My
Writing Portfolio
David
Klenda
aka
Eighty
Six
Chapter One
Off day at the zoo. No one
came to work.
The gates were not
unchained. No tourists tapped
At the glass, grackled,
squawked, mimicked the birds.
And we were never fed.
Three times a day
They liked to throw us
parts: legs furred with hooves,
Hindquarters with the
tail, heads with antlers
Or horns attached. Every
beak grab a gland
And tug, twist, flap with
all your appetite.
Get your gutful before
they pull the corpse.
End of show. But the
gawkers, they loved it.
Pressed their cheeks and
faces into the glass.
Strobe shots from lenses
and flashbulbs.
Big-eared Buck-toothy
profiles uglying my view,
Laughing in languages,
throwing chocolates
At the children and
monkeys running loose.
Sketch artists with pads
on easels, scratching,
Brushing, crushing
graphite into pulp. Bent
Foreheads and frowns.
Crooked caps and wire-frames.
Grunting and waving off
kids, they stop, stand
To smoke, to hiss and nod
at their markings.
From Chapter
Two
Trading boots for stingray
shoes, he adjusts
His panama hat, checks his
reflection
And honks the horn. The
camels jerk and grunt
Before leaning into their
straps. The car
Soon rolls steady down the
black-top. A flute
Plays back-and-forth with
a tuba and drum
While he pours a drink and
lights a cigar.
Noon shines tall and blue
on the solar plates
Mounted hood and trunk.
He reclines his seat,
Grins in the mirror and
props up his feet.
He blows a smoke ring at a
passing jay,
Takes a cold sip, and
clears his throat: “How long?
How long’s the road I am
travelin’ on?”
Eyes closed, sprawled in
the bucket seat. “How long
Before anyone hears my
little song?”
A glint in the trees,
unseen. Dressed in fleece
Brown and green, hair
hanging around his face,
A man perched on a branch
with field-glasses
Scratches his beard and
studies the forest,
The
road, the camels, the candy Jaguar.
Chapter
One
Another
happy-hour. Three lemon-drops, one Bruiser, three drafts, gin-tonic,
two reds.
Reds
first. Both cabs. New bottle. I pull the foil off whole, flip my
corkscrew from my right pants pocket and pop the cork. Turn the
bottle straight down and glug-two-three-four twice.
Bucket
glass, ice, gin, tonic. Done.
One
more ticket up. And one more ticket. Grab four martini glasses.
Sugar three. Set up four pints: one with limes, three with lemons
and a sugar cube. Double-tap the limes with my muddler. Rinse it.
No lime in my lemon-drops. Smash the lemons. Rinse it. Always
rinse it. Ice all four then one-two-three Cointreau with four-five
blueberry vodka over the limes with a splash of Rose's. Two shots
citrus vodka with a splash of sour over the rest. Shake and strain.
Rinse the shakers. Always put them down clean.
One
more ticket up. Three pints from the freezer and a jar of
blueberries. One in each hand, I pull the handles with my
forefinger, left then right. Fill the beers and close each tap with
my knuckle, left then right. I pour the third beer as Carlene is
garnishing and traying up. I drop a few berries in the Bruiser last.
In half a minute, the green and blue drink will turn purple.
Another
ticket. Berries back in the freezer.
“Thank
you. Drive through,” I tell her. She dimples and lifts the tray
on her finger-tips. Good girl. Nice form. A quick glance and now
I'm five tickets deep.
Carlene's
was the long one. These are short and I clump them together as
servers gather at the rail. Reds. Open a new bottle and launch the
old cork left-handed into my tip bucket.
“Nice
shot,” says a guy with a martini to the right of the well.
I
shake my head. “Banked it.”
Bottle
of white for the new waitress. “Can I get three glasses with
that?”
“Yes
you may. Could you put that on the ticket next time, please?” I
ask. Big smile. Something about the new girls. The mystery. Will
she be a star or will we burn her out in a few shifts? Will I wake
up wrapped around her one morning?
I
salt one pint, smash three limes with one orange, ice, one-two-three
triple sec with four-five tequila, splash of sour. Shake it. Dump
it. Another ticket up.
“Thanks,
Dave,” Will says, traying his drinks.
“Party
on,” I reply.
“Busy
tonight,” says the martini guy.
I
cock one eyebrow as I lay out a string of whiskey-cokes, vodka-sodas,
a rum press. “What do you mean?”
Two
more tickets up. Three new ladies at the rail to my right. Early to
mid-thirties. I card them. Girls like to be carded. Eye-contact.
Smile. The brunette adjusts her low-cut blouse. I wasn't looking at
her purple lace bra.
While
pouring three ice-waters, I tell them this week I'm mixing Midori
with melon vodka and muddled citrus, served up.
The
guys on the other side of the rail are telling each other “walks
into a bar” jokes. They need two scotch-rocks, a bourbon-sour, and
a beer.
“'...cannonball
blasted off me leg,'” one says in a pirate voice.
I
pour the scotch and bourbon, bring them over. I go pour the beer.
“And
I asked him why the hook? 'Hand chopped off in a sword-fight,' he
replies.”
Beer
pours slow when I'm busy. My left hand wants something to do.
“So
I asked him why the eye-patch?” says the guy with the brand new
scotch.
I
look around as I fill the beer. Another ticket. The ladies look
through the menu. The one with the warm brown eyes was scoping me
and looks back down.
“'Arr!
A sea-gull pooped in me eye.'”
The
guy by the well has four drops of martini left. I look at his glass
and he nods. The game is 3-3 in the bottom of the fourth.
“I
say: 'You lost an eye from sea-gull poop?'”
The
new girl has a long tapered back and an ass like a lollipop. I'll
guess soccer in high-school and now aerobic kick-boxing. Beer's
full. I bring it over.
“'Nay!'
he says. 'Was me first day with the hook.'”
The Cheshire House
an
excerpt from a submission for
We
park around the corner. Rain comes down from hoses. I switch off
the engine. With the headlights off and the wipers stopped, I can
see nothing, hear nothing but drumming on the roof.
I
step out with my umbrella.
My
shoes are soaked in an instant. The gutter has overflown past the
driver's side. I pull my collar up around my ears, tug my hat brim
low and splash around to her side of the car.
She
isn't there.
I
look around and find her striding to the corner. Under the
street-light, she turns into the wind. Her coat blows open. Blouse
pasted to her form, hair whipping behind, she stares. Jaw open.
Crimson lips slack.
Never
seen her so still.
The
day she started with the paper, she whirled into the newsroom.
Scarlet dress. Green eyes gleaming. Shaking hands and laughing like
vacation. Floating from desk to desk making friends.
“Sinthia
Watson. I'm here to save this dinosaur from extinction.”
From
her heels to the flower in her hair, she was too pretty to look at.
The spark in her grin. The crackle in the air. She was too much
energy to absorb.
After
she corrected my spelling of her name (“S-I-N like sin”) I
couldn't find words around her. I stayed behind my lens.
I
meet her at the corner and pop the umbrella, which instantly inverts
in the wind. She swats it from my hand. It skitters down the
street.
She
never takes her eyes from the house.
Plantation
style. Four stories of white pillars, railings and balconies. A
garden bursting with hyacinth and hibiscus framed with palms. A
wrought-iron fence. A granite path winding into the jungle. It
reappears at a broad front porch and a pair of grand copper doors.
There
is no driveway.
The
windows are dressed in white neglige lace. On the top floor a window
is open. The room is lit red. The curtains whip out into the
weather like Rosemary Bailey's peignoir the night she was satin on
mushrooms, posed on the edge of our dormitory roof.
I
shot four rolls of her that night, ejaculated in the darkroom
trashcan the next day, but could never capture the velvet of the
moment.
Some of My Yahoo Work
Halloween 2004: The Seahawks were
hosting the Carolina Panthers.
Matt Hasselbeck. Sean Alexander. Marcus
Trufant. Ken Hamlin.
Those Seahawks. The guys who would win
the next four NFC West championships.
No, I don't want to talk about the end
of the 2005 season.
My man Andy was having a party. And
something smelled good on his block. I approached his house,
thinking: I hope that aroma's coming from where I'm going.
Hickory, chilies, caramelized sugar,
and roast pork hung in the air. The scent intensified as I neared his
door, where a sign read: "We're in the Back".
Seductive vapor trickled from the vents
in a cinder-block smokehouse. A bunch of guys were standing around a
keg.
Wearing an eye-patch and tri-corner
hat, Andy was describing his secret rub:
- turbinado sugar
- sea salt
- ancho chilies
- garlic and onion powder
- ginger
- star anise
- a fistful of nanya
"What's nanya?" a zombie
asked.
"Nanya damn business," Andy
replied.
Barbecue
rub is a pantry staple in my house. My rub jar sits on the shelf
between my molasses and my olive oil. We use it on everything, from
spareribs to Thanksgiving turkey.
You
can make your own without too much work. Like all my recipes, there's
a lot of room to make the flavor your very own.
You'll
need:
- Dried Chiles
- Turbinado Sugar
- Salt
- Various Seasonings
- Food Processor
- Jar, Medium-Sized with a Lid
Step
One: The Jar.
Measure
your jar. Divide the volume by five. Round down a bit. This will be
"one part". My jar holds three cups, so one part to me is
half a cup.
Step
Two: The Chiles.
Grab
a handful of chiles. I use about a six to ten, depending on size and
type. I like anchos for a rich, dark flavor and Thai for heat. But
use what you like. Use what you got. Only you know how hot you like
it. The recipe will take some experimentation before you make a rub
you love.
Remove
the stems and buzz the chiles in your food processor for thirty
seconds or so. Exclude the seeds if you're sensitive to heat.
Step
Three: The Sugar.
White
sugar doesn't have much flavor beyond simple sweetness. Brown sugar
contains molasses, making the rub sticky and clumpy. I like Turbinado
sugar because of the complex flavor and its dry, grainy texture. The
abrasiveness of Turbinado with help further break down the chilies.
Add
two parts sugar to the food processor and spin for another half
minute.
Some of My Work for Bright Hub
When I was young, writing
good dialogue was my weakest skill. Not until I'd been out in the
world for a while could I capture the essence of a character by
placing a few words in his mouth. After years of people-watching and
eavesdropping, I now think dialogue is one of my strengths.
Writing a script is all
about delivering a character's motivation, emotion, priorities and
background using only speech. All the poetic descriptions and
intelligent vocabulary you would use writing a story for the page are
gone. What matters is just the stuff inside the quotation marks.
For now, don't dream about
writing the next Hollywood block-buster or being this century's
Shakespeare. Start small. Focus on a short scene involving a few
people.
Characters:
Start simple. No need to
establish a lengthy back-story for each character. Define each one
with about three descriptors rather than a complex biography.
“Anxious teen who needs a job” or “high-school prom queen
growing old with style” are good starts.
Now free-write in each
character's voice. Fill up a page writing each one's story, favorite
phrases, fears, loves, desires. Get to know them a little. When no
one is looking, speak in their cadence and style, ask them questions
out loud and get responses. From this brain-storming you should get
useful bits of dialogue and a stronger feel for each character.
Setting:
Your characters will
dictate the time and place. Perhaps they are on the same team, go to
the same school or work at the same business. Maybe they are
different people in the same spot by chance: on the bus together,
stuck in an elevator or strangers at the same funeral. Don't spend
much time painting the picture of the setting. That's for the
director and stage crew. Simply give your actors and readers an idea
of where things happen.
Conflict:
What just happened before
this scene? Where are the characters going? Do they fear something
or are they excited about something? Does one character believe
something while another thinks the opposite? Throw a monkey wrench
in the works to give reason for the characters to move and talk.
Once you have characters,
setting and conflict, you're ready to write.
A sonnet is a classic
poetic form consisting of fourteen lines with a rhyme scheme. The
name is derived from “sonetto”, which means “little song” in
Italian.
The Italian Sonnet
Giacomo da Lentini
invented the sonnet in Sicily during the 13th
century. He brought it back to his home in Tuscany where it became
popular with his contemporaries, chiefly Dante Alighieri, Guido
Cavalcanti and Petrarch.
The classic Italian sonnet
is built from two quatrains (four line stanzas) followed by two
tercets (three line stanzas). The quatrains often rhyme ABBA and the
tercets either CDE or CDC. The first eight lines present the
proposition. The last six deliver the resolution. The ninth line is
referred to as the “volta” or “turn” where the poem takes a
rhythmic and logical twist towards its conclusion.
The English Sonnet
In the 16th
century Thomas Wyatt translated Italian sonnets (primarily
Petrarch's) into English. Shakespeare, Spenser and other English
writers ran with the form and made it their own. The English sonnet
typically was built from three quatrains and finished with a couplet.
The volta was still line nine. Iambic pentameter was the standard
meter. ABAB CDCD EFEF GG was the most common rhyme scheme.
The Sonnet in Recent
Times
Modern poetry has become
less reliant on form and meter, yet Robert Frost, EE Cummings, Pablo
Neruda, Seamus Heaney and others have kept the sonnet alive. Paul
Muldoon has done some interesting work with “Word Sonnets”
consisting simply of fourteen one-word lines.
My own favorite form, the
Ten-by-Ten, is derived from the sonnet. It consists of ten lines of
ten syllables each. Essentially, it is a 100 syllable proposition
with no volta or resolution.
The Sonnet and You
You may be a futuristic
non-rhyming free-verse writer, but you can still learn from the
sonnet's structure. Every piece of writing should present a
situation and then attempt some sort of solution. Every poem has
rhythm, sound and form even if the author does not explicitly dictate
a structure. Every verse, sentence or chapter should be meticulously
crafted.
Writing a sonnet could be
a valuable exercise. I like to practice format shifts. That means I
will take something I'm working on and write it in a different style
to get an alternate look at it. Are you having trouble with a piece
of free-verse? Write it as a sonnet and see if the rhyme forces
something new from you. Does your essay feel awkward? Write it as a
sonnet to develop a rhythm and a flow.
Like restoring a classic
muscle-car, writing sonnets is an old-school skill every poet should
have.
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