Today’s writing prompt is a poem by Ron Salisbury. You can write on the theme of the poem or the mood. You can use a line or a word for the writing prompt. Ready? Read and write. Just write, without worrying how your writing will sound.
Suicide Doors
Don’t put that in a poem, she said.
What? Don’t put what I said in a poem.
We talk and a week later I find what I said
in one of your poems. What’s the matter
with that? He’ll find out. He doesn’t read
poems. His friends will tell him. His friends
don’t read poems. Just don’t put me in your poems.
How about I make it in the 1960’s
and it happens in my 1951 Merc with suicide
doors, I got a D.A. haircut, smell of Bay Rum
and your angora sweater comes off on my sport coat.
Then what happens. Well, we could be in love.
We already are. I mean the crazy 60’s love
before birth control pills and we both smoke
and sneak bourbon from your father’s liquor cabinet
and try to figure out how to get some Trojans
because they’re not in every grocery store
and you have to ask the druggist for them
because they’re kept behind the counter
like cigarettes are now and because
he knows everyone in town, it’ll get around
so we drive all the way to Dexter on Saturday
night and I’ll try to be cool and see if
I can buy some and if I can’t we’ll take
our chances anyways. Do we do it in the
back seat? Yeah, the Merc had a giant
back seat. And you won’t use any thing
I said in the poem. Sure. Ok, but
bring a blanket and you have to go slow
and give me time to hang my sweater
over the seat so it won’t get ruined.
Ron Salisbury, author of Miss Desert Inn, (Main Street Rag Publications) lives in San Diego, CA, where he continues to publish, write and study in San Diego State University’s Master of Fine Arts program, Creative writing. Publications and awards include: Eclipse, The Cape Reader, Serving House Journal, Alaska Quarterly Review, Spitball, Soundings East, The Briar Cliff Review, Hiram Poetry Review, A Year in Ink, etc; Semi Finalist for the Anthony Hecht Poetry Prize – 2012, Finalist for the ABZ First Book Contest – 2014, First Runner-up for the Brittingham and Pollak Prize in Poetry – 2014, Winner of Main Street Rag’s 2015 Poetry Prize.
justinefos
Suicide Doors
When I was very young, probably about 4 years old, my mother drove a used Model A?, or B? – It was the four passenger very old Ford. It had Suicide Doors – not yet called that, probably not enough deaths caused by them, then – it was around 1950 when this memory occurred.
My brother, Brian is 13 months older than me. He and I were riding in the back seat, long before seat belts were invented (I don’t even know if seat belts were in airplanes, let alone automobiles yet.) The Black Ford model ? had doors that both closed on the center side panel of the vehicle, which is how I remember ‘suicide doors’ were first pointed out to me.
My mother was always a very safe driver and I am certain she never exceeded 20 – 25 mph in that vehicle.
We were taking a ride into town, probably a 4 or 5 mile trip. Brian was sitting on the driver’s side of the back seat, and I was sitting beside him, probably thinking thoughts to myself, attempting to watch out the window, because Brian and I did not converse very often, especially while riding in the car.
Suddenly the door next to my brother blew open with Brian hanging onto it. I somehow had the presence of mind to grab hold of his right arm, and both of us were screaming, “Mommy, stop the car! Stop the car! Mommy, Brian is falling out – in chorus with, ” Help me Mommy, stop the car!” from Brian.
It seemed as if she would never stop. I could feel how the passing wind was relentlessly pulling him out, and I was trying to pull him back in. I was very small in height and stature.
Wisely our mother had the presence of mind to slowly decrease her speed so as not to catapult him; along with me hanging on, out of the car.
Once she had pulled over, she jumped out of the car to be able to assess the situation.
With the leverage I had on him, as the car stopped we both ended up on the passenger side of the back seat,as in sling shot fashion, sobbing from fear, not quite yet feeling relief.
My mother was not a crier, she was a calm, loving, caring mother. She opened the back door, perched on the side of the back seat facing toward the back of the car, took Brian in her arms to calm and comfort him, while she calmly told us why she didn’t stop fast.
I am pretty certain that she must have hugged me too, though Brian was, until she passed, her most favorite child. He was quiet, shy, kept much to himself. I was the independent, outgoing child, and would stand up to bullies from school or the neighborhood if they were picking on Brian. I expect he didn’t appreciate it all that much, though I don’t recall him ever displaying anger at me when I did.
We continued on into town, and Mom treated us to ice cream at the corner drug store’s soda fountain counter. I don’t know if she ever completed the task that got us into the car to go into town.
All of a sudden, I am being assailed by memories of my brother and I through childhood and on into adulthood. He continued to be quiet and gentle, except when it came to times that he would catch me in an off-guard moment, as in a big, wonderful yawn. He would stick his forefinger in my mouth and run it down my tongue, which is gross enough, but he worked on greasy, dirty used washing machines to earn some cash from our father, then came into the house before washing his hands. Ewww! it was Nasty!
Or, if he saw me with my arms over my head, for a stretch, or reaching into a cupboard, he would stick his fingers into my ribs, like drills. He always thought it was great fun to ‘get the better of me.’ Then he would laugh loud and long!
When I was in college, I had a ’57 Dodge convertible with white-wall tires and glass-pack mufflers. It was such a cool car! Brian had an old ’57 Chevy pick-up truck which he loved dearly. We both still lived at home with our parents.
Brian was very irritated because I always could park my car in the garage, and he wanted to park his truck in the garage. I would just turn and walk away if he began to complain about the parking issue.
One afternoon I had just returned home to change from my student nurse’s uniform to ‘civilian’clothes and go to my after school job.
It took me about 30 – 45 minutes to get ready to go to work in the silverware Ddepartment of Macy’s in downtown Sacramento.
I got back into my car, and pushed the ignition button when a horrible high pitched very loud whistling began in the engine compartment of said car. I was terrified, I thought it was going to explode. I started to get out, but then thought,”no, not a good idea, crouch down in the car.” The whistling seemed to take forever, then there was a loud “BANG!” with smoke pouring out of the engine compartment!
It took me a few moments to realize that I was OK, so I jumped out of the car, went running into the house to alert my parents as to what had happened. Mom was in the kitchen, and looking very puzzled, because she heard the whistle and bang. I had only been inside for two or three moments when we could hear Brian laughing like he had just witnessed the funniest thing in his life. He continued to laugh as he got into the kitchen, pointing his finger at me saying, “Oh, ha ha ha ha, you should have seen yourself! It was wonderful!”
Once we realized it wasn’t a bomb, or something to damage the car or me, and Brian caught his breath, my mother said, “Brian, that was awful and mean, you go out and remove whatever it is that you put in her car so that she can get to work.” – which he did, laughing and chuckling all the while.
It kind of gives me pause to think back on those and other incidents that he created to torment me.
It’s been many years, I can remember it all like it was just yesterday. Yet time heals wounds to the pride, and I can chuckle while writing it up. I will be seeing him at our Thanksgiving Celebration. Hmmm! I can hardly wait!
mcullen Post author
This is a great story, justinefos. The ending reminds me of the endings on The Waltons TV shows. A summary of the “lesson learned” and after many difficulties, all will be well. Your story is a wonderful vignette of how things were “back in the day.” You write with such great details that I can see this scene. Well-done! 🙂
justinefos
Thank You for your generous review.
I am going to read it to my family as we are sitting around either before or after our Thanksgiving Dinner.
I read it out loud to my husband last eve, and was surprised to find myself tearing up, and having to pull myself together every few minutes. Especially when reading the part about our Mother. – It amazes me that when I read the work I wrote without emotional reaction during the writing.
mcullen Post author
Yes, justinefos, this happens a lot when writers read what they have written. I think it’s because, with this type of writing, we are writing intently, focused, and in the moment, reliving the past. Deep writing. Good for you for sharing your writing with us and with your family. Although this is a funny story, there is (clearly) a poignancy that is emotional and touching.
morningstar19551
I haven’t posted here much lately, but I check in and use the prompts. Here’s what happened with Friday’s — first draft, still.
Don’t put me in one of your poems. Don’t
text me. Don’t comment on my
Facebook. Why are we Facebook
friends? What was I
thinking? Maybe I should
un-friend you. Why?
He’ll find out. We haven’t done anything
to find.
Yet.
It never feels like a betrayal when you’re
in it. Maybe. Unless you’re the one
with the other. The Other. Then
there’s desire, rising pulse and swell
of surf inside. Thrill
of inexcusable sin. The fear.
The cold sweat in the small of your back,
the starting from sleep in the night:
What if he finds out? What if
he already has? What if
the children …. How much
to risk, for this,
for stolen moments? Your
mouth on the nape of my neck drains me
of all but this. But,
don’t put me in one of your poems.
mcullen Post author
Morningstar19551, first, I love you are able to use the prompts. Let me know if you ever want a certain type of prompt.
Your poem is visceral with great sensory detail . . . “cold sweat in the small of your back.” And “mouth on the nape of my neck drains me.”
I like the repetition of “What if.” It builds tensions with growing momentum. Good story with what’s not being said lends a mysterious air. Thank you for posting.
morningstar19551
Thanks, Marlene. I turned in three poems to my writing class last night. This, and another I wrote the prompt was to write a pantoum, which I enjoyed. A third you weren’t involved with.
I’ll try to comment more often.
mcullen Post author
Excellent! I love pantoums. You are welcome to post your pantoum: Prompt #107.