Flash Fiction Entry #1

The Lights Are On

Tuesday afternoon I became invisible.

The bag boy asked, "Lady, can I get that for you?" When I looked up, he was following some big-haired woman with a baby.

A pinstriped worker bee nearly decapitated me with the coffee shop door. "Hey! I'm standing here,” I hollered.

The postman made no reply to my cheery, "Good morning."

A teenage boy jostled me unmercifully on the bus.

A traffic cop waved cars through the intersection while I waited to cross at the corner. Eventually, I abandoned police protection and walked to the beach the long way round.

For my afternoon repose, I chose a log after weighing advantages both philosophic and maritime. I was about to apply a smoked oyster to a saltine when a group of college students plopped themselves down in front of my log, showering sand on me in the process.

Oysters affect some people that way.

"Excuse me," I said. "I was here first."

The students paid no attention to my protest. They built a fire and put marshmallows on to roast while they distracted themselves with an off-key rendition of The Cat Came Back.

I'm not fussy about music, but I feared they would break into Kumbaya with very little provocation.

"Excuse me. -- Excuse me. -- Excuse me!"

They didn't even turn around.

"You there, boy. Boy? Young lady, excuse me. Now, listen here. Boy. You with the brown hair. Answer me!"

The brown-haired one turned at my final cry, but his gaze swept blankly past me. And then I realized. I was invisible.

How did this happen? Did I fade out slowly like the end of a movie, or pop off suddenly like a soap bubble too long in the sun.

Was it that first gray hair, or those last ten pounds?

I stumbled away from my carefully chosen log to another farther down the beach out of sight of the sea.

Over a dune, the ocean continued its relentless pounding of the shore. Out of sight, the ocean still teemed with life and power.

Power. Maybe being invisible wouldn't be all bad. After all, there always seemed to be opportunities for super heroes. I could become Invisible Woman and do general goodness for no particular reason.

As I predicted, the log-thieving kids broke into Kumbaya, in rounds, no less. Maybe I should wander back and poke sand down their throats. Not something a super hero would do, but villainy might be nice for a change.

I could become INVISO-BITCH and sort out all those who need to be sorted out.

The world's in a general state of disrepair.
The population's hopeless and in despair.
Who's never seen, but always there?
INVISO-BITCH, that's who.

Why hadn't I thought of this sooner?

First on my agenda would be to reach through car windows to snatch cell phones from unsuspecting yuppies. Who the hell are they talking to and why can't they wait until they get home to phone?

What on earth did we do before we could be instantly and constantly connected to every other living being? Was being out of reach all that bad? Plugged in, turned on, wired for sound, video, and instant messages. Here's an instant message. Shut-up already.

After yuppies, isn't it about time someone did something about those men?

Men who stare and whistle. Men who say yes and mean no. Men who think a penis gives them above average abilities. Gynecologists in general.

Men maybe a bigger problem than I first thought.

The thieving kids' bonfire looked cozy. I shivered on my log. I caressed my favorite blue sweater and wondered why was it invisible? Maybe under my clothes, I still had substance. Perhaps, if I threw off my sweater, someone would see me.

INVISO-BITCH may be transparent, but she's not stupid.

Walking back up the beach, no one called out or waved. No one asked if I needed a ride or a light. Even my shadow looked thin.

At my front door, I heard Henry making impatient mewling sounds on the other side. My hand stopped short of the lock when it occurred to me, do invisible people pay rent?

Will the landlord give my little beach house to someone else? Would I be forced to co-exist with brain-dead tourists, or dusty out-of-staters?

I doubt the landlord ever noticed me before, so how could he notice me now? Or not notice me. Would he hear me if I screamed? Would anyone? Should I put smiting landlords on the list?

Invisibility would be trickier than I first assumed.

I opened the door, and Henry bumped my legs and whipped his tail. He wanted his dinner. "Be patient, buster. I've had a hard day."

I fed Henry, all the while daydreaming about whether my super hero costume should be velvet or velour. The insignia was easy to draft. A single up-turned digit with the knuckles outlined in soft blue.

I sat on the couch. Henry hopped up on the coffee table. He stared at me with that laser-like feline concentration that has no equal.

"Henry," I said. "You can see me."

"Meow," he answered.

It occurred to me then, that I had never noticed Henry's fangs.

Was mutual oblivion contagious? Did it blow about on the wind like a virus? Had I brushed too close to a carrier and even now sat seething with indifference? Was there a cure?

I leaned back on the couch. INVISO-BITCH didn't have the answers.

"Oh Henry, " I said. "What are we going to do?"

"Meow," he replied.


I wrote this story one summer in Oregon at a prose workshop led by Ursula LeGuin. I've been searching for an ending ever since. Not sure I've found it yet.

Cats and Kittens

This is a picture of kittens my husband saved from a forest fire. They have nothing to do with the following essay except I was thinking about cats and who doesn’t love a kitten picture? I especially like the WTF look on the kitten on the right.

I recently finished the first script I’ve written following the advice in Blake Snyder’s SAVE THE CAT. The STC method is to get all the beats and scenes down before beginning to write, thus saving yourself the agony of staring into a blank screen wondering, what’s happens now.

It usually takes me six weeks to write a script. Six weeks of butt in the chair, fingers to the keyboard, writing. I may think about the script forever, research for a year, goof off for months, but in six weeks, I can write a screenplay. Every one I’ve written has taken six weeks.

I wrote this script in 25 days. Boy, was I surprised.

I had been thinking about the story for a while, so I didn’t keep track of how long it took to do the prep work. And, of course, I don’t know how it will fare once I send it out into the world. The point is the prep work dramatically decreased the endgame workload.

Put me down as amazed. I am such a dork. I have a learning curve that looks like this.

My next project is a Romantic Comedy even though I wonder if I’m romantic or funny enough to accomplish either. This time I’m keeping track of the prep work too – which you can follow along with in the sidebar because:

1. HTML is so much fun.
   
2. Procrastination makes us all look busy.

This next one is also the project I learned Gaelic for, God help me, so if you come back next year and the status bar still looks like this –

You’ll know it’s because I’ve taken up deep sea diving to learn why the ocean is wet.

Sláinte.

Oscar Night

Way to go, Larry McMurtry.

If I Directed the Oscars

I'd skip the big production numbers. Who cares? We're waiting to see who wins.

Can the fake comedy chatter between presenters. It's not funny, plus we're waiting to see who wins.

Let the winners give their thank-you speeches without rushing. I would not drown out the slow talkers with the orchestra.

That's right. This is (for most) a once in a lifetime career highlight, so let them thank their Moms and 5th grade teachers if they want.

Besides I'll have all that extra time usually spent on pointless big production numbers.

Finally, I'd let the screenwriters sit in the front row. When else will we ever get to see them?

Technology En Masse

I spent Christmas vacation convincing our College Girl to treasure her individuality and not succumb to the latest all-hands fad. Resist the pod invasion, I said.

About a week ago, Apple lowered prices on the low-end iPods, and, you know, who can resist a good sale?

Traitor, cried the College Girl. Baa, I replied.

Some of the advertising for the iPod says, your life deserves a soundtrack. I thought about this the first time I drove around town plugged in to the little white stick with the music in my head loud enough to drown out everything else.

A soundtrack makes me the star of my own movie. Ok, I like that. Of course, that relegates the rest of the people in town to being merely extras. As long as they stay out of my light and eye line, I won’t worry about them. They’re not carrying any major beats or plot points.

Is it a good thing to be able to put the world on IGNORE? Sometimes, I suppose.

Is it disconcerting to be walking through an airport or across a college campus and see everyone tuned in to their own soundtrack? Yes. Especially now you realize you're just an extra in someone else's movie.

Am I turning into one of those old grumps who proclaim the next generation is going to hell in a hand basket?

Not today.

Baa.