Oktober the Twenty-Sixth: Cat in Mouse

 The title above is a working title; well, they all are, but this one more so. I have no idea where this ghost story is going, and I'm bummed that it's not done. But it's something, it's up here, and so far it's okay. Running towards the finish line of November 1st, we're slacking off a little here in practice. Better tomorrow!

 Peace, Mari

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Cat in Mouse

By Mari Kozlowski
10/26/2011

 One of the things you don’t expect to happen when you put down your aged tabby cat, out of love and respect for his pain and dignity, is for him to come back and haunt you every day and night.

 Sorkin wasn’t the best at living up to expectation, though… why should he be good at dying up to it?

 It took me a few days to catch on. A few days of having the empty food bowl I couldn’t bear to remove, at first, knocked over or upended. You see that in the morning when you’re too bleary to note the important details and you think you knocked it with your own foot, or the hubby did, or anything other than, “Hey, maybe my dead cat is trying to tell me something.”

 The splashing sounds I kept hearing were easy to ignore, too. I live with the world’s cleanest man: Bertram typically washes his hands a hundred times a day, and that’s when he’s not cooking dinner. The nights he cooks, you can add forty washings to the total.

 How could I guess that someone I had paid to have a hypodermic needle full of heart-stopping drugs stuck into had come back, thirsty as hell? I don’t think I was being dim, just rational.

 That stopped when Sorkin jumped on the bed the third night. He’d always slept on top of my feet in cold weather, and I loved having that extra layer of warmth on top of my blankets. Only this time, the layer wasn’t supposed to be there.

“Bert, get your feet off me. Too heavy.” I was almost asleep when I felt the pull of weight near my toes. Bert mumbled and rolled further away from me. I scrunched deeper into my downy cocoon. Then felt a scratch.

“Honey” I moaned to Bert, “your toenails are sharp… they’re killing me. Would you please move your feet??? I have an early day tomorrow.”

 This time Bert didn’t even mumble an answer. He was out, zonked, I could see. I lifted my head to check if there was a belt buckle or a blanket tag that was sticking me, and there was Sorkin, sitting on feet, kneading them a little with his paws. I reached down the bed to pet him and stopped with my hand just above his head.

“Sorkin?” I whispered. “Sorkie???”

 He looked at me, closed his eyes, and curled into a cat ball. His usual sleep position.

 I laid my head back into the pillow and closed my eyes, sure I was dreaming. And in a few moments I was. 

Oktober the Fifth: Required Reading

Autumn-y weather like we're having today in Buffland makes me think about college, about UB and Butler U, which must be why this story came out. Flash fiction, at under 650 words. Luckily, too. I keep waking up with ideas for stories that are novella length, at minimum, to carry out the concept. Not complaining, but plot bunnies do want so much attention, hopping around when I'm trying to finish the laundry. And this project is for short fiction. Short-- get that, brain??

 Think back to your student days, and we'll see if this works.

*NOTE-- This Butler U bears a passing resemblance to the real thing, as do the characters. But it's not a totally accurate description. It is fiction.

Peace, Mari


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Required Reading

By Mari Kozlowski
10/5/2011

A flip of its skinny tail and the rodent was gone, off to find more edible trash. A long stone path in the center of the campus saw frequent student droppings— bits of breadstick, cardboard coffee cups, plastic Coke bottles that had blown out of the overfilled recycle bins, candy bar wrappers with a lick of caramel or chocolate left on them. The squirrels, birds and occasional raccoon that lived at Butler U. ate heartily, if a little on the sweet and junky side. Better than the freshman, who barely had time between 50 minute classes on opposite sides of campus to get in potty breaks, sex breaks and, less essential, food and readings for the comp course they couldn’t test out of. They grabbed what they could munch on the run and tossed the remains anywhere. The pristine landscaping would be cleaned afterwards. And again the next day. Who cared how?

Madeleine watched the squirrel until it took off, waiting for the guy she’d woken up beneath this morning to walk by on his way to Starbucks. She’d snuck back to her own dorm before 7, but now she wanted to set things straight, get rid of the weirdness fast. The weirdness guys always put on you: like a single night with them meant you expected a wedding. Even if she wanted more than one night, she wasn’t going to let him know. They had two classes together and she needed great grades in both of them. Next semester’s schedule depended on it.

She knew he’d be coming this way; they always bumped into each other here before second class on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

And there he was, slouching under a giant backpack, hair blown in his face, looking down. Shy-ish guys were the worst.

“Hey, Brian.”

He looked up and saw her, stopped, fidgeted with his jacket collar. Weirdness begun.

“Hey, um, how are you?”

His eyes were so huge, she hated looking into them. Huge golden brown.

“I’m fine. I just wanted to make sure we’re still cool.”

He raised his eyebrows, looking very cute. Just like yesterday in the library.

“Why? Was everything okay last night? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No. It’s fine. It was nice…”

 She had to stop looking at him. He wasn’t trying to get away, and he even seemed concerned. What the fuck were you supposed to do with that? He looked so smart and cute, still. Dammit.

 “I just wanted to make sure we’re still… friends. You know, on good terms.”

 And then he looked pissed.

 “It’s not international politics, Madeleine.”

He jerked his backpack up a little on his shoulders and stared at her. 

“If you want to be friends, why did you leave without waking me up or anything?”

“I don’t know… most guys don’t want to be woken up.”

He put his head down again, eyes aimed at the pavement. A cold breeze blew rusty leaves between them.

“Thanks for treating me like Most Guys,” he said, “I appreciate that. I’ll try and remember that’s how you think of me, okay?”

He started walking towards Starbucks again through a sudden stream of kids hurrying the other way, off to Jordan hall, with their notebooks and Cokes and bags of chips.

This was not in the handbook. It was inconvenient and unexpected and probably bad for her GPA. She rushed to catch him.

“Brian! Wait a minute.”

He did. She caught up and he looked at her with interest, huge brown gorgeous eyes not hiding it, not even trying.

“Can I buy you coffee and a muffin?” she asked him.

The carillon began tolling the hour. Time for their next class.

“Do you do that for most guys?” he said.

She shook her head and grabbed his hand, pulling him towards the café.

“No.”     

Oktober The Fourth: Blind Date

This is just 200 words. I'll probably hate it tomorrow, but who knows? It's a flash, but I felt I had plenty of room to flesh things out even so.

 Peace, Mari
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Blind Date

By Mari Kozlowski
10/4/2011

“Sorry, I meant to turn that off earlier.”

Carla stuck the cell back in her purse in a rush and turned to sling it back over her chair just as the waiter came with their rumachi. It was a huge mustard leather tote and it hit poor Brent square in the balls with some force. The sizzling rumachi flew up and over to the next table, landing on an older gentleman’s hands and wrists. He screamed and knocked over his wife’s wineglass as the burning hot livers seared his skin. The old lady screeched and jumped up as the chilled Chardonnay poured all over her silk dress, soaking it. Her girdle showed clearly through the wet fabric, and she looked daggers at Carla, shaking a finger at her before noticing the moans of pain coming from her husband. She bent to help him. Brent dragged himself over to the burnt patron despite his own discomfort. Several other servers rushed from their stations to lend aid. The other diners stared and whispered.

Carla hid her face in her hands, embarrassed beyond rational thought. Her date took another sip of wine and smiled.

“So,” he said, “Jennifer says you’re a ballet dancer?”

Oktober the First: No Entry Fee

Oktober is one of my favorite months, has been for decades. I loved being in college in Oktober (yes, I get to spell it that way; one of my grandfathers was a Hummel, so there!), with the feeling of a crisp mind echoed by the feel of the air and the movement all around me. I loved it so much I kept at it for ten years-- I might go back for more someday, and you can be sure I'll start in the fall semester.

When NaNoWriMo found me a few years back, that cemented the excitement of Oktober-- it's the month before The Month, and anticipation is a sweet liquor. Don't get me started about NaNo-- it saved me, and gave me back good writing habits, not to mention several budding novels, some short stories that budded from those, and a host of songs and musical collaborators from a fantastic sister site, FAWM.

 But I've fallen into bad habits, lately, sort of a rut, and this project is designed to get me geared up for November's NaNo challenge, which I'm using to gear me up for a big push to finish the interminable edit of my first novel, THE FALL, AND FURTHER FALL, OF MIRIAM BRONSKI.

 So what is Oktober Ski?

 Every day in Oktober 2011, I am going to write a piece of short fiction and post it here, first in unedited form (well, spell-checked and hopefully typo free, but otherwise as is) and then later, as time allows, brushed off and polished a bit. There may be notes on the process. Fine critique will be welcome. (hint, hint)

 For the sake of having some guideline to rail against, each story will be between 50 and 5,000 words. A range from flash fiction to short enough fiction. After some pondering, I decided not to use a random generator for writing prompts-- I want to feel the fear of not knowing what I'll write about each morning. If needed, I'll find inspiration by opening a book and pulling out a starter from there.

 My November tradtition is to get in a thousand words before breakfast, and right now, I couldn't make it. But I'll get there... that's the Oktober part.

 The Ski is a play on my name (Kozlowski) standing in for the obvious song lyric (love that song) along with the name of the MC* of my first novel, referenced above; and also a fond remembrance of my late friend Eric Hallifax, who affectionately called me Ski. Which was better than Polowski, or Polackowski, the nicknames my next door neighbor Jimmy P. used to call me. He was Italian & Irish, and he liked me, and tormented me for years. Eric was born in England and died in Buffalo, poor and alone, of Leukemia. He was a sometime drug addict, vain as hell, and had a kind heart and romantic soul. He liked my songs. 

 Here's today's story: 277 words, about 40 minutes work.  Let me know what you think.

 Peace, Mari


*main character
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No Entry Fee  (first draft)  By Mari Kozlowski, 10/1/2011

 Pale blue, and slithery, the font. Artistic and hard to read against the paler background. You could almost feel how excited the new “editor” was when they made the swaying, uninformative titles. An editor slash producer slash director; stalwart of the no-budget film scene, making the rookie mistakes they hoped would show their genius. The acting would be stilted or overblown, simplistic characters played by relatives of the cameraman or rejects from local theater. Dreamers. They pretended to despise the industry but here they were, begging for a chance to become part of it.

 She started to eject the disc on principle, then let it go, opened her second beer and sat back. It was the last entry in the stack for tonight anyhow— might get a good laugh.

 You were supposed to watch each entry in entirety, but you could never get through the piles in time that way. Her boss didn’t get that, but he got that she weeded out the worst of them and didn’t ask how. He was grateful to have the more painful examples left off his stack, the final 20. Those were usually bad enough.

 This one was typical, at first. Clichéd premise, a lost soul looking for heaven’s secret door— an allegorical quest film, with a bleak lack of set dressing and campy 60’s era costumes that must have come straight from a Salvation Army store. Cheap, all the way down to the few props.

 But not horrible. The acting was better than expected, almost professional. There was an intensity here that the scratchy sound and mundane score couldn’t drown. Candy found herself drawn in. She stopped analyzing and watched.