Ivan Drives

Apr24

Ivan drives the #36 bus route, a long, lurching stop/go, stop/go ride between downtown and north side neighborhoods. Up and down State Street. Back and forth on Broadway.

Ivan is close to retirement and a good pension. He has seven grandchildren who call him Poppa.

Most of the time, he doesn’t pay attention to the rush-hour crowds. They heap in, mournful and glum.

“Move to the back, please,” he says into the loudspeaker. Rarely does anyone listen. He has stopped trying to understand people who choose to bunch up in the front. Ivan makes sure the passengers pay their fares. Sometimes, he’ll deny someone with an expired transfer. Not always, but sometimes.

He’s been a dutiful driver, acknowledged at Transit Authority lunches for his complaint-free record. He’s received special awards too, one for delivering a baby and another for nabbing a pickpocket. He takes only a few sick days every year.

Sometimes, after he’s loaded passengers, he’ll see out of the corner of his eye a commuter running down the street, frantically waving to get his attention so he’ll wait and pick him up.

Sometimes, Ivan will stop.

Other times, he’ll pretend not to see, adjust his seat perhaps or check his schedule.

Then ever so slowly, he’ll apply his foot to the gas pedal and cruise through the intersection, leaving the would-be passenger behind. Ivan will look into his rearview mirror and watch how the mad dash turns into slow motion and resignation. He lip reads the spewed curses and knows he would never use language like that.

Connecting With Readers Over “Human Slices” — Priceless

Apr19

The Visible Human Projectwww.ccmp.ncifcrf.gov

The Visible Human Project
http://www.ccmp.ncifcrf.gov

For any writer, a positive connection with a reader is priceless. When a reader feels compelled to seek me out, I am flattered, overwhelmed, happy, encouraged…and I whistle for days.

I received a Tweet from @taramade, an exuberant reader of my book, Human Slices. She wrote, “Great read, Gloria! Love the museum scenes. I want to see them myself!”

I was over-the-top delighted. When she comes to Chicago, I will be happy to show her around.

By museum scenes, she was referring to the novel’s opening action that takes place at Chicago’s Museum of Science & Industry. One spot is particularly pivotal. The human slices exhibit, comprised of actual cross sections of human bodies, is the first meeting place of the two main characters.

At the human slices exhibit, each rectangular display case jutted out from the wall so that people could observe the slices from both sides. Salm stooped down to examine a shrunken, yellowed stomach from one side of the display case. Playfully, she closed one eye and peered through an open gap between the stomach and the intestines. Through this tiny opening, she could look out to the hallway. She looked left and then right, and then she saw a man appear from around the corner.

The title of the book, of course, is a tribute to that weird and fascinating installation.

I’ve been told time and time again that Human Slices is too freakish for the title of a love story. When I was looking for a publisher, one agent wrote in his rejection letter, “Is there really such an exhibit in a Chicago museum? Your lady’s attraction to body parts seems morbid and ghoulish. You’re making things very tough for yourself.”

I understood, of course, yet I never was able to change the name of the book. I was following the gut feeling emanating from inside my own “human slices,” the same way the female protagonist in the book listens to her heart to find her own truth and happiness.

In spite of the peculiar title, readers still reach for the book and periodically send me some first-rate feedback. It’s so much fun to know that someone has enjoyed it and given my characters a chance to come to life again for a brief moment in time.

A few days after @taramade’s Tweet about the museum exhibit, she posted other enthusiastic comments, like: “Loving all the little details! I forgot to mention the shrimp cocktail wine glass,” and “You come up with the perfect boat of course. A fat little red tug with lots of blankets.”

Next, she shot me a Pinterest photo (below) that reminded her of a scene where the lovers go stargazing in the back of the pickup. The photo she sent was absolutely perfect. @taramade was reading my mind! If a reader can “see what I mean,” I’ve done my job and that’s amazingly gratifying.

I didn’t think her comments could get any better. And then I received one more message…@taramade wrote: “I’m afraid to read too fast…I don’t want it to end!! :)”

Then another reader @La_Raconteur wrote to @taramade: “OMG, isn’t this book simply gorgeous? It’s one of the few I’ve read that immediately captivated me. Perfection! ”

With those most excellent Tweets, my own “human slices” sparked and sizzled inside of me.

I’m still whistling.

Source: Uploaded by user via Helen on Pinterest

Quiet in the Hills — A 259-Word Do Over

Apr17

Special note: Yesterday, I posted the 259-Word story,”Tea with Sydney.” A friend commented on Facebook that it “Reads like the start of a murder mystery.” That comment instantly created a new vision and compelled me to write another story using the same opening lines but with quite a different ending.

We rode the train through the Scottish Highlands to Mallaig, a storybook harbor town surrounded by a jumble of whitewashed buildings.

We missed the last ferry to the Isle of Skye. The man at the dock said, “Sorry. That’s the old schedule.”

Stranded until morning, we booked a room at an inn. The pub wouldn’t open for hours.

“Off for a hike!” Sara tallyhoed in her fake Scottish accent, waving her souvenir walking stick toward the hills that rose up behind town. Her need to make the best of things filled me with rage.

I once loved her joyfulness, spirit, and energy. Now, I hated her.

As we trekked across the countryside, she talked non-stop. “Look…sheep!” she exclaimed. “What a view!” “Flowers!” I usually could tune her out, but today the sound of her voice was unbearable.

In the middle of nowhere, we came upon a red public telephone booth. “Look at that,” Sara said. “Isn’t that odd? Take my picture!”

“How’s this?” She laughed with each new pose. “How’s this?” Every time I saw her open mouth in the viewfinder, I hated her even more.

I put the camera away and nudged her into the phone booth. “Shhhhh,’ I said, placing my index finger on her lips. I pressed against her and kissed her. Hard. It felt good to put my hands around her throat. She tried to scream.

The sun was setting. I would wait until dark to throw her body off the nearby cliff.

I looked out toward the sea. The only sound was the wind.

Tea with Sydney

Apr16

We rode the train through the Scottish Highlands to Mallaig, a storybook harbor town surrounded by a jumble of whitewashed buildings.

We missed the last ferry to the Isle of Skye. The man at the dock said, “Sorry. We’re not on the holiday schedule now.”

Stranded until morning, we booked a room at an inn close to the harbor. The pub wouldn’t open for hours.

“Off for a ramble!” Sara tallyhoed in her fake Scottish accent, waving her souvenir walking stick toward the green hills that rose up behind the town.

We trekked across the open countryside, the terrain alternating between steep climbs and flat expanses with rocky trails. The last thing we imagined we would discover was a red public telephone booth. But we did. Nearby, there was a cottage painted sky blue; the front door, orange; the window trim, bright yellow.