Alfred C. Martino: Lyricist Novelist Writer
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Ten-Minute Writing - January 31, 2019

1/31/2019

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​"So what are you drinking?" he asked. "Wait, let me guess. A merlot. From northern California. Small private vineyard only."
"Well done," she said. "Not tonight. Just the house merlot."
"Very pedestrian of you."
"I'm like to keep in touch with the common man. Or woman."
"You don't seem very common," he said. "I'm guessing you went to a highly competitive university, studied hard, worked your way up the corporate ladder to a well-paid managerial position."
"And you?'
"No, no, no," he said, shaking his head. "You've got to tell me if I'm on the right track."
She sat up straight and took a sip from the wine glass before her. Then she turned slightly towards him. "Some of that is right. "I graduated from Bryn Mawr. Got a job at a non-profit out of college, until a met a very handsome man.
"Handsome?"
"Bit of a soundrel."
"A scoundrel?"
"I managed to tame him though."
"Did he mind that?"
"You'd have to ask him," she said.
"Sounds like a worthy adversary," he said.
"Men," she said, shaking her head, "and competition."
"We're not all always competitive."
​"Really?"
"But I'm guessing when the two of you first met, you didn't just throw yourself at him. No doubt you played it aloof--at least in the beginning--to see if he was worthy of your interest. Didn't always return his call right away. Had your roommate tell him you were out, even when you were staying in for the night wearing Bryn Mawr sweats. Maybe even," he said, with a little sarcastic fanfare, "kept a guy on the side initially just in case this handsome scoundrel didn't pan out."
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Ten-Minute Writing - January 30, 2019

1/30/2019

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"Do you mind?" he said, nodding to the open chair beside her.
"No," she said.
He sat, comfortably. Confidently. "You're quite beautiful," he said.
Her eyes scanned the room. "There are a number of pretty women here."
"I hadn't noticed."
She demurred. "Good answer."
He gestured. "I try."
"But maybe you're not as observant as you think."
He smiled. "I recognize uncommon beauty."
"Perhaps."
Then he grinned, slyly. "Or maybe this side of the bar is just better lit."
"Lighted," she said.
He shook his head. "Lighted... Being a bit persnickety?"
"Nice ten-dollar word," she said.
"Yours was an eight-dollar."
"And perhaps I am."
"But you'll forgive my faux pas?"
"I suppose," she said.
"I don't often make mistakes," he said, then before she could respond, added, "Grammatical mistakes."
"I'm a stickler," she said. "But since you seem to be contrite, I'll forgive your mistake."
"Contrite," he said. "Ah, yes, I'm contrite."
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Ten-Minute Writing - January 24, 2019

1/24/2019

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He saw her from the opposite end of the bar. He didn't bother looking at any of the others. So beautiful, he thought. Definitely his type. It was always the hair that caught his attention. Cascading down to her shoulders in loose dark-brown curls, with just the slightest reddish highlight, which under the dim lights illuminating the row of high chairs along the bar, had the sheen of burgundy. It matched the half-filled wine glass that sat in front of her.

She hadn't looked his way. A part of him was glad for that. He wanted to make an impression, the right impression. Instinctively, he tugged at his suit jacket, smoothing any possible creases, straightened his tie and lifted the knot tight but appropriately so, then moved down the opposite side of the bar, his eyes never leaving her. For a moment, he imagined himself as an African big cat in a zoo stalking a prey, eyes fixed, breathing quickened, feeling alive, moving with a purpose that hadn't felt in a long, long time.
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Ten-Minute Writing - January 23, 2019

1/23/2019

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Gilbert sat at the edge of his bed. It was 7:34 in the morning. Kimberly had not yet passed his house. That was a curious thing. He didn't remember that happening over the past year. All through the fall. And winter. Spring, and now the beginning of summer. She always walked to the high school from the same directions, following the same path, and every morning he stood by his window to catch a glimpse of her. That's all he needed really. Just a glimpse. He'd wait in his room, shading himself in the shadows, or peeking from behind his open closet door, just enough so his slight line of the front walkway was framed by the edge of his window. But this morning he wouldn't get a glimpse.

His mother had already called for him to come down into the kitchen for breakfast. His father would undoubtedly be shouting up the stairs in a minute or two. And if he'd wait any longer he surely risk being late for the first bell. But he didn't feel like moving. The bright sunny morning was suddenly in a kind of disarray and something deep inside him, oddly, gave him the sense that something very wrong was going on. Or had gone on. And that part of him made him hesitant to throw on some jeans and a T-shirt and hustle down to the kitchen.
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Ten-Minute Writing - January 23, 2019

1/22/2019

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It's five degrees outside.

For places like Alaska, Canada, upper Minnesota and Siberia that kind of temperature isn't, perhaps, such a big deal. But for Jersey City, New Jersey, it is. The build up all week from the Weather Channel, which jumps at any anomaly in weather to declare armagedon and that we're all surely going to die -- unless, of course, you keep your TV tuned to the Weather Channel for its insightful tidbits on how to survive the cold (dress warmly and stay inside) or a hurricane (stay inside) or a tornado (move) -- was typically frenetic in its broadcast, as it is wont to do with any cold spell, snow storm, heat wave, downpour, etc.

But even if I hadn't had the Weather Channel on, I certainly would've realized it was very very cold outside by the thin layer of ice that had accumulated overnight on the inside of the windows of my condo. It reminded me of when I was a young teen standing in my bedroom scratching my name and the name of a girl from school inside a heart shape, only to have it melt away by the time the sun rose to noon's height. So I did, in fact, dress appropriately warmly (thanks, Weather Channel!) in order to take my Gracie for her morning business then let her play in the nearby dog park.

There's something thrilling being in cold this severe. It makes you feel alive. If only for the wildly unrealistic fear that if you tripped and banged your head, or got lost, or for whatever reason had to stay outside all day you could very well die of exposure. And when that cold rips through the seams of your clothing or crawls underneath the space between the multiple layers you're wearing you actually feel your skin, and body, and are aware of the physical part of yourself much more than in any other kind of weather. It's exciting, and so very unpleasant, and it makes you crave the moment you return inside your home and that 70 degree warmth hits you and you know you can unwrap, grab a hot tea, then crawl under a blanket on the sofa with your dog.

Now that's Heaven.
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Ten-Minute Writing - January 17, 2019

1/17/2019

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7:21 am. Right on time. As she always was. Heather Jones walked down the sidewalk holding her books in her arms, her strawberry reddish hair swinging from one shoulder to the other, her freckled-tan skin glowing in the morning sun. Gilbert stepped back from his bedroom window, and watched furtively as she crossed Maple Avenue, gracefully hopped the curb, and continued down the opposite side of the street. God, she was pretty, Gilbert thought. The prettiest senior at Hanbrook High School. Everyone thought so. She approached the front of his house, her long strides quickly taking her passed the stone walkway, then she disappeared behind the neatly-trimmed wall of eye-high bushes that surrounded the property. He craned his neck to catch one last glimpse of her before she took a left on Stanfield Road and continued on towards the high school. And that was it. As it was yesterday. And the day before that. And nearly every day of the past year. So he moved to his closet, pulled on a pair of underwear, a pair of jeans and concert T-shirt, then, eventually made his way to the kitchen for breakfast. Maybe later he'd see Heather in school. Pass by her in the hallway. Watch her from across the auditorium, or as she went into a classroom. Or maybe he wouldn't. But at least he saw her this morning.
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Ten-Minute Writing - January 16, 2019

1/16/2019

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​I didn't take a shower this morning.

I know, what an odd way to open up a ten-minute writing session. But it's more than just the idea that I'm feeling a little sticky at the moment. And a little itchy. Which, when you think about it, is really a first world problem. I doubt I smell. But then again, as they say, if you do smell you're usually the last person to know. But I'm going to assume that with the, literally, tens of thousands of showers I've taken over the course of my lifetime that my body is so used to be clean all the time that even when I decide not to take a shower for one morning it can magically reset to a previously-showered state.

The reason, however, that I bring this up at all is not to give you great insight into my hygenic habits, but to note the (very) mild thrill that I get out of not showering is that it's one of the few times when I, as an adult, get to do something out-of-the-ordinary. I've been conditioned--again, a first world problem--to get up every day, pee in a clean bathroom all my own, brush my teeth with some space-age toothpaste, and take a shower in water that is always hot--or mildly warm, as I like it. Then I get dressed, choosing from a variety of clothes, that are also very clean and drive to work in a car that, while not extravagent, is serviceable, perhaps to some, even enviable.

Life is mundane, structured, and risk-less. Not always. Just 99.9% of the time. So my big escape from the chains of modernity in 2019 America is to forgo a shower for one morning and pretend to live like my Stone Age ancestors.

Of course, maybe I am a little ripe right now.

I could use a little Irish Spring.
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Ten-Minute Writing - January 15, 2019

1/15/2019

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​He noticed her. How could he not? Her wispy blonde hair blew off and around her shoulders in the light breeze that brushed along the busy inlet in the warm afternoon. The golden sparkle of the blue-green water matched the sun's glint off of her hair. She was tan, but not obsessively so, and the way she held the mug in two hands as if she were sitting outside an Aspen coffee shop in November, instead of early May in Sounders Beach, was so damn cute. He couldn't keep his eyes off her. As much as he tried to concentrate on anything else--the menu, the adorable little girl at the table next to him waving her hands at a butterfly, a motor boat idling nearby--he kept glancing back at the woman. Then away. Then back at her, once again.

Christ, what's the matter with you? he thought. She's going to think you're some kind of stalker, just another wannabe monied guy in town to scam chicks out of their alimony, and their panties. But that wasn't it for him. He saw something in her face. Something the wire-rimmed Janis Joplin sunglasses couldn't hide. A pain. She had been there. The kind of place where adults find themselves, even when they've tried a lifetime to avoid. That cavernous pit of hurt that takes what seems like forever to climb out of after someone you've given every bit of your heart and soul and body and mind and breath to has tossed it away so haphazardly and callously that you question every relationship, no matter how shallow or deep, brief or long-running, transient or significant, for the rest of your life.
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Ten-Minute Writing - January 14, 2019

1/14/2019

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Hey, Old Man, I've become you. I stand before you, and above you, looking down at the man who used to feed me, cleanse me, coddle me. And when I grew a little older, protect me, teach me, discipline me. And when I thought I had come into my own, guide me, support me, vaildate me. And when I thought I was a man myself, spar with me, clash with me, then, eventually, push me away. And when I was, in fact, a man, watch me from afar.

But that is the past. Now I am here to watch over you. Up close. Grasp your once-muscular arm, press my hand against your pale, sunken cheeks, hold your shoulder tight when your body spasms. All the while, fearing and despising the passing time. It will soon take you. And someday it will take me. And I am humbled and angered and bewildered that there's nothing I can do to slow down that time. For you. Or me. And I wonder, and worry, about who will stand before, and above, me when the time comes for me to lay down under the relentless crush of age and time. Who will I stare up at? Who will I take comfort in seeing, glimpsing that fading familiar face before time stands still? In that one final moment. When I am gone.
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Ten-Minute Writing - January 10, 2019

1/10/2019

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It ate at him, clawed at him, took a piece of him forever. A loss. A simple loss. To an opponent. An opponent who he disliked with all of his being, so much so that thinking about him made him nearly wretch. He couldn't possibly count all the hours that disappeared into the ether of time running the match through his mind. His head pounded. Sweat glazed his skin. His heart thumped, and his guts revolted. Like the character Alex in A Clockwork Orange who, sitting in the chair of torture, has his eyes pried open to watch unpleasant films over and over. And every single time the moments of the match flashed in his brain he begged that time clock could reverse and he would be able to fix a move here, change a sudden strategy there, balance what was unbalanced, speed up a shot that was a half-second too slow. But time does not reverse, and his loss could not be turned into a victory. So it continued. Playing its disgusting, unacceptable conclusion every time. Six minutes. With him losing. His opponent's hand raised. And walking off the mat a loser. Through the stark illumination of the ceiling lamp, skulking into the pitch darkness of the gymnasium and fading away.
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    Alfred C. Martino

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