| 1 2 3 4 |
"Exposed" (the forty-third ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
5 6 7 8 9 |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Exposed" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), March 15, 2005 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Exposed by Sideline lazdom@ono.com (Entry #5) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| And there it is, in the phosphorescent flash of channel changing synthetic reality sliding past the screen, the six o’clock news of mottled bodies washed up on sand, bloated midriffs exposed to be shared with pork chops and baby carrots. Look there-between the palm trees still careening in what’s left of the wind, unwilling to admit it’s way past midnight, you can spot even more bobbing among the wreckage- the flotsam of human tragedy, once somewhat solid structures now just so much sodden kindling. My crooked thumb momentarily paused mid-movement like absolution, before shifting to an infomercial of frozen smiles and semi-facts, mesmerized, I contemplate my daily dose of God’s holy destruction. The anchorman’s smooth voice crooning exotic delicacies- cholera, typhus, diphtheria as human waste begins its slow descent-not to clever ashes and dust but to dung beetle and mud. I think of the first floor bungalow dwellers slicing a mango or fanning themselves with an old magazine in the sticky heat, glancing southward distracted by a low rumble to meet a wall of water with a gasp, breathing in the blue-grey swirling atmosphere, a deadly drag, ‘What the..?’ cut off in mid-thought as salt and stone embrace them. I wouldn’t have been a first floor poor bugger, the remote down I’m swigging from my Miller Genuine Draft like nectar from the vine. I’m a second story beam clinger surviving to tell the tale; I react in time, turn my head that necessary nanosecond and assess my surroundings, a feline leap and a hold on for bloody life. I could withstand the current, dodge the reckless branches, the rebellious cars turned submarines, floating chunks of god knows what, and hey let’s say it, bodies in the surging tide that could pull you down like an anchor if you forgot where you were long enough to say ‘Jesus F. Christ’. My cerebellum’s singing survival as those fifteen seconds of fatality go blotto with a flick and the image is clicked off. Night pours in through the windows and the walls, its cool black touch caressing the foot rest, the mini-bar, my hard-earned reality turned a dubitable grey. I reach for the desk lamp, a bit of electric fellowship against this disconcerting circumstance, hoping to still feel its cold chrome when my fingers seek the switch. |
| Exposed by lee10@host365.com (Entry #2) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| The camera saw an instant in an insane world; the picture, glossy, stark, of small skulls; cracked brown cases stacked high against a mudbaked wall, under shadeless white heat. Nestling with strangers, Rwandan babies who yesterday cried for milk their warworn mothers didn't have. Nutbrown cases smashed beyond the repair of Western aid. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #4 Second place: #2 Others receiving votes: #5, #3, #1, #7 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Exposed Tom Campbell topcat@spiritone.com |
#1 of 9 |
| 607 | |
| It was a snowy Christmas Eve and families in their snug
houses heaped another log or two on the fire and resumed their feasting,
merriment, and song, with perhaps the occasional glance out the window at the
magical transformation of the city. Those scurrying down the streets in the
snarling winds of bitter chill, consoled themselves, knowing they would soon be
safe and warm. A woman in once fine clothes that were turning shabby was seemingly oblivious to the interminable elements as she trudged resolutely toward the edge of town through the large moist flakes of descending snow. Snow that blew triangles into doorways, gave the eaves long drooping beards, and turned the lamplights into swollen pillows. She turned her eyes downward to her silent footfalls. A modest church stood before her, its quiet ornateness now couched in a soft white glow. She skirted behind it to the adjacent cemetery with roughly clad feet that led her unerringly to the gravestone she visited every week. A simple unassuming stone bore her last name, that is the name she had taken when she had promised to love, honor, and obey, ‘til death do us part. The new wet snow she brushed off the marker and knelt beside it forlornly for a long time Then she found her voice, a quiet whisper. "Henry, my love. It has been a full year now. A very hard one as you might know if you have been looking down on me. You know how longingly I miss you if you have heard my prayers." "And I miss you too, Emily." She looked up to see her husband there, as real to her as the bare trees that formed his background. Fly into his arms was her first thought, but she was only able to stagger to her feet. "I thought I would never see you again, dear," she said, not trying to fight back the tears of happiness. "It was hardly your fault, my love, that the ice was thin in that very spot." "But I was the one to suggest we would go for a skate, that it would be such a lark. And then you disappeared into that icy pond." "I agreed with you that it would be an invigorating pleasure." "I daily curse that girlish whim. You have little conception of the enormous guilt I bear." Her head drooped a little as more snowflakes collected on her wisps of hair. "Bear no remorse. Every person makes their own decisions." "My decision was to be with you forever, not to lose you so painfully and prematurely. I tried desperately to save you but my feeble efforts were in vain." "I know you tried. I know. How could you do otherwise? Some achievements are beyond our mortal ability." "I’ve been so heartbroken these past twelvemonth. Our future together, shattered." "You still possess a future of your own, my dearest." "Scarcely. I cannot bear the thought of remarrying. I wanted my life to be at your side." "You must go on, my dear, and now I need depart." "Please wait. You look freezing, my love, in this snow. Let me lend you my coat." She knelt back down alone to pray for Henry's soul as well as her own, accompanied by her small sobs of pity. The snow fell gentler upon her now. The next morning the church caretaker espied a huddled form in the graveyard and plodded out to investigate. "Gracious Heavens. A poor woman nearly dead from exposure and with a perfectly warm coat a-lying next to her." He wrapped the coat around her and carried her into the church. |
|
| Exposed lee10@host365.com |
#2 of 9 Runner-up |
| 53 | |
| The camera saw an instant in an insane world; the picture, glossy, stark, of small skulls; cracked brown cases stacked high against a mudbaked wall, under shadeless white heat. Nestling with strangers, Rwandan babies who yesterday cried for milk their warworn mothers didn't have. Nutbrown cases smashed beyond the repair of Western aid. |
|
| Exposed mrwrleft@yahoo.com |
#3 of 9 |
| 1317 | |
| The summer of 19.. I spent in a sports camp run by the
school district. The camp, composed of six cottages, kitchen, bathhouse and
toilets, stood in the middle of the forest N. Coaches lived together with the
groups of boys of ages eleven to sixteen, who they trained during the school
years for Track and Field competitions. Each time our coach, B., would leave the camp on administrative business, we’d play cards, simply because cards were forbidden. One of those times, when he’d left for the city after breakfast, we played a game called "Fool." As usual between boys, we joked, laughed, trash-talked and had a great time. When we were in the middle of the game, the door opened and we saw Coach’s tall silhouette in the door opening. Our enthusiasm and vitality evaporated. Everybody hung their heads low, fearing to look directly into Coach’s light, steely, eyes, and only observing his actions with peripheral vision. It was quiet; the buzz of two flies was distinctly heard. Coach said, with a smile: "Playing…?" The dimples on his always well-shaved cheeks became pronounced. "Yes," the answer came from everybody, flacid like a tired brain. "Cards…?" We didn’t even answer. It was obvious. "Maybe you’ll let me participate?" The jaw muscles danced on his face. He sat down, shuffled the cards, and started dealing them out for each of the players. "What’s the stake?" he nodded toward some money that lay on the table. Everybody was still silent. Whoever played "Fool" knew that, although it is possible to play it for money, it’s not set up for it, like Poker or Bakkara. The pocket change had been left on the table by accident. "What’s the stake?" he repeated raising his voice, just a bit. Again, no one answered. "What’s the stake!" he roared pounding on the table so hard the money leaped up and fell on the floor, rolling and jingling. Then his voice, again, became peaceful. This was even more ominous than the preceding roar. The atmosphere felt as though it was crackling with static. In a calm and, even, forgiving voice he began to ask each player individually. "…Look, I understand that at the beginning you didn't want to play for money. At the beginning you played just for fun, yes? Is that right? And then, just to make the game more interesting, you thought… right? Am I on the right track? Come on, I was a boy myself. I know that you didn't play for money, SERIOUSLY. After the game was over, you all planned to give the money back to the original owners. Yes? See I understand. Well, what happened is what happened. You don't have to lie to me. You'll be punished, but not as much as if you lie to me. What I really hate is lies!" And the guys confessed - one by one. A chill went down my spine. Something was terribly wrong. Because we didn't play for money - neither I nor anyone else. Then it was my turn. I was the youngest and, therefore, he dealt with me accordingly. "Well, Nick, I hope you've understood that it's bad to play for money. "Yes," I said, my voice trembling. "So, you understand you did a wrong thing?" "Yes, I did a wrong thing… playing cards." "…for money…" he stood slowly, elevating above me like the Hall of Justice. "I didn't play for money…" Coach's right eyebrow rose. He tilted his head to the left and narrowed his eyes, as if not understanding. "Excuse me? Can you say that louder?" "I didn't play for money." "What? Hahahahaha." He turned his head toward the guys as if inviting them to join, and everybody laughed along. "So, " he chuckled, "everybody played for money and you didn't?" "I didn't." "Everybody, listen to this!" Coach’s voice was loud, and it sounded sincerely amused. "As it turns out – though the rest of you did Nick, here, didn’t play for money! Hahahahah…." Suddenly, he became serious. "Don't you EVER lie to me, Nick. I see right through you, so don't try to con me. If you did a wrong thing, at least have the courage and fortitude to confess. Understand?" he barked. "I didn't play for money." I bit my lip, but tears started dropping from my eyes. Coach put his hand on my shoulder. "Well, well, don't cry. You are not a little boy anymore. You are eleven years old, aren't you?" I tried to strain every nerve and, finallly, was able to stop the tears. But they were still inside, hovering in a state of unstable equilibrium, ready to resume rolling down at any second. "Ok, ok. Now I see that you are a man. Right?" I nodded. "Ok. Now, that you are calm, please explain here to all of us, how is it that everybody else played for money, yet you say you didn’t? You just don’t want to admit it, right? Hm? Why are you silent? Can't answer, huh?" I was silent because at that moment I realized with the clarity of a starting chessboard position that all the other guys, not being able to withstand the pressure, had simply given up. But it was one thing to admit that, although they had played for money, they had "fortitude and character" to admit their wrong doing. With this they could live. It was an entirely different matter to be publically exposed for exactly the opposite sin – the absense of fortitude and character – yet by their junior. They’d never agree with me in this situation. Moreover, they would hate me if I proved to be right. Arduously, I sought an answer. Tears, again, started rolling down my cheeks. What was I standing for anyhow - to prove that I wasn’t playing for money? Who cared? I knew nothing I said or did at that point would change my punishment. I knew all the guys wanted me to admit I was wrong, like they did, and be done with the whole affair. But, somehow, I just couldn’t. It was as if someone threw a wrench into the mechanism of my compliance and the gears got stuck. "Well? Are we going to sit here all night until tomorrow?" At this moment an idea came to me… it drifted into my mind like smoke under the door. It was a long-shot, but I had to try it. "I didn't play for money, because they wouldn't let me. They said I was too little." Everybody started to laugh; laughed for a long time, causing Coach first to grin but, then, caught in the moment, eventually to chuckle and, finally, join in the laughter. And, although my explanation was thin, relieved I had come up with something, everybody readily accepted it. The atmosphere discharged. Coach distributed the punishment and that was that. When he left for his room upstairs, the guys surrounded me, tapped me on the shoulder and told me to take it easy and that I was a good guy. They all knew I saved their faces, and they knew I knew it, too, but it was, now, a secret held between us all. For my punishment, Coach made me clean the toilet. As I scrubbed it I felt sad, but not because of the smell of feces and urine. Everyone I thought I knew, and had looked up to, had been, suddenly, "exposed" to me in an odd way. Not only they, but I, myself, were exposed as strangers – people never, really, known and, as it turned out, people I wasn’t so proud of, either. Worse than that, the "Truth" that had always seemed such a basic, simple, thing, had diverged into a winding compound lie that, somehow, strangely and easily violated the matter of my reality and, from that point on, dwelled in it like an occupying army. |
|
| Exposed marionh7@comcast.net |
#4 of 9 |
| 2098 | |
| It’s 9:30 in the morning and I am on my way to
work. As my driver skillfully weaves the black Lincoln Town car through the
hurly-burly of midtown traffic, I make a few final edits to a feature on spring
fashions. The car pulls up to 4 Times Square and I gracefully step out of the
vehicle and into the Conde Nast building. On my way to the elevator, I spot my
dear friend Anna Wintour, editor of Vogue. "Good morning Danielle, so nice to
see you again! I’m really looking forward to reading your piece," she
enthuses. "My pleasure, Anna. Writing for Vogue is always a fabulous
experience." "Oh Danielle, are you sure you won’t consider coming on board
full-time?" she implores. "I’d certainly make it worth your while. Please,
Danielle? Please?" My morning reverie is interrupted by the sound of chalk scraping against a blackboard. Oh. It’s Mimi, one of my co-workers. "Danielle! Pick up the phone already!" she snarls over the intercom. "I’ve got Mr. Wonderful on the line and he’s not a happy camper …" 9:36 AM. "Good morning, sir; how are you?" I coo into the phone. Sell-out! Mr. Wonderful is what we call Mr. Wunderlicht behind his back. He’s never happy, and he’s certainly not wonderful. He gets right to the point. "Where’s that thermostatic valve ad?" How could he miss it? "It’s on your desk, sir. Look for a smiling, yellow thermostatic valve that kind of resembles Gumby against a black background with red lettering in raised Bodini 12-point." "That thing? Hell, my 10-year-old grandson could’ve come up with something better! And the text-whoever wrote that crap obviously doesn’t know anything about thermostatic valves." Somehow this doesn’t seem like the right time to point out that a) the design was inspired by a classic 1912 ad done by Lucien Bernhard for Mannheim Machine Works and b) I wrote the text. " I’m sorry you feel that way, sir. As you know, our goal was to create an ad that would set our valves apart from the competition-something unexpected and edgy, yet memorable and approachable." "So why didn’t you? " he thunders. "Next time, spare me the artsy-fartsy nonsense. I want valves, got it? Not toys, not cute little letters. Valves! Understood?" "Yes, sir. " I reply. "Oh, and Danielle? Have it on my desk by 4 PM." Welcome to the glamorous world of advertising. 9:45 AM. "Well? Did he chew you a new ass-hole, or what?" Mimi gleefully inquires as she saunters past my cubicle. As the Customer Service Manager, Mimi endures abuse all day long. Maybe that’s why she takes such fiendish delight in the sufferings of others. "No, he’s fine," I shrug nonchalantly. "Creative differences." In truth, I am terrified. How the heck are we going to come up with an ad in less than six hours? Mimi shakes her grizzled head. "Girl, I wouldn’t want your job for any amount of money," she announces, making a beeline for the coffee machine. Right now I don’t want my job either. All I want is a steaming hot cup of coffee liberally laced with Valium. I have discovered the most exciting, the most arduous literary form of all, the most difficult to master, the most pregnant in curious possibilities. I mean the advertisement… It is far easier to write ten passably effective Sonnets, good enough to take in the not too inquiring critic, than one effective advertisement that will take in a few thousand of the uncritical buying public. Aldous Huxley 10:00 AM. I am sitting in Conference Room B with Christian, our graphic designer and Vanessa from Marketing. Together we brainstormed the Funny Little Man ad that is now laying spread out on the table. The atmosphere is like viewing a body at the morgue. "Poor little guy. He never had much of a chance, did he?" she says, gently fingering the glossy trim. I take a sip of coffee, sans Valium. "These things happen. We did our best." "It makes no sense. I mean, look at those tiny escutcheon plate hands…Damn it, what a waste," Christian says, pounding his fist on the table. "Do you have any idea how long it took to get the shading right? Not to mention digging through the Pantone archives for color matching?" "Listen guys, if it’s any consolation, it wasn’t only the design and the concept he objected to," I say. "He also hated the text." Vanessa looks at Christian. "To be honest, I didn’t like the text either." "Borrring," Christian intones, simulating a yawn. I’m stunned. Is my own creative team turning against me? "Wait a minute, what was wrong with that text? Smart, succinct, pithy…" "Long, longer, longest. Besides, it detracted from my graphic," he huffs. Puh-lease. Your graphic detracted from my text. "Gosh, why didn’t you two speak up sooner?" "No offense Dani, but you really don’t take criticism very well," says Vanessa. "Not at all," Christian agrees, touching his hair. Wounded to the core, I stammer, "B-But when I wrote it, you said you liked it-you really liked it!" Shrugs all around. "We just didn’t want to hurt your feelings." 10:37 AM. "Whatever. Moving right along, let’s figure out what we’re going to do." "It’s mission impossible!" shrieks Christian. "He has to give us more time…" Vanessa wails. "Let’s think about valves. Thermostatic valves." Vanessa leaps up. "I’ve got it! We Photoshop one of those NASA launch shots, only instead of a rocket taking off, it’s a valve, and the caption says, ‘PJ Plumbing Valves Make Your Sales Take Off!’ Get it?" Christian and I roll our eyes. "Earth to Marketing? You don’t just Photoshop NASA space pictures!" Christian sputters. "All their images are copyrighted. It’ll take weeks to get the necessary authorizations." "So why don’t you draw a rocket? " Vanessa snidely asks. "Sure, I’ll get right on it," he retorts. "Do you see what’s happening here, Dani? It’s the Funny Little Man all over again! She comes up with these grandiose ideas and expects me to pull them out of my b-" "At least I have ideas! It’s not my fault if people can’t execute them…" she zings back. "Why you little…" "OK!" I shout, standing up like a demented referee. "If Mr. Wunderlicht wants valves, let’s give him valves! Vanessa; I like the idea of using photos. Christian; you know that stock footage we shot at the factory? Those pictures of the valves standing up, fresh off the assembly line…" "Yeah?" "What if we flip them, so they’re laying down in rows, like jewels? No text, just PJ Plumbing Supply and the logo," "Plumbers Monthly, full page bleed, left side, front of the book," Vanessa ticks off. "Back cover; Home & Hardware. 5,000 point-of-sale sheets…Hey, this could work," she breathlessly exclaims. "I’m on it," Christian says. I’m exhausted. 1 PM. I’m back at my desk, flipping through magazines. Lots of pictures of valves, but none quite like ours. Are we really the only ones trying to make valves look glamorous? "Dani?" Christian stands before me. "Sorry to bother you, but I need to ask something." Three hours to go. Why aren’t you working on that damn ad? Nonetheless, I smile. "Yes?" "I know this is kind of personal, but I have to know. Do you ever feel like you’re losing it?" "Losing my mind? Sure, all the time! " I joke. Wide-eyed, he stares at me. "I’m serious. Do you ever feel like a fraud? Like you’ve fooled all these people into thinking you’re so talented, when really you’re not? Or maybe you once were, but now you’ve used it all up and there’s nothing left but fumes? " "Christian, what you’re describing sounds like burn-out. It’ll pass." No meltdown…not now. "But suppose it doesn’t? I’m older now, Dani. I’m losing my hair, my looks…Even Robert complains that I’m slower than I used to be. I’m all washed up…" he sniffles. "Nonsense, you’re in your prime! Art is in your blood, Christian; it’s part of your DNA. No one can take that away from you," I say, handing him a tissue. "You really think so? Sorry to be laying all this on you. I guess I’m a little drained because of that unpleasantness with Vanessa. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a prima donna." "Don’t mention it. How’s the ad coming?" "Almost finished. You’ll love it-the valves look like Tiffany’s display window." "Great." "Dani? Got any Valium?" 2:30 PM. Vanessa and I are in the ladies room. "I apologize for my behavior this morning. It was rude and unprofessional. But that condescending old queen makes me so mad I could scream!" "It’s forgotten," I say, washing my hands. "Truth is, I knew I was out of line. You’re a copywriter and Christian’s an artist, but I’m only the marketing dweeb. I come in with my ad stats and sales figures, while you guys are all about words and colors and designs. Meanwhile, I’m like the fat, gawky kid nobody wants on their team," ‘Vanessa, that’s not true! You’re a very important part of the team," I assure her. "I’m so sorry. I had no idea you felt this way." "No big deal, I just had to get it out of my system. I’m actually feeling better already," she says. "By the way, I hear you’re going through a divorce. Want to talk about it?" Good grief, does the whole office know? Damn gossip mill. What now? She’s exposed her true feelings; am I suppose to do the same? "Yes I am. And no, I don’t want to talk about it. But thanks for the offer." "Suit yourself. If you change your mind, I’ve been there, done that. I know it’s rough." "It is. Say, have you seen the proofs?" "Yes, they look amazing. Where’s the logo going? " "I’m thinking bottom, center. You?" She smiles. "Perfect. We’re really on to something here," Vanessa always says that. Maybe this time, she’s right. "Dani? You don’t happen to have any Valium, do you? " "What am I, a pharmacy? The answer is no! " I exclaim, hurtling my paper towel into the bin. Now Vanessa is staring at me. "Geesh, you are repressed! Forget it, I’ll ask Mimi-she has Xanax." 2: 52 PM Mimi has Xanax? 3:37 PM. We’re back in Conference Room B, holding a last minute pow-wow. The plan is for us to walk in together and immediately launch into the presentation. Wunderlicht will never know what hit him. 3: 45 PM. Vanessa passes around her compact. Christian straightens his tie; I check my makeup. Showtime. 3:49 PM. Heading toward the bosses’ office, we nearly collide with Mimi. Driven by some crazy impulse, I take out the ad. "So, what do you think?" She scrutinizes the finished proof. "I’ll be darned. I never thought thermostatic valves could look like that, all sparkly and pretty and twinkly-like! You made this?" she asks suspiciously. "Yes, ma’am, we did," I say proudly, as Christian and Vanessa shout in unison, "And Ah helped!" Grinning like idiots, we start passing the baton. "It was Vanessa’s idea", explains Christian. "But Danielle took it to the next level," she says modestly. "Well, Christian really brought it to life," I blabber. She regards us calmly. "I think you’re all a bunch of lunatics," she says, walking away. 4:22 PM. Mr. Wunderlicht puts down our ad. "OK, this’ll do," he says. "Nothing really imaginative about it, but the valves look good and the name is spelled correctly. And that’s all that matters, right?" Right. I am sitting on a thickly padded chair. The man across the table peers at me through thickly rimmed glasses. "Let me get this straight, Ms. Miller. You want to come work here?" "Well, maybe I’d consider it, providing there’s an opening. But what I really want is rest and relaxation." " I don’t think you’re in the right place, Ms. Miller. Our guests tend to be well, a tad high-strung. They suffer from a wide variety of compulsions, neuroses and obsessions. Frankly, some are even delusional at times. Make no mistake, the atmosphere here is extremely chaotic." "Where do I check-in?" Seeing that my mind is made up, Ol’ Four Eyes gives me a bunch of papers to fill out. After I initial the last page, he stands up and holds out his hand. "Welcome to the Zelda P. Fitzgerald Memorial Resort and Spa. Let me be the first to wish you a pleasant and recuperative stay," "Thanks, doc. By the way, do you have any Valium?" |
|
| Exposed Sideline lazdom@ono.com |
#5 of 9 Winner |
| 384 | |
| And there it is, in the phosphorescent flash of channel changing synthetic reality sliding past the screen, the six o’clock news of mottled bodies washed up on sand, bloated midriffs exposed to be shared with pork chops and baby carrots. Look there-between the palm trees still careening in what’s left of the wind, unwilling to admit it’s way past midnight, you can spot even more bobbing among the wreckage- the flotsam of human tragedy, once somewhat solid structures now just so much sodden kindling. My crooked thumb momentarily paused mid-movement like absolution, before shifting to an infomercial of frozen smiles and semi-facts, mesmerized, I contemplate my daily dose of God’s holy destruction. The anchorman’s smooth voice crooning exotic delicacies- cholera, typhus, diphtheria as human waste begins its slow descent-not to clever ashes and dust but to dung beetle and mud. I think of the first floor bungalow dwellers slicing a mango or fanning themselves with an old magazine in the sticky heat, glancing southward distracted by a low rumble to meet a wall of water with a gasp, breathing in the blue-grey swirling atmosphere, a deadly drag, ‘What the..?’ cut off in mid-thought as salt and stone embrace them. I wouldn’t have been a first floor poor bugger, the remote down I’m swigging from my Miller Genuine Draft like nectar from the vine. I’m a second story beam clinger surviving to tell the tale; I react in time, turn my head that necessary nanosecond and assess my surroundings, a feline leap and a hold on for bloody life. I could withstand the current, dodge the reckless branches, the rebellious cars turned submarines, floating chunks of god knows what, and hey let’s say it, bodies in the surging tide that could pull you down like an anchor if you forgot where you were long enough to say ‘Jesus F. Christ’. My cerebellum’s singing survival as those fifteen seconds of fatality go blotto with a flick and the image is clicked off. Night pours in through the windows and the walls, its cool black touch caressing the foot rest, the mini-bar, my hard-earned reality turned a dubitable grey. I reach for the desk lamp, a bit of electric fellowship against this disconcerting circumstance, hoping to still feel its cold chrome when my fingers seek the switch. | |
| Exposed DONNA MARIE DUFOUR mrsdew4@adelphia.net |
#6 of 9 |
| 1576 | |
| Michelle's wedding day was every mother's dream. I know
that sounds unrealistic as most weddings don't go off without some sort of a
disaster or two. But apparently, Michelle's grandmother was watching over her
as we had hoped for because her day was perfect. Mac and Michelle had planned so carefully and meticulously to meet their wedding budget each month; I was really proud of her just for getting through that process. Since she lived in Keene, about two hours away from us, I didn't have the fun of seeing all the details for flowers, favors, and guest lists come together. So when we arrived at the bed and breakfast site on the day of the wedding, I was overwhelmed at how creative she was with the set up and decorations. She had managed to capture her and Mac's personality throughout the theme of the décor and events. It was especially beautiful; people even commented she could be a wedding planner. Beside the distance issue separating us from planning together, I had been sick for several years with mental illness including depression and severe anxiety so I was not much help for her. Another mother guilt trip. I needed so many medications; my memory was stunted at best. I repeated stories and asked questions over and over again. My illness causing such a huge change in our life. Never would I ever imagine not being able to help my daughter plan her wedding. Now seeing my daughter so happy, I truly, almost magically, felt "normal" this one day. It felt great to experience how wonderful "normal" could be. I cautiously drank in each moment hoping I could keep it as part of the day's memory. Worrying it would stop. While there were some things I couldn't do at the wedding, I managed to take part in just about everything. I even danced! Michelle and Mac were wed on a Saturday afternoon in Sunapee, New Hampshire. Their marriage ceremony took place outside brushing the backdrop of mountains that surrounded us like a quilt. They had searched for months for their perfect location - not only for the ceremony - but the reception which was also outside. Everything went delightfully and everyone looked beautiful. I stopped from time to time to take it in closing my eyes to make a memory; hoping I could remember at least all the important parts. They even overcame Mother Nature by getting married in between two hurricanes: Hurricane Abigail arriving on Friday and Hurricane Bob blew in on Sunday afternoon. I couldn't take my eyes off my beautiful daughter the entire day. She was ecstatic, enjoying the conclusion of their rampant wedding planning. My heart was full and sure she would be happy with her husband and their new life. Life was very, very good. We ventured home to Londonderry to recover and enjoy the memories we had just made. Our new roles now would be the traditional empty nesters. Life, however, intended that our time in that new role would be cut short by a simple dermatologist appointment just a few months later. Familiar lyrics invaded my life through reality rather than a radio station: "Woo, and then it happened. Woo, and then it happened." The intense burning sensation on the top of my thighs and arms came quickly, and I felt the blood rush from my head to the floor as Dr. Gorman spoke. My heart was pounding powerfully against the building from across the street; my consciousness lifting to the sky above. My eyes now closed as my husband and I sat in Dr. Gorman's simply furnished office listening to him give me news I never expected. His voice soft, but somber, describing what my diagnosis and prognosis was. All negative. And I thought it was just a rash on my hands and face. "Oh my God, I'm going to pass out," I whispered. Nausea came immediately. While gripping my husband's hand for reinforcement, Dr. Gorman kept asking me "Are you still with us?" as I went silent. I was not truly still "with him," and I never answered him. Dr. Gorman is a rheumatologist I was referred to, on an emergency basis, from my dermatologist appointment on the same day. He continued explaining what my illness was, a serious form of muscular dystrophy, and what would be involved as far as tests and aggressive treatment. I had no idea what a rheumatologist was, but considering Dr. Gorman was once Chief of Staff at the nearby hospital, I assumed I had been referred to someone especially well qualified. He explained to us this illness has a 32 times greater chance of causing cancer, and depending on the outcome of those tests results, he actually said, "We could be looking at life ending decisions." He actually said those words. My body went arctic cold. I thought I was going to die right then. I wanted to die right then. The "C" word spoken out loud. About me. "No cure, but manageable." Is this how everyone takes this news? And I thought it was just a rash on my hands and face. I thought it was just some muscle weakness due to being out of shape. Oh, I was out there now. I was definitely fighting the flight reflex at a different pace between reality and unconsciousness. His words exposed me to reactions now controlling my mind. Fear first, second, and third. Confusion, desperation, panic next. Immediately, my mind began flickering with family events I would miss during the time of those "life ending decisions." Not seeing my first grandchild born, missing Danny graduate from college and playing professional football, spending the rest of my life with my husband in retirement bliss. Click, click, click more pictures exposing themselves as my breath increased, and I couldn't keep up. The doctor was still talking far in my distance, though only about five feet and a blotter away; my body choosing its priority for right now. Later, I would think it unusual I did not witness my past life flash before my eyes while in that disturbed consciousness. My eyes blinked rapidly as my mind slowly slipped back to reality. The box of Kleenex I confiscated from Dr. Gorman's desk earlier tilting on my lap. I felt like I was in a time warp - my skin still cool and moist - a chill still running thro. My head now screaming with uninformed questions about treatment. I couldn't even pronounce his diagnosis. How would I possibly deal with these additional medical problems? I began picturing myself on life support. My family's emotional suffering. Oh, this was bad. I couldn't even look at my husband to see how he was taking this news. What could he possibly be thinking? I didn't have the nerve to even ask; my heart breaking for him. The next few weeks were full of doctor appointments, tests and screenings for all types of cancer. I was put on heavy doses of prednisone that made my whole body shake, and would have to go in for cancer medication injections once a week. Our entire life was being spun like a cheap carnival attraction with no real prize possible. We began to equip the house with physical aids to help me get around. Items like hand rails in the shower and near the toilet as the medications really took their toll. I needed help getting dressed and in and out of chairs and the car. A lot of quality time was spent in bed sleeping; a reminder of when I first became ill seven years ago. Hard to believe there could be a greater nightmare, a greater monster. During the following weeks, my husband and I kept up a schedule of about two doctor appointments a day along with the blood work or accompanying test. Each office visit with Dr. Gorman brought more anxiety as the diagnosis would be confirmed by skin biopsies, and he would add to his treatment regime. Each cancer med injection brought the possible future closer in my mind. I was not becoming more afraid, I was becoming more terrified. There was support and information on the internet, yet I could not bring myself to access it, afraid the more exposure to the truth, the more possible it was to actually happen. I still was not sure at what stage I was at. Where I was with the possibility of "life ending decisions." There had already been too many tears. I continued to follow Dr. Gorman's instructions to the letter, and it has come to proof that the position he held as Chief of Staff was well earned. Right now those horrific words uttered just above are not part of my daily thoughts. I have made progress from his aggressive treatment. I still have to be subjected to the intrusion of continual tests, possibility for cancer and untimely death. While I know this disease is not going away, being exposed to such a grim slap of reality has obviously changed me and my family. While life is not very, very good, it has turned a corner for now to hopeful. And cautious, unpredictable and still very scary. Serious illness had again invaded my life. But today, as far as I know, is a good day. I'll hold onto that compared to the alternative I experienced while preparing for a different role after a mother's dream come true. |
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| Exposed walshnyc@yahoo.com |
#7 of 9 |
| 650 | |
| Lucy watched from the wings as the girl on stage
performed to the audience’s delight. "I don’t think I can do this," she said in a voice that was a desperate octave above a whisper. "Is this your first time?" Lucy turned to discover that she was not as alone; another woman had joined her in looking out on the stage from this vantage point. "Yes," she answered, the panic rising like a lump in her voice. "I’m Jasmine," the woman said. "Just relax; it’s no different than the audiences at any of the other clubs." "I’m Lucy. I’ve never done any other clubs." "Never?" "No. I’ve never done this in front of anyone besides my husband," Lucy said, then added, "And in front of the mirror by myself." The woman nodded, and seemed to size Lucy up with a smile. "Don’t let it get to you," she said. "I’ve been doing this for awhile- everybody has first time jitters. Once you get out there, your shyness will melt away; you’ll be fine." "I didn’t expect the stage to seem so big- so empty. I don’t know if I can handle being so exposed- I guess I thought it would be… darker, or something." "There sure isn’t much to hide behind," Jasmine joked. "Certainly not those skinny little metal poles." Lucy began to breathe faster. He legs were visibly trembling. "Hey girl, you need to relax." Jasmine rested her hand on Lucy’s shoulder, and offered a reassuring smile. "If you have any problems out there, Woody will take care of you; he watches from up in the DJ booth, and he’ll dim the lights and turn up the house music if you need to get off stage, okay?" Lucy nodded. She had met Woody, the eponymous owner and operator of ‘Papa Woody’s Club and Lounge’. He didn’t seem like the brightest man she’d ever met, but he did seem as nice as Jasmine’s endorsement suggested. "When you get out there, your going to find that the lights are your friend," Jasmine continued. "When the spotlight is on you, it’s kind of hard to see the audience, so just pretend they’re not there. Do your thing just like you do it for your husband, or your mirror, or whatever. Just tell yourself, you’re not here for them; you’re here for you, right?" "Right." As the music that had filled the club stopped and the audience burst into appreciative applause, Lucy and Jasmine both turned their attention back out to the stage. The girl who had been out there was coming toward them, her face aglow with the adulation she was receiving. "What a rush," she said. Lucy nodded, as she recognized something that she had seen in herself those times in front of the mirror. In an instant, she understood the reward for the risk she was taking. "Your audience awaits," Jasmine said as the hand that rested on Lucy’s shoulder began to exert an encouraging nudge out onto the stage. It was an unnecessary gesture as Lucy immediately pulled away and walked out from concealment and into full view of the room. She moved tentatively to front and center, stopping at the chrome stands situated there. She immediately discovered the angle at which the spotlight would indeed hinder her ability to see the audience, and mentally noted it as she prepared to begin. As she readied herself, the DJ’s voice filled the room over the public address system to give her a proper introduction: "Our next performer is a first-timer to our weekly woman songwriter series, so lets give a big ‘Papa Woody’s’ welcome to Lucy MacGowan!" Lucy finished adjusting the two microphones attached to the chrome stands so that the sound of her guitar and her voice would be properly broadcast by both. She shifted her instrument into position, fingered the opening chord, leaned forward, and bared her soul. |
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| Exposed Trish Wahlstrom trishwahlstrom@yahoo.com |
#8 of 9 |
| 303 | |
| The assignment was to write a story using the title
"Exposed" and for some reason, a capricious quirk of memory we often have, I
was reminded of an incident that happened back in college when I did something
quite out of character. Some girlfriends of mine had dragged me to a fraternity dance where they could mingle with the 'cool' guys, who to me were mosty a bunch of obnoxious adolescents. I was a fairly proper person in those days, and even now I'm not prudish, but I didn't sleep around or go through any wild phase. I was dancing with this boy when he suggested I undo my top button and look a little sexier. As he playfully tried to pull down that button, all of them came undone in one cascade. It was that kind of shirt I guess, and I was standing there in the middle of the floor, my modest assets bolstered by my padded bra. Embarrassment, anger, and mortification washed over me, finally coming to a halt with defiance and a certain naughtiness. I didn't want to be teased about that bra so I just lifted it up to flash everyone and did a five second pirouette. This was back in the days before any girl flashed anyone anytime like it was Mardi Gras. Even if they are not large, my boobs are firm and perfect, if I may say so. I then drew my blouse around me and marched out of the room. Oh, I heard a few comments over the next few days but then the incident was largely forgotten. I didn't become the town slut or a stripper or get married and have four children or anything. It was just something I had to do at the time without shame or pride. It just was. |
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| Exposed P.S. Gifford psgifford@sbcglobal.net |
#9 of 9 (Late entry ... not eligible) |
| 1719 | |
| It is a curious and one might say tragically comical
set of circumstances that brought me to this impending doom. I am currently
sitting here on death row counting down the last few hours to my execution. I
am having a hard time eating my last meal-New York Steak, three eggs, hash
browns, orange juice and coffee- and I feel my anguish will be eased if I
finally expose the truth… It all transpired almost three ago on an ordinary spring Monday morning, I shall never forget it, how could I? I am, or rather was, a knife salesman by trade. This meant that I spent plenty of time travelling and this life style suited me well as I found the bleak lonely existence of the road far more enjoyable than the sheer level of wretchedness I suffered when I was at home with Mildred. Mildred is, or rather was, my wife of twenty six years and I suppose I had loved her once, yet, as I strive to recollect that emotion, my search is futile. All that I can bring to mind is the nagging-incessant and constant- gradually etching away at my confidence. Each derogative utterance chipping recklessly away at my increasingly fragile sense of self, but as I awoke upon that particular morning things were finally about to change as the events that were about to unfurl had been meticulously considered for months. We awoke as we always awoke with her mouth moving the moment her eyes opened. The insults quickly escalated as I made her breakfast-I always made her breakfast.-and served it to her in bed. As she disgustedly examined the tray in front of her the usual bombardment of condemnation followed. "Eggs too runny", "Coffee too strong", "Idiot", and "Useless" "Where’s my orange juice". This was the typical routine, yet this morning as my mood was so highly elevated I could withstand the pummelling. You might ask as to why I simply didn’t divorce her, believe me I had brought up the notion, and her misguided sense of Christian principle simply would not permit it, despite our shared unhappiness. She kept reminding me of our vows, "Till death do us part." At 8:30 I was meticulously packing the fine German knifes in one of my large stainless steel case for a later presentation. I had in my possession a second case and this one I placed on the bed empty. Moments later I heard my wife singing in the shower and I stoically picked up the shiny butchers boning knife from my collection, this as the name suggest is strong long narrow knife purposely designed is to sever flesh and bone. Perfect. As I approached the bathroom door I could hear her shrieking rendition of Dolly Parton and the sound of the gushing water. Holding my breath I gradually and silently opened the door and entered. As I watched her flabby silhouette behind the floral shower curtain I could not help but shudder. A moment later, and with swiftness that surprised even me, I had thrown back the curtain and plunged the knife with exacting precision into the base of the neck. The shower water continued to gush relentlessly, and the water turned into the most beautiful hue of red, which I found macabre but perplexingly hypnotizing. Her death was almost instant and relatively painless as she collapsed into the bathtub. I watched still fascinated as the blood continued to flow for a few moments. This is why I had chosen the shower, and after twenty minutes not a trace of red was left to be seen. "Till death to us part." I almost chuckled. It was then time for the next phase of my plan so I once more went to my trusted knife collection and returning the boning knife lovingly back into its place, spotlessly clean, removed the stainless steel meat cleaver and my personal favourite utensil - the butchers saw. I turned my stereo on high and allowed the joyous sounds of Beethoven to fill the house. Perfect. As I went about my gruesome task I imagined the conductor gallantly guiding the orchestra as they pounded out the fifth symphony and I too moved to his powerful, stirring direction, for the first time in years I was having fun. The arms and legs came off with surprising ease. However her head, which I had saved purposefully to last was far more bothersome and in fact took me nearly ten minutes to finally disconnect each stubborn sinew. Finally with one almighty whack from the cleaver the last ligament surrendered to my blade. I laughed to myself -Mildred was being awkward even after her death. At length after the body had been cut into workable portions I took the second suitcase and lined it with plastic trash can liners and then methodically positioned all of her body pieces in it. I placed Mildred’s head on top, and then with much gratification of a chore well done jubilantly closed it. Perfect. I meticulously cleaned the knifes and scrubbed the shower down thoroughly with bleach. When I was satisfies that not a trace of Mildred remained I surveyed the bathroom. Spotless-Perfect. It was almost 10:30 by now, still plenty of time for me to drive to West Virginia for my presentation at the Hotel association. At precisely 11:00 I finally pulled out of the garage of my tidy little house in Ohio in my with the two suitcases and my overnight bag crammed into the back of my station wagon. I Placed my favorite Mozart CD into my player and as the piano sonata number eleven filled my ears I began to completely relax "almost done" I had thought "almost done." This is a route I have driven for years and as I sped along the highway I knew precisely what needed to be accomplished. I came to the appropriate exit, located right in the heart of West Virginia and took the adjoining mountain trail into the green hills. I needed to travel two miles up to a hole I had previously prepared. I remember looking at my watch, 1:45.Perfect.I still had four hours before I had to do my presentation at the conference plenty of time. I hummed along merrily to Mozart as I bounced along the logging road. Very few vehicles ever travelled out here so I considered it the ideal spot for the disposal. It was then it happened, I felt the car veering sharply to the left. I realized at once what my problem was, a flat tire. As I hastily removed the contents from the back of my car to reach the spare and tools I cursed to myself. Still, only a minor hitch and I still had time. Thirty minutes later I was speedily racing along the mountain road once more. By this time it had started to rain, and the road in front of me was turning to mud. These heavy April showers were common enough, but I could not help to wonder deep down that some strange kind of bad karma was starting to pervade. I quickly suppressed the growing guilt gnawing in my gut, this was not going to be as easy as I imagined, and still I had to keep on going… I finally made it to my spot, with the rain still falling. I hastily got myself from my car, grabbed the case and dropped it deep into the awaiting cavity. As I hurriedly started to fill in the hole almost now in a panic, I slipped in the mud and fell on top of the case. As I clambered to my feet I realised that Mildred would have gotten a good laugh out of this. I could just imagine her cackling disparagements at me "Useless, pathetic, feeble, stupid…" It took almost an hour to finally cover her up. I hadn’t counted on the rain and it taking so long and I was really behind schedule now and was going to have to hurry. Placing the inspiring music of Elgar into my player I turned the volume up to maximum I once again bounced along the mountain road and back to the freeway. I managed to distract my unfocused, doubting mind by considering what delights laid ahead of me. The next couple of days were going to be fun, hotel conventions always were. Two hours later I had finally made it and pulled into the Charleston Holiday inn, where the convention was being held. It was now half past five. I promptly parked the car, grabbed the case and overnight back and with artificial confidence marched up to the front desk. The reservations clerk confirmed my particulars and handed me my room key seemingly eyeing my dirty clothes suspiciously, I felt that somehow she knew that I had been up to good. Was I simply getting paranoid? A few moments later I was in the sanctuary of the hotel room, safely locked behind the door, demolishing the bourbon supply in the mini bar. As I took a hot shower I kept imagining Mildred’s face from the corner of my eye, silently mocking me, it was at that point I had begun to question my own sanity. I remember thinking that I had to pull myself together, that the worse was surely over. Just at the stroke of seven I marched triumphantly into the auditorium, my confidence restored by the alcohol and several hundred anonymous faces greeted me with polite applause. I studied the carcass of the pig on top of the table in front of me on the stage, the expression on the dead animals face held a distinct resemblance and I shivered. I took a deep breath and lifted my trusted knife set next to the pig, my presentation on butchery was about to commence. Perfect. You can imagine my shock when I opened the case. The auditorium instantly became hushed and I was at first unsure as to what had provoked such a startling reaction. Then I saw it, Mildred’s face, smiling up at me from where it had just rolled. See I told you it was kind of funny, you have guessed what blunder I made haven’t you, what mistake exposed my crime .Of course you have-I had buried the wrong case… |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club