Using AI to change genres

 Original Text 

“I just wanted to create some intrigue and get people excited about reading!”  I could feel my pulse rising as the headmaster stared at me expressionless.  I closed my eyes and counted to 10.  Then I counted backwards from 10.  Then I did it again in Arabic. 

“Are you still with us Ms. Cartier?” 

I opened one eye, “I’m practising calming breathing.”  The headmaster was not amused.  He had been similarly lacking amusement when I turned all the library’s mystery books around so the spines were hidden - an actual mystery read!

“Ms. Cartier, this is a private institution for higher education.  I know you’ve only been here a week, but here we promote creative thought, we encourage provocation of pontification, we delight in stimulating understanding of how the Lord creates mysteries for us.  We do not tolerate tomfoolery.”  His voice was monotone though he seemed excited about the word “tomfoolery”.  Such a curious little man.  He stared at me, so I stared back.  We were silent for a count of 63 and I started noticing a stench like sour milk.  “Don’t you think?” 

The smell was beginning to overwhelm me.  “Yes Sir, absolutely Sir.”  I agreed wholeheartedly.  If I was to tell myself that I was only answering the question, “Don’t you think”, then I was telling the truth - everyone thinks even if they don’t think particularly well. 

The headmaster pinched his face together even more somehow and waved a dismissive hand.  “I notice things Ms. Cartier, I notice things.” 

“Yes Sir, definitely Sir,” I shouted on my way down the corridor. 

I notice things too.  Constantly.  I can’t stop noticing things.  Colours, patterns, number, the weather, smells... The world is a crushing source of perpetual input.  It’s all I can do sometimes not just yell out things like, “HAVE YOU SEEN HOW BLUE THE SKY IS TODAY?” because I find it completely, almost inconveniently, startling. 

My mother tells me I have exceptional “joie de vivre”. 

//\\//\\//\\ 

An indeterminate set of times the preceding year

 My father once slapped me heartily on my right shoulder and drawled, “Son you’ve got charisma for days and you ain’t even begun to notice.” 

I was never sure if that was a compliment or an insult.  I was popular enough in school and never lacked for company, but I never did anything beyond taking care of people.  If I could make someone smile, then it made my whole day. 

Still, I wanted something more.  We’d always drive out to the lake after games, whether playing or watching, and drink beer and make fires - typical high school stuff.  But I’d find myself staring at the sky and the stars wondering what I might be missing.  Then someone would tease me about being quiet and I’d flash a smile and shuffle back to the fire, usually with hands in my jeans pockets. 

My father was shocked when I said I wanted to go a state or two over for school - he’d gone to state school on a football scholarship and he said if I didn’t think I could do that, why didn’t I at least go to community college.  But my mama just smiled and looked at me like we were sharing a secret.  She let my father go through a few emotions - anger, confusion, near depression, before she put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Let the boy go dear.” 

You could say we were a small country family in a small country town and you’d be right. 

 ChatGPT Prompt 

I want to try an experiment. I truly don't know if this something you can do, but it's just for fun to see what happens. I'm going to paste an excerpt from a young adult novel I'm writing, and I want you to try to turn it into science fiction. Are you willing to try this with me?

 ChatGPT Result 

In the dimly lit room, I just wanted to create some intrigue and get people excited about the unknown possibilities that lay ahead. As the alien headmaster stared at me with multiple eyes, their iridescent glow revealing no emotion, I could feel my pulse rising in the unfamiliar surroundings of this extraterrestrial academy.

Closing my eyes, I initiated a sequence of neural calming algorithms implanted during orientation. I counted to 10 in the universal language of the Galactic Union. Then I counted backwards from 10 in a series of binary pulses. Finally, I repeated the process in the ancient numerical system of an ancient Earth civilization, long forgotten by most.

"Are you still with us, Ms. Cartier?" The headmaster's telepathic communication resonated in my mind.

I opened one eye, "I'm practicing neural synchronization techniques." The headmaster, not accustomed to Earthling peculiarities, remained stoic. They had been similarly unamused when I reprogrammed the holographic library interface to create an illusion that all mystery books were encoded with perplexing alien symbols—an actual extraterrestrial mystery read!

"Ms. Cartier, this is a private institution for multidimensional education. Here, we stimulate unconventional thought, encourage the unraveling of cosmic enigmas, and revel in deepening our understanding of the mysteries the Cosmos presents. We do not tolerate what you Earthlings call 'tomfoolery,'" the headmaster declared, their vocal frequencies oscillating with cosmic resonance.

His voice, though monotone, seemed to echo through the hyperspace corridors. "Don't you think?"

As I processed the question, a strange stench, reminiscent of sour milk, permeated the air. "Yes, Sir, absolutely, Sir," I responded, adapting to the extraterrestrial protocols. Little did the headmaster know, I was processing the information at an accelerated rate, considering the potential quantum implications of "don't you think."

Dismissively waving a tentacle-like appendage, the headmaster intoned, "I notice things, Ms. Cartier. I notice things."

"Yes, Sir, definitely, Sir," I shouted as I traversed the transdimensional corridor, leaving behind the olfactory confusion.

I notice things too. Constantly. I can't stop noticing the vibrant hues of alien landscapes, the intricate patterns of cosmic phenomena, the numerical beauty encoded in the fabric of the universe. The universe is a crushing source of perpetual input, and I find it almost inconveniently startling.

An indeterminate set of times the preceding year, I reminisced about my life on Earth. My father, a being with charisma for light-years, once remarked, "Son, you've got charisma for galaxies, and you ain't even begun to notice." Uncertain whether it was a compliment or an interstellar insult, I navigated through school on Earth, never lacking companionship but always yearning for something more.

We would travel to cosmic shores after celestial games, experiencing typical high school rituals with alien twists. But as I stared at the stars, wondering about the mysteries of the universe, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more profound awaiting my discovery.

My father, accustomed to Earth norms, suggested community college, while my mother, who shared a secret understanding of my cosmic aspirations, simply smiled. In our small planetary family, in a remote cosmic town, my journey into the uncharted realms of multidimensional education had only just begun.

Given First Lines - set 1 round 1

"Give me a chance." 
I had known my résumé was lacking, and that had been my closing argument at the interview.  I rather wish they hadn't. 

"Not you again..."  I had told him repeatedly that he was not her father.  We had done a paternity test that came back negative.  He kept coming by.  I was never going to let him near her, but I was starting to think this argument was just an excuse to see me.  I was exhausted. 

"I'm so in love with you."  He smiled at her words, but her mouth tasted sour.  It was their 20th wedding anniversary and she hadn't been in love with him for 19 years.  She wondered if his smile was just acceptance and resignation to the situation, but she didn't dare ask. 

"Dance with me!"  They were in the grocery store, in the freezer aisle by the vegetables to be exact, and one of the top 40 songs was playing over the store speakers.  She grabbed his hand and pulled him into her in the middle of the aisle.  He was shy, but there wasn't really anyone around and he succumbed. 

"Catch me if you can!"  The little girl was giggling as she ran with her bubble wand, streaming liquid rainbow orbs behind her.  An older man, presumably her father, pretended to run after her.  His tie hung loose around his neck and his top button was undone.  He must have just gotten off work.  It seemed to me a tremendous display of devotion to bring his daughter to the park without even taking the time to change clothes. 

"Are you drunk?"  The question was obviously sarcastic as it was 0900.  It was also rather unprofessional, but the Commander appeared to be at her wit's end as she glared at the Lieutenant sitting two chairs down from her.  It would seem that she did not care for his idea of warfare tactics. 

Opening lines, given first line

(I'm very behind, I know)

1
He sat across from me on the subway car drumming gently on the tops of his thighs and bobbing his head every so slightly causing his shoulder length dreadlocks to sway gently, hypnotically. 

2
She made the bed with hospital corners, used a ruler to space the jars on her kitchen counter, and was absolutely out of control in all the areas of her life that actually mattered. 

3
I suppose you could describe his personality as taupe. 

4
My father was a lawyer, and his father before him, and his father before him and I just want to be a drag queen. 

5
The twins had developed their own language as toddlers, but unlike many twins, they still used it now in their late 20s. 

***

"Where were you last night?"  I practised asking the question in the mirror, trying to sound casual and maybe borderline flippant.  Like I really didn't care.  Like it didn't bother me that I had waited and waited for her to come home.  Like I hadn't stayed up pacing the kitchen until 1 in the morning.  Like I hadn't gone to bed and just stared at the digital clock as it slowly ticked away the minutes until the sun rose.  Like I wasn't simultaneously angry and worried. 

Opening Lines Day 11

1
What kind of monster sets the microwave to times that don't end in five or zero? 

2
He was the sort of person who likes to change seats from meeting to meeting to really confuse and annoy his coworkers. 

3
I could get lost in a round room. 

4
She liked to swim from one end of the pool the other without surfacing, even if that meant black edges creeping in on her vision. 

5
Who buys dishes without ensuring that they are microwave safe? 

Opening lines day 10, a given first line

1
We locked eyes across the room - it wasn't romantic, but at least now I knew I wasn't the only one bored nearly to tears by this lecture.

2
She couldn't be "that girl" at the gym, she just couldn't, but she also couldn't get the bar back up off her chest and she couldn't really breathe.

3
She held the battery powered clippers in her right hand and stared at her reflection a moment before clicking the power button and shearing the first line down the middle of her scalp, no turning back now.

4
"I'm a strong independent man."

5
He had never really been a fan of soup.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

"Where were you last night?"  My mom asked the question very casually as she pulled a box of bran flakes from a brown paper grocery sack and placed them in the cupboard.  She continued unloading groceries, her back to me, as my pulse began to race.  I had planned everything perfectly.  I had kissed her good night and gone upstairs to set my music on a timer.  I had arranged a few pillows messily under my sheets to resemble my body and I had even left my phone in the bed in case she tried tracking it.  How could she possibly know I had snuck out?

Opening Lines day 9, a given first line

1
Her voice resonated with a southern accent - not the nasal twang he had heard before, but a rich lilt that made him think of honey butter and cornbread.

2
He was lying on his back puffing smoke rings into the sky.

3
The chime sounded to let me know someone was coming into the store, and I wanted nothing more than to hide under the counter.

4
When he parked in large lots, he meticulously wrote down where he left his vehicle and took pictures to ensure ease of return so it might be an understatement to say he was surprised when spot D53 in the east section of the structure was empty.

5
She wasn't much for metaphors and similes but she'd be darned if his eyes weren't a warm turquoise like the waters of the Caribbean.

New Exercise
Start with "Where were you last night?"

"Where were you last night?"  She tossed her hair over her shoulder and looked at me with innocent curiosity.
She knew perfectly well where I had been considering I'd been in her bed.  But I maintained the ruse.
"I was pretty tired so I turned in early, sorry I didn't make the study group."
"No worries," Robin chimed in.  "We finished pretty quickly.  I was in bed by like nine."
I had been in Rachel's bed at that same time, but said instead, "I don't think I even saw nine.  I woke up at some point with my TV asking me if I was still watching."
Everyone laughed, including Rachel, and I took this as a good sign that no one could see me sweating.

Opening Lines day 8, a changing of exercises

1
He had thought to brighten her day by finishing the unpacking and arranging, but her expression told him that his thought and execution was poorly received. 

2
She didn't know any of the runners at the high school track meet, but their intensity and expressions of an earnest desire to win made her choke up with an array of emotions. 

3
She gave him everything he could ever want except for her time, and that, of course, was the only thing he truly wanted. 

4
It was 2:17 p.m. and we were all standing on the lawn watching a succession of planes fly overhead towards the smoke. 

5
His favourite shirt was unwearable - the print was worn and was now simply spots of illegible plastic transfer that kept the entire thing from being a mess of a holes - but he diligently washed it once a month and placed it back in his closet as a reminder. 

A changing of exercises
As noted in my last entry, it's surprisingly difficult to go back and review the history of a story that I do not have on hand.  As such, I am going to sift through the book I am using and select a slightly more accessible exercise to pursue for the next week or so. 

Opening Lines Day 7, plus Exercise 2 go 1

1
I don't necessarily remember answering the phone and hence my confusion when the voice on the other end demanded, "Well?"

2
I debated reminding him that repeating an action while expecting a different result was a sign of insanity, but we were in a mental institution so the point seemed moot.

3
I watched my Tactical Action Officer go sliding across the room as the ship rolled to starboard and waited patiently for the complementary roll to port so that we could resume our discussion. 

4
I smelled like ammunition and sweat - it was even less romantic than it sounds. 

5
I knew what I should do, but also knew what I wanted to do. 

Exercise 2

Some things that happened before Ender's Game starts but that we never actually read about:
Peter and Valentine had a few years just the two of them
Ender's parents made the decision to have a third
Peter and Valentine were both tested (and failed)

This is harder than I thought and I'm not sure if it's because Orson Scott Card is a gifted writer, because it's been some time since I read the book, or some other reason.  I will continue these exercises though as they are rather beneficial.  I think I need to focus on some of the smaller details and that may require having the books on hand.  I will continue to approach this from varying angles. 

Opening Lines Day 6

1
She had over one hundred blank notebooks and journals in her bookcase -- she didn't write in them for fear it wouldn't be good enough for how pretty they all were.

2
His collection of kitchen gadgets was so vast and impressive you would have thought he might actually know how to cook.

3
As a barista, my favourite hobby is writing down creative ways that people compare their love of black coffee to things like their hearts, their souls, or the hex color code #000000.

4
Lately I've noticed a lot of shadows moving in my peripheral vision which either means that I can see ghosts or I'm dying. 

5
"Please stop crying." 

Opening Lines Day 5

1
I flushed as I watched her caressing the teapot, imagining that she might someday touch me in the same manner.

2
She turned her toes in together as though she could use them as a blockade to hide behind. 

3
He had started lifting weights because it was what everyone told him to do but he had continued because now it seemed like no one could tell him what to do. 

4
She ignored the boxes labelled "kitchen" "towels" "home office", frantically pulling the sheets out of "bedding" until she freed a once-white, tattered teddy bear -- "I'm sorry I didn't catch you before the movers tucked you away," she clutched it tightly to her chest.   

5
He ate automatically, tasting none of the food, simply performing the social function of eating at a dinner party.

Opening Lines Day 4

The next exercise I have requires a bit more thought and research but I have a Navigation midterm on Wednesday so I probably won't start exercise two until Thursday.

The first line below actually was inspired by my boyfriend, so I'm doing 6 today.

1
He was, at first, pleasantly surprised that his girlfriend did not feel hot to the touch as she normally did while they cuddled at night - her skin was quite cool as she was dead.

2
Her neighbour was laughing so loudly she could hear it through the walls and it was grating, inspiring creative homicidal thoughts.

3
"What if I just turned the wheel suddenly and threw myself and my car over the cliff?" she thought to herself, doing nothing of the sort.

4
He realised he hadn't consumed enough water for the day so he carefully drank two one-litre bottles in succession because that was the sort of man he was.

5
It had started as a simple search for her car keys, but now she was sitting on the living room floor simultaneously laughing and crying hysterically.

6
The precision it takes to make perfect roses out of buttercream frosting is not difficult if you happen to be neurotic.

Opening Lines Day 3

In addition to the idea that you should write 5 opening lines a day, I also like taking these exercises week by week.  I am trying to start as though I know nothing about writing (which, perhaps, would almost be better) so I am moving through these slowly.  New exercises will start next week.

I also went back and looked at the first lines of two of my favourite books.  They are stellar.

The Curious Incident of Dog in the Night-time opens with, "It was seven minutes after midnight."  Short, sweet, simple, and immediately sets a scene.

Shantaram opens with, "It took me a long time and most of the world to learn what I know about love and fate and the choices we make, but the heart of it came to me in an instant, while I was chained to a wall and being tortured."  Just... wow.

Mine today:
1
"Unusual ways to dispose of a body" she typed into the search bar, hesitating only slightly before hitting enter.

2
It's amazing how much clarity one finds hiding under the bed.

3
"Looks good to me," the young Sailor called up the ladder, blatantly overlooking the rapidly developing cracks in the shaft seal.

4
In her opinion, the conversation had been over for fifteen minutes; he clearly hadn't noticed.

5
There comes a time in everyone's life when you find yourself sitting in the driver's seat, gripping the wheel, debating driving to the airport to fly away and never come back; or at least, I hope that happens to everyone because this was the fourth time it was happening to me.

Opening Lines Day 2

It would be easy enough to open with fantasy lines (e.g. As the sun set in the east, she thought, "That's peculiar.") but for my purposes I am sticking with everyday openers.  Today I have gone particularly with things that have occurred in my life. 

1
She hummed a few notes of the black swan's solo as she superglued over a blister, missing only one note as she winced. 

2
The red phone was on the right hand side of the desk which seemed illogical as I needed my right hand for the mouse. 

3
The man smiled at me revealing bleeding gums and rotting teeth. 

4
It is impossible to accurately convey just how commanding and confident a woman in a chador can actually be. 

5
It's odd how calming it can be to paint make up on one's face until you begin to border on looking garish and rather like a whore. 

Relearning how to write

I've taken an obviously lengthy break from all of my writing.  I will be going through a series of exercises for the next few months in order to attempt to harness and hone and therein better my chances of getting into grad the school.  You will find the first below. 

How to Get and Keep a Reader - write a good first line. 
I will probably try to write 1-5 opening lines every day.  First lines are important.  My first attempt is as follows:

1
It was not dark nor stormy, neither, in fact, was it night. 

2
He came through the shop door soaking wet and smelling of rotting vanilla cupcakes. 

3
They were all looking at me expectantly and I could no longer read the words jotted on my notecard. 

4
Ms. Cresher was dressed impeccably, as always, save that one of her diamond earrings was set in white gold and one set in yellow gold. 

5
The atmosphere in the conference room reminded John of the sound gelatin makes when it suddenly slides free of its mould. 

But I am so lucky...

(on the off chance anyone reads this, please be gentle, it's been a LONG break) 

But I am so lucky 

Obstreperous -- 

I was jejune and now

you are flummoxed at this 

blustering.  

I run, unmanageable, 

frightening. 

Devastating mondegreen dizzying. 

Spelentic and imperfect, 

bewildered by my own 

opprobrious comportment. 

I have no idea why you love me. 

Things

(The hope, of course, is that you would picture it yourself, but someday maybe I'll sketch up the geography of what I'm describing.  The Fort, you might say.) 

Things 

In the innermost, it is dark, 

it is quiet.  

Sometimes too quiet.  

I venture, and peer out the door.  

Dropping breadcrumbs, skipping over precarious bombs.  

Next circle. 

Some more things are stored here.  

Not all mine, 

but all important. 

Check them all to make sure; 

they are safe. 

Unchain the chains, unbolt the bolts, 

crack the door to sneak a peek.  

One eye peeks back.  

I am frozen; 

how did you... 

You never should have come through the hedge maze.  

You are not welcome here, go back.  

I close the door, 

And send you to the outermost circle. 

No other things.  

I run back, fleeing.  

It’s better this way.  

Safe and sound with my 

Things. 

So happy

(it's weird, because I can see the blog stats and it's all "6 pageviews today" and I'm like... uhm by whom?  I'm thinking it must be random spammers and internet traipsers and bots and things because I don't just give this page out to people and I'm pretty sure people gave up on it when I stopped writing for a year or so.  Or really people gave up because I'm terrible haha.  Still, in a weird way, I wish I knew what or who was tripping over my blog in their cyberspace adventures.  Whatever they are, this "poem" should disappoint them mwahaha)  

So happy 

Dystopia.  
Glitter falling all around 
glistening like my smile.  
Music notes tumble, 
crashing.  
Rocking in the corner, 
sparkles stream from my eyes. 
Shirking and shrinking, 
laugh laugh laugh.  
So happy for you.  

Life Disconcerting

(Is happiness a choice?  Does it count if you are forcing yourself to be happy?  If you fake it for long enough does it become real?  How do we know who we are?  If you aren't yourself for long enough, does that actually become who you are?  You'd think eventually I'd have an answer or two, but mostly I just have more questions every day...)  


Life Disconcerting 
So zealous for this life, 
yet anxiously troubled 
as though fervent happiness 
must be quelled, 
lest it be overwhelmed by 
restless unease.  
Brimming with idealism, 
concerned by encroaching dejection -- 
life ever bemusing. 
Optimism battles the xanthous fears, 
while joyous elation concedes to 
worries, mindful of disappointment. 
Overwhelming yearning, 
kind and loving, 
resigned to a perplexed quiet. 
Silence. 

Struggle

(I used to have this rule that I couldn't write when I was super emotional because it was always just horrendous.  I'm breaking that rule right now, because I'm trying to clear my head.  I'm trying to convey something here, and perhaps next time I'll say what it is.  No one reads this blog, haha, but if someone stumbles upon it, perhaps he or she can tell me if I even remotely succeeded.  For now... more vodka.)  

Struggle 

What goes up must come down 
down down down... 
Fight it and cling, 
claw and dig deep.  
The fall is delayed, 
drags on... and on... 
Reaching up but 
it's no use.  
It never is.  
Slide down - 
scratching 
catching 
bleeding along the way.  
The bottom - disconsolate, 
bewildered.  
Shaken despairing sobs. 

Hannah -- prose

(trying to write again I guess...) 

“It was a dark and stormy night-“

“No it’s not.” 

I suppressed a sigh.  “No sweetie, in the story.” 

Hannah looked out the window and turned to me sternly.  “Lying is wrong Daddy.” 

“No Hannah-belle, telling a story isn’t lying, it’s…”  Silence.  “Uhm, it’s making up a story…” 

“Lying.” 

When I was young I had thought it would be difficult to raise a child of average intelligence, but now, arguing with and being outsmarted by my three year old, I wondered.  How was I going to explain fiction for the purpose of entertainment? 

“You know, when I read you bedtime stories?  Those aren’t true stories-“

“What?!”  Shock and outrage. 

“Baby, those are just made up tales about happy, faraway lands and-“

“You lied to me?!”  It appeared the shock and outrage would continue.  If only I hadn’t been muttering to myself as I typed.  If only Rachel were still alive to help tame our offspring.  Rachel had always been the voice of reason to my dreamer tendencies. 

“I’m sorry sweetie.  Lots of people like to… peek into other people’s imaginations when their own imaginations get tired.” 

Hannah pondered this.  She sucked on the strap of her jumper, which she’d undone again, before finally saying, “Like if I let other people talk to Mr. Bears?  And be friends with him?” 

Of course my genius toddler could put my thoughts into words better than I.  “Yes, very much like that.” 

“I have to think about this Daddy.  I’ll get back to you.”  She walked out.  Great, have your people call my people, maybe we can have teatime with Mr. Bears and philosophize. 

I turned back to the computer and stared at it.  Heaving another melodramatic sigh, I erased the intro.  It was too cliché and my life was anything but.  Rachel’s picture smiled at me just above the right corner of the monitor.  “Rach… Rach… what am I doing?” 

“Daddy…”  Hannah reappeared sounding worried and I snapped back to reality.  “Daddy there’s someone at the door.”  And the doorbell rang. 

Mildly perturbed by Hannah’s premonition, maybe she had just seen him walk up, I set her on the couch in my office and instructed, “Daddy will be right back.  Don’t move.”  Hannah gave me the annoyed look she used anytime I referred to myself in the third person but gave me a short, curt nod in assent. 

I closed the door behind me before hurrying down the stairs to the front door.  I didn’t think to look through the window before I found myself staring at an impeccably dressed man in his mid-thirties.  Perfectly sculpted blonde hair, sunglasses, a tux, and bodyguards rendered the whole moment beyond surreal and I failed to speak. 

“Mr. Lancomb?”  The blond man spoke crisply, with such a pronounced lack of accent it was startling. 

“Who’s asking?” 

“It will not do to play games with me Mr. Lancomb.  Won’t you invite us in?” 

“I’m sorry, and you are…?” 

“You need money, Mr. Lancomb.  You’re a decent writer, but you aren’t making enough to fully support your beautiful daughter.”  He paused for dramatic effect, and it worked.  “Are you?” 

“Won’t you come in?”  I don’t know what overtook me, but within moments they were seated around my dining room table sipping ice water with lemon.  Rachel would have been proud – of the lemon, not the strangers sitting in our house. 

“Mr. Lancomb,” the blonde man had removed his sunglasses to reveal eyes that seemed falsely blue.  “I am Mr. Powers.  An amusing name to be certain, but do not let humour detract from the gravity of this situation.” 

“That’s not your real name anyway.”  We all whirled around to see Hannah, lips pursed, staring down the man in the tuxedo.  She held Mr. Bears in both arms, and even he looked defiant.

“You are correct small one.  My great-great grandfather changed it when he immigrated.” 

“Define immigrated.” 

“He came to America from another country.”  Hannah debated this briefly before climbing onto a chair at the table. 

“I told you not to move,” I reproached her.  She looked at me steadily and said nothing until I felt foolish losing the argument to a toddler. 

“Mr. Lancomb, I need you to deliver something for me.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“Actually it’s someone.  I need you to ensure the safe travels of my niece across the country.” 

“That’s-  I-  what?” 

“Is she nice?”  Hannah was clearly less bothered by this than I. 

“I like to think so.”  Mr. Powers nodded to one of his bodyguards, who stood and exited.  He returned momentarily with a young girl around 13 who held her arms and hummed softly.  “Olivia, please sit.” 

“Six chairs.  I-s-x a-c-h-i-r-s.  Six people.  I-s-x e-e-l-o-p-p.”  Olivia sat. 

“Olivia enjoys putting the letters of her words in order.”  Mr. Powers smiled. 

“A-i-i-l-o-v.  My name is Aiilov.”  She pronounced it like I love.

“Olivia is autistic and like many autistics, she is brilliant.  Unlike most autistics, she is also connected to important people and therein a target.  I would like you, Mr. Lancomb, to help me transport her across the country to Stanford where I am assured her safety.” 

“Why Stanford?” 

“Mr. Lancomb, I will give you 1.5 million dollars as well as setting up a trust for Hannah’s college education should you carry out this task and not ask questions.” 

“Daddy, that’s 5 zeroes and 7 figures.” 

“I know that Hannah.”

“Daddy…”  Hannah stood on her chair and put her hands on my shoulders so she could look my directly in the eyes.  “What would Mommy say?” 

And then, in front of the three powerful men, in front of the genius autistic, in front of my own daughter, I started crying. 

Hannah put Mr. Bears on my lap and wiped my eyes with her chubby hands.  “Mommy helped everyone.”  It was true.  Rachel wouldn’t even have cared about the money.  If she really thought someone was in need, she just helped them.  She had been an absolute saint during her time and who was I to deny Olivia the right to safety. 

“Alright.” 

“An excellent decision Mr. Lancomb.” 

“A-b-c … l-m-n-o.  I like his name.”  Olivia seemed genuinely thrilled by the realization of the consonant clusters.  As usual though, she spoke only to her uncle. 

Mr. Powers rose, and his goonies stood with him.  “I will send you an electronic itinerary and some notes by e-mail this evening.  Olivia will arrive promptly at 0800 Friday morning along with her belongings, money for the trip, and anything else I deem necessary.” 

“Define itin- itinerary.”  I should never have taught Hannah the word define.

“It’s a schedule Hannah-belle.”  And turning to Mr. Powers, “That’s two days from now.” 

“Very good Mr. Lancomb.” 

As I stood silently, shocked, the party made their way to the door.  Mr. Powers stood aside to allow the bodyguards to escort Olivia first, but she turned and looked directly at Hannah.  “I hope you’ll tell me what Mr. Bears said when I came in.  I think we three shall be friends.”  Then she turned around and walked out. 

Mr. Powers looked at Hannah peculiarly.  “Olivia speaks only to me.  She has addressed no one else, not even her parents, since she was born.”  He stared harder at Hannah. 

“Mr. Bears is an excellent judge of people,” Hannah replied simply, as though that explained everything. 

“I have chosen well and I am pleased you have agreed to this, Mr. Lancomb.”  And then the door was closed. 

I looked at Hannah, at Mr. Bears, at the closed door, and back to Hannah. 

“Daddy, we need to pack,” she said before I could utter a word.  With that, we went upstairs to pack.  

Curious Contentment

(curiously, someone recently suggested to me that I begin a blog. Of course, this person was likely thinking I would wax philosophical and, as such, I refrained from comment and clearly did not state, "Oh but I have one where I occasionally spew horrific nonsense that would make an actual writer and feasibly cry." In any case... this.) 

Curious Contentment (working title) 

It began so carefully, 
if unexpectedly. 
To pinpoint an origin 
impossible. 
Enshrouded in primaveral joy, 
enraptured by this new curiosity. 
All good things must end. 
Trading in the gleeful swivet, 
expecting a tumble into despondence. 
And yet… 
Comfortable resignation tinged with 
residuum of frivolity. 
Nigh confusing this 
serotinal fulfillment. 
No falderal sense of being jilted; 
rather, peculiar satisfaction in this 
contented unhappiness.

You are prohibited

(Either you understand or you don't.) 


You are prohibited


Forced denouncement
in the face of
growing affection. 
An anomaly,
this confidence
without reason.
This impediment
irrefrangible despite
endless wanting. 
To proscribe regulation –
taboo;
pressing desire.
Forcibly en regle,
straining resistance –
tensile.
Quell the flush --
coveting the verboten.
A hypnopompic state…
an anguish to relish.
Off limits –
painful brush with the
forbidden. 

Sparkling Reticence

(words words words.  Sorry it's not happier for the holidays and such...) 

Sparkling reticence

They act as though

my nonplussed speech slakes enthusiasm,

but truly my pontifications remain adiaphorous,

while their manner is a stinging fracas.

I recoil from the pain and

attempt to elucidate something – anything – else

besides my need for relief from the sharpness.

Sudden jokes and a constant whirl of whinge –

judging, leering, prying;

a dull effervescence in which I do not take part.

Shut my eyes, the tinny nebula presses in,

I am suffocating – haunted by yesterdays. 

Journeying

I am so not pleased with how this ends. I just... don't like it..
The Journey
Stand at the bottom of the staircase,
No banister – tiptoe up trying not to make a sound.
Exhale at the top sounds like a hurricane; breath catches.
Standing at the bridgehead,
No railings – sneak across, don’t look down.
Collapse at the other side; making this journey alone.
Look up at the snowy peak.
No sherpa – scale this rocky face, heart pounds.
Behold, consider this journey; these accomplishments.
Trust or solitude? Questions remain unanswered.

Talking in Circles

Sometimes you just can't tell someone how much they mean to you. In addition to living in a society that is not frank with emotions, I have my PhD in Fear of Rejection.


Talking in Circles

Another conversation – we talk.
I tell you so many things,
inside myself, while
little is said aloud.
Smiling, I reach out to touch your arm,
a simple gesture,
devoid of ulterior motive, but
I miss.
My hand rests on your side and
the disquietude inside me –
nauseating waves.
But I remain steadfast,
nigh drowning in hidden consternation.
Blinded by this clashing of
trepidation and desire,
I can’t tell if you figured it out.
A hug goodbye bordering on aggressive,
alone again – no relief from the
apprehensive proclivity to you.

Pulling tails of Cheshire cats

Yep...

Pulling tails of Cheshire cats

Grasping at sand and clinging to shadows,
living in a dream.
Wishing and hoping on stars that
have already died.
Living in a ghost town, deserted but
still wait at the window.
Wrapped up in bed, knowing
sleep will never come.
[shadow, mist, hallucination]
A dawning sense of clarity.
Let go of hopes and dreams,
set them free.
This grey is life – it is time to stop
pulling tails of Cheshire cats.

Caress

(I can't decide if the last line should be more specific? "still searching for the right embrace" ???)

Caress

Enveloped in a cloud...
lean back -- anticipating soft.
Falling through cold, damp --
chills from brushing through the mist.
Wrapped in a blanket... snuggle down -- expecting warmth.
Struggling for air, smothered --
stifled in this entrapment.
Relaxed under the sun...
float on the water -- awaiting warmth.
Sinking in the dark, cold --
drowned in disorientation.
Still searching...

Digital Addiction

(I had a different title for this originally and it's AWESOME, but it deserves a better poem, so here I go trying to write about feeling again. This feeling shit gets kind of old sometimes...)

Digital Addiction

Drumming fingers on my cell phone,

craving the vibration that tells me

you want to reach me.

Checking text messages,

yearning for validation of my emotions,

feeling barren, stark.

Brush away a single tear,

this languishing is ridiculous I know;

I deteriorate into a vacant ache.

Compose a message to tell you, but

eloquence is just out of reach,

I cannot send you amassed brooding.

Devoid of coherent thought,

I am hollowed out and cannot communicate.

Put the phone away.

Forbearing

(thanks Sandy, it's almost what I want...)

Forbearing

Stinging, searing, blinding --

your hiemal moods bring snow,

my soul's adytum nearly ices over.

I patiently abrade the frost,

enduring, passive, hoping for a good one --

always altruistic.

I am no quean, just lavish with my canticles and

I am without fear.

Word Nerd

(it doesn't make sense, I know, just enjoy the plays on words please)

Word Nerd, or: Ode to my Love for Language

I'd like to proposition you with this preposition,

but you're just too possessive, I'm driven to run-on.

Now we're tense; don't be such an oxymoron,

I dash from your conjunctions.

Modify this you homophone!

I feel so verb, which, by definition,

means I have vague etymology.

I can't leave you -- you're my palindrome.

Period.