Biting the Dust and Sending It Off

by Louise Yeiser

On Friday, I was ready to email my end-of-summer work to my MFA mentor. I had the email typed, proofed and spell-checked, with all six attachments lined up in their proper order: letter to mentor (4 pages), main manuscript, draft 2 (45 pages), second manuscript part 1, draft 2 (10 pages), second manuscript part 2, draft 1 (5 pages), book review 1 (5 pages) and book review 2 (3 pages). I was searching for the SEND button, when I had a flash - there he was, a World War II Japanese kamikaze pilot whose mission was to fly into an American aircraft carrier loaded up with just enough gas to get him there, but not enough to get him home. Oops, I value my life after all and I think I’ll head back to the base and let my commander know, he thought, as he plummeted into the sea with no parachute. Oh, for God’s sakes, Louise, I scolded as I pressed SEND, it’s your writing, not your life. Right?

6S

Louise Yeiser, whose full catalog is here, has been published in print in Kerlak’s Modern Witches, Wizards and Magic, and Six Sentences, Volume 1. Her work appears online at Tuesday Shorts, Flashquake, and Long Story Short. Her blog is here. She studies creative writing at Carlow University in Pittsburgh and Ireland.

NFL Football

by Louise Yeiser

Men sipping from water bottles, men with bare arms in freezing weather, men on their knees, men with tinted football helmets that make them look like Darth Vader. Men on benches, men in piles, men in lines, men blocking like brick walls. Men bending over, running, jumping, flying, and throwing, catching, hurling, wrestling one another to the ground. Slapping each other’s butts, smacking chests, patting helmets. Banal ballet, coarse choreography. Watching all the pretty men.

6S

Louise Yeiser's full catalog is here. She is a freelance writer living in Steeler territory, and wears nothing but black after Super Bowl Sunday.

A Night at the Opera

by Louise Yeiser

Last month, I saw the Pittsburgh Opera’s performance of Billy Budd. You would think that after having seen such a hauntingly beautiful opera, which tells such a profound and poignant sad-story, I would have something more relevant to write about other than the fact that I could sneak a whole jumbo-sized package of peanut M&M’s into the theater in my purse, and eat them, one by one, without crinkling the plastic wrapper, without rustling my purse, without squeaking my seat, without scrunching my body sideways, without chomping, and without lip-smacking, unlike my neighbor across the aisle who crinkled, rustled, squeaked, scrunched, chomped, and lip-smacked during the last half of the first act, and the entire second, turning heads and inspiring quiet tsk’s. My mother would have been proud, once she scraped herself off the ceiling at the thought of one of her daughters actually eating a snack in the theater during a real, live performance. “It simply isn’t done,” I can hear her say in my ear, her voice dripping with benevolent disapproval. Oh, well. Life is full of little trade-offs.

6S

Louise Yeiser, author of Sparkles, is a published writer and student of creative nonfiction who likes to sing passionate arias to her Mastiffs (who pay no attention whatsoever).

A Tribute to Madam Z

by Louise Yeiser

The mysterious Madam Z doesn't know this, but she has been my new best friend ever since she wrote about her difficulty in simulating happiness when it would be so much easier to curse the world and shake her fist at the wind (a loose translation), but I would've added that I wanted to throw my ungrateful grown children in the garbage and mow my husband down in the driveway with the family car, but there is no need to go to extremes, since everyone gets the idea without being gross about it. Anyway, I swear that in real life Madam Z is my Creative Nonfiction teacher - well, probably not really - but I insist on pretending she is, maybe because it's fun to believe it so; which is, for all I know, the justification behind all beliefs, political and religious - well, probably not really. But it's a pretty nifty profound thought, as profound thoughts go. Or not. Anyway, if you took her piece here and substituted melted butter pecan ice cream for the spilled glass of wine, it would describe my January, February, and now possibly my March attitudes to a tee or a T or a tea, whichever you prefer, if it's really all that horrendously important to you in the grand scheme of things, which it might be. Or not.

6S

Louise Yeiser, author of The Boss, is a published writer and writing student at the University of Pittsburgh. She authors Sneak Peeks, edits A Good Look at Mastiffs and lives with her two cats and as many English Mastiffs as she can fit into her house.

Relationships

by Louise Yeiser

I’ve done the same thing the same way for so long that if my pattern were any clearer, I’d have a neon sign strapped to my face. They were all men I couldn’t trust - not really - which is a clever, ineffective way of fooling myself into believing that I was in control. And now a new sort of man has eased his way into my life, a man who is the definition of “staunch.” If I were to climb aboard, he would hold my weight and carry me. He is married. Not to me.

6S

Louise Yeiser, whose full catalog is here, has been published in print in Kerlak’s Modern Witches, Wizards and Magic, and Six Sentences, Volume 1. Her work appears online at Tuesday Shorts, Flashquake, and Long Story Short. Her blog is here. She is single.

CTRL

by Louise Yeiser

What can I do with a laptop, whose control key thinks it's depressed? Not the kind of depressed I can fix with a paxil or a zoloft, but the kind of depressed that requires a good computer technician and probably a new keyboard. When I tried to correct this problem myself, I ended up losing one of the tiny plastic pieces that fits into another tiny plastic piece, both of which are meant to be snapped together and into position, by itty, bitty metal hooks that are hidden beneath the black key that has CTRL printed on it in white letters, which is also missing at the moment, and which I probably should never have flipped off in the first place. Not the kind of flipping off that involves the middle finger, which probably would have worked out better, but the kind of flipping off that actually flicked the piece away, into the air, and then down, somewhere into the plush fibers of the carpet. Therefore, when I type an "n," my laptop opens a new page; and when I type an "f," the search box appears; and when I type an "a," all the text is selected; and when I type an "o," it asks me what file I wish to open. Instead of calling a computer tech, I have fled to a computer that I rent by the hour, in a pathetic attempt to escape these destructive control issues that could make anyone, even the most sane among us, want to flip off this computer and consume large quantities of anti-depressants.

6S

Louise Yeiser, whose full catalog is here, is a student of Creative Nonfiction at the University of Pittsburgh, and lives in Sewickley, PA with three mastiffs of whom she is the supreme ruler.

Teatime Tangent

by Louise Yeiser

In my next life I’m going to have those legs (I looked the other way to avoid staring, but gave up after about two seconds). And those arms and that hair (I took a sip of tea) and those eyes and those hands with their ten perfect fingernails shaped in squares and painted just the right amount of white. The tea was too hot. I was supposed to be enjoying my little Starbucks escapade, sipping sweet tea that tasted like gingerbread graham crackers, munching an exquisite — albeit unusually crumbly — piece of coffee cake, and dissecting fragments of poems assigned for homework due tomorrow; but instead, I was placing my order for my next life and burning the roof of my mouth. It was a relief when she finally left, giving me a nice, round derriere that was quickly added to my list. And that was the end.

6S

Louise Yeiser, author of A Tribute to Madam Z, is a published writer and writing student at the University of Pittsburgh. She authors Sneak Peeks, edits A Good Look at Mastiffs and lives with her two cats and as many English Mastiffs as she can fit into her house. This week, her hobbies include homemade soup, walking in the cold, and Season 2 reruns of Grey’s Anatomy.

Assault Leftover

by Louise Yeiser

I hesitated, feeling the sky and the hill and the street — so huge, so endless and so wrong that I couldn’t catch my breath. A pain sliced my chest, left side, and doubled me over. Slowly I backtracked to the door, opened it and let myself back in, sinking to the floor to rest until I could breathe again. Maybe it’s a little too soon, I thought, willing myself not to cry. I can try again tomorrow. In my mind, I had already crawled back into my best friend’s bathrobe and was curled in a corner, on her couch.

6S

Louise Yeiser, whose full catalog is here, is a freelance writer, living, working and breathing in Sewickley, Pennsylvania. She always offers Sneak Peeks.

Bee Plus

by Louise Yeiser

The old wooden trunk with its chipped corners, scratched sides and two-inch wide leather straps that once held it tight, is filled with dreams that pop out, hand in hand with the strong smell of cedar, every time I open the lid. My mother bent over her work in a straight-backed chair at her sewing table, among folds and folds of material cascading from her lap, with many-colored patches of fabric neatly piled, with even edges, into the basket at her feet that were as bare as the dark, wooden floor. She worked with white and lavender, folded at the bottom of the bed in my guest room, and pink and beige, which is on my niece’s bed in Florida, and lemon and green in a quilt whose whereabouts I lost track of. When she could no longer quilt, she stored her new squares, her old favorites and all her leftovers in the trunk for safekeeping, so on special days, like her birthday or the anniversary of her death or her wedding to my father, I almost tiptoe around my bed and sit cross-legged on the floor in front of it. Slowly, so slowly, I lift the lid to savor the colors escaping into the air and listen to the song of her humming and stitching, and I breathe my fill of the memories and the cedar and all the goodness which is the only part I want to remember. And for just a quick piece of a moment, I can step back into an improved, silky-sweet version of yesterday and relive it the way I always wanted.

6S

Louise Yeiser, whose full catalog is here, has been published in print in Kerlak’s Modern Witches, Wizards and Magic, and Six Sentences, Volume 1. Her work appears online at Tuesday Shorts, Flashquake, and Long Story Short. Her blog is here. She studies creative writing at Carlow University in Pittsburgh and Ireland. (And she knits.)

Water's Edge

by Louise Yeiser

An old woman, arms swinging, and an old man, feet shuffling, are moving up the beach, with her leading the way. Once they are closer to my window, I can see that he cannot keep up, but she cannot wait. I resist the urge to run out and join them. “Go on at your own pace and let me walk with him,” I would say to her, shooing her off with my hands. While she exercises her newfound freedom and hurries down the beach, taking deep, cleansing breaths and looking out for dolphins lazing by and swiping at the schools of small fish they slice through, he and I could peck through the sand for coquinas, who present themselves in infinite patterns in infinite color combinations. I like the plaid ones best.

6S

Louise Yeiser, whose full catalog is here, is a freelance writer and student of Creative Nonfiction, who spends as much time as possible in Naples, Florida.

The Boss

by Louise Yeiser

I wish I could sit and talk with my dad's old best friend named Boss, who really wasn't; that's just what we called him, and looking back on it now, I haven't the slightest idea why. He lived in New York, and used to visit our family every year on the weekend before or after Valentine's Day, bringing heartfelt gifts of rhyme, stories, and lively jazz numbers his wife, Corky, would write before they were released on mid-sized records that went round and round on our turntable at 78 rpms. Sometimes we sang her songs while he fleshed out their melodies on our tinny, old piano that was kept in the family room, which was really nothing more than a cold, damp basement; but not back then, and certainly not on Valentine afternoons when Boss and Corky were visiting. I remember once when he wrote a short story about my sister's horse being made out of sycamore bark and leaves, and I lent him adjectives and nouns to make it more interesting, and gave my puppets permission to act out the speaking parts, which they did on a blue wooden stage, while I hid behind a red curtain, pulling them this way and that. The combination of fancy, wit, and silliness caused Boss, my parents, my brother and both my sisters to roll on the green, white, and tan basement/family room carpet in fits of laughter, until their sides ached and they begged Boss and me to stop, which of course we finally did. Like I said, I wish I could sit and talk with my dad's old best friend named Boss, who really wasn't; that's just what we called him, but I can't because he went and died two years ago, and looking back on it now, I haven't the slightest idea why.

6S

Louise Yeiser, author of The Favorite Dress, is a published writer and writing student at the University of Pittsburgh. She authors Sneak Peeks, edits A Good Look at Mastiffs and lives with her two cats and as many English Mastiffs as she can fit into her house. Her hobbies, which change frequently, this week include tootsie roll pops, Jane Eyre, and cleaning out bedroom closets.

The Favorite Dress

by Louise Yeiser

The little girl sat in the living room with her grandfather and her new doll, while her mother bustled about in the kitchen making dinner, and her brother and sisters played upstairs. She wore her favorite party dress over her sturdy frame, the red and white checked one, with puffy sleeves and see-through pinafore that tied in a big bow around her waist. When her grandfather asked her if she would dance for him, she became embarrassed and told him no, causing her mother to emerge from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, saying, "Aw, come on, honey - Gramps would love to see your beautiful dancing. Be a sport, change your mind, trot upstairs and get your leotard and slippers, and I’ll let you wear one of my petticoats, how about your favorite, the blue one?" The little girl shook her head, even though she loved to twirl in the stiff, full layers of pale blue chiffon, watching them flair in filmy waves around her legs and pretending to be Cinderella, while the skirts spun a web around the body of her Prince Charming, engulfing him, binding him to her, and making him hers forever. Decades later, when she sat with her uncle in his family room, nestled in a worn, red, leather chair, with her legs tucked under her, talking for the first time about the specifics of her grandfather's death, carefully skirting around the word "suicide," all she could remember of him was that she wished he had seen her dance.

6S

Louise Yeiser is a published writer and writing student at the University of Pittsburgh. She authors Sneak Peeks, edits A Good Look at Mastiffs and lives with her two cats and as many English Mastiffs as she can fit into her house. Her hobbies, which change frequently, often include chocolate, yoga, and crossword puzzles.

You’re It!

by Louise Yeiser

Since I’m an agnostic of sorts, I have to be sneaky about the way I pray for people. So I hunt down errant clothing tags that wave at me from the backs of people’s necks, still attached (by a thread or two) to the insides of a shirt, a jacket, a sweater. I reach out and tuck it in, and while the owners are trying to figure out what strange scoundrel is touching them, I say, “All tucked in,” pat the tag down and add, “Now you’re perfect,” which brings instant understanding and a smile. That’s how I pray — I fix people’s tags, pat them on the back and tell them they’re perfect. I think this is an incredibly cool, terribly clever MO and am constantly amazed at the huge tally of tags that flap around loosely, begging for closure, right in front of my nose; so naturally, I accommodate them whenever possible, and am apparently developing quite a reputation around town. I hear they call me... the tag lady.

6S

Louise Yeiser, whose full catalog is here, is a middle-aged student of Creative Nonfiction at the University of Pittsburgh, and is always watching.

Success Story

by Louise Yeiser

"What formula did you use as your investment criterion, dad?” I asked him one day, as we sat around a wrought-iron table on the terrace of his country club — I with my Cobb salad; and he, a BLT. "I never really had a formula,” he said, gazing over the rim of his glass, filled with unsweetened iced tea. There was a lemon wandering up and down its sides. "Then what did you look for in a stock before you bought it?” I persisted, spearing some lettuce. "I don’t know,” he said, “I just had a feeling.” I put my fork down and searched his face to see if he was teasing me, but all I saw was a man enjoying a sandwich.

6S

Louise Yeiser, whose full catalog is here, is a freelance writer, living, working and breathing in Sewickley, Pennsylvania. She has unlimited respect and affection for her octogenarian father, who resides in Cincinnati, Ohio, a mere 5-hour drive away. (Check out her blog.)

A Glimpse

by Louise Yeiser

When you’re middle-aged and newly in love, the last thing you want to do is give a litany of your ailments, a sure-fire way to send a man screaming off into the sunset, while kicking up huge clouds of dust behind him, never to be seen, or heard from, again. To my dismay, that is exactly what I did. I told him that the arthritis in my right hand made it difficult to write that day. While I quickly repositioned my happy mask firmly back onto my face, he picked up my sore hand, raised it to his lips, carefully spread my fingers apart and softly kissed each one. That was the moment I knew. Soul mate.

6S

Louise Yeiser is a creative nonfiction grad student at Carlow University in Pittsburgh and Ireland. She blogs here.

3-Minute Reading

by Louise Yeiser

“They will always think of you as a blond who writes,” my agent warned, “so you may want to reconsider your hair color.” Later that evening, I gave my first public reading. “I was the victim of a violent crime,” I began, and launched into it with my description of the bruises on my cheeks, the blood in the whites of my eyes and the closing of my eyelid, beaten shut; and during a pause, I looked up and saw a room full of eyes staring wide, and not one inch of movement, not even the silver blur of a pin dropping; so I rested in my white space and sipped the silence. The message wasn’t in the chopped-up, glued-together segment I read that evening; the message was me, facing a hundred people, my scars offered up to them in a strong, clear voice with no sign of self-pity. So let them think of me as a blond who writes. It suits me.

6S

Louise Yeiser, whose full catalog is here, has been published in print in Kerlak’s Modern Witches, Wizards and Magic, and Six Sentences, Volume 1. Her work appears online at Tuesday Shorts, Flashquake, and Long Story Short. Her blog is here. She studies creative writing at Carlow University in Pittsburgh and Ireland, and she has dedicated her life to remaining blond.

For Peter

by Louise Yeiser

California fires continue to rage, the headlines howled, while the rest of us continue to age. We press against the walls and watch from the last row, unable to embrace this game of hot potato, of our lives burning away, any more than we can snag the wind that swishes by the trees outside, gliding across our backyards littered with leaves that flamed to fall. Smoke and ash stuck their tongues through Peter's windows, aimed for the soul of his mountain perch that craned its neck over the ocean, and left their pieces of wet polyurethane gravel glued to its walls and ceilings, paint and poison, a finish of melted charcoal filled with sharp eggshells that pulls life into itself and, wrapping it in suffocation, feeds off it. Sawdust syrup soiled the air in Peter's den, in his bedroom, in his living room, squeezing his breath to a pale sliver before slicing it with lava flake deposits that drifted into his pool like hot fudge grit with no whipped cream, no red cherry, and no sparsely sprinkled, crunchy nuts. He dove in and swam to a safe shore with solid earth and palm-tree piers, and stood, dripping exhausted and hopeful, limp-wrapped in a spongy, moss blanket that someone threw over his shoulders, and held a steaming cup of hot coffee or maybe a swirling glass of velvet brandy that would burn his mouth before spreading cool sighs down his throat. Soothed dry, sweeping his opera glasses back and forth across the bitter-cloud stage, he would stand for ages, wanting to know when he would be able to return.

6S

Louise Yeiser, whose full catalog is here, is a creative non-fiction student at the University of Pittsburgh. Her friend Peter has returned home in time for the holidays.

6'1"

by Louise Yeiser

How does a person bridge a one-foot height difference? I wondered. He stepped back and leaned down. Oh, that’s how. He tasted like cherry pie, while his mustache felt like feathers. The room paused, so I could study his eyelashes and memorize the curve of his cheek against my skin. My life has been hopeful hell ever since.

6S

Louise Yeiser wants to know the end at the beginning.

NFL Football

by Louise Yeiser

Men sipping from water bottles, men with bare arms in freezing weather, men on their knees, men with tinted football helmets that make them look like Darth Vader. Men on benches, men in piles, men in lines, men blocking like brick walls. Men bending over, running, jumping, flying, and throwing, catching, hurling, wrestling one another to the ground. Slapping each other’s butts, smacking chests, patting helmets. Banal ballet, coarse choreography. Watching all the pretty men.

6S

Louise Yeiser shall remain a mystery.

Anonymous Note

by Louise Yeiser

“Oh, my God, which one of you ladies wrote this?” he asked, putting down the paper, sitting up in his chair and flashing his eyes around the classroom. Those eyes. They always rendered me speechless and made me want to spread down into my seat, like a pat of butter when it first starts to melt and seep into the gray coating of a warm pan. “I want to know who you are and everything about you,” he said, his voice husky with hope (or something), sounding like a boy in a baseball cap, licking his lips and salivating over the suggestion of chocolate chip ice cream on a sweaty summer’s day. “Aw, come on, name please?” he asked, looking around the room at the shrugging shoulders and shaking heads, no. I’m afraid I’m older than his mother.

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Louise Yeiser, whose full catalog is here, has been published in various and sundry places, writes Sneak Peeks for fun, and usually takes credit for her work.