tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551337237086002742024-03-13T16:37:29.039-07:00Three Moons RisingHow to write with a circus in your living room.Amy Willoughby Burlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17173371123893772487noreply@blogger.comBlogger69125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-455133723708600274.post-75171212075167779072014-02-05T21:14:00.001-08:002014-02-05T21:14:22.016-08:00Beyond the Binding Cover RevealExcited to share the cover for<i> <a href="http://writerlysam.wordpress.com/2014/02/05/beyond-the-binding-composers-for-relief-companion-collection-cover-reveal/" target="_blank">Beyond the Binding</a></i>, a new ebook to be released soon. It's a companion book to the <i><a href="http://writerlysam.wordpress.com/2014/02/05/beyond-the-binding-composers-for-relief-companion-collection-cover-reveal/" target="_blank">Composers for Relief</a></i> album--both of which support relief to the Philippines. More info to come soon!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDMynU_zGdH9uj41-MYK0oEBxSUwoFgU3nvx3JyVhLzUj8-hQj7cXpOFtF5Lo7xKOlGfAvskHKkJMl3TuXOuc4esBWYhwLrVnIdA9yEl0M4OYRVWjSECDlzUplTpZSAjK9iPm5rJDH53Wp/s1600/beyond-the-binding1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDMynU_zGdH9uj41-MYK0oEBxSUwoFgU3nvx3JyVhLzUj8-hQj7cXpOFtF5Lo7xKOlGfAvskHKkJMl3TuXOuc4esBWYhwLrVnIdA9yEl0M4OYRVWjSECDlzUplTpZSAjK9iPm5rJDH53Wp/s1600/beyond-the-binding1.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />Amy Willoughby Burlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17173371123893772487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-455133723708600274.post-24925065653545990572013-12-26T20:22:00.000-08:002014-01-07T07:49:04.408-08:00I'm thrilled to be part of <a href="http://writerlysam.wordpress.com/composers-for-relief-supporting-the-philippines/" target="_blank">Composers for Relief: Supporting the Philippines.</a><br />
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<strong style="background-color: #9bbbbf; border: 0px; color: #993300; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">In the spirit of collaboration, 28 writers from across the globe will join in discovering the stories of triumph lurking in the notes of each track on this inspiration album. The final tales will be compiled into a companion ebook anthology for the album, with all proceeds going to <a href="http://gk1world.com/typhoon-yolanda" sl-processed="1" style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #39565a; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" target="_blank" title="Gawad Kalinga's Operation Walang Iwanan"><span style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #993300; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Gawad Kalinga</span></a>.</strong><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjteE4UvPMjfphyphenhyphen_icO904J2T_O9IHXutrGOKBqeCcV0aMxppnYN0wfJFFw-ANNjFQNtAFKAshe3-5ijpzunP-8igYa4SU6-zTdlW5EzZMRtnI0htWussISgkr1o66AKEO3Dta7nyWv1A5x/s1600/f22b61cc24b7fa59dbccdf33267fb284.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjteE4UvPMjfphyphenhyphen_icO904J2T_O9IHXutrGOKBqeCcV0aMxppnYN0wfJFFw-ANNjFQNtAFKAshe3-5ijpzunP-8igYa4SU6-zTdlW5EzZMRtnI0htWussISgkr1o66AKEO3Dta7nyWv1A5x/s320/f22b61cc24b7fa59dbccdf33267fb284.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<strong style="background-color: #9bbbbf; border: 0px; color: #993300; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></strong>
<strong style="background-color: #9bbbbf; border: 0px; color: #993300; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">I chose the track, Beautiful Life. It is one of the most moving songs I've ever heard. Here is the story it inspired. </strong><br />
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Beautiful Life</div>
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Andrew loves to sleep. In his dreams he’s whole again. He
can feel the warm sand beneath his bare feet and the sting of muscles well used
on a long walk down the shore. He would never have done it in the waking world,
but in his dreams he tosses bread to the gulls above. He understands, now, their desperate swooping
for one more morsel. Awake, he rolls himself out onto the porch of his parent’s old
beach house where he can feel the breeze from the ocean soft on his face and
through his hair. </div>
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He wants to be grateful for what is left, but he misses what
is gone. He had a normal life—a car, a job, a girl he loved. He had thought of
all the things he would lose, she wouldn’t be one. He was wrong. The accident
had taken the life he knew how to live. This knew one is a mystery to him. So he lives in his dreams. At night, anything he imagines can become
real. He can be a soldier victorious, a bird over the ocean, or better yet—he can be who he once was. In his dreams, he’s not
alone. He is in love and loved in return. He has friends. He has family. Awake he is
reminded of his loss. His friends, not up for the challenge, his parents—already lost to him years ago. All for the better, he
thinks. He would be too much of a burden now.<br />
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What he has left of his parents is this
house where he spent childhood summers on the shore, where he learned to surf, where he sneaked out late to meet a girl under the moonlight. He remembers friends and
nights out at the pub in town—drinks over lively conversation, bar food too
greasy for its own good. He knows the loss of his friends is as much his own fault as theirs. But it's hard to be jovial when your world has broken in half at the center. A company sends a nurse aid who help him do the
things he has become too complacent in his misery to do for himself. She’s friendly, but it isn’t the same. </div>
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It’s been one year today that he awoke to a foreign life. He
wants to wallow in his sorrow, but outside along the shore, he sees a young boy
playing. The boy’s mother watches from a blanket nearby. The boy pretends to be
a gull—arms outstretched, swooping and diving. The boy’s blond hair lifts up
in tufts, buoyed by the salt air. Andrew watches with wrinkled brow and is
suddenly determined to get back what is lost. He wheels back into the house and
turns on his computer. He thinks about going to his old social networking
sites, maybe starting up a blog, or at least reading someone else’s. But what would he say to the avatars anyway? Who would he claim to be? One
step at a time, he tells himself. First, go somewhere that is not a doctor’s
appointment. He looks up the local movie listings and picks a flick that looks
like something he would have wanted to see when he was his old self. </div>
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He knows going to a movie isn’t much different than going to
sleep. It isn’t real. But it’s a start. He calls the local assisted travel
service and is put in touch with a handicap accessible taxi. He dresses and
readies himself. It takes longer than he expects and is a fair amount more
frustrating than he thought it would be to make himself presentable enough for
the general public. But he does it. He will miss the early movie, but that’s
OK. He will not be discouraged. </div>
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Ready, he calls the taxi service and meets them in the
lobby. At the movie theater, he’s deposited into the
real world with not much idea of what to do. Silly, he thinks, he used to do
this all the time. He knows the city. He knows how to purchase a ticket and
watch a movie. So he does just that. It’s a thrill to sit in the darkened
theater among other folks and laugh when they laugh. He feels connected. When
the movie is over he doesn’t want to go home. He rolls himself over the uneven
sidewalk to a pub just a few doors down. He gets a table, lamenting a seat at
the bar for just a moment. He orders a
drink and chili cheese fries. He smiles at the greasy goodness. </div>
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When he’s on his second beer a young womanl comes and sits at
the table with him. </div>
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“My friends dared me to come over and speak to you.” she
says.</div>
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At first he’s offended. Why, because I’m in a wheelchair, he
wants to ask, but doesn’t.</div>
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“They say you look like Matt Damon.” she says. “I say Jude
Law. The bet is, do you have a British accent?”</div>
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He doesn’t think he looks like either one, but he appreciates the complement. He shrugs his
shoulders and smiles at her. She laughs out loud. She goes on asking questions
and he goes on answering them with only gestures. It’s a silly secret to keep
from her when there is a real one just under the edge of the table. </div>
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He finally does speak and she pouts saying that she has lost
the bet, but doesn’t care. </div>
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“It was just an excuse to come over,” she says, and blushes.</div>
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They continue to talk
and she asks if he wants to go outside, get away from the noise. Better to get
it over with he thinks. She stands up
and he rolls back from the table. He watches for her reaction. She doesn’t flinch. He points to the chair. </div>
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“I already know that,” she says. “I saw you come in.” </div>
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he's confused by her indifference to his condition. But of course, the's not the first person to ever be in a wheelchair. As she opens the door for them without pity or pretense
Andrew realizes that it is not the world that has left him, he has left the
world. He has thought the worst of world and assumed it felt the same. He is
wrong. She asks if he’s seen the new
comedy. He lies and says no.</div>
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“We should see it,” she says. “If you want to.”</div>
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He nods. He points to a bench along the empty street and they sit and talk. The warm night air floats around them. Andrew thinks of the gulls along the shore. He thinks of their wings and their determination. Their freedom. Life is not what he thought it would be, but in this moment,
it is better.</div>
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(end)</div>
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Thank you for reading and stay tuned for more information on how you can purchase the album and ebook and help support the Philippine people affect by this tragedy. </div>
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Amy Willoughby Burlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17173371123893772487noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-455133723708600274.post-32539872374861865562013-07-31T06:36:00.003-07:002013-07-31T06:38:42.058-07:00Guest Hosting Today! July 31st!Hey guys and gals, I'm thrilled to be the guest poster/ hoster on the A to Z Challenge Blog today, July 31st! Ya'll remember the A to Z Challenge back in April? yes! <br />
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They've been having guest hosts every day for a while now and I'm thrilled that it's my turn today. Check out it out at <a href="http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/" target="_blank">A to Z Challenge/</a> . You'll find my brilliant advice on writing. Lol. Maybe brilliant is a bit much, but it is advice on writing--take it for what it's worth. I hope you find a kernel of helpful insight somewhere in there.<br />
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Then stick around and check out some other posts and info at A to Z. <br />
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Thanks for reading!Amy Willoughby Burlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17173371123893772487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-455133723708600274.post-67691334940519289262013-07-14T19:35:00.002-07:002013-07-14T19:35:24.357-07:00Many Minds, One StoryHey guys! Are you visiting from <a href="http://writerlysam.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Writerlysam's</a> Amazing <a href="https://www.facebook.com/audiomachine" target="_blank">Audiomachine</a> collaboration? If so, thanks! I hope you liked my start of the multi-author writing collaboration based on Audiomachine's new album, <em>Tree of Life</em>. <br />
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Keep going back every day as we watch this story unfold together! I can't wait to see what happens next. <br />
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If you're visiting for other reasons, then go check this out at <a href="http://writerlysam.wordpress.com/tree-of-life-branching-out/" target="_blank">Tree of Life, Branching Out.</a><br />
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<a href="http://writerlysam.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Samantha Redstreake Geary</a> is hosting a collaborative promo on her blog with <a href="https://www.facebook.com/audiomachine" target="_blank">Audiomachine </a>to help them celebrate the release of <em>Tree of Life</em>. Spend some time on Sam's blog and make sure you check it all out.<br />
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This will go for 26 days and there will be wonderfully inspiring music, prizes, and great writing! This collaboration has been drawing attention from people ALL OVER THE WORLD. Don't miss it!<br />
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Amy Willoughby Burlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17173371123893772487noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-455133723708600274.post-75382127400623828542013-06-25T17:54:00.003-07:002013-06-25T17:56:44.842-07:00Do you listen to music when you write?If you do, you must make a note to follow <a href="http://writerlysam.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Writerlysam</a> in July! She's doing an amazing promotion for <a href="http://www.audiomachine.com/" target="_blank">Audiomachine's</a> new album. There's going to be amazing music, prizes you can win, and two ongoing stories using Audiomachine's new songs as inspiration. <br />
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One story will be by <a href="http://writerlysam.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Samantha Redstreake Geary</a> and will be an awesome combination of genre that will blow you away. The other story will be a continuing story done by 25 invited writers who will each contribute 150 words a day to create one story. I'm thrilled to be part of this list of writers! I'm up first and am thrilled to get the story underway. Where it goes from my 150 words is any writer's guess!<br />
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So mark your calendar and tell you friends! Audiomachine Promo coming in July! Don't know who they are-check them out! <a href="http://audiomachine./">Audiomachine.</a> They do that amazing music that you hear in movie trailers that makes you HAVE to see the movie--yeah that's them! <br />
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Don't miss it!Amy Willoughby Burlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17173371123893772487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-455133723708600274.post-42795468711316357792013-06-11T14:50:00.002-07:002013-06-11T19:57:49.836-07:00Insanity or Determination?So they say the definition of insanity is repeating the same action, yet expecting a different result. (<em>Personally, I think the definition is more along the lines of standing on the street corner in your underwear singing the Star Spangled Banner while feeding a stray dog corn on the cob.)</em><br />
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So would you call it insanity to keep writing, querying, hoping, alas--failing and then going back to do it all over again? Or would you call it determination?<br />
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Either way, I like to think that it's the mark of a writer who means it. Someone who will write and submit their work and rewrite and search again and not take no for an answer. (<em>Not that said writer doesn't get bummed out for a little while in the process--she's only human.)</em> But what's "a little while?" <br />
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Well, a few minutes ago, I just heard "no" from an agent who very kindly and excitedly asked to read my novel, but in the end, graciously passed on representing it. She had very encouraging words about my writing skills, which was nice to hear. <em>(This is what we call a "good rejection." Writers sure can spin words can't we.)</em> I pouted for a minute, called my husband, sighed heavily and then opened my computer and started writing. <br />
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Hair of the dog that bit me? I guess so. But bite away, dog, bite away. Amy Willoughby Burlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17173371123893772487noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-455133723708600274.post-83479471075624388582013-05-27T14:37:00.001-07:002013-05-27T14:37:13.856-07:00Woven Tale Press--A to Z Blog Challenge Issue is Out!I'm thrilled to be included in the A to Z blog challenge issue of <a href="http://issuu.com/sandratyler/docs/a-z2013woventalefinal" target="_blank">Woven Tale Press</a>! You'll find me at B. I'm excited to have this blog entry chosen because it's the opening of my novel. Hopefully this is a little thumbs up for heading off in the right direction. <br />
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Look at H as well. What a small world that my writing partner and super-good (yeah I'm 41 and I said super-good) girlfriend, Samantha Redstreake Geary had a blog entry chosen as well. <br />
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Take a look at this issue. You'll be glad you did. There's good writing, art, insight and much more! Fun stuff! <br />
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Thanks for choosing me, Woven Tale Press! <br />
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Amy Willoughby Burlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17173371123893772487noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-455133723708600274.post-47352653100861599982013-05-26T09:24:00.002-07:002013-05-26T09:24:40.135-07:00First Drafts and Diving Back InI'm about a good afternoon's work from getting the first draft of my newest novel, <em>Sparrow</em>, finished. I'm at just under 90,000 words already--which for me is a LONG first draft. I'm hoping that means that I've got less fleshing out to do than usual and more toning and honing. <br />
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I've got about 6 weeks till baby number 4 is here, so I'm trying to get as much done now as possible, as I'll be taking a break (haha yeah) for a little bit. But not long. I've got a great support system in my husband and other kids and they'll be just as eager for me to get back to work as I will. <br />
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I'd love to see what folks think about what I have so far, so I might post some rough sections in a few days. <br />
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Have a Happy Memorial Day and weekend!<br />
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Amy Willoughby Burlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17173371123893772487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-455133723708600274.post-91041667690555254592013-05-18T07:15:00.003-07:002013-05-18T07:19:04.695-07:00A to Z post chosen for Woven Tale PressEven though the A to Z Blog Challenge ended in April it's still buzzing online. <a href="http://woventalepress.com/" target="_blank">Woven Tale Press</a> decided to do a special issue featuring posts from the challenge that were submitted by the authors and chosen by the Woven Tale Press crew. <br />
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I'm super flattered to have my "B" (Box of Tissues, Bottle of Wine, and Bird Wings) post chosen. I'm especially happy to have this post picked as it's the opening of my novel <em>The Lemonade Year.</em> You have to get the opening right if you want people to keep reading, so perhaps I've done a decent job of that. I sure hope so. <br />
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I can't wait to see the issue and will let you know when it's out. In the meantime, check out this<a href="http://issuu.com/awriterweavesatale/docs/woventaleissue_1" target="_blank"> issue of Woven Tale Press</a>. Pretty darn impressive, if you ask me. <br />
<br />Amy Willoughby Burlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17173371123893772487noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-455133723708600274.post-54444628570791956092013-05-11T07:58:00.002-07:002013-05-11T07:58:59.722-07:00What comes after A to ZLast month I did the A to Z blog challenge. It was daily (except for Sunday) posting following the ABC's. Not only that, but it was a chance to visit other blogs and see what's going on in the world around me. Pretty cool stuff out there. <br />
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But what to do now? A friend of mine, Samantha Jones (you may know her from <a href="http://writerlysam.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">writerlysam</a> - if you don't visit her!) were just talking about the balance between writing and blogging and all things in between. <br />
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It's so tempting to let the hours unwind around you as you visit, comment, post, search--all the everything that's out there in the world. Too easy.<br />
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I struggle with needing and wanting more of an Internet presence than I have, but not wanting to get lost in networking and neglect writing. There are only so many hours in the day, after all. And what will all the networking be for if I have no product at the end of the day?<br />
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So I'd love to hear from some of you who have good ideas for time management on this issue. Post and let me know what works for you and I'll highlight some of the best advice. <br />
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Also, what are some good sites you've found for writing info and networking that are easy in and out and don't end up being time vampires!<br />
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Amy Willoughby Burlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17173371123893772487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-455133723708600274.post-84004806789797302912013-04-30T16:11:00.000-07:002013-04-30T16:11:52.465-07:00Z is for the ZooFor the last month, I've been doing the A to Z blog challenge. Basically, it was a blog a day (except Sunday) with each day being a letter A to Z and your blog post being something to do with a topic starting with that day's letter. <br />
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I did pretty darn well. I think I missed a couple of days here and there, but the real fun was getting to blog hop among the more than 1500 blogs involved in the challenge. I think there were over 2000 signed up at the start so that's a pretty awesome number of folks who saw it through to the end. <br />
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I ran across some awesome writing blogs and even happened by chance upon my writing partner and good friend's sister's blog (talk about a small world.) Without the challenge and the sign-up list of blogs to visit, I would have never come across most of the blogs I got to enjoy during the challenge.<br />
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I chose (for the majority of the days) to post pieces of my novel, <em>The Lemonade Year. </em>It's a book that I had put back in the drawer as we say, sort of giving up on it. I was so pleased to get good comments on the novel and encouragement to take it back out, dust it off and try again. <br />
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So, this act in my writing Zoo may be pulling out of town, but it's left me inspired to climb back up on the ropes and start swinging again. Thanks A to Z. I've enjoyed it!Amy Willoughby Burlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17173371123893772487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-455133723708600274.post-55002865438418956422013-04-29T19:10:00.001-07:002013-04-29T19:10:53.982-07:00Y is for Yet(Excerpt from <em>The Lemonade Year</em> a finished novel seeking representation. A scene in which Nina and Oliver are driving away from the cemetery having just dug up her father's urn full of ashes and are on their way to Thanksgiving dinner at Nina's mother's house. They make a pit stop by Nina's apartment so that she can show Oliver a secret she's been keeping from him) <br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Oliver rides with Dad in his
lap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stare forward and try not to
become hysterical. It’s an interesting exercise—trying not to become
hysterical. It’s the nature of that sort emotional outburst to be impervious to
the effort to stop it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“There’s something else I need to
do,” I say and even though I’m still staring forward, I see Oliver’s head whip
around and I feel the trepidation from his eyes burn my cheek. “It’s not
anything weird,” I say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Comparatively?” he asks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Everything’s relative,” I reply and
drive us to my apartment building.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Where are we?” he asks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“My place,” I say. “I need to show
you something.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">We ride the elevator up in silence.
Oliver is still holding Dad’s urn. I turn the light on in the entry hall and
Oliver looks around, taking in everything he can about this part of my life I
never let him see. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I need to show you why I never let
you come here,” I say and walk down the hall to the baby’s room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Normally, I’d be scared of that
statement,” he says. “But given the way the rest of this day has gone, it seems
pretty harmless.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I turn on the light and step inside.
Oliver follows me in and looks slowly from the crib to the open closet filled
with little unworn clothes then he looks at me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“You asked me what it was that
wanted,” I say, recalling to him one of our last conversations. “What is was
that I thought I couldn’t have.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“A baby?” he asks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“We tried everything,” I say. “It
just didn’t happen. Now I just feel silly, keeping all this stuff.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Nina,” he says. “This is the
greatest shrine to hope that I’ve ever seen.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“What?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“You’re looking at it all wrong,” he
says. “It hasn’t happened yet. Yet. You’re not dead. And you’re not sixty. And
I’m not Jack.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“What are you saying?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Do you really not know?” Oliver asks.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Well I could make a guess,” I say.
“But being wrong would be a big fat embarrassing bummer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“You’re not wrong,” he says. “But
look, we’re on some sort of mission here, yes?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He holds up the urn to me and I
remember what we’re doing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Yes,” I say. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“We can talk about packing this stuff
up later,” he says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“What?” I say. “No, I can’t do that.
That’s the thing. I should pack it all up but I can’t. What am I going to put
in here?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He sets Dad down on the little
dresser and takes my hand. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“For an intelligent woman, you’re not
catching on,” he says. “You can still have a baby. There’s still time. Hell,
I’ll put all the effort into that you can stand.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I feel myself blushing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“But you need a fresh start,” he
says. “So we give it till after exams and I’ll be free to come over here and
help you box all this stuff up and take it to my place. And we can set it all
back up and get straight to work. We can start right now if you want to. We’ll
be late for dinner, but I’m ok with that.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Amy Willoughby Burlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17173371123893772487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-455133723708600274.post-76566583816526214812013-04-28T09:30:00.001-07:002013-04-28T09:31:37.968-07:00X is for X marks the spot(Excerpt from <em>The Lemonade Year</em>, a finished novel seeking representation. A scene in which the protagonist, Nina, has lost her mind.)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Suddenly, everything around me is
beautiful. I see what we’ll look like, years and years from now, living in an
old house, pictures of our grandkids covering the walls and Oliver’s piano, older
than ever, but played none the less, us hosting Thanksgiving for our family and
talking about the way it all began.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Because what the hell difference does the
rest of it make,” he’s still talking, thinking there is something to talk me
into. “You think when you’re 90 and I’m 80 that anyone will give a damn. Women
live longer than men anyway,” he’s rambling and making me want to cry and kiss
him and tell him to shut up already. “I want you to be older than me. I want us
to go out at the same time. I’ve seen what the end can look like, so, I’ll be
damned if I’m not going to make the journey the ride of a lifetime.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">That’s exactly what Cricket would
say. Then something occurs to me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“You need to come with me,” I say,
finally able to speak. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">There’s one injustice that still
needs to be undone. I take Oliver by the arm, pulling him toward the door, out
it and to my car. I slide in and start the engine. Oliver opens the passenger
door and gets inside even as I’m pulling the car away from the curb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He doesn’t ask where we’re going. He doesn’t
say anything at all. Out of the corner of my eye I can see him looking at me.
We drive in silence. Finally we pull off the road and pass through the
predictable iron gates of the cemetery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“What are we doing here?” Oliver
finally speaks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I kill the engine and get out. I open
the trunk like we’re in some bad movie and pull out a shovel. I’m manic with
the idea of this shovel, stuck there last winter, before Dad passed, after
spending the day planting bulbs in mom’s yard—those pink and white tulips that
seemed so out of place in front of the house the day of the funeral. You don’t
even need a shovel this big to plant bulbs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I walk into the graveyard like a
woman possessed, unnecessary shovel in hand and mind determined to undo what
never should have been done. Oliver catches up to me and comes around in front.
He takes the shovel and spades the edge into the ground.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“What are we doing here?” He asks
again, more firmly this time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I’ve finally figured out what has
been pecking at my ribs all this time. I know now what will begin to make this
better.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“We’re digging up my father’s ashes,”
I say. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Oh dear god,” Oliver says. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“It’s cathartic,” I say, and grab the
spade from the earth. “Besides, isn’t this the sort of wild and crazy thing
that kids do?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“No, this isn’t the sort of wild and
crazy thing that kids do,” he says. “This is what lunatics do. This is what
psychos in the movies do.” He grabs the shovel away from me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Just start digging.” I say and point
to the gray stone marker that bears my father’s name. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Look, Nina, if you’re trying to take
my mind off Cricket,” Oliver says, looking from me to the headstone, “I
appreciate the thought.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Oliver,” I shout and grab the shovel
back from him. “Give me some credit, please.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“That’s really hard to do, Nina,” he
says, talking to me like I’m four years old. “When you drag me out to a
cemetery on Thanksgiving Day, and ask me to help you dig up your father’s
ashes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">We both just stand there looking at
each other, at the shovel, at the name—Nathaniel Griffin. Beloved Father.
Cherished Husband. I take out my phone and flip to the picture of the grave. I
hold it out to the real thing and compare footage. I point to the spot where
the urn is buried.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Why did you bury the ashes?” Oliver
speaks softly, breaking the still around us. “Aren’t you supposed to put them
somewhere important?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I look at him and burst into tears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Oh” he says.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;">He takes the shovel from me
and starts digging</span>Amy Willoughby Burlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17173371123893772487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-455133723708600274.post-48734332040453930712013-04-26T14:15:00.000-07:002013-04-26T14:15:02.447-07:00W is for Waiting for the End
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLe4RPGE5uOVnpf02891MhoBylKrYzwV-Ue1Mk_mjKcazh638bkOd5fb6OJKbi17kKuDmuFDPOWBcQDh5U0KQE2znkT-_EYMtsZrq6rOQhYSB7evvID2lurDtXN8295zAh5DskEmxtW2SP/s1600/Oliver.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLe4RPGE5uOVnpf02891MhoBylKrYzwV-Ue1Mk_mjKcazh638bkOd5fb6OJKbi17kKuDmuFDPOWBcQDh5U0KQE2znkT-_EYMtsZrq6rOQhYSB7evvID2lurDtXN8295zAh5DskEmxtW2SP/s320/Oliver.jpg" width="233" /></a></div>
<br />
(Excerpt from <em>The Lemonade Year </em>a finished novel seeking representation. Cricket it a resident at the nursing home where Oliver works and where Nina's (the protagonist) father recently past away. This is also where Nina and Oliver met. This scene takes place in the house Oliver lives in.)<br />
<br />
(The photo is of actor, Taylor Kitsch--whom I imagine would make an nice Oliver in the movie version of this book.)<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“This makes you uneasy, doesn’t it?” Oliver
says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“What?” I ask. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Us,” he continues, looking at me
with unsettling focus. “Me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“No,” I answer and wonder if I mean
it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“So how about it?” Oliver asks. “I think Nate
would approve.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Hearing him refer to Dad as Nate in
the present tense reminds me that Dad is gone. It feels like hands slipped
suddenly around my heart squeezing tight like trying to keep it from beating,
but it beats instead. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“What are you afraid of?” Oliver
asks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Everything. I need to change the
subject so I turn the question of family back to him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“So, is your family around here?” I
ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“No,” Oliver says, turning back to
the keys and picking out a tune. “They all live in Tennessee.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“What brought you here?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“School,” he says, his back to me, repeating
the same set of notes, having found the sequence he seemed to be looking for.
“That math degree.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I nod even though he can’t see. I
watch him from the perspective of walking away—his back to me and his thoughts
elsewhere. His shoulders and arms move, keeping up with his hands as they slide
across the keys. I don’t recognize what he plays, but the melancholy of it
hurts my throat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Why didn’t you go back home?” I ask,
unsure if he can hear me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Had a job I didn’t want to give up
at the time,” he says over his playing and then he reaches up from the keys and
straightens a picture on the piano that I’ve never taken the time to look at
closely.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I thought you didn’t like the math
jobs,” I say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I didn’t,” he goes back to his
playing. “It was the other one.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The Parkinson’s patient. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“You stayed to work with him,” I say
letting him know that I understand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Couldn’t bring myself to leave,”
Oliver says and plays a few more notes in the sequence. “Especially not once he
got bad and I moved in with him.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I look around at the house and then
it strikes me why this place seems so out of the ordinary for a young man in
his late twenties. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“This is his place?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Oliver nods, still facing away from
me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“You stay here still to take care of
the house?” I ask, although there’s no question.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“It’s a nice arrangement,” Oliver
says, his voice growing distant. “While it lasts I guess.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“You miss him,” I say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Not yet,” Oliver says oddly. “But I
will.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I get up and go over to the piano. He
must feel my approach because he moves over and I sit beside him. He stops
playing and looks forward. I follow his line of sight to the photo on the
piano. It’s a picture of Oliver and Cricket here in this living room. It is
obvious that the Cricket in this photo is in an earlier stage of his decline
than the one in the nursing home. Oliver looks a bit younger, his hair is
shorter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Mr. Cole?” I question and answer
myself at the same time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Oliver nods. He pecks out a couple of
sad notes and then just lets his hands rest, unmoving on the keys.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It must be hard to watch him worsen,” I say,
speaking the words I’m sure Oliver wants to say but can’t. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“It’s not advisable to get attached,”
he says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“It never is,” I say. “It’s likely to
hurt in the end.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">This is true of all the attachments
we form. But what would we do without them? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“It’s worth the risk, though, isn’t
it,” Oliver says, his fingers resting on whatever notes come next. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Yes,” I say. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He resumes playing. I see that his
mouth tightens and his lips press and release against the emotion they try to
conceal. One tear drops suddenly from his eyes onto his hand as it moves along
the keys. I lift that hand in the midst of its music and kiss the salty spot on
his skin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Thank you,” he whispers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Amy Willoughby Burlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17173371123893772487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-455133723708600274.post-28711041135214056212013-04-25T14:35:00.000-07:002013-04-25T14:36:46.959-07:00V is for Visit my webisteOk, yeah, I know, this is a pretty lame blog post and usually I post pieces of my novel. But today has been one of those days. And by way of justification, since we're meeting new bloggers and getting to know each other, our websites are a great way to do that. Right? (nod, I won't be able to see you, but it will make me feel better to think that you agree.)<br />
<br />
So if you didn't do that today (and need a break as we're winding down) you can use "website" tomorrow. :-)<br />
<br />
<br />
There's a link at the top of this blog that will go right to my site. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amywilloughbyburle.com/">www.amywilloughbyburle.com</a><br />
<br />
<br />Amy Willoughby Burlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17173371123893772487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-455133723708600274.post-57324296071871655012013-04-24T16:29:00.001-07:002013-04-24T16:29:20.146-07:00U is for Unsure and Undone
(Excerpt from <em>The Lemonade Year, </em>a finished novel seeking representation. A scene in which Nina accepts a dinner invite from her soon to be ex-husband and can't stop thinking about her now ex-boyfriend, Oliver.)<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 349.5pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Tell me this isn’t better than pizza and a
movie,” Jack says across the candle lit table of a reservations only
restaurant. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Is that what you think it’s like with
Oliver?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I can’t bring myself to talk about
Oliver in the past tense, yet the rings are loose from the vase<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and back on my hand. The genie is out of the
bottle and it turns out he didn’t have three wishes to grant. All he could offer
what some bad advice. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sure,</i> the evil
genie had said, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">accept Jack’s dinner
offer. What can it hurt?<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Ok,” Jack concedes. “So, what, he’s
the coffee house and book reading type? Does he quote you lines from some dead
poet?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I can’t talk about Oliver with Jack.
I can’t talk about him at all. My phone registers a text message and I look to
see a note from Carol. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Just saw you go
into Carmela’s with Jack. What’s up?<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I don’t answer. I don’t know what’s
up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Is that him?” Jack asks. “Are you
going to tell him where you are?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Is this night about me?” I ask. “Or
you and Oliver?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“What do you want, Nina?” Jack says,
waving his hand up in resignation. “Do you want to adopt? Do you want me to do
like Ray and get on TV and apologize for hurting you? For ruining your life?
What?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">You could wish for a pen,</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> the genie whispers in my ear, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sign the papers.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I don’t want you to concede, Jack,”
I say. “I don’t’ know what I want.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“That’s the problem,” Jack says. “You’re
always looking ahead for something that might never come.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I look up sharply at this comment.
The truth of it is a perfectly round flood light in high school play,
illuminating the two of us there at the table. In the play, the me character
gets up and steps into the darkness like a walking behind a wall the contrast
is so sharp. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“You’re right,” I say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Of course I am,” Jack says and takes
hold of my left hand across the table. “Now let’s put all this behind us and
get back to where we were.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He touches the rings that I’m
wearing. A wide crevasse has opened between us but he doesn’t see it. I don’t
want to get back to where we were. Suddenly I’m not afraid anymore. This was a
mistake. Jack obviously thinks my agreeing to have dinner will result in my
agreeing to give this all another try. That will follow into his moving back
into the apartment. Putting his clothes back into his side of the closet.
Setting his place at the table. Soon he’ll be talking about turning the spare
room into an office so that if it comes to it, I can have the option of a home
based job, and I’ll ask what are you talking about, and he’ll say that I should
be open minded about what sort of work I might find once the publishing house
is out of business, and I’ll say, no, what are you talking about the spare
room, what spare room? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">And the old differences we had will
still be there. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He’ll want to box the nursery up and
put it away in the storage unit in the basement and all my hope will be in the
dark and damp of that forgotten nowhere where people dump old grills and
camping equipment and bicycles with flat tires and boxes of things from their
childhood that they can’t throw away but really don’t need and when the baby
finally get here, how will explain to people that the nursery is in the
basement. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How will you hear him crying
way down there?</i> they will ask. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">You can wish for another chance</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> the genie says to me,<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
that’s what they all wish for, really. I’ll see what I can do.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I can’t do this, Jack,” I say. “I’m
sorry to have given you false hope. I’m sorry that I haven’t signed the papers.
I will. I have to.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“You don’t have to,” he says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I slip the rings off my finger and
place them on the table. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Thank you for giving these to me,” I
say. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Nina,” Jack says. “We can at least
finish dinner.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“To what end,” I say. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Is this about Elliot?” Jack says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Oliver,” I correct him. “And not
really. Good-bye Jack.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Amy Willoughby Burlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17173371123893772487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-455133723708600274.post-89637640191809076892013-04-23T16:47:00.001-07:002013-04-23T16:47:42.478-07:00T is for Taken off guard
(Excerpt from <em>The Lemonade Year,</em> a finished novel seeking representation. A scene in which Nina, the protagonist, is saying goodbye to her new boyfriend when her ex-husband happens upon them both.)<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Out on the street we determine that
our cars are in opposite directions and that I need to go back to my office to
pick up some “homework” so we stop on the sidewalk to say out goodbyes. I have
the urge to invite him over for the evening, but fight it off. This will do for
today.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I like this,” I say and move a bit
closer to Oliver.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He puts his arms around me and kisses
my forehead. I see someone approaching us and realize that it’s Jack. I pull
away quickly and Oliver seems confused. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Nina,” Jack says in greeting to me,
but looking at Oliver. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I know him well enough to know that
he’s taken off guard, but he’s a good showman.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Oliver,” I say and take hold of his
hand, mad at myself for having pulled away. “This is Jack.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Jack shoots his hand out for Oliver
to shake, forcing him to release mine. Oliver does so and then puts his arm
around me. A bubble seems to form around the three of us, some bizarre snow
globe effect of three people on the street, caught in an inescapable moment. I
imagine us each miming our hands around the inside of the glass, feeling for a
way out. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Oliver,” Jack repeats. “Nina has mentioned
you. You’ll have to forgive my surprise at being face to face with you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Likewise,” Oliver says casually and
I love that Jack’s desired effect on him isn’t taking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“What are you doing here, Jack?” I
question without regard to couth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Nice to see you too,” Jack says with
a curt little laugh. “I was just on my way to an appointment. What are you
doing here?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I work here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Jack looks around him and up at the
building. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Still?” he asks and looks around
like he’s finding himself somewhere he didn’t mean to be. “Working late?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“No, just coming back from dinner. Anyway,”
I say. “Interesting running into you. We really have to get going.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Recess over?” Jack says and tries to
level Oliver with the jab.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Good one,” Oliver says and gives Jack a
playful slap on the arm. “Nina,” Oliver says and pulls me to him, kisses me
like he would without Jack there. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turns back to
Jack and offers a handshake again. “Nice to meet you, Jack. Take it easy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Oliver winks at me and walks
off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jack stands his ground saying nothing
more until Oliver is out of earshot. Before Oliver disappears into the crowd on
the street I see him glance back at us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Nina,” Jack says in some sort of condescension
that he can’t seem to control. “Are you kidding?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s a child.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“And you’re an asshole,” I say and
turn to go into the safety of my office building. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Jack reaches out and catches me by
the arm. I stop and turn back to him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I’m sorry,” he says. “That whole
deal there. I was caught off guard. I actually came this way on purpose. I
wanted to see you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“What about the whole ‘oh yeah you
work here’ bit?” I say and shake free from him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Total crock,” he says. “I just
didn’t expect to see you with someone. I didn’t think you were serious when you
said you were with some guy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Oliver.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Whoever.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Oliver,” I say again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The city is busy around us. Tourists,
business people and local hippie types walk the same paths. Smells waft from
local eateries and the chime chime of store doors opening and closing sounds
around us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Can I take you to dinner?” Jack
asks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“We already ate,” I say. I look at my
watch and pretend that I’m late and need to go inside. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Coffee?” Jack says, not giving in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“It’s a little too late.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“For coffee?” Jack says. “Get decaf.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“For this,” I say, losing patience. “We’ve
already hired lawyers and drawn up papers.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“That you haven’t signed,” he says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Yet,” I say. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Come on,” Jack says. “You can’t be
serious about this guy. I get it. You’re sad, or mad. At me. The world. Your
father passed. I wasn’t there for you. You’re searching for some new Nina and
this kid fits your need for something new right now.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Don’t tell me why I do what I do, or
feel what I feel,” I say, suddenly angry and exposed. “Don’t pretend that
you’ve had a change of heart. I know you want out and this is all just a slap
to your ego.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m not trying to make you feel guilty,
Nina,” he says. “I’m just stating the truth here. Am I wrong?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I don’t answer and I know that Jack
is taking that as proof of his point. He reaches out to me again and I step
back from him. He likes this. This is what he’s good at. I know any response
will be met with a biting remark and I’m suddenly much too unhinged at the
moment to try and win. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Amy Willoughby Burlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17173371123893772487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-455133723708600274.post-37128282826168602522013-04-22T19:19:00.002-07:002013-04-22T19:19:47.350-07:00S is for Stay
(Excerpt from <em>The Lemonade Year</em> a finished novel seeking representation.)<br />
Nina, the protagonist, is at the house of her new and younger lover. If you've read earlier scenes, this is before she takes off her wedding rings--the last remains of her defunct marriage.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">We stay in his bed long past dark,
having made our way out of our clothes and under the covers. Afterwards, he slips
out of the room and returns with two dark beers and two white boxes of leftover
Chinese food.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I’m sorry,” he says as he sits on
the edge of the bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“This is all I
have.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I sit up beside him, pulling the
sheets comfortably around me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I’m starving,” I say and take a beer
and a box. “It’s perfect.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I’ll do better in the morning,” he
says and looks at me apologetically. “I really am a good cook. I’ve got the
makings for some kick as crepes. Seriously. Give me a shot.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I mull it over—the morning. We eat,
sharing his kung pow chicken and my beef and broccoli. He moves in to kiss me
and I pull away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I have kung pow broccoli breath,” I
say and cover my mouth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He laughs out loud. Being with him is
easy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“So do I,” he says and kisses me
anyway. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He steals away again and brings back
too more bottles of good beer. We sit up, under his covers, and talk. I tell
him about Ray and Lola—the easy parts for now. About work and Mom. More details
about the lemonade book. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I won’t touch your lemons from now
on,” he says and laughs. “I promise.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I might be a lemon,” I say. “You
sure you want this?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Are you?” Oliver asks, taking my
hand and twisting my wedding ring around between his fingers. “If you think
there’s a chance to work it out. I won’t get in the way. Much.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He winks at me. I had told Oliver
about the divorce that first night. Not all the details, just the legal facts.
Irreconcilable differences. Oliver hadn’t asked what they were. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What about you?” I ask, Oliver, deflecting as
usual. “What pretty young thing am I competing with here?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says by way
of answer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Those girls you work with look pretty perky,”
I say and look under the sheet—making a face at what I see. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Well,” Oliver says and puts on a
mock face of concern. “Let me take another look. Maybe I’m wrong here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He reaches over to pull the sheet
away from my body and I try to fight him off. I lose. He smiles at what he sees
and winks at me. The conversation is silly and ridiculous and most importantly,
not at all about anything. It’s easy to escape here. Maybe too easy. I could
pull out of the world like the flicker of a firefly—here and gone, here and
gone, till the gone is all that’s left.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Stay with me this time,” he says,
then, as if afraid to allow time for the answer he doesn’t want, he keeps me
from speaking with his lips on mine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;">I stay. </span>Amy Willoughby Burlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17173371123893772487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-455133723708600274.post-42582150297772573032013-04-20T08:17:00.002-07:002013-04-20T08:17:57.112-07:00R is for Ray
(Excerpt from <em>The Lemonade Year</em>, a finished novel seeking representation. A scene in which the protagonist, Nina, remembers her brother during their teenage years)<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ray was eighteen and determined to begin
his descent into self-destruction. He came home that winter with a tattoo of
the devil on his shoulder, fire shooting from the face and running down the
length of Ray’s arm. Mom cried; Dad asked if it was real and then simply shook
his head and went back to the newspaper when Ray answered yes. I asked if it
hurt, for lack of knowing what else to say. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Not enough,” Ray had said. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Lola ran her hand across it like she
was touching something beautiful and delicate. She kissed the devil on his fire
breathing mouth. Ray looked at her, his face hard and jaw clenched, but for one
moment something pained and yet relieved flickered in his eyes. Later, Lola
sketched a replica of the tattoo and hung it in her room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">By the time Lola attended the same
college Ray had gone too, his arms were covered and his eyes were empty. He dropped
out before he finished, got arrested a number of times and spent more nights in
jail that he had spent days in class. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He came to visit Lola at school a few
times. She had insisted on going as they had a great art program. It was
difficult for her to get through the first two years of basic classes and she
didn’t get terrific grade, but just like high school before that, she muddled
through. She takes a lot of notes and pays perfect attention so that she can
recall as much as possible. I think level of focus and detail is part of what
makes her such a wonderful painter. She see everything. Nothing escapes her
notice. When she calls it back up, it may be a bit skewed but that just lends
itself to her unique perspective. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">When Ray would visit her, she would
call me, two states over where I was in school. I wanted to see Ray, but I used
the distance as an excuse not to. I was afraid to see what he had become. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I remember one of the first times Ray
stormed out of the house leaving the rest of us to wonder if he’d be back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Dad sitting on the floor outside Ray’s room. I was watching Dad through
a compact mirror held out around the corner. I could see him in the little
circle of silver, he was whispering. He made the sign of the cross. We hadn’t
been in church in years. I looked at my Hello Kitty clock. It was three in the
morning. I heard Ray’s car in the driveway and Dad jumped to his feet. Now there
were just legs in the mirror, they started back down the hall to my parent’s
room, and then they returned. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">The car
door shut. The front door opened. I saw legs turn in a circle of indecision. I
tilted the mirror up, and could see hands ball into a fist, then relax. I heard
the whispering again and tilted the mirror back to his legs so that I wouldn’t see
his hands cross over his chest in desperation and prayer again because it
scared me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I heard
Ray walking down the hall. His footsteps were loud and heavy like he could
break the house down one step at a time. I saw his legs stop beside Dad’s and I
tilted the mirror up, up, trying to find their faces. Dad reached out to Ray,
tried to put his hand on Ray’s arm. Ray jerked away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“You’re
drunk,” Dad had said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“I’m
back,” Ray had said, spitting the words out. “So don’t give me a hard time.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Give me
the keys,” Dad said, making his voice as angry as his fear would let him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“They’re
on the kitchen table,” Ray said and his hand reached for the doorknob. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Apologize
to your mother in the morning,” Dad said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Why,” Ray
asked, “she doesn’t even know I was gone.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Ray opened
the door and disappeared. I tilted the mirror up again and could see the side
of Dad’s face. There was no sound but his lips were moving, then he slid out of
view. I moved the mirror around looking for him. Down, to the left, down and
over. He was sitting on the floor beside the door to Ray’s room with his hands
over his face, his shoulders shaking. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Amy Willoughby Burlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17173371123893772487noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-455133723708600274.post-55110886939768009692013-04-19T14:08:00.003-07:002013-04-19T14:08:53.302-07:00Q is for Quiet Decisions
(excerpt from <em>The Lemonade Year,</em> a finished novel seeking representation. Nina has been reluctant to take off her wedding rings, even though the divorce papers sit on her kitchen table, even though she's met someone new (Oliver), even though her husband, Jack, has moved out.)<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">While Oliver eats and looks at the
paper, I hide my hands under the table and toy with the gold on my hand. I slip
the rings off and there is an internal whoosh of letting go. But it’s not just
Jack and it’s not entirely a good whoosh. I feel the rushing away of everything
I thought would be. Everything I hoped for. Pulling the rings off is like
tossing my map out the window. Facing some unmarked road to who knows where. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">What if I had to introduce myself to
someone. I would have no qualifiers to attach to my name. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hi I’m Nina, I’m Jack’s wife, mother of three, we just bought a place
out in the country. The kids can’t wait to get a dog. We never let them have
one in that little city apartment, but our family just got so big that we
needed more space. You should come out and visit. I’ll give you a tour of the
garden. You should see it. The previous owners have really set us up as far as
beautiful landscaping goes.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">None of that was going to happen
without those rings on. Maybe none of it was going to happen anyway. But
without them, I wasn’t sure what to say. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hi
I’m Nina. I take photos of food for a living. That’s pretty much it. Sorry. </i>You
always feel the need to apologize to strangers when your life doesn’t work out
the way you planned. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“You ok over there?” Oliver asks, the
paper on the table, his eyes on me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Yeah,” I say. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Under the table I put the wedding set
on the right hand pointer finger. It doesn’t fit that finger, of course. So
when I look down at it, it just looks like a couple of rings that don’t belong
on my hand. The rings must belong to somebody, but just not me. How did I end
up with these rings stuck at the knuckle of my right hand?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel like a person who took a wrong turn a
hundred miles back and is just now realizing the mistake, but is so far into
the journey that she doesn’t want to tell the other passengers that they’re
going the wrong way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I put the rings on the kitchen table.
I don’t still want the marriage. I wanted the possibilities. But what I thought
was possible, may not be. I’m exchanging one set of hope for another. It could
be futile, but what else is there to do but go from here. I feel safe here.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Are you sure about that?” Oliver
asks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I wonder if I’m making a different
statement to him that I am to myself. He must see the removal of the rings as
our official beginning. I suppose it is. The last step in one direction
logically begets the first step in another. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I’m sure,” I say. “Although it seems
strange for them just to sit there while we eat.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He nods and picks them up. He walks a
few steps away into the living room area and drops the rings into a blue
pottery vase sitting on the coffee table. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“There,” he says. “If you change your
mind, you know where they are.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He says it like it’s an option I’m
allowed to take up. This is youth talking. I wonder how long it will take those
rings to burn a hole in the bottom of that vase. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Now,” he says joining me back at the
table. “I just have to make sure you don’t.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Amy Willoughby Burlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17173371123893772487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-455133723708600274.post-88666401078565142762013-04-18T18:05:00.002-07:002013-04-18T18:05:54.524-07:00P is for PausePlease pardon this pause in my story, partly due to laziness, partly due to pregnancy, partly due to getting the day out of the house to enjoy a pastry and write more pages on my new novel. I will pick back up tomorrow. I promise.<br />
<br />Amy Willoughby Burlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17173371123893772487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-455133723708600274.post-1954712612777711012013-04-17T06:36:00.000-07:002013-04-17T06:36:35.876-07:00O is for Optimisim(Excerpt from <em>The Lemonade Year, </em>a finished novel seeking representation. Nina's brother Ray has rented an apartment in the efforts to set up a stable residence so that he might be allowed to visit his 5 year old sin, Michael.)<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The next week Ray moves into the
apartment in what I call the stalker building. I know he watches them at the
park. I can’t blame him. He wants the little arms and legs and the tiny laugh;
the hair puffing up on the wind, the small hand inside his big one. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I want it too. The want of it can
drive you crazy. The absence of it feels like a weight missing from your body
and you look down at yourself to see what’s gone. You have arms, legs, your
torso is intact. Were you carrying something that you’ve put down and lost?
Were you wearing a coat that you’ve left at coat check? Did you lose your
purse?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Are you sure this is a good idea,” I ask,
holding my arms out for a box.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s an easy move from Mom’s basement to here.
Ray doesn’t have much. The back of his car is loaded with things that may have
been in there for months. Maybe years as he travelled around post prison from
no place to nowhere.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“No, but it’s the only idea I have,”
Ray says and hands me something marked “stuff from the bathroom.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Who knows,” I say as I carry the box
up three flights of stairs to his new place, “maybe you’ll like your cellmate
better this time.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“That’s very optimistic,” Ray says sarcastically
from a few stairs behind me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Did you really come to me for optimism?”
I question and make note of the peeling paint on the steel stairwell.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Of course not,” Ray says and follows
me into his new apartment. “I know better than that.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Sorry,” I say and set the box down
amid the few other things we’ve taken up the stairs. “This is a big step for
you and I’m not helping at all.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Of course you are,” he says and
punches my arm. “You’re keeping me for having to make double the trips up and
down the stairs.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Ray,” I say suddenly fearful for him. “Do you
really think things are going to work out?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I never expect things to work out,” he says,
defeated already. “That way I’m a lot less disappointed. I just thought I’d try
for once, to do the right thing. Thanks for the support.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He puts down a box labeled “Crap from
the Closet.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I’m sorry,” I say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Ray comes closer and puts his hands
on my shoulders. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Sis,” he says and sighs. “I know I’m
being crazy and I know you’re trying to be helpful, although you’re not very
good at it. I appreciate the honesty.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Ray goes back down the stairs before
I have a chance to say anymore. I walk around his place, getting a feel for
Ray’s new landscape. The furnished apartment is suitable—one bedroom and a fold
out couch, a kitchen designed for take-out, living area, the usual necessities.
At the window overlooking the street, I see the world that Ray is sneaking
through the back door of. I watch people pass on the streets below and feel the
helpless desire that draws Ray here. This is Nicole’s neighborhood. It’s where
she walks to the park and where she and Michael go out for ice cream. I imagine
Ray standing here long hours, in wait, in hope, in need of just a glimpse of
what he fears might never be. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Amy Willoughby Burlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17173371123893772487noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-455133723708600274.post-19267836844033597512013-04-15T06:41:00.002-07:002013-04-15T06:41:34.107-07:00M is for Mom and memories, and making sure no one is forgotten.
(excerpt from <em>The Lemonade Year, </em>a finished novel seeking representation.)<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Mom had used a cocktail glass to
steady herself. It backfired most of the time, but she had meant well. When
Lola woke up after the accident, Mom stopped drinking and poured all her need
into caring for Lola. I felt left behind. It had been Dad who scooped me up and
set me back on my feet. But Mom seemed to have lost touch with the rest of us.
Lola saw it though. Lola saw everything. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">She knew even then, when she didn’t
know more than my name and who I was supposed to be to her, that I was falling
through the cracks in the universe, cracks that spread out like spider
veins—purple and blotchy, permanent and useless.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Lola was eleven, still using crutches,
still in therapy. That part seemed to take a long time. I was fourteen and on
the girls basketball team. Lola made Ray drive her to all my games. Mom had no
interest in sports, she was just trying to hold herself together. As much as
Dad wanted to see the games, he had taken to working the late shift because the
pay was better and there were medical bills left over from the accident and
more to come. Lola sat in the bleachers and banged the crutches on the wooden
seats when everyone else clapped their hands. Already she had begun to cover
the braces on her legs with bright colored legwarmers. Making everything art. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">At times I hated that she was there.
She made my legs ache. Sadness rose up in my throat like bright acid. The
squawk and stick of sneakers on the gym floor, the rush of ball through the
air, ball through the net, crowd thumping in applause was a sick symphony, an
ode to the little girl in the neon green legwarmers who could not run up the
court, could not climb the bleachers without help, and could not stop calling
out my name and waving franticly to me when I looked her way. Who barely knew
who any of us were, but knew we were the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Ray didn’t watch the games. He waited
for the two of us in the parking lot. He drove home without speaking, dropped
us off in the driveway, drove away and did not come back until after curfew,
after Mom gave up and went to bed and left Dad awake and worried and me hiding
in the hallway making sure that the world did not come to an end while Lola
slept.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The morning after those nights, Mom
would ask Lola if she had a good time at the game. Lola would tell Mom about
every basket I scored, every foul shot I made, every time I looked at her and
waved. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Sounds like you had a good time, </span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Mom would say to Lola. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Make sure your sweaty clothes aren’t
on the floor, </span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Mom
would say to me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">During our last game that year, I
broke a school record. I hadn’t told anyone how close I had been to it, but
Lola must have been keeping track. That night, after the game, she hobbled into
our room with Little Debbie snack cakes and soda and we stayed up late enough
for Ray to come home. He had to walk past our door on the way to his room. Lola
waited for him in our doorway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Nina has scored more baskets in one
season than any player in the history of our school. We’re celebrating.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">She gave him a cake and he stood in
the doorway to our room and ate it. He nodded at me. He smelled like beer.
There was a store in town that would sell to underage kids for an extra ten
dollars. Lola waited for him to finish the cake and then hugged him around the
waist. He put his arms across her back and closed his eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She let go of him and for a second they stood<span style="color: #17365d; mso-themecolor: text2; mso-themeshade: 191;"> </span>looking
at each other. When she gimped back across the room to the bed he closed his
eyes again. He couldn’t forgive himself for what he’d done and he’s worked his
whole life to get the punishment he thought he deserved. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Amy Willoughby Burlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17173371123893772487noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-455133723708600274.post-42043520184273413492013-04-13T07:13:00.001-07:002013-04-13T07:13:49.108-07:00L is for Longing
(Excerpt from <em>The Lemonade Year, </em>a finished novel seeking representation)<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” I
say. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I’m a big boy, Nina,” Oliver says and I
know he knows I’m hesitating because of age—his and mine and the years that
separate us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He chuckles and comes back down the
steps. I want so much to be that romantic type who throws caution the wind as
it were. I imagine said wind, loaded down with the cares of innumerable people
caught up in moments too strong for them, too passionate or reckless, desperate
and unmanageable. I imagine some French couple at an outdoor café in Paris,
sipping their coffee, smoking their cigarettes, being blown right out of their
chair by some rouge, heavy laden wind from the other side of the world. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Crazy American fools, </i>they would say, righting
their chairs, lighting a new cigarette, calling for the garcon to bring new
cups of café and perhaps a pastissier while he’s at it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Is this really the time to sort out
the good ideas from the bad,” Oliver says, taking hold of my hand. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I think this would be the perfect
time,” I say, not turning loose. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“You may be too quick for me,” he
says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“No, I’m too old for you.” I say,
letting go. I twist the ring on my finger that despite the paperwork in
progress, I still wear. The truth of that statement sparks in the air. “I’ve
been there done that, as they say.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I feel like I’m walking backwards,
trying to undo something that I really don’t want to forget. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“So,” he says, surprising me. “What’s one more
time around?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I shake my head as if to say no, but
he kisses me and the wind blows and I wonder if that poor French couple will
forgive me the intrusion on their peaceful day. Oliver leads me up the steps to
his house. The interior is clean and sparse. The small living room holds a
couch and old rocker and a small television. The most predominate thing about
the room is a wall of music—song books, more than three guitars that I can see,
CD’s, a stereo system and an old piano. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Do you live here alone?” I ask as he
tries to pull me past this area of the house and down the hall that I imagine
leads to his bedroom. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I do now,” he whispers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I don’t ask for details even though I
find myself wanting them. He doesn’t offer any more information. I don’t know
if he’s noticed my ring, but if so, he didn’t press and I won’t either.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I let him pull me down the hall and
we go inside a small bedroom not far down it. This room, too, is sparse and
tidy. A bed, a dresser, closet doors open with clothes arranged neatly, his
scrubs at the far right. He goes to the dresser and reaches over it to raise
the blinds; the moonlight finds its way in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He excuses himself from the room and I finger through the clothes in his
closet—searching for a tactile knowledge of his everyday life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He comes back into the room and we
don’t speak again. He kisses me like he’s asking permission for something, yet
not waiting for the answer. His hands find the small of my back and the nape of
my neck again and his fingers twine through my hair like they have been there a
dozen times before. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p>
</o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">This is far from where I thought I’d
be tonight should anyone have asked earlier today. There’s a place in my gut
that yells at me for putting Dad aside like this. But the option is this or
sleeping in my childhood bed quilted in by the heavy-handed stitching of the
way things end up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">So for the moment, I choose the soft
brush of lips on my neck and the hard clinch of muscled arm holding me tight to
this semi-stranger who may be the only piece of the world that makes any sense
to me. I let go of everything that holds me in. Thirty-nine years of everything
that means anything collects in the palm of my hands, the shallow of my throat,
the escape of my breath. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Amy Willoughby Burlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17173371123893772487noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-455133723708600274.post-71787138109990205492013-04-12T06:07:00.000-07:002013-04-12T06:07:03.888-07:00K is for Keeping Secrets
(Excerpt from <em>The Lemonade Year, </em>finished novel seeking representation. <br />
Ray has come home for his father's funeral bearing the news that he has a five year old son no one knew about, not even him. He trusts the protagonist, his sister, Nina, not to tell anyone yet.)<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I finally make it back out to the
living room and Ray is gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I find him
on the back porch. He’s not participating in the mourning but at least he’s
still here. I hand him a Vodka tonic and sit down in a lounge chair beside him
and stretch out my legs. We sit for a long few minutes and say nothing. I cut
my eyes at him to see what he’s thinking. I can’t see anything. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“He’s five?” I ask, trying to get Ray
to talk to me again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yeah,” Ray says and his tone holds no
animosity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I’m jealous, but I’m trying not to
be. I feel foolish thinking about the way Jack and I jumped the gun. I was so
ready and so anxious and so sure it would all happen that we moved to a bigger
apartment with room for a nursery, painted it a light green to go either way
and filled it with all manner of excitement and anticipation. I bought a crib
and a rocking chair and even little books and toys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was just so sure. Life is supposed to go as
planned. Right? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t really know which questions to ask
first. It dawns on me then whose child it is. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Why didn’t Nicole tell you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Because I was an ass then,” Ray says
and smirks a bit, seeming to know what’s on the tip of my tongue. “I know, I
know. I’m an ass still.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I wasn’t going to say that.” I say,
but he’s got my thoughts pegged. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Early evening noises start up across
the yard and the cool spring air slips over my black pumps and bare legs. I
hear the ice tinkle in Ray’s glass and wish that I had made a drink for myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“What’s his name?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Michael,” Ray says. “I guess she
didn’t hate me too much.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Michael is Ray’s middle name and
Michael’s mother is the woman Ray left behind when he went to prison for
eighteen months for repeated stupidity and grand theft. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The woman he didn’t go back to once he was
out. When you add jail to his self-inflicted exile, Ray’s been gone for the
better part of six years. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“So she must be talking to you
again?” I say, trying to find some hope in the situation, trying to let loose
of my own bear traps and let Ray have his time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“No,” he says and shakes his head, “I
think she just needs money. Not that I won’t give it to her. My lawyer says we
can have the test done to find out if he’s really my kid. One look at him will
tell you that.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Do you want to be more than just the
money?” I ask, suspicious of the weight this seems to be laying on him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I don’t think I deserve to be,” he says, and
when I open my mouth to speak he holds up a hand for me to rethink it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He’s trusted me with something. This
is not the time to talk about old injuries. Inside, the mourning goes on
without us. I reach over and take Ray’s hand in mine. I fear that he’ll jerk it
away but he doesn’t. Not at first. Our hands seem to grow hot around each other
like a transfer of guilt and sadness and when it seems Ray can bear it no more,
he gently pulls his hand from mine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Look,” Ray says, “don’t say anything
yet. I have to tell Mom.” He sighs and takes the photo out again; looking at it
with eyes I was not aware Ray knew. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I’m jealous of the photo. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Do you think I could just send the kid over
here and let him tell her?” Ray asks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He looks hopeful and pitiful.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“I think that’s a great idea,” I say,
feigning support, and aware that we’re almost joking with each other. “We can
lose both of our parents to a stroke.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;">I know why he chose me
though. Telling Lola would make him accountable, would demand that he stay, and
would make him choose between his love for everyone else and his hatred for
himself. </span>Amy Willoughby Burlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17173371123893772487noreply@blogger.com1