Debut, A Prose LP

By Sue Perry

The author enjoys and perhaps prefers developing characters who are not human, including an oak tree, a scooter, a cat, a gazebo, and a love letter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sue Perry
• Release date: May 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463282595

Sue Perry

... Concert stage, dark except for a deep blue spotlight. Singer drops to one knee and his narration evolves from murmur to rant. "This is the story of a man who got what he wanted but he lost what he had. He got what he wanted but he lost what he had. He got –" ...It goes on forever. It's mesmerizing. Uncomfortable. Confessional.Pretty sure this memory is from the time I saw James Brown, decades ago, but the lost identity of the singer isn't the point.I've spent my life gazing across some fence or other, admiring greener grass over yonder. I've acted on so many impulses to jump the fence. No complaints, but it has sure taken me a long time to appreciate where I'm standing right now. And nowadays that blue spotlight chant fills my head whenever I contemplate a new jump.Sometimes I jump back.I was a low–budget television producer until I wrote a psychological thriller, "Was It A Rat I Saw", which Bantam–Doubleday–Dell published in hardcover in 1992. Soon after that I became the mother of twins, jumped into graduate school, and became a disaster scientist. I dabbled in academia, government research, and consulting.I stopped writing fiction for nearly two decades, until I noticed how much I missed it. I resumed writing novels with the literary fiction "Scar Jewelry" about a family with secrets that started in the era of Los Angeles punk and persist for decades. I'm in the midst of a speculative detective series FRAMES, with "Nica of Los Angeles", "Nica of the New Yorks", and "Boredom Fighter" so far. I've just completed a nine-novella series, the young adult paranormal horror romance, "DDsE".Funny. Back in the day, I had a single book idea at a time. Now I'm flooded with them, can't keep up with them, though I write just about every day.I live in southern California. I had to leave for five years to confirm this is where I belong. I live with multiple cats, comfortably close to my twins and granddaughter. Like my life paths, my friends and family are all over the damn place. I like to visit them, spend time at the ocean, explore cities, and go out to hear live music.

Book preview

Debut

A Prose LP

Sue Perry

Contents

Track 1. Debut

Track 2. You're the One I'll Miss

Track 3. Mezzanine

Track 4. Boredom Fighter

Track 5. Black Road Home

Track 6. Irony Über Alles

Track 7. The Drain

Track 8. The Gates

Track 9. Return to Sender

About Sue Perry

Debut, A Prose LP

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2020 Sue Perry

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re–sold or shared with others.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Track 1. Debut

Only three minutes before I lose them all. My memories of the Real.

Lose is not the right concept, of course, nor is memory, but that's as close as I can get now. Already my thoughts grow narrow, constrained by the language I'll soon enough acquire. That's assuming I get language, this go–round.

Isn't it marvelous that after all this time, I can still feel nervous about my debut. And I am nervous. About the pain I'll cause and the pain I'll suffer. No way around it, hurting hurts, even when it clears your view. Especially then.

And of course some of us never move past the pain. Why me? How come? What does it all mean? No one ever got a right answer asking the wrong questions. Sometimes I learn that.

Fascinating to feel contradiction. I'm becoming eager and reluctant. I'll soon be racing forward while holding back. My convictions will rival my doubts. I'll circle today from twin orbits of yesterday and tomorrow. I always assumed these were learned behaviors. But no, suddenly I understand. It's just the way my brain will operate, when I'm human.

I've got one minute to savor that revelation. Until the next time, of course.

I'll feel such discomfort in my first few years, when I'll still be aware of the Real, but no longer able to sense it or describe it. For most of us, it will slip further and further away. Some of us — poor things — will continue to catch glimpses.

Goodness, this adventure is barely begun and already so full of flavors. The bittersweet oil of compassion, the salty grit of anticipation, the metallic aftertaste of doubt. What a banquet!

So many of us are heading back today. Won't it be fun if we recognize each other while we're there? Of course none of us can ever be sure how many of us there are. Some claim that us is I, recalling a multitude of returns.

My environs warm and the air vibrates with purring. Love of paradox is one trait that felines share with humans. Felines. I never seem to be among them, any more. It's been a long time since I got to learn as a cat.

A sour chunk of envy gags me and I grin. Such a distinctively human taste confirms for me: it's time!

There I go.

Here I come.

#####

Track 2. You're the One I'll Miss

The girl's tears are soakers. They never flow enough to nourish me but that is not part of our bargain. She confides the secrets no one else can learn. I help her as much as one can by listening, hearing, standing beside.

We first met on an unseasonably hot day. She and Yes–dear shared my shade and Yes–dear wiggled fingers in the girl's soft belly. The girl giggled and flailed, her smile the broader for having no teeth.

From inside their abode, a harsh bell jangled, once then again. Again. Again. Yes–dear pulled blanket and giggler into deeper shade and ran to the bell. Her feet stirred dust, white with sun.

The giggling stopped. The girl was cool — and safe, so young she could only flail. But she flailed alone. Already, the girl knew loneliness.

She so often is. Alone. But not lonely when I am near.

When she was very young, she would sing, her small voice a lilting breeze, the more refreshing because she knew no melody nor lyrics.

That first hot day, she began to wail. I rustled leaves, I wafted breeze. Until she smiled again.

I've always done what I can for her. My roots buckle and twist, with cavities to hide contraband. The tiny dump truck, not for girls. The windup music box, if he hears that damn song one more time. The cigarettes that I kept too damp to ignite, until she glared, You can't stop me from smoking, I'll hide them somewhere else.

She wouldn't. She depended on me. And I thrived on her.

She broke my heart so long ago. That day, she brought tears and her whisper was softer than the April sun. Daddy hurts me. He makes me. He scares me. My daddy. My daddy.

Her small heart had no room for hate so I loathed Daddy enough for the two of us. She couldn't stop him, but I had an opportunity. Family reunion photo, enough wind for justification, an ailing limb. When my branch dropped, it smashed to the ground where his skull had been. But he had stepped forward, embracing her for the camera.

The near tragedy produced hubbub. In the commotion, the girl slid from Daddy's grip. He stared at the gash where my limb had torn from my torso and said, This tree is sick. It needs to go.

Yes, dear, replied Yes–dear, as always.

No one acknowledged that he spoke of himself, not me.

I was happy to oblige on the morning when he approached with a rope. However, by the time he fashioned the noose, I'd realized. The girl would avoid me, should Daddy take his last vile breath here.

I shifted the angle of my limbs and his boots slipped. I shed bark and he dropped to the ground, spilling the poison he called vodka. It killed my youngest shoot.

Cursing, he returned to the abode, that shelter fashioned from the bones of my kin. Soon his shotgun