It lasted about 20 seconds.

It had been a typical Monday. He was whiny from his sleep-deprived weekend. He was frustrated, bursting in to tears over the smallest things. But now, newly awakened from a refreshing nap, he was running in the back yard, chasing a ball, swinging, and otherwise being happy.

It was a beautiful afternoon, with the puffy cumulus clouds dotting the uncharacteristically blue sky. A light breeze kept the temperature around 70 degrees, which was perfect for an afternoon in the yard.

My son looked and pointed at the sky, maybe seeing another airplane or a bird. I told him about cloud shapes, and called him over to look with me. I lay down in the grass, and he toddled over and lay down beside me, his one-year-old head resting against my arm and shoulder. As I pointed up at the sky, he giggled and burbled along, pointing upward towards the clouds.

And that is why I stay home with him every day: to lie down in the grass and look at the clouds with him for 20 seconds every now and then. It’s all worth it.

In the spirit of National Poetry Month, I thought I’d try some more poetry.

A Lotus from Poetry by Lotus inspired me to try my hand at a “Thirteen Ways” poem, in the mode of Wallace Stevens’ “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.” Imitating this poem was also mentioned as a poetry writing prompt in Rose, Where Do You Get That Red?, which I read and reviewed on Rebecca Reads last week.

Note that I am taking some phrases from Stevens, not with the intent to plagiarize but as poetry guidance and prompts for my own ideas. In some sense, this is all a joke, for I don’t think it is great poetry. As you read, please keep in mind that I’m not a poet.

Despite that fact, I sure had fun writing this. Each of these stanzas references a different way that I, a stay-at-home mom, look at books.

If you choose to do a “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a…” poem yourself, leave a link in the comments. (more…)

I don’t know much about haiku style of poetry, so I had to reference the web expert, Wikipedia, for some details.

Haiku is, apparently, three lines of 5, 7, and 5 syllables, respectively, to total 17 syllables. However, Wikipedia and other sites detail so many other facets of haiku. Here are some of the things I’ve read that haiku “must” be:

• there is a reference to seasons
• there is a grammatical break in the middle
• the poem focuses on nature
• the poem focuses on one feeling
• the poem does not rhyme

Trying to write a haiku of the Cinderella story is, apparently, not appropriate as a traditional haiku. But since the Cinderella story is my template for my “exercises,” I will tempt the wrath of the haiku police with the “haiku” below.

For other exercises, see the Exercises in Style tag.

Style 5: Haiku

She and the prince dance.
Then she escapes in night air
without her slipper.

Last night, having just written the poem above, I lay in bed listening to the rain on the roof and windows. Being in a newly inspiring Haiku mood, I wrote this one.

Chilly breezes drive
April rain on my window:
May buds wait below.

Do you write haiku? How are these for first attempts? Do you think the syllable count should be strict? What about the other “requirements” I shared above?

I recently read Exercises in Style by Raymond Queneau (reviewed here on Rebecca Reads). It’s a fascinating look at how changing the style or approach to a story can completely change a story because it tells the same story 99 different ways.

Queneau tells a very simple, albeit boring, story: A man with a long neck and a funny hat on the bus accuses the man next to him of stepping on his toes. When a chair is free, he goes to it and sits down. Later, the narrator sees the man again with a friend. The friend is telling him to move a button. (None of Queneau’s tellings are quite this boring, however.)

Queneau repeats this story 99 times in 99 different styles. Some are very amusing. Some are well done and memorable. Other styles are odd. But the concept still fascinates me. I thought I’d try my hand at some of these too. I think it’d be fun if others joined in.

Ideas for styles: Notation, double entry, surprises/ exclamation, official letter, blurb, analysis, insistence, ignorance, past, present, reported speech, passive, cross-examination, asides, awkward, casual, biased, feminine, parts of speech, proper names, spoonerism, medical, abusive, portrait, unexpected.

I’m going to aim for 99 exercises, but I’ll start with a few at a time, I think. I’ve included four below, and when I do more, I’ll link to my exercises in the comments. These four are probably the most “boring” ones. I’ll try to be more creative in my next.

Feel free to leave your own exercises in the comments, or link to any that you may do on your own blog!

I’d love to have an award for the best submission(s), but I just moved and have no budget for giveaways right now! In the future, I’ll do a link round up of all submissions of clever “exercises in style.” (more…)

“Ascension” Short Fiction Contest

also posted here

“Hey, there’s Daddy!” She tugged my arm.

I saw his head first. His right arm rested on the railing, calm, waiting. No pressure, no anxiety.

I exhaled.

One foot before the other and he was before me.  I tried to focus on his eyes, his face. I searched for words to speak.

“Hi.” His body leaned toward mine and I felt his kiss on my forehead. His arm grasped my shoulder and then he released me.

“Hi.”

The child was chattering. And bouncing around us. His free arm rested on her shoulder. We walked. People bumped me as they passed.

I heard him speak. First to our girl. Then to a man near us as we reached for the suitcase.

We walked again. I stopped and zipped the girl’s coat, despite her protests.  And then he was driving and she was babbling about princesses. I sat beside him.

A right turn. A stop sign. The highway. We were moving. He grasped my hand. He wouldn’t let go.

“I …” I couldn’t speak; I was dry. I had done my crying alone when I realized the baby was lost.

He glanced at me, and I saw his eyes were wet.  He spoke, the corners of his mouth turned in a half-smile.

“I love you.”

The flood overwhelmed me as it had two nights before. But this time I was hopeful, for we could still go on.

The orange wrapper was on a wire shelf a few inches above his head. He couldn’t read the writing, but he knew what it said: “Peanut Butter Cup.” What delightful words! He licked his lips.

He glanced back at his mother. She was putting the carton of milk on the conveyer belt. Her jaw set as she reached into the cart for the bananas and bread. Every few moments, James heard a “BEEP” as the checker swiped the groceries: cereal, canned vegetables, string cheese.

She wouldn’t notice! James thought, as he reached up, his fingers easily touching the shelf. But, no! That’s not right!

He reclaimed his hand and put it in his pocket, touching his lucky green soldier he’d put there earlier. There must be a better way! He bit his lip. He could hear his stomach growl.

Shuffling his feet, he turned around and bowed his head, his hands clasped in front of him.

“I’m so hungry, Mommy!” James spoke quickly but deliberately, keeping his head down. “Pretty please, Mommy, buy me a peanut butter cup? I’ll be so patient!”

Without moving his head up, he glanced up to gauge her reaction. She was reaching in to the shopping cart again. She glanced at him and turned back to her groceries. She spoke briskly:

“No, you can wait 10 more minutes for us to get home. No candy!”

He willed the tears to stop, but they wouldn’t. He’d been denied again!

Response to Fiction Friday prompt: Write about a failed proposal.

Could kids really be this patient and thoughtful? I don’t know. My son is still an infant. I guess I could write this better in a few years. I also can’t figure out how old James is. I just thought of him and started writing.

The red glow dims and the movement stops. It is very dark now, and all is still. I like this time. It is time to move!

My arm moves slowly in the liquid around me. It hits the side. Bump bump bump! There is some movement, then all is still again. My hand finds my mouth. I suck the tiny fingers. I swallow. I swallow again.

It is too still. I twist, but it is too crowded: there is not enough space now. My feet kick the side. Bump! Bump! I hear a muffled noise and again feel movement. I stop kicking. The movement stops. Then I kick again. I like this game!

I stop moving and relax in the dark, curled up tightly. I like this dark! I am so safe, so warm, so complete.

I find my thumb and suck it again.

Response to Fiction Friday.

He does not want help. I surrender the mostly empty spoon to his prying fingers.

Now he thrusts out his jaw and grasps the spoon in his chubby hand, his knuckles near the bowl of the spoon. Swinging his arm from the elbow, he clicks the spoon, by chance, against the plastic bowl of pumpkin mash before him. Two clicks, then three. He grins and looks up.

“See!” his eyes dance. “I can do it myself.”

I congratulate him. He stops swinging his arm and brings the spoon to his face. It hits his right cheek, strings of pumpkin resting under his eye. Then the spoon finds his mouth. He chews: nothing.

He frowns, his brow wrinkles, and he lets out a high-pitched wail.

“No fair!” his eyes whine. “I’m hungry.”

He won’t to relinquish the spoon when I reach to help, but he stops crying: he wants to feed himself. He thrusts out his jaw, and tries again.

To my very determined nine-month-old son

Continuation of L.A. with Dred. Read that first!

It was just my luck (my bad luck) that Jason was at my Wicked-Step-Aunt’s house when I arrived. I’ve always hated that guy!

Dred had just left for L.A. that morning and I still hadn’t been able to reach him to figure out what Plan B was. How was I going to get there when Dred had all the money for our trip? There I was, knocking at my Wicked-Step-Aunt’s front door on the day I was supposed to be heading to L.A. with Dred, when who should answer but Jason.

“Hey there!” He was wearing blue coveralls with these big stains, a brown stain was on right leg and a white smear on left shoulder. There was a splotch of white paint on his forehead and his mousy hair was all a mess. He looked so dumb, as usual. Did he have any idea? He didn’t invite me in or anything, he just stared at me, holding the door with his right arm and holding a dirty rag in the other.

“Didn’t you move out?” He scratched his head, like a monkey would, of course. But then he stepped aside as I charged in. As he should. It was my step-aunt’s house, not his. Even if I don’t have a key anymore.

I almost said, “Duh, why else would I knock?” Instead, I took the disdainful approach that always worked when we were in high school. “Why’re you here?”

It’s just my luck that Jason would see me on a day when I overslept and spent hours walking in the Chicago snow. I admit, I’d even cried a little bit. Just my luck that I hadn’t seen a mirror in hours. I’ll bet my mascara had smeared. That would be just my luck.

“I’m painting the kitchen,” Jason said, nodding toward the room. “Gotta get back.” He started walking away from me. “Your aunt and uncle are out of town, so you won’t catch ‘em.”

I almost corrected him, as usual: step-aunt. I want to make sure he remembers that she is not a blood relative. But I didn’t.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?” I followed him, dropping my backpack on the ground in the front hall on the way. The kitchen was a mess: the cupboards were edged with masking tape, the table was pushed away from the wall, and newspapers were everywhere. Jason grunted, as usual, and didn’t respond. He picked up his paint brush and crouched by the wall next to the pantry.

I opened the fridge, but it was just my luck that it was as empty as my own had been.

“I missed my bus to L.A.” I explained, grabbing the half-eaten jar of dill pickles. Jason didn’t answer. I pulled a chair from the hall and sat at the newspaper-covered kitchen table.

“Dred must’ve gone without me.” I fished for a pickle. Jason looked up at me and grunted again, as usual. Just my luck that he won’t even talk to me on a day I needed it. Isn’t that what neighbors are for?

When Jason still hadn’t said anything and I’d already finished the second pickle, I started telling him all about Dred anyway: how he laughed at just about everything I say, how he always listened to me, how he had this great plan for us in L.A., how his eyes danced when he laughs – really, it was so cute, it shouldn’t be allowed. It was when I was telling Jason about Dred’s curl around his ear that I saw the illustration on the scrap of newspaper in front of me. The hair was just like Dred’s.

“Like this,” I said. I lifted the newspaper and, pointing to the curly hair on the page, I turned it toward Jason, but he kept painting. He’d moved on to another part of the wall. I turned the paper around again and stopped talking for a moment while I fished for the last two pickles in the jar. The sketch really looked like Dred.

“Composite Sketch of Fast Food Chain Robber,” said the caption. Wow, just my luck that my boy friend looks just like a robber! I thought. I didn’t say this aloud, of course, because I didn’t want Jason to get the wrong idea about Dred.

I was finished with the pickles, so I actually read the article that went with the sketch. Just my luck that the end of every line was cut off because the page had been ripped.

This robber had hit a few times, and every fast food joint he’d hit was near my old apartment. The longer I looked at the sketch, the more I knew: that was Dred.

I rubbed my arms to try to warm them from the sudden chill that went over my body.

I glanced at the date on the newspaper. It was two weeks old, the day he’d told me we should go to L.A. Just my luck, I thought: Dred, my boyfriend, was a robber.

“You’re actually reading?” said Jason from over my shoulder. I jumped and tried to hide the scrap of newspaper.

“Um, no…” I said. I swallowed. The pickle aftertaste was now disgusting.

“What’s up?” The taunting edge had disappeared from Jason’s voice; it was now smooth and gentle. I looked up at him. For the first time, I noticed that his eyes were a California-sky blue. They seemed to whisper “It’ll be alright.” I knew it would be. Just my luck, my new good luck, that I didn’t have to worry: I hadn’t gone to L.A. with Dred!

Fictional response to Fiction Friday prompt.

My oldest brother, aged 5, was playing with a friend when the friend declared, “Let’s be superheroes!” My brother, living as he did in a 1970s American home without a television, wasn’t sure.

“What’s a superhero?”

“It’s someone with a special power,” his friend responded.

“Oh,” said my brother after contemplation. “I’ll be Betty Crocker.”

By the time I could remember, there was a television in our home, and I don’t recall the power of Betty Crocker dominating my mother’s cooking. But then, despite my mother’s best intentions, I left home without ever learning how to cook. I survived college eating Rice-a-Roni and Life cereal. Somehow, despite my lack of culinary skills, I got incredibly lucky: I married a man who loves to cook.

We got by for a while on my husband’s weekend masterpieces, leftovers, and my mediocre Rice-a-Roni dishes. Then I got pregnant just as we were moving, so I quit my job. In our new home, I suddenly had a lot of time on my hands. A baby was coming, but what do I do in the mean time?

Swallowing my pride, I decided that my role as a wife and mother-to-be was to cook dinner – a “real” dinner – for my family. I collected my husband’s recipes and I started searching the web for cooking tips. And then I tried to cook.

With each meal, I dreaded the next 60 years of nightly cooking. I placed the dishes in front of my husband with an apology on my lips. My cooking was pretty bad. But my husband always thanked me and told me I was a great cook. I didn’t believe him. Sometimes he suggested salt or spices or herbs or “something in the soup other than leeks and potatoes.” But he said it with love, and I knew he made suggestions because, to him, cooking was a riddle to be solved.

My son joined our family. I was a bit distracted and I didn’t cook. My husband was home for a week and he may have cooked, but I honestly don’t know what we ate for the four weeks after he returned to work.

One afternoon, in the midst of baby cuddles with my newborn, I had a weird desire: I wanted to cook.

I found a recipe, and I cooked dinner. I don’t recall what I made, but I cooked, and the end result was satisfying. I knew it could use more salt or spices or herbs or something, but for that night, it was fine. I’d figure it out next time. I had cooked dinner for my husband, and I didn’t apologize for it either.

Somehow, in the months that followed, I found the riddle my husband had found: cooking is a problem to solve. For each problem, there is a solution: I just needed to learn the tools of the trade.

• It’s still bland: how much salt?
• The sauce is too thin: what did I forget?
• The sauce is too acidic: what can I add to balance the flavor?

Now it’s just a few more months down the line. Chicken piccatta, chicken parmesan, steak gorgonzola, fettuccini alfredo, risotto: I can make the dishes I want to eat. They aren’t fancy, but I like them. And, to be honest, home-made anything tastes better than a restaurant. I can make it how I like it. And if it’s not good, I’ll do it better next time.

My husband’s praise hasn’t stopped. Every night after dinner, he tells me I’m the best cook he knows. I tell him he’s the best cook I know. Regardless, I feel confident that when I make him a meal, I don’t need to put an apology on the table with it. It’s okay, and most days it’s pretty darn good.

I can be a “Betty Crocker” Wonder Woman for my husband, one dinner at a time.

Oh, and one other thing: my son is growing up in a home without a television. I hope he doesn’t mind the “Betty Crocker” variety of superhero for now.

To my husband, my culinary inspiration

True response for the July Write-Away contest at Scribbit