jagged
This time, the flare-up is over a jar of expired sauce. He slams the jar into the garbage bag; she fishes it out and nearly slices open her hand.
overlook
He likes the kids who act out. They're more honest, he says. But what about the kids who stuff their pain so deep it eats them alive, even as they smile and get good grades?
pinpricks
At a few points during the film, the panelists pause it to take questions. Some of them respond with substantive answers. Others devote their time to protracted thanks, reeling off names. The lights over the screen sear our eyes.
riff
A panhandler wearing a Trump mask props up a sign in front of him that says "Mexican Wall Fund."
thumbing
At a meal of rituals, songs, and prayers, he keeps an eye on hockey scores, checking his phone with an exaggerated sneakiness that's meant to fool no one.
warmed
They hug, for once, in a small room saturated with cooking smells - meat sizzling, herbed potatoes softening.
yarn
We toss ideas back and forth and build a story, with joy and energy.
Showing posts with label storytelling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label storytelling. Show all posts
Friday, January 20, 2017
Friday, February 6, 2015
Week in Seven Words #244
arresting
There are some sounds to which I fall silent and still.
present
The key is to appear clearly to yourself and think, "Here I am. Here's what I'm doing." And not have to shy away from either.
pretense
He makes the "both sides are wrong" copout. Yes, both sides have flaws - but for one side, it's a few typos, while for the other side it's the equivalent of ungrammatical chicken scratch handed in on toilet paper.
ribs
I'm imprisoned in the stories I tell about myself.
soggy
Rain puddling under a bench where we sit and share a bag of peanut butter cups.
soreness
Damp and tired, feet chafed, after a long walk in the park with inappropriate footwear.
version
Change the narratives then. Cobble together some new ones. Find out who you are after years of not listening, of treating yourself as second-rate.
There are some sounds to which I fall silent and still.
present
The key is to appear clearly to yourself and think, "Here I am. Here's what I'm doing." And not have to shy away from either.
pretense
He makes the "both sides are wrong" copout. Yes, both sides have flaws - but for one side, it's a few typos, while for the other side it's the equivalent of ungrammatical chicken scratch handed in on toilet paper.
ribs
I'm imprisoned in the stories I tell about myself.
soggy
Rain puddling under a bench where we sit and share a bag of peanut butter cups.
soreness
Damp and tired, feet chafed, after a long walk in the park with inappropriate footwear.
version
Change the narratives then. Cobble together some new ones. Find out who you are after years of not listening, of treating yourself as second-rate.
Sunday, January 25, 2015
Week in Seven Words #242
backyard
Cut a path across planks, past muddy furrows, pitted grass and cables coiling snake-like.
confection
A pink cake on a purple plate and a stew of plastic spiders are what he serves me from his waist-high kitchen.
disruptive
A pleading grown-up, a giggling child. The red clock on the microwave marking a wasted lesson.
hole
There's a well of misery in her. From time to time, she peeks into it, maybe sticks her head part-way in (the echoes of 'not enough,' 'not enough' are stronger in there). But for the most part she ignores it, even though its emanations and stagnant contents affect much of what she does.
listen
As a younger child gets read to, older ones hang around and listen in. The pleasure of hearing a story out loud, and sharing its delight with another person, doesn't have to fade.
rear-ended
A bewildered, apologetic face behind a windshield.
vibrant
Their happy shrieks and laughter mix with the shimmer of the swimming pool.
Cut a path across planks, past muddy furrows, pitted grass and cables coiling snake-like.
confection
A pink cake on a purple plate and a stew of plastic spiders are what he serves me from his waist-high kitchen.
disruptive
A pleading grown-up, a giggling child. The red clock on the microwave marking a wasted lesson.
hole
There's a well of misery in her. From time to time, she peeks into it, maybe sticks her head part-way in (the echoes of 'not enough,' 'not enough' are stronger in there). But for the most part she ignores it, even though its emanations and stagnant contents affect much of what she does.
listen
As a younger child gets read to, older ones hang around and listen in. The pleasure of hearing a story out loud, and sharing its delight with another person, doesn't have to fade.
rear-ended
A bewildered, apologetic face behind a windshield.
vibrant
Their happy shrieks and laughter mix with the shimmer of the swimming pool.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Week in Seven Words #135
gynecologist
The awkwardness when the doctor attempts polite chit-chat during an annual check-up. How do you like the city so far? Uh, it's great. Super. Lots to do here, yep.
insouciant
Among the harried people rushing from block to block there's one person sailing along half-nude on a bicycle and wearing a glittery silver wig.
passing
Old men on a bench outside a cafe looking around at a neighborhood that's changed.
refreshing
Evergreens and harbor air.
scarce
Health insurance options.
solemnity
A grove of trees, a copper bell, and geese.
spectral
There are many stories to be found in the silent houses.
The awkwardness when the doctor attempts polite chit-chat during an annual check-up. How do you like the city so far? Uh, it's great. Super. Lots to do here, yep.
insouciant
Among the harried people rushing from block to block there's one person sailing along half-nude on a bicycle and wearing a glittery silver wig.
passing
Old men on a bench outside a cafe looking around at a neighborhood that's changed.
refreshing
Evergreens and harbor air.
scarce
Health insurance options.
solemnity
A grove of trees, a copper bell, and geese.
spectral
There are many stories to be found in the silent houses.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Good Short Fiction: The Immortal Story by Isak Dinesen
Title: The Immortal Story
Author: Isak Dinesen (Karen Blixen)
Where I read it: Anecdotes of Destiny and Ehrengard
Reading this story was like lying in the surf having waves pour over me; I knew I should get up and breathe from time to time, but I wanted to stay where I was until the tide receded.
Who are the characters set in motion in The Immortal Story?
There's Mr. Clay, a miserly English nabob in Canton, who lives in a house full of mirrors that once belonged to his business partner whom he bankrupted (and who then committed suicide). He knows only figures, facts and transactional relationships; money is the defining element and purpose of his existence. After he falls sick, he has a clerk, Elishama, stay up all night reading old account books to him. But one day when they run out of accounts to read, he asks on impulse for a different kind of story.
Elishama is also a man cut off from human relationships, though unlike Mr. Clay he doesn't covet wealth. When Elishama was a young boy his family was murdered in the 1848 pogroms in Poland, and he was passed around from one place to another, taught book-keeping, and finally sent east until he wound up in China. What he wants more than anything else is solitary peace:
In response to his employer's request for another kind of story, Elishama reads aloud from a page once given to him by an old man who left Poland with him when he was six. It's an excerpt from the Book of Isaiah. Listening to it, Mr. Clay asks if any of these prophecies were ever fulfilled, and then wonders why people tell stories about things that never came about. He's determined then to will a story into existence. He decides on one of the few he's ever heard - a sailors' tale - and orders Elishama to help him set it in motion, not as a play but as a real life event.
Who will they enlist as the participants? There's Virginie, a mistress of one of Mr. Clay's employees, who turns out to be a surprising, complex figure. And then there's the sailor they pluck from the harbor, the one willing to trust Mr. Clay and his promises.
Even as Dinesen lays her characters bare, she handles them with gentleness, a kind of sympathy for their shortcomings and pain. I like how each character is jaded and old in some ways, and young and fragile in others. Mr. Clay, for all that he owns the district and feels that everyone is a toy in his hands, is with those same feelings rendered an overreaching child. Elishama seems to understand the price of everything (even if he doesn't always agree with it) and makes some wise observations about what he's seen of life, but he's forever a traumatized child who doesn't want to be hurt again. Virginie still has one foot in her childhood, the happiest time of her life with an affectionate father who used to tell her grand stories; now her view of the world is as a place to get by, to try and feel good and make others feel good. Lastly the sailor mixes boyishness with hard experience.
What happens when Mr. Clay attempts to enact a fictitious tale? Does he have the power to truly bring anything to life? He measures his success by bare dry facts and doesn't seem to realize that while people and relationships can be reduced to transactions they also rise above them. Virginie and the sailor have their own stories to tell behind closed doors, to deepen their encounter, and Mr. Clay knows nothing of it. He might like to think of people as puppets that he twitches along fixed paths, but there's much that goes on beneath the surface - worlds of beauty and sympathy that he can't perceive. Stories take on a life of their own, and miracles can manifest in small ways.
-------------
This post has been linked to at Short Stories on Wednesdays at Simple Clockwork.
Author: Isak Dinesen (Karen Blixen)
Where I read it: Anecdotes of Destiny and Ehrengard
Reading this story was like lying in the surf having waves pour over me; I knew I should get up and breathe from time to time, but I wanted to stay where I was until the tide receded.
Who are the characters set in motion in The Immortal Story?
There's Mr. Clay, a miserly English nabob in Canton, who lives in a house full of mirrors that once belonged to his business partner whom he bankrupted (and who then committed suicide). He knows only figures, facts and transactional relationships; money is the defining element and purpose of his existence. After he falls sick, he has a clerk, Elishama, stay up all night reading old account books to him. But one day when they run out of accounts to read, he asks on impulse for a different kind of story.
Elishama is also a man cut off from human relationships, though unlike Mr. Clay he doesn't covet wealth. When Elishama was a young boy his family was murdered in the 1848 pogroms in Poland, and he was passed around from one place to another, taught book-keeping, and finally sent east until he wound up in China. What he wants more than anything else is solitary peace:
One passion he had, if passion it may be called - a fanatical craving for security and for being left alone... His soul was concentrated upon this one request: that he might enter his closet and shut his door, with the certainty that here no one could possibly follow or disturb him.Elishama has sympathy for women, and for birds, but he doesn't get emotionally involved with anyone; he sees things keenly, but in the spirit of an outsider and not a true participant in life.
In response to his employer's request for another kind of story, Elishama reads aloud from a page once given to him by an old man who left Poland with him when he was six. It's an excerpt from the Book of Isaiah. Listening to it, Mr. Clay asks if any of these prophecies were ever fulfilled, and then wonders why people tell stories about things that never came about. He's determined then to will a story into existence. He decides on one of the few he's ever heard - a sailors' tale - and orders Elishama to help him set it in motion, not as a play but as a real life event.
Who will they enlist as the participants? There's Virginie, a mistress of one of Mr. Clay's employees, who turns out to be a surprising, complex figure. And then there's the sailor they pluck from the harbor, the one willing to trust Mr. Clay and his promises.
Even as Dinesen lays her characters bare, she handles them with gentleness, a kind of sympathy for their shortcomings and pain. I like how each character is jaded and old in some ways, and young and fragile in others. Mr. Clay, for all that he owns the district and feels that everyone is a toy in his hands, is with those same feelings rendered an overreaching child. Elishama seems to understand the price of everything (even if he doesn't always agree with it) and makes some wise observations about what he's seen of life, but he's forever a traumatized child who doesn't want to be hurt again. Virginie still has one foot in her childhood, the happiest time of her life with an affectionate father who used to tell her grand stories; now her view of the world is as a place to get by, to try and feel good and make others feel good. Lastly the sailor mixes boyishness with hard experience.
What happens when Mr. Clay attempts to enact a fictitious tale? Does he have the power to truly bring anything to life? He measures his success by bare dry facts and doesn't seem to realize that while people and relationships can be reduced to transactions they also rise above them. Virginie and the sailor have their own stories to tell behind closed doors, to deepen their encounter, and Mr. Clay knows nothing of it. He might like to think of people as puppets that he twitches along fixed paths, but there's much that goes on beneath the surface - worlds of beauty and sympathy that he can't perceive. Stories take on a life of their own, and miracles can manifest in small ways.
-------------
This post has been linked to at Short Stories on Wednesdays at Simple Clockwork.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Week in Seven Words #109
discreetly
The leaves when they return will conceal rubble, graffiti, and skeletal fences.
fritillaries
Van Gogh painted flowers that vibrate and gardens that rise up to meet you.
hissy
On the grill the hamburgers are spitting grease.
latent
I like watching people sprint up the art museum steps pretending they're Rocky. Rocky's statue isn't at the top of the steps though; it's planted at the bottom, where people who can't or don't want to race up the steps and pump their arms in the air can still stand next to him and flex their biceps for the camera. Somewhere in those unused muscles is the strength of a boxer.
pristine
For his nephew he laid out almond blossoms on a blue background - the skies of early spring, explored by blossoms and criss-crossing branches.
suggested
In each portrait there's a story - a harlequin in a winter forest, a lady who doesn't meet your eyes, a man who is considering his profits while smoking a pipe.
tarrying
Back in Halloween someone strung up a plastic skeleton outside the apartment building across the street. On New Year's Day it was still there wearing a festive hat. The hat has since disappeared, and it received nothing for Valentine's Day. Now it grins down on the street, anticipating spring like the rest of us.
The leaves when they return will conceal rubble, graffiti, and skeletal fences.
fritillaries
Van Gogh painted flowers that vibrate and gardens that rise up to meet you.
hissy
On the grill the hamburgers are spitting grease.
latent
I like watching people sprint up the art museum steps pretending they're Rocky. Rocky's statue isn't at the top of the steps though; it's planted at the bottom, where people who can't or don't want to race up the steps and pump their arms in the air can still stand next to him and flex their biceps for the camera. Somewhere in those unused muscles is the strength of a boxer.
pristine
For his nephew he laid out almond blossoms on a blue background - the skies of early spring, explored by blossoms and criss-crossing branches.
suggested
In each portrait there's a story - a harlequin in a winter forest, a lady who doesn't meet your eyes, a man who is considering his profits while smoking a pipe.
tarrying
Back in Halloween someone strung up a plastic skeleton outside the apartment building across the street. On New Year's Day it was still there wearing a festive hat. The hat has since disappeared, and it received nothing for Valentine's Day. Now it grins down on the street, anticipating spring like the rest of us.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Week in Seven Words #96
aa
Thanks to my Scrabble partner I find out that this is a kind of rough basaltic lava. It's also a great way to get rid of superfluous vowels and fit words into tight corners of the board.
flavor
It's a small cozy café with pizza, lasagna, salads and soups, and only a handful of tables. What makes the place itself special is one of the people who works there. He flirts and jokes, and in the middle of our meal walks up to us and shares a tale about a carpenter who reunites a pair of estranged brothers by building a bridge over the river that separates their properties.
priorities
I'm heading down the street on wobbly legs. Clearly I need to lie down. But first, a stop at the library.
residuum
Recently this stretch of sidewalk had a leafy golden roof, grand and bright like a corridor in an Oriental palace. Now it looks gutted, the leaves gone and the branches like brittle kindling.
smarting
As I approach the river the wind rakes through me, and even the buildings shiver.
sprightly
I bring Fantasia with me and watch them laugh at the dancing hippos and the fairies spreading rime and dewdrops on pliant leaves.
trepidation
With every phone call I feel a spike of tension. I don't know what the news will be on the other end. I can only pray for the best.
Thanks to my Scrabble partner I find out that this is a kind of rough basaltic lava. It's also a great way to get rid of superfluous vowels and fit words into tight corners of the board.
flavor
It's a small cozy café with pizza, lasagna, salads and soups, and only a handful of tables. What makes the place itself special is one of the people who works there. He flirts and jokes, and in the middle of our meal walks up to us and shares a tale about a carpenter who reunites a pair of estranged brothers by building a bridge over the river that separates their properties.
priorities
I'm heading down the street on wobbly legs. Clearly I need to lie down. But first, a stop at the library.
residuum
Recently this stretch of sidewalk had a leafy golden roof, grand and bright like a corridor in an Oriental palace. Now it looks gutted, the leaves gone and the branches like brittle kindling.
smarting
As I approach the river the wind rakes through me, and even the buildings shiver.
sprightly
I bring Fantasia with me and watch them laugh at the dancing hippos and the fairies spreading rime and dewdrops on pliant leaves.
trepidation
With every phone call I feel a spike of tension. I don't know what the news will be on the other end. I can only pray for the best.
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