Writing in the Dark,, an apt metaphor for anyone who has ever tried to tap out words on a  backlit screen.  This book, a collection of essays gathered by Max van Manen, shows how "different kinds of human experience may be explored, the methods for investigating phenomena contributing to human experience…the process of inquiry, reflection and writing…a valuable and rich resource".   That is to say, writing is an attempt to reflect what goes on inside us.  Inside us is where "story" occurs.Scott Popjes maintains a busy schedule, writing, producing and editing major theatrical trailers, promos and EPK's and developing and producing TV series and films, such as "The Remarkably 20th Century" and "The Long Ride Home".  Born and raised in suburban New Jersey, this everyman director/editor loves making movies.Ernest Hemingway - The man who ran with the bulls.  His literary sparseness and compression, well-worn and well-earned, captured the attention of critics and public in a volatile age.  In 1952, he received the Pulitzer for The Old Man and the Sea.   In 1954, he received the Nobel Prize for his "powerful style-making mastery of the modern art of narration."  He wrote from life.  Until his life subdued and rescued him.Will Shakespeare - Aka "The bard".  Arguably the best English writer to ever glide pen to page, populist hero as well as aristocratic raconteur, though we wish he had used all women instead of all men to populate his plays.  (Not a prejudice, just a fact.)   His sonnets remain divine.  Rare is the writer who can scribble successfully in one genre, let alone two.  Some postulate this poet and playwright was, in fact, more than one man…or woman.  What would he have done with film, we wonder?Though he produced fewer than 40 paintings, Dutch painter Jan Vermeer is one of the most respected artists of the European tradition. He is known for his serene, luminous interiors populated by one or two figures. Vermeer grew up in Delft, Holland, joined the painters' guild in 1653, and worked as an art dealer to support his wife and 11 children.  In 1672, war with France ruined Holland’s economy and Vermeer's business failed.  Soon after, he died of a stroke at age 42, leaving his family bankrupt.  Vermeer's paintings were largely forgotten for nearly 200 years, until 1858 when a French critic began to write admiringly about his work.  Interest in Vermeer surged again recently with his work exhibited at the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C., and the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City.  Contemporary writers have also been inspired by him, including Tracy Chevalier whose novel Girl with a Pearl Earring imagines the life of the girl in Vermeer's painting of the same name. L.Ron Hubbard - Whatever you may think of his other worldly beliefs, the full body of L. Ron Hubbard's work includes more than 5,000 writings and 3,000 tape-recorded lectures, spanning five, highly productive decades.  A humanitarian and adventurer, he  believes, "There are only two tests of a life well lived: Did one do as one intended? And were people glad one lived?"  We add, "And can one write about it, anyhow?"Johannes Vermeer's "Lady Writing a Letter with Her Maid" records a prior chivalrous age where class decorum reigned.  (Oh, well, you can't have everything.)   One of the most talented painters in the Dutch Golden Age, that's the 1600's, Vermeer's work was forgotten for centuries.  The most brilliant artists of any century are probably never discovered, their paintings hidden till ruin, their pages dropping to dust in unfound attics.  We find this oddly comforting.  No martyr of time, this particular masterpiece hangs in the National Gallery of Ireland.  Definitely worth a gaze.Jules Verne - Ode to childhood and the player within us.  Verne was born, aptly, in Nates, France in 1828.  He promptly ran off to become cabin boy on a merchant ship but was caught and sent back to his parents.  Thus constrained, his imagination wandered.  He wrote story after story, became very rich, bought a yacht and resumed his initial intent - to sail around the world.  Or Europe anyhow.   Our favorite remains Twenty Thousand Leagues.
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First-Place Winner, July 2003 - June 2004
Short Story Contest

"Everything I Have Is Yours" Written by Linda Boroff

      “You’ll never guess who called me this afternoon,” I can recall my mother saying. It was dinnertime, and she was at the stove spooning something lumpy from a frying pan into Tupperware. We -- my father, my brother Lester, Bradley Willis and I -- were at the opposite end of the kitchen around a pink and gray formica dinette.

      “Who?” asked Bradley Willis, mouth full of steak.

     “Why Helen Leam,” said my mother, looking at my father. “You remember Helen from Rebekah Lodge.”

     “Jeez,” said my father, setting down his fork and wiping his mouth with a towel. “Sure. Helen and Wally Leam.”

     “They split up, you know,” said my mother, “two years ago. Helen’s still living out by Forty-First, but Wally’s moved to Hollister.”

     “Well for God’s sake,” said my father. My mother put down her spoon and turned to face us, a hand at her throat.

     “It seems Helen’s had a bit of a tragedy. Her apartment was broken into and burglarized night before last.”

     “They catch the guy who did it?” asked Bradley Willis.

     “No,” said my mother, and snapped the Tupperware shut. Then she opened it again and took one last teensy bite. “Helen was off seeing Breakfast at Tiffany’s by herself and when she got home the door had been jimmied and all her silver was gone and her mother’s brooch and some watches. Some other things too.”

     “Like what?”

     “Nothing, Bradley. Some personal things. Anyway, Al, I’ve invited her to come and stay with us for a few days. She says she’s taking Librium like M&Ms and hearing noises.” There was a pause.

     “Oh hell,” said my father.

     “Well Al, it was the least I could do.”

     “No, Mona. It was the most. I mean she hasn’t picked up the phone in three years. Why you?”

     “But I didn’t pick up the phone either.”

     “Okay, okay.” My father threw his towel across his plate and stood up.

     “I wonder if the guy crapped on the floor,” whispered Bradley to my brother Lester. “I heard cat burglars always leave a calling card. The real pros, I mean.”

     “Bradley,” I said loftily, “I don’t wish you to feel yourself unwelcome in our home…”

      “Just don’t feel yourself in our home,” mocked Lester. The boys guffawed.

     “…but kindly clean up your language and/or leave.”

     “Get off Bradley’s ass, willya Brenduhhh?” said Lester in the long-suffering whine he always reserved for me. “You in love with him or something?”

     “No,” I lied. “I am not in love with your obnoxious friend. I happen to be in love with Bobby Rydell.” Hoots.

     And so, the next evening at dinnertime the doorbell rang and it was Helen Leam, with a suitcase in one hand and a bouquet in the other. When she saw my mother, she burst into tears. She was a small woman in her late thirties with protruberant hazel eyes and pale hair already silvering at the temples. The hair was swept back into a twist of almost penitential severity. Not a tendril escaped to charm the rigid white center part. The back of her neck was naked of wisps. The bones of her face, which were good, even bones, stood out so vividly from this harsh frame that it was difficult to look at her. She was too exposed, too unprotected. I glimpsed a short upper lip and dark hollows beneath her suffering eyes before lowering my own. She set down her suitcase and turned to Lester and me, hands clasped to her bosom.

     “So these are the children,” she said and sobbed anew.

     “Oh God,” said my father under his breath, “she’s nuts. Hello Helen,” he said aloud. “Um, how have you been?”

     We set her up quarters in the basement, in a chilly makeshift bedroom paneled in knotty pine and redolent of concrete. Her clothes hung in a cedar closet that also contained my father’s old Army Air Corps uniforms. Moments before her arrival, Lester had removed a large collection of tattered pornography from under the bed.

     “I hope this is okay,” said my mother, beefy in red pedal pushers, her head porcupined with pincurls. "And here’s an old TV. It’s ugly, but it works.”

     “Thank you,” wept Helen, hand to head. “You’re too good.”

     “I don’t want to hear it,” said my mother and hugged her.

     And then we left and trooped back upstairs to compare notes. My father, listening from behind a huge volume of John Gunther, snorted with derision at intervals. We were all waiting impatiently for Helen to reappear and validate or contradict our speculations, but she did not emerge at all during that evening, nor during any other evening. She huddled downstairs like a troglodyte for three weeks, and more than once we heard her crying through the grate.

     Many years have gone by now since the Helen Leam episode and oddly, as if through an ever-focusing lens, I see this time in sharper detail with each passing year. Recollected conversations assume new significance. Gestures and expressions return to jolt me as I start the car or wash my hair. Heads turn, eyes meet, bodies move toward one another then away with surreal clarity.

     I was fourteen at the time and nearly six feet tall, gaunt with social anxiety, ravaged by the assaults of ferocious hormones. Like a volcano, I burned, churned and erupted. I was failing math. I couldn’t dance. My nose, forsaking its childish unobtrusiveness, loomed large and bony, stippled with blackheads. My hair grew arbitrary and truculent, sticking out in all directions like a vaudeville comedian. I came to live in the deepest circle of adolescence, despising myself with a perverse, demonic energy.

     My brother Lester, in contrast, seemed as serene and correct as a wolf. He combed his hair with a towel and proudly slung his enormous jockstraps all over the bathroom, while I timidly hung my cupless bra on my doorknob, where it dangled pathetically like the skeleton of a small bird.

     Lester and my father communicated with one another in a cryptic language of yells, guffaws and profanity. They punched one another playfully on the deltoids and feinted for wrestling holds. Helen Leam, a troubling enigma to me and my mother, was a standing joke to them. “That screwball broad,” they called her. Every morning at seven, Helen would dress and leave for her job as secretary to the overseer of a mushroom cannery. She would return at six, parking her old De Soto far from our driveway, apologizing herself in the front door, through the kitchen and down the stairs. Only after our noisy, bickering dinner was over would she emerge to fix herself a tray of soup and toast and descend again, china clattering thinly.

     “The poor thing,” my mother would pronounce after each nightly exit. “This has been too much for her.” And I understood. After all, a whole gamut of legal indignities lay before her. Her self-confidence, laboriously established after a divorce form what my mother labeled “three hundred pounds of pickled tightwad” had been dealt a mighty blow.

     “Can I ask you a question?” said Bradley Willis to me after Helen had been with us for two weeks. “How do you guys put up with her down there? Don’t get mad.”

     “Why would I get mad? I don’t care what you think. And if we can put up with you we can certainly put up with her.”

      “I mean, what is she doing here?”

     “Well she’s scared. Wouldn’t you be?”

     “No. It seems to me,” narrowing his eyes and concentrating on point beyond me, “the last place that burglar is likely to hit again is her place. I mean he cleaned her out, supposedly. So why doesn’t she go home? She’s going to have to sometime.”

     “Maybe she’s lonely.”

     “Then why does she skulk around down there like some troglodyte instead of…”

     “Some what?”

     “Never mind. I have to think about this some more.” And he ambled off, lips pursed in a silent whistle, receding absently into his future.

     Gazing hopelessly after him, I see his cornsilk hair just touching the collar of his madras shirt, and his hands in his pockets, elbows turned sharply out. I see the heels of his sneakers and the backs of his ears.

      His I.Q. was “astronomical” my mother had informed me when he first started coming around. He had learned to read spontaneously at age three and later skipped a grade. But now at sixteen, Bradley Willis, had become a daydreamer, a clown, and his grades were poor, his ingenuity wasted on forging attendance excuses or concocting exotic diseases to sicken of during homeroom.

     I cannot say precisely when I first realized I was in love with Bradley Willis. I do remember that early in the year, the sound of his voice began to both irk and attract me, and I began to provoke him clumsily, burning with the humiliation of knowing myself an ass.

     I plucked my eyebrows completely out, stuffed my bras and painted my eyes. I would appear one day in flounces and crinolines, the next in funereal black. I affected a British accent. Come bedtime, I would turn on my portable radio and the umber boredom of my room would vanish, to be replaced by the dazzling scenario of American Bandstand. And I became the New Girl on the Show, and Bradley was my partner and my steady. His arms held me tight. His ring thumped my meager bosom as we did the stroll between rows of admiring dancers, our eyes locked. Hour after hour in the dark, I did the Twist with Bradley Willis on the American Bandstand of my soul.

     Not surprisingly then, my obsession with the show was a running family joke. Thus I am still puzzled at my father’s failure to remember that on Fridays at four, while my mother was certain to be at Red Cross Auxiliary and Lester at his basketball practice, I was equally certain to be at home, glued to the television.

     Which is where I was when I first heard the voices coming through the grate above Helen Leam’s bedroom. At first, I paid no attention. Then I turned down the sound and crouched by the grate on my hands and knees, pressing my ear against the cold metal grid, breathing old burnt dust and seeing the pile of the carpet close and huge.

     “All right, Helen,” my father was saying, and I thought I heard fear behind the reasoned testiness. “We’ve been all through that before now, haven’t we? I am asking you just how long you’re going to keep this up.”

     “That’s what I’ve been asking you for the last three years, Al.”

     “Oh no. I want a rational explanation, delivered in a reasonable manner. What in the hell do you mean by moving in here, camping here on some thin pretext…”

     “I couldn’t help it. I had to be near you, even like this. I couldn’t stand it any more. I trusted you and you broke your promise. You said you would tell her. You’ve said it a million times and every time I believed you. I want you to keep your word.”

     “You blackmail me like this and you’ll end up with nothing.” There was a sob.

     “So what do I have now?”

     “Oh Jesus,” said my father. “How do I get myself into these messes? Helen, this isn’t worthy of our love.”

     “I don’t care anymore. I’m desperate. I lie here at night and think about our clothes in that closet. Our clothes can be together, Al. Why can’t we?”

     “I don’t believe you’re doing this to me. It’s like something out of a B movie.”

     “Do you think I wanted to? I was losing my mind. My God, after I called the police I actually thought about just driving my car over a cliff. I thought, if they find out they’ll put me away in the nuthouse for sure.” There was a pause.

     “Wait a minute. If they find out what?”

     “Well, that I did it myself.”

     “Did what yourself?”

     “All of it. What’s the matter? I thought you’d have guessed.”

“You don’t mean to tell me you burglarized your own house? You stole your own girdles and bras?”

     “Yes,” in a little girl lisp.

     “You wrote that stuff on the mirror? And the watches and silver? You did all that yourself? There wasn’t any man?”

     “No.” A giggle. “Oh don’t look at me like that. I told you I couldn’t go on.”

     “This is insane, Helen.” A scuffle. “Get up. Stop that. Stop acting like a nut, will you?” There began a shrill crying, almost an ululation, and then I heard my father cursing first Helen then himself in the sibilant expletives of despair. At last, he began to murmur words of comfort. The crying became muffled.

     “Take your hair down,” my father commanded in a hoarse voice. “Shake it down.” There was another brief scuffle, then the sound of tearing cloth and a deep sob, this time from my father. “Oh God, I love you so much. How you enslave me.”

     “Oh Al, Al, everything I have is yours.”

     Choking with horror and a strange urge to laugh out loud, I stumbled to my feet, joints stiff from kneeling I put my hand over my mouth and pinched my nose shut. The blood beat red behind my eyes. Like a prisoner escaping, I made for the front door, taking huge steps on legs suddenly rubbery and numb.

     It’s no big deal, I told myself over and over. It happens all the time. Shaking, I let myself out and headed down the street as fast as I could go. My laughter had turned to dry sobs that racked my chest like coughs.

     Far away next block, I could see Helen’s De Soto, and I toyed with the idea of busting all her windows or putting sugar in her gas tank. But that would not make my father love her less, nor would it undo their affair. With a deep sigh, I crept slowly back toward my house to sit glumly on the curb in front until it grew dark, my feet in the gutter.

     The next day, Helen Leam packed up, left our house and went home. She and my mother said goodbye at breakfast very affectionately, and Helen thanked us all and said she had been so frightened, but now she was herself again and ready to forge onward.

     Life was tragic sometimes, replied my mother, but these things passed, and Helen said yes they did, with the help of God and good friends. I kept my eyes on my bowl of Kix, and Lester whined where the hell was Bradley to give him a ride to school because his generator was arcing and he bet Bradley had forgotten. My teeth suddenly started to chatter, and I left the table.

      I don’t know to this day if my mother ever found out the truth about Helen Leam, and I don’t know what became of my father’s affair with her. Days passed, then weeks and months, and no divorce ever materialized, no storm ever broke. The lie that was our family continued smooth and self-contained: Newspapers were read, food was consumed, holidays observed, necessities purchased.

     I came to exist in a permanent state of disbelief, cringing before a blow that never fell. My apprehension bore down so on me that sometimes I could scarcely breathe. I slept poorly and began to smoke, surly and furtive. At the sound of Bradley Willis’s voice, I would flee to my bedroom and light up, holing out until he was gone.

     In April, my hands broke out in eczema, and I watched American Bandstand all month wearing polyethylene mittens full of white goo. All hope left me.

     In June, Lester and Bradley Willis graduated, and Lester went off to USC in a new Chevy with tuck and roll and four on the floor. Bradley made two listless starts at City College, then dropped out and was eventually drafted.

     “He just shot it all to shit his own self,” Lester pronounced. “But maybe the Army’ll do him some good.” And that was the last I heard of Bradley Willis until my mother mentioned years later that he had been killed.

     “Do you remember that friend of Lester’s with the blond hair?” She said. “The kind of oddball who could never find himself?”

     “Bradley Willis,” I said, staring at the green and steel walls of my college dorm room.

     “Well he was killed in Vietnam,” said my mother. “Isn’t that a pity? Lester read it in the paper. They had lost touch, you know.”

     “I know,” I said. Then I hung up the phone.

     But there is another, better end to the Helen Leam episode, and sometimes I go back in my mind to that afternoon I found out about my father.

    Once again, I am stumbling from the front door, alone and in despair. But this time Bradley Willis is there, and I fall into his arms. He understands at once what has happened and doesn’t need to ask me, and I don’t need to tell. It will be all right he explains. He is there for me because he loves me.

     I cry onto his shoulder until I am empty of tears, light and purged and free. Then, happier than we have ever been, we get into his car and drive up the coast to Half Moon Bay. We park on a cliff overlooking the beach and watch the sunset, talking in murmurs, saying everything that is in our hearts. At last, when it is dark, he takes me in his arms and we make love. I see him above me, his face lit by moonlight. I can feel his body trembling and hear the ocean below us.

    And then, because I have never done this before, and because I can’t think of anything else to say at such a moment, "Oh Bradley," I whisper, "everything I have is yours."