Trista Wilson's Blog, page 2
March 21, 2020
The Idea Shop
Madison has never seen a line at the Idea Shop. But now it snakes out the door, down the sidewalk and around the corner. Not seeing anyone she knows that might let her cut, she joins the back of the line. The man in front of her turns. “Can you believe this? People are totally freaking out about this virus.”
I’m kind of freaking out. Madison tries not to scratch an itch on her nose. The man has on a knit winter cap even though its warm outside. His black horn rimmed glasses wink in the sunshine. “It would be hard to be stuck inside for weeks without any ideas though,” Madison says.
The man rolls his eyes.
“It could happen,” Madison says. “People are already starting to self-quarantine.”
He shrugs. “What do you write?” asks the man narrowing his eyes at her. “Wait, let me guess.” He points at her. “Kid lit, definitely kid lit.”
She shakes her head.
He crosses his arms. “Hmm. Romance? Definitely some kind of chick lit.”
“You mean Women’s Literature?” Madison crosses her own arms, mirroring his posture. She widens her eyes and tilts her head to one side.
“Yeah, okay. Women’s literature,” he says making air quotes with his fingers.
“I write short stories,” Madison says uncrossing her arms but sticking her chin out like she’s daring him to take another jab.
“Well hopefully not horror or fantasy. I heard King and Gaiman were here earlier and totally wiped out those sections. Like those guys need ideas. Save some for the rest of us, dudes. I swear, if I see Billy Collins, I’m totally tripping him.”
“You’re a poet then huh?”
“Yes, I am. A poet.”
They’re about half way to the door. Madison can see they’re only letting in one small group of people at a time. What if they run out of ideas? She’s had a terrible stomachache ever since this started. Now her head is pounding too. She watches people come out of the store clutching their plastic bags stamped with the Idea Shop logo, a brain with a happy face on it.
The man stands on his tiptoes to get a better look. “Did Ocean Vuong just go in? Oh c’mon man! He stomps his foot like a toddler gearing up for a tantrum.
Madison shifts her weight from one foot to the other as she watches the line shorten. She can make this work. Whatever ideas are left. It will be okay. This has become her mantra, “It will be okay. It will be okay.”
They’re finally at the door. The red-vested employee counts them off as they go through. “Five at a time,” he says in a monotone. “Five at a time. Social distancing please.”
Madison separates herself from the Poet as quickly as she can. She has never seen the shelves so empty. The fluorescent lights hum and wink as she walks through the HUMOR aisles. The shelves labeled SLAPSTICK and PRURIENT still have a few ideas left but the HEARTWARMING shelf is bare.
She walks quickly through FANTASY and HORROR and the Poet was right, they are almost completely empty.
Her heart is beating fast. What if she really can’t find an idea?
She hears yelling and a flood of people wash past her. She can hear the employee yelling, “No! Five at a time! Stop!” People are pushing her and grabbing at any idea they can get their hands on. Now the employee is yelling, “One! One idea limit per person!” No one is listening.
People clutch as many ideas as they can hold to their chests. Madison is knocked into a shelf and slides down to the floor. She tucks her head in her arms, trying to make herself as small as possible as feet and arms and legs surround her.
Someone reaches down, catches her hand and pulls her up. It’s the Poet. He pulls her through the mass of crushing bodies. They are out in the sunshine. She sucks in a deep breath. Police sirens fill the air.
The Poet gently takes her arm and directs her away from the store. “Are you okay?” he asks.
She shakes her head. “I don’t know.”
The Poet has lost his hat. His bald head shines in the sun. His glasses are askew and cracked. He pulls in a shaky breath and hands her an Idea Shop bag. “Take care of yourself,” he says and walks away before she can think of what to say.
She climbs slowly into her car as police cars pull up to the front of the store. The world is all flashing lights and screaming sounds. Madison opens the bag, peeks inside, and smiles.
It will be okay.
March 7, 2020
Write Something
I would like to write something beautiful
About war
And something hideous
About flowers
I would like to write something hilarious
About death
And something heartbreaking
About sunshine
I would like to write something whimsical
About disease
And something terrifying
About pin-wheels
I would like to write something brilliant
About sweaters
And something vapid
About astrophysics
I would like to write something poetic
About carburetors
And something instructional
About wishes
I would like to write
Something
March 1, 2020
Eat Cheese
If at a writing retreat
Should one write
Or eat cheese
And observe the bird
On the fence?
If at a writing retreat
Should one write
Or commiserate with fellow writers
And watch movies
Late into the night?
If at a writing retreat
Should one write
Or take a wander
And think important thoughts
For later use?
If at a writing retreat
Should one write
Or read and nap
And wonder
On the screened in porch?
If at a writing retreat
One should probably write a bit
And commiserate, and laugh, and wander
And wonder and read and nap
And eat a bit
of cheese.
February 23, 2020
Coffee Shop Muse
My coffee shop muse
is delinquent.
I study the black tin ceiling
as I wait—stood up again.
I stare at my computer,
eavesdropping on other couples,
happy couples
so unlike my muse and me.
I put new stickers on my laptop
and order a chai latte.
All fancied up with
nothing to write.
I listen to the soft jazz,
study the hipster Edison Bulb lighting,
and wonder if there is
a Tinder for muses.
I would swipe right.
