Lockdown Blues: Addendum
Finally the second collection of short stories is in print. It’s amazing the number of decisions which accompany taking manuscripts to the final product. Five times the cover picture was edited to accommodate the specifications of the printer. Seemingly with every change in the ‘finished’ product the table of contents had to be redone as page numbers advanced or retreated. Revisions to the credit page and the biography also must be completed. But only a month late it’s up and running. Thinking, Just Thinking is now available on Amazon.
I previewed several of the stories in two earlier blogs and since the lockdown continues and topics are scarce I will contribute a sample from others. There are seventeen stories in all as well as a few of my poems (not my strength by a long shot).
Tears of a Clown was inspired by all the children whose parents ruined the possibility of an uneventful development by christening them with a name that made them a target of ridicule. I never had Simore Butts or Harry Crotch in class, but there were others nearly as sobering. I experimented with a single character’s dialog to tell the story. His psychiatrist is the silent character to whom he relates the events of his life.
“Yes, Dr. Alberts, I always hated my parents.
…
“No, it wasn’t the typical rebellious childhood animosity. It wasn’t like spinach or doing the chores, things that kids are supposed to hate. I really hated their guts.
…
“Well, no, I guess it didn’t start until I entered school. Up to that point I had no playmates and living isolated presented few opportunities for other children to capitalize on my misfortune. It was at the age of five that I first understood the terrible trick they played, the curse they cast upon me. What could have possessed them? How could they not have known the implications involved?
…
“You’re right, Doctor, it isn’t uncommon for parents to name a child after someone famous…movie stars, athletes, musicians, artists. But, seriously, what could they have been thinking? How naïve could they have been to not suspect that they instantly labeled me an outcast?
My response to the popular Vagina Monologues started out to be a full length book tracing man’s struggle to exist in a relationship from the male viewpoint. However, after three stories my motivation wavered and Testosterone Dialogues grew no more.
Sunshine streamed through the canopy of towering eucalyptus, palms and jungle vines. Birds chirped joyously and in the distance chimpanzees chattered. Deep brown eyes surveyed the scene, scanning the green tangle. He stood in a small clearing, thick tanned shoulders slightly hunched, neck bent, black hair cascading. Slowly he pivoted. In the shadows she sat. Blond locks curled nearly to the small of her back. She worked the reeds, fingers flowing in a rhythmic dance. At her feet lay a small woven basket and several mats. Flowers filled the basket, arranged neatly according to color and size. She hesitated, gently raising her left hand to swat an insect away.
A shrill cry broke through the idyllic moment. She turned slightly, placed the reeds on the bare ground and reached far to her right. Slowly and with great care, she lifted a tiny bundle. Hungry lips searched frantically. Another cry resounded until she deftly directed the desperate mouth to the pink nipple. Instantly the baby relaxed, the shriek ceased, and the hushed din of the garden resumed.
His empty stare continued. The eyes studied the scene, slowly following the curve of her body from the bare shoulder protruding through the hair downward past the round breasts to the full hips. She squatted low, rising slightly from the boulder but always in balance, always vigilant of the child she cradled.
“You will bring the mats to the hut before dark. I will no longer sleep on the cold earth. If you were a better man, you would have invented something soft on which to sleep.” She shifted the infant. He continued to stare. His shoulders slumped noticeably. “And I am tired of fish. Bring something back from your wanderings that will go with the fermented grapes. If you hadn’t been so lazy, you never would have discovered that fruit left in the sun will eventually become a pleasant drink.”
Stained Glass attempts to capture the torture of humans trying to remain faithful to their vows when confronted with doubts arising from feelings previously unknown.
A movement interrupted his despondent reflection, and he looked away from the suffering martyr. The female form rose and exited the front pew. He followed her steps. Reverently she approached his seat.
“I apologize, Father. I realize that you are in meditation, but I need a brief word. May I?” She spoke clearly, but her voice wavered slightly at the finish. The brown eyes stared into his face.
He stood, more to regain his composure than out of the great respect he held for the beauty before him. “Madame Chennoire, I was lost in my thoughts. I find great solace and inspiration in the beauty of the windows in the mornings. When they are bathed in God’s smile, I can sit here for hours.” An unmistakable flush overspread his countenance.
“Yes, they are wonderful.” The long fingers rearranged the bronze scarf. His eyes followed the simple motion. “Father, will you be available to hear confession? I know the usual appointed hours, but I am troubled.”
The dark eyes peered expectantly into the blank face. He blinked, cleared his throat, and with a slight falter responded. “As you know, before evening mass is the appointed time. I usually arrange to serve all my flock at 17:00, but…but if you would prefer, I am available earlier.”
He looked away from the piercing stare. Sunshine again flashed through the stained glass, and he squinted. A familiar scent distracted him. His voice wavered slightly. “I could meet with you privately, or I will sit earlier in the confessional. If thirty minutes earlier is more convenient, I will hear your concerns.”
“What I wish to confess is most private. It would be difficult for me to speak face to face with you.” She raised her left hand and with a sweeping motion removed a wisp of auburn hair from her face. His pulse pounded in his ears. “If you could be in the confessional early, I would find it easier to free my conscience.”
“I am always eager to serve you…and all the members of the parish.” He stuttered awkwardly. “I will be in the confessional early. Come when it is convenient; it will remain between you and your Christ.”
She bowed elegantly and was gone.
Before I began writing short stories, I completed a novel based on a passage from Dante’s Inferno. It chronicles a man’s odyssey trying to solve a murder over seven hundred years in the past which would allow him to break free from the effects of a similar experience in his own life. His travels take him from Minnesota to France and Italy. For over ten years I have been revising it. It amazes me how characters appeared and developed, and plot twists seemed to write themselves. My first series of edits meant adding several chapters in the beginning third of the book. The next several redos resulted in the novel shrinking from over a hundred thousand words to barely over ninety thousand. My antagonist became less forgivable as his thirst for ancient works drove him to extreme brutality. The concluding scene is played out in Lyon’s beautiful Roman theatre, my favorite place in my favorite city.
My editor loves the novel. If a chapter was past due, I encountered her wrath. She interrupts her job of editing romance novels by India’s leading writers to give me feedback; her review is glowing. The plan is to publish in early spring; look for Trapped in the Inferno. Here is an excerpt from an early chapter.
Professor James Stahler sorted through the details of the recurring torture from which he had awakened. The dreams relentlessly pursued him. They intruded on his sleep; they arose out of his reveries. The story which triggered the nightmare was a strange link to his torment. As a student he intently studied The Inferno. Dante captivated his imagination. A doctorate degree and a life dedicated to exposing its power resulted. For fifteen years he had passionately introduced students at the University of Minnesota to its relevance in modern society.
Among his favorite passages was the portrayal in Canto V of the murder of Paolo and Francesca. It demonstrated Dante’s sympathy, but more strongly showed that sinners must suffer appropriate punishment. The story of their passionate love affair and the brutal vengeance of Giovanni Malatesta was only historic fiction until a frigid February night in his St. Paul home. In a shattering moment, the reality of the scene seven centuries earlier arose to crush his complacent existence. He stood in the kitchen doorway, a stunned witness to intense passion flowing from his Adrienne and Mark, the older brother whom he had once worshipped. Wildly the two writhed across the counter as one in pulsating ecstasy. Several moments elapsed in slow motion before Adrienne sensed his presence. The three froze in an intricate ballet of life, unmoving but inexplicably entwined. He stared blankly into the ashen features of his brother’s face. Their eyes met for a protracted instant. Nothing was uttered. Each set of eyes flitted wildly in a symphony of unknowing. Three hearts pounded. Emptiness settled into the furthest reaches of his stomach. He tried to swallow, but nothing happened.
If and when the pandemic is controlled and life returns to a semblance of normal, I hope to resume my series of interviews with people who make Quillan a special place. I miss those experiences. In addition, I plan to join with other authors living in and around our village in an evening of sharing. What better excuse is there to gather and drink and laugh? We all can use a laugh.