Neurotic Fire Strobe
A meteor shower of little effect on the planet In beholders’ eyes became Highness expressed in a chaotic display of lights Bulbs over ideas Disco ball over dancers At dawn shut Leaving traces on neurons Re-ignited.
Author: tiphane
Let the Jaw Drop, a one-page story
Click Here to Download the PDF BEFORE THE THEATRE PLUNGED into complete darkness, a serious voice asked the members of the audience to turn their cell phones off, and to unwrap their candy now, rather than later, when the urge to cough would warrant it. To Dorothy, these were somewhat contradictory life instructions, for what should one do with the unwrapped candy? It probably mattered less than the annoyance she felt at her husband consequently unwrapping a piece of gum, because of how he chewed it – with such an extreme jaw drop that one could hear the clicking of his overused masseter muscle, and observe his ears as they moved, as if directly attached to the jaw. Years ago, they had laughed together at his ability to move his ears, and even parts of his ears, independently… Click Here to Download the PDF
Enclosed, a Short Story
Download the PDF (4 pages, printable on two-sided letter-size paper, or display on your computer) I GOT STUCK IN THE ELEVATOR, somewhere below the fortieth floor of my attorney’s building. I did not panic, of course, but strangely enough I had a sense that the incident could have been related to something I did. I am not superstitious, and not even religious, so I rarely attribute an event like a power failure in an elevator to a higher authority. Yet, when you are inside an elevator, you can’t resist the thought that you are at the mercy of an invisible force… Download the PDF
Writing the First Draft
For the past two weeks, I’ve been writing assiduously on a new Clairefontaine notebook with a fountain pen. I do get hand cramps after a couple of hours, but the process is exciting. Every morning, I seem to look forward to learning what my characters are going to do next, how they’ll proceed with what life throws at them. Here’s a transcription of a paragraph, just to prove it exists. It really is a first draft, which plows through the story and defines the characters, the scenes, what happen to them, their history, and where they’re going to end up. A second draft will probably be entirely new. “… That’s him on the photos there,” he said, designating the photos on the wall behind the computer. “You guys were cute,” said Marc. “Yeah,” Peter said, thinking of the past tense in “were cute.” He paused in his work, his hands supporting him on the table, looking at the back of the frame, having one of his moments, as he called it. At the beginning, those …
Tech Opinion: The Future of the Kindle and Book Reading
few years ago, I left the world of technology to study English Literature, read more fiction, and write. I got rid of the old Sears TV with its rabbit ear antenna, and after moving to Berkeley, no longer saw the need to shop in the electronics stores. This year, I tried to update myself with an iPod, but found that I actually liked to hear what was going on around me on the street and on BART. So I don’t really qualify as a technologist, if the prerequisite is to also be a consumer of technology. There are plenty of guys who will talk to you about the latest and greatest this and that, and to prove their point they’ll grab a device hanging on their belt. I buy books, and take pleasure in finding them at a used bookstore or among remainder stacks of unsold first editions. I think I qualify as a scavenger of sorts, letting items cross my path rather than running after them. I think that’s why I prefer the local, …
Even though I have a boyfriend — a draft
Exploring ideas and directions for the novel project… “Even though I have a boyfriend,” he said, “you can kiss me now.” The invitation, as strange, dangerous, and illicit as it sounded, could only be accepted. I acknowledged it first by a discreet kiss on the cheek, on his left side, my right side. Our arms soon followed, and like an airplane on its approach to landing, my nose guided my lips to that mysteriously sensitive area under the ear, where they dwelled for a while, tickling the thin layer of skin, muscle, and nerve. With an unconscious decision to move on, again led by a nose excited by the softness of a fair skin on which only the suggestion of a beard manifested a pleasant resistance, the lips found each other and locked in. It felt as if they had been measured for each other. “Oh, if only…” my head started to reason, raising the alarm that the moment was about to end. I tried to ignore it, tried to think of a mantra as …
It’s just an old sweater
It’s just an old sweater of yours That I found In memories of our common past. Little did I know you would appear in a plastic box at the back of the closet. I thought I’d return it to you Wrapped in a cut paper grocery bag Write your name and the last address I have for you Take it to the post office, take a number, Ask for nothing special See it thrown in a bin full of other packages Should I include a letter? What would it say? I saw you receiving an unwanted package and a letter maybe, Throwing this sweater in a bin for Goodwill With all things from me, the past, this town. Your scent having long left the soft wool, Chased away by mothballs, I washed it in cold water and delicately Dried it flat and for a few days It lay near the back door The object of my curiosity, softer to the touch of my passing hand Until each of the threads caressed my arms and my …
A Work of Art
I’ve started working on this project again, after nearly two years. I think my attitude towards it has changed, and I’m more comfortable with it. One important detail is that I got excited reading the drafts, posing the hard question: which draft will I take, or should I just rewrite these anyway? How do I deal with the complexity of a novel, writing chapters not in order, filling blank chapters that I may not be as excited about as others… So today I decided to turn off the Internet and the phone (that was easy, if you know my aversion to the phone), and work. Here’s an excerpt, just a paragraph really. The story is about a painting of a young man after an encounter, and how the painter falls in love with his art and his subject. He woke up at ten past ten, the hands of his alarm clock spread in panic. He had to open his shop at eleven, and he was sure there would be a customer waiting at the door …
Syrupy Substance and A Trace of Garbage
Syrupy Substance A spot of sweet glue ready for osmosis touched the back cover of my book as it was placed on the table. My finger wiped off the offending matter, enrolling the help of others to dissolve the sweetness (note to self: must wash hands), ordering the diffusion of an all-out warning about a rogue sweet spot, innocent-looking like a drop of water that won’t dry, waiting, perhaps forever, for the coming of an ant. A Trace of Garbage The garbage bag had a hole in it, and the ants followed the path it made from the dumpster back to the building, into the elevator, through the corridor, into the apartment and the kitchen where it all started, or ended. It was an epic story of antesque proportions, telling of unhealthy snacks, empty calories, nutshells, and plain old dust. A forensic ant-analyst concluded a trace of a vacuum cleaner bag had led to a fruitless day of cleaning and dusting, the myth of Sisyphus repeating itself as intended.
R.I.P. Ardavan Davaran
One of my favorite teachers, Ardavan Davaran, died this week. I had seen him one day this year on my way to the grocery store, and I remember thinking I’d wave at him had he not been deeply engaged in conversation at the restaurant where he sat. Had I been him, I would have simply walked through the low bushes separating me from the restaurant window, and knocked with a big grin. He was my first teacher in the M.A. program at NDNU, where I showed up completely unsure of my abilities. After all, I spoke English with an accent, the excuse I proffered when he asked me to read a poem in class. “I’m an English professor with an accent,” he told me. I read, and he congratulated me. Later, I wrote and he congratulated me. When I wrote for the magazine, The Bohemian, he said my story was fantastic. One night after class, I joined him at Ausiello’s, the local tavern across the train station, and made it a personal tradition to wait …
Bibi Tiphane 