Friday, December 28, 2007

Circus Stories

I've been in Europe for the last few weeks so I haven't been able to post anything, which totally defeats my goal of posting something new everyday. Alas, I was in Europe. That's pretty much the best excuse I can think of.

A quick first part in a series of shorts called...

Circus Stories
by Andrea Warner

He left home when he was 14. It was a romantic day, in the sense that the moon was plump and low, the colour of fake butter on popcorn, oozing autumn as it rested heavily on the thinning oak branches. Fall renewed his sense of hope; there was something concrete about the death, the regeneration, all the Buddhist ideals he’d grasped onto in the last year to help him cope with what he felt was a grave, travesty-filled existence.

His name is Ernie, a final and cruel gift from his parents in his opinion. He knows nothing of them but their wretched taste in first names. He doesn’t even know his real surname. Ernie’s obsession with the romantic is understandable, excusable even, given his origins. At least this is what he says when he tries to woo the girls in his class. Imagine, he says: young girl and young boy meet, have whirlwind and forbidden affair (she born on the wrong side of the tracks, with a lazy eye; he on a wholly different wrong side, raised in a commune by vaguely disreputable cult members), they meet, find solace, shielded from society’s wagging finger in the tent of Young Invincible Love that everyone hides in our weakest hearts, have spongy and spasmatic unprotected sex and leave their tiny offspring on the door step of a convent under a clear and starless August night sky. It was a classic and seemingly impossible story, but one Ernie enjoyed spinning like a yoyo to dazzle the young ladies.

Ernie is self-aware to the point he may be convinced he has a whole second self watching from about ten feet behind at all times. He knows things, understands the way the world works, has lived inside his head since birth, but is completely detached from any social obligation. He has never had a pet or a best friend. It is remote and The City has lived, glorified, decimated, then glorified again in his youthful, slinky-like mind. [You might ask how he has survived, how this is possible. Think only of all the impossible things that have ever happened to you. Now, do you understand?] Impossible things happen every day. Ernie has embarked on this mission, to bring this information to everyone he meets, to prepare the world for passive acceptance, to eliminate the word “surprise” from the vernacular of the English speakers first, the Japanese next.

The decision to leave the convent on this night was spontaneous yet carefully orchestrated. He is in love. Love provokes, ignites, savages the soul in unbelievable ways. It is different for each person. He never thought it possible until he came across a small, weathered book, with a benign and non-descript brown leather cover, published twenty years previously, that had somehow slipped past the watchful eye of the convent keeper who screened donations for suitable materials. (Anything disreputable, too new age-y, atheist or pornographic was quickly sold to the local junkshop on the outskirts of The City.)

Ernie found the book in the convent library one day. There was nothing special about it, really, nothing that should have drawn his then-12-year-old eye, but its austere, un-flashy packaging persuaded him closer. He tucked his index finger in the hook of its spine and tugged it from between the thick volumes of Agatha Christie mysteries and encyclopedias. He opened it and gasped at the crudely etched picture on the tenth page. What was that? He glanced over his shoulder, careful that God was watching, but reconciling quickly that God had also allowed this gift to fall into his lap. Ernie buried the book under his wool sweater and tried not to look like he was running to the small lavatory on the 2nd floor. Usually only the oldest nuns used this washroom. The smell of Bengay and mildew filled his nostrils. It was the best place to get 15 minutes of privacy. On that day he hoped for 20.

Those 20 minutes changed his life. Every day for the last two years, Ernie had happily volunteered to clean that particular bathroom. Every day, for one hour, the room was closed and the nuns marveled at what dedication Ernie’s showing! But, it had gone on long enough. This book had opened his mind in ways no intoxicant ever could. His whole being was dedicated to the teachings in those thin pages. It improved his focus in school; he looked to the other kids in his class with an expert’s incisive judgment; he watched the nuns in wonder and amazement, imagining them doing the things the book had shown him.

Ernie was changed. The world began to make sense to him. It was easy to figure people out once you inspected their psyche for a few minutes, once you listened to what they were trying, ineffectively, to say. He felt God, and though he enjoyed his Buddhist teachings he knew there was still a God, had allowed him this insight, had given him this knowledge for a reason. He observed and kept careful track, putting pieced of peoples’ behaviours together in a massive jigsaw puzzle of emotion.

He was going to find the woman in the book, the woman in the pictures who had offered so much of herself for his education. She had obviously written the text. She was a goddess of information, had unlocked things inside him foreign to his 12-year-old self. At 14 now, he felt prepared to embark on his journey. He would find her, tell her how much she meant to him, explain how he loved her. She inspired him to be wise, manly, and he wanted to devote his life to her teachings.

Ernie lights a cigarette, waves at the large convent where he has lived in relative obscurity his whole 14 years, and sets off towards The City, a vaguely mythical and forbidden denizen of drug dealers, pimps, Hare Krishnas and performance artists with pierced body parts. He is, he feels, ready for anything.

Wednesday, December 5, 2007

Fredrich Vron Rockengrock

Freddy is a character from a book I'm collaborating on with my friend, Dennis Adams. I've got three chapters written thus far. Here is the very opening page.

Fredrich Vron Rockengrock
Written by Andrea Warner from a concept by Dennis Adams

Chapter 1: Boy #7 and the Fire at Pod Auger Orphanage

Boy #7 had lived in Pod Auger Orphanage since he was around two months old. His exact birthday was never known. He’d suddenly appeared one day, wrapped securely in a plaid blanket, nestled amongst the linen of the laundry cart. Bit by bit, the police were able to piece together parts of the story, but they were never able to find the home that was missing this baby boy.

He looked like a lot of kids at Pod Auger, and yet sort of like no one. He knew he felt different. The other kids loved him, but something about him must not have appealed to the potential parents. He supposed that was why he had never been picked when they trucked in for the Sunday viewings. The nuns told the story of how he came to live there, and the Mothers and Fathers would shake their heads, and look at him with sympathy, but he was already tainted. He was too tragic. Too different.

But, deep inside, Boy #7 knew he was different in an important way. He was meant for something fantastical. Something he couldn’t even imagine. There must have been a reason that nobody ever picked him as their son. Maybe he was destined for greatness.

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

69 words

This is something I wrote on an assignment a few years ago. It could only be 69 words. Fun!

The Starlings
By Andrea Warner

Three hours had gone by and he'd not thought of Trudy or the other Baptists. The starlings needed to stay. Needed some kind of structure, a home, some stability. Unfortunately George had little to offer in the way of proper bird lodging. Then he looked across the field to the small oak tree Trudy had dug up in the middle of the night during their last two months together.

Monday, December 3, 2007

Juno Review

The compact review:


Juno, the remarkable movie from director Jason Reitman and first-time screenwriter Diablo Cody, tells a thoughtful and brutally funny story about what it means to be loved via the catalyst of unplanned teen pregnancy.

The film stars an excellent Ellen Page as Juno, a witty and wickedly astute 16-year-old who decides to have sex with her best friend Paulie Bleeker, played by Michael Cera with more of his lovely brand of the awkward, gentle flower. When Juno opts to keep the child and give it to a stylish suburban couple (Jennifer Garner and Jason Bateman), she’s drawn into an entirely different world where she’s forced to grow up in a way that has nothing, and yet everything, to do with having a baby.

Juno isn’t entirely without flaws. The first ten minutes of exceedingly hip dialogue is supposed to feel authentic from a modern teen mouth, but feels more like what someone thinks teens sound like. But this is a small complaint, because what Juno accomplishes in is nothing short of fantastic: the audience isn’t given a sermon on teen pregnancy, but rather a uniquely feel-good look at growing up, regardless of how old you are.

197 words

Friday, November 30, 2007

Juno and snippet of story

I saw Juno last night and am currently working on my review of this very wonderful and weird little film. I got the best and nicest rejection email yet from bitch magazine. They don't publish film reviews per se, but they do publish feminist critiques of films, so I've pitched them one of Juno.

For the time being, I'd like to post this intro paragraph to a short story contest I'm entering at the end of next week.

by Andrea Warner

I throw the match and watch the spark catch the desert-dried sagebrush around the perimeter of the house, and hold my breath as the tumbleweeds became balls of fire, tempting the peeling yellow paint on the siding of what has been my only home.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

New Short Story-Work in Progress

My newest short story has just received it's second major edit, so I think I'll let it breathe for a couple of days and hang out here before the third edit and the subsequent simultaneous submissions!

Morning Coffee
By Andrea Warner

I watch the same scene unfold around me each morning: sleepy-eyed, shuffling, and varying degrees of polish hiding or enhancing the worst of their features. I don’t bother to read the paper anymore, but I keep it open in front of me. And two other national ones folded on the seat beside me. I don’t keep my head down that often but no one every approaches me anyways. Ordinary and oblivious and propelled by habit, no one notices me here.

If Deb were here. she’d laugh at the suits and biking outfits and the perfect makeup of the pre-9am crowd. It’s usually just Artie behind the counter. Everyone else is busy, hauling donuts from the oven, getting the sandwich fixings ready, bussing tables. Artie pours me my cup of coffee every morning, one cream, and picks out my three timbits without me even asking now.

Artie has hair that you can tell was once black. It’s more like some kind of paper bag brown now, the silver has muted the darker tone. He coughs a little when he laughs, and I notice his fingertips are faintly stained with yellow when he hands me my change. He’s not tall, really, average I guess. His body is average too. He wears glasses that look like the ones my father wore when I was a kid, gold metal frames and big circles, but he’s not even that much older than I am, probably. The main thing you notice with Artie is that he almost always seems happy.

He’s friendly with almost everyone who passes by his till. He smiles, jokes, asks about the weekend, wishes you a Merry Christmas. Some people he knows by name. It’s an oddly limited, sort-of friendship, obviously. Like, Artie probably wouldn’t notice right away if I didn’t come in one morning. But he’d notice by the third morning maybe. He’d hope I was okay but he wouldn’t call. He wouldn’t know who to call. He wouldn’t call hospitals because he would only be able to ask for Mac. He wouldn’t know my full name. If I never came back, if I’d moved or just died, I’d fade into the background of other meaningless interactions that built the foundation of his days, maybe somewhere between the guy he buys his cigarettes from and the lady who once sold him his car stereo.

I don’t see anyone here from the old days of course. I don’t have friends like that anymore—work friends, buddies. I moved, crossed provinces. I got old and grew quiet. I left everyone and everything behind. I haven’t talked to anyone, had a conversation with anyone, in 3 years. Since Deb left. She couldn’t take it anymore. I don’t blame her. It’s messy, you know, this business of trying to forget. And the more you try to forget the easier it is to remember.

I mentioned before that Artie’s almost always friendly to everyone who passed by his till. It’s true: drunks or cops, druggies or pregnant moms—everyone gets the same smile, maybe a little joke. It’s something real anyways.

The only time I ever see the smile drop from his face is at 8:43 am. He becomes expressionless, without fail, when The Small Lady walks in at 8:43. His face goes blank, which maybe is a kind-of expression, a reaction at least. He looks empty in these few minutes. The next person behind her gets the usual Artie experience.

It took me a couple days to really notice the interaction. She’s maybe a couple years younger than him, but it’s hard to tell. She looks like what Deb used to call a ‘woman who’s had a hard life’. Her hair is long and a bit frizzy, very silver. She’s thin and depending on what she wears, you can see the loose skin gathering at her upper arms. She has a faded heart tattoo on her shoulder, writing inside, but I’ve never gone close enough to read what it says.

Their interaction is intimate in its deliberate coldness. On the third morning, when I finally caught on that something strange was happening, I caught her taking a deep breath before she came in. She didn’t see me looking.

She goes to the counter, places herself in line and smiles, tentative and hopeful, at Artie. She pushes her money forward and he returns a small coffee in a paper cup, even though she always stays to drink it. The exchange lasts maybe 15 seconds. It’s been going on for almost three years. Maybe longer, even before I came. I’ve never missed a morning, and neither has she. Even the two weeks Artie goes on vacation. She comes to the door, sees he’s not here, and turns to go.

The awkwardness of this moment grows each morning. Or, at least it does for me. I’ve seen this sort of thing happen before. Well, maybe not exactly this, but I’ve felt the way silence keeps growing in the absence of words. Deb left without a word, but the sound was deafening. Something has to happen at some point—there will be some deviation: a word, she places her change closer to the hand he refuses to stretch out. The tension is unbearable. How can it stay the same every morning? Maybe one morning she won’t come, and our careful ritual will explode with something simple like a missed bus, a stomach flu, or one of us moving on.

It’s unlikely. I know this. We’re tied together, bound by an impossible promise to lives that are extraordinary only in their sameness.

I try to imagine the past shared by The Small Woman and Artie. Married, probably. The coffee seemed like a sad daily attempt to get him back, or at least to get to see him every day. She was probably the one who ended it. Maybe she cheated. Maybe she was into drugs or something. What made her want Artie back so badly that she came in here every morning at the same time just to get a small cup of coffee and spend five minutes with him? What had she done that made Artie so resolute in his silence? When would she give up? Why hadn’t she given up already? Did she really believe this is where she belonged?

I once belonged to society in a very obvious way. Integral to the protection of the citizens. I had a badge that proved my commitment. I had a gun. I had responsibilities and I failed everyone around me. After that, what could I say? No one wanted to say anything to me either. We just walked around it, but it was all I thought about. The only thing I thought about until I moved here and found this.

There is a new girl behind the counter with Artie this morning! Well, she’s a woman, not a girl. She’s close to his age, and she smiles a lot. Toothy and knowing. She’s almost attractive with curly dyed blond hair and the official uniform shirt that’s a little too tight. She has long fingernails, bright flamingo pink. She is the kind of woman Deb would call ‘Bingo Trash’. Her laughter is the opposite of Arties’s comforting chuckle.

It’s only 8:30. I watch her blink her black eyelashes at him. She wears more make up than a Vegas showgirl. Maybe that’s what she is: a disgraced Showgirl. Excommunicated from the biz. Banished to this Tim Horton’s in Manitoba.

She touches his arm, laughs some more. Artie blushes and busies himself with showing her how to make a fresh pot of coffee. Pay attention! I want to yell. It’s 8:40! Three minutes and The Small Woman will be here. What is he doing? Flirting back with a disgraced Showgirl. I want to run to the door and stop her before she comes in. I don’t want to see her face when she sees the Showgirl with her hand still on Artie’s arm. Still!

But I don’t move. I whisper “I’m sorry” to no one in particular.

Three years ago when the gun went off and I knew I’d misfired, that I’d shot my friend, I felt myself fill with the sound of his mother weeping inside me. His son slumped over against my heart, beating against the ventricles, weak and ineffective. In my head, I was kissing his wife and pulling up her skirt, pushing aside her panties and fucking her very fast and hard. She begged me to fuck her harder, that she couldn’t feel anything. I couldn’t touch the gun again. I killed one of my own. The badge was too heavy to hold anymore.

8:43 and The Small Woman is at the door. She takes a deep breath. This is the 869th breath I’ve seen her take. She is wearing the thin dress with the small sailboats. It reminds me of summer, but we are only in spring. I brace my hands against the table edge. She opens the door and immediately hears “Oh, Artie! You’re so smart! I never would have thought of doing it that way. How’s it possible a guy like you’s still single?”

I stop breathing. Artie laughs back at the Showgirl who twinkles brightly. I will them to stop what they are doing. For Artie to notice the time, for his face to fall, to send the Showgirl into the back room while he performs our morning ritual.

The Small Woman’s frozen just inside the door, but she holds up her end of the bargain. Her face gives nothing away. There’s no line in front of the till. Artie hasn’t even noticed her yet. It’s 8:44 now. When she gets to the counter, she just waits.

Artie glances up and immediately looks guilty. The Showgirl notices the change in his demeanor, picks up on the heaviness of this moment, and is smart enough to stay silent, but doesn’t move away. He’s so startled he breaks from the pattern, and says “Hi”.

Hi. He said “Hi” to her. This is the first thing I’ve wanted to tell Deb about in years.

The Small Woman begins to cry, quietly, her shoulders moving just a little. She looks at the Showgirl, and then back at Artie. She’s still holding her money in her left hand. She leans across the counter and cups his cheek with her free hand.

“I just missed hearing you laugh.”

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

30 Days and Counting-Margot at the Wedding

About a month ago I quit my job because I thought I should finally devote my time to writing. I've dabbled, owned my own magazine in the past, and always considered myself a writer, even when I wasn't publishing. Every job I've ever had, regardless of how mundane or perverse or ridiculous, I've managed to convince my bosses to let me pursue some kind of creative project in addition to my normal tasks. This is how I've come to be the creator of two in-house magazines and one very awesome illustrated sex terms dictionary.

So, this past weekend I really threw myself into my role as a freelance writer. I went out and reviewed a film and then sent that review to over 75 publications across North America. If I was a local writer in Omaha, Vermont, Chattanooga or Cincinnati right now, I'd have that sucker printed. Alas, I'm not. To be optimistic, it's only been two days since I blasted every independent paper with my work. It could happen still. But in the mean time, I thought, fuck it: I worked hard on this review. People should get to see it. And I should get to share it with anyone who cares to read it.

Margot at the Wedding Review
By Andrea Warner

In a family, we are all strangers bound by a familial debt to people who know our history; all that we were, all that we overcome, and every misstep in between. Margot at the Wedding is a beautiful and bittersweet exploration of these infinitely complex relationships we’re born into. What does it mean to be a mother or a sister? Can love take refuge in manipulation and cruelty and still be called love? Noah Baumbach, writer and director of Margot has a special knack for this particular type of story, pulling apart families full of wealthy, educated, privileged New Yorkers isolated by their own peculiar brand of dysfunction. This is not surprising, given the similar themes of his last triumph, the quietly explosive The Squid and the Whale.

Nicole Kidman is Margot, a self-absorbed and judgmental writer unraveling by her own hand as she takes solace in diagnosing those around her without ever stopping to appraise her own restless dissatisfaction and manic-depressive tendencies. Jennifer Jason Leigh is Pauline, Margot’s sister, a somewhat masochistic and needy free spirit who has asked Margot to return to their family home for her wedding, even though Pauline hasn’t spoken to Margot in years. The first meeting between the reunited sisters is heavy with tension and hope, as both Kidman and Leigh imbue their characters’ spirits with fiery purpose. Kidman’s long limbs, confident stature and natural stiffness fill the edges of Margot’s fragile superiority. Leigh’s wild mane of hair, alternately wounded and defiant eyes, and her ability to convey the physical impact of Margot’s harsh words with a defeated shoulder or defiant glare lend depth and layers to Pauline’s years in Margot’s shadow. Baumbach has provided incredibly rich material, and it pays off for Kidman and Leigh, who have never been better. Supporting roles from Jack Black and John Turturro as the partners of Pauline and Margot, respectively, add further traction to the tortured sisters, both still wrestling with the long shadow cast by their deceased abusive father.

The other star of this film is Zane Pais, who plays Claude, Margot’s 13-year-old son and confidant. He is a young man directly at the centre of the maelstrom Margot creates around her, seemingly without concern for how she pulls him up and down through the possible end of her marriage, or her casual betrayal of her sister’s confidences. After Margot’s own public undoing, she lashes out at Claude, lying that he’s a disappointment to Pauline, cruelly stripping away all layers of his self-confidence only to finish with “but you’re still handsome”. Claude, like Pauline, is entirely at the mercy of Margot’s destructive bile. But, also like Pauline, he is on the receiving end of her intense gestures of love and manipulation, her ability to make one feel special if you are the lucky recipient of her highly discriminate attentions. Pais is a wonderful young actor, and holds his own fiercely against Kidman. Claude and Margot’s relationship is unorthodox at best, but it’s a victory for Kidman that audiences will find it hard to doubt the sincerity of Margot’s love for her son underneath such painfully selfish actions.

This is a film of grand themes, and like any family gathering, it’s filled with humor, sadness, warmth and unresolved issues itching to surface. But it’s the small moments that are such wonders: the two sisters laughing hysterically like kids; Claude catching sight of his neighborhood tormentor being gently held in his mother’s arms. These observations seem subtle and unobtrusive, but quickly add up once one realizes they are impossible to shake. The dialogue, the backbone of this film, is fluid and reactive—the quick flare-ups between sisters with such a fractious relationship ring true, particularly to anyone who has ever had the push-pull intensity of two people so close, every soft spot becomes a target in the heat of the moment. Margot at the Wedding is a remarkable and intimate film that will occupy space in your mind long after you leave the theater.

666 words