tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76552586106049245582024-02-19T02:20:35.349-08:00ScribomusingsLisalithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12878047213881845302noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655258610604924558.post-39428589927619327992015-03-03T14:57:00.004-08:002015-03-03T14:57:25.631-08:00Interview from Smashwords<h1 class="rightColumnHeader" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 32px; font-weight: 500; line-height: 1.1; margin: 10px 0px; padding-top: 5px;">
<span style="line-height: 1.1;">Interview with Lisa S Litberg</span></h1>
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<div class="interview-author-prompt" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: bold;">
What book marketing techniques have been most effective for you?</div>
<div class="interview-author-answer" style="box-sizing: border-box; text-align: justify;">
Facebook! Not only because my friends have been supportive and instrumental in spreading the word about my novel, but also because my book is of interest to a very specific subculture of people--those who followed the Grateful Dead around. I belong to several groups for Deadheads, and my novel has been received warmly there. I appreciate the love and hope it helps people relive those days that we are so nostalgic for!</div>
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Describe your desk</div>
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It is a mess! Right now it's covered in books, papers to grade, lesson plans, lotions, hand sanitizers, fake flowers, a little koala bear....an enigmatic bunch of clutter!</div>
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<div class="interview-author-prompt" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: bold;">
Where did you grow up, and how did this influence your writing?</div>
<div class="interview-author-answer" style="box-sizing: border-box; text-align: justify;">
I grew up in Chicago, so I have been exposed to everything. There is so much culture in Chicago, so much ethnicity, great food, great art, great theater, great museums. There is also crime and all the problems that plague a huge city. Even though I had a pretty good life in a pretty good neighborhood, you can't grow up in Chicago without being exposed to that other side. I'm currently writing a book of short stories about urban youth, somewhat influenced by my students and somewhat influenced by things I've seen in my life.</div>
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<div class="interview-author-prompt" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: bold;">
When did you first start writing?</div>
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I have written for as long as I can remember. I wrote my first poem before I was in Kindergarten. I have always loved to write: poetry, short stories, essays, speeches....I even enjoy writing research papers! I kept a journal from the age of 14 until the age of 25 in which I wrote religiously--mostly about boys, in retrospect--and I believe that might be the only thing that kept my sanity through those tumultuous years.</div>
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<div class="interview-author-prompt" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: bold;">
What's the story behind your latest book?</div>
<div class="interview-author-answer" style="box-sizing: border-box; text-align: justify;">
When I was in my late teens and early twenties, I followed the band the Grateful Dead around the country. There was a whole subculture of people following them from show to show, camping together, selling things in the parking lot. It was a unique experience that can't be truly understood unless you were there. The protagonist of my novel, Free, brings that scene to life for readers who didn't experience it, and will be pleasantly familiar to those who did. I always went home after each tour, but there were plenty of people who remained nomadic until the next one, who went to new towns, stayed with new people, found new ways to survive. This intrigued me, and Free is the story of one such person.</div>
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<div class="interview-author-prompt" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: bold;">
What motivated you to become an indie author?</div>
<div class="interview-author-answer" style="box-sizing: border-box; text-align: justify;">
Well, I wrote a book! After years of writing short stories, poems, and unfinished novels, I finally finished one. Then nothing happened for the next few years, because I had no idea what one does after writing a book. Eventually my friend Kevin encouraged me to get it published, and I found a small-press company who published it. They are no longer in business, so recently I republished my first novel under my own label, Scribomusings Press.</div>
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<div class="interview-author-prompt" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: bold;">
How has Smashwords contributed to your success?</div>
<div class="interview-author-answer" style="box-sizing: border-box; text-align: justify;">
I am very new to Smashwords, so time will tell! But Smashwords is user friendly and very fair to authors from what I have seen so far.</div>
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<div class="interview-author-prompt" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: bold;">
What do your fans mean to you?</div>
<div class="interview-author-answer" style="box-sizing: border-box; text-align: justify;">
I love the feedback I've gotten on this novel. My fans see things in my book and in my characters that I might have missed, adding a richness to the story. My fans inspired the book I'm currently working on. So many people have asked for a sequel. They want to know where Free is now, how she turned out. My next book isn't going to be about Free directly, but it will answer these questions. I'm really enjoying revisiting her.</div>
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<div class="interview-author-prompt" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: bold;">
What are you working on next?</div>
<div class="interview-author-answer" style="box-sizing: border-box; text-align: justify;">
I'm working on two things at the moment: a compilation of short stories featuring urban youth, and my second novel, which is not a sequel to my first but does piggyback on it. The short story project will be completed first, and will probably include an excerpt from the novel. I have been a high school teacher in an urban community for over 15 years, and my students have influenced a lot of the stories in my compilation. They find it meaningful to read literature that reflects their lives, that they can relate to. I want to be able to give this to them. <br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I started writing my second book due to multiple requests from my fans. They want to see where the main character from my first book is now, and as I thought about it her story began to unfold. However, this time it will be told through someone else's eyes.</div>
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<div class="interview-author-prompt" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: bold;">
Who are your favorite authors?</div>
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There are so many. Harper Lee and Carson McCullers are probably at the top of my list. I think To Kill a Mockingbird is the greatest book ever written, and The Heart is a Lonely Hunter a very close second. I have also read nearly everything Stephen King has written. He is a master at characterization. No one can develop a character like King. My favorite books of his are his Dark Tower series. Lately I've been reading Hugh Howey, a science fiction writer who got his start through internet publishing. His Wool Omnibus series is brilliant. Another favorite book is The Mists of Avalon, by Marion Zimmer Bradley. It is fantasy meets historical fiction, and takes place during the time of King Arthur. I could go on. S.E. Hinton, who probably influenced the style of my first novel more than anyone else. William Golding. Barbara Kingsolver. Douglas Adams. Neil Gaiman. Maybe I should compile my top 100 list!</div>
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<div class="interview-author-prompt" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: bold;">
What inspires you to get out of bed each morning?</div>
<div class="interview-author-answer" style="box-sizing: border-box; text-align: justify;">
Well, I'm not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination. If I had my way I'd sleep until at least 9 every day. But what inspires me? People. My son. My family. My friends. My students. I am naïve enough that I still believe deeply in the inherent good within people. I see this manifested every day, in so many ways. I see beauty in everything. It calls to me. It beckons my soul. I have seen enough hardship in my life to know that sadness and beauty are inseparable, that suffering is crucial to living, and that 'this too shall pass'. If there is pain, there will be joy. You'll see it in children playing, in a cat curled up in the sunlight pouring through a window, in flowers pushing up through frozen ground. This is what inspires me to make art. This is what inspires me to live, to breathe, to be.</div>
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<div class="interview-author-prompt" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: bold;">
Do you remember the first story you ever wrote?</div>
<div class="interview-author-answer" style="box-sizing: border-box; text-align: justify;">
I remember the first play I wrote! It was called "The Car Crash", and it was about a mother whose children were yelling in the car and caused her to crash. All the children died but she survived. In the next scene she is at home mourning her children, and their ghosts come back to haunt her. It ends with her jumping out the window to her death. I think I was six when I wrote this. I was always a little macabre.</div>
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Lisalithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12878047213881845302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655258610604924558.post-74067548591870583792015-03-02T20:07:00.001-08:002015-03-02T20:09:12.473-08:00Re-release of Free, more on the horizon....Big news over here! I am no longer working with the publishing company that originally published Free. However, Free has been rereleased under my own label, Scribomusings Press! <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitfd6H184lMAXRoN7yJJZyh8WIWv1JmjmRgEvs0ERF-BX9itleMomSuINCNYs-Fi_JGr1MuPHx1fCfpqGJL8fGqXNxG6I022EVpTYgKhuwjg4rw_Kvma5agPHEAvnrNshgacBNFr7tIFAL/s1600/freecover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitfd6H184lMAXRoN7yJJZyh8WIWv1JmjmRgEvs0ERF-BX9itleMomSuINCNYs-Fi_JGr1MuPHx1fCfpqGJL8fGqXNxG6I022EVpTYgKhuwjg4rw_Kvma5agPHEAvnrNshgacBNFr7tIFAL/s320/freecover.jpg" /></a></div>
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You can order a print copy of Free through the following online sources:<br />
<a href="https://tsw.createspace.com/title/5340967">Createspace</a><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Free-Lisa-Litberg/dp/0692398635/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1425354470&sr=8-1&keywords=free+lisa+litberg">Amazon</a><br />
<br />
And you can order the ebook here:<br />
<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/524211">Smashwords</a><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00U6HW212">Kindle</a><br />
<br />
And Free is still available in various independent bookstores, including <a href="http://womenandchildrenfirst.com/">Women and Children First</a> and <a href="http://citynewsstand.com/">City News.</a><br />
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In other news, I have begun working on my next novel! While it is not a sequel to Free per se, it does answer my fans number one question: "What happens to Free?" Stay tuned.......Lisalithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12878047213881845302noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655258610604924558.post-79814087082442077362014-12-25T08:54:00.003-08:002014-12-25T08:55:18.534-08:00New holiday giveaway!<a class="rcptr" href="http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/16d84c2e3/" rel="nofollow" data-raflid="16d84c2e3" data-theme="classic" data-template="" id="rcwidget_ugqb2ab8">a Rafflecopter giveaway</a>
<script src="//widget-prime.rafflecopter.com/launch.js"></script><br />
<br />
It's that time again! Click the above link to visit rafflecopter and win entries by following the directions there. And share, share share!<br />
<br />
Merry Christmas!<br />
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<br />Lisalithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12878047213881845302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655258610604924558.post-71648528295738849512014-11-06T15:49:00.000-08:002014-11-06T15:49:30.099-08:00No more sexy-shaming!I am so tired of us 'sexy-shaming' women.<br />
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If you haven't done it, you've seen it. Judging women for dressing too sexy, or acting too sexy, or dancing too sexy, or being in a line of work that we consider sexual, or doing things we associate with sex. And if you're a woman, chances are you've made excuses for yourself for looking or acting or being sexy. "I didn't realize this dress was so tight!" "I had no idea these shoes made me look like a hooker!" "I was only dirty-dancing because I was drunk!" <br />
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It's old, people. I'm really tired of it. <br />
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I really started thinking about this when I saw a thread on a hula-hooping facebook page. Most of the participants in this group are young women, much younger than me. One of them shared a comment someone left on a picture of video of her hooping that insinuated that she was being sexual. She defended herself, saying "Don't make hooping sexual!" The ensuing discussion consisted mostly of people saying either "hooping isn't slutty" or "haters gonna hate", but my thought is this: so fucking what? So what if her hooping is sexy? Women are sexy! It's part of our nature, and it's been so for ages, even before Salome had poor John's head served up on a plate. Granted when I hoop there's nothing sexy about it. I'm lucky when I can keep the hoop going around my hips and throw in a few tricks--adding sex appeal would be nothing short of disastrous. But if I could hoop sexily? Then heck yeah I would! So does that make me a slut? <br />
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The obvious answer is no. But that doesn't stop the pervasive judgement. perpetuated by a conflicted society that bombards us with pictures of barely legal lithe girls in undergarments and touts them as sexy, and then turns their noses up at strippers. When I started belly dancing, years and years ago, people judged me for it. After all, you're half-naked, gyrating your hips around. Doesn't this make you a slut? I made excuses, concessions. I didn't dance in restaurants for men--I danced as an art form. I was sensual, not sexual. I kept all my lady parts safely tucked away. MY belly dancing wasn't slutty. But truth was, when I danced I felt sexy. Very, very sexy. No matter what I wore or who I danced in front of--even when I danced alone--I felt hella sexy.<br />
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So did that make me a slut? How about when I started pole dancing? Again, I was surprised at the judgement, especially by other women but by men as well. Again, the defenses: It's athletic! It's basically aerial gymnastics. It's not like I'm stripping while I do it! You can't wear a lot of clothes or your skin won't stick to the pole! But once again, the truth was buried beneath the defense. While I liked the acrobatic parts of the sport, I loved the sexy part of the dance. It made me feel beautiful, alive, sinuous, sensual, and yes--sexy. My clothes got skimpier and sexier. I danced in heels. I emulated strippers and their hypnotic seductive moves.<br />
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So is that where I became a slut? No. And here's the bottom line, which we need to be reminded of again and again and again---dancing sexy does not make one a slut. Dressing skimpy does not make one a slut. Stripping for a living does not make one a slut. Sleeping with consenting adults does not make one a slut. No matter where, when, or how many.<br />
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But slut-shaming is pervasive, so pervasive that I know I lost some of you in that last paragraph. Our culture really wants to hang onto the notion that women are not supposed to do what they want with their bodies, and that women who do should be scorned and judged. So we make excuses for ourselves when we do things that could be perceived as slutty. Or we avoid doing such things completely to avoid judgement. <br />
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All those Halloween costumes we scoff at--sexy nurse! Sexy zombie! Sexy pirate! That's in all of us, every day, in real life. Sexy doctors. Sexy lawyers. Sexy EMTs. Sexy chefs. Sexy professors. Sexy baristas. Sexy CEOS, accountants, dancers, graphic artists, stay-at-home moms. We don't need a silly costume once a year to be sexy. We just need to be who we are, comfortable in our own skin, doing our own thing. For some of us, that might mean dancing in 5 inch heels. For others, that might mean wearing comfortable clothes and reading a book. But let's stop the judgement, of ourselves and of each other, for being sexual beings. <br />
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So go ahead and be sexy. Wear what makes you feel good, move in ways that make you feel good. Sleep with who you want to, when you want to. But be safe about it. Know that the judgement is not going away. Protect yourself. Don't put yourself in unsafe situations. Be as sexy as you want to be, and when you hide the sexy side from those who will use it to hurt you, do it not because you are ashamed of it, but because you are strong and smart and safe.<br />
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And sexy.Lisalithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12878047213881845302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655258610604924558.post-21323117151406147392014-10-14T20:41:00.003-07:002014-10-14T20:42:17.143-07:00Another blog radio interviewHere's the transcript of my second blog radio interview, with Jaimie Hope! Click and enjoy!<br />
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<a href="http://www.blogtalkradio.com/jaimiehope/2014/10/13/everyone-has-a-story-presents-lisa-litberg">Everyone Has a Story Presents: Lisa Litberg</a> Lisalithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12878047213881845302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655258610604924558.post-24615665151877043382014-09-27T19:24:00.000-07:002014-09-27T19:24:02.111-07:00Some of my reviews.....Thanks to all who reviewed. I really appreciate it.<br />
<br />
I
loved loved loved Free! I read it in one night,I couldn't put it down.
She seemed so real to me & the descriptions of different cities
& towns painted such a clear picture, I felt I was right there. I
can't wait to read more from Lisa Litberg! --<br /> Neelie Sammon Koulouvaris<br /> <br />
It seems to me that Lisa Litberg in this novel, do not offer to be
philosophical or to have the answer for all the questions, nor the
characters don't promise to be the ideal people that you would love but
in the in the end, it is a precious jewel of a story and Free is an
endearing character that could be anyone of us at some point in life -
the rawness to the story, the transience to it, the unapologetic sense
of what have become of the characters in the story is the beauty to this
novel. It doesn't teach you what to do, it just shows you what could
happen and the consequences of the choices that the characters made. The
book makes the reader think, or perhaps makes us wiser in making our
own choices. --Jeques B. Jamora<br /> <br /> What a terrific read. Could
not put this book down. I had to find out where Free was headed.
Wonderful book and I hope hope hope Lisa Litberg has more stories to
tell. --Adam R<br /> <br /> This is a great read! Read it in 2 days. I loved
getting to know Free (I can totally relate to her at times) and I hope
to read more from author Lisa Litberg. Download it or buy the book --
you won't be disappointed. --C. Stewart<br /> <br /> AMAZING FUN READ! I'm
already hoping for a sequel or a movie! Author does an excellent job of
developing the characters and holding your interest. The book covers a
young girl finding herself as she follows the Grateful Dead across the
country and her experiences and the people she meets along with way. It
is very identifiable for those of us who grew up in the sixties and to
every young person just following their heart. Highly recommend taking
the time to read this one. --Patricia Somogyi<br /> <br /> This is a great
read! Read it in 2 days. I loved getting to know Free (I can totally
relate to her at times) and I hope to read more from author Lisa
Litberg. Download it or buy the book -- you won't be disappointed.
--Amazon Customer (Huntington Beach, CA) <br /> <br /> Free is an excellent
book, and very easy to read. The characters are well fleshed out and
draw us in from the very beginning. Ms Litberg brings the culture of
drugs and the 90s into life. Free is a character that we like, a
character we can understand and someone we cheer for from the opening
pages. I couldn't put this book down once I started to read.<br /> <br /> Bravo to the author on her first book! --Amazon customer<br /> <br />
Free personifies the wanderlust many of my generation experienced at
that age. Regardless of the forces that kickstart Free's experiences,
you get drawn into her journey of self-discovery as she learns about
herself through her encounters and travels. Her final geographical
destination never concerned me as much as seeing Free find peace of
mind. I'm hoping to read more about Free soon.<br /> --Original Wild One<br /> <br />
Free pulled me into her world so quickly I found myself halfway through
the book the first time I opened it! A great read that kept my
attention through the end, which by the way was the only thing I didn't
like, it ended! Hope to read more about Free soon or any book by author,
Lisa Litberg. --Sunshine Baba<br /> <br /> I couldn't put this book down
and finished it in its entirety on a 3 hour plane trip yesterday. I felt
like I was tagging along with Free on her travels across the U.S. Very
unique voice and a great summer read especially if you're on a U.S. road
trip (or just dreaming of taking one!). --Amy Bizzarri <br /> <br />
_Free_, by Lisa Litberg, is a haunting tale that evokes a myriad of
emotion in the reader as it follows the plight of a lost young woman
self-named Free on Grateful Dead tours. The first person point of view
perfectly suits this story. It allows us to feel her sense of
estrangement, fear, and all-too-rare happiness. In one sense, it's a
coming-of-age story as we follow Free's exploits around the country, but
this is no feel-good tale. I found myself worrying about her as she
flew by the seat of her pants in oftentimes dangerous and volatile
situations. Free represents just one young girl of a lost generation of
kids running away from painful home lives. While many of these kids fall
prey to the specter of drugs and predatory people, Free has the grit to
maybe make it through the morass of street life to find and save
herself. Litberg has created a well-written, compelling story that
engages readers as we take the metaphorical and physical journey with
this young woman. But it leaves us wondering if freedom isn't just
another cage. I'm a fan of intimate character studies, so this book
captured my interest and imagination. As with most great books, it
leaves us with lingering questions—and wanting more. _Free_ is highly
recommended! --Cyn O. <br /> <br /> An evocative tale of a few troubled years in a young woman's life. I only wish it had been longer. Recommended! --Hunter <br /> <br />
I absolutely love and recommend this book to everyone. While Free
could be anyone, she is one of the best identifiable characters I've
ever had the pleasure of reading about. She goes through her life
learning like most young women do, she has hardships, she becomes
stronger and she most of all, should empower young women everywhere to
take the journey to find out who they are. This was a quick read for me
because I couldn't put it down, when I did, I had to go back and read
more because it had me hooked. I had to know what happened to Free next!
If you are looking for a quick, fun read that keeps you turning the
pages, this is one!! --Jennifer Gunn "J. Gunn" <br /> <br /> I found Free to be a very engaging read. It is a unique coming of age story. -- <br /> sara monner -<br /> <br /> Really enjoyed this book & didn't want it to end. Hope there is a sequel .--Kathy Hebeisen<br /> <br />
This is a fun quick read. There are moments that lead the reader to
pause and reflect on their personal life experiences and lessons
learned. Free has all these adventures that could be (is) a dicey life
style. Will her lessons be learned and acted upon. One just travels
along with her.<br /> Where is volume 2? --J. Dale <br /> <br /> Kept me
interested hard to put down. So realistic I could picture the scenes as I
was reading this. Last time I read a book like this was Joy In the
Morning. I could picture that book as a movie and it became a movie. I'm
hoping there's a sequel to the book and a movie. --Babynurse Rachel <br /> <br />
Just finished reading Free by Lisa Litberg. The book is easy to read,
the story keeps moving, and I think there is definitely a call for the
next book for this character. Lisa keep up the good work. Looking
forward to reading more of your work in the future. --Linda S. Wright
"Ronald P Wright"<br /> <br /> Brings me back to a long ago time - when I
too was Free. But freedom has a cost, I see that now and am glad the
glass is half full, and I am not empty. --Matt Gallagher <br /> <br />
<hr />
Lisalithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12878047213881845302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655258610604924558.post-23022622921662167492014-09-25T18:55:00.003-07:002014-09-25T18:57:06.020-07:00Jewel's of the Universe Author Spotlight blog radio show!Here is the recording of the blog radio show I was on tonight! <a href="http://www.blogtalkradio.com/jotugems/2014/09/25/lisa-litberg-free">http://www.blogtalkradio.com/jotugems/2014/09/25/lisa-litberg-free</a> Thanks to <a href="https://www.facebook.com/tylaviese.douglass">Author Tyleishia Douglass</a> for featuring me! I talk about Free, but I talk about more than that as well. Give it a listen!Lisalithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12878047213881845302noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655258610604924558.post-11067412389955642462014-07-08T19:43:00.000-07:002014-07-08T19:44:01.425-07:00In regards to Chicago's shootings.... We Chicagoans can get used to anything. We’ve been putting up with horrid weather, bad traffic, exorbitant taxes and crooked politicians for a long, long time. So I guess it’s no surprise that when we see headlines like “77 Shot in Weekend Violence, 14 Killed”, we just hoist it up on our big shoulders and go about our lives. That is, unless you know one of the 75+ people harmed by violence over the last five days. That probably makes it harder to handle. But chances are, you don’t. Unless you live in one of the distinct communities that boast a litany of shootings each week, mostly involving young, poor minorities, you probably feel removed, maybe even slightly smug, that the violence doesn't touch you. You may even have thoughts like “If that were my kid I’d never let that happen,” or “What’s wrong with their parents” or “That’s what they get for gangbanging.” <br />
<br />
Perhaps thoughts like those are accurate. You can’t argue the fact that the majority—-not all, but most—-of the names on the list of the dead and wounded (if they even bother listing their names) were making poor choices that led to their injury or death. For some, the choice might have been simply that they were out on the streets of a dangerous area. For others, it might be that they were committing their own acts of violence. To me, those details don’t matter. What matters is that we are losing lives here, and every child lost to us is a loss to our entire society. And every time we shake our heads and write it off as somebody else’s issue, we lose a bit more. <br />
<br />
When you scan the list of incidents after another violent weekend, you see things like “19 year old man” or “14 year old boy” or “28 year old woman”. Sometimes there are names, sometimes not. Names or not, these are faceless individuals, most likely in dangerous areas, possibly making bad choices, maybe in the wrong place at the wrong time. And that is all we know. The news reports don’t usually say things like this:
<br />
<br />
Luis hated school until he found poetry. After that, he couldn’t stop writing. He wrote countless poems, many about his violent life and the choices he was making. He was funny and candid and got along well with his teachers and peers. Luis was killed by gun violence at the age of 17.
<br />
<br />
Marley was good looking, happy, and funny. He made jokes all the time. The girls loved him. Though he could barely read he tried hard in school because he wanted to graduate to make his mother proud. It was hard, because he had health issues that kept him out of school a lot and had to be constantly monitored by doctors. He seemed to be doing better when he was shot to death at the age of 19. His classmates clung to each other and wept when they heard the news.<br />
<br />
Miguel was a hyper, rambunctious freshman, silly and immature for his age. His teachers worried for him because of his gang involvement. He was killed the summer after his freshman year. His family is featured in the documentary The Interrupters, visiting him in the cemetery daily.
<br />
<br />
George wrote editorials for his high school newspaper. He was so smart that he graduated high school early. He opted to stay in Chicago for college because he didn’t want to leave his family and friends. He hadn’t yet graduated college when he was killed. <br />
<br />
Aaron wasn’t that into school work, but he was friendly and funny and liked to play around with his teachers. His family moved to a better neighborhood hoping for a better life, but he still went back to the old neighborhood to see his friends and get into trouble. He was shot while running from police when he reached down to pull up his pants-—the officers thought he was going for a gun. He was 17.
<br />
<br />
Augie was a heavy set, short, silly kid. He was well liked by the staff and teachers at his school. His family sent him out of state to get him away from the streets, but he must have ended up back here, because I heard the other day that he was one of the 14 killed these last five days, shot to death while on his porch. He was in his early 20s.
<br />
<br />
I could go on. In my fifteen years of teaching I have lost many more students and former students to street violence. Maybe to everyone else they’re just names on a paper, kids acting stupid, products of bad parenting, somebody else’s issue. To me they were children with strengths and weaknesses, promises and potential. I weep when I read about another child lost to us, because I know those names on the list were real people, kids with hopes and fears, who were loved by their families and their friends and their teachers. I will never get used to the violence on our streets. I will never see it as somebody else’s problem. This is my problem. This is everyone's problem.<br />
<br />
I keep the following poem on the wall of my classroom, and read it to my students frequently. It is a fitting memorial, and a cautionary tale, and I'm sure Luis would be proud that I was sharing it if he had lived.
<br />
<br />
<div align="center">
I am strong and brave</div>
<div align="center">
I wonder if my braveness will get me killed.</div>
<div align="center">
I hear gunshots.</div>
<div align="center">
I see people dying, hurting, in pain.</div>
<div align="center">
I want it to stop. </div>
<div align="center">
I am scared, worried.</div>
<div align="center">
</div>
<div align="center">
I pretend it is OK to do what I'm doing. </div>
<div align="center">
I feel nervous fear.</div>
<div align="center">
I touch my body to see if I'm still alive.</div>
<div align="center">
I worry I will get killed, and not see the people I love.</div>
<div align="center">
I cry at night just thinking.</div>
<div align="center">
I am scared, worried.</div>
<div align="center">
</div>
<div align="center">
I understand I need to stop.</div>
<div align="center">
I say will I live to see 30?</div>
<div align="center">
I dream I can live a normal life.</div>
<div align="center">
I try to make it happen.</div>
<div align="center">
I hope I can live to see my child grow up, and not make the same mistakes I did.</div>
<div align="center">
I am strong and brave, </div>
<div align="center">
even though I feel different inside.</div>
Lisalithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12878047213881845302noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655258610604924558.post-30869910397306909292014-06-15T10:03:00.000-07:002014-06-19T21:23:14.012-07:00Win a free signed copy of Free!Free won't be released until July 4, but you can win a signed copy to be sent to you as soon as it's off the press! Just follow the instructions below to earn raffle points. Contest begins June 20 and ends June 30 at midnight. Good luck!<br />
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<script src="//widget.rafflecopter.com/load.js"></script>Lisalithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12878047213881845302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655258610604924558.post-39317082045687353192014-06-06T12:07:00.000-07:002014-06-06T12:07:40.089-07:00This one's for the Deadheads....One more excerpt from Free. This one's especially for all my fellow tourheads...ah, don't it bring you back...<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
There’s nothing
like the parking lot of a Grateful Dead show. It’s a whole culture of its own,
above and beyond the rest of the world, boasting its own food, dialect, attire,
values and mores; an intricate tapestry of people from all ages, backgrounds,
and walks of life. Music wafts from everywhere: Dead, Phish, Bob Marley, and
various other groups that can range from classic rock to new age, from jazz to
alternative. Odors linger in the air: pungent tomato sauce for spaghetti or
chili, buttery grilled cheese, the ever-popular veggie burrito.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
The cars lined up
in rows vary by make and model, although there are a lot of VW buses, campers,
vans and RVs. They are decorated with stickers and slogans, and tapestries hang
from windows. License plates claim a multitude of states, from North to South,
from East to West, although tonight there will be more from New Jersey than
anywhere else. I haven’t seen Chuck’s bus yet, but I know they’re here because
they passed us yesterday on the road. Eric and Mark had agreed to go to
will-call every hour on the hour until they found each other. Eric left to meet
him about forty-five minutes ago. I’m
going to hook up with him at 6:00 in front of the venue, to let him know if I
found a ticket or not.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Right now I’m on
Shakedown Street, which is the name given to the strip of the lot dedicated to
vendors. You can buy just about anything here:
food, clothing, jewelry, artwork, stickers, beer, soda, books, pipes.
Vending is illegal, and sometimes security will give vendors a hard time and
confiscate their stuff. This sucks— it’s like the cops swooping down and taking
away your paycheck. But mostly those of us selling legal merchandise are left
alone. I find it’s safer to walk around with my hemp, rather than setting up
shop on the strip. Besides, I get bored sitting in one place for so long. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
I haven’t sold
anything yet, but I’m not worried; it’s early, and most of the townies aren’t
here yet. Most of the people here already are other vendors, and we don’t buy
much except for food and beer, or other necessities. It’s the people who live
here who want to buy stuff, kind of like tourists in Mexico or someplace like that,
except that here the products are coming to them instead of the other way
around. I expect to make at least fifty dollars tonight, but if I’m lucky I’ll
make closer to a hundred before I stop to try and score a ticket. I want to
have enough money to buy one if I have to; this is the kickoff of summer tour,
and I definitely want in the show tonight. I also want to find a ride to the
next show, which is much easier when you have gas money to kick down. But right
now I’m just kind of wandering, looking for people I know.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
I decide to cross
the venue to the other parking lot, just to check it out. Later on this area
will be filled with people—people in line waiting to get into the show, and
others selling and searching for tickets. A lot of people, myself included,
will be looking for a “miracle,” or a free ticket. There are various ways of
doing this, but the most popular is to walk around with your finger in the air
to show that you want one ticket, and announce that you need a miracle.
Hopefully, sooner or later someone will give you a ticket into the show—no
strings attached. It’s a phenomenon that I have witnessed at no other groups’ concerts—not that I’ve really been to
many other groups’ concerts—and I’m not sure why there are so many free tickets
floating around. But I’d estimate that I have gotten into about sixty percent
of the shows I’ve seen absolutely free, and about twenty percent for half price
or less. I haven’t paid full price for very many shows at all, which is good,
because they can be pretty spendy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
There are other
ways to get into shows for free. Sometimes people slip by with counterfeit
tickets, or stubs from previous shows, but that’s pretty rare. I know a girl
who swears she can get in by “making herself invisible” and walking right past
the people at the gates. That has never worked for me, and to be honest, the
night she demonstrated it to me it didn’t work for her, either. Sometimes
someone inside the venue will open an unused door, letting whoever happens to
be on the outside in, but that’s a matter of being in the right place at the
right time. It happened to me last spring in Canada. As I walked alongside the
venue, the door just flew open, and I ran up the stairs into the show and
disappeared into the crowd before security even knew what was happening. But
you can’t count on that. I’ve had the most success by far with miracles.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Of course, when
all else fails, you can try to break into the show by going over or under a
fence or by rushing the gates. Last year at Deer Creek I got caught up in a mob
of gate-crashers. I found myself running for a chain-link fence and climbing
like mad, security hot on our tails. I was almost to the top, my heart pounding
quickly with fear and exhilaration, when the whole fence toppled backwards
under our weight. I barely got out from under it and away before the guard
caught me. Thinking about it later, I realized how stupid it was; how easily
someone could have been hurt. On top of that, it was an act of vandalism—we
tore that gate down! But at the time I was so caught up on getting into the
show that none of that even occurred to me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
The other parking
lot is virtually empty. I haven’t seen any of the kids I know from tour. Some
of them probably blew it off because it was New Jersey, and just about everybody
seems to hate Jersey. I don’t mind it—at least not here in the parking lot of
Giants Stadium. The only place I won’t go to see a show is Iowa, and I don’t
think I have to worry about the Dead playing there anytime soon. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
I’m walking around
the venue just to check it out—I’ve never been here before—when a man
approaches me. “Need any tickets?” he asks. He’s looking around nervously, like
he’s selling crack or nuclear weapons or something.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
I smile
engagingly. “I need a miracle.” He is wearing a T-shirt and jeans, with short
hair and a mustache. He looks like a shyster, like your typical scalper, and
I’m not expecting him to give me a ticket. But he looks at me for a second and
then pulls one out of his pocket. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What the hell,
kid, maybe you’re good luck,” he says as he hands it to me.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
I can barely
believe it—it’s not even 3:00 p.m. yet, and I already have a ticket! I thank
him, and he smiles and says, “No problem. Enjoy the show,” as he walks off.
Goes to show, you can’t judge a book by its cover.</div>
<br />
<br />Lisalithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12878047213881845302noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655258610604924558.post-83113123518286671412014-06-06T11:44:00.000-07:002014-06-06T11:44:11.351-07:00Another excerpt from FreeAt my friend Neelie's request, and in honor of my upcoming trip to New Orleans, here's another excerpt from my novel. Free will be released July 4!<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
New Orleans is
hot. A thick, wet hot. The kind of heat that follows you everywhere and clings
to your skin beneath your clothes; that enfolds itself around you like a
blanket. I don’t mind. I was sick of the cold in Chicago, sick of layering
clothes on top of each other to keep warm. I’m wearing a tank top and cut-off
shorts right now, sitting on some rocks by the Mississippi River. It’s pretty
here. There are big boats with names like<i>
Mississippi Queen</i> and<i> Belle of New
Orleans</i> sitting on the river expectantly, waiting for their turn to go
somewhere.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
I’ve been all over
the country, but never anywhere like this. The houses all look European and
Gothic, with wrought iron gates and bars on the windows. People do tarot
readings in the streets. There are strip clubs, sex shows, bars, bars, and more
bars, ghost and vampire tours, aboveground cemeteries. In the Garden District
there are huge mansions painted in pastel colors and lavish with ornate
fixings. The streetcars run clanging down the street. It is a town of mystery,
of rituals and secrets, and yet people are open and friendly. It’s a phenomenon
I haven’t quite figured out yet. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
We’re living with
some of Arkansas Joe’s friends, in a run-down building right outside the French
Quarter. It’s not the greatest place to live, but it’ll do for now. It was a
last-minute decision to come here. I ran into Joe right before Eric came back,
and he said he couldn’t wait any longer; he was leaving in a week. I told him I
was coming. We left two days after Eric returned. He was bewildered and quietly
angry. He kept wanting to know why I was leaving. I wished I could tell him. I
still don’t know why myself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Arkansas Joe’s
friends have a table at the French Market, and I sell some of my jewelry there.
I also do hair wraps in Jackson Square, where the tarot and palm readers are,
and sometimes down here by the river. I don’t have a permit, but I haven’t been
caught yet. This is my favorite place to do hair wraps. I like being near the
water. There was no water in Iowa, but lately I’ve been spoiled. Joe does
cemetery tours for a living. It’s not a real job. He waits around the
cemeteries for tourists to come by, and then he offers to take them around the
cemetery and tell them about it. I guess tourists visit the cemeteries because the
aboveground burials are so unique. I’ve heard a lot of reasons why they bury
their dead above ground, but I think it’s because the land is so swampy that
bodies would wash away. He doesn’t charge a fee, just requests a donation. He
usually gets them. I asked him how he learned so much about the cemeteries. He
laughed and said he makes it up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
I think of Eric a
lot. I miss him. Maybe I’ll send him a postcard or something.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
There are a lot of
homeless kids in New Orleans, which is no different than Portland, San
Francisco, or anyplace else I’ve been. Even Chicago had its street kids huddled
together down by the Alley at Belmont and Clark. The kids here sit along the
narrow, cobblestone streets of the French Quarter and ask the tourists for
money or food. Joe knows a lot of them. I’ve seen a couple that I knew from
tour, all dazed and out of it, strung out on dope. They asked me for some, and
when I told them I didn’t use, they walked away without a word.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
No matter what day
of the week it is, Bourbon Street is a party at night, alit in neon and crowded
with people. People drift in and out of the bars, taking their beverages
outside with them because you can drink on the street. Music pours from every
building, and people stagger through the streets, laughing, fighting. Girls
lift their shirts and show their breasts for the ninety-nine cent beads the
guys throw off the balconies, and guys stagger in and out of the Barely Legal
or Topless/Bottomless clubs. I think Kathi would love it here. In the morning
they hose the streets down, because they smell like garbage and urine.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
We live right
outside the French Quarter in a bad neighborhood. There are housing projects
across the street from our apartment. New Orleans is the murder capital of the
world, I guess. I don’t care. It adds to the mystique. So do the rats; giant
rats roaming down the cobblestone streets, as big as cats. They scare me more
than the bad neighborhoods do. A card reader once told me they were the spirits
of the dead. I don’t usually believe in that stuff, but who knows? New Orleans
is like that. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Hi ya, Free,” a
voice calls behind me. I jump, startled. It’s Maria, one of the tarot readers
from Jackson Square. I had been thinking such creepy thoughts that she caught
me off guard. She laughs. “Did I scare you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Startled me a
little,” I admit. “Are you done working?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Taking a break,”
she says. “Toby’s covering for me. There aren't a lot of people out today.”
Toby is an artist. He paints pictures of people for money.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Can Toby read
cards?” I ask.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“He’s getting
there,” Maria says. Maria has dark, thick hair; dark, thick skin; and black
eyes set deep under dark, thick eyebrows. She looks like a fortune-teller, so a
lot of people pick her to read their cards. She doesn’t wear drape-y capes or
flowing skirts like some of the psychic readers. She’s wearing shorts and a
T-shirt. She says she makes more money than anyone else there, and that most of
her customers come back. She says it’s because she’s really psychic. “I’ve been
teaching him. You should learn, Free. It’s a good way to make extra money.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
I shrug. “I don’t
think I’d be good at it. I’m not psychic at all.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You never know,”
Maria says, smiling. “You want a reading?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I can’t pay for
it,” I protest.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I know,” Maria
says, “but it’s good for business when people see me reading instead of just
sitting there. I’m sick to death of reading for Toby and Jeannette all the
time.” Jeannette is a palm reader who works next to Maria. “Come on back with
me. It might be good for you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Okay,” I say,
getting to my feet. We walk over the train tracks and across the street. There
are usually a lot of people in this part of the Quarter, but today is kind of
quiet. Toby is sitting at Maria’s table, studying the cards. He looks like he’s
really concentrating. Toby always seems to be in his own little world. He’s the
skinniest person I’ve ever met, and his face is full of acne. He has pretty
eyes, but they’re hard to notice through all of his pimples. He looks up as we
approach. “Hey, Free, hey Maria,” he says slowly. Toby always talks slowly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m going to give
Free a reading,” Maria tells him. He nods but doesn’t move, so Maria says, “Can
I sit, Tobe?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh,” he says,
getting out of the seat, “Sorry.” He ambles back to his chair and drawing pad.
He’s really spaced out, but he’s the best artist I know. His drawings look like
photographs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Maria sits down
and motions for me to sit. She hands me the cards. “Shuffle them, and focus on
your energy as it diffuses through the cards.” I have no idea what she is
talking about, so I just nod and shuffle. Maria closes her eyes and breathes
deeply, and it is suddenly silent except for the ripping sound of the cards as
I shuffle. Just as I’m starting to feel a little nervous she says, “When you
feel complete, cut the cards with your left hand, twice to the left.” She makes
a quick gesture with her hand. Her eyes are still closed, and she still
breathes deeply. I shuffle one more time and then cut the deck like she showed
me. Maria opens her eyes and smiles, and I feel a little better. She picks up
the piles and puts them back on top of each other. Then she lays down three
cards in a row. The backs are blue and there are some symbols or something on
them—cups and swords and things. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“This is a simple
reading,” she says. “Past, present, future.” She flips over the first card,
which shows a figure on a horse. “The Knight of Swords.” Her brow furrows as
she studies the card, and then she looks directly at me. “This represents a man
in your past. Maybe more than one man.
He’s intellectual and logical. Sometimes he’s detached and emotionless,
sometimes he’s angry. It could just be energy from your past that you need to
let go of. Maybe you need more emotion in your life. Maybe it’s you.” She looks
at me expectantly. I don’t know what to say, so I just nod. She flips the next
card. “Present.” A man is in a boat on the water. His back is to us. “Six of
Swords,” she says. “You’re presently leaving something behind or giving
something up. Maybe him.” She points to the Knight of Swords, and I think of Eric.
Did I tell Maria about him? I can’t remember.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Maria is staring
at me again, so I say, “That makes sense,” even though I’m not sure that it
does. She seems encouraged. She flips the last card over. It shows people
falling from a building that was struck by lightning. Maria frowns. “Hmmm…” she
says slowly. She seems to be considering.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What is it?” I
ask nervously.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Toby peers over.
“The Tower!” he says. He somehow sounds excited even though he is still
speaking slowly. “That’s the worst card in the deck. Something bad is gonna
happen to you, Free.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Toby!” Maria
turns to him. “That’s no way to read cards! You have to remain positive.” She
looks back at me. “The Tower is never welcome, but it still can be positive and
necessary. This means that your life is going to change drastically, but what
grows from the ruins can be even better.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
I nod nervously.
Drastic? Ruins? I don’t like this. I wish I’d never let Maria do this for me.
It didn’t even drum up any business; there’s still no one around. Maria can
tell I’m upset. “Don’t worry, Free. Your life probably needs a change, don’t
you think? And really, what do you have to lose?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
It’s true. I have
nobody and nothing. What could happen that’s so terrible? I decide to stop
worrying about it, although Toby’s reaction keeps playing in my mind.</div>
Lisalithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12878047213881845302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655258610604924558.post-37133784475602611532014-03-24T19:16:00.002-07:002014-03-24T19:16:52.258-07:00July 4 is the day! <a href="https://vigilantepublishinggroup.wordpress.com/2014/03/24/press-release-for-lisa-litberg-and-free/">Here's the press release....</a><br />
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<br />Lisalithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12878047213881845302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655258610604924558.post-59814047712105237052014-01-12T20:48:00.001-08:002014-01-12T20:48:32.834-08:00Free excerptMy first novel is to be published sometime this year by <a href="http://vigilantepublishinggroup.wordpress.com/">Vigilante Publishing Group</a>, which has motivated me to resurrect this blog. Here's an excerpt. These are the opening pages from the novel Free, a coming of age story about a girl trying to find her place in the world.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Chapter One</div>
<st1:place w:st="on">Midwest</st1:place> Summer Tour, 1993<br />
<o:p> </o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m
in the back of a VW bus, sharing floor space with an overstuffed duffel bag,
two guys who are sprawled out asleep, and a German shepherd named Rex.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The duffel bag is mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It contains everything that I own at this
junction of my life, except for the sleeping bag that’s spread out for padding
on the floor of the bus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Shepherd
isn’t mine; he belongs to Chuck, who’s driving the bus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His wife is in the passenger seat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her name is Angel and Chuck calls her his old
lady.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know the names of the two
sleeping guys, but I think I heard someone say they were from <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New Jersey</st1:place></st1:state>.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
name is Free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Usually when I tell people
that they laugh and ask me what my <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">real<i>
</i></span>name is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just look them
dead on and repeat it: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Free.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I left my old name behind with my old life;
shed both of them like a useless layer of skin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When I stepped free of that world I took the name Free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is my real name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I picked it myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What could be more real than that?</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
sit up and stretch, surveying the morning through the back window of the
van.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rex looks up at me, panting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s hot already and it can’t be nine
yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rex puts his head in my lap and I
scratch behind his ears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I ditch
this ride, he’s all I’m going to miss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Well, maybe Angel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s all
right, but Chuck is a big asshole.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
look out the window and watch the cornfields flying by on both sides.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Welcome to another Midwestern summer
day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turn to the front of the
bus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Where are we?”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Chuck
doesn’t answer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s staring straight
ahead, and his knuckles are white on the steering wheel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not a good sign.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s probably hung over from last night.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Angel
turns her head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Nowhere, <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Kansas</st1:place></st1:state>,” she
replies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s about fifty and looks it,
except when she smiles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her gray-blonde
hair has mostly escaped her ponytail and is flying around her face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s smiling now, but ruefully.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She hates the <st1:place w:st="on">Midwest</st1:place>
as much as I do.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
turn around and lean back against the front seat, wishing I had a book.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d read anything at this point, even one of
those trashy romance novels my mother used to read.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a book on my last cross-country trek; a
Stephen King novel called The Stand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
read it over and over and never got bored of it—it was that good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I ended up trading it to another book-lover
for a sandwich.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Instead
I pull out my hemp and beads and start making more necklaces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is my job now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not bad—I don’t mind being my own boss
and making my own hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not going
to get rich this way, but I make enough money to pitch in on gas and eat, and
even occasionally buy a ticket for the night’s concert—when I can’t get in for
free, that is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve tried swinging other
things as well—beer, grilled cheese sandwiches, hand-sewn bags.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a while I was riding with a sister who made
patchwork baby-doll dresses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were
beautiful, and she made a killing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
that’s not an option for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What am I
going to do—strap a sewing machine to my back?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Hemp jewelry works out much better— it’s lightweight, inexpensive, and
easy to make.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Cool
beads.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where are they from?”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
look up, startled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s one of the <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New Jersey</st1:place></st1:state> guys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a moment I had forgotten anyone was back
there with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s wearing a pair of
denim cut-offs and nothing else, leaning cross-legged against the other side of
the bus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His hair is brown and curly,
almost bushy, kind of like Bob Dylan’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He’s absently petting Rex, who apparently abandoned me when he realized
I was busy with something else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nice
show of loyalty.</div>
<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
don’t know,” I shrug.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I pick them up
here and there.”<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“From
stores or from people?”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Both,”
I reply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why does he care where my beads
come from?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His gaze is making me
uncomfortable, but I don’t show it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
stare straight back at him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His eyes are
green.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He doesn’t look away.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It
would be cool if every one had a different story behind it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know, like where it came from.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would make the jewelry so meaningful.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m
not sure what to say to this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well,
there’s no story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sorry.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
hear a snort of laughter coming from behind him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Don’t mind him,” says <st1:place w:st="on">Jersey</st1:place>
guy number two, propping himself up on his elbow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I notice he has a thick <st1:place w:st="on">Jersey</st1:place>
accent, which makes me realize the other guy didn’t. “Eric thinks everything
should be meaningful.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Everything
is meaningful,” Eric says solemnly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
doesn’t smile when he says it, but then he looks back at me and smiles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s really good looking—not that that
matters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my experience, it’s the
beautiful people who are first to screw you over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His
friend is pulling his shirt on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s
built bigger than Eric, who is bone-thin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>His straight blonde hair is all tangled and matted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe he’s trying to dread it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m Mark,” he says.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“This is Eric.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
Free,” I tell them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Freedom,
or Free?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eric asks.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Free,”
I reply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I brace myself for the
inevitable “What’s your real name?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>but
he only nods.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Silence falls in the back
of the bus, and I’m glad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t like
to talk about my life, and that seems to be all people want to talk about on
the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where are you from, where have
you been, how many shows have you seen…everyone wants to talk about what’s
already been done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would rather talk
about what is yet to happen.</div>
Lisalithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12878047213881845302noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655258610604924558.post-171984038716491462011-03-26T16:18:00.000-07:002011-03-26T16:20:14.403-07:00Night Watch<em>This is an awful story I wrote in high school. I was quite proud of it then. Now I find it kind of laughable, but it did inspire my rather fabulous tattoo, and for that I am grateful.</em><br /><br /><br />She saw him ahead of her and ran, her bare feet barely touching the soft wet grass. She ran quickly, trying not to laugh, knowing that he could disappear at any moment. Her long hair flew in her face and she stopped to push it out of her eyes, gasping for breath. He was gone.<br /><br />She collapsed on the ground and buried her face in her hands. Night after night she went through this. Night after night she saw him in the field and ran, wondering if she were crazy and laughing at herself. Even now she laughed through her frustrated tears.<br /><br />It would be simple to write this off as insanity, to concede that this man didn't exist, and to sleep through a night for once. But she knew that she was not crazy; knew that he was real. She had spent a night with him once; he was warm, living, breathing, flesh and blood.<br /><br />She remembered clearly that night. Summer, cool breeze, fragrant scent of flowers hovering in the air. The night had called to her; she couldn't sleep, so she had left her home and walked to the field. Halfway through she saw him, standing straight, erect, seemingly staring directly at her. Her first impulse was to run, but she was drawn forward to him. She stopped before him and their eyes met, until she turned hers away, flustered.<br /><br />Burning with the awkward silence, inwardly wondering what she was doing, she forced her voice to be light. "Beautiful night, isn't it?" she asked politely, trying to meet his gaze again.<br /><br />He nodded, staring through her with his intense brown eyes. "Beautiful. Out for a walk?"<br /><br />She nodded. "I couldn't sleep." She felt a peculiar sense of reality shifting, of normality slipping, and for a fleeting moment wondered if this was a dream. Perhaps she was still in bed, had only dreamt of going for a walk, of meeting and speaking to this beautiful man.<br /><br />He smiled, and somehow she felt he knew her thoughts and blushed, overwhelmed by a feeling of naked vulnerability. "I couldn't sleep either," he said wistfully. "Will you walk with me?"<br /><br />No! she screamed inwardly, I have to go home! but she heard her voice say, "I guess so," nervous, yet rich with muffled excitement. He took her hand and she felt energy shoot through her body and again the strange, detached-from-life feeling. They began walking, and she had the sensation of not really moving, as if she were gliding, guided by his hand. They came to a tree illuminated by the moonlight, and he turned to her. She saw her own reflection in his eyes briefly before he kissed her, and then she knew for sure that this was a dream, for if this were real she wouldn't be kissing this strange man, would she? She wouldn't be allowing him to remove her clothing, to lower her onto the soft wet moonlight. Yes, its a dream, she decided, surrendering to the fantasy cloud surroundering her and the beautiful man beside her. Its all right; its just a dream.<br /><br />The next morning she awoke in her bed. It was a dream after all, she realized, a beautiful, vivid dream. But still it felt real to her, and she revelled in the afterglow throughout her blurry routine of a day. And that night she gave into temptation and surrendered herself again to the night and the park.<br /><br />It was again a beautiful night, so like the one before. But that was just a dream, she reminded herself sternly, and then she saw him. Her heart skipped a beat, her stomach plummeted. She breathed deeply, but although he had startled her with his presence she was not truly surprised to find out he was real; she had known that all along. She forced her legs to move toward him. He leaned against the tree, looking directly at her, and she was close enough to see that strange sadness in his eyes, to feel again the displaced feeling of not quite being alive. And then he disappeared.<br /><br />It made no sense, she reflected from the ground where she had fallen, the moonlight reflecting the tears on her face. But that was how it had been, every night after the mysterious encounter and again tonight. Sometimes she would walk toward him, sometimes she would run, sometimes she would stand still across the park and watch him. But inevitably he would disappear, leaving no trace of his existence but for her memories of that sweet summer night. Always she would feel the awful frustration of having lost something she had never quite found. Then she would go home to sleep, as she did tonight, knowing that tomorrow would find her in the park again, repeating the pattern, reliving the dream that was no dream.<br /><br />The next night she saw him again. Once again he stood at his tree; she started toward him as always, but then abruptly she stopped and called out. "Please...please don't go!"<br /><br />"Stay there," he called out harshly.<br /><br />"But..." she faltered.<br /><br />"Stay!" he yelled, his voice echoing through the night. Startled, she could do nothing but obey, although she trembled at his approach. "Don't move." She wanted almost nothing more than to bolt from the park, but she had come this far; she had to stay now. He stopped before her, staring. His intense brown eyes burned into hers until she lowered them, but he forced her face up roughly. "Look at me." She did, depsite the fear rising within her. "What is it that you expect from me?"<br /><br />"I don't know!" she cried, frightened and confused.<br /><br />"Then why do you come here every night?" Beneath the anger on his face she could see a tinge of pain and was touched through her fear, wishing she could free him from whatever demons these were that tormented him. His hand under her chin burnt her skin but she found now that she couldn't move when she tried. She was paralyzed and he had all control.<br /><br />"I don't know," she whispered through her tears.<br /><br />He stared into her eyes, searching, and dropped his hand. "You really don't know, do you?" he said angrily, sadly, turning away. "You're playing in a world you know nothing about. How did you get here?"<br /><br />"I don't understand what you mean," she stammered. He looked at her expressionlessly, and she felt she had to continue to speak, to fill the terrible, throbbing silence. "I was walking in the park and I saw you, and you took me in your arms...I thought it was a dream." She heard her voice echoing, high-pitched, almost shrieking, and wondered if she was crazy after all. "But then I say you again and chased you, and you always disappeared. You always disappeared!" She began to laugh, unable to quell the hysteria rising within her. "That's why I'm here! That's what I'm here for! Are you blind?" She stopped, and the sudden silence overwhelmed her, the word "blind" echoing in the night.<br /><br />He shook his head and broke the silence thundering in her ears. "Blind? No. I'm not the one who is blind." He turned his face to the moonlight and walked to his tree, patting it lovingly. Abruptly he turend back to her. "You've dug your own grave. You should leave. Now."<br /><br />"But I can't move!" she protested, and nor did she want to. She wanted to stay near him, drinking in the beauty of his presence. She wanted to free him from his troubles, to understand him, to feel what he felt.<br /><br />"Is that really what you want?" he murmured, so softly she wasn't sure at all he had said it, and how could he read her mind like that? He didn't wait for an answer, but stepped back and said, "Then its too late."<br /><br />She had a sudden sickeing feeling of the humanity being ripped from the core of her very being. Then a thick pain wrenched through her stomach andn she felt her legs join together, bonding as one. She sank into the ground and felt limbs growing, spreading, drinking in the soil as growths burst through her skin, spreading, blossoming, blooming upward, and the word "tree" raced through her mind as the transition completed itself.<br /><br />Silence fell heavily again on the park. He smiled, but there was still a sadness in his eyes as he walked to this newest tree and leaned against it. The moonlight shifted to illuminate this tree, his tree, and he stood intense, erect, watching, waiting.<br /><br />5/21/91Lisalithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12878047213881845302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655258610604924558.post-66121096246196591502011-03-26T16:15:00.000-07:002011-03-26T16:16:30.041-07:00Untitled bit o' prose...Safely encased in her car, she lets the world outside pass her by. City scenes whiz past on both sides. A flash of blonde hair, big smile, colorful tattoo advertising pale flesh, and the mini-van in front of her pulls over. She watches in her rear-view mirror as he makes a u-turn and disappears, in search of unnamed pleasures. An abandoned business juts from the earth on her right. She watches a huge man walk his German Shepard through the overgrown, dandelion-peppered grass until the light changes.<br /><br />Highway now, el tracks flanking her left side. The Sears Tower looms ahead like a steel beacon, but before she reaches it she veers off, looping around to the next highway. The Greyhound bus station leaps out as she passes, reaching deeply to penetrate the inner recesses of her brain, those places where she stores that which she would rather not recall. Dimly she dismisses it, but still she feels a scrabbling in her chest, like some small trapped animal desperately seeking a way out.Lisalithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12878047213881845302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655258610604924558.post-25180771038107889442011-03-14T15:06:00.000-07:002021-09-15T09:28:49.103-07:00Town Hall Pub<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: justify;"><span> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></span></p>As he listened to the sounds of yelling coming from the hallway, Caleb found himself lonely and depressed. Everything in his life was falling apart. He could sense Nina slipping away from him. The night he had decided to move here everything had seemed so clear. His friend Doug’s girlfriend Nan had given him a tarot reading, and the cards said it was a good time for a change. They also said a relationship would be favorable. He knew it was a sign that their friend Nina was the woman for him, and he couldn’t lose her because he lived so far away. Doug wanted him to move in and change his lifestyle, get his shit together, and he agreed a change would probably do him good. He certainly wasn’t doing anything in Indiana, living off his girlfriend, in a loveless relationship based on convenience. He wasn’t even painting anymore. So he left the girl, threw his few possessions into his Honda Civic, and drove the three and a half hours to Chicago and Nina. <div><br /></div><div> But now he was homeless, carless, and soon to be Nina-less, the way things were going. Doug and Nan threw him out of their place when he got laid off from his job. Then he got into a car accident, drunkenly driving home after Nina’s work’s Christmas party. The car was totaled. Nina had not been the same with him since her friend Donnie had died, even though he had done everything possible to comfort her. He even let her hang out with her ex-boyfriend Gus, whom he suspected wanted her back. Hell, he even drove Gus downtown to get his methadone the day they found out Donnie died. He felt unappreciated and taken advantage of, but if he complained to Nina, she would tell him to just break up with her then. That was the last thing he wanted.
Nina would get mad when he spent the money his parents sent him occasionally on alcohol, but he had to drink sometimes. Otherwise he didn’t think he could make it through a day. Doug’s anger at him hurt him more than he would admit. He had done nothing wrong. He hadn’t quit his job, or gotten fired. They just had too many people. Nan and Doug didn’t even give him a chance to get another one, and he knew it wasn’t the job that led to his eviction. It was because Nan hated him. He didn’t know why. Maybe she was jealous, afraid he would take either Nina or Doug away from her. Or both. Sometimes he wondered if she had cursed him. She was a witch, after all, doing those tarot readings and stuff. Maybe that’s where the run of bad luck had come from. </div><div><br /></div><div> He used the money his parents sent him to move into the Abbott, a transient hotel in Chicago’s gay neighborhood. The hotel was full of sex workers, drug addicts, and roaches. Sometimes he would lie in the pull-out bed and flick the lights on to watch the cockroaches scatter across the ceiling. He slept with the blankets pulled over his head so they wouldn't fall on him while he slept. Nina wouldn’t even visit him there. Her best friend Greg would, however, and they laughed about the situation all the time. But when Greg wasn’t around it didn’t seem so funny anymore.
So here he was, in his decrepit hotel room, alone with the roaches. Greg was still sleeping, and his roommates wouldn’t wake him up. They didn’t like Caleb either. Nina was in school, and then she had rehearsal, and then she would probably give some other excuse for not being able to see him. Her distance was killing him. He cried to her friend Jennifer about it one night, and Jennifer promised she’d talk to her about it. She also gave him some cocaine. So what that he hadn’t done hard drugs since he moved to Chicago. That obviously wasn’t doing him any good. He thought that Jennifer would have slept with him if he had tried, but he wouldn’t go that far. She made him swear that he wouldn’t tell Nina she gave him coke. That was a promise that was easy to make—Nina would kill them both. </div><div><br /></div><div> Listening to the fight in the hallway, suddenly he couldn’t stand sitting in his roach-infested room anymore. He decided to go for a walk. The streets were bustling and busy. The neighborhood was so strange. People paid a ton of money to live there, and yet there were sleazy hotels and down-and-out denizens everywhere. There was an average of three to five bars on any given block—on the busy streets, that is. But the ones that weren't gay bars were expensive. Hell, the gay bars were too. Once or twice he considered letting some guy hit on him and buy him drinks, but he didn't have the heart to let them down. </div><div><br /></div><div>He turned onto a busy street he had never walked on before. Several blocks down he came to an interesting looking bar. The old-fashioned, wooden sign on the front said “Town-Hall Pub.” He liked the sound of it. It looked dark and divey inside: another plus. No rainbows in the window, so it might even be a straight bar. He had no money, but he decided to go in and check it out.
As he walked in he noticed a counter on his right. A man with a white beard who looked uncannily like Jerry Garcia was playing chess with another middle-aged man with long brown stringy hair. They looked up as he entered. </div><div><br /></div><div> “Afternoon,” the Jerry look-alike said. </div><div><br /></div><div> “Hi,” Caleb said. </div><div><br /></div><div> “Pull up a chair,” the brown haired man invited. </div><div><br /></div><div> Caleb peered into the darkness behind them. They appeared to be the only ones there. “I can’t stay,” he said. “I don’t have any money. I just came in because I liked the sign.” </div><div><br /></div><div> “That’s a good enough reason,” the white-haired man said. “Name’s Tom. This is Henry.”</div><div><br /></div><div> “Caleb.” </div><div><br /></div><div> “Go ahead and pull up a chair, Caleb, this one’s on me.” </div><div><br /></div><div> Caleb did so. Henry put a beer down in front of him. “Made this myself,” he told him. “What do you think?” </div><div><br /></div><div> Caleb drank, considered. “It’s pretty good for homebrew,” he answered honestly. </div><div><br /></div><div> “Good answer, my friend,” Tom laughed. “Where you from? You don’t strike me as a Chicago boy.” </div><div><br /></div><div> “Indiana.” </div><div><br /></div><div> “Not too far from home.” </div><div><br /></div><div> Caleb almost laughed. “Feels pretty far to me sometimes,” he said. </div><div><br /></div><div> “I’m from Oregon, myself. Henry here hails from California.” He pronounced it Ca-lee-forn-eye-ay. “Now we’re a long way from home.” </div><div><br /></div><div> “Do you miss the West Coast?” </div><div><br /></div><div> “Sometimes,” Tom replied. “But I love this town. There’s some good folks out here, for a big city. Chicago’s all right.” </div><div><br /></div><div> “What brings you here?” Henry put in. </div><div><br /></div><div> “A girl,” Caleb answered. “And the lure of opportunity.” </div><div><br /></div><div> “Familiar story,” Henry nodded. </div><div><br /></div><div> “How’s the girl?” Tom asked. </div><div><br /></div><div> “Not so good, lately,” Caleb said. “I think she’d rather I go back to Indiana.”</div><div><br /></div><div> “Tough luck,” Tom said. “And the opportunity?”</div><div><br /></div><div> Caleb shook his head. “That’s not so great either. In less than two months I’ve lost my job, my place to stay, and my car. And I’m about to lose my girlfriend.” </div><div><br /></div><div> Tom looked at him a minute, then turned to Henry. </div><div><br /></div><div> “Give him a shot. Anything he wants. And give us each one of the same.” </div><div><br /></div><div> “You’re the boss,” Henry said. “What are you shooting?” he asked Caleb. </div><div><br /></div><div> “Jack Daniels,” Caleb replied. </div><div><br /></div><div> “Sounds good,” Tom said. “You play chess, Caleb?”</div><div><br /></div><div> “Not in a while, but I used to be pretty good.” </div><div><br /></div><div> “Well, you can’t be any worse than Henry here. When I’m through beating the piss out of him, maybe we can play a game.” Henry laughed and shook his head. </div><div><br /></div><div> Caleb nodded and smiled. He pulled his chair closer and peered at the game. Henry put the shot in front of him and held one up himself. “Cheers!” </div><div><br /></div><div>“Cheers,” Caleb repeated, throwing back the shot. These guys were all right. Things were looking up, at least for a little while. </div><div><br /></div><div> 1997
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial; line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 200%;"></span></p></div>Lisalithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12878047213881845302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655258610604924558.post-53214407313988138812011-03-14T14:43:00.000-07:002011-03-14T14:45:22.887-07:00Juliet<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Juliet sat on the cold bathroom floor, a razor blade in her right hand.<span style=""> </span>Moments ago she had been sitting in her backyard with friends, a beer between her legs, watching the sky make way for the sunrise.<span style=""> </span>The idea of killing herself had slipped easily into her mind with the oncoming day; she had bid her friends goodnight, gone upstairs, and broke a razor blade out of one of her father’s disposable razors.<span style=""> </span>Now she sat cross-legged on the floor, cheerfully daring herself to use it.<span style=""> </span>Her mood was one of cynical good humor, but her moods wavered these days, and sometimes bled together in runny streams.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>(Benvolio was sitting on the front porch when Juliet and her father came out of the house.<span style=""> </span>“What’s going on?” he asked.<span style=""> </span>He had heard the screaming, figured Juliet’s parents were angered by her drunkenness.<span style=""> </span>Her father walked past without a word to him.<span style=""> </span>“Come on!” he roared.<span style=""> </span>Juliet turned to Benvolio, smiling sickly, her left arm wrapped in a towel.<span style=""> </span>“We’re going to the hospital,” she said.<span style=""> </span>Benvolio jumped up: “Oh my fucking God!”<span style=""> </span>The towel was soaked with blood.)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>Things had been different when Romeo was around, but Romeo had been dead almost five months.<span style=""> </span>Since his death Juliet’s life had been a whirlwind nightmare.<span style=""> </span>She was never sure of how much of all that was happening around her was real.<span style=""> </span>She found she didn’t care much anyway.<span style=""> </span>Romeo had tried to slit his wrists too, she guessed.<span style=""> </span>She had a letter from him written on the back of a blood-stained Dali poster.<span style=""> </span>Obviously he didn’t do a very good job; he had lived for three more weeks before his roommate found him dangling over the stairs.<span style=""> </span>She had never even seen a scar.<span style=""> </span>The trick, she decided, was to close your eyes, plunge the blade in and pull down.<span style=""> </span>She closed her eyes.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>(At the hospital she got sick of explaining herself.<span style=""> </span>“How did this happen?”/ “I cut myself.”/ “Why did you do this?”/ “My boyfriend killed himself in April.”<span style=""> </span>Finally the doctor came in.<span style=""> </span>“What happened?” he asked.<span style=""> </span>“I fell down the stairs,” she smiled pleasantly.<span style=""> </span>The doctor turned and left, calling for X-Ray.<span style=""> </span>Her father had to chase after him to tell him the truth.)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>She opened her eyes.<span style=""> </span>Nothing!<span style=""> </span>Puzzlement dissolved to laughter as she realized she had used the wrong side of the blade.<span style=""> </span>Figures, she thought, shaking her head.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>(Later, a nurse told her parents that she “wasn’t grounded in reality”.<span style=""> </span>“She thinks her dead boyfriend told her to commit suicide,” she said.<span style=""> </span>“She needs help.”<span style=""> </span>Juliet disagreed.<span style=""> </span>She wasn’t killing herself because Romeo had told her to.<span style=""> </span>She was killing herself because he didn’t.)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>She tried it out on the back of her arm, just to be sure.<span style=""> </span>Bingo, she thought, as blood welled to the surface.<span style=""> </span>“You didn’t think I’d do it, did you?” she whispered wildly.<span style=""> </span>“Well watch this, Romeo.”<span style=""> </span>She turned her arm over.<span style=""> </span>She closed her eyes.<span style=""> </span>Blood dripped onto her jeans.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>(“I really have to go home soon,” Juliet said wearily.<span style=""> </span>Her parents stood on one side of the hospital bed, Benvolio on the other side.<span style=""> </span>“I have to work tonight.”<span style=""> </span>The anesthetic in her arm made her feel tingly and throbbing.<span style=""> </span>It was almost eleven in the morning, her head ached, and all she wanted to do was sleep.<span style=""> </span>The doctor had given her nine stitches inside and eighteen outside—twenty seven in all.<span style=""> </span>Blood seeped through the spaces between them.<span style=""> </span>The room seemed to swell with silence.<span style=""> </span>“What?” Juliet asked, looking around suspiciously.<span style=""> </span>“You can’t leave,” the nurse said.<span style=""> </span>“What?” Juliet repeated.<span style=""> </span>“You won’t be going to work for a while,” her father said gently.<span style=""> </span>She stared at them, realization dawning.<span style=""> </span>“No,” she said, jumping out of the bed.<span style=""> </span>“No! You can’t lock me up someplace!<span style=""> </span>I’m a fucking grownup!”<span style=""> </span>Benvolio reached out for her, and she lashed out, backing into the corner of the room, still screaming.<span style=""> </span>“You can’t do this to me!<span style=""> </span>Don’t you understand?<span style=""> </span>I’m an adult now!<span style=""> </span>I’m an honor student!”<span style=""> </span>No one else moved.<span style=""> </span>The room was silent but for her screams.)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>When she opened her eyes her first thought was that it hadn’t worked again; impatiently she lifted the razor.<span style=""> </span>Then the blood began to pour.<span style=""> </span>She leapt up, startled.<span style=""> </span>“Oh my god,” she said out loud.<span style=""> </span>She looked around wildly, feeling as if she had just awakened from a dream.<span style=""> </span>“Oh my god, Juliet, I think you just fucked up,” she told herself, arm positioned over the sink.<span style=""> </span>She grabbed a towel and wrapped her arm in it, trying to think straight.<span style=""> </span>“Benvolio!” she decided.<span style=""> </span>“I’ll go ask Benvolio what to do!”<span style=""> </span>She opened the bathroom door.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>(They made her take an ambulance to the psychiatric ward.<span style=""> </span>“Do I have to lie on the stretcher?” she asked.<span style=""> </span>“Sorry love, it’s th’ rules,” one of the men replied.<span style=""> </span>He was big and bald, yet gentle and soothing.<span style=""> </span>He spoke with a heavy Scottish accent.<span style=""> </span>“What made ya do this?”<span style=""> </span>She lay back, resigned, muttering sleepily: “My boyfriend killed himself in April.”<span style=""> </span>The next thing she knew, she was being wheeled through a new building.<span style=""> </span>“This thing is so comfortable,” she whispered, struggling into wakefulness.<span style=""> </span>The Scottish man laughed heartily.<span style=""> </span>“Ya must be tired then, miss, ‘cause you’re th’ first I’ve heard say that before!”)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>“Juliet, is that you?” her mother called sleepily.<span style=""> </span>“What’s going on?”<span style=""> </span>Juliet stopped outside the door.<span style=""> </span>“Mom?<span style=""> </span>I think I just fucked up.<span style=""> </span>I-I think I just-cut my wrists.”<span style=""> </span>She paused awkwardly as her mother leapt out of bed, adding hastily, “But I’ve changed my mind!”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>(She cried so bitterly over the strip search that the nurse allowed her to put a robe on before taking her clothes off.<span style=""> </span>But when she demanded her jewelry, Juliet refused to submit her nose ring.<span style=""> </span>The nurse left and returned with a man.<span style=""> </span>“I’m sorry,” he said amiably, “but its hospital policy.<span style=""> </span>No one can wear jewelry in the intensive unit.”<span style=""> </span>“Well,” she replied calmly, “we’ll just have to come to some sort of compromise.”<span style=""> </span>The man approached her.<span style=""> </span>“Here’s the compromise,” he said.<span style=""> </span>“Either you give us the earring or we’ll hold you down and take it.”<span style=""> </span>Some compromise, Juliet thought as she handed it over.)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>Her mother took one look at the blood in the bathroom, staggered back to her bedroom and passed out.<span style=""> </span>“Let me see,” her father said calmly.<span style=""> </span>Juliet dizzily peeled back the towel.<span style=""> </span>“Get your shoes on,” he said abruptly.<span style=""> </span>“We’re going to the hospital.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>(Her mother and Benvolio showed up a short while later.<span style=""> </span>“I brought you some clothes,” her mother said.<span style=""> </span>“How you doing?” asked Benvolio.<span style=""> </span>The both looked tired and scared, as tired and scared as Juliet felt.<span style=""> </span>“Exhausted,” she said.<span style=""> </span>“Yeah,” he agreed, “you’ve had a rough night.”<span style=""> </span>They kissed her and left, and she collapsed on the bed, tears seeping through her closed eyes as the blood seeped around her stitches and stuck to the white bandage around her arm.)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>The world started slipping to black.<span style=""> </span>Juliet grasped at the banister and missed, falling to her knees at the top of the stairs.<span style=""> </span>“So this is it,” she thought.<span style=""> </span>“I’m really going to die.”<span style=""> </span>Her father’s voice burst through the ringing in her ears: “Juliet, get the fuck up now!” and she thought, “I can’t die.<span style=""> </span>My father won’t let me die.”<span style=""> </span>Her skin tingled hot and cold as she struggled for consciousness.<span style=""> </span>Romeo dangled behind her somewhere in the nightmare world she had come to inhabit.<span style=""> </span>The Dali poster lay crumpled on the floor.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>(Her arm lay on the bed before her, awkward and bandaged.<span style=""> </span>As she drifted off, she felt Romeo touch her outstretched hand.<span style=""> </span>“Romeo,” she thought sleepily, “look at what I’ve become.<span style=""> </span>Did you ever think I’d come to this?”<span style=""> </span>The tears slipped hot down her cheek onto the bed.<span style=""> </span>He squeezed her hand tight and watched her as she slipped into unbroken sleep.)<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">1996<br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"></span></p>Lisalithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12878047213881845302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655258610604924558.post-5460693659616640532010-10-05T19:27:00.000-07:002010-10-05T19:35:58.512-07:00Only She KnewEmil requested that I post this a long time ago. While it is sorely lacking in, well, good writing, it still never fails to entertain me.<br /><br /><br /> She climbed the ladder slowly, heart beating violently on the walls of her chest. At the top of the rusty metal ladder she paused, quietly catching her breath, wondering if she was doing the right thing. She had been right; he was there, standing at the roof's edge, looking out at the quiet lake. As her eyes adjusted she could make out his form; tall and skinny, with spider-like limbs and a long, bushy mop of hair. Although his back was to her she could see his face clear in her mind; his soft hazel eyes filled today with sadness, soft skin stretched taut over elegant cheekbones, full lips parted exposing his chipped front tooth. Her heart melted as she looked at him, for she loved him. And that was why she was here, why she had come to find him when she heard that he was upset. 'I have to help him,' she thought hazily, stepping off the ladder onto the roof, 'because I love him. I have to be the one to ease his pain.'<br /><br /> He had not yet seen her, and the silence seemed so thick, so sacred, that she was afraid to break it, so she crept quietly across the roof's span. She was close enough to touch him--to hold him, stroke his hair, to tell him everything would be all right. Oh, how she loved him! That was how she had known where he would be, when no one else did. His friends were worried, knowing how upset he was, but only she knew he was here. She loved him so deeply that her instincts were tied to him; she felt his every move. His friends were afraid he would kill himself. Only she knew he would never do it, he would decide it wasn't the answer. That was why she was here; she loved him, and couldn't stand being away knowing he was suffering. And only she knew what to do.<br /><br /> He never saw her as she crept behind him and in one smooth motion pushed him over the edge of the roof. She heard his scream echoing and wondered briefly what was going through his mind as he plummeted toward the approaching pavement: did he think of her? Did he call her name? She would never know. The screams had stopped; he was surely dead.<br /><br />She descended the ladder quickly, shakily. She had to hurry home to receive the terrible call, informing her that he was dead, that he had jumped off the roof of the Pratt Lane in a moment of despair. But he was so young! so full of life! so beautiful! And she loved him. She left the building, not turning to see the crowd that had already gathered, and tears blinded her as she walked to the bus stop. Only she knew the truth because only she had the answers. The bus came and she boarded it, whizzing off into the night.<br /><br />11-5-90Lisalithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12878047213881845302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655258610604924558.post-18057373024134453322010-10-04T14:38:00.000-07:002010-10-04T14:46:54.719-07:00Cat<p>By the time he reached it the kitten was running frantically around the gas station, frightened by the kids who chased after it, jeering and yelling. He snatched it up by the scruff of its neck and glared at the kids as they slid to a halt before him. They sized him up through mean, narrowed eyes, kids older than their years and meaner than anyone their age should be, trying to decide if he was worth fighting with. "Put down that cat," the biggest of the three said boldly.<br /><p>He stared evenly at them. "No."<br /><p>"It ain't yours," one of the others pointed out petulantly.<br /><p>"It is now," he replied, his gaze unbroken, ignoring the yowling, squirming cat dangling from his hand. He wasn't scared of the kids; even the three of them weren't strong enough to harm him as long as they weren't carrying weapons. If someone older decided to intervene on their behalf that could be a different story. But he stood fearlessly, and the kids decided it wasn't worth it and stomped off. </p><p>"Who wants a stupid ugly cat anyway," one of them muttered as they disappeared into the dark, dirty alleyway. </p><p>He looked at the cat, which was still thrashing wildly, trying desperately to claw and bite. Some of the patrons of the gas station watched him, but most paid him no mind. They'd seen him before, or others just like him. Just another white boy on the west side. They knew why he was here, why any white kid from the suburbs would leave his sheltered cocoon to venture down here. And they were right. </p><p>But he had already scored and already fixed, and now he had a cat. After he stepped out of the gas station bathroom he had watched a woman scoop it up and put it on the hood of a car. A man had casually knocked it off the car as if he were brushing off dead leaves. He kicked at it as it scampered off, and they both laughed. Then the kids caught sight of it skittering away and cornered it by the trashcans, until he intervened. Now he had a cat. A hissing, yowling, mangy, feral cat. </p><p>He strode back to his car, keeping the wild, hissing thing at arm's length. He opened the door and tossed it gently onto the passenger seat. It backed against the door and eyed him as he sat down in the driver's seat and started the car. He turned out of the station, heading toward the highway that would take him back to his quiet, middle-class suburb where nothing ever seemed quite real; to his dissatisfied parents and disgruntled friends who never seemed truly present. The familiar numbness was spreading through his body, easing his mind. The burned out buildings and dark faces slid by in the dusk. He didn't even realize the kitten was in his lap until he glanced down and saw it curled into a ball, licking its paws with a tiny pink tongue. He scratched its tiny head and it closed its eyes and purred softly, just a minute vibration of warmth and fur. Its body seemed to melt into his own and he was so absorbed with its softness that he missed the entrance to the highway and had to turn around to get on. </p><p>Back at home he entered through the side door and went down into the basement where his room was, the kitten cradled in his arms. He didn't know if his parents would let him keep the cat and he didn't plan on asking them anyway. Chances are they wouldn't notice; his mother only came downstairs to do laundry and his father never did. He rarely spoke to his parents these days, and rarely heard them speak to one another. The telephone rang and he gently placed the cat on his bed before he answered it. "Hello?" </p><p>"You get it?" His friend Tony. He felt annoyed. Tony never seemed to be around when it was time to score, but always appeared when it was time to fix. </p><p>"Yeah. I got it." </p><p>"Arnie?" his mother's voice broke into the line. "Is it for you?" </p><p>"Yeah, mom. It's for me." </p><p>"Oh. Were you out? I thought I heard someone come in." </p><p>"Naw. I've been here." </p><p>"Oh. OK." The line clicked as she hung up. </p><p>"I'm coming over," Tony said. </p><p>Of course you are, thought Arnie. "OK." </p><p>He hung up and examined the cat, contemplative. It was definitely mangy, grey and matted. But it had nice coloring and would probably clean up well. It looked sweet now, curled up and comfortable, but he could envision clearly the wildness in its eyes as it dangled from his hand clawing the air; as it prepared to make a stand in front of the garbage cans. A secret weapon, he thought randomly. </p><p>He was nodding when Tony came in. "Shit, you got a cat!" Tony said, in his patented way of stating the obvious. </p><p>He lifted his head. "Yeah." The cat was awake and was watching Tony closely. Tony poked a finger at it, and the cat sprang at it, clawing and biting. </p><p>"Damn!" Tony laughed. "He's a crazy motherfucker, huh?" The kitten continued clawing at his hand ferociously. Arnie felt an odd sense of pride. "Where's the shit, man?" </p><p>He tossed the bag to Tony and scooped up the cat. Its claws sank into his hand momentarily but then subsided. It settled down into his lap, relaxing slightly, still eyeing Tony. "What's his name?" Tony asked as he readied his fix. </p><p>Arnie shrugged. "Good question. I just found him at the gas station." </p><p>"How about Psycho?" </p><p>Arnie ignored him, looking at the cat. The perfect name eluded him. If only he could think for a second…but it took too much effort and he gave up and instead watched Tony shoot up. Tony maneuvered the needle expertly. He remembered when they had started, how they had to help each other. Now he could shoot up while driving. </p><p>"I know," Tony said. "Call it Haron." He laughed to himself. </p><p>Arnie thought of names, of people he had known before, of places he had gone, of things he had done. Once he had wanted to play sports, to be on the football team. Now he rarely left the house except to get drugs. Nothing seemed important to him. His teachers droned on, and he dutifully completed their tasks and earned C's and B's. He never got in trouble in school like Tony. He never rocked the boat. Trouble? Was that a good name for the cat? He looked at it closely and didn't think so. </p><p>"Man," Tony said, sinking back into his cair. "I can't stay long. I gotta go meet Laura." Tony was an asshole, but he had no problem meeting girls. Girls loved him. Arnie didn't understand it. Tony was his friend, but sometimes he couldn't stand him. He lazily stroked the cat, watching Tony look at the ceiling through heavy lidded eyes. "Man." Tony said again thickly. </p><p>Arnie picked up a pad of paper and placed it next to the kitten on his lap. He started sketching the kitten, its mottled fur and sharp ears. The only class in which he earned A's was Art. His teacher thought he should go to art school after graduation, but he didn't really see the point. He didn't know what he was going to do after graduation. He knew he'd go to college, but which one, and for what, still eluded him. Despite what they all said, it was hard for him to believe that it even mattered. </p><p>He was almost done with the drawing when Tony stood up. "Man, it's late," he said. "I gotta go. Laura's gonna kill me." He came over and looked at the sketch pad. "That's pretty good, man." </p><p>"Thanks," Arnie said. </p><p>"What'd you say that cat's name was again?" </p><p>Arnie looked at the kitten, at the picture, and at the cat in his lap again, and as he did the perfect name suddenly formed in his head. He looked up at Tony. "Cat," he said. </p><p>"What? Cat?" </p><p>"Yep," Arnie said. </p><p>"That's a pretty stupid name, man," Tony said. Arnie shrugged. "All right, dude. I'll catch you later, huh?" </p><p>"Yeah, see ya," Arnie said. The basement door slammed. Arnie looked again at the kitten in his lap, and again at the drawing on the pad. After a minute he took his pencil and carefully wrote "CAT" above the drawing. Perfect. It fit him perfectly. He stared at the drawing, his eyes blank and lazy, then slowly leaned his head back and closed his eyes. As the drawing pad fell to the floor, the cat settled deeper into his lap, purring softly.<br /></p>Lisalithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12878047213881845302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7655258610604924558.post-9879035731944981252010-10-04T14:18:00.000-07:002010-10-04T14:20:42.085-07:00I like to write......so I have created this space to share my writing. Feel free to comment. Feel free to share your own.Lisalithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12878047213881845302noreply@blogger.com0