Cooking the Hook - NEW

He could usually read someone at a few yards, especially in a quiet place when there was no one else around. He got nothing. Like she wasn’t there. Like the deep shade was another planet; he could see her, but that was it. His approach turned stealthy as if he was trying not to spook a wild animal, stopping and squatting down at a distance of respect.   Anna was staring at the broken stone wall, not moving, quiet as the rocks scattered around her. The sky was a still, hot blue. The air breathless, trees asleep. Deep in those trees, one cicada raised a racket, but no others joined in. Jack didn’t want to startle her and was about to speak when, without turning around, she said, “Did you want something?”   He was the one who jumped. There was a small, leather box radio murmuring on the ground beside her, a bottle of wine heeled half over in the grass next to it.   “What are you listening to?”   “Mets game.” she sighed, “It’s almost over. Los...

 Four fifths. Don't even try to say that twice. Four fifths of writing is seeing the movie you've been living, but from the point of view of the other players, not yours. And if you haven't been paying acute attention to the details, you're screwed. Unless you're a Creative.  So, if you are inclined to make silk purses from sows ears, you gather up your details, and recall the small moments. Action! The late afternoon light, the sounds of food frying, the cigarette smoke in the air, the parakeet squawking in a cage on top of the avocado refrigerator festooned with magnets. Little plastic alphabet letters that came, went and came back again.  She gets up and shuffles the cut up potatoes around in the not hot enough Wesson on the gas stove. A sous chef at seven, I peeled and sliced those.  Rosie sits, digging through her purse for something and coming up with something else. In front of her, a cup of instant coffee with non-dairy creamer and four teaspoons of sugar. T...