The Dull Women’s Club

by Lyza Fennell | Dec 8, 2024 | Playwriting

The Dull Women’s Club

Welcome to The Dull Women’s Club, where the ordinary takes center stage. A short comedic scene that finds joy and camaraderie in life’s smallest details.

Setting: A meeting room in a church basement. There are mismatched chairs arranged in a circle and a small table off to the side, set up for snacks. Four women—Elsa, Mary, Beverly, and Francine—are seated in the circle. Each has a basket under her chair. The room has an old clock on the wall that ticks audibly, adding to the quiet absurdity of the atmosphere.

At Rise: The women are seated in the circle. Elsa sits upright with a notepad in hand, ready to lead the meeting. Mary adjusts her sweater, Beverly twirls her wedding ring absentmindedly, and Francine quietly looks at her basket. The air is calm, almost too calm.

ELSA
(Claps her hands once for attention.)
Hi, everyone. Welcome back to our weekly club! It’s good to see you. Thanks for coming. Let’s get started. We’ll go around in a circle.
(She looks at Mary with a warm, expectant smile.)
Mary, you go first. Tell us, what was the highlight of your week?

MARY
(Clears her throat, leans forward slightly, and clasps her hands in her lap.)
Thank you, Elsa. For me, Wednesday was my best day this week. I was able to organize my sock drawer.
(She lights up, her hands gesturing enthusiastically.)
I think it’s my favorite activity! There are so many ways to organize socks. In fact, this is my Wednesday ritual.

(The other women nod politely, leaning in slightly, as if this is riveting.)

This time, I organized by color. I’m not sure this is the most efficient way—unless you know all your socks by heart, but this I do know.
(Counts on her fingers dramatically.)
I have 13 pairs of pink socks! Some are pale pink, like a baby’s bottom.
(Pauses for comedic timing.)
Some are fuchsia—like a rashy baby’s bottom.
(Giggles at her own joke and waves her hand dismissively.)
Oh, me! I do crack myself up.

(The women chuckle politely. Elsa writes something down in her notebook.)

Oh, baby bottoms—they really do come in a range of colors, don’t they?
(Mary’s voice drifts into reflective thought before she snaps back to attention.)
Anyway, back to the socks. I arranged them by shade first. They come in all lengths and types, too! Some are ankle socks, some are compression—I never get dizzy wearing those fuckers!
(The women gasp lightly but smile, clearly amused by her outburst.)
Some are wool, because I do get cold toes come November. And some are patterned.
(Pauses dramatically.)
My favorite pink socks with a pattern are the ones with our Lord Jesus Christ’s face printed all over them. I always feel like I do more good deeds when I wear those socks.

ELSA
(Nods with approval and a kind smile.)
Thanks, Mary. It’s time to move on to Beverly.
(Turns to Beverly.)
Beverly, tell us about your most exciting experience this week.

BEVERLY
(Shifts in her seat, placing her hands neatly on her knees.)
Thank you, Elsa. Well, for me, it was this morning when I organized my fridge.
(Leans in conspiratorially.)
I like to organize my carrots by size. But the question is: is it by length or thickness?

(The women murmur in fascination, nodding as if this is a deep existential question.)

I really do get flustered.
(Glances around the room for empathy.)
So I asked Google Voice to pick for me. Today, it said length!
(Sits back triumphantly.)
I have to say, in the future, I might separate my carrots into two groupings because thick carrots and slim ones don’t seem to marry well.

ELSA
(Leaning forward with genuine interest.)
Thank you, Beverly. That’s fascinating.
(Turns to Francine.)
Now, Francine, tell us about your exciting week.

FRANCINE
(Straightens her posture, her hands smoothing her skirt nervously.)
Yes, well, I cleaned the grout in between each tile.
(Pauses for effect.)
I counted 500 tiles! It took me all day. Heavens!

(The women gasp in admiration. Elsa claps softly, her face lighting up with delight.)

ELSA
(Warmly.)
Wonderful. Thank you, Francine.
(Glances at her watch.)
Now it’s time for snacks. Let’s pull out our baskets and put them on the share table. I wonder what tasty treats we have today!

(The women cheerfully reach under their chairs, pulling out their baskets. They carry their carefully packed snacks to the table and arrange them neatly—peanut butter crackers, cheese sticks, skinny carrots, and buttermilk biscuits. The women exchange pleased glances as they settle back in their seats.)

(They nibble their snacks in contented silence, occasionally murmuring words of praise like “delightful” or “so crunchy.” The old clock ticks loudly in the background, adding an oddly solemn rhythm to the lighthearted scene.)

(Lights slowly dim as the women continue to enjoy their mundane, blissful moment together.)

BLACKOUT

Through the Shadows: A Triptych of Poems

by Lyza Fennell | Dec 8, 2024 | Poetry

Through the Shadows: A Triptych of Poems

Erasure Poetry

These erasure poems are created from Mary Oliver’s original works: ‘The Moths,’ ‘Spring,’ and ‘Hearing of Your Illness’ from Three Poems for James Wright. The words and format are my artistic interpretations inspired by her poetry.

Erasure poetry allows me to engage with existing works in a deeply personal way, revealing hidden layers of meaning and emotion within Mary Oliver’s already exquisite poetry. Each poem below reflects a conversation between her words and my creative voice.

The Kind that Glimmers

Erasure Poem from Mary Oliver’s “The Moths“

There’s a kind that glimmers.
The forest
The pink
Rising
Anything leads

More, more energy.
I was
Running
I stopped.

Unbearable the world,
The pain.

I noticed the forest.
The moths fluttering
Shadows to my reflection.

Green wings
Burn brightly.

Sometimes the dawn
Motionless
In those dark halls.

A solitary figure walking through a stark beam of light in a dark urban space, symbolizing resilience and the journey through shadow and light.

The Bear’s Silence

Erasure Poem from Mary Oliver’s “Spring“

A bear
Is staring
All night.

Four fists
Flicking the gravel
Touching the cold one—
This world.

Rising,
A black ledge.
Her claws
Silence the trees.

Whatever
Life poems its music—
It’s glass
Dazzling,
Breathing.

I think,
Wordlessness.
Perfect.

Grief’s Song

Erasure Poem from Mary Oliver’s “Hearing of Your Illness“

Your illness—
A broken wing.
Fall,
That hesitation
Rising.

I went to Ohio.
Nothing was there.
Trapped, unable,
The creek
Dark breathed fast.
Red blossoms

Lay down in a rank field.
Darkness.
Moment by moment
I felt better.

Pain, they knew,
Would have longed—
The hunger,
Flowing.

They loved you
And waited,
A small pulse—
Their song.

I learned,
With grief,
You went home.

Big AL’s Trucking

by Lyza Fennell | Dec 7, 2024 | Writing

Big AL’s Trucking

Back in my 20s, I had a friend—let’s call her A because her name started with an A. And let’s call me L because my name starts with L. Who were we? It’s hard to label things, but Bohemian chic comes to mind.

We joked, ironically, about starting a company called Big AL’s Trucking. We envisioned owning a fleet of trucks and running a business. It was just a silly, lighthearted joke—a running gag.

Little did I know that, since Big AL’s Trucking never came to fruition, it would manifest into the Big ALS for me.

Who would’ve thought that this hyper, determined woman would one day face amyotrophic lateral sclerosis? That at the still-young age of 50 (because isn’t 50 the new 30?), I’d be staring down a diagnosis like this.

Seriously, I turned 50—an age I dreaded. The weeks leading up to my birthday were filled with a deep, suffocating depression. Then, one day, my hand just stopped working.

It was strange. Sudden. How could I lose function like that in a single day? I sat with the loss, trying to process it, knowing it couldn’t be age-related. After all, I’d been going, going, going for 50 years. This didn’t make sense. The weakness wasn’t minor—it was profound. I couldn’t turn the key in my car. I couldn’t tie my shoes. I couldn’t even switch my electric toothbrush on and off.

So, I called my doctor. I assumed it was a nerve issue, maybe related to the chronic scapular winging I’d dealt with for years. The doctor examined me, took a detailed clinical history, and ordered an EMG to see what was going on with my nerves. He suspected the problem stemmed from my brachial plexus—the network of nerves coming from my neck and leading down my arm. He noted that it didn’t seem to involve just one nerve, and I didn’t have the common symptoms of carpal tunnel syndrome.

But here’s the thing: as a woman, I’d been conditioned to assume nothing would show up. That it was probably psychosomatic. Even though the weakness worsened with exercise or activity. Even though it was unmistakable. No more downward dog or push-ups for me.

The EMG—the one I assumed would show nothing—came back with diffuse findings. Whatever that means. The physiatrist said I needed to see a neuromuscular specialist. She mentioned that my test could indicate motor neuron disease.

Disease? That didn’t sound minor. I had never heard of this diagnosis.

The neuromuscular doctors were thorough. My clinical exams were, by my interpretation, off the charts. They said they needed to test for mimics: HIV, hepatitis, Lyme disease, heavy metals, and autoimmune disorders. Never in my life did I imagine wishing for something like MS or HIV. But now, I was begging. “Please. Anything but this.”

They ordered a follow-up EMG for my leg. Unfortunately, all the lab work came back negative.

I sought a second opinion at another top hospital. They reviewed my previous notes and conducted their own physical exam. Their findings also pointed to motor neuron disease. I asked, “But what else could it be besides ALS?”

The doctor, a top neuromuscular specialist in Boston, shook his head. “Nothing.”

By this point, I’d already started to come to terms with the possibility. The initial shock had passed, but hearing it reaffirmed felt like a hammer to the chest.

Let me stop here for a moment. This is absolutely terrifying. And besides some twitches, exhaustion, and hand/arm weakness, I don’t even feel that different—at least for now.

But I can’t imagine a worse diagnosis. My kids—oh, my kids. I’ve been essentially solo-parenting. My husband travels constantly for work, often gone for weeks or months at a time. One of my kids has their own complex health issues, and no one else knows the ins and outs of supporting them. And my sweet 11-year-old—how can I tell them?

Beyond my family, my house is not accessible. I live two hours from Boston, where my specialists are. I have limited means and financial insecurity. How will I keep working as my body deteriorates? I’m unprepared. This diagnosis is unfathomable, incomprehensible.

Almost three months to the day of my first EMG, I traveled to Boston for further testing. Three hours. Three neuromuscular doctors. Dozens of needles and electric shocks. An ultrasound of my tongue. Finally, they sat me down.

To summarize, they said: “These findings, along with your physical exam and symptoms, indicate ALS.”

I knew this was coming. I’ve been reading about ALS for three months. But now it became definitive, no more testing needed. Five neuromuscular doctors all agree.

Now what?

Luckily, I’m the determined type. I pushed to be seen as soon as I knew something was wrong. Most people take a year or longer to get a diagnosis, I got it within six months. Now, I can start medications that might slow the nerve damage. But what does that leave me with? Ninety percent of people with ALS die within a few years. I’m literally 50 and fucked.

How could I have possibly known that joking about Big AL’s Trucking would lead to the Big ALS a quarter of a century later?

And where’s my imaginary character Tom to pop in and say, “This has all been a terrible mistake”? Wouldn’t it be great if I could conjure up a cure?

In the meantime, I’ll keep processing, crying, planning, and getting on with life. I’ll have to eliminate so much from my house, sell furniture, donate truckloads, and find an accessible home closer to my specialists. And when they bury me, please fill my casket with all the things that bring me joy. Sure, it’ll be heavy. But I’m not ready to give anything up just yet.

Ballad of a Dying Dream

by Lyza Fennell | Dec 2, 2024 | Writing

Ballad of a Dying Dream

As I watch the world go by, I cry. What has the world become? What is the future for our children? How could I have been so gullible and naïve, 19 and 12 years ago, when I became pregnant, yearning for family and offspring?

How could my instinct to procreate possibly know of the future? 2015, 2016, 2020, 2021, 2024, 2025. Sure, we can get on with our lives. We can fight the system. But that system is already dead, taken over by the greedy rich. We’ve seen this before in history.

I was a pawn, a believer in dreams, a believer in the country I live in. Yet, I’ve never uttered the words, “Proud to be an American.”

Why not have faith in our country? How could Americans become so brainwashed, so dead to the truth, to the facts, to the hopes and dreams, to our environment, and to our citizens and humanity across the world?

Americans are angry at the two-party system, so they look for other leaders, such as Jill Stein—a hypocrite and Russian asset—or Robert Kennedy Jr.—a privileged conspiracy theorist, hypocrite, womanizer, and heroin addict.

How can we move on with our lives when our history is steeped in lies? Only the lucky among us have learned to unlearn the history we were taught—a history told from a colonizing, white perspective.

A country raised on racism and women as second-class citizens. A country denying more than two genders. A country with politicians criminalizing reproductive and LGBTQ+ rights while targeting drag queens reading to children—ignoring, all the while, the children dying from gun violence and touting the Second Amendment as justification.

How can we move on with our lives when we say, “Everything has to change—the people are suffering,” and yet now everything will change, but only for the worse, oh, the absolute worst!

Still, we have each other—our communities and people like us—so maybe, just maybe, we’ll muddle through the future years, even as the changes we face will likely bring only more suffering, despair, and inequity.

The Night I Met Jack

by Lyza Fennell | Nov 29, 2024 | Writing

The Night I Met Jack

I remember the night I met Jack. It was sometime after 1:00 a.m. on November 30th, 1999. Christina and I had been hanging out after work at the downstairs bar at Penang’s, a Malaysian restaurant on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. The bartenders there treated us well. Was it free drinks, extra booze, or engaged conversation? It’s hard to recall, probably a combination. The restaurant closed at 1:00 am, and Craig invited us to meet him after work at a bar down the street. We went ahead of Craig to Peter’s on Columbus Avenue between 68th and 69th streets. I was warm from the Cosmopolitans and didn’t notice the cold November night. The taxis and cars whirled past us.

Christina had a crush on Craig, but Craig had a crush on me.

Craig walked in and breezed past us without a glance. Christina pulled her sad puppy dog face. “He’s ignoring me,” she whined. Craig was talking to a couple of guys – one of them was Jack, my future husband.

I was pretty sassy back then. I walked up to Craig and said, “Hey, Craig, you walked right past us. Is that any way to treat your friends?” I teased.

Craig, with his blonde rockabilly hair, smiled at me, his grin wide. “Hey, meet my friends, Andrew and Jack. Jack’s in the band RoxVox.”

They both said hello, and I immediately had a visceral reaction to the tall man with splotchy blond streaks in his dark hair. His skin was pale and effervescent. My heart fluttered, my gut tightened, and a smile painted my face.

“Oh, cool. Well, nice to meet you guys.” I said nonchalantly. “Say, do you want to dance?” I said to the man named Jack.

He smiled and spoke with a British accent. “Where are we going to dance?”

“Outside on the street! I have a boombox with mad bass. We’ll throw a dance party on the street.”

The three men grinned. “Sure!” They said, like obedient dogs.

I pulled my boombox out of my handbag and expanded it to half my size. “Could one of you carry it? It’s always a bit awkward when I have to do it myself.”

“No problem,” the British guy said to me. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Sure, I’ll have a cosmo,” I said, locking my eyes with his.

“You’re gorgeous,” he said, his sultry voice luring me. I blushed.

We had a couple of drinks at the bar. Poor Christina was sitting at the end of the bar, nursing her drink, looking down, and concentrating on her drink. Poor self-pitying, Christina. She’s missing out on a good time.

“Hey, Christina, come join us!” I encouraged, keeping an eye on Jack, as he would never leave my sight now.

Andrew said, “I’m ready to dance with you, babe.” I glared at him.

“I have a name. Don’t call me babe.”

“Sorry. Yes. I just got carried away,” he said solemnly.

The five of us walked out of the bar, drinks in hand. Jack carried the boombox. I like him, I thought to myself. We got outside, and I put on the beats. Kenny Loggins’ “Footloose” blasted out, and Christina and Andrew started dancing. Blood rushed to my cheeks; so embarrassing.

“Oh, that wasn’t supposed to be there! That was a joke from a dance class earlier.” I switched discs. This time, it was Moby. Moby I could groove to. I started dancing with Jack. He was a fierce dancer, and the three others stopped and watched us. Soon, the 2:00 a.m. crowd circled around us, drawn in by the music and the energy of our impromptu street performance.

Someone from an apartment above yelled out of the window, “If you don’t shut up, I’m calling the cops.”

Jack turned down the music.

“Hey, let’s go back to my place and order Chinese food,” said Andrew, his corkscrew curls bouncing on his shoulders.

Jack looked at me. “Are you coming?” His almond-shaped eyes mesmerized me. I smiled at him. “Sure, I’m game, but I don’t want Chinese food.”

“Yeah, me neither. I never eat and drink,” he said to me, a slight smile parted his lips.

I folded the boombox back into my bag, and we started to walk down Columbus Avenue to Andrew’s place. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp concrete and a hint of cigarette smoke, the remnants of a bustling evening fading into the quiet of the late hour. The night air was crisp and biting, carrying the faintest whisper of the Hudson River in the distance, mingling with the earthy coolness of Central Park just a block away. I was tipsy and twisted my ankle on a curb in my 4” heeled boots.

“Ouch!” I said, leaning down, rubbing the pain away. “I don’t know if I can put pressure on it,” I said, discouraged.

The three men all said, “I’ll carry you!”

I looked at the three of them: Andrew with his salt and pepper corkscrew hair, Craig with his Colgate smile, and Jack, perfect in every way. “Sure, thanks, Jack,” I jumped on his back, and he carried me to Andrew’s place. I rested my head on his broad shoulders; his leather jacket cooled my flushed cheeks.

Christina was lagging behind, whining. Poor Christina. “Wait for me!” She complained.

We arrived at Andrew’s apartment. Jack set me down gently, and I smiled up at him. We sat down on Andrew’s L-shaped black velour couch; the air hung heavy with the scent of stale cigarettes. Jack brought me a drink from the kitchen and sat beside me.

Christina sat down next to me on the other side. “Craig’s not talking to me. He doesn’t like me. Will you talk to him?” she pleaded.

I leaned into her and answered quietly, sympathetically, “Go talk to him yourself.” Christina moped and took another sip of her drink.

Jack put my hand in his, and I felt an electric jolt of energy, like the start of something I couldn’t yet define. I felt a connection to him, one that would never leave me. The rest is history.

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