S.M. Johnson's Blog, page 32

A Year of Sundays, Chapter 1 Part 4

Chapter 1, Part 4 of 4

I was up next, so I left my closet and headed downstairs.

My sister came out of the den as I stepped off the last stair.

"Your turn," she said to me, with a smile. And I looked at her. Really looked at her. The found girl. And I thought, it's so much better to be found than lost. "Is she okay?" I asked.

"You know it," Mel said. "Full of spit and vinegar. You know how she is."

I felt a little nervous going into the room. I had no idea what my mother would say to me.
"Hi, Mom."

She didn't invite me onto her bed, like she invited Melanie, so I sat down on the rocking chair. "Are you doing okay?"

"I'm fine." She waved a hand, encompassing the bed, the IV pole, the room in general. "Fine as I can be. I'm going to see Joe soon, really soon, and I can hardly wait. I miss him terribly."

I smiled at her, but didn't have any way to answer that. I didn't know exactly what I thought about dying and heaven, but a little, hopeful corner of my heart wanted to believe she was right.

"I know," I said, finally, because it seemed like she was waiting for me to comment. "Cancer sucks."

She laughed. "My Jess. Jessie-mine. I love your name. I picked it, you know, while your father went out to the waiting room to hand out cigars. I was supposed to name you Jessica Lynn, or Joseph Jr., if you'd been a boy. They handed you to me, all wrapped and bundled, but somehow you got your tiny fist out of the blanket, and you grabbed my thumb and my heart at the same time. And I buried my nose against the little bits of fuzz on your head, and I breathed you in, and thought, 'Mine. My sweet Jessie. Jessie-mine.' And then the nurse came in with the papers to sign, and I wrote 'Jessamine,' in for your name. Perhaps I would have asked your father, if he hadn't been parading around in all his self-congratulatory bliss, but I didn't care. You were my baby to name."

"I love that story," I said, and it was true. I'd heard it all my life. Even my father used to tell it with a smile. They were evenly matched, my parents, both stubborn in their different ways. My mother had special birth and naming stories for all of us. Each story had different details, but the love with which she tells them is exactly the same. She always had enough love to go around. Always.

And now she gave me my assignment. "Take care of Josie. And Silas."

"Silas?" I asked, completely surprised. "Silas is all right."

"Things will happen," my mother said, with a wise nod. "Silas could very well fall apart. He'll never let it show, of course, which is why I want you to look out for him. I need to know that someone is checking for cracks."

"Cracks?" I didn't follow her train of thought.

"His mask or his shell. Or both. He can't go on this way, and when he falls, he's going to fall hard. So I want you to be there to catch him."

"How do I do that?"

"Just talk to him. Confide in him, and let him know he can confide in you. That's all. I just want him to know where to go if he needs someone."

"I'm sure he already knows," I reassured her.

"Just make sure you tell him again, that's all."

"I will. Of course I will. And I'll pay attention to Josie, too. We all will. You know that."

"Yes, but I know you will, especially, because you're the most grounded."

Me? The most grounded? I almost laughed. I got so lost in my daydreams sometimes that I forgot to eat and shower. How is that grounded?

"Oh, Mom, whatever," I said. Was that all she was going to tell me? That was it?

"You and Silas are the most alike," she said, in a musing tone. "You both go your own way. The difference is that he cares what people think, and you don't. You should teach him that. Teach him how to live a life with no regrets."

"How do you know I don't care what people think?" I asked.

"You just don't. The moment you turned eighteen, you refused to go to church. You didn't care what I said about it, you weren't going to pay lip-service to the God that I believe in. I think it was your very first decision as an adult. And last year you skipped off to the PRIDE parade, Annabelle in tow, and you knew it made me cringe."

I snorted. "I didn't do any of it to hurt you."

She smiled at me. "I know. Now for some motherly advice. Write something normal. Your writing is beautiful, and you're wasting it on vampire trash. Write something that makes a statement, that makes people stop and grab a pen to underline the words, and say 'Hey, I feel that way, too.' Write something that makes people feel less alone. You can do it, Jessie- Mine, I know you can."

I smiled back at her. "Is that a challenge?"

"Sure," she said. "Now, do you want to know my very favorite thing about you?"

Yes. "Of course I do."

"You're happy. Day in and day out, over the course of your life, you are a happy girl. There is something tremendous about that. The way you manage adversity with a smile is truly a gift. You can get through anything."

"Thank you. That means a lot," I said, and felt a tear slide down my cheek. "Except now you're making me cry. I think it must be Josie's turn. I love you, Mom."

"I love you, too. All right. Send Josie in."

I had every intention of going back upstairs so I could listen to Mom talk to Josie, but I didn't. I felt solemn and weepy, and so I joined my solemn and weepy sisters at the dining room table. Silas was there, at the head of the table, but he was silent and locked into himself, and didn't pay attention to us at all. Which was typical of Silas.

"Mom told me that we have to meet every Sunday after she's gone. The same as we've been doing," Elizabeth said.

"What else would we do?" I asked. "I'm sure I'd just be sitting at home wondering what to do without everyone."

"I suppose," Elizabeth said. "But Mom's not kidding – she said it's a condition of our inheritance."

"That's rich," Mel laughed, and her laugh turned into coughing fit.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"Yeah," she waved my concern aside. "Too many cigarettes. I really have to quit the damn things."

We sat in silence then, until Josie came out of the den. "Mom's asleep already," she said. "I turned her oxygen on and tucked her in."

"Okay," Elizabeth said. "Let's clean up the dishes, and take out the trash. Who's staying with Mom tonight?"

"Me," Silas said, finally looking up at us. "She asked me to stay."

"And tomorrow it's me," Melanie said.

"Do you want Tuesday night or Wednesday?" I asked Elizabeth.

"Oh, Jess, I don't know right off. How about I call you and we'll figure it out?"

"Fine." I wished I could be a fly on the wall tonight, so I could listen to what Silas had to say about his boyfriend.

Friday's Fiction on Thursday...

Okay, not really. It's Thursday's ficiton on Thursday, but that sounded boring. And last week I did Thursday's fiction on Friday, which was late, but totally cool. Hee.

I have 500 words to go for my NaNoWriMo goal of 1,667 words per day, and then I have to run off to work. So. I'm just browsing through my folders and trying to figure out what to post up here... an excerpt of the horrible NaNo draft? Poetry? or maybe a short-short... Hmm... well, how about an essay? It's not *exactly* fiction, but we'll live, right?

I wrote a version stronger on profanity a few years ago that totally pissed off a bunch of people on CafeMom. Never had so many comments, or so many people tell me EXACTLY what God wanted from me. It was intriguing, considering I'm somethere between an atheist and a deist. Hold onto your socks, here it is:

***

Protesting is not productive


To the people who insist upon standing in front of various women's healthcare facilities holding signs, I want to ask: Can't you find anything more productive to do with your time?

If you fancy yourself "Christian," I'd like to remind you that it's not your place to pass judgment on others – that's best left the God you purport to believe in. You don't know the burdons on the people you judge.
If you think you're making a difference, I'd like to remind you that standing on a sidewalk holding a sign is not some huge and difficult self-sacrifice.

You could act "Christian" and truly experience self-sacrifice by calling social services to find out how to get yourself (and your home) licensed to provide respite care for special needs children. There are families out there who are exhausted and stressed to the max, physically, emotionally, and financially, families that are desperate for real help.

You could make a different by adopting children who've been abandoned by their chemically dependent parents - kids with special needs, Fetal Alcohol Syndome, or frontal lobe damage from using meth and crack in vitro. I think, since you have so much time on your hands, you should adopt several. These children are challenging, but they need care and deserve the love and compassion you'd like us all to believe is provided by God, and flowing outward to us through you.
Make a real difference. You do that by actually getting in the trenches and helping real people instead of standing on the sidewalk holding a sign. I mean, anybody can do that.

Tuesday Tribute - TRAIN

Yeah, they don't need any pimping from me, but 61 Train songs are on my writing play list. Train is music to write buy, what can I say?

(Jimmy Stafford, Pat Monahan, Scott Underwood)

So from the Meet Virginia to Drops of Jupiter, She's on Fire, to Brick by Brick – Train's every album has something that squeezes my heart and makes me work harder.

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I think I've written about the song Drops of Jupiter more than once, how I used to lay on my living room floor, head next to the speakers, and crank the volume so high that I could almost feel the song in my blood. It was like mainlining Train. It was comfort and hope when I needed comfort and hope more than anything. I think the song is actually Pat's tribute to his mother, but for me it's always been soothing balm for a cherished friend I lost. I was raw with grief when the song came out as a single, and there it was, proof that letting go wasn't going to kill me, even if love = pain sometimes.

One song that never got enough attention was She's on Fire. Not just that it's a good song, but there's a spoken exclamation that I accepted as a total kick-ass life lesson: It's not just a daydream if you decide to make it your life.

Read that again: It's not just a daydream if you decide to make it your life.

Do you need to read it again? Because if you do, I'll wait.

I had some dark days. We all have them, right? And mine certainly aren't darker than anyone else's, but just like anyone, when I try and fail over and over again, sometimes I want to quit trying.

I wrote and re-wrote DeVante's Children twenty times, maybe more. I sent it out to 35 agents and publishers. I kissed the envelope before sending my "baby" out into the big, big world.

Hokey? Yep. And totally true.

Writers who send out a manuscript to an agent or two, then decide to self-publish on Amazon or Smashwords have NO IDEA how much rejection those of us in the old school went through  when traditional publishing or expensive vanity publishing were the only options.

Seriously.

Despair. I can't tell you the level of despair and hopelessness I had sunk to when I heard that shout, in the middle of the song:

It's not just a daydream if you decide to make it your life.

I borrowed that line and used it as a signature all over the place (always, of course, giving credit to Train), and it reminded me that writers write. So I made an effort to stop whining and write the next book. And guess what? It finally happened for me.

And not only did it happen, but I realized that I was growing in my craft, and I was now finally able to produce manuscripts worthy of publication. It took a long time.

I've seen Train in concert a couple of times in Minnesota. And the most amazing thing happened… complete and total bliss,  because Train sounds as amazing and fabulous live as they sound in their mixed and produced recordings. I think singer Pat was getting sick when I saw them at State Theater, and he still gave 100% of his voice to the audience.

And on the Save Me, San Francisco Tour at First Avenue, Pat hushed the whole crowd and sang without a microphone – and WE COULD HEAR HIM.

Okay, not well, but dang! I read or heard an interview during that tour where one Jimmy or Scott said that length and number of tour dates depends on how well the singer's voice holds out, and their tours are grueling because Pat's voice just doesn't give out.

Thank you, Train, for inspiration x 1,000 and 10 years.

You guys rock my heart.

 

Want to know more? Go to Train's official site.

Follow @Train on Twitter.

Train on MySpace

A Year of Sundays, Chapter 1, Part 3

Chapter 1, part 3 of 4

Of all of us, Melanie was always the beautiful one. It was hard to see these days because she made almost no effort to keep herself up, but when we were children, people would stop us on the street to admire her. I might have resented it, but she was just one year older than me, and I thought she was beautiful, too. I wanted to be everything she was, and I had no doubt that I could be. Until the bad thing. We got Melanie back, of course, but she was never the same.

She grew up the family peace-keeper, and resident devil's advocate. She always smoothed everything over, made us see each other's point of view, and wanted everybody to get along and play nice. Which is funny, because her own life was a train wreck that crashed from one crisis to another. She was the one who got drunk at a party and knocked up by a stranger. Oh, the family scandal. Well, not really. She was twenty-four when Caleb was born, well past being a teenager, so it never was much of a scandal. Now she's thirty-four and Caleb is ten, and the stranger actually has custody of Caleb, so he's not entirely a stranger anymore.

I waited, kind of breathless, in my closet, wondering if Mother and Mel were going to talk about the biggest secret of all.

"My precious girl," Mother said. "Come here. Right on my bed, yes, like that."

I heard a squeak, then a sob, and realized that my sister was crying. Melanie never cried. And I mean never.

"Oh, my lost, lost girl," my mother crooned, and I imagined my mother with her arms around my sister. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." She was crying, too.

"It wasn't your fault." My sister said in a strong voice, pushing back the tears. "Stop now, Mom. We've done this a hundred times. We don't have to do it again."

"I'm your mother. Of course it was my fault. I lost track of you."

Melanie sighed. "You had four children, and lost track of one of them for 5 minutes at your brother's funeral. It's forgivable, Mother."

"What happened to you will never be forgivable. Those three days – " My mother's voice broke.

"I know, Mom, I know. But the truth is, I hardly ever think of it anymore. I don't even have dreams, and I haven't for years. He'll be in prison for a long, long time. And if he gets out, well..." Her laugh was sharp and without humor. "I'm far beyond the little girl I was."

"You stopped being a little girl when he took you."

"I forgive you. I didn't blame you then, and I don't blame you now. Please, forgive yourself and let it go."

"How can I?" Our mother asked. "Your life is so hard. The medications, the bad spots, the hospital."

"I live from moment to moment, Mom. I'm okay right now, and I'm grateful for it. My brain chemistry gets out of whack – who knows if being kidnapped when I was ten has anything to do with it at all. Plenty of people suffer from bi-polar disorder. People with perfect lives. People who were never hurt at all. It's random, like everything else."

"How do you know so much?" Mom asked Melanie.

"They do teach us stuff at the hospital, you know, when we wake up enough to learn. I have all kinds of information about being bi-polar. I take a lot of credit for being healthy these past months. I'm doing the right things. And when I have a fall, I'll take responsibility for doing the wrong things, too. I don't talk about what happened to me. In fact, with every passing year it's easier and easier to pretend that it never happened at all."

I was amazed, upstairs in my closet, at how much insight my sister had. It was like she was comforting our mom with last words, not the other way around. But maybe it had to be that way between them. Maybe my mom needed to hear it, because I heard her sharp intake of breath.

"You can do that, pretend it never happened?"

"I have to, Mom. If I obsess about it, think on it, try to remember every detail, then I'll surely get sick. You have to let some things go in order to move on. I've let it go. And you will, too. Even if it kills you."
Melanie laughed then, and I don't think she meant it to sound as harsh as it did.

"Okay, Mom, I'll tell you my last request, and then you can tell me yours, okay? When you look at me, stop seeing the lost girl and start seeing the found girl."

I heard my mother's deep breaths. Here breathing got loud and scary when she got emotional. "Okay," she said in a soft voice that made her sound like the girl, not the mother. "I will. I promise. Silas is staying tonight. Will you come tomorrow after he goes to work? Because I'll need a little practice looking at my found girl."

"Of course," Mel said, and her voice was relieved.

Funny, how well sisters knew each other, and at the same time know nothing. I had no idea what happened to Melanie while she was gone. Only that she was kidnapped from our uncle's funeral, and she was gone for three days. And then she came home. She didn't speak for a full week, not one word, but cried every night. And the day she started speaking, she stopped crying. We shared a bedroom back then because I was afraid of the dark, but Melanie never was, not before those three days, and not after. The morning she finally talked, I woke up to find her standing next to my bed, staring at me, her face completely blank.

"Mellie," I gasped, scared as all get out. "What's the matter?"

I didn't expect an answer, because she hadn't talked since she came home. But the blank look disappeared and she was my beloved sister again, and her eyes flashed as she spoke. She said, "Nothing happened to me. Nothing. So I'm not going to talk about it. Ever." I almost shouted with joy because her voice had been painfully missing from our house, and when she started talking again, I thought she was okay.

As I grew older, I figured out that a lot of things had happened to Melanie over the course of those three days, scary adult things, but she hadn't been lying when she announced that she would never talk about it. Ever.

"So, Mama," Melanie said to our mother in a teasing voice. "What did you tell Silas and Elizabeth?"
Our mother laughed. "Oh, I shouldn't tell you. It won't be fair."

"Who cares?" Melanie asked. "Tell me anyway. You know it's never fair."

They both started giggling, and I realized there was a private joke between them that I didn't understand.
And then my mother told her, and I couldn't believe it.

"Silas has a secret. I told him he has to tell you girls. And I told Elizabeth to go back to school and forget about having babies. And I'm going to tell you something, too."

"Okay," Melanie said.

"I'm proud of you, my beautiful, found daughter. I'm proud of the way you manage your illness. I'm proud of you when you are well – I know it takes a lot of work. And I'm sad when you're not well, but I always have faith that you will do what you need to do to get well again. And I truly believe, of all my children, that you are the strongest. I want you to use that. When the others get stuck in petty arguments, when they make themselves blind to what's important, I want your voice to rise above the rest and tell them what's what. You have the ability to see things clearly in an instant, and to know exactly what the solution is. So you give them what-for, if you have to, on my behalf."

I could hear satisfaction in my sister's voice when she answered. "Oh, I will. You can bet that I will."

Thursday Fiction on Friday

Apparently I was a slacker yesterday. And I had to work, which always seems to complicate everything. It's that whole, "we interrupt this wonderful life with work" thing. Blah. But mostly because I really wanted to polish up this little tid-bit and make it all pretty and shiny.

Well that didn't happen. I got hung up trying to get the Out of the Dungeon cover to appear as a reasonable size (FAIL) and connecting up the buy-links and such. (Out of the Dungeon is available NOW, btw, at Smashwords and Amazon's Kindle Store)

Before I share some drafty fiction… I am trying to think of a catchy "Thursday" themed name – i.e. Thursday Threshold, or Thermal Thursday, or (my favorite) Three-way Thursday – except I can't be always writing about hotties and ménages – because one must at times climb out of the pit of perverted depravity and um, well, at least pretend to function in the real world. You know, all the regular crap we have to do like providing food for the children and attending parent-teacher conferences…

But I digress. Other words I am playing with are: thoughtless, thoughtful, thankful (thankless?) Thank God it's Thursday, Therapeutic Thursday (can't guarantee that, really), abd Theoretical Thursday (what would that mean, anyway?).

Of course, Thursday Fiction on Friday has a nice little ring to it – sort of like Eighth Street Video on Ninth Street. (Yes, it's a real video store in my hometown). Maybe I'll live in slackerville and Thursday Fiction on Friday will reflect that…. Hmm.

Okay, here's my drafty draft:

The Muse

She flew on silken, silver wings, sometimes gossamer, sometimes feather traditional. Her laughter could be heard now and again, light and musical, and it was silver, too.

She didn't treat her charges equally, and she didn't treat them all well.

This one… with the black hair and black make-up, and eight different piercings (twelve if you counted the ones nobody knew about) showed on the outside how tortured she was on the inside. The muse held her sometimes while she slept, even sang her a lullaby or two, but offered no comfort while the child was awake.

Then there was the one she thought of as The Crane – so tall he stooped in most company. He was all sharp corners and long angles, and so filled with self-importance that sometimes even the muse had to grit her teeth.

He was mentally ill, of course. So many of them were. He claimed he would one day be great  – "I'll be the next Rembrandt, or the next Chi," – though he was, in fact, a terrible painter. It was the fact that he worked so hard and had such determination that the guardian took pity on him and graced him with a beautiful singing voice, that, when he chose to share it, offered hope to many who were lacking that. It seemed like the least she could do. She did not visit him for long because he made himself miserable putting pigment to canvas and all but ignoring her gift.

Ahh, yes, the writer – there – mid-November and the writer accepted the guardian's gift, has already made it into a thing of her own, fingers tap-tapping the keyboard and imagination at full tilt. Wonderful. She had so much work to do that she wouldn't need tending for awhile.

Oh! And There was one watched from a distance, wailing in despair, begging the silver-winged muse for help, for inspiration. But no, that one had raw talent, undefined, the sort that couldn't be granted, but must be dug for, mined with tears, collected in agony, and refined with just a shred of salvation. The demons were in charge of that one. The muse shook her head in sorrow even as the artist scratched gouges in her own cheeks, tore clumps of hair from her head, and screamed, "Why? Damn you, why?"

The muse wept. It was so easy to drop unexpected inspiration on those who willing to do the work, worthy or not. It was nothing to cast bits of talent over the earth, shared among many.

But there was nothing she could do to ease the suffering of the ones who would be truly great, known the world over for their words, their voices, their pictures… driven by their demons to greatness, the same demons who snarled at the comforts of the muse and chased her away. "This one is ours," growled the demons, "and we will pummel her with our claws, and slash her with our teeth, and destroy all that is human to set the artist free."

Tuesday Tribute–Emanuel Xavier

Need to get this posted before Tuesday is over!

Emanuel Xavier is a gay Latino poet. I claim him as a friend, but the truth is I met him only briefly at the 2010 Saints and Sinners Literary Festival. I think I fell a little bit in love.

Manny is friendly, adorable, open, and not three feet taller than me (grin – that's always exciting for me).

 

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From left: Manny, guy who writes poetry in the street (I think, and dang, wish I could remember his name because that is totally cool), me, Sven Davisson, and Louis Flint Ceci.

I have two of his books, and although I am not gay, Latino, or male, some of his poetry gives me that little shift inside – you know, that shiver of recognition, the way great poetry does.

This is a significant day for Emanuel Xavier:

"After surviving so many challenges in life, it was only six years ago on this day that my life seemingly changed. I'm glad to be here in spite of the scar on the back of my head which I've gotten used to and constantly having to remind people I am deaf in my right ear. Sometimes I think it sucks and wonder what life would be like otherwise but I've never been anything close to 'normal' anyway and the cliche says that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Yeah, I had a shitty childhood and tough adolescence, not to mention taking quite a beating as an adult, blah, blah, blah, but it really does get better. You just gotta keep fighting back and never give up."

Manny is a beautiful man who has beautiful words.

Visit Emanuel Xavier on the web.

A Year of Sundays–Chapter 1 Part 2

Chapter 1, part 2 of 4

I heard Elizabeth, downstairs talking to our mother, her voice brittle with stress. "Oh, Mama, you look so tired. We don't have to talk tonight. Let's wait until you feel stronger."

"I'm not going to feel stronger. Haven't you learned anything about dying? I feel pretty good, awake and alert, which, according to the death brochure, probably means I've only got a day or two left. And then I'll be gone. If I don't talk now, I won't get to say the things I want to say."

"Don't talk like that, Mama – maybe you're getting better."

"Get your head out of your ass, Elizabeth. I'm dying.

Elizabeth sniffed, loudly. "Be nice, Mama."

"You're right. I'm sorry. I just want you to understand – you have to understand and start getting a grip. You can say a prayer for me every minute, you can beg and bargain with God, but it's not going to change the truth. I've had a beautiful life. I have five amazing children, two adorable grandchildren. I'm sorry you all have to go on without me, but that's how it's supposed to be. I would live longer if I could, but I don't get to."

Elizabeth started crying. Of us all, she's the one who lived most in denial. If she just knelt long enough and prayed hard enough, God would eventually answer. And no matter how many times we goad, "What if the answer is No?" she believed that enough faith could change the answer.

Our mother let her cry and kept talking. "Did you know that your father was my first love? He was the first boy I ever kissed on the lips. I was fifteen. I suppose I've told you the story hundreds of times. I've been sleeping so much these days, and dreaming about that first kiss. I miss him so much. I wake up thinking, 'Oh, Joe, I'm coming, I'm coming!' I hope there's a Heaven, and my lifelong best friend is waiting there for me."

"There is, Mama, there is, and he'll be waiting."

"Then it's not too sad for me to join him, is it? All the things I never got to tell him – it was terrible to lose him without warning. I like it better this way. I get to hug my children, hold my grandchildren close and tight, and really treasure the moments. We're all lucky that way. We get to say goodbye."

"We're going to fall apart without you," Elizabeth said softly. "How many Sundays will there be after you've gone?"

"All of them. I fully expect Sundays to continue. You need each other.

"You, my first daughter, were my dream come true. Parents love their children, yes, and when you're pregnant, all you want is a healthy baby. But for me, well, I was crazy for Silas, and my heart melted when he stared at me with his big serious brown eyes... but I still wanted a daughter. Joe, of course, wanted a football team of strapping boys – they all do, I think – men." She laughed, and it was a merry sound. "Poor Joe, so many girls, one after another. But at least he got Silas, and Silas always made him proud. Anyway, I'm rambling. You were asking about Sundays. I have a plan, because I'm a controlling mother. A year of Sundays. And then will come the reading of my will, and the dividing of the money."

Elizabeth's snort of laughter came sudden and unexpectedly, filled with shocked outrage. "You're not giving us any money until we've kept Sundays for a year?"

"Exactly."

"You are controlling."

"You bet I am. Even from beyond the grave."

"Are you telling everybody this?" Elizabeth asked.

"No. I'm telling you. Because you're just as controlling as I am. And I know you'll see it gets done. My estate lawyer will probably tell the rest of them, but you're entitled to a heads up as my firstborn daughter. The responsibility of keeping everyone together falls on you, although I expect your sisters will help willingly enough."

Elizabeth sighed. "Okay. What else would we do on Sundays anyway? We're all so used to them."

"Good," our mother said. "Now. I have some personal things to say to you, and I expect you to be quiet and listen."

"Yes, Mother."

I smiled in the closet. We were well-trained in "Yes, Mother." When we were small, and the noise level got out of control, she used to holler, "Sit down and shut up!" and the only acceptable response was "Yes, Mother."

It was quiet, and I pictured mom gathering her thoughts. Or dozing. She has lately been prone to falling asleep right in the middle of her sentences. But not this time. After a minute she started talking.
"You need to relax about this whole baby thing."

"But Mama, I'm getting too old!"

"No, don't interrupt me. Let me just say it. You are wound so tight I'm surprised you don't break. Every thought, every action, every minute, you focus on your inability to get pregnant. You resent Melanie and Jessamine's children, you twist and writhe at how unfair it is that Melanie conceived by accident, and Jessie got pregnant practically the minute she decided to, and you can't get it to happen to you on purpose no matter what you try. Don't deny it. I have eyes. And I know you better than anyone else in the world. You've wanted to be a mommy since you learned to say the word 'baby,' and yes, you deserve to have babies. I wish it would happen for you. But you're trying too hard. You are letting your whole life turn black, waiting for it to happen."

"Well, then, what do you suggest I do?" I heard anger and disappointment in my sister's voice, and I ached for her. I could imagine perfectly her expression, the angry pinch of her lips, the crease between her eyes.

"Get busy with other stuff! Go back to college, take a class," our mother said. "Pick up a hobby. Spend more time with your niece and nephew. Relax. Give yourself a break. And give your poor husband a break. He didn't marry a crazed baby-obsessed lunatic. Let it go for a couple of years and look for Elizabeth the woman. You can be charming and witty. When you're happy, Elizabeth, you outshine the stars! Where'd that woman go? Everyone would like to see her again."

Elizabeth sniffed, and I imagined her pinched, aggrieved expression. "I'd like to see her again, too. I'm tired of being upset all the time. And Eric – well, I don't think he'd mind if we never got pregnant. I mean, he won't even see the fertility specialist, won't have any tests done."

"He's a man – he had kids with his first wife – he assumes his plumbing is fine. None of them ever wants to consider there might be something wrong with their special parts. And you know how men hate going to the doctor.

"I'm just saying, relax for a while, get back to your life. All this misery over sperm and eggs. How about... just relax for the next year of Sundays? Then let my estate buy you eggs, or in-vitro, or pay for an adoption... whatever you decide."

"Your estate would pay for in-vitro?"

"Sure, why not?" Mom said in an airy voice. "Your father and I planned a grand old age of traveling the world. So – you kids will get the money. But only after a year of Sundays."
"You're laughing at me, Mama."

I knew exactly the glint in our mother's eyes. It was the I'm the mother and you're the daughter, I'm right and you're not look. Almost a smirk, but not a mean spirited one. Our mother was never mean spirited.

"Yes, but only because you're smiling a real smile. I haven't seen one of those for a long, long time. Now – do you agree? Will you try to forget about babies for a year?"

"I'll try, Mama. But I'm not going on birth control."

"Of course not. That would be counter-productive. I love you, Sissy. Now give me a hug, and send Melanie in."

I was getting cramped in the closet, and wondering if I should make an appearance downstairs before it's my turn. Unable to decide, I amused myself making lists in my head. Silas, Elizabeth, Melanie, Jessamine, Josie. This year we are... 38, 37, 34, 33, and 20. Gay, Catholic, Christian-lite, Skeptical, Searching. Gay, Perfectly Married, Tainted, Happily Married, Virgin (or so we choose to think). Builder, Secretary, Screw-up, Writer, College Student.

I made these lists in my head about the five of us all the time. It was a little sad how often I tagged Silas simply as "gay." I needed to stop that. Hell, I think what I really needed was to get to know him better. That would add some variety to my lists. Let's see... ah, our nicknames, as given by Josie, the family caboose: Sigh-Sigh, Sissy, Mo, Myjess, (and herself) Joeybaby.

What would my mother tell Melanie? Hmm... stop dating losers. Stop picking up guys at the bar, or the hospital... something, something, something, right? Don't let Caleb play so many video games – it's bad for his eyes. Get a job. Stop doing drugs. Or maybe... I'm sorry we lost you, please come back.

Thursday Morning Poetry

Dark World
 
Lay me at your feet
and teach me joy
show me how pain
can be sublime.
 
Touch me with grace
tease with dark cruelty
start me down the path
into the dark world you inhabit.

 


Breathe for me
if I forget to breathe
let your hot fingers
be ice on my flesh.
 
Taste my sweat
my tears my soul
lead me with grace
into the dark world you inhabit.

 
~SM Johnson 2005

Tuesday Tribute - Jeff Mann

I read a titillating and lovely little book over the past couple of days called Fog by Jeff Mann.

Fog pushes the limits, and OMG, I always love that sort of thing.

I even wrote an Amazon review, and I don't do that very often.

What's really interesting to me is the lack of criticism for non-consent among reviewers so far. Fog is BDSM in the raw - we're talking kidnapping, total non-consensual bondage and dominance. Oh, yeah, not to mention rape.

I don't have a problem with the subject matter. As I said, I love pushing the limits myself, writing on the edge, going where others don't dare to go. Fantasy is fantasy, after all. But several people who reviewed Above the Dungeon complained that there was a lack of clear consent on the part of the submissive. That the submissive was "forced" to do things that pushed his limits.

Well... yes, actually. Sort of.

But only to the point at which the submissive was willing to leave the relationship. He always had choice about that. And doesn't that, then, imply consent?

Fog's submissive character is bound and gagged, raped, and marked with the sharp blade of a knife. It obviously has reviewers of a different sort than my Above the Dungeon did. Some of my Dungeon reviewers would lose their ever-loving minds at this level of non-consent. And, of course, a lot of publishers wouldn't touch this book with a fifty foot pole.

So I'm giving kudos to Mann, for a story that pushes limits, and to Lethe Press, for being willing to take it on. And as for the character Al's little fantasy about Tim McGraw - well, Mann treads where even I would not dare to go. And for that I give thanks.

A Year of Sundays: Chapter 1 Part 1

A Year of Sundays - projected word count 90,000

On the last Sunday of her life, Mary Meyerhoff challenges her son, Silas, and four daughters, Elizabeth, Melanie, Jessamine, and Josie, to continue the family tradition of spending Sunday afternoons together. She tells them to drop their masks, share their secrets, and get to know each another "for real."

Thirty-three year old Jessamine has always been the family secret-keeper, but when she reads her mother's journals, she discovers a lifetime of secrets never shared. Jessie narrates the next year as, Sunday by Sunday, the family attempts to get real without destroying one another.

When Josie, the family caboose, has a medical crisis, the siblings discover that Jessamine is holding onto the biggest secret of all. Only one important question remains: will it cement their bond as brother and sisters, or tear them completely apart?

Chapter 1 – May 4

Chapter 1, Part 1 of 4


On the last Sunday of her life, our mother called us into her room one by one because there were private words she wanted to say to each of her children. "Someday you might tell each other – in fact, I hope that you will, a long time from now, when you are all together and remembering me fondly. How fun it might be then to share your mother's last words. In the meantime, how intriguing to guess and imagine what I might have said to your siblings."

But first, she wanted to know about next Sunday.

On Sunday afternoons we gathered at our mother's house. Silas, the eldest and only boy, and we the four sisters.

"Oh, Mama," Elizabeth said softly. "No one will want to do Sunday if you've gone to meet the Lord." She was the oldest girl, now thirty-seven.

"Nonsense," our mother disagreed, with a firm shake of her head. "Of course you won't feel like it, and that is why you must. Sundays aren't about me, Sundays are about keeping track of each other. I want it settled right now." She raised her eyebrows as she looked at us, the expectation of a dying woman that her children will, indeed, honor her last request. For a brief moment her face lost its tired shadow of the past few weeks, and she looked strong and fierce. In fact, she looked exactly like the glue that holds a family together.

We siblings glanced at one another, and Josie, still the baby at twenty, shrugged and said, "Okay, we'll meet here, as usual."

"Good," our mother nodded. "Now Silas, help me get settled. When I'm done with you, it will be Elizabeth's turn, and so on."

We knew the drill. She would see us in birth order, from the eldest to the youngest. It has always been this way. First Silas, then Elizabeth, then Melanie, then me – Jessamine, and finally Josie, the baby.

I excused myself. "Shout for me when it's my turn. I'm going to make a phone call." I made a dramatic swipe across my eyes, and bolted up the stairs.

It was a bald-faced lie, but no one challenged me. They might have assumed I was going off to my old bedroom to cry. And let them think it.

When I was a little girl, I discovered that I could hear almost everything going on in our father's office from inside my closet. The office that is now our mother's sick room.

Damned if I was going to wait however long to hear some convoluted version of my mother's final words to my siblings.

The inside of the closet smelled like cedar chips and secrets. If I had ever felt guilty for eavesdropping, I was long past it. I was proud to be the family secret-keeper. Of course, I don't know every family secret. Like I've never found out exactly what happened to Melanie while she was gone, even though whatever it was made her grow up crazy. We never talked about it as a family, and I never managed to overhear the details, either.

But. I've heard more secrets in the dark of my closet than any of them would ever guess.

"A mother knows things, Silas, and hopes to know when to speak and when to keep silent. I am done with being silent. I will be gone before next Sunday."

He feels the quickening of fear and jerks his head up, "How can you be so sure?"

"I just am. Don't worry about it." The mother stares at her only boy as if she can see into his very soul. "I know that you don't think you're going to be fine, but you're going to be fine. Give your heart and your truth to your sisters. They might surprise you."

He shakes his head slowly, still denying to himself that she'll be gone.

"You were such a happy little boy, you know. Do you remember?"

"I remember, Mother."

"You were open and lighthearted, always had a new joke or magic trick on Sunday, and you did your best to wow us. Every week we waited to see what new performance you had, and we'd clap and cheer when you made us laugh. I can't remember exactly when that changed. The stormy teenage years, I suppose, and we all let it go on, because we thought adolescent boys were supposed to be moody and sullen and full of anger. And then you were through it, or maybe learned to hide it, and started college. Dad and I often talked about how driven you were, how nothing was going to stop you from attaining success and respect. And look at you! Designing beautiful houses. Taking an image from a customer's head and making it appear on a plot of land.

"We were so proud of you – I'm still so proud of you that I could burst – and yet I always knew that you were driven by something I didn't fully understand. And the happy, lighthearted little boy never came back. You closed yourself off from us. You've always shown up on Sundays, yes, but you watch the others more than you contribute. You're here, but barely. And so often you're never quite recovered from the night before. I used to worry about that, you know, about your drinking, worry that maybe you were taking drugs, as well, and I hoped you'd find happiness in something, before it all caught up with you."

"Ah, Mom," the son groans, rolling his eyes. He doesn't want to hear this, doesn't need to hear this. Not now. "Do we have to do this? Are you going to tell me you'll haunt me if I don't get sober?"

"No. That's not what I have to say."

"Good, because I don't want to hear it."

"I think you're already on your way."

"What?" Surprise, because he's made no conscious effort to be sober, that's for sure.

"I think you're already drinking much less than you used to. You show up earlier on Sundays, your eyes are bright, you're talking to the girls more than you have for years, even if your words have bite. Sometimes they need to hear some honesty, those girls, even when it's not nice. And, correct me if I'm wrong, you even told a joke a couple of weeks ago. You've been engaged in our goings on, and don't even try to tell me that my terminal diagnosis gave you an attitude adjustment – I won't believe it. Because I know your secret."

The son lets out a laugh that's as dry as an autumn leaf. Great, she's going to die believing he's about to get married and have babies. He couldn't let her think that. "I doubt it, Mom. You think I met a girl." He can feel the pain of bitter laughter sharply in the back of his throat, but holds it back.

"No. I think you met a boy."

He gasps a sharp intake of breath, closes his eyes, then opens them, and understands immediately that he's just shown her the truth.

"You see, a mother knows things," she tells him, very gently.

His next words are strangled, because he can barely breathe. "Please tell me you and Dad never discussed this."

"Of course not," her voice is strong, firm, eyes flashing. "It would have made him crazy. I figured it out very slowly. I wish I'd have known. I wish you'd have told me as soon as you figured it out yourself. I could have helped you. I would have told you that I love you no matter what. I would have said that all I want for any of my children is for them to be happy."

"Thank you," he says, and his voice is soft, his lips a hint away from a smile. He almost gets a chance to relax, because his mother just said all the right words. But then...

"I want you to tell your sisters, next Sunday."

The thought brings a jab of panic. "Aw, Mom, that's a terrible idea." He imagines how each sister might react... Elizabeth – Mrs. Hyperactive Christian, a year younger than him, and desperate to conceive a child – shock and disgust, maybe some choice biblical phrases. Melanie, well, any excuse for a drink or a bump. He can imagine Jessie and Josie giggling and teasing him – the news would be the funniest thing they ever heard – hell, they'd probably love him the more for it. But even still, not their business.

His mother, the mind reader.

"No, it's not a terrible idea at all. It's a wonderful idea. Why bother with Sundays if you're not going to be real? Tell them so they can get to know who you really are. What good does it do to come together and pretend? Live your truth. Tell them. Elizabeth might have a hard time with it, but Jessie and Josie will always be your cheerleaders. And Melanie, well, I'm starting to wonder about her, too."

He lets loose a genuine smile. "Melanie's all right – she just has low standards."

"Too low – she'll never make anything of her life at the rate she's going. And believe me, I've got some words in store for her.

"I've said my piece, and given you my last request. Now... tell me about this boy."

"Why do you think there's a particular boy?" He wonders how he gave himself away.

"I've seen a mellowing in you, a happiness that's never been there before. What else could it be? So tell me about him."

His eyes go soft as he watches a memory, brain searching for appropriate words. Hot...tight... wet. Mouth...ass... skin... sweat.

He sits in silence for too long, then says, "He's, um... ah... blond."

His mother lets out a delighted laugh. "Is that all you can come up with?"

"It's all I can come up with to tell my mother. Christ."

"Well, think on it while I talk to the girls. He must have some redeeming qualities, because it took you long enough to find him. I want you to stay with me tonight, because I don't have time to meet this boy, and I want to hear all about him. But now I need to speak to Elizabeth."

Upstairs in the literal closet, I shook with repressed laughter because I've known Silas's secret for years. I saw him in a local bar once, his arms around another man, kissing him like a man kisses a woman. I thought later that I should have just marched up to him then and there and said, "Hey Silas, how's it hanging?" and end this secret-keeping.

The next morning, Sunday, I woke up sick with dread. What if he'd caught a glimpse of me at the bar? What if my co-workers recognized him after I'd left, what if they'd talked to him? I'd been known to show off pictures of him at work. "Look at my handsome older brother, the eligible bachelor..."

But I'm good at keeping secrets. When mom asked about girls' night out, I said I hadn't gone because I seemed to be catching a bug. I didn't have to explain about going to a drag show at a gay bar, or the fact that one of my co-workers was in the drag show. I'd been excited to tell the family shocking stories of drag queens and same-sex relationships, and to get a good rousing debate going with Elizabeth, my highly religious sister, and Melanie, the resident devil's advocate. But I kept quiet and to myself, continuing the pretense that I was coming down with something.

The next Sunday was easier. I was getting used to knowing that my brother was gay. I didn't personally have a problem with it, anyway. I always liked gay people. They seem honest, somehow, as if they've done their soul-searching and come out of it more whole than other people. And they were attractive to me for their youthful pursuit of self-discovery. I yearned for gay boyfriends – campy queens with a flair for drama. As far as Silas, who was no campy queen, well, I just needed a little time to focus my lens of knowledge in this new way.

I always worried that Silas would marry someone I didn't like. He was the big brother, and as such, he was larger than life, a hero, and he belonged to us. A boy who'd grown up surrounded by four sisters, teasing and tormenting, and greeting their dates at the door with a scowl. He'd never approved of our choices in men. Once I knew his secret, I could kind of see why.

I felt a moment of sheer relief that made me giddy. Soon they all would know about Silas. It struck me as too silly that I was sitting in my closet listening to family secrets, while Silas has been in his own closet all this time for no purpose. I imagined, for a moment, the bru-ha-ha his news will create next Sunday. It might be the most exciting Sunday of all time.

And then the horror slammed home. My mother expected to be dead before Sunday. She was setting us up to continue without her – setting us up to have "issues." If Silas came out of the closet, we'd have something to talk about.