Check out this fabulous short story by Terry Bisson. It was first published in 1990.
They're Made Out of Meat
Alaska
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Reading is Fundamental
She reads. It's what she's always done. Her mother says she started reading young. Cereal boxes at the breakfast table, magazines at lunch. Always holed up in her room reading.
Fiction, non-fiction, it didn't matter to her. Anything to keep her mind occupied and off the horrors of growing up in her home. She'd always felt defective; there was something in her that was broken; as if there was a screw missing in the package. Her parents, when they noticed her, reinforced her sense of being deficient. She tried very hard to be invisible, to not be noticed.
From the time she could remember, Mom and Dad were fighting. Dad came home drunk, yelled and hit Mom. Mom cried and screamed. He accused her of having affairs; she denied it. She demanded a divorce. They argued about who was going to file it. Eventually, he passed out. She stayed in her room and read. Adventure stories, science fiction, travel stories, biographies. Biographies were one of her favorites. She could pretend she was someone else.
When she was eight, she discovered the library. She read all the books in the children's section. She got special permission to check out more than the other kids, because she devoured the books so quickly. By age ten, she was checking out books from the adult section.
When she was twelve, her mother got a job working the midnight shift. When she was thirteen, her dad started coming to her room at night. She lay there, paralyzed with fear and loathing, as he used her body to pleasure himself. He reeked of booze, cigarettes, and sweat. She visited imaginary worlds that she had read about, distant galaxies, and worlds full of elves, dwarves and beautiful princesses. When he left, she would cry from embarrassment and shame. He threatened to kill her if she ever told her mother. She kept quiet, and read.
She worked hard at being invisible. She didn't want anyone to notice her. She hid as much as she could. She stayed at school, involving herself in a variety of activities; anything to keep from going home. But night always came.
When she was sixteen, she got a car. She would drive to the city parks, lie on benches, and read. Feeling the sun on her skin, she would dream of turning eighteen, so that she could leave this nightmare, and start a life of her own.
When she was seventeen, she came home from school early, and caught him with her sister. She blamed herself. If she'd been home more, she could have protected her sister. So she read, and she waited.
The books told her what to do. She chloroformed him, tied him up and gagged him. When he woke up, his eyes were huge; full of fear. She wanted him awake for this. She was meticulous. She made him suffer. Those medical books came in handy. They showed her where to cut to cause maximum pain. It was a slow, tortuous death.
Her mother doesn't visit her. She likes her cell. She feels free there. No one bothers her. She reads.
Fiction, non-fiction, it didn't matter to her. Anything to keep her mind occupied and off the horrors of growing up in her home. She'd always felt defective; there was something in her that was broken; as if there was a screw missing in the package. Her parents, when they noticed her, reinforced her sense of being deficient. She tried very hard to be invisible, to not be noticed.
From the time she could remember, Mom and Dad were fighting. Dad came home drunk, yelled and hit Mom. Mom cried and screamed. He accused her of having affairs; she denied it. She demanded a divorce. They argued about who was going to file it. Eventually, he passed out. She stayed in her room and read. Adventure stories, science fiction, travel stories, biographies. Biographies were one of her favorites. She could pretend she was someone else.
When she was eight, she discovered the library. She read all the books in the children's section. She got special permission to check out more than the other kids, because she devoured the books so quickly. By age ten, she was checking out books from the adult section.
When she was twelve, her mother got a job working the midnight shift. When she was thirteen, her dad started coming to her room at night. She lay there, paralyzed with fear and loathing, as he used her body to pleasure himself. He reeked of booze, cigarettes, and sweat. She visited imaginary worlds that she had read about, distant galaxies, and worlds full of elves, dwarves and beautiful princesses. When he left, she would cry from embarrassment and shame. He threatened to kill her if she ever told her mother. She kept quiet, and read.
She worked hard at being invisible. She didn't want anyone to notice her. She hid as much as she could. She stayed at school, involving herself in a variety of activities; anything to keep from going home. But night always came.
When she was sixteen, she got a car. She would drive to the city parks, lie on benches, and read. Feeling the sun on her skin, she would dream of turning eighteen, so that she could leave this nightmare, and start a life of her own.
When she was seventeen, she came home from school early, and caught him with her sister. She blamed herself. If she'd been home more, she could have protected her sister. So she read, and she waited.
The books told her what to do. She chloroformed him, tied him up and gagged him. When he woke up, his eyes were huge; full of fear. She wanted him awake for this. She was meticulous. She made him suffer. Those medical books came in handy. They showed her where to cut to cause maximum pain. It was a slow, tortuous death.
Her mother doesn't visit her. She likes her cell. She feels free there. No one bothers her. She reads.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Dare
I couldn't jump from the airplane. The plane was circling the jump zone, round and round, while I stood in the doorway, paralyzed. The instructor was screaming at me, "go, go, go," and I stood there, frozen in time. Finally, Mary Jo's voice rang in my head, screaming "Jump you Chickenshit!" and I did. As I fell through the sky, my only thought was of her.
Mary Jo had started it. Ever since we were kids, we'd been daring each other to do unexpected things. Like the time I dared Mary Jo to make a mud pie and eat it, and she swallowed half a worm. That was fun. But then she dared me to eat a cockroach, and I threw up. Not so fun. As we grew into adulthood, the dares had gotten more dangerous and adrenaline filled. We pushed each other to confront our fears.
When I was young, I thought I was afraid of heights. As I grew older, I realized it wasn't heights I was afraid of, it was the sensation of falling. I couldn't jump off a diving board, bungee jump, rock climb. I experienced paralyzing fear, and would back out of the dares as gracefully as I could. But Mary Jo kept pushing me to go beyond my fear.
When we turned 30, Mary Jo felt a lump in her breast. She wanted to ignore it, thinking she was too young. I dared her to get it checked out. It was an aggressive form of cancer. Mary Jo was devastated. After her mastectomy, she seemed to wilt away. She said she felt like half a woman. After the surgery, I dared her to get a tattoo to cover the scar. She had a panther tattooed where her left breast had been. It was her favorite animal. She seemed to perk up after that. She enjoyed wearing outfits that would show off the tattoo. She liked the shock value.
At 32, the cancer came back. It was in her lymph nodes. We cried together. She shaved her head. She dared me to shave mine, and I did. We color coordinated our scarves for the day. The radiation treatments were destroying her body, but she tried to keep good humor. When she got down and wanted to give up, I dared her to live. Her eyes would light up and she'd tell me to "fuck off." But she would eat, and eventually rally.
At 33, her body got tired. She fought as much as she could, but the flesh was no longer willing. We cried together. I moved in and cared for her. She was in pain and I knew she wanted to go. I think she was staying for me. She told me that when she died, she wanted me to jump out of an airplane for her. I told her she was crazy. One afternoon, when her suffering seemed unbearable, I dared her to die. She took that dare.
Those were the thoughts racing through my mind, as I fell peacefully through the air. I cried as I pulled the rip cord, launching the parachute into the sky. As always, Mary Jo had the last laugh. She dared me to live, and I gratefully accepted.
Mary Jo had started it. Ever since we were kids, we'd been daring each other to do unexpected things. Like the time I dared Mary Jo to make a mud pie and eat it, and she swallowed half a worm. That was fun. But then she dared me to eat a cockroach, and I threw up. Not so fun. As we grew into adulthood, the dares had gotten more dangerous and adrenaline filled. We pushed each other to confront our fears.
When I was young, I thought I was afraid of heights. As I grew older, I realized it wasn't heights I was afraid of, it was the sensation of falling. I couldn't jump off a diving board, bungee jump, rock climb. I experienced paralyzing fear, and would back out of the dares as gracefully as I could. But Mary Jo kept pushing me to go beyond my fear.
When we turned 30, Mary Jo felt a lump in her breast. She wanted to ignore it, thinking she was too young. I dared her to get it checked out. It was an aggressive form of cancer. Mary Jo was devastated. After her mastectomy, she seemed to wilt away. She said she felt like half a woman. After the surgery, I dared her to get a tattoo to cover the scar. She had a panther tattooed where her left breast had been. It was her favorite animal. She seemed to perk up after that. She enjoyed wearing outfits that would show off the tattoo. She liked the shock value.
At 32, the cancer came back. It was in her lymph nodes. We cried together. She shaved her head. She dared me to shave mine, and I did. We color coordinated our scarves for the day. The radiation treatments were destroying her body, but she tried to keep good humor. When she got down and wanted to give up, I dared her to live. Her eyes would light up and she'd tell me to "fuck off." But she would eat, and eventually rally.
At 33, her body got tired. She fought as much as she could, but the flesh was no longer willing. We cried together. I moved in and cared for her. She was in pain and I knew she wanted to go. I think she was staying for me. She told me that when she died, she wanted me to jump out of an airplane for her. I told her she was crazy. One afternoon, when her suffering seemed unbearable, I dared her to die. She took that dare.
Those were the thoughts racing through my mind, as I fell peacefully through the air. I cried as I pulled the rip cord, launching the parachute into the sky. As always, Mary Jo had the last laugh. She dared me to live, and I gratefully accepted.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Why I Started this Blog
I started this blog at the suggestion of a friend, as I was discussing the possibility of beginning a freelance writing business. She suggested that having a blog might be a good way to get exposure. I agree. However, on a macro level, this blog is about more than just getting writing exposure, it's about visibility on a personal and spiritual level.
I've spent much of my life trying to be invisible; but never quite succeeding. I would not submit any of my writing for publication, I would not share it with anyone, I would not even acknowledge to others that I wrote. As I mature, however, I've started to find an inner confidence in myself, and a desire to write what's on my mind. This blog will be a place where I can do that.
Right now, I don't see this blog as being particularly topical. But, we will see where it leads.
I've spent much of my life trying to be invisible; but never quite succeeding. I would not submit any of my writing for publication, I would not share it with anyone, I would not even acknowledge to others that I wrote. As I mature, however, I've started to find an inner confidence in myself, and a desire to write what's on my mind. This blog will be a place where I can do that.
Right now, I don't see this blog as being particularly topical. But, we will see where it leads.
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