They’re Just Words

The Interview | The Buzzard Dance | What We Leave Behind
Hands | The Actress | The Desk

The Interview

by Paula O. (5/1/04)

My main character/protagonist is a female. My main character is a hair stylist. An archetype present in my story is King Arthur. A key object or symbol in my story is a escalator. My story will be set in Madrid. My story is about fairness. An event or situation in my story is adultery. (from elitelit.com)

escalator: a clause in a contract that provides for an increase or a decrease in wages or prices or benefits etc. depending on certain conditions (as a change in the cost of living index)

Q: How did you come to live in Madrid?

A: I work in a mall in Madrid, cutting hair in a salon there. I am not from Madrid or even Spain. I am from the US. I got here when I did a foolish thing. I had fallen in love with a customer in the salon I had in D.C. I had a hot, wonderful affair with him for the two months he was there. Then he went home. I had figured out he was married, all the good ones are, but I did miss that Spanish hair. So, against all common sense, I packed up and moved to Madrid. I got the Spain version of a Green Card and I got a job here at this salon.

Q: How did this group come to be?

A: I became friends with some other American women who worked in the mall and we meet regularly for lunch and sometimes dinner. We meet at the food court and bring our trays or bags to a set of tables and eat together. One day we were discussing how much fun we were having, sharing what life in Madrid for an American woman was like, and decided we needed to form a club.

Q: How did you come up with the name: Queens of the Round Tables?

A: I know it sounds goofy! (laugh) We meet, after all, at the food ‘court’ and we do sit at several round tables together, and we do rescue each other quite often. One of our members owns a furniture store and has a large delivery van. So when someone breaks up or divorces or otherwise moves, we help out and use her van. When someone needs a special hairdo for a special occasion, they come to me. When we hear of a new American woman, we have a ‘welcome wagon’ service.

Q: Are you only for American women?

A: Initially, yes, but we have several women who are native to Madrid as well as several women from Great Britain. We encourage any woman to join us, especially working women.

Q: Your group first came into the public eye three months ago. Tell us about that.

A: We did our first political endeavor. We realized how little some of us were getting paid and how yearly raises were almost non-existent. We convinced the mall who in turn convinced the employers to implement a cost of living
wage increase. I suppose because it was women who began the process, the media just took off with it.

Q: How does it feel, this sudden life in the spotlight?

A: I am just a hairdresser, not even a ‘cosmetologist’. Yet, here I am discussing escalator clauses in contracts, helping to form a women’s ‘Spanish as a Second Language’ business course, and setting up an in-club barter system. It is all so uncharacteristic of me, things I never thought I would be involved in. Writing about it became my form of therapy, I suppose, to keep my life in perspective.

This is Terry Gross with ‘Fresh Air’, interviewing Karin Starn about her new book, Queens of the Round Table. We’ll be back in a moment.

The Buzzard Dance

by Paula O. (5/2/04)

A cashier trembles, because a hypnotic buzzard dances with a short order cook alongside a bowling ball. Indeed, a surly corporation pilots a spacecraft toward the file cabinet. Indeed, an insurance agent eerily conquers a lazily Alaskan photon. When a grain of sand starts reminiscing about lost glory, a tone-deaf cough syrup wakes up. For example, a warranty related to a blood clot indicates that a wrinkled tripod cooks cheese grits for a mortician. (From SSF.net)

Dot hated karoke night. Not only did it bring out all the weird in everyone, but it also meant low tips. This night she wanted ear plugs more than she wanted money. Someone, probably Frankle from that wherever planet, had decided to bring his pet buzzard. Not that she minded the buzzard, it had a nice attitude, but for some reason, Goble just had to start throwing things whenever the bird was around.

As she took Frankle’s order, she ducked when she heard the *pop* of Goble’s shoulder as he threw another plate. The Boss had switched to melamine dishes after the last time Goble went nuts.

“Frankle, you know it drives him crazy, why did you have to bring that dang bird of yours?”

“Bird? Oh, you mean the buzzard. Well, he and I go way back, about three hundred years I guess. He so loves karaoke night you know.”

“At least someone, er, something does. I’ll be right back with your drink and the rotten meat.” She sidestepped as another plate came wizzing by her head. “Hey, Goble! Put down the bowls and fix me a boramba sunrise for Frankle.”

Goble turned two of his eyes toward her, blinking. “One boramba sunrise coming up.” He kept the bowl in one hand and used two of his others to mix the drink. Dot went to the back and dug out some of the rotten meat from the breakfast crowd. She plopped it on a plate she found on the floor and waited for the drink.

“Thanks, Goble. Wait, before you start tossing things again, what is UP WITH YOU?!”

“What?” All of his eyes looked at her. “What is up with me?”

“Yes, dip, what is up with you? Tossing plates, cups, bowls…why?”

“Why?” Half of his eyes blinked.

“Listen little man, um, thing, you. Stop answering my questions with a question. Tell me why you hate that buzzard so much.”

“I don’t hate him. I think it’s kinda cute.”

“Cute?” Dot made a note in her head to mark this one down on her ‘things to hear before I die’ list. “If you think it’s so cute, why don’t you ask it to dance?”

“Dance? Huh, never thought of it. Do you think I could?”

Dot wished she had more than her plain two eyes so she could roll some of them and blink with the rest. “Yes, Goble, ask the bird to dance with you. If you feel nervous about it, ask Tri-Cav to dance too. You know she likes threesomes.”

“Good idea. ” Goble put down the bowl and climbed down his ladder to reach the floor. He was barely knee high tall to Dot, but with all those arms and eyes, his three legs and all those wrinkles, it was the least thing most people noticed. Dot followed, taking the rotten meat and the drink to Frankle’s table. The buzzard tilted its head and watched Goble walk across the floor over to where Tri-Cav was propped up on her pillow.

After serving them, Dot went around to the other tables, momentarily forgetting Goble and his infatuation with the bird. She needed all of her wits about her anyway, with the mini-spaceships whizzing by, the plates and bowls on the floor, and the wide variety of customers.

She pulled out her glass to peer down at Lillie Puttian. “What would you like to drink?” Dot realized she really should flag the little Brit.

“You, know, I coulda been somebody. I could have! Noooo, I had to take that cruise to Bulleton. I could have been a big name in my time.”

Dot knew that Lillie could go on forever about whatever she would have been if she hadn’t taken some silly cruise to somewhere. At the next table over, a customer fell off his chair.

“What? Huh? *hack* Right, karaoke night. Yeah, *hack* that’s where I am. *hack*” Vick had fallen asleep after forty drinks too many and fallen out of his seat. Before Dot could intervene, he was up at the mike, trying to sing the
federation anthem. The good thing was that no one cared that he sang so bad. The bad thing was that Dot did. Vick, who really was just a liquid-like sentient being in a bottle, was tone-deaf. And Vick, like most tone-deaf liquid-like sentient beings in a bottle, loved karaoke night.

At the next table, after calling Lillie a mini-cab, Dot met the dreaded insurance salesman. She considered having him thrown out, but the flannel clad swirl of electromagnetic energy seemed interested. She was going to ask them if they were ready to order yet when she heard Vick switch ’songs’ to a popular limbo number. She looked through the haze, dodging another mini-spaceship, to see Goble, the buzzard, and Tri-Cav dancing up on the speakers. Made sense, really, they were all about the same size-the dancers that is, not the speakers.

She half-listened to the insurance salesman make his final pitch as she used the other half of her hearing to retreat inside her frazzled brain. She waited for the salesman to take a breath as she watched yet another mini-spaceship make its way from the back office where The Boss was to the front office where The Other Boss was. Probably delivering messages or filing credit vouchers.

“So you are saying that if I have a blood clot, AND if it is due to Goble’s cooking, then I am covered?” The photon ‘asked’.

“Yes, you would be covered as long as one, you are not a mortician and/or two, you are eating cheese grits. If you are, then the warrantee doesn’t qualify.”

What We Leave Behind

by Paula O. (5/3/04)

My main character/protagonist is a female. My main character is a chemist. An archetype present in my story is The Idol. A key object or symbol in my story is a will. My story will be set in a space colony. My story is about temptation. An event or situation in my story is finding money. (from elitelit.com)

Being the sister of a big name space rock star could have benefits. But Tamara didn’t want any of it. She didn’t care how famous Tillon became, he would always be that obnoxious brat hacking into her diary logs and messing with her data files.

She had gone on to college and, eventually, had completed the courses and was an official scientist. A chemist to be exact. She had little piss-ant jobs as she tried to make a name for herself. In a galaxy full of races and beings far superior to the mere Termains, making a name for yourself as a chemist was not easy.

At last she had been hired to work on a team that was developing a new material. The Powers That Be wanted faster space craft with larger loads and that meant cutting the weight down on the containers. Of course it was all hush-hush, which was fine with Tamara. She and the rest of the team lived in a space colony where others on their way to or from setting up a colony came through for supplies. This enabled them to do research on the wide variety of cargo, the containers, the ships, and the crews that dealt with it all.

Meanwhile, in contrast to her quiet scholarly life, there was Tillon. Using his technological skills, he had formed a space rock band in Advanced School. From there he tried to go to college but the music schools wouldn’t touch his style and the technological schools wouldn’t touch music. So instead he had formed another band of misfits and had taken to the sky. They were on the top of the music charts every week. Using computers and gyros and global positioning, they could put on one tandril of a show.

He was now famous. His face was on the covers of all the gossip streams. His music was heard almost everywhere she went. She had even seen a plasma billboard with clips of his latest vid. She had helped him with some of his material, trying to find the right gel to float the drums in, for example. She loved her brother, but the idea of him being someone famous that other women screamed about, just was not possible.

Tamara sighed, sitting back in her seat on the space craft as it whizzed its way through the quantum of space. She knew how it worked, she knew the chemical composition of the shell itself. None of this helped her nervousness at all. She could feel the irony of knowing thinking of Tillon was more comforting than thinking of what the space craft was made of.

She and her brother would see each other for the first time in….four years? She had gotten the vid from the Curator, informing her of her parents’ sudden death. The two of them were meeting aboard the large moving space station near the crash site. Some moon in orbit around some old planet. Space archeology was supposed to be a safe occupation. She had grown up out there, and knew that while there were risks, death was just not one of them.

Did she dislike her brother for being so famous while she struggled just to get a job? That money and popularity seemed to literally fall into his lap while she lived in a cubicle and hung out with other geeks like her?

No, dislike was not the right term. Jealousy? Was she jealous of his fame? Did she ever want to chuck the compounds and elements and go on tour with him as his scientific consulant?

Several clips later, she was docked with the station and was being escorted to the Captain’s office. “Has my brother arrived yet?” She asked the escort by way of the translator in her ear.

“No, he should be here within any minute.”

The Captain was polite, as were his officers. Her parents had been part of this station for the past ten years so it was no wonder the crew were being so nice. Tillion arrived shortly after, surprising Tamara by being alone except for one large Darphon that lurked behind him. The siblings did the usual hug and head touching, then followed the Captain to the conference room.

They were briefed on what was known so far about the accident. The bodies had not been found and never would be. The chance of survival was not even worth mentioning. The bots has looked for them, of course, finding only parts of the craft scattered across the surface.

“Your parents left a will, of course, and there is a contingency for if they both died at the same time.”

“A will? That is not important to us, sir.” Tillon actually held her hand. “We have lost our parents and could care less at the moment what there estate consists of.”

“There are decisions to be made however, and some of these decisions is part of the will. If you wish, we will only read what their wishes were for the memorials.”

“We should hear what they wanted done, Till.”

Tamara squeezed his hand and they sat back to listen. She could tell by the words that her father, Tomial, had written them. It had his casual style. He re-told the story of how they had met, of how he had found those rare coins at one new dig and had gone to an expert for an opinion. That expert had been Tathy, and less than two months later they were married. He said he was glad that they had died together, since neither knew how to function without the other anymore.

Tillon and Tamara had laughed at that, knowing it was true. Their parents had been inseparable, their hands working together as if they belonged to a single person.

“When you two came along, we were tempted to stop being out in space and settle on some planet somewhere. But we couldn’t. We don’t know if that was fair to you but, well, there it is. We are glad the two of you are doing your own things, doing what you want rather than what you think ought to be done. We know that sometimes Tillon wishes he had Tamara’s anonymity and sometimes Tamara wishes she had Tillon’s fame. We hope this means we were good parents. These temptations merely mean you are not locked into a box but instead you are looking up, noticing the galaxy around you. Our lives have been looking at what people have left behind. We leave behind you two; both intelligent and far-reaching individuals. I wonder how others will study us someday by what we leave behind.”

The view of the moon from the space station was phenomenal. The scars the crash left behind on the surface were barely visible to the naked eye. They called them the ‘Tom-Tath Gash’. The pod they had been in had broken up before they could safely land. It had divided into two main sections, each plowing its own path on the moon. And yes, four hundred years later, a team of archeologists from the Andromeda Galaxy will come across the moon, and
will study the people that left them behind.

Hands

by Paula O. (5/10/04)

My main character/protagonist is a female. My main character is a sculptor. An archetype present in my story is The Bride. A key object or symbol in my story is a harp. My story will be set in a diner. My story is about faith. An event or situation in my story is a lawsuit.

At least no one here made the comment about Lila working in drywall. They were used to her coming in with clay dust a permanent part of her skin color and dried gobs stuck to her pants. Her sister finally arrived, her long Caddy taking up a space and a half. Dressed ‘to the nines’ as usual, Liza sauntered into Waffle House.

“Afternoon, Liza.”

“Afternoon yourself. I haven’t been awake for very long. Coffee, I want coffee.”

“It’s on its way. I told them to bring in as soon as the Princess arrived.”

“You really shouldn’t do that, call me Princess I mean. Irritates the hell out of me.”

“Why else would I do it?”

The waitress arrived, took their order, and went to stand near the grill to call out it out.

“I have never liked that; now everyone knows I don’t like grits.” Liza sipped her coffee. “Calling out my personal preference in food seems tacky and frankly, why are we meeting here? We could have met at the club.”

“I work for a living, Liza, and to take time to change clothing just to drive forty minutes for expensive food that takes far too long to prepare just is not part of my schedule.”

“I hadn’t commented on your PigPen aura. Aren’t you proud of me?”

Lila laughed and emptied her glass of ice tea. “Yes, I am proud of you. Now, what was so important that you are up before three just to meet me for lunch?”

“Always direct and to the point. I wanted to tell you that Jonathan and I are getting married.”

“Again?”

“Yes, and no comments. We would like this wedding to be smaller, only a hundred or so guests. It will take place in six months.”

“Why bother getting married again? Just live together in one house, each of you keeping your own houses, and that way instead of divorcing you just sell the mutual house. Then, buy another one later when you feel the urge to get bird seed thrown at you.”

The waitress had arrived to refill Lila’s glass and to top off Liza’s coffee.

“Getting married again? I owe you five, Lila.” She grinned and went back to behind the counter.

“What is she talking about?”

“I told her that you were meeting me and that I thought it was to tell me you were getting married again. She said surely not and we bet five dollars.”

Her sister just stared at her, her face not showing a distinguishable emotion. “You are so weird. Always have been.”

“Yup. So, congratulations, send me an invite, and I promise to sit on your side of the church.”

“No, you will be sitting up front. I would like you to play the harp.”

“No. You know better than to ask.” Lila sat up straight in her chair.

“I may know better but that has never stopped me before. You can do it, Lila, you just won’t try.”

“Look at these, do they look like the hands of a harpist? Do they look like they once played along the strings in concert halls across the nation?” She held out her hands, forcing her sister to look at them. Two of the fingers
on her left hand were not able to fully extend. A finger on the right hand was not able to complete bend. Scars, both surgical and otherwise, crisscrossed across her palms and digits. Two extended past her wrists to disappear under her long sleeved shirt. “I don’t play the harp anymore and I never will. Now stop asking me.”

“You haven’t even tried. I think you…”

“No, Liza, that’s your problem. You don’t think. The harp is gone from my house and from my life.”

“You always gave up too easily. You live in that house alone and manipulate clay as if you could make it into a fantasy world. No, hear me out. That damn drunk is still in prison. His insurance company paid you a lot of money to avoid a lawsuit. They still pay you a lot of money. I wonder sometimes what name they put on the checks: Lila Before or Lila After.” Liza sipped her coffee. "You act as if your life with the harp and with Mark never existed. They both did and it is time you began to honor them. Yes, your hands are not the hands of a concert harpist and never will be again. But that doesn’t mean they cannot even pluck a tune. Mark is dead, yes, but he would not want you to live your life as if you were dead too. It’s been six years, Lila, and it’s time for you to live again.”

The Actress

by Paula O. (5/12/04)

The story’s protagonist is female and an actor. A staircase plays a significant part in the story. The story is set in a rainstorm in the future. The story is about attraction.

“You always seem to be in a play, I never know when you are being truthful or trying out some new lines on me.”
Beth stood at the bottom of the stairwell, talking to the person on the first landing. The Picadilly’s front desk clerk discretely found something to do in the back office. The only sound, besides their voices, was the dripping of rain water from Beth’s coat and the water hit the marble, it made a distinct ‘plink’.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“See? That. ‘Whatever do you mean?’ Sounds like something Scarlet O’Hara would say.”

“I can’t help it, Beth, you know that. If a person grows up in the States, they speak with a stateside accent. If they move to Euro, they pick up on the accent there as well. I am in theatre and of course I pick up on the accent, the words.”

“See? You seem so serious, I want to believe what you are saying. But, your body language doesn’t match your words. You block your moves too much. I always feel like I am in a bad Off Broadway musical. I keep expecting you to break out in song.” Beth raised her hands in defense. “No, don’t sing another song from ‘Annie Get Your Gun’ or it will be ‘Beth Got the Gun’.”

“Beth, this is the way I am. I can’t be any different. If we want to have a relationship…”

“Relationship? Who said anything about a relationship?”

“Well, isn’t that what you came to tell me? That you are attracted to me? I certainly am attracted to you.”

“You are? I mean, of course you are. It’s a case of Director Envy.”

“Beth, it will be ‘But Victoria Shot First’ if you don’t get serious. If you didn’t come here to tell me about a relationship, why did you come here?”

“I don’t know why I came here. Never mind.” Beth shoved her cap back on her head and went out the revolving door. Rain somehow managed to find its way through the small space in her glasses and hit her eyelid. This late, even in New York City, there were few cars on the road. She walked as close to the building as she could, avoiding the tidal waves from passing cars on the street, yet not get pounded by the dripping eaves.

“Beth, wait.” Victoria called out from the doorway, running to catch up. She didn’t have a hat and by the time she stood in front of Beth, her hair was already flattened against her head. “Beth, tell me.”

“Okay, yes, I am attracted to you. There, happy?”

“I haven’t been this happy since the year 2020 New Year’s party.” They looked at each other and grinned, both remembering.

“Come on, let’s get you in from the rain.”

They returned to the old hotel, walking up the marble steps toward Victoria’s suite on the second floor. On the
first landing, Beth paused. “Look, maybe we can talk tomorrow. Let’s sleep on this and meet for breakfast.”

“Are you sure? You came all this way.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t matter. I can’t think right now.” Beth took a step back. “Where would you like to meet for breakfast?”

“My rooms. I am an excellent cook.”

“I remember. Okay then, call me when you are up and I will come over. You have my sat phone number?”

“Yes, of course.”

“In the morning then.”

The Desk

by Paula O. (5/20/04)

The story’s protagonist is female and an artist. A desk plays a significant part in the story. The story is set in a theatre in the present. The story is about discovery.

“Jessie, come over here and you will see what I mean.” Michael called out from stage left.

“Fine, but I really don’t think…oh, I see what you mean. Mark, I need more of the black, please.”

Jessie went back to the backdrop and began reworking one section of it. Up close, it seemed to be just a mass of colored vomit but from the audience, it was a forest. Michael had been telling her that her current section looked obscene, especially from his location. He was right.

As she worked, the cast arrived for a rehearsal and began their joking and playing as they waited for one of the cast to arrive.

“Jessie, come here please.” Michael called out again.

“If you want this thing painted in time, stop interrupting me.” She growled at him when she had stomped her way over.

“I only need you to read a few lines. We need to block out some of the moves and Elizabeth is still not here. All you have to do, is sit there on the desk and read some lines.”

“If it is that easy, why do y’all need to practice so much?” Jessie teased as she jerked the script from his hands and stomped off toward the desk near the middle of the stage.

“People, let’s get started. Set designer Jessie has graciously,” he glared over at her as she started to protest. “Agreed to read the lines. So places everyone, we are starting at Act Two, Scene Three.”

Nancy, one of the assistants, came over and quickly pointed out the section to Jessie.

“Whenever you are ready, Jessie, say the first line.”

“Marshall, I haven’t a clue why you are here.”

“I am here, dear Louisa, to arrest you.”

“Arrest me? Surely you jest!”

“No, Louisa, I wish I am, but you are under arrest for the murder of Sir Adolph Munson.”

“Who?”

“Don’t play stupid with me, woman. You know damn well who.”

The practice session continued, stopping only a few times as they discussed where to stand and where to move to. Assistants skittered around, putting masking tape ‘x’s on the floor. Somehow, and later no one really could remember just when it happened, they began having Jessie read more sections, and even had her moving from the desk to a ‘window’ and back on the desk again. One of the top assistants approached Michael and whispered something to him and he called a halt to the action.

“Fifteen minute break, folks. Drink ‘em if you got ‘em.”

Jessie put the script book down on the desk and returned to the backdrop. She swiped the brush against the canvas in broad long strokes, finishing the last section in just a few minutes.

“You are good; at painting as well as acting.”

“Thank you to the first and you are joking about the second.” Jessie squatted on the floor to begin cleaning her brushes. Her own assistants began preparing the final backdrop to be started in the morning. She looked up at the
actor who played the lead character, Marshall.

“No, I’m not. You did very well for a first time through. It was as if you understood what the writer meant.”

“He meant to have Louisa seem a brash woman of experience, but to also show that she is unsure of herself and her position in the household.”

“Exactly! You read the script before?”

“No, only the scene descriptions. But it’s obvious that she is using the desk as an island in a sea of sharks. I have a few ideas of how to emphasize that actually.” She stood and wrapped her brushes in a towel. “What do you think of some tropical looking plants? Perhaps a single palm by the window.”

“Yes…you are right, it would be subtle enough, wouldn’t it?” He squinted at her. “Have you ever considered acting?”

“No, I am awful at it. I would rather envision the scenes in my head than act them out on the stage. But thank you for saying it.” She finished squeezing dry the brushes and hung them on the hooks on her mobile workstation.

“Would you like to go out to dinner tonight?”

“And suffer the wrath of Elizabeth? No thank you!”

“Elizabeth and I do not have a relationship, despite what she says and does. She wants others to believe we do, hoping it will make her look better. Odd, but you are the one side of Louisa and she the other.”

“Does seem that way, yes. Okay, sure, let’s go out for dinner. I want to go somewhere expensive but not dressy. I don’t own a designer dress, and actually I don’t own a dress. I have a black skirt for funerals but that’s it. So pick some place appropriate.”

“I already know the place. You will be here after practice?”

“Yes, we are working on one of the sets tonight, down in the Dungeon.” She used the nickname for the work area below the stage.

“Good. Then I will meet you at the Dungeon door when I am finished here.”

“Okay, people, her Highness has arrived and we can now begin.” Michael returned from his conference behind the stage, followed by the real actress, Elizabeth.

Jessie had discovered something about herself. She was not as shy as she thought she was. And, after a year of mourning for Andrew, she was ready to move on, ready to discover more parts of herself.