Blue Paisley

Posted on February 21, 2013 by admin

I wrote this story in response to another Lille McFerrin five sentence fiction prompt. The prompt is “abandoned”

Blue Paisley
By Laura McHale Holland

She tightened the blue paisley scarf tied under her chin, babushka style, slapped a $20 bill on the counter and strained to grunt, “Camels, please, filters,” as words tangled in her vocal cords.

The cashier picked up the money, pulled the cigarettes from a display above his head, put them on the counter, and then shuffled to the register to ring up the transaction and get the woman’s change. A horn blasted, and she dashed out, not even pausing when the cashier called, “Hey, lady, you forgot your change!”

Hours after she’d jumped back into a Nissan spewing a thick gray cloud from its tail pipe as it sped away from the store, a remnant of blue paisley fluttered, caught in the railing of a rickety bridge far up the road. Below, a crumpled pack of Camels floated at the river’s edge; above, a faint smell of exhaust lingered in the air.

Photo by Johnnie Utah

Damage

Posted on January 28, 2013 by admin

I wrote this in response to Little McFerrin’s five sentence fiction prompt for this week: ringing.

Damage
By Laura McHale Holland

He wants quiet to wash over his head like cool river water on a blistering day. When the day settles down and the moon waxes or wanes, he remembers when the only sounds he heard were the wind in the maple outside his window, a coyote howling in the hills or car wheels pulling into his drive. He once had long hours of peace, but he can no longer feel them in his bones. The damage is permanent. He puts on his headphones, turns up the volume and finds a pulsing counterpoint to the endless ringing in his ears.

Photo by jbelluch

Want to read other writers’ takes on “ringing”? http://www.inlinkz.com/wpview.php?id=234250

In the pink

Posted on October 6, 2012 by admin

This is two versions of a reworked scene from a sequel to Reversible Skirt I was working on back in 2009. That draft was in second person and wasn’t good enough.

I rewrote the scene in first person, eliminated most of the back story, and dispensed with some details that I liked but weren’t really essential. It’s about 1/3 the size of the previous draft. The voice of the new first-person draft is, however, more of a narrator’s voice. It approximates neither my voice as a teen nor my current adult voice. So I returned to second person to rework the scene again. I’m providing both drafts below—first person, followed by second person.

The scene is intense. It takes place my freshman year in high school.What was your life like when you were that age? Was anything going on in your home that you’d never tell anyone at school?

In the Pink
By Laura McHale Holland

She calls out. I run over. She is up against the pink sink, robe open, bare breasts hanging. I’ve never seen her nipples before, but it’s her radioactive brown eyes that really jolt me. I edge toward the dining room table where my schoolbooks wait—a tower of formulas, timelines, verb conjugations and love notes undelivered. Growls from the basement heater rumble up the stairs.

“Don’t back away from me,” she snaps. She juts out her chin and raises her eyes. I’m taller than her 4’11″ by a good four inches, and growing—a reminder that I am not her flesh and blood, that I am one of three girls who came with the widower she married: my father, now dead.

I step forward and see the toothpaste splattered on the mirror, the pink rose wallpaper, the pink and beige tiles, her pink-painted toenails, chipping at the edges. “Do you want me to help you with something before I go?” I ask.

She pulls down her underpants and rips off a thick gauze bandage to expose a wound so raw it appears to have a pulse all its own. I focus on the wrinkles between her eyebrows. “Take a look. Take a good look, Missy,” she spews. “This is pain. This is real pain, and you don’t know what that is. But mark my words, oh, mark my words. You don’t know what pain is, but your time is coming. Just you wait. Your time is coming. You’ll see.”

She reminds me of a jack-in-the box sprung loose, but I can’t stuff her back inside, snap the cover closed tight and go back to fastening the stupid clear plastic boots I had just slipped over my too-tight loafers before she called me to her powder room lair.

“Look!” she commands. She points to the incision, belly button to pubic hair, thick and oozing and pink and punctuated with black stitches top to bottom. It’s a railroad track, a railroad track leading somewhere I never want to go. Female troubles. Hysterectomy. Screaming now, she raises her raw-knuckled fist and shakes her arm, a metronome set faster than I could ever play.

“Look! Look, you ingrate! You dummy! Look!” A bitter truth sinks into my bones: she despises me; I will not come next time she calls. Still erupting, she looks like she’s about to pop straight into the air; I want to see her head crack against the ceiling.

I spin around, grab my books and rush outside. Coat unbuttoned, I barely notice the bracing cold. I kick off my five-and-dime substitutes for winter boots and stuff them in my coat pockets, one bulging on each side. I suck in the biting air, roll up the waistband of my two-sizes-too-big skirt and trudge forward, bent on getting a smile on my face before my first-period class.

The shortened scene in second person:

She calls out; you run over. She is up against the pink sink, robe open, bare breasts hanging. You’ve never seen her nipples before, but it’s her radioactive brown eyes that really give a jolt. You edge toward the dining room table where your schoolbooks wait—a tower of formulas, timelines, verb conjugations and love notes undelivered. Growls from the basement heater rumble up the stairs.

“Don’t back away from me,” she snaps. She juts out her chin and raises her eyes. You’re taller than her 4’11″ by a good four inches, and growing—a reminder that you are not her flesh and blood, that you are one of three girls who came with the widower she married: your father, now dead.

You step forward and see the toothpaste splattered on the mirror, the pink rose wallpaper, the pink and beige tiles, her pink-painted toenails, chipping at the edges. “Do you want me to help you with something before I go?” you ask.

She pulls down her underpants and rips off a thick gauze bandage to expose a wound so raw it appears to have a pulse all its own. You focus on the wrinkles between her eyebrows. “Take a look. Take a good look, Missy,” she spews. “This is pain. This is real pain, and you don’t know what that is. But mark my words, oh, mark my words. You don’t know what pain is, but your time is coming. Just you wait. Your time is coming. You’ll see.”

She reminds you of a jack-in-the box sprung loose, but you can’t stuff her back inside, snap the cover closed tight and go back to fastening the stupid clear plastic boots you had just slipped over your too-tight loafers before she called you to her powder room lair.

“Look!” she commands. She points to the incision, belly button to pubic hair, thick and oozing and pink and punctuated with black stitches top to bottom. It’s a railroad track, a railroad track leading somewhere you never want to go. Female troubles. Hysterectomy. Screaming now, she raises her raw-knuckled fist and shakes her arm, a metronome set faster than you could ever play.

“Look! Look, you ingrate! You dummy! Look!” A bitter truth sinks into your bones: she despises you, and you will not come next time she calls. Still erupting, she looks like she’s about to pop straight into the air; you want to see her head crack against the ceiling.

You spin around, grab your books and rush outside. Coat unbuttoned, you barely notice the bracing cold. You kick off your five-and-dime substitutes for winter boots and stuff them in your coat pockets, one bulging on each side. You suck in the biting air, roll up the waistband of your two-sizes-too-big skirt and trudge forward, bent on getting a smile on your face before your first-period class.

So they chew

Posted on September 3, 2012 by admin

There’s more to this story than I thought when I scribbled the first draft a few days ago. That feels good.

So They Chew
By Laura McHale Holland

His gut is a giant diet gingerale, hers a sloshing jug of bitter lemonade. They are not hungry. But the 6:00 news is on; it’s time to eat. So they do. Tuna fish. Casserole. The kind with potato chips, peas, mushroom soup.

She saw the recipe on the Internet. Showed it to him. They had to try it for old time’s sake, he said. She bought the ingredients. Layered the casserole. Baked it today.

So they chew. Slowly. Just a few bites. Then a few more. It doesn’t taste like the tuna casseroles their mothers once made. Two-thirds gooey, one-third crispy. Burned around the edges. Grease on the tongue.

Their version tastes like a hanta virus in the toolshed, a white blood cell count rising, a bogey man in the crawl space, a neighbor walking away from her mortgage.

In silence, they chew on. They eat everything on their plates. It’s what they were taught to do.

(The casserole photo is from Salwa’s 5 alive flickr photo stream.)

Undercover

Posted on August 22, 2012 by admin

I wrote a first draft of this based on a promt at WriteToDone.com. It’s posted, along with many other stories based on the prompt, in the comment section there. Then I did a couple more rounds of editing before posting it here.

Undercover
By Laura McHale Holland

I’ve seen plenty in my thirty years here. There was the time I arrived to open the bank, and the display windows were smashed. Glass shards littered the sidewalk; glass was on the floor inside, too. The work of young anarchists prowling the night before.

Another time, it wasn’t glass on the floor; it was everyone in the bank. Except for the tellers. They were pulling money from their cash drawers with trembling hands. But then a customer realized the gun the robber brandished was only a toy. He wrestled the culprit to the ground. I pressed the alarm. Soon enough Officer Kaufman had the man in a paddy wagon.

Photo by H.Adam

Yes, I’ve seen plenty over the years. But today takes the cake. I can’t work. Clothes racks and shelves clutter the waiting area. And a checkout station is right where my desk should be. A girl behind the counter is waving at me. Our tellers would never have tattoos all over their arms like she does.

“Hi, Mr. Walker, are you lost again?” she asks.

“I’m not lost. I work here.”

“Of course you do. Why don’t you have a seat by the window? I’ll sort it all out, okay?” She picks up her cell phone. I stand my ground.

A few minutes later, Officer Kaufman walks in, smiles at me. “Francis Walker. You’re just the man I’m looking for.”

“Hi there Officer. Do you need another loan?”

“No, Francis. I’ve come to take you home.”

“Home? Is something wrong with Nancy?”

“Nancy is in heaven now, Francis. You and me, we’re both widowers long retired. We live at Happy Hills, and I’ve come to take you home.”

I don’t believe a word he’s said, but he is an officer of the law. I’d better go. This must be some undercover operation; he’ll fill me in once we get outside.

Click to visit H.Adam’s flickr photostream.

Checking out new template

Posted on December 16, 2010 by admin

I just thought I’d stick a photo in here to see what it looks like on screen with the template Linda Lee‘s working on.

I love the way the light hits the bush at the left, changing the green from dark to light.

Site design is in transition. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? I will welcome feedback and suggestions during this process.

Is it really already mid-December?

Posted on December 14, 2010 by admin

It seems just the other day I was pulling the Thanksgiving turkey from the oven, and now Christmas is almost here. We don’t even have our tree up yet. All our decorations are still in boxes in the garage. I need the old shoemaker’s elves to come tonight while I’m sleeping and work some magic. I promise not to look and scare them away.

November

Posted on November 3, 2010 by admin

November, a month I never welcome, despite the striking reds, oranges and browns in the trees and vineyards, despite the lush green grass, the wet caress of the air.

One writer I know of is crafting a poem a day this month for charity. Others are participating in National Novel Writing Month, aiming to have a 50,000-word first draft of a novel done by Nov. 30. I’ve participated in years past but don’t plan to do it this year.

In my inbox is a friend’s 41-page marketing plan for a book she may or may not get published someday. She thinks there may be elements in her plan I can use, and I expect she’s right.

A light fog lingers in the air. It’ll likely be all burned off by 11 a.m., just like a little twinge of melancholy I always feel when November begins is, without fail, gone by Thanksgiving year after year. I don’t know why it comes and goes this way, but I accept it now as just another part of life.

The secret of getting started

Posted on September 6, 2010 by admin

I was just glancing through Brian Judd’s book marketing newsletter and found a quote from Mark Twain: “The secret of getting ahead is getting started. The secret of getting started is breaking your complex, overwhelming tasks into small, manageable tasks, and then starting on the first one.” A lot of successful folks have said the same thing in slightly different words. I wonder who the first person to say something along these lines was.

Shollenberger Park, such a fine place to go

Posted on October 7, 2009 by admin

Petaluma’s Shollenberger Park, opened in 1995, has long been a popular spot for nature lovers. And it continues to grow more enticing. An adjoining trail cut along Alman Marsh and stretching to Petaluma’s Marina was added in 2003; the Petaluma Marsh trails were opened in the summer of 2009, adding length and variety to a hike through this birder’s paradise.

picresized_1254878885_Sho7 With the addition of the Petaluma Marsh trails, which run around a state-of-the-art recycled water project, the area now comprises 250 acres of wetlands. And in this peaceful place, where dogs on leash are welcome, there is much to appreciate.

The wildlife is ever changing. All manner of birds—150 species, according to the Sonoma County Agricultural Preservation and Open Space District, are the stars here. Depending on the season, you might see thousands of Canadian geese waddling in and out of the water or bulrushes afire with red winged blackbirds. The variety is stunning: ducks, hawks, doves, hummingbirds, grebes, terns, plovers and sandpipers—the list goes on. Mammals such as jack rabbits, pocket gophers and river otters also thrive in this environment.

What to pack for healthy travel

Posted on May 10, 2009 by admin2

Jim’s watching “Quantum of Solace” while I tap away on my iBook. The crashing, jolting soundtrack is the opposite of the soft, flowing music Naomi Caspe turned on just before she left me for a while, stuck full of needles, in the treatment room this afternoon. Acupuncture isn’t for everyone (nor is James Bond), but since the treatment, my pain is greatly reduced. (I wrote about aggravating an old whiplash injury this morning if you want the back story).

After the treatment, Naomi and I ate lunch at Bombay Garden, an all-you-can-eat, Indian buffet-style restaurant at Fourth and Lootens streets in San Rafael. The food was fresh and yummy. I didn’t take notes about the food though because I was collecting advice from Naomi on how to stay healthy while traveling. And here are five tips she passed on to me:

1. Pack White Flower Oil. You can find it at any Chinese grocery, and it comes in small (even tiny) sizes, so it’s easy to take on planes. It’s a mixture of lavender, eucalyptus and wintergreen oils and is used to stop the spread of germs and prevent colds and infections. When in an airport or on a plane, dab a drop under each nostril. It is also good for soothing headaches; just put some on your temples.

2. Pack Po Chai pills to treat travelers’ diarrhea. These are tiny pills sold in any Asian grocery and are renowned for their ability to rebalance the digestive system.

3. Don’t pack your !#X? with you, i.e., have a bowel movement before you board a plane. This will greatly reduce or even eliminate jet lag symptoms and contribute to overall well being on the trip. Eating lightly the day before your flight will help with this, as will drinking lots of water. (If elimination is a problem, acupuncture directly before the trip might also help.)

4. Pack Bach Rescue Remedy. This is a calming flower remedy that can reduce emotional stress while flying (turbulence, fear of plunging into the sea, all that awful stuff). It’s also handy to keep in the glove compartment in the car in case you have a near-accident on the road (caused by someone else, not you, of course).

5. Pack No-Jet-Lag, a homeopathic medicine sold at Trader Joe’s and some drug stores. Naomi recommends taking it just before any flight and every two hours on a long flight.

That’s the end of the post containing Naomi’s advice. To see more of my work at examiner.com, please visit www.examiner.com/x-7978-SF-Sonoma-County-Examiner

Uncarved Block takes shape

Posted on May 6, 2009 by admin

When ny husband, Jim, first brought me along on one of his many visits to the Uncarved Block on Santa Rosa Ave. in Santa Rosa, it seemed to me like an out-of-place puzzle piece, one you try to force in even after you realize it’s not the right fit. There was no foot traffic, and the storefront didn’t even face the street.

Now, located at 110 N. Main St. in downtown Sebastopol, the store is sweetly nestled between the Sonoma County Repertory Theater and Incredible Records (which houses The Sonoma County Rock ‘n’ Roll Museum), it’s as though this one-of-a-kind find has always been there.

On sunny afternoons, you’re likely to see young musicians plucking banjos on a bench just outside of People’s Music nearby. This is fitting, because in addition to featuring an extensive collection of minerals, rock crystals and jewelry, and now some nifty duds by Treehouse 28 (another local enterprise), the shop carries all manner of Grateful Dead paraphernalia — including a $25,400 refrigerator once owned by Jerry Garcia.

The Dead memorabilia is what draws Jim in. He lived across the street from the band for a spell as a teenager, and he’s been a fan ever since (oh, the stories he tells about that).

But it may be a ruffled Treehouse 28 organic cotton shirt that pulls me back. Paul Forster, who mans the store most days, says you can special-order Treehouse clothes via the company’s Web site (www.treehouse28.com) and have the items sent to the Uncarved Block, where you can try them on before purchasing them.

I took a few pix when I stopped in to get Jim a gift certificate the other day. They’re in the slideshow accompanying this post. The store is open from 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. (closing time is negotiable). Questions? Call 707-829-7625.

To see more pictures of the Uncarved Block, as well as other articles I’ve written for examiner.com, please visit www.examiner.com/x-7978-SF-Sonoma-County-Examiner

Note on Jerry Garcia’s refrigerator

Another glorious day

Posted on April 13, 2009 by admin

Just about to watch “In Treatment.” Here’s my favorite image of the day.

A throwback to simpler times

A layoff hits home

Posted on February 22, 2009 by admin2

Layoffs. My husband is just one of millions now collecting unemployment. He’s accustomed to waking before the morning light peeps through our shutters so he can get on the road before rush hour traffic more than doubles his commute time. The hours he had to keep now seem like such a small thing compared to the thick stack of bills my salary can’t possibly cover.

Worries. I know fretting about the economic conditions that led to the difficulties many of us are experiencing isn’t helpful, but it’s not easy to keep my mind from drifting into dark terrain.

Grace. So I take a deep breath and listen to the delicious sound of rain tap, tapping on the skylights above. I look into the fire burning in our stove, knowing we have enough wood stacked outside to last us through this winter and next. I’m grateful to have a home today, even though it’s now worth less than we owe on it. No one knows what lies ahead. I may as well not assume the worst.

There is wisdom to be gained at each of life’s many turns.

I lowered my cholesterol 58 points in 2 months

Posted on February 8, 2009 by admin2

When my doctor gave me “lipid panel” results from a Dec. 12 blood test, he suggested I consider taking statin drugs because my total cholesterol was at 261, and I have a family history of heart disease. I rarely even take cold medicine, so taking drugs every day to keep my cholesterol down isn’t something I want to do.

So, here’s what I did:

Stopped eating cheese almost entirely. I ate it maybe three times between Dec. 12 and Feb. 5, when I had my second blood test.

Starting having oatmeal every other morning for breakfast.

Added a whole clove of fresh garlic to a meal (after the meal was cooked so the garlic was raw) on the days I didn’t have oatmeal for breakfast.

Cut way back on eating omelettes and egg salad, having a serving of eggs less often than once a week.

Began incorporating a monounstaurated fatty acid (MUFA) into each meal. I used avocados, olives, peanut butter, almond butter, mixed nuts, pumpkin seeds and very dark chcoclate.

Got a pedometer and upped the number of steps I take in a day from about 3,000 to about 6,000.

Started using the elliptical trainer in our family room, maybe four times a week, sometimes only doing 10 to 15 minutes, other times doing 30 minutes.

Started listening to Learning Strategies Corp.’s “Perfect Health” CD either before I fall asleep or upon waking almost every day.

So, that’s it. This was fairly easy to do. I feel better overall, lost 10 lbs. in the process, and now have LDL at 127 and HDL at 64, which is a very good ration of “bad” to “good” cholesterol in addition to being what is considered to be a normal level of cholesterol. And it took less than two months.

I just thought it might be helpful information for anyone else whose cholesterol needs to come down.