Here's a late entry (Children's Story) if anyone would be so kind as to give feedback, critique, I would be most appreciative. I've received several rejections so want to get it right. Thank you!
The Secret Ingredient
WORD COUNT 945
"Mmmm, Cinnamon Rolls! Can we make them, Mom?” Mandy read Aunt Aggie's Christmas card.
"I don't know honey. It takes a lot of time. Let’s buy ready-dough instead.” Mom replied.
"We never have time!" Mandy whined. But her mother was reading the mail. "Brown sugar, cinnamon, flour." Mandy read the ingredients on the card. "We have those things in our cupboard.” She read on. “Butter, yeast …‘secret ingredient’…what does that mean?”
“Secret ingredient? It says that?” Mom looked up.
“Yes! Right here.” Mandy said.
“Hmmm. That’s a puzzle!” Mom said thoughtfully.
“How can you make a recipe without knowing all of the ingredients?” Mandy wondered, walking to her room. She tucked the recipe inside her desk and went to help with dinner.
Christmas grew closer. The malls were packed. The windows were frosted with ice, and there was a festive cheer in the air. Mandy helped her mother put up holiday decorations. She went to school and played with friends. She was so busy, she forgot all about the recipe.
With school vacation around the corner, Mandy stayed up late finishing her homework. She over-slept the next morning.
“Hurry up, Mandy. It’s freezing out here!” Mom called.
“Okay!” Mandy yelled, grabbing her homework from the desk.
They were driving to school when Mandy noticed something stuck to her paper. “Hey, look at this!” she waved a card at her mother.
“The cinnamon rolls!” Mom said. “Did you ask Aunt Aggie what the secret ingredient was?”
“I forgot… Do you know?”
“Maybe she wants us to find out for ourselves,” Mom said.
“And how do we do that?” Mandy shrugged as she said goodbye.
It was snowing when Mandy’s mother picked her up from the after-school program. Mandy got into the car and noticed the familiar smell of take-out food.
“I’m tired! Let’s go home and relax for a change!” Mom yawned.
“I’m still thinking about that recipe. Can I call Aunt Aggie tonight?” Mandy asked.
Her mother agreed, and they decided to make the call after dinner.
The fire was starting to crackle when Mandy dialed the number. After the usual greetings, Mandy blurted out her question. “What’s the secret ingredient?” she asked.
She heard a pause before Aunt Aggie chuckled. “Oh Mandy, you have to make the recipe to find out!”
“But how can I make it without knowing the secret ingredient?” Mandy asked again.
“You will know, my dear. You will know.”
Mandy answered Aunt Aggie’s questions about the weather and school, and then handed the phone to her mother.
She sat down by the fire feeling disappointed by Aunt Aggie’s response and more confused than ever.
Her mother set down the phone and came in to sit with Mandy. "Now this is Christmas!" she said, glancing at the twinkling tree lights.
"I thought Christmas is about presents and parties,” said Mandy.
"Well, that is part of it, I guess. But so is slowing down and taking time to be with the ones you love. When I was little, Aunt Aggie would make hot chocolate and tell stories by the fire. It was so cozy," Mom sighed.
“It feels cozy now.” Mandy said. Mom nodded in agreement.
After fire started to fade, her mother snuffed out the coals. She hugged Mandy before tucking her into bed.
Mandy fell sound asleep, snuggled deep under her blankets. Stormy winds howled while she slept. She woke up to a blizzard outside her window.
“Yikes!” she cried as her feet touched the icy floor. Mandy put on her slippers and walked through the living room. She blinked when she noticed another fire burning.
Her mother was in the kitchen brewing a pot of coffee.
“What’s up? Aren’t you going to be late for work?”
"It’s a snow day! Her Mom grinned. “The roads won't be plowed for hours. So I was thinking…how about those gooey cinnamon rolls?"
"For real? Mandy asked.
"Yep!"
Mandy's smile lit up the room.
After breakfast, they made space for baking. Her mother read the ingredients while Mandy measured and mixed. The dough became firm, and her mother showed her how to work it. They laughed as they punched the dough.
They started a game of checkers while the dough started to rise. They watched the falling snow. Mandy's mother told her stories of growing up, and Mandy shared funny things that happened at school.
By the time they walked back into the kitchen, the dough had risen into a gigantic ball. When they tried to roll the dough flat, it kept bouncing back.
“Try it slower.” Mom said. This time, Mandy worked slowly and made a big square.
“Now the cinnamon!” Mandy spread a layer of sugar on top. Her mother glazed the dough with butter.
"It looks like a tube!" Mandy laughed, rolling up the layers. A little of the mix crumbled out.
"That's okay," Mom smiled.
They sat by the fire while the rolls baked. Finally, the timer beeped. Mandy’s stomach sank. She just remembered!
"Oh no, Mom. We forgot the secret ingredient! What if they don't turn out?"
"Well, they sure smell delicious!" Mom said as she spread icing over the rolls.
They curled up by the fire with their rolls and milk.
"Mmmm! This is sooo good!" Mandy said, licking icing off her fingers.
"I’m glad it snowed. It was fun spending the day together. What do you think the secret ingredient was?" Mom wondered.
Mandy scrunched her forehead. "I don't know, but I'm glad we made them.” She paused. “Hmmm…”
"What?" asked Mom.
“Could the secret ingredient spending time together?"
"Aha! Maybe so…" They laughed.
"I'm ready for another cinnamon roll!" Mandy jumped up. "How about you?"
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Labrynth
The Labrynth is a a sacred spiral or maze that has one opening to enter and exit. Upon entering, you walk on a tightly woven path which turns back and forth methodically until you are not sure whether you are journeying in or out, or lost somewhere in between. There are many designs, and the spiritual journey can be traced back to most cultures and religions.
Most who walk the Labrynth do so in silence. Walking into the maze can be a time to meditate on a question, or a processing of something inside of you. You might have a problem for which you are seeking resolution. Or you may use the time to reflect on where you are going. When you approach the inner circle, you have an opportunity to pray or meditate, allowing your experience to resonate in your body and honor your thoughts and feelings. When you are ready, you will exit the inner circle and return to the path you were on, unwinding back to the entrance/exit. Often, this will be a time of release and letting go. Many feel lighter and softer on their way back through the maze.
I had an privilege to walk the Labrynth yesterday on the day of Winter Solstice. There was no specific quest that I was on, but I found the journey to be healing in being able to center myself in connecting mind and body. It felt like a shedding of the past and an opportunity to embrace the new year, the new beginnings that are offered once again.
When I walked last year, I felt disconnection from myself and others, I was in a process of grieving and insecurity. As I walked back through, I felt both sadness and determination to make changes in my life. This year, I came with a centeredness and purpose I hadn't felt before. I felt calm, secure and welcomed the other pilgrims as they journeyed both separately and with me.
Although I walked alone, I passed some of the same people again and again, some who walked parallel to me, and others who faced me for a second just to turn back onto a different path. I felt the symbolism of life, how we interface with others, some only once, some back and forth, at times that we least expect or perhaps most need. Some were behind me or ahead of me, and we followed each other. But my journey, as with life, was alone, and only I stayed on the specific path that I was on. My feet carried me one foot and then the other.
At times in my life, I have grieved the loss of others, I have wanted them to stay with me. I didn't want to journey alone. But yesterday, I felt happy for the role others play in my life, those that stay with me for years, those that come for a moment, and those that stay just a little while. How fortunate we are to be blessed by one another. And how blessed we are that no matter if someone is physically with us or not, we carry them every day in our hearts. Their presence is with us in every choice, opportunity and breath that we take. And that means that although we walk alone, we truly never walk alone.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Thinking ahead to 2008
2008's going to be a big one for me. In May, it'll be Two Score. Four Decades. Fortay. The big 40! People say I still look like I'm in my twenties but they obviously aren't looking too close. I'm excited to be forty, it's a badge of respect. I finally feel grounded and secure in myself to be able to put myself out there and hopefully make a difference. I feel like I've earned 40.
At 10, all I knew was that I wasn't fitting in and didn't know how to make things different.
At 20, I was raring to go but was so afraid I wouldn't get there that I couldn't stop to feel the beautiful sun on my skin. My parents offered me a trip to Greece for three weeks with my sister as a college graduation present, but I turned it down and asked for a mattress. I needed a job and a bed, and that was my priority. I only slightly regret that decision. It would have been a great experience, but at the time, I was focusing on survival.
At 30, my path was clear. I was getting married and ready to start a family. I accomplished my primary goal at the time of setting up my career, getting licensed and securing the career path I had worked on for twelve years.
And now at 40.... I'm ready to dive into the unsafe waters and make a commitment to swim. I've got my marriage, kids and career so I can finally play. And my version of playing is to write and write some more. Forties are about making my dream my reality.
To that end, my challenge for 2008 is to write 1,000 words per week. Fifty-two weeks in a year equals 52,000 words. Enough to qualify as a book. No editing, just raw material. We'll see where it leads me. The journey is in full swing. :-)
What's your plan for 2008?
What are you willing to do and how are you getting there?
Nostrovia! A toast to you. A toast to me. Happy Holidays!
At 10, all I knew was that I wasn't fitting in and didn't know how to make things different.
At 20, I was raring to go but was so afraid I wouldn't get there that I couldn't stop to feel the beautiful sun on my skin. My parents offered me a trip to Greece for three weeks with my sister as a college graduation present, but I turned it down and asked for a mattress. I needed a job and a bed, and that was my priority. I only slightly regret that decision. It would have been a great experience, but at the time, I was focusing on survival.
At 30, my path was clear. I was getting married and ready to start a family. I accomplished my primary goal at the time of setting up my career, getting licensed and securing the career path I had worked on for twelve years.
And now at 40.... I'm ready to dive into the unsafe waters and make a commitment to swim. I've got my marriage, kids and career so I can finally play. And my version of playing is to write and write some more. Forties are about making my dream my reality.
To that end, my challenge for 2008 is to write 1,000 words per week. Fifty-two weeks in a year equals 52,000 words. Enough to qualify as a book. No editing, just raw material. We'll see where it leads me. The journey is in full swing. :-)
What's your plan for 2008?
What are you willing to do and how are you getting there?
Nostrovia! A toast to you. A toast to me. Happy Holidays!
Monday, December 17, 2007
Another Flash Fiction Carnival!
Holiday Flash Fiction Carnival:
by BunnyGirl
Submit anytime between now and December 21....
She says:
"I'll be hosting a Holiday Flash Fiction Carnival, starting December 21. Anyone who wants to join is welcome."
Check out her blog for more details: http://ampfiction2.blogspot.com/
Requirements are minimal:
* Must be 1500 words or less, 1000 or less preferred.
* Must have a December holiday or New Year's as a theme. I expect Christmas and Hanukkah to get the most representation, but Winter Solstice, Kwanzaa, ancient Mithraic rites, or even a respectful Bah Humbug are fine.
* Must be fiction (duh).
* Can be old or new, posted on your blog or someone else's, or even published in a zine somewhere, so long as it's linkable.
Any other questions? Just ask!
by BunnyGirl
Submit anytime between now and December 21....
She says:
"I'll be hosting a Holiday Flash Fiction Carnival, starting December 21. Anyone who wants to join is welcome."
Check out her blog for more details: http://ampfiction2.blogspot.com/
Requirements are minimal:
* Must be 1500 words or less, 1000 or less preferred.
* Must have a December holiday or New Year's as a theme. I expect Christmas and Hanukkah to get the most representation, but Winter Solstice, Kwanzaa, ancient Mithraic rites, or even a respectful Bah Humbug are fine.
* Must be fiction (duh).
* Can be old or new, posted on your blog or someone else's, or even published in a zine somewhere, so long as it's linkable.
Any other questions? Just ask!
Thursday, December 13, 2007
The Honor of the Wait
Wait: a.) to delay service b.) to be ready c.) look forward to the probable occurrence of d.) delay: time during which some action is awaited e.) a. To remain or rest in expectation.
Do you wait for something to begin or to end? As children, we waited forward, waiting for something to occur. We dreamed, anticipated, hoped, believed. As adults, it seems like we wait backward waiting for something to end. Or maybe the voice of reality splashes over our hopes and dreams, so we stop waiting forward. We just give up or turn away.
In 1947, 1977, waiting was a different animal. We waited until we earned the prize. Now in 2007, we buy or demand what we want - we don't wait. We drive on our impulses rather our discipline. Look at the financial picture of the USA - in 1967, we saved to buy. In 2007 we buy on credit and pay backward.
I wonder as writers if that's why it can be so hard to wait to hear from editors. Maybe we are used to getting what we want, when we want it and now. And if we don't get it, we move to something else that can provide instant relief. A letter of acceptance is out of our control. All we can do is wait. Write. Wait. Write. Wait. And we don't like it. Not one teeny bit!
f.) to act as an attendant or servant.
What if we are attendants or servants to our heart's desires? Servants to the wait. What would that mean? We honor those desires by waiting and valuing them enough to keep them alive - reminding ourselves what truly matters. The waiting period becomes as delicious as the end result. The journey is the true reward.
As the years pass, I find that I prefer the wait. The wait holds wonder, potential, hope, promise. It brings me back to my roots. The not waiting - the impulsivity, instant gratification, demands of the now - steal the power and beauty of the process. It feeds the beast at the expense of my soul.
What do you wait for?
How do you wait?
What is waiting for you?
Do you wait for something to begin or to end? As children, we waited forward, waiting for something to occur. We dreamed, anticipated, hoped, believed. As adults, it seems like we wait backward waiting for something to end. Or maybe the voice of reality splashes over our hopes and dreams, so we stop waiting forward. We just give up or turn away.
In 1947, 1977, waiting was a different animal. We waited until we earned the prize. Now in 2007, we buy or demand what we want - we don't wait. We drive on our impulses rather our discipline. Look at the financial picture of the USA - in 1967, we saved to buy. In 2007 we buy on credit and pay backward.
I wonder as writers if that's why it can be so hard to wait to hear from editors. Maybe we are used to getting what we want, when we want it and now. And if we don't get it, we move to something else that can provide instant relief. A letter of acceptance is out of our control. All we can do is wait. Write. Wait. Write. Wait. And we don't like it. Not one teeny bit!
f.) to act as an attendant or servant.
What if we are attendants or servants to our heart's desires? Servants to the wait. What would that mean? We honor those desires by waiting and valuing them enough to keep them alive - reminding ourselves what truly matters. The waiting period becomes as delicious as the end result. The journey is the true reward.
As the years pass, I find that I prefer the wait. The wait holds wonder, potential, hope, promise. It brings me back to my roots. The not waiting - the impulsivity, instant gratification, demands of the now - steal the power and beauty of the process. It feeds the beast at the expense of my soul.
What do you wait for?
How do you wait?
What is waiting for you?
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Flash Fiction Carnival Entries are here!
If you missed it, Flash Fiction Carnival III was an opportunity to write a piece in a very short time frame. The results are to be enjoyed by anyone who would like to - comments & critiques are encouraged and can be made directly on the writer's blog or host's blog. It's a lot of fun!
Check out the entries at: http://virginialeenc.blogspot.com/2007/12/transform-flash-fiction-carnival-iii.html
Check out the entries at: http://virginialeenc.blogspot.com/2007/12/transform-flash-fiction-carnival-iii.html
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Writer's Prompt
Highlights for Children Magazine has their annual writing contest coming up. Submissions can be made in the month of January '08. Whether you are a children's writer or not, your job is to write a fictional story, no more than 800 words of a story set in the future. No crime, violence, or derogatory humor. If you like what you wrote, you can submit it to be one of the 3 potential winners of $1,000 & also are automatically put under consideration for future publications.
Let's see what you got! :-)
Let's see what you got! :-)
Be a HerO
I received an email yesterday saying that I donated blood twice this year, and now qualify for a HerO prize through the Red Cross. If I donate one more time, the prize gets bigger. That's nice, but really I just do it for the free juice and Nutter Butter cookies. And the Pint for a Pint Baskin & Robbin coupons. Plus I have the universal blood - 0 Negative, so I have an important obligation to give what is so needed. And since I work in a hospital, it's right there and ready for me every 6 weeks.
I like talking to the guys who take my blood. They all have interesting stories to tell. The last guy was about 20 yrs old, he grew up in East LA, where over half his high school class didn't graduate. He told me about escaping the drug scene and wanting something for his life but how hard it was to even get a good book. Somehow he made it through and now has this great job helping people. He is the true herO.
It just goes to show, no matter what your circumstances, it's your character that truly matters.
Now just how is it possible that in this day & age, a school could get by with only 1/2 the students graduating. Is that even legal?
Does anyone have a HerO story to share?
I like talking to the guys who take my blood. They all have interesting stories to tell. The last guy was about 20 yrs old, he grew up in East LA, where over half his high school class didn't graduate. He told me about escaping the drug scene and wanting something for his life but how hard it was to even get a good book. Somehow he made it through and now has this great job helping people. He is the true herO.
It just goes to show, no matter what your circumstances, it's your character that truly matters.
Now just how is it possible that in this day & age, a school could get by with only 1/2 the students graduating. Is that even legal?
Does anyone have a HerO story to share?
Thursday, December 6, 2007
On the subject of rejections...
It seems like a lot of us writers want to have our work out there, and want to be published right now! So when the no. 10 comes back and we tear open the letter, the big fat "Not right for us at this time" feels like a stab in the heart.
But let's step back a minute. How long have you been writing? (no, the answer is not 1st grade). I mean seriously writing. As in daily, weekly, participating in critique groups, reading writer's blogs and books, researching similar stories, going to conferences. How committed are you to making your work better?
We can hardly expect that talent alone will drive us to the printing press. Did you become successful in your other jobs or career in a short time or did it take time to learn the craft and climb the ladder? Didn't Einstein say that genius is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration? Let's get serious people. There are a lot of talented writers. As beautiful as your mother thinks you are, there are plenty of other beautiful people, even more beautiful than you. So you've got some work to do to get out, be noticed and shine! What sets apart talented writers and published writers is the amount of work they are willing to put to the job. And that means that for every published work, there is a path a mile long of rejections or trials along the way. The difference is someone giving up and someone who keeps going no matter what.
It is natural to be disappointed when you receive a rejection. You have taken a risk and put your hard work out there for someone to see, critique, judge and.... then, reject. But this is a business, it is not a psychotherapy session. It's not about feelings, it's about product. If feelings aren't involved, we can take the rejection as nothing more than a "No" and move on to finding someway to get to the "Yes". The key is to take nothing personally.
A rejection means:
a.) Your picture book manuscript is amazing but we don't published rhyming books (need better research on the publishing house before submitting)
b.) Oops, our house just took on someone else's ms on the same subject (case of bad timing)
c.) Your idea is interesting, but just not quite up to what we are looking for (you need some jazz)
d.) Wow you really need to go back to writing class (okay, so what, I probably do)
The problem is that a lot of us jump to the D option and our self esteem crashes. But maybe the answer is A, B or C. or E, F, G (G being the bad hair day excuse). Or even if it is D , it isn't a personal statement against you. It is just good business feedback. Brush yourself off and jump in!
As you are further along in the journey, getting published and getting rejections, I would hope it gets easier. I don't know for sure since I'm not published (YET!) But I do know that after 2 years of serious writing, rejections bring me more joy than pain because I expect them and they remind me that I am a writer. And published or not, that's what I am. :-)
Now there's gonna be that inner child (we've all got one) that's going to occasionally jump out - our feelings, hopes or dreams get out there and feel trampled for a minute, hour, day. That's the time to attend to the child part of you, remind him/her that it's no biggie, and get back to being the working writer that you are. Never stop. It works if you work it!
But let's step back a minute. How long have you been writing? (no, the answer is not 1st grade). I mean seriously writing. As in daily, weekly, participating in critique groups, reading writer's blogs and books, researching similar stories, going to conferences. How committed are you to making your work better?
We can hardly expect that talent alone will drive us to the printing press. Did you become successful in your other jobs or career in a short time or did it take time to learn the craft and climb the ladder? Didn't Einstein say that genius is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration? Let's get serious people. There are a lot of talented writers. As beautiful as your mother thinks you are, there are plenty of other beautiful people, even more beautiful than you. So you've got some work to do to get out, be noticed and shine! What sets apart talented writers and published writers is the amount of work they are willing to put to the job. And that means that for every published work, there is a path a mile long of rejections or trials along the way. The difference is someone giving up and someone who keeps going no matter what.
It is natural to be disappointed when you receive a rejection. You have taken a risk and put your hard work out there for someone to see, critique, judge and.... then, reject. But this is a business, it is not a psychotherapy session. It's not about feelings, it's about product. If feelings aren't involved, we can take the rejection as nothing more than a "No" and move on to finding someway to get to the "Yes". The key is to take nothing personally.
A rejection means:
a.) Your picture book manuscript is amazing but we don't published rhyming books (need better research on the publishing house before submitting)
b.) Oops, our house just took on someone else's ms on the same subject (case of bad timing)
c.) Your idea is interesting, but just not quite up to what we are looking for (you need some jazz)
d.) Wow you really need to go back to writing class (okay, so what, I probably do)
The problem is that a lot of us jump to the D option and our self esteem crashes. But maybe the answer is A, B or C. or E, F, G (G being the bad hair day excuse). Or even if it is D , it isn't a personal statement against you. It is just good business feedback. Brush yourself off and jump in!
As you are further along in the journey, getting published and getting rejections, I would hope it gets easier. I don't know for sure since I'm not published (YET!) But I do know that after 2 years of serious writing, rejections bring me more joy than pain because I expect them and they remind me that I am a writer. And published or not, that's what I am. :-)
Now there's gonna be that inner child (we've all got one) that's going to occasionally jump out - our feelings, hopes or dreams get out there and feel trampled for a minute, hour, day. That's the time to attend to the child part of you, remind him/her that it's no biggie, and get back to being the working writer that you are. Never stop. It works if you work it!
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
And so, day one
The reason why I created this blog is to enter in a carnival at Absolute Write - Flash Fiction III. Here's my entry. Wish me luck that I get lots of critique and please share your brutally honest feedback. Any education and thoughts I get leads me closer to being a published writer.
TRANSFORM
By Anne
He lost his finger in a drug bust. Don’t ask me how it happened but the middle finger isn’t there. Just a little stump, they must have removed the splintered bone because all that’s left is some course pink skin melted shiny in between Ringo and Pointer. It happened 10 years ago and you’d think he would have learned his lesson. But then again, he says he wasn’t him that night. He was her.
He says there’s two people there. When he puts on her clothes, he becomes a woman. So that’s why it doesn’t matter that he puts on a dress late at night. It’s only 9:30 and his wife’s already in bed, softly snoring. He knows she’s asleep and since she sleeps hard and all night, he’s got hours ahead of him. He shuffles through the drawers, to the space way in the back where no one thinks to look. He grabs the powder blue panties to match the new pair of shoes he got today. Spiked heels with little blue bows on the back. Tonight he wants the silky touch of satin and lace. His body hardens just at the thought of it. He goes to the bathroom and paints his face. The rouge isn’t really his color but it’s too dark in the bedroom to go back for his own. His wig’s on, and now he’s transformed. He’s become she or maybe its more like she’s no longer he.
She drives slowly down to the old Rainbow Town nightclub. The one that most wouldn’t admit they frequent, but still it’s been open 22 years and counting. She gets out of the car, walks into the crowd of music and calls for a drink. While she waits, she sees a familiar friend and her hand reaches out to caress another man’s ass. Later they will go out to shoot up the crack into her veins in the dark parking lot. The crack is the best because it races through her blood stream into the brain. Her brain is on fire. She can do nothing wrong. After she finishes with the piece of ass, she goes back inside and gets up on stage. It doesn’t matter that her legs are hairy and she’s got no boobs. All the men want her just the same.
Somewhere between midnight and now she can’t remember. She wakes up shit faced in a stupor. Crap! It’s four am. She’s got a hole in her nylons and she’s stone frozen cold. The windows are iced with crystallized snowflakes. She rolls to her side. There’s a guy beside her, not the one she knows. Someone different and his pants are zipped down to his ankle. Did she do that? Her chapped lips say probably so.
Her mascara has wiped off, black circles under her eyes, her wig’s in a tattered pile in between the back seat and door jam. So maybe it isn’t her anymore. Maybe she’s back to being a he. He breathes in slowly and then exales. He watches the ice hang onto the air. Or is it the air hanging onto the ice? He remembers that bible study is tonight and he’s due to take the kids to school. Surely his wife hasn’t woken up yet? Will he get home before she notices?
His head pounds just a little. He shakes her partner in crime and kicks him out of the car. The guy stumbles back toward the bar. Rainbow Town will take the guy in. And so He gets out, stumbles to scrape the windows. The ice won’t budge so he goes at it for a long time. The crack and alcohol are fading away. It’s hard to stay her when he’s in his own skin. Finally he can see clearly. He puts the car in forward and he heads home.
He’s thinking he’s more right than he is. The sound of police sirens emerge quicker than the lights. They pull him over. Get out of the car. Black heels with little blue bows. He takes the field sobriety test. They call him freak and put him in cuffs. He curses. If he could lift his arm, he’d give them the finger. Except he doesn’t have a middle one to give away.
TRANSFORM
By Anne
He lost his finger in a drug bust. Don’t ask me how it happened but the middle finger isn’t there. Just a little stump, they must have removed the splintered bone because all that’s left is some course pink skin melted shiny in between Ringo and Pointer. It happened 10 years ago and you’d think he would have learned his lesson. But then again, he says he wasn’t him that night. He was her.
He says there’s two people there. When he puts on her clothes, he becomes a woman. So that’s why it doesn’t matter that he puts on a dress late at night. It’s only 9:30 and his wife’s already in bed, softly snoring. He knows she’s asleep and since she sleeps hard and all night, he’s got hours ahead of him. He shuffles through the drawers, to the space way in the back where no one thinks to look. He grabs the powder blue panties to match the new pair of shoes he got today. Spiked heels with little blue bows on the back. Tonight he wants the silky touch of satin and lace. His body hardens just at the thought of it. He goes to the bathroom and paints his face. The rouge isn’t really his color but it’s too dark in the bedroom to go back for his own. His wig’s on, and now he’s transformed. He’s become she or maybe its more like she’s no longer he.
She drives slowly down to the old Rainbow Town nightclub. The one that most wouldn’t admit they frequent, but still it’s been open 22 years and counting. She gets out of the car, walks into the crowd of music and calls for a drink. While she waits, she sees a familiar friend and her hand reaches out to caress another man’s ass. Later they will go out to shoot up the crack into her veins in the dark parking lot. The crack is the best because it races through her blood stream into the brain. Her brain is on fire. She can do nothing wrong. After she finishes with the piece of ass, she goes back inside and gets up on stage. It doesn’t matter that her legs are hairy and she’s got no boobs. All the men want her just the same.
Somewhere between midnight and now she can’t remember. She wakes up shit faced in a stupor. Crap! It’s four am. She’s got a hole in her nylons and she’s stone frozen cold. The windows are iced with crystallized snowflakes. She rolls to her side. There’s a guy beside her, not the one she knows. Someone different and his pants are zipped down to his ankle. Did she do that? Her chapped lips say probably so.
Her mascara has wiped off, black circles under her eyes, her wig’s in a tattered pile in between the back seat and door jam. So maybe it isn’t her anymore. Maybe she’s back to being a he. He breathes in slowly and then exales. He watches the ice hang onto the air. Or is it the air hanging onto the ice? He remembers that bible study is tonight and he’s due to take the kids to school. Surely his wife hasn’t woken up yet? Will he get home before she notices?
His head pounds just a little. He shakes her partner in crime and kicks him out of the car. The guy stumbles back toward the bar. Rainbow Town will take the guy in. And so He gets out, stumbles to scrape the windows. The ice won’t budge so he goes at it for a long time. The crack and alcohol are fading away. It’s hard to stay her when he’s in his own skin. Finally he can see clearly. He puts the car in forward and he heads home.
He’s thinking he’s more right than he is. The sound of police sirens emerge quicker than the lights. They pull him over. Get out of the car. Black heels with little blue bows. He takes the field sobriety test. They call him freak and put him in cuffs. He curses. If he could lift his arm, he’d give them the finger. Except he doesn’t have a middle one to give away.
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