I know that I have neglected this blog. I found out that for many short story contests posting your work on your blog is considered PUBLISHED, and disqualifies you from the contests. Thus. . . no more stories here. But I have been writing and the good news is my first novel will be published before the end of the year. Check out my website to keep up to date.
http://robinmartinezrice.com
Thanks!
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Thursday, November 10, 2011
NaNoWriMo
I realize that I have sorely neglected my blog. BUT the good news is that means I have been writing, writing, writing.
The Imperfecta story is finished, HOWEVER, after my wonderful readers gave me great feedback I am going to do some major revisions.
Two of the six "Read-Together" series have first drafts completed - The Winner of the Sore Loser Award and Sing Another Song.
November is National Novel Writing Month and I'm working on another story - Chick Lit.
I am busy!!! I'm taking a welding class now, but I think it's too expensive of a hobby for me to adopt. So I'm taking a dog training class. Check out the web site http://www.jamesandkenneth.com/
There's still room in the Sacramento class.
No, I'm not planning on opening a dog training school. But I do have something up my sleeve.
P.S. I think I have successfully added a gadget in the right hand sidebar that send you an email when I have a new post.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Cocktail Party
My plate was empty. I contemplated going back to the table laden with goodies, but I noticed that everyone else still had plenty of food on their little black plates.
“Did you read about what's happening at the head office?” George asked the group. “I'm assuming that you all got the memo.”
“What memo?” Dawn took another sip of her strange colored martini, a turquoise blue with an oily looking green liquid floating near the top.
“It was really a memo about the restrictions for vacation time during the holidays,” Janet took up where George left off. “Admin likes to bury bad news down at the bottom of other bad news, so you might not notice because you are too spitting mad about the first message.” The sour scowl on her mouth quickly switched to a pasted on grin as she looked past my shoulder.
I turned, curious as to why the stupid facial expression.
Oh, yuck. Mark.
“Well, now, how is the auditing department doing?” Mark’s gravely laugh followed his question. He put his arm around my shoulder, knocking me forward so that my gin and tonic slopped over the edge of the glass and onto my foot, flowing down between the leather straps and surrounding my toes.
The pasted on grin tightened at the edge of Janet’s lips. “Just fine. Is Grace with you tonight?”
“Oh, she’s around here somewhere, always the social butterfly.” Mark squeezed my shoulder, where his hand still lay. I turned my head slightly and noticed Dawn staring at his hand, the turquoise drink held up beside her cheek, as if to toast the occasion, rather than take a sip. She squinted and looked into my face. I rolled my eyes and turned, sliding my shoulder out from under Mark’s hand. Swiveling to face him I held up my empty plate.
“Just need a little refill, the food is great, as usual.”
“Not so fast.” George grabbed my arm - the gin and tonic would be empty before I even had a sip. “Now that Mark is here, let’s ask him about the memo.”
“What memo?” Dawn’s tone was frustrated and she drew the what out to emphasize that no one had answered her the first time she asked the question.
“The parking spaces, how they are going to be reassigned.”
“Now, now, this is a party, let’s enjoy ourselves, no time to discuss work.” Mark’s hands circled around in front of him as he talked. Dawn quickly moved the blue drink down to her side, another near miss. She glanced my way.
Mark seemed to catch on that he was going to have to take some responsibility for explaining the memo.“I see Grace waving at me. You all have a nice time, enjoy some more of that wonderful food.” He gave my shoulder a final pat as he turned and escaped the group.
Janet stared after him, watching as he approached Grace. “What are they doing with the parking places? How are they choosing who gets what?” Her words seem to be directed at Mark’s back, rather than the gang. I wasn't really sure what she was asking. She chewed on her lip and stared at Mark and his wife.
“Well, you know how now they are based on departmental seniority?” George’s voice took on that lecture tone. My brain turned down the volume, tuning him out. It was the only way to survive.
Dawn moved closer to me and pressed her shoulder against mine, her voice a whisper.
Her breathe tickled my ear. “Would you like a taste? This is really unusual.” As she held the drink out toward my mouth, she met my eyes, stared straight into them without blinking, a hint of her tongue curled out of her mouth and licked her lip. I leaned forward and sipped the drink.
“Yes, very unusual.." I licked the bitter taste off my lips. "Not at all what I was expecting."
"What do you think about Mark?"
I rolled my eyes and placed my hand on her shoulder.
"Well, little lady, let me tell you." I leaned toward her and put my mouth close to her ear.
"I don't mind parking on the street.”
Half Seconds to Consider
The moment you are born, ribs expand and you inhale.
The moment you hear the click of the door as it shuts, leaving you alone.
The moment you awake, before your ears can hear.
The moment you turn, walking away from the laughter.
The moment before you jump, when the feeling of falling is just a swell in your stomach.
The moment your lungs stop, no breath to draw.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Grandma Thompson's Diary
I decided to read my great grandmother’s diary.
I remember her diaries, stacked together on the side of a desk with a drop down front, turning it into a little writing area. I loved turning the funny looking iron key in the tiny brass keyhole and letting the front drop down, examining the wooden drawer for pencils, the rectangle slots for mail and paper.
“Careful of your fingers” she would warn.
I don’t remember ever pinching my fingers, but it seems that the drop down front crashed on to the top of my head once or twice.
The diaries were small, just four inches wide and five inches tall. She had different colors, they were all faded. Brown, red, black, blue. The edges wore a white frayed binding, from wear, little strings hanging where they had frayed.
Only one diary remained. She had burned them all before she died. Or maybe it was before she was taken off to live in the convalescent hospital, because I think she was there for a while.
Why was this one rescued? I don’t know, but I’m glad to have it because it covers the year I was born.
Five year diary, each page dedicated to the same day of the year for five years. So that on the top is printed “January 12”. Each rectangle has the 1 and the 9 printed in, her cramped, wobbly writing has filled in the 54 in the top one inch rectangle, 55 below it, down to the last section on the page with 58 following the 1 and 9.
I found this day to read first.
It is the day I was born.
Sun. Raining. Roger + family came in evening. Roberta went to hospital and her baby was burn at 4 a.m. Charlotte Robt + Beccy were here this a.m.
My great grandmother is careful. Each year she uses a different color of ink. It is easy to see where June 5, 1956 stops and June 5, 1957 starts. 1958 is written in red.
She misspells my sister's name.
There is not an empty day in the whole book. 365 times five. One thousand eight hundred twenty five days of her life in this tiny book.
She must have cheated at least once. Forgot the diary that day, had a terrible headache, slept in, stayed out late, dropped into bed without brushing her teeth and filling in the diary, so that on the following night she faced two blank rectangles.
In fact, maybe there was a whole week she forgot, coming upon her diary one sunny afternoon as she dusts her dressing table.
“My diary! There it is. I’m so far behind, let me just sit here and fill in the week. Let’s see, last Sunday? What was the weather like that day? Sunny, I’m sure it was sunny because I cut those roses and put them in that vase in the breakfast nook. Now what about Monday?”
I turn back to January 1,1954 and start at the beginning. The entries are boring, hard to read. She never varies, abbreviated day of the week, weather, who visited that day, lists of gifts received by unknown people - Emma got a gown for her birthday. Weekdays are followed by a summary of mail delivered that day, or just a brief no mail.
She never talks of emotions. No frustration, elation, suspicion. No impatience or curiosity. No jealousy, no joy, no sorrow.
Somewhere during the five years (I’d have to go back and read all those eight thousand something days to know just when - that’s never going to happen.) she begins to add Leg hurt today or Cdn’t sleep - leg pain.
She had leg pain on six thousand seven hundred and twenty-eight of those days.
She was up at night, like I am now, rubbing my knee, filling a bag with ice, stretching to relieve the pain.
She couldn’t jump on her lap top and check her email, post something on Facebook, Google “leg pain”. She couldn’t type a story about a spirit who wrote something boring every day and burned all diaries accept for this one, leaving a puzzling legacy for the place she lives on, the mind of the one who writes.
The one who merited an extra line, squeezed in at the top of the page in the tiny space above the date.
Roberta’s baby born.
Surprise
(A Post Card Story: must fit on the back of a postcard)
“I don’t like surprises” she told him. “I like my life to be predictable.” Her mind was filled with visions of alphabetized spice cabinets, labels facing forward, shelves with books carefully placed by size and subject, drawers filled with folded socks, each wedded to its mate, turned once and lined up, toes facing the same direction.
“I understand, I promise” he nodded and kissed her. His mind was filled with visions of her hair flowing behind her as they ran hand in hand down a beach, splashing in the waves of the turquoise sea, sheets tangled around legs as they caught their breath after an afternoon of making love, sipping wine and watching a sunset with shoulders touching, sitting together on the wooden porch of a cabin in the woods, steaming cups of coffee balanced on the arms of the wooden rockers.
They were wed. Each day passed.
Thirty years later, she stood on the concrete stoop of the house in the suburbs, pulling her key from her purse she unlocked the door. This has been a long day and I’m tired. Her mind was filled with visions of the stacks of files left on the desk at the office, piles of dishes in the sink, laundry, clean but heaped on the couch waiting to be folded. She pushed open the door.
“Surprise” the house full of people shouted and cheered, as he came toward her, arms reaching out, stupid grin upon his face. “Are you surprised?” he asked.
“You promised” she said. Turning she walked down the concrete steps, hitching the strap of her purse up onto her shoulder, leaving him forever.
Friday, February 18, 2011
L.A.
She didn’t sleep the extra half hour, choosing to leave early instead. Her thought was to explore the area, but the day pack with the laptop, yellow tablets of writing paper, pens, water bottle, extra battery, power cord, two hard boiled eggs and an orange of unknown quality weighed her down. She tried to make her dragging steps look casual, a woman on a stroll with no worries to be had, rather than one with arthritic knees and too many extra pounds on her hips and thighs. At the sound of footsteps she moved to the edge of the sidewalk, glancing to the right, catching a glimpse of herself in the black window. There was no mistaking what she was. An out of shape tourist, slogging along in pain, stepping out of the way of the brisk steps and clattering foot falls of those who belonged in this city.
She began to count fat people, scouring the crowds for slow walkers. Sure there were some butts which pushed out side seams, swayed a little with each step. A few bellies hung over black leather belts, crisply ironed white dress shirts pressed forward. But there were no fat people here. She flashed back to her one and only visit to Rodeo Drive, Where do the rich fat people shop? she had asked. Surely they can’t all be slim.
She walked past Noah’s Bagels, Starbuck’s, a Peet’s nearly next door, Jamba Juice, Subway. They were all crowded. Lattes, mochas, cream cheese, smoothies, breakfast burritos were all being consumed. The next window displayed the workout, rows of stair steppers, treadmills, stationary bikes, each skinny person staring straight ahead as arms and legs pumped to their own rhythm. Eyes were pressed to TV screens, ears filled with the tiny plugs of headphones, IPods and cell phones strapped to biceps or simply held in the hand that moved to and fro, synchronized with the feet. There was one slightly plump girl among the sleek animals. She stood with legs akimbo in front of some sort of white and black machine, stacks of metal discs prepared to change the level of her workout. A smiling young man, brilliant white teeth, bright eyes, smooth square jaw, his hair cut in what people her age called a close afro, was the obvious trainer, guiding this girl through her journey to become like all the others.
She imagined these thin people at home each night, in front of televisions tuned to reality TV - Dance Your Ass Off , The Biggest Loser, Drop Dead Diva - fascinated by grossly obese people, happy to watch and call them names. Did this validate who these beautiful people were? Who they were trying to be?
Were they filled with a deep thrill within, disgust playfully disguised as pleasure, such as she was when watching a cop show about a gruesome murder?
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