Writings in the Raw

one hundred word story #85: The curve

2012-02-02T23:09:00.001-08:00

Isn’t it always a question of timing? She asks, hair swept across her face. I think it’s always about timing. George isn’t listening. He’s watching the race unfold. They are professional Nascar drivers. See how James takes that curve, nice and slow? She points. He knows when to gather speed. I don’t care how James takes the curve, George says. He turns away, buries his fists into his pockets. She stiffens. George, if this is about last night—. She senses him waiting. I can be patient, she says. Yeah, he says sadly, only when you’re in the driver’s seat.

one hundred word story #84: Transit

2012-01-31T22:56:00.000-08:00

We park my bike next to yours in the shed overnight. The next morning, three small tricycles hide under my back wheel. The tricycles have my curvy handlebars and your racer stripes. My bike looks tired, her tires deflated. Your bike’s pedals spin midair. You reach for a trike, but it rolls out of view. Maybe they belong to the neighbors, you say. You reach for the door but I stop you. Let’s leave it open, I say. We’re not gone long, but when we come back, the bikes are gone. That night, we park our cars down the street.

one hundred word story #83: Migrant

2012-01-30T10:22:00.001-08:00

Gertie wants to follow the birds south. She can see them from her window: Canadian geese, loons, the occasional egret or blue heron. It’s been a long autumn. Sometimes, on days when it is all too much, she gets on her bike at sunset and tails the birds around the pond. The birds fly in one great vee, swooping back to their nesting grounds in time for dark. But sometimes there is a straggler, a lingerer, a loner who considers the darkening sky an invitation and just keeps flying. Gertie understands. One day she’ll go. Until then, she waits, nesting.

one hundred word story #82: Spring cleaning

2012-01-29T22:15:00.001-08:00

Kevin walks into the kitchen as the appliances are staging their revolution. The fridge door slams open and shut, jiggling expired salsa and salad dressing. The dishwasher foams, soap bubbles colonizing the tile floor. The oven is on full blast. The wires in the circuit breaker have been cut. What do you want? He asks. The oven opens its mouth. The dishwasher gurgles. The fridge swings open, beeps. The icebox has a message scratched across its frozen surface. Use us, or we’ll use ourselves. Kevin empties the fridge. Mops the floor. Bakes cookies. He relaxes, until he sees the bathroom.

one hundred word story #81: Rainbow

2012-01-26T22:31:00.001-08:00

Eric is incapable of feeling emotion, so the doctors install a meter on his abdomen. When the arrow swings to the red zone, it means he is reacting in anger. When it goes blue, his body is heavy with sadness. He can’t locate a color for happiness. Then Angelika walks in his shop. One look and blood rises like mercury to his brain. Eric feels steam in his throat, iron in his chest. This feeling – if that’s what it is – is off the charts. Are you okay? She asks. The meter is whistling—self-deconstructing. I am, Eric says. I am.

one hundred word story #80: Lecturer

2012-01-25T23:24:00.001-08:00

He is loquacious, not listening when people ask questions, not caring when someone gets the answer wrong, just loving, adoring, worshipping the sound of his own voice, its sonorous tenor echoing off the classroom walls in almost visible waves. Then, halfway through a lecture on Active Listening, his voice gives out, hissing like a deflated tire while the words wind down. He. Can. Only. Say. One. Word. At. A. Time. The gaps between words fill with sounds of students talking. Some have smart things to say. He is startled into silence. Despite his efforts, he’s given his best lecture yet.

Self-deportation? Really?

2012-01-24T23:32:00.000-08:00

Apparently there is a grassroots organization, endorsed by the Tea Party, called Patriots for Self-Deportation, whose mission it is to "call awareness to the threats that our beloved nation, the United States of America, faces from illegal immigration."

This is frightening, absurd, and frankly, un-American.

The movement calls for Americans to "verify that you are an anchor baby" (those are their exact words) and in the case that one is not, say, one of "us," citizens are advised to reapply for citizenship (yes, that's a "re" there), or return to the country of the ancestors' origin. Effectively, this website and its organization is asking people to go back where they came from -- all under the guise that by doing so, they are being real patriots.

Perhaps the best part of this website are its comments. There were those like me, who after stumbling upon this site, assumed (and frankly, hoped) that it was a huge practical joke. This organization believes that the best way to address illegal immigration is to ask citizens to research their family history with the intention of catching "an illegal" (they use that word to refer to a person more than once), and then voluntarily self-deport (I did not know that was a reflexive verb, thanks Mitt Romney) back to their ancestral home. This is all assuming that one's ancestral home will be beckoning them back with open arms, regardless of, say, religious persecution, political exile, um, genocide, or, I don't know, run-of-the-mill immigration regulations. How could this not be a joke?

And then I noticed this: about halfway down its Frequently Asked Questions Page, there is the following exchange:

Luke Owen: "This is batshit insane."
Eric Rife: "It's called SATIRE. Loosen up."
Patriots for Self-Deportation: "We are for real. Why would you think it is satire?"
David: "Because you are ridiculous."

Here are some questions for you, Patriots for Self-Deportation:

1) Who, in their right mind, would rescind their citizenship? Especially if they were born in this country and their parents or grandparents fought tooth and nail to get them a better life? Especially if their family was fleeing a war, a racist regime, etc., etc.?

2) Given the amount of paperwork that goes into applying for citizenship in any country, do you really think that this is the most efficient way to approach illegal immigration in the United States?

3) By the way, where are you from? Your parents? Grandparents? Oh yeah, that's right, it is not supposed to matter, because we live in a country that was founded by people fleeing other countries. A place where people should be treated like people -- not objects that can be made legal or illegal, zipped back and forth over borders because they fail to be "anchor babies."

If you are curious as to what got me so riled up about this, please watch this:

You'll notice some laughter in the background. I think that's our pal Luke Owen.

one hundred word story #79: Problem solver

2012-01-24T14:11:00.001-08:00

Jared’s body is a series of stacked triangles—his nose pointed, his pecs sculpted, his legs boxy and small. He is an unsolved mathematical proof. His body, though compact, is only useful when plugged in to an equation. He’s not big enough for football, not aerodynamic enough to swim. What can he do? He fits into a square two times. Given the right proportions, he can make any angle right. But he is incomplete. One day he meets his match: Alfonso, the diver, whose legs are steel, whose arms circumnavigate Jared’s neck. Together, they solve problems. Together, they are indivisible.

one hundred word story #78: His story

2012-01-23T22:24:00.000-08:00

When she tells him her major, he says, Let me tell you something about history. History is dust. History is the dirt under your fingernails. What are you going to do with that? She doesn’t say anything, so he says, I study political science. I’m going to make history. He hasn’t looked up from his drink, so he doesn’t notice when she walks away. But she does remember his face—-enough to recognize him ten years later, when he interviews for an internship at her law firm. Has your political philosophy changed? She asks. Oh that? He says. That’s history.

one hundred story #77: The sound of music

2012-01-22T15:31:00.000-08:00

She used to listen to records with her father while they washed dishes. Her hands had to be dry when it came time to flip the record. She’d hold it with her thumb and forefinger before placing the needle. This is sacred, he’d say, peering through the record’s eye. Twenty years later, when she’d fit her music collection onto a single hard drive, she realized what was missing. Aretha, Bob, Etta—they were invisible files written in invisible code. She longed to hold something. That night, at the music store, she thumbed stacks of records, rubbing music into her hands.

one hundred word story #76: The letter

2012-01-21T23:04:00.000-08:00

On your way out you say, write me a letter. I watch until your car is white speck on the horizon. Monday is lousy with rain so I let the drops fall on the page. Tuesday the trees are dewy with blossoms, so I squish some in the envelope. Wednesday a squirrel leaves footprints on the paper. Thursday I want to fit the rest of the world in, but there aren’t enough words. When Friday comes, you are here again, your books on my desk, your smell in my room, you say, don’t worry, baby, this is what I meant.

one hundred word story #75: Good girl

2012-01-20T15:17:00.000-08:00

She always worked hard, took out the garbage, brushed her teeth every night. By all accounts, she was a good person. What was so special about good? Or was that just it—good wasn’t special? She decided to test her limits. She started small: biting her fingernails, lying about her age, skimping on tips. No one noticed. She took it up a notch, sending passive-aggressive emails, “forgetting” to file her taxes, letting her dog shit on the park lawn. She’d never felt better. Then she realized: good is defined in terms of bad – and bad felt so good. Thank goodness.

This makes me really happy

2012-01-19T23:02:00.001-08:00

Lydia Davis: on the off-off-off-off-off chance that you come across this, or perhaps have your name set on Google Alerts, or perhaps have an intern somewhere whose job it is to Google you, please know that your stories are my manna. Granted, you are too interesting, important and busy to read blogs like mine, but I'll let myself dream that perhaps, someday, through the miracle that is the internet, you'll know what I mean.

footage from the 2010 Edinburgh Fringe Festival, shot by Penguin Digital

one hundred word story #74: When you're a skunk

2012-01-19T13:50:00.001-08:00

Stefano and the skunks sport gang colors, comb their white stripes into mohawks, The cats stake out windowsills kitty-corner to the crime scene. The trouble started when the chief cat, Maurice, discovered the trash heap behind the student co-op and snuck his ladyfriends in for a late night snack. By the time Stefano’s crew showed up, the good stuff was gone. The ensuing battle was a sensory explosion: Maurice and his girls’ sharp claws could only do so much before Stefano launched his secret attack. The stench inspired a silence so raw, so reverent, the cats got drunk on skunk.

one hundred word story #73: Intelligent design

2012-01-18T10:23:00.001-08:00

Elsie works nights as a nurse, volunteers every week with the elderly. She prays on her hands and knees. She is vegetarian, vegan on Sundays. Her clothes are second-hand. Then, one night, Jesus comes to her in a dream. He says, I can grant you one wish – peace on Earth, eternal life—anything. Her dream self asks for a tree that grows Louis Vuitton purses. Jesus is surprised but he obliges her. Elsie wakes up embarrassed. She’s nearly forgotten the whole thing when she steps outside and there it is: a tree decorated in designer purses. “Hell yeah,” she whispers.

Reggie Watts: my cosmic hero

2012-01-17T21:44:00.000-08:00

Improvised song about the universe? By the one and only Reggie Watts? On public radio? Yes please.

one hundred word story #72: Bedside manner

2012-01-17T15:29:00.000-08:00

"Open wide," the dentist says. Clarissa hates the dentist. She hates the smell of his gloves and the brusque way he flosses her teeth, see-sawing between molars like he secretly wants to saw them all down. He always asks he questions when his hands are deep in her mouth. One day he asks her to recite the Quadratic Equation, then waits while her mouth fills with saliva. Clarissa takes this as a sign, and studies before her next doctor’s appointment--a pap smear. When the gynecologist says “Open wide,” Clarissa recites the Pythagorean Theorem. “Um, other end,” the doctor says.

one hundred word story #71: Ninth life

2012-01-16T18:07:00.000-08:00

Their mom said they could no longer afford the cat. Rudy filled a burlap sack with rocks. Gerald coaxed the old girl inside, her fur matted and dirty. Tom tried to block out the mewling, the incessant throb of her purrs. When they got to the bridge they saw that the riverbed was dry and cracked. The brothers looked the other way while Tom wound up. He didn’t notice the fabric shred just so. When he released, the bag was light and airy, the cat gone. There was no plop. The boys waited. And then: the bridge began to purr.

one hundred word story #70: Hit and run

2012-01-16T17:15:00.001-08:00

Burt is a lonely medical student. He spends long hours studying in the library and as many hours at the pub, decoding graffiti on the wall. And then he meets his match: a leggy brunette with fascinating viscera. Her lab report says it was a hit and run. Burt cannot understand who could run from her. They keep her face covered but a single curl escaped below her jaw. He writes her poems on pub walls, leaves notes in biology textbooks. One day he sees a note balled in her fist. Fuck off, it reads. Burt hits her and runs.

one hundred word story #69: Penny Pincher

2012-01-12T22:21:00.000-08:00

Stefan was afraid of money—the leathery, scratchy feel of green in his palms, the metallic smack of coins. He sold artisanal crafts at local flea markets, although he turned away cash-paying customers. His bottle-cap mobiles were a big hit. And then it occurred to him: his cure. He kept his eye on the asphalt for stray dollar bills. He spent weeks weaving bills together, George Washington’s face kissing Abraham Lincoln’s. The result was a patchwork quilt; Stefan’s biggest piece yet. Though a bit unwieldy, the quilt worked: for years it was his bargaining tool. His money never exchanged hands.

one hundred word #68: Speech impediment

2012-01-11T22:53:00.000-08:00

Fern was born with a strange ailment. Every word she uttered, she could only speak once. She wished she could say her name, that beautiful way eff curled so easily into ern. Her parents devised a complicated sign language, along with color coordinated flash cards, to get her through each day. Whenever she made up a word her jaw would lock. Then Fern discovered William Shatner. More importantly, she found Esperanto. Because so few people spoke those words, there was enough room in the universe to repeat them. Each night before bed, she whispered dankon, dankon. Thank you. Thank you.

The Moment from SMITH Mag

2012-01-11T21:32:00.000-08:00

Exciting news: my piece 2.10.01 is included in SMITH Mag's latest book, The Moment: Wild, Poignant, Life-Changing Stories from 125 Writers and Artists Famous and Obscure. The anthology includes pieces from such writers as Benjamin Percy, Elizabeth Gilbert, Steve Almond, Dave Eggers, and Shalom Auslander. A version of the piece I submitted started here on this blog, posted on the anniversary of my diagnosis of type 1 diabetes.

I will be reading my piece, along with a number of other Bay Area writers, at the Booksmith bookstore in San Francisco on March 8. SMITH Mag is hosting promotional book events around the country to highlight writers from various regions.

It's nice, as an obscure writer, to have a moment every now and then.

one hundred word story #67: Démon

2012-01-10T21:54:00.000-08:00

I swore in church and so my babysitter washed my mouth out with soap. Organic, tea tree sandalwood soap, French milled vegetable soap the color and texture of satin. She didn't realize the soap would alter my vocabulary. After I'd choked back the silky suds, the first words I said were por quoi? Shut yer trap, she said. I tried but my lips bubbled. Voulez-vous dansez? Quit yer fooling, she whispered. She didn’t want to dance. Instead, she took me back to church to exorcise the demons, this time with good old-fashioned industrial strength Dial soap. Il n'a pas travaillé.

one hundred word story #66: Dangerous liaisons

2012-01-09T19:56:00.000-08:00

Ernest never learned to compliment. "Your face," he says to Belinda, "looks like a thousand tiny suns, all converging in a massive eclipse." "Your eyes," he says to Emily, "are like apple seeds, except bigger, and shinier." “You’re pretty and everything,“ he says to his barista, “but really, it’s your insides I’m interested in.” This time it registers. Words don’t work; gestures do. He brings her a cup of coffee at her café. “For you,” he says. “Is this from down the street?” she asks. “This coffee is like my feelings—hot,” he says. “Then keep it,” she says, “please.”

one hundred story #65: The truth

2012-01-08T15:54:00.000-08:00

Harriet could not handle the truth. It was so hot it burned her hands. She let it simmer on her stove. And there the truth sat, curdling in her kitchen until the smell drove her housemates away. But Harriet had grown accustomed to the air, which was so thick she had to cut through it with a flashlight to get to the sink. Then the fog grew so strong it sprouted arms and legs and shattered the kitchen windows. It wasn’t until the truth permeated the atmosphere that Harriet was forced to accept it: she never was a good cook.

one hundred word story #64: Art?

2012-01-05T20:09:00.000-08:00

Her cellmates don't understand. "The thing was mocking me," she says, fists balled under her arms. "Some dude sprays red and black on canvas -- with a trowel -- and they call it art." Carmen paces, shoes clapping the linoleum. “Who’s to say that what I did wasn’t also art?” One of the women says, “Didn’t you piss on a painting?” Carmen isn’t listening. “I had color, shape, form, perspective.” The warden appears. “I was provoked. All artists want to provoke an emotional reaction, right?” He sighs. “Wait til you see what I can do with a trowel,” she says.

one hundred word story #63: Caving

2012-01-03T22:11:00.001-08:00

Follow me, she says. He sidles up, one hand on his hip, edges inward. Mind the gap, she says. The sunlight splits above her head, a hundred shafts of yellow splintering through blackness. They hear water. A thousand things could happen here, where it’s dark and dank. A thousand invisible, undoable things could happen. He could lose her. He could lose himself. They both could lose the sun. Instead, they trundle forward, grabbing rock when they don’t grab each other. When it’s over, they measure dirt in their palms, grateful they can see. Next time, she says, bring a flashlight.

one hundred word story #62: If only Benjamin Button learned to surf

2012-01-02T22:21:00.000-08:00

Let loose the rope and cock your knees. The water won't reach your chin. Watch the egrets hover. See how everything on the river does what the water wants? There's no fighting this. Even when you accept the cold, every moment you sit here, you float backward in time. You shrivel. Your jacket dwarfs you. Hit it, you want to yell, but you’ve waited too long. The boat, too, has morphed. You are tied to a lousy sapling; the engine sank miles back. Don’t panic. You made it to the sea. Surf those waves, and you just might grow up.

one hundred word story #61: Winning

2011-12-26T22:33:00.000-08:00

The arena's full. Fireworks ejaculate off baskets as the players emerge one by one, unsnapping pants at the knees. We pay these men to play. We hope these games have meaning. When they score, we shout. When they foul, we squirm. When their opponents huddle, sweat beading their brows, we beat our chests, yell Give up--go home. If only we could sweat out our problems on some grand stage. If only we could slam dunk our tiny victories, paid bills and good health. If only our labor strikes were half as fruitful. When we win, they’ll buy our words.

one hundred word story #60: Unfurling

2011-12-21T22:57:00.000-08:00

The butterflies hang still like discarded paper bags. But then the wind shifts. The bags open and out pop a thousand orange wings. They are out of reach. When you get home, back where tule fog lingers, where the only ocean is the tousle of dried corn, you want to recreate that moment. You drape scarves from your rooftop. Wait for the perfect unfurling. You look up for hours. Your neck is sore. Your scarves are thick with fog. And then: a single butterfly, orange and translucent, perches on your windowsill. No pops, no pizzazz; wings brush glass. You unfurl.

one hundred word story #59: From the desk of...

2011-12-16T20:13:00.000-08:00

Dear diary, today we made a small nation smaller. Then we had lunch: pastrami on rye. We were out of money so we nixed elementary school arts programs. Lord knows we don't need any more fourth graders with recorders. After that we played handball with some entrepreneurs—and won. It was Happy Hour before we realized we’d bought a half million homes on credit. Not again! Luckily, we were ready to hire 100,000 new builders. Only problem? They’ll have to telecommute—from India. Hey, this is globalism in action, right? That’s what we’re doing, right, diary? Yeah, I thought so.

one hundred word story #58: Turkey drop

2011-12-15T23:04:00.000-08:00

There are turkeys on my car. The first one seems friendly; his gobbles falsetto. But then James drops the trail mix. They peck at the windshield. They scratch the doors. They shit on my sunroof. I can see their turds settling. The flock—the gaggle—the monsters attack us with holiday cheer. Start the car! James yells. But turkeys blockade my wheels. I turn the ignition. The big one jumps on the hood, levels his face to mine. I can’t, I say. You should, says James. The turkey shits on the windshield. We lurch forward. That night, we eat turkey.

inspired by a recent This American Life story about rogue turkeys

one hundred word story #57: Ways to fall in love

2011-12-14T23:27:00.000-08:00

He bought me glucose tablets. He held my hand while we biked. He took me to see the seals in the snow. He left a birthday gift outside my parents’ gate, close to midnight on a day I thought he’d forgotten. These are all the ways I’ve fallen in love. But this one unrolled the country and we hiked right across it. He vacuums. He lets me drive his ATV. This one woke me that night I'd fallen off the bed, wet and shaking, and didn't mind that I'd broken his glasses. This one is afraid of the right things.

one hundred word story #56: Take care

2011-12-13T23:00:00.000-08:00

After the cicadas stop humming, after the moon flushes the sky clean of stars, we hear it. A thrashing, a clanging, a hurtling, is whirling towards us from below the campground. You pace on the pulsing soil. Don’t worry, you call. I’ll take care of it. The earth is loud. Insects gather at my feet. Then I notice it: the ground has seams. Stick your finger in and up it rips, soil and roots and worms, concrete foundations, wooden beams, gravestones. Don’t! You say. But my fingers are hungry. I pull back the earth beneath your feet. I take care.

one hundred word story #55: Dad

2011-12-12T19:09:00.000-08:00

You run in the evenings, long after dark. You line the counter with mason jars of fresh pesto and pomegranate jelly. I cost you more than you’ll say—the boxes of needles under the stairs are proof enough. Once, when I was abroad, you called late at night to make sure the world hadn’t broken me yet. But that’s just it. Everything I break, you fix; sometimes with epoxy, sometimes by running past turkeys in the rain, clearing the trail before I get there myself. Someday I’ll make you dinner. Clear your path. Who knows, maybe we’ll get there together.

one hundred word story #54: Cure

2011-12-08T23:08:00.000-08:00

You have the cure for what I've got. You carry it in a locket around your neck. Maybe that's why you keep me at arm’s length--you can feel the keening. You don't know your own power. How could you? There aren’t any holes in your body. The systems, they all work. Your nerves are superfine. You think I like you. Really, I’m sticking around long enough to see that locket open. I want to be there when the cure spills out, maybe like smoke, maybe like gunshot. Either way, I’ll be here to remember what it’s like—being whole.

one hundred word story #53: Hold this

2011-12-07T23:14:00.000-08:00

What if, every day, starting the day we were born, the world gave us something to hold? Pencils, pixie sticks, chickadees. We'd go everywhere holding things, hands so full that we'd give up introducing ourselves. Instead we’d trade things. A Coke for a dictionary, a dictionary for an iPad, an iPad for a robot. And what if, at some specific moment in time—our twenty-first birthdays, say—the world took it all back? Our houses, they’d empty. Our cars, they’d disappear. We’d be left with only our hands. Maybe then we could put a name to this feeling—this quiet.

one hundred word story #52: Politics

2011-12-05T23:22:00.000-08:00

The candidate was up in the polls until the first woman came forward. His campaign manager assured him that it was nothing; what difference did one measly affair make? Then the second woman, his former employee, called the press. Best to address it now, his manager said; nip it in the bud. But it was too late. The women, they came out of the woodworks. They showed up at his restaurant. They met him on the golf course. They occupied city streets. On election day, they surrounded his car. Your voice might be loud, they said, but your words—powerless.