While the Editor-in-Chief is not looking, I have decided to post my final entry into the Defying Moments contest.  It may be a day late and a dollar short, but so am I.  Let me preface the following by pointing out that, like everything else I write, it is [...]]]>

While the Editor-in-Chief is not looking, I have decided to post my final entry into the Defying Moments contest.  It may be a day late and a dollar short, but so am I.  Let me preface the following by pointing out that, like everything else I write, it is not fiction. I write “creative nonfiction,” which is an emerging genre somewhere between an essay and a memoir.  (For some excellent examples, check out The Best Creative Nonfiction, Volumes 1, 2 and 3, edited by Lee Gutkind.) Thorn may argue that fiction is superior, and he may be right, but I don’t have the head for inventing stories; instead, I have a talent for finding meaning in the things that amuse or trouble me by writing about them.  One of the things that amuses and troubles me more than anything else is my parents and their two dogs, who happen to be visiting us right now.  If they should ever read this, which they probably won’t, they should not be dismayed; instead, they should be proud that their daughter has found a cheap alternative to therapy.

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Topic:  If Only They Knew

Hairy:  An Outline

Thesis:  I can enjoy spending time with my parents unless said enjoyment is inhibited by certain dog-induced conditions.  Such conditions might include (but are not limited to):

I. Being trapped in the incredibly hairy, dogsbody-smelling back seat of my parents’ SUV while Dad drives around and around downtown Portland looking for something that he thinks is on this street, or maybe this other street, but actually isn’t.

IA. One of the dogs is producing foul clouds of rancid gas, which I can’t help but consider, in the second it penetrates my nose and goes into my lungs, was recently in the intestines of a dog, nestled next to a glop of shit.

IB. It is the first warm, sunny day we’ve had in six weeks. I can see the sun outside the car – if I squint through the haze of dog-fart fumes – but I can’t get to it.

I. B1. I could open the door and leap out of the moving car, but I might injure myself in the process.

I. B. 1a. On the other hand, broken bones and months in traction might be preferable to smelling another dog fart.

IC. My disgust is mocked by my parents, who think the dog farts are funny, if not downright delicious.

II. My parents manage to override my stated preference that the dogs not be on the furniture, which I find bothersome and mildly disgusting because:

IIA. I picture the dogs’ exposed buttholes rubbing tiny particles of crap into our upholstery.

IIB. The dogs may have short hair, but they shed like Persian cats, and their hair attaches itself in droves to every surface. After my parents visit, I am sweeping and vacuuming up dog hair for MONTHS.

II. B1. My daughter and I do not have allergies EXCEPT for a mild allergy to dog dander.

II. B. 1a. I have mentioned this to my parents several times, but they have conveniently either not heard me, or heard me but ignored it.

II. B. 1b. My eyes have itched every day that they’ve been here, and it’s driving me mad.

II B. 1c. I’m not noticing a reaction from my daughter, except for occasional sneezing, a bit of congestion in the morning and some eye-rubbing, but who can say for sure what’s causing that?  I blame the dogs.

IIC. Mom skillfully sidesteps the no-dogs-on-the-furniture rule by asking if one of the dogs, who is feeling unwell, may rest in the chair on a blanket.

II C1. I say OK.

II C2. The next thing I know, a huge, dog-hair-encrusted blanket is hauled in from the car, draped over our couch, and both dogs are now allowed on the furniture all the time.

II C3. There is now no place for the people to sit – except for my parents, who do not care about sitting on dog hair.

IID. My default position on this is a sort of seething, suppressed anger.

II D1. I could just tell my parents how I feel, but that’s what normal people do, right?

II D 1a.  In my family of origin, we suppress and seethe, followed by a massive emotional blow-out, which we then pretend never happened. See? Nice and tidy.

III. So that explains why, when my father called me just now to tell me that he and Mom are going to go look at wood stoves in a town 40 minutes away, I was:

IIIA. Relieved.

IIIB. And a little disappointed, because I really would like to see them.

III B1. You know, ‘cuz they’re my parents.

III B2. And I love them.

Conclusion:  Ahh, the ties that bind. Ain’t it a bitch?

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Editor’s note:  Woof.

Russell Shor’s final entry into our Defying Moments contest hits all the right bells and whistles.  It’s such a charming story, Rob Reiner may option the rights.  (My advice – string him along a bit.  Hold out for the big money.)  And now I will go a ways toward [...]]]>

Russell Shor’s final entry into our Defying Moments contest hits all the right bells and whistles.  It’s such a charming story, Rob Reiner may option the rights.  (My advice – string him along a bit.  Hold out for the big money.)  And now I will go a ways toward revealing my age when I say I remember when there were still a couple of pinball machines down at the local arcade, way in the back past Frogger and Ms. Pac Man.  I, too, succumbed to the seductive lure of silver balls.  But all I can say about Russell’s shiny, high-scoring bit of nostalgia is (to quote Pete Townshend of The Who):  How do you think he does it?  I don’t know.  What makes him so good?

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Topic:  The Second Time We Kissed

Veronica’s Silver Balls (and Circuits)

My earliest crush was on a blonde with a long pony tail and sumptuous red lips. She was ensconced in the far corner of a sleek stainless-steel diner called Marge & Bill’s. Every day after school I’d save some nickels for my lady-love whose face lit up when I deposited one into the coin slot below her face. Yes, my love was the visage on a pin-ball machine. Veronica, after the comic book character.

Veronica was not the digital wonderland of today where one can earn mega-thousands of points for dispatching alien creatures with electronic blips. No, this lady, whose innards were made of electrical relays, circuit breakers and that evil plumb-bob tilt mechanism, was real stingy with points. Ten minutes of working the flippers and finessing her carriage to avoid the dreaded “tilt” might earn you 60 points. 50 would get you a free game and light Veronica’s eyes. 75 got you three freebies. I was too young to speculate on what other parts of Veronica’s anatomy would go alight at the really high levels. But 100 points was the impossible dream. None of us, me, Steve, Louie, Jack or Elmer, had ever gone that high. Once, Louie made it to 87. You’d have thought he pitched a perfect World Series game.

Louie had the ring until the day I made it to 80 and still had one ball left in my arsenal. I passed Louie a snarky grin, pulled back the plunger and gauged the pressure – I wanted just enough to send that gleaming steel ball three-quarters of the way round to descend through a row of spindles that would get me 10 points. I halted. I kissed Veronica’s flashing red lips for luck and went back to the plunger. I pulled, the ball made a perfect arc and rolled straight through the 10-point gauntlet and headed for the left flipper. I timed the flip perfectly, driving the ball the opposite way through the right channel for another 10. Veronica was flashing crazily and the free game pops were sounding like a motorcycle as the ball approached the right hand flipper. I was a little late. Nerves. My shot caromed off the left flipper, grazed a five-point bumper then headed into the abyss. One-oh-five, baby.

My record stood through the summer but we all went on to start high school that September – a long hike in the opposite direction of Veronica’s lair.

I didn’t pay Veronica much mind after then, though once in awhile I’d catch her peeking
between newspapers, magazines and comics at the newsstand in Philly’s 30^th Street Station. She was not on my mind when I was recruited to lecture at a weekend journalism seminar up in North Jersey. All that day, we discussed and role-played interviewing techniques then repaired to the bar which was decked out in Chevy fins, over-sized 45-rpm records and silkscreens of Buddy Holly, Elvis and Fats Domino. There, in a small alcove behind the tables, I noticed her. Veronica. Not a day older. Around her was a thick, burgundy felt rope like the kind they had in movie theaters. She was a collectors item now and someday may repose beside Mona Lisa (too old for me) and Venus de Milo (I do like arms) so I kissed her again while I still had the chance.

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From Soho down to Brighton
I must have played them all
I ain’t seen nothing like Russ
In any amusement hall!

(with my respects to Pete T.)

It’s a tough assignment to create a whole world – characters, plot, conflict, resolution and satisfying details – in just a few paragraphs, but Diana Diehl rises to the occasion like a phoenix from the ashes – or perhaps a beloved VW van from the bottom of the Kankakee [...]]]>

It’s a tough assignment to create a whole world – characters, plot, conflict, resolution and satisfying details – in just a few paragraphs, but Diana Diehl rises to the occasion like a phoenix from the ashes – or perhaps a beloved VW van from the bottom of the Kankakee River.  The difference is, the phoenix will fly again.  Here is Diana’s skillfully wrought entry for our Defying Moments contest, in which the protagonist endures a lot of pain, but isn’t prompted to take action until her Vanagon suffers.  Can a VW save her life?

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Topic:  My VW Escapade

Submerged

She deserved better.  I cringed as the tow truck driver waded into the mud, cursing.  The glare he shot my way said this was going to cost me.  I bristled when the words “women drivers” punctuated the stream of invectives that splattered all who stood too close.

My drunken ass husband did this, you cretinous prick. I couldn’t say it out loud; I was too used to taking the blame, whether it was for the black eye or the neck brace, or the holes punched in the apartment wall. Or the VW bus driven off the road.

A mournful screech like the death throes of a leviathan cut the air as the winch cable drew taut. She emerged, tailpipe first, from the bottom of the Kankakee River.  The front wheels finally pulled free of the muck with a final “Schplock!”  A waterlogged tree branch jutted from the place where her left windshield once was.  Her glorious orange and brown was completely covered with thick, gloppy, gray mud.  Her shining VW emblem on the front had been violently removed.  A huge dent in its place bore witness to where a rock had arrested her plunge further into the depths.

I unlatched the sliding door, and slime gushed out of her side like she’d been gutted.  I gagged as the smell of rotten river bottom hit me.

She’d been a fine conveyance, reliable in her quirky way.  Sure, I had to start her by letting her roll down a decline; I’d gotten good at giving her a push myself, and then jumping in to pop the clutch. If there was no hill–a common situation in Illinois–I’d shimmy underneath to jump the solenoid with the screwdriver I kept for just such occasions. I was always prepared with a blanket to toss on the ground to keep my interview suit clean. She always started, one way or another.  Now here she was, at the end, carelessly scuttled by a drunken wild man.

She wasn’t his first victim, either.  My blue bug was the first car I paid for myself, cash.  What a looker.  I probably would still have it, only he had squished it like. . .well. . . like a bug.  He had decided that doing doughnuts in the icy parking lot would be a fun activity when running to the store for some milk.  The bug had flipped over and skidded on its side for 50 feet.  Surprisingly, aside from the gashes of bare metal along the driver’s side and the burnt paint from the sparks and a somewhat pinched look, it had been drivable–for a while. You had to run a string from the windshield wipers and pull it for the “forth” part of back and forth, since they would only travel to the right.  “Swish!” Yank. “Swish!” Yank. “Swish!” Yank.  My left arm was saturated every time it rained.

One day, however, the bug could bear the pain of its trauma no more. While driving down the highway, my ears popped, and a loud, “Thwunk” came from the back of the car.  From the rear view mirror, I saw the rear window fly straight out behind, as if the car had been squeezed by a giant hand.  Out and down, it hit the pavement and bounced back up in the air. For a moment, the window and time seemed suspended as cars behind me slammed on their brakes.  It hovered four feet in the air, almost motionless.  Then, it exploded into millions of tiny pieces of glass that flew in all directions like the birth of a new universe.

I kept driving.

I had found a guy who made dune buggies. He didn’t care about the body.  I made a clean swap for a bus whose frame was too long for a quick conversion. The bus was so faded you couldn’t tell what color it had been; there were no seats in the back, and the front upholstery was torn.  But she was mine.  I hand painted her. Milk chocolate brown and pumpkin orange, like a peanut butter cup in a shiny wrapper.  And here she was, brought to total decrepitude.

I paid the tow truck driver with the cash I’d pulled from the bank. It took almost all of my pathetic nest egg.  The driver cranked her up in preparation for her last ride. Crushed and broken. Poor thing. She deserved better.

The tears welled up as I stuffed my wallet in my bag and started to trudge reluctantly home. I couldn’t look at her any more.  I rubbed at the tears, streaking mud across my cheek.  I winced sharply as I brushed an old bruise.  A chill shot up my spine, and the world rushed away from me.  I felt like I was looking through a long tunnel.  I spun around.  The tow truck was just pulling away, and I felt the chain choking around my neck, my feet barely touching the ground.  No.  I deserve better.  I took two deep breaths, put my muddy fingers in my mouth, and whistled as loudly as I could.  The driver put on the brakes and leaned out the window.  “Yeah?”

“Ten bucks if you’ll drop me by the train station on your way to the junkyard.”

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I’m not sure who I feel sorrier for – the van, or the woman.  Probably the van; at least the woman has a chance.

There is something about Juan Vandendorp’s writing – a spareness, an understated plainness – that, rather than diminishing his subjects, serve only to imbue them with a richly emotional quality.  However plain the words, we sense a deep current of feeling running under their surface, creating a beautiful tension [...]]]>

There is something about Juan Vandendorp’s writing – a spareness, an understated plainness – that, rather than diminishing his subjects, serve only to imbue them with a richly emotional quality.  However plain the words, we sense a deep current of feeling running under their surface, creating a beautiful tension which is both unsettling and compelling.  I am reminded of nothing so much as the clean, direct, emotionally weighted prose of Hemingway.  A Word with You Press is honored to post this entry into our Defying Moments contest, and we hope that Juan – whose short story recently won top honors in our Coffee Shop Chronicles contest – will continue to let what is in his heart and mind onto the page, and into our hearts and minds.

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Topic: The Day I Left

The Day I Left

I woke up and jumped out of bed. It was a big day for me. I put on my shorts, brown rubber shoes and rushed outside. My brother, Negro, would soon be home. I waited for him by the soccer stadium where the San Telmo soccer team used to play. The air was filled with the aroma of crude oil, coming from the river, where all fish had died years ago.

He was bringing facturas, Danish pastries; he always brought them for me; he loved seeing me smile.

When he emerged by the corner, where two young prostitutes waited for customers, I felt a rush in my stomach and ran to greet him. I was a bit like a little dog; I went for his hands first.  And there it was: the glossy beige bag that contained the treasure. Three facturas, two of them filled with dulce de leche and the other one was a churro.

I ate the facturas with matecocido, which is a herbal drink. My mother looked sad. She was moving around slowly and did not say much. I was excited. I finished the facturas and went outside to play with my cousins. “It’s a huge car. It’s made by the Americans and it’s called Impala.  I saw a picture in a magazine,” said Moncho, his chubby cheeks all flushed with the attenion I was giving him. Nobody ever listened to him. “I’m going to go to Buenos Aires. I’m going to go to a nice school and the woman has a daughter,” I said, covering my eyes from the sun with my left hand; we were in our hideaway, in the dark green marsh.

They must have painted my future life as a fairy tale, because for a few hours, all I could think about was the big black car. My little body of five sat looking at the end of the dirt road, expectant. The baking sun had been drying up the earth for weeks and it was dusty. Some people were carrying buckets of water from the only faucet that we had – the shanty town was about a quarter of a mile in diameter; the girls carried the buckets like the Chinese people, balancing them on their shoulders at the ends of a wooden pole.

My mother had prepared a little bag for me, and she had included her tattered dress that I liked to sleep in, the one that made me feel safe. Her eyes were swollen. She grabbed me hard and held me for a long time in her arms. She turned away suddenly and rushed away. I went outside and peered into the distance. A cloud of dust appeared and behind it, a menacing black car bobbed its way toward me. I ran inside and got my mom and my stepfather.

The Impala pulled right in front of me. A blonde woman, who wore a brown suit with a pink-ruffled blouse, got out of the car. I started touching the car and going around it completely in awe. My head reached only the door handle so I had to jump to see inside. The inside was glossy, burgundy leather. After one lap around the black car, I bumped into a man that towered over me, wearing a dark suit and smoking a dark cigarette. He was with the blonde woman but was much younger.

He squatted to talk to me; he had green eyes. “I hear you like to sing, is that right?” he asked me. I nodded but I had eyes only for the car. He must have noticed, for he took me by the hand and led me to the interior.

I stretched on the back seat, that was big enough to fit three like me. Outside, the blonde woman, whose name was Lily, talked to my mom and her boyfriend.

I sat in the back seat of the car; Lily shook hands with my mom. She then came toward us and got in the passenger seat. Blas, the man, had already started the car. The engine made a loud rumble. I was busy exploring every inch of the car. My mom gave me the bag and an apple covered in burnt sugar that I loved. When the car turned around, I leaned with my belly into the seat to look through the rear window. The cloud of dust was unforgiving and I only caught a glimpse of my mother and her boyfriend, becoming little shadows. I would not see my mother again for seven years.

That was the day that I left home. My mom was giving me a chance in life. She was letting go of the one thing that gave meaning to her life. Me, her precious little five year-old boy that she loved to hold against her chest when she came home after hours of rubbing some rich man’s floors. She sacrified herself so that I would not end up in prison like Negro. If only my mom had known that in the world there are much worse things than prison. Unknowingly, she was sending me to a witch that terrorized me for seven years.

With one swing of her mighty sword, life made my world vanish. My world, with all those smiling faces, with the children carrying water, and the marsh, where me and my cousins played war. My wooden toys and my beloved rubber soccer ball stayed with Moncho. My brother Negro never brought me facturas again. To the world this was a shanty town, something to be ashamed of; a slum, that the politicians were not proud to show off to the presidents of other countries. For me, it was my world. Just like the hyenas have their world, this was where I felt safe. I did not see it as the gown-ups saw it; I saw it as a land of adventures. This was my home. Here, I was free.

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Thank you, Juan.  Please keep writing.

Miryam Howard-Meier, a regular contributor to A Word with You Press and poster of insightful comments, kindly reminded us that her third entry for our Defying Moments contest had yet to bask in the brown-and-yellow glory of our home page.  Miryam notes that this story falls outside of her [...]]]>

Miryam Howard-Meier, a regular contributor to A Word with You Press and poster of insightful comments, kindly reminded us that her third entry for our Defying Moments contest had yet to bask in the brown-and-yellow glory of our home page.  Miryam notes that this story falls outside of her usual repertoire, but we encourage risk-taking here. We’re glad Miryam decided to be bold.  What follows could perhaps be called an allegory, or maybe a fable, or maybe even a parable of sorts.  It is, at its heart, a reminder that love is worth fighting for – that even when we feel irretrievably lost, love can lead us home.

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Topic: If Only They Knew

The Escape

Viocuron stood proudly before his clan at the council of the pit. In all of his existence he had never been so pleased as he was this day.  How effortlessly he had managed to creep into the intricate opening of this weak human’s mind, injecting the evil poison with his long syringe-like fingers.  Viocuron was boastful of his work. He had managed to succeed in the first leg of this vital mission, by defiling one of the most prominent leaders of The Book on earth. Now, timing was everything, if this virus of filth was going to spread as it was designed to do.  If only this weak human knew what he had opened himself up too, he would have never entertained those thoughts in his first few moments of awakening.

Time was running out, and Viocuron and his clan knew that they must use every weapon in their arsenal to conquer the people of The Book.  The plan was so simple, yet so powerful.  “If only the humans of The Book actually knew what was written inside of it!” the clan would mock.  The first step in defeating any enemy is, knowing what they know, and in this case, it was too easy for belief! Viocuron had waited patiently, and it had paid off. The human was very popular among his peers. Many stood in long lines to hear his wisdom and see the miracles at his hands.

Then one late night, when the human was asleep, Viocuron sent lies and offence into his dreams. He reminded the human of all the things that others had said against him. It just took a short time before the human was enraged with anger for being wronged, and he forgot all the forgiveness, which he had once so sincerely declared. The human set out to avenge himself, and was contemplating plans of how he could get even. The trap had been set so easily. Viocuron continued to boast over his good work, and how he succeeded at just the right moment when the human was in his most powerful hour!

As the clan continued to fan the offences within the human’s heart, they gathered in victory and danced around the pit in triumphant exaltation. Meanwhile, the human was consumed with increasing offence and bitterness. He became argumentative with everyone around him, and lost the wisdom he once walked in. His wife divorced him and he was left alone — alone to drown in his bitterness.  With no income, no home, health failing, and no friends, the human walked the streets at night, sleeping on the ground in cardboard boxes wherever he found a place out of the weather. He could not understand how this had happened to him, and continued to curse everyone else for his pain and suffering.

The clan did not forget about the human. They hovered over him night and day, and continued to inject everyone that the human touched with his infectious disease. The human was sitting alone in a park one afternoon, as he often did, when he noticed a young boy flying his kite. He watched the kite rising higher as it finger-painted the sky, and for the first time in years, he remembered how it felt to have joy.  He continued to watch, as the boy hooted at the top of his lungs when his kite swooped down low and then shot upward like a rocket in the sky.  As he watched the expression on the young boy’s face, the years of bitterness suddenly began to crumble, exposing his desire to feel love again. It was a divine download; complete in every way.  How could he have his life back?  How could he experience this joy again? — He struggled for answers.   Just then the boy came over to his side by the park bench and held the string-wrapped stick out to the man.

“Take it,” he said to the man. The man looked curiously at the boy for a moment, and then reluctantly took it.  The force of the wind gushing through the string caused the man’s hand to lift upward, pulling at his whole being to rise up and submit to the gust.  He found himself running, as he held tight to the ball of string within his fist, and as he ran, he began to feel again… with each leap he remembered the peace of what it was like to be a man of The Book.  He was so overwhelmed that he fell to the ground, crying out with tears of remorse.

The boy bent down next to the man and spoke, “I have been sent to you today from the Gd of The Book. I am you when you were a boy. Gd wants you to know that He still loves you the way He did then, and He understands your pain.”

As the man looked up into the boy’s eyes, he saw something that he had lost in all the years of his bitterness. He saw the love he once knew. It was distant, yet familiar.

“I want this love back! I want this love back!” sobbed the man uncontrollably, and he awoke from his slumber on the park bench. The man was instantly alert, and knew what he must do. It was simple, yet so powerful…

“I will repent,” he said.

At that moment Viocuron and his clan screamed in agonizing, blood-curdling defeat, vowing not to give up, as they began their vigil again of patiently waiting, for just the right moment….

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Viocuron is an extra-creepy name.  I imagine him as a sort of alien vampire with pale green skin, a freakishly elongated head, and fingernails like scimitars.  Oh, yes – and a cape with a high, stiff collar.

Our Defying Moments contest will soon be drawing to a close . . . but do not go gently into that good night!  Send your stories, essays, poems, creative nonfiction (but no non-creative fiction, please!) of every genre to monika@awordwithyoupress.com.  Our contest ends Tuesday, June 15 – so it’s [...]]]>

Our Defying Moments contest will soon be drawing to a close . . . but do not go gently into that good night!  Send your stories, essays, poems, creative nonfiction (but no non-creative fiction, please!) of every genre to monika@awordwithyoupress.com.  Our contest ends Tuesday, June 15 – so it’s not too late to let loose with whatever your imagination dares to invent.  But don’t stop at one entry – you can send us up to three, based on any of the following topics:

1)  They Day I Left (Home?  Him or Her?  The Motor Running?)

2)  If Only You (He, She, They) Knew…

3)  I Had to Quit the Job

4)  My Most Spectacular Failure (or Success)

5)  I’d Almost Forgotten

6)  My Volkswagen Escapade

7)  The Second Time We Kissed

The top five entries get a $20 Barnes & Noble gift certificate, and a signed copy of Thornton Sully’s novel, The Boy with a Torn Hat.

Click here for the full contest rules.

In her third beautifully written entry into our Defying Moments contest, Rachel Walker somehow manages, in just four paragraphs, to combine children’s clothing, vampires, violins, a very young woman and a very old man with obscure motives into a story about the hazy borderline between flattering attention and outright [...]]]>

In her third beautifully written entry into our Defying Moments contest, Rachel Walker somehow manages, in just four paragraphs, to combine children’s clothing, vampires, violins, a very young woman and a very old man with obscure motives into a story about the hazy borderline between flattering attention and outright creepiness.  Should we feel sorry for the old man, curious about his past, and hope that the girl will be kind to him?  Or should we feel repulsed by the man, protective toward the girl, and relieved when she makes her getaway?  Perhaps we can simply appreciate that Rachel’s piece, like many good stories, makes us feel many things at once.

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Topic: I Had to Quit the Job

The Russian Violinist

When he first entered the store I made the unfortunate mistake of smiling when I said hello.  Unused to seeing an older gentleman in a children’s resale shop, I assumed he was purchasing an item for a child and was surprised when he held up a pair of slacks and asked for my opinion.  Small in stature, his head came nearly to my shoulder and he moved with small, quick gestures, furtively snatching items off the rack and holding them to his wiry frame before tossing them in a pile on the floor. His Russian accent was thick and when he suddenly turned and told me I looked like a famous violinist from his homeland, I had to ask him to repeat himself. At sixteen I was flattered by the high compliment, and eagerly repeated it to all who bothered to listen.

The following Monday he entered the store with a magazine and a three page article detailing the Russian violinist. I did not recognize myself in the raven haired beauty, but thanked him for his trouble. The day after that he brought me a plastic bag full of unidentifiable leaves and told me to steam them; they would make my skin beautiful, soft and fair like hers. He tried to hold my hand and I jerked away, alarmed by the tiny, ancient stranger. I threw the bag in the dumpster on my way home, a vague uneasiness gnawing at the corners of my consciousness.

The following day he stopped by twice and I hid behind the cribs and changing tables. The second time, he paced anxiously around the store and the confused cashier gave me away with her wide-eyed stare. His face broke into a grin of relief as he hurried toward me, a book clutched in his eager, outstretched hand. To placate him I quickly thumbed through it, dropping it like a snake when I realized it was composed of hand drawn pictures of nude vampires, each one playing an intricately detailed violin. He told me he loved me, and that he wanted to buy me a violin. I asked him to leave. Grin fading, he walked away from me slowly, his narrow shoulders hunched protectively around the rebuked gift.

The following week he was waiting on a bench outside the store when I unlocked in the morning. The expression on his face was one of pure agony, the weight of which settled over me like a ton of cement. He waited there all week, never speaking or entering the store again, just watching me with eyes that were sometimes misty, sometimes hazy and far away. That Friday I arrived at the store, steeling myself for another guilt-ridden encounter, but he was not there. In his place there was a red rose and a magazine article, old and carefully folded back to a picture of a dark haired, fair skinned violinist. Dropping my keys through the mail slot, I turned and walked away.

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I want more naked vampires.

In her second entry into our Defying Moments contest, Rachel Walker offers us a poem which is deliciously left of center.  She explores – with just a few, sweet words – the mystifying element of attraction that makes us tingle with delight when someone does something “just so.”  Does [...]]]>

In her second entry into our Defying Moments contest, Rachel Walker offers us a poem which is deliciously left of center.  She explores – with just a few, sweet words – the mystifying element of attraction that makes us tingle with delight when someone does something “just so.”  Does this quirky inner marker of what-makes-our-socks-go-up-and-down have its roots somewhere in childhood?  Maybe.  Maybe next time you’ll try tilting left, and see what happens.

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Topic: The Second Time We Kissed

Second Left

You tilt left
and I am struck-silly
by the memory of one who
tilted left
under the swing set when my braids still reached my waist
and recess was heaven on monkey bars.
The flush that follows the warm press of lips
(too young, even, for peach fuzz)
rings clear like a school bell,
leading me to you through a myriad of ho-hums
who tilted right.

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Maybe if Don Quixote had tilted left, he would have had better luck with Dulcinea.

Ann Bancroft’s deftly executed second entry into our Defying Moments contest – a brief, bittersweet byte of contemporary romance – is guaranteed to deliver a fiberoptic surge of self-recognition. I dare you not to smile when you get the twist.

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Topic:  The Day I Left Him

The Day [...]]]>

Ann Bancroft’s deftly executed second entry into our Defying Moments contest – a brief, bittersweet byte of contemporary romance – is guaranteed to deliver a fiberoptic surge of self-recognition. I dare you not to smile when you get the twist.

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Topic:  The Day I Left Him

The Day I Left Him

His was the first face I’d see each morning. Our goodnights were silent. No word need be exchanged, just a look…  A sweet, faint whisper and then a sound in my heart like a chime. My eyes close and I sleep, content.

Oh, if only we could spend all of our days together! I long to see his many moods, now serious, bent over a desk, now playful, gazing at the sea, now looking straight and lovingly into my eyes.

Work intervenes.  The dull necessities of life pull me away and yet I cannot resist the sneaking back, the rushing away and toward him for even one glance, one sly or clever exchange, one brief encounter that says, “we get each other,” here, there, in the air, we connect.

We draw close to one another not only in this urgent, private way, but in the thousands of places our minds spark and fuse with a universe of others. I am standing in a crowd, and there he is! His passion rages and ignites my own.

But, now, who is this? Who is she, now hanging on his every word, elbowing in front of me in this gathering of the like-minded, calling his name?

I see they have attended a concert. A friend, breaking the news, shows me a photo of the two of them and now I shake. How could he? Before we’d even met? After liking all my links?

Today, I begin the journey of ending my pain. “Remove from Friends,” it says. “Are you sure?”

I push the button. Look up from my computer. Let life intervene.

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The way we meet may have changed, but the way we behave never will.

Seriously, people – don’t hold back.  Don’t pretend that you don’t WANT to tell us exactly what happened on The Day You Left, or precisely why you Had to Quit That Job, or the juicy details of The Second Time You Kissed.  Please explain to us, in excruciating detail, [...]]]>

Seriously, people – don’t hold back.  Don’t pretend that you don’t WANT to tell us exactly what happened on The Day You Left, or precisely why you Had to Quit That Job, or the juicy details of The Second Time You Kissed.  Please explain to us, in excruciating detail, every moment of Your Volkswagen Escapade.  Please elaborate upon the finer points of their horrified – or sympathetic – reactions, If They Only Knew. Search your memory for illuminating flashes of the incident You’d Almost Forgotten. And we can’t wait to hear about Your Most Spectacular Success – or, even more interesting, Your Most Spectacular Failure.

Please, kiss and tell.  Tell all.  No holds barred, no punches pulled:  short stories, essays and poems of all genres – fiction, fact, or a little of both.  It’s your blank page; make of it what you will.  But whatever leaks from your mind, or your pen, or your keyboard, get it out there.  A Word with You Press longs to hear you whisper in our ear, or shout it from the rooftops:  ”THIS IS MY DEFYING MOMENT!”

What, pray tell, is a Defying Moment?  Click here to refresh your memory regarding the details of our contest, which still has a bit of room for more entries.  To get your creative juices flowing, read a few of our previously posted entries, and add your comments in the Comment Box.  I personally have been astonished by the incredible variety of stories that have gushed forth from your fertile minds – and I know you will be, too.

This is YOUR Defying Moment.  Seize it, wrestle it to the ground, and write about it. Then send it to me at monika@awordwithyoupress.com.  Your story is waiting to be told.