Helix

In what will be my last Indie Ink writing challenge for the month of June because of my ever-increasing audition schedule, I give you my challenge from Cope, which was to write a non-linear story about a life-changing epiphany.  I challenged Michael Webb this week, which he posted already here.  I’ll be back in July!

________________________________________________________________________________

She swept a hand across her brow to wipe off the sweat.  She had been grappling with one particular part of the short story since the sun made its first appearance on the horizon.  It was an issue that her editor would not care to hear about as a looming deadline holds no empathy.  Her fingers, melting to the keyboard in the sticky swelter of the small Manhattan studio was her cue to escape to air conditioning for some cool rejuvenation.  She packed up, headed down the stairs, and ventured out into the electric pulse of the city, which never ceased to amaze her.  She looked left and right and then jaywalked across to her favorite coffee shop that was beckoning through the darting cars.  Walking through the door, she felt the frigid air hit her body and cool the sweat.  The irony wasn’t lost on her as she ordered a hot coffee in the throb of summer after just escaping from sauna-like conditions.  She paid, grabbed her drink and sat at a table by the window to people watch as she sipped, pulling out her pad and pen.  People moved back and forth in front of the window on their way to beckoning tasks and awaiting destinations.  She observed a woman, looking incredibly sad walk past with large tears flowing from her eyes; ones she didn’t seem to see the point in wiping away as others would soon slide down to take their place.  Feeling like an intruder, she averted her eyes to write something until the woman passed out of view.  When she looked up again, she caught site of a woman, smiling widely and clutching what looked like music and a water bottle, ducking in to a waffle house just opposite the coffee shop.

The bell rang on the front door as what looked like a father and daughter burst in, bringing with them air filled with youthful chatter and fatherly laughter.  As they found a table, the father was asking questions, pointing to an envelope placed between them.  She looked on in envy, having not experienced this sort of interaction with her own father at that age or any age leading up to the present.  The crack of the divorce left a rift between them with brief weekend trips defining their strained interaction.   As she grew older, the visits ceased, the calls shortened and the accomplishments shared were one-sided, her father never sharing any of his own.  There was little in the way of inspiration or guidance.

Looking back, she couldn’t remember a single thing….

She watched closely as the father pulled things out of the envelope.  She stopped with a jolt.  Something was tugging at her brain.  A knot of a memory that, with one tug, could be pulled loose to release the tangles.  She recalled her first manuscript that she had mailed off to dozens of publishers and remembered the stacks of stuffed manilla envelopes waiting to be mailed…..

A manuscript in an envelope that was never mailed….

…..the memory she had long forgotten finally flooded back to her; images of a girl’s hands finding the envelope in a pile of papers on the brown, 70′s-style carpet.  She saw her hands reaching into the envelope and pulling out pages of other worlds lived, all neatly stacked and typed on crisp, white paper, her last name clearly printed in the byline at the top.  She had quickly sat down on the floor, legs crossed, crouching over the pages with one nervous hand picking her lip as she realized that this was as close to knowing her father as she may ever get.  She soon forgot where she was as she was instantly drawn in to the pages.  She remembers stuffing the pages quickly back into the envelope so as not to be discovered and hiding the envelope back in the pile.

Reflecting on her own writing she saw the shocking parallels as the knot untangled; becoming a tether.  She looked up and let out a small gasp, her hand gripping the coffee as she stared across the shop and into the possible.  She jumped out of her chair, grabbed her things, walked past the father who was reading a Broadway playbill with his daughter, and back out into the summer heat.  She crossed the street and flew up the stairs to her studio and sat before her laptop again, setting the notebook and pen down beside it.  Only then in the comfort of her privacy did she pick up her cell to dial.

“Dad?” she asked as the laptop screen in front of her blurred, cleared and blurred again,  ”Can I read your something?”

North

Still holding the bags on her first day, Sarah noticed how the well-kept room smelled of roses.  The windows had been thrown open, the breeze dancing with the pink flowers planted just beyond the glass.  Along the walls stood bookshelves filled with old sheet music which she walked to, silently sliding her fingers across the spines as if brushing upon a distant story.  She heard melodies of far off memories and frowned with bitterness at the thought.  The happy room flew in the face of her mood.  After putting away the groceries and sorting the medications, Sarah sat next to Elsa, the old woman with the questioning eyes who napped silently.  Elsa took the opportunity to steal glances at the memory-filled walls.  She saw the happy and much younger Elsa looking back at her from the frames as if trying to tell her something.  In most she stood grinning or laughing with abandon as the camera captured the moment and looked as if she were deeply in love with whomever was on the other end of the lens.  Sarah would look at those the longest, closely studying the woman’s face as her stomach sunk and her head filled with a long-held sadness.  The images reminded her of something she had lost.  Her eyes would start to brim as she took a deep breath to regain control.

Those first weeks, when Elsa was awake, Sarah became her point of interest; looked at her with eyes that were penetrating and youthful behind the aged face.  They would follow her as she walked to the kitchen to put the groceries away or tidy a room.  Elsa looked as if she were patiently waiting to give the answer to the question that Sarah would eventually ask.

One afternoon, as Sarah sat at the kitchen table to sort the pills into their daily dispensers, Elsa, in one of her rare states of strength, got up from her bed, walked to the kitchen wall and entered in a track number on the digital player.  Sarah watched her, not used to seeing her up.  A soft nocturnal piano piece suddenly filled the house.  Sarah’s hands, with a pill between two fingertips, froze in mid-air.  She had never heard music in the house before and her eyes closed as she recognized her favorite piece playing throughout the house now.  Her eyes remain closed as she put the pill down and slid her hands down her thighs, her fingers playing the piece on her jeans.  Elsa watched as Sarah’s face transformed from granite-like hardness to a soft rapturous expression as she swayed slightly, fingers softly dancing.  Elsa’s eyes slipped from Sarah’s face, down to her hands and back up again as she watched Sarah transform before her eyes.

She walked over to Sarah, sat down slowly at the table, took one of the young woman’s hands in hers and squeezed.

“Who convinced you to quit?” she asked tenderly.

The all-knowing wisdom of the question was enough to open Sarah’s floodgates as she slowly turned her face away, tears dropping to the floor.  She was perplexed and shocked by having this reaction before someone who hardly knew her but dared to ask such a question.  Elsa looked on silently and waited for Sarah to regain her composure and as she picked up the pills again she opened her mouth to speak.

Over the next several visits, while spring gave way to the beginnings of summer, Sarah, having finished her chores, would talk of the one thing that lit a fire in her.  She talked about how she was raised by a discouraging mother, devoid of dreams and promise, who refused lessons after Sarah begged and pleaded with her.  Out of desperation, she took the matter into her own hands, signing up for Debate in school, all the while sneaking off to music class instead with music stuffed deep into her backpack.  As she got older, she got jobs as would be expected of most teens, but instead of clothes and movies, she would stash her money away for lessons and music.  At dawn, her favorite time of day, she would sit on her bedroom floor and practice fingering on mock piano keys drawn on paper.  Her music teacher, seeing such promise in her student, had mentioned a renowned piano teacher who, after retiring back to Finland would invite promising students to live there and study during the brief Finnish summers.  Shortly after, her mom lost her income and any extra money from her own job went to expenses  instead of being used for her playing.  Talk of playing and begging for lessons, to her mother’s secret delight, became silenced and her daughter’s hands became still.  Her mother, eventually finding work again, would hammer doubts and insecurities into the young woman to such an extent that she never found her way back. 

Sarah, forgetting herself while telling the story, looked up at Elsa with tears brimming again.  Elsa did her best to encouragement a rekindling but knew that Sarah could only return to herself on her own.

Elsa sighed and walked to the panel on the wall, “Today, we need the Second Concerto” as she pushed the button and headed back to her chair.

Sarah stared at Elsa wide-eyed again as Rachmaninoff filled the room.  Memories of her playing the final notes during a lesson, her brow and arms sweating as her teacher applauded, flooded her.  Sarah’s eyes closed as her fingers started to dance again on her thigh; playing every note, every phrase as Elsa looked on, silently shaking her head.

Suddenly, Sarah opened her eyes and slapped her hands on her legs.  “….anyway,” she said as she clasped her fingers, “it was really a long shot,” she heard the words of her mother now as her own, “and I would just end up getting hurt when it didn’t work out.” Elsa watched closely as the sadness oozed over her face like a mask.

“How much are you hurting now?” Elsa asked honestly as Sarah stared back at her in silence.  Her brow furrowed as she looked down at her hands.  One inquiry become the perfect summation of it all.  In that moment she realized the answer to Elsa’s question that had initially opened the floodgates within her.  The person that convinced her, ultimately, to quit was herself.  She rubbed her hands together in her lap, turning her fingers over and looking at them again as if for the first time.  She got up from her chair and quickly left the room as Elsa’s eyes followed after.

******

At the sound of a car door shutting, Elsa walked to the window to look out as Sarah, groceries and medications in hand walked from the awaiting cab.  Elsa opened the door before Sarah could ring the bell.  The first thing she noticed was that Sarah’s face was flushed with youth and excitement and was a face from which a burden had been lifted.  Elsa looked past Sarah’s shoulder to see the luggage piled in the backseat.  She looked back at Sarah, grinned a wide grin and laughed out loud in understanding as Sarah put down her packages on the porch and started to laugh too.  Her face turned from laughter to one of brimming, bittersweet tears looking hard at her muse for the last time.  She took a deep breath and grabbed the old woman’s hands.

“So, I spent my last paycheck on a one-way flight to Finland.”

_____________________________________________________________________________________-

The last sentence of this entry was my Writing Challenge served up by Katri and became my hardest challenge yet.  I agonized for days over this one and, even now, I’m not sure what the issue was.  I just couldn’t focus.  But I have posted it just under the deadline and I hope it is worthy.  The challenge I gave to T involving a Haiku is up on that blog.

The Hands that Bind

In my second week of the Indie Ink Writing Challenge , A Lil Irish Lass hit me with the challenge to “Write a piece on a singular theme and to write it progressively from the perspective of your 5-year-old self, your teenaged self, and your current self.” (along with the irresistible bonus of writing from the perspective at the end of my life).  Woah.  I also challenged Head Ant to write a letter to her childhood self.  You can find her response on her blog before the end of the week.   So, here goes!

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Soft, smooth, little, pale tornadoes fly through space and smell of crayon, juice and grass.  They are flighty, hyper and expressive as they reach, hug and pull quickly away again.  Nervous by nature they tug, scratch and pick; a developing habit.  Sometimes they become little fists of frustration pressed to a tear-streaked face as the river of constant activity surpasses the ability to contain it.  They are energy conduits shooting out from the constantly moving little bundle as they crash in to glasses, spilling contents, or twirling golden locks of hair around their ever-exploring digits.  They flit with excitement across the keys of a toy piano discovering the first glimpses of far off dreams.   Elegant, elongated fingers with more prevalent knuckles and a roadmap of veins visible under the skin reach down in the motherly action of wiping the small tornadoes clean.

*******

Tornadoes grow into instruments of movement and exploration; sometimes timid, sometimes sure.  Sweaty fingers scribble quick notes on sheet music, scripts and musical scores while moving about the stage.  Slightly thinner, smooth fingers, browned from the midwestern sun and polished pink, brush away eraser markings to homework pages on a Friday night.  Reaching low, they discover and explore the body’s new frontiers of hidden treasures and become quick learners when brushing across the plains of a first love’s landscape.  They clasp tightly to broomsticks like microphones and perform tirelessly on hot, summer evenings on a porch that becomes the stage.  The wise and wrinkled hands of grandmotherly applause fills the air.

*******

Purposeful task masters full of speed and purpose flip through the songbook.  Newly manicured nails that will quickly chip and break from use organize resumes and headshots for mailing.  Skin peppered with freckles and popping veins purposely fasten costume buttons in place, study music scores and apply makeup in front of dressing room mirrors.  They are elements of expression and performance, silent interpreters of song and movement leading out from the body.  They flash with childlike youth when clapping giddily at something new that is discovered or from the hearing of good news and dreams fulfilled.  They are a tangle of nervous frustration, shaking with sadness as they wipe falling tears across the cheek.  Fingers on the keyboard share contemplations, experiences, and stories of dreams and visions.  Confident hands reach to move the hair from the eyes before entering the audition room.  As they rest and wait on the lap, they are a window into the past and the future simultaneously; a reflection and visual reminder of the motherly ones that used to wipe them clean and the promise of wisdom to come.

*******

The tissue paper-like hands marked with time’s signature touches smiling lips as the other falls to the side, still gripping something within the thinned fingers.  Fingers, like those of the applauding grandmother, stroke the wood of the open box as if trying to conjure up the memories within.  The ocean roars a thunderous and continuous crescendo, as the setting sun burns purple into the sky, slipping into the cradle of the sea.  The legs of the lawn chair slowly become buried in the tide.  After two deep breaths, the tapestry of purple and blue rivers slowly fall still under the wrinkled hands as the fist falls open for the last time.  A smooth, round rock collected on a beach long ago…. and not far from this place… falls from the opened fingers back to the sand and home again.