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 |  It’s basically my brain vomiting through my fingertips. Bring a poncho. Splash zone… |
| I’m the kind of guy we all look at and unintentionally describe as “Oh, bless his heart”… |
Slamming his bony hip against the metal of the Gremlin door, Grayson cursed while the casserole dish he clutched against himself shifted weight. He bit his bottom lip as he grappled with the dish. He regained control, but as his head wrenched toward the other cars parked on the gravel driveway, the lid slid off and shattered on the harsh rocks. Grayson sighed. Kyle wasn’t here yet, but there weren’t many cars. The gross heat was firing down from the sun, and Grayson’s skin was pushing sweat from the pores. The tepid breeze was only a tease across his face as leaves of the large oaks slapped together. The mockingbird screeched their litanies of calls, the eternal symphony of the Oklahoman summer while grasshoppers launched into the safety of higher grass: organic missiles threatening to bombard whoever might get in the way. The thirty-nine-year-old calculated his steps, balancing on the gravel before the front walkway. The wooden door was open, but the glass one was locked. He peered inside and knuckled the doorbell. After a few seconds, a silhouette appeared and neared the barrier, the weak, metal knob twisting, and then the door was open, and here was a woman he did not recognize. The cold, humid air from the air conditioner pricked his face, the perfect temperature for a morgue. “Grayson?” the woman asked, her silicone-pumped cheeks somehow rising above her ears as she smiled. She smudged the glass with her fingerprints as she pushed the door open, maintaining a natural balance while holding her glass of red wine. “How are you? I’m Kyle’s best friend, Mitzi. Oh, no!” she said when she saw the remains of the casserole lid. “It looks like you had an accident. Well, come on in, don’t just stand there gettin’ sweaty! Kyle texted about twenty minutes ago, said he’d be late gettin’ here. Come in, honey, the kitchen is jut through there.” She waved to the rear of the house with her wine-hand, the alcohol sloshing too close to the brim of the glass. He pushed through the entry, a tight fit considering Mitzi’s awkward and new breasts, and he waited for her to close the door before moving in front of him to lead the way. “Make yourself at home!” Mitzi said, a command commonly offered to guests in Oklahoma. “This is the livin’ room! Don’t mind the mess, the boys’ve been over. And this is the kitchen.” She snatched the bowl from him, his arms limp and uncontrollable. “I didn’t realize that was so heavy,” he said. He shook his wrists. “I’m Grayson, and it’s nice to meet you.” He scanned the kitchen, a cozy space with room for no more than two people at a time. The counters were clean though cluttered with two-liter bottles of soda, and it smelled like a mama’s kitchen. Mitzi buzzed around, placing the lasagna Grayson brought on the stove. “Can I get you a drink? There’s beer, but the kids done got the vodka out by ten this morning.” “It was after eleven, mama!” a male voice said from beyond the kitchen. Grayson stepped back and looked to his right. Through the doorway, he peered into another room, a second living room more worn than the one before the kitchen. On an over-stuffed green couch was a larger kid, maybe even a younger man with brown, messy hair, a month past needing a haircut. He was playing some game system, the wireless controller gripped in his white-tipped fingers. “Bobby Don, it was not!” Mitzi said back to him. Her voice cut through the air, an abrasive shrill, and Grayson’s eyebrows scrunched together as his eye twitched. He rubbed his face, checking to make sure the other two were too engaged in their conversation to notice his expression. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. There was one missed notification, a reminder of his doctor’s appointment the next day. He clamped his mouth, his teeth sawing into themselves, working against each other. “Mama, Tyler just walked by the window!” Bobby Don said. “God, what does he want?” Mitzi said she placed Grayson’s dish onto the stove. “Hey, hey, Mama Mitzi!” Tyler said as he opened the backdoor. He spotted Mitzi and smiled, and then he looked around the room and paused when his eyes stopped at Grayson’s. “Tyler, this is Kyle’s boyfriend,” Mitzi said. “Grayson, this is Tyler, the boyfriend of my daughter Darlenna.” “Nice to meet you,” Grayson said as he took the younger man’s hand in his own. A curious grip still sent electricity up Grayson’s arm, the hair standing as stiff as needles poking into his skin. He searched Tyler’s dark, brown eyes, and as he pulled his hand away, he glanced around, but nobody noticed his reality slowed down for a moment. Tyler returned the stare, his brows pushing down toward his nose. His mouth was open, a sliver of teeth framed by pink lips. “What do you want?” Mitzi asked. She captured Tyler in her sights, and she crossed her arms as her own eyebrows went further up on her head than Grayson realized could be done by any human. “I ain’t goin’ to git more vodka, Tyler. The damn store is closed today.” “No, that’s not-“ “There’s tequila down in your freezer, I know for a fact!” Mitzi said. “I went down to git some deer steaks the other night, and don’t think I didn’t see y’all’s stash. Quit drinkin’ all my alcohol when you got your own. I’m not gonna tell y’all again.” “Damn, Ma, can I not get through the door without you yellin’ at me?” Tyler asked. “I’m not here for alcohol or anything like that at all. Dar-dar wants to know if you have a couple of Xanax left so she can come be social.” “Oh, Jesus Christ,” Mitzi said, turning to the counter and retrieving her purse. After she shuffled around for a few minutes, and after the two men in the kitchen side-eyed each other, Mitzi succeeded in finding her bottle. She opened it, took a couple of the pills, and placed them in Tyler’s hand. “She’s gotta stop this.” She made eye contact with Tyler, and Grayson shifted, stepped back from the tension. “I’ll tell her,” Tyler said as he moved to the door. He placed his hand on the handle, then turned back to look at Grayson before leaving. “Every time he calls me some form of ‘mom’, I just wanna take my cake beater to his taint at full blast,” Mitzi said as she shook her head. “Tyler left the house!” from the other room. “No crap, Bobby Don!” Mitzi said. She looked at Grayson while shaking her head. “I swear, that boy is about as helpful as balls on a bullfrog. Anyway, that was Tyler. He and Dar live in the ground level of the house.” “This isn’t the ground level?” “Oh, no. Come here, honey,” Mitzi said as she waved Grayson over to the back windows. He was looking down over their pool surrounded by concrete, banana trees placed every few feet on the other side. A wooden fence separated the yard from the expanse of green grass growing just beyond. There were horses munching at their leisure, picking the sweeter grasses near the dirt. Dotting the landscape nearby were machines and tools for horse-training, like a walker to which a horse could be attached to train it how to be led. A small pond reflecting the sun into his eyes just to the left of the stables was surrounded by a few of the equines, bending down to slake their thirst. And down by the pool, Grayson watched Tyler walking the concrete, a tall cup with a straw in his hand. Shirtless with only baggy shorts and a pair of flip-flops, Tyler sauntered to one of the sunning chairs, his calves flexing as he dug his toes in for balance. He sat his drink down, his bicep moving like silk, then plopped onto the plastic seat. He lounged on the chair and spread his legs wide with his head facing the window, and Grayson moved away from the clear glass. “This is a nice house,” Grayson said as he turned into the kitchen. “So, did Kyle say when he’d be here?” “Oh, yeah,” Mitzi said as she walked back to the counter and filled her glass with red wine. “He said he’d be about half an hour late. I dunno. Something about inventory needin’ to get done. That little punk took a bottle of wine. Damn it, Tyler!” “I feel like you don’t really care for Tyler,” Grayson said. “I really don’t,” Mitzi said, gulping her wine and pouring another glass. “He’s a tool. All he does is sit around with my daughter wasting my time and spending my money. He ain’t had a job since I’ve known him. The boy is as worthless as tits on a grasshopper.” “I don’t think grasshoppers have-“ “Grab something to drink. We’re gonna go down to the pool and talk real loud. Maybe it’ll run that little tampon away from my pool.” She waited while Grayson reached into the fridge and grabbed a soda. When finished, she led the way out the door and across the porch. As they walked down the stairs, Mitzi’s boisterous and abrasive voice asked Grayson about his job. “I’ve been teaching the juniors English for two years now,” he said as they sat in chairs across the pool from Tyler. Grayson sat on the side of the chair facing Mitzi. “So you’ve kept the same job for two years? And you’re making a difference in the world? Tyler! Tyler! Are you hearin’ this? Some people can get a job and keep it longer than a week!” “I see what you’re doin’, Ma,” Tyler answered. He slighted his head one degree, a display declaring he was listening. “I’m goin’ after the holiday to look for a job.” He pulled one leg up, his baggy shorts crating a cavern of temptation.Tyler wouldn’t have his junk out in front of his mother-in-law, but, just in case, Grayson turned his head more toward Mitzi as he ignored the man across the water. In the silence as Mitzi glared at Tyler, the sounds of grasshoppers and cicadas echoed through the trees. The heat was thick as it strong-armed Grayson’s lungs, his chest heaving in gulps. “How long have you and Darlene been mooching off me as a unit now?” Mitzi asked. “We’ve been together for almost two years,” Tyler said. His mouth parted more when he spoke, a smile playing with his pink lips as he exposed a picket-fence of white teeth just behind them. He curled his toes and stretched his leg out. His body lifted from the chair, muscles tensing as sweat glistened on his tan skin. Fine, black hair clung to his body as they exposed the path of sweat-trails, moisture bursting onto his skin before sliding down either side of his barely-protruding belly. The waistband of his shorts were a different shade of green than the rest of the material, saturated by the sweat. He arched, his body tight as he groaned his pleasure. As his body relaxed, there was a smirk replacing the innocent and playful smile. Grayson jerked his head back to Mitzi as a desperate heat splotched into his cheeks, a fire untouched by even the sun on this miserable day. |
| Alexis Rose: “What’s your favorite season?” Moira Rose: “…awards.” ~Schitt’s Creek ”Are "The Quills"  Important?”No matter how we feel about awards season, we instantly think of glitz in glamour and ornate celebrations. The trophies themselves are a nice addition to any collection, I’d imagine. WDC is gearing up for the awards known as "The Quills" . Though I’ve only been on this site for just over a year, I was unable to escape the feeling of excitement for those I’d met who were nominated last year. It’s fun to see those rewarded for their talents, and the live show made it that much more fun. I don’t care who you are, there’s something fun about hearing your name recognized for the talent you’d lived for the last year. Again, I’d imagine. But do The Quills mean anything for real?As writers, we work hard to understand the more abstract way to implement literary devices that give a story its depth and relatability, devices such as sleight-of-hand, misdirection, building suspense and foreshadowing. When he handle that kind of power, we make a promise to the reader they will have a satisfying experience, and maybe they’ll even put the book down as a more enlightened person. We build trust as the reader stops analyzing the surface of the story in order to see a bigger picture. But most importantly, the writer’s voice and message endure with confidence. Awards validate that credibility; they substantiate we know what we’re doing. However, by its fallible nature, awards aren’t always bestowed upon the best piece, and there are a lot of pieces that will never win nor receive the recognition they deserve, bringing us to the next point of importance. The attention and credibility bring into question the definition of “merit” and what standards are set by your definition. If you’ve ever researched what “literary merit” is, you’ve found every answer, including non-answers, and each standard seems to be a variation of the one before it. Points on which most seem to agree include sustainability of plot, character development, the greater message of the piece, and the contribution it adds to the spirit of the time in which it was written. In the world of writing, it seems as if this is what we work for, to be a voice important to our world. The importance of awards shape the state of the craft and its future. As we decide what merit means, we take a step back to see writing relative to its entirety while we push the art one step further. The more we analyze where we’ve been and where we are, we predict and have an idea where we’re heading. This is what the reigning species will be studying in a thousand years, the greater singular voice comprised of many voices, experiences, and hours labored. Outside of the microcosm of WDC, The Quills might not manifest your dreams, won’t land that perfect deal or agent, but the importance of these awards, even for those who stay “nominees”, the importance of the awards cannot be dismissed. Everyone involved is contributing to the zeitgeist and shaping where the future of the craft. To be the descendants of greats such as Whitman and Wilde, to be the ones massaging our art to define it…what an exciting time to be contributors to our genre and to celebrate every member in the writing community! |
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