Houses are being built up high, blocking Dorothy’s view of the Emerald City. Will she ever get there, find home?
The sun seemed to have trouble rising this morning, but she did not. Eight o’clock and the boy was still up, whiskied-out. She could not help and even if she could he would still walk away. For now she’ll have to do with raw smiles on the faces of balloon men at lunchtime.
~~
Attraction, that’s what Dorothy needed. To attract something or someone; to shake her insecurities, emotional wreckage built over time and rainbows… but then again wasn’t that why she ventured out in the first place?
She thought of bumpy hills, rockied mountains, roads that snaked along never ending; never finding happiness. In her mind her journey was one of self-undiscovery. And so, as she thought, she got. Unhappiness overwhelmed. No thank you again and again. She had a choice.
Calling the wicked witch unto her, she let evil torment, infest her thoughts, flourish in its new found home—her closing mind. Where was Christopher’s mythical mushroom god when she needed him? Please. But to no avail.
What she saw on summer nights, sticky flesh sapping mosquitoes in their wake of nourishing bliss-hiving stems slender and bone, what she saw in her mind became in her hand. Palms outstretched, extending from arms bowing under pressure, lashing out in pain—was struggle, suffering she could not whelm-in. The flesh of the Earth she had planted the seed and with one small thought it began to grow wild, relentless; life in a deadening state.
Paralleled with magnetism only to Dorothy’s mind, the wicked witch had manifested herself to life, overwhelming goodness and love.
**To read more of this story, or check out more of my works please check out meganwhitney.org
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
The Trip-- Austin
Austin
1
The girls went out that night, having nowhere else to go. They never had anywhere to go. Stuck in place, begging to get out of their mobile home; Betty was left behind. 6th St walkers blow in breezy night air off the river. Searching, scanning bars for that one man who could take them home, take them in for just this night, and wash them in acid. They found him rolling on cots from side to side; his scent a coppered drum beating in the room while Indigenous peoples of Mexico circled road, crying out in pain. The agony a turn on for the night, he solicited the use.
Afterwards the trail built up sticky, filth lined the walls, jettisoned out Scarbrough’s Truths: Betty was left behind.
1
The girls went out that night, having nowhere else to go. They never had anywhere to go. Stuck in place, begging to get out of their mobile home; Betty was left behind. 6th St walkers blow in breezy night air off the river. Searching, scanning bars for that one man who could take them home, take them in for just this night, and wash them in acid. They found him rolling on cots from side to side; his scent a coppered drum beating in the room while Indigenous peoples of Mexico circled road, crying out in pain. The agony a turn on for the night, he solicited the use.
Afterwards the trail built up sticky, filth lined the walls, jettisoned out Scarbrough’s Truths: Betty was left behind.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
About Last Night
This is the beginnings of a short story I'm working on. The second section mixes tenses a little. I think it flows well, but I'm not sure it comes across in my head the same way it reads. Please let me know what you think!
XOXO
--Megan
That morning Jenny awoke unaware.
1
Her skin dulled under the poor light in the bathroom. Reminiscent of Jaundice; still she, needing less makeup, applied more mascara. One final glance of gaunt face, a spritz on the wrist from a golden bottle over powered the room with strong floral scents. Inhaling, her chest quivered in release, as did her hand placing perfume on sink’s edge. She needed a cigarette. She needed to eat. She needed a cup of coffee. She needed validation. Validation from a little boy, underage perhaps, but she didn’t care. Though he wasn’t and they both knew. Validation from the things he gave her, and they were many. Things he didn’t want, didn’t need, never used. Things shared between them on hot summer nights with air thick and stale. A ring here, a bracelet there, every now and then they’d venture out for dinner or drinks. She never ate and he drank too much. Things reserved for a wife, places reserved for a wife, feelings he never reserved for his wife; and not even this girl. Underage, perhaps, but he didn’t care. Though she wasn’t and they both knew.
2
When John got home that night he kissed his wife. She smiled. She had been reading a book in bed, waiting up for him. John’s wife was named Barbara, but everyone called her Barb. She was five seven with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a curvy body that curved even more now that she’d had two kids. They’d met when John’s parents dragged him to see his cousin in a beauty pageant, Ms. Sunflower State. He doesn’t remember how his cousin did in the pageant, or even how Barb did for that matter. What he does remember is his one night stand turning into, “John, I’m pregnant.” They’ve been married for eleven years now, give or take a few, who can remember these things? When John kissed his wife she smelled flowers. “Honey, have you seen the earrings you bought me last Christmas?” “No, sorry. Maybe Ellie was playing dress up again.” John new his daughter didn’t take them; instead he had given them to his girlfriend, the one who smelled like flowers.
3 John’s other girlfriend didn’t smell like flowers. In fact, John didn’t know how she smelled because she wasn’t his girlfriend. She was just the girl who made his coffee in the mornings. He never learned her name, still he loved her. He loved her more than he loved his wife and more than he loved his girlfriend. His wife never made him coffee, just dinner; the same crappy dinner every night of the week. Sunday chicken, Monday roast beef, Tuesday hamburgers, Wednesday they ate something and Thursday they ate something and on the weekends they ate too, he just didn’t remember what. It never involved coffee though, not even with breakfast. That’s why he went to the coffee shop. His girlfriend never made him anything either, at least not coffee. She didn’t like cream in her coffee—
4
That morning Jenny awoke unaware of the life shattering events that occurred just hours before. When, as that morning broke abounding new and fresh life, Someone was being suffocated with a pillow as she slept. Did Someone awake in panic, flail about with limbs waiving in vain attempt for survival? Jenny will never know. She was sleeping at the time and only awoke that morning, unaware. … “How are you today?” John nodded in response, a gruff sound came from his throat. His response was unconscious and surprising. “Fine.” Too gruff, a billy goat or she was a troll. Shorter than Barb. Petite, beautiful. “The usual?” Again he nodded, held back second gruff creeping up throat. He watched her turn, walk away to get coffee. Skirt swayed left, right, left, right, left, right, left right, left right, left right, left right, leftright, leftright… “Will that be all? Sir?” He had been staring off at nothing. The memory of a brief glance. John refocused his eyes on the girls face. Trying to look concerned, he could tell she was more annoyed. Seeing the cardboard cup his coffee was in he blurted, “here.” "Would you like me to put it in a mug?” Shaking his head, he pushed some cash on the counter, grabbed the recycled cardbored, and walked to an empty table far away from her. Sat. Thought. About last night.
To read more of this story, or check out more of my works please check out meganwhitney.org
XOXO
--Megan
That morning Jenny awoke unaware.
1
Her skin dulled under the poor light in the bathroom. Reminiscent of Jaundice; still she, needing less makeup, applied more mascara. One final glance of gaunt face, a spritz on the wrist from a golden bottle over powered the room with strong floral scents. Inhaling, her chest quivered in release, as did her hand placing perfume on sink’s edge. She needed a cigarette. She needed to eat. She needed a cup of coffee. She needed validation. Validation from a little boy, underage perhaps, but she didn’t care. Though he wasn’t and they both knew. Validation from the things he gave her, and they were many. Things he didn’t want, didn’t need, never used. Things shared between them on hot summer nights with air thick and stale. A ring here, a bracelet there, every now and then they’d venture out for dinner or drinks. She never ate and he drank too much. Things reserved for a wife, places reserved for a wife, feelings he never reserved for his wife; and not even this girl. Underage, perhaps, but he didn’t care. Though she wasn’t and they both knew.
2
When John got home that night he kissed his wife. She smiled. She had been reading a book in bed, waiting up for him. John’s wife was named Barbara, but everyone called her Barb. She was five seven with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a curvy body that curved even more now that she’d had two kids. They’d met when John’s parents dragged him to see his cousin in a beauty pageant, Ms. Sunflower State. He doesn’t remember how his cousin did in the pageant, or even how Barb did for that matter. What he does remember is his one night stand turning into, “John, I’m pregnant.” They’ve been married for eleven years now, give or take a few, who can remember these things? When John kissed his wife she smelled flowers. “Honey, have you seen the earrings you bought me last Christmas?” “No, sorry. Maybe Ellie was playing dress up again.” John new his daughter didn’t take them; instead he had given them to his girlfriend, the one who smelled like flowers.
3 John’s other girlfriend didn’t smell like flowers. In fact, John didn’t know how she smelled because she wasn’t his girlfriend. She was just the girl who made his coffee in the mornings. He never learned her name, still he loved her. He loved her more than he loved his wife and more than he loved his girlfriend. His wife never made him coffee, just dinner; the same crappy dinner every night of the week. Sunday chicken, Monday roast beef, Tuesday hamburgers, Wednesday they ate something and Thursday they ate something and on the weekends they ate too, he just didn’t remember what. It never involved coffee though, not even with breakfast. That’s why he went to the coffee shop. His girlfriend never made him anything either, at least not coffee. She didn’t like cream in her coffee—
4
That morning Jenny awoke unaware of the life shattering events that occurred just hours before. When, as that morning broke abounding new and fresh life, Someone was being suffocated with a pillow as she slept. Did Someone awake in panic, flail about with limbs waiving in vain attempt for survival? Jenny will never know. She was sleeping at the time and only awoke that morning, unaware. … “How are you today?” John nodded in response, a gruff sound came from his throat. His response was unconscious and surprising. “Fine.” Too gruff, a billy goat or she was a troll. Shorter than Barb. Petite, beautiful. “The usual?” Again he nodded, held back second gruff creeping up throat. He watched her turn, walk away to get coffee. Skirt swayed left, right, left, right, left, right, left right, left right, left right, left right, leftright, leftright… “Will that be all? Sir?” He had been staring off at nothing. The memory of a brief glance. John refocused his eyes on the girls face. Trying to look concerned, he could tell she was more annoyed. Seeing the cardboard cup his coffee was in he blurted, “here.” "Would you like me to put it in a mug?” Shaking his head, he pushed some cash on the counter, grabbed the recycled cardbored, and walked to an empty table far away from her. Sat. Thought. About last night.
To read more of this story, or check out more of my works please check out meganwhitney.org
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