take the leap, the step, the road, the train
be that empty space
in the crowd that they see
“hey, what happened there? I want to go there.”
– M. Ray Hall
Memories Like Weeds
:: an excerpt from my previous project, set in 1924 ::
Hunter drove for hours, taking the quickest route out of the City and meandering through Connecticut’s country roads, the dirt and gravel gathering in mounds of dust along the sides of his honeysuckle yellow car. The rustling leaves overhead invaded his thoughts, prying him from a silent rage that kept his foot firmly pressed on the pedal. He released it slowly and leaned back into the ivory leather seat, his grip softening on the cognac steering wheel.
The countryside air lacked the oppressive nature of the city he left behind, carrying blackbird feathers and the scent of wild grass through his car, its top pulled down behind him. He soon came upon an area of forest he knew well, an expanse of blooming mountain laurel under the cover of great oak trees, a neglected corner of Blackbird Glen. Hunter pulled to the side of the road and leaned against his car looking out into the magnificent space of white and pink petals that contrasted with the inherent darkness of the forest floor. Their blooms grew different but the same, unblemished clusters of ever-frozen snowflakes. Its beauty was unimagined, an untouched, unexhausted ideal of the way it should be for three seasons of the year. In winter, it held only promise. (more…)
The Art Of Reinvention
:: excerpt from a previous project, set in 1924 ::
Half circles of raven hair, coal black and soft as a feather, fell rhythmically on the black and white barber shop floor behind Margaret’s chair. She watched, involuntarily biting her bottom lip and clenching her hands on the chair’s armrests until her slender knuckles appeared white against the skin. Her hazel eyes, bound by heavy black eyelashes, flashed in the mirror as the shears, poised in the barber’s right hand, drew back and forth across her hair like Hazel’s bow on a violin, precise but in every particular direction. The hairdresser’s solo intensified, switching from shears to comb to round brush and back again, sometimes two and three at a time as he lulled Margaret’s locks into submission. Then, at the turn of her chair the symphony ended.
Margaret patted the harsh, horizontal bangs that blended into a center part. Her straight hair began at the earlobes and tapered to chin-dusting strands in the front, a severely angular style that mimicked its wearer’s personality. The cut chiseled away her more time-worn features, re-sculpting the pronounced cheekbones and jaw line reminiscent of her youth. She beamed at the tarnished, gold-plated oval mirror, tossed a few bills onto the white countertop, and sprung, nearly skipping, through the disorganized establishment’s door onto the sidewalk. (more…)