Seanachaí's News

On the last Sunday of each month, I compile "Seanachaí's News," a status report that assesses my work during the current month and also formulates my plans for the upcoming months. It will also give you a peek at my works in progress.

My Work During the Current Month

1. Do you enjoy the simplicity and beauty of haiku? Don't miss Part IV of  my continuing series, "Murmuring That Creeps into the Life of a Wandering Soul."
2. Read about a haunted woman's brave attempt to face the future in my latest short-short, "I Saw You."
3. Are you a writer or artist looking for great software? Check out these five must-have free programs!

 

My Plans for the Upcoming Months

1. If you follow me on Twitter, you know that I've been working diligently on my new book. What you may not know is that you've already read the first page. Yes, really. Read the first page of my new novel here!
2. Don't forget, all of my short stories and poetry are now available at Scribd. You can download my work and subscribe to my feed by following this link. 

***

As always, I love to hear from you.

If you’re in the cyber-neighborhood, drop me a line.

In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling.
It’s contagious.

I Saw You

THE NONFICTION

A woman in an old blue T-shirt throws open a screen door and glares at a vulture gliding in the late afternoon sky. "There's nothing dead around here but my brain," she screeches. The door slams and the carrion eater decides to hang around for handouts of human brain and sanity.

***

As you may have guessed, the scene above did in fact happen this week. The strain of working on my new book has exhausted my word tank and my creativity. With that said, I'll leave you with the short-short I wrote this week for Friday Flash. Enjoy!

*** 

THE FICTION 

I Saw You

11/1/08  Just a Tired Old Town

I  SAW YOU.

   I was driving through the old part of town when I was caught by the light next to the apartments where we used to live. Mom was shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun and I was fiddling with the rearview mirror to check on— My hand slid from the mirror. I saw you sitting behind me in a black pickup truck with narrowed eyes and a tilted head.

   Was it because of the sun or because you saw me, too? 

   A gentle breeze blew through the crack in your window and ruffled your hair. You still wear it a little long, but that’s OK. I always liked it that way. I closed my eyes and imagined I was running my fingers through those unruly brown curls. Your lips were determined but gentle and your eyes were the color of . . . the color of. . . . No, it’s no use. I may not remember the color of your eyes, but I know they gleamed when you held me close.

   I’m such a fool. I thought I was over you.

   Is it possible to forget someone who used to make me laugh in the cold winter wind and smile at a sink full of dirty dishes? How can I not remember those late nights on the patio, gazing at no-name stars and shaking my head at crazy wishes? Remember how we used to dance in the elevators between floors and wake each other up in the blue hours of dawn to talk about how we met on the corner at the old bookstore? 

   That old brick building is gone now and my heart is breaking in two.

   Did you leave because of the money? I never made you pay for anything I wanted. I had a job. Was it getting too serious? Was it because you weren’t having fun anymore? You warned me before I moved in that we were supposed to have fun. The last words you said to me were, “Baby–” No, wait, I want to make sure I remember this right. You said, “Angel, I’m bored. I’m going out with the guys.” I waited up till three and for breakfast I had stale crackers and old tea. I saved all the furniture and finished out the rest of the lease, hoping you would come back to me.

   I opened my eyes and glanced at the mirror one last time. A woman with long black hair rested her head on your shoulder like I used to do. 

   The light changed and I drove Mom and our daughter home. She’s two.

   You didn’t know about her, did you?

***

As always, I love to hear from you.

If you’re in the cyber-neighborhood, drop me a line.

In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling.
It’s contagious.

"Ruby June"

After last month's "Mindy May," you probably saw this one coming.

OK, seriously, I got the idea for this short-short during my family's annual Memorial Day trip to visit my grandfather's grave. You all know him as "Ace" from my latest book, Haunted Voices from My Past: True Narratives of an Ohio Family. 

Anyway, we took an exit for a much-needed bathroom stop and as I waited for my mother's return, I noticed the area was infested with motels and the sky was littered with signs (most of them red). Add that with the dwindling month of May and some other strange sights along the way, and you've got . . .

"Ruby June" 

Ruby June crying best friends forever and writing soapy words on the window.

Ruby June gliding through the water and nabbed by a fish. Ruby June drowning in the sand, dirt caking under nails down to the quick. Man grilling hot dogs on a rotten porch close by. It sears your nostrils and creeps past the homemade flea market on the roadside. Glass beads on rawhide, two for a buck that’s killed in the ditch and bleeding in the ruby sky.

Ruby June dreaming of stretching out under the earth. If you listen, you can hear Ruby June in the maple tree that loses its leaves in the fall. Ruby June crying down the window, freezing in lights strung on pines. Cut down your own one at a time.

The sky is rosy orange but you can check in day or night. Ruby June pretending it feels good and right. Ruby June in the shadows, searching for the sheet. Ruby June, the two-legged cat, tiptoeing out of sight.

Ruby June hanging over the bridge and writing words in the snow. Hear the cocks crow. Red lights blinking on towers now. Ruby June and buildings lighting the night sky. King Avenue, a quarter of a mile. Next exit, take the road to the crumbling brick house and forget all you’ve learned. Ruby June getting the tune to sound right.

Ruby June smiling at the man with tattoos on his chest. Ruby June is bad, dropping on the floor. Make sure it’s dark. Hide the scars and cry really hard and no one will suspect. Ruby June howling at the moon.

Remember Ruby June in the field. Tracks in the wheat. Get beans in fast. Ruby June taking the dog out of the bun and feasting on relish.

Ruby June wanting a break, but blinking towers are back. Ruby June running from them coming down the drive. Drown in the river or spread arms wide and be the cat in the alley. Feet bleeding but they don’t care. Look the other way and lick stained white socks when it’s over.

Ruby June is the thought you get when blood stops flowing and you freeze to the floor. No animals now in the meadow or in the zoo. Ruby June is a month late and the drive-though is closed. Quiet now. Hands over my eyes and die.

Ruby June spread over a blanket, raining on the dirty wool and drowning in a red stream.

Give me back my doll, Ruby June. You’ve killed it.

***

You're probably shocked by the direction this piece took. So was I. I had no intention for it to be this dark. It just happened that way as I was writing in the back of a darkened car that was eating up the interstate. I often find that my work takes a different direction from the original plan. In this case it worked. Hopefully the next piece will be a little brighter.

Keep your chin up!

J.E.

***
 

ANNOUNCEMENT

Make sure you check out E. Michaels' latest addition to The Feel Good Series. The book is entitled Little Duck Gets Ready for School and includes a story to read and color, activities to complete, and games to play. 

Yeah, I know it's summer vacation, but now is the time to get your youngster used to the idea of the first day of school. I remember my grandfather (who was a bus driver) driving the bus down to our house during the summer vacation before my first day of school and letting me practice getting on and off the bus. It helped immensely. Hopefully this book will do the same for your child through an encouraging story with games and activities that have a school-based theme.

***

As always, I love to hear from you.

If you’re in the cyber-neighborhood, drop me a line.

In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling.
It’s contagious.

"The Making of a J.e.raffe"

A wise friend suggested that I make a giraffe. I'm not artistic, so I made one the only way I know how.

"The Making of a J.e.raffe"

Poppy was looking for something and Chip thought he knew what it was. Five years later they were married and waited out a January blizzard in an apartment that smelled like old fish. The offspring was born two years later in August. It had black hair and yellow flesh and was allergic to milk. It roared as a lion and had the neck of a giraffe.

The giraffe grew quickly from all those sliced hot dogs smothered with ketchup. After its repast it would laze beneath an orange zoo quilt, tracing other jungle beasts with its curious, stained fingers. No one could make the jeraffe go to sleep without its consent. The tiny beast was given spots.

The creature came of age and was sent to a hated school. It tried to hide its long neck and ugly brown spots but was often misunderstood by the social, short-necked beasts who had stacks of printed green paper cut into rectangles. Once the jeraffe won a pink Jesus pencil free of charge. Now it's lost. The jeraffe is lost. The world is lost.

When the jeraffe became an adult, a wolf found it. The jeraffe played along until the wolf saw the spots and long neck. Now the wolf is gone. Where is the choral exaltation?

J.e.raffe gave up hot dogs, masks, and scarves and found a blue typewriter. Now it writes every day about things that don't matter, hoping that other wandering beasts will pick up the forage and find a part of themselves that has been mislaid. 

J.e.raffe sits alone in the jungle and occasionally stumbles upon other nomadic animals. Sometimes they hold hands as they comb the undergrowth, searching for an escape. 

Despite the futility, the key is understanding that no one eludes the snare beneath the tree. Just don't stick your neck in it. That's what hooves are for.

***

As always, I love to hear from you.

If you're in the cyber-neighborhood, drop me a line.

In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling.
It's contagious.

 

"Mindy May"

I was up until 2:00 a.m. last night, haunted by the month of May and wondering why it went so well with the name Mindy. 

This is what I discovered. . . .

 

"Mindy May"

You,

   The robins woke me up at 4:30 just before the alarm went off. I mumbled something about the short weekend like I always do and stumbled into the bathroom with my eyes closed. Shaving cream sputtered from a rusty can and I felt your fingers brush my face. Then I opened my eyes and remembered.

   I still hurry to finish in the bathroom even though it doesn't matter anymore. Breakfast is getting easier, too. I remember to put the second coffee cup back in the cabinet before I cross that gouge your brother made in the linoleum. Maybe by June I'll learn not to get it out at all.

   Where did you put my tie, Mindy? You know, that one you hate with the yellow stripes. So help me, I've nearly turned the place upside down looking for it.

   I still hate your mother. I take that back. I despise your mother. Did you give her a key? Every night when I come home I can tell that the house has been rearranged. I have no idea what she's looking for, but I know she's been here because I can smell permanent and muscle cream in every freaking room. Jeez, Mindy, you DIDN'T give her a key, did you?

4/26/10  Just Some Junk

   The porch is a mess. Yeah, I know it's May and you'll want to start grilling out there, but I haven't felt like bagging up the trash. OK, so I've been pitching A LOT of things out there. Maybe if I throw enough crap out there you'll tell me to get my sorry butt out there and pick the mess up.

   Oh, Mindy, I--

   OK, I'm breathing now.

   Your brother was over Saturday. I don't think I said more than ten words all day. I let him talk at me for eight hours while we ate pizza. Pizza and pretzels. No, I didn't check my blood sugar. I felt fine. I haven't checked it for two days. I probably shouldn't have told you that because now you'll worry. While we ate we watched that dumb horse race. Yeah, he still pretends to blow that dumb horn and makes that stupid noise when the horses are loaded into the gate. Why does he do that? Watched some boxing, too. You were right. It's nothing more than a bunch of spoiled bigmouths dancing around and popping each other's face.

   I broke the handle off the lid that fits on top of that large pan you keep in the oven. I wasn't cooking. I got mad at something (I can't even remember what it was) and it was the first thing I grabbed. Now there's a dent in the drywall in the kitchen.

   The lilacs are blooming. I cut a bunch like you always do and put them on your dresser without spilling any of the water. They should last for a couple of days because I put a couple of aspirins in the vase before I filled it. If you hurry back they should still be here. 

   There's a bunch of folded-up papers on the dresser, too. They're next to the small cedar box where you keep your shell necklaces. I've been writing to you every day since you left and tucking the notes underneath that lace thing. I might have to get a bowl or something to stuff them in so they don't fall on the floor.

Dear God, Mindy. 

Where are you? 

It's May.

Me          

***

As always, I love to hear from you. If you're in the cyber-neighborhood,

drop me a line.

In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling.
It's contagious.

  

"The Moon Does Not Rise Tonight"

Hello, how are you today?

Well, besides battling ants this week (the bread is now hidden in the oven) and buying 392 bars of soap yesterday (it's a long story), I've been swamped with artwork, digitizing and such. As I was working this week, the image of a train kept returning to my thoughts. I've also been haunted by the moon for the past month. No, I'm not losing my mind (that happened a long time ago). I've been trying to capture photos of our only satellite for the past month.

What have I discovered? 

My camera needs more zoom.

What do you get when you cross the moon with a train?

Read further.

"The Moon Does Not Rise Tonight"

3/30/10  Moon through a Cherry Tree

The moon does not rise tonight.

The black sky peeps through the blinds' broken slats and settles upon the nightstand beneath the window. Darkness creeps over the illuminated clock and slithers to the hand flung over the side of the bed. Fingers wriggle from its grasp and  I recall that old class photo--you with your trumpet and bow tie and me with my sad brown eyes and ashen face. Remember the song you wrote for me? Da-di-da-something. Something. I have forgotten the melody. My hand brushes over the other side of the bed. The sheets are cold and unwrinkled.

The moon must not rise tonight.

I drove to those lonely tracks tonight in that rusty blue and white pickup. I waited silently, patiently for that long, mournful whistle. I ate a package of marshmallow bunnies and wiped sugary fingers on cracked leather seats. I was ten minutes early.

I opened the plastic grocery bag again. A tin of cinnamon rested alone in the bottom. Do you know how expensive cinnamon is now? Can you imagine how much we would have spent that first Christmas? We made all of those ornaments of spice and applesauce and there were so many we couldn't hang them all. The tree looked like a bulging brown upside-down sugar cone.

The whistle blew and I opened the door with its creaky hinges. Feet scurried over the soggy moss carpeting the ditch along the tracks. As I was about to lay myself upon the cold, vibrating metal, a car rumbled toward me from the opposite direction. I seem to be too late for most everything.

I glance at the clock on the nightstand. Hours seem as minutes in the darkness. A soft light steals through the crisscrossed blinds and a warm drop of brine spills onto a musty pillow.

The moon has risen tonight.

***

As always, I love to hear from you. If you’re in the cyber-neighborhood,

drop me a line.

In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling.
It’s contagious.

"Spring Madness"

How are you?

I've been so busy this week editing books and redesigning a website, that I'm officially burned out. I've been averaging five hours of sleep each night and this morning when I woke up I realized I hadn't written anything for today's blog. I was irritable at breakfast, sick and tired of EVERYTHING, and ready to go back to bed.

Instead, I regrouped somewhat and took a shower. While trying to gather some sanity, an idea came to me for a short-short. The result is "Spring Madness" and it was written in about twenty minutes,  real-life inspiration fueling its speed.

You may call the work fiction, but for some of us, it's real.

***

“Spring Madness”

She is tired.

She is tired of getting up every dismal morning and facing the same movie poster on the wall. She grimaces. The four-piece slip-on frame on Ginger’s side is always on the floor, hiding behind the chair. After it’s fixed, she twists her frizzy brown hair into a bun. Feet slip into dark blue slippers and arms push into a ratty, quilted robe that’s too short in the sleeves (she has monkey arms).

She is tired.

Bathroom next. Take out the twenty-year-old retainers that ensure teeth do not become crooked, blow nose, wince at the rusty well-water stain in the toilet that is supposed to have a superior finish. Trudge down the hall, pull the rug from the wall because he’s too lazy or whatever, shield eyes from the light glaring through the dusty black curtains.

She is tired.

Plug in computer (thunderstorms can happen in March—no, that would be too different), log in, check the social world. She doesn’t feel social. Everyone talks; no one listens. Get offline.

She is tired.

Now put away the dishes from last night. The yellow mixing bowl won’t fit into the blue one until you pull out the entire freaking mess, including the square, glass baking dishes that are only for corn on the cob or rice squares at Christmastime or Labor Day or one of those holidays. “Do you have to bang those dishes?” he asks. Ping-pang. She throws the last fork into the drawer. They don’t fit properly because both mothers insisted on buying silverware. “I’m going to get me some sausage.” Shut up. Just freaking SHUT YOUR FACE! She doesn’t say it.

She is tired.

Open the fridge (the chocolate stain from his birthday cake is still on the handle), yank out the cotton candy container that’s good for leftovers. Toast half of the bun, throw the other half back in the sack, make faces behind his back. Cold french fries on bun lengthways and eleven seconds later they’re hot. Wait ten seconds, eat, get up, take vitamins (she doesn’t need medication), brush teeth so they won’t rot, take clothes off the line over the heater. Back down the hall and pull the rug again.

She is tired.

Throw clothes on the armchair. Take clothes from dryer, dump them on couch, put clothes from line into dryer to soften. Fold clothes. He’s watching Madness. Why does no one wear pink jerseys? Arms full, so kick rug in hall and put away clothes and towels and underwear with blue and yellow stars.

She is tired.

Shower. Shave legs but don’t wash hair because it’s Sunday. Put on clothes from yesterday. Who cares? “Did you take your blood before you ate?” she asks. “Did you know they’re not showing women’s basketball because of the men’s games?” he answers.

She is tired.

Hide in office for a while.  Find Sunday Baroque on the radio that’s beneath the stereo because the stereo won’t pick up much even though it has a longer antenna. Get online. Check social media again. No one is listening. “You got a tape for the game?” I hate you. The tape is on the TV. Throw it at him. “This isn’t the bad one the machine ate, is it?”

She is tired.

Go to medicine cabinet. Make cocktail. Takes three paper cups to wash it down and makes the water taste like wax or envelope glue or whatever. Enter bedroom. For the first time the frame on Fred’s side is off. Ginger despises Fred.

“Can you believe they lost?” he shouts from the den.

 She lies on the bed and won’t be tired anymore.

***

As always, I love to hear from you. If you’re in the cyber-neighborhood, drop me a line.

In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling.
It’s contagious.

"Snowflakes on the Pond"

If you were with me last week, you'll remember I was in despair. I hadn't written a piece of fiction in so long, I was beginning to doubt myself and my abilities.

Then, on Wednesday night, I began thinking about all of those green snowflakes littering my desk. Inspiration flashed. I left the computer, grabbed an old-fashioned tablet of college-ruled paper, hopped into bed, and WROTE. I struggled for two hours and came up with an almost illegible rough draft of a short-short. The next morning I spent over an hour deciphering my handwriting (yeah, that's an image of the mess there on the right).

While this work isn't going to win any award, I'm satisfied that I closed my eyes and leaped. So, without further ado, the final draft of . . .

"Snowflakes on the Pond"

   The first snowflake to fall into the pond was green. It was born as a sheet of ruled tablet paper that had been torn from a long silver coil tarnished by salty fingers. It smelled of lilacs and budding trees, and as it matured, its swirling graphite shapes sprouted into tentative words. After the introduction, it laughed at the students swapping secrets behind the life-sized, leaping-human mobile hanging in the library and hummed a few bars of old hit songs. It teased her about the crooked toes peeping from cracked leather and complained of homework and tests and a boring lecture that had made his head drop to his chest. The first snowflake was then folded lengthwise twice before being rolled flatly and tucked closed with a crisp triangle. “To ‘You,’ from ‘Me,’” it read and was hidden in his book before finding a home under a battered windshield wiper.

   Now the note is splitting at the seams, stained from tears and drowning beneath the murky waters of the pond.

   The second snowflake to fall into the pond was pink. It smelled like genuine imitation French perfume and spoke as softly as the mourning dove that coos to the dawning coral sun. It smiled and chuckled as “You” (her toes now hidden in a pair of candy-striped socks) mispronounced silly sentimental words and sang a song to “Me” from the ruled green tablet paper. Afterward they shared a box of artificially-buttered popcorn, munching the hot kernels as they made angels in the warm summer sand. When the game was over, the two held one another and whispered to the first star. “You” wished for forever, wanting their lives to continue beyond this sensation of newfound happiness. “Me” added more popcorn to the star’s shopping list before decorating the second snowflake with mulberry hearts from a jumbo box of crayons. He folded it neatly into thirds and slid it into a plain white envelope that bore the name “You.” He then sneaked it into her shiny black purse (the one he bought her) when she wasn’t looking and waited patiently for her to find it. 

   Now the yellowed envelope is torn from frigid fingers by the chilled autumn wind and cast into the pond. The second snowflake is companion to the first.

   The third snowflake is blue. It remembers that his eyes were the color of maple syrup and glowed (just a little) whenever he spoke her name or teased her about those toes. It recalls tousled brown hair and the chewed-up pencil that always rested behind his ear. It sees those shirts with the stitched animal on the pocket and smells expensive cologne. It knows he enjoyed dancing but never with her (her hands were always clammy). It hears him reading to her from a dog-eared book of Shakespeare and Shelley while they ate chocolate graham cracker teddies (which she was allergic to) and drank lukewarm coffee (cream and sugar in his but never hers). 

   The third snowflake recalls the tender voice that grew silent and began spilling through the mouths of mutual friends. “I’m tired of ‘You.’ Nothing great happened anyways and–ha, ha!–nothing lasts forever, you know.” The third snowflake hears the chuckle that began deep within his chest before slipping through lying lips. 

   A blast of winter white, cold to the touch and bland to the taste, blurs into a frenzied mist and creates dizzying patterns upon gold and crimson leaves. 

   The third snowflake weeps and shivers beneath the gray sky. It spreads its arms, tests the water with a crooked toe, and joins the previous two.

***

As always, I love to hear from you. If you’re in the cyber-neighborhood, drop me a line.

In the meantime, keep writing, reading, and smiling.
It’s contagious.