Once a month, we stop practicing and invite you to show off your best work.
Are you interested in being published (in print)? Would you like to get better at the writing craft by working with an editor? Do you enjoy a little friendly competition? And are you a fan of The Write Practice?
Then this writing contest might be for you.
Photo by Learning Lark
Show Off Your Best Work
Here’s how this writing competition works.
You will submit a longer piece, between 500 and 1250 words, based around this month’s theme: Dissent. You can submit as many pieces as you want. After one week, on May 9, 2012 at 11:59 pm EST, submissions will close, and we will choose a winner.
Here’s the exciting part. If your piece is chosen, I will work with you on making it the best it can be. We’ll work on making your images shine, your prose sparkle, your dialogue sing, and your grammar… not suck.
Then, at the end of the month, we’ll publish it on the Write Practice where hundreds of people will get to read you at your very best. For example, read last month’s winner, Dominic Laing's story Ice, Custard Happiness, Amen.
It gets better though.
We’re going to do this every month for the next year, and in December 2012, we plan to collect all twelve of these pieces and publish them in a book. Real paper, real cover, real ink. So if your piece is chosen, you will be able to consider yourself a published author.
Ready to start?
SHOW OFF: RULES
The Theme: Dissent. Write a story somehow involving some kind of argument or disagreement.
Guidelines
- It should be a finished work. A complete story.
- Non-fictional and fictional pieces are both accepted.
- We will accept pieces between 500‑1250 words. We will read every word, so please, nothing over 1250 words.
- You can post your completed piece in the comments of this post. You canpost as many times as you want!
- Please, nothing too graphic or explicitly sexual.
- The deadline is Wednesday, May 9 at 11:59 pm EST to post your piece. That’s a week, but start today!
And, of course, if you submit your work, you agree to let me publish your piece exclusively on the Write Practice and in a physical book.
Best of luck to you!
Twinkle
Year 3187
“This is Lieutenant Edge requesting docking permission from the I.S.S.” Aurelius brought his Q-Fighter to zero speed, floating before the massive space station. He focused on the dull stars in the distance.
He thought back to his visit of Earth, from where the stars twinkled. He felt a wave of pain in his chest. The intercom sprung to life, “This is the I.S.S., permission granted. Welcome back, Lieutenant.”
Aurelius breathed to himself, “Good to be back.”
He manoeuvred his spacecraft into the green glow of the docking bay and landed in the docking station. At the push of the button, the hatch opened and without waiting for a ladder he jumped to the ground.
“Won’t be needing that,” he said to a man rolling a ladder over.
“Yes sir,” the man said as Aurelius jogged by.
He reached the command center and as the doors sprung open, two guards saluted, dropping their air rifles to their sides.
“At ease, Gentlemen,” Aurelius said as he walked into the room, doors closing behind him. The guards relaxed. The Commander stood at the control panel, staring out the window. He glanced over his shoulder at Aurelius.
“Lieutenant, welcome home! Privates, make your way outside. The Lieutenant and I have private matters to discuss.”
The doors sprung open again and the Privates left. The door closed.
“Did you find anything in the Hera System?”
“No, Sir.”
“Just as well. I knew if we waited those slimy bastards would slip by. We’ll get ‘em, though.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“On to business. We had a council while you were scouting.”
“Oh, Sir? Whose decision was that?”
“Mine.”
“Without me there? What was it about, Sir?”
“Earth. We’ve decided to…destroy it.”
“Excuse me?”
“We’re blowing it up, Son. There’s nothing there but waste, cripples, and very revealing documents. We don’t need ‘em, but in the wrong hands…”
“But Sir, what about your wife! My mother! What are you thinking?” Aurelius stood there wide-eyed.
“We can’t bring all those damned cripples here, Son. We gotta let them go.” The Commander had yet to turn around, but in his voice Aurelius heard indifference. No sign of remorse or hesitance.
“When do you plan on destroying it, Sir?”
“Right now. We have the coordinates set. I’m sending the order immediately.” With deft hands, Aurelius unclipped his air pistol from his waist and aimed it at the Commander’s head.
“Send the order and I’ll kill you,” Aurelius said, his own voice now cold and indifferent.
The Commander stood there, finger just over the intercom, uncertainty as to whether or not Aurelius would actually shoot held his hand.
“You realize if I send this order and you kill me, you’d be parentless.”
“A man willing to kill his wife is no father of mine. Move away from the control panel.”
“OK, Son. Turning around slowly.” The Commander started a slow rotation, but then finished it in a flash, drawing his own air pistol and blowing Aurelius’s out of his hand. Aurelius gripped his hand in pain.
“Think you can out-fox your own Father?” The Commander shook his head and turned around and pressed his finger to the intercom.
“Yes Commander?”
“We’re all goo-“
“NO!” Aurelius jumped onto his father, the Commander’s elbow hitting two switches. A soft, pleasant ding rang out, and then a female A.I. voice: “Hyper Drive activated. 10 seconds until departure. 10…9…”
“…Looks like you got what you wanted, Kid,” The Commander stated.
“6…5…”
“Where are we going?”
“3…2..”
“Who knows.”
“…1.”
With a twinkle, the I.S.S. disappeared.
Interesting how the first two stories deal with military! Nice read 🙂
I second Kat’s emotion – good read. Thanks.
I’m sorry that I haven’t gotten to commenting on your stories — I’m writing a novella for my Senior Project and it’s taking up all of my time. But as soon as it’s finished (which should be before the end of this weekend) I’ll get right on it! Thank you, though, for the kind comments. =)
Alrighty, here goes! I am truly appreciative of your good grammar and consistent tenses, except for the one verb, “sprung”, which I think might be more suitably conjugated as “sprang” (in reference to the intercom). I don’t know if that’s actually grammatically correct, it just sounds better in my mind 😉
Other than that, I have trouble following the back-and-forth dialogue between the two characters. You have no dialogue tags, so I keep finding myself having to go back and count off who says what. I understand the need for expression of rapidity, but I feel there might be a way to show that urgency of speech without the confusion.
Once again, great read!
Aha! This is the kind of criticism needed. Thank you. I’m looking for ways of changing it now! Never really considered that.
Here’s what I love about this one. You wrote, ‘My mother, your wife,” and even the commander called him Son. But only when he pointed the gun at him and mentioned the parentless statement, did I realize, “Oh, crap. He’s his dad!” Was that intentional, or was I just too slow?
Intentional! =)
Alessio,
What a fun story! I love the complicated relationship between the father and his son. At the beginning, the decision to destroy the earth feels flat to me. But I end up really liking the Commander at the end, with his nonchalant, “Who knows.” This could be the beginning of an exciting adventure.
The battle drew to a close as his men beat back the last of their attackers. He called retreat, and was the last to return to camp, surveying the fallen as he walked.
Drawing to a halt at the head of the body of soldiers, his eyes swept his bedraggled men, taking note of the absences. All those still standing were before him. They were far smaller in number than they had at been.
“We were ambushed.” His voice resonated through the camp, bouncing off the walls of the cliff face they had set up against. “It was a harrowing battle, men, and we lost many.” Too many. “But we prevailed!” Did we? “We will come back for our fallen comrades when it is safe. For now, tuck yourselves back into your armor. We head out in one hour.”
*****
The troop stormed into the courtyard, hooves clattering on cobblestones, weapon ringing as the soldiers let them fall from their belts to the ground. Horses and men called as they arrived home. Stablehands rushed underfoot, gathering tack and horses. Water troughs spilled over as faces, hands, and muzzles were shoved in. Women cried over their men and children searched for their papas.
“General?” came one voice. He turned. “Where is my Thomas?” The query came from a young woman holding a very small child in her arms.
A vision floated through his mind of a boy-not-yet-man signing up eagerly for his forces, dreaming of honour and glory. It was followed by another of the same face, ashen, blood trickling down the not-yet-never-to-be-roughened chin. He touched a hand to the woman’s arm and shook his head slightly.
The silence lasted one beat of his heart before her face fell, and a howl of grief escaped her lips.
The General’s face hardened. His stride lengthened. The red cape marking his office flowed behind him like the river of blood left in the valley as he stormed to the throne room. A door attendant squeaked in dismay as he merely walked through, not waiting to be announced.
The King sat fatly on is throne in all his opulent glory. The bang of the heavy wooden door against the wall as the General swept through lifted the King’s head from whatever task he’d been attending.
The General snarled. “You dare send my men out into an ambush!”
The King’s eyes widened and his eyebrows lifted into his hairline. “You dare speak to your King in such a manner?” he demanded.
“You knew,” the General thundered. “You knew exactly what you were sending us into. You were testing us. You were testing me!”
The King raised his chin. “I have no idea what you speak of. I will tolerate such insubordination no longer. Bow to your King!”
The General’s lips peeled back from his teeth in a smile so feral the King quailed on his throne. “I bow to no coward,” came the hissed reply. Slowly, gradually, his voice built volume. “You sit on your throne, content to be fed and to talk politics, but never once have you had to step foot on the battlefield. Never once have you come out to the training yards to watch the men who fight your battles as they hone their skills—skills you use for your obscure purposes.
“Sending out a patrol with no rhyme or reason, I can tolerate. Sending out a spy with no evidence, I can handle. But when you deliberately endanger my troops for your entertainment, I become your enemy, my Lord.
“You do not wish to have me as your enemy, dear King.” He spat the title as if it were the worst epithet imaginable.
The king quailed under his General’s granite glare. The speech continued. “The only reason you are still on that throne is me. I am the one your enemies fear. Everyone knows that you are nothing but a fat pig of a man who plays cards and drinks his time away. You have no love for the people I defend with my very life. Surely you hear the whispers. ‘Why is not the General king?’ they ask. Surely you know how easy it would be for me to become so.
“I have no particular wish to be a ruler,” the General maintained, “but if I felt that that was what the people truly needed, I would not hesitate to draw my sword this instant.”
The King visibly shrank, looking to his guards for reassurance.
“Do you think they would stop me?” asked the General, voice soft and amused. “Those men whom I trained, fought with, whose brothers-in-arms died mere hours ago for your enjoyment? You think they would stand in my way? You don’t actually believe that, do you?
“No, I can see in your eyes that you know they would offer me their swords, and would hold you down if I asked. From now on, my Lord, we shall begin to remember who has the real power in this world. You shall cease testing my limits, because you have just found them. I am no longer your pawn to do with as you wish.”
His tirade came to an end, and his hand lifted to his temple. “I have no wish to do you harm, my Lord, any more than I wish to rule the kingdom. But I will see to it that you no longer harm my people. I will continue to fight your battles so long as they are worthy of the men fighting them. Am I understood?”
He waited for acquiescence, moving to leave the room only once he’d received the king’s taciturn nod. He stopped at the door and threw the quailing attendant a quelling glance from granite eyes before heading back to the stables.
“Oh, Esther,” he whispered to his brave warhorse as he curried her hide. His hand slowed and came to a stop, his eyes slid shut, and he rested his forehead against Esther’s warm neck as, unbidden, his fallen soldiers’ faces played over his mind. One not-yet-never-to-be-roughened chin lingered longer than the rest.
I love this story, Kat. Beautifully told and almost all through dialog/monolog. I stand envious of your skill.
Thank you! I thought your own tale was captivating, and I am so glad Denise didn’t cave 🙂
“They were far smaller in number than they had at been.”
Smaller is size, fewer is number!
You use a form of “quailed” twice when describing the King. You actually do this with a few words (“granite” and “not-yet” come to mind).You have such a mastery of words, I can’t imagine you having to use any of these words more than once in such a short piece! Surely you can find another word. The first time it was genius, the second time it became tired (only because the piece is so short). Think on it! =)
It reminds me of how often Tolkien describes the sky as “pale” in LotR.
I did enjoy reading this, though. A King getting a good verbal lashing is always heartening. =)
Indeed, I noticed the “quailed” and “granite” repeats after I re-read the posted entry. Although the “not-yet” bit was done on purpose, for emphasis. Thanks for the constructive criticism! You make me think my own comment rather trite… Maybe I’ll try again! 🙂
I hope this wins. Your story’s full of life and I love the dialogue the Captain gave. I’ve to agree with Alessio’s comment though. You use a few words repeatedly but I don’t think it harms your storytelling. Congrats on writing this one! 🙂
Thank you! I don’t think you can know how much this means to me.
Eek! What are they doing to my favourite book in that photo?
🙂
Woops.
To Be or Not to Be? by Diana R.G. Trautwein
The VW Kombi bus labored a bit as it climbed the hill just before the border crossing. Before them spread the great savannah of central Africa, dotted with trees and brush that were strange to their eyes, yet oddly reminiscent of their southern California home.
“Look! What’s that?” cried the young woman in the passenger seat.
“Don’t tell me to look over there – I can barely manage to keep this thing in the lane!” came the retort. After all, he was driving on the right side of the car and the wrong side of the road.
“Just slow down a little bit and look over there to the left. Do you see what I see?”
“Give me a sec. Oh, good grief! What the heck is that?”
“Look, look, look! It’s a whole tribe of baboons! Slow down, oh, please! Slow down!”
And he did, mouth agape, startled to see an entire troupe of 25 apes serenely crossing the road right in front of them. Mamas carrying babies, larger males, young adults – the whole extended family was there – scampering, to be sure – but unafraid of them or their vehicle.
“Holey moley, Dorothy! We are not in Kansas anymore!”
“You can say that again, cowboy! Did that really just happen?”
They had traveled far to be in that van on a sunny Monday morning: California to Brooklyn by car, Brooklyn to Capetown by freighter, Capetown north through Rhodesia in a van they were delivering to missionaries. They were on their way to Zambia, a land completely unknown to them, a land that would be their home for the next two years.
Married just months before, they were young, idealistic and ready for adventure. It was the mid 1960’s and the escalating war in Vietnam brought deep soul searching for many men of draft-able age. This particular young man had a unique up-bringing which led to an unusual choice, a choice which took him far away from the jungles of Asia.
“The draft” had been part of American life since the early years of WWII and the nation was heaving with discontent as the war in Southeast Asia continued to escalate. A saving grace in the draft process was the option to register as a 1-W – a person opposed to bearing arms by reason of personal religious conviction.
And that’s exactly what Rod had done. Raised as a pacifist, with family members on both sides vehemently opposed to killing for any reason, he had registered as a conscientious objector (CO) when he turned 18. He knew that meant two years of service offered in lieu of joining the military.
Rod wanted to do those two years somewhere far from home, somewhere that would require an element of sacrifice on his part, somewhere that the cause of peace could be served in a practical, hands-on way. Every 1-W during those years was drafted. Most of them chose to work within the continental US for their two years, but Rod wanted something different.
That’s what brought him to the center of Africa. Working with the Mennonite Central Committee, he would teach at a boarding school in the small town of Choma. The school itself was run by two denominations – his own and another, even more conservative in both dress code and theology. Given his own life experience, he had more than an inkling of what their life might be like.
Denise, on the other hand, had never heard of a CO before she fell in love with Rod. Intrigued by the idea – and thrilled at the possibility of a cross-culture adventure – she was eager to unpack, settle in and get to work. Both of them were committed followers of Jesus, they just came to that place down very different roads.
And now they were driving 1400 miles north on the Cape to Cairo road, blithely unaware of what was ahead of them. Two fifty-gallon oil drums crammed to the top with wedding gifts – waiting to be opened and sorted; a campus and a town waiting to be navigated; new neighbors waiting to be met.
And most of those looked a whole lot different than Denise.
“Did you see how many of these women are wearing prayer bonnets, Rod?” Denise asked plaintively as they took a walk around their new, small neighborhood.
“And look at the length of those skirts! Wow, do I feel out of place! Who in their right minds wears long sleeves in weather like this?”
“Well, it is a little more ‘cloistered’ than I thought it might be. On the west coast, we don’t see as many with this sort of Amish look. But relax, sweetheart. I don’t want you to look like these women – I want you to be you.”
Momentarily mollified, Denise fingered the pearls at her neck. They had been a gift from her groom on the day of their wedding and she loved them. Somehow, touching them from time to time brought back happy memories of that day and of the courtship that led to it.
Denise had always considered herself to be on the conservative side – modest in dress, wearing only a little make-up, hard-working and committed to her faith.
But here?
Here, she was a wild-eyed liberal, a hussy who colored and cut her hair, who wore sleeveless shirts and skirts at the knee. And jewelry. She wore jewelry.
What in the world had she gotten herself into?
“What’s this?” Denise asked her husband a few days later, fingering a letter from the local denominational bishop.
“Um…well….” stuttered Rod, dreading the reaction he knew was coming. “It’s a list. A list of things you are not to do.”
“A what? A list of laws? Are you kidding me?” And she burst into tears.
Rod folded her into his arms, sighing into her hair – her short, artificially colored hair – and held her while she sobbed.
Between hiccoughs and tears, she sputtered, “Are they really serious? I can’t wear my wedding pearls, even just to the staff gatherings? I can’t wear ANY make-up? I have to cover up my arms and lengthen my skirts?”
Slowly, she calmed down and began to let the shock dissipate a bit. Rod kept apologizing and patting her back, trying to assure her that she was fine, just FINE exactly as she was.
And slowly, she began to believe him.
“You know what? This is not going to work for me. At all. The jewelry thing – I get not wanting to look ‘rich’ in front of the students. I get that. But at Bible study, off campus? I will wear my pearls, whether he likes it or not.”
“That’s my girl!” Rod nodded.
“And I’ll try to talk to the bishop about what I believe, about how I know and experience Jesus and see if we can’t come to a meeting of the minds. What do you think?”
“I think he’s not gonna know what hit him, honey. And I am so proud of you!”
And that’s exactly what she did. She made friends, she loved her students, she entertained the staff in her home, offering new tastes and flavors with homemade tortillas and taco filling.
And she remained a dissenter.
I love this! I love the message, I love the meaning. Great story!
Thanks, Katie. And thanks to Kat up above, too. I have so.much.to.learn about writing good stories and this community is so talented, I find it more than a little bit intimidating to join in. I appreciate your encouragement!
Ever read the Poisonwood Bible? This reminds me of that a tad bit!
You may want to watch the pace of the story, as it’s moving along and then the resolution hits you out of nowhere.
Also:
This particular young man had a unique up-bringing which led to an unusual choice, a choice which took him far away from the jungles of Asia.
Being raised in a pacifist family explains why he didn’t go to war, something else inside him leads him to go to Africa. This might be a bit nit picky, but something to consider!
Lastly, she calls out about the baboons, and then you later describe them as apes. Is this because she is in a new place and doesn’t know the difference? If so, something like “What walked across was 25 large apes, wrongly identified by Denise as baboons” or something along those lines, as the meaning can be unclear, it almost looks like a mistake!
Otherwise, I really enjoyed your introduction and it drew me into the story beautifully. =)
Thank you Alessio for these good suggestions! I do not know what I am doing here, so any advice is most welcome.
Yes, I’ve read the Poisonwood Bible. Interesting parallel. Didn’t think of that.
The story just sort of stopped. I was watching my word count, eliminating stuff right and left and I was not satisfied with the ending at all. But I also knew if I didn’t copy and paste it when I’d read it through a few times, I never would. Because I’m a chicken at heart.
Again, the point about pacificism vs. altruism is well-taken – and again, the limits of size precluded my further investigation of that. I’ll rework it using your notes – because this is actually part of a memoir I’m doing for my kids and grandkids.
Sorry for the mistake about baboons/apes. Baboons are monkeys, not apes. My bad.
Thanks again for your help. I truly do appreciate it.
I enjoyed this story from beginning to end. I found it fascinating.
thanks so much, Belinda. I appreciate your kind words.
Taken
You stand watching her. You hear her but cannot understand. How could she do it? How could she take it? She is yelling and screaming just like she always does. She took away any hope of peace a long time ago, but how could see take this. She knew how much it meant to you and yet she still took it. She went through your things and took it. What kind mother could do that to her child? Your mother, that’s who. This hateful woman standing in front of you was your mother. You try to take it back but she slaps you hard across the face. As the pain races across your cheek you know she has left a mark. You wonder how long it will last. Will you have to make up a story in class tomorrow? She stands again. Is she going to hit you again? She pushes you out of the door way and into the wall. She had it in her hands. What is she doing? She goes into the living room.
“Oh God! NO! You can’t!” you scream as you watch her walk over to the fire place.
You lunge at her but she knocks you across the room. You hit the wall, hard. Before you can get up she throws it into the fire.
“NO!” you scream and rush to the fire. It is too late.
“Leave it be or you will burn as well.” She says
You don’t even look at her. You hear her walk away. You sit on the floor and watch the flames destroy it. Your blood boils as if you were in the fire yourself. How could she do this? She will pay for this.
You sit in your room, the door locked; your desk sits in front of it blocking entry. The electronic blue light is the only thing illuminating the dark room. You have had the computer on your lap for so long that it is hot against your legs. You don’t notice, all you see is the computer screen, all you feel is rage. Pure rage for a truly evil woman. Poison is the way to go, but which one? You watch the screen, page after page, website after website. Your eyes are still locked on to the screen when the alarm clock goes off. You get up, change clothes and move the desk. You don’t shower. You need the time to think up a story. Your face is still red.
Hot sauce. That is your answer. She puts it on everything but only her food because the rest of the family does not like it as much. All you have to do is slip some into the bottle. No one will ever know.
The sauce is red, you think it is spaghetti sauce. It is on noodles. You take a bite, it tastes good so you eat it all. She is still finishing hers complete with a river of hot sauce. You tell her that dinner was good, which it was.
“I really like the Spaghetti.” You say
“I ran out of spaghetti sauce so I used hot sauce to make it go farther.” She says and starts couching.
You want to scream but you can’t even breathe.
She has taken your peace, she has taken it and even burned it and she has also taken your life.
But then you have taken hers as well.
and you got all of that from a picture of a burning book? Wow.
Cool story, love the twist at the end. I’m a sucker for surprise endings.
From my understanding, the only time the second person works is in Choose Your Own Adventure novels (which makes sense, have you ever read anything other than a CYOA that was in second person?).
But, if you are going to write in second person, watch out for things like this:
You have had the computer on your lap for so long that it is hot against your legs. You don’t notice, all you see is the computer screen, all you feel is rage.
How can “you” know it’s hot against your legs, but then not notice?
Otherwise…I will from now on be watching out for hot sauce in my spaghetti. =P
I don’t read submissions until the contest is closed but this comment caught my eye.
Second person has been vogue in literary circles since Jay McInerny’s Bright Lights, Big City published in the 70s.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bright_Lights,_Big_City_(novel)
One of my all-time favorites, Annie Dillard uses it a lot in her creative non-fiction, and we’ve written about it here on the write practice:
https://thewritepractice.com/how-to-find-your-voice-steal-it-from-annie-dillard/
I’m a big fan of second person pov, and I haven’t read a choose your own adventure story since I was nine. I like it because it moves the narrative closer to the reader, closer even than first person. I haven’t read this story yet, but the example you use is how other writers in 2nd person have done it.
Fair enough. I was just basing my information off of what I’ve heard in Creative Writing classes I’ve taken.
When I think of how I’ve seen 2nd person, it has been more than just POV. It was another device used in the piece such as a metaphor or alliteration, such as in Junot Diaz’s How to Date a ____ Girl.
I want to read Bright Lights, Big City to compare.
I so agree! One of my very favorite fictional works (and I generally prefer novels to short stories, so this is saying a lot) is Pam Houston’s “How to Talk to a Hunter.” I highly recommend it.
Asleep No More
She sat quietly; movement caught her eye, and she hushes the restless child. Another woman moves closer to distract the children. The hours drag on, and the little ones fall asleep.
The women talked softly, their conversation turning to the question on everyone’s mind. The question asked in homes, churches, salons, and stores.
“Where were you when things changed?” Of course, then comes the pause. A look of confusion and uncertainty flickers over the faces. Because there was no shot heard around the world, no plane crashing into trade centers, or a great explosion, only a slow death and no one remembers the exact moment the end began.
Loss came gradually a wearing away, one at a time until all was lost. “Where were you?” The question echoes unspoken through the room, the unsaid answers seem hollow.
Very busy, can’t vote today, it’ll never pass. The rulings will never stand; no one believed. The gavel came down; maybe change won’t be so bad; assurances abounded. So, the excuses went, and we slept.
Choice no longer an option and our voices silenced. All because no one thought suppression of this magnitude could happen here, not in this place and time. However, change happened, and change was bad. Yet, bad doesn’t begin to describe the world in which she now lives.
She looks above the sleeping children to the old woman, “Tell us again.”
The old woman smiles, pushes her headscarf back, and lovingly squeezes the younger woman’s hand.
“Women fought and won this battle once before. We’ll do so again. In the days of my grandmother, women weren’t permitted to vote, or drive. They couldn’t work outside the home without permission. Why, we weren’t allowed alone with a man before marriage. Women were but an extension of a man’s property, doing what he said and going where he wanted. That is until some extraordinary women rose up to speak out, and many more followed. Like now, our bodies were not our own, but brave women stood against such oppression that we might be free.”
The room sat spellbound as they listened to stories of women who worked side by side as equals with men, able to speak their minds, vote freely, and hold powerful seats in government. Covered heads nodded as the old woman talked; eyes moistened with tears.
“No need for tears, what’s done is done. What we do and where we go today is what matters. Now it’s our turn, to take up the mantle. We too are strong and extraordinary.”
A pulsating sound grew ever louder coming closer to the building where they waited. When the knock came, the door opened, and the room full of women gathered their children.
She knew the old woman was right. There was no time for tears; too much time already wasted in the past and regret is a luxury for the weak. No time left for stories. They’d been such fools. Blindly following, not leading, not questioning, and not demanding their voices be heard.
The women removed their scarves and dropped them on the floor. They stepped through the door, and joined the throngs that swelled the streets. Amazement grew as she listened to the drone grow louder and still marchers came as far as the eye could see. She held fast to her daughter’s hand and together they walked to take back their future. Women would be silent no more, now is the time for their dissent to roar.
JeanElaine M. Cogdell
Really interesting approach. I’m wondering where this is set…but perhaps that lack of clarity is intentional?
Yes it was intentional, although there were hints. My intent was to provoke critical thinking using the prompt word “Dissent.” I hope you enjoyed the story.
I did. Thank you.
Watch your tenses! You slip in and out of present and past…I’m victim of this myself. =(
“Is there anything I can do to make you stay?”, he asked in his ever serious, commanding voice. Though I detected a bit of regret in his body language, his tone was decidedly pissed off.
I hesitated for a moment. I had rehearsed this scene a million times in my head. But I never suspected I would be seeing regret from the other side of the table. It threw me for a bit of a loop.
I was determined to get back to my script.
“It’s not you, trust me. I just…I have been feeling different lately. This isn’t enough for me. I want something different.”
I played with my bracelet, twisting it over and over. I hoped that I could convey the seriousness of the situation with this simple act. For good measure, I bit my lower lip and looked down.
“What do you want that’s so different? Tell me what you are looking for. I am sure we can work this out”.
What was I looking for? That was an excellent question.
Immediately, flashbulbs popped into my head. Chorus line dancers in sequin costumes started their high-kicking in unison. Pictures of me as a kid at the state fair with my hands sticky from the cotton candy. A midnight shopping spree at Target with an unlimited credit card came to mind. Laying by the pool in the summer with the Red Sox game coming over my dad’s old transistor radio played in my head. Me, disembarking a plane in some far off country, finally getting that black and white scarf I’ve owned for a year looking just right.
“I want a lot of things”, I countered, “But that’s not what this is about. There has been a complete attitude change. One that I cannot be a part of. You are all about money. I am all about people. You can’t tell me you’ve enjoyed butting heads these last two months”.
He sighed and looked down sheepishly. It was not my intention to make him feel bad. This kicked in my instinct to try to make him feel better.
“Look, David, honestly this isn’t about you. I know that’s a cliche, but it’s the truth. You have to do what’s right for you. I respect that. But I have the right to leave. You need to respect that, too”.
“You’re walking away from a lot of money. You know this”.
He was right. I did know this. And I spent countless hours thinking about this. I love money. Hell, I love money as much as the next person. I’m not “in love” with money, but I enjoy not having to worry about paying my bills. I enjoy not eating out of dumpsters and dodging the loan sharks. I enjoy leaving my knee caps intact, thank you very much.
The script had gone out the window at this point. I didn’t quite expect all of this back and forth. This certainly looked easier in the TV dramas I had been inhaling all week long.
Considering my first plan involved picking a timely point to yell out, “Fuck you! I’ve had enough of this!” and walking out the door, I thought I was being grown up about this. Why couldn’t he recognize my maturity and thoughtfulness? Here it was, another reason why this situation wasn’t working for me!
He finally looked up at me, his green eyes shining with laser beam intensity and said,
“What is so wrong here? I don’t understand”.
“You said that we couldn’t go on being a family. I whole heartedly disagree with that”.
“This isn’t your family”.
“Isn’t it? It’s been my family for 10 goddamn years! Don’t tell me what my family is or isn’t!”
“You’re thinking about this all wrong”.
“No, stop right there. YOU’RE thinking about this all wrong. And it’s going to come back and bite you on the ass one day, mark my words”.
“Mark ‘your’ words? That’s classic! Now you are wishing harm on me?”
“That’s not what I meant. I’m sure I’m not the first one to say this to you and I’m sure I won’t be the last. Listen to me, your quest for the almighty dollar is not going to get you ahead in life. Sure, you’ll have tons of money, but who’s going to be there for you? It won’t be me.”
“You know, David”, I continued with a well timed snort, “this is truly rich. You the Harvard grad and me the aging hippie from the University of Vermont. Who would have thought that we wouldn’t see eye to eye on the way things are supposed to work? I mean, who? Not me! Certainly, no, I wouldn’t have predicted this!”
“Well, now you’re just getting snarky. I hate snark. I’ve always hated your snark. I’ve frankly had enough of your snark”.
A switch in me flipped and I could not contain the following outburst,
“SNARK??!! Snark, snark, snark! Snarkity, snark, snark, snark. And while we’re at it, SNARK YOU!!!!!!”
Ok, upon further reflection, I may have regretted that line, but I truly felt it was most deserved in that moment.
An undignified silence fell over the room.
“So, I’m not going to change your mind?” he said, giving it one last ditch effort.
“SNARK!” Dear God, I couldn’t help myself.
David sighed, put his hands face down on the table and said,
“Shall I call in HR? You’re not getting a severance package, you know. You quit, you forfeit your severance”.
“Snar…sorry, I know. I know all of that. Yes, call in the HUMAN Resources. They can take over now. Here is my official resignation letter, free of snark.” I slid the piece of paper over to him.
He rose from the table and so did I. We looked at each other for a moment and both put out our hands at the same time. We shook on it.
“I’ll miss butting heads with you”, David mumbled.
“No you won’t. And neither will I”.
Seems to me a little snark now and again is a good thing. :>) LOVED this Katie. Thanks for it.
Thank you, too! I am also new to putting my work out there. Would love some constructive criticism. I desperately need to get better! Also, sorry for the swearing, but that is how I write. 🙂
And that’s how most people talk, too. I got just a tiny bit confused at the beginning of the dialog at the end – had to go back and figure out which person was making the initial family reference – figured it was the ‘she’ character and then I was okay. Other than that tiny minute, it was good story to read. Liked it a lot.
I would just try to keep the punctuation inside the quotation marks 😉 Other than, really clever story! I love the comparison of business partners to marriage.
Unless you’re writing in England. It always throws me off when I read English writers and they put the punctuation outside the quotes.
No, Joe, I’m definitely not writing in England! Haha. This is EXACTLY what I need to hear, Kat! I never even knew I did that with the punctuation! It is so bizarre to see. I just went through some older pieces, the same thing was happening!
You guys are great, thanks for the feedback!
It’s an american thing to put the punctuation inside the quotes???? weird americans 😛 (jk)
It was hard but I finally managed to trim down my word count. Hope you all read and enjoy my work 🙂
———
Garrus wakes to the sound of footfalls. It’s Garrus’ first visitor ever since his capture and he knows who it is. Garrus remains seated as the footsteps draw closer.
“Captain Lightborn!” The surprised jaoler says.
***
Their weapons clashed against one another. The sound of metal rang loudly in their ears. In front of him, the captain knight, tried to hold his ground against Garrus’ weight. Garth pushed and did a swift overhead swing with his sword but Garrus squatted and smashed his armored fist at the knight’s midsection. The knight staggered backwards and Garrus straightened himself.
“You’re good,” Garrus said as he held his axe with both hands. “But beating me is still very much out of your grasp.”
Frustration flashed in the knight’s face. He screamed and charged once more, swinging his weapon towards the rebel leader.
***
The sound of footsteps echoes down the passage and towards the cells. Garrus hears the rattling of keys, the turning of locks, and metal doors being pushed open.
“Just knock sir when you’re done ‘ere,” the jaoler says.
The doors close and the torchlight draws nearer to Garrus’ cell. While remaining seated, Garrus looks at the armored knight standing before him five feet away from the prison bars.
“Garth Lightborn—hero of the Battle at Black Tower, my captor and I’m assuming you’re here as my executioner as well?” Garrus says.
“You won’t be executed,” Garth answers. “Not yet anyway.”
“Oh? You’ll just let me rot in here then?”
“No. The god has spoken. You’ll live in exchange for something.” Garth steps closer. Garrus can now clearly see his visitor’s face–young, comely, clearly acting beyond his age.
“And what does your god want from me?”
“He wants you to kneel, Garrus of the Rebels. Confess thy sins. Ask for forgiveness. Give the location of the other rebel leaders.” Garth replies.
Garrus stands on his feet. He walks towards the knight. He smiles at Garth and spits at his face.
***
Garrus and the Garth continued on exchanging blows. Garrus had a cut just below his right eye and blood flowed down his cheeks. Garth was worse. His nose was broken and he had a gash on his left arm from Garrus’ huge axe. All around them, the sound of war continued. The air was filled with the song of swords and the cries of men being killed and the shouts of those doing the killing.
Garrus lifted his axe and swung it downwards on Garth. Garth leapt away and charged back for a counterblow. Garrus parried it then in one quick follow-up he hit Garth’s temple with a backhanded slap. The knight was thrown to the side. Staggered, he tried to get back on his feet.
“I don’t know why your god commanded you to charge us but you can still withdraw captain.” Garrus said. “This was clearly a suicide mission. We have you outnumbered. You all are being slaughtered.”
Garth laughed. “Numbers aren’t important to this war. You’re only men. We have a god on our side.” And with that, he once again charged at Garrus.
Garrus sighed. He blocked all of the knight’s strikes then he pushed him away with a kick. The knight fell on his back.
“I’ll order my men to back away if you withdraw. Look around you! Your men are being killed.” Garrus roared.
Garth tried to stand once again but Garrus just planted a boot on his chest and pushed him down.
***
Garth wipes away the spit from his face. “Don’t be stubborn. Dellumin is being generous to you. Accept His offer and kneel.”
The two remain standing—their eyes never leaving the other. Their shadows are the only things moving along with the flickering flame of the torch.
Garth finally breaks the silence. “The war’s over. Your side has been defeated.”
Garrus breaks into a smile. “We only lost one battle, not the war.”
“You’re a fool.”
Garrus raises both of his hands and immediately Garth takes three steps backwards. Garrus pauses and smiles wider. “Scared of a man in chains captain?”
Garth remains silent, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Garrus holds the bars of his cell with his chained hands. “You slay those who refuse to bow down to your god. You take those young girls to be killed. For sacrifice you say. Sacrifice to a god who’s not alive. How can I bow down to someone who demands death? Execute me captain but the war won’t end with me.” Garrus looks at his captor with piercing cold eyes. Part of his anger was upon himself. He should not have let the knight live.
***
Garth lay kneeling before Garrus. The knight’s sword lay broken in two beside him. Garrus stepped closer towards his defeated foe.
“Retreat,” Garrus commanded.
The knight just looked at him with a blank stare. His face was bloody and his left eye was swollen shut. “We have faith.” He simply replied. The battle was slowly coming to an end. All around them the men of Garth were either fleeing or dying. “Our god will slaughter every non-believer. We’re giving you a chance to convert, a chance to—“
“What happened to you brother?!” Garrus shouted. He looked at his brother’s bloody face and his blank stare. Garrus saw a completely different man than the one he grew up with.
Garth’s mouth opened and closed.
“What was that?” Garrus asked.
“I give up.” He heard his brother whisper.
Garrus looked at Garth. He stepped closer and reached for Garth. In a flash, Garth’s eyes flashed with life. He drew a dagger hidden in his boot and lunged at his brother. Garrus saw it coming, but it was too late. He felt the pain on his shoulder. He pushed Garth away and he stumbled on his knees. His axe dropped to the ground.
“What happened to me is I saw enlightenment.” Garth said.
Garrus felt his body going numb.
“Don’t bother standing. My knife’s dipped in Shockwasp venom.” Garth said. “Oh and about us being outnumbered? You’re wrong. Right now there are five hundred soldiers charging to your tower. We’ve won brother.”
Garrus tried to reply but no words came out. The last thing he remembered was the pommel of Garth’s sword going towards his face.
***
“The knights are now roaming the entirety of Wanosia. We’re going to eliminate every bit of rebellion on the land. The faith will prevail.”
“You’re insane.” Garrus slowly walks away from the bars.
“I’ll ask you one more time. Join the faith or die as a rebel.”
Garrus gives no reply. Instead he just sits back down on the ground and smiles. Garth sighs and walks back towards the dungeon doors. Garrus hears three knocks, the sound of metal doors being opened, and then being closed.
“The war will never end,” Garrus whispers. He moves his wrists—squeezing it out of the manacles. Garrus musters all his strength as he slides one wrist out of the manacles, skin being torn off of his wrist and his fist. “The war will end and I promise I’ll be the one to bury you brother.”
Fantastic! I love the cutting from one scene to another – really good juxtaposition 🙂 I like how you used the tenses to differentiate. I think my only comment would be that I find there to be a few commas missing here and there, notably before Garrus addresses Garth as “brother.”
Great writing!
Thanks for the compliment. I read my work again and I understand what you mean. Thanks for the tip about the commas 😀
No Way Out
“Oh, come on, not again”, a collective chorus of dismay filled the jury room and hands went up in exasperation as the paper ballots were once again counted and tossed haphazardly into a pile in the middle of the table. The tabletop was littered with empty plastic cups, left over from countless pots of black coffee delivered to them behind closed doors. Crumpled sandwich wrappers and empty Styrofoam containers from another take-out lunch had yet to be cleared away. Surrounding the table on all sides were twelve high-back leather chairs, each occupied by one of the dozen randomly selected seven men and five women who’d been called upon to do their civic duty. Three days, twice that many votes, and still no unanimous verdict. Sequestered as they were from the outside world for fear of exposure to any publicity pertaining to the case, the lack of progress was grating on every nerve and patience was wearing thin.
“We’re getting nowhere”, Milo Feldman, the jury foreman, proclaimed in frustration, slamming down his pen and leaning back in his chair. “That’s six separate votes and we’re still deadlocked, 11 – 1. This is crazy”.
All eyes turned once more towards the far end of the table, where a tall, lanky man in his mid-thirties sat upright in his assigned seat, arms outstretched, palms up as though to plead his case. Ted Fox, the eleventh juror drawn and the one hold-out, the sole dissenting not-guilty vote, knew he wasn’t making any life-long friends here. The tension was palpable as he shook his head and shrugged, the resolution on his face showing no signs of abating. “I’m sorry”, he said, “in good conscience, I just can’t agree to sending this man away for twenty years, away from his family, for something he did out of sheer desperation and despair, and for no other reason. I just can’t.”
They’d listened to two long days of testimony. At times, a few of the women jurors had been brought to tears by the evidence both sides had presented. The Prosecution had put forth their case for conviction on the felony Armed Robbery and Unlawful Possession of Firearm charges they’d leveled against the 38-year old defendant, Nathan Watts, who’d sat stoically behind the defense table, his attorney at his side, keeping his gaze straight ahead for most of the trial. He was clean-shaven, his cheap suit had been pressed and his white shirt was clean, but underneath the table, his shoes were scuffed and worn. He appeared thin and tired, but nonetheless, he sat quietly, listening intently to every word.
Even when his attorney stood in front of the twelve jurors to make his closing argument for acquittal, Nathan hadn’t so much as glanced at the juror’s box. His lawyer presented their defense concisely, contending that someone in the same dire circumstances the defendant had found himself in might have done the same thing, might have been so up against a dead-end wall they felt they had no other recourse. Nathan’s employer had laid him off over two years ago, his lawyer recounted for the jury, and since that time, he’d not been able to find steady work. He had a wife, Cecelia, and four kids to take care of, to feed and clothe and get medical care when they needed it. After a few months, when he couldn’t pay the rent, they’d been evicted from their home and now slept most nights in their beat-up Chevy van. He’d found odd jobs where he could for menial pay, but certainly not enough to support his family. Nathan had applied for unemployment and welfare, but he’d run into nothing but roadblocks and red tape at every turn. They promised relief, but something always went awry. They’d claim he hadn’t filled out the right forms, or there was some clerical glitch and his application was never filed. The family would sometimes find a meal at the local shelter, but by the end of the month, even there, portions got smaller as rations ran out and shelves went empty. At one point, he had a measly $5.44 in his pocket, a few crumpled dollar bills and some change, all the money he had to his name, all he had to feed his family for a week. Nathan watched helplessly as his children fell into fitful sleep every night, stomachs growling from not enough to eat. When his 4 year old daughter Lily came down with a high fever, a deep, terrible cough and became so weak she couldn’t even raise her head, he became desperate. He knew the Emergency Room wouldn’t even look at her without an insurance card or cold hard cash. They’d been turned away before. He knew he had to act.
Instead of pawning it, he’d hung onto his pistol in case he had to protect his family while they lived on the street. Late one night, while his family slept, he’d gotten it out, leaving the bullets behind, and tucking it into his waistband, headed off on foot to the all-night drugstore a few blocks from where he’d parked the van. His heart pounded and his hands shook as he neared the front door. There were no customers in the store as far as he could tell, so he opened the door and approached the check-out counter. The clerk, a young man Nathan had seen working before, had quickly complied after seeing the gun under Nathan’s coat, and had emptied the cash register into the bag handed to him, along with a couple bottles of children’s aspirin and cough medicine Nathan grabbed off the shelves. In less than five minutes, without incident, and without Nathan even taking the unloaded gun out of his waistband, he was out of the store and heading back to his family. It had taken every ounce of strength he had left to rob the drugstore, every shred of his dignity was gone. He’d had no choice, not if his family was to survive.
Ted pushed back his chair and rising to his full height, addressed the other eleven people in the jury room. “He tried. He wanted to work. He tried to do the right thing, and no one would listen.” Ted moved around the table as he spoke, asking, imploring his fellow jurors to see his side. “His kids were starving, they were sick and medical care was out of reach. He couldn’t feed them, take care of them.” Ted continued around the room, intent and focused on each face. “Imagine your child, looking to you, counting on you for everything, and you can’t give it to them. Not won’t, can’t. Yes, he stole, he broke the law. That was wrong. But no one was hurt, he meant no harm.” He leaned on the table, leaned into his argument. “He’s no hardened criminal. A lesser charge, maybe. But twenty years?”
He looked over at Milo. “One more vote.” Milo handed around the slips of paper, one to each juror. In silence, each took pen to paper, then passed the folded slip to the foreman. Milo opened the first and read aloud. “Not Guilty”. Eleven more times, eleven more votes. It had to be unanimous to pass. Ted, the holdout, the dissenter, held his breath as the last vote was counted. Milo stood, walked to the door and knocked. The deputy on the other side opened it. “Please tell the judge. We’ve reached our verdict.”
Great story, Just B! I love how you play with time, moving backwards from the court and then jumping all the way back. You’re a good storyteller.
I’m not an expert on the law, but I believe the sentence for aggravated robbery is 3-10 years. 20 seems like a bit much.
This was a fun story, though. Great wrap up at the end. Thanks Just B!
I appreciate your comments so much, Joe, thank you! A good storyteller is what I hope to be. My mind went right to the Courtroom when I saw the prompt “dissent”. I’ll check our criminal code again for the max sentence – thanks for the suggestion. Thanks again for the opportunity to share, and hone, our writing here. 🙂
In Louisiana the max for agg robbery is 40 years.
Interesting. I wonder how often that happens?
The high-school classroom was silent, quite unusual for a typically rowdy group of sophomores. Everyone was perfectly still, waiting for Andy, the class clown to crack a joke, or Brittany, the girl who has bad allergies, to sneeze one of her dreadfully loud sneezes. Their expectations were dashed however, and everyone held his breath.
“What did you just say?” Mr. Lemons asked finally, wondering if he had heard wrong.
“I said,” Chris raised his voice slightly, nonchalantly enunciating every syllable. “You are an uncaring, unsympathetic, and undeserving man.”
Mr. Lemons sighed, leaned against his desk, and defiantly crossed his arms. “And, why might you say that?” He asked this question like he did not care what the answer was.
“Because you called us insecure. And only an insecure man would call us that.” Chris decidedly prounounced, copying the position of his teacher by crossing his arms also.
“I called you and your classmates that because you weren’t listening to my explanation of the algebra problem.”
“But you were judging us. That means you are insecure. But there is no such thing as security and insecurity—they don’t exist.” Chris said without hesitation.
“They don’t, eh? What are they then?” Mr. Lemons smirked.
The class was still silent, intrigued by this debate, quite happy that they weren’t stuck doing algebra. With luck, they might not get math homework tonight.
“Security is a just a feeling some people have. It doesn’t actually exist in life. You and your numbers, Mr. Lemons, they can’t prove anything. Even if someone like you, a mathematician, tried to prove it, you couldn’t prove there is such a thing.”
“So, even if I’m healthy, happy, and loving life, I’m ‘insecure.’” Mr. Lemons mockingly used quotation marks.
“Correct. The only way to be truly secure is to die,” Chris affirmed.
“Okay, when my decaying body is being engulfed by tiny microorganisms, and I stink like puke, then I’m secure. Got it,” Mr. Lemons sarcastically said, with as much drama as he could muster.
“Well, then your soul will be rest.”
Mr. Lemons nodded, trying to comprehend this philosophical concept so different from his usual simple algebraic expressions, where A+ B = C, and everything make perfect sense, and can be explained. “So, if the only way to be secure is to die, then, I’m right: you guys are insecure.”
“So are you.”
“Okay, Chris. Let’s end this foolishness. You’ve wasted too much time already.”
Instantly the class groaned, bringing back the normal state of complaining, grumbling, and joking.
“Let’s move on to Problem 2, adding polynomials. Turn to page 157 in your Essential Math text book… now you see here that the constant is-“
A gunshot sounded, breaking normality once more. “Class, follow my directions. This is an emergency. Line up at the door.” Mr. Lemons frantically grabbed the safety sheet given to all teachers and read off it. “Take the stairway downstairs in single file fashion! And then wait for further instruction from the-“
Once again the math teacher stopped talking abruptly. A stout man stood in the doorway. With long, gray hair, a greasy beard, and a double barreled gun, this man was a living replica of the stereotype that scared the world. “Stop where you are.” The man commanded in a strange accent.
“Never mind what I said. Run!” Mr. Lemons started to the window, picking up a painted rock on his desk with the words “Teacher of the Year”, and attempted to throw it.
But the foreign man bounded in, took hold of a stunned Mr. Lemons, and pointed the gun to Mr. Lemon’s heart. “You American people bad. I no like you. To me you bow. I am better. Now!”
The class was in a stupor, too frightened to run or even bow down. The foreign man yelled, “Now! Now! Or I shoot. That be bad.” He shook his finger.
The teens, now scared out of their minds, blindingly obeyed the foreign man. All of them bent on one knee.
“Not fast enough. Too bad!” He laughed menacingly. Without another word, his finger touched the trigger, and pushed.
The bullet went straight into his heart. Mr. Lemons collapsed to the floor.
The foreign man smiled gleefully, and spoke in broken bits of English. “Bye bye. Had fun.” With that he strode out of the room, preparing his gun for his next innocent victim.
The class stared at each other, stricken by what had just happened.
Andy, the jokester, said bluntly, “Guess he’s secure now!”
**********
Hi Everybody! I’m new here, (my mom showed me this website) so I would love to hear feedback! Thanks! =)
The Day He Paid For Sex
That was all he asked for. Not too much water. She starts staring at him as if he’s just proposed. Don’t know what to say looks all over. Get over it. This part of land is for jokers, dahlin’. We cater for half hearted humans with oh no it’s fine attitude towards, well, everything. So think this is not up to your parking lot, hitch a hike a mile from here. Good luck. Don’t cast no shadow. Glad you’re gone.
Once again, he found himself explaining his discontent even for the smallest things. Like coffee. Like the stuff you just have to get the wording right as even a small fluctuation in the description could lead to being served something plain unexpected. Like a red sweater you get for your birthday.
I remember asking for less water on top. No problem sir, she says and pours nearly a quarter in the sink behind her. The queue is building up behind him but not this time.He reckons his Andy Warhol time of fifteen minutes is fast approaching. I know you’re trying to help but pouring the top off only makes the size smaller yet the coffee is already diluted. I’d like to get a new one with less water added so it’s relatively strong.
She’s not happy with him now. The fierce looks and the blushed cheeks only help to underline her disappointment in him like he screwed up major at the planned unmanned mission to Mars and it’s only unfortunate that she’s his supervisor on decks at the Control Centre, how is she going to explain all this mess to the President? Well sir, I cannot help you any further as we don’t offer customised drinks service here. You just asked for less water and here you are, next!
Few thoughts instantly cross his mind. Asking to see the manager, throwing I can’t believe I’m hearing all this attitude or throwing the ever so surprisingly hot beverage at her face and not in that particular order. Anger is only sweet when one’s engulfed. Like the hard on that you don’t feel the need to explain in public. Can’t mimic that feeling, not the hard on but the anger. The real one. And clearly it’s too early in the morning for him to act irrational. He needs his wife with her extraordinary capabilities for that. Anytime of the day. Give it to me baby, undiluted. Take me to the highest mountain, let me rain upon thee like a curse sworn by many. I’m sorry but your approach is very uncooperative. Does he hear himself? Is he totally up to standing behind those atrocious words? Geez, ‘your approach is very uncooperative’.. He’s sure she’s just felt them words being stabbed into her soul, piercing inside her heart. Your approach uncooperative? He must be joking. And he knows he’s got more reasons than that for being taken for a clown in front of others.
She looks as if the words he’s just uttered were so light that instead of traveling through her ear canal, they kept floating about in the air like bubbles that were blown by a 5-year old. Even worse now, so pathetic them words were, he doesn’t even know whether to slur them out again back towards the excuse me face staring down on him with a touch of oh you’re so sad fashion.
But not everything is all going south as he feels that tingling rage climbing upon him like a kitty on a high tree top, not caring how to land back down again, reckoning one way or another. He feels the heat under his cheeks but he suddenly realises even that little volcano within him is incapable of getting the timing right as the girl behind the counter is now taking the order of the large family behind him. Latte, is that the one with lotsa froth in it? No, Adam doesn’t like it, he says it smells of cows, right Adam? Mother sharing her son’s creative thinking with crystal clarity in public with ‘confidence and panache’, there you go, that’s how you do it.
His outrage that has become a delayed reaction now looks like an old balloon with less air than a fat man’s burp after a cheap Chinese takeout. His angry eyes only resemble the garlic breath obscured by the hand covering mouth, with ‘not quite
there’-ish impact, no matter how menacing the source might be. He knows he’s out of fashion now. Yesterday’s news.The fat woman is dictating the show with her questions about the products they offer and services that they don’t. Quite a match for the spectators. He’s so not in their league. He turns around and starts walking towards the door without grabbing the coffee. Noone even bothers to remind him. The best money he’s ever spent for another lesson on being invisible, yet he still can’t fly.
He wants his mum now.
Reclaiming Me
The last Friday in January I fell asleep reminiscing about my childhood, knowing I was going to wake up an adult. I thought about how I used to hang upside down by my legs on the monkey bars every playtime in Infants school, for the rush of blood to my head and to look upside down at the topsy-turvy world.
I thought about our year eight camping trip and climbing Mount Coolum. When we reached the apex, I looked out at the Pacific, this untameable, infinite expanse of blue, and stretched my arms out so it looked like I’d scooped the ocean up in my hands. In that moment I almost believed my Nan, who told me I have strong legs to take me anywhere in the world I want to go, a clever mind to dream up a million possibilities and industrious hands to do anything I want to do.
I only have one older sister, Capri. We’re so different that it never feels like we compete for mum and dad’s attention. She’s the pretty one. She’s admired for just being, but I’m fine with that. I like doing.
I glanced around my bedroom at my trophies from the OptiMinds competitions, remembering the elation I felt every time my dad boasted about his Little Einstein. And at my awards for playing Clarinet at Eisteddfods, and how every time I placed, I would glow in the warmth of mum gloating about her Little Maestro.
I fell asleep and drifted away from my care-free childhood secure in who I am and where I was headed and excited about my birthday dinner on Saturday night. Capri had a band, a keg, the whole shebang when she turned eighteen. I just wanted a nice dinner with my family and my two closest friends, at the revolving restaurant at the top of Centrepoint Tower; the tallest building in Sydney. I wanted to feel on top of the world and bask in the choices ahead of me. I had been offered a place to study Environmental Science at Sydney University and at The University of Canberra, a few hours south of Sydney. I was pretty sure I’d accept the offer at Sydney; it would be easier and cheaper, besides I love being at home with my family.
I woke up on my eighteenth birthday disappointed that I didn’t feel any different. I moseyed out to the kitchen to find dad reading the paper at the table, mum making coffee and Capri, who’d already been for her morning run, flipping pancakes.
‘Happy birthday, blossom,’ mum said over the whir of the coffee machine. Dad put the paper down and said, ‘well, you’re legal and liable now; how does it feel?’ I kissed his cheek and said, ‘I’ll tell you when I’ve woken up.’ I sat next to him and poured us both a glass of orange juice.
‘Voila’ said, Capri, placing a pancake-stack in front of me with one hand and wielding the eggflip in the other. She said, ‘for the birthday girl, I mean lady.’
Mum put a mug of frothy-topped coffee in front of me, kissed my cheek and said, ‘you know we couldn’t love you more. We are so proud of you, darling. And you know you’ll always be my baby, no matter how old you are.’ I smiled. I felt loved and content.
‘So,’ said Capri, the minute I started to eat, ‘I’ve got big plans for the day. As soon as I have my shower, we’ll go. We’ll meet up with mum and dad for dinner, but today is a sisters’ day.’ I had a flutter of excitement. I love surprises and my first surprise was that she wanted to spend the day with me.
The first stop on my magical mystery birthday tour was to the jeweller. Capri had booked me in to get my ears pierced. Not once had I ever said anything about wanting my ears pierced. The thought made me squeamish. I gave a weak, ‘I’m not sure,’ but she is persuasive. She was right; it was over in seconds and it only stung for a little while.
Next was my appointment with the beautician where Capri’s doing her apprenticeship. She had booked me in for all sorts of treatments. I put my foot down with the Brazilian. I just had the bikini line done. That was bad enough! Whoever dreamt up the exquisite torture of pouring hot lava on your skin and ripping every hair south of your eyelashes out of your flesh is a sadist.
Then I discovered eyebrows aren’t exempt. The wax felt too hot; like it burnt the top layer of skin. Then my eyelashes were tinted. I looked like a raccoon, with conspicuously black eyes and red rims. I was relieved that my birthday treat was over.
Only it wasn’t.
I got spray-tanned. To know how ridiculous this is, you need to know I have never had a tan in my life. I burn. I peel. I exist somewhere on the pink to red spectrum. I prefer pink to red. But now I was orange. It clashed with my hair. Mum calls it auburn, but it’s really just orange. I wondered if I was going to get a rash from it like Capri does and whether she’s got any more antihistamine at home.
I was dying to get home. I walked in the door to find a gazillion balloons floating around the house. It looked suspiciously like when Capri had her party. Mum stuck her head around the corner of the kitchen and said, ‘look at you; you look wonderful’. I let out a feeble ‘thanks’. I saw every platter mum owns splayed across the kitchen bench and knew their surprises weren’t over, but my hopes for my birthday were.
Parents say they just want you to be happy, but it’s not true. Maybe they don’t even know they’re lying. ‘You look wonderful,’ mum said. ‘Stan look; isn’t she pretty?’
Dad came inside. I pretended not to see the spit roast he’d set up in the backyard and the keg next to the barbeque. ‘Beautiful,’ he said, ‘Stunning! The boys will be lining up.’ I feigned a smile and started towards my room when mum said, ‘Darling, we’d like to give you your present before… We’d like to give it to you now.’
I sat on the stool at the breakfast bar and tried to muster enthusiasm. ‘We know you struggled with needing glasses in the second grade. We’re going to pay for laser surgery so you can get rid of those pesky glasses and have a fresh start for University.’
She’s right; I did struggle with getting glasses: in the second grade. That was ten years ago. Now my glasses feel so much a part of my identity I don’t want them just ripping them away and burning my retinas so they can have two pretty daughters. I’d been ripped and burnt enough for one birthday.
‘Can I think about it?’ I said.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, flummoxed.
I shrugged and kissed her cheek. ‘I just need to think about it,’ I said.
I went to my room, sat at my desk and filled out my acceptance form for Canberra.
The topic of dissent was interesting to me from a cultural perspective. Australians don’t tend to be as forthright as Americans. We tend to have less verbal arguments and more a battle of the wills. An Australian votes with their feet and has the last say not verbally, but by withdrawing. I guess you could say we’re a nation of passive aggressives. I just felt like I should qualify my submission with that note, because I know at first reading you could be waiting for the explosive arguments.
Thanks Belinda. That’s very interesting. I think dissent takes all forms, whether verbal, physical, or even psychological. You won’t be penalized for your lack of arguments. 🙂
Ha, thanks Joe. I also tried to stick with the introverted character and how she would show her dissent, while not wanting to hurt their feelings.
The Dissenters
——————————-
“No, I will not,” it was said in an emphatic, no nonsense tone. Even his posture- arms akimbo, neck cords tight and visible under the skin, eye lids half lowered over two blazing black orbs, jaw bones clenched likes edges of knives under the two ear lobes – screamed ‘NO’.
She felt her heart lurch and thud against her breast bone. ‘Oh God, that pose,’ she thought, ‘exactly the way Ashwin used to stand, making his displeasure known to the World at large, as rigid as a rock in his denial, unable to give any leeway to the other person’s point of view, even when he knew in his heart that it was the correct one.’
She couldn’t, she wouldn’t let their son grow up to be another Ashwin – it had taken her half a life time trying to erase the memories of the best and the worst of times spent with her first and sometime she felt, her unforgettable love – the one who stood like a pillar of strength by her side in every endeavour she ever cared to undertake – teaching her to drive the Vespa scooter before he taught her to drive the car, escorting her religiously every evening from her office to the Music school for her Flute lessons, patiently explaining to her softly the intricacies of a Spread Sheet for her office work, never displaying his impatience for an offspring, she knew he craved for but she kept delaying and the expression of utter fulfilment and sublime happiness on his face the day she announced that her body was nurturing another life.
She shook her head in dismay, a few tear drops flying off on either side from her wet cheeks – how many times had she willed to steel herself against the onslaught of these dangerous memories which weakened her resolve. But how could she stop the memories flooding in seeing Anup – their son, only 6 years old, standing just like his father used to.
‘Oh,’ she thought, ‘if I could just pick him up and kiss him on both his dimpled cheeks it would be so much easier to end the argument.’ She knew that this simple action, which millions of mothers all over the world do without a second thought, was not possible for her as it would violate one of Ashwin’s cardinal life’s principals, ‘Never indulge in emotional blackmail.’
“But Anup you know you have to take a bath every day, everybody has it.” Sheila said s
.
Anup’s face had turned red, he spoke through clenched teeth, “Grandpa doesn’t, I don’t see him having a bath everyday!!”
‘Grandpa,’ her father, once again. What did the men in her life have against her old father? Granted he was hidebound, refused to accept the fact that the World had changed, felt lost in the fast moving World where instant gratification of desires was taken for granted and above all couldn’t get over the fact that Shuhashni, his beloved wife of 40 years, had left the world before him. He never forgave Mother for this act of wilfulness. Shuhashni, who for 40 years had not budged an inch from his side and was the immoveable plinth on which he had built his columns and beams of values and beliefs.
Ashwin always tip toed around his Father in Law, never engaging with him in any discussions on the choices he should make; even when Father asked for his opinion on what to choose from the many choices that life kept throwing up.
Only once, oh how could she ever forget that day, 5 years ago, when she had urged Ashwin to speak out his mind on whether Father should retain his Apple Orchard in the hills or sell it off to the pestering Real estate developer for building a tourist resort. Ashwin, who always had a soft spot for Nature and all natural things, had advised against disposing off the orchard arguing that tourists from the big towns and cities coming to the hills would love to be taken around a real apple orchard rather than staying in a resort which was once an apple orchard. Father would have agreed with Ashwin had it not been for the fact that the developer was the son of his old friend Mr. Bhullar. The son had turned out to be a wastrel. This was Mr. Bhullar’s last try in making something of his son. Father wanted to help his old friend and turned down Ashwin’s advice.
The ‘slow to anger’ Ashwin bore this rejection of his good suggestion for a few months, but finally exploded when he got the news that the Apple trees were being destroyed for building the resort. He sent me to plead with Father. He couldn’t do much as a promise had been made to his friend which could not be broken. Ashwin did not call me back from Father’s home, he told me to stay there and take care of my Father and my son.
Since that day, four and a half years ago Sheila had done that- taken care of her father and her son.
“Who says I don’t have a bath every day?” Father must have heard Anup.
“You didn’t have one yesterday,” Anup was at his belligerent best.
“Yes because I was waiting for a phone call from Mr. Bhullar.” Father tried to appease Anup, “You know how difficult it is to get a proper connection from the hills.”
“So, what did your friend say?” Anup sounded like a Sub Inspector of police interrogating a suspect.
“Oh, he just told me that his son was finding it too difficult to build the resort and wanted me to buy back the Orchard.”
“Is that good news?”
“Yes, I think so.” Father replied, “Ask you Mom whether she is happy?”
Sheila was already on the phone imparting the ‘breaking’ news to Ashwin.
“I think young man both of us should now have a bath together,” Father said picking up Anup in his lap, “Before your father arrives to take you back.”
Hem Srivastava
Hemsri,
What a story. There’s so much drama here: a marital separation, the death of a beloved spouse, fathers and sons and grandfathers. This could (a probably should) be made into a novel!
One small mistake: it seems like you confused pronouns here, “He sent me to plead with Father.” I believe you meant her or even Sheila. Also, I found it very surprising that her husband sent her away for 4 years. Is that common in India?
Otherwise, it was a deep, rich story, and you do a very good job telling it.
Hi Joe,
Thanks a ton. Your glowing review of my story has touched me in the right ‘creative’ places deep in my heart and mind.
First the reply to your question, ‘yes it is still a male dominated paternalistic society where, even the modern(so called) mothers crave for a boy child instead of a girl child. An Indian reader of my story would not find it very strange that a ‘loving’ husband, like Ashwin with a bloated EGO, would stay separately from his wonderful wife for 4.5 years. Sheila doesn’t want their son to grow up to be another Ashwin.
I promise to be more careful with pronouns in future.
“Oh, sweetheart!” said her Mother from the wings.
Rose slowly glanced across the restaurant and saw the expectant faces of everyone she loved. Huddled together between the tables they searched her face for clues.
Kneeling at her feet was a man she loved enough. Just enough to stay with. But not enough to marry. Their flirtation had turned into a love affair. That love affair became a safe haven. That safe slid into a daily routine that was par with her other hobbies.
All around her the pressure in the room reached a fever while he spoke carefully of his future plans. Rose’s eyes started to tear, and the crowd was in awe. They thought they were witnessing a girl overcome with love.
Her nerves began to fray as the tiny stone slid across her knuckle. He looked up at her so confident in her answer. She swallowed and forced a smile.
“Wellll….”, was the headline across everyone’s face.
Behind her the welcome bells on the door rang. Her head whipped around and there he was. He stood in the doorway, stoned faced, staring her down. She felt her left hand become untangled and free.
In that moment she recalled every private joke, every stolen glance, every excuse to visit and call. She had known when they first met that something rare and real was happening. But in her most private moments she disregarded every advance as harmless. But standing there with his shoulders squared, so resolved, she knew someone would be harmed.
She could feel a wave of energy building up behind her. She wanted to turn to her friends and family and explain how things hadn’t been good for awhile. How she’d been keeping up appearances. But instead she just began to walk.
The shouting at her back pushed her closer to the door. It felt easy. Every step carried her out into the open. He reached out his hand to her, and her pace quickened. He wouldn’t solve the problems she was running from. He’d bring his own brand of joy and heartache to her days.
Protests and pleading filled the restaurant. Diners whispered and looked at her with contempt. Everyone signaled their loss of appetite with the sounds of forks and spoons clashing into plates. A quiet malaise worked its way from table to table while her family’s voices clamoured behind her.
“It’s fine…we’ll talk to her for you.”
“You know how she is.”
“Wait!”
“So selfish.”
“She’ll come around.”
Ignoring their condolences and disparaging remarks, she just kept moving. She never realized that it could be so easy to leave what had been so tedious and stale. It wasn’t clear if it was her heart or her feet that kept egging her on, but she couldn’t stop.
Every step she took was a protest and a revolt. She’d deal with the critics and the fall out later, but for now she was single minded and determined to do as she pleased.
“Well how about boxers or briefs?”
“Neither. Commando.”
That got his attention. Marc shifted in his chair and glanced up from his blackberry, his eyes seeking the source of such conversation. Two women – one blond, one brunette – were taking their seats at the table next to him. Completely engulfed in their own conversation, they didn’t look over at him or stop their debate, even though he was now completely caught in the workings of a female mind.
“Commando?! Really? But doesn’t it make you wonder why or how they can stand having their…their…you know –“
The brunette laughed, a tinkling carefree sound, at the blonde’s question before speaking. “Come on Aimee, think about it. Easy access. That’s the end of debate on that.”
Marc’s lips quirked at the brunette’s answer. He cut his eyes over to Aimee and watched as a dawning expression crossed her face. She flushed and he saw the moment she got just what the brunette had been stating. Her cheeks pinked, the color matching closely to the silk shirt she wore, and her mouth dropped open to form a little o.
“Jessica!” Aimee leaned forward and dropped her voice in a conspirator whisper. “Does Steve? You know.”
Jessica leaned back, crossed her long legs; drawing her short skirt up. His eyes pulled from Jessica’s response and were riveted briefly on the exposed skin. Her voice, smooth like whiskey cut through and grabbed his attention. “Yes. But you see, Steve has that advantage. You know, being a guy and all.”
Marc’s brows lifted. The advantage?
Aimee interrupted the question in his head. “What about you?” His face snapped over to Aimee and he dropped his blackberry, now forgotten, on the table. Who could concentrate on work when there was a conversation like this?
Jessica’s low laugh rolled through the air and Marc’s mouth watered at the sound. A long, sweaty night with dark chocolate was how he’d describe it.
“Same.” Jessica’s stare held Aimee before she lifted her sandwich and took a bite. Again, he was riveted to the sight of Jessica’s lips wrapping around the bread and had a moment of green envy. He wanted to be that sandwich. Aimee’s quick inhalation of breath alerted him to just what she thought of Jessica’s revelation. “You can’t be serious, Jessica. You always wear skirts. What if a big wind came by? The entire city of Seattle would see.”
Again, that husky laugh rolled over his skin. “Aimee, come on. Nice girls finish last. You know that. Men like a little naughtiness mixed in with class.”
Marc tilted his head at this and nodded. It was true.
“Nice girls do not finish last, Jess.” Aimee lifted a chip and bit down, the sound crackling through the air. Her eyes glazed over and Marc watched her get lost in thought. Her eyes were a beautiful blue, the color of the sea on a nice summer day. He studied her features. A perk little nose was set against porcelain skin. Her skin was flawless – beautiful being the word – and was topped with such perfect pink lips.
Naughty or nice, Marc?
He couldn’t choose. Jessica snapped her fingers in Aimee’s face, breaking the spell.
“You’re daydreaming again.”
Aimee scoffed, the sound dismissive. “That’s another thing I don’t get. What exactly is daydreaming? I’m awake aren’t I? Why call it dreaming? When you sleep at night, is it called night dreaming?”
An amused looked passed over Jessica’s face. “Well if you want to get all technical about it, what category would you put wet dreams in?”
“Jessica!” Aimee’s face turned bright red and Marc suppressed laughter, biting down on his tongue to hide his amusement.
“Aimee!” Jessica mocked then leaned forward, her gaze capturing the blonds once more. “Stop being such a prude. I mean you have had a wet dream before, right?”
Aimee’s silence said it all.
Jessica’s eyes widened; the green standing out in stark contrast against her olive complexion. “Oh my –“
“Keep your voice down, Jess!”
Aimee glanced around frantically and Marc turned his head away, concentrating on the street so she wouldn’t catch him staring.
Because he was.
Hushed whispers, so low he couldn’t make out what was said, carried through the crowd. He strained to hear Jessica and Aimee, found himself tilting his head towards them in an effort to do so.
“I don’t know, Jessica. Men are just so damn complicated.”
He snorted, catching the attention of patrons nearby, including a brief glimpse from Jessica and Aimee. He picked up his blackberry and flashed a grin as he pretended to be checking emails once again.
Men complicated? Have they listened to their own conversation?
“Not if you get on their level, Aimee. You just need to keep things simple and physical for them.”
He almost groaned but didn’t want to draw more attention. Keep things simple and physical for men? Did these women realize just how confusing they actually were? He started compiling a list in his head, all arguments about just how confusing women were. Marc decided it was time for a male perspective to enter the picture of this little debate these two women were having. He had spent entirely too long at lunch and had a meeting to be at in ten minutes. This would provide him with the perfect opening to make his own determination on just who finished last – naughty or nice – after he got both their numbers.
Marc pushed his chair back, vaguely listening to Jessica and Aimee as they continued on in their debate. He stood and buttoned his dark blue suit jacket and took a step towards the two women who had captured his attention for the better part of thirty minutes.
“Well what about Vampires?”
His steps faltered.
“What about them, Aims?”
“Do you think they can get AIDS from sucking infected blood?”
He stopped and stared at Aimee, feeling shock roll through his veins. How in the world did she change gears so fast? How in the hell did Vampires get brought up? Jessica’s husky laughter reached him and he turned his head towards the brunette. Her green gaze lifted and met his, amusement dancing in the beautiful orbs. One perfectly arched brow lifted as she caught him staring.
A beat passed, two – his chance flying away.
A second dark brow lifted and he suddenly found both females looking at him, questions formed on both their faces.
He cleared his throat and turned, walking the other way. There was no way he would enter that conversation. Maybe it was true, he thought. Men were from Mars and Women had to be from Venus because they both two entirely different languages.
Haha … really crafty … I was hoping at the end it would turn to a vampire story … maybe it did? loved it !
This was funny. I especially liked when Marc snorted. That little line conveyed so much.
Evelyn’s mother-in-law Judith found them in the living room, her hair an understated and therefore expensive shade of red.
The room had not changed much since Evelyn’s only other visit years ago, still largely white and timeless in the way taste, and its alter, money, had always presumed to be. Or was the word altar? She couldn’t be sure. The drapes were different though. No longer military pleats, now they fell in waterfalls and gathered in oyster-colored pools of raw silk on the floor with red and green tie-backs a concession to the season.
“Mom, look.”
At the sound of her daughter’s voice, Evelyn left Judith to join Kendra at the window.
“It’s so beautiful,” Kendra said.
“Hmmm.” As Kendra bent to admire the creche, Evelyn combed her fingers through Kendra’s glossy hair.
The figures and animals were of glazed porcelain, outlined with a delicate sheen. Lladro maybe.
“I see you’ve found my joy.” Judith had come up behind them. She reached in and brought out the infant, wrapped in a square of flannel and perched on straw in the manger.
Or was manger the right word? Evelyn remembered the phrase “lay in a manger” but was that the straw trough or the barn itself? Damn this word befuddlement that lurched in and out. Perhaps her estrogen needed adjusting. Again.
“I just love porcelain and glass,” Judith said. “Logan brought it from Europe time before last.” She smiled. “My perfect son.”
And where, Evelyn wondered, did that leave Parker? Imperfect son?
Evelyn looked at the manger in Judith’s palm; she remembered now manger was the trough. So Logan had brought it from Europe time before last. Time before last, ha! The only time Parker had visited Europe was when Judith banished him to boarding school in Edinburgh.
Judith laid a hand on her wrist and said, “How are you feeling, Evelyn. Really?”
Yes, Judith charmed people—the warm gaze, the friendly grasp. Evelyn tried not to draw away. “Some days are better than others.”
Judith’s fingers massaged Evelyn’s wrist. “I had that same surgery, you know.”
“What?”
A hysterectomy? Judith? It seemed like something her husband should have remembered. Well, now at least, she and Judith had something in common. “Parker didn’t tell me,” she murmured.
“Oh, it was years ago. Shortly before Parker came to us.”
Interesting. Evelyn looked over at Parker who was inclining his head to listen to his brother Logan. She fingered her locket.
After dinner, Logan’s wife Marta set an empty champagne bottle on the table and gave it a spin. Suddenly warm, Evelyn shifted, loosened her collar and freed her locket where it had caught on a button.
“Mom, it’s you,” Kendra said.
Evelyn looked at the table. The motionless bottle pointed at her across from the centerpiece, a large glass epergne.
“Something beginning with E,” Evelyn said.
“You have to say ‘I spy with my little eye,” Kendra whispered, so Evelyn did.
The guests tried different objects. Marta even ventured, “It’s Evelyn, right?” but no one guessed.
Evelyn had assumed any word she could conjure would be elementary for everyone else. When she said, “No, it’s the epergne,” the looks on the faces indicated their disapproval as if she dared to rise above farm stock origins to out-culture them with a French word they did not know.
She studied the centerpiece that had caused the discord. Between candle flutes, crystal bowls held silver foil chocolates, and red and white roses carved from radishes and florets of cauliflower, all scalloped with tiny lettuces and edged with baby carrots. Perfect miniature vegetables dressed as art, washed with egg white to glisten in candlelight. For the price of these tiny sculpted vegetables, never to be eaten, she imagined one could buy proper large vegetables and supply an orphanage in Shanghai. Well, maybe not, but it seemed so.
Picking up a baby carrot, Evelyn rolled it with her fingers and cradled it in her palm.
Was it hot in here?
“I said…” Marta was talking to her, resting a hand on Evelyn’s sleeve. “The epergne was very clever.”
But it seemed to Evelyn that Marta’s eyes held a challenge.
Marta spun the bottle, unsurprised when it rested pointing at her. “I spy with my little eye something beginning with L.” Marta scrutinized Evelyn’s throat.
“I know,” Judith exclaimed, following Marta’s gaze. “Locket.”
“May I?” Marta asked. “I’ve been admiring it all evening.” She reached over to trace the engraving. The locket popped open. “Oops.”
Evelyn gasped.
“Sorry,” Marta said. “I see Kendra, so cute! And who’s this?”
The open locket framed two pictures. In one, Kendra wore her favorite green dress. Facing her, (and Evelyn had loved the locket because it didn’t open all the way flat, the pictures remained close like sisters), was Meifing.
Meifing’s hair was darker than Kendra’s, hanging straight, hooked behind her ear. She was two years old in the photo, solemn, staring into the camera. The locket’s vintage glass glazed the pictures with a delicate sheen.
Parker’s mouth opened. His face paled. Of course, he couldn’t have known she still carried Meifing’s picture.
Naturally, Evelyn had made a copy—so that Meifing would always belong to her—before returning Meifing’s referral photos and case study to the adoption agency.
That was after Evelyn had tried to reason with Parker.
“Don’t you see,” she said. “It’s too late to change your mind. Look at her picture, damn it!” And she stuck Meifing’s photo under his nose. He’d turned away. Now, tonight, Parker was forced, finally, to face the photo in the middle of a dinner party in front of people who had made his own adoption a nightmare.
Tears standing in her eyes, Evelyn gave Parker the slightest of nods, a message. Yes, I see how it was for you here. But it wouldn’t have been like that for us, for you and me and Kendra and Meifing.
Parker’s eyes narrowed. He turned his head, leaving her alone to answer the guests: Who is that other girl?
Evelyn stiffened, her breath caught in her throat. The fingers that still curled around the baby carrot dug into her palm, and sweat dampened the starched white napkin until the poinsettia embroidered in scarlet silk began to bleed. She should never have worn wool, should have known the house would be overheated, that even one glass of wine, of truth, and it might have been more, the maid Inga was that efficient, could upset her.
Stomach churning, Evelyn mumbled “Excuse me” to no one in particular. She stood, oxygen draining from her head.
She must have air or she would faint. Bolting from the dining room, she passed the sofa table holding the silver frames, averted her eyes, tried not to look at the picture of Marta and Logan in San Francisco when they had not bothered to call, reached the door; supported herself with the handle and cracked it open. She closed her eyes. Behind her chatter resumed.
Turning her sweat-drenched back to the cold air, Evelyn opened her eyes. That was when she spied the creche. She closed the door and crossed the living room and stood in front of it. After a moment, she reached in and removed the baby figurine. With the square of flannel that had encircled the porcelain infant, she swaddled the baby carrot that was still in her palm and laid it in the manger.
Descent to Victory
“Are you ready?” I am.
“No.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly that.”
Keran tried to squash the panicky diminutive feeling. N-not ready? What was he going to do? Without Nara…
The girl’s eyes were colder than ever. “What makes you think that I would do this?”
“For me,” The strangled words formed together before Keran could stop them.
Nara looked more hateful than ever. She scoffed–the sound lodged itself in Keran’s heart like poison pointed spears. “You really thought that? You’re such a fool. Thinking I would come. It’s a suicide mission.”
Keran blinked. “You’re the one who suggested this!” he cried, his voice cracking. Nara looked taken aback–he was right after all. She remembered the fact. “It’s Don, isn’t it?” Keran asked, surprised slightly at how bitter his voice sounded.
“Don’t bring Don into this!” Nara shrieked. She whirled around and stalked off. “Go away, Keran Mearlson. Don’t think about coming back.”
***
Nara was huddled against the wall in the dark. She didn’t dare breath. The time had come. The monarchy had fallen apart. Tyranny reigned with horror over the land. Keran… The fight replayed over and over in Nara’s mind. It was the last time she had seen him. By now, he was probably long dead. It began before that, though, she thought. She, Don, and Keran. She should have seen it coming. I did, she thought bitterly, but I could have done something different.. something more safe… Nara gulped. She didn’t know why Don was in league with Tyranny; she knew only that he was. The door creaked on the other side of the room. She almost squeaked in terror. The door opened, and light rushed in through the rectangular opening.
“Hello… Nara dear… I know you’re in there…”
Nara didn’t know who the voice belonged to or how it knew it was her house. She had thought they were just going around killing anyone and everyone.
The small beam of a flashlight slashed through the remaining darkness of the room. In moments, Nara would be caught. There was nowhere to go.
“There you are, little Nara mouse. Come out where we can see you properly.”
Nara stayed put. Her legs were frozen up, anyway. She couldn’t move. The dark silhouettes moved toward her–she could feel their footsteps vibrating in her bones.
“He said come out. Listen to the royal guards of Highness Tyranny!”
Nara felt a sharp kick to her side. She gasped as a pointed boot connected with her stomach. Again, this time on her arm. Now her back. They kicked her to the ground. She let out a whimper.
“Nara Brighthart. I don’t see any need to go on and on with all your titles. Your title can’t be longer than Highness Tyranny’s anyway.” The guards were lean and strong. Nara couldn’t see their eyes, or the top half of their face. The light from outside the door shone only across their chins. Their smirks showed their master’s vanity.
“Shame, it is, to kill such a skilled warrior.”
The first guard sneered. “No. Not really.” Blood spurted from Nara’s side. Consciousness faded from Nara, and for the last time, she thought, Keran, I love you.
***
Don felt the guards’ cold wrist plates dig into his skin. Tyranny always called in people like this–to show them who was in power?–and it hurt. A lot. He was grateful that he wasn’t an enemy of Tyranny–he would have had it a lot worse, then.
Don entered the terrifying room. It was square, with empty rows of thrones along the side, and one large throne–Tyranny’s–straight to the front, at the head. The proud ruler sat, back straight, eyes narrowed, smirk mocking.
“Don, welcome.”
Don nodded, unsure of how to show his comfortableness. Tyranny was his friend after all, she helped him, and he helped her. But smiling did not seem an appropriate action at that point.
“Tyranny, may we enter?” another voice said from behind them. Don didn’t have to turn back to know that it was more guards.
“Come, my loyal guards,” Tyranny’s smile was frightening, as if her face could not contort itself to do so properly.
“Nara Brighthart is dead. Who is next, my Queen?”
“Rana Lark,” her personal guard beside her said.
The killing guard looked confused. “But she’s already dead.”
“Since when?” Tyranny barked.
“Long ago,” the guard replied, his voice shaking.
“Nara?” Don exclaimed, trying to interrupt them, and figure this out. “Nara Brighthart?”
“Don, quiet yourself,” Tyranny snapped. “I’m trying to give my guards orders.”
“My Nara?” Don’s face was red, and his mind overflowed with confusion and hurt. “You said you wouldn’t hurt any of my friends!”
“Did I say that?” Tyranny asked, in the innocent, confused voice that made Don fear her next words. “My dear Don, don’t you understand? I have to kill everyone that knew about my plot!”
“You are already in power! Why kill any more people?”
“Have you not heard of rebellions,” Tyranny snorted. “I can’t have my hard-earned power taken from me!”
“You lied to me!” Don screamed.
Tyranny let out a cackle. “You sound so surprised.”
Don glared up at the tyrant. “Your power will get taken from you,” Don snarled. “You won’t get away with this!” Tears welled up behind his eyes.
Tyranny’s cruel mirth was gone in an instant. “As if I haven’t already,” she said slowly. “Good bye, Don. You’ve served your time. Now your time is over.” She snapped her fingers, and before he knew it, Don saw a spear coming towards him. He couldn’t do anything about it.
***
The sound of crashing metal filled the room, and a young man burst in.
His powerful voice rang out. “Good day to you, Nina Brighthart!”
Tyranny’s eyes flashed. “Who are you? How dare you enter without permission?”
The man laughed. “Your plot wasn’t foolproof, world-renowned tactician.”
The guards looked at each other in confusion. “Nina Brighthart?”
“Brighthart, as in Nara Brighthart?”
“Who are you?” Tyranny snarled through her guards’ murmuring uproar.
“Keran Mearlson!”
“You’re supposed to be dead!” Tyranny screeched, then turned to leer at her guards. They shook with terror.
“And your reign is over,” Keran said. He looked behind him. “Come on out!”
A mini army stormed into the small room. Among them was Rana Lark, and others like her. Tyranny looked around in confusion and growing horror. “Okay, I’ll stand down quietly, and you can take your kingdom back. You don’t stand a chance against me.”
Keran glared into her eyes. “That’s not enough!” he said, raising the sword. Tyranny’s screams died down and with her final breath the tyranny was lifted. Keran stood back. Tears came to his eyes. He turned around, standing over the tyrant’s body.
His army chanted his name in victory, as they took the castle for their own. This was all Nara Brighthart’s doing, not mine, Keran thought. None of this would have been possible without her. The names of Keran and his army went down in history. Nara Brighthart was long forgotten, but not by Keran. The starter of the argument was not remembered, only the winner. Keran didn’t consider himself a winner. He had lost his love and his friend. While the country rejoiced, he would be silent in pain for the rest of his days.
His face contorted in pain. The words struck Kaylee’s chest as though her husband had just pulled the trigger of a shotgun.
“You, did, WHAT?” she nearly screamed, yet paused between words, mostly because she couldn’t find the strength to hear his confession again.
Todd looked away, toward the plasma screen tv that usually saved him from painful conversations such as this. “Honey,” he started.
“Don’t you honey me!” Kaylee interrupted. Her fist tightened around the handle of the large butcher knife she’s been using to cut onions for her homemade chili. Todd loved Kaylee’s chili. That flavorful concoction had been one of the first things Todd equated to Kaylee in the beginning of their relationship. Her chili was heavy and delicious, with just enough spice to make his heart flutter. Kaylee’s cooking was an extension of her personality.
Panic entered Todd’s head as he realized he might not get to eat chili today.
His stomach immediately grumbled, and Kaylee noticed Todd’s hand move on its own.
She slammed the knife down. “Oh so you’re still hungry I see!” Kaylee yelled. “How could you do this to me? Today of all days?”
“Could you keep your voice down?” Todd raised his hands to placate her. “You’ll worry Sophie!”
Kaylee’s rage could not be contained, and rightfully so. Todd wondered if the tears in his wife’s eyes were from heartache or onion fumes, but he was pretty sure he knew they weren’t fake. “Sophie? Now you’re worried about our daughter? After what you’ve done?”
“Listen, I know I’ve messed up,” Todd started, but couldn’t finish.
“Messed UP?” Kaylee nearly screeched. “This isn’t something you can just FIX overnight, TODD!” She slammed the knife down on the counter and wrapped her arms around herself as though she were giving her inner child a comforting hug.
Todd waited, knowing this posture of hers was merely the calm before a hurricane of words. He could see Kaylee’s mind racing as her eyes flitted back and forth. He knew her well enough to tell she was trying to figure out how, when, why.
Well, why should be easy enough to figure out. Todd cringed at the thought of what he’d done.
He crossed over to her and gently touched her on the elbow. Kaylee recoiled from him as if he were made of fire.
“Todd, I put up with so much,” she began. “The nights you didn’t come home. Changing the password on your computer. Going “out” with the boys! I knew you were up to no good!”
“Kaylee, I really WAS out with the boys,” Todd defended, upset she used his friends against her again. After all, they used to be her friends too, back in college.
She ignored his last comment. “I should have known your addiction would have led to something like this.” She trailed off, but her words had already done their damage. Todd felt like the scum of the earth, but could sense the indignation rising within him. Kaylee knew he had a problem before she’d agreed to marry him, after all.
“Look, would you have preferred me to tell you tomorrow?” he asked, harsher than he intended.
Kaylee’s glance completely insulted his intelligence. “Of course not. I would have preferred this never happened at ALL!”
Todd bit his lip. Touché, he thought.
“Sophie’s birthday. Our daughter’s BIRTHDAY!!” Kaylee’s voice was rising again. Todd wondered if his precious little girl would hear her name and come running downstairs only to witness the fight of the century. Nobody’s children should have to witness something like this. Especially not his.
A wretched torrent of pain suddenly gripped his heart. Clearly he hadn’t thought about Sophie at all. All of his poor choices came flooding into the spillways of Todd’s mind, as he realized what he’d had just done to his family.
Todd’s brain screamed at him, as euphoric memories of last night waged war against regret and shame.
Not only had he become a terrible husband, he was also a horrible father.
Tears began to dance at the corner of his own eyes. He toyed with the idea of kneeling before Kaylee, not unlike the day he’d proposed to her, to beg and plead for her forgiveness.
“Kaylee, oh God, I’m so sorry.” He leaned against the counter, suddenly too heavy to stand on his own.
She still wouldn’t look at him, but rather shook her head. “What are we supposed to do?” She asked. “The guests will be arriving soon, I can’t handle this now!”
Todd reached out and hugged her then, and surprisingly, Kaylee let him. She sobbed into his shoulder. He let her cry for a moment, and immediately began trying to make a plan. He had to make this better somehow.
He held her out at arms length and stooped over to look into her gorgeous eyes. “I’ll make it up to you.”
Kaylee laughed, as she wiped her tears. “How in the world do you plan on doing that?” She turned and walked to the fridge, tearing it open in rage.
Before them, stood the scene of the crime. An empty gaping wound remained of what had truly been a glorious masterpiece. Kaylee had made her famous chocolate cake yesterday for Sophie’s birthday, but now all that remained was one piece of chocolate perfection. Shamefully, Todd’s mouth watered at the sight of it.
“Really Todd. You couldn’t wait one day?” Kaylee grumbled. “I’m going to stop baking altogether if you keep sabotaging me. First our wedding cake and now THIS?”
Todd rubbed his hands over Kaylee’s shoulders, knowing her threats to be far from empty. “Babe, you know I can’t resist your cooking. I’m really sorry. I am. Look I’ll run to the grocery store and buy Sophie the biggest cake I can find. One with the little princess castle on it.”
Kaylee’s eyes narrowed. “It had better be gorgeous.”
Todd smiled, knowing in that moment he’d been forgiven. He kissed her quickly and grabbed his keys off the counter.
“There is one good thing about your cooking,” he said, right before closing the door.
Kaylee huffed. “And what’s that?”
“You’ll never have to worry about me cheating on you.”
Kaylee picked up her butcher knife with a glint in her eye and returned to chopping onions. “I sure hope so,” she replied.
Todd sped off, glad to know he’d still get to eat chili.
I really loved this! Great build and greater ending. What a happy surprise!
Hey thanks so much Lynna! I appreciate it! 🙂
that was great.
What a surprise! I was ready to bite my fingernails, eyes glued to the screen! This is awesome, and well written too! Fantastic job!
I enjoyed the humor in this one. Definitely a romp through the land of addiction.
Of Two Minds
by Casey Kinnard
“You know that you’ll be better on your own Sophie, don’t go to all of this trouble for him, to have your heart broken again
“He said once he likes beef bourguignon
“Grilled cheese sandwiches would be good enough for him
“This is hard enough as it is, I’m not trying to make it more difficult
“Nothing at all might be better, actually
“We’re trying to fix this mess
“You’d do better without him
“I’ve never seared beef before, I hope I’m doing it right
“This is just too much, all I can see is him with that woman
“Don‘t think about it, we can start over
“Except that little problem called memory, try erasing that
“I bought two bottle of Pinot Noir, we can share one of them
“Should have bought three, that way you can just get drunk
“He’s too much of a lightweight
“If you’re drunk it will make it easier to say what you have to say
“I hate chopping onions, remember when he bought me this Zwilling knife?
“No doubt so you could make him some beef bourguignon, better to plant it in his chest I think
“It’s been me, too, maybe I drove him to it
“You’re pretty pathetic, Soph
“For better or for worse, and in sickness, too; it’s been a sickness, our marriage and his affair, he says that he’s sorry
“I’d be sorry too, if I were him, but he’s not, or else he wouldn’t have left in the first place, did he sleep with her the night he left me?
“Where did I put the beef? I thought I put it on the counter
“The fridge–you know you could poison him, it would be less messy than using a knife
“I could have stabbed him when he told me
“I still have his Tylenol with codeine and the muscle relaxants, I could crush them up and put them in his wine
“I love him, I hate him
“Maybe it’s a sign that I shouldn’t be doing this; turn the heat up and get the pan hot before you put the beef in
“He sounded like he misses me, I want to believe him
“More like he misses sex, having to be good for so long–if he’s been good
“I miss it too, I miss him
“Crack open a bottle of that wine so your tongue will be plenty loosened by the time he gets here; if I get settled into my routine again he’ll start blaming me for all of his problems, just like he did the first time
“He won’t do it again
“Not right away, just get rid of him Sophie. It’s been so much better with him gone
“(Silence)
“Sophie
“Time for the flame throwing Soph, watch as I ignite this Cognac
“Nearly got my eyebrows
“I’ll get dressed now, this has to simmer a while
“If he won’t stay away you should take the initiative and make sure that he won’t come back
“No cancellations tonight girly, he’s coming over, and I don’t want to hear anymore of this
“Don’t forget to put the candlesticks out, dying by candlelight is so much more romantic by the flickering of a flame
“Still thinking about that knife
“I like the Tylenol idea better
“They’re expired, I should throw them out
“He’d never notice once he’s had couple of glasses of wine, and I can have some of those muscle relaxants, too; that nice floaty feeling will make me feel okay, and he’ll feel okay, and we’ll all be okay
“What on earth are you going on about
“I’m fantasizing
“I could bring those candles up to the bedroom instead
“Are you ready to see him that close? While he sees her
“He’s coming home to stay, and I’m his wife
“I hope he never sees that new lingerie you bought, save it for someone better
“Better me than her
“Don’t forget that Tylenol then, that will wipe his mind clear of any ideas he might have about that
“You’ll be okay, Sophie
“Do you really think, Sophie, he will be better this time around? You were doing so well until he called and now look at you, making excuses
“O ye of little faith
“Some things are unforgivable and that affair was one of them
“And all marital problems are the fault of one person I‘m sure, I know what I was like, just listening to myself think makes me wonder that he stayed around as long as he did
“Knives and codeine and muscle relaxants
“And the Pinot Noir, give it a rest already, I believe in second chances
“Because he’d give you one
“Some things change a person and this is one of them
“You mean that he hopes that you’ve changed and will be more accommodating
“I need to sweep the floor and get the dishes in the dishwasher before I forget
“Lest he see little wifey isn’t doing her wifely duty
“It’s like dating again, except I already know what he likes and what he doesn’t, do I look nice, black doesn’t make me look pale?
“Too bad that you have to worry about whether he will like what you are doing for
him or not
“If anyone in the world deserves it, it’s my husband
“I’ve never argued otherwise, but he doesn’t even deserve to be your husband
“Stop now
“I’m worried that you won’t be able to scare him away for good; there is someone who would love you and appreciate you, and not have to use the excuse of an affair
“And I can be a better wife for him, we are both starting over, can’t you see that, can’t you give it a chance?
“Because a bad wife deserves to be cheated on
“(Silence)
“I’ll leave my hair down, I look pretty with it down
“It will be okay
“With the effort that you are putting out, I sure hope it will be
“Is he still wearing his ring?
“I’m not worried about him, it’s you and what will happen to you if this goes wrong
“I can smell dinner, I should take a peek at it
“I guess I can console myself that it’s never too late
“I don’t remember where I left my heels
“I mean never too late for you to fix this mistake you‘re making; you can still cancel dinner
“They must be downstairs in the closet, has it been that long since I wore them last?
“Has he really changed, Sophie, really?
“I think I hear his car in the driveway
“Are you sure you don’t want the codeine or the muscle relaxants?
“This is it
“The knife, even?
“He’s here now. You’ll be okay, Sophie. You’ll be okay.”
Unique writing style, but I found it to be an easy read. You set the stage very well. 🙂
Casey It’s great, and so unlike your other things (which I always enjoy also). Thanks
Sand, Smoke, Current
The boy had thought about the dam all day, doodling sketches into the margins of his books and, staring outside at the cloud-scudded sky, worrying about rain. At recess, he skipped baseball to search the library for books on dam building. There was only a thin picture book of the Hoover dam. It was hard to imagine any practical use for it, but he pondered it through science and geography and the final chapter of The Bridge to Terabithia. He was still daydreaming as the bus’s tires crunched the graveled shoulder, and the driver cranked the big chrome handle, folding the door open.
He gathered his lunch box and nodding at the driver, swung down the steps. Halfway up the sloping drive, he saw the truck and remembered it was Thursday, his father’s afternoon off. He would have to ask permission to borrow the shovel. The driveway ended at the top of a hill, curving to meet the white clapboard garage. Behind it, his father stood in the middle of a freshly tilled garden, his back to the boy. A greasy brown rototiller crouched nearby. Next to it, a transistor radio crackled out a Tigers baseball game. The air smelled of topsoil and gasoline and the hot-oiled workings of the rototiller.
His father pitch-forked the soil, lifting clumps of dirt and sifting until the tines held only a tangle of roots. These he flung aside and then plunged the fork back into the earth. He paused, dragged a dirty handkerchief from the pocket of his brown work pants, and wiped his bald, sun-pinked head. The lazy drone of radio faded to static. Turning toward it, he spotted the boy standing at the edge of the garden.
“Hi son. You startled me.” He smiled and crossed the tilled rows to the grass. “How was school?”
“Okay, I guess.”
His father glanced at the radio, then back at the boy.
“We should play catch after supper.” The father said. “I need to finish the garden, or we could do it right now. Deal?”
“Sure.” The boy shrugged. “Do you want help?”
His father unrolled a squashed cigarette pack from his left sleeve and shook his head. “Naw, you go on. That old quackgrass and me, we got our own personal argument. Every spring I root em out. Every summer they creep back in. Adam’s curse, I guess.”
“Okay.” The boy squared his skinny shoulders. “Can I borrow the shovel?”
“I guess so. Not building tunnels are you? Remember that boy who got buried doing that. Your mom’ll ground us both if she finds out I let you use the shovel for that kind of nonsense.”
“No. I’m building a dam. Back of the pit. I’m trying to make a beaver pond.”
“If there were beavers around here, they build their own.” His father kneeled by the radio, fussing with the dial. Satisfied, he looked back at his son. “Dam, huh? Built a few myself. Never lasted, though. The current always wins. Go ahead, take the shovel.” He pointed a soiled finger at the boy. “Don’t loose it. Not like my ratchet wrench.” He tapped the boy’s freckled cheeks with a sandy fist and walked back into the garden.
The boy retrieved the shovel from the garage and laid it on his shoulder. He marched past the garden and followed a narrow path that angled down the back of the hill, through a greening field of Timothy grass and Queen Anne’s lace. The trail ended at a steep bank that dropped several feet to a wasteland of blow sand. Jumping down, the boy advanced across this, too, occasionally shifting the shovel from one shoulder to the other.
He retraced his old zigzagging tracks up a steep sand pile and skidded down the other side. Below, the stream spread several feet wide. It ran shallow—barely ankle deep. He kicked off his shoes and eased into the water.
He stopped when he saw the dam. The current had carved a wide slash through it, but behind it the water spread deeper, eddying slow and foamy before it finally spilled through the opening. The boy smiled. Then he jabbed the shovel’s blade into the sandy bank and set about repairing the breech.
The sand piles formed a wall around him and he heard only the water’s soft chuckle, the suck of the sand sliding off the shovel’s blade and his own jagged breath. He did not hear his father’s call and only vaguely registered the persistent honking of a distant car horn. It was the smell of tobacco that caused him to lean on the shovel and look around.
His father squatted on the bank, masked in the long evening shadows, a skinny cigar champed in his teeth. Smoke clouded his face and curled downstream. “Dam looks good.” He pulled the cigar from his mouth and held it suspended between his knees. Special occasions, only, his father always said. His mother hated the smell of them, so he only smoked them after some small victory.
“I need to keep working.”
“No, Mom wants you home. Besides, it’ll get cold soon. Time to pack it in. After supper we can still get in a few tosses.”
“Dad, it almost held last night. I can make it last if I work a little longer. I’m curving it like the Hoover dam. I’m making it strong.”
His father studied the dam, looked at the boy, and glanced over the hill towards the west. He shook his head. “It’s a fine feat of engineering, especially for a ten-year old, but it can’t hold. The water will keep rising and then what?” He stood, puffed hard one more time on the plastic tip of the cigar. Then he gave it a look and dropped it at his feet. “Nope, it’s fine to try, but it’s also good to know when something’s bigger than you.” He laughed. “Like me. Now come on. Let’s get some supper.”
They walked downstream where the boy retrieved his shoes. The father carried the shovel and the boy his shoes and neither said much. The boy remained silent through supper, listening half interested while his father praised the meal and spoke proudly of the dam and then of his garden. After supper they tossed a baseball until the light was spent and his mother declared bedtime.
Upstairs in his room, he listened to the soft murmurs of conversation drifting through the floor vent. When all was silent except the creaking of the old house, he slipped barefoot down the stairs. In the garage, he fished a chrome flashlight from his father’s toolbox and then lifted the shovel from its hook. Stars lit the trail and turned the sandpit to a shadowed moonscape.
He knelt at the creek where his father had and trained the flashlight along the dam and over the silvered pond. Nestled there in the dark and cold, the boy fought sleep, nodding and twitching until the flashlight slipped from his hand. Reaching for it, he spotted the ivory stub of his father’s cigar. He picked it up, wiping it clean on his pant leg. Then clamping it in his teeth, he inhaled, tasting the strange sweetness of his father’s breath. He heard a trickle, then the steady, furious rush of water. He stood, grabbed the shovel, and marched into the stream.
At the top of the hill light flared behind cupped hands. Grey smoke rose and caught in the cool breeze.
Hi Bob,
What I love about this piece is your imagistic prose, especially “greasy brown rototillier crouched” and the smell of “topsoil and gasoline”. I can see and smell everything in this scene.
Thank you!
As a girl I played in a similar creek. We used to dam it up so we could swim. Your visuals are spot on. You took me right back to my childhood. I love the family in the story and the hint of danger. You left me wanting the next chapter. Great job!
Thank you! I’m glad the story brought some happy memories.
I love, love, love the tension between following the directions of parents you love and following your heart, especially when nature is calling. You captured the process of becoming independent in a beautiful way.
Congrats on a runner-up finish bob … I loved reading the story. Storytelling at its finest … I could feel the relationship between the two men and long for those days with my father too …
The Indomitable Andrew Smidt.
by Clint Archer
I was a freshman in high school in South Africa. It was one of those overly civilized schools–a holdover from British colonial days– where compliance to rules is as part of your life as the uniform you don every morning. Individualism was discouraged, and traditions were enforced by the Prefects, a class of senior student that stalked the corridors like demagogues, clothed in blazers with white braiding and lapels peppered with shiny badges depicting their academic and sporting accomplishments. Oh to be a Prefect…
One of the many traditions that ran like rebar in the concrete of our collective psyche was the hatred we harbored for our athletic nemesis, the Afrikaans school four blocks away. Unfortunately for the student body’s ego, those urban farm-boys were from the hardy old Dutch stock, and thumped us royally in every sphere of competition involving physical prowess (though we ruled at chess and debating).
It happened during recess, the whole school was minding its own business, playing soccer, red rovers, or lazing about munching cucumber sandwiches. Suddenly, about a dozen seniors from the rival school descended on us like storm troopers. They had hopped the perimeter fence, gloved in ski masks, ululating like pagan marauders, and toting an arsenal of rotten eggs and tomatoes.
The student body disintegrated into a maelstrom of utter panic. Every man for himself. Startled souls were charging in every direction like frightened wildebeest, as they were pelted by a rain of expired produce. We were doomed. Even the prefects were dodging eggs and running for cover. They bled with the same tears and mud and whimpers as the rest of us. With these student leaders wilting like wet paper maché my hope melted too. I slumped down in a corner, waiting the inevitable coup de grâcè that would end the misery of my humiliation. Perhaps an egg to the head was what fate had for me. So young. So idealistic. My school wasn’t the paragon of civilization I had believed in. We were a band of sissies.
But in the milieu of chaos, I noticed through the tears and dust and dripping egg yoke, one boy. A lone 10th grader in an ill-fitting uniform who wasn’t fleeing. And I remember his name: Andrew Smidt. He was an odd, lanky fellow. Smidt boasted no school honors, claimed no girlfriend, but sported a surprisingly good haircut. He strode confidently toward the fray, seemingly impervious to the tomatoes that whizzed by him.
And as he neared the bevy of rabid hooligans and their stock of rotten ammo, he came to a halt, slowly bent down, and picked up– a brick.
And with a bloodcurdling, Braveheart-like yell, he hurled his missile directly into the centre of the enemy raiders, who involuntarily scattered like cockroaches in the light. And there was silence. It lasted two and half eternal seconds. And in that moment of time, it was like peering into a tear in the fabric of the universe, and catching a glimpse into what might have been. Our hearts were knit in the unified resolve to defend our turf, and our minds melded in realization that– we outnumber them.
Then the whole school, like one man picked up stones and rocks, and began the counteroffensive of ricochet of wrath that drilled relentlessly at the intruding hordes.
The enemy was tackled, stripped of masks and pants. Those that made it back to the getaway car would think long and hard about future plans to return. Rumor has it that some were never accounted for or heard from again. MIA. Oh well.
That was a day that would live in infamy. But it was also the day we learned about the power of one, the strength in numbers, and the value of standing up to fight for what we treasured. If its worth living for, it’s worth dying for. We felt like warriors defending lands and family with dignity and daring. We felt like men. I will always be grateful for that one dissenter, the indomitable Andrew Smidt.
You really drew me into the action, Clint. Great job.
Whew! I just made it with 15 minutes to spare. Blasted time zones. I thought I wouldn’t get time for the competition this month, but my muse woke me up at 4am Central African Time with an idea, so I cranked this out. Didn’t have the luxury to run a spell check. I love this competition!
The Indomitable Andrew Smidt.
by Clint Archer
I was a freshman in high school in South Africa. It was one of those overly civilized schools–a holdover from British colonial days– where compliance to rules is as part of your life as the uniform you don every morning. Individualism was discouraged, and traditions were enforced by the Prefects, a class of senior student that stalked the corridors like demagogues, clothed in blazers with white braiding and lapels peppered with shiny badges depicting their academic and sporting accomplishments. Oh to be a Prefect…
One of the many traditions that ran like rebar in the concrete of our collective psyche was the hatred we harbored for our athletic nemesis, the Afrikaans school four blocks away. Unfortunately for the student body’s ego, those urban farm-boys were from the hardy old Dutch stock, and thumped us royally in every sphere of competition involving physical prowess (though we ruled at chess and debating).
It happened during recess, the whole school was minding its own business, playing soccer, red rovers, or lazing about munching cucumber sandwiches. Suddenly, about a dozen seniors from the rival school descended on us like storm troopers. They had hopped the perimeter fence, gloved in ski masks, ululating like pagan marauders, and toting an arsenal of rotten eggs and tomatoes.
The student body disintegrated into a maelstrom of utter panic. Every man for himself. Startled souls were charging in every direction like frightened wildebeest, as they were pelted by a rain of expired produce. We were doomed. Even the prefects were dodging eggs and running for cover. They bled with the same tears and mud and whimpers as the rest of us. With these student leaders wilting like wet paper maché my hope melted too. I slumped down in a corner, waiting the inevitable coup de grâcè that would end the misery of my humiliation. Perhaps an egg to the head was what fate had for me. So young. So idealistic. My school wasn’t the paragon of civilization I had believed in. We were a band of sissies.
But in the milieu of chaos, I noticed through the tears and dust and dripping egg yoke, one boy. A lone 10th grader in an ill-fitting uniform who wasn’t fleeing. And I remember his name: Andrew Smidt. He was an odd, lanky fellow. Smidt boasted no school honors, claimed no girlfriend, but sported a surprisingly good haircut. He was the type of kid who was perpetually bumping his head against the ceiling of teachers’ authority. It hadn’t worked out well for him, his strong headedness, until that day.
Smidt strode confidently toward the fray, seemingly impervious to the tomatoes that whizzed by him.
And as he neared the bevy of rabid hooligans and their stock of rotten ammo, he came to a halt, slowly bent down, and picked up– a brick.
And with a bloodcurdling, Braveheart-like yell, he hurled his missile directly into the centre of the enemy raiders, who involuntarily scattered like cockroaches in the light. And there was silence. It lasted two and half eternal seconds. And in that moment of time, it was like peering into a tear in the fabric of the universe, and catching a glimpse into what might have been. Our hearts were knit in the unified resolve to defend our turf, and our minds melded in realization that– we outnumber them.
Then the whole school, like one man picked up stones and rocks, and began the counteroffensive of ricochet of wrath that drilled relentlessly at the intruding hordes.
The enemy was tackled, stripped of masks and pants. Those that made it back to the getaway car would think long and hard about future plans to return. Rumor has it that some were never accounted for or heard from again. MIA. Oh well.
That was a day that would live in infamy. But it was also the day we learned about the power of one, the strength in numbers, and the value of standing up to fight for what we treasured. If its worth living for, it’s worth dying for. We felt like warriors defending lands and family with dignity and daring. We felt like men. I will always be grateful for that one dissenter, the indomitable Andrew Smidt.
Oops, posted same thing twice. Sorry.
That’s okay. It was great both times! I love the line about the haircut.
Ha, thanks. In a uniformed school haircuts are one of the few ways we tried to distinguish ourselves. There’s only so much you can do with “short back and sides.”
The First Dissidents by Jen Whitfield
She started that morning just as She had started every morning. Staring at her reflection, She said it out loud. “I do not rock the boat. I am one of many.”
Her skin and hair were hers. The former olive, the latter dark brown. The slightness of her figure was hers too. The tiny scars She knew. But her eyes. Her eyes were different. More gray. Less alive.
“I do not rock the boat. I am one of many.”
She stared at her face in the mirror as She dressed. Undergarments. Pants. Shirt. Socks. Shoes. Brown. Number embroidered where a name should be. Brown. All like her hair. All like everyone else’s all.
“I do not rock the boat. I am one of many.”
She wondered for a moment if She might remember her name if She thought hard enough. If She might remember more about her mother and father than that they had simply existed. If She might picture the place She once called home.
She began to push the thoughts deep down where they should live as He pushed through the door of her small brown cube. His eyes were wild. Not gray. Green. She wondered to herself about how He got them to stay colored.
He rushed toward her. The green of his eyes almost unbearable to look at so close. “Be quiet and listen to me,” He whispered sharply. “I have been watching you. I don’t know why, but I know you. And I have a plan to escape.”
“I do not rock the boat. I am one of many.”
The green darted around the room. Looked behind him. “They make you think that.” His whisper had become a hiss. She wanted to be frightened but no longer had the capacity for it.
She tried to maneuver around him in her tiny cube. She was stuck between him and a brown chair. It would be easy to knock over but She knew better than to make much noise. Her last noise resulted in a scar.
“I must get to my station.” Her station was inside a large room where She and others like her connected one piece to another while They watched. They watched from behind mirrored helmets. They watched with electrically charged devices in their hands. Always scanning. Always ready.
“Yes, you will go to your station. Today. Tonight we will leave. But you must listen and do as I say.” His voice had grown slightly louder.
“No thank you,” She said as She tried once again to move.
This time He grabbed her. With his left hand full of her elbow, his right waved a small vial under her nose. “Snap out of it!” His voice was too loud this time. The green darted about again as a soft whirring came from outside the cube. A familiar whirring that They made.
She and He stood very still and kept very quiet until the whirring retreated. “What is in that vial?” She was beginning to think more clearly.
“We make it at my station. It is called Truth. Some got inside my mask by accident once. It gets rid of the fog inside your head. They use it to get information from us when They need it. I’ve been stealing a drop of it every day to fill vials for myself.” The green of his eyes began to sting as He stared into her.
“I don’t remember much from the old life yet. But the more I use Truth, the more I can see,” He continued. “I know there was something before this place. Before They took us. I know there is something beyond these walls. And I know I need you.”
Her head was beginning to hurt from the information and newness of clarity. “I can’t…”
“Yes you can.” He was loud again. “Go to your station. Do your duties like always. I will come for you during the night. Do not go to sleep.”
“My cube will be locked.”
“I made a key.”
“They will electrocute you,” She said, her scars growing hot at the thought.
“They recharge at night while our cubes are locked. I have gone out many times to find a way for us.”
“I do not rock…” She started but could not finish. He pushed a vial of Truth into her hand and slipped through the door.
She went to her station. She stood amongst the rows and rows of brown. The rows and rows of numbers where names should be. She connected one piece to another. At eating time She looked only at the brown slop, worried that They might notice the change in her eyes.
The Truth helped her to realize how long the day was. She became even more aware of how everything and everyone was the same. How none of them were in control of their own thoughts.
When her duty was over, She went back to her cube and stayed awake just as He had asked. Not only because He had asked but also because She wanted so badly to remember her name and her parents and the place they once called home. She heard a metal scrapping at the door and drew in her breath, sure that They had figured out the plan. But He entered.
He and She walked quietly through corridors that He knew. She stopped at a room full of mirrored helmets and hands holding electrified devices. She had never seen them so still. The eyes reflecting back at her were less gray than before. “They’re charging,” He said under his breath. “Keep moving.”
After more time than She could keep up with and so many turns that She would never find her way back, they reached a door that looked like none of the others. “This is it,” He said to her. He pulled one of his keys from his brown uniform pocket and inserted it into a hole She had not noticed before. They walked through hand-in-hand and shut the door behind them. They were now where nothing else had been for many years. They were at the next beginning. He and She. The new first.
Haunting!
He got there just before I did. We looked at each other and simultaneously motioned for the other one to go. Since I was to his right and the rule is to lead, follow or get out of the way, I proceeded. And so did he. We both jerked to a stop. He waved his arms in utter disgust, giving me heated instructions which thankfully I could not hear. He crossed his arms on his chest and leaned back in order to further express his “hot displeasure.” [Thanks King James. Although I’m pretty sure the man was not quoting Scripture.]
Quite by accident, I hit the accelerator a little harder than I meant to, causing the back tires to spin on the wet pavement. A low, angry squeal came from the rear end of my truck.
“Ooo! I like the sound of that! Now you too can get a little understanding of my disdain for four way stops and rude people! Apparently you don’t know the “get out of the way rule!”
He turned behind me. Down the two-lane country road we went. Then I remembered it. Dang bumper sticker! I knew I should’ve never put our church name on the truck. Now here I’ve squealed the tires in front of Jesus and everybody. I decided to ditch my plan to slow our pace to thirty in the fifty five zone. With no place to pass that would’ve taught him a valuable lesson about courtesy and four way stops… and swearing at ladies who just want everyone to play nice.
But no! I had to go and advertise the love of Christ on my vehicle. Now I can’t get back at Mr. Hot Displeasure.
Several miles later, our jaunt was interrupted by an elderly lady who was oblivious to our schedules. Her little wind-up car crept slower than the line at the DMV. I backed off her bumper and prayed that the man on mine would not have a stroke.
Planning ahead I thought, “If you do, mister, you are on your own. I will not be recalling my CPR training on your sorry behalf.”
Surprisingly, he obeyed the warning in my head and backed off too. I glanced at his face in the rearview mirror. It was suddenly calm and lacked that urgent red color. A tiny smile played with his reluctant face.
Sooo… did my behavior remind him that “All have sinned and come short of the glory of God?” Did my bumper sticker reveal that God loves him whether anybody else does or not? Did my kindness toward the lady traveling at the speed of Mayberry cause him to long for the same peace that I displayed?
…Or did he just change radio stations?
We’re so fickle. Our moods can change instantly. The flaming hot anger of one minute can be switched off and replaced with a happy song.
I think next time I might just take a breath… and realize… it’s only a four way stop.
I already know I probably don’t stand a chance in this but I decided I needed the failure in order to get closer to success so… here it goes.
Skipping School and Eating Ice Cream
By Snowy
I hate our front door.
It squeaks and it gets stuck when you try to open it. I stomp out of the house, push it open and I feel a strain in my wrist. “Stupid… door!!” I slam it behind me. Mom is yelling too now, “Get back here, young man!” she wants me to go back into the house. I stop right after passing through the front door. “Don’t make a big deal out of this. Come back inside and finish your breakfast, you’ll be late for school.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Well…” Mom’s eyes are flaring. Should I go back inside? “That’s all there is. If you’re not happy about it then you’ll just have to deal with it.”
I frown. I hate whatever breakfast she made for me. “Fine.”
I wait in the bus stop, not even looking out for the stupid yellow bus. I cross my arms and frown so hard my face starts to hurt. My eyes start to burn but I hold it in. I can’t hold it in, my throat hurts. A tear drops and I wipe it quickly.
I hear knocks. Strange knocking. I turn to my right and I see a woman walk my way. I go quiet and sit straight. I’ve seen her before. Every morning she walks over to the bus stop but I remember her for her blue-green shirt. It was that one time when I was playing outside and she got off the bus at the stop. I kicked the ball too hard and hit her by accident. She picked it up and smiled at me. I ran to her to get it back but stopped when I saw her shirt. It had red spots on it, red like blood. She saw me freeze so started smiling more and told me it was okay. I still wouldn’t talk and she told me it wasn’t blood. She said another nurse spilled her tomato juice. I looked at her and laughed.
She isn’t wearing a green-blue shirt. She wears prettier clothes in the morning. She looks sad though, always looks sad, as if she might cry any minute. She sits not too close to me and looks forward, the knocking stop. I see wires coming out of her ears. I think of electrical wires attached to the head, experiments and aliens. I love aliens. I don’t like the green ones they often show on TV though, those look fake.
“Oh, hi there.” One wire out of her ear, she smiles at me.
“Hi,” I say. I look away.
She puts the earpiece back on. A few seconds pass and I hear her sing. Very quiet voice, as if she wants to but at the same time isn’t sure her voice is pretty enough. I lean in a bit closer to follow the lyrics. “The Scientist,” I whisper.
She clears her throat. I almost jump, seeing as I’ve been leaning in a bit too close. Her earpiece is out of her ear again.
“The song. The Scientist.”
“That’s right,” she says slowly. Her eyes look directly at me.
“My sister loves Coldplay. That’s her favorite song.”
“Oh, yeah,” she smiles again. A little laugh that sounds like a sigh.
A phone rings, it’s a rock song. “Hello?” She says calmly, putting her earpieces away. “Yes, I’m on my way. I don’t know exactly, I’m waiting for a bus. No, I can’t help it. I don’t have a car, you know that. Well, I’ll get there when I get there.” Her voice is louder now. I never heard her yell before. “So what? I work all week what difference—! But—…” Noise comes out of her phone. I can’t understand one word. “Fine, give him my hours, it’s not like I’m paid for them anyway. Don’t talk to you like that? No, don’t talk to me like that! You know what? I quit!” She hangs up and slams the phone right between us. “Son of a—“ She turns to me all of a sudden. I can’t help it but there’s a huge smile on my face. “Sorry. You didn’t have to hear that.” I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“So… I guess you don’t have to take the bus, huh?”
She narrows her eyes at me, I can see another smile, “you guess right.” She shakes her head and looks forward again. I can’t see her face anymore but suddenly I remember the look I have when I stare at the blackboard in Math. “I don’t have to take that bus…” she says, maybe laughing, I’m not sure. “Say,” She turns to me again. Her face changes all of a sudden, like someone switched her on and she’s glowing. “Why don’t I buy us some ice cream?”
My eyes widen and I sit straight in my chair. I guess her quiet chuckle means I made it look too obvious. “Oh, wait,” I remember Mom. I can feel my face literally dropping. “It’s morning. Can you have ice cream for breakfast?”
“Hm… You can have pancakes for breakfast. Isn’t that pretty much the same?”
Is she for real? “But… I have school.”
“Oh, right,” She looks back at the road. Please insist, please insist. Don’t make me go to school. Please? Please! “It wouldn’t hurt to skip classes every once in a while.” Yes! Yes! “Every long while that is,” Yes! Yes! I’m gonna eat some ice cream, I’m gonna ditch school…
“Oh, sure. Long while.” I get up off the bench and walk to her side. She puts an arm around my shoulder and we both start walking.
“I’m Stephanie, by the way.”
“Billy.”
Don’t sell yourself short, Snowy. But I like your attitude. It takes a lot of failure in this writing thing to get to anything anyone would remotely call a success.
I like it! My throat hurts too when I cry. I like being in the kid’s mind. I like that the older lady was listening to Cold Play. Thanks for sharing your story. I found sharing alot harder than I expected, so I understand your reluctance.
To tell the truth, this song is what inspired this story. Thanks, Lynna and Joe, I could use the support.
We have a rule in my writers’ circle that you can only apologize or put yourself down once per meeting. It’s hard to stick to that rule, but trying makes us all realize how prone we are to undermining our own confidence. So, don’t do that!
Descent of Dreamers
In the deep recesses of the mind a council of sisters holds court. Cut off from a continent of lush jungles by a narrow strait, they dwell in a prison of red stone and sheer cliffs. Ancient rivers have carved deep channels into the yielding mountain top, shattering the landscape into a labyrinth of forbidding canyons.
It is in this place that we find Discord, chained in a cave perched high in the chasm wall.
“Those fools would have us perish in this desolate place,” she muttered as she recalled the morning’s events. The council had convened at dawn to consider the only question before them: shall we stay or shall we cross the water to the unknown wilds beyond? And as it had done a hundred times before, the sun rose on the same decision: they would stay until tomorrow when perhaps the weather would be more favourable, or when they had had a chance to rest and gather their strength for the journey. Each day, Discord would appeal to her sisters with impassioned arguments for why they must go, repeating her words over and over, but always with the same result.
Her sisters feared the shadows of the verdant forest, imagining what gnashing teeth and cruel jaws lay in wait to snap them up and suck the marrow from their bones. They would sooner stay in familiar misery than risk the journey. In their dread, they allowed themselves to be led by the powerful pair, Logica and Metusa, and they turned on Discord.
At mid-morning, Somnia, rebelling against the council’s orders, crept up the cliff face and slipped into the cave.
“Dearest,” chided Discord, “you can’t be here, our sisters would consider it a betrayal and punish you for it.”
“You are always filled with protest,” smiled Somnia as she pulled provisions from her bag. “Here now, I’ve brought you cool water to drink and desert cherries to eat.”
Two sisters could not be more opposite: where Discord was hard and sharp as a stone knife, her sister was fine and delicate as a butterfly’s wing. Somnia’s blue eyes viewed the world through a veil of possibilities, while Discord’s eyes pierced the shades of grey, seeing everything without nuance.
Concern filled Discord’s black eyes as she looked on her sister. “You mustn’t act against the council, they would use logic and fear to crush you” she warned, struggling to keep the sharpness from her voice.
“For once your thoughts are in harmony with ours,” sneered Metusa, her head appearing at the mouth of the cave.
“What will we do with you, sweet, naïve Somnia?” queried Logica mockingly as she joined her sister at the cave entrance. “We won’t let this dissenting sister poison your mind with her malcontent. We must bleach her words from you until you are as pure and blank as parchment. The dry riverbed will be your penance.”
“No” screamed Discord as they grabbed Somnia by the hair and dragged her out of the cave. She knew well the cruel punishment they would inflict on Somnia. They would stake her out in the scorching belly of the canyon with no shelter from the blistering sun and with no friendly breezes to cool her burning skin. Once the sun disappeared below the horizon, she would have no protection from the plummeting temperatures of the desert night.
“You can’t do this! I’ll take her place, bleach the fight from my bones and you win!” It was no use, her cries echoed off her prison’s walls. Only the coyotes and vultures took notice. Discord knew that Logica and Metusa would not relent. If Somnia dreamed of the emerald forest beyond the water, she could infect tender Espera and rouse Animus from her stupor. With only Vanitas left to support them, Logica and Vanitas would lose their iron grip on the council.
As the sun approached its zenith, Discord thought of the day she discovered Somnia’s mutual longing for trees and water. Both sisters craved the green territory beyond but only Discord dared to challenge the council’s daily decision to stay.
“It’s my fault,” wailed Discord in anguish, “my words have condemned her.” She tore at her robe, grief and pain rising up in her heart.
“No! No, no, no, no!” The words erupted in a feral roar. “I won’t let this happen.” She threw all of her weight into the iron chains that kept her from rushing to her sister’s side. Ignoring the deep gouges opening in her hands and wrists, she willed her hands to be free. With a guttural yell, she wrenched her blood slicked hands from the cuffs, dislocating her thumbs and skinning her knuckles raw.
With hands weak from the effort and the damage she had inflicted on herself, Discord grasped the rough stone and levered herself out into the empty space. With strength borrowed from rage and love she made it a third of the way down the wall before losing her purchase on the rock. She plummeted thirty feet before fetching up in the arms of thorny bushes that slowed her descent as they shredded her robes and skin. Here, the rock face became mercifully jagged, allowing for more secure footholds. Trembling, she negotiated the route to the canyon floor.
Broken and grievously injured from her escape, she crawled on bloodied hands and knees. The sun had dipped behind the towering canyon walls when Discord reached her sister. Somnia lay crumpled and lifeless in the dust, dried out from her long exposure to the baking sun. She was a shell of a dreamer. An empty husk.
“Please, please don’t be dead,” Discord prayed, her black eyes brimming with tears. She watched desperately for any sign of life. A flutter of eyelashes, a stirring of breath, anything.
She gathered her beloved into her bloodied arms, stroking her hair and singing softly their favorite songs of water, and wind in the trees. Somnia’s once ivory brow was smeared with Discord’s crimson blood mingled with the rust-coloured dust. Both sisters were painted red, never before belonging so wholly in this land, blending into the very earth like daughters of Adam.
Grieved tears traced canyons in Discord’s stony face and collected on Somnia’s tranquil cheek, disturbing her mask of dust and blood.
The tears flowed without ceasing. They became a river of sorrow filling the canyon belly. The salty waters lifted the entwined sisters hundreds of feet, past the most unreachable caves, sweeping up the nests of eagles and vultures as they went. Sisters, eagles, nests and all were carried for miles down this new and mighty river, far above the prison of stone. They were borne clear across the narrow strait on a wave that broke on the shores of that long desired continent.
Tangled in each other’s arms, Discord and Somnia came to rest on that distant beach, in the shade of palms and mangroves. A mist of sweet rain began to fall, washing away the red dust and the coppery blood, leaving their faces serene and bright in the light of a new day.
This is a continuation of a story I’m working on – I posted some of this here before as a practice. Thanks Joe! I hope it’s OK for this exercise.
My mind cried. Get up. Get up. My body said no. I couldn’t move – just need a minute. My mind painfully commented. The burn in my lungs had me face down hacking up liters of salt water – half choking, half vomiting. My stomach wrenched; nausea was soon to come. My feet were bloodied and the gash in my side revealed itself as I tried to stand. The burning from the jellyfish stings were the most unbearable.
Sitting up, I took inventory.
Tommy – check. Natalie – check. Billy – check. Dawn, – no Dawn.
No Dawn? Surely she was nearby.
It was lucky the kids made it to the skiff and Billy had the strength to paddle. The fight to shore had us all scattered. Last thing I remember Dawn was clinging to a small ring buoy, kicking and paddling just off to my left. Tommy and the kids right behind.
The kids arrived on shore mostly unscathed but the skiff was in pieces. Natalie, looking off at something far away began to shriek. And point.
“Mommy! … Mommy! … Mommy!!”
Billy and Tommy ran down to the shore. Shouting wildly.
“Mom! … Mom! … Mom!!”
“Dad, Mom’s out there,” Billy screamed, “I can see her, we’ve got to go get her!”
“Get up Dad, get up!” Tommy pulled me halfway up; I fell back, sand filling my eyes. Now both boys are tugging at my near lifeless body. I. Could. Not. Get. Up.
Natalie is screaming and crying and her little fists are pounding at my shoulders. “Save Mommy, Daddy … “Save Mommy, Daddy!
I tried, I just couldn’t get up I had no strength.
Looking out to sea I could tell Dawn must be two hundred yards out and I couldn’t save her. The gash in my side kept me from moving, it felt like something was still stuck in me – any slight movement took my breath. Then. Darkness …
***
For the rest of the day I slipped in and out of consciousness. My dreams were alive, recalling vivid childhood memories, like visions.
“Don’t scratch the record boy.” Dad said. “Play ‘Hound Dog’ next.” The placing of the needle in between the grooves had never been easy. Dad used me as his personal disc jockey. I hated it. I could see Mom’s scorn – as if she actually mouthed the words, but the words wouldn’t come. All she would do is stare at me as if to say – “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid of what your Dad will do if I interfere.” Dad had a mean backhand.
Shut up! My mind snapped at itself.
I couldn’t be sure if I was conscious. Outwardly I could see nothing, but I could hear. The shore break was a growing whisper, then a rumble, and then the sound became a familiar monotony; it sounded like Natalie screaming in the recess of my brain. My mind was a sea of reflection. This must be what it’s like to die, I thought.
Billy and Tommy made a valiant effort, but their mother was still gone. They tried but were sent back by the surf. Natalie had been the most difficult to deal with … she witnessed her mother’s lifeless body slowly drift out of view. She was so helpless. She didn’t stop beating on my shoulders until she fell, exhausted, into a heap of whimpering flesh; she cried long into the afternoon.
The boys were wailing. It was sorrowful. Billy, the oldest at fifteen, told his little brother Tommy that it was my fault. I don’t think he knew I heard him but I let it go. Billy didn’t want to come on this outing. He said I was being selfish. “This is your dream, Dad, Mom and I don’t want to come.” That last part stung badly, especially now that Dawn was gone.
I wanted to ask the boys to keep an eye out for their mother, but I was still in a fog … I didn’t know what I could say anyway. I still had to deal with my feelings about the sudden death of my wife. I needed to get up and find her – dead or alive, it made no sense; Dawn could swim like an Olympian.
***
Billy was a tall boy, taller than all of the boys and girls his age, he was constantly outgrowing his clothes. His shirtsleeves, his shorts and trousers were always too short. The other kids would tease him: “Where’s the flood, Billy?” It took him a while to complain because he wasn’t sure what they meant. He’s always been a sensitive kid and he didn’t understand the teasing.
When Billy found out his Mother had breast cancer it frightened him so much that he insisted on going with her to all of her treatments; since that time Billy preferred her company to mine. He said that I was forever on him to do better. And when pushed his Mother came to his rescue: “Academics isn’t for everyone.” She would say, adding: “Some people are happy with pursuits other than scholarly ones.” This was Billy, more interested in chasing rabbits than chasing the books. “Let him run his own race.” Mom would say.
“Dad, get up – you’ve got to get up, Billy’s gone!” I could hear Tommy now. He had a roar in his voice.
Dizzy and out of sorts I slowly opened my eyes. It felt like time rushed by, then slowed down and now was moving at a pace closer to reality. It was hard to imagine my children having gone through all of that. Natalie appeared to be sleeping and Tommy was kneeling beside me staring at the wound in my side.
“Dad, you’ve got a plant growing out of you.” Natalie exclaimed upon waking.
Standing for the first time since the Just Rewards tore apart I could see a six-inch hunk of red coral poking out of my side just below my ribs. The pain seemed to subside as I steeled my mind for what I had to do. But I would need Billy to help me Tommy was only eleven.
“Tommy, go get Billy we have to get this thing out of me.”
“I told you Dad, Billy left, he said he was going to find mother. I think he’s mad at you.”
Irritated as I was at Billy, I couldn’t blame him. I would have to get this thing out by myself. I knew the pain would come but I remembered the breathing exercises Dawn and I practiced during our birthing classes and as I slowly removed the coral my mind pictured Dawn bravely giving birth to Billy. Seconds later I threw the coral branch out to sea.
“Tommy, grab your sister’s hand and let’s go find Billy.”
The beach was a long stretch curving around to the right. I kept close watch on my remaining offspring as they stared out to sea trying to catch a glimpse of anything. I knew they were looking for their mother. But I was looking down the beach and inland; Billy wouldn’t be out in the water.
Suddenly, at the waters edge I came upon a set of footprints. They appeared to be deep prints of bare feet moving toward the jungle.
“Dad, a boat … there’s a boat out there.” Billy and Natalie shouted in unison.
At the same time peering off into the jungle I located a shadowy figure followed by a dark mist.
After reading all of the entries, I’m overwhelmed. Joe I don’t envy your job, that’s for sure. I certainly feel under qualified to critique anyone, so clicking on the like button was the best I could do. What a challenge.
Clever story. Made me wonder if “dissent” and “betrayal” are the same thing. I’ve grown up to believe dissent is good (often) and betrayal is bad. Have to think about this some more. Maybe over a piece of cake?