Nanowrimo part 3

woohoo!

Callahan’s nap was really just a slumber. He awoke to see the sun flooding his room in crisp morning light. So much for a few winks of sleep. He had slept from the previous afternoon and had not changed position at all. His head was still wedged in between two pillows and his arms had fallen asleep hours ago. He shook them, trying to get the feeling back in them, and slumped over the edge of the bed. He had an afternoon free, and after finals that next week he had a month off. He was about as good at making friends as he was at making poetry, and he had lied to his parents about joining a fraternity, making the squash team, and having a girlfriend, so his parents would not expect him home for weeks. Besides, home was Iowa, and he was in no hurry to spend a whole day of travel just to get there. The drive to Boston Logan International Airport alone was three hours. He vetoed that idea. He also vetoed the idea of studying this weekend in preparation for his finals. He had other plans.

            He grabbed his car keys and a toothbrush. He was headed north to Maine.

            Quentin the publisher was not good at remembering which key would let him in to Samuel’s apartment. Samuel was probably there, but he would get so engrossed in his poetry that he would neglect the existence of just about everything else. Quentin the publisher also figured that disturbing him with a squeamish knock would also cost him another Prius.

            At long last Quentin the publisher found the one that worked. He sighed and walked into Samuel’s apartment.

            Sure enough, Samuel was there. I frown while driving, and Froid asks me what’s wrong as she watches our car weave around a brunch of traffic. I tell her I forgot a patient’s folder at the office. She doesn’t acknowledge me and looks deeper out the window.

            Samuel had his back facing Quentin the publisher. He figured it was Quentin the publisher, and even if it weren’t he wouldn’t mind either way. No one in their right mind would steal anything of Samuel’s, given the sparseness of his lifestyle, and Samuel didn’t really care about anything he owned except the poems that he transcribed from his mind.

            Quentin the publisher tiptoed his way across the room to a pile of papers that had not been there yesterday. Six poems today. Must have been very productive. He slowly picked up the papers with latex gloves and put them in the Ziploc. He turned over to Samuel who hadn’t moved at all since he had come in. Quentin the publisher sighed silently. Any acknowledgement was better than none. I gently remind him that any Prius is better than none.

            Suddenly, Samuel moved. He turned around to face Quentin the publisher, but did not look at him. My brother. His long fingers were black with charcoal. There were patches of gray all over his angular jaw where he had scratched it hours before. There was charcoal everywhere. His dark brown scruffy hair had chalky lowlights that floated down to the floor when he shook his head. His black t-shirt glistened with charcoal shavings, and as he stood he brushed some of it off his blackened feet trudged over a pile of paper, leaving a print.

            He nodded to Quentin the publisher and continued walking towards the fridge. More bok choy it is. Quentin the publisher was about as surprised as I was. Samuel must have been in a good mood to even so much as nod to Quentin the publisher.

            Samuel took a bite out of the bok choy. He clearly went from being completely engrossed to painfully bored in a matter of seconds. He peeled the bok choy in thick strips that he later peeled into thinner strips. He rolled the leaves into little green rods and popped them into his mouth. He examined the rough texture of the leaves, caressing the patterns before finally becoming interested in the world again.

            I only know all of this because Quentin the publisher was staring at him. Samuel made eye contact, but I knew he was not looking at the meager publisher. He was looking at me.

           

            I brake quickly at a stoplight. It shakes Froid, and she stops looking out the window to look forward and massage her neck.

            “I’m sorry!” I exclaim and reach out to touch it. Froid shakes a little at my touch but relaxes once she feels my warmth. I relax when I feel her cool skin.

            “Any ideas about what you want to eat?” I ask kindly.

            She shrugs, pushing the top of my hand almost to her ear and I quickly remove my hand to keep it from becoming trapped. As for her apathy, I figure so much. Spending so much time with Samuel would mean that her opinion of eating in general would naturally be more of a biological necessity than a pleasure.

            I’m certain I can sway her, though. I know she has a fondness for Thai food, and I instantly perk up to tell her I know of a wonderful Thai restaurant just a few blocks away from my apartment. We can stop there on the way so that she can head back to my apartment and take a well-deserved nap. Maybe I can take one too. I’m more exhausted than I would be after being on-call after a long day of surgeries.

            I miss Froid’s response, so I ask her again, apologizing for missing what she said. She replies that she’s not really all that hungry but could certainly go for a nap. I frown. I remind her that she has to eat, and she tells me that she ate at the airport. I frown deeper. I know she did no such thing. She sees my expression betraying my irritation with her and she relents. I’m not satisfied with her, but I have a schedule to keep.

            Before long I stop in front of a skyscraper three blocks from the apartment complex. She looks out my window in confusion. I lean over and cup her chin in my hand and look longingly at her.

“You are as beautiful as you let yourself be,” I mutter. Her green eyes, dull from sleeplessness, look up at me as I move closer. She closes her eyes in preparation.

            Good enough.

            “We’re here,” I tell her. She opens her eyes and looks back behind me, and sure enough there is a Thai restaurant on the ground floor.

            “Didn’t see that before…” she whispers, pointing at the red name above the entrance.

            I chuckle. “You don’t see a lot of things, do you?”

            The drive to Maine was scenic, if not contrived. If I weren’t so preoccupied with Froid I would definitely make something exciting for Callahan to watch. Maybe a flaming car crash or a sudden moose. But my priorities lie in this impromptu Thai restaurant, and my current fixation was trying to get Froid to actually order food rather than stare at the ice cubes floating in the purified water.

            Callahan was energized enough to do the three hour drive in one go. What’s the hurry? I ask him. Because I honestly don’t know. I can tempt or obligate him into completing my wills, but his actual thoughts are fairly unknown to me. I know he’s going to Maine because that’s where he thinks Froid is, spending a few days with her family before volitionally going as far away from them as possible.

            I revel at the possible envy he would have had he known who I was with at the moment. Froid spies the brightness in my euphoric eyes. I know she’s curious, but I pretend that I don’t see her and continue looking at Callahan.

            Callahan’s car did not have enough gas to travel the whole way, even though he had seldom used his car since coming to school. The tank lilted from half full to quarter to nearly empty over the span of New Hampshire, and he groaned as he tried to find a gas station in a town that was little more than a bar and a church. He circled expectantly, as if his extreme desire to find a station would just will one into existence.

            As Froid traces the pattern on the paper napkin I trace Callahan’s face. His eyes are bloodshot because he slept with contacts in, and he has done nothing but drive for the past two hours. He hasn’t checked his phone or listened to the radio. It’s as if he doesn’t want anyone to help him. I could have easily communicated to him through one of these, but he’s been so absorbed in the voyage that I haven’t been able to give him subtle assistance.

            The town was void of anything to help Callahan. His tank was empty, and if he spent any more time looking he would consume what little he had left and become stranded.

            I promise I’m only helping him because I want him to go to Maine and not find Froid there. In his rearview window he spotted a tiny gas station, not conspicuous enough to forgo observance but a gas station nonetheless.

            “How did I miss this one?” Callahan asked himself.

            I chuckle quietly on the pad thai page.

            “What is it?” Froid finally asks.

            “Callahan. He’s so funny.”

            After basically forcing Froid to order something that wasn’t a bowl of Jasmine rice, the two of us wait for our curries. Mine is seafood while Froid’s is vegetables. I ask her if she’s vegetarian but she says no. Between the low caloric value of the meal and the exorbitant difference in price between ours, I can see Froid only wants to disappear.

            She caresses the cigarettes in her purse. I want to get rid of them, but I have to do it without her noticing. I tell her I’m going to the bathroom and get up and leave her alone at the table. I know she wants nothing more than to make a run for it and light up in an alley somewhere, but my expectations keep her glued to the table.

            I wash my face in the sink and practice smiling. Many people have told me my smile is the best they’ve ever seen, and I smile at my dimples. I smile at my blue eyes. I smile at my shaved face. I smile at Samuel through Quentin the publisher. I smile at Froid.

            Froid looked at herself in the mirror of a makeup compact and cringed. If she didn’t already feel as if she traveled hastily across the country, her face definitely showed it. She applied some lip balm and groomed her eyebrows a bit. She powdered her face at put the compact back in her purse. I smile at her again through the mirror of the bathroom. I guess she is trying after all.

            After making some effort, she began pawing through her purse, looking for something that wasn’t there.

            Smoking is bad for you, isn’t it? She hears my voice. I’ve never said these words to her before.

            I walk back from the bathroom to see a slightly more presentable Froid. That is, if she weren’t manically ripping her purse apart.

            “Looking for something?” I ask her pointedly.

            “I swear they were just in here, like a few minutes ago.”

            “Smoking is bad for you, isn’t it?” I say again.

            She freezes and slowly meets my gaze. I smile at her innocently, patting her pack of cigarettes situated newly in my pants pocket.

                       

            Callahan was almost to Portland. The sporadic towns and farms began to conglomerate into small cities, which rolled into suburbs. He was surprised at how quickly the drive had gone, even though it was a mere three hours not counting his nearly disastrous attempt of finding gas.

            Callahan was almost as bad at planning ahead as either Froid or Samuel. He had no idea where Froid lived in Portland, and even though the city was not large by any standards there were still 65,000 living in it that were not Froid. What a waste of time. He pulled into a Starbucks and sat in the parking lot, waiting further instruction from anyone. I think it was very pathetic. I would eventually help him somehow. But presently I have to basically spoon-feed this panang curry to Froid, and I’m not sure how to go about doing it without being blunt or overly romantic.

            Callahan finally decided to walk in and order something and plan his shameful drive back. His desire to do anything plummeted, and he sank into a polyester armchair in the corner. The tile was a disappointment. The pattern was easily discernable and bored him almost instantly. He slowly got up to order.

            How convenient that he came to this Starbucks.

            There, facing him in debilitating scrutiny, was someone who looked almost exactly like Froid.

            Callahan had to do a double take. He stared at her green eyes, the same hue as Froid but bright with youth and trivial joy. Her hair was blond like Froid’s, but curled painstakingly. Her pale skin was sheathed in foundation and bronzer, and her eyelashes were long and black.

            Her nametag said Caracolle.

            “Um, can I help you?” she suddenly blurted out.

            Callahan sputtered. He was partially in disbelief at the uncanny resemblance, but he was also struck by her beauty the same way he had been the first time he had met Froid.

            “Uh, hi. I’d like… um….”

            Callahan couldn’t think of anything to say or to order.

            “What time do you get off?” He suddenly asked her.

            Her eyebrows bolted up. She was a mixture of surprised and repulsed.

            “Are you... hitting on me?” she whispered, her face inching towards Callahan, her eyes glowering into his.

            Callahan jerked back. “No! I… just… well… you look…” He stalled again. Caracolle rolled her eyes, and I do too as I mix some rice into Froid’s curry for her.

            Caracolle turned around and started unwrapping some cartons of soymilk. Callahan had already disappeared from her memory. She shook the cartons rhythmically, making the soymilk inside all frothy.

            Callahan then let his conscience do the talking and said something none of us expected.

            “You look just like her!”

            Caracolle dropped a carton and it nearly hit her foot. I drop my spoon with a clank into Froid’s now soupy curry. Froid is startled and looks into my eyes, wondering what’s wrong. I could not tell her. Not yet.

Caracolle picked up the carton off the floor and set it on the counter. She turned to Callahan, eyes dilated into a morose comprehension. She had heard this phrase so many times before.

            Callahan recoiled. “I’m sorry, I’m just saying things right now. You probably don’t even…”

            “No.” Caracolle leaned over the counter as Callahan retreated.

            “I know exactly who you’re talking about. And where is she? Where is my sister?”

Nanowrimo part 2

MORE THINGS YAY!

Callahan was sick of proofreading. He had done so much of it in his introductory creative writing class that past fall, which was where he had met Froid and Samuel. Every time he proofread he hated something new and disliked the changes more than the original draft. By the time he had finished his edits an hour later the poem he had written about Froid was not even the same poem. Instead of five lines of ranting about her smoking, he made the poem rhyme. He talked about her eyes, lips gray from ash. He kept going back to her smoking and it drove him crazy. It was like all he could see. He couldn’t see Froid. He could only see smoke.

In exasperated but unavoidable defeat, he jumped into his bed face first and sandwiched his head between two pillows. He wanted to take a nap and forget that that poem ever happened. He was ashamed of it. Part of that was probably my fault, but I like to think I have good taste. That poem was awful, and his decision to scrap it completely was definitely for the best. He didn’t even bother crumpling it up and throwing it away. He just left it on his desk as if it weren’t there.

In his pillow parfait he dreamed, somehow. He dreamed about the first time he went to the English Department there at Murkvein. It was all, more or less, still vivid in his memory, vivid as the fake potted plants in the corners that tried to give the stale room more life. Or the mass-produced watercolor paintings that hung anonymously on every wall, with familiar but nondescript scenes like pale toddlers chasing seagulls on the beach, or a log cabin covered with moss and wildflowers with children playing in the tall grasses, or an old bleached boat marooned on the beach during low tide, or just a still-life. The room reminded Callahan of a nursing home, and it should have.

Among the commercial paintings and plants there were photos, many of them, many of them taken recently. The most recent was the entire English Department faculty surrounding Samuel, who was gingerly holding some literary prize that he had won but clearly didn’t care about. Their faces were bright and their smiles were painfully wide, and they looked so fixatedly at the camera that Callahan thought they were threatened with death if they didn’t. Samuel was there, not smiling, not making any expression, not even looking at the camera. His eyes were dim and distracted and off somewhere else. I figure he was in his mind writing another poem. Where else would he go? Reality holds no interest to him.

Callahan continued waiting in the bland room, waiting to meet a bland professor, waiting to take a bland class and be just a bland human being. The head of the English department that he was so fixated on meeting was Professor Doanday. He hated Shakespeare and slant rhymes and thought that twelve-tone Schoenberg was the only music worth listening to. He was boring. I met him when he was trying to kiss Samuel’s feet. Samuel disliked him almost as much as I did. It was one of the few things we ever agreed upon.

Professor Doanday was not in the mood to go to work that day, and with his tenure thick with ages of service, he decided that he would rather spend the morning walking around his house with a chipped mug filled with Folgers and his socks drooping halfway off his feet. His appearance changed little when he went to work. All he did was put on a sports coat. I was glad he skipped. I had expected it.

Quentin the publisher did not. He could not. If he did he would have to explain to his insurance company how and why his brand new Prius spontaneously burst into flames in the parking lot. Samuel never came into the office, but Quentin the publisher was so justifiably terrified of him that he worked as diligently as if Samuel were really there and actually cared about something that wasn’t his poetry.

Callahan was sitting at the chair when Quentin the publisher rushed around the corner with a precariously stacked volume of Samuel’s poetry in a giant Ziploc in a folder. Quentin the publisher looked nervously at Callahan and then back at the folder in his hands. Callahan stood up and approached Quentin the publisher.

Callahan opened up his mouth to ask Quentin the publisher a series of frequently asked questions, but I shut him up. I didn’t want to hear him ask the mundane to the abused publisher who was on the verge of nervous breakdown.

Quentin the publisher looked at Callahan again, certain that he did not know who he was and therefore was harmless. Callahan looked back at Quentin the publisher, dying to ask many questions, but I held his tongue. I hate it when they talk. Most of them just blurt things out in a stream of consciousness and it angers me. The less they talk, the less they interfere.

Quentin the publisher smiled and sat down meekly next to Callahan. Callahan was an ex-jock, six feet four inches of bulk that had sadly been converging to fat as he quit training for football and began writing and reading prose and poetry. He still possessed enough strength to strangle me, Samuel, or Quentin the publisher without a second thought, but he was so docile and hypersensitive of his size that I could do so much damage to him without fear of repercussions.

            The lumpy, ill-defined athlete shifted his weight in his chair, his feet falling asleep from sitting for so long. He stood up, towering over the slumping Quentin the publisher next to him and shook his legs out. He walked slowly over to the photos on the wall and examined them in unnecessary detail.

            Callahan then lucidly recalled this was a flashback. Good point there, Callahan. I guess I can let you two talk.

            “So… Are you a student here too?” Callahan began awkwardly.

            Quentin the publisher looked as offended as he was capable of. “Ha! Of course not! I am an alumnus who graduated three years ago. Right now I am an intern for the department and in charge of Samuel Tyler Coldridge’s works. We graduated together, him obviously with honors.”

            Quentin the publisher was good at not getting in people’s ways and blending in. He was so good at being so boring that the English department immediately requested that he be Samuel’s “publisher,” which only meant that he transported a scrappy yellow folder from Samuel’s apartment to the English department for almost immediate publication.

            As I said before I do like my brother’s work. It really is because he is good and proofreading and editing would simply destroy most of the marvel that is his poetry. It’s all stream of conscious and off the top of his head despite the syntax and orthography rendering English into a different language. Take for instance “hIre why’s(dumb),” the very first poem in his debut publication y(not)ou.

           

[sec(split)ond]: I fear

blue{yes, like oceans}

the books^and^foot

steps

fragrance t(s)h(or)e

break

everyth{I!}ng: {can do this

} [with thIs](can you?)

I don’t want you two(o)

your cycle [repetition, blue, yes like oceans]

at the edge of my

shore

a god like I.

There is nothing here to edit because this is not English poetry. This is Samuel’s poetry. And he is the only native speaker of his language.

Callahan then asked Quentin the publisher where Professor Doanday was. Quentin the publisher shrugged his shoulders and walked off with the folder hastily. Too hastily, since he left a manuscript dangling outside the bag that inevitably began fluttering out.

In a stroke of friendliness Callahan bolted up and snatched the paper before it hit the ground and called out to Quentin the publisher that he had dropped it. Callahan examined the paper. It was gray with speckles of blue and white and purple, clearly made from a flyer and a letter of recommendation; the address of the sender was still somewhat legible in the middle bottom of the page. And there, in charcoal and surrounded by delicate fingerprints, was Samuel’s poem, born into tangibility just minutes before. The charcoal still looked soft and the paper was still indented where he had written the final lines. Callahan reached out to caress the text.

            But Quentin the publisher let a shriek so hilariously dire that a startled Callahan dropped the paper on the ground. Quentin the publisher let out another shriek. If I could have shut him up, I would have. I feel a bit bad for Callahan for having to hear a sound like that twice.

            “DON’T TOUCH IT. DON’T-LET-ANYTHING-TOUCH-IT. BUT… IT TOUCHED! THE GROUND! YOU! The charcoal, ooooh the charcoal charcoal charcoal… Must check on the charcoal. If it’s smudged I will personally accept your withdrawal from this college!”

            Callahan put his hands up and backed away from the paper slowly. Quentin the publisher flinched every time a small gust of wind from Callahan’s slow perambulation made the paper fluttered.

            “NO! DON’T. STOP MOVING! Don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe, don’t think, just… STOP!”

            Callahan stood still and glared down at Quentin the publisher. Quentin the publisher would have been terrified of Callahan had he not been thinking about the possibility of him finding his Prius set fire to… again.

            He thinks it’s Samuel that does it. It’s really me, though. I do it when he gets annoying and it just so happens that he’s most annoying around Samuel. I don’t even think Samuel knows how many cars Quentin the publisher has been through. He doesn’t know that Quentin the publisher thinks that he’s in charge of this frequent arson.

            Quentin the publisher took out a pair of tweezers and began to peel the paper off of the floor and put it back in the Ziploc to put into the folder. He alternatively eyed Callahan to make sure he didn’t move and the paper, examining to smudge marks.

            When the paper was back with the others and safe from Callahan and the rest of the world, Quentin the publisher briskly walked away. Callahan had spent a half hour waiting and the only response he got was of neurotic hostility. He had even forgotten why he came here in the first place.

            Dejectedly Callahan walked out of the waiting room and back to his dorm. He would not get any answers today. I’m glad I discouraged him enough to leave. Had he stuck around he would have met Samuel a week earlier than I had wanted.

            Froid had very few belongings with her and she knew it. She was supposed to head home for a few days, pack up for good, and then head out to Seattle. She only had enough clothes and money on her for a couple days. She picked up her phone to text me. I smiled and texted her back before she even finished her message.

            “Don’t worry about bringing things. I’m definitely okay with helping you get completely situated, and that means getting you anything you need. Brand new.”

            Froid played off her surprise very well.

            “Thanks, Luke. I look forward to seeing you soon.”

            She didn’t even mention that she was coming almost a week early. It’s okay. I knew.

            Night has fallen here now. I change into a bathrobe and put on my glasses to read in bed. I choose an article of mine that had just been published in a science journal. I smile to myself until I see a word: “hydrocephalus.” I frown. I had forgotten I had written that article on a new pharmaceutical and how it creates a reaction that consumes the excess water in the brain and leaves behind a nutritious precipitate to fortify the brain. I barely remember writing this article, and that’s probably because I hated that word so much. I close my eyes and I’m transported to Christmas ten years ago. I don’t want to be transported there, but Samuel does that to me sometimes.

            I drop the journal like a hot plate on my lap. Hydrocephalus. Samuel. I wish I could forget both of them. I turn over under the covers, caressing the silk between my fingers. The magazine remains completely put and burns into my hips. I do not sleep well that night. I almost want Froid to be here now.

            Froid. Please move the journal. Burn it, do whatever you need to. Just promise me two things: first, get rid of this journal. And second, never go to Samuel.

            I wake the next morning unsatisfied. It takes me half an hour of my morning routine to realize that it’s a Saturday and that I’m not on call. I have the whole day. It’s only half past seven. I try to go back to sleep but I take a look at the magazine, still lying unfazed on my bed where I had been sleeping. My hip is bright red as if it really had burned me.

I wonder when Froid will get here. Right now she is sleeping on a plane, which is rather surprising given her insomnia. I would blame much of it on Samuel, but I must give some credit where it’s due. Froid is a monster to herself.

            I make myself some espresso and look through my mail from yesterday. I see bills, paychecks, invitations, and letters from patients. I pick one of that. It’s addressed to “Mr. Doctor Coldridge.” I smile at the grade school handwriting and open it up and read it.

            “Dear Mr. Doctor,

            Thank you for getting the lump out of my head. It hurt but now it doesn’t hurt so much. I can do lots of things now. I rode my bike yesterday with a helmet. It was fun. I can spell a lot better. My teacher says I’m smart now.

            Thank you very much.

            -Hugo, age 7

            PS. My baby sister is really dumb. Can you see her next?”

            The letter was cute but attached was an even bigger prize.

            “Dr. Coldridge,

            I’d like to give you my eternal gratitude for saving my son Hugo. I don’t know what we would have done without you. You were really the only one who could save him and cut out such an imbedded tumor, and for that I cannot thank you enough. I don’t think we could ever properly repay for all you have done, and every time my husband and I look at Hugo we will think of you, the doctor who saved his life.

            You truly are a gift from God.

            Forever yours,

            Daphne Albrecht”

              I smile and caress Daphne Albrecht’s handwriting. Forever yours. This is what I live for.

            Froid awoke from her nap with a start. The turbulence getting into Seattle was nearly unbearable, and she kept hitting her forehead on the window every time the plane jumped. She sighed. At least she had slept some. The flight had passed quickly thanks to her nap, and she wondered if her family was worried. She looked at her phone before realizing it was off. She put it back in her pocket. She’d forget them by the time she hit the tarmac anyway.

            The plane pulled into the gate and she turned on her phone. No missed calls or texts from anyone. She figured so much. She texted me though, and I immediately drop the letter down on the table and begin putting on my shoes. I take one last look at my empty apartment and smile. It will be empty no more.

            I pull over on the curb to see Froid with her backpack and a tiny suitcase of luggage. It’s probably mostly empty anyway. Froid is a minimalist. She was wearing that exact outfit the last time I saw her.

            She has her hands netted together, squeezing her fingers so hard her knuckles are white. She’s nervous to see me. I understand completely.

            I get out of the car and open my trunk. I flash her a quick smile before putting her suitcase in the trunk and opening the door for her. She looks up at me once. Her eyes are wide with something. I cup her cheek in my hand. Cold. I smile.

            “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you,” I say.

            Froid nods and smiles slowly. She’s only controlling herself. I can feel her relief instantly. She knows she’s safe with me, and she’s right.

NaNoWriMo part I

As promised, here is a first chunk of what I've written for NaNoWriMo. Mistakes may abound. I have been doing minimal proofreading. I wrote 5800 words today and all I can think about is how I am NEVER writing again... Until tomorrow.

Without further ado, enjoy this first installment! I'll try posting more or less every day until I'm done.


-CD

It was late afternoon by the time Ambrosia Froid finally looked out the window of the bus.

            There was a delicate array of stripes on the road, perhaps from the trees, the shadows they cast in the mature November afternoon. It may have been dark already for all she cared, but the long shadows were like tick marks in her journey. They gave her assurance that she was really moving, that she was really leaving at long last.

            I couldn’t understand why she was so keen on staring at the carpeted seat in front of her. I told her that she should look out, acknowledge the voyage, savor the commute. But she wouldn’t. I implored her to at least admire the skeletal trees basking in the stingy clarity of the mid autumn sunshine. It was jarring but completely objective. This is what autumn really looks like. She should take lessons from it.

            Froid was not going to look without a fight though. I put her phone in her left pocket, the one nearest to the window. She took it out, checked the time, and put it back in her right. I felt somewhat helpless, but what can you do when she has such a mind of her own?

            Callahan Grossherz texted her at that moment. He was at least cooperative. I gently passed the parting image of her into his head. He saw her deep-set eyes, her diminishing frame, her fingernails dark and stubby and tinted with ash. She was beautiful in her own catastrophic way, and he would have loved to show her how she could be beautiful if only she could feel it in herself. She had left only a few hours before but he already missed her. She hadn’t even thought of him. She was thinking about the corrugated carpet, the coolness of the windowpane on her forehead, the sweetness of her shoes caressing the gray floors.

            Ambrosia stared idly at her phone, not so much reading Callahan’s text but rather admiring how the colors blurred if she let herself go cross-eyed. The orange and yellow, the black text turning into soft dots on the background. It was like a fall day and she knew it. And she let me know that she knew it. She would look out the window once, but not any more.

            She closed her eyes to take a nap. The commute was tiring in of itself, and there was little she wanted to do more than stand up and stretch her bony shoulders and wiry arms.

            At first she was really set on falling asleep. Her eyes felt soft as she was on the verge of a dreamless slumber, a quiet epoch nestled in the back left corner of the bus.

            I frowned. This would not make for a good story, and I was still annoyed at her unwillingness to look out at the scenery, especially when I had made it so enticing and symbolic of her last couple years of life.

            Samuel Tyler Coldridge, I whispered. She tensed at the first syllable.

           

            Quentin the publisher was unhappily occupied with the random charcoal scribbles that Samuel Tyler Coldridge called his poetry. Quentin the publisher could not physically touch the paper that Samuel wrote on because the charcoal would smudge and Samuel’s didactic, God-sent diction would be lost and the human race would lose the most imaginative and progressive linguistic marvel it had ever seen. Quentin the publisher was thus left to indignantly don latex gloves and gently pinch the corners of each sheet with an index finger and thumb. Quentin the publisher.

Many people called Samuel’s poetry poetry. In fact, they even called it good poetry. However, there were only two people in the world that saw Samuel for what he really was: myself, as his older brother, and of course Samuel.

            I decided to send him a text, though I know the bastard never checks his phone. I know “Luke Coldridge” was supposed to flash on the screen and I know he purposely took out his battery because he knew I would bother him. I don’t blame him. I actually do like my brother’s work, but I feel like I have to. I also understand that he is one of the only poets I know that is so unafraid of criticism that the critics are actually afraid of him.

            Quentin the publisher gently set the manuscripts down onto Samuel’s desk in his office in the English department of Murkvein College.  Samuel’s success had so skyrocketed so quickly and dramatically that he was quickly elevated from merely esteemed progeny to full-fledged resident poet laureate of the college. The English department fought bitterly to assure his place in their department, as if they had cultivated this genius by their own pretension.

            Quentin the publisher reshuffled the papers on the desk and reorganized the poetry pamphlets on the desk. Samuel had been already published in four poetry journals in the past year, each one praising a different poem and noting them as editor’s choice or best of the year, doling accolades out to him as if the very concept of praise was a necessity to his survival.

Samuel never read poetry journals or even knew that he was published in them. All he did was give Quentin the publisher poems he wrote each day (four or five on a good one, perhaps only two on a “ponderous” one). Samuel never really cared about showing other people his poetry; Quentin the publisher had to coax him to even publish. It was finally a year ago when he relented and let Quentin the publisher take his poems with him. Quentin the publisher presented them as a breakthrough in western literature as he knew it. Samuel only fed on his own intrinsic pride.

Quentin the publisher amassed publications for Samuel to contemplate submitting poems to, and Samuel more often than not would shred them, wet them, and reuse the pulp as paper for him to write his poems on. Samuel made all of the paper he wrote on and only used charcoal to write with. He did not like pens because he could not feel the ink that he would transmit onto his handmade paper, and he did not care for pencils because the concept of erasing his own beloved words sickened him.

Aside from the neat stack of journals, Samuel’s office would have been a mess, had there been anything else in there. Whereas all the other offices sported framed diplomas, writing samples that had been carefully edited and reedited before finally receiving publication, and fake plants or real wood desks or authentic replicas of busts of favorite writers, Samuel’s office had nothing. He didn’t need anything else aside from a desk and paper for him to take home and make into other paper.

I remember the travesty that is Samuel’s apartment. After he published I scolded him for not using the payments towards new clothes or bed sheets or anything that wasn’t milk, bread, bok choy, or spam. Samuel was always a picky eater. He only ate because he had to, and he never enjoyed anything he ate, as if food itself was not good enough for him. When I was in my first year of residence, I was tempted by my lab assistants to bring my fourteen-year-old brother in for a physical, curious about how malnourished he could possibly be. I of course knew Samuel well enough to decline. My brother is more malnourished in his soul than in his body.

I have met Quentin the publisher once. He couldn’t believe we were related. I told him I looked forward to learning more about him and had him drop a sheet of Samuel’s poetry on the stairs after I had headed home. I may not hold a sway over Samuel quite like I have Quentin the publisher, but I knew that after this ordeal Quentin the publisher would not have a Prius sitting pristinely and uncharred in the parking lot. I know he had paid a lot for that car, but I was not disinclined to testing the limitations of my little brother’s patience. I may not hold sway over him directly, but it’s always nice to alter those around him.

Callahan Grossherz texted Froid again. I had replaced her phone in her left pocket, and she knew this. She ignored the incessant buzzing as she had ignored the scenery. It was dusk now, and there was very little to see outside. Her nap had been futile after I had mentioned Samuel’s name, and all she could think about was obsolete happiness like lilies, a dead turtle, her smudged name in charcoal, the one moment of humanity she saw in Samuel’s eyes. It weakened her resolve. She was going to change her route, and I knew it. She would not be going home to Maine as planned.

She would be coming straight to me.

Callahan Grossherz missed the ten minutes he had spent with Froid that afternoon. He caressed his phone as if it were her, longing for her to respond or acknowledge him in any way. She had come to pack some of her things before transferring schools. I had coerced her subconscious into picking a school so far away from Massachussets and Murkvein that she would never dream of seeing Samuel or Callahan ever again. Her life at the University of Washington would be a haven for her that I created. Her future would be this: a major in physics instead of English to distance herself so dramatically from what causes her pain, the comforts of my penthouse downtown instead of sleeping on Samuel’s naked mattress in a Spartan dorm room, the security that Samuel could and would never come anywhere near me.

I feel bad for Callahan. He had set aside his entire afternoon to spend with her, to heal her, to give her food and gently hide her cigarettes, but she wouldn’t have it. I can’t blame myself in the matter; I had given him many suggestions, which he had all followed diligently, even though he doesn’t know who I am. I would say he is my favorite character in all of this. He’s kindhearted and listens to me and allows me to create what I want. The other two are obstacles, though Samuel is far worse. I blame Froid for Callahan’s unhappiness. I blame Samuel for hers. Samuel doesn’t have unhappiness. He has nothing but poetry.

Callahan is the only person that calls Froid “Ambrosia.” I don't even call her that, though I’d love to. He loves how her name flows through his thoughts; he loves the delicate features of the sounds. He loves it because it is everything she is and is not at the same time.

I made a suggestion to Callahan: write a poem, right then. A poem about her while she was still somewhat alive in the present.

This was when Callahan slowly lifted himself off of his floor. He dropped his phone under his bed, and I helped the phone slide deeper under. No need for Froid to interrupt his writing.

Callahan sat down at his desk and let his emotions flow. I tried not to laugh. Callahan is not a reputable poet. He’s a jock that has a strange sensitivity to language and wants to recreate the passion he feels when he reads beauty. To me this is all comic relief.

Ambrosia, your name is soft

Like the rain in Spain.

You smell like a Yankee candle in November

Not because you smoke

But because you’re sweet even if you don’t know it.

And I wish you wouldn’t cough

Because of your smoking. Which is bad for you.

If you get pneumonia I will die with you

Not because I smoke too

But because I love you too much.

I wish God could make you love me

(I snorted at that line and Callahan looked outside his window sharply.)

Because if you ever smiled he would see

How precious you are. Though not as much as I do.

Callahan took one look at his painstaking creation and frowned. He felt like he could do better, especially with all of the Keats and Milton and Dickinson that he read before college. He even wrote it with a fountain pen in a notebook, his chubby fingers ten sausage-like obstacles to a clean, smudge-free creation.

Maybe you’re not cut out for this, I whispered to him, hoping for a nod and a sincere endeavor to go outside and forget all of this. But to my surprise he hit himself on the head with his fist and turned over the paper, set on starting a new draft of a terrible poem that I had willed him to write.

It is late in the afternoon here in Seattle, and I begin to pack up my things and begin my commute home. I’m not completely sure what will become of Callahan’s disastrous hilarity, or if Froid will really take a nap, or if Quentin the publisher will have his new Prius set on fire like the old one. I can only blame one thing for this uncertainty. And I have no idea what he’s up to right now, be it sleeping on his bare mattress or grinding up paper into pulp, or eating uncooked, unwashed bok choy surrounded by nothing but his art.

I arrive home to my empty apartment. It won’t be empty like this for long, thank goodness. I take out some guava juice from the fridge and drink it. Some of it misses my mouth and trickles down my chin, bright orange like blood mixed with brain that I have seen so much of in the ER. It’s the color of people whose mind rejects them. The color of self-deceit and smarmy living and defective master hardware. It’s nice to know that in the wake of God so failing to make people’s brains work that I’m charged to fix it.

The guava juice slips down my neck and down my chest under my shirt. I keep drinking, thirsty and exhausted from today. It’s tiring to save people from their own brains.

Samuel’s face jumps into my head and I nearly drop my glass. I aspirate some guava juice and it sputters out everywhere on the kitchen floor, on my shirt, dribbling down my chin from my mouth. I’m drenched in guava juice.

Unpublisher material, Copyright 2012 Cali Digre
 

NaNoWriMo

You know how I thought I was going to post more but didn't? Yeah... haven't done that before, now have I.

Here's the super super abridged version of a long story: I've been home since the beginning of July. I had a really rough go at school last year and needed some time to rest and recover. Since then I've been feeling a lot better. Unfortunately, things that have not happened much include, but are not limited to: poetry, prose, and basically anything creative.

Until now. Inspired by a few friends who did it last year, I'm doing National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo for short (don't ask me how to pronounce that third syllabe; the linguistic marvel that is this acronym goes beyond my phonetic understanding). I'm a little behind because I started about four days late, but I've gotten so into it that I'll be back on track in a matter of days. I'm SUPER EXCITED, YO.

Anyways, here's a link to my profile.
http://nanowrimo.org/en/participants/marlie-cage/novels/the-poetry-space

Feel free to follow me if you're planning on doing it. I'm also probably going to post chapters/ excerpts up here, so look for frequent updates! I SWEAR I'll get to writing poetry again. I half-wrote a poem like a month and a half ago and it's been just sitting on a notepad being like WTF U DOING BRO. It's very stressful.

Bottom line, it feels great to be writing again. I'm so proud of myself for undertaking this project. And for those who have supported me throughout the years, thank you. Behind every writer is a support, be it a person or a handle of scotch. In my case it's people, thank God. Scotch isn't all that fun to talk to.

-CD

Parables of Dawn Part III

I'M ALIVE!!!!!!!!!

I feel like I've forgotten how to write, but this is my first poem in like... Three and a half months? How embarrassing.

This is a poem I wrote last night at like 4 in the morning. I know I'm a little rusty, but I'm really hoping that this HUGE break is exactly what I needed and that I can start posting regularly again.

So, without further ado...


Parables of Dawn Part III

A needle
Hangs on the edge
Of darkness
In the unstitching of the night
The hot blue waits
On the heavy clouds
And they fan
Curdling away
The dim light fizzes
Between the spaces
And the parted
Orange invasion
Clouds peel away like grafts
And the injured
Night slips under a tree

Before the Tide Dries

A NEW POEM?!?!??!?! Well, yes and no. I wrote this poem as a closing piece to my poetry class's portfolio. It's the most recent poem I've written, though that was like about a month ago.... :(
This poem's sole purpose is indulging in sounds and slant rhymes. It's riddled with them. I'm not sure what else to say about it. Meh.

Also, between this poem and now, I contracted mono, the current bane of my existence. Not that you REALLY care, but I'm feeling particularly excusatory or whatever (pretty sure that word is misused, but I'm still construing the meaning I want it to have!!!!)

-CD


Before the Tide Dries,

The patchy thatch hangs strange in the ebb.
A web of wood, if it could, would drain the creek.
The plump branches are bland from leaking and seeping.
Weeping willows with soft plumes keep pillows of seaweed
Submerged in a looming urge to attach themselves to shelves
Of wispy algae. Sleepless fish went beyond their gentle genes
To fight the stream, with their dreamy passion fastened to their fins.
Live! It’s only a sliver of a river, and then the pond! Live for what’s beyond!
Nothing goes where it knows it has already gone. There! To the delta,
The snow melting like glass bows, arching in the parched sun,
Ice pooling on the still cool grass, the last of the white. All so fast.
The complex pleasure of survival. Nothing to measure it next to.
Not cleansing your senses, not dipping your lips in the briny water
Covered in fishy shine, maggots dragging themselves over the surface.
Not letting ambrosia flow over your tongue in sweet erosion,
Pastel fastened to emotions or slanted, rosy, tinted reality.
Not even to silver gills. Not to the last frost lost in the dry islands
Covered in another river’s sand. Not at the cold mouth of the sea
Holding in what it is about to free.

Extended Break

So you may have (definitely) noticed the sparseness of my posts in the past few months. I've been stressed with other life things and haven't been able to keep the stringent schedule I created for this blog. That and I'm (shockingly) poetry'd out for the moment. My poetry class has been super intensive, and having two creative writing classes in a row has fatigued me a lot. What does this mean for this blog? It will still be up, and you bet your behind that I'll come back and post in the future. But for now I need a very definitive, nominalized break. I'll post a poem that I wrote most recently for my poetry class that got a pretty good response.

I'll write again soon, just when poetry seems more of a pleasure than a chore.

-CD


When it is Winter,

The solstice storm takes the old oak hostage
And straps her to the wind
And waves her arms

Fresh limbs
Fall, fall,
Yes, yes to the ground

A child doesn’t see the end of the frost
She is tied to mortality
And dropped into the earth

Fresh limbs
Fall, fall,
Yes, yes to the ground

And now it’s spring