Win 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!

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This 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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

“What the hell, kid, maybe you’re good luck,” he says as he hands it to me.

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.

Another excerpt from Free

At 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!

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 Mississippi Queen and Belle of New Orleans sitting on the river expectantly, waiting for their turn to go somewhere.

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.

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.

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.

I think of Eric a lot. I miss him. Maybe I’ll send him a postcard or something.

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.

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.

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. 

“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?”

“Startled me a little,” I admit. “Are you done working?”

“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.

“Can Toby read cards?” I ask.

“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.”

I shrug. “I don’t think I’d be good at it. I’m not psychic at all.”

“You never know,” Maria says, smiling. “You want a reading?”

“I can’t pay for it,” I protest.

“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.”

“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.

“I’m going to give Free a reading,” Maria tells him. He nods but doesn’t move, so Maria says, “Can I sit, Tobe?”

“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.

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.

“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.

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.

“What is it?” I ask nervously.

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.”

“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.”

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?”

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.

July 4 is the day!  Here's the press release....

Free excerpt

My first novel is to be published sometime this year by Vigilante Publishing Group, 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.

Chapter One

Midwest Summer Tour, 1993
 

            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.  The duffel bag is mine.  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.  The Shepherd isn’t mine; he belongs to Chuck, who’s driving the bus.  His wife is in the passenger seat.  Her name is Angel and Chuck calls her his old lady.  I don’t know the names of the two sleeping guys, but I think I heard someone say they were from New Jersey.

            My name is Free.  Usually when I tell people that they laugh and ask me what my real name is.  I just look them dead on and repeat it:  “Free.”  I left my old name behind with my old life; shed both of them like a useless layer of skin.  When I stepped free of that world I took the name Free.  It is my real name.  I picked it myself.  What could be more real than that?

            I sit up and stretch, surveying the morning through the back window of the van.  Rex looks up at me, panting.  It’s hot already and it can’t be nine yet.  Rex puts his head in my lap and I scratch behind his ears.  When I ditch this ride, he’s all I’m going to miss.  Well, maybe Angel.  She’s all right, but Chuck is a big asshole.  I look out the window and watch the cornfields flying by on both sides.  Welcome to another Midwestern summer day.  I turn to the front of the bus.  “Where are we?”

            Chuck doesn’t answer.  He’s staring straight ahead, and his knuckles are white on the steering wheel.  Not a good sign.  He’s probably hung over from last night.

            Angel turns her head.  “Nowhere, Kansas,” she replies.  She’s about fifty and looks it, except when she smiles.  Her gray-blonde hair has mostly escaped her ponytail and is flying around her face.  She’s smiling now, but ruefully.  She hates the Midwest as much as I do.

            I turn around and lean back against the front seat, wishing I had a book.  I’d read anything at this point, even one of those trashy romance novels my mother used to read.  I had a book on my last cross-country trek; a Stephen King novel called The Stand.  I read it over and over and never got bored of it—it was that good.  But I ended up trading it to another book-lover for a sandwich.

            Instead I pull out my hemp and beads and start making more necklaces.  This is my job now.  It’s not bad—I don’t mind being my own boss and making my own hours.  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.  I’ve tried swinging other things as well—beer, grilled cheese sandwiches, hand-sewn bags.  For a while I was riding with a sister who made patchwork baby-doll dresses.  They were beautiful, and she made a killing.  But that’s not an option for me.  What am I going to do—strap a sewing machine to my back?  Hemp jewelry works out much better— it’s lightweight, inexpensive, and easy to make.

            “Cool beads.  Where are they from?”

            I look up, startled.  It’s one of the New Jersey guys.  For a moment I had forgotten anyone was back there with me.  He’s wearing a pair of denim cut-offs and nothing else, leaning cross-legged against the other side of the bus.  His hair is brown and curly, almost bushy, kind of like Bob Dylan’s.  He’s absently petting Rex, who apparently abandoned me when he realized I was busy with something else.  Nice show of loyalty.

            “I don’t know,” I shrug.  “I pick them up here and there.”

            “From stores or from people?”

            “Both,” I reply.  Why does he care where my beads come from?  His gaze is making me uncomfortable, but I don’t show it.  I stare straight back at him.  His eyes are green.  He doesn’t look away.

            “It would be cool if every one had a different story behind it.  You know, like where it came from.  It would make the jewelry so meaningful.”

            I’m not sure what to say to this.  “Well, there’s no story.  Sorry.”

            I hear a snort of laughter coming from behind him.  “Don’t mind him,” says Jersey guy number two, propping himself up on his elbow.  I notice he has a thick Jersey accent, which makes me realize the other guy didn’t. “Eric thinks everything should be meaningful.”

            “Everything is meaningful,” Eric says solemnly.  He doesn’t smile when he says it, but then he looks back at me and smiles.  He’s really good looking—not that that matters.  In my experience, it’s the beautiful people who are first to screw you over. 

            His friend is pulling his shirt on.  He’s built bigger than Eric, who is bone-thin.  His straight blonde hair is all tangled and matted.  Maybe he’s trying to dread it.  “I’m Mark,” he says.  “This is Eric.”

            “I’m Free,” I tell them. 

            “Freedom, or Free?”  Eric asks.

            “Free,” I reply.  I brace myself for the inevitable “What’s your real name?”  but he only nods.  Silence falls in the back of the bus, and I’m glad.  I don’t like to talk about my life, and that seems to be all people want to talk about on the road.  Where are you from, where have you been, how many shows have you seen…everyone wants to talk about what’s already been done.  I would rather talk about what is yet to happen.

Night Watch

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.


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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

He nodded, staring through her with his intense brown eyes. "Beautiful. Out for a walk?"

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.

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?"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!"

"Stay there," he called out harshly.

"But..." she faltered.

"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?"

"I don't know!" she cried, frightened and confused.

"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.

"I don't know," she whispered through her tears.

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?"

"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.

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."

"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.

"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."

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.

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.

5/21/91

Untitled 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.

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.