story

Day 162: Fictional Writing: Veronica Cosh

| Aspergers Girls

I’ve been working on a fictional story for a couple years. I have about 65 pages scribed. The manuscript is still in the infant stages, but I thought it would be fun to introduce the characters to you. They are morphing, as I morph, so I look forward to seeing what becomes of them….I am thinking gorgeous, hot, dark, tall, hunk of unavailable burning love for the main character, though…just saying.

Veronica Cosh and the House of Mirrors

By Samantha Craft

Freda screamed on cue. “Put your lips together and blow, Baby! Blow, blow, blow.” Freda repeated the words again, kicking her stocking-covered legs up and down like a toddler splashing in a shallow pool of water.  Jane tried her best to balance the wobbling ottoman, while shaking her head at Freda and letting loose a flitter of giggles.

Veronica shared a wide smile with Irene.  “I wonder what ever happened to Mr. Blue Eyes,” she queried.

“Oh, scrumptious Mr. Blue eyes,” Freda quickly interjected with a Southern drawl.  She fanned her chubby face. “What eye-candy!”

Veronica raised a narrow-necked glass filled with deep red wine. “To divine Mr. Blue Eyes!”

Irene, meanwhile, kneeled down in front of Freda and pulled out a small wrapped gift she’d hidden under the ottoman, and holding the present high in the air she cheered, “To finger-licking-good, Mr. Blue Eyes.”

“That’s a definite winner, or should I say wiener?” Freda laughed. All the ladies lifted their drinking glasses and toasted, “To finger-licking-good, Mr. Blue Eyes!”

Veronica set her glass down on the table in front of the couch, the light of the crystal lamp igniting a flame in the speckled-green of her eyes.  “You guys shouldn’t have,” she murmured as she gestured to a pile of opened presents near Jane’s feet.  Irene handed the gift to Veronica, while Freda ran her fingers through her bun of silver-gray, gave Veronica a sidelong glance, and referring to the present said, “Maybe this year, you can learn to play Love, Love Me Do.”  Looking pleased with herself, Freda then exhaled an easy-sigh, smoothed her dress and crossed her ample legs, acting as if she was the sort of person that belonged in an English teahouse. After she spoke, Freda pinched off a sizable piece of brownie from the plate she’d held hostage on the arm of the chair. Veronica, in her excitement, tore through the wrapping like a kid in search of a golden-ticket.  “You shouldn’t have,” Veronica exclaimed, holding up a small, unopened blue box, “but I’m so glad you did!”

Irene placed her hands on her hips. “What’s this make now, Harmie, fourteen or fifteen?   Or am I aging you?”

The name Harmie had come into existence quite by accident after a heavy night of drinking.  It was fifteen years ago, near the outskirts of Cannery Row when the same four friends had gathered to celebrate Veronica’s thirtieth birthday.  Veronica, donned in a knee-length tight black skirt, had bent over that night to retrieve something—maybe it was her keys—no one can remember for certain.  Nevertheless, Veronica had leaned down and on her way up the lead singer of the band on stage had pointed straight at Veronica’s rear end and shouted in his Irish-accent, straight into his microphone, “Put your lips together and blow, Baby!”   Unknown to Veronica, in having bent down, the slit of her skirt had pulled slightly apart causing her pink panties to give a peek-performance.  This one event, this one evening, had been wrong in Veronica’s eyes in so many ways. First off, Veronica didn’t wear skirts, but on this one rare occasion had been persuaded by Irene to evade her well-worn, easy-fit jeans. Secondly, Veronica didn’t like to drink alcoholic beverages, except once or twice a year, and when she did, as in all the previous nights of her birthday, she limited herself to one special drink, like a well-aged red wine. And lastly, and perhaps most importantly, Veronica didn’t frequent bars, and quite frankly hadn’t step foot in one since the 1980’s when her and her younger cousin used their fake IDs to sneak into a surfer bar in downtown La Jolla. All in all, Veronica avoided crowds, and how she’d wound up in a tight skirt, drunk in a crowded bar, was beyond her.

After Veronica’s panties had made their evening debut, Veronica had shot up and braced herself against the high circular bar table, her blushing cheeks mirroring the violet-hues of her trussed up hair.  At that point, she almost jetted across the crowded pub but was instantly distracted by wide-eyed Freda spouting pink bubbles from her nostrils. It was then, as Veronica glanced over at the stage, that beneath the glints of lights, she spotted the lead singer still smiling.  He gestured toward a stout bald man holding a harmonica, and said to the silenced crowd, “Put your lips together and blow, Joe!”  He lifted up his frothing beer and toasted the house, explaining in his brusque accent, “Our band is named after the harmonica company in the town of Trossingen Germany, near the Swiss boarder, the original birthplace of the beautiful harmonica.”  He then set his beer down on a barrel and pulled out his silver harmonica from his leather waist-holster.  “Please, continue to enjoy this lovely evening, while I give you a wee sampling of what this lovely instrument can do.”  For the next few minutes, he pressed his lips together and blew out Love, Love Me Do, as the tipsy ladies at Veronica’s table all sat mesmerized in their high stools.

Irene had clapped, secretly harboring a hope that the Irishman would hold an impromptu pop-quiz on the subject of harmonicas, offering his chiseled body out as the providential main prize.  Her thoughts had travelled to the string theory she’d heard about at a recent quantum physics lecture.  The professor, a rather distinguished-looking man, had compared the universe to a slice of bread:  “Our world and the planets above are all a part of one big loaf of bread, one thin slice, and the other universes, or alternate realities, are right next to us, other slices of bread, completely oblivious to us, as much as we are to them.” Irene happened to know lots of miscellaneous facts.  She’d inherited her father’s satiable appetite for learning, and unable in her early years to settle her mind on what exact career path to follow, Irene could tell you practically anything about the subjects related to music appreciation, C.S. Lewis, tarot cards, beginning watercolor, human sexuality, and cultivating irises.  Irene would have been the first to admit back then that she was cursed with the decisiveness of a ricocheting pinball.  She’d realized early on she wouldn’t be able to choose a college major, even if the life of her cat depended on it.  And sighing to herself in the bar that night, she had pictured the morbidity of her circumstances, in only a way Irene could—she saw her plump cat spread out and nailed like a skinned-squirrel skin to a wooden fence.  And in this drunken vision, heard an ominous voice call out from beyond: “Pick a college major or I’ll kill little Kit-Kat.”  But Irene, at that time in her life, could not have made up her mind.  Not even to save her precious Kit-Kat’s life.

Shaking her head from side-to-side, Irene had refocused on the singer on stage, and made a mental note not to drink too much again.  The song ended.  The crowd cheered.  And standing at Veronica’s side, back on the same slice of bread with everyone else in the bar, Irene squeezed her eyes together, trying to make out if the lead singer was winking at her, and thought for a fleeting moment, maybe she’d study to be an optometrist.

When the band Hohner Harmonicas was on break, the brawny singer made his way past the crowded bar to the ladies.  For a short moment Irene thought maybe, just maybe, it would be her lucky night.  Shy Jane, who was now nursing a bottle of mineral water, was the second to notice the broad shouldered Irishman approaching.  She had nervously tapped Veronica and then peered over the top of her gold-rimmed glasses, flashing her silver braces.  Reaching the table, the singer offered a polite, “Hello Ladies.”  Then, quite unexpectedly, he dipped into his holster, pulled out his silver Golden Melody harmonica, and wrapping his lips around the piece, and playing to no one in particular, blew out the tune to Happy Birthday.  All the girls clapped, including Jane who kept her hands hidden under the table.  The singer, upon finishing, slipped his wet harmonica into Veronica’s empty glass.  “For you, Lovely, for being such a good sport,” he said.  The word Lovely dipped down, up, and then down again, riding the waves of his Irish dialect. Dreamy sighs had circled the table. Mature Freda, busted up laughing. “Thank you, Mr. Blue Eyes,” she giggled. The Irish musician then dabbed Freda on her button nose, winked, and smoothly turned around. Sauntering back deep into the bar, he faded away gradually beneath the blinking lights strung across the high wooden rafters.

That’s how it all started, because that is the precise moment Irene, still panting from the mere brushing of the brawny man’s hairy bare arm against her skin, had held up the silver harmonica to Veronica, and proclaimed loudly, “Veronica Harmonica, press your lips together and blow, Baby!”

Through the years the name had been dutifully shortened from Harmonica to the more suitable and endearing, yet still annoying, Harmie.

~~~~~~~~~~~

© Everyday Aspergers, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. https://aspergersgirls.wordpress.com

Day 151: The Quiet Room

| Aspergers Girls

After yesterday’s post I feel like my panties are dangling down around my ankles. Feeling fully exposed here. I’m not embarrassed or ashamed of what I shared. Long past those emotions. I am human and have had hard times, like us all. But I feel a bit naked in my exposure of self, having had shared such a vital part of my life without much explanation.

I think it is important to understand that at the time of my nervous breakdown I had been on a low dose anti-depressant to control my chronic muscle pain. The medication entirely numbed me emotionally for years. I lived very much like a robot. I couldn’t cry even when I was sad. And I couldn’t feel the depths of my experience. I was in less pain, but had no emotions. I was numb in all aspects.

Being numb to myself had major drawbacks. I didn’t have an off button, or anything to balance my actions. Feeling nothing, I had no way of checking in with myself. I no longer knew exhaustion. I gradually became an over-achieving, control freak. Eventually, I started to despise more and more of who I was, and recognized the real me was covered and masked underneath. I decided, without consulting anyone and without being aware of the dangers, to stop my anti-depressant. In my eyes the drug was serving as a painkiller and little more. I didn’t understand that in stopping the prescription that my brain chemistry would go all haywire.

Within days of stopping, my appetite came back so strongly that I couldn’t stop eating. I gained five pounds in two days. And much worse, my serotonin levels plummeted making everything look bleak. And my emotions, they returned in a mad rush. I felt like I was opening a  storm door of emotions that had all been hidden in an expansive closet for half a decade.

After several weeks, I couldn’t stand the intensity of emotions and my huge appetite—I could actually taste life and food again but was out of control—so I started back on the medication. Reintroducing the anti-depressant into my system led to suicidal thoughts. This is when I ended up in the admissions to the psychiatry ward. I’m not saying the medication caused my breakdown but it definitely altered my brain chemistry enough to push me over the edge.

The Quiet Room

After two colored pills, I entered the last room at the end of the hall. Muffled snores, bleach, staleness—each welcomed me.

I found my bed.  I pulled off my sweatshirt and spread it across the pillow.

Darkness.

I stared up at the shadowed ceiling.

There was no sleeping.

As midnight approached, I stepped through the vacant corridor, light and clumsy, like a puppet pulled by a master puppeteer.  “I can’t sleep in there,” I mumbled, looking at the nurse’s wide forehead.  “I can’t sleep with a stranger in my room.”  I lowered my eyes to her white shoes, long laces, scuffed toes.

The nurse looked me over with a cynical smile.  “What are you afraid of?”

I felt a punch to my stomach.  “I just can’t sleep in there,” I answered.

Huffing, the nurse pulled down her glasses. “Fine, come with me, then.”

I padded down the hall, thinking I might fall down, hoping I would wake up, knowing this was surely hell.  The tall nurse stopped.  She edged her eyes around me, trying to see inside.  “You can stay in the Quiet Room for the night.  But it’s not where you are supposed to be.”

Chastised, I didn’t move.  I knew this wasn’t where I was supposed to be.  None of this place was where I was supposed to be.  She didn’t know me…

The rest of this story can be found in the book Everyday Aspergers.

 

Day 150: The Faded Sun

| Aspergers Girls

The Faded Sun

“Was it your voice or another voice that told you to kill yourself?” the stranger asked.

“My own voice,” I whispered from a mouth I could no longer feel.

I brought myself forward in a chair, a purposeful push, only to prove to myself I could move, that my brain synapses fired.  I nodded solemnly in the direction of a blank white space.  There was a stain in the high corner.  I was unable to focus, unable for the first time to pretend.  I had always been able to follow someone, to take the cue from the people around me.  Here I could not.  Here, though I was clothed, I was stripped naked, paralyzed with the thought that there were no answers…

 

The rest of this story can be found in the book Everyday Aspergers

 

Maui 2012

 

Day 130: The Two Cups

| Aspergers Girls

I recognize this as a very odd post. This second chakra awakening, passion, or transition—whatever words are chosen to attempt to decipher what is occurring for me at a soul and cellular level, is directly related to reclaiming the spirit in me that was lost in my youth. My sensitive nature, depth of soul, and ability to take in extreme amounts, coupled with the circumstances of my childhood, led me to lock a large portion of my self away.

This portion locked away, was largely the part which knew I was beautifull, knew I was worthy, and knew I was desirable. When very young, I learned how not to live, how not to show joy, how to in effect dislike myself and my body in order to survive.

In knowing this now, with a profound awakening on multiple levels, I am holding a cup in either hand. To the right of me is the hope of this now found passion. To the left, balancing my position, are the memories. I am seeing how each feeds the other. The erupting passion on one side, the imploding self on the other. The flame and the joust.

Here I place the cups before you. Experience as you’d like. For we each stand with two cups. All equally balanced in beauty.

Embracing Me

One of the reasons I am taking photos of myself lately is to embrace the beauty that is me. I never have seen me before. Seen how very lovely inside and out I am. This is part of my growth process. My hair is usually unbrushed and I wear no makeup, say lip gloss. It’s raw, it’s real, and it’s fresh. I love it. 

Breaking Free
Maui 2012

Flame

Naked

He beckons

The depths of me

Fingers dripped in sweet

Honey-suckle nectar

Lips moist

Dew upon the fields of sunrise

Strawberry mist

Pours through

A damp fire of longing

Reclaims pleasure

Lighting the avenue of discontent

With fierce flames of gentle dragon

Until

Devoured by desire

I taste

The phantom of celestial union

Kissing ghosts

Where we once breathed

Beauty
Maui 2012

Switching the MOOD back to LOVE here. One of my FAVORITES…. This video WILL make you smile. I promise…and this is where I am today…in this state of mind. 🙂

Day 129: How to Love

| Aspergers Girls
Me and my nano

How to Love

There wasn’t any reason to hide, at least not at first.  But I crawled inside my tiny closet anyhow, me and my red plastic piggybank.  Inside the squared-space that was layered in frilly dresses and the smell of cedar sticks, I would hold tight to my piggy and pretend.

At first I could imagine Father was back; and not just once or twice, but all the time.  In my thoughts he’d hold me tight, bounce me up and down on his knee; and  then he’d stand up, grab hold of my hands, and twirl me so fast I’d fly up off my feet.  And we’d laugh, giggle so hard the tears would pearl at the corner of our matching oval eyes, his with the amber light, mine with the deep ebony.

Inside the dark of the cramped space, I’d travel back to my silver-haired nana’s adobe-style house, the one with the red-clay roof tiles and the white stucco face, that sat on a steep hill on Washington Street, a one mile hike up from the barking sea lions basking on the rocks at Fisherman’s Warf in Monterey.  I’d breathe in and remember a time before, a time before I understood how homes, and heads, and hearts could break.

There in my memories, my petite nana scooped me up effortlessly and dotted me in tangerine-orange kisses, while my smiling Aunt Rose Marie squished and rearranged my cheeks.  And stout Nano, after leaning over and flashing his bald spot, winked and pulled on my earlobe, offering out a kindly, “We love you, Little Sam.”

Father was there, too, moving in his own cautious way, inching forward and offering everyone his one-arm embrace.  I’d tried to make him different in pretending, make him hug me tight and kiss my cheeks, but the truth always had a way of winning out.

I’d see us all napkin-bibbed at our seafood feast, so that it seemed with the salty air we were all fisherman sailing the ocean waves.  As we cracked open crab legs and peeled tiger-shrimp, Nano stitched together grand fisherman tales in an Italian accent as thick and refreshing as homespun ice-cream. Afterwards, with bellies filled, we all helped with the dishes, me with my very own floral dishtowel, and my wide smile still swathed in pizza sauce.

Nano took his leave soon, snuck out to the back porch with a big platter of scraps.  Two minutes later, when Nano reentered the house with a lick-cleaned plate, looking more satisfied than he let on, he muttered, “Damn cats.  I hate cats,” and then held onto his belly, gave me a wink, and chuckled.

Sometime after seven, when all the plates were stacked neatly back in cupboards, the plastic tablecloth wiped clean, and the eight-track tape of Italian music drifting through the room, we gathered round the table for a game of penny poker.  Holding the cards proved somewhat cumbersome, but somehow I managed to win every single hand, and in doing so compiled a stack of pennies:  ten-high and ten-long.

“One hundred pennies; look how great you did,” Aunt Rose Marie would laugh.

I smiled with eyes of pride, and then reached down and yanked at my stockings. It was possible, I found out, to stack the pennies the height of my mug of hot chocolate before they tumbled down.  Nana leaned over and braced herself against the edge of the table, saying softly to my father, “You need to bring her more often.  We miss her.  And we miss you.”  Then she looked over at me.  “We have a surprise.”

My dark-haired aunt came forward carrying a plastic piggybank loaded with coins.  Though it was only a smidgen bigger than the palm of my little hand, I was amazed.  For the next several minutes everyone watched, as I cradled the plastic piggy.

“Now you save that.  It’s not to open.  Put it in a special spot.”  Nana turned from me, pulled down her silver-framed glasses, and eyed her son.  “You’ll bring her again soon, won’t you?”

Father nodded and stood up to retrieve my small wool coat from the back of my chair. “Yes,  I’ll bring her soon,” he answered, as I slid into my coat, holding my piggy tighter.

Mother would arrive long after supper, all done up—the fair Audrey Hepburn—her curves hugged by a linen suit of strawberry-milkshake. “Hello, Beautiful,” she would say, fussing over my blue-silk hair ribbons.  I would gaze up at Mother, then, with my deep brown eyes and tug on my braid.  I savored the word beautiful much like I did Nana’s hard taffy candies which left my tongue all purple and sweet.

 

Nana and Nano