Update: See My Story on Dakota Fire's Website!

Super cool! I finally found time to find my "Learning to Wave, South Dakota- Style" story on their website and it's a hit! See it HERE.

Down

**This is just a scene that never turned into an actual story. Hope you enjoy reading it anyways!**

That screaming. Every other night Alex would wake up to it, and this night was no different. He clenched his teeth and covered his head with his pillow. Why did she have to scream so loud? He put her in the room furthest from his own and he could still hear it clear as if she was in the room adjacent to him. What was it that tormented her; that plagued her dreams and terrorized the inner-most sanctuary of her mind?

He lay in bed for hours after that but could not fall asleep. The scream always left a disturbed feeling that pained his heart. It was still a few hours before dawn and the brilliant white moon was piercing his curtains when he decided to get up. He paced around his room a few times, poking the dying embers in the fireplace and listening for anymore cries from the girl. There was an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach; his whole body tingled as if it was anticipating something that his own mind couldn’t see coming. Finally, he went to the window and pulled back the curtains.

The dark blue sky was a sea of stars; the moon bigger and brighter than he had seen in years. The entire garden below was a stark contrast of shadow and light.

Someone was standing on the bridge over the pond; a white figure dressed in a flowing white gown, brown hair falling in long waves down her back, being lifted slightly by the weak breeze. Whoever it was had to be freezing, and Alex wondered why that was his first thought as opposed to Why there was someone standing on the bridge. But that was because he knew who it was; the answer was there in his mind, as if it had always been known to him. Her back was to him so he didn’t know what she was doing, be he sensed she was looking into the water, deep into its depths, as if searching her own soul. He knew this because he, too, had done it many times before. As he had told her when she first arrived, the manor was practically built for people suffering from past transgressions.

The woman moved suddenly and he realized that she was climbing onto the wall of the bridge. She stood there for a moment, suspended in space and time; everything suspended in space and time.

“No,” whispered Alex.

She fell. It was the most graceful fall anyone could make, with her arms outstretched and gown fluttering. It wasn’t a dive or a jump or a faint. It was an intentional fall, right into the deep, freezing pond.

As if a switch had been pulled to start up time again, everything began to move very fast. Alex took off running, not even bothering to grab his robe or slippers. Down the long hall with his ancestors glaring down on him, down the grand staircase that had been his mother’s death, down to the garden overcast with the light of the moon, and down into the cold, murky pond.

Down, down, down. Down into the seaweed and slime and sludge of a pond long left to its own will. Down into the bleak, the dismal, the darkness of the unknown. Where was the moon now to give its light? Even it could not reach these depths; even light was forbidden in a place so harsh and unforgiving.

But Alex kept going. Alex was not light, and so he was not afraid of the darkness. He gripped cloth and pulled until he had her wrapped in his arms. Then up he swam out of the deathly depth of the dark and towards the light of the moon; towards life.

He burst through the surface gasping for air, shivering at his cold welcome. At the shore he pulled her up and checked her pale, blue face for life.

“Come on,” he whispered, maybe even praying. “Come on!” He pounded her chest a few times with his fists.

A gasp of air followed by coughing and sputtering. He rolled her onto her side and finally took a moment for himself to breathe normally, too.

She started crying, sobbing, her whole body shaking and heaving as she gasped for air. “No, no, no!” She lay crumbled in a ball on the ground, crying these words.

“No? No?! Listen, lady, you came to me, to my house, for help, to be saved, remember? Now you’re trying to kill yourself at my house? No. I will NOT let you die.”

She said no more so he carried her inside and called a maid to help her get changed. He then stood guard outside her door all night to make sure she wouldn’t attempt anything else while the maid slept in the chair beside her bed.

Learning to Wave South Dakota-Style

People from rural towns always have the impression that people from the big cities are “unfriendly” because we rarely (if ever) wave to strangers as we drive down the highway.

And it’s true. Waving to strangers that you pass on the highway is ridiculous in the cities; you drive past thousands of people a day – you’ll give yourself carpel tunnel waving at all of them. Plus, half of the drivers will think you’re crazy.

For the longest time I couldn’t understand why complete strangers would smile and wave at me as I was cruising down the road. Did I know them? Did they know me? Was it a case of mistaken identity?

            Going off to college in a predominantly rural state meant I passed a lot of people who waved at me as I stared back. It never really bothered me to ask anyone why they did this until my junior year of college.

            My boyfriend is from the whopping huge town of Akaska, S.D. (population 42, but ten times that during fishing season). He has his various opinions about us unfriendly city folk, and one of them is how rude we are because we don’t wave. The first time he made this comment I was riding along with him in his pickup truck.

            “Maybe they don’t wave because they aren’t use to it,” I suggested. “Not everyone was raised to do that.”

            “Well it’s not like it’s that hard,” he said, mocking me as he waved both his hands in the air, only stopping when the unmanned steering wheel started moving us into oncoming traffic.

            “I’m not saying it’s hard, I’m just saying that some people might not know what you’re doing. They’re probably wondering who the big ugly stranger is that’s waving at them.”

            I got a dirty look for this comment, but was unrelenting. “I never knew why strangers were waving at me.”

            “Well now you know,” he said, making his point by waving to someone passing us by. “They ain’t mistaking you for anyone; they’re just trying to be friendly. And you are being rude by not being friendly back.”

            Feeling a little bad for slighting all of these strangers for so many years, I resolved to learn the art of waving – South Dakota-style. Rule one: never take your full hand off the steering wheel – you look too eager. Rule two: Make a choice early on and stick with it – are you waving with all five fingers? One finger (preferably not the middle one)? Two fingers? Rule three: try to smile, or at least look kind of friendly. The effect should be something that looks completely natural.

            I’ve been working on this for half a year now, and I never look natural. When I’m in Aberdeen, I never wave – too many people. Once on the open road, I get so caught up in my music or day dreaming that I don’t notice a car is coming until they’re right beside me. Too late then. It’s even worse when they pass you, waving their friendly wave, and you notice only a split second beforehand; far too short a time to react “causally.”

Once, for a whole two hours coming home from my boyfriend’s place, I never removed my hand from the top of the steering wheel. I waved at every single person that passed me. I don’t think many even saw me in my low-riding Ford Thunderbird. Some looked but did nothing. There were a few, though, that waved back.

And every time I successfully waved South Dakota-style (even though I still looked pretty awkward) I smiled and felt like I had achieved something. 

The Zappas go to K-Mart

Do you remember the Biblical story of Jesus being lost and found in the temple? For three days his parents, traveling in separate caravans, thought Jesus was with the other parent.

            What happened here is kind of like that.

            I grew up in a family of eight. This meant a house with two parents and six kids, in addition to the two dogs, a cat, and the occasional lizard, bird, frog, hamster or goldfish. Disorder was normal, which explains why my 4-year-old brother’s clothes got left behind in the cities on our family vacation to the Black Hills in 1998. Thus we found ourselves at the K-Mart in Sioux Falls. All eight of us, with kids ranging in age from nine months to 12 years.

            I’m not sure when or why we split up, but at some point there were two groups of Zappas trekking through the store that day.

            When we all finally met up in the men’s clothing section, it was realized that the little 4-year-old tike was not with any of us. As the parents yelled at my older brothers and they defended themselves, a voice came on over the loudspeaker:

            “Attention K-Mart customers: Will the parents of Timothy Francis Bobo Zappa please come to the service desk? The parents of Timothy Francis Bobo Zappa to the service desk, please.”

            Let me take this moment to clarify something. All of us kids have nicknames, courtesy of our parents (mostly my dad). Some are normal: my brother Joe’s nickname is simply the Italian word for Joseph, “Giuseppe.” Some are weird: One of my sisters was nicknamed “Buddha Baby” because she was such a chunk as an infant. Somehow Tim ended up with “Bobo,” and whenever we called him by his full name this nickname was tossed in for good measure.

            Because of this, and unknown to us, my 4-year-old my brother legitimately thought “Bobo” was part of his real name.

           Upon hearing the name “Timothy Francis Bobo Zappa,” there was an instant debate over who should be forced to go get him. Who was going to take responsibility for the little blonde kid whose parents were cruel enough to stick “Bobo” in his name? A good 3-5 minutes of heated discussion eventually resulted in the parents’ retrieval of their lost son, but the look of reluctance as they made their way to the service desk has left a lasting impression on us older kids.

            And poor innocent Tim, completely unaware of his little mistake, greeted them as if nothing big had happened. In fact, he was perfectly content when my parents got to him. He had been given a red sucker and was talking cheerfully to the security guard.

            Ever since then, my parents have done better keeping track of their little ones. I’d like to say they’ve done better with nicknames but Maria, the baby in the family, accumulated a nickname longer than John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt.

            I think my parents should be thankful they never lost “Maria Kathleen Pooky Chop-chop Pooh Bear Tigger Babes Zappa” in a store.

More Musings

“If you were offered a similar job with similar pay, would you stay here or switch?”

“Stay.”

“And why would you stay?”

Laura shrugged. “I like the team.”

“Good enough,” said the supervisor, jotting down her answer and getting back to his work.

Laura went to clock out—on time for the first time in a week. What her supervisor didn’t realize was that she wasn’t looking for a “similar job with similar pay.” She was looking for more. A college graduate can only take retail for so long before something snaps, and she was reaching that point.

Maybe a move to Maine is what I need, Laura thought as she punched in her nine-digit ID number to clock out and then punch in her four-digit code for her locker. It wasn’t like the small city she was in now had anything to offer her. Job hunting was going no where and life was as dull as can be. There was nothing here to stimulate her anymore. Sure, there were some things and some people she would miss, but on a whole…

Laura gathered her things and headed out onto the sales floor. She liked to walk around the store every once in a while after work to see what was going on. She spent so much time in certain areas during the day that it was easy to lose touch with things elsewhere. Besides, mindless meandering gave her time to think.

She had stayed in this city after graduation because she thought her connections would help her find a job. Fail. Then she stayed because she had friends here, but most soon left as well so Fail there, too. She had limited her job search to the state because she didn’t want to be too far from the guy she thought she was going to marry. Well, they were no more, so there was yet another Fail.

Everything was a bust. Best to get out now while she could, right? Maine didn’t necessarily mean a better job, but at least it’d be a change in scenery. Who knows? Maybe it would turn up a job? Maybe a guy? Maybe the key to knocking down her writer’s block. Anything was possible and she wouldn’t know until she tried, right? At least she’d be near the ocean. After living in landlocked states her entire life, that alone could be a game changer somehow.

Laura sighed as she stood in the Home Goods department, looking at wall hangings. She didn’t actually like change and wasn’t exceptionally adventurous. She preferred stability above all else in life. She had been set to settle down and start a family in a few years. Now she would have to start from scratch.

She was looking at a dinnerware set that was on sale when a coworker walked by.

“You should buy it,” he told her.

“On our wages? Yah right!” She laughed.

“Hey, if not now, when?” And with that he walked off.

Should she move? Make a run for it while she still could? Throw caution to the wind?

Hey, if not now, when?

Late Night Escapade

“Okay. The coast is clear.”

“Let’s do this.”

The three of us tumble out of the front seat of the car and rush to the back, popping open the hatch of the SUV and pulling out a door. Yes, a door. Inside a door frame. Three by six and a half feet of wood that we somehow squeezed in the vehicle so that we could sneak it onto campus.

“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go,” Jimmy urges. We shut the hatch and on a “one-two-heave” pick up the door and make our way onto the campus green, which is empty this late at night and mostly dark except for a few lamp posts.

“Over here.”

We shuffle to a corner of the green closest to two of the residence halls and set the door down, upright, near one of the lamp posts. As silent and fast as mice, we scurry off to hide behind some nearby hedges.

“Is the camera on?”

“Just a second… Yup, we’re a-go!”

“Ok.” The camera turns to Jimmy for a second. “It’s Friday night just before 2 a.m. The weather is perfect. Our team won the football game earlier so everyone’s out right now partying and getting trashed. That door over there we got from our neighbor who was throwing it out. We’ve decided to repurpose it for the night. It’s says ‘DOOR TO NARNIA,’ and we’re going to see how all the drunk people stumbling back to campus will react.”

We then turn off the camera to preserve the battery, only turning it on when people appear.

We don’t have to wait long. The first batch of people stumbles back from the bars—a couple of girls and guys, yelling and shrieking nonsense.

“Look! There’s a door!” Yells one of the girls. She half runs, half hobbles on her high heels to the door, walks around it a few times, then stops in front of it.

Her friends come join her.

“Open it! Open it!” So one of them does.

“It doesn’t go anywhere.” They’re all bummed for a brief second then one of the guys steps through the door, clearly expecting something to happen.

“Still nothing!” Now they are disgruntled. The same guy who failed to make it to Narnia slams the door shut. It teeters for a second but thankfully doesn’t fall.

“Let’s go. I gotta pee,” whines one the girls.

“And my heels are killing me,” whines the other.

So the troupe trudges off into the night.

A dozen more people go through the same experience with the same reactions. One girl is so upset she screams at the door for a good five minutes until someone yells at her from a window of one of the residence halls.

After an hour we’re getting bored and tired and the hilarity of the joke has died. Just as we’re about to pack it up, though, one lone guy makes his way to the door. Clearly inebriated beyond any kind of functionality, it takes him some time to understand what the sign on the door means. Once he does, he grins and does a little jig.

“Shhhweeeet,” he slurs. Opening the door, he steps through then pauses. He looks around, scratches his head, and then grins again.

“I’m in Narnia!” He shouts in glee before starting to sprint across the green. “Aslan! Where’s Aslan!”

“Quick, let’s follow him!” Suggests Jimmy, so we take off after the surprisingly quick drunkard.

“Aslan!” And wouldn’t you know it? The kid had found “Aslan.”

We can’t help but laugh out loud. The drunk has stopped in front of Halwitz Hall where stand two stone lions. He has thrown his arms around one and is crying, “Aslan! I knew I’d find you here!”

We capture it all on film and then leave drunk and lion alone. With no one around, we load up the door and head home for the night.

“I just realized something,” says Jimmy as we relax in our living room with our beers. It’s a little after 3:30 a.m. “What if that kid comes back looking for the door? He’s going to think he’s trapped in Narnia now!”

We all laugh. “Well, at least he’ll have Aslan!”