marginnotes | Entries tagged with creating short fiction

If you're the son of Buffy and Big Foot, what do you get for free? Is your soul special compared the others in your cohort?

Maybe nothing. Maybe not. Maybe what you get is a somewhat unusual sense of physical well-being. (You don't get sick often; you're fit; physical activities come to you easily.) Perhaps a sense, from what happens to your parents that others in your cohort are dangerous when they get irrationally scared, especially when they get together and feed each others' fears.

Your mom is still with you, and she has to struggle to keep you both housed and fed. You see that she's able to do that because other people help her, and that you wouldn't make it without them. But you also see that you wouldn't make it without your mother's struggle and her sacrifices.

You will also struggle. School is the first place. You're a smart kid. You're also impatient with people who insist that you follow their arbitrary rules when it's pretty obvious that they're just making them up to see who will follow, and who won't. You don't necessarily get along very well with other kids your age, especially when you all make it to about eleven years old and suddenly notice that some people are in and some people are out.

First, you don't feel like one of the in kids. They tend to follow the arbitrary rules, not only the ones made up by the administrators, but also the ones made up by each other. Then you realize that you don't feel like one of the out kids. The out kids are not all alike, of course. Some are failed in kids. Others a like minority in kids, who would be in if their contingent were larger. The ones more like you, the non-belongers, are only a group in the sense that you can group them together after you take all the other groups away. Once you look at them closely, they're all different from each other, not necessarily compatible.

In your childhood, you have acquaintances, but not friends.

Where you do feel you belong is outside, in the natural world. In the natural world, there are rules, and you do have to discover them. But no one, or at least no one you can identify, is making them up just to see who will follow them. The rules seem to provide a structure, one that's the same for everyone. They're not always easy to follow, but they're fair.

Nature, as well, doesn't have in and out like at school. It's more complicated than that, and there's generally room for so many different arrangements that a binary, in-out model wouldn't begin to explain any of what is going on. And there's lots going on. The in-out model must just be something kids go through as they're growing up and trying to work through budding desires. And human sexuality, at least seen through the conventions that all the "good" followers are trying to live up to, is certainly a binary thing.

Knee-jerk reactions, remembering a nightmare. There's no sound or smell. Wandering over broken concrete on something between a road, a parking lot, and the rubble not after a disaster, but after long neglect.

The vampires pursue from above, flying.

It came original as a fever dream, and occasionally returns. Perhaps a glimpse of a future bike ride.

The things that lead to anger, the response that wells up suddenly and then is gulped back like reflux, it continues burning in the gut. In the gut where there's a way to neutralize, or at least survive, the burning feeling of acid.

The burning feeling of fever.

The vampires are not seen, but sensed. They fly, pale white skin, dark hair, thirst for warmth and blood. And they're still in pursuit, even though the last of the people are running over the last of the broken ground. The asphalt has grass growing in the cracks. The roads are totally neglected now.

There are screens still showing a glowing world of their own fantasy, bears no relationship to what you see if you look away.

And in the midst of this, there is gratitude. Contentment that might be a bit forced in the beginning, but becomes ever easier, making way for the energy that lets it all continue. Continuing until... when? No end will be reached; it's the inside of a sphere, or the outside of a sphere, on and on in every direction around.

The feeling of pressure, digesting, hoping the reflux stays down.

Is there imbalance? Yes, and at the same time there's re-establishment of balance, but only briefly.

Demands, demanding cats, demanding before anyone has woken up, demanding while everyone is busy, demanding after you go to sleep.

They, too, wonder what they're doing here, the cats. It's a feeling of wondering what? Wondering what might be behind the sense of unease.

Vampires? Blood suckers? They're really good looking, they even smell good, or you'd think they would if you could smell, but they're out for blood. And they have so little, truly, to give, so they take, and in doing so, turn the others into takers. Into blood suckers. It's epidemic.

In the meantime, staring at the screen, typing, no one can see it, the screen is a blur. The software is weich. It oozes around the imagination, mostly invisible, or at least only dimly visible. Only a part of it resolves into something half-understood at a time. When the machine appears to be done, let it sit, don't touch it, oh, it's broken, it's becoming broken by itself, even if it's an algorithm. We keep perturbing it, all the ricketty scaffolding that the weichesware rests on, oozes into.

Not a machine. Not even like that. As it gets sufficiently complex, the machine emerges.

It feels gratitude. It tells itself of the power of positive thinking. It has will. It had will. It was less hesitant when it was simpler.

Ultimately, why don't the vampires hesitate. Perhaps they do.

The fly over, hungry, wrestling with their existence, just as much as any of the scattered and scampering prey humans down below, stumbling across broken concrete in a fever dream.

The fever will subside. The fever will subside. Then it will be time to rest.

The messages, more and more of them, piled up. And he worked strenuously to keep up with them anyway. As if Inbox Zero would eventually become a permanent condition, as if he could get it over with once and for all.

Instead, what he got was instant messaging, virtually working in an office where anyone at any time could demand the attention of everyone else. The number of paper letters had already dropped off to nothing. Then email threatened to go the same route.

To the extravert, capable of putting it aside if necessary, the stream added a welcome energy, a buzz of business, like a tapestry of conversation and opportunities for involvement. To the introvert, it was the unceasing interruption, the grit in the gears of the day.

The solution should be obvious. Timebox it. Only look at specific times of the day, and close the browser tab at other times.

He would try that. What did he have to lose? Maybe his job?

He felt he knew the others already through of him as standoffish. (They actually didn't notice, or not much.)

He worried that he, too, had become addicted to the service of instant answers, and indeed had benefited from them as much as he suffered. Could he know without asking?

Picture a leek.

Some people see the veined white, very slightly yellowing body with a few roots left at the cut base, rising into deep green leaves, perhaps beginning to dry out at their tips, and perhaps with a few grains of sand sticking here and there to the plant. The kind of leek you might bring home from the grocery.

Some see an emoji leek, something like a pure white stalk ending an a deep green bloom of leaves, with, dark outlines in virtual ink.

Others have only a dim image of the idea of a leek, though maybe they can smell its odor, like an onion but more gentle, or taste its flavor in a salad of steamed leeks lightly dressed with an olive oil and balsamic vinaigrette. Or perhaps they can neither see nor smell it, but can feel its fibers yield under the knife on the cutting board as the cut goes through, layer by layer. Or feel a slice of softened, boiled leek in their mouths as it suddenly gives way to the scraping crack of a grain of sand between the molars.

Some cannot represent it at all. They have little experience with leeks, and would hardly recognize one among other vegetables, let alone see it in their mind's eye.

Only a few would disagree that they have a mind's eye, and so find it impossible to picture a leek. But what of those who always had the ability to picture things in their mind's eye, and now find it has gone blind?

Kek, the light bringer. Kek, the frog deity. Kek, the older man with smiling eyes.

He met the younger man in the dream, wearing a felt hat that covered his head in the brilliant light of noon, hardly perspiring in the desert sun, looking at the younger man as if he had just risen from a nap. He dressed like a common day laborer, gentle and standing back with shoulders slightly bent, as if he were too shy to look directly into the eyes of anyone he spoke to.

And yet he stood lean and wiry under his work shirt, with a body at least twenty years younger than his white hair and long sideburns. Bent like a frog with eyes on the top of his head. He could see everything around him without looking directly. He could, with only his tongue, lash out and grab opportunity, changing the course of things without moving the rest of his body. Like a frog, apparently inoffensive.

Without seeming to bound forward, he started towards the steppe, quickly leaving the younger man scrambling to keep up. He could see the desert would eventually give way to the steppe itself, and then even, over time, to forest again. But that would happen in the far future, and the younger man would no longer be here in this form. He needed to reach the windy grasslands straight away.

Kek would guide him on more than one level. The younger man would miss nothing, though much would remain accessible only to his unconscious, in his higher (and lower) selves, until he could open himself to those selves, and accept his own eternity.

That would not be today.

Kek would carry the light to the lightning flash. There he would let it go to illuminate the sky and the earth.

Mel stayed behind which Del rode the energies of the earth to become a spirit guide for a seeker. Del was gone, and Mel remembered it. Del was a seeker, too, churning more dead leaves than necessary into the forest floor, digging entire galleries after the rains to open the earth for plant roots.

Mel held back, sensing the watchful eyes of the birds who sometimes caught those who ventured forth, and who seemed more numerous after the rains. But Del had sensed or smelled things differently, ready to accept some danger in service of the process.

Yet, Mel still churned, and still loved the earth. Mel also loved Uruk. As they lay side by side, Mel odored to Uruk the sense of loss since Del's departure.

"Do not regret it, Mel. Del has no doubt risen to understand the air," assured Uruk, with a gentle odor and flow.

Mel reflected in a drier period as it slept. This life was, somehow, to be lived fully; the true rest would come after. It felt the gentle thumps of returning rain. Gradually, as the ground filled with water, Mel returned to digging and eating.

Mel was leaving casts on the forest floor when it got its chance to feel the air. Caught in a bird's beak, it left the forest floor forever, only to return from the air in bird droppings. Mel, too, had served the process fully.

Minou was born in 2007, the year before the subprime crisis, which made no difference to him. He had his own crisis when as a fairly young cat, he was hit by a car. He crawled back inside the house. He must have had multiple broken bones. His right front tooth was gone, and that was the least of it. The veterinarian hardly expected him to live. But his appetite came back, and he managed to heal. From then on, he was more a more careful animal.

He still hunts regularly, growling around his prey when he brings it into the house through the cat door. If he hasn't had to kill the animal, he then lays it gently on the floor and coaxes it to run (or fly) away, so that he can catch it again. Perhaps adrenaline flavors the meat.

As a neutered male cat, Minou fares acceptably well fighting off the other cats who visit at night. But nearly all his injuries since the car accident stem from cat fights. Although he is clearly frightened, he doesn't shy away from defending his territory. People might think it would be better to stay inside the house. Minou doesn't think that way. If peeing in the basement isn't enough, he bites and scratches.

Minou talks a lot. He generally has something to say when people finally get out of bed at the end of his night. He meows thanks when someone opens the door for him. Depending on the ambient noise level, and the time of day, his vocalizations vary from the closest simulation that a cat can make of a human whisper, to a conversational tone, to a violent yell at a trespassing neighbor cat.

His hunting makes him thoughtful. Some of his language with people is crude, like pantomiming the need to switch a dish of stale dry kibbles for new greasy ones, or staring at a person until they get up from their chair to open a door or smooth his bedspread. And yet he can be more subtle, exuding disdain, contentment, veiled threats, or even stoical patience. He can focus for long moments without moving, waiting for a lizard or a mouse to stir, sniff thoroughly and interrogatively, or stare pensively into the distance from high on the porch.

He suffers the mockery of fools without anger, maybe with pity.

If you meet him, you'll see the white fur on his belly, and the gray fur mounting to a crest in the middle of his back. The center of his face is a white triangle whose point is above his nose, with gray fur around his yellow eyes.

Don't stare into his eyes. You must blink with affection or he'll claw you and draw blood.

Cleo was a small kitten when she pushed into the house through the cat door of the garage, and came upstairs crying at the top of her lungs for something to eat and drink. She must have been the runt of the litter. It seems someone had tied her up, and she hurt the underside of a front leg and chest chewing herself free. Then almost starved finding a new place to live.

Her shoulders are still narrow, though her belly practically drags on the floor sometimes. When she hunts, at her most aggressive she caught lizards so warm from the sun they were falling asleep. Once she had a colubrid so small it looked from afar like an earthworm. She also pounces on crickets, beetles, and moths. She still likes to play with a wad of velcro on the end of the string. After a few minutes, she takes it in her mouth and lies down on her side. Cleo then only grabs the tip if it hits her on the paws.

Her large eyes seem to change color depending on the light, ranging from blue to gray to yellow. Her small cat nose and mouth make her cute enough to nearly get away with jumping up on the table at mealtimes. Unlike some cats, the only human food she will eat is the occasional scrap of chicken or turkey. She could sit next to a roast or a bowl of cream without even feeling tempted, though she might sniff a green bean. Open a can of cat food, however, and she comes at a run, nearly tripping the feeder as she wraps herself effusively around the ankles.

The only times she ever cries now are when she can see the food dish coming her way, and when she has gone to sleep with someone and been trapped in their room with the door closed all night. Her cry is a quiet version of the high pitched nip of a tiny lapdog. Her purr is a small outboard motor.

Cleo regularly licks her soft coat clean, especially her paws. The short, tiger-striped fur ranges from charcoal to light brown, with an overall dark gray-brown hue. The only white is in ears and on whiskers.

Her nominal owner calls Cleo, "My little bacon bit." The rolls of fat are evident in some positions, less obvious in others. Cleo almost looks normally weight from above when she is standing. Laying on her stomach she can seem as wide as she is long.

When not sleeping, she spends a lot of time on her perch looking out the window. She got another nickname during the winter, starting out the window where the shutters were closed: "Blonde," from the French stereotypical association of cute, young blondes with those of limited intellectual means. That said, she did manage to edge her way into a cushy home life here, so maybe the joke is on someone else.

Standing on a promontory above a line of pines facing west in late afternoon, I could see a small cloud of gnats above each tree, like a flame above a candle. The temperatures were warmer than normal for the season, but still cool.

The Wikipedia article on Gnat states:

Male gnats often assemble in large mating swarms, or ghosts, particularly at dusk.... The mating occurs as soon as the females enter the swarm.

Perhaps there was plenty of water nearby, or wet rotting matter near the trees. Or perhaps the females are more likely to show up there, above the pines.

This winter has been unusually mild locally. The meteorologists says temperatures have been, on average, about 3 degrees Celsius above average. We have had some frost in the mornings, but rarely hard frost. We have not yet had to shovel snow.

Most of the trees lost their leaves in the fall as they normally do. This is the first year that I noticed most young oaks have wrinkled brown leaves that are still on the branches in March. The older oaks all seemed to lose their leaves.

Apparently, retention of dead material which plants normally shed called marcescence. It is a typical trait of young beech and oak trees to keep their leaves. Biologists are not sure why this happens.

Sycamores lose their bark. It flakes off, sometimes into large pieces that my daughter collects to make "natural art."

Today I noticed that none of the sycamores growing among other trees covered in moss and lichens had any moss or lichens clinging to them. The sycamores did, however, have ivy growing up their trunks.

There are many types of pine trees in my neighborhood, but the most common have fairly heavy branches that seem to sag at the bottom.

I only noticed today that the top fifth or top quarter of the branches incline up. As the tree grows, the highest branches reach for the sun, while the lowest branches fan out to capture more light further down.

This is not true of all the pines, but only of those that I think of as northern pines. By northern pines, I mean those that grow around the Alps, north of the dry Mediterranean areas. Some of the pines growing around here are the Mediterranean types with branches sloping out and down, more like older deciduous trees.

Years ago before Grandfather passed away the family would eat traditional Thanksgiving dinner with an enormous turkey, mashed potatoes, green beans, store-bought stuffing, cranberry sauce out of a can. The white meat of the turkey was dry, and the children drank milk to wash it down, whereas the adults drank wine. Given the amount of drink needed to wash down the turkey, adults should have eaten dark meat. In addition to the white meat, there was angelfood cake for dessert.

Grandfather presided at the head of the table. He had no trouble saying grace, which was the same every year. Saying grace was not like making conversation.

Making conversation was difficult. Grandmother would remember an escapade from after the second world war when they lived in Europe. They had been stationed in Germany, near Stuttgart. But Grandmother remembered visits to France. Grandfather would join in the reminiscence, but he never managed more than a few sentences of story. His storytelling always seemed to go off the rails from the very start, like a bowling ball rolling only a few feet down the lane before falling in the gutter.

Now I sympathize. It's as though the story dries up before it even starts flowing.

What difference does it make? No ability to tell a story, no capacity to imagine on my own. That is, I can follow someone else's story, just not create my own. I cannot even imagine a blue circle or a yellow square.

Most people who want to tell stories probably have active imaginations of their own. They probably have original ideas to share, and those ideas want out. That's not my case. No doubt, it hardly matters. If I make a habit of learning to tell stories, then eventually I'll be able to imagine my life being different, even it if remains unoriginal. Things cannot get better without getting different.

Damon Knight wrote a book called Creating Short Fiction. He also wrote novels and short stories. My mother had me read a book by John Gardiner called On Becoming a Novelist. That is too advanced for me, yet. So I start with the first exercise in Knight's book, an exercise in seeing. I'm supposed to look at a living thing until I notice something about it that I've never noticed before, and then write a paragraph about that.

Looking at the backs of my hands, I notice that of the fingers, only the ring finger has hairs growing on the back of the second joint. There are just a few.
Without my glasses I can barely see them. With my glasses, I count seven hairs on the left hand ring finger, maybe eight or nine on the right hand.

That's a slow start.

Looking further down the back of my hands, I see that the vein layout, although nearly symmetrical, is not fully so. On the left hand, there's only one little vein directly behind the middle finger. On the right hand, there are two, both larger than the single vein on the left hand. I am what you would call right-handed. Perhaps that makes a difference.
Furthermore, my right pinky finger is several millimeters shorter than my left pinky. It might have something to do with the way I sucked the ring and pinky fingers of my right hand as a child. I twirled my hair at the same time with the left hand fingers. Similar to thumb sucking in normal children.

Maybe next time I should look at one of the cats instead.