see attached january 2012

in this, our third round of the project, participants responded to a single, collaborative first post (above). what follows is not quite a unidirectional series, but rather a collection of narrative beginnings—a fanning out of possibilities stemming from a shared first step.

lucky escape / escape from lucky aug-sept 

never stops

[press play here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QxRe3CzJc6E, then come back and read.]

of the throngs of people behind him, he could really only feel one. this person pressed into Martin’s back with the palms of their hands, which hit just below his shoulder blades. the distance between them was so narrow that Martin could feel the dampness of breath on the the back of his neck. he was disconcerted at being so close to a stranger. the moistness and the forward undulations would be sensual if there wasn’t also an accompanying throaty, menacing growl.

Martin was swept forward, moving in concert with the crowd. he could just make out the plaza—which at one time was all drab and stately columns, but now screamed with brightly lettered demands announced on banners. 

the crowd and Martin moved through an alley toward the artificial light emanating from the plaza. the lusty throb around him collided with the clarified noise of a single, loud-speakered voice. in a register below that, Martin felt the deep, expansive coos of another, larger crowd, with which he was on a collision course.

Martin lost himself, his thoughts falling on a recessed future memory.

in the warmth of the sun, in a garden he has only imagined but never sat in, Luz is sprawled on the bare grass, her wrists shielding her eyes from the sun. Luz’s smile—easy, inviting—radiate kindness as she extends a hand to Martin.

Luz and Martin in another unknown landscape of concrete. the night is balmy, but droplets of perspiration kiss Luz’s forehead as she clutches her knees, trying to catch her breath. she grins and yells, ‘you beat me every time!’ Martin’s body leaks heat and odorous sweat, and yet Luz still approaches, still slips her hand into his for the walk home. 

they sit on bar stools, and Luz doesn’t notice Martin staring straight at and into her; she’s lost in a story she’s telling the stranger next to them. Luz talks enough for them both, enough so that Martin can watch quietly, content just to admire her animated hands and mouth and the smiling laughter from the stranger that she magically coaxes out. Luz reaches the punchline, at which point the stranger yell-laughs, calling for a round of drinks for the three of them, and Luz sneaks a reassured and reassuring glance at Martin.

sharp sirens called Martin back from reverie. 

the crowd moved Martin more tentatively now to the square, which grew louder with angry, worried shots. ‘i should’ve told Luz i’d be here,’ he thought, not wanting to make her anxious, and also thinking, ‘she might’ve wanted to be here, too.’ 

the mix of the sirens, slowed approach, and concern for Luz gnawed at an increasingly apprehensive Martin. ‘maybe i shouldn’t be here,’ he thought, as he spied the line of camouflage-clad police that began to line the narrow gateway between the alley and the plaza. unintelligible noise and screams quickly smothered Martin’s ears.

the person behind Martin shoved him violently, and in the instant that Martin turned around to look, the future lost all certainty.

how the other half leaves
  

we’re both dreaming of the same thing 

LUNCH BREAK FRENZY

my life on paper

the bottom half
 

shoes

Sand

My father’s small photo lay hidden in the folds of my right hand as the prison guard unlocked and slid the gates open into a courtyard. The Chief of Prison Operations looked at me, though I couldn’t see his eyes because the sun had bounced off his thick glasses, making my eyes squint. He had the bearing of a priest—warm eyes, a soft voice, black hair carefully combed back over his skull, and the kind of mouth that, even when relaxed, was slightly upturned at the corners so it looked like he always wore a little smile wherever he went. But I remembered the warnings of the former prisoners about this man, and my hand sharpened into a fist.

“This is the courtyard of the maximum security compound,” he said. I cranked my head to survey the four-sided rectangular clearing, and he led me slowly down the path to the prison hospital, which lay before me— a long gray building with a row of barred windows, where you could still see the swirls and waves of the cement on the walls because no one had even bothered to cover the wall with paint.

But then I looked to my left and saw a long, tall wall covered in a vibrant blanket of swatches of color. My senses fell dead as the waves of red, the speckles of orange, the curlicues of blues washed over my eyes, my ears, and my nose all the way to my fingertips. I could smell the minty dapples of green, taste the sweet, salty, defiant purples, and feel the smooth resplendent browns sprawl over what had to be the largest mural I had ever seen. I didn’t know where to start laying my eyes; in the patch of wall closest to me, a man had been painted to look as though he had teased the rays out of a gorgeous sunset to wrap around his body. His eyes were painted closed, finding solace and comfort in this embrace. Savoring it. I was told that my father, long before he was incarcerated, was a painter. I raised my camera to take a picture.

“No,” the CPO said to me as he nodded to a nearby guard. The little smile was gone from his face. “You can’t take pictures of the wall.”

A shadow came over me and a guard had his hands on my camera.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“You can’t take pictures of anything inside the compound,” he said. I held fast to the straps of my camera but a gust of wind had entered the courtyard, lifting a shower of orange sand over my face and into my eyes, nostrils and mouth. The painting faded away from reaches of my senses. I reached up to clear off the sand and I felt the straps of my camera slide off. The guard had taken my camera, and through the settling dust I could see his dark silhouette walking way.

“You’ll get it back after this visit,” I heard the CPO say as I heaved over and coughed, though the sand remained as though it were a carpet that covered my tongue to roll down into my throat. The air could barely escape my lungs, though somehow I managed to open my eyes a little and saw a small dark square on the ground. I reached for that clump of dust and dirt that contained my father’s portrait before the CPO could see it.

As immediately as it had appeared, the wind had stopped blowing and the sand was no longer furious but watchful from its perch on the ground. I saw the CPO through my squinted eyes, my eyes that were wet with sand, salt, and frustration. The CPO smiled a little. I closed my fingers over the photo in a vice grip, and I stretched the sides of my face upward into a smile.

Then I rolled my tongue around my mouth and spat a burst of sand into the ground. “Let’s move forward,” I said.

wholly other lives

naps on naps on naps

how the other half lives