candle girl
15 Wednesday May 2024
Posted Books, Fairy tales, Fiction, Short story, Stories from underground, Universe, Writing
in15 Wednesday May 2024
Posted Books, Fairy tales, Fiction, Short story, Stories from underground, Universe, Writing
in14 Tuesday May 2024
Posted Books, Fairy tales, Fiction, Short story, Writing
in08 Wednesday May 2024
Posted Authors, Books, Dreams, Fairy tales, Fiction, flash fiction, Short story, Stories from underground, Writing
inTags
amazon, book, book launch, candle girl and other fantasies, creative writing, ebook, fantasy, hans christian andersen, kindle, short stories, short story collection, slipstream, speculative fiction
Dear Readers:
Recently, I self-published a collection of short stories entitled Candle Girl and Other Fantasies. A few of these stories have appeared in their earliest forms on this blog; the rest are brand new. There are eight tales in all, including light fantasies, dark fantasies, and a mix of the two. Thank you to all who may be interested in buying the book. I’d also like to mention here a few stories by others that have seeped into my imagination and have no doubt influenced my writing. I’ve read some of these stories more times than I can say and their magic has never failed to captivate and inspire me. Here are links to these stories:
Silent Snow, Secret Snow (Conrad Aiken): https://www.vqronline.org/fiction/silent-snow-secret-snow
By the Waters of Babylon (Stephen Vincent Benet): https://archive.org/details/bythewatersofbabylon_202001
Green Tea (J. Sheridan Le Fanu): https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/11635/pg11635-images.html
A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings (Gabriel García Márquez): https://www.ndsu.edu/pubweb/~cinichol/CreativeWriting/323/MarquezManwithWings.htm
Young Goodman Brown (Nathaniel Hawthorne): https://www.gutenberg.org/files/512/512-h/512-h.htm#chap04
Pages from a Young Girl’s Journal (Robert Aickman): https://bristolgothic.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/03/pages-from-a-young-girls-journal-aickman-1975.pdf
Happy reading!
A. L. Anzalone
25 Thursday Apr 2024
Tags
afterlife, family, fantasy, science, short stories, short story, smile, smiles
My uncle has lived an extraordinary life. He is 90 years old now and says that when he dies he will die with a smile on his face, which I take to mean he is pleased with the life he has led, and when it reaches its natural end, there will be no raging “against the dying of the light.” He talks about his future death-bed smile so often, however, that like anything someone repeats over and over again, I’ve grown a bit tired of it, though this may be unkind of me to say. But something else genuinely bothers me about this claim of his: I simply can’t relate.
My uncle was a geologist or, more precisely, a mining engineer for most of his life, which required that he travel across the world (for the entire world is full of things to mine, obviously). As a young man, he had wanted to be an archeologist, but he quickly realized archeology wasn’t lucrative and working for corporations that mine the earth for profit would be. And during the heyday of such things, mining corporations made a mint (I know, bad pun) and so did he, for such companies (even greedy ones) during the fifties and sixties had generous pension plans, profit sharing, and the like. Of course, in later years, when profits started to wind down and employee benefits were scaled back in these and other corporations, the company owners he worked for tried to claw back the money they had promised the professional staff upon retirement. Fortunately, the staff sued and the wise judge ruled in the employees’ favor. As a result, my uncle became a millionaire overnight.
For most of my life, I wasn’t in touch with my Uncle Sal. It was only a few years ago that he contacted me, just prior to his wife passing away. They had no children. He is my father’s younger brother, the youngest in their branch of the family. The rest have passed on to wherever we all pass on to. My uncle, being a geologist, doesn’t believe in an afterlife. He says that if you have studied geology or any other science extensively, you will eventually come to that understanding yourself. At best, we will dissolve into the landscape or seascape, or, as the saying goes, push up daisies. Anyway, such are his beliefs. And such is how we came to reconnect.
Getting to know a new old relative is strange. He resembles my dear departed father in some ways, such as in mid-range tone of voice, easy-going temper, and watchful, intelligent eyes, but in most ways he is far different from anyone on my side. We are poor; he is rich. We struggle with paying rent (me), addiction (my brother), and planning ahead (most of us); he golfs and watches over his holdings. We live in the bowels of Los Angeles, in run-down apartments and (in one case) on the street; he lives encircled by the forested beauty of Eugene, Oregon, in a lovely home, bought with cash, located in a lovely neighborhood. So when he says he will die with a smile on his face, his accomplishments and his present circumstances help to explain why, but they don’t explain everything. And exactly what kind of smile is he talking about?
So when an interesting new museum opened up near my home recently, I seized upon the opportunity to visit. This was one of those serendipitous coincidences that usually don’t occur in my life, but here was a museum nearby that might provide some answers.
My uncle happened to be visiting me the weekend of the museum’s opening. I made a suggestion over lunch at a little café a few blocks from my apartment. I said, “Uncle Sal. Let’s go see what this place is all about.” He had just finished telling me about the dinosaur discoveries he had made in a Moroccan mine (a story he had told me before, though it was so fascinating it was worth hearing on repeat). I explained that the museum probably wouldn’t have relics quite like his own discoveries, but it might have unusual relics of its own to make the visit worthwhile.
“Okay, let’s go,” he said, affably.
I had read about the museum a few days before. The space and its collection were described as “eclectic” and “innovative,” unlike anything ever attempted. And as we entered the former bank building of rust-colored red brick, I understood why. We found ourselves in a lobby blazing with wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-floor projected images of the most psychedelic color combinations you can imagine: egg-yolk yellow was the predominant color, mixed with fire-engine red, sapphire blue, moss green, drenched purple, and all of it swirling around us like a Van Gogh painting of a starry, starry night on another planet. For several moments, we stood stock still, my uncle leaning on his cane to maintain his balance, me clutching his arm to maintain mine. The place definitely took a moment for us to get our bearings. Given the discombobulation we felt, it was hard to see how many people were inside, but it didn’t seem like many. At least, when someone who I took to be a guide approached us and offered to lead us into the next room (this was only the lobby, apparently), we didn’t seem to have any competition. This someone was a young man with shoulder-length blond hair and an altogether surfer vibe who seemed to fit with the theme of crashing waves of color, despite being dressed in a tailored black suit. He had a bored expression on his face, which made me think he had led one too many startled visitors into another room. At any rate, as soon as he had led my uncle and me through two tall double doors out of the lobby, he turned from us with the same lack of interest and headed back through the doors.
Now we were in a room that was the complete opposite of the other. It was white, blindingly so, and resembled a gallery found in a typical museum. Also typical were the glass display cases, waist high, also white, that filled the room, about eight long horizontal rows of them. On the back wall, in fat, bold, off-white letters, was the gallery’s name: A Roomful of Smiles.
There were at least six other visitors in the room, scattered about, gazing into various cases, lingering here, moving on there. From where my uncle and I stood, near the entrance where the guide had left us, the cases showed little variation in what they contained. All displayed plaster-like casts of some sort, all white and all of the same size, more or less, each bathed in a soft warm light provided by small individual lamps. We walked up to the nearest case to look more closely.
This case contained five casts of the lower portion of a face. At first glance, the casts seemed identical. Upon closer inspection, however, we saw that each displayed a distinct smile. A small plaque in soft yellow beneath each cast provided an explanation written in a graceful handwritten light blue script. My uncle smiled at the sight. I wasn’t sure, but I figured he now guessed what my secret plan or intention had been all along.
“No, none of these are what I meant,” he said, as he surveyed the case.
In my mind, this case contained what I considered gentle smiles. The plaques read: Kind Smile, Friendly Smile, Accepting Smile, Understanding Smile, and Mona Lisa Smile. My uncle just shook his head and continued on to the next case.
This case had a truly eclectic mix of examples. Here were Crazed Smile, Lackluster Smile, Beatific Smile, Frozen Smile, and Ironic Smile. My uncle paused at the last one. He said, “This one is close, but not exactly the kind of smile I think I’ll have.”
“Why ironic,” I asked.
“Well, for one thing, my family was very poor, my mother couldn’t even read, and yet I dreamed big, I excelled in school, went to Columbia University, became a globetrotting mining engineer, married a beautiful redhead, and became a millionaire. Everything just seemed to happen without a hitch.”
I didn’t think this was irony, exactly, but I kept that thought to myself. I was just glad that he seemed as interested as I in finding the smile that would match the one he envisioned.
We continued down the row, and down the next one and the next. So many smiles, so many opportunities for my uncle to view the varied examples and perhaps happen upon the one he supposed might form gently on his face as he left this plane of existence.
We were nearing the end of the exhibit, making our way down the very last row, when my uncle stopped short before one of the smiling casts. He stared down at the glowing smile, beaming under its little lamp, for several moments, longer than at any other smile. I read the plaque: Brave Smile. My uncle himself was looking down at this smile with a frown. Why a frown, I thought. I waited for him to explain.
But he never did. He just looked over at me and nodded, grinning briefly, as if touched by the humor of it all, then nodded again, as if to say, this is the one.
Then he moved on to the last of the cases, never saying a word, never launching into an old memory, only moving through the rest of the exhibit until we arrived at the end.
Finally, he said, “Well, that was interesting. Let’s go.”
And so we left, again passing through the phantasmagorical assault of the lobby, and exiting through the museum doors to the harsh brightness of a Los Angeles afternoon.
As I drove us back to my apartment, he was again quiet. He stared out at the street ahead, at all the traffic in front of us, at the lackluster low-rent storefronts, some boarded up, but he made no comment. At last, when I parked my car in front of the apartment, he said, “Well, that was interesting, but I don’t think that exhibit will ever be adequate. Geologists know the uniqueness of creation, the uniqueness of mankind. Some of those smiles came close, but not one will ever come close enough. My smile will be completely my own. And yours will be, too.”
“But Uncle Sal,” I said, “I don’t think I’ll be smiling when I leave this place. Unless it’s a smile of gratitude to be done with it all.”
“Well, I hope that won’t be so,” he replied. “If there’s one thing we both learned today is that we should all smile more. Look how many smiles that museum displayed. Pick your favorite one. Practice it every day. Make it your own. Who knows, maybe that smile will be your saving grace, now and forever (even if I don’t believe in a hereafter). Maybe by choosing a smile, your life will fall into place.”
And so, upon my new old uncle’s advice, I have tried to smile more. To arrive at the smile that fits best and make it my own. So that when I leave this crazy world, my final smile will be a true reflection, a happy reflection, of how I chose to live.
(Rest in Happiness, Uncle Sal!)
07 Monday Aug 2023
Posted Dreams, Short story, Spirit, Stories from underground, Story poem, Writing
inTags
creative writing, dream, flash fiction, microfiction, poem, poems, poetry, story
i didn’t know what to bring and only started to think about packing a few items just after learning about the journey. it was all very confusing and so my mind bounced from one idea to the next without committing to any of them. the small suitcase i had flung onto the carpeted floor remained open throughout my dithering with nothing thrown in it. i mean, what do you bring for the next world? and why is it you have to bring anything at all?
in the meantime, i was trying to ascertain the journey details and the means of conveyance. you could say, in short, i was in a precarious and nebulous situation. moreover, i didn’t remain in one place while fretting over all of this. i somehow made it to an airport only to find out that no planes were arriving for me. and yet i also knew a deadline was fast approaching.
my anxiety, of course, was at an all-time high, and to make matters worse, i still didn’t know what this was all about, this journey, this deadline, this ultimate destination. when i finally awoke, with some relief, i realized i didn’t have to worry anymore. there was no need to pack, make decisions, do anything at all. and yet i remained awake long after, sorting through the details and rearranging them like flowers on a tomb.
03 Tuesday Jan 2023
Posted Children, Knowledge, Love, Short story, Stories from underground, Writing
inTags
Alzheimer disease, Alzheimer's disease, creative writing, daughter, dementia, diary, journal, mother, prayer, writing
Today my mom hid her face behind a sheet of paper. It happened as we were lying side by side on her bed at her new residence. What had we been talking about as we both gazed up at the ceiling? I don’t remember now. Something about the past, I suspect, but then suddenly I turned my head and saw her hiding behind the sheet music given to her earlier, which contained the words to Amazing Grace. The sheet was from the sing-along we had attended earlier in the community room. I thought she might be crying, hiding her tears from me. But when I asked her, are you okay? she lowered the sheet a bit, like a child playing peak-a-boo, and said, I thought I’d hide behind here to pray.
I didn’t know what to say to this, so unexpected it was. I felt I had desecrated the sanctuary she’d been trying to protect.
What a strange world I do my best to navigate: the world of my mother’s stop-and-go mind, so lucid, so confused, so caring, and then so blank, in an ever-changing cycle. And those slowly dimming looks she gives me—they’re of an animal nature, like the uncomprehending gaze of my dogs, desperate for communication. My mom has become another species. With this crude understanding, I try to accept her new way of being and the many surprises—like her secretive childlike attempt to create a sanctuary, a space inviolate, away from everything and everyone. Including me.
All the while, there is a stream, a constant stream of everyday life going on: the morning wake up, the challenge to get started in the morning, the need to walk the dogs, get coffee, and all the other choices and chores that crowd one’s mind. And then there are those other streams, like subterranean estuaries, that nevertheless are the streams of a life, that if you give them too much thought will engulf you utterly.
So it is with thoughts of my mother. I drive to work beneath the bright summer sun, thinking about the day ahead, looking forward to this, dreading that, when suddenly I’m struck by the realization that my mother is dying. Both mind and body are dying, even as she struggles as she has always struggled in life. But my mother is now small and frail, and her bones will surely shatter like glass around the rods already in place, if she falls one more time, and as I drive down the 405 freeway I’m almost woozy with this knowledge, beneath the summer sun, with tall palms swaying on either side, alongside other cars whose occupants are swept along no doubt by their own hidden streams. And I feel these streams converging inside and out, until I wonder how it is we don’t all crash.
06 Sunday Feb 2022
Tags
2016 election, essay, humor, job hunting, politics, short story
This true story was written soon after the 2016 election. I’ve never posted it here before, but since it’s my 9th anniversary keeping this blog, I thought I’d “celebrate” by posting it now because I’d forgotten about it and seeing it again made me laugh. I hope you find it somewhat funny too.
***
This is not the last thing but it’s the one thing that hit a nerve and told me that the underpinnings of a civil society had shifted. Right after the 2016 election, I applied for a job as a personal assistant to an executive of some sort and a few days later I got a phone call for a phone interview. The first thing the person interviewing me said was, “I see you’ve gone to UC Berkeley. You weren’t one of those radicals marching in the streets, were you?” Now, I wasn’t sure how to answer this question. First of all, I had graduated way after the protests I figured he was referring to. Second of all, I was proud to have attended UC Berkeley, especially since it took a fair amount of effort to be accepted, to graduate, and to pay for (I worked while attending). So, in answer to his question, I simply said, “Well, that took place long before I attended.” This man, who seemed elderly, judging from his gruff voice, then replied, “I just returned from the inauguration. It was wonderful.” Now, for the next few minutes, he took to bragging, and why he was bragging to me I had no idea. He went on and on about the inauguration, as if trying to continue basking in the awe and glory of it. All the while I was trying to think how to end this call politely (silly me). Anyway, I soon got my opportunity when he mentioned that the job also entailed taking care of group travel for hunting expeditions to Africa. Now, I’m thinking, “Is this some kind of joke or maybe a crude test of my political leanings?” Whatever it was, the last thing in the world I would ever wish to do is play a part in such a loathsome activity as that. I ended the call with “I’m really not the right person for this job.” Actually, I should say he ended the call for as soon as I said that, he hung up on me. Anyway, that was my own personal rude awakening, and it marked a turning point for me, because since that time other people, including some family members, have taken to blithely voicing biases and opinions that astound or just plain frighten me. And I keep wondering, what happened to critical thinking? What happened to civil discourse? What happened to us? I am no political pundit. I’m just a fiction writer. So the other question that comes to me time and again is this: Where are they hiding all the pods?
22 Wednesday Apr 2020
Posted Fables, Fairy tales, flash fiction, Love, Memory, Poetry, Short story, Story poem, Writing
inTags
in the outpost of never i found him. he had that faraway look of someone playing hard to get who rarely gets gotten and the long red-brown hair you can only describe as tresses when they frame a pale chopinesqe face. he was rail thin emaciated even but that only made me want him more.
he wasn’t the type to play around. he wasn’t the kind to hang around. he wanted what he wanted and that wasn’t me but at least he pretended for a while in the outpost of never where there are no promises to keep.
i stood in the frame of the window silhouetted against the setting sun. his hair was a golden red in the fading light his eyes an emerald green. he kissed me then a friendly kiss not a lover’s kiss but i succumbed just the same.
in the outpost of never the room is always warm and fragrant with creosote tumbleweed and cedar. The fragrance coats your body your thoughts your tongue so that you can never taste another.
on moonless nights the door is left open. on moonless nights the coyotes howl. on moonless nights in the outpost of never when you stumble upon the one you love who does not love you back you may want to but you never close the door.
07 Saturday Feb 2015
Posted Authors, Books, Fiction, Short story, Writing
inSometimes, when I read a short story in one of the latest literary journals, my mind wanders. I find myself appreciating the storyteller’s craft and control but the story itself leaves me cold. The characters seem enslaved by the story’s design and, as a result, unconvincing. Or the beautiful use of language overwhelms the narrative as a whole and takes away from the movement of the story. It may be that these types of stories just weren’t written for the likes of me. In any case, whenever this happens, I often go over to my bookshelves containing books I can truthfully say I cherish, and I open one at random. Today, I selected Sherman Alexie’s The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven and read the short story, “A Train is an Order of Occurrence Designed to Lead to Some Result.” The story begins:
“Broom, dustpan, sweep, trash can,” Samuel Builds-the-Fire chanted as he showered and shaved, combed his hair into braids. Samuel was a maid at a motel on Third Avenue.”
At least for me, in so few words, so much is said, and yet hidden, and I at once trust this voice. I trust it will reveal in good time what I need to know—what I must know. And by the story’s end, I do know this character and feel for him. Even though I’m no Indian/native american (well, I guess I’m partly, if that means anything), this tale nevertheless makes me experience for deep moments at a time the journey of one Indian – the journey of one human being. So I say, thank you, Sherman Alexie, for restoring my faith in the magic of storytelling.
13 Tuesday Jan 2015
Through the stained glass windows the daylight burst in, sending sparkling shafts of light into the church. Yet the little ghost remained. Barely visible, yes, but to all who were still adjusting their eyes to the contrast of darkness and brightness inside, it was plainly there. It was a little girl ghost dressed in a thread-bare shift that came down to her knees and was tied loosely at the waist. She wore black boots and white socks, neatly cuffed at the ankles. She held her face tautly, as if afraid to speak or scream or curse, whatever little girl ghosts are wont to do on a Sunday in the middle of the coldest winter anyone could remember.
Posted by a l anzalone | Filed under Children, Photos, Short story, Spirit, Uncategorized, Writing