In Case of Emergency

As she slipped on the capri jeans, Pam felt an unexpected bulge in her front left pocket. "Wow--money!" she exclaimed to the empty room. With any luck it would be a $20, but she'd take a $5 or even two crumpled ones. It was always exciting to find money she had forgotten she had. But when she dug into the pocket, the money didn't feel like money. It had something that felt like pseudo-paper around it, and whatever was inside kept squirming from side to side. "What the heck is this?" she asked the clock radio. Was it a candy wrapper gone bad? An old receipt with a wad of abandoned gum? When she pulled out the gold foil Magnum condom, the dresser mirror reflected Pam's relief, then remembrance, and then disappointment. Pam had found her emergency condom on the floor of her car while cleaning it out before taking her mom to Target. She stuffed it in her pocket because she didn't want her mom to spot the shiny wrapper while they were sitting in traffic on Peninsula Boulevard and then get interrogated about what really happens at those writing conferences in Vermont. Pam didn't know why she brought the condom in the first place. It wasn't like there were any strapping young men at these writer retreats--at least not men who were straight, unattached, had real jobs and all of their teeth. It was her damn friend, Cliff, who had wished for her to find someone, and who told her to keep her eyes, mind, and heart open because his good friend found his wife at one of these things. And if Pam were going to entertain the possibility she might find love in Vermont, then she might as well bring along some protection just in case. She sighed as she held up the crumpled condom. Her "just-in-case" moment hadn't happened in the eight days she had been in Vermont, and she doubted it would happen in the two days she had left. But according to the expiration date on the wrapper, she had until November 2015.


Tangible Prompt: Condom

Education and Edification

Education

I remember one splendid morning,

all blue and silver.
We two were sitting together
on the wintry Campagna grass–
unvexed and unencumbered
with paper patterns,
the ceiling and walls of a simple house
visited by shadows.

Thank heaven!

Let us talk about – well, anything you will.
Goldfish, for example. Among the sadder
and smaller pleasures of this world,
I count this pleasure.

Things are depressing enough.

Edification

It is a piece of chalk

under the rolling cloud bales
and the song of invisible larks
of the Campagna. But now
it is the flight of the very earth
that carriers her clasped shadow
from the sun.

The night is full of stars,
the landscape glistens with a late frost–
which is all I want to say about goldfish.

At any moment: without remorse, without anxiety
without dishonor, you are free
to do this dignified and final thing…
make my life work running that car
with the magic mirror.

~taken from the first and last lines (or two) from "Essays on Education and Edification"

Sweater

He's wearing that sweater again–
the blue v-neck with the gray trim.
He makes cardigans look sexy–
the wool clings to the t-shirt
underneath as if trying to claw its
way to his skin.Just looking at him
in that sweater gets me all hot.
I love it when its cold outside.

Mean Wonderful Sleep Box

I just bought a mean wonderful sleep box.
What do I mean by wonderful sleep box?
Why a box where I sleep wonderful and mean.
It's wonderful - I get some mean sleep on that box!
Sleep is wonderful, much better than if I had to sleep in a box.
That's just mean. What a wonderful box I bought.
I'm no longer mean now that I can just sleep.

The Most Unkindest

Screen name MoulinRouge number 9
Stole my boyfriend's heart and crushed mine.
She was his fantasy in the flesh
Her smell, her taste is what he loved best.
I imagined her blond, buxom, almost six feet tall
To learn she was my friend was the unkindest cut of all.

Writing Prompt: Elements

He insisted our attraction was chemical, not physical–
it wouldn’t fade as gravity coaxed our skin to sag–
nor was it temporal–our feelings would not grow dim
over eons like some star three galaxies away.
It was chemical, as in based in chemistry
like Na and Cl on the periodic chart, destined
to make salt every time molecules were thrown together.
And we were thrown together. Our one-on-one meetings
behind closed doors stretched into working late nights
and grabbing coffee or maybe dinner before
winding down our days on my couch.
Even when were weren’t trying to be together
we were drawn to each other, like the time he stopped
at a red light and saw me eating outside. I was in town
but didn’t mention it – I thought the elements could be fooled.

Prompt: Missing Something

The doctor asked, “When did you first notice something was wrong?”

The lion switched his tail from side to side, while he thought back to the moment his problem began. He had been taking his usual 4 o’clock nap under the umbrella tree when he had overheard the birds gossiping about a foolish young male gazelle that had twisted his ankle trying to graze on an untouched patch of grass near a ravine. The elders had warned the young ones to stay in the flat areas, but this one must have been too good to eat where everyone else ate–he slipped five feet, banged his hind hoof on a rock trying to stop from sliding all the way down.

The lion thought the story merely the chatter of old birds until he saw the gazelle herd making their way to the watering hole at six minutes past sunset. Sure enough, the young gazelle normally in second to last had been moved up to a less vulnerable position closer to the front. The lion remembered his heart beating fast then. The excitement from knowing the classic feint attack would yield him dinner and a midnight snack. The lion sprang from the deep grass–first charging the youngest in the herd to get the other gazelles to rush to defend the weakest one. Then he circled back, pounced on the injured young gazelle, dragged him by his bum leg away from the others who watched helplessly as the lion’s plan unfolded without a hitch. They dared not give chase; better to sacrifice the foolish one to teach the others to stay in line.

The young gazelle was scared and dazed, but not yet dead. As the lion raised his mighty paw to finish off his prey, he caught his own reflection swimming in the young gazelle’s frightened tears. The lion felt a pang in his chest, first like a prick of a honey bee, but then the pain spread wild and fast like the flames of an untended fire across the Serengeti. And just as quickly as it started, the pain stopped. The lion eyed his would-be prey but it only churned his stomach. He had no choice but to let the young gazelle go.

“And that’s when I thought something was wrong,” the lion told the doctor.

“Well, according to your X-rays you’ve lost more than your appetite. You’ve lost your heart for the kill. It’s a condition that affects lions of a certain age, but there is a cure. I’ll give you a referral to a specialist down in Oz. He’s seen a lot of cases like yours. I’m sure he could help.”

Writing Prompt: Mushrooms

"If it's a fungus, how come it doesn't have a smell?"

Margot fingered the mushroom from the stem and sniffed it for the millionth time. She held it up to the sunlight and peered under the white curved head as if staring at it would set the funk free. Holding it up over her head like that reminded me of the clown we saw on that TV show who tried to shield himself from a downpour with the tiniest umbrella. The thought of it made me burst out laughing, clutching my stomach and gasping for air. Of course, Little Miss Sensitive took offense to my antics. She whined that I was making fun of her for asking a stupid question then threw the mushroom at my head. It landed in a thud at her feet–exactly what happened to that poor clown–which made me laugh even harder. As the baby of the family Margot thought everything was all about her. When she began to pout, I straightened up. We were having fun outside being together in the garden, trying to get along for Mom's sake.

"It's a different kind of fungus," I explained. "Not like Joe's athlete's foot that grows because he doesn't change his stinky sweaty socks or that gross stuff living in the nasty showers up at Camp Winnatonka. Most mushrooms are edible."

"Edible? What's that?"

"It means they are fit for human consumption, or in words that a fifth grader would understand, it means you can eat them."

"Oh I get it," Margot said "If mushrooms had a bad smell, we wouldn't eat them."

"Exactly."

Margot picked up another mushroom from the ground, twirled it between her fingers, sniffed at it, peered under the brim and then set it back down.

"So cancer must be a fungus like mushrooms. If it had a smell, maybe Mom would have known it was there."

I pulled my little sister close to me and said, "Maybe, Margot. Maybe."

Writing Prompt: Does She Know I Have Your Keys in My Pocket?

Grandpa wants to take Nana out for a spin
in the Mercedes two-seater with the diesel engine,

to relive the moment she agreed to be his bride
in the hopes the old park would help her recognize

something from their past that matters
instead of all the random chatter

filling her brain, wearing Nana away
from the woman he knows, day after day.

I’ve heard their story a thousand times
how they made lemonade with limes,

a picnic in Pullen Park under the oak tree,
a keepsake he gave her with his picture and key,

before the Alzheimer's began eating her alive,
before the doctor told Grandpa not to drive.

He’s found everything he needs–the basket, the locket–
except for the car keys I have in my pocket.

Waning Gibbous

What is it called when a smile erupts upon hearing a story of H2O molecules detected in the debris of a crashed probe signaling the possibility of life on the moon because your mind makes the leap from that scientific discovery to holding his hand under a moon, two-thirds full in the mid-morning sky, and you wonder which lunar phase looks like an oval handkerchief not quite tucked into a pocket, and then remember him say, A little bit in, and you suppose, that’s a good name for it?

Writing Prompt: Coffee Beans

The aroma of Jamaica Blue Mountain brewing in the kitchen must have infiltrated her dream. Her subconscious mind alone could not have conjured such a scene. She was behind bars again – a caged animal on display at the zoo. Usually, in these recurring dreams she'd pace the floor, look beyond the bars, past the photo-snapping tourists and ogling schoolchildren and focus on the object of her desire. If she focused long enough her animal paws would morph into human arms and legs and she could walk past disappearing walls to the thing she knew she needed. Years ago when she lived in Los Angeles, the onlookers were always the last celebrities she saw on the late night talk shows before drifting off to sleep; the object was always food, water or some other basic necessity. Those dreams stopped after she moved to another state. She figured she had found the freedom she craved.

Last night she was that caged animal again, but this time only he stood watching her. She paced the floor staying toward the back, wary of his presence. Then he reached through the bars, coaxed her closer with his treat – chocolate covered coffee beans. She ate them one by one from his left hand oblivious to the diamond-studded collar he placed around her neck with his right. She felt the collar clasp around her neck, constrict her airway until she could no longer breathe; she woke up gasping. She stared at the two carats on the finger second from the left and wondered if she had made a mistake.

Dreaming to NPR

I am dressed up, excited.
A class trip to Barack’s and Michelle’s house
to watch the stars on the south lawn.
I walk through the market
searching for…a gift? A snack?
A rutabaga and strange fruit
weigh down my basket.

I ask a foreign lady where to pay.
Her detainee bracelet blinks green
then turns red when we go to the register.
I hold a cup in my left hand,
something clamped to my side.
I stand in line…waiting to pay?
Waiting for fried apples? Waiting for…

A train arrives at the platform.
A young man walks to the front,
shows the conductor his comic book, then boards.
I pull out the comic book tucked under my arm
and do the same. A sea of excited faces
looks back at me. They are all Black.
I overhear some students say
the school board voted out diversity.

I walk in the dark rain, my head down.
That cute boy from school bounds across the street,
lifts my chin with his finger.
We won the Nobel Prize!
He breaks out in song,
“I Love a Rainy Night” and I join in.

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The NPR stories that must have influenced this dream:
Astronomy Night on the White House Lawn
Immigration Detention
Voters Reject Wake Schools Diversity Policy
Nobel Prize for Chemistry
Jane Lynch from "Glee"

I Like...But I Never

I like that girl on the bus, but I never get a chance to talk to her. It's like fate is trying to warn me–she snores, has unresolved daddy issues, is batting for the other team. I could deal with all of those things, except maybe the batting for the other team part. But then again my sister, Paula does too, so I could introduce them. But I don't think she does, or rather, Paula doesn't think so. I had been talking about the mystery girl on the bus so much, Paula drove me to the stop in the morning to see if this girl warranted being the object of my obsession. It didn't take Paula 15 seconds to declare my girl was not part of "the family".

"She does seem–how can I say this nicely–out of your league, Jeff."

I must have had that deer in headlights look Paula says I give her when I don't quite catch her meaning because she continued.

"Let me give you an example. You like wine, right Jeff?"

"Sure I do."

"Well, she's more of a Cava and you're more like a two-buck Chuck."

I sat silent for a moment trying to absorb the meaning in the metaphor–and then I got it!

"So you're saying we both like wine, but our tastes might be different, and I might like a wine she does not like and vice versa, but if that's true, at least we have our interest in wine in common and can use that to build a successful relationship."

Paula smiled weakly, patted my shoulder. "Jeff, the bus is here. You'd better go before you miss your chance."

Highway

It's I-40 or just 40.
No one says "the 40"
'round these parts.
His twang snaps me back–
east of the Mississippi,
south of the Mason-Dixon,
away from the Pacific Coast–
toward my home
where the sun rises.

Writing Prompt: Contagious

I saw their love blossom
In nervous smiles and lingering conversations.
They hurdled over old hurts and impossibilities
Then landed in wedded bliss.
Their daring act made even a cynic like me
Cheer them on, and wonder,
If just by witnessing their triumph
It could happen to me.

Writing Prompt: Uncommon Pairs

He gave her his helmet, which seemed to her the most romantic gesture. She climbed on the back of his motorcycle, wishing she had worn a more practical dress - one she didn't have to keep hiking up past her knees for fear of getting caught on some wayward piece of metal. They made their way through the streets of his city, whizzing past sights more familiar to her after nine days. He headed south toward the lonely mountain, the one she spotted on her fourth day, but decided not to visit. People told her the mountain provided the best views, but she preferred to experience the city hands on, absorb its energy through her pores. She clung to him tighter as they spiraled up to the top. She wanted to hold on to this moment longer than she knew it would last. It should have been enough for her to see his smile everyday, watch his fingers steady restless glasses on his face. But of course, she wanted more. She wanted to free him from the sinister desk he had chained himself behind, from the life he had settled for.
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Writing prompt was to use uncommon pairs of adjectives and nouns. Pairings are noted in bold.

Crimson

The pungent smell of strawberries filled the emptiness.
Mashed chunks of crimson bled so deep into beige carpets
They would have to forfeit half of the security deposit
To return the apartment to move-in condition.

He was not home when he said he would be.
She called the cellphone twice, then once again.
Each failed attempt brought sharp pains to her chest,
Shed light on evidence she had chosen to ignore.

The credit card bill for meals she did not consume;
His muffled voice through doors and walls at 2 AM;
Printouts of directions to places she had never been,
Where he had never taken her.

She had convinced herself to believe his claim -
He was being a friend in the time of need -
Until his friend showed up at their door
Carrying his child, killing their love.

She contemplated ways to move past this indiscretion
Forgive him now, hope to forget in time
But her anger, like his unborn child,
Grew until it could no longer be held inside.

Preening

She stood in front of the mirror
Showered and patted dry from a long plush towel.
Geometric shapes in lime green and melon
Matched the concentric swirls of color
Dancing under pedicured toes.

She lathered her skin in slow rhythmic circles
With honeysuckle-scented shea butter,
Traced fingers from instep to inner thigh,
Making pit stops at the roundness in front and behind
Before proceeding to the juicy bend of her neck.

She fastened a ruby red padded bra over C-cups,
Slid the matching hipster over her bottom,
Pausing to admire the fruits of her labor.
The v-neck top and jeans followed -
Hugging curves as if to justify their existence.

The doorbell signaled his arrival.
She took another long look in the mirror,
Rotating the view from all angles.
Her lips parted in a soft smile
As she wondered how he got so lucky.

The Tango Embrace

The Tango Embrace: The Influence of Traditional and Non-Traditional Gender Role Attitudes (Taylor, Gebhart, Boggs and Omarova, 2009)

This study examined attitudes toward gender roles and how such views support or conflict with the traditional roles of male as leader and female as follower in Argentine tango. We hypothesized that dancing partners with congruent gender role attitudes would be more likely to have a favorable experience of the tango embrace. The Bem Sex Role Inventory was administered among participants attending a tango festival western North Carolina (N=100) and used to categorize participants into traditional and non-traditional gender role attitudes. Four males and four females scoring as highly traditional and highly nontraditional were randomly selected from the group of participants to dance with each other (N=16); the partner order was also randomized. After each dance, individuals rated the embrace on several factors: comfort, sense of connection, musicality expression, line of dance navigation, and likelihood of partnering again. In addition, tango instructors were asked to observe couples as they danced and rate each couple on the same factors. Analyses controlled for the following factors: height difference, weight difference, race/ethnicity, age, level of overall dance experience, and level of Argentine Tango experience. Results indicated that male gender role attitudes influence the experience of the tango embrace. Couples with a traditional male leader and traditional female follower had the most favorable rating of the dance experience, followed by a traditional male paired with a non-traditional female. A non-traditional male paired with a non-traditional female had the lowest rating. Looking at the dance experience for individuals, females rated dances with traditional males higher than dances with non-traditional males. The dance experience rating for males was not related to the gender role attitudes of their partners. Observed experience of the tango embrace was not related to the congruence of the couple’s gender role attitudes; only the level of Argentine tango experience was positively correlated with tango teacher observations of the tango embrace. Future research should examine whether these findings are generalizable to individuals having androgynous or undifferentiated gender role attitudes and same-sex tango couples.

Writing Prompt: Red

I'm waiting for Mars, my ruling planet, to align itself in the seventh house - the house of love and partnership. You would think I would want Venus there. Surely, she could bestow upon her loyal subject the grace and beauty of true love. But the goddess of love has not granted my wish. The queen of all things feminine has softened my heart into putty for commitment-phobic hands. It has taken me months to recover from the meltdown of the fickle flame that fizzled out as soon as the word "exclusive" came out of my mouth. And it wasn't a question like, "Can we be?" or "Are we?" It was simply a statement of fact - " I am seeing you exclusively." I said it as a way to say, "I like it here. I'm not going anywhere."

Of course, I wanted a progression - a year long construction on a solid foundation, not a house hastily built during the frenzy of the real estate bubble. When he said, "This is not working out," he might as well have flung a brick at my head and knocked me unconscious. Unconscious was the way I felt - walking around numb to the pain and suppressed anger - vulnerable prey for the next vulture singing promises of friendship and love.

Venus made me too weak for the game of love. She told me to let down my defenses, wear my heart on my sleeve. I need Mars to take the reigns - reinforce the troops and bolster their spirits. He will invent a different strategy and plot out a new course of action. He's an expert at the game of love - and he plays to win!
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Writing exercise for Written Word - pick a color and write down what you associate with it, then right about that. This version is slightly different from what I read during the workshop.