Taffeta

This is a weird thing to post, and I wrote it quite a while ago, but for some reason I kind of like it. I started writing the fiction and was listening to music until I realized that I could see the scene taking place like in a movie, and I decided that I wanted to write it like that, so that if someone read it they would see what I saw– and, ladies and gentlemen, my first ever (and only) snippet of a screenplay was born. The fiction comes first. Feel free to tell me which you like better. I highly recommend listening to this song while you read.

——-

“Taffeta”

It was prom night, and it wasn’t raining. Alisha had done all the right work– getting a dress that cost too much, accessorizing, and piling on the black eyeliner. It was a masquerade ball, but she didn’t have a mask–all the work she had done was her mask. No one would recognize her, someone who, in all four years of high school, hadn’t done any work for her look.

And anyway, she didn’t ever intend to actually get to the prom. She thought maybe what would happen was that she would walk out her front door, and down the street, and go as far as she could before something better came along. She estimated that wouldn’t take long.

No one was downstairs, so she didn’t have to say goodbye to any family members or deal with questions. She checked the mail on the counter and opened a letter from a college in Oregon, the only college to which she sent an application, which said she had been accepted with a scholarship that would pay half of tuition.

Alisha sat down and stayed so still that for a moment she swore she could feel her heartbeat in her tongue. She hoped it would be a “little did she know” night. There was a pack of cigarettes on the table and a lighter, so she took one and lit it lazily.

 

SCREENPLAY:

 

Credits interspersed with shots of the heroine, Alisha, getting ready for prom– classy black dress, silver jewelry, lots of makeup– during “No One’s Ever Gonna Love You” by Band of Horses. (Actress: Ellen Page)

Alisha comes downstairs. She has bad posture and hangs her head, but kind of bounces down the stairs in a way we wouldn’t expect. There is a half-circle table against the wall by the door, which is right by the foot of the stairs. There are magazines on it, a small pile of letters, an open pack of cigarettes, and a cheap Bic lighter.

She picks up the pile of letters and tosses them back on the table one by one, until one near the end of the pile, which she holds on to and drops the rest. She opens it and reads it. A camera shoots the letter up close, and we see “congratulations” in all caps and a wavy word art font that doesn’t go with the music, the mood, or Alisha’s constantly uninterested attitude.

She drops the pages and envelope back on the table and slumps in a chair, putting her feet up on another one. Her head lolls against the back of the chair until she rolls it and looks at the pack of cigarettes. The song ends as she reaches for the pack, then she takes a cigarette and lights it. She re-crosses her legs and the taffeta of the dress rustles loudly.

Hallelujah Pt. 2: When fighting takes more love than guns.

“Do you need me?” she asked, expecting the answer. She was unsurprised when he said, “yes.” He said, “do you need me?” and she said yes. But I’m tired of being the one protecting our relationship, she said. If you really need me, you must start being a man and fighting for me.

“Shouldn’t it be mutual?” he said, caught off guard and intimidated.

She laughed. “What, now?”

“And,” he continued, without really acknowledging her answer, “since when do you want fighting? You hate violence and you hate weapons and conflict.”

“This battle doesn’t take violence or weapons or conflict. All it takes is love.” She paused, not wanting anything to sound trivial, but said, “All you need is love.”

He knew it was coming and narrowed his eyebrows at her slightly. She could tell he wanted to roll his eyes. Then he said, “but, it’s WORK. A relationship shouldn’t take so much effort. It shouldn’t take a battle to keep it a relationship.”

She laughed again. “Does it take work to love me?”

There was a pause, but not long enough for him to come up with anything coherently defensive, and she continued. “Listen, all I’m saying is that I don’t think apathy has really been working so far, because… well, here we are. But you’re welcome to keep trying it. I just thought I owed you a warning.”

“A warning about what?” he said. She sat down and crossed her legs and arms. Then with a shrug, she said, “you’re losing me.”

As she walked away later in the snow, she wondered about “fighting.” Do you have guns, or do you have guts? Does it take both (metaphorical guns, of course) to make a relationship work?

Hallelujah

Brutal cold whipped around her hair the moment she opened the door, but she didn’t hesitate. She stepped outside on the heels of her brown Australian shepherd, who led the way through what had once been her yard, through the gate of what had once been her white picket fence, and down what had once been her winding driveway. He bounded ahead, and she followed, gripping her heavy coat tightly around her. It was so cold that she could feel her lungs constricting; she didn’t want to breathe through her nose because she feared her nostrils might freeze, but she didn’t want to breathe through her mouth because he cold burned her throat. She could feel tears on her cheeks, their progress down her face slowed in the chill, but even through her outward misery the only word she could think was “hallelujah.” She laughed a bit at that, which only made her cry more.

 

Snow made that dry, squeaky sound beneath her feet. She hated that. She stopped walking just so she wouldn’t have to hear it. Manu stopped trotting happily and looked back at her, confused. She was out of sight of the house now. She wanted out of sight of this town, where people knew each other everywhere they went, where people wore brown with black and off-brand Converse, where everyone used a PC and reinstated politicians term after term. She couldn’t stand the way things never happened unless you were looking at the town as an outsider. Then you could see minute differences, usually in accordance with the seasons or the way buildings looked. You could look at the way the crowds at the 4th of July parades changed over the years or the kinds of people who donated money at the Christmas charities, and those were the only things by which this town seemed to be defined. And she felt abysmal about the fact that one of her sharpest summer memories was when she walked the boardwalk and counted three groups of black people, which was three more than she ever remembered seeing before.

 

She needed out. Her failed marriage was the final proof, as if she needed it.

Cuppa tea?

He was on his second cup of tea, which he normally hated. He hated coffee, too, but he was pretty convinced that everyone secretly hated coffee and only drank it to attempt sophistication. It was like… playing chess, or what he imagined women must feel like wearing high heels. No one actually likes that shit. Now he was trying to wrap his mind around the idea of tea, leaves sitting in hot water and supposedly delivering a pleasant essence and flavor. Yeah, right.

What if?

She had grown sentimental for the lost pleasures of a full-voiced heart, but the quest for the sweet short life is not an exercise in brevity.

“Watch the air,” they said, for objects in the distance are only obstacles.

“If everyone was always careful what they wished for,” she said, “nothing new would ever happen.”

“Oh?” they asked, all-knowing, teasing. “And what if you wished for nothing to happen?”

They call it fiction 4

Realization #872: Whatever happens in that parking lot, I will blame myself for my own inevitable embarrassment, as well as anything/everything that led up to that moment in the parking lot.

Realization #415: Every anticipation of “The Parking Lot” is only (only) in my head. None of the scenarios I anticipate are the one that will actually come to pass.

Realization #416: I will be unsurprised, perhaps amused, and slightly disappointed about #415… Because there is at least one scenario on which I could easily set my hopes.

~

I’ve been preparing for a second interview… preparing as if this job was the job of my dreams, which it most certainly is not. If I had more self-respect, I might not even accept the second interview… but I still have less money than I have self-respect, and I have more good sense than either money or self-respect, which tells me that rent never, ever pays itself. So even if I’m preparing for the job of my nightmares (which is impossible, because I’m unemployed in most of my nightmares), I’m going to tell myself that it’s the job a million girls would die for.

See? I’m suddenly Anne Hathaway in “The Devil Wears Prada.” Without the fancy shoes… or Meryl Streep. Damn, I need a Meryl Streep equivalent. Someone to purse her lips and say, “that’s all,” because really, what else is there to say when you’re Meryl Streep?

So, interview prepping:

“What do you look for in an employer?” First, I look for someone who will take a chance on me. I know that I’m responsible, punctual, and goal-oriented, but I have yet to display that in a formal work environment. I need someone who is willing to let me prove that to them and to myself. Second, I look for someone who will always keep me challenged, because monotony doesn’t really suit my lifestyle or my productivity.

“Describe yourself in three words.” Motivated, perfectionist, creative.

“What would you say you need to work on?” I would like to work on prioritizing tasks. If I add a bunch of things to a list at once, I need to remember to take that moment to organize them instead of springing right into the one that happens to be on the top. [Last time they asked me this, I said "multi-tasking," because it was the first thing that came to mind, not because it's a problem for me. Big mistake.]

“Why do you think this store is a good fit for you?” I love the idea of working here because it fits my personal interests, which means I’m always going to be personally interested and invested in. Plus, one of the other interviewers said that she loves working here because every day is new–even if there are the same daily tasks, the environment and scenarios are always changing, which is exactly what I want and exactly what motivates me. As a perk, I love the clothes here and have great luck finding what I’m looking for! [A little sucking up never hurt anyone.]

“What are you most proud of accomplishing in the past year?” I’m most proud of accomplishing the level of independence I’ve achieved. It has always been really important to me, after growing up with so many siblings and not feeling like I have my own life.

“Why should we hire you?” I’m already interested in the products, which is a great start at becoming a good salesperson, in my opinion. Also, seeing as my chief interest as an employee is proving my responsibility to you as well as to myself, I’m a great fit and a safe bet for the overall success of the store. I can guarantee my ability to learn quickly, retain information, and be an excellent resource for the customers.

~

That’s all.

They call it fiction 3

I never turned the Patti Smith record over. In fact, I put it back in its case and back on the shelf before anyone saw it was out. She has visibly hairy armpits on the cover…

No matter how long I could go without showering, I think the feeling of clean-shaven armpits would always make me bathe again. It’s just so worth it. And that is why I should be employed right now. Any employer could do a lot worse than me, especially in this town, especially with all these rebels hanging around. I’m pretty convinced that if I just got one big break, one chance to succeed a bit in life, then it could be a piece of cake from there to the top. I’m convinced.

And I want that chance to succeed, of course… but mostly, I have to admit, I just want something to take up my time. All this time I have, it’s like an hourglass broke over my head and now I have all this time just spilling down over me, and I’m up to my waist in it but it’s still pouring down. Soon I might drown in it. And it’s pathetic, but what if only a chain store in the mall can save me? No wonder I was so desperate on the phone the other day that I was stuttering. I have to start doing something other than eating chocolate and listening to Patti Smith (though, let’s all recognize that it could be about 900 times worse. I could be eating ice cream and listening to… Kansas… or something…).

But the moral of the story is that I need a hobby. And it needs to be something cheap, and something challenging enough to keep my mind engaged when that’s the only thing I’m doing, but monotonous enough to be possible even when I’m watching a movie or multitasking.

And I will die before I will regularly knit.

They call it fiction 2

That did not go well. By the fourth phone call to potential employers I was shaking and stuttering. When I had to leave a message on the hiring manager’s message machine for the most ritzy hotel in town I literally said, “I’d be very interested in an interview, so if you are also, call me back at ________.” No kidding. If they tell my grandparents I might just be so mortified I could die. I mean, the point is that I made the contact. That’s all that matters. And now they know I’m interested in the job. Hell, they now know that I’m so desperate that I will resort to stuttering and blabbering.

So then I put on some Van Morrison and look up things on Wikipedia to distract myself, and then Van Morrison runs out and I put on Patti Smith, because I don’t remember ever listening to her. And then I discover that she sounds a lot like Pat Benatar, which was not at all what I was expecting, but at least I’m not sitting around and wallowing in my embarrassment from my earlier phone call.

I wish reading engaged me more, because that way I could sit and get involved in someone else’s story rather than centering myself in all my own stories, most of which are made-up scenarios in my head anyway. I couldn’t fall asleep last night for two hours because I kept coming up with more variations on the “parking lot” scene (which is not nearly as dirty as it sounds). Maybe I should… take up a hobby. Except that I’m pretty sure whatever is going on in my head will take top priority over anything my hands are doing so it wouldn’t really be the distraction I’m looking for.

Suddenly Patti Smith doesn’t sound anything like Pat Benatar, and then suddenly she does again, in fact I could swear she is singing a Pat Benatar song, but she’s not, and then I realize they have similar first names, and then the cover of the Pat Benatar CD I have comes to mind and I realize my hair looks like hers, which I think is great because, you know, she’s a heartbreaker, dreammaker… et cetera.

And all this I have to continue because otherwise I’ll find a new parking lot in my head and spend much too much time there.

Rocketships

“I took the wrong rocketship,” she said absentmindedly, looking around.

“Nonsense,” said the alien. “There’s only one.”

“No, really. Where are the–”

“The what? What is missing?” The alien spat. It was his territory, after all. “There’s no such thing as the ‘wrong’ rocketship, miss. You either enjoy this land or you go back where you came from.” The girl shivered and managed a smile.

“You have beautiful flowers,” she said.

boy with a penny

Almost epic fail of NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month, like NaNoWriMo–National Novel Writing Month–but you just have to post every day for a month).

Anyway, Saturdays were/are fiction day, so this is a short piece of fiction I’ve written. Please with all content of this blog, be respectful and do not copy or reproduce it in any way (or without proper citation)! Thank you kindly.

(*)*(*)*(*)

boy with a penny

The boy walked with purpose on the hot pavement, just to make sure even the birds thought he was going somewhere. He clutched his shiny penny in his fist, debating whether to put it in his pocket. If his pocket had a hole in it, the penny would be lost forever… but if he tripped, the penny might fall out of his hand.

He didn’t yet have a reason to distrust most people, but he wanted to pretend he did. If he pretended, it gave more purpose to his walk and more meaning to his penny. And it didn’t have to mean much, but why not pretend about that, also? He walked with even more purpose, with the determination of someone who had something to protect.

The penny dug into his palm, but he liked it. He clenched harder, and it hurt a bit. The boy smiled wryly, thinking that even if he did lose the penny, he would have proof that he had it once. What he needed was a scar, something that didn’t fade. Anyone who cared could look at the scar on his palm and see that, yes, the penny had been there. And it had been important.

A dog barked at him as he passed a yard crowded with someone’s possessions. The boy started, cringing when he saw the yard. Children’s toys were scattered everywhere and there was a line of empty flower pots of various sizes and shapes, perhaps waiting to be filled. The boy’s nose wrinkled at the disarray and neglect, and he made to walk more quickly, but music was drifting from an open window. He looked toward it, barely recognizing traditional negro music. As someone who didn’t listen to music on his own, he didn’t know how he could tell the band had a typical New Orleans jazzy sound, but somehow he recognized it. They played with a washboard and probably a homemade bass—it was live inside the house.

His gaze concentrated on the darkened window. Inside the house, he could just see outlines of dark faces and white teeth inside open, smiling mouths. A sitting man, a standing man, a standing woman closest to the window whose young profile he could see most clearly, and one or two more female voices.

He just had time to think that it was so odd, that these people were playing music in their own home, not for an audience that might pay to come see them, not even for people walking past who might deposit money in a jar (or maybe that’s what the flower pots were for), and that they weren’t just listening to music while they cooked or worked (or maybe cleaned their yard), when the music stopped. The music stopped, but the voices continued.

They rose and rose, and the boy could have sworn that there were ten pitches at a time, when there could only have been five voices at most, and then one of the voices sounded like it was crying, but another one must surely have been laughing.

And then he was sure someone was laughing, because he saw her—the young woman next to the window was turned toward him, and everything up to her eyes showed that she was amused, whether at the fact that he was probably standing and gawking stupidly, at the fact that her dog had barked at him a few more times and he hadn’t noticed, at the fact that he had slowly realized he’d been spotted, or at him losing his footing as he came to his senses and tried to stumble away, dropping something that glinted in the sun before it hit the sidewalk and bounced through the chain link fence into the dirt of the yard.

Everything seemed to be in slow motion. The boy dropped to his knees immediately, reaching under the fence to grapple in the dirt. The dog, who did not seem to be as menacing as his bark, sat down to watch the boy’s struggle.

The creak of the screen door to the house fell on deaf ears, but the black girl’s approaching steps caught the boy’s attention. He vaguely wondered what she was doing as his fingernails dug for the penny. Does she think she can to talk to me? Does she actually think I would respond?

The girl came closer. She was no longer laughing, but the boy didn’t look to see her face. It was traumatizing enough to be kneeling on the ground as she was walking to him; he didn’t need to give her his attention. Especially after he’d paid so much attention before, when she was singing.

She was too close now, still walking, but slowly, at a distance where it would have been awkward to speak, but even more awkward to stay silent. Just when the boy was sure she was going to say something, a finger scraped something hard and flat.

The dog got up to examine it as well, but the boy was too fast. His fingers caught the penny with a fistful of dirt, and he was gone, running quickly but in such a way as to keep his pride.

He couldn’t keep as much dignity when he realized he was lost. But he still had his penny. He looked at it as he slowed in an alley, and was dismayed to see that it was significantly dirtier and more scratched.