i thought i'd kick off this mostly-writings diary with the piece i'm using for my staff feature in the lit mag this year.

for the moms [a piece of altered-perspective prose]

that morning, i was running a little late. when i got into my car and noticed the cereal my son had spilled all over the floor the day before, i groaned. i was supposed to drive the carpool for my daughter's girl scout troop later, and i knew if i left the cereal as it was, they'd grind it into the carpet with careless feet. i rushed to the gas station to use the vacuum before i had to get to the office.

as the crumbs rattled noisily up the vacuum tube, i heard suddenly a rushing sound, and felt the most terrible pain. i collapsed, and the vacuum, still running, toppled to the ground beside me. i heard shouts; the screech of wheels on pavement; and the last thing i saw before everything went black was the crimson of my own blood desecrating the whiteness of the sugar frosted cereal bits still left on the floor.

when i woke up, it was cold and dark. with an effort i managed to push myself out into daylight, and noticed that in this, i had gone straight through a metal door. a man dressed in hospital scrubs, shivering noticeably, did not show any suprise at seeing me slumped haphazardly on the tile floor; in fact, it was as if he hadn't even seen me emerge from wherever i'd been. i spoke, and he continued writing on his clipboard. frustrated, i jumped at him, and finally he looked up- and i realized that i had passed straight through him. i was dead.

cautiously, i approached him from behind, and read down the list on his clipboard. i saw my name next to the words "#97, death by gunshot wound." to the side was a carefully drawn pencil sketch of crosshairs, and the word 'sniper' angrily crossed out in red ink several times.

i sat again and stared unblinkingly at my companion, who now looked around warily every few seconds, as if expecting someone to jump out and bite off his head. dead? already? i didn't understand. who would drive my daughter's carpool? carla's mom worked nights, and tracey's dad's car was a two-seater. i didn't even get to say goodbye to anyone, to let them know they meant so much to me. i had even fought with my oldest son that morning. go to the concert, and have a good time, i thought to myself belatedly. because if i was dead just from vacuuming out my car, then he could die just as soon, doing anything. i realized too late that life is to be lived- not in fear, but taken firmly by the ear and dragged along with you for the ride. and it's not fair that i died for nothing, but i'd like to think that i lived for something.

with a final scribble on his clipboard, the man walked hurriedly out of the room, looked around one last time, and turned off the lightswitch labeled 'morgue'.

past future

last five entries:
blisters and bruises - 03.18.08
dorsey - 03.13.07
finding peace - 02.02.07
unintentional clean slate - 09.11.06
natural born cyborg - 06.23.06