Topic: Due 8-4-08

Due Date: 8-4-2008
Topic: Bucket List
Mom liked the movie :-)

Mom: Dictionary word

Dictionary Word

I have wanted to start a blog for sometime, but my working knowledge of a computer made any start-up scary and daunting. The expertise I thought one had to have to just operate the machine left me feeling left-behind, old, and alone. Besides if I ever needed anything from the computer or needed my problems fixed I had children and a husband who could tap a few buttons and I was back in operation. Now my children (let me brag: there are four of them; all incredible) are out of the house, off to college, out in the real world and I’m left home. The job that once defined me – the stay-at-home mom job - has been downsized to the occasional telephone call or visit. I am no longer needed to run children to piano lessons or scouts. I no longer have willing dates for the ballet or shopping. My husband is a good sport and attends some cultural events with me but draws the line at shopping and ballet. I have a new girlfriend-in-law (can we way that?); she lives with one of my sons. She joined me and my two daughters this past Christmas when the Russian Ballet came to town and performed the Nutcracker. She loved it, but she (they) are two hundred miles away.

I’ve strayed from my point and that was that I was feeling sorry for myself and needed a new direction, something to get me up in the morning, some friends to talk to.

This blog process did not come easy. I had to educate myself on what a blog was first, so I looked up the word. Wikipedia has a nine page discussion of the word, and it’s written in small print. Wikipedia says that blog comes from the phrase web log and can be a noun or verb. And the word’s only been around since 1997. After surfing cyberspace, I discovered all kinds of users and creators of blogs from big corporations to individuals; and all kinds of reasons to blog. There was one blog written by a woman in Alaska who was showing off her yard. It had commentary and pictures. I didn’t know you could grow flowers in Alaska; I thought it was all cold and white up there – you know, ice and snow and frozen nose hair. She had hits on her site; people were looking at her yard. I didn’t see a comment card to respond, but she had over a thousand hits. That’s a conversation without words.

So I wanted a blog, too. I tried to do this on my own, but it’s the same computer – scary, daunting, and very frustrating. I mentioned all this to my other son who lives twelve hours away. He came up with the site, created it, and advises me on it. We both submit stories to it. And we can comment on it. AND it’s got a “hit” counter on it. So here I am! With a blog! The child has become the parent! I am connected. I have new friends to talk to. And pretty soon, I’m gonna have Skype (is that how it’s spelled?) – you know that camera that sits on the computer. I’ll be able to see my kids when I talk to them! Well, I’m here now: I’m modern and I’m hip. So check us out; leave a comment; talk to me; I’m listening. However, I gotta go just now; gotta look up the word Skype.

SON: Last Word I Looked Up, 7-28-08

Holding my cocktail in one hand, I stepped away from my current boyfriend. George had an audience, and he was going off on some obscure point in central African politics.

I had sat through enough of his diatribes, and, whereas I had once enjoyed playing along in this game, I had grown bored with the practice. George and I had been to Africa, but I always thought the far more interesting stories were the flight delays, the weird food, and the growing Americanization of the local cultures. He, meanwhile, picked up on minor points and then expounded on them with great affect to anyone who would listen.

And, since we were in a political crowd this evening, he pulled some minor occurrence about an election in Mali or Malawi or Madagascar -- no one would bother to check, and I don't even think he was keeping track at this point -- and used it as the basis for a massive speech on the faults of developing world Democracy.

He had no background in the topic, and he made up most of his facts, but he kept his audience. I watched the dark-skinned, blue-eyed twink who was gazing at George with lust. Oh boy.

It was my fault; I had let him get this bad. I had even played along, after he wowed me with enough of these yarns. I had bought into them when we were dating.

Five years later, the constant grandiloquence annoyed me. I could see right through it, and I had become familiar with the taste of his tales when they went off on fairy tale. Five years later, I found myself with a man who was far from the urbane and interesting man I believed I was dating, who was rather the bastard child of his own cleverness and the cocaine culture of short attention spans, superficiality, and instant gratification.

And, tonight, after a few cocktails, I was just over it. I left his circle of adoration and stepped out onto the balcony.

It was a cool night, and I sipped my rum and coke. I heard steps behind me.

"This is too much drama, even for you." I spun around, expecting George and not finding him.

"Well, I'm sorry, I hadn't intended on saying anything, I just needed a cigarette."

I back down from my fighter's stance. I had assumed it was George, following me out to have a "romantic moment." This would be the perfect set-up -- in front of the big windows so that everyone could see how devoted he was to his partner of years. "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else..."

He inhaled and exhaled a lungful of smoke. "Apparently I am someone else." He smiled, extended his hand. "I'm Robert."

I took his hand and responded absentmindedly, "Paul." I kept my eyes over Robert's shoulder on George, who was pointing at the walls and gesticulating wildly with his right hand -- What the hell is he talking about now?I thought -- while his left arm was around the neck of that twink boy. "Cute," I dropped the word, and went back to leaning against the balcony rail, leaning forward on my elbows.

"I am, thanks for noticing."

"You'll forgive me if I'm not too interested in sarcasm this evening." I leaned forward heavily, my feet barely touching the ground as I put all of my weight on my elbows.

"That's OK," he said with a snort, pushing the bluish smoke out of his nostrils and towards me. "You'll forgive me if I'm not too interested in pretentious queens this evening." He flicked his cigarette over the rail, began to walk back inside, but stopped and said, "You don't know that guy, do you?"

He was pointing at George, who was huddled privately in a corner with the twink boy, speaking frantically and moving his hands. I felt a tinge of jealousy, and I wondered if I would be alone in bed that night while he ran off with some crowd to "look at the stars." I suppose you can see the stars when you're on your back, granted there's a skylight. "Yea... a little. Why?"

"I'm looking for a good word to describe him, but I can't quite put my finger on it."

"Phony? Fake? Pretentious? Bombastic..."

"Wait, isn't that a good thing... bombastic?"

"Um, no."

"Oh." Robert considered the scene inside, slowly rolling the word over his tongue. I could barely hear him whispering, "bombastic, bombastic," as if repeating the word would bring the definition to light. "You sure that's not a good thing -- I mean, maybe, subconsciously, you meant it as a compliment." He turned his head towards me. "Hm? Friend? Admirer? Jilted lover?"

"Something like that, but, if it does mean something good, that was not my intent."

He took a swing of the rest of his drink, made a face, and dumped the rest over the railing. "Not suitable for human consumption."

Distractedly: "What? My boyfriend?"

"No I meant the wine." He laughed. "Boyfriend -- 'something like that,' indeed. Too bad about the relationship. I have a great dictionary at home and we could have settled our debate. Besides, you seem far too interesting for him. All the same, good night." And, with that, he set his glass down on the edge and walked into the house and towards the exit.

I watched Robert go, and let my eyes linger on George. The two of them were too close, gazing a little too long at each other, touching each other just so, and I knew I would be alone, again. I made the decision that I was going to choose to be alone, at least tonight, and the next. And I knew that I was done with him.

I caught up with Robert on the front lawn. "Is it Webster's or American Heritage... your dictionary?"

He smiled, and I knew it would all be better.

---

"Who was that guy?" the blue eyed twink asked me -- what was his name? Javi? Bobby? Whatever. He had seen my gaze follow Paul out the door, chasing the trick I had sent in his direction. Finally, I though, he gets the cajones to leave. Paul had been fun for a while, but I had been bored with him. I thought he would have left me long ago, especially after that fiasco with the Latin body builder, but I had underestimated his lack of self-respect. It had taken months to finally get the boy to go. Now, the break up would be clean because Paul had found his wings. Very little mess.

I smiled and turned back to the twink. We'll go with Bobby. "No one, Bobby... no one important."

I wasn't corrected on the name; that was a good guess.

Next Topic,

Due Date: 7-28-2008
Topic: What was the last word you looked up, and why?
(From: The Imagination Prompt Generator)

SON'S COMMENT: I've started looking up some writing prompt generators online. It feels a little like cheating, but, in all honesty, most of them are pretty generic and boring. If we use them, I think we should challenge ourselves to make our responses as creative as possible, yes?

Son: Chapstick, 7-21-08

We are at some bus station in the middle of Ohio, and you are luxuriously applying chapstick to your lips -- they are pale red, the color of dawn. Almost a peach.

Now, you are lighting a cigarette placed where the greasy stick was just moments before. Small, pale hands control your movements. Flicking on the lighter, fire delights your face. It's hot out, and the meager flame reflects off 100s of small droplets of sweat that are rolling down your cheek. Your angular, Roman-esque features provide a water park of rivulets until they meet at your jaw bone, where they disappear for a moment and reappear at your neck.

Breathe in, breathe out, blow smoke.

The girl with you makes some comment and she laughs at her own cleverness. You are broken away from the privacy of lighting and puffing the first puff, and your downy blue eyes refocus on her.

You smile, those chapstick flavored and nicotine stained lips curl in the form of a half-smile. You are turned away, so I can't see your full expression, but I know you are conscious of me, and can still feel my presence inside of you.

I left it there. You had tried to refuse but couldn't. A dirty, quick fuck in the bathroom stall, your teeth biting deep into the handle of your bag strap to keep you from screaming.

You had made a half-assed attempt at a few protests, but the time together was short and the need was so great that it left little ability to do anything but pull our pants down and bend you over.

I owned you for a minute, and that is still my sweat mixed with yours dripping down your back.

Those perfect lips, that fair, hairless facial skin that I, have no doubt, has been worshipped by the dumpy, hippy girl you are with was contorted and mangled just moments before for me.

And I know you are feeling my eyes burn into your back.

We have hours to go, and many more bus stops together.

Mom: Chap Stick

CHAP STICK

They dressed to go out for a walk around the neighborhood. His doctor told him to get more exercise. Diabetes. The doc warned him of the consequences if ignored: There would be problems with kidneys, heart, swelling, blindness, all of it. But he didn’t hear the part about exercise – a deliberate oversight, until his feet started to swell and ankles disappeared. Not a particularly fastidious man but it was beginning to hurt to walk. So his solution was to bombard his feet with exercise: walking fast, walking slow, while standing he would go up on toes and come down on heels, anything to keep the feet moving. But it wasn’t enough. Then more problems: The stress test came back. His heart rate was fast; pumping way too hard for the slow workout the technicians had put him through at the med-lab. Additional blood tests turned up high levels of cholesterol. He was a heart attack just waiting to happen. He was taking vitamins, aspirins, heart medicine, calcium tablets, and insulin shots; not to mention all the extra meds he took for the side effects to control diarrhea, constipation, and sleeplessness. Then there was the pain killers to help with the pain in his feet.

Good Lord, he told himself, he was only 60. In his second childhood: The kids were gone and the house was empty. Good Lord, he repeated, they could be having sex all over the house now, in any room or closet they wanted. He bent down to tie his sneaker and his spine clicked and his muscles groaned with the task. He left the bedroom while she put on her shoes.

He wandered down the hall and into the dining room. There was that huge dining room table and all those chairs, the scene of many family celebrations. Used and used and used – lots of memories around that thing. It was hard and non-conforming. It stood in front of the sliding glass door which opened into the back yard. The room was full of browns and greens, but in the middle was the deep blue table looking like a pool in the middle of forested nature with the odor of roses coming through the screen door. He rubbed his forehead and walked back down the hallway.

Good Lord, he repeated, his second childhood, and they were dressing to go for a walk for exercise.
He leaned against the bathroom door. His wife was applying chap stick to her lips. The pinkish balm was invisible; her lips were a soft brown. “Why you doin’ that?” he asked nodding to the mirror and chap stick.

“You know why, Silly,” she replied with another swipe across her lips. She looked good to him even after thirty-five years of marriage. Her body showed the evidence of time. He couldn’t pretend she was lithe and agile as she once had been, but she had raised three children, worked fulltime, and was the social director for the family now. Her interests had shifted.

“No, really, why?” he asked.

“The cold. Don’t want them crackin’ and bleedin’. You know this. Why you asking? ” She held out the tube to him. “Want some?”

It smelled like menthol. Like medicine. It smelled like what it was supposed to be. He jolted back; the odor was so strong. So mentholated. “No thanks. You ‘bout ready?” The odor made him feel old, like the old men he used to work with that smelled like Ben-Gay. Old and medicinal odors went together in his head. He wasn’t old; he was in his second childhood.

“Almost,” She replied and leaned up closer to the mirror.

He went back out to the hallway, to the dining room and stared at the table. He remembered a similar scene a couple of weeks past; same question, different answer. He had asked “why you doin’ that?” as another woman applied chap stick to her lips. She stood just over there at the head of the table, a different woman, brown from the sun and strong in his arms.

“For you,” she whispered.

The table was hard. The scent of roses wafted through the sliding glass door. The neighbors dogs barked. A cat rubbed up against the screen door and purred. There was a bombardment of scents and sounds, but he noticed nothing except the smell and taste of that cherry chap stick.

Next Topic

Due Date: 7-21-2008
Topic: CHAPSTICK
(From MOM, who came up with it while shopping)

Son: If I ruled the world...

He considered the cathedral from where he stood on the turret. It was going up quickly -- the glistening, sweating bodies of slaves worked furiously to pile stones specially carved by the finest masons in the world. The statues and detailed story-pictures were created to explain the stories of this strange God to the masses. He could hear the single bell set up on wooden stilts calling the "flock" to the steps of the building for services, under the watchful eyes of the white robed priest with a booming voice and the oglden symbol of his sacrificed Lord around his neck. The cathedral would be a masterpiece -- perfect and glorious and filled with a spectrum of light.

It disgusted him.

That man's flock was his people. The mass's unified voice, singing hymns, was a challenge to his own power. His thoughts were tinged with jealousy -- it usually took more than a bell to get people to listen to him -- but mostly he was angry.

His father, the King of Earth and Heaven before him, the man who had conquered the known world, had converted on his death bed and ordered the cathedral built. As for the Empire, he had decreed that it would be left to the eldest son who converted with him and then would swear them to continue the building process.

Five sons had converted, but he was the only one to swear to the cathedral. While the other brothers debated the point, he took the opportunity and signed the order. The Lord Proector, chief minister of the Empire, was there, consecrated the succession, and his father had died.

Five minutes later, as Lord-to-be, he ordered the death of his brothers, cast out the priest, and converted back to his native gods. They had always served him well. The cathedral, meanwhile, was harder to get rid of. Flesh cuts easily, and blood is definitive, but stone was more difficult to pull down.

He cursed his father for the oath, and cursed more the order had been signed by him, that he had not waited the few minutes before his father had passed on.

He pushed his palms together and pulled them apart, feeling the glow of the fire ball he had formed there. He wished that he could simply throw it down and destroy the building, but it would be too obvious. It was weaker than ever, now. It may not have the same force. This new God forbade the use of magic. As people stopped using it, the power was dying.

It was just fading away.

I rule the world, and this religion is becoming a problem. And, that afternoon, it would go away. He extinguished the flame, turned on his heel and went back inside as rain clouds gathered.

----

He woke up to the expected boom.

His afternoon nap had been peppered with dreams of blood, of the aftermath of war, of bodies piled high until they blocked out the sun. And every last one of them wore a white robe.

The boom was a planned explosion by specialized assassins for the built environment. A signle lightning bolt during the storm -- magically arranged -- had struck a second spell that had exploded. He smile as he thought of addressing the crowd. This must be a sign that the gods of our forefathers are angry, he would say, we must repent! The use of this new God's own language was genius and a special touch he had planned to move them. The flock would be his, again.

He dressed alone, waving off servants. He wanted to do this slowly, the whole time humming one of their tunes. This would be his day.

His entourage left the castle to inspect the destruction, the rain softening in the early vening. Everything was dark, as the clouds still blocked out the dim light. His ministers were gossiping and begging for plans around him, a muting and umbrella spell covering all of them as they walked.

He hummed, ignoring them, and practically skipped up the hill to the sight of the now destroyed cathedral.

Clink. The sound started a few blocks away from the site. Clink. The sound of metal hitting stone rang through the streets sharply; he winced, knowing the sound and marking it as the same tone that kept him awake at night. Clink. "Sounds like they are rebuilding," one of the ministers said, and the Lord of Earth and Heaven noted that that man would have to die. Clink. His heart sank and his pace quickened, and he was no longer humming but could hear the music still in his ears.

He knew what to expect when he turned the courner. Thousands of people stood around the base of the steps at the flattened church, holding candles and singing hymns. At the front, the priest was leading them all. Slaves were picking up stones and moving them. They were rebuilding, and the crowd was growing by the minute. All singing.

For a moment, he was at a loss, but he knew what had to be done. To rule the world, you had to adapt, and he felt himself moving through the shocked crowd, which parted as he stepped forward. Every instinct screamed KILL KILL towards each of the startled faces, and he wanted to bury a knife in the heart of the bastard priest.

Which is why even he was surprised when he alighted the broken stairs, singing with the crowd, to embrace the white frocked pretender at what was once the doorway.

"If I ruled the world, truly," he whispered in the man's hear, "you would be dead."

"Ah," the priest shot back, "but you can't without the people's hearts -- my people's hearts." He pulled away and turned towards the crowd, his voice booming over the song, "Your Lord is converting back! He, too, has seen the good that is our God, even in this dark hour!"

A cheer went up as the Lord of Heaven and Earth dropped to one knee and he signaled his ministers to do the same.

The toothy grin of the bastard priest looked down. "And now, you are my puppet. I rule the world."

Mom: If I ruled the world

If I ruled the free world:
There is so much anger and tension when one is an ordinary citizen. Just trying to survive in a period of rising fuel costs, unemployment, and lower wages is exhausting. Making decisions about where to spend one’s money finds all of us choosing between food and medicine. The struggle to survive and stay ahead of the curve – if only to have a few dollars more for a movie on Friday night – is frustrating. Work that should be rewarding has no rewards when all income is spent by Thursday. So who do we blame?

There is so much anger and tension felt when one is the leader of the free world. It is an inheritance from one struggling president to the next, and I am the next. The internal strife of the country’s citizens, the blame, and the slow movement of the Congressional process are obstacles to any rapid change or clear action I might propose to help alleviate desperate conditions. One of my predecessor, FDR, was a miracle worker, or he simply dazzled Congress into passing so many programs and acts to help the country during the depression of the 1930s. Passage of these programs was often accomplished on his say-so: He presented Congress and the country with a logical plan for success that to question him was almost tantamount to political heresy. By the time he was ready to fund the Manhattan Project (A-bomb) no one doubted his leadership and intent when he asked Congress to trust him and blindly fund a project they knew nothing about.

It is different today: Congress learned a valuable lesson about giving too much power to the President. And since FDR, there have been considerable restraints put on the executive office. So to be leader of the free world doesn’t seem to have the creativity, energy or power that it once had. It has become a government of red-tape, a juggernaut of paper with convoluted channels of processing and personal agendas. So as the leader of the free world with an opposition Congress, I am left to dance the dance with partners whose objective is to slow waltz me into the oblivion of minutiae. So I say “To Hell” with world peace, disarmament, gay marriage amendments, and mining oil in the Arctic: “It’s PB&J day!”

What we need is a break: Every one of us - Americans, Saudis, Israelis, Germans, Congolese, and Chinese – All of us. I propose PB&J day. I propose that on Tuesdays at noon we call off work, go home to our Moms and have them fix us a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and a glass of milk. And not just any PB&J: It’s got to be soft white bread, and thick peanut butter, and jelly that bleeds through to the outside. The milk has to be icy cold, with little ice crystals floating on top. Then after lunch everyone to bed – naptime! - with cuddly stuffed bears and lemony crisp sheets. Everyone, everywhere. For three hours no business is conducted. There’s no one in the office; no finger on the button anywhere: We’re asleep. There’s no anger, no tension, just a full tummy on sweet PB&J and a nap.

And I propose that this take place on Tuesdays. Why Tuesday? Nobody ever complains on a Tuesday. They complain on Monday that the weekend wasn’t long enough. Wednesdays are hump days with lots of energy as the weekend is in sight. Thursday is the “one-more day” day. And Friday is TGIF day. Then there are two days - Saturday and Sunday - with other jobs, such as the house, kids, a second job or just the continuation of the previous week’s job. We need to rest.

So this Tuesday, PB&J for everyone!!!!!!

Next Topic

Due Date: 7-14-2008
Topic:
IF I RULED THE WORLD...
(used either as the subject or the first line of your piece)
Suggested by my coworker, Jori.

Mom: Random Phone Number, 7-7-08

The scenario is the same. We, the out of work, out of money and homeless, use city services to do our dailies. We’re scary to the lone users and the desperate dancers in public restrooms, but we have a right to privacy when taking a dump. Public restrooms offer us a measure of decency that is lacking in our lives, a moment of relief from the cold weather, cold people, and cold system that we meet. Public restrooms offer warmth and a moment of clean-ness that we occasionally need in our lives. Public restrooms offer several forms of social services that we can tap into such as phone numbers, addresses, and names of people that can help. Many outreach agencies advertise on these walls using the big expansive public walls around the sinks. Cold, impersonal, helpful. Sometimes.

But, it is what is posted inside the stalls that is more personal and useful. Men’s and women’s restrooms are no different except for the urinals. Both have stalls for the sit-down customer and ample wall space for the budding literati of the city who work through philosophical arguments about the meaning of something in short verse, or philosophical questions about the meaning of life asked by one and answered by another. There are famous quotes from famous movies, often farcical because the can-sitter may need "… the force …" to be with him. There are cat-fights played out on stall walls in which the new Hatfields and McCoys eek out revenge on each other. One cat-fight begins by calling Sara a bitch. With the obligatory rebuttal and escalation, someone else writes "Well, your sister’s a double bitch." Then there is the delineation of Sara’s ancestry back to Sodom and Gomorrah. Then the response, "Well, your sister sucked cock on Clinton at the White House." While enjoying this pants-free moment behind a locked stall door, this modern interpretation of passive-aggressive behavior is nothing but a history lesson in religio-political enlightenment of 20th century insults, and just goes to show that what goes around comes right back around and is recorded on bathroom stalls for the next reader, who, by-the-way, hopes Sara’s phone number has been left behind.

If one is so inclined – and happens to be carrying pencil and paper into the stall with him or her – there are numerous phone numbers to be had. These are the private, individual social services that can only be had from inside stall doors and don’t usually make it to the big wall; evidence of the private nature of this information. Phone numbers usually are accompanied by someone’s name and nothing else. However, many of these numbers come with advice: "For a good time, call Betty, 265-8103," leaving a clue as to the social service provided – a good time. And in that squatting moment the sitter has hope: Warm, personal help. Immediately. Not the slow gears of government and community based welfare, but Betty’s private, personal, smiling good time welfare. "Betty" is the cameo literature of stall-walls: It is the short biopic created in the reader’s mind on the small amount of information provided, and suddenly there is a storyline playing out in the stall. There is the "Betty" sigh – Ah-h-h, Betty - that launches pleasant memories that occupy us through the dump.

We, the out of work, out of money and homeless thank the city for its services. The public restroom does its job, as an institution dedicated to cleanliness, providing refuge, and privacy and entertainment. The public restroom takes care of our physical needs; the stall walls take care of the rest. Movin’ on.

This author’s favorite cameo is about AIDS and appears in men’s rooms throughout Cincinnati:

"Get tested. Your life is in your hands."

*******************
There has been some discussion in my house over the above use of the phrase "cameo literature." It is considered bad form to legitimize a crime and give it credence when in reality it is graffiti, vandalism, and slogan-ism, none of which is true literature. However, I would argue that before building graffiti became a legitimate urban art form, pursued and protected by art connoisseurs and city councils, it was a crime. Cameo literature is the bit part a name or phrase plays in the individual’s life and can have as profound an effect as Kurt Vonnegut or AIDS does if the cameo’s information is acted upon. Or it can have as small an effect as to last only a moment like ice cream, as a warm pleasant memory. In the long run, this cameo appearance can re-write a person’s life story, can send that life on a tangent of explored (or unexplored) adventures therefore making one’s life story a biography and legitimate literature whether written down or not.

Son: Random Phone Number, 7-7-08

We could dine for days off the meat in a single human. She had made the suggestion when we were hungriest and the first baby had died, of malnutrition as far as she knew.

She had been out and I was watching our sick, starving child -- Adam, we had named him, the first child of Earth. He was just crying and crying and my temper was short that day. Adam had not been fed for days, her breasts to dry to feed, and I took a pillow and smothered my son.

He cried, and then he was silent. And then he was gone.

She took it well, at first, accepting the inevitable death, but I saw the insanity growing in her eyes. Crazed fear behind dim brown. I imagined they were beautiful once, and I closed my eyes and thought of what they might have been whenever we fucked -- cold, meticulous, save the race sort of fucking.

We could dine for days off the meat in a single human, she had said after we had buried Adam in a small park down the street. We had imagined that, growing up, our son would love this park and play there.

I allowed the perversity, thought I know now the brief glimmer in her eyes was not hope but her growing insanity. It was practical enough -- dead bodies littered the landscape and we were able to salvage the occasional body that had not become carrion or decay-ridden.

Sometimes, with the right cooking and the right spices, we could almost believe that the hard, sinewy meat or a stew of innards came from the finest of chefs. But it was all we could eat, as neither of us excelled at the basic arts of survival we needed so desperately now.

I had vomited after the first time we ate -- hard, painful retching out of my own disgust. That's when I began to walk.

The first payphone I scratched the walls of was no further than two blooks up from where we were squatting. I held my breath when I reached it and picked up the receiver. I heard the comforting crackling dialtone. It gave me hope.

I scratched a note with a key on the wall of the booth -- STILL ALIVE, WHERE R U? -- and then dated it, scratching away the blue paint to expose the metal beneath with crude, large, capitalized letters.

It became an obsession after that and part of my daily routine. After we ate, I would wander the empty streets, seeking out working payphones. Cell phones had virtually wiped out the technology, and my range widened every day. I would wander well into the night along dead streets, empty except for the occasional individual invading wild life.

Since the miscarriage -- Adam II or, perhaps, Eve -- our attempts at repopulating the Earth were all but abandoned. My growing dependence on bottles of whisky -- found by breaking into bars and liquor stores at night -- was not helping the growing dystopia.

Months passed, and I varied my nights between carving new queries and checking the old ones. Sometimes, she would be up when I stumbled in. She would be fiercely cleaning something in their little house, her eyes blazing with obsession and fear, and I would take her from behind, wondering if she even noticed. Others, she would be gone -- at one stretch, she was gone for three days, and that was when I began the brutal work of feeding the two of us. I didn't know where she went, but we had long since stopped talking. I was never awake for the day -- rousing at dinner time and then walking away.

It was a silent existence. I would scream sometimes while I walked, believing that the echo off the empty buildings were other people screaming back. I knew my eyes were beginning to show the crazed fear I was seeing take her completely.

And I had developed a taste for human flesh, to the exception of all others. We had given up our half-hearted attempts at hunting or fishing or growing food. But the supply was dwindling, and the growing hunger was feeding our own dilapidation. Enough months had passed to reduce the supply to little more than insect ridden flecks left on now sun-bleached bones.

Some nights, that was enough.

I had given up hope. I stopped looking at old carvings. STILL ALIVE, WHERE R U? became STILL ALIVE became just the date, hatchmarks on a prisoner's cell wall. It was habit, nothing more. Thus, when a new date appeared on the first phone booth that I had carved, my heart jumped.

Two days before, two blocks from where we stayed, a new date. I felt hope surge, and I saw a light. There are others out there. My mind was beating back the insanity because someone else was out there. There was a phone number and time to be in the booth for me to call.

CALL ON... two days from that day.

Hope.

I was there that day, waiting for that exact moment. Reaching up, I shook as the receiver clicked off the rack and I heard the crackling dialtone. I had found two quarters in the drawer of a liquor store to make the call, and, taking a swig of the whisky I had swiped, I dialed.

Ring.

Ring.

Click. It took a moment to register in my head, to believe that a human voice was answering, and I fought off his first response of just screaming into the receiver. Then I heard a familiar voice:

"Hello?" It was her.

Hope died and the fear returned. It took me completely. I was finally, undoubtedly, alone and hungry.

And I wondered then what the taste of fresh human flesh was like.

Next Topic

Next posting: 7/7/08
Topic:
INVENT A CHARACTER WHO SEES A PHONE NUMBER ON A RESTROOM WALL. DESCRIBE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN HE OR SHE DIALS IT.
(from the Writer's Block book)

Mom's Post: Virus (6-30-08)

TOPIC: Virus

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I have been working on this word since you gave it to me last week. I hate this word; it always spells problems. I tried to define the word, sympathize with the word, even eulogize the word, but nothing. Fear comes with the word: illness, disability, and death are synonymous with the word. Did you know there were hundreds of thousands of death from the flu virus in World War I? More American warriors were brought low or died from this virus than from battlefield casualties. If the Germans had had some immunity to the virus then the outcome of the war could have been different: We might be enjoying our German measles and sauerkraut.

Anyway, my response to the selection:

Virus

Invasive, deadly, conqueror

Supplanter, plagiarist, polluter, aggrandizer

Lover, daemon, creator

Virus.

I was trying to practice haikus, but found I had the wrong format and really was very ignorant as to what a haiku was. So the following is my tribute to the 3-line 5-7-5 syllabled haiku.

Virus

Corrosive demon

Deadly lover of all life

Destroyer of health

Avatar.

Son's Post: VIRUS 6-30-08

TOPIC: Virus

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Two virii walked into a bar. They order a drink, discuss the varying mitochondria of the world, and then go home to clone.

Vince the virus had two million clones -- a moderate size family in a nice section of the GI tract. He was comfortable here. His clones merrily bounced off each other eithin their tiny cell at the end of a small cul-de-sac in a quiet part of the lower duodenum.

One day, they would become enough that they would burst free, encapsulate themselves in their own protein shell, and seek out a host cell of their own where the cycle would repeat itself.

Of course, the home of their RNA years would be destroyed in the process, and they would remember nothing of him, while he passed onto the Great Beyond. He would be unceremoniously buried in fecal matter and flushed down into the great watery grave of his people.

That's how it went, though, and he was ok with that.

Here in this part of the world, all was peaceful. Reports of bad tidings had come in from other parts via the intracellular web they had established. New creatures -- chemical, in nature, it appeared -- had begun attacking their quiet way of life. Some had been bullied out of new hosts, some had even reported break in's that stopped or destroyed clones so that they could not carry on to greener pastures.

Vince considered himself lucky. It had been a tough decision, choosing a host where he did. The night he had met with Roberto in the bar, his friend had talked exitedly about the action going on in the lymph nodes that were growing quickly, mostly north of where he sat in his comfy chair.

But the fast growth had attracted this bad element. He wasn't sure if Roberto was there anymore, or if his clones had ever made it out. Vince had, on a whim, chosen to go back to the place of his own clone years for its peace and simplicity. The newness did not attract him. His family had lived here for hundreds of life-cycles, here in the suburbs, and that was OK with him.

Roberto may already be gone. By his own internal clock, it was becoming about that time, anyways. But there was no way of knowning. Vince hoped that his friend's clones hadn't mutated like the Others, strong and more evil copies to beat back these new invaders.

He understood the need of the mutants. Their leaders insisted via the intracellular network that they were for the survival of the race. To Vince, they were pantomimes of good citizens designed for nothing more than survival. Disgusting and awful super-virii with the ability to evade and perhaps even destroy these invaders.

They made Vince sick. He was all for survival, but it was nice that his clones had maintained proper purity.

This was his thought before the first clone hit the cell wall and began to bud off. He watched the sky open up in a terrible shower of ripping protein, the cell collapsing around him. He wished his clones well.

The great sleep was overcoming him. His clones would spread racial purity. Hopefully, they would stay nearby and forego the speed and excitement of these new places. Vince believed it was these places that led to the awful mutations.

"What the hell," he thought, at the last, "we're all dead anyway, even this whole world will die, too."

The final clone passed through, not yet conscious, not yet alive, in search of its own bright future.