Perfect Day - #fridayflash

Later, much later, when the shock wore off, people always asked, “Where were you?” That Tuesday, the one morning of the week I didn’t have to rush out to lecture the undergrad minions or schlep glassware for lab, found me in the kitchen with coffee and The Globe, relaxed, happy even. “One of the ten best days of the year,” the weatherman promised me earlier when my willing feet swept me along the Charles River, the dawn cracking into a shocking blue canvas. But the adrenalin rush soon eroded, it always does, and aloneness and self-doubt rippled through my cramped apartment, pricking at me to flip on the dusty ten-inch tube, a relic from the latest in a string of relationship disasters dating back to my birth. Chirpy babble filled the empty space, assuaging my weariness, but then a voice, urgent, erupted past my anesthesia and when I swiveled around, flames coiled around the tower; white billowing smoke obscured the building’s twin, a negative background to black specks flailing from gaping floors, even the ninetieth, his office. As the building telescoped into itself, smudging the faultless sky with its smoldering detritus, I vaguely wondered if my father was in Japan.

##

Thursday's flawless blue sky reminded me of That Day, which turned out to be a pivotal one for my character Ben. An earlier version of this appeared in Six Sentences on February 3, 2008. Excerpted in part from PURE.

##

PLEASE, leave a comment HERE and win BEG, BORROW, STEAL, a wonderful memoir by Michael Greenberg, author of HURRY DOWN, SUNSHINE.

Peace, Linda

Does eating chocolate improve my mood as much as I think it does?

Uh... yes.

Duh.

Here's the proof.




And FREE BOOKS also improve mood - check it out

Peace, Linda

Fiction: Live! In a Neighborhood Near You

My characters have problems, big problems, as they should; we want to give our protags grief. Like Kevin, my pill-popping, patch-chewing anesthesiologist. I base Kevin and a host of other mentally-ill and addicted characters on my research, for behind every data point is a real live story.

But the data came uncomfortably close this past week when a post-doc who studies the effects of drugs on the brain died after injecting buprenorphine ("bupe"), an opioid used as a "heroin substitute" for recovering addicts. The woman's boyfriend, also a post-doc conducting similar research, was arrested on possession. Both worked on my campus.

Last month, prescription drug abuse pricked my life when my pharmacist was arrested for distributing and using pain killers and tranquilizers. As someone expert in the abuse and diversion of medications, you'd think I might have noticed.

Prescription drug abuse is insiduous and hard to detect. There's reasons why users prefer prescription drugs: they aren't as dirty as heroin and other street drugs, they provide a reliable high, and they are available. Especially to the health professionals who prescribe, dispense, and administer controlled medications, and ther esearchers who study their effects. Addiction has many faces, most of them familiar to us all.

The tragedy of these two young people leaves me shaken, and determined to continue PURE.

***

DON'T FORGET ===> BEG, BORROW, STEAL Book Giveaway! Time is a ticking!




Peace, Linda

when i refuse the lithium - #fridayflash

the angels whisper a cacophony -- unsullied by any elemental metal
i effervesce up up up to blinding sun -- swathed in immortalizing
armor i surge feet pumping a limitless engine immune to flames
licking from joy’s corona -- mad elixirs in my brain swirly
whirly bombard microcosmic synapses dopaminated nerves electrify
crimson corridors connecting muscle to mind

i hurl heavenwards

wings beat down the stalking shadow -- from here nurse is an ant
her entreaties flutter in my maelstrom -- i pause listen consider
the idiocies and the blazing beckoning white -- but bliss melts
blue hot hot hot -- my seraphim falter whistling screams on the
dive bomb their waxen pinons crackle-pop my legs and arms scrabble
in endless air -- nurse chortles at my spiral her teeth a jag
of evil normalcy -- minute orbs roll in her upturned palm

my shrunken incinerated hand hovers

The sun scuttles behind the moon, turning sky to asphalt, sulfurous and lovely.


***

Just playing, a very experimental piece for me.

AND CHECK OUT MY CONTEST - a free copy of BEG, BORROW, STEAL - A WRITER'S LIFE by Michael Greenberg can be yours!

Peace, Linda

Beg, Borrow, Steal - And Win!

MY OLD MAN was like Zeus's father Cronos: he couldn't bear the idea that any of his children might surpass him. Life radiated from the central pulse of his scrap-metal yard; the world beyond it seemed to make him defensive and nervous. Self-conscious about his lack of formal education, he took my bookishness as a personal affront. "What do you think is worth more," he once asked me, "a commodity or some goddamn idea?"

So is the theme established in Beg, Borrow, Steal - A Writer's Life (Other Press), the second book out by Michael Greenberg, This small treasure of 45 small, tightly woven tales of living a writer's life in the literary Valhalla of New York City quietly astoundone of my favorite memoirists. Less stories than vignettes, these slices of life are sensuous and bittersweet, tied together by a ribbon of yearning: for pasts, for compromises, for paths not chosen.

Last January, I selected Greenberg's memoir Hurry Down Sunshine to kick-off my debut author/Indy press review series. As with that book, the atories enthrall. Each chapter transports the reader to the intricacies of a life observed, one lived to follow his inner calling -- writing -- and the strugggles, mishaps, joys, and humor in keeping the integrity of that calling.

As a reader, what I love about Beg, Borrow, Steal is the total immersion in the physical environment that is New York; even as an outsider, the clamor of the family scrap metal business, the view of the Hudson from a derelict writing studio window, suffering the plague of rats, the rumble of the subway plunging through the bowels of the city all feel familiar. This world pores through his words, makes it real and vivid as a photograph, all told with economy and elegance. Which is why I love this book as a writer -- the prose, so tight, so bare of uneccessary words, yet so evocative.

Most of all, Greenberg provides flashes of making a living and a life as a writer, from selling counterfeit cosmetics from a vending cart to ghost-writing to sabotaging his own screenplay after being screwed by the director. All for the love of words. Read this book if you love New York, if you love excellent writing, if you are a writer.

Want your own copy of Beg, Borrow, Steal? Here's how. In 100 words or less relate how you have begged, borrowed, or stolen to live your dream. Leave your comment here or send your response to me via drwasy (at) gmail (dot) com. Put Beg, Borrow, Steal in the subject line. I'll swirl all answers in my magic hat and draw a random winner on October 15. PLUS... I'll publish the best five answers in a separate blog post.

Peace, Linda

Break Time: #fridayflash

Nausea pulses, a wave of jittering gray dots. The crash came so quick. But every stall’s filled; men stand three lines deep before the available urinals. Lemony disinfectant melds with ammonia piss and makes me almost gag. I lean over the sink, blast the faucet, wait for the place to clear but the door keeps opening.

Screw this. It’s too busy. I don’t have time to wait. I hurry out, resume my journey towards pre-op. Pale light filters through the atrium. Snow from last night’s squall dusts the glass of the domed ceiling. The fountain gurgles. Two kids toss coins, each penny dropping with a melodious ping. Making wishes no doubt: help my daddy get better, let my mommy bring home a baby brother, fix Grammy’s broken heart. If I had time and pennies to waste, what would I wish for?

Bette from ICU calls my name, snaps me from my daze. She waves, a tight curl of her hands, rubber clogs squeaking on linoleum. The smile plastering my face feels lopsided and too large, like it’s pulling my cheeks to heaven. I walk carefully but no one else seems to mind the wavering floor.

I stop before the Chapel. The hospital roar fades, replaced by airless silence. A lone woman kneels before Mary and Jesus, blond hair streaming down her back. For a moment I swear it’s Phoebe, but it’s not, it can’t be, Phoebe’s prepping anesthesia. I should be with her, but I’m in no shape to thread IV lines into veins.

Out of habit I genuflect before collapsing into the pew. My fingers tremble in the white jacket pocket under the ‘Kevin Sullivan, MD’ embroidered in black over my heart, searching for the packet I fished out of Mrs. O’s trash can. The foil crinkles.

The lady’s head lifts. I freeze. Her reddened eyes stare back at me. She doesn’t look like Phoebe at all; ersatz blond with sucked-in cheeks from too many face lifts. A lot of women look like this in Baltimore, the moneyed ones; I know their sort too well. I smile a quivery smile of sympathy and will her to turn back to the altar. She resumes her entreaties.

Say a prayer for me, baby - I need all the help I can get. I squeeze the patch between my fingers. Three drops, shiny and viscous, ooze into my palm like liquid crystals. Remorse pricks me, and disgust that I’ve come to this again, but then I greedily lick my hand and suck the foil. The initial alcohol taste turns sweet. Calm gilds my mouth and throat, spreads to my chest, my fingers, my world. The door opens, the blonde mourner’s soul floats in her wake. I surrender to the velvet-lined bench and the world cradles me.

Nothing else is more pure.

***

An excerpt from PURE, a novel currently under construction. Hope you enjoyed.

Peace, Linda

The Ghosts of Belfast - September Debut Novel

Maybe if he had one more drink they'd leave him alone. Gerry Fegan told himself that lie before every swallow. He chased the whiskey's burm with a cool black mouthful of Giuinness and placed the glass back on the table. Look up and they'll be gone, he thought.

No. They were still there, still staring. Twelve of them if he counted the baby in its mother's arms.

Gerry Fegan is a killer for the cause. But now that peace has descended on Belfast, the ghosts of those he has murdered haunt him night - and day: a schoolboy, a butcher, a member of the Royal Ulster Constabulary, a mother and her infant, and seven others. To appease them, Fegan will kill the colleagues who gave him his orders. He wants peace, and a new life, and thinks he may find some happiness with Marie McKenna and her young daughter. Cast out of the clan for once loving an RUC officer, she becomes the unwitting lure for the killer who stalks Fegan.

Stuart Neville's debut novel THE GHOSTS OF BELFAST (SOHO Press) is a fast-paced cross-breed of a story, blending crime fiction and horror with literary strokes. To sweeten the deal, the author provides a masterful and rare look at post-Troubles Northern Ireland, making the politics almost a character itself. Here, new-world consumerism has blunted the ferocity of past religious and secular differences, but not the drive for power.

Unlike most other stories in this genre, Neville provides a complex protagonist, a murderer riddled with remorse who hides himself in dark pints of Guinness and in the refurbishing of an old guitar. Yet Fegan has no qualms killing his former colleagues and friends. Fegan is deplorable, but the author manages to render him with sufficient sympathy to make me root for him to the end.

I'll confess my biases and conflicts-of-interest: THE GHOSTS OF BELFAST is not my typical reading fare. But I've followed the author over the past three years in his (well-deserved) quest for publication, and frankly, this is a damn good read. The writing is sparse and original, the characters unique, the political landscape compelling, and the plot intricate and well-paced. Readers who are not aware of the politics of this part of the world may need to read carefully to grasp the intricacies and nuances of the story.

The Press... THE GHOSTS OF BELFAST is published by SOHO PRESS, a house I've covered before. Many conside their crime portfolio to be one of the most eclectic and sophisticated in the business.

The Author... STUART NEVILLE is a partner in a multimedia design business in Armagh, Northern Ireland. This is the first novel in a series (YAY!). Read about his journey to published author HERE.


Peace, Linda

#fridayflash: Lifeguard Off Duty

Sun-kissed curls bouncing, the child patters through sea-foam. A shell glistens. Water surges, a wall of green and white. Sand shifts beneath her toes.


My small contribution to #fridayflash.

Peace, Linda

Food as Psychic Sustenance

Food is central in my life. Sure, I need food for sheer physical sustenance - we all do - but there is something about raspberries glinting in dew or green, yellow, and orange tomatoes sweating in olive oil and sea salt that thralls me. Nothing brings me greater happiness than creating meals from fresh ingredients, especially ones that are local, for the people in my life.***

I come by this love of all things edible from my parents. As a first-grader living in Solana Beach, California, I remember my tastebuds tantalized by corn-husked tamales and chile rellanos stuffed with cheese, sugar-dusted fry bread, Indian curries, and Chinese take-out. My eating horizons expanded when we trekked cross-country to the South and feasted on vinegar and hot-pepper basted chopped pork, Brunswick stew laced with squirrel, hushpuppies, and creole shrimp. Trips to the family birthplace yielded little necks steamed in broth, lobster rolls, Boston baked beans, hotdogs served in butter-grilled buns, and, of course, ice cream.

When any of us journeyed, be it to Chicago or London or , the first question always asked the traveler upon return, is, "What did you eat?"

Food is central in my writing as well. When Jimmy the Prince, fellow writer and dear friend whose fabulous THE DARK SIDE OF THE SOUL is now published, first read BRIGHTER THAN BRIGHT, he noted, "Your characters eat all the time. And drink too much coffee." Of course, I listened and removed most gustatory references. But not all. Mark Spencer, my first writing instructor, showed me how food and eating can be used to reveal characters' moods.

This past Friday, my father was admitted to the UNC Lineberger Cancer Center. He could no longer swallow. For weeks, his sustenance has come in the shape of cans of Ensure; the tumor made eating too painful to bring pleasure. Now his nourishment will not even pass his lips.

Food as my family lexicon is becoming a memory.

***

The Reading... Shhhh... my September debut arrived in the mail the day I departed to North Carolina. Still reading, but I promise you this - the story is a damn fine read, and a marked departure from the stuff I usually review. I'll post in a week or so. Also upcoming - one of my debut authors has a new book out, and I'll be giving away a free copy.

The Writing... PURE chugging along. My mind is pretty caulked up with all the emotional stuff going on; however, butt is in chair every morning. Drivel. Sometimes gems emerge from drivel. I'm happy just to keep the routine.

Other news... last week, this wee blog made the Top 25 Writing Blogs by popular vote at Editor Unleashed. I'm honored and amazed to be in the company of so many amazing sites, many of them my own favorite sites. Yay! Thank you readers! I adore you!

Keep writing. Peace, Linda



***Except, possibly, eating those meals and writing about them.

Remember

Perfect day dawned in brilliant blue,
shocking canvas of contrast: planes
fly black against far-flung heaven.
Even unbelieving prayer
muttered with quiet resigned breaths
could not foretell or forestall stains

gouging ground, splintering sky, staining
steel, scuttled lives, exhaling blue,
imploding in hydraulic breaths
screaming through city, hill, and plain...

Blue sky trailed by white plane flumes
marking a heaven all pray exists;
God’s breath stained by metal and fire.



Peace, Linda

Kreativ Blogging

Fellow blogger Jon Strother nominated me for a Kreativ Blogger Award. He knighted my wee blog last week. Thank you Jon - I am honored. Now it's my turn to pass along the prize. Without further ado, 7 favorite watering holes busting with creativity - hope you enjoy...

--Greta Igl @ FOR WRITE OR WRONG. Thoughtful contemplations on the process of writing, with a lot of excellent recipes thrown in to feed the stomach and soul.

--Paige @ PARADISE VALLEY 2 is a poet, photographer, paper maker, and all-around creator of beautiful stuff.

--Jodi MacArthur @ FICTION WRITER creates fantastical stories that amaze - and horrify.

--Michael J. Solender @ NOT FROM HERE, ARE YOU?. Funny, irreverent, and some damn fine writing to boot.

--Angel Zapata @ A RAGE OF ANGEL. This dude writes horror and (shhhhhh... it's a secret) poetry that makes the heartstrings sing.

--Melissa @ WINDSPIRIT GIRL. Poetess extraordinaire, she's mixing up words with images and getting "electroboy" results.

--John Wiswell @ THE BATHROOM MONOLOGUES. Pure, unadulterated fiction. Lotsa fun.

Part II of the KB award was a bit tougher - listing 7 favorite mystery writers. This was a stretch; I don't read much of this genre. Or so I thought. My picks tend to come from another century and have a decidely UK slant:

--Josephine Tey - The Singing Sands
--Daphne DuMaurier - Rebecca
--Wilkie Collins - The Woman in White and The Moonstone
--P.D. James - An Unsuitable Job for a Woman
--Carolyn Keene - The Nancy Drew mysteries
--Edgar Allen Poe - The Murder in the Rue Morgue
--Patricia Cornwall - Body of Evidence


The Writing... Ugh. Revamping PURE. Started off with 6 voices, then struggled with 3, now down to a single POV. I think I'll write several versions of the same novel, and choose the one I like best. I'm in no hurry...

The Reading... Just finished THE ADDERALL DIARIES by Stephen Elliott. Superb memoir. TOLSTOY LIED by Rachel Kadish also in the done read stack, and also superb - and very provocative for this ivory tower wench. Next up: THE SOUL THIEF by Charles Baxter, AVOIDANCE by Michael Lowenthal, and GRAVITY'S RAINBOW by Pynchon. That'll take up most of the rest of this year.

Hope your Labor Day involved very little laboring. Peace, Linda

Life Is A Pomegranate

So much work, extracting those ruby seeds from the bitter pith, but so worth it when that sweet-tart juice squirts between your teeth.

Cold nipped at summer's heels, chasing her to some other clime. Is it any coincidence the temperature plunged to the 50s the day school resumed? Monday was a melancholy day, the end of a too-short summer. Rust tinges my garden. Hazelnuts have fallen to the ground, rejected even by the squirrels. The last of the raspberries dot the browned bushes, and the crickets' chirrups have replaced the incessant whir of the cicadas.

Two of my favorite Johns nominated my wee blog for 25 Best Writing Blogs over at Editor Unleashed. No, these dudes are not my customers (though I hope someday they’ll buy my books). John Towler, whose latest short LOTTERY WINNER, can be found in Your Darkest Dreamspell anthology, and Jon Strother, whose #FRIDAYFLASH has transformed flash fiction into a tweetable community event, are amazing writers and really generous dudes. CAST YOUR VOTE in the next week. Thank you guys!

Speaking of generosity, in addition to publishing books, DZANC Books also has Creative Mentoring Program where for a mere $50 for four hours, you get one-on-one attention from some of the best writers and poets around. I just finished a session with Peter Selgin (LIFE GOES TO THE MOVIES) and received excellent feedback on my current NIP (Novel-in-progress).

Upcoming: Look for a free book give-away after Labor Day – one of my debut authors has a second one on the stands! Plus, I’ll wax on Kreative Bloggers.

Write long and strong… Peace, Linda