The Writings of Mary Lewys

In the back booth, I found her slumped over. The white foam around her soft, supple lips changed colors in the disco lights. Sally put everything up her nose. Back in the Eighties, she had started with cocaine and never stopped. I’ve arrested her for possess one too many times not to know that. If it hadn’t been for the rotating-boyfriend-funded genetic alterations, she would’ve looked well pas her one hundred and nineteen years.

Her tits didn’t look a day over twenty – and natural.

She didn’t reach for her bag. A few survived over-doses made the junkie wise. Sally carried an adrenaline kit. She never had time to reach it.

Moondust: the latest by-product of our space program. Small rocks ground into a fine powder, usually cut with something. Not tonight. Not for Sally. As the zipper closed on her body bag, I thanked God we had a limited supply. At the end of my shift, after signing out with the desk sergeant, I’d drown myself in a fifth to keep from thinking what will happen when it runs out.

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© Mary Lewys, 2008

“Wait.”

She tossed her hair like a wild mustang. Her eyes burned with all her secrets. All I could do was stare. I stepped once, twice reaching but not touching her. I couldn’t be sure which one of us would break. “Stay with me.”

“What?”

“Stay with me, please.” I put my hand on her arm to stop my shaking. My throat was as dry as the asphalt beneath our feet. I prayed it was sweat running down my cheek. “I love you.”
I said it. As crazy as it sounded coming out of my mouth, I felt the slow, sweet burn, just like in those dimestore romance novels. There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for her. I crashed my mouth into hers. She tasted like nothing I’d ever known and yet like home.

I took her breath away – a little. She gasped when we parted. “Spence.”

I wanted to do it again. It was more than just passion – I felt it all the way through my body. I begged her with every ounce of me. “You don’t have to do this, whatever it is. I know, I know, you told me, but it doesn’t have to go that way. Come back with me to my place. Spend the night. Spend the next night. Stay the whole week to see how it goes.”

“Spence, I – “

“Please, Bridget, stay with me. Don’t do this. You don’t want to die.”

The first time I saw her was in my bar in Santa Monica. I was there to celebrate. Some ditzy dame paid me to find out her husband wasn’t having an affair. Instead of banging some broad, he was banging a keyboard in a small Hollywood office, an aspiring playwright. The wife forked over for time, expenses and then some. Most of it went to last month’s rent, but I rewarded myself with a nice, tall glass of Killian’s Red.

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© Mary Lewys, 2007

On the outskirts of Verona, in the latter part of the 18th century, lived a watchmaker. Nestled in the sleepy hills, his cottage held a sign that neither boasted of his prowess nor called undue attention. Nevertheless, he was the watchmaker for kings all over Europe. He was known by reputation but not by sight.

In his later years, after his apprentice assumed most of the duties, the watchmaker took to tinkering on a very special project. The steam-powered, horseless buggies he saw putter around his village had given him the idea. He did not want a ride, for he knew the wisdom in walking, but saw the potential of what could be done and set about creating his greatest masterpiece.

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© Mary Lewys, 2008

published in the eighth issue of Don’t Look zine.

The first night afterwards, I dreamt of purple mountains and quiet towns. An old woman beckoned, calling me towards the rays of light streaming down from the low slung clouds moving across the valley. She promised hardship and hard work, but claimed it was all for the right reasons. I woke in the morning in my bed with a start.

The second night afterwards, I dreamt of dry dirt and drier air. Glistening lights of a gold city sat far from everywhere. His smile was sweet. His voice was low and smooth as well-aged whiskey. He never made frightening demands or empty promises, but anything I wanted would be mine. Coming morning, I shivered underneath my covers.

Each night, one or the other came into my dreams. One or the other begged, pleaded, commanded, shouted, or cried. But every morning, I woke and did the same thing I had come to do afterwards. I picked my fishing pole and headed down to water. The vast, never-ending ocean licked at my ankles until I remembered nothing more than the taste of last night’s catch.

Maybe my new neighbor needed a fish. She was the only other person for miles. I would traded it for a tomato or two growing in her yard.

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© Mary Lewys, 2008

This was posted in my LiveJournal for Christmas 2007:

T’was the night of Christmas
And all through the manger,
The birth of Baby Jesus
Was in immediate danger.

No sooner than he was born
Did the situation turn dire.
Magneto, evil mutant, appeared
With the villains he hired.

Juggernaut and Rhino landed
And started kicking wiseman ass
While Vemon grabbed Mary
And frightened the poor lass.

Joseph leapt into action
To defend his son and wife,
But Magneto just laughed
And vowed to take his ‘sapien life.

A flash of red, white, and blue
Flashed before the new dad.
Captain America’s shield
Saved Joseph from a fist full of bad.

Wolverine slid in fast
To push the bassinet across the stall
And saved little Baby Jesus
From Crusher Creel’s steal ball.

Ironman landed and
Readied his repulsor beam
To take out Juggy
And Rhino, sight unseen.

On the roof top, he landed.
Spidey readied his attack.
He shot his strong webbing
And wrapped Venom in a sack.

The angel appeared
With an unearthly glow.
With a firm grip, she held her sash
To bring Magneto low.

So Christmas was saved
By Marvel’s Mightiest Heroes.
Now get to bed, you scamps,
Or Santa’s bringing you zero.

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© Mary Lewys, 2007

As the sun threatened to set, the old warrior sat on his porch. His dried, cracked rocking chair swayed very slowly against the faded, painted floorboards. His skin was golden as the surrounding desert sands and his hair yellow-white from the sun. In his weathered hand, he held his sword: the finest katana made from the strongest steel in all the land. Many men’s lives had been ended by his blade, but the blood never stained his hands. He sat with his back straight. He held his head high.

He waited for what he knew would come.

A figure walked through the mirage heat wavering off the ground. Unhurried and steady, soft sandaled feet stepped from the dry earth to the cool, green lawn at the edge of the old warrior’s land. His eyes were still brown, rich as fresh tilled earth, and his smile still crooked. His skin was pale, his hair a bluish white. His wrinkled, gnarled hand held his own sword: a Tai Chi of stainless steel with a gold dragon cross guard and red tassel off the pommel.

He placed a dust covered foot upon the first creaking step of the porch. The old traveling warrior rested his sword on his knee. “Uhnee. I have come.”

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© Mary Lewys, 2007

He closed his eyes. Swarthy cheek bones only noticeable with age shone in the hot sun streaming through the portal window. His black, thinning hair was combed in a professional manner. On his brown suit lapel, a small American flag glittered. No one would mistake him for a terrorist.

* * *

The black POW plastic wristband stood out against the elastic bandaged arm as he lifted it over the seat. The rock-n-roll, stylized skeleton on his tee shirt matched the scars on his face. He cooed to quiet the daughter who would ever know this face.

* * *

The heavy wool blazer helped to hide her breasts. With the rest of her clothes as androgynous as her hair, the lack of make-up helped with the disguise. Back home, she couldn’t lie with a woman. Old habits die hard.

* * *

She switched seats with her son before take-off to stop the fighting. Without batting an eye, she ignored her daughter’s pout by picking up the US magazine. As she stared ahead, she wondered what would happen if the plane crashed. She sighed and felt nothing.

* * *

As he took his seat designed for a woman and struggled into the too-small harness, the steward scratched his cheek. He wondered if this was the flight where he would use all his specialized self-defense training. He stared down the row in hope of searching out the one who smuggled on a make-shift shiv or nail clippers. Each set of eyes lacked murderous intent. Oh well, he thought, maybe when I pass out the cookies.

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© Mary Lewys, 2007

“She’s always in a good mood. I don’t understand why, working here. How do you stay in a good mood?”

One of my co-workers asked me that a couple of days ago. We were setting outside during a smoke break, though none of us were smoking. Summer had come to Florida in an offsetting fury of afternoon storms and sunny humidity. We weren’t quite sweating through our clothes yet, but it beat being inside and dealing with work.

I don’t remember what I said for an answer. If I had to guess, I made some joke, probably about drugs or insanity being the cause. At work, I don’t show the real me. It’s a version of me that’s safe for work. While work-safe me is witty and friendly, it also hides a great many things.

The real answer, the one that explains why I can smile in the face of certain stupidity and frustration, is simple really. Not entirely sane, I am sure, but it’s the only answer I can give.

I write stories in my head. Little ones, great big ones, fluffy plots and emo extremes – all of them circle around and around like shiny pennies sinking to the bottom of a well. The heroes and villains burn effigies in the back of my brain. Plots of gallantry, charity, romance, daring and passion – always with such passion! – tickle my conscious as I bend and fold them at will. The settings change easily as turning on a faucet.

If I’m smiling at work, it’s because I’m lost in story. If I’m smiling at the grocery story, in the car, sitting on the couch, walking on the treadmill, it’s because I’m picking the best order for the plot points to happen or sewing up the motivations of a character to drive the action. I’m playing with Universes exploding in my head.

So, don’t mind me going mad. I am much happier that way.

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Unless otherwise expressly stated, this original material of whatever nature created by Mary Lewys is licensend under a Creative Commons License.

As part of Warren Ellis’ Remake/Remodel Flash Fiction @ The Engine

The Master said it came in the mail, but we haven’t had anybody to the castle in forever. He’s clever, my Master – read the big, thick Electronics Service book in one night. He tinkered and putzed until the big mechanical box supported the triangle screen.

It promised such things to my Master, so many wondrous things that he smiled for the first time in years. My Master said we could take over the world. He said there is nothing he can’t do. The aliens in the box promised him everything.

I don’t think the aliens know what they’ve done.

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© Mary Lewys, 2007

The Master said it came in the mail, but we haven’t had anybody to the castle in forever. He’s clever, my Master – read the big, thick Electronics Service book in one night. He tinkered and putzed until the big mechanical box supported the triangle screen.

It promised such things to my Master, so many wondrous things that he smiled for the first time in years. My Master said we could take over the world. He said there is nothing he can’t do. The aliens in the box promised him everything.

I don’t think the aliens know what they’ve done.

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© Mary Lewys, 2007

He sat on his back porch, a cement block covered in Astroturf, in an old aluminum chair his grandfather was going to throw out. It was night with every star in the sky. He tried the find the constellations his father taught him, but the glare from the neighbor’s all-night, security light, the kind that lit up their whole backyard, took some of the splendor away.

If his shotgun was handy, he would’ve fixed that problem. All he had was his sword, sheathed and resting across his lap. Things of the day, rabbits, squirrels, possums, required the shotgun. The things that came at night, the things that go bump, could only be slain by a sword.

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© Mary Lewys, 2007

Every time she searched through her CD collection to find the perfect mood music, she stopped in one place: the missing album. It was part of a set, Living in Oblivion, a collection of underground, New Wave 80s hits she paid more than their worth at a flea market. She flashed back to their bonding over the compilation, but he was missing volume two. He said he would borrow it to make a copy.

From pursed lips, she hissed her curse.

On the other side of the country, his life imploded all over again. Last time, his father died in a hit and run accident. Before that, his boyfriend walked out with his arm around another man. This time, the phone rang. He listened as his manager explained why the company was closing. He dropped the phone when he found out his last paycheck would bounce due to lack of funds.

As tears welled, he picked up the phone and wondered what he’d done to deserve it.

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© Mary Lewys, 2007

She held the white pill in her open hand.

“What’s that?” Peeking over, the wee blue fairy with glowing pearl wings climbed over her fingertips.

“It’s a pill.”

“What does it do?” The fairy adjusted its blue bell hat as it proceeded to sit down.

“If I take it, I won’t see you any more.” She didn’t move.

Puckering up its face, the fae nudged the pill marked 85 with its foot. “Take it? You all ready have it. Does it do any tricks?”

She laughed. “One magic trick.”

The fairy cooed. Folding its hands together, the blue pixie righted itself to gaze up. “I like magic.”

“Do you want to see?” She placed the pill near the back of her throat and swallowed, sticking her tongue out to show it was gone.

“You made it disappear!”

“No,” she sighed. “I made you disappear.”

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© Mary Lewys, 2007

The beeping grew louder. This was what her life had become: leaving the cold hospital chair to press a button on a monitor that no one paid any attention to for three minutes of blissful silence. She didn’t look at the patient on the gurney and he didn’t look at her.

It was in the wee hours of the morning when the world shrunk in the cold darkness. This was all she could see of her life – all the sacrifices made for peace. She counted, quietly in her head, all that she wanted and all she would never have. Leaning over, her forehead rested on the aluminum handrail.

His fingertips gripped hers, slightly trembling. He rubbed his worry into her skin. She didn’t move.

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© Mary Lewys, 2007

He held his cigarette between his middle and index finger. Puckering his puffy lips, his close-together eyes squinted at the canvas. Smoke wafted to mix with his blonder Mohawk that dangled over his high forehead. He held the smoke in his lungs for as long as he could be exhaling a slow-rising pillar.

He picked at his lip. His leg wiggled the wooden stool bearing up his enormous weight. The tape clicked over to side b in the player and his nervous tick moved in time to the music. After another drag, he picked up his paint brush and leaned closer to his art.

He had never met her. He never dreamed about her or saw her in a magazine or movie. She looked like no one he knew. Naked, she held a clear shower curtain over her personal bits. Chewed and frayed fingernails touched her blue, circular lips. Thick, black mascara outlined her brilliant blue eyes. In rolling curls, her multi-colored hair fell over her slender shoulders.

His brush licked along the pearl-gray carpet, giving it texture as it supported her perfectly pale and vein-lined legs. He stopped for another drag on his cigarette, along grinning. Maybe he would never find or meet her, but he would always have her.

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© Mary Lewys, 2007

I HATE YOU, she wrote at the top of the page. Her trembling hand with stubby fingernails pressed the binding flat. Turning the purple cat book, she wrote down the perpendicular edge. I HATE YOU SO VERY VERY FUCKING MUCH.

Her hand paused before the bad word. Tears of broken promises blinded. She wiped them away before they could reach page with the sleeve of her black hoodie. Filling the page with her odium, the ink in her pen ran dry. She carded the name on the final page before throwing the journal away.

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© Mary Lewys, 2007

published in the fourth issue of Don’t Look zine

Tick. Sightlessly insert the cartridge into the chamber. Push back the firing pin and hold, tense and ready. Release – clang – and strike the primer. Boom! Sparks fly from the ignited gunpowder. Converting from the burning, gas expands in the chamber. It forces the bullet down the barrel. Once free, it strikes the mark. Thump.

With a flex of my finger, I can change so many worlds.

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© Mary Lewys, 2007

I can hear the strum
Of the Earth’s engines
I’m so far down
In the dark.

So easily lost in
The crumbling coal,
Fool’s gold
And flimsy shale,
I forget what I came
Down here for.

Over the throng,
Over the thunderous quake,
I hear you mumble
Something soft and soothing.
It doesn’t matter what
You say or what
I hear,
Simply that you speak
To me
Reach for me
And pull me up.

I’ve forgotten the sun,
How to laugh for no reason,
Where the light shines
In all things,
But I have you to remember.
Show me the way home.

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© Mary Lewys, 2007

As your ejaculation runs down my thigh,
I wonder how many deaths I have just cause
By not clenching just right
And if God will ever forgive me.

It wasn’t a viable pregnancy
She.
She wasn’t viable pregnancy.
You don’t know. You can’t know the sex.
Of course I do.
I am her mother.
I was her mother
I will never be her mother.

Nuns, they sure can teach you grammar
Which tense of verb to use at the proper time,
Move you through time with a proper choice of words
They can teach how to pray, how to ensure
Your place in the next life.

I wish they taught me how to survive this one.

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© Mary Lewys, 2007

It all came from Warren Ellis talking about the portability of literature; how single issue comics and paperback books succeed because people can stuff them in back pockets and purses. The logical observation made me wonder: what if either could be printed off from the web? Would people print it off? Would they pass it around like old MST3K tapes? Would anyone care at all?

That’s what we’re here to find out with only eight pages and a webpage. Being a cynic at heart, I’m dying to be proven wrong. I want to walk past some table and see this issue lying there, left for the next unsuspecting reader. I want so many hits on our website that my hosting server screams blue murder. I want to know that there are people out there interested in clever, interesting stories and art – as much as I am.

Welcome to our little experiment. I hope you enjoy our efforts. Please let us know what you think at our website feedback. Skewed results against me and my dubious disposition will only produce more issues. You’ve been warned.

Don’t Look Minizine

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Unless otherwise expressly stated, this original material of whatever nature created by Mary Lewys is licensend under a Creative Commons License.

I’m rubber.
You’re glue.
Whatever I say
Bounces off your gianormous ego for some reason
And flies off into the ether because you’re too stupid to get it.
Damn it.

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© Mary Lewys, 2006

“Who do you think did it, Professor?”

Stroking the golden stubble on his cleft chin, he narrowed his beady eyes to two, uneven slits. He stepped around the private, wood-laden library as if the dark, plush carpet were made of eggshells. His breathing sailed steady and true through the hush of the drapery and tome. The Professor stopped by the ample, mahogany desk and squatted until his spindly legs formed triangles. “Well, it’s hard to say. Are we sure no one was in the room at the time?”

“The door was unlocked.” Twisting the glass, brass knob, his faithful assistant, E.B., swung the stained door open.

“Right. And did the maid say she heard anyone?”

Exhaling the smoke from his half-smoked cigarette, the lanky sidekick pushed off the wall into a full slouch. His tattered trench coat hung off him like a dead thing, licking around his stubby legs as he walked. “She’s deaf, Professor. Her TV was on full blast all night.”

He knotted his thick brow. Bending over, the Professor examined the desk chair’s wheels closely. A calloused finger caressed the top plastic arch before moving onto the next. Finished with each, he straightened to examine the seat. “Anyone else home?”

“Sure, the cook, the butler, Senator and Mrs. Davis, their kids, but they’re all dead.” Hanging along the walls, E.B. sauntered as if he were a bum with no home. He stuck his hands in his pockets to keep from picking things up that he shouldn’t. Smoke from his cigarette caused him to squint. “Oh, Mrs. Peacock had tea with Professor Plum in the conservatory. And there’s a house guest.”

“Ah-HA!” The Professor pinched an invisible something between his finger and thumb. Holding it up, he focused on his discovery. “Would this houseguest happen to have dyed hair?”

“Possibly, yeah.”

“Black?”

“How do you know?” Stubbing out his cigarette in a free-standing, marble ashtray, E.B. rolled his shoulders before sighing. He rubbed his fingertips together.

The Professor’s grin said everything about smug and nothing of humility. He bobbed his eyebrows. Pulling a small envelop from his coat’s interior pocket, he dropped the unseen hair into it. “Tell me more of this house guest.”

“There’s not much to tell.” Turning his back on his friend, E.B. pushed his glasses up his round face before fingering the spines of books along one wall. Bookcases dominated from floor to ceiling. “She’s the only body missing.”

“How do you know there was a guest and she was killed?”

“Guest bathroom’s covered in blood and towels. Bed’s been slept in.”

The Professor halted dead in his track of examining the chair back. “Explain to me why she isn’t a suspect?”

“I don’t know. I’m telling you what the police told me.” Stepping sideways, E.B. continued to inspect the dictionaries and writing references on the middle shelf. He smirked. “Do you really think a house guest would cause all this carnage?”

“Are you kidding? Who else could’ve done it?” Standing, the Professor pulled the chair with tender, loving care away from the desk. Grinding out a faint, dying squeak, the wheels moved over the floor as molasses would over flypaper. He stepped into the space it occupied. On the desk top, stacks of books flanked various leather bins that hoped to keep things organized. In the center of the desk pad, a small, grey laptop slept with its screen folded closed. “She’s the only one who’s still sucking air.”

“How do you know the guest’s a she?”

“Well, three reasons. One,” glancing back over his shoulder from under his unkempt mop of hair, the Professor waved to the chair behind him, “the indentations in the leather seat are from a female shaped ass – “

“Oh, you’re so full of sh– “

“Two, the black hair dye used is marketed to females who shop Hot Topic. I recognize the blue to black ratio. Plus, the lack of damage to the hair tells me it wasn’t purchased at a drug store.”
E.B. blinked. “Eh, okay, maybe. What’s the third thing?”

“The amount of towels in the guest bathroom. It’s a horrible stereotype, but it’s true. Women use more towels than men.”

“Pig.” With a grin and shrug, the sidekick slipped along the bookcase. He skimmed the dust covered bindings as if a clue would pop out. His gumshoe ambling brought him closer to the desk. “Well, let’s say you’re right. The house guest’s a she and she’s alive. How do you know she wasn’t kidnapped by the real culprit?”

“No signs of forced entry. No indication of anyone other than family or help have been in the house besides the house guest. No eye-witnesses claiming to see a stranger in the neighborhood.”

“Hey! I thought you said you didn’t talk to the cops!”

The Professor chuckled. Sliding his fingertips along the new laptop, he unlatched the lid. His eyebrows rose, bunching skin to steal his youthful appearance. The computer’s fan whirled as he pushed back the screen. Waiting for the black screen to buzz to life, he lifted the front edge. He peered underneath the laptop, scrutinizing the desktop beneath. “I didn’t. You have a loud voice.”

Propping his shoulder against the thick collection of Emily Dickenson, E.B. folded his arms. “Fine. What proof do you have that this houseguest did it?”

“Easy.” The Professor cleared his throat. Gingerly, he replaced the laptop. Much like a drunken ballerina, he swung in place to face his friend. “The Davis’ are a wealthy family by all aspects of their home. They come from a societal background. Based on their zip code, various awards and pictures in the hallway, I would say they are old money.”

“Fair enough,” smirked E.B. “Easy enough.”

“Old money means old customs – like supporting the arts. Writers fall into that group.”

“I’m gripped by your snappy deductions here.” Rolling his eyes, E.B. slouched more.

With a flourish, the Professor waved to the small laptop on the oak desk. The bright screen showed a blank page of a word processing program.

“Yeah?” Scowling, the sidekick snorted. “That doesn’t mean anything. She – if the culprit’s a she – could’ve been writing an email or love letter or grocery list.”

“Unlikely. You see, the page is blank. Everyone in the house is dead.” Clucking his tongue, the Professor pulls a pack of cigarettes from his overcoat. “I can’t believe you can’t see this.”

E.B hung his jaw open. His eyes blinked to clear his line of vision. Pushing off the bookcase, he sauntered over to the writing desk. He bent and peered into the blank page, tilting his head this way and that. He stood up, staring. “I don’t see anything.”

“And this is why they call me and not you.” Lighting his cigarette, the Professor clicked his beaten silver lighter shut. He exhaled a long, steady stream of smoke.

“Funny, I’m the asshole that answers the phone.” Smirking, the sidekick strolled over to the door. He peered out into the hallway to see if anyone else was about it.

“Deep indications still visible – “

Snapping back into the room, E.B. pointed at the Professor. “Only to you.”

“- on the chair indicate sitting at length at this desk. If she sat here so long, where are the words she wrote? If she saved it and took it with her, why is there a blank page? Why not just close the program?”

Throwing his arms up, E.B. shook his head to whatever psychotic deity looked down. He shot his friend a glance, indicating how little he cared for this exposition shit.

The Professor chuckled, dragging on his smoke. “Writer’s block. Severe writer’s block.”

E.B. froze with his jaw dragging the floor. “You’re saying writer’s block caused all this?”

“Yep.” Shifting from one foot to the other, the Professor rocked into a slow walk. Heading through the door and down the hall, he didn’t check to see if his friend was in tow. “Depending on the author herself, the pressure of a deadline could easy cause anyone to snap. Success and failure hang from her fingertips – and if nothing comes out of her head that’s even remotely useful – well, depression, fragility of ego – it explains the amount of blood everywhere.”

“She couldn’t beat the page, so she killed everyone in the house.” Trailing, E.B. knotted his brow unconvinced. His shoulder brushed along the frames of pictures, awards and memorabilia lining the walls, knocking a few askew. The hallway emptied out into the foyer. Black and white tile echoed their footsteps, capturing the attention of the police guarding the second floor.

Stopping at the bottom of the winding, split staircase, the Professor spun as he pressed his cigarettes to his thinned lips. Inhaling, he paused as his eyes darted about the room. “If she had a typewriter, I’m sure she would’ve beaten everyone to death with that.”

“What makes you say that?” Nodding to the flatfoot on the mezzanine, E.B. kicked the bottom, carpeted step. His shoulders draw up with tension. Looking up to the second floor, he waited for word to pass to the chief.

“Easier to hold and swing – more weight per blow.” The Professor used an under-arm swing of an imaginary typewriter to clunk his companion’s jaw. He screwed a sardonic smile before taking another drag from his smoke. “These new laptops – so light weight. There’s no point in having one if you’re just going to kill people.”

“I don’t think that was her goal. By your assessment, she’s a writer, not a killer.”

“No, I don’t think she came here to commit any crime.” Clearing his throat, the Professor glanced over shoulder. He nodded to the silver vase, crystal egg and various masterpieces that announced the Davis’ level of wealth. He smiled as he leaned into his friend. “But out there, right now, is a writer bent on destruction, all because she can’t write.”

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© Mary Lewys, 2006

I do not need to know my genre to write well. Hell, give me a basic plot: boy meets girl and boy looses girl due to a character flaw he obsesses about hiding. I could write that story for any genre. Genre means rules to meet the reader’s expectations. Romance to Sci-Fi to Fantasy, all those genres have constructs to define them in clear terms. Speculative and Fiction tend to blur.

What I am focusing on is writing well. Grammar, sentence structure, and words are the essentials to writing well (I almost put down “good writing”). Once I have a stronger grip, I’ll be able to build and form stories. Working out characters, settings, times, introductions, actions, climax, and resolutions will give me the keys to publishing in print.

Genre comes from my agent or editor; it may even come from the publisher. I don’t know. I haven’t made it that far. First, I have to interest someone in publishing my work. The only way to do that is to write well.

Besides, how can I ever be objectionable enough to judge my work? I have a hard enough time sifting through to clean it up. Shifting headspace to focus harder taxes my poor, cracked brain; dyslexia is hard enough. I can’t expend extra energy to dissect bookstore category for my work. And why would I do that when I haven’t even found someone who’s willing to publish me?

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Unless otherwise expressly stated, this original material of whatever nature created by Mary Lewys is licensend under a Creative Commons License.

“She left her gloves on.” Pushing his tattered, gray fedore back on his head, Dectective Vaughn stared at the wreck before him. His partner and mentor, Detective Ames, stood on the other side of the sedan. Both men frowed, not out of professionalism but from genuine sadness.

“But she took her shoes off.” Glancing up from manicured, painted bare foot, Detective Ames huffs as he straightens. His lined and poxed face showed his age. His suit fit his station, set out by his wife in the morning. Haning over his black belt, his white, stained shirt strained the last button to the point of snapping its threads. He rummaged in his coat pocket for his pack.

“Maybe they fell off?” He raised a thin eyebrow. Rubbing the five o’clock shadow on his square jaw, Vaughn stared transfixed by the woman. His left foot slid along the broken glass on the sidewalk as if he were going to take a step. He slipped it back.

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© Mary Lewys, 2006

Remember that episode of Dexter’s Laboratory where he and his sister DeeDee run through the house stamping their names on everything in the house in an attempt to out vie each other? It’s quite the humorous episode, but all of Dexter’s Labs are funny.

But based on that episode, I want two stamps: one that reads “reality” and one that reads “fantasy” – preferably in all caps with a thick font. People seem confused about the difference between the two. I’d like to help out.

I always like to help.

If someone refers to himself as Fernando and leaves a rather over-the-top message in your sweetie’s LiveJournal, especially on sweetie’s birthday, it’s stamped with “fantasy.” While the best wishes may be real, anyone who calls themselves Fernando without being named Fernando is being funny. Fernando in and of itself is a funny name that lends itself readily to a humorous fantasy.

The person waiting on you, who’s been on their feet for six hours straight, carrying a bucket load of personal issues on their shoulders, is real. Look at them, smile and say thank you for a job done. It doesn’t have to be well-done. This person is real and needs your attention.

If an IM window pops up from someone you don’t know and the sender claims to want to be your friend (e.g., “I’m only looking for a friend.”), assume that’s fantasy. That person’s only interested in one thing and it’s not your friendship. It’s the contents of your pants and it’s totally in the cyber adult fantasy way. This will not lead to a life long friendship that will lead to true love.

That mother walking along side the road with her two kids, her car down the way, needs help. Be late to work for once, pull over and help her get gas for her car so she can get her kids to school on time. You don’t have to buy her gas or breakfast, but you do need to get her on her way. She’s real. The good deed you do for her will be remembered by her children.

If the face of the President appears on your television, magazine cover, newspaper or newsblog, it’s officially okay to assume he’s living in his own fantasy world.

Any face that appears on any magazine cover, photo shoot and/or movie still is fantasy. Yes, those are real people in the picture, but nine and a half out of ten have been Photoshopped and airbrushed beyond reality. They are now fantasy – and that’s all right. It’s why we buy that stuff, but don’t believe for two seconds that you could ever look like that. Too many lives wasted in the pursuit of a cropped, cut, blurred and smoothed unrealistic image.

Next time you’re stuck waiting in line, make small talk to the person waiting next to you. It doesn’t matter what you talk about – the weather, the cover of a nearby magazine cover, something silly you saw that morning, the funny thing your dog did last night. Anything fun will leave a real, lasting impression with that person. Maybe they’ll pass that smile along.

The results Match.com and Dr. Phil offer are not real. It doesn’t matter how many testimonials they offer; we never get the full, long term story on those couples.

Leaving someone a kind note in email or on the web is real. Take two minutes out of your busy day to do it. Really, what else are you going to do with those two minutes? Pick your nose (remember to smile)?

Everyone fats. Everyone goes to the bathroom. Everyone burps, gurgles, toots and hiccups. It’s reality. Let’s all stop pretending that it’s fantasy and outside the norm.

Anything hyped by local news is fantasy. There may be reality in there, but the sensationalism has pushed it over into the fantasy realm.

Prince Charming and Madonna Whore are fantasy too. He and she are not coming. Get out of your tower or off your bar stool, storm out of the castle or bar and go meet a nice person who doesn’t make you crazy. I highly recommend geeks. It may seem that they confuse reality and fantasy, but really, they have a pretty firm grasp on it.

Boy, this is sure tiring. The lines sure blur and pointing out the differences can prove difficult. Don’t believe the surface or what’s offered first – look for more or the real truth. Fantasy works in movies, television and bondage scenarios played out in the bedroom. While the “I love you” screamed around the ballgag may be real, it’s still a fantasy playing out in ropemarks and lube.

Have I made mention that I’d like these stamps to be placed on brass knuckles? Faster stamping, you see.

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Unless otherwise expressly stated, this original material of whatever nature created by Mary Lewys is licensend under a Creative Commons License.

A bit of spam splattered on the windshield of my life that just rubbed me the wrong way: “Rules To Live By” from the Anthony Robbins organization (allegedly). Boy, wouldn’t life be great if all our problems where solved by little quips and witty sayings?

MLewys’ Rules To Live A Happier Life

One: Cheerfully give people more than they expect, but lube up first because most will fuck you over good. You’ll be glad you greased up first.

Two: If you like to fuck around, don’t get married. There’s no rule or law that says you must. Look at your potential spouse: if you can’t picture waking up happily next to that person when you’re sixty, don’t marry that person. It’ll save divorce costs later on. And if you can’t tell your potential spouse the most stupid thing you’ve ever done, then don’t marry that person. You’re not mature enough to make a relationship work.

Three: Remember when you were a kid and couldn’t wait to grow up so you could do whatever you wanted? Boy, were you a stupid kid. Being an adult means you have plenty you don’t like to do. Suck it up, pay those bills, support your kids and do the best at your job you can. Relish those moments when you do get to eat ice cream for breakfast and sleep late – you’ll appreciate them MORE when you take care of your shit first.

Four: There are three little words that will be taken at face value instantly. Use them wisely. Don’t whip them out when someone has shown you something new in the sack or fucked you just in that right way. Don’t pull them out of your handbag when you should be reaching for the mace. “I love you” can never be taken back no matter how many lawyers you get.

Five: Quit being a fucking pansy. Wuss. Say it. Look’em in the eye and say, “I’m sorry.” They’ll probably want to fuck you afterwards, if not buy you a drink first.

Six: Remember that time you went with your dad to buy a new car? There’s a reason he test drove it. Test drive your future potential mate in more ways than one – live together a year before getting married. I promise your parents will get over it when you wear white.

Seven: Love at first sight only exists when buying a car, jewelry and shoes. Love at first sight with humans and pets mean you’re superficial – not that it’s a bad thing. Just know that the pretty pack is only a pretty pack and doesn’t make for a lifetime companion. That shit only works in fairytales and movies.

Eight: You know, I really can’t fuck with “Never laugh at anyone’s dream.” Unless, of course, that dream is to be a stand up comedian.

Nine: Love deeply and passionately, blah, blah, blah. Listen. Love and Hate come from the same emotion: passion. If you’re going to open yourself up, do it knowing that there may be bitter destruction at the end. Love affairs that end never end well; I don’t care what Lifetime Special you watched or what your best friend’s cousin’s sister’s girlfriend told you. Life is not for the tame. Drive fast. Take risks.

Ten: Okay, listen. Ever since the first man punched another man in the face, we’ve been trying to come up with rules to fight fair. But the truth of the matter: there is no fair fighting. You bring, at least, brass knuckles and go for the throat and the eyes. Don’t fuck around. End it quick and finally, but be prepared for the wounds, loss of limbs and potential death. That’s why it’s always better to debate, discuss and deliberate. Argue, sure; raise your voice if necessary. But it’s much safer and a lot less messy.

Eleven: Look but don’t judge by anyone’s relatives. Know that your potential mate will grow and age physically much like the gender parent, but that doesn’t mean they’ll be them. Frankly, pray that you got the black sheep of the family.

Twelve: There’s been a study lately that those who make snap decisions based on first instincts are right more times more often than those who spend time analyzing the situation. So, fuck it. Go with your gut but don’t be a dick when talking about it.

Thirteen: When someone asks you a question you don’t want to answer, say you’d rather not answer it. Don’t try to be clever – that’s too much like lying. Unless you’re really good at it, you only come off looking like an asshole.

Fourteen: Everything involves taking risks. Get used to it. And don’t think that if you risk, that makes you or anything else great. It just makes you better than the cowards that won’t.

Fifteen: Do we really need to say “bless you” when someone sneezes? Does anyone believe the spirit is expelled from the body only to be snorfled back in during a sneeze? Come on. Cover your mouth when you do it and stop expecting blessings for a bodily function. An angel looking like Matt Damon won’t threaten to blow your head off with a shiny gun if you don’t say it.

Sixteen: When you lose, accept that you’re going to be upset about it. Don’t try to be all noble and stoic about it – most people don’t manage that well. They become bitter when people don’t notice them being noble and stoic. Tantrums ensue. Just pick yourself back up and try not to repeat the same mistakes.

Seventeen: Remember the three P’s: people are stupid, a person can and will make your day from time to time and please try to be a person that makes someone’s day and don’t stab the stupid people.

Eighteen: From time to time, your friends are going to annoy you. There’s some trait or some belief they have that will drive your ass right up a wall and back down again. Don’t let that blind you to all the wonderful shit they do. Understand that they are human and that you probably do the same thing to them.

Nineteen: Mistakes will be made. By you. By your parents. By your lover. By your best friends. Accept it now and get over it. And the person that tries to correct their mistakes is the person you want to be your friend. Be that person, or a close duplicate.

Twenty: Smile when picking your nose. Everyone does it.

Twenty-one: If you can’t spend a weekend alone at home by yourself, you have issues. Sort them out, because no one’s going to like you if you don’t like yourself. And don’t give me that humble bullshit about not liking yourself. You know whether or not you can sit and be quiet in your own head without looking for a knife to slit your wrists afterwards.

There you go. Good luck with that. Wipe your face, wear clean underwear and remember to look both ways before crossing the street.

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Unless otherwise expressly stated, this original material of whatever nature created by Mary Lewys is licensend under a Creative Commons License.

One of the main reasons I like the movie In & Out, besides the kiss between Kevin Kline and Tom Selleck, is this subtle message that coming out of the closet is okay and a good thing. We all live in one type of closet or another for fear that our freak flag will scare off the locals. There’s not much worse than showing your true colors and having people run, screaming. It ranks right up there with having a limb lopped off in a freak iPod accident (don’t ask).

After the wedding doesn’t happen (I hope I didn’t spoil it for anyone; it’s not like this movie hasn’t been out for nine years or anything), the older women of the community sit in the reception hall quite depressed. Not because Howard’s gay, but because there was no wedding (*gasp* The Horror!). In their flowered dresses and Sunday-best hats, each supports Howard’s mother (played beautifully by Debbie Reynolds) about her son coming out at the most crucial part of the ceremony.

One even ponders what the big deal is - why they can’t all be honest about whatever secrets they’re keeping. She proceeds to stand and confess that she made “treats” for the reception from a recipe that wasn’t hers.

“I’ll say it. Right out loud. I hated The Bridges of Madison County,” another confesses.

“My husband has three tentacles!” Breaking through the freak flag closeted barrier, the most dowdy of the bunch shouts her confession over the crowd. “It’s disgusting.”

At which point, everyone laughs because that’s damn funny.

What was it that they were all afraid of? Judgment. Condemnation. Separation. Loneliness. It’s better to go along and belong than be you and by yourself, right?

The toothpaste and underarm deodorant commercials would have you think so. So would a lot of other people. It’s easy to herd people in the direction you want if they’re in a group. But let’s not fly the conspiracy freak flag yet.

Or is it Egocentricism that causes us to believe we’re the only one? We’re the only person who picks their teeth with piece of thick paper or cardboard. We’re the only ones who dig our underwear out of our ass crack at the most embarrassing moment. We’re the only one who was the outsider in high school or reads comics or secretly has a crush on Jay Leno or likes to sing to the music while driving.

Are we truly afraid to step out of the closest, where it’s safe, secure, quiet and singular, only to be lost in the crowd? The idea that each person is unique and special as a snowflake gets drilled into our brain as infants. And yet, by our teen years, we all long to just blend in and not stand out, please, oh God, please don’t let her see me with this big zit on my face.

By why should that zit matter? Plenty of teenagers and adults have them. Yet, that teen will stay silent, sit still and go thankfully unnoticed because of a commonplace skin disorder.

Why?

I learned last night that the first season of Chappelle’s Show is the best selling Televisions Show on DVD of all time. It’s number one. And Brokeback Mountain has got to be the most talked about and joked about movie in a long, long time.

Hello? The freak flags are a flying and no one seems to care!

So how is it public perception of the general public seems to go that freaks are not welcome? That it would be better for everyone if they would simply stay in the closet?

I don’t know. But I want a poll. A private, individual poll of people living in America of what they think of “freakish” behavior (anything that deviates from the standard Britney Spears, white upper middle class, SUV riding, pearly white teeth, doesn’t stink, dresses at Old Navy type person). That’s what I want.

Separate from the herd and I bet more people would come out of the closet, waving their own freak flag.

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Unless otherwise expressly stated, this original material of whatever nature created by Mary Lewys is licensend under a Creative Commons License.

Okay, class, today’s lesson will be about how to talk. No, no, we’re not going to cover subject and verbs or how to craft a well-thought out argument. We’re going to touch on something far more simple that can be used in daily conversation that will make you’re life simpler.

That’s right. You heard me. Life simpler.

Got your attention, didn’t I?

Ready for it?

Tell me how these make you feel:

You weren’t listening.
You never pay attention
What’s wrong with you?
You should be ashamed of yourself.
You’re wrong.
You can’t do that.
Why don’t you do better?
You’re crazy.

If you heard anyone of those sentences (directed at you or not), what would you do? Sneer? Frown? Get defensive? Stop listening?

Shake it off. Here comes step two. Listen to these:

I need you to listen and pay attention.
I don’t understand what you’re doing.
I think that’s wrong.
I don’t want you to do that.
I believe you can do better.

And how did those make you feel? Less aggressively likely to beat the speaker? More likely to sympathize?

I understand that some tend to think that a speaker who starts a great many sentences with “I” are vain, selfish, self-centered jerk-offs (that probably molest children on the side when they’re not busy kicking them). That’s utter crap. Sentences that start with “I” or “I” statements give information without being threatening. If you have to communicate a problem to someone, “I” statements can do that without accusation. Anyone involved in an intervention know this.

This practice needs to spread out into normal, mainstream life. Office politics would be less dramatic if “I” statements ruled the conference room. Grocery lines would be a much more pleasant place to stand. Banking would go easier. Doctor’s office would run smoother between staff and patients.

Of course, “I” statements require some personal disclosure. Deal. If you’re so worried about what someone’s going to think about you, then maybe you should invest more time in improving yourself. Don’t tune into Access Hollywood and sew couch cushions to match your new curtains. Pick up a book – and not something from the romance isle in Wal-Mart. If you can’t be bothered to read classics, tune into Oprah and read her damn book of the month.

There are channels called History, A&E, Discovery, Bravo and Innovation if reading isn’t your think.

And don’t be a jerk. “I think you’re a bitch” isn’t any better than “You’re a bitch.” Do try to remember that there are things like tact and diplomacy. Those are not dirty words; I don’t care how many times our current presidential administration claims to use them.

So, class, your homework? Use “I” statements at the most crucial times of your life. Practice by using them during non-crucial moments.

I know you can do it.

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Unless otherwise expressly stated, this original material of whatever nature created by Mary Lewys is licensend under a Creative Commons License.

Whoever said you weren’t going to die today lied. They lied. If you’ve been running on the assumption that you weren’t going to die today because no one told you either way, let me point out that you’ve been running on a falsehood.

You’re going to die. Probably not today and maybe not tomorrow, but you will die. Your time is limited. Age creeps through your body like blood, breaking down every cell and system.

Or you can kick the bucket from a number of scenarios that you have no control over. Sure, you stand on the curb to avoid that speeding bus, but the aneurism hits you without warning. It could be as slow as cancer or fast as a heart attack. You could be reading a book and walk into a sniper’s line of fire. Fast asleep, your home could catch on fire and you never wake up due to smoke inhalation. You could slip getting out of the shower, cracking your skull open.

I hope your bathroom’s tiled. Brain is so hard to get out of the carpet.

On a pulley, a piano slips in its rope restraints to crash down on you. Oh, she forgot to take her meds, that’s why she crashed into your car on the freeway. Maybe swallowing that ham sandwich before you finished chewing wasn’t a good idea. You’d think everyone knew how to do the Heimlich maneuver nowadays. Slipping and falling down the stairs sure makes a lot of noise, covering up the snap of your spine.

It’s a simple procedure. That’s what the doctor said. Why didn’t you wake up?

Product tampering, e coli infection, serial killer, road rage, leukemia, friendly fire, cocaine overdose, struck by lightning, AIDS, lost at sea, alcohol poisoning, slit throat, cleaning supply cocktail, race riot, collide with a train, stroke, beaten with a blunt object, autoerotic asphyxiation, explosion, slipping on banana peel - hell, it could be the salmon mousse.

Scary thought, isn’t it? Today will be your last day. What would you do with it if you knew for sure that at the end, you would die? Think about it. What would you do if you only had a month? Six months? A year?

Here’s a simple question: why aren’t you doing that with your life now?

It’s all too short and goes all too fast. Please. Don’t be stupid and end up with nothing but regret on your deathbed.

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Unless otherwise expressly stated, this original material of whatever nature created by Mary Lewys is licensend under a Creative Commons License.