind, don’t try to put a face, namely mine, to every character and scenario I present you with. Just relax, enjoy and allow yourself to be amazed at how many pieces reflect situations you can relate to in your own lives. Then, and only then, take away with you what you will.

Some of you will undoubtedly find snippets of yourselves within my work; fragments of moments we’ve shared together. Thus the title, Fragments from Being.

For those of you unfamiliar with John Morley, the author of the aforementioned quote, here’s a brief history.

John Morley was an English Liberal statesman who was friend and official biographer of W.E. Gladstone; who gained fame as a man of letters, particularly as a biographer. As a long-time member of Parliament (1883–95; 1896–1908), he was chief secretary for Ireland (1886; 1892–95) and secretary of state for India (1905–10), and was raised to the peerage in 1908. Among his published works are Edmund Burke (1867), Voltaire (1872), Rousseau (1873), Diderot and the Encyclopaedists (1878), The Life of Richard Cobden (1881), Ralph Waldo Emerson (1884), Studies in Literature (1891), Oliver Cromwell (1900), Life of Gladstone (1903), Critical Miscellanies (1908), and Recollections (1917).

They’re obviously concerned; having brought it up twice. Something they wish they had done when she was a small child; something they claim she needs to do now.

Why the urgency, she wonders to herself; do they sense her death, lingering close at hand? Has she fallen so far off their paved and perfect path, that they feel the sudden need to absolve themselves?

And if she were to baptize her self, in those just and sacred waters; would God be watching? Would He even care?

She thought he was an angel, swirling round her spirit; arousing a creative fire; igniting bursts of imagination and stoking profound inner realizations. She breathed deep, a sigh of relief, at having connected with one so astute in realms that piqued her interests; then as if daring her to be great, he forced her to open her self to experience a new perception; and glimpsing the possibilities, she didn’t hold back.

A spontaneous passion for truth emerged; transforming her imaginative insights and work into a receptacle of spiritual artistry. She believed…quite possibly for the first time, that there was no limit to what she could achieve; striving to understand and contact the highest part of her being, in which the impetus for pure expression of art and life resides.

But he came not, bathed in the light of life with a mirrored goal in mind, but rather in self-annihilation with the purpose, intent and pragmatic outlook at what he believed needed to be obtained; could be obtained…at whatever cost.

The vision of truth, beauty and ecstasy a falsity she would be forced to cast out of her memory; as this was anything but a soulful new beginning, as led to believe; but the start of one very long arduous journey; but as with all things in life, there are no accidents and chance meetings; and so it was left to her to sift through the rubble, for traces of lessons she could take away with her, while the remaining debris was left to scatter to the wind; the winds of change.

They met in a little antique shop. She’d just picked up and started examining a brass stamp box when he came up behind her and said, “Best to be careful; things aren’t always what they seem.” She turned slowly, to see who the masculine voice with the slow, sultry drawl belonged to; her heart tripping in her chest as her eyes met his and held. He smiled and reached for the box, “They sold three just like it last week,” took it from her and set it back on the table.

“If you want to hunt for some real treasures there’s a few not to be missed shoppes out along Route 9; plus the drive is a scenic knockout this time of year.” As she was considering him and his bit of advice, he took her by the hand and led her outside; she followed without a word, or a moment’s hesitation.

They spent three days and two nights meandering through the countryside, forests and mountain villages of Vermont, with no cares, no constraints of time and no plan; just digging the countryside and each other. He was unlike anyone she’d ever met. His ideals and philosophies sparked her thoughts and imagination like nothing or no one had done before; obviously having mingled within the upper echelon of intelligentsia, yet down to earth, genuine and real; a combination not often found.

His energy was infectious; his touch therapeutic and healing; and his uncanny knowledge of past events and talk of a certain future made her wonder if he weren’t perhaps a wandering mystic Sage from one of the villages they’d passed along the way, as he was well familiar with the area and many secret places contained therein. Just as she was gathering the courage to ask, his demeanor changed, as if someone had flipped a switch and he told her it was time to return.

He was suddenly very silent, but for giving directions that led back to Route 9, until they passed the sign that read, “Welcome to Brattleboro,” and that’s when his dark side emerged. He began talking of death, suicide and the shithole of life, of which no one escapes unscathed. On and on he droned; nothing whatsoever like the man she believed she was coming to know.

He warned her of the sharp bend up ahead and that there would be a large wrought iron gate on the right, just past the strand of oaks. She slowed her speed and pulled into the hidden drive; an elaborately scrolled sign above the gate read, Brattleboro Retreat. She wondered if perhaps he’d changed his mind and decided to stay with her a while longer; as her mind imagined them enjoying a few languid days at what appeared to be an exclusive Vermont Inn.

Such was not the case, as they approached the small building where the guards were posted and she was escorted to a parking area off to the side by one of the guards, as he was physically removed from the car and restrained by the other. “There’s no need to question her, she knows nothing,” she heard him say to the guard, as she demanded to know from the other just what the hell was going on.

She was quickly informed that the gentleman whose company she was in was in fact an escapee. She shot the guard a look of confusion as she shook her head, “You mean a prisoner?” she demanded. “No ma’am; not a prisoner, a resident of the retreat.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she replied. The guard looked at her sympathetically and said, “This is Brattleboro Retreat, ma’am; the Vermont Asylum for the Insane.”

Her heart sank in her chest and a chill crept up her spine as he called out her name and she slowly turned and met his eyes one last time. “I warned you to be careful,” he said with a cynical grin, “Things aren’t always what they seem…..”

He didn’t want to go. He made that fact perfectly clear; said he was only doing it for her and she’d owe him big time. She would have happily gone without him, it wasn’t as if she needed an escort, but simply preferred it; wanted him to share in this experience; if for no other reason, a bit of culture would do him good; because while he was a fine piece of eye-candy, he had absolutely nothing else going for him.

He could be rather dashing when he wanted to, and although she loved the way he looked in his tuxedo and bowtie, the smells from The Gentlemen’s Club he carried home with him each night made her sick to her stomach. She only hoped he’d take the time to stop by the apartment and change before he met her at Music Hall.

Not only did he not bother to change, but apparently hadn’t been working late at all, as he showed up drunk; calling her name as he staggered down the center isle during act II of The Mask of Orpheus; just as Orpheus was about to hang himself. Her heart sank in her chest, as everyone turned to look at the beautiful, pitiful creature, and she was forced to leave her seat, claim him and remove him from the theatre.

Later that night he lay passed out on the bed, as she sat in the corner and watched him; loathing and contempt building with each breath he took, as this truly was the last straw. She never knew what it was to hate, until she came to know the likes of him, and why the fuck she married him was beyond her even then.

As the hours passed and the moon rose over the river, its shadows mingled with the lights of the city and shined through the window, she knew she had to get rid of him; and sending him packing just wouldn’t do. She’d tried to tell him it was over, that their marriage was a sham, but he was like stray dog; once fed he just kept coming back. No…she’d reached the point with only one option left.

She thought about poisoning him, but what if he survived; as his wife she’d be stuck caring for him the rest of her life. She knew a man on Third and Vine; a seedy sort that caught her eye, as she was passing the square late one afternoon. They became fast friends and occasional lovers; and while he made for an interesting romp, the nipple clamps and bondage just really wasn’t her style.

However, while discussing her predicament one night over sushi and Saki, he mentioned a connection. For a mere five grand he could leave for work on any given day, never to be seen or heard from again. She thought about it for a minute, calculating her budget and determining how soon she could come up with the cash, but the thought of him being tortured in an old abandoned warehouse in the industrial district, his pretty face pummeled to mush, ruined her appetite.

So there she sat, contemplating his demise, when her gaze shifted to the lamp that sat on the bedside table, weighing every bit of forty pounds. Suppose he tried to get out of bed and stumbled; the lamp crashing down on his head. No, that would never do, as the distance the lamp had to fall between the table and the bed, couldn’t possibly land a fatal blow. But one to the side of his head, right on the temple would do the trick, no doubt; she immediately thought of the hammer she kept in the kitchen drawer.

But then she’d have to get rid of the body; and while they lived in a high rise along the river, she’d never be able to drag him to the waters edge by herself; not without being seen, and suppose he just floated there and didn’t sink. Better still, she could lure him out on the balcony and in one felled swoop…over the rail, a twelve story drop…YES…that would surely do!

In the end she didn’t do any of those things, because as much as she hated him, she didn’t really want him dead, she just wanted him gone.

She fell asleep in the chair and woke when the sun rose and immediately began gathering his things; two duffle bags, his guitar in its case and a one-way ticket to Connecticut sat in the alcove just outside the door. She’d taken his keys and as soon as he dragged his sorry ass out of bed, asked if he’d go down the corner store for coffee, as she’d forgotten to pick it up the day before.

He got dressed, left the apartment and let out a loud “what the fuck,” when he realized what was happening. The door locked automatically once it was closed, and just as he turned and reached for the knob, he heard the bolt securing it further.

She apologized to her neighbors and the security guard, for their Sunday morning had been ruined, but she never apologized to him, for only she knew just how close he came to not walking away at all.

I’ll never forget the day he asked what was wrong with me. I looked at him as if he were speaking in tongues; having absolutely no idea what he meant. “What’s wrong with me?” I finally said. “Yeah, what’s wrong with you; why don’t you have any girlfriends? I’ve never known a woman who didn’t have a slew of girlfriends. You don’t even have one.”

“And that means there’s something wrong with me?” He didn’t answer.

We’d been married for almost 5 years when this conversation took place, and I couldn’t help but wonder; how is it possible to live under the same roof with someone and know so little about them. But when I thought about it, I realized that it wasn’t the first time this had happened; co-existing with someone who thought they knew me inside out; when in reality I was nothing more than a perfect stranger. And then I wondered something else…

What was wrong with me?

I see them all the time, in groups, usually three or four; always laughing and coming off like their having such a great time; just hanging out and doing “girl stuff” and at times I find myself coveting their relationships, wishing I was one of them, but it always only lasts for a minute.

The other day I decided to take myself to lunch; so I put on my favorite sundress and strapless sandals, grabbed my journal and headed to Bistro 101 – an upscale, overpriced, retro-glam eatery in my neighborhood. I saw them as I walked in and waited to be seated; a table of four; country clubbers from Sawgrass, deciding a day of slumming along the river was in order – my attention momentarily diverted when the little waif of a hostess asked if I had a party waiting, then sneered when I told her I was dining alone. She proceeded to walk me in their direction and seated me at a table beside them. I wondered what point she was trying to make, and why. I thought about saying something, but chose to let it slide.

I sat back and sipped my wine once the server had taken my order, and for a brief moment, somewhere deep inside, I wished I was sitting at that table, engrossed in conversation, sharing the world of these women friends – something I hadn’t done in over twenty years. And then I heard it, the voice, whispering from the far corner of my mind…What’s wrong with you?

I decided to write, but the words wouldn’t come – I kept hearing their laughter and snippets of conversation – private schools, vacations abroad, shopping spree at Tiffany’s and Miguel the pool boy; telling their tales, sharing their secrets; an unspoken pact between them; these women who came together in friendship and fun; while I sat alone at a table for one.

One of the ladies rose; excusing herself to the powder room, and before she was even out of sight the other three huddled together and began tearing her apart. Reality slapped me hard in the face, bearing its vicious claws and I felt a fool for ever questioning or doubting my self and my conscious decision to walk this road alone.

I tried to explain to him that day; why I have acquaintances and not friends, but he wasn’t listening – he droned on and on about it not making sense; me being the outgoing and likeable person that I am. “Yes!” I exclaimed; “I am, I am, but with me there is no middle ground; don’t you see, you either love me or hate me, that’s just the way it is…I don’t know why!”

As I sat and picked at my salad, their voices and laughter began to fade; until they were nothing more than a colorful blur. I placed my fork at the side of my plate and instinctively reached for my pen; finally understanding why…

Why I refuse to succumb to the premise of friendship and man-made ideology; opting instead for acquaintances, casting my own beliefs – not from that which others tell me and would have me believe – but from what I see and know to be the truth – and why I don’t have time to waste, playing foolish games…

…because the truth of others, is not that, which I seek; with its candy-coated shell – covering a dark center of deceit.

They had the afterglow of morning sex written all over them – reflected on their faces and in the way he touched the small of her back as he held the door and led her through. What better way to luxuriate than throwing on some clothes and heading to Starbucks for an espresso fix – enjoying the beginning of what promised to be a beautiful day. They’d come so far in the past two years – putting an end to each others fears – bonding, reconnecting, stabilizing the foundation on which their marriage was built. He stood faithfully by her side – venti bold in hand, with extra room for ice – waiting patiently for her order to be up – then SHE walked in the door – and the mere sight of her brought it all flooding back.

He quickly took her in – all five feet seven inches – face framed with a wild mane of untamed curls that he’d buried his face and hands in on countless occasions – as she held him between her thighs and begged him for more. He could tell by looking she was straight from her bed – could feel her warmth – smell her scent – if he closed his eyes and allowed himself – the oversized peasant shirt and bellbottom jeans giving nothing away – but he knew – knew all too well what hidden treasure lie beneath.

She kept her sunglasses on, but looked him square in the eye – phone in hand – deep in conversation with her man – a million miles away, but right by her side. For the first time since he left, the sight of him didn’t cause her heart to leap from her chest – she felt nothing for him – all that remained was a tinge of regret. He turned and walked out the door – she couldn’t help but smile – remembering what being in her presence did to him once upon a time – wondering if perhaps she still had that affect. Probably not, but it makes no difference these days – in fact, it never really did.

I’ve just given the go to pull my books from print. My initial feeling is relief – relief in the fact that I can no longer be judged by those first published works – written when my head and heart were in a completely different place than they are today – when I was looking for escape and found it in creating worlds and controlling all that happened in them. They were fun and frivolous; fulfilling a need that no longer exists.

I also feel a touch of grief, but I know it will pass – as not only am I in a different place, but a much better one, which I hope is reflected in my writing today.

Thanks to everyone who supported me through those first tumultuous years. I’ve learned a lot on this journey; about the craft that is my lifeblood, about myself, about the lit biz in general, and how some people perceive those of us who write because there is no other choice. I can say in all honesty that I’m ready to start writing the next chapter.

Hope you’ll join me for the ride.

Peace…

I woke up this morning with an itch. At first, it was just an annoyance: Taking a shower, itch; making Cole breakfast, itch; standing in line at Starbucks, itch itch; sitting down at my table to write; itch itch itch. I tried over and over, to caress my faithful keys, find something worthy to say, but all I could type was…………itch.

The itch wasn’t on my head; I shampoo daily, thank you very much! It wasn’t on my arms, legs; nor between my toes. It was in a place I care not to mention. As the morning turned to noon, the itch became invasive, violating, all consuming. I decided to see my doctor. I drove recklessly and skidded into the office parking lot. I ran into the office, stopped to catch my breath and walked to the sliding window. The nurse asked me to have a seat. I waited with trepidation, squirming in my chair. I picked up “They” magazine to see if “They” had anything relevant to say; nothing.

“Ms. Terry, Doctor Johnson will see you now.” What an incredible sound; a well crafted sentence – my hope – my salvation – my desperate need. The doctor smiled and greeted me sooner than expected. Thank God, I was beginning to lose my mind; frenzied by the relentless itch.

“What seems to be the problem Jill?”
“I have an itch that won’t go away. It’s driving me insane; more insane than usual.”
“Let’s have a look; get undressed please.”

I undressed and held my breath, waiting for the prognosis.

“Hmm, yes, interesting; typical actually.”
“What is it Doctor Johnson?”
“It appears you have Klingons on Uranus.” I gasped,
“Klingons? What the hell are they? Is there a cure?”

“What are they? Desperate little creatures really; in truth, parasites, sucking the life force from you so they can exist. It’s pathetic, if you want my honest opinion.” The doctor stood up and sighed; “A cure, well, yes and no.”
“What do you mean?” I blurted. He looked at me in silence for what seemed an eternity.
“Well Jill, it’s quite common among female published authors. Ericka Jong never got over hers. I’d rather not mention what it did to Sylvia Plath. Funny thing though, Jacqueline Susann loved hers and refused treatment.”

I held my head in my hands; on the verge of tears; distraught, filled with sorrow, enraged by the irony of it all. I only wanted to share my words; possibly help someone find solace through my experience.

“What can I do?”
“Well, you could stop writing all together, but I know how much it means to you. You could write for television, or you could just block the emails, which is how they find easy access to your system. It makes me wish for the good old days of snail mail. Too bad, it’s not feasible in today’s world; although, you have to admit, no ones going postal any more.” I felt tears running down my cheeks; at a complete loss. The doctor handed me a tissue and a script for sedatives. I smiled weakly, thanked him and walked out.

I drove straight home, digging and scratching the whole way. I made it home without crashing, ran inside, turned on my computer, found my preferences, moved the curser and hit block-block-block-block-block, over and over – a mad woman on the verge of collapse. When it was done I leaned back in my chair and breathed a sigh of relief. The itching disappeared. I silently thanked Doctor Johnson, lit a cigarette and began typing with impunity; free from the needy parasitical Klingons, my life once again my own.

What Lies Within
a vampire tale

They say a person is never truly dead, so long as there are those left behind to keep the memory of them alive, but it was the memories that had driven Louis to this point of no return. Not memories of the wonderful times and the love they had shared, but rather the hazy moments preceding the accident that had taken her from him; the flash of bright lights, the sounds of searing metal and screeching tires, meshed with her piercing screams; the overpowering scent of gasoline and the dampened earth, and then there was nothing; nothing but silence, and the blood, so much blood. The arrow of time had pierced his heart and there was no reason, it seemed, for him to move forward. For the moment she’d left this world and entered another, the life had bled out of him and it was time, he’d decided, to end this misery.

He sat on the edge of the bed and reached for the bottle of Halcion that Dr. Baker had prescribed at Sebastian’s insistence. Sebastian, he thought, as his hand tightened around the bottle and he let out a shaky breath. He’d made certain that his Will was in order and that the old man would be well taken care of for the duration of his life. He’d toyed with the notion of leaving a letter, explaining his reasons, but he knew it wasn’t necessary, for Sebastian had been with the family for as long as Louis could remember and was closer to him than his own father had ever been.

Sebastian was a gentleman’s gentleman, very old school and from a time when wealthy men had personal servants. He offered Mr. Van Ness the kind of loyalty that no amount of money could buy, and so it was only natural that the Van Ness’ had named him as Louis’ guardian and benefactor. It had been twenty odd years since their passing, and Sebastian had come to love Louis as his own son, but even that was not enough to save Louis from the grief that now consumed him.

He poured the contents of the bottle into his hand and counted roughly twenty-seven little blue pills. He shot the lot of them into his mouth then reached for the glass that sat on the bedside table and washed them down with tepid water. The deed was done and now it was only a matter of time until he was free from the earthly hell he’d been dwelling in.

He walked across the room and stood before the wall of glass that looked out over the city, taking in each and every detail, knowing it would be for the last time. The rain came softly, and although his view became distorted, just as his mind grew weary, still he watched, as life played out before him. He felt a slight pang of melancholy when he realized that the world would go on without him tomorrow, just as it had done today, and other than a handful of people who would surely mourn his passing, his demise would not directly affect the balance of the universe.

He turned his back on the world, pulled the curtains closed so the room faded to black then lay back on the bed, closed his eyes and tried to rid his mind of all thought. This worked for a time, but as the pills began to dissolve and the drug found its way into his blood, all control was lost, as his mind journeyed on a path that he’d long since forgotten.