Story-A-day May: How to Be A Mermaid

To mangle and paraphrase  "The waves are lovely, dark and deep;

                                              But I have promises to keep."



Here is todays' story, somehow written before 10:30 am. Thank my writing group, I guess, as we met last night for some on-the-fly writing action.



How to Be A Mermaid

In water we’re held, before birth. We grow afloat inside our mothers, to be born in a torrent of her fluids.

 

I’ve always thought that my premature birth, being forced out of the wet too soon, is what made me long for the sea, my friends’ pools, and the beaches we visited all too infrequently. Pushed to the air early, I’ve craved reunion with the deeps, where I can lie secure in arms that conform to my shape, surrounding me with peace. In truth, underwater is the only place I feel safe or happy. My daily act keeps the natives fooled, my daily care of them, but I’d leave them in a heartbeat if I had a boat.

 

And I’ve been saving for one, a big enough boat to sail for months without making port. I’ve learned the parts of the boat, the reasons behind the parts, the use and maintenance of boats. My secret savings have been turned into supplies, already stocked. I’m ready, and so is Early Exit, the craft that will take me out to learn the wavesongs you can only know if you listen for weeks unbroken. Don’t look for me; I won’t be back on the ground for a long time, and if and when I am, I’ll be a different person anyway, a different creature— a seabird. No, not that. A mermaid.

 

 Lynne spellchecked the blogpost and pressed ‘publish’ before setting the ‘droid on top of the toilet tank, where it would take no harm, and be found sooner or later. She rose and dried herself off, opened the small screened window above the tub to let the steam out, and did a quick, light makeup: just sunscreen, concealer, blush and mascara. She wanted to look like she was going grocery shopping. As she was. When she opened the door, smiling to herself, her son was there with hand raised, as if about to knock.
 

“Finally, Mom! Jeez, why do have to take such long baths?” He rolled his eyes and went in before she answered.

 

“Maybe some day you’ll know." Lynne said quietly. "You might read about it somewhere.” She stifled a laugh.

 

 “Hope your team wins the game tonight!” she called a little louder. A muffled reply came through the closed bathroom door, and Lynne walked down the hallway, satisfied. On her way through the kitchen, she left her husband an envelope containing their credit card and a reminder to pick up his dry-cleaning Friday.

© By Mari Kozlowski, May 21, 2013

Story-A-Day May... slowing, but still going.

A week of being terribly sick has left me behind again. What to do?

 Jump in and stop worrying about what I didn't finish (four stories with no ending) and get into it NOW.


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Summer land of WNY



 In a breeze from the lake, you can smell five things, or six, or seven. Lake Erie's beaches carry the scent of fish, of smoke, of seaweed (or lake weed, to be specific), of rotting logs, of clean-washed air, of baking sand, and the coconut scent of tanned teenagers sweating in the sun, displaying their golden greased curves to each other in hopes of hooking up around the bonfire later.

 Looking out from the edge is similar to looking at the ocean. It seems every bit as endless, but the weight of water you feel as you stare is less. In first morning sunlight, an unbroken wall of white gold shimmers too brightly to take for long; no visible division of sky and water exists. I have seen the Atlantic, and two of the Great Lakes-- the lakes are still stunning.

 There is a lovely coastal feel to the areas around the lakes, as well-- people buy cottages and spend two or even three seasons there, where the living is simpler and time has its own lake-set pace. You may have to get up early and drive in to town to work the next day, but if the stars are beautiful and the grill is going, it isn't bedtime yet. When you do lay head to pillow, you'll sleep the sound sleep of the profoundly grateful, hearing nothing but your own breath and the soft crick of a window somewhere, moving slightly as it holds against the low wind off the water. The waves are felt rather than heard, a rich slow hum that soothes and protects your dreams. Heroically tall pines sway and open onto a living darkness of indigo sky.


© By Mari Kozlowski, May 19, 2013

Story-a-Day May: Soured & Bat Lullabies

I have been getting my stories done at the last possible second, for no reason I can explain. So here are the missing two, with today's to come in a later post.



Bat Lullabies

 The Blind Bats of Barstow (Barstow, Illinois, not Cali.) are renowned for several things:  98% of them are born almost completely blind, seeing only a few barely differentiated shades of light, due to a congenital condition that has not dissipated through out-breeding.

 

 They are famous for their disdain for other bat colonies, preferring to keep to themselves, even going so far on a few occasions as to rip newcomers to shreds in un-batlike displays of bloody violence. They absolutely refuse to breed with any bats from other areas, despite the efforts of conservationists to preserve and improve the health of the population by introducing different bats, (prepped with pheromones taken from the Barstow bats themselves) which are then either shunned or attacked by the blind bats, who do not need sight to know when the pheromones are being pulled over their bad eyes. In any case, sight has never been the most important sense for bats. They use scent and sound, and in this case, special sounds not heard among other types of bats, for the Blind Bats of Barstow also sing.

 

 Yes, sing. When mating, when lonely, or when in trouble, they emit a high-pitched  keening that has a remarkably musical sound, notable for both its duration and syncopation— when hearing the bats, you might think of the sounds of a clarinet, and be shocked to find out it is the call of a wild animal, and a mammal to boot. Even more interesting is the song the adult bats sing to calm their young; yes, we’re talking bat lullabies, and lovely too, if a bit repetitive— but then all lullabies are. These “cradle” songs, just as richly textured musically as the other songs but slower, are in a lower pitch.

 

 The pitch has baffled experts for years, because like the cat’s purr, they cannot figure out where this sound could reasonably come from; unlike the sounds they use for echolocation, which Barstow bats make with their mouths, this one is theorized to originate from the nose. But the idea hasn’t gone far. Study of living bats in captive situations have not yielded helpful data because the bats will not sing when they are captured or indoors, even if given a young bat to look after. Instead, the adult will hide the young bat and remain silent, without eating or moving, until it is set free or dies, still protecting the baby. Which makes conclusions difficult to reach and has resulted, after a number of charges brought by animal rights’ activist organizations, in a total ban on capturing the bats for study.

 

 There are a few other things that make people flock to see the bats in their habitat, hanging by their claws in the wooded alcoves they call home--- the bats are small and glossy, an espresso color with occasional pale lemon spots. This coloration is unusual in the bat world, as is the formation the bats take when they move en masse, which is a nearly perfect looking circular shape. Both these details should seem less impressive when you get a chance to watch them move among the large flowers they often light upon, thereby pollinating the lot while eating tiny insects which are also drawn to the large, glossy brown-black blooms sprinkled with pale yellow spots.

 

 Clearly the bats evolved to blend in with the flower petals, in some fashion, and so the vision of a flight of blind bats drifting in and out among their look-alike flowers shouldn’t be that interesting, at least intellectually, but in fact it’s the highlight of the Blind Bat Tour in Barstow. It’s stunning to see the dark wave move and break, dappled with the soft sunlight of spots, and if the bats should chance to sing during their feast— which happens once in a while for reasons no one can explain— then the crowd that witnessed that dark choir leaves the tour feeling blessed, as if they’d been party to a miracle. And perhaps they have.


© By Mari Kozlowski, May 7, 2013




Soured

When she came home, the milk was still out. That should be reason enough to beat him to death.

 
  Angela swept the floor of the kitchen furiously for five minutes after finding the milk left out on the counter. It calmed her, helped her set her head straight before she went in to read next to her sleeping, snoring, inconsiderate husband. She swept or cleaned most nights before bed, nowadays. It was better than snacking or watching TV, and it was practical, too.

 She had put the carton back in the fridge, knowing it was probably turning already from 5-7 hours at room temp, but unwilling to give in to the reality. Plus, she knew he’d be likely to drink it tomorrow without checking to see if it had gone off. With luck, she’d be revenged on him for the mistake without saying a word. It was a small, sour satisfaction to take, but when she came home from her second job to find all the house and yard work left undone, the mail still bulging from the mailbox, the dustbins at the curb, she was willing to take any stab of pleasure available.

 The bills she had stacked neatly for mailing out were gone— one good thing done. She relaxed slightly as she thought of it, hoping to muster a generous mood towards her husband, for a change.   

Small steps, she whispered inside. Small, tiny fucking steps.
 

© By Mari Kozlowski, May 7, 2013

Story-A-Day May: Hothouse Burdens

Lilly has a crown she will wear this morning, when her groom climbs the high hill and the players strum their green-stringed goldbedums, singing softly into the moist air of May.

The circlet is made of silver leaves, dotted here and there with water gems, the costly ones that look like emerald. They are fixed in the centers, or at the shiny tips of the worked metal leaves like dewdrops about to fall or evaporate. Many enslaved artisans helped in the making of this beautiful thing, an item of rare grace that Lilly will wear ever after only for the most special and sacred occasions.

It does not dawn on her that her people, who are starving, may look upon the jeweled artifact with resentment, wondering why she has the nerve to flaunt her stolen wealth at them. She has no fears that her countrymen and subjects might look with distaste or even disgust at the explicit show of expansiveness, might revile the largesse of her wedding feast, where they would not be welcome.

It doesn't cross her mind, because it isn't so-- the people, hungry and falling daily from sicknesses associated with inadequate nutrition, want nothing but the best for their queen. They would have it no other way, than that she should make them proud by looking as richly refined as the princesses of the three wealthier countries that border theirs. The image of their young queen, lovely as a blossoming tree as she speaks her vows, is what they wish for this morning, to hold in their hearts through the drought-ridden summer to come. Their crops will die soon, after stunted yields, but her glory will rain on them all.

 © By Mari Kozlowski, May 5, 2013

Story-A-Day May: In the Cut.

Today's story, in its own post.


  Her eyes had been closed for much of the surgery, but now she opened them and was immediately shocked and nauseated by the welling of blood and its hot iron smell.

 They had promised she wouldn't feel a thing, under the influence of this new drug, and she didn't-- her hands, her usually stiff back and her legs had held up fine. She didn't feel the slightest push as the sharp scalpel moved in and out of the appropriate organ like a hot knife in soft butter. Just the nausea, as fleetingly irritating as it was unexpected.

 Watching the progress of the operation with a happily disconnected interest, she felt her stomach lurch, wanting to heave, and tried to avert her head with a quick movement.

 "Doctor Lynch," the nurse beside her asked, " are you alright? You look green."

"I'll be fine," she answered, " just need to look at something else for a moment."



 © By Mari Kozlowski, May 3, 2013

Story-A-Day May: Two for the price of one!

I did write my story yesterday, before midnight even-- after I came back from my writing group. I was just too tired to post it, so here it is, with a little polish of editing to shine it up since I had the time. The second will follow later, so if you should happen to read this early Friday, please come back tonight for the rest.



Guava and Lime

 Under the sick white glaze of overhead fluorescents, her knife rocked in well-controlled pace, firm, a natural part of her hand extended over the onions being reduced to ever smaller particles. Minced so fine that their juice ran off the side of the wooden board, they gave surprisingly little smell. The cook had first halved them then steeped them in lime, before patting them dry for the final cutting. She used them for flavor, not bite; a trick she’d learned on an island paradise she had no intention of returning to, in this career-- in this lifetime.

 

 Meanwhile the hob behind her heated to smoking hot, and in a moment the tiny confetti of onion would be thrown into a dry pan over that blaze, to scorch and char briefly. Then the cook would combine them with chilled guava chunks, a sprinkling of spice and more lime— a salsa for topping her signature dish of broiled filet. The authentic recipe called for a cut that wasn’t available in the states, and even the guava was a poor stand-in for its island self, but few of her customers would discern the differences. They raved over the intriguing tropical tone of her offering, whose true origins she kept to herself and thought of only rarely during her daily prep.

 

 The fruits on that island were sweeter, riper, more complex in flavor than any grown on any large continent she had ever visited, and she had visited many. The meats, wild or farmed, had a tender lushness to them, almost a creaminess when the flesh was properly cooked, and the local rum was as freshly delicious and easily consumed as springwater. Its sweet urgings had contributed to an array of bold, thoughtless nights and rough mornings during her long stay. Those nights, if she allowed herself to remember them, could still make her blush, make her knife-hand shake as she used other lessons learned then to tantalize and tease, comfort and challenge the palates of her guests. Just as her own tastes once had been teased and challenged— but certain flavors, some exotic fruits, could never be had very far from their source. Some delicacies, you couldn’t bring home.

© By Mari Kozlowski, May 2, 2013.

Story-A-Day May-- The Drabble That Didn't

   I changed my mind (woman/prerogative) and decided to throw myself into Story-a-Day May with Marta, whose stories will be better, I assure you. This one proves it. As I'll be getting cut apart a little at the end of the month, I may miss the last few days, but c'est la vie!

 The writing prompt for the day, which one need not adhere to, is a Drabble-- a hundred word story that focuses on a moment, a happening, between two characters or less.

 And I blew it from the start, going over a hundred words without trying, and not wanting to abandon the intriguing Shan, who created the story around himself. It needs to be longer, longer than I've made it, and someday I'll re-visit the tale, but for now, here it is:


Baker Man
  

 Evening air had cooled the kitchen, finally. Shan went through the room closing windows with a satisfied smile. His baking adventure had gone well and his wife would be thrilled, come morning, when presented with perfectly golden tarts topped with a fine, vanilla-scented crumble, bursting with plums. She loved unexpected tidbits, and he had cleared the house of hints; not the faintest whiff of baked fruit or buttery pastry remained to spoil her surprise. He could picture her face, mouth open, eyes wide and hunting for a motive, then her lips stained with the dark juices as she bit into the treat.

 Fresh Plums were hard to find in spring, but Shan was a master at sourcing. He found sweet, melting strawberries in December, and the best oranges of the year in June. His skill at obtaining such treasures was part research, part charm-- when Shan tracked down a likely source, he schmoozed the point person mercilessly. Rolling his voice to a silken ripple, he’d flatter just subtly enough to make the person feel special and appreciated. It was a habit he'd picked up in the music industry, where artists and moneymen alike needed their egos salved regularly.

 Now, house-husband to a wealthy businesswoman, he found ample use for his sales techniques; and the commission was quite a bit more interesting than mere cash. Their time together was pleasurable but erratic, and often brief. It wouldn’t be true to say that he loved his wife, but she did give him certain satisfactions, along with freedom to pursue his interests as widely as he chose, and unfettered funding of any and all dreams. 

 Almost an ideal life, he knew.


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© By Mari Kozlowski, May 1, 2013