This week I’m linking up with the One Hundred Word Song meme with Lance over at My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog. Each week we’re asked to write a story inspired by a particular song. This week’s song was “Idioteque” by Radiohead. The story must be 100 words long—no more, no less. Take some time to see what some great writers have done with this by clicking here.

The Man

            He was barely coherent when I dragged him into the shelter. No one noticed the old man living in the park for days. He was just another set of eyes to avoid. I gave him water, which he drank too fast.

            “Careful buddy. You’re gonna burst,” I said.

            “I’ve seen too much,” he sputtered.

            “I know. I’m gonna help you.”

            “ I’ve seen too much.”

            “Me too buddy. It’s gonna be alright.

            A mobile phone rang from a pocket somewhere. He gripped my hand and stared at me. His eyes were lucid when he said, “Take the money and run!”

Smokey

            “Hey Hank, that blond in the corner has been lookin’ at you all night,” Mickey said. Henry looked past the couples dancing to the latest Smokey Robinson song. He saw the delicately pretty blond Mickey was talking about.

            “You’re imagining things,” Henry replied, swallowing the last of his beer.

            “No. I keep trying to catch her eye, but she’s stuck on you. I’d be all over her in a second if she was lookin’ at me.”

            “I’m not interested. You want another beer?”

            “Not interested? You’re crazy. Wait. Are you still stuck on that waitress? I’m telling you. I’ve never seen even look at one of the guys. I bet she’s a dyke.”

            “Not wanting to go out with one of us doesn’t mean she’s a dyke.”

            “What’s it mean?”

            “It means we’re assholes.”

            “Ease up buddy. Hey look at that. Blondie’s on her way over. I’ll go get us another beer so you can be alone.”

            “Mickey…” Henry said as his fraternity brother walked away.

            “Hi,” she said in a breathy voice. “My name’s Joni.”

            “I’m Henry. I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

            “I just transferred from Vassar.”
            “Vassar, huh? You must be pretty smart.”

            She frowned and fiddled with the gold cross at her throat.

            “If I were really smart, I’d still be there.”

            “I’m not so sure about that. I think it’s smart to get out of an all-girl’s school.”

            Joni giggled, showing expensive white teeth.

            “You have a beautiful smile,” Henry said. He knew exactly how to act with this willowy girl. He always said the wrong things with Karen. Being with her was a visit to a foreign country. The culture fascinated him, but he didn’t speak the language. Joni could have belonged to the same country club as Henry’s family. She could have sung in the choir at his Episcopal church. Joni was a visit home, a warm sweater, a comfortable pair of shoes.

            He saw Mickey coming his way with the beer and signaled to him to back off.

            “Would you like to dance?” he asked.

            “Sure,” she said.

            In his mind, Joni’s tiny waist and slim hips became Karen’s curvaceous body. Her pale carefully upswept hair became Karen’s wild black curls. Joni was thrilled to be in the arms of one of the most popular boys on campus. She never imagined he was dancing with someone else.

            This piece is inspired by a prompt from Write on Edge. We were asked to write a piece in which a character reacts to a piece of music. I wanted to write about the beginnings of Karen and Henry’s relationship which began in 1965, so checked out the top 100 hits of that year. There were so many songs by great artists that year: The Rolling Stones, The Yardbirds, The Beatles, Elvis Presley, James Brown, Marvin Gaye. But one song jumped out at me, "The Tracks of my Tears" by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles. You can read more about Karen here. 

A Confession

            As I looked over my blog posts for the last few weeks, I realized that everything I’ve posted lately was written in response to a prompt of one kind or another. So today’s post is not only unprompted, but it also delves into the murky waters of religion and politics. I normally avoid both topics—not just on my blog, but in real life.

I don’t avoid politics because I’m apathetic. On the contrary I care very deeply for and have strong opinions about our country. I avoid it because we’ve come to a place in our society where there is very little room for true discourse. Political discussions quickly become shouting matches where we look for someone to blame, instead of looking for solutions or (God forbid!) compromises. Name calling has become the norm. If we teach our children not to call each other "stupid", shouldn’t we teach our leaders not to call each other "unpatriotic" when they disagree?

As for religion, I believe that faith is a personal and private thing and I don’t wear it on my sleeve. That doesn’t mean it isn’t in my heart. I’ve always liked this verse from the Gospel According to Matthew, “When you pray, go into a room by yourself, shut the door, and pray to your Father who is there in the secret place; and your Father who sees what is secret will reward you.” Don’t get me wrong, if shouting your beliefs from the rooftops (or the gridiron) is your thing, go for it. To me, there is great strength in quiet faith.

            Last week, my son James had his first Sacrament of Reconciliation. That’s the new term for what we used to call Confession in the Catholic Church. The name change is an important one. It doesn’t simply make something unpleasant seem more palatable. It’s about putting emphasis on the important part of the ritual—reconciling. In reconciliation we not only admit to our transgressions, we atone for them and promise to do better. We make amends with God and ourselves. I know for some, the idea of sending a seven-year-old to confess his “sins” may seem over the top. But as I’ve worked with James, and his older brother before him (our church uses a home school program in combination with bi-weekly classes), I’ve come to believe that learning to apologize for the things we do wrong and work to make them right is a valuable thing to learn at an early age.

            Think how different the world would be if public figures were willing to admit their mistakes and try to fix them. Personally, I would respect a person for coming forward and saying, “I made a huge mistake. I’ve hurt people I love. I’m really sorry I did it and I’m going to make it up to them and try to not do it again.” How much energy gets wasted in the workplace when someone tries to cover up his or her mistakes instead of just owning up to it, apologizing, and straightening it out? People make mistakes—some bigger than others and some more public than others. Just as we all make mistakes, we are all capable of making things right.

            When Owen made his first reconciliation two years ago he asked me when I had last gone. I admitted that I hadn’t been since high school. I’m not one to make my kids do something I’m not willing to do myself. Besides, there had been something that weighed heavily on my conscience at the time. I had long since been forgiven by the person that I hurt, but it still gripped my heart. So I recited my Act of Contrition and confessed. The priest’s words were not accusatory, but comforting. He assured me that God had forgiven me and it was time to forgive myself. I felt lighter having received Reconciliation. Maybe it was the changes that have been made to the sacrament over the years, or maybe it was the first time I felt I needed absolution, but whatever the reason I walked away feeling better. We’ve all heard the old adage, “Confession is good for the soul.” Funny thing about old adages, sometimes they’re true.

Write on Edge: Between Conversations

            Henry counted the chrome light fixtures on the diner ceiling. He was sitting in the corner booth for the third time that week. He was there to see Karen. She was so different from the girls at school. She held her head high like she was an empress. She didn’t giggle and flirt. She also didn’t seem interested in Henry.

The college girls loved Henry. He could charm them with his whiskey colored eyes and his devilish grin. Rumors of his trust fund was a lure they didn’t resist. They flirted with gold bands on their minds. But it didn’t work on Karen.

He could tell she liked to talk to him, but she kept her distance. When he asked her out she said she was working or had to help her mother out at home. His buddies called her the Ice Princess and he could see why. If this was a game of hard to get, she was winning and Henry was losing. Thoughts of her legs woke him up at night. Thinking about her glossy black curls and cobalt eyes distracted him in class. So he kept coming back to the diner, hoping for a break.

Today she wasn’t there. The diner was short-handed and an older and tougher waitress brought him his coffee with a side of attitude. It tasted bitter. He added extra sugar and cream but it didn’t make any difference. He finished his pie, left his usual generous tip, and walked away. He wished he had brought a text book so he’d have an excuse for staying. Maybe Karen was just coming in later.

Henry opened the door and the early spring air cooled the sweat on his face. He saw Karen hurrying towards the diner. Her coat was open and she was trying to straighten her apron as she moved. As she got closer, he could see that her makeup was worn away and her eyes were red and puffy.

“I missed you today,” he said, startling her.

“Oh, Henry, I’m sorry. I can’t stop to talk. I’ve missed too much work already.” she answered as she sped past him.

He held the door for her and thought about going in for another cup of coffee. But he heard the older waitresses scolding Karen. She was in enough trouble. He wouldn’t make it worse for her.

Today’s prompt from Write on Edge was to write a piece using one of our writing tools that needs polishing. I’ve gotten a lot of feedback complimenting me on my use of dialogue. I’m a theatrical director and actor, so dialogue comes pretty easily for me.  I feel as if I’ve used it as a crutch to lean my stories on. But any director will tell you that a play that has no action will make the audience snore. So this week I decided to write a piece that is mostly description. There are only two lines of dialogue. You can read more about Karen here.

Shakespearean Anxiety Dream

            

Lance, over at My Blog Can Beat up Your Blog has launched a new writing prompt—100 words, based on a song. This week’s song was “Take me to the Pilot” by Elton John.

         “Veronica, you must trust me,” he said crushing out his cigarette. “I know you’ve directed but now I’m the director and you must give up control.”

            “Frederik,” she said. “I realize great theatre means taking risks, but this seems somewhat…”

            “Daring?”

            “Yes, but...”

            “But you’re worried? Darling think of me as the pilot of this production. Together you and I will soar towards greatness.”

            “Please understand my reservations. I’ve wanted to play Lady MacBeth my whole life and now I have the chance.”

            “And?”

            “And I don’t think the audience will understand why Lady MacBeth is dressed as a ninja.”