Day of the Dead Sets the Scene — An Excerpt from Human Slices, a Love Story

Español: tradicional ofrenda del dia de los mu...

Photo credit: Wikipedia

On a rainy first of November many years ago, my friend Anne took me to Chicago’s National Museum of Mexican Art for its Dia de los Muertos celebration. I was immediately smitten by the altars, those skeletons, the offerings, the colors. That first Day of the Dead experience still dances in my bones. (Thank you, Annie!)

When I was working on the closing scenes of my novel Human Slices, I imagined my female protagonist heartbroken and numb at Halloween. Then she went off and created a Day of the Dead altar.

Whenever this day comes around, I think of this scene with Salm — which is her odd little nickname for her longer nickname, Little Salmon. Here’s an excerpt from the last chapter of Human Slices.

Happy Dia de los Muertos!

As the wet autumn leaves squeaked underfoot, Salm lugged four small pumpkins up the stairs to her apartment. She spread several Sunday papers onto the kitchen floor and sat down, putting the pumpkins between her legs. She cut deep wounds around their stems, and after pulling off the tops, she settled in for the best part of the job—digging her hands into the cold slime and separating the stringy innards from the seeds.

She spent the early evening washing the pumpkin seeds, salting them, and baking them in her oven. She was going to take the seeds to Sylvia and Reed’s tomorrow. They had just moved in together, and they were having a Day of the Dead celebration in conjunction with their housewarming party. Reed had told her he had a mild addiction to pumpkin seeds. While the seeds cooked, Salm sliced unhappy geometric expressions into the pumpkins’ faces.

Sylvia had introduced Salm to the Day of the Dead rituals—Dia de los Muertos—years ago. It was the day the dead came back to visit the earth. Creating an altar with candles was essential. The altar honored their memory, and the candles guided their way.

After the pumpkins were carved, Salm lined them on top of her kitchen table. She went into her pantry and dug out the voodoo candles she bought at Maxwell Street last year—thick, round candles encased in sparkling glass. Her cats followed Salm from room to room as she roamed her apartment, picking up assorted mementos—photographs, bits of memorabilia, postcards, souvenirs, a book of poetry, letters, holy cards.

On her bureau, she found Luke’s dog magnets. She arranged and rearranged everything until the memories were in their right places. Then she sprinkled the entire creation with glitter. Satisfied with the altar’s look, she rummaged through the cabinet under her sink to find an old bottle of mescal and poured herself a double shot. She lit the candles and turned off the overhead light.

She sat at the kitchen table and watched the candles flicker. “To the dead,” she began, lifting the shot glass to her eyes and squinting through it. She threw the fiery liquid down her throat.

Salm toasted to the pumpkins. “To Dad.” She sighed.

“Aunt Elaine, Grandma and Grandpa Collins, Big Fred, Grandma Penszak.” She sat in silence.

“To Sandy, my guardian angel, Bobby Kennedy, Uncle Walt, Theresa, Peter. Jennifer, Cal, Les, Stuart, Rick, Terrence.”

As always, Luke was on her mind. “To Luke’s parents, his Uncle Jerry, Greg, Anne Marie and all the rest.” She felt a certain numbness from the mescal overtaking her fingers and toes.

“To all of the lovers and friends who are dead…really dead…and the ones who are dead to me from absence.” She felt tears burn in her eyes.

“And, of course, to Luke.” She spoke quietly and solemnly.

The candle flames quivered and swayed, catching and reflecting the light of the raindrops on the window.

Salm sat still for a long, long time.

She thought she heard a knock at the back door, but it must have been a branch, or a tipped garbage can being blown down the alley.

“It’s open,” she thought to herself. She remembered saying that to Luke so many times.

There was another knock. She looked up to the back door and thought she saw Luke’s image through the screen. She wondered if the mescal could cause such a hallucination.

“Salm?” Luke said quietly.

Human Slices is available for Kindle and in print on Amazon.

Day of the Dead~Día de los Muertos (metaphysicalsciences2012.wordpress.com)
Decoding The Day of the Dead (blogher.com)
Dia de los Muertos: A spiritual celebration for the departed (voxxi.com)
Day of the Dead celebrations alive and well (usatoday.com)

Auxonne, 1654

Jun6

In 1654, on a perfect spring day in Auxonne, France, Rupert L’Estrange — at last! — took his beloved Christina to bed. Without hesitation or fear, their exquisite bodies sought frantic pleasure atop white linens….until Christina’s husband stormed in.

“Philippe! No!” Christina cried as Philippe lifted Rupert off the bed and slammed him to the floor. He kicked him hard in the stomach. And kicked him again.

Philippe grabbed Christina by her thick black hair and struck her face. “No, Philippe! No!” Rupert struggled to his feet. He had to save her.

Christina looked at Rupert; Rupert looked back at her. Philippe saw in their eyes the unquenchable passion they had for each other.

Enraged, Philippe pulled out his dagger and slashed Christina’s throat.

At the site of her slumped body, Rupert let out a moan that came from deep inside his soul. Numb from sorrow, he didn’t even feel the dagger that Philippe drove into his side.

Death came in an instant. But his scream didn’t stop.

The sound of Rupert’s agony echoed in Philippe’s mind until he was driven to madness and hung himself from the highest beam in the stable.

Nearly 349 years later, a yowling little dog, a mix of fluffy and sweet, appeared on YouTube.

When the dog’s owners chanted “Rooo-pert, Rooo-pert,” the dog spun in circles, startled and scared, not sure what horror lived inside of him.

The dog howled. It wasn’t a dog howl, but the agonizing moan of a demon.

It was the eternal pain, the eternal scream of Rupert L’Estrange.

Fresh-Cut Flowers

May13

Early in the morning, Marisa sat at her computer, apathetically reading through the news feed pronouncements on Facebook. She stopped scrolling when she saw that the man she loved for oh so long had posted a photograph of a glass vase filled with bright yellow flowers. In the comment box, he wrote only one word: Daffodils.

He used to buy flowers like those for her.

Throughout their years together, he had made sure that the vase on the table next to her side of the bed always had flowers in it. Lilies, orchids, mums, forsythia.

Now he bought flowers for someone else.

Marisa looked at the daffodils in the photograph — their saturation of color, the ruffled petals. She wondered how flowers themselves could look so absolutely happy, almost giddy.

Marisa knew that if she had seen this photo posted during the dark days of the past winter, she would have wept, sobbing sobs that would leave her feeling vacant and drained. She may have curled up in a ball, pulling her comforter over her head, abandoning all hope of surviving the big black sinkhole of pain that grew inside of her.

But that was then. The longer days of spring had arrived.

Marisa decided that the first thing she would do today was buy herself fresh-cut white tulips. She would carefully arrange the flowers in a glass vase and set them on the nightstand next to her bed.

The tulips would turn toward the sun, and each day, their petals would open wider, reaching out toward new beginnings.

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.