I’m late! I’m late! Her insides screamed,
as she kissed white rabbits hoping for white knights.
But the glass slipper never fit;
fairy godmother never appeared.
So she walks the plank toward midnight,
a punctual crocodile waiting beneath.
Tick tock. Tick tock.
Photo credit: StayGoldMedia via Etsy
Gargleblaster #159: Answer the question “Have all your clocks stopped?” in exactly 42 words.
It was sophomore year of high school, Ms. Hager’s American literature class, when I learned one of my favorite words: semisubnebulous.
It was used in a short story, but I can’t remember which one. Probably something by Faulkner. Maybe Chopin. What I do remember is a footnote at the bottom of the page provided the definition.
It means walking around in dreamlike state. Half asleep. Half awake. It’s basically sleepwalking, but it sounds so much cooler than that.
Or at least that’s what it means to me. Because to this day, I have yet to see it defined anywhere else. It’s a ghost of a word, but I love it just the same.
There are plenty of non-ghost words that start with semi. Semiannual. Semicolon. Semisweet. Semitruck. Semicircle . . . But semifiction isn’t one of them. There’s just no such thing.
That’s because writing is not some two-lane road paved thick in black asphalt with reflective yellow lines that clearly divide the fact from the fantasy. Or if it is, we’re weaving in and out of our lanes like drunk drivers fleeing the scene of a bar fight.
The truth is even our most imagined tales are steeped far too long in boiling kettles of reality and history. And our most honest stories are fuzzied by slanted perspectives, by blurry Polaroids thumbtacked along the walls of our minds.
It’s unavoidable. And poor James Frey had to learn the hard way. But to this girl, there’s no difference between a million little truths and a million little lies.
It’s all in what we remember. In how we remember. In how we write what we remember.
It’s the emotions that seep out of our pores. It’s the words we make up during our high school English classes. It’s the scenes we try to capture–in fiction and in memoir–each one rooted in fading recollections, sepia-toned facts, and yes, even semisubnebulous memories.
So go on. Write your heart out, storytellers. Let all the semitruths spill from your veins.
The world will probably only believe half of them anyway.
Photo credit: ForgottenCharm on Etsy
As the LCD ticked away the time she had left, Joseph took her speckled hand in his.
“You’ve fought a good fight, old friend,” he choked. “But don’t you stay for me.”
“You never did before . . . And now it’s much too late.”
Gargleblaster #158: Answer the question “Tell me something, old friend: Why are you fighting?” in exactly 42 words.
Sheltered behind my cubicle walls, I heard her voice above the typing of keys, the slurping of coffee, the early morning chatter, as she agonized over a breakfast spread set up just outside a neighboring conference room.
As others came by, grabbing scones or muffins or fruit cups or coffee–definitely coffee–she chatted them up. Hello’s and how-are-you’s and an occasional introduction.
But those little chats were just circles; they never ventured far from where they started. And they always came back to the bagels.
“I’m thinking about having a bagel,” she’d declare to no one in particular. “I ran this morning, so I think it’s okay.”
Minutes would go by. Others would come to stake their breakfast claim and again, she’d pipe up: “I already went for a run today, so I can probably have a bagel and it’ll be okay” or “Six miles is enough to cancel out a bagel, right?”
Part of me mentally smacked myself in the forehead each time I heard her seeking out justification for her food choice. We’re talking about a bagel for heaven’s sake, not deep-fried challah french toast. Not to mention it wasn’t even nine ‘o clock in the morning and the woman had already run half a half marathon.
Part of me wanted to stand up, peer my head over the wall of my cube and say, “YOU’RE GONNA BE FINE. EAT THE DAMN BAGEL ALREADY!!”
But part of me was all too familiar with the circuitous journey she was on. A roundabout road toward health and happiness and self-contentment with the occasional toll of sanity that must be paid along the way.
I’ve argued myself in and out of many a morning run, a tiramisu, and yes, even a fresh-baked bagel. I’ve measured out two tablespoons of hummus to accompany my carrots, just to make sure I didn’t accidentally overdo it. I’ve brought my own packed lunches to untrustworthy dinner parties, so I wouldn’t be trapped without a healthy option. I’ve sopped the grease off my pizza with a paper towel. I’ve had my fair share of low fat and no fat and low sugar and no taste.
I’ve fallen victim to the endless pinwheel of longing, indulging, guilt, and regret, and I’m acutely familiar with the same empty hole that waits in the middle . . . whether you eat the bagel, or you don’t.
Somehow, I found my way out of the loop. I’ve stopped running from bagels or running for bagels. I’ve stopped counting calories and fat grams and minutes until lunch.
But I still recognized the dread and doubt and indecision in that woman’s voice. And I hated every moment for her.
I’m not sure if she decided to eat that bagel or not. And really, it doesn’t matter. It would have plagued her either way.
I do hope one day she sees the justification she needs can’t come from her coworkers at the breakfast buffet. Or her husband. Or her children. Or parents. Or friends.
I hope one day she stops running in circles and makes peace with herself. And all the bagels she has yet to consume.
Photo credit: Pretzel Bread Bagels via Miss Munchie on Etsy
Fresh blood spilled on the ground,
eyes darting all around.
Suspicions rose,
but bodies froze,
as ears rang from the sound.
With tensions running high,
none knowing truth from lie.
The smoking gun—
held by each one—
whispered in the air, “Goodbye.”
Photo credit: Neon Noir Smoking Gun Art Print by Etheloos on Etsy
Gargleblaster #156: Answer the question “Who dunnit?” in exactly 42 words.
Without a word, she dropped to the ground.
Those that had gathered below let out a unified gasp. Mothers drew young children into their bodies to shield their innocent eyes. Business men with slick hair and shiny shoes, already late for afternoon meetings, emails piling up in their inboxes, remained frozen with shock. Some turned their faces in anguish; others buried their heads into their hands.
But Nathan refused to look away.
He had arrived at the corner of Bristoff and West 1st an hour earlier, just as he’d been directed in the letter. And there he waited, holding her words in his sweaty palms as the blue ink began to bleed into his skin.
When she appeared, stepping off the edge of the highest building with confidence and grace, he had to squint to make out her sleek silhouette. Even then, he could barely detect the slight line beneath her feet, the highwire splitting the sky.
In the letter, her words had been pleading and honest.
Nathan –
I write you requesting a specific favor. And in return, I offer you the perfect angle for a piece in your underground pub (I’m afraid it won’t be suitable for the mainstream edition).
I’m sure you’ve heard of the most recent sanctions. They’ve moved beyond guns and liquor and cigarettes to recreational pursuits. Skydiving, long-distance running, skiing, rock climbing, hang gliding, bull riding – all sanctioned. And the list goes on; there are hundreds more.
They’re saying it’s to protect us, to keep us safe from these “high-risk” activities. Can you believe that? They’re hobbies, for Christ’s sake! But that’s the world we live in: a dictatorship under the guise of excessive mothering!
As she began to make her way across the wire, a crowd formed on the sidewalks and street corners. For a moment, the busy world halted mid-sentence, mid-stride, mid-latte to wonder at this figure walking across the sky.
This isn’t about risk, Nathan. No, no, no. It’s never been about that. This is about stifling what drives us, what gives us purpose. This is about stomping out our embers of passion. This is about breaking us down.
Soon, it’ll be painting and singing and writing. They’ll say they’ve linked creativity to brain cancer; they’ll offer data from their own studies to back the claims.
That’s why you started the underground paper, isn’t it, Nathan? Because they took away your editorials? No more opinions, just the facts, right?
Only minutes had passed before marshals from the Enforcement could be seen from the roofs of both buildings – the one she had stepped off of and the one she was destined for. They waited eagerly for her arrival, like predators who had chased their prey up a tree. But she seemed not to notice their presence, focused solely on her act and nothing more.
Of course, the skywalk was on the sanction list. Hell, the old-fashioned tightrope made the list! But I can’t give it up, Nathan. It’s all I’ve ever known.
I’ve got a plan to prove them wrong. And I need you there. I need you to cover the story.
Come to the meeting of Bristoff and West 1st – in front of the old stock exchange – the first Monday in April, 1:55 in the afternoon. You’ll know where to look for me.
Please bring your camera – and don’t be late.
Yours,
Aurelia
Suspended halfway between the two high rises, her progress stopped. Motionless except the wind whipping her ponytail with violent ferocity, she raised her head first to the overcast sky. Then shifted her gaze to what waited below.
Nathan felt the sudden, overwhelming sensation of his lunch rising in his stomach. It had not occurred to him before that moment that she had no intention of making it across.
Unrolling the wrinkled letter once more, he saw something he had missed: a postscript scrawled across the back in faint pencil.
The most high-risk activity of them all is denying ourselves what we love. We simply cannot survive it.
We have to let them know. We have to let everyone know.
Nathan looked up only to see her fold her arms across her chest before letting herself fall backward, the triumphant finale to her last great act.
Grabbing the camera from around his neck, he waited for his shot as she fell from the sky.
writeamuck 