Jul 21

Havana, A Subtropical Delirium

Have you ever thought of a city as a person, as someone who is alive and waiting to make your acquaintance? This is a new idea for me. It came after I started reading Havana* by Mark Kurlansky.

He begins by saying in the Prologue, “If I were ever to make an old-fashioned film noir…I would shoot it in Havana.”** He goes on to talk about other writers and poets who have found Havana fascinating. It seems you have a very different impression of Havana if you first see it from the sea, rather than from land.

Mr. Kurlansky tells how Habana Vieja (Old Havana), the original city, developed. The streets in this section were, and still are, very narrow and dark. The sidewalks are narrower still, all because the sun is so hot. So, when people put awnings up, they tie them to the building across the street. That way everyone passing below gets the shade.

One of the more interesting things I learned is that the city was founded three times in three different places. And Mr. Kurlansky has lots of interesting anecdotes to tell about how each settlement was founded.

Havana was invaded many times, always from the sea. There were the French pirates in 1538 and 1555 and different ones came again many times after that. Each time the townspeople paid a ransom and those that were still alive rebuilt. They built one fortress and then another and, over time, they added to each. It didn’t seem to make much difference. There seemed to be no shortage of pirates coming from the sea, and so, there would be another raid.

Havana grew and became an important commercial port in the 1700s. African slaves were brought in around this time to do the work.

Mr. Kurlansky says, “It has at times been suggested that the impact of slavery on modern Cuba is exaggerated, but so profound and fundamental is slavery to the identity of both Havana and Cuba that it would be almost impossible to overstate it.”***

He goes on to say that there were people alive in 1980 who had known their grandparents who had been born in Africa. Imagine that!

I’m going to stop here because I don’t want to give too much away. I hope I’ve inspired you to read Havana. It’s an exciting, fascinating book that reads like a novel and the city of Havana is the main character!

*Havana by Mark Kurlansky, Bloomsbury USA, March 17, 2017.

**Location 71

***Location 493

Jul 16

Priceless Garage Sale People

You may be surprised by whom you find at a garage sale.

When you gather misfit belongings of your household, open your garage door, and offer the no-longer-treasured personal property for a pittance to the public, you’re going to come face to face with strangers you would never have intentionally thought about inviting into your home. And oh, what a shame it is that we don’t do that more often. People who shop at garage sales represent the melting pot of society. They’re genuinely interesting and have stories to tell. We can expect to bargain with them. But by talking with these opportunistic visitors, we may actually learn something about ourselves.

In my family, “garage sale” is a verb, as in: “We garage sale.” I grew up with a grandfather who frequented tag sales, yard sales, rummage sales, and garage sales. Different areas throughout the USA tend to adopt one of these terms, but overall the idea is the same. Grandpa didn’t care what anyone called their sale. For him, each designation meant roughly the same thing: he could buy items cheaply and later sell them for higher prices. But at some point, he developed an affinity for Jim Beam bottles. He hoarded so many of the decorative containers that he decided to build a small home adjacent to the one he lived in just to house his collection. He officially dubbed the building The Treasure House and boasted that it contained the largest collection of Jim Beam bottles in the world.

My own parents also eased into the hobby of collecting. On family trips, the six of us piled into our Oldsmobile Delta 88 and drove to far-off destinations. That took much longer than expected, because “Rummage Sale” signs always drew us into somebody’s yard.

One year while my family was staying in a cottage in Wisconsin, our dog died.  On our way home, my siblings and I were crying over Smokey’s death. We stopped at a rummage sale that just happened to have puppies, picked one out, and brought the little girl home. Mom thought of the perfect name: Rummy.

A childhood spent garage-saling inspired my sister’s profession. She and her husband built and own one of the largest craft and antique malls in Allen, Michigan. The business is so successful that there’s a waitlist of vendors, all vying for rental space to become available in the 23,000 square-foot building so they can sell their wares at the Hog Creek Craft and Antique Mall.

Although I don’t make a living at buying and reselling, like my sister does, I don’t snub garage sales or worry that some people look down upon them. Other people’s disdain doesn’t adversely affect my love for bargains. So, in search of a good deal, I occasionally stop at sales throughout the spring and summer. I do hate the amount of work it takes to organize and run these types of sales, but the hassle doesn’t stop me from doing so. Garage sales are full of fun, surprises, and inspiration.

When I stop to browse, I’m often asked by the homeowner, “Are you looking for anything special?” My answer is, “I’m shopping for our vacation Bible school program at church. I’m not really sure what I need, but I’ll know it when I see it.” With a theme in mind, my attention focuses on items that can be used as props and decorations to transform ordinary church rooms into exquisite settings for children’s enjoyment. I once bought an Ethan Allen wingback chair for $5 and felt horribly guilty applying metallic gold paint to the wooden arms. But I needed a throne for a king. Where else would I find one for that price?

I’ve had a lot of my own garage sales throughout the years. There have been many instances in which I felt like I was practically giving things away, and during my last one, I did that very thing. But I never anticipated all that I would gain simply by talking with my guests.

Here are my favorite encounters with garage sale people:

  • I eased a mother’s stress by providing decorations for her son’s high school graduation party which was less than twenty-four hours away. Decorations included a custom-designed logo of the school mascot—an original piece of artwork—created on a Lite Brite. I threw in extra pegs at no cost.
    • Realized gain: $4; pleasant feelings that I had helped an overwhelmed neighbor.
  • I changed my impression of the eccentric woman whom most everyone in the community recognized by her flamboyant clothing but never talked to. She was friendly and seemed very smart. She bought Spanish books so she could teach herself to speak the language.
    • Realized gain: $2; a spanking for allowing myself to mistakenly think that flashy clothing was the defining feature of this lovely person.
  • I provided peace and tranquility to at least one shopper by playing classical piano music on a karaoke machine I was selling. The gentleman commented, “This is the classiest garage sale I’ve ever been to.” I eventually sold the music CD to someone else and ended up donating the karaoke machine.
    • Realized gain: $1; bragging rights.
  • I inspired a middle-aged man to break into a cheer. A set of Michigan State pom-poms encouraged him, but he must not have liked the pair well enough to buy them.
    • Realized gain: $0; bewilderment and laughter.
  • I gave what was left of my expired and nearly empty tube of Benadryl anti-itch cream to a woman who was having an allergic reaction. Earlier in the day, she had bought a basket at a different garage sale and was driving around with the purchase in the back of her van. Evidently, someone’s cat had used the basket as a daybed before the piece was sold to the poor lady. The medication itself wasn’t worth anything, but the heavy-duty industrial bag I gave the woman to stuff the basket inside of had some value.
    • Realized gain: minus a dollar or so; feelings of goodwill.
  • I generated smiles by reaching out in friendship to a young family from Paraguay. The parents bought tools and household supplies. Their eldest daughter settled on a whiteboard and dry-erase markers. I gave the youngest a bilingual doll that spoke English and Spanish. The father asked if I was a teacher.
    • Realized gain: pure joy.
  • I listened intently to a woman testify that she used to be possessed by demons when she lived in Peru. I seriously wanted to hear all the fascinating details, so I gave her my phone number and hoped she would call.
    • Realized gain: awareness of evil at work in the world and thankfulness for my faith in Christ.
  • I exchanged contact information with a woman who buys clothes for a homeless man and mentors young ladies. She was generous in many ways and surprised me by donating, on the spot, to the charity I co-founded in 2016 and promoted during my sale.
    • Realized gain: a newfound friend.
  • I cried. With nearly every sale, I handed out prayer cards to customers. The prayer was special to me because I learned it from my pastor who died eleven years earlier in a car accident. One woman read the card, looked at me, and softly said, “I knew Janet.” And that’s all it took for me to feel connected to this woman who I had never met before. More words weren’t necessary. We knew Janet.
    • Realized gain: a flood of memories.

Garage sales are more than the perfect way for savvy sellers to get rid of stuff. They are more than a novel way for buyers to harness creativity and stretch dollars. These phenomenal American shopping experiences give us unique opportunities to express kindness and compassion. When we price things just right and open our doors to the world, we let in all sorts of fabulousness: priceless garage sale people.

Jul 15

Bug-eye Sprite – Part Two

Once the Austin Healy Bug-eye Sprite was back in my hands after a major front end repair, I began retraining myself on why depressing the clutch pedal wouldn’t stop the car while the brake pedal might. But the fun of actually driving it was like no other. For one thing, its steering was so precise that a simple quarter-turn of the steering wheel was enough to complete a right-hand turn. Seated in the tight-fitting cockpit was like sitting in a tiny aircraft surrounded by bare-bone metal surfaces, traces of Castrol racing oil, and the startling uncertainty that I might not reach an intended destination after starting the engine.

Sitting in it was like being astride a four-wheel motorcycle if such a thing existed. Its 948 ccs, 43 hp engine provided a top speed of 82.9 mph according to the British Motor magazine, and it took over twenty seconds to accelerate from 0-60 mph which is slower than smoke by today’s standards. But, with less than a one-liter engine and 40 mpg, an eight-gallon gas tank provided almost 300 miles. Better yet, $.30 a gallon, it cost less than two whole dollars to fill it up.

The entire front end, hood, fenders, grille, and bug-eye headlights were made in one piece, so checking oil and coolant levels meant unlatching and raising the whole assembly on its hinges like a grand piano soundboard propped open. Conversely, and more than a little odd, there was no rear trunk lid to open. Tipping the seats forward allowed the only access to the rear compartment. At the time, crossing the Ambassador Bridge into Windsor, Canada meant all drivers were required to get out of their cars and open their trunks for inspection.

So, as one may surmise, the Sprite rather stood apart without a trunk lid raised like surrounding cars. A  Canadian Customs Officer wandered over, scowling, demanding I raise my trunk lid like all the others, even less happy when I said I didn’t have a trunk lid to open. Unable to believe anyone could build a car without a trunk lid, he insisted on finding and unlatching it, futilely jerking the back of the Sprite up and down. Further examination proved their Commonwealth partners hadn’t found a need to provide a Customs-accessible trunk compartment, in this case, and there was none to be found.

Unfortunately, the Sprite’s extremely small size and weight, even to the extent of eliminating door handles and locks, although contributing wonderfully to agility and handling, proved rather more detrimental later. Anyone passing by was able to unlatch its doors by simply reaching inside flexible plastic side windows and moving a lever. In other words, the car couldn’t be locked. Around ten o’clock one night while studying for next day’s college classes with friends, something made me look outside our off-campus apartment to check on the Sprite. It wasn’t where I had left it parked in front of our building a few hours before. Panicky, I stood in the dark looking up and down the street. My new sports car had been stolen! Returning to the front porch, there was a trace of tire tracks in the dewy grass leading to one side.

Peeking around the corner, there it was, pushed between the buildings with its front and rear ends only six inches away from both walls. It didn’t appear to have any damage, but I suspected the upperclassmen on the second floor of mischief. Returning to our front room, I explained to my two friends I had found the car between the buildings. What an opportunity for revenge. We tip-toed outside and carefully pushed the car back and forth until we maneuvered it out to the street with no one noticing. But, why not push it around the corner a block or two and, later on, come outside as if for the first time and scream and holler that my car had actually been stolen and I was going to call the police?

Once back inside and studying another hour without the slightest sound from above or outside, I remained uneasy.  It was time to end this charade and get some sleep. Leaving by the side door, I returned to where we had pushed the car. Holy mackerel! It wasn’t there! Now I was really upset. Had it really been stolen this time? Returning to our house, there were a few second-floor upper-classmen above trying not to be noticed. What was going on?

But, was there yet another trace of bent grass in a different location? I followed the line and it led toward an unused garage filled with junk. I slid the door open, peering into the darkness. There wasn’t even a light to turn on. The upperclassmen began calling down, in all innocence, “What happened, buddy? Did you lose your car, or what?”

How would they have noticed if they hadn’t been involved? Inside the shed, after carefully lifting an edge of old tarp and a pile of blankets, a slice of moonlight gleamed on shiny metal. “OK, guys, come on down and get my car out without scratching it. And put it back in front of the house where it’s supposed to be. Either that or I’m really calling the cops.”

“Oh, no. No need for that.” Half grinning and embarrassed, an entire second floor of guys trooped down, got the car out, and rolled it back to the street. We all had a good laugh and, after donating a few bottles of beer in compensation, they explained they were totally shocked and confused when someone went to check the car where they left it between buildings and found it missing. Oh, oh, they thought; someone else had really stolen the car and now they were in deep trouble. They then dispersed through the neighborhood, trying not to alert us, hoping to find the car. When they finally located it to their great relief, they rolled it back and hid it in the shed hoping to provide a double shock when I didn’t find it the next morning.

It all ended well enough but, if anyone wants to make mischief with a Bug-eye Sprite in the future, remember the British once ignored the fact that tiny cars that can’t be locked are in no way compatible with upper-classmen mischievous pranks.

 

 

Jul 10

Moon Eyes

Her name was Beebe Rizzoli, but everyone called her Jersey. She was a transplant due to things out of her control. Her accent was something that people had a hard time ignoring. Trying to get rid of it was useless. She wasn’t adept at changing to conform with what society expected.

She was just Beebe and maybe something a bit more. Or at least, that’s what someone told her when she was told to leave her home. She was just about fourteen, fifteen. It was a life of scary ups and downs back then. Shaking her head, she tried to ignore that part of her life, but lately, she’d felt this itch under her skin, a constant reminder that her past was catching up with her. At least that’s what she thought. Her leaving her home had been like a tear in her consciousness and never made sense. She’d turn twenty-five in a few days. It was always in the back of her mind, the mysterious stirring that churned in her gut. She wasn’t just Beebe, but something else. And Beebe was running out of time.

“Jersey, you alright?”

She blinked a few times, tilted her head her hearing absorbing too much of her friend’s voice. She grabbed her ears and rubbed. Putting on a fake smile she turned to her friend Rhyme who’d started at the coffee shop around the same time she had. “Yeah.”

Beebe was working at Starbucks, it was going on seven years now, and she loved it. The smell of coffee, the look of coffee beans, the milk frothing, and then the mixing of the espresso into a beautiful treat. It was all delicious, but crushing on coffee wasn’t the greatest idea of real romance. A person couldn’t date coffee or snuggle up to coffee. Well, they could, but then most people would think it would be straight jacket city for her. She just hadn’t found anyone that interested her enough to take the next step or even turned her on for that matter.

Her hand grabbed the 2% in the fridge under the bar, she poured to the appropriate line, put the pitcher under the steam wand, and listened to the machine catch the milk in a shush and hiss, voicing its frustration at having to take another dip in a milk bath. The cup got pumps of chocolate, the espresso joined the chocolate, and she swirled the pair mixing the perfect amount of dark chocolate to espresso. The steam wand sighed into silence and Beebe grabbed the milk and poured it with a flare into the cup, the force mixing everything together. She grabbed the whip cream canister that was sprawled across the bar with other ingredients and topped the cup off with the perfect aplomb handing it off to a drive-thru customer.

“Jersey! You’re off the floor.”

She nodded to her shift manager and took off her apron heading toward the back.

Clocking out her stomach started to dance in excitement. She was staying in the café to work on her latest art project which involved coffee grounds and water. It was the first time she was trying anything like it. Beebe would grind up separately light, medium and dark roast coffees to see how the color, when applied to paper, would fare. If it didn’t work how she imagined it, Beebe would make due and supplement the project with another medium. She was trying for a sepia colored work. She thought the yellows and browns of the coffees would be perfect.

First, she would eat.

Up at the counter, she got a blueberry muffin and a protein box. Maybe I should get a yogurt too and the salad. She was hungry all the time now.

“You stickin’ around for a while?” Rhyme asked.

“Yeah. I’m trying something new tonight.”

Rhyme smiled. Her friend knew Beebe held a great passion for art.

Beebe worked at a 24-hour location which allowed her to stay late, relax, and think about how she could approach a project. It was great thinking space.

“Jersey? Do you want anything else?”

Beebe blinked distracted again.

“Ah…yeah. I’ll get this yogurt,” she grabbed it from the chill wall, “and a slice of Double Chocolate Loaf. Um, this salad too. Oh, and a Venti Flat White.”

Rhyme’s eyes widened. “Hungry much?”

A buzzing rang in her ears. She tried to shake it off.

“Did you see how much that girl ordered? She’ll be a cow in no time,” someone said and then giggled.

Beebe looked behind her to glare at the person who’d been so rude, but the line was empty. Until they spoke again. Her head tilted and the words could be heard clearly again. Almost at the vestibule door she saw what looked to be a teenager and her friends. Breath hitching, she realized she could hear everything they were saying, and then it just stopped.

“Beebe? You need something else?”

Beebe turned back to her friend and opened her mouth but closed it and shrugged. She didn’t know what to tell her. When done gathering all her food items, she took them to a high table and sat, got out her sketchbook and started to sketch while she ate and everything else faded away.

Beebe had just taken her last bite of food when Rhyme sat down opposite her.

“So, what’s up with you?”

From staring at a blank page in her sketchbook she blinked up at her friend. “Huh?” She looked down again. Her head seemed foggy. She flipped black through the pages she’d drawn on, and her eyes widened. She looked at the next, and the next, and the next and her panic grew with such intensity she couldn’t breathe.

She heard a bluster of noise when Rhyme got in her face.

“Breathe?! Breath. Are you okay?”

Beebe looked up into her friend’s eyes and tried to shut down the panic stirring in her belly.

“Who is that?” Rhyme pointed to the open pages. “He’s hot as hell.”

Beebe didn’t want to look down, squeezing her eyes shut until they hurt. She couldn’t remember drawing the man staring back at her, his face she couldn’t decipher, only his eyes were bright, the artic-blue gaze searing into her memory, the need and lust staring back at her freezing her in place.

Her pulse raced. Her veins throbbed. She didn’t remember drawing any of it. Any of him. Her fingers clawed into the wood table as her fingertips itched and burned as she tried to hold on to reality. Her breaths came harder and faster. Her fingers burned more.

“Dammit, Beebe! Take it easy.” Rhyme touched her hand.

Beebe swallowed a scream that came out as a squeak.

Aching all over Beebe opened her eyes to the image that she’d drawn and blew out the slowest breath she could manage before hyperventilating. Surrounded by tall needled pine in a meadow covered by a plush blanket of wildflowers she was on her hands and knees staring out from the paper. Her bright green eyes flashed with what could only be lust and the knowing smirk on her lips made her tremble. Tingles danced along her skin, her breasts peaked and strained against her bra. Beebe’s sex tightened as if trying to grab onto something.

She held in a groan.

Desire that always evaded her when with her partners of the moment unfurled deep within her sex making her gasp and flush. Embarrassed, she covered her face and rubbed furiously to get the image of the mystery man out of her mind and turn off her awakened libido. But she couldn’t.

She looked up at her friend. “I don’t know who he is.”

“Well, if you don’t mind, I’m going to use him as the best fantasy fodder every created. Mmm. Mmm.”

Beebe jumped out of her seat so fast her friend tripped backward until momentum carried her down to the tile. Beebe’s lips curled back, teeth exposed along with a deep, menacing growl. She slapped her hand over her mouth horrified.

Beebe whimpered. The urge so overwhelming to attack her friend she stumbled back knocking into the table. The white of Rhyme’s eyes grew to the size of the moon. Beebe’s breaths came fast, the scent of a bitter metallic coming off her friend, filling her nostrils. Her shaking hands grabbed her things throwing them in her bag. She had to get away.

‘I’m sorry, Rhyme. I’m sorry,” she cried.

Tears slipped from Beebe’s eyes. She raced out of the store, all the other partners staring at her as Rhyme got up. Beebe tripped as the unknown primal urge to claim what was hers, the man she’d drawn, and turn back and rip her friend’s throat out.

“Oh, God! What’s wrong with me?”

She ran like hell was lighting her heels on fire. Closer to her car she looked back and couldn’t see the store anymore or Rhyme. When she turned, she heard a noise like a low rumble. It distracted her enough she stumbled on a loose chunk of pavement, her things thrown everywhere. She fell to her knees and gathered them in a hurry, pulse pounding in her ears.

The rumble came again.

And again.

She ran even harder, the distance to her car seeming miles away. With a desperation she’d never known before, she prayed to anyone that would listen for her to reach her car safely. Time slowed but chased her like the wick on dynamite. Beebe cried out as she reached her car, fingers aching tangling with her keys, the tips pulsing like something wanted to tear through her skin. Precious moments lengthened until she finally opened the door of her car. She threw her things onto the passenger seat and slammed the door, locking it. Her head hit her steering wheel as she tried to settle her racing heart.

As her chest ached, she put the keys in the ignition and got the hell out of there. Only as she hit the gas, a heart-wrenching howl filled the night becoming a thick fog in her mind, like she was forgetting something. Or was it someone. She sniffed.

Its cry crawled along her spine and caused a whole-body shiver. She looked over her shoulder afraid of what she might see, afraid of the pull that made her long to turn around a follow the passionate howl. She wiped her face, tears coming away on her hand. How long had she been crying? Beebe hit the gas, but she looked over her shoulder again. She swerved out of the line of oncoming traffic into her own lane. Her tires squealed, and she rocketed down the street as she fled.

But the feeling of being held by that desperate cry, the need to turn back and seek what made it had her mind reeling. Why would she need to do that? She shook her head and kept driving. She had to get home, safe in her apartment.

Behind a locked door, she sank to her butt in a hard thump, her things pouring out of her bag a page opening to the eyes that cut deep into her soul seeking her own.

Beebe lifted the sketch book, flipped on the light and held the image in front of her. Who belonged to the ice blue eyes? Why had she drawn them?

An animal’s wail broke the silence of her apartment. It was just a stray dog she told herself. Up on shaking legs, she went to her room and readied for bed, not realizing she still held the sketchbook when she went to the bathroom. She threw it on the bed with enough force that it bounced off and onto the floor. She left it where it fell and went to brush her teeth. Beebe couldn’t get the image out of her mind.

When she finished her tasks before bed, she still couldn’t make the image quiet in her mind and decided to hell with it. She snatched the sketchbook of the floor and went to her art table to see if she could draw any more of the stranger. But her mind was stuck on the glacial stare, so Beebe began to draw something else. Her eyes started to get heavy and her lids fluttered down until she wound up crawling into her bed and falling asleep. The image of the stranger with ice blue eyes was the last thing she saw until she woke in the meadow of wild flowers.

Beebe looked down at herself and around. She didn’t feel right. Hadn’t she gone to bed? But she wore a dress made of linen and lace in a soft, almost nothing, blue that was so light that she could barely feel it caressing her skin as the breeze whispered through the fabric making it dance across her knees and flutter up to stroke her naked skin. She gasped. Where were her panties? She looked around again. More wild flowers appeared almost creating a cage of beauty.

“Hello?” Her skin prickled, and heat bloomed as the wind danced catching her bodies hairs. The silence of her question not carrying at all, as if she was still back in her room. She moaned. “Is anyone out there?” Was she dreaming? It had to be a dream.

A rustling came. A chuff. A yip. Beebe could see the flowers sway and dance as something brushed up against them too low for her to see. Her heart thumped faster. Excitement or fear she didn’t know. “Hello?” Her voice whispered so small she could barely hear it. “Hello?” A little bit louder now.

Foot beats sounded as she glanced over her shoulder. She circled. In front of her, behind her, once again. “Please, show yourself!” She yelled.

The beats went silent. She turned and turned to see if anything was out there, but the meadow had an eerie stillness that had her holding her breath. And then just in front of her a great beast stepped out of the wild flowers, it’s black coat thick and rich as shimmering coal and its eyes…It’s eyes shining like a beacon. The power of them held in their depths like the glaciers that hide the balance of nature below the Arctic waters in the north.

Beebe took a step forward not afraid. But why? And then the beast’s eyes took her in from head to toes. She began to shake as the beast came closer circling ever closer. As time slowed, fur brushed up against her bare legs. She moaned, but quieted when the great snout tipped up and skimmed along the underside of her breast. Her hands went to push the great head away but she stopped afraid of what it might do if she touched it. When the beast touched her again it brushed back and forth along her waist until it skimmed the hem of her dress, the wind exposing more of her legs.

A noise emanated from the animal. “Purring?” she said aloud. It butted her butt as if he was insulted. As it made another pass, the animal took another poke at her and lingered places it shouldn’t. “Stop that,” she snapped. Beebe tried to push it away, but then it came around and suddenly she was lying on her back on a bed of flowers covered by the animal. But soon that changed. The beasts’ eyes. Beebe gasped. Wolf.

Light fractured, and heat flashed across its skin. The weight of the animal shifted as the light splintered unspooling from the center of the wolf. It whipped gently across her skin in small lightning strikes, drumming sensitive areas, making her moan and writhe. But she knew it was odd to think this was alright. As more came at her, she couldn’t help the need it created inside her. Soft fur blanketed her. Beebe’s fingers locked onto the shoulders of the beast. She needed to hold it away, to get control of her reality, to wake up. This place couldn’t be real. It was just a dream. The light grew, and she squeezed her eyes shut, afraid of what might become of her mind if she lost herself in what was happening, if she let whatever she felt for this creature consume her. As her fingers held its fur they slipped onto flesh, and she gasped. She held on tighter and dug her fingertips into muscle. She was breathing with such force she thought she might lose consciousness. But at last, the sparks died and snapped out just as quickly as they exploded. The searing warmth made her skin dewy and aroused. She still didn’t dare open her eyes.

She couldn’t comprehend how or why this was happening. It seemed more than a dream. This wolf was somehow hers. At least that’s what she thought as her hips began to rock and hands that were no longer paws brushed up her sides gripping her wrists to stretch her arms over her head, the material of her dress inching up to expose her sex. She moaned, as the wolf that had transformed to a man held her down and spread her legs so he could fall into the v made by her spread legs.

“Please,” she said. Beebe didn’t know if she meant for him to stop or for him to keep touching her in such a sensual way. The man’s head nuzzled against her neck and his tongue tantalized the skin at her ear.

Her desire grew as her want for this man, who was not a man, began to pull back and adjust himself to skim her entrance. Beebe’s back arched just enough so with the next glide he thrust into her sitting himself deep within her core. The moans rolled over them both now like thunder in a never-ending storm. Each drag and thrust he slid over the most delicious spot, and her arousal grew. With each touch, she wanted him to go faster. And he did. With each kiss and lick, she danced closer and closer to the ultimate precipice of release. Beebe wanted it. Needed it. And she took it.

“Ahhhh!” Beebe screamed. Her orgasm hit her at Mach one, and she knew she had to be flying. She convulsed again, and again squeezing him tight, the pleasure so strong that she thought she would die from it. As another rush caught her, reality tipped once again. She gasped and moaned and writhed, the ache inside growing again until she fell over the edge, just as the man disappeared.

She woke to a scream, her own, it from pleasure and pain she didn’t know. He wasn’t real.

“It wasn’t real. None of it was true. It was just a dream. Just a dream,” she muttered.

“Hello, Beebeanna.”

Her eyes snapped open. Her heart raced. She turned to glowing glacial-blue eyes staring back at her.

Wolf.

It was the last thing she had thought before she passed out.

Jul 08

Theatrical Lightning; The 10-Minute Play

Anton Chekhov’s four hundred plus short stories are an easier writing topic than his plays. My curiosity took me to Chekhov’s most famous plays: The Seagull, Three Sisters, The Cherry Orchard and Uncle Vanya. Why did Chekhov shift from short stories to plays? His first play, perhaps marketed incorrectly as a comedy, was not received well.  Eventually, he wrote another play and fourteen in total. What was the attraction of the theatre?  I explored how to write a play, more specifically a 10-Minute Play to examine Chekhov’s motivation.

What is a 10-Minute Play?

In addition to a full length play (90 minutes), a “want to be” playwright can choose from the one act play (30 minutes) and a 10-Minute Play. As described by Sam Graber for the Playwright’s Center, the 10-Minute Play is a “bolt of theatrical lightning.” The play has minimal props and a small cast. The play’s ten pages include an organized structure and writing elements of action, dialogue, character, and theme.

Where to watch a 10-Minute Play?

Play festivals highlight short plays for several reasons. The productions are inexpensive and can generate additional revenues for theatre companies. The audience enjoys a wide variety of themes and situations. And less experienced directors, actors, and playwrights get a shot at the spotlight.  The Sandbox Play Festival, for example, produced four plays in a one hour time frame. The festival awarded a judges’ favorite and an audience favorite.  At the end of the hour, my friends and I had a difficult time choosing a favorite. All of the plays were enjoyable and outstanding in a unique way.

How to enter in a play festival?

The first challenge is to write the play and use a play format. As in The Revenant -A Good Idea for a Film, both screenplay and play need dramaticized action. The format allows no time for boring exposition disguised as dialogue.  I wrote a play with four characters, but my writing group suggested to eliminate one character and begin a page later where the action really began. According to Graber, a 10-Minute Play must ask a question. Of course, this is not a literal question but more of an implied and intriguing question about society, culture or people. This quick grab of attention sounds like a short story. The difference is in the structure which escalates like a novel in a short ten minutes.

The next challenge is to submit the play. Websites list play festivals and play submission deadlines. The biggest festivals offer prizes of $1000. Smaller festivals reward playwrights with production credit. Do playwrights travel to the production of a play? Maybe this was Chekhov’s attraction? Seeing his words acted on stage must have been a thrill. If I choose Chekhov’s path, my next chapter in writing could easily be titled – write, submit, road trip.