Why don't you ever write happy endings she asked, looking up at him from her side of the bed. She was prostrate, her head propped up on one elbow the other arm akimbo, the latest issue of Marie Claire open beside her.
"Happiness isn't interesting, Nadine. Nothing happens to characters who are content."
"Oh," she replied. "Still, it's always so bleak, so hopeless."
"That's what makes compelling reading," he said, putting down the manuscript he'd been editing to look at her over the rim of his glasses. Normally she would have been wearing flimsier night clothes. Something chiffon with spaghetti straps or a nightshirt enticingly unbuttoned. But this spring and early summer had been punctuated by cold nights and she was dressed accordingly.
"Would people show up at an air show if there wasn't the possibility of a crash?"
She looked at him sideways and sighed. "Isn't there a middle ground, somewhere between boring and plane crash?"
"There is, he said, "but it's where we already live. All of us. We're waiting for the plane crash but the most exciting things get for most of us is a trash can knocked over by a raccoon, or even better, the neighbor's trash can."
He waxed on, as he was prone to do, there was nothing he enjoyed more than talking, which was unusual for a writer.
"You see Nadine, only teenagers and senior citizens want happy endings. The former because they think that's the way things should be and the latter because experience has taught them it's the way things aren't."
How can I be with someone who doesn't comprehend the basics of good fiction he wondered. Someone who will never understand. She had gone back to her magazine, as if discussion of his life's work and her complete ignorance of it was just a passing thought to her, something to consider while flipping from the table of contents to this month's feature stories. He closed his eyes and saw the years stretching out ahead of him, endless taxiing down a runway with no hope of ever taking off.
The two of them in a workable but tasteless relationship, getting along but not getting what they ultimately need. And yet here they were and he wasn't sure he had the energy to change things. Happy endings were neither fact nor fiction. Maybe that was their appeal - and their repulsion.
Outside a dog, misunderstood or neglected, barked to be let in.


Better Late

Barreling down the road in her station wagon, Bet ignored the dirty look from the old man but then she passed the dour-faced woman walking the basset hound, and the jogger. She felt their eyes on her. Their disapproving stares.
The preschool charged a dollar for every minute parents arrived later than 4PM. She'd heard from other parents that they followed through. Since she had two kids attending she wondered if they'd charge her double.
Bet had never run over anything except the rocks at the end of her driveway; even so, the thud was unmistakable. She'd hit an animal.
She pulled over. The street was deserted. Where had everyone gone? She wasn't sure if she was relieved or desperately in need of a confidant.
She released her sweaty palms from the steering wheel and got out of the car. The afternoon sun cast a dreamlike-ink blot pattern across the road. She felt shaky. Like she was walking to the podium to deliver her senior thesis. She hated to speak in front of crowds.
The animal lay in a heap near a storm drain. Had she seen it? It was white. She remembered a white streak, what she thought was a patch of sunlight.
It was dead. She'd seen enough episodes of CSI to recognize the fixed glaze, even on an animal. It was a cat. There was no collar but it had to be someone's pet, it was too robust to be feral. Even dead it had the contented look of a house pet.
Now what? Should she leave it? She was already late, she wasn't about to go door-to-door with a dead cat. No, it would be cruel to leave it. What if a child found it. One the same age as Kelsey or Amanda.
She decided to take it home. Let the owner think it ran away. She could bury it or ask Jack to. He always got rid of the mice they trapped in the attic.
She rummaged around for something with which to pick it up. Thankfully she never cleaned out the car so the ice scraper was there, even in mid-May. She used it to deftly push the cat onto a plastic bag. She picked the bag up by the corners; gingerly put it in the back of the car and closed the door. As it slammed shut she heard footsteps. She turned and saw the long shadow of someone walking towards the car, they were still around the corner and hadn't seen her yet. It was the lady with the basset hound. Did she need to explain why she was stopped here - in the middle of the road? No, she decided that being too eager to talk would look suspicious.
Quickly Bet got in the car. She started the ignition and looked at the clock, only eight minutes had passed. It wasn't possible.
"I'm so sorry," she stammered lamely to Michelle, the assistant teacher, a perky brunette, ten years younger than Bet. Perky described every assistant preschool teacher she'd ever met. High school cheerleading must be a prerequisite for the job. If Michelle ever ran over an animal Bet imagined she could just coax it back to life.
"There you go now, you can do it, just get yourself up, that's right, good girl, just look at you!"
"That's okay," said Michelle, snapping Bet out of her haze.
"The girls were so engrossed with playing house they didn't want to leave anyway.
"Oh," she said. "Well just let me know what I owe you."
"Owe me?"
"Owe the school. You know, for being late."
"Oh that," laughed Michelle. "We always give parents at least three warnings. Don't you worry about that."
"Besides," she went on, "Miss Arnold isn't here to dock you," she said with a wink. "She's down the road somewhere. Looking for her cat. A white Persian."
Bet felt her mouth go dry. "Oh," she managed. It came out sounding like "ug."
The girls appeared on the steps of the school, Kelsy was holding a toy vacuum cleaner.
"Kelsy and Mandy have been having such fun with this I told them they could borrow it overnight," Michelle explained. "Here, let me put it in the back of the car for you," said added.
"No!" said Bet, trying not to sound hysterical, "it's just that, well, you know how it is, the car's a mess and all. Here let me."
Martha looked startled, as if the other team had just scored a touchdown despite her best cheering efforts, but she quickly recovered."
"Sure okay."
Bet opened the back of the car, and without looking down, placed the vacuum on top of the cat. It looked like she was cleaning an exotic animal rug.
The girls were already fighting over the radio station. She wondered how Ms. Arnold did it. The girls adored her and she seemed to return their affection. Teacher's pet she thought grimly. Bet turned the wheel, squinted in the afternoon sun, and navigated the wagon out of the school's driveway


April 30

Ode to National Poetry Month (a couplet)
It was fun once begun
but I'm glad tis done

Maybe I'll start now and try to find 30 poems I'm not familiar with for next year instead of falling back on the tried and true. But for now I leave you with one for the guys. If you want to impress the ladies at least memorize the first four lines.

She walks in beauty, like the night
by Lord Byron
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meets in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
Or softly lightens o'er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek and o'er that brow
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,—
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.

But lads, be careful who you recite them to:

When I was one-and-twenty
by A. E. Housman (1859-1936)
When I was one-and-twenty
I heard a wise man say,
'Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
But keep your fancy free.'
But I was one-and-twenty,
No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard him say again,
'The heart out of the bosom
Was never given in vain;
'Tis paid with sighs a plenty
And sold for endless rue.'
And I am two-and-twenty,
And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.


April 29

Will this month never end? Here's another from the archives, my post-college trip to Europe.
Having to speak French gave me great pain
Thank goodness tomorrow
We'll all be in Spain.

A favorite, from one of my favorite people to get e-mail from!
Thesis, Antithesis, and Nostalgia
by Alan dugan

Not even dried-up leaves,
skidding like iceboats on
their points down winter streets,
can scratch the surface of
a child's summer and its wealth:
a stagnant calm that seemed
as if it must go on and on
outside of cyclical variety
the way, at child-height on a wall,
a brick named "Ann"
by someone's piece of chalk
still loves the one named "Al"
although the street is vacant and
the writer and the named are gone.


April 28

Three Twos Again
Too cold
To play

My Shadow
Robert Louis Stevenson

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow--
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes goes so little that there's none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close behind me, he's a coward you can see;
I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.


April 27

three twos
Too tired
To Write

by Jim Daniels


April 26

if it's not sand it's leaves
a haiku
I rake last fall's leaves
from the corners of my yard
where they were hiding

Here's one from the Lizard King though I can't quite picture Jim Morrison out raking leaves in his snake skin pants.

A man rakes leaves into
a heap in his yard, a pile,
and leans on his rake and
burns them utterly.
The fragrance fills the forest
children pause and heed the
smell, which will become
nostalgia in several years.