I'm sitting in the bow of this canoe, craning my neck to see how the rafters ahead of us are running the line. Ken's in the back, and we're both paddling backwards gently, slowing our approach to the monster waves in front of us so the rafts will be clear when we drop in.
My gut's cramping up a little, and my heart rate's definitely trending upwards. I can feel that ache in my palms that says "quit choking your paddle to death, Lucas!". I ease my grip & take a deep breath. Feel the cold water sloshing over my toes, and hope we don't get too much more than ankle-deep when we pound through the beast in front of us. Five, six big waves, a hole to miss on the right, just after the pour-over from the rock - oh, my god, look at that hydraulic! DEFINITELY miss that, then punch left through the wave train, try to miss that next big washed-out eater, and then stay upright until the train ends. We're drifting closer to the tongue, the start, the big drop.
"Okay, paddle ahead!" Ken's voice reaches me even as I'm taking that first stroke. We're a good team. I'm getting a surge of adrenaline, increasing those butterflies and making my hands shake. I need to move, do something, or I'll just get dizzy, so I'm paddling ahead, concentrating on pulling the bow into the perfect place. Damn, this water's pushy, the river's high, we don't have as much time to manuever, it has to be perfect. Wish we'd brought the smaller boat, it turns quicker, but it's less stable, well, too late to think about it now, right?
The bow's dipping, the first wave is rising over my head - god, sometimes I hate being in the front! I can't see what Ken's doing, although I can feel him back there, and I'm always staring right into the scariest parts of rapids, no breathing room. Ken's yelling "Okay, keep it straight!", and I'm holding a brace as I get whapped in the face with ice-cold river water. Shake my head without moving the paddle as we get whipped towards the right - there's that hole, motherfucker! I'm pushing away from it and bracing as we arc over that first wave. The bow smacks down in the trough. Time to make the next move.....
"Now LEFT!"
I'm throwing a cross-stroke across the bow to pull us radically left, and I can feel Ken's steering brace from the stern. All that water gives us a huge push on our left-side ferry, and we're suddenly zooming across the face of the next wave, quartering it, a little scary but we have momentum, it'll be okay, we're just going take on some water, aw shit, that lip's gonna.....
"Pfft-!!" I'm blowing silty water out of my open mouth and shaking it out of my eyes again, feeling the water in the bottom of the boat sloshing over my ankles now - shit! - as we surge into another wave. The extra water makes us heavier, less manueverable, so I'm digging into the face of the wave as we rear up it, keeping us moving ahead. Sliding backwards on that daddy would be unthinkable, so I'm not thinking about it. Move, move, move-! Brace, brace, BRACE when that cross-current slamming off the shore threatens to tip us sideways, makes a scary slosh. I'm feeling the thigh-straps bite into my legs when I throw my whole torso into another life-saver with the paddle.
"NICE, honey!"
Holy crap. Two more waves, no problem, almost there, just stay upright.....I'm feeling a second surge of adrenaline, the one that eradicates the fear. Almost there, then we can pump out the boat and set up for the next one. I'm feeling lighter now, grinning hugely even as the cross-chop is threatening to swamp us. Flipping on the last wave....it happens. I'd hate to swim, it's cold and fast, it'd be a bitch to retrieve the boat and pull it to shore. My paddle's staying in the water, we're almost there...
Monday, July 4, 2011
Friday, July 1, 2011
Unpleasant Scene - 7/1/11
The gal standing in the checkout line was wearing a tight, low-cut jean skirt that showed both her substantial muffin top, and the back of her lacy red XXL thong. Well, it could have been regular-sized underwear, but I suspected a thong. Her shopping cart was filled with cheap kids' clothes, and every type of synthetic food imaginable.
The little boy in her cart was screaming with anger, tears running down his face. He was clutching an action figure in his grubby little hands and blowing snot all over it while he wailed like a fire engine.
The gal's face was turning a stony pink-red while the kid's volume continued to climb. She was hissing at the boy, "Shut up. Shut up RIGHT NOW." The kid's face began to turn purple with the effort of maintaining the howl.
A fat arm snaked out and slapped him in the face, momentarily interrupting the kid. He gulped, shocked, then screwed up his face to start again. Another slap, accompanied by loose flapping arm flab.
"You CAN'T HAVE IT, you little shit! You wanna be gay like your dad? Just keep it up!"
More howls. The arm lifted up for another swing.
I couldn't look away.
The little boy in her cart was screaming with anger, tears running down his face. He was clutching an action figure in his grubby little hands and blowing snot all over it while he wailed like a fire engine.
The gal's face was turning a stony pink-red while the kid's volume continued to climb. She was hissing at the boy, "Shut up. Shut up RIGHT NOW." The kid's face began to turn purple with the effort of maintaining the howl.
A fat arm snaked out and slapped him in the face, momentarily interrupting the kid. He gulped, shocked, then screwed up his face to start again. Another slap, accompanied by loose flapping arm flab.
"You CAN'T HAVE IT, you little shit! You wanna be gay like your dad? Just keep it up!"
More howls. The arm lifted up for another swing.
I couldn't look away.
Topic: Here and now
New topic: a sense of immediacy. You are to write a scene in which you are doing something or about to do something. The goal is to build a sense of mounting tension; your technical restrictions are that you will write present tense, first person - "I am walking into the store" rather than "he walked into the store".
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Officer Connelly, Mike, hated responding to domestic disturbance calls. Not because they were particularly dangerous in nature - they usually weren't - but rather they were so damned uncomfortable to deal with. And they would almost inevitably fell into one of a few categories: You had the asshole wife beater that was taking out, fill in the blank, issues on his woman. The mutually destructive couple both of whom would do better to simply avoid any and all relationships in the future. And then you had "DPB". Dickless punching bag. The guy that let the woman pound him. Milk toast. And then you had this sort of situation. The sort that doesn't fit easily into any of the above. These were the scary ones for being unpredictable.
Rachel, Officer Manguel, had taken the girl into the kitchen while Connelly took the man, barely more than a kid really, into the living room. The place was trashed. "So, um, was this the result of the fight?"
"Well, no, not really. We're just slobs", the young man replied almost too casually.
Scanning the room Officer Connelly looked for any damning evidence. Anything that might suggest that what the couple claimed to be merely a heated argument was in fact a physically violent exchange as the neighbors suspected. Dirty dishes, woman's clothes, miscellaneous debris and ...what looked like an illustration torn in half. Odd.
"Are you an artist?", he asked picking up the two pieces of Bristol board.
"Yeah".
"Nice work. Comic book page from the looks of it". The officer put the two pieces back together and cocked his head considering the combined pieces and nodded approvingly. "So, did you smack her when she tore this in half?"
"No".
"Did she smack you?"
"No."
Officer Connelly eyed the boy. Damn he hated these cases. The young man was a fine liar and would have been far more convincing without the split lip. If he wanted to let his girl beat on him that was his business. But, this was exactly the kind of case that would have he and his partner back here with a body bag. This was not the typical DPB kind of guy. This a-hole was tall and strong and willing to look a cop in the eye and lie. He either loved her enough to protect her or he was biding his time. If the former he was in for some serious trouble in the future. If the latter, well, they would probably never find a body to bag.
The girl stepped out of the kitchen with a subtle yet self-satisfied smirk. Just behind her Officer Manguel caught her partner's eye from across the room. A brief flash of her eyes spoke volumes.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Scene
Phillips's car pulled up in front of the house just before three in the morning. He'd seen the lights a block and a half away: at least a dozen police cruisers, a couple fire crew vehicles, three ambulances. The flashing of the red and blue and white lights seemed at odds with the hush that filled the air like a presence. There were no shouts, no barked orders, no casual laughs - if anyone spoke it was in a low, somber tone.
A cop lifted the band of yellow tape that fenced off an impromptu lot in the street and Phillips rolled under, tires hissing softly on the rain-soaked road. He slowed to a stop, pulled the emergency brake, killed the lights and the engine, and sat for a long minute observing the scene.
Quiet neighborhood. Neat, but not nice - the houses were probably thirty years old, inhabited by a third or fourth generation of owner. Peeling paint. Phillips saw at least one car parked in a driveway that he felt pretty sure wouldn't start or run. A couple of sun-faded kids' toys in yards. But grass was cut, hedges trimmed; the curtains in most of the houses might have been Wal-Mart, but at they were clean and cared for. The people who lived here would be blue-collar workers and housewives; maybe a manager-level here and there but for the most part men and women who'd been working the same jobs for a long time and would keep working them until they retired or were laid off when the company shut down.
Phillips saw the standard audience - the neighbors standing out in their yards, on the sidewalks, or behind screened front doors. Curious, and a little frightened. Not sure what was going on, why the somber circus of police presence - usually just a spectacle on tv or in the movies - had suddenly materialized for real right across the street from their beds and living rooms and kitchens. He scanned the faces reflexively, looking for anything out of the ordinary, an out-of-place look he wouldn't expect to see among the apprehensive neighbors roused from their beds by the disruption. When he saw nothing that aroused his attention he sighed and climbed out of the car.
It was cold. The day had been muggy and warm, full with the promise of rain and storm, and it had arrived right after dark in a wall of wind and thunder and lightning. Crews were out around town fixing downed power lines and blinking stop lights, and leaves decaled the streets and sidewalks everywhere. The air was still humid but it was the bite of the air after a cold front instead of the heavy, spongy moisture that had blanketed the city for the last couple of weeks, making shirts stick sweatily to chests and backs. Fall soon, Phillips thought. He walked to the sidewalk and toward the concrete path that led up to the small patio and front door of the house, hanging his badge on his coat pocket. Hernandez was at the juncture of the walkway and the sidewalk; she gave him a somber look and gestured towards the house.
"He's already in there," she said. He studied the house for a moment, then turned to her.
"That bad?" he asked. He could usually count on Hernandez to greet him with some sort of ribbing, a twinkle in her dark eyes.
She didn't reply. She opened her mouth and as if to say something, then cut herself off as if she weren't sure she'd be able to get it out. Instead she just nodded and turned away as if she didn't want him to see her lose it.
Phillips put a reassuring hand on her shoulder for a second, then walked up towards the door.
As he approached he surveyed the scene. Two cars in the driveway. Three small windows to the right of the front door - probably bedrooms, lights shining behind drawn curtains. A large picture window to the left, between door and garage. The venetian blinds inside the window were tilted open so Philips could see right in - the crowd of police, the cheap furniture, the smear of red on the wall. He pulled the screen door open and stepped inside and said,
A cop lifted the band of yellow tape that fenced off an impromptu lot in the street and Phillips rolled under, tires hissing softly on the rain-soaked road. He slowed to a stop, pulled the emergency brake, killed the lights and the engine, and sat for a long minute observing the scene.
Quiet neighborhood. Neat, but not nice - the houses were probably thirty years old, inhabited by a third or fourth generation of owner. Peeling paint. Phillips saw at least one car parked in a driveway that he felt pretty sure wouldn't start or run. A couple of sun-faded kids' toys in yards. But grass was cut, hedges trimmed; the curtains in most of the houses might have been Wal-Mart, but at they were clean and cared for. The people who lived here would be blue-collar workers and housewives; maybe a manager-level here and there but for the most part men and women who'd been working the same jobs for a long time and would keep working them until they retired or were laid off when the company shut down.
Phillips saw the standard audience - the neighbors standing out in their yards, on the sidewalks, or behind screened front doors. Curious, and a little frightened. Not sure what was going on, why the somber circus of police presence - usually just a spectacle on tv or in the movies - had suddenly materialized for real right across the street from their beds and living rooms and kitchens. He scanned the faces reflexively, looking for anything out of the ordinary, an out-of-place look he wouldn't expect to see among the apprehensive neighbors roused from their beds by the disruption. When he saw nothing that aroused his attention he sighed and climbed out of the car.
It was cold. The day had been muggy and warm, full with the promise of rain and storm, and it had arrived right after dark in a wall of wind and thunder and lightning. Crews were out around town fixing downed power lines and blinking stop lights, and leaves decaled the streets and sidewalks everywhere. The air was still humid but it was the bite of the air after a cold front instead of the heavy, spongy moisture that had blanketed the city for the last couple of weeks, making shirts stick sweatily to chests and backs. Fall soon, Phillips thought. He walked to the sidewalk and toward the concrete path that led up to the small patio and front door of the house, hanging his badge on his coat pocket. Hernandez was at the juncture of the walkway and the sidewalk; she gave him a somber look and gestured towards the house.
"He's already in there," she said. He studied the house for a moment, then turned to her.
"That bad?" he asked. He could usually count on Hernandez to greet him with some sort of ribbing, a twinkle in her dark eyes.
She didn't reply. She opened her mouth and as if to say something, then cut herself off as if she weren't sure she'd be able to get it out. Instead she just nodded and turned away as if she didn't want him to see her lose it.
Phillips put a reassuring hand on her shoulder for a second, then walked up towards the door.
As he approached he surveyed the scene. Two cars in the driveway. Three small windows to the right of the front door - probably bedrooms, lights shining behind drawn curtains. A large picture window to the left, between door and garage. The venetian blinds inside the window were tilted open so Philips could see right in - the crowd of police, the cheap furniture, the smear of red on the wall. He pulled the screen door open and stepped inside and said,
An unpleasant scene: No insight nor end in sight
A ragged scene? There was no reconciling this . There was no happy ending to this. The boy, the love and joy of his life lay broken and dead at his feet and nothing would change this' nothing would make this ok. Nothing would ever be the same again. He was dead. He would never realize his potential, never bring home a date or succeed where others had failed. Exceed where others had been found wanting.
A moment of weakness, of drink and indiscretion. Ragged and brutal, there was no lesson to be learned, no time in the future in which he would look back on this and take solace in a lesson learned. He would never take comfort in memories of past joys or warm inflection. His boy was dead and the fault undeniably, unforgivably his. There was no ending to be had, no epiphany and insight, only blood and loss.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Topic: An Unpleasant scene (with a ragged edge)
This topic will see us writing an unpleasant scene - you pick what kind, and the nature of the unpleasantness. The technical requirement on this one is that you leave the piece with a ragged trailing edge - this should not be "wrapped up" or finished in a narrative sense but rather left unfinished, as if this were just the first chunk of a long-form piece.
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