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Burned: Flash Fiction on Wednesday

Every Wednesday, on Writing Under Pressure, you’ll find a post based on Today’s Word (from Wordsmith.org). Check Wednesday’s Word on the sidebar for past essays, poems, or flash fiction pieces.

Today’s word:

imbricate. adjective: Having overlapping edges, as tiles on a roof or scales on a fish.

Burned

They called him “Albert the Human Armadillo,” and he was.

He had rows of scales that ran down the course of his chest – a hardening of his skin well-studied and biopsied by doctor after doctor but never explained. They prescribed creams and ointments and oils that left him smelling of fish or burnt embers. Though always well-lubed, his armor remained.

Albert’s scales had grown slowly. He remembered the day they started, and the times they spread.

When he was eight, he worked all day on a card for his mother’s birthday, writing letters to perfection and coloring in her cartoon hair with a light shade of brown. She smiled when he gave it to her. But, two days later he found the card abandoned in a pile of newspapers – the letters smeared by something wet – and he felt a burning sensation in the middle of his chest. His mother apologized as she stood outside his closed bedroom door, saying she couldn’t keep every card. But, still, he had spent all day drawing. When he woke up the next morning, his eyes were swollen and a small, rough patch had formed along the spot on his chest that had burned when he cried.

The patch doubled in size after his father’s trip to Italy. His father promised to bring Albert a statue of the Leaning Tower of Pisa when he came home. Instead, he showed up in the kitchen and hoisted an expensive bottle of wine. Then, his father called Albert a cry-baby and said he’d go back to the airport and buy him a postcard if it meant that much to him.

Albert’s whole chest succumbed to scales overnight after Ruby, his first real girlfriend, dragged him to the drive-in restaurant and then told him – over a chocolate malt – that she couldn’t go out with him any more. She said that the spot on his chest was getting bigger, she was sure, and it was starting to freak her out. As Albert turned and stared at the steering wheel, she climbed out of his dad’s station wagon and ran to the other side of the drive-in. She jumped into Roger Simon’s red Mustang, and Roger drove her away with a screech and a squeal.

At the high school prom, Albert approached Roger and took a swing at him. He missed, but Roger didn’t. Roger hit Albert square in the chest. Only, it didn’t hurt at all. In fact, the punch barely knocked him back. That’s when they started calling him Albert, the Human Armadillo.

And, that’s when Albert stopped treating his condition. He settled into his armor that stiffened his posture. Sometimes he even stood in front of the mirror and hit his knuckles against it, with pride.

Continue reading “Burned: Flash Fiction on Wednesday”

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On Stanley Kunitz, Memoir, and Fiction

Sitting in my critique group the other night, it was Stanley Kunitz who came to mind as we discussed the challenges in writing memoir.

Not because Stanley Kunitz wrote memoir, but because his poem, The Layers, seemed to answer the question of how to write memoir.

How does a writer condense decades of one’s life into 300 pages?

What years do you ignore? Which memories do you highlight? And, how do you make it all come together without retelling every minute of every day of how you got from there to here?

After my mother passed away, a good friend gave me Stanley Kunitz’s book, The Collected Poems, and she pointed me to page 217. The poem,  The Layers, in its entirety, is a beautiful tribute to loved ones gone but never forgotten. We are touched by the people in our lives in a way that, even after their presence is diminished – for one reason or another – we still feel their power.

Two specific passages from that poem stayed with me during the early days, months, years of grieving for my mother. Then, as I sat around the table with other writers and talked about memoir, those passages burst forth again:

When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
…
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.

Writing memoir isn’t about retelling every detail of every day. It’s about picking and choosing those pivotal moments, or about recounting those powerful relationships in our lives, that served as a catalyst – that swayed us one way or another or shifted our perspective slightly – and forced us to grow and to change.

I mentioned the poem to my critique partners, and the second I related it to memoir, I realized the same principle applies to fiction. The main character in my WIP has experienced pivotal moments in her life as well. I don’t have to wrestle her into confessing every gorey detail about her life from first memory and beyond. I only need to discover places along her journey where she stayed – just long enough – that they left an imprint, and I only need to write on the people in her life who, like precious stones, line her path of character development.

*****

Kunitz, Stanley. The Collected Poems. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2000. Print.

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It’s Wednesday. Wake up.

Every Wednesday, I write a post based on Today’s Word at Wordsmith.org. You can find past essays or flash fiction pieces under the Wednesday’s Word topic on the sidebar.

From Wordsmith.org, Today’s word:

callithump. noun. 1. A noisy, boisterous celebration or parade. 2. A mock serenade with pots, pans, kettles, etc., given for a newly married couple. Also known as charivari or shivaree.

And, as we near the end of National Poetry Month, I dare to write a poem and end this post with a song.

*****

Wake Up.

I am nudged awake
By the snout
Of my black lab.
Whose chin,
Wet from her morning drink,
Shocks me
And ensures
I don’t drop off
To sleep again.

She demands her walk.

Eyes barely open,
I slip into last night’s jeans,
A crumpled shirt,
My crocks.
And, I turn to see
She’s holding the leash
In her mouth-
A sign that I
Am moving
Too slow.

“It’s early yet,”
I whisper,
And, I hope
For a quiet walk.
But my sleek, dark friend
Has a different plan.

She pulls me along
Through a cacophony of music,
The sounds of a city
Revving up its day.

Squeaky brakes from a bus
Pitch an off-key tune,
And a jackhammer
Down the block
Sets the beat.
Bada-dum.
Bada-dum.
Bada-dum.
I am pulled by my dog
Until my pace falls in line.

I hear sounds from the left
And noise from the right
Like instruments, I think,
And I swear
People must be
Hiding
In alleys,
With cymbals
And triangles
And maybe a wood block.

They play a song
Of the city
Coming alive.
A tune
That culminates
When we reach
The fountain.

She stops,
My four-legged guide,
And looks right at me
With a grin. She’s sly.
I cock my head
As the water rises
And falls
Like the sound
Of applause
From an audience
Unseen.

*****

And, the song that woke me up this morning and reminded me to look around and listen and breathe. Happy Wednesday, folks!

On a side note: In an effort not to confuse anyone who knows me well enough, the poem is fictional. I don’t have a black lab. But, if I did, I wouldn’t need an alarm clock.

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