I hope you can join me-Friday 5/17/13

  

Presents

STORIES MY MOTHER DOESN’T WANT ME TO TELL

A dramatic and comedic reading by The WTF Writers’ Group

featuring

Bob Chrisman, Jessica Conoley, Teresa Vratil, and Dane Zeller

at

VALA Gallery

5834 Johnson Drive, Mission, Kansas, 66202

Friday, May 17, 2013

7:30 PM - 8:30 PM

How do you get to Mile Marker 4308?

People tell me I’m creative.  In my head that couldn’t be farther from the truth.  In the reality of Jessica I’m just uber-practical, which stems from an unusually high capacity for analytical thinking.  (I took a test.  I didn’t make that part up.)  When presented with a conflict my brain doesn’t know how to handle, I just find the most direct route to the solution and start there. 

Generally, I try to steer my posts away from me, because I find myself quite boring, but yesterday something happened and I think as a writer it may have been something important.  It started with a link to an interview with Thom Yorke.  I put my massively awesome Christmas headphones on and spent an hour on my bedroom floor listening to Alec Baldwin ask Thom questions.  About three quarters of the way through the interview, Thom tells a story about Radiohead not selling “content” to Nokia for their phones.  The content they were referring to was music—innovative, riveting, electrifying music. 

The word content hit me hard.  It left me thinking about all of the crap we’re exposed to under the pretense it’s something of import.  Of course, as a writer I jumped straight to the world of writing, and thoughts of how much text I’m accosted with every day that is nothing more than words to fill space. 

Useless, vacuous content. 

But alas, I am a writer, and I add to that content.  So what’s a girl to do?  Making matters even worse was knowing I try to post to my blog on a regular basis as a testament to my commitment to creativity.  But what if I just post to have content?   Am I just writing content or something of value?  Well, that could have left me quite depressed, but, thank God I’m on allergy meds that are the equivalent of speed on crack to me and my already over-active brain is moving at unprecedented jumps and speeds, so the depression lasted less than the time it took to fold one basket of clothes. 

And as I folded the last pink towel, I realized, in this struggle to find my voice as a writer it’s not content I’m after.  It’s finding that truth in a story that is of interest and relevance and breathing energy into it. 

But of course I had to think that sounded like a bunch of bullshit I was telling myself to make myself feel better, so I had to analyze the reality of what I supposedly now thought.  How would I know if I was right? I had to look at my work.  I thought of my most recent blog post, Mile Marker 4308, and that one was particularly hard because I didn’t know what I was going to write about that day and knew I had to come up with some dreaded content.  I pondered how terribly unimaginative I am, and how I never think of anything interesting, and what does happen when you get to the end of your imagination?

And it was there, at the end of my own limitations of creativity that I found my story.  I wondered what it would be like when you got to the end of your imagination.  What it would be like if the world faded to black & there was nothing left to look at?  And I knew I had my story from the end.

So, I put on my rosemary-mint hand lotion, and thought wouldn’t it be funny if I named some characters Rosemary and Mint.  But a character named Mint could be confusing, so I switched it to Matt, and figured if Rosemary and Matt were at the end of imagination they had to have gotten there some how.  And since our family always drives everywhere, and I am particularly fond of road-trips, and therefore, know quite a bit about them it made sense that Rosemary and Mint would drive there.  And I remembered all the road-trips where our grandparents threw us in the back of a GIGANTIC station wagon, and stopping at the brown travel marker signs, and how sometimes you stop at those scenic overviews and the person you’re with has a camera and says, lets take a picture here.  And that’s how I found my story. 

And there in that story is the moment of truth where you know there’s nothing left in the world except you and your own limitations (in this case the end of my imagination) and for me, that was enough to justify I was creating something true. 

Because that’s what I do, I write true fiction.

Thanks for reading.

Jess

P.S. Mark your calendars for 5/17/13 at 7:30 pm.  I’m doing a reading with my WTF critique group at the VALA Gallery.  I really hope you can come hear what we’ve been working on.

Mile Marker 4308

            “Pull over up here.”

            “What?  No way.  We just stopped twenty minutes ago.”

            Rosemary pointed to the brown sign at the edge of the highway that grew larger by the second.  “I said, 'Stop.'”

            “You and your damned historical markers.” Matt clicked on the right turn signal and pulled off the freeway.  “You know, this is my vacation too.”

            “Why’d you do that?”

            “You told me to exit.” Matt yanked the keys from the ignition, stomped the emergency brake, and slammed the door behind him.

            Rosemary slipped ballet flats on her sockless feet, and turned to the back seat to find her camera.  Draping the camera’s strap around her neck, she opened the door stepping into the silky dust of the parking lot. “Why’d you signal?  We haven’t seen another car for days.”

            “Well, why don’t we just quit wearing our seat belts too? Laws are there for a reason, Rosemary.  We can’t just disregard them because no one else is around.”

            “Of course we can.”  She lifted the viewfinder to her eye, panning the horizon.  “Who’s going to know?  Besides, what’s the point of signaling if no one is around to see it?”

            “What’s the point of wearing a seat belt unless you’re slamming into a tree?  Something could always happen.  You can’t know.”

            The camera clicked with slow, deliberate clarity.  “I know, and so do you.”  Click. “That’s why you’re so mad.”  Click.  Click.  Click.  “Now stop pouting and look at that.”  Rosemary lowered the camera and pointed to the horizon.  The silky dust at their feet stopped one-hundred yards ahead.  It fell into gray light that bled to black.

            They stood in silence.  Hot wind blowing from the light blew their hair behind them.

            Matt held out his hand.  “You want me to take your picture?”

            Rosemary grinned and handed the camera to Matt.  She ran to the brown sign and posed, her arms outstretched. 

            Matt held the finder to his eye.  He kept Rosemary’s grin in the bottom left of the frame, but focused on the white lettering.  “BATTLE OF IMAGINATION 4308.  It is here creativity breathed it’s last breath.”

           

Raven Tales-Part 2

Atop a cliff at the edge of Forever sat a glass house.  A large crack ran through the wall of the house, and through that crack is how a black cat named Raven escaped.  (But, of course you already know that, because that is where the last story ended.  You can’t remember the story?  We’ll if you click here you cannot say that any longer.) Now we’re all caught up at the End, and the End is precisely where we shall begin.

The edge of Forever is ever so large—much larger than a glass house on a hill.  It spreads to the edge of beyond, stretching into the horizon of all of the world’s tomorrows.  Of course the black cat Raven didn’t know that when he jumped.  But sometimes you just have to take a chance.

Raven jumped from the cliff and, for the first time in his whole kitty cat life, he felt the wind rush through the fur on his belly.  The wind was cool and fierce.  It ruffled his fur and sent shivers through the end of his tail.  But it wasn’t altogether unpleasant having wind on your belly fur, just different than what a kitty who had lived his whole life in a glass house was accustomed to.  As the wind blew at his whiskers Raven wondered if those birds he’d watched outside the window of his glass house, for all those years, had felt like this.

Well, to Raven that jump seemed to last quite a long time (because things we are scared of often seem to take an eternity) but, in all reality, it was just a jump as long as any other.  As a jump can only last oh so long, there was a pivotal moment where Raven realized perhaps his jump could now be classified as a fall.  The earth rushed up to meet Raven making his tiny kitty cat heart race in fear.

Just as the ground was about to slam into him, Raven stuck out his four legs and did what cats are known to do best.  He landed on his paws.   The ground was solid beneath him, with grainy bits of sand over parched rocky earth.  Sand stuck between his toes, and while he didn’t think he would like to fall like that any time soon, Raven had to admit there was something quite nice knowing he could land on his own four paws.

Raven sat on the gritty earth. He wrapped his tail around him and turned his head in every direction to see where he had ended up.  High above him, and a little behind him was the cliff at the edge of Forever.  For a moment he thought about starting the climb back to the top.  But Raven already knew what was at the edge of Forever. And while there was some comfort in knowing what was behind him, it seemed going back wasn’t the thing to do. 

Raven sniffed the air caught the scent of water.  Not the standing water from the storm that had just blown though, but a real flowing stream. A stream would have more than enough for a drink. With his mind made up, Raven arched his back and picked his way through the stones until he came to a gurgling brook. 

Raven lapped the cool, clear water with his pink tongue, and knew this is just where he was supposed to be. He sniffed the air again and far, far away something salty that made his kitty mouth water with hunger.

Now, Raven wasn’t a lazy cat, but he was quite accustomed to a midday nap.  Today a nap sounded ever so much better as he had already done more in this one day then he had done in all of his other days combined.  Raven looked around for the perfect catnap spot.  A little ways ahead was a big rock warming in the sun.  It was flat on top and high enough up that no one could sneak up on him.   He jump, jump, jumped with all his kitty strength and sprung to the top. 

Just as he hoped the rock was sun-baked and smooth—a perfect place for napping.  He took one trek around the top of the rock, looking in every direction.  Confident he was safe he curled into a ball and went to sleep.

Coming home. Page by page.

In fifth grade I fell in love with a book.  I read the tale cover-to-cover with the single-minded obsession that’s unleashed in me whenever I find a compelling story.  The next week, at the school library, I turned my book in and checked out the sequel.

I liked my book so much I bought a paperback copy at the school book-fair.  Not wanting my book to be lonely I bought the sequel too.  In seventh grade, on the way home from school I left my book on the bus.  The next day a girl I knew handed it back to me.  Inside the front cover she had written my name in pencil, but she spelled my last name wrong.  Her handwriting distinguishes the copy as mine to this very day.

My book moved with me from mom’s house to dad’s house and back-and-forth again and again.  It followed me to the dorms in college, lived in a handful of apartments, and joined me for the years at my grandparents’ house.  Today it sits in my condo on the bookshelf in our living room.  Every year or two, no matter where I live or what has changed in my life, I scan my shelves looking for something to read.  Inevitably my hand falls on the worn spine of my book, because this is the tale that speaks to me over all the others on my shelves.

However, it wasn’t until winter dumped mountains of snow upon us last month that I realized the depth of what my book has done.  For the first time since I’ve started writing seriously, I went and pulled my book off its shelf.  I opened the cover, passed over my handwritten incorrectly spelled name, and turned to Chapter 1.

I worried that maybe this time it would be different.  That my writer’s brain would over analyze the author’s use of adverbs and choice for point of view.  That I would no longer get lost in the story because somehow, after twenty-three years, I had out grown the tale.  The story began and for the first two pages my brain screamed—throwing all my doubts at me.  By the third page the voice was talking, by the fourth whispering, and by the fifth it was silent.  Because this was my book, and it carries the magic that makes me want to be a writer. 

It was just as I remembered, but at the same time it was different too.  I traveled with my heroine as she began a long, hard journey, and I thought Hey, that’s like in Color Eaters.  I saw the places she traveled because of the vivid detail and dead on imagery, and I thought Hey, that’s like in Color Eaters.  I saw two minor characters subtly named after cartoon characters that were linked to one another, and I thought Hey, that’s like in Color Eaters.  Page after page went by.  I loved every one of them, but by the end I knew what was different. 

It’s not that her story was like the book I’ve been writing, it’s that my story was like the book she had written decades ago.  It’s that the author’s voice has spoken to me from the age of ten, and somewhere along the way her book became a part of me.  Whatever modicum of skill I possess was unconsciously modeled after her talent, and she is an aspect of the voice I hear when I write.  And I realized if I ever write something that shapes a whole person’s being, that’s when I will have done it right.

Cynthia Voigt changed my life when she wrote Homecoming.  I just didn’t know it until now. 

I wonder if she has a book too?

"Doctor, are you sure?"

"Doctor, are you sure?"

"Yes.  Yes I am.  I'm sorry to have to tell you it's leg rabies."

"No.  It's just too awful.  Leg rabies?"

"It's rare.  Unprecedented in the mid-west."

"I... I don't understand.  I don't even go outside."

"Have you been exposed to children, they're known carriers."

"God no.  Children?  Do I seem like the type that would cavort with children?"

"Miss, I'm not passing judgement.  Just trying to determine the origin.  Have you maintained a diet of strictly purple foods."

"There was a lime as garnish on my drink at the restaurant last week, but I didn't eat it.  I mean, I may have squeezed the juice in my drink.  That couldn't have been it, could it?"

"It's possible.  But I admit unlikely. Have you traveled within the last six months?"

"Just my birthday vacation, but that was back in August.  Surely I would have had symptoms sooner."

"Leg rabies is a tricky disease, possibly not.  Where did you travel to?"

"The northwest."

"A breeding ground for the radical naturalists.  What was the nature of your visit."

"Not nature.  I assure you doctor.  I abhor nature."

"On your trip were you exposed to animals?"

"NO... Oh, wait.  Maybe."

"Maybe?  I'm going to need you to be more specific.  Did you encounter any animals?"

"Well yes, but I assure you it was just a matter of circumstance."

"What breed of animal?"

"A chipmunk."

"Did it have fat cheeks?"

"Yes.  Yes, the very fattest.  His cheeks were so fat they were as wide as his tiny striped body."

"The fat cheeked variety is the worst kind.  And you had contact with this beast?"

"I didn't initiate it.  You see he came up and..."

"Please continue."

"He put his hands on my leg."

"Well, there we have it.  Leg rabies.  That's what one gets when they travel into nature... Please wait here.  I'll send the nurse in to begin your treatment."

Color Eaters-Chapter 16

(The end of your sneak peaks, I think this gets you roughly 1/3 of the way through the book.  Rumor has it I may have a complete draft of the Color Eaters by the 15th.  Keep your fingers crossed, I know I am.  Thanks for Reading-Jess)

“Olena Burnwhite. Follow me.”

I scurry from my cell.  Four armed guards flank the Keeper this morning.  The Keeper pays the guards as little attention as he does me, not waiting for any of us before he races forward in his mechanized chair.  

Hob nailed boots rap in step as we follow our guide.  If it had been any other day I would have deliberately made sure my footing fell opposite theirs.  Today my feet fall to the: left, right, left, right of the Magistrate’s silent drum. From ankle to chin my guards are encased in thick rubber suits.  The charcoal colored rubber gives the rest of their movement odd squeaking accents as we rush down the corridors.  Helmets with full-face visors perch atop their heads.  Charged batons clip to their belts.

We follow The Keeper’s chair in a dispassionate advance.  Heedless of the twists and turns or the colored doors we pass, I am grateful there are no inclines today.   It takes every ounce of my strength to keep up.  Was it only yesterday I jogged after him with a grin on my face?

After marching for ten ticks the Keeper stops in the middle of a corridor. He turns his chair to face an endless smooth white wall.  Blocks stand end on end, joined together with long forgotten artistry.  Here, Nevile Fano’s face fares better than the exterior walls.  Outside years of the elements have dulled her sparkle, but here at her core the walls remain untarnished.  The stone is pristine. Nevile smiles a bashful grin in the form of billions of metallic flakes glittering in her stones. The Keeper presses on a groove in the stonework.  With a smooth roll the stones shift to reveal a door. 

“Is this how the pages come and go?”

The Keeper answers my inquiry with a withering glance.  “You will not be late.  The guards will accompany you from here.”  His chair whirs one-hundred-eighty degrees and disappears down one of his corridors.

I look to the guards, unsure who is supposed to enter first.  A baton at my back settles the dilemma.  The guard leaves his weapon drawn as we move forward.  As soon as we cross the threshold the door slides shut behind us. 

My knees tremble when I realize the Keeper has deposited us back in yesterday’s courtroom. I whip back to the wall where a doorway stood moments before.  Nevile swallowed my exit, forcing me to face the scene of my crime.

Crews must have worked all night to make the room even half way resemble the orderly court I walked into yesterday, but their diligence can not erase all of the tell tale signs. At the far side of the room, the huge charred door looms behind an empty gallery.  No spectators crowd and clamor to hear my verdict this morning.  Light fixtures are free of their glass-encased filaments, instead torches flicker in sconces built into the stone long ago.  The judges’ towers appear unharmed.  I sweep my gaze around the exterior of the room, focusing on anything and everything to avoid looking to the pit in the middle of the floor.  The body has to be gone.  You don’t just leave a body in the middle of the floor.  My stomach roils and a flush rises over me.  Like a moth to a flame my gaze pulls to the center of the room. Mercifully, before my gaze lands on the pit see Holloway at his table.  Right where I left him.

A white bandage covers his left cheek, red pin pricks of blood show through in several spots. His glasses are taped across the bridge of his nose.  I expect him to flinch at the sight of me, but he meets my gaze.  He hurries to my side.  “I am her counselor, she is to remain by my side through the proceedings.”  He takes me by the elbow and leads me from my entourage.  A few paces from my guards, he murmurs, “I’m glad you’re okay.”

His kindness almost sends me to my knees.

Hawk Nose sits at the opposing bench with the lelsh on his right.  Besides the guards and a court-recorder, we are the only ones here.

Holloway pulls out one of the stiff backed wooden chairs from my counsel’s table.  I sit—relieved I’m not forced back into the foxhole. Black scorch marks run across the floor.  Someone tried to scrub them clean, but they have done little but blur the outline of the page’s body.  Nausea overwhelms me and I cough deep hacking coughs.

“Lena…  Lena. Look at me.”

Holloway’s thumb and pointer finger catch my chin, swivel my head to face him.  “Lena.  It’s over.  They’re the ones who forced you.  Focus on me.”  He snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Lena?”

“What happened to your face?”

“Some of the glass caught me, that’s all.  I’m fine.  Do you know why we’re here?”

“Sentencing.”

“That’s right.  The justices are going to come in, and you and I­­–– together–– are going to walk in front of the towers and hear what the justices have to say.  Okay?”

“Uh huh.”  My head turns back toward the center of the room. 

Holloway slams his hand upon the table startling me.  I automatically look to the sources of the noise.  Before I have time to look back to the foxhole, Holloway gets up and turns my chair so I am facing the justice towers instead of the center of the room.  “You are only to look at me, or the justice towers.  Understand?” 

I nod and study the bandage on his face.

Rumbling fills the room as three stone-doors slide open, one behind each of the justice towers.  Holloway leads me from my chair.  We stand, side by side, before the center tower.  Above me the three judges look upon us.   

            The sunken-eyed judge speaks first.  His voice rings through the courtroom, if the gallery had been full no one could of missed his words.  “Olena Burnwhite you are brought before the court today for the verdict of your charges.  In light of yesterday’s events the verdict has unanimously been agreed upon as guilty for the charges of: crimes against humanity, malicious practice of the Dark Arts, and unnatural activities unbecoming to a citizen of the province.  Numerous witnesses to yesterday’s events can confirm beyond a reasonable doubt you have the powers of which you have been accused.”

The silver judge interrupts, the solemn rasp in her voice more pronounced today. “It is our job as justices not to impose our personal impressions upon a situation, but to evaluate the law and administer its’ justice accordingly.  Our personal biases must be set aside in evaluating your case.”  Her pace slows and she looks me in the eyes as she continues.  “There are parties on this bench, myself included, who strongly disagree with finding an individual guilty for a state to which they are naturally born. 

“However, laws are created to protect the citizens of our society.  Yesterday, the grievous actions that unfolded at your hand confirm the darkest fears of our predecessors who set these laws in place.”  Her brow furrows and she shakes her head gently. “We must adhere to the law as written.  For the crimes of which you have been convicted you are sentenced to a mandatory life service at Korvidian.”

Holloway’s face relays horror.  I feel nothing.

Holloway makes a swift recovery and takes a small step forward.  “Your honors, Ms. Burnwhite respects your sentence and admits to her innate abilities as charged by the court. No one feels the events of yesterday more deeply than my client.  She is gravely sorry for what happened.”

I hold my breath as he continues.

“However, Olena has no prior convictions and we have multiple character witnesses willing to testify on her behalf. We stand before the court and beg for the mercy and leniency of your high justices and plead for a reduced sentence.  We ask for consideration of Ms. Burnwhite’s placement in a rehabilitation facility.  With the assistance of the court I am confident Ms. Burnwhite can learn to control her abilities.”

The three justices trade glances. In seconds the burnished judge responds.  “Your plea has been heard, but the letter of the law is very clear regarding cases of this nature.  There is no proven rehabilitation for Ms. Burnwhite’s condition.  She is a threat to others and herself, therefore we must deny any leniency and proceed with the sentence as outlined.  Until the letter of the law is changed we are forced to proceed.”

The silver judge stands, and her two counterparts rise at her lead.  All the music has left her voice when the silver justice speaks her final words.  “It is a dark world that commits one so young to such a sentence.”  She nods to me before disappearing through the stone door behind her.

Holloway turns to me, heartbreak written across his face, his tears magnified through his eyeglass lenses. 

Mercifully all of my tears were spent last night, “Thank you.  This was the only way it would end.  You did everything you could.”  I pat his hand, then offer my wrists to the guard for binding.