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 Andronicusmax
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: Summer Solstice. You can submit as many pieces as you want. After one week, on June 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, Debra Atwood's Baby Carrot.
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: Summer Solstice.
Write a story involving summer solstice, the longest day of the year (which lands on June 20 this year).
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 can post as many times as you want!
- Please, nothing too graphic or explicitly sexual.
- The deadline is Saturday, June 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!
A chance to be published? I really need to start considering this.
Still, I have two questions:
1) What are the rules on asking for off-site critiques?
2) Will I have the right to re-publish my story if I somehow managed to earn a spot in the book?
Hi CZ! Good questions.
1. I’d love to respond to all the stories but I rarely have time to do it. Usually I do three or four random ones. No harm in asking though 🙂
2. Online, preferably no except for snippets. Offline, yes of course 🙂
And if you’re story isn’t chosen, you retain all publishing rights. I should have been more clear.
Hi Joe, can I use parts from one of the stories I’ve posted in my blog? Like rephrasing the introduction.
Of course. Entries can be used however you want. It’s just winners that I need publishing rights to. Otherwise it can get a little messy.
This sounds like a very interesting little contest. I’ll get to work as soon as I get off of work today! Yes, yes, working on the weekend… I haven’t had a day off in a month. Jeez.
http://explanation-not-relevant.blogspot.com/
Hey Joe, I had a question too… How strictly does it need to adhere to the theme? I’m thinking of a non-fiction piece about a certain summer of my life, but I don’t think anything important happened on or near the solstice. The long days/late sunsets would probably be the only connection. Thanks!
Same question I have.
Good question Rachelle. Summer solstice should be involved in some way. You might consider fictionalizing it slightly so the summer solstice takes place within the story. I don’t know if your story wouldn’t win if it was amazing but didn’t mention summer solstice, but it would be looked upon less favorably than a story that did involve the theme. Does that make sense?
The Kiss That Changed Her
by Melissa Mills
Her seventeenth summer, as she pinpointed later, signified the transition from girl to woman. So desperate to give away the last piece of her childhood, she fully and defiantly embraced what the world had been telling her about boys and decided to kiss one she didn’t know. She chose her catalytic moment and her companion carefully. He was a nice Jewish boy from New Jersey while she was a WASP from the suburbs of a Midwestern city. He was taking AP Spanish and a slew of other smart sounding classes in the fall and they bonded over milkshakes at a local soda fountain on the Fourth of July. She met him at a summer program where kids from all walks of life became students in various artistic disciplines. He was smart and had a radiant smile that completely cemented in her a strict requirement of straight teeth for the rest of her dating career, long after he was a distant memory. He was sweet and smooth. She was awkward and unsure but loved the attention.
It started with a movie screening. The entire group of students in their program went to the local mall, off of the university campus where they were living to see the latest summer blockbuster. Something about little green men. She didn’t pay much attention because she was too busy plotting how her life would change forever with one Kiss. To be sure, she was idealistic. To a fault. He had shown interest. She related well to him and yearned to see his smile up close. After careful maneuvering and plotting with a new friend eager to see some relational fireworks before the real show that evening, somehow she was sitting next to him. Would their hands brush? Would he notice her playing with her hair and smiling out of the corner of her mouth? Would their eyes lock? Would he have enough gumption for a seventeen year old to make his move? She wondered this throughout the movie, not really watching it, instead sneaking short glances at him. His eyes crinkled when he smiled, making him look like an old happy man. His dimples came out, a surprise moon cresting on the horizon. His eyes laughed. He smelled like Old Spice deodorant and whatever cologne seventeen year old boys employ to gain the attention of young girls. It was working. He had her attention.
It wasn’t until later, when they finally found some time alone to escape to the local Burger King where it was rumored that people got robbed where she really got to know him and decided that by the fireworks she would have her Kiss and her Change. He made small talk. She didn’t know much about him but his JCC shirt intrigued her. She wondered why the East Coast had JCC’s and wondered why she didn’t see them in the suburbs where protestant churches were on every street corner. By the time they made it to the soda fountain next door, he had flirted but didn’t make an attempt to hold her hand. Conversation flowed. He smiled easily. Any minute now.
When they arrived back at the soccer field where the requisite Fourth of July BBQ was taking place there was only one option for both of them: Soccer. She hadn’t played since she was ten. She hoped it wouldn’t show. He was a natural, moving in and out of the opposing players as a knife slides through hot butter. His technique, impressive. Her interest, piqued. They played for hours until it was time for a photo. A picture together made these few moments a memory. Time for charbroiled hot dogs, potato salad, and Coke. Too many people, not intimate enough. Night was falling soon.
It wasn’t until they made their way to the lake fill for the fireworks when she knew the Kiss might actually be a realistic possibility. She procured a blanket and lingered back, keeping him well within her sites. What a plotter she was for seventeen! He took the bait and caught up. They were both sweaty but the cool air off the lake was washing away any signs of finished soccer games. They were a world away. Suddenly it was just the two of them. The rest of the gang had gone ahead. He didn’t want to be with them and surely she did not, although in her cocky seventeen year old mind played out a fantasy. Suddenly having all the girls see her with him would have allowed her to finally put to rest her fears of inadequacy with all the boys back at her suburban high school. But who needed high school when she was playing the role of “student” living out life at a university near a lakeshore on the Fourth of July when fireworks were about to begin?
He sat down gingerly, a momentary blip in his confidence. She saw it and breathed for the first time all day. Was he as nervous as she was? As cute as he portrayed himself to be, he must have kissed a lot of girls, right? No matter, she was on a mission. She sat down next to him. Too close? Too close. She moved away immediately, nervous. His hand was next to hers. There were murmurs in the crowd as one firecracker popped, echoing above the lake sending streams of light streaking across their faces. The anticipation was killing the crowd. A wave of cheers. His pointer finger brushed the top of her hand. Electricity. She stopped breathing. Was this really happening? Just as she had planned? No. Way. She wasn’t that girl. Things like this didn’t happen to her. How? Music. Someone turned on a radio. John Phillips Sousa. As the piccolo played, her heart raced along, in synch. He looked at her. She stole a look, expecting to see the side of his face. Her palms were sweaty. He kept his eyes fixed on her. It was getting darker by the moment. She couldn’t quite determine the emotion behind his warm brown eyes. Excited? To kiss her? Really? He leaned in closer, revealing that boyish grin. She couldn’t help but smile back. Intoxicating. Little girl no more. The moment she had been waiting for.
The fireworks began.
I love how you delivered the last paragraph. Nice writing 🙂
Melissa, a sweet tale of first kisses. Nicely done.
Yellow Sundress
by JB Lacaden
They say stories have to have introductions. Here’s mine: I dropped out of college in ’95, my parents wanted nothing to do with me after that, and I’ve been in and out of jobs ever since. My story starts in the summer of ’99. The millennium was halfway at its end. For some, it meant a clean slate waiting to be dirtied and new opportunities to be wasted. For me? It meant staying afloat in a city that wouldn’t think twice in devouring you whole. I was again out of a job and was looking for one. Times were getting desperate for me that year. Money’s running low and I’m sure my landlady was itching to throw me out into the streets. I needed a job fast.
That day would be the longest day of the summer, according to the radio last night. They said it would also be the hottest. The radio did not disappoint. If you gazed at the distance you’ll see the heat distorting the air around it and making everything dance. Eggs were being fried on the sidewalks all throughout the city. It felt for me that it was longer than it had any right to be. I had five job interviews that day. I didn’t get accepted in all of them.
I stepped outside of the building where I had my fifth interview and the heat crashed into me like a freight train. I lacked the necessary skills they said. I looked back at the building, beads of sweat forming on my brow, and flashed my middle finger.
I shoved my hands deep in my pockets as an ambulance, with its lights on and its siren blaring, sped by. Behind it, a beeline of cars followed.
I walked down the street with hands balled into fists in my pockets. Frustration and anger and desperation made me wanted to plant my fists into someone’s face.
I crossed the street and there she was, standing in front of me, as if she’d been waiting there all this time. Her once auburn hair had been dyed black as midnight. She had it cut as well. It was now just a bit below her ears. She was no longer wearing her black rimmed glasses. She raised her hand for a wave and she smiled. The last time I saw her was when I dropped out of college. She’s changed so much. That’s the first thought that popped inside my head.
I reached the other end and she walked closer towards me. “You look nice John,” she said. And for a moment…for a moment I forgot why my hands were balled into fists. I felt…happy.
“So, do you work there?” She asked, pulling me out of my thoughts.
I looked at where she was pointing and I saw the building I just got out of. “No, I just got out of a job interview,” I suddenly grew conscious of how I looked. My hair was matted on my forehead because of the sweat. I brushed it to the side. I loosened my tie and I gave her an awkward smile. “Didn’t get accepted though.”
“Sorry to hear that,” she said. “It’s their loss though.” She finished with a small smile. Memories came unbidden, they swirled inside my head and I saw flashes of her face and of mine. I saw us, in my bed, all curled up. I saw the tears and remembered how they tasted as she ended our relationship. I remembered walking to her dorm room on my last day in college. I had her shirt in my hand. I remembered knocking and the door being answered by a guy I didn’t know, behind him stood Samantha. I handed the guy Sammy’s shirt and I said my goodbye. There were no tears that day.
“No, I think they actually made the right decision of not hiring me,” I laughed.
“You haven’t changed,” Sammy’s voice was soft and I felt a touch of sadness in it. “You’re good and super creative. I’ve read the stuff you’ve written so I know what I’m talking about. You seemed to pull stories out of nothing, it was like magic.” She looked at me with her blue eyes. “But you never submitted any one of them. You just hid them away. You’ve got to believe more in yourself.” She was the only one who really believed in me. I loved her because of that.
I didn’t know what to say. We walked on in silence. Men wearing suits and ties passed us by, all around us the sound of the city filled the air mixing with the heat of summer.
I don’t know why we went there but I remembered us walking inside the city park. We took a sit on a bench overlooking the huge, marble fountain.
“What about you? What’ve you been up to?” I asked, finally breaking the silence.
She looked at me with her blue eyes. “I finally have my own bakery!” She said laughing. “I was actually headed there when I saw you.”
“Wow! You’ve always wanted that right?” I said smiling.
“Yeah, it is.”
We talked about the past—memories I thought forgotten came flooding back. I wished, desperately wished, that the longest day would grow longer until it never ended.
She stood up and faced me. “Listen, John, I’ve to go. You should drop by the bakery sometime. It’s just in front of the closed down library.”
“Yeah, of course. I’ll walk with you there if you want?”
She shook her head. “Go home John. Get some rest.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek and I fought hard not to pull her in my arms. “Believe in yourself. You’re good. You just don’t know it yet.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” I managed to push the words out of my mouth.
“No you won’t John. I’ll be leaving the city.”
“Leaving to where?”
“Somewhere far,” Samantha answered before she turned and started to walk away. I watched her, in her yellow sundress, vanish as she turned around the corner.
The following morning I went to Samantha’s bakery. She wasn’t there like she said. I asked the lady behind the counter where Sammy was and she started crying. She told me that Sammy was in a car accident the day prior. The accident broke her neck and she died on the spot. It happened a block away from where I had my interview.
I can’t exactly remember what happened next. I remember shouting. I remember shouting that it wasn’t a funny joke. The next thing I knew I found myself seated on the bench, in the park, overlooking the marble fountain. Believe in yourself. I remembered the sound of her voice as she said it. The tears came unbidden.
Until now I’m not exactly sure what I saw that day. A ghost? A mirage from the summer heat? What I do know is I became a better man. A year after that I wrote a book and managed to have it published.
Whenever I’ll close my eyes, I’ll see her in her yellow sundress—short black hair, blue eyes like the sky, and a smile on her lips—and I’ll also remember the feeling of her kiss on my cheek and her voice as she says to me Believe in yourself John. It was the longest day I ever had—a summer’s day that would forever be burned in my mind.
JB, I like this. There might be tense issues or I might have picked it up wrong. But sweet lovely tale.
Thank you Suzie. I’ll try to review the whole thing again but I don’t know if editing it is still allowed
Of course. You can edit as much as you want until the deadline. 🙂
Good writing JB.
Good job, JB. Has an air of melancholy that reminds me of Dan Fogelberg’s song, Auld Lang Syne. Except at the end where you dash all our romantic hopes and dreams 🙂
The Ride
504 words
I was always nervous to put the bit in. He did it for me.
The metal bridle jingled softly as we rode alongside a wooden split-rail fence. Indy gnawed on his bit. A velvet breeze caressed the meadow–prairie grass rose and fell, rose and fell as eight hooves rose and fell, rose and fell. We would talk occasionally, but never for very long. Cowboys don’t talk much, but that wasn’t the reason why. I didn’t know the reason why.
A forest lay at the edge of the meadow. It felt good to disappear behind its arboreal curtain–thousands of delicate aspen leaves blocked the heat of the summer solstice, casting a tapestry of speckled shadows in every direction. Tall, cool grass brushed against my stirrups with a ssshhhhh.
“Why aren’t we talking?” I wondered as we rode through labyrinthine deer trails. I was bursting with questions for him, about him. Questions about horses, about the wars, atomic bombs, his childhood, his wife, his daughter (my mother). It was the longest day of the year and I had him all to myself. Even so, I fidgeted in my saddle, worried that time would run out on my questions. On his answers.
Didn’t he know what a mystery he was? I was fourteen years old and in desperate want of self-discovery. His blood coursed through mine–there were answers there. But he was not the type of man you pushed for answers.
He was staid and majestic, with a face so gentle and so hard all at once. He loved deeply and laughed easily, but I always sensed his mind was burdened with memories of war. Of doubt, maybe? Of “where was God in the Second World War? In Korea?” But the mountains live and breathe of God. And horses don’t care who you are, or what you did, or why things are the way they are or why you don’t talk more.
“Look,” he said.
A grey owl sat silently on the tree branches above. Its eyes followed us as we trespassed through its little world. That simple, beautiful world that people complicate. I held my breath instinctively. The forest was a cathedral.
Maybe that was the reason why we weren’t talking.
***
The meadow, the forest, the owl: they were before everything. Before he got sick. Before he got better. Before he got sick again. Before his skeletal, cancer-stricken body made one final trip up to the pasture in Big Thompson Canyon and this rugged cowboy–this brilliant atomic scientist, this Marine, this sinner, this redeemed–wept softly as he said goodbye to his horses for what he knew would be the last time.
I’m certain that the horses remember him. That they miss seeing him pull up to the pasture in his old Chevy, with two big buckets of oats in the back.
***
Ten years have passed. It was everything to me then; it is everything to me now. So beautiful a memory that I sometimes wonder whether it really happened.
What a beautiful memory of your father. So many children see their dads through old worn cameras that can never be clearly focused, yet each photo is priceless.
The style is hauntingly beautiful, so spare and short but saying so much. Good writing, in my opinion!
So beautiful. I could feel the forest. Well done!
“The forest was a cathedral.” Love that; that’s one of those sentences that makes me jealous I didn’t write it. Nicely done…and I’m not crying, I just…have something in my eye…
You nailed the setting. I was “there.”
Day of Rest
Before she had kids, winter was the time for exhaustion. It was when she couldn’t get out of bed and the snooze bar made her late for work. She’d leave the office at five and already the sky would be inky. She didn’t like the sun, but would be in despair for how much she missed it.
But that long, long, longest day in the summer was a joyous thing. Young, still with the school year mentality that summer meant freedom and a lean body that didn’t require thought or work to show off low sundresses. Feet that were never too tired to strap on platform sandals and dance, lightly buzzed on fruity drinks, on someone’s rooftop patio as the sun took its impossibly long, slow route down down down below the horizon. She could stay up until midnight, one o’clock. The sun had only just gone down, hadn’t it? Waking up was gentle and warm, the room gradually filling with soft light through the blinds. Rising for work felt natural and weekends spent sleeping in the daylight felt decadent but right.
Now winter was when the children could sleep. When the children slept, she could as well. They’d finish dinner and drowsily bring her books to read, slumping in a pile on the sofa, the room already dim, with only the light of a lamp. They would trundle gladly from bath to towel to warm sheets and drift off quickly and without complaint. They would stay still and silent in the darkness while she put away their toys and folded their laundry. When these simple tasks were finished she would read for herself, in her own heap on the sofa before retiring to her own warm sheets with her warm husband without effort or complaint.
The deep morning silence as she bathed herself and made their lunches and had her coffee compensated for their reluctance to get out of bed in the still semi-darkness, their sluggishness in eating and dressing. More often than not they were all late on these mornings.
When the days got longer it started as a blessing. Less effort to get up and out of the house in the morning, more time to play when they got home. But in the late spring it transformed into the burden of sleepy children wandering into the bathroom while she showered and a baby wanting to be nursed before she could make lunches or coffee.
At night they struggled and tossed, fighting sleep while the light was still coming through their closed shades and the voices of older children walking home from the park carried through the open windows. One would drift off and another would wake from light sleep and cry for her. She tiptoed and whispered through the night, running out of energy to finish chores, falling asleep with a book in her hand, her glasses still on.
Just after five on the warm but not yet hot morning the baby starts to cry. It is Sunday. It is supposed to be a day of rest. She lies still a moment to see if the baby will comfort herself. Maybe her husband will wake up and go himself.
But her husband lies still, breathing deeply, and the baby’s cries become more insistent. She goes to her and rubs her back, but the baby won’t settle. The light is beginning to filter through the blinds, though the sun is not up. She holds the baby, who quiets but opens her eyes in a small, confused squint. The birds begin their chatter, urging the sun to continue on its way up.
She carries the baby into the big bed and lays her down in the middle. She lets her nurse. The others never liked to come into the big bed, to lie still between their parents. The baby is hardly a baby any more, nearly one, nearly walking, likely not nursing much longer. Her head is still fuzzy and delicious and she slurps and paws at the breast just as she did when she was tiny. She strokes the baby’s head in the grey light and takes in the quiet, resting and awake.
Today is the longest day. She knows that after this brief moment she will have no time. Tomorrow will be shorter. Tomorrow it will be easier before it gets harder again.
June 20, 2012 – Aquas Calientes
“Why are there so many people here? I’m in so much pain!!!” I whined.
Jenn pretended not to hear me. We climbed the final steps up to the terrace that over looked the Temple of the Sun. Both of my quadriceps and knees were crying out in pain. I had not signed up for this.
Three days, two flights and one terrifying bus ride later, we had arrived at Machu Picchu. And now we were standing in a crowd three rows deep. I couldn’t see a thing.
“Seriously, why all of the people?”
“Quiet!” Jenn hissed at me, “Take it all in.”
Jenn rarely hisses at me, so I knew I was treading on thin ice. Scratch that, thin rock. I figured I should keep my thoughts inside for a bit.
But let me just point out, this wasn’t MY trip. Jenn turned 40 at the stroke of midnight. The only she wanted for her 40th birthday was to be in Machu Picchu. I was the fool crazy enough to be talked into taking this trip. But that’s what sisters are for, right?
I just didn’t get the point. You stay in a crappy South American one-horse town. You get up at the middle of the night. You’re freezing, you stand at a bus stop and you feel like you would be mugged at any point. But then the magical bus shows up and there’s hope. Then you take a hair raising bus ride where are any moment, you are inches away from death as the crazy bus driver takes hair pin turns at about 70 mph. Its just light enough at this point to imagine your impending death as the bus topples over the side of the mountains. Then you are let off at the entrance, only to find out that you have to climb about a zillion steps to get where you need to be. I mean, where do you need to be in ancient ruins? It’s not like anything is happening.
Oof, someone pushed into me from behind. Really? I haven’t had coffee, I hate mornings, crowds and heights – this was my version of hell. If I spoke one more word of complaint, Jenn might have killed me. I grunted loudly instead. It had the intended effect.
“It’s the winter solstice,” Jenn whispered to me, “We are watching the sunrise”.
“Hey, no it’s not. It’s June 20th. It’s the SUMMER solstice!” I whispered back triumphantly.
Jenn looked at me like I have three heads. The nearby swallows echoed greetings and salutations through the stone formations. The sound was deafening.
“We’re south of the equator, dummy, this is the WINTER solstice.”
“Oh,” I said slowly, “No wonder it’s so cold.” Lame answer, I know, but I was still wrapping my head around this. Jenn seemed like she was open to more questions.
“And everyone is standing here because…” I wanted Jenn to finish my sentence.
Exasperated, she turned to me. “Did you read the guide book I gave you, like, six months ago?”
“I didn’t want to ruin the surprise,” I said sarcastically. No, I didn’t read the guide book. I like to experience things naturally. That day, naturally was taking a slower course than normal.
Jenn experienced a moment of patience and gave me a full explanation. “It’s the winter solstice. We are standing at the Temple of the Sun. One day a year, during the solstice, the winter sun lights up that window over there and the sun falls on that ancient alter. It’s how the Incas knew to start their harvest.”
“Wait,” I exclaimed, “This happens only once a year? And it’s your birthday? And it’s your 40th birthday? This is amazing!”
“It’s not a coincidence,” Jenn replied knowingly, “I needed to come here.”
At this point, the sun had peaked over the Andes mountains. The front row moved away, letting us get one row closer to the wall overlooking the Temple of the Sun. Someone blew on a conch shell. Conch shell? Did they bring it here? There were many things I thought about bringing today, but a conch shell was not one of them. However, the sound was soothing and surprisingly mystical. I pulled out my camera.
“I can almost see,” I muttered. The excitement was rising up inside of me. I pointed to a small opening in the first row and tugged on Jenn’s shirt as a signal to follow me. We elbowed our way in, our bellies hitting the stone wall as our fellow crowd mates graciously made room for us. I looked down at my camera and set it up. It was a complicated camera that require a lot of tinkering. I put my eye on the shutter and lifted my camera up to view.
A big wind rose in my lungs. There it was in front of me, the majestic view of Machu Picchu. I tore the camera away from my eyes without taking a single picture. I needed to see all of this and take these pictures with my brain. I meant to say something to Jenn, but all of my words had left me. I needed to tell her how I felt. I was awestruck. No guide book in the world could prepare me for this view. I tried to open my eyes wider so I could see more. It didn’t work. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jenn point to the Temple of the Sun. I followed her finger. Sure enough, the sun was streaming into the ancient window casting a bright yellow light onto the alter. I lifted the camera again and started taking pictures like my life depended on it. I could not snap the shutter quickly enough. I was possessed by the feeling of wanting to capture this moment. In the near distance, I heard more conch shell horns and screeching swallows.
Once the frenzy had passed, I lowered my camera and looked at the view again. I turned to Jenn and watched tears streaming down her face. I was surprised to find water dripping off of my cheeks as well. I needed to say something to cement this moment in our shared history. I silently got her attention and said the first thing that came to my mind.
“Happy Birthday.”
This made me want to go to Peru!
Katie
“There were many things I thought about bringing today, but a conch shell was not one of them.” That made me laugh. I liked how you conveyed the frustration of going to a “tourist attraction” (I say this knowing Machu Picchu is obviously much more than that) what with the crowds, the pushing, etc., but that sometimes (like in this case), it’s totally worth it.
I really liked this Katie. I’m not sure if this is non-fiction, but it sure seems very real. I love your detail and your sarcastic humor. It definitely sounds like two sisters on an adventure. I found myself getting caught up in your growing enthusiasm. Great job.
I liked this because I learned some new things! You have a nice way with the details here from the point of view of a reluctant tourist.
Talenkynic woke before dawn, full of night terrors, sweats and flushes. Witness to too much destruction, her unconscious mind revisited nightly. As she woke she caught the merest glimpse in the corner of her eye, a shape, a shadow, nothing tangible.
She couldn’t remember, she couldn’t forget.
Shards of her past were clear shining like crystals in the midday sun, huge facets though were left hollow, without form.
Emotions ran riot within her, she possessed them, she contained them, she fought with them whilst maintaining the serenest veneer of calm. Only now, alone, in the twisted sheets and twisted mind of the night were they let loose.
A morass of limbs, thoughts and thread count. She asked herself each time, “How did I get here?” As if the stillness of the night, with the humming of nature could answer.
She began to pack.
She was always on the move, migrating south, along highways and byways, following rivers and streams. At nightfall she pitched her tent, unfolded her sheets and lay down between the cool layers, daring herself not to sleep. A dare she lost each night, the hour unknown, only the brutal awakening was remembered.
Talenkynic walked towards the town she’d seen the day before. Hoping for a day’s work in a diner or hotel kitchen, she began her campaign. A little dust on the face and hands to make her look more impoverished, her shorts were ready to be tugged down for a female boss or tugged up for a male. She marvelled at the simplicity of folk.
“Bing-bong!” the diner door announced her arrival, just as dawn appeared. Silhouetted against the brilliance of the sun,
“Hello, are you open yet?” she called into the darker reaches of the store.
“Goodness, my first customer. You’re an early one, come on in, sit yerself down, coffee?” The owner, a middle aged woman of vast proportions tottered along the inside of the counter.
“May I wash up, first? I have travelled many days,” Talenkynic with her opening gambit.
“Yes, of course, dearie, through the back there. Here, use this towel, you could wash your hair. I often do if I’m running late for Harve,” the diner owner poured coffee for them both and set sugar and creamer on the counter for her customer.
Rose, or Rosie De Bois, according to the diner’s signage had lived and worked in Ellisville all her married life. She was originally from up the county in Laurel, but she liked it here, quieter, more peaceful and easier for her to bury her sadness away from her family.
Talenkynic appeared with the towel binding her hair in a turban, “Is this okay?”
“For sure, Ben will be the next in, but not for an hour. Will I fix you some breakfast?” Rose smiled at the gangly girl before her.
“Oh, well, umm, maybe some toast and more coffee please,” Talenkynic began a wistful smile and let her eyes move up to Rose’s.
“When did you last eat, girl?” Rose countered.
“Yesterday, I found some berries and ate them as I walked, they were so juicy, it popped in my mouth,” her next play out she let her eyes close briefly then looking down and blushing ever so slightly.
“Hey, cheer up, my name is Rose, this is my diner, I will feed you breakfast, lunch and dinner if you work for me and I will give you twenty dollars wages plus any tips you make. Mind they’re a frugal bunch round here, not many tips to be had. Or maybe that’s just me. What do you say? What’s your name, girl?” Rose unknowingly had walked into Talenkynic’s innocent trap.
“Tally, I go by Tally, and yes, oh thank you, thank you so much,” Talenkynic gushed thanks and beamed a smile in appreciation.
Later after her fill of eggs and ham she wiped down tables, set up condiments, filling where necessary, all the time keeping an eye out for customers. She hummed as she worked, a folk tune from home, barely audible and unheard by Rose who was busy baking biscuits and peeling potatoes for her morning men.
People came into the diner at regular intervals, with a snippet of a story, either theirs or Rose’s. Talenkynic was building up quite a picture of Ellisville and Rose, a widow with no children, a heart of gold, always with a smile, never one to hold a grudge. Saint Rose, she thought, as she served the hungry diners with food that even Talenkynic found appealing.
Rose was also talking throughout the day gently probing the young girl rushes back and forth with orders and dirty plates. She was hard worker, Rose thought, but very closed. As she pulled down the blinds at the end of the day she learned nothing except her name and she was moving south.
“Tally, when you’ve eaten, would you like to walk with me some, before the sun sets?” Rose asked as she turned the key in the lock.
“Um, yes, sure. I mean, I have to get going but a small walk would be okay,” Tally spoke brokenly partly due to stuff biscuit, gravy and fried chicken in her mouth and partly due to a sudden yearning to spend time with the widow Rose.
They walked, to Talenkynic it seemed aimless, a little left, a little right. To Rose, there was a purpose, she was bringing Tally home. Turning into the path that led to her house, she turned to Tallenkynic, “Tally, you are welcome to rest for a few days or for a while. You look so tired, exhausted, you need to sleep in a bed. Come?”
“I suppose I could stay for a night and see from there,” was her cagey reply.
Rose made the most of having a guest, plumping pillows, running a bath and making hot chocolate and cookies. She sang spirituals, reminiscing when she first moved into the house as a newly wed, hoping to fill the home with kids and animals. Settling for one mangy cat that would never come in but sat on the porch with disdainful mews.
Talenkynic sank into the deep mattress, surrounded by fluffy pillows and soft toys, trying desperately hard to stay awake but without the usual will and she soon slipped off into a deep sleep.
As Talenkynic slept her mind, warped by memories of a distant time and place, scenes played out, one by one projected above. Rose awakened and watched horrified, silent tears falling, as she watched the annihilation of a species, Tally although younger retained her eyes and Rose saw the girl watching her family, her community, her entire hold killed.
After the first twenty minutes or so, she slipped into bed with Tally and held her, still watching. Babies, old people, children and women all killed, it took some working out but it seemed certain girls were saved, the men were not there. Rose had never spent the shortest night at the movies but she was riveted to the screen all night, until just before dawn as the violence that Talenkynic endured became more horrifying, the experiments, the torture. No wonder she was always moving, she thought.
1249 words
Talenkynic woke sometime after seven, rested for the first time since arriving on earth, the smell of coffee wafting up the stairs. “Ah, you’re awake, here have some coffee and we’ll get off to work,” Rose breezed in, smiling.
Their life together began, Rose watching and holding, Talenkynic slowly recovering.
That was eerie Suzie. I should have known from the name something of what was going to happen but I didn’t until the end. Thanks!
Suzie, I find it interesting that you set your story in Ellisville. I live in Ellisville, MO. Then when I went to your blog, you posted about real estate in Marthasville, MO and you live in Ireland. Weird coincidence?
Marthasville was totally random as the post was suggesting, I was more intrigued by the first hit I got was from a Christian company (we don’t have many of those) It was Trelaor I found. Question: Does anyone live there? Are those house and shops empty? Do people without homes squat in them? The only town in Ireland uninhabited is under a man made lake.
I had Talenkynic in a town in Penn and then discovered that it was too north, so I stuck a pin in google maps and then went looking for a small town that could have only one diner.
There are no such thing as coincidences only Godincidences. I think this is why. You, Tom, will appreciate this:
I am like a kid with a present I can’t wait. I am jumping up and down, and smiling and can’t sit still. Tomorrow evening a guy is going to play music to one of my worship songs. I am so excited. I was supposed to be somewhere else and I was so impatient but then I figured if God wants me there he will find a way and then this afternoon the preacher asked me to be there and lead worship. I can’t believe one of my songs is going to be sung by someone else and not just in my head. I am so blessed to have found someone so talented. I am so thank FULL.
A fine story with full cognizance of what evil can be in the world, but with a kind heart. And redemption and a chance for a new life. Uplifting!
thanks John for your kind comment
I liked the style of that. It followed a path that I did not expect. You sure could expand this one – I have lots of questions about Tally’s past and the challenges she and Rose will face in the future.
Talenkynic is a survivor of the Wars of Concavity on Zylmor, capital city Dromdrevc.
I have not had her keep her own name or identity before. We’ll see where this takes her
Thanks for the comment, Steph
Remembering Rosaline
In true high school sweetheart fashion, she broke my heart. More than once. The last time was nearly ten years ago.
I was a senior and she was a junior when she taught me to enjoy the McChicken sandwich and Broadway musicals. Sometimes on the same day. The brilliantly lit, clear, autumn sky was the only witness to our first kiss. The chill in the air gave me an excuse to wrap my arms around her.
In true high school sweetheart fashion, we spent every possible moment together. She cheered me on through basketball season. I held her as close as I dared at her grandfather’s funeral. That night, on the phone, I consoled her and reminded her that that type of cancer is not hereditary. That night I exposed my love for her. She reciprocated the following afternoon with a heart- smattered, hand-written note dropped through one of the air slits of my locker. The words “I love you more” were scrawled in four different colors. Sickening, I know. But, to coin a phrase, we were young and in love.
The three feet of snow that January cancelled school and offered us quiet walks filled with youthful anticipation. After prom we sat up until three in the morning eating doughnuts and watching Charlie Chaplin in her parent’s basement. In the spring, we enjoyed picnics on secluded, dead-end roads. We shared a soda and let our hands linger in the popcorn tub at the movies. We ignored parental glances as we molded together on the couch during the TGIF line-up, laughing at Steve Urkel’s catchphrase. These moments and more got us to the summer. To the pregnancy scare. To the moment when I shared that I would be moving away for college. Nine hours away. By plane.
But she wasn’t pregnant, and I wasn’t leaving for nearly three months, so there was still time to talk on the phone hours after curfew. There were still those moments when our hands never parted as we walked through the mall. There were the emerald earrings and the embarrassingly small promise ring. And there was the melancholy week of departure.
In true high school sweetheart fashion, we racked up large, long-distance phone bills. She wrote love letters, and I wrote bad poetry. I wore out the mix tape. We tried the high-tech AOL Instant Messenger, but it wasn’t the same as the sound of her voice. Her sighs. Her silence. But I was young and in love.
We spent as much time together as parents allowed during the Christmas break. Three weeks disappeared instantly as the new calendar went up on the refrigerator. But we enjoyed three weeks of cozying by the fire and slurping hot chocolate after making snow angels in her front yard. Three weeks of watching her fall asleep on the couch as I read Hemingway to her. Three weeks of intermingled fingers. Of long, goodnight kisses in the driveway before I drove back across town to my parents’ house for the night, only to return to her the following day.
But one day I didn’t return. Instead, I flew back across these United States that divided us. I flew back to my warbled mix tape. Back to my pictures. To my opened and refolded letters. Back to the beginning of the end.
I ignored the signs because I knew I could persevere. I would make it through. I wouldn’t stop loving her. But I also never truly understood empathy. So I made excuses to stay in my room and wait for the phone to never ring. I played it cool when she went to her prom with an ex. I convinced myself that if pining worked in the movies, then I deserved an Oscar. And I did what any reasonable person in my situation would do. I transferred to a closer university.
That summer, we clung desperately to an unraveling rope. We spent hours together pretending that we were starting again. And we did. Just not with each other. Not really. We should have recognized the metaphor when she drove off to her college and I drove off to mine. But, no, we were young and in love.
I drove hundreds of miles a month in my already-twenty-year-old-hand-me-down car to prove my love. I racked up large, still-long-distance phone bills. We remained the proverbial couple. Movies. Shows. Shopping. Dinners. Lengthy stares. Squeezing fingers. Smoldering kisses. For two days a month. For seven months.
Then it was over. Just like that.
We met half-way and cried and gave back items of remembrance. It lasted about thirty minutes. There was not fight. No drama. It was just over. Or so I thought.
By the fall, we decided the summer apart was a good break. We took time to find ourselves and experience life and enjoy our freedom and whatever other clichés seemed to fit. Although we didn’t define it as such, we started down the path of friends with benefits. And it was okay for a while. But remember, we were young and in love and wanted more than to just be friends.
We made it through Christmas and into January, but Valentine’s Day didn’t have a shot. The harsh truth of a long-distance, semi-relationship finally caught up with us. Again, there was no fight. There weren’t any real tears. She was no longer young and in love. But, in high school sweetheart fashion, I pined for her nonetheless. We kept in touch as friends, but the benefits soon belonged to others. Conversations about our future became plural. Hers. Mine.
Months passed and my scars weren’t as tender. A year went by with the occasional polite conversation. We were becoming true friends. Until I was reminded of what we would never have. It was June 21, 2002. Her wedding day. I was no longer young. But I guess I was still in love. It was the longest day of the year for me. Literally.
But, to coin another phrase, time heals wounds. Time hasn’t erased my memory, but it has allowed me to grow wiser. And to fall madly in love with my Juliet as if Rosaline never existed. A decade ago, I realized what my future wouldn’t hold. Well, not exactly. You see, a decade later from that longest day of the year, I’ll be walking down the beach with my son. And my wife. And I’ll be reminded of what it feels like to be young and in love again.
Jason, I love romantic reminiscing, wish I had more to reminisce about, maybe you have to be in the States to have a wee love, puppy love, a sweetheart. We had back streets and rain.
From what I can tell after a brief visit to your blog, you have plenty to reminisce about. It just comes out in different ways. Honestly, I hesitated before submitting this because I thought it was too nostalgic and naive. There’s got to be something exhilarating about back streets and rain, right?
It is the romantic reminiscing I have trouble with, and yes it is the nostalgia of times faded like old snapshots. I guess I just imagine school in America to be just a little bit Danny and Sandy with a hint of Rizzo.
I imagine school in the UK to be Hogwarts 🙂 .
Love your story Jason! Emotionally deep, calling on reader’s memories too and the happy ending, of course. 🙂
I’m glad it had that effect. I was really worried about a disconnect, but I just had to write it. What would make it better? And, more importantly, can we expect something from you here? You’ve got some great ideas on your blog.
I’d suggest to leave it as it is. Hopefully, you’ll win and then with some help from the guys here you can polish it up to tiniest details.
As for myself, I won’t make it this time. Too tight with time and other assignments and activities, but perhaps next week I’ll show up. Glad you like my blog though; it means a lot.
I really enjoyed your writing, witty and tender. It left me with kind of a wispy, sad satisfaction.
Thank you, Beck. I’m glad you found the ending satisfactory.
A very enjoyable story, recalling for me my own senior year in high school and first girl-friend. Was I ever that young? A VERY long time ago!
Thanks, John. Sometimes it’s nice to remember the days when our biggest worries were centered around hair products and designer clothing.
To coin a phrase, nice job. I liked it; it reminded me of my stupid high school/early college days.
Thank you, Brian. Every once in a while, I look back on those days myself and wonder what I was thinking. Then I remember that most of the time I wasn’t.
This is a very tender story that shows growth.
Steph, I appreciate this comment because I was worried that the conclusion was too abrupt. I’m glad that my decision to keep it fairly vague worked in the end.
You made the right choice by saving your big twist for the very end. I think that works especially well for short stories – you don’t want to waste word count and you want to leave the reader with something to think about. (IMO)
Midsummer Remembered
Jewel reclined on her mother’s pink, wedding ring quilt spread across the shortly cropped grass of the wide lawn. The Andrews Sisters crooned over the wireless radio, “Don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me, with anyone else but me, anyone else but me, no no no…” She smoothed her red polk-a-dot dress and shaded her eyes to catch sight of Amanda. A deep sigh of contentment escaped her lips and she smiled at the thought of having her best friend from boarding school here for a whole week. Amanda’s visit was a bright spot punctuating the tense atmosphere of the house. A tension brought on by war, but Jewel refused to think of such dreary things on this the longest and best day of her summer. Amanda waved from the trees that bordered the yard, a bunch of wildflowers in her hand, her golden hair glimmering in the early evening sun.
“Ms. Jewel. It’s time for your medicine.” The voice of Florence, the nurse’s aid, startled her. The image of Amanda evaporated, her tinkling laughter drifted away and died in the stale air of the room. Jewel sat stooped and shriveled, a shell of what had been, gazing out the grimy nursing home window. The overgrown, tangled mess of the back yard, which moments before had been transformed in her mind, once again reflected her unkempt heart. She turned milky eyes to Florence’s warm, brown face and sighed. Like an obedient child she opened her mouth to accept her dose of medication.
After Florence helped her with lunch and put her back in bed Jewel dozed for the afternoon, drifting between what was and had been. The warm sun filtered in through the window and kissed her brow as she slept. Casting it’s glow into her dreams it conjured up the past midsummer’s night and love. The sound of peepers filled her dreams as shadows softened and wrapped sharp angels in their velvet hands. Jim slipped his arm around her waist while they strolled the path that wound alongside the chattering creek. Music filled the air as frogs and water, night birds and katydids serenaded the lovers. The path was still visible as the sun hesitated to say goodnight; was he watching with fiery eyed envy to catch a glimpse of love blossoming? Their love did burst into bloom that night as Jim proposed a life spent together. Finally the sun sank behind the pines, relinquishing his hold on the day, having pushed his claim further than usual.
This time Wanda, the night orderly, was the offending party, rousing Jewel from her tryst with bygone glory. What would her day be without the continual taking of medicine she wondered. What time was it anyway? The light was still strong and her room too stuffy. Looking at the alarm clock beside the hospital bed her bleary eyes made out an 8. Wanda moved her to the recliner again and tucked an afghan around her boney legs.
Alone for the evening Jewel allowed her mind to wander freely; mentally strolling backward in time, in and out of summer days. Her mind stopped as she approached her grandmother’s house. She climbed the steps of the broad, old fashioned porch, white and gabled to attention. The fragrance of red climbing roses wafted through her memory. Her grandmother and mother, side by side on the wicker porch swing, beckoned her up. Pride pounded in her chest as she lay her infant daughter in Granny’s arms. Her own mother beamed up at her, reflecting the same emotion. Jewel sank down in an adjacent ladder back chair and took in the sight. Four generations together. The women talked long into the June twilight, not noticing the late hour, until lightning bugs announced the waning day. That evening Jewel was inaugurated by her matriarchs, signaling she was one of them, a mother.
Jewel’s silver hair fanned out on her shoulders and caught gold as the sun set, stretching out it’s rosy fingers to stroke the thin strands. Her head sank against the recliner. In her twilight moment the golden glow from the longest days of her life reached out and ushered her into the expanse of eternity. When Wanda came to tuck Jewel into bed she found the lifeless old lady, face lifted to the setting sun, with a smile frozen on her face.
That’s lovely Beck. What a great way to die.
Thank you! Oddly I found out today that my grandmother is dying, she’s not expected to live through the weekend. I guess subconsciously she was on my mind!
I’m sorry to hear that Beck. I know you’ll miss her. I hope she goes without a lot of pain. Mine’s been gone for almost forty years and I still miss her.
Beautiful story of reminiscing, Beck. I am so sorry about your grandmother.
Thank you Steph. My grandmother died on Saturday and I’ll be traveling this week to celebrate her life with my family. I think it’s interesting how fact and fiction often mingle in our lives.
This story is truly beautiful Beck, I got a bit misty-eyed as I read it. I love that the sun is a character and a companion to Jewel: “Jewel’s silver hair fanned out on her shoulders and caught gold as the sun set, stretching out it’s rosy fingers to stroke the thin strands.”
Thank you Missaralee! I hoped the sun stood out as the character I intended. When I think of the summer solstice I think of the sun. I didn’t want to write specifically of the solstice but rather insinuate. I’m glad you enjoyed it!
Summer’s Regret
“Boys, stop putting the hose down Sonny’s diaper!” Angel wiped the sweat off her forehead with a dirty dishtowel and cursed under her breath. She could see from her kitchen window, the neighbor boys taunting Sonny as they chased him with the hose. Sonny giggled as he ran circles around the propane tank in the backyard; his saggy diaper exposing his pale white tush. She knocked on the window and yelled, “Summer, would you please take care of your brother?!”
Summer rolled her eyes as she sat up in her lounge chair to situate her bikini top. She looked over at the boys, and then down at her top, making sure nothing was showing. She settled back down on her stomach in order to catch some desperately needed rays on her back. Although June was almost over, today was her first opportunity to finally lay out.
“Boys, get your pimply fart-faces off our lawn and stay away from Sonny! Sonny, pull up your dang diaper and go play in your sandbox!” Summer babysat enough to know how to lay down the law. The boys dropped the hose and ran into the woods, laughing hysterically. Summer put on her earphones, undid her back strap to avoid a tan line, and closed her eyes in relief.
Angel finished washing the dirty dishes then turned her attention to the overflowing clothes hamper. She sighed deeply. Her cell phone vibrated in her pocket.
“Hello,” she answered with a huff.
“Hey,” her husband responded, then he paused.
“What is it, Travis?” she snapped. “I’m busy spending my one day-off this week doing your laundry! How the hell do you go through so many clothes in one week?”
“Whoa! Take it easy, you…,” Travis stopped midsentence.
“Go ahead and say it, I know I’m a bitch,” Angel said matter-of-factly. She sat on the arm of the couch, grabbed the remote and muted the TV.
“That’s not what I was gonna say, but now that you…,” Travis stopped himself and huffed. He could see his boss looking at him from across the warehouse. “Never mind. The reason I called, the pickup broke down on the way to work. I had to have Charlie tow me in. I’m gonna need you to pick me up tonight when I get off.”
“Are you kidding me? You promised me that the truck would make it at least one more year!”
“I didn’t promise jack-squat!” Travis snapped. “I only said I hoped it would make it another year.”
“So I guess you’re telling me our trip is off…again,” Angel felt her ears get hot as she thought of having to cancel their week in Branson.
“Who knows? We’ll have to wait and see what Charlie says,” Travis explained. “But the good news is the boss said I could work some extra shifts. Hopefully I can make enough to fix the truck and have something left over for a weekend trip.”
“That’s just great! And what if it can’t be fixed? We can’t afford a new truck right now. The kids are going to be so disappointed if we cancel vacation again.” Angel intentionally heaped on as much shame as possible.
“Don’t give me that!” Travis demanded. “Summer could care less about going on a trip with her family, and Sonny’s oblivious. He’s perfectly fine playing in the yard or watching cartoons.”
It was then that Angel realized she hadn’t heard any noise coming from outside, so she walked over to the kitchen window to check on the kids. Summer was asleep on the lounge chair. But there was no sign of Sonny.
“I gotta go. I can’t find Sonny,” Angel closed her phone and started yelling for her son from the back porch. “Sonny, where are you, boy?” She walked over to Summer and swatted her on the rear. “Get up, Summer! Your brother has run off again! You were supposed to be watching him!”
Summer quickly refastened her strap while her mom ran around to the other side of the propane tank to see if Sonny was playing in his sandbox. All she found was an empty wet diaper.
Mom and daughter spent the next half hour scouring the place for Sonny, but there was no sign of him. They met back up on the porch just as a car pulled up the gravel drive. It was Travis and some of his co-workers.
“What are you doing home?” Angel asked, trying to hide the panic in her voice.
“You hung up saying you couldn’t find Sonny. I thought I had better get home quick and see what was going on. The boss let some of the guys come with me in case we needed a search party.”
Angel burst into tears, burying her face in her husband’s chest. He wrapped his arms around her and assured her they would find their boy. They always did.
While Travis called the police, his good friend, Dennis, took charge of the makeshift search party.
“Men, we’re looking for is a boy around 8-years-old, but with the mental capacity of a toddler,” Dennis explained. “He’s about four feet tall with blonde hair. His name is Sonny.” He turned to Angel, “What was he wearing?”
“A diaper…no wait!” She shouted, remembering the diaper in the sandbox. “I guess he’s naked!” The men looked at each other sheepishly then took off in every direction. Travis instructed Summer to “cover up” and then wait for the police. He and Angel headed into the woods.
They searched the entire afternoon with no luck and were about ready to turn around and regroup. That’s when they heard laughter on the other side of a ravine.
“That’s probably the boys who were messing with Sonny in the yard,” Angel said. “Maybe they know something.” She and Travis headed toward the ravine. Crossing the other side, they came to a clearing where they found the three boys standing in a circle, poking something with a stick. The boys saw them and took off. Travis started after them, but stumbled. He had tripped over Sonny’s naked body.
“Sonny!” he shouted, crawling desperately towards his son. Angel collapsed beside him with a gasp. Sonny was curled up in a tight ball, covered in mud and he smelled of urine. Travis started taking off his work shirt to cover him up; when Sonny opened his eyes and reached for his mom.
Angel grabbed him and burst into tears. “What did they do to you?” she cried. They carefully helped Sonny to his feet and gave him a quick inspection. Sonny seemed to be okay but was shivering uncontrollably, so Travis draped his shirt over his son’s shoulders and the three of them headed back to the house.
Upon arrival, everyone cheered, but Travis spotted the police interrogating the three boys and bolted toward them. Dennis stopped him.
“Let the cops do their job,” Dennis explained. “We’ve called their parents, but right now you need to focus on Sonny. Some of the wives are fixing dinner, so why don’t you get him cleaned up and we’ll eat. We’ve fired up the grill.”
Summer ran over to her family. “How is he?” she asked. Sonny grabbed his sister to give her a big hug, but as he did, his dad’s shirt fell to the ground. Summer squealed and started running. Sonny giggled as he chased her around the yard.
“He’s good,” Travis said. He picked up his shirt and wiped his eyes.
powerful Tom
Thanks, Suzie.
this reply serves no purpose 🙂
What a great story Tom. I like how you show how busy Angle is and then distract us with the quarrel over the car so we forget Sonny for a moment. It makes the story very real.
Thanks, Mhvest. So many things seem to distract us from what’s truly important.
I like how there’s never any doubt that Sonny is loved and accepted just as he is; when he’s first portrayed running around I thought he was three or four — but come to find out he’s a special kid with challenges. Lucky kid to have such a loving family. Good job!
Thanks, John. I had thought about making him even older, but then feared it might be more difficult for the reader to empathize with the family. Not sure why. Perhaps having a 15 year old boy running around in a diaper felt a bit more neglectful and careless. Anyway, thanks for “loving” Sonny and his family. They need it.
I see a chapter in a book here. Families with special needs children, whatever the age, need representation. Having young children is enough work, but having a special needs child can add that extra strain. I see this coming out in the conflict between Angel and Travis. I’m curious about the rest of their story.
Jason, yes, I wondered the same thing. I fear,perhaps, I was trying to bring too much into this short story. It was all I could do to try and wrap it up in 1250 words. Maybe I could have cut back on Travis and Angel’s argument in order to have a more fulfilling conclusion. Thanks for the feedback.
Your opening line is my favorite, Tom. It drew me right into the very realistic story. I’m glad it had a happy ending. 😉
Katie
Yeah, I wasn’t sure if the ending was going to be very happy, but then realized that the Summer Solstice is all about receiving an extra measure of light. And where there’s light, there’s hope.
Sounds like a family I’d like to know more about. Your story left me hoping for a book.
Lynna, Jason basically said the same thing. I may need to spend some more time with Travis and Angel and see how they cope with their situation. Something tells me they are going to eventually face a tipping point that could make them or break them.
This is a very well-crafted and moving story, Tom.
Thanks, Steph. I’ve been wrestling with this family all week, cutting and pasting. It’s a wonder that it made any sense at all 🙂
I can relate to that!
Nicely done, Tom. I loved the ending. I also loved the phrase “pimply fart-faces”, because I’m immature.
HaHa! I’m the poster-child for “Men Who Don’t Act Their Age.” Just tonight, my wife chided me about an inappropriate Facebook post.
My Summer Solstice
My name is Alan and my annual trek every summer solstice begins with much anticipation and excitement as I drive west; I know it’s the summer solstice by the way the sun angles into my eyeballs core. Glancing at my rear-view mirror I can see the sun glinting off the scratched and crack window of the car behind me. The driver is squinting to see out the dark crack the visor provides him. I can see him however I know he can’t see me. As I look out the window of the swiftly traveling car I see pieces of giant sunflowers turning their faces toward the sun. The landscape flies by piece by piece in my side view mirrors and finally I have to turn left for my destiny is near. This long narrow two lane road is not flat as the previous highway this road travels an up and down path. The environment of the familiar gives way to the unfamiliar but is well known to me and my fellow travelers. The edge of the western world comes alive with the dead silence of the moon and the ocean floor, as the spectacular sun begins its descent. The warm color tones of summer giveaway, to cool color of shade. The peculiar blue hues to this otherworld slowly arrive and the shadows of the sun are erasing the images of the day. The silence of the moons wisdom is apparent as I put my watch in the glove box. I have entered the other side of the scratched away silver mirror.
The storms at this time of year are spectacular, it can rain and sunshine all at the same time. The tall prairie grass blow gentle to the breeze and I slip into another dream. I arrive after two days travel. The tents need to be pitched the tall grass needs cut. My friends arrive trailers are unpacked, prairie kitchens are setup, water needs carrying from the old house on the hill. It is ice cold water pure glacier water that comes thru an ice shelf. The dented silver milk buckets of glistening water opens up my inner souls thirst just like the gentle breezes of the day.
My summer solstice experience is special and as such the old ones restricts me from sharing all the details. Think of photographs and the way the try to grab hold of a moment like ethereal fingers attempting to capture your soul. The only resistance the old ones could muster was to put their hands up, to protect themselves. So too does the written words of the today world language attempt to entrap. So with a gentle hand facing you I protect the most sacred. I cannot tell you what exactly happens but I will give you a part of the dream of my summer solstice experience. This is part of the parts that can I share and thank you for sharing with me the dream of the summer solstice.
Alas the breeze slows the cooling stops.
I feel nothing, I see naught perchance an opening of respite. A gentle nudge urging me to stride onward, a warm embracing voice is whispering “my cherished one I am here.” Then with just one final breathe, one last heart beat, one finishing reflection I gentle lean forward, then with the thrust of a reverie that abruptly ends.
A thunderous crumpling could be heard, then a soft quiet exhale of dry dusty girt of fine earth puffs out my mouth. As l lay there I begin to feel the freezing of my skin as it burns.
I faintly recognize an echo perhaps a voice…or a thought, I think I smacked my head on something but feel no pain just a vibration. Then more thoughts, more feelings hurry in as the breeze stopped.
The memory of that delicate place won’t go away…I now am on proverbial terms with the reason of sadness. The tear in my eye won’t say farewell.
I now grasp that it is only because the promise of something moreover that sadness can exist. Otherwise it would find no home. Sadness proves happiness.
I had stood in the doorsill, the boundary of the angel’s imperceptible plane of existence. Unseen by these eyeballs was the know-how to witness such brilliance. The feeling of the beyond won’t depart me.
Nonetheless I felt a release; it was a warm zephyr cooling my essence to an everlasting peace. There is only one direction to voyage in a breeze like that, onward.
The lump in my throat won’t go away.
As a pack the last item in the car I reach up and adjust the rear-view mirror, I lean over and open the glove box and grab my watch. I gentle fasten it to my wrist.
Sorry for submitting my story twice–I went back to edit it, but apparently that’s impossible after somebody has commented on it. Just ignore the version I submitted a few days ago. Thanks!
The Ride
514 words
I was always nervous to put the bit in. He did it for me.
The bridle jingled softly as we rode alongside a split-rail fence. A velvet breeze rustled the meadow. Prairie grass rose and fell, rose and fell as eight hooves rose and fell, rose and fell. We would talk occasionally, but never for very long. Cowboys don’t talk much, but that wasn’t the reason why. I didn’t know the reason why.
A forest lay at the edge of the meadow, and we soon disappeared inside it. Thousands of delicate aspen leaves blocked the heat of the summer solstice, casting a tapestry of speckled shadows in every direction. Tall, cool grass brushed against my stirrups with a ssshhhhh.
“Why aren’t we talking?” I wondered. I was bursting with questions for him, about him. Questions about horses, the wars, atomic bombs, his childhood, his wife, his daughter (my mother). It was the longest day of the year and I had him to myself. Even so, I fidgeted in my saddle, worried that time would run out on my questions–on his answers.
Didn’t he know what a mystery he was? I had pieces strewn together from stories here, pictures there, a medal on the wall. But I was impatient. It was the summer I turned fourteen and I desperately wanted to learn not only about him, but about myself. His blood was my blood–there were answers there. But he was not the type of man you pushed for answers.
He was quiet and majestic, with a countenance so gentle and so hard all at once. Warm brown eyes softened the weathered lines running up, down, sideways on his face. I always sensed his mind was burdened with memories of war. Of questioning, maybe? Of “where was God in the Second World War? In Korea?” But the mountains live and breathe of God. And horses don’t care who you are, or what you did, or why things are the way they are or why you don’t talk more.
“Look,” he said, pointing to the tree branches above.
Two dark eyes were following our movements. A grey owl. I held my breath instinctively as we trespassed through its little world. That simple, beautiful world that feels so natural and yet so foreign sometimes. The forest was a cathedral.
Maybe that was the reason why we weren’t talking.
***
The meadow, the forest, the owl: they were before everything. Before he got sick. Before he got better. Before he got sick again. Before he made one final trip to Big Thompson Canyon and this rugged cowboy–this atomic scientist, this Marine, this believer –stood in the pasture and wept softly as he said goodbye to his horses.
I’m certain his horses remember him. That they miss seeing him pull up to the pasture in his old Chevy with two big buckets of oats in the back.
***
Ten years have passed. It was everything to me then; it is everything to me now. So beautiful a memory that I sometimes wonder whether it really happened.
That was beautiful especially he part where he says goodbye to the horses and the part where the trees are described. I guess it was your grandfather. It really honored whoever it was. Very well done!
Beautiful, Kristi! Congratulations!
i’m tough on writing. and, to be frank, most of the contest-winning entries on this site haven’t done it for me. but this was simply beautiful, and i just wanted Kristi to know.
Congratulations, Kristi! Your story was beautiful and evocative.
OK, just managing to swallow the lump in my throat. This is the kind of story I’d write about my dad. I am soooo thankful to still have him around despite a near-fatal illness. I love his stories about when he was a kid. I’ve learned so much more than history from my dad.
Congratulations on your winning story, Kristi. Your descriptions were wonderful. 🙂
Congratulations Kristi. Wistful and delightfully written….
This gave me chills. Thanks for sharing your heart, Kristi. 🙂
Summer Solstice.
Sanna was dreading the date. The red circled day approached. The mere thought of reliving it. The phsical pain and the emotional torment. The turmoil that followed and the media circus that encapsulated her life for eight months. She was still being talked about.
Interest in her case had legal implications for courts around the world. She would no doubt get follow-up interview requests. Her life might never be the same – as one year previously.
How she longed to be anonymous once again.
Her birthday had occured the day before Midsummers’ Eve celebrations. She also had endured six months of training for her new job. She now deserved to party. She was eager to enjoy also her own 22nd birthday and the festival with friends. It had been arranged well in advance and everyone had anticipated celebrating the long weekend.
Sanna met her friend Meena early on the outskirts of the city. They drove east to the region of Kamenlaakso to celebrate the Finnish holiday of Juhannus. The holiday was ranked only second to Christmas in terms of importance to the Finnish people. Everybody always made sure that they had their time off work booked. It was a time to relax and enjoy the break.
Meena was always prepared. Her fastidiousness to detail impressed Sanna at every turn. Especially during the trial, she was there for her. She passed notes to her every day reminding her to stay positive and believe in justice.
Meena had a plush four bedroomed cabin booked outside the town of Kotka for almost a year. She even had grocery deliveries made to the cabin in preparation for their arrival. But being true to form, she still had the car full of supplies. Sanna laughed heartily at her friends’ capacity to be overstocked. They chatted non-stop for the two hour drive as the countryside went by in a blur.
The winter and spring had been harsh. The ground, although free of snow and ice, was yielding. Meena had checked the weather for their three day sojurn and reported to Sanna that it was to be positively balmy in comparison to the previous few months. The humidity was already starting to build.
En route to the cabin, Meena told Sanna of whom they were sharing the cabin with. Two of her female work colleagues had already left that morning and were setting up the sauna. One of the other rooms was being occupied by a two former college friends of her sister. Meena knew them but hadn’t spoken to them since her sister’s graduation.
The other room was booked by one unknown man.
Meena had received an email informing her because she hadn’t packed the cabin, the space had to be filled. Meena asked for background on them, but none came back. Meena persisted, ringing the rental company.
The only information they could pass on was the surname attached to the booking – Korhonen. The most common name in Finland. It did not sit well with her.
They reached the cabin commune shortly after lunchtime. The air was fresh and clear. The sun was high in the sky and little pockets of white fluffy clouds lingered over the western hills. Their cottage was one of three along the edge of the lake. Spruce trees already adorned the entrance to the cottage commune, welcoming them in.
The smell of the waterside pine needles wafted through Sanna’s nostrils. She gulped in two deep breaths and commented how much cleaner it was than the city. Meena agreed and they set about unpacking the car. Meeting her two workmates inside the cabin, hugs and air kisses were exchanged. Sanna had only heard of Elsa and Justiina, but now met them in the flesh for the first time. She knew that any friends of Meena were good enough to be trusted implicitly.
Justiina was Swedish and kindly insisted that they adorn the maypole. They all agreed that it sounded like a good idea. As they dressed it in bright colours, the two other girls arrived. Ida and Noora had introduced themselves via email over the past couple of weeks and more hugs and kisses were swapped around the tall structure.
More cars and vans arrived into the commune, unloading supplies and mainly beer. Six half drunk college boys wolf whistled at the sextet of pretty ladies. The theory of the most fertile time of the year might be tested later.
Retiring to their cabin, Ida suggested the idea of testing the sauna out. Elsa had set it up when they arrived and it was now ready. The sauna was large and filled with light brown native Finnish pine. A short pier led from the front door of the sauna direct to the lake.
Sanna grabbed a six pack of Olvi beer and met the other five girls in the sauna. Picking up the knife beside the stove, she sliced through the plastic around the tins and passed them around. They could hear the college boys noiseily hoisting the Finnish flag out front, as 6pm neared. That would be in place until nine the following night, as per tradition.
One of them knocked on the door asking to come in, but Meena said no way. They would tease them until later.
No one noticed the six year old silver Volkswagen arrive.
As the beer and conversation flowed, the humid evening began to draw in. The sun was setting over the edge of the lake. Sanna made another beer run back into the cabin.
She noticed the spare room door closed. She inched forward on her toes and listened quietly outside the door. She heard movement and a sniffle.
Then a cough. A gutteral sound. From the depths of the stomach.
The door flew open catching Sanna by surprise. She was pulled from her stance and flung onto the bed.
The room was entirely dark.
Landing on her face, she struggled for air. She was disorientated and tasted blood oozing from her mouth. She heard the door slam behind her.
She felt him tugging at her blue bikini bottoms. Then heard his zip unzipping.
Nestled in the front pocket of her bottoms was the stove knife.
Turning over, she drove it home.
Her police training bore fruit.
wd Shane, good story
Thanks Suzie.
Hi everyone, my first attempt for one of these. I hope you like it. Thanks
Summer insomnia: 888 words (don’t know how I did that!)
Spain was hot.
There was no doubt about it, the thermometer read 28 Celsius and the day hadn’t even begun! During the day the sun had been scorching my skin with high 30s and low 40s. For a boy from England that’s almost unthinkable, we’re use to our mild 0-20 degrees all year long with frequent light showers regulating the temperature.
Perhaps the heat partially explains my lack of sleep. I’m not normally an insomniac but this last month I have been sleeping less and less. Five weeks ago I was in England, five weeks ago I would sleep eight hours a day…every day! No exceptions. Well, except maybe when I overslept at the weekends, but even that was rare.
No I was regular as clockwork, 10:25 pm to bed, 10:35 ish asleep and then wake up again at 6:30 am, with maybe a little leeway for occasional events that might spoil my routines. However, moving to Spain seamed to change all that. Now I go to bed at 10:25 and wait…and wait…and still can’t get to sleep. If I’m luck,y I might get an hour or two tonight before the deluge of light waves break through the floodgates of my curtains and pound my eyes removing any chance I have of sleep.
If I can get to sleep before the tide comes in, then I may have a chance of some rest today, but the last month leaves me less than hopeful.
I wish I knew why I couldn’t sleep. A new country, a new climate, unsettled from travel? I’ve considered them all and really hoped that I was just adjusting and would get over it. But it’s been a month and I still can’t sleep! I’ve even tried taking some of those sleeping pills and all they do is leave me more tired during the rest of the day with no noticeable effect on my sleep.
At least after today all the days get shorter, well it’s the longer nights I really care about. More darkness has to help with sleep, surely? Or maybe it won’t make one bit of difference. Maybe it’s something deeper that’s causing this. Something more than Spain…something in me?
Before you even start to guess,I didn’t run away from something. I hadn’t committed a crime or jilted a lover. I came to Spain for my work, it’s as simple as that. The company asked me to move and take care of the accounts in their Seville office and I leaped at the chance. On paper it had everything, Hot climate, more money, the ex-pat community to combat homesickness and a chance to rekindle my interesting in learning a foreign language, which I hadn’t invested any serious amount of time in since school.
It was all that and more. Seville really did capture my heart from the moment I saw it. The mixture of Gothic and Mudejar style architecture, the museums dotted across town and the incredible atmosphere when the festivals take place. Seville wasn’t home, it was better than that.
So why can’t I sleep?
Okay, new tactic, think about ANYTHING other than sleeping, that’s the common advice, isn’t it? Counting sheep is all about not thinking about sleep, distracting your mind and clear it of difficult thoughts…or something like that. In fact, I remember watching a program once that said that counting any, not just sheep, is a great way to fall asleep and the only reason sheep became the default option is because shepherds were often found asleep when they were supposed to be guarding their flocks. In order to get out of being told off, they blamed it on counting their sheep.
I’d make a good shepherd. My insomnia would mean I’d never fall asleep on the job and I have a good mind for numbers, accountants need to. Although, I guess modern shepherds don’t really stay up all night counting sheep, they drive around in Landrovers and heard them into their pens before retiring to their comfortable farm houses.
I know this because I met a farmer once. I was going on a trip away with some friends for the weekend. We were all feeling the strain from work and so decided to go to a remote little farm house, unplug, go for some walks and generally relax. The first night really set the tone for the rest of the weekend. Our directions were more like the instructions in a roleplay game and we soon found ourselves somewhere across a field at a turn, one way carried along the rough surface and the other down another muddier path. So of course we went down the muddier path only to find there was no bend around the corner and it was just a space of open ground on the field (in our defence it was very dark).
Anyway, we set off in an attempt to find someone to help and came across a little farm house with Jeep accessory. The farmer was great and despite having guest arriving for a nice relaxing dinner as we turned up he quickly game to the rescue and we were soon back on our way. I remember looking round his house, the comfortable sofa, the sheep skin rugs, the fumes from the roast winding round the house and out of the door.
I bet I could fall asleep there.
I like how realistic this stream of consciousness is.
Katie
Thanks Katie, I wanted to try and show those thought that keep going off on tangents and then returning to the same thing over and over.
The Bircher street boys were exceedingly talented in the area of bragging and troublemaking. The trouble consisted of petty crimes; riding bikes across lawns, hiding newspapers, stealing fruit from the farmers market, and sometimes chasing girls.
Probably the worst of the troublemaking during the summer of ‘69, was the Johnson boys fire. It started at the empty lot next to the laundromat. The weeds grew pretty high that summer and playing army-men with matches proved to be more than a nine year old and a five year old could handle. The fire quickly got out of hand and the boys were seen running towards the Tastee Freeze. Of course, Mrs. McKee, who lived at that end of the street, felt it her duty to phone their father immediately after she notified the fire department.
Soon after that fire-filled day Mr. Johnson loaded his truck and moved away. The boys didn’t help him. Mrs. Johnson finally told the boys that their Dad wasn’t really their Dad and that she had run the imposter off, and they better be good from then on or she’d bring him back. The boys were extra careful after that, but still found trouble in the form of mostly pestering each other and the other members of the gang.
The summer of ‘69 would be the last year of the Gilbert School summer camp; glorified babysitting for the first through sixth graders. That year the neighborhood mom’s decided the kids would walk to camp – after all, they agreed, it was only a mile or so away. The camp traditionally started on the longest day of summer, soon after the last day of school. The boys knew it was the Summer Solstice but didn’t really know what that meant; to them it was simply the start of long boring days at camp. The campers played caroms, frisbee, made arts and crafts, and once or twice during the summer went all the way to the beach on a short bus.
…
“Mom, Johnny’s only in the first grade, he can’t walk with us, why can’t Vicki take him, and she’s older?” Bobby pleaded.
“You can ask her, if she agrees then you can walk with your buddies.” Mom said.
“Mom, it’s a gang, we’re not just buddies.” Bobby plucked.
Bobby’s sister agreed to take charge of the first grader, but not without a fair amount of haggling. He had to agree to take half her chores, which meant now Bobby, had to both wash, and dry the dishes. She was often seen pulling Johnny along her chosen route, Johnny dragging his feet, constantly mumbling about how unfair it was that he couldn’t walk with the gang. He vowed to start his own gang when he got older.
…
“Bobby, which way should we go this summer?” Jeffrey asked. Jeffrey was small for his age and last summer, he couldn’t climb Mrs. Birchers wall; that meant the best friends couldn’t take that shortcut together until now.
“Do you want to go over Mrs. Birchers wall?” Bobby replied.
Just as the two boys reached the wall, Danny and Grady, a couple members of the gang, were behind them motioning for them to hurry up. This was a popular shortcut because of the dangerous trapeze-walk along the top, the hop-down rolling-tumble, and then the adventure through the alley past the sleeping men. The reward was that the rest of the way consisted of weaving through the apartments where the pretty girls lived. The girls were fun to talk to and some of them still wore mini-skirts. Grady told the gang that last summer Susie, the cutest one, gave him a puff from her cigarette and then drove him in her car the rest of the way to camp. Nobody believed him and after a few scuffles the story became lost and not often repeated.
“Are you guys gonna go or not?” Grady asked.
“You guys go first.” Bobby offered.
“No, no, no, no NO …” Danny uttered vehemently. “We want to see Jeffrey go.”
“You’ve been practicing right, Jeffrey? Bobby whispered.
“Of course, I have. Piece of cake.”
“Groovy then, throw your lunch up there and get going.” Bobby said.
The lunch toss had to be made with precision or Mrs. Bircher’s dog would take it before a nine or ten year old boy could jump down and back up. One time Mr. Biscuit barked so loud that Mrs. Bircher came out with her broom and knocked six boys off the wall in one sweep. The other side of the wall was Mr. Jackson’s concrete yard and swimming pool. Mr. Jackson didn’t mind the boys cutting through his yard but he was thought to be a kidnapper, so the boys had the fear in them and would not – under any circumstances – be caught dead in his yard.
“Nice toss Jeffrey, now get up on that wall, remember no boosts.” Danny said. The no boost rule kept the traffic down.
Jeffrey finally got up on the wall and lay there a second trying to push back tears. During the climb he scraped off some skin from his underarms and belly. It wasn’t going well and finally on his feet he began the trapeze-walk. Then Bobby, then Grady, and finally Danny were on the wall performing a chain-like, trapeze-act the forty or so steps to the drop down tumble, and the freedom of the alley.
Then it happened. Jeffrey dropped his lunch. Mr. Biscuit gobbled up the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches along with the paper sack. Then Jeffrey fell. On his way down while trying to catch himself he scraped the underside of his forearms. As we tore past on our way to freedom I peeked back to see that Jeffrey had landed on top of Mrs. Bircher’s prized blue-ribbon roses.
“You guys, we gotta go back.” I begged.
“Jeffrey took the pledge Bobby. He knows if one of us gets caught you leave the gang out of it and take your punishment.” Danny explained.
“I’m going back, Danny, give me a boost.”
“Nope, no boosts and if you go back, you and Jeffrey are out of the gang!”
Bobby left his sack lunch and flew up the wall digging for all he had. Two scraped elbows and knees later, he made it to the top.
“Jeffrey, here I come. I’ll help you.”
Mrs. Bircher had been watching through her back door. She ran to where Jeffrey lay. She beckoned Bobby off the wall. He moved, seemingly not of his own accord because suddenly he was on the ground. She motioned for him to come closer, he did and she held him until she could wrench Jeffrey out of the roses and stood them both up.
The moment she touched Bobby, he knew this would be the beginning of his nightmares. She had coal black eyes, the whites too, so much so that when Bobby looked into them he saw himself looking back. Her face looked like it was decaying away, and when she smiled her teeth were black and the gums rotten.
The smell was too much and both boys bolted back over the wall, tumble-rolled down to the alley, passed by the sleeping men, ran through the apartments where the pretty girls lived, and finally crossed the big street and on the longest day of summer strolled into camp, right on time.
Maybe that’s what the solstice part meant, they both thought – the nightmare day.
That was great Robert! You totally had me sucked into the kid’s world. I was pulling for Jeffrey and Bobby and could feel the atmosphere and emotion.
Thanks Beck!
love the description of Mrs Bircher. WD Robert
FAR-POINT
Distance – and a sense of freedom growing with the number of miles traveled from what has weighed down and incited the desperate determination to make a change.
Distance – and a growing sense of anxiety: to get to water, food, shelter, rest, before determination gives way to exhaustion.
Distance – and the longest day of the year, the day the earth heads farthest away from its source of sustenance and mortal danger.
Distance to be covered under this sun, today. Summer just coming into main strength, obliterating the short spring’s gentleness, slamming the heat down. Woods and low hills waver in its haze, and the worn trail leads farther away from what-has-been, and so much of that seems
(like a dream, but it’s a memory: darkened sanctuary, dramatic spotlight playing down inside the baptistry upon two white-robed figures in clear waist-high water, the light gleaming off the silver-edged hair of Brother Vaughn, who has one hand high in the air and the other to the shoulder of the newest Saved, a big round girl with short dark hair and red spots on her face. Her eyes are scared because she hasn’t got her glasses.
” . . . that like as Christ was raised up from the dead by the glory of the Father, even so we ought also to walk in newness of life . . . .” Brother Vaughn’s gentle voice carries everywhere, its rises and falls as known and comforting as the boy’s winter coat, the one he’s had for three years. How old is he?)
— toward that-which-shall-be. Placing one foot, then the other. (You need to put on some speed, ol’ buddy.) He snorts. His dad used to call him “ol’ buddy” when he was in a little trouble.
(Why was Harlan so angry that day at her memorial?)
(This aint old home week – move it.) The lucky ride put him six counties north. He knows this stretch of river-bottom. A wild place for wild creatures. He is feral now.
Relentlessly, from more recently:
(They dress for Richard and Leslie’s wedding as the TV in the next room blares, “The summer solstice began this afternoon, and tomorrow will be the longest day of nineteen ninety-nine . . .”. Later they stand very close, faces and bodies almost touching, sharing the microphone, the body of the guitar between them almost like a child held by its father. Harmonizing on the old Irving Berlin song, Always, her alto voice is a calm assurance vibrating next to his heart, entwining with his baritone. It’s for the new bride and groom, but their own love reasserts itself when they sing to each other and for others. It is a good night . . .
. . . until sometime after 4 am, when he wakes by instinct, reaches and feels the cold sweat covering the arm next to his, and bounds out of bed and to the refrigerator for the soda and the sugar, her blood sugar’s bottomed out again, and when that doesn’t work he’ll call 9-1-1 for the sixth time this year. She will be too exhausted to go to work that day.)
The farthest point. From former closeness. Force the eyes back into focus (that’s sweat running down, c’mon now get it together, OUCH! — pick your damn feet up, it’s all past and gone). The shaggy old trees nearer the water invite to their shade (but I’m not sheltering I’m moving, d’you hear? Refill the water bottle at that shallow bend yonder). The distancing sun’s blistering heat feels angry on the stubborn flesh.
Suddenly the cell-phone at his hip begins its ring-tone; he reaches impatiently and turns it off. He reaches the moving water, squats, fills the bottle. The birds sing (I wish I knew more about birds, really knew them). He allows himself to rest there for one minute, then rises and continues on feet beginning to ache. The woods deepen ahead, he’ll find a place for the night . . .
(Flash: Gordon’s funeral. He loved their singing, so here they are, close with guitar, voices entwining on the centuries-old hymn:
“Nothing in my hand I bring,
Simply to Thy cross I cling;
Let the water and the blood
From Thy wounded side which flowed
Be of sin the double cure:
Save from wrath and make me pure.”
Afterward, people tell them there is a uniqueness as well as beauty about their two voices together. They are more than the sum of themselves.)
Walking on. There have been long days . . .
(Two months ago: At 5 am she gives a start that wakes him immediately. He swivels his feet down, sensing it’s not about low blood sugar this time. Another spasm jolts her body, then she opens her eyes and calls his name with alarm. It will be her last word. He’s on the phone with 9-1-1 in seconds, lays the phone down, performs chest compressions as instructed. “I’m sorry, God, for my sins, I’m sorry about . . . please . . . ” But as they roll her to the ambulance still trying to re-start the heart and the cop speaks reassuring words he won’t remember, he knows what-has-been is over and his life’s headed for that-which-shall-be.)
And:
(The people who love her overflow the tiny church. Friends sing; today he cannot. At some point he becomes aware of the cold angry eyes of her brother Harlan boring into him from the other side of the room. A police detective from the next county, Harlan has always inspired awe and a bit of fear in him; today the fear is immediate and personal and visceral: what is it he knows?)
. . . but this is the longest day of all. And this day shows no sign of drawing toward evening. His feet crunch on the gravelly dirt, and he finds himself reciting a text exhumed from memory:
“And the sun stood still, and the moon stayed, until the people had avenged themselves on their enemies . . . . The sun stood still in the midst of heaven, and hasted not to go down about a whole day. And there was no day like that before it or after it . . . .” Neither he nor the scrawny mesquite bushes near the path cast any shadow.
A bend in the trail. He hears gravel skittering, then out steps Harlan, service revolver in both hands, aimed deliberately, and says, “This for you, ol’ buddy.” There’s no time to react. The shot strikes him just where he is distinctively a man, and everything is suddenly clear: this is his life, not one imagined for him. It’s about what he has chosen, not about what is expected of him. In this moment he knows that no god brought any of them together, it was human beings, attracted. The only punishment is meted out by people doing what they believe is right. And he’s not sorry about a single thing he’s ever done. On hands and knees, awash, he walks for these moments in newness of life.
I like this John made me think, I like that
I love this. Especially the structure, and the pace. Written with a lot of heart, and challenges the reader.
I sat on the hospital bed, taking in the gloom the boring monochrome room offered. This was where my father spent the last few moments of his life after I brought him in. Tears started to roll down my face. I quickly wipe them away but a saying popped into my mind. “True men cry when they’re hurt,” was what my father always told me. So I cried, clutching the letter he left together with a list of things we did just today.
”To my only son, Mike,
By the time you’re reading this I would already be dead. I know I should have told you about the cancer and a lot more things in fact, but I was afraid of getting rejected by you again.
I know what I did to your mother was very wrong and I’ve already apologized to her and she forgave me, though not at once. I realized I never apologized to you. You, my one and only son who was caught in the middle of it all. You, my one and only son who means so much to me.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not being with you on your 21st birthday. I’m sorry for not attending your graduation. I’m sorry for not going to any of your band performances. I’m sorry for not supporting you in your dream. I’m sorry for being such a rotten father. I’m sorry.
Attached to this letter is a list of things I told myself I had to do before I died. I did my best to get them all done in time, but I wasn’t sure I was able to pull it off. Most of the things in it concern you so I wasn’t confident in achieving this, but it didn’t hurt to try and make my remaining months the best months of my life.
I hope you’ll remember me as the father you spent time with today, and not the father who wasn’t there at all.
Always looking after you,
Dad”
The separate sheet of paper was crumpled and stained, probably form coffee, orange juice and a few tears too. I went through each item and I couldn’t help but smile. He was able to cross out everything on the list and most of them were done only today.
When did he get the time to strike these out without me noticing? And how was he able to write down the little notes too? I shook my head and whispered a simple “Dad.” He never ceases to surprise me.
Today we went around the city, eating, drinking, talking and goofing off. Mainly it was a boys’ day off for the both of us since my fiancé and my mom had convinced me to talk to my father about the marriage despite the hatred I had for him. They told me I didn’t really hate my father and I realized that they were right. I even missed him, a lot.
Now, I’m going to miss him even more.
I returned to reading the list to distract me and I smiled with tears in my eyes as I replayed in my mind the things we did that were on the list. But when I reached the end, my smile vanished. There was still one thing that wasn’t crossed out.
“Tell my son that I love him on his wedding day.”
“On his wedding day” was written in red ink instead of black like the rest of the sentence.
I cursed and crumpled the sheets in my hand. He’s such an idiot. No, I’m the idiot for not talking to my father for so long.
I didn’t notice when my fiancé came in but it was comforting to have her beside me, sitting there with her hands wrapped around mine.
“He’ll be able to attend our wedding. We’ll reserve him a seat,” she said as I continued to sob. She let go of my hand and started to search through her bag. She took the papers out of my hand and started scribbling down things.
“Here.”
I looked at the list. It now had a new pen color, green. A date was written beside the last item in my dad’s list – our wedding date. “On that day, he’ll be able to cross this off and I’m sure he’s also crossed this one too!” She crossed the second to the last item off with her green pen. “You agree?”
I nodded. She smiled. I kissed her on the forehead. I love her, and this was one of the many reasons why.
“Let’s go.”
“Are you sure, love? Don’t you want to rest a little bit more? You had a long day.”
I smiled. “Yeah. I’m all right. It really was a long day. Longest day I’ve ever had.”
It’s cool that the father and son got to spend the last day together. I want to know more about what they did and the logistics of it all.
Katie
I was worried about the word count and I wasn’t sure how to go about what they did so I kind of left it out. 🙁
Unisse, well drawn characters, lovely, bitterweet.
Thanks Suzie. 🙂
The Ragtag Team
I certainly hadn’t intended to stay and watch, but it was hot, August hot in June. I was sweating profusely and my feet hurt like hell. My Nikes had taken me almost ¾ of the way into my 3-mile walk before they really started to pinch, just as the last quarter mile took me past the City ball fields. It was early evening, just after six, but the sun was still high in a brilliant blue sky, and since today was the summer solstice, the longest day of the season, the games could go well into the night before it got too dark to play without lights. The bleachers were full of spectators. In two of the ball fields, the black and gold uniforms were up to bat while the red and whites dotted the infield and the outfield. Sounds of clapping and cheering could be heard, shouts of “Go, run!”, “Take the base”, and even an occasional “Hey batter, batter, swing batter.” I had to shade my eyes from the sun to see that the scoreboards were lit up, HOME 4, VISITOR 2 on one and HOME 1, VISITOR 2 on the other. Nope, they weren’t going to need the lights tonight.
I sat down on a wood bench, untied my shoes and peeled off my damp socks. I was already getting a blister on the heel of each foot, damn it. It would be a long walk home. A good breeze had kicked up though, just enough to move the trees and give some relief from the heat. It felt good against my sweaty skin. As I stretched my bare toes out in front of me, my eyes were drawn to another field farther down a sloping hill, surrounded by galvanized wire fencing like the rest, but the scoreboards weren’t lit up and there wasn’t a matching uniform in sight. A group of guys, maybe twenty or so, were gathered in a cluster near the dugout, all swinging their arms, making wide circular arcs, first frontwards, then in reverse. I was far enough away that I couldn’t really make out faces or even ages for that matter. Some were wearing sweat pants and tee-shirts, some wore baggy shorts, and one was even wearing real baseball pants, tight baseball pants. A few wore ball caps. They were definitely older than Little Leaguers yet young enough not to have pot bellies or receding hairlines. Some were tall and muscular, and some were of smaller build, shorter and stockier than the others. As I watched, they all began stretching, standing on one foot while grabbing the opposite ankle and pulling the leg up behind them. One leg, then the other, working and stretching the muscles. Next, they all began to move as a group into deep knee lunges, one leg out front, bending low at the knee, then alternating with the other leg, slow big steps. Even though I realized they were obviously doing warm-ups, I laughed out loud, for they were bobbing up and down like rubber ducks in a pond. For a moment, I was reminded of the 1970’s movie, The Bad News Bears, where a team of misfits, the league laughing stock, managed to pull it together in the end and show everyone what they were really made of.
But these guys were serious. They were intent on their warm-up, no talking or laughing, and I could tell they’d done this many times before. For over half an hour, I looked on as the group went through drills, running in lines sideways, skillfully crossing one foot over the other, dropping to the ground in a large circle in the grassy outfield, first lying flat, then turning to one side, resting, then rolling over to the other. I was definitely impressed when this mismatched group of men all threw their legs back up and over their heads, some even touching the ground with their toes. I had trouble doing that on a good day.
Back on their feet again, they all grabbed their gloves and paired up for some practice catch. The air was filled with “thwack, thwack”, as ball met glove and I couldn’t help but notice the perfect arc of the baseballs as they were tossed from one glove back to another, the whole long line throwing back and forth, back and forth, easily, rhythmically. And as they threw, one player backed a few steps away from the other, so the throws had to become a little harder, and go a little farther. I was thoroughly enjoying the display, amazed that not one ball was dropped.
I waited, but no other team showed up, no fancy uniformed players took the field to challenge what I had now christened The Ragtag Team. Warm-up finished, they divided into teams and the players not up to bat made their way to the outfield. The Pitcher took the mound, the First, Second and Third Basemen took to their bases and the Catcher positioned himself behind Home Plate. The Right, Left and Center Fielders spread out across the open area between the infield and the back fence. White Cap, as I had dubbed him, took Right, Muscle Man took Center and Tight Pants covered Left. Shortstop positioned himself behind and just right of the pitcher, not far from second base.
The first batter up took a swing, meeting the pitch with a solid thud. The ball soared through the air, heading straight for Right field. White Cap, eyes locked on the ball, backed up several steps and effortlessly made a perfect catch, then quickly fired the ball to Shortstop, who caught it, threw to Second, who tagged the runner. “Out,” someone called. Next batter, high pop fly to Center. Muscle Man deftly scooped it into his glove, then powerfully flung it to Shortstop, who leapt up to grab it, and with a quick, strong right arm threw it Home. “Out.” The next batter up hit a ground ball just to the right of the pitcher. Shortstop was there again to scoop it up low, then fire it into First for another tag. Again and again, balls hit, pop flies, grounders, even a couple homers over the fence. Quick reflexes, no errors. I sat there, completely taken in.
“So who do you have playing?” I heard someone ask and I turned to see a rather plump woman standing slightly behind me, wearing a big purple visor, shading her eyes against the sun with pink polished fingers.
“Nobody”, I replied. “I’m not here for anybody.”
“Oh,” she said, raising her painted-on eyebrows. Then, “Is this a real game?” she questioned, a hint of disdain in her voice. “They don’t look like a real baseball team.”
“I’m not sure who they are”, I replied, “but I do know, it’s a real game.”
“Humph”, she scoffed, as she walked away.
As the sun began to set, I reluctantly pulled on my socks, slipped into my shoes, and turned to head for home, feeling glad that I’d stumbled on The Ragtag Team tonight. They didn’t need uniforms or lighted scoreboards, stands full of spectators or cheers from a crowd. They were just a bunch of guys getting together simply for the love of the game. Did they have dreams? I wanted to think so. Aren’t dreams where heroes come from? And heroes had come from less.
Whoops! I mistakenly posted a first draft! I will repost my final submission. So sorry, Joe! 🙂
The Ragtag Team
I certainly hadn’t intended to stay and watch, but it was hot, August hot in June. I was sweating profusely and my feet hurt like hell. My Nikes had taken me almost three quarters of the way into my 3-mile walk before they really started to rub, and just as the last quarter mile took me past the City ball fields. It was early evening, just after six, but the sun was still high in a brilliant blue sky, and since today was the summer solstice, the longest day of the season, the games could go well into the night before it got too dark to play without lights. In two of the ball fields, black and gold uniforms were up to bat while red and whites dotted the infield and the outfield. The bleachers were full of enthusiastic spectators. Sounds of clapping and cheering could be heard, shouts of “Go, run!”, “Take the base”, and even an occasional “Hey batter, batter, swing batter.” I had to shade my eyes from the sun to see that the scoreboards were lit up, HOME 4, VISITOR 2 on one and HOME 1, VISITOR 2 on the other. Nope, they weren’t going to need the lights tonight.
I sat down on a wood bench, untied my shoes and peeled off my damp socks. I was already getting a blister on the heel of each foot, damn it. It would be a long walk home. A good breeze had kicked up though, just enough to move the trees and give some relief from the heat. It felt good against my sweaty skin. As I stretched my bare toes out in front of me, my eyes were drawn to another field farther down a sloping hill, surrounded by galvanized wire fencing like the rest, but the scoreboards weren’t lit up and there were no matching uniforms. A group of guys, maybe twenty or so, were gathered in a cluster near the dugout, all swinging their arms, making wide circular arcs, first frontwards, then in reverse. Some were wearing sweat pants and tee-shirts, some wore baggy shorts, and only one was wearing real baseball pants, tight baseball pants. Most wore ball caps and sunglasses. I was far enough away though that I couldn’t really make out faces to gauge what age group they were. They were definitely older than Little Leaguers yet not old enough to have pot bellies or receding hairlines. Some were tall and muscular, and some were short and stocky. As I watched, they all began stretching, standing on one foot while grabbing the opposite ankle and pulling the leg up behind them. One leg, then the other, working and stretching the muscles. Next, they all began to move as a group into deep lunges, one leg out front, bending low at the knee, then alternating with the other leg, advancing in slow big steps. Even though I realized they were obviously doing warm-ups, I laughed out loud, for they were bobbing up and down like ducks in a pond. But there was no laughing or talking on the field. They were intent on their routine, and I could tell they’d done this many times before. For over half an hour, I looked on as the group went through drills, running in lines sideways, skillfully crossing one foot over the other, dropping to the ground in a large circle in the grassy outfield, first lying flat, then turning to one side, more stretching, then rolling over to the other. I was most impressed when this mismatched group of men all threw their legs back up and over their heads, some even touching the ground with their toes. I had trouble doing that on a good day.
Back on their feet again, they all grabbed their gloves and paired up for some catching practice. The air was filled with “thwack, thwack”, as ball met glove and I couldn’t help but notice the perfect arc of the baseballs as they were tossed from one glove back to another, two long lines of guys throwing at the same time, back and forth, not in sync, but easily, rhythmically. And as they threw, one player would back a few steps away from the other, and the throws became harder, longer. I was completely amazed that not one ball was dropped.
I waited, but no other team showed up, no fancy uniformed players took the field to challenge what I had now christened The Ragtag Team. Warm-up finished, they divided into teams themselves and the players not up to bat made their way to the outfield. The Pitcher took the mound, the First, Second and Third Basemen took their bases and the Catcher positioned himself behind Home Plate. The Right, Left and Center Fielders spread out across the open area between the infield and the back fence. White Cap, as I had dubbed him, took Right, Muscle Man took Center and Tight Pants covered Left. Shortstop positioned himself behind and just right of the pitcher, not far from second base.
The first batter up took a swing, meeting the pitch with a solid thud. The ball soared high in the air, heading straight for Right field. White Cap, eyes locked on the ball, backed up several steps and effortlessly made a perfect catch. “Out,” someone called. Next batter, another high pop fly to Center, right into Muscle Man’s glove. Again and again, balls hit, runners advanced. Pop flies, grounders, even a couple homers over the fence. I watched, amazed, as Tight Pants fired a ball to Shortstop, who instantly turned it, throwing to Second for the tag. Muscle Man deftly scooping a low hit ball into his glove, then powerfully flinging it to Shortstop, who leapt up to grab it, and with a quick, strong right arm threw it Home. A ground ball hit just to the right of the pitcher’s mound. Shortstop was there again to scoop it up low, then fire it into First for another tag. Quick reflexes, no errors, perfect timing. I sat there, completely taken in.
“So who do you have playing?” I heard someone ask and I turned to see a rather plump woman standing slightly behind me, wearing a purple visor and big hoop earrings, shading her eyes against the sun with pink polished fingers.
“Nobody”, I replied. “I’m not here for anybody.”
“Oh,” she said, raising her painted-on eyebrows. Then, “Is this a real game?” she questioned, a hint of disdain in her voice. “They don’t look like a real baseball team.”
“I’m not sure who they are”, I replied, “but I do know it’s a real game.”
“Humph”, she scoffed, as she walked away.
As the sun finally began to set, I reluctantly pulled on my socks, slipped into my shoes, and turned away to head for home, feeling very happy that I’d stumbled on The Ragtag Team tonight. They didn’t need fancy uniforms or lighted scoreboards, stands full of spectators or cheers from a crowd. They were just a bunch of guys getting together simply for the love of the game. Did they have baseball dreams, I wondered? I wanted to think so; some of them were good, really good. Shortstop, White Cap, Muscle Man. Maybe someday. For weren’t dreams where heroes came from?
This piece stretched me a lot. I feel the need to include the disclaimer that I’m really not a horrible person.
Katie
Myriad of Emotions
Patrick knew what was happening long before I did. His education got him into trouble for knowing too much. It irks me when he tells me things about myself that I have yet to acknowledge. I thought it was just my age, but then one week turned to two, and he became more insistent. I relented; he was right. What should have been joyful news devastated me.
I wailed. I didn’t understand. This wasn’t in the plan. My brain boiled with unanswerable questions. Did we have the finances for this? What would this mean for our family? How could this happen?
We started summer vacation by sharing our secret with the kids. I needed time to tell myself. I wanted to be able to choke back tears while choking out words. It seemed like an unrealistic goal. Patrick did most of the talking, and I tried to smile. When we finally spewed those crushing words, they were met with a myriad of emotions.
Like a typical teenager, Ethan protested as if this was a decision we’d made without him. I want to tell him that if this was a decision, it was made without me too. A decision none of us would have chosen.
Well, except Nikki. She was giddy. I sat there helplessly while Patrick tried to calm her down. Eventually she perched on the couch next to me shaking back and forth like an uncontainable ball of energy. Under any other circumstances it would have been hilarious.
I felt the tears welling in my eyes as Patrick gave them a pep talk. He told them about what was happening and the changes we needed to make. He said we were excited. I wasn’t sure if either one of us believed the words escaping his mouth. I had to stop listening. To fake attentiveness, I looked beyond Patrick. My eyes caught the lamp from my grandmother, the one that’s turned a certain direction to hide the missing chunk taken out by a stray football.
The outdated photograph of our completed family jumped off the wall at me. Nikki was just a baby cuddled in my arms. I remember how little sleep I got in those days. I couldn’t live like that again. We were all smiling in the photo. So proud. Enjoying our sleepless life. Pleased for who we were. Now we are not. Now we are changing.
Patrick said my name at least twice before I heard him. In my daze, I didn’t notice Ethan leave the room. Nikki was in front of me with her arms around my waist.
“I’m so excited, Mommy,” she said laying her head on my stomach.
I didn’t say anything as I hugged her back. I wanted to tell her I was too but that would have been a lie.
When we let go, she ran off to play.
Patrick’s arm slid around me. “Sarah, I love you,” he said.
He leaned in and planted a kiss on my lips, but I pulled back.
“Call me Abraham.”
I almost laughed. It was a funny joke. Instead the tears slipped from my eyes and raced down my face. He pulled me closer to him and told me everything was going to be alright. Unlike the children, I did not believe him. What I would have given for the naïveté to accept his words as truth. Instead I kept wondering when this nightmare would end. It didn’t. I hated myself for being so sorrowful during a time that should have been filled with happiness.
Our lives were changing and there was nothing we could do but accept it. Acceptance is a long process. After snapping at my husband, telling the kids, and pleading with God, I slowly grew closer to acceptance. Only God could change the situation, that I had accepted.
When they explained my opinions, I questioned what I had accepted. They told me I had the power to change it if I wanted to. I found myself seriously contemplating something I never considered before. I wondered if I could go through with it. I couldn’t even bring it up to Patrick.
They told me I had to be more careful this time. I couldn’t push the limits. My sorrow grew in thinking about all of the things I had to give up. I was in for a wild ride.
My ride got wilder; something I didn’t think was possible until it happened. My gracefully aging father was suddenly not aging so gracefully. Already an emotional wreck, I boarded the plane to fly across the country to say goodbye. Summertime tickets were too expensive for the whole family to go, so Patrick stayed home with the kids. I traveled alone, something I hadn’t done in thirteen years since Ethan was born. Thirteen years seemed like a lifetime ago. Thirteen years ago my secret was exciting not devastating.
It’s a miracle I made it to the right city. Patrick’s warning phone call was not enough to prepare my niece for the mess of a woman she would be collecting from the airport.
Throughout the week I was there, the family kept transferring me to someone else’s care. Every day I had a new chaperone. They were more willing to leave my ailing father alone than they were sweaty me. Maybe that’s because he was miraculously improving. I was not.
My sisters invited me out to our favorite martini bar to celebrate summer. I was forced to decline. No one knew the real reason I was upset. They all assumed it was because of Dad’s health. It was so much more than that. So many questions weighed on my mind. So many decisions were to be made. Temptations I had never considered plagued my mind. By the end of the week, Dad was out of the ICU and I was ready to go home and be with my family.
The flight home was horrendous. I spent the whole time staring out the window, tears streaming down my face, as I tried to hide my pain. When the stewardess asked if I wanted anything, I didn’t even look at her when I requested ginger ale. I had hoped it would settle my stomach. It didn’t.
As soon as I reached him, I collapsed into Patrick’s arms. I’m sure my eyes told him everything. His eyes told me this was not good. As I explained with my voice, his look of concern grew and his gentle nodding overwhelmed me with fear. I started sliding; his firm grip on my shoulder held me upright. The extra hours of sunlight would be good as we left the kids home alone for a bit longer. We needed to make a stop. This was real life.
They said it was over; the decision had been made for me. When they told me the news, I cried. Mistaken for tears of mourning, mine were tears of relief. My nightmare was over and my burden lifted. I had hoped for this. I hated this. I hated I’d hoped for this, but I was relieved it was happening. June 20, 2012, the day of the year when the sun shone the longest for me was also the day of my life when the sun also shone the brightest. It’s strange how something so horrific can bring such peace. But for me, it did.
No need for the diclaimer. I truly get it. The story hit home for me. In the same situation, I would have had the same reaction, doubts, and considerations. At this point in my life, I am not prepared for that sort of commitment. Great story.
Thanks for the assurance, Tanya!
Katie
I agree with Tanya: no need for the disclaimer. This is a raw, brave story. Big hug, Katie!
Thanks!
True to life and emotionally honest in the telling.
Thanks!
Thank you for this brave story Katie. It reveals a real human behind the mask of “everything’s just peachy.”
Thanks! That’s something I’m all about: showing life even when it’s not all peachy.
Katie
So good I read it twice and then I read it backwards. Well done Katie
Thanks, Suzie!
Summer Heat
“Roll outta bed girls. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.” It was already light in the room. I wondered what daddy was doing home on a Wednesday. We knew better than to dilly dally. I flipped the sheet across my single bed, smoothing it the way he had taught me. Mitering the corners Navy style, I noticed my little sisters sliding out of their cocoons from the top with the sheets still tucked in tight. They always got their beds made before mine. But at least I allowed myself the luxury of kicking the sheet off during the night. A tiny breeze played with the lace curtain at the open window. I lingered for a moment as the air hit my damp skin.
The aroma of pancakes called from the kitchen. Mama already had a stack ready. As I slid the chrome chair away from the table, it made a terrible noise on the waxed linoleum. The glance mama gave me was clear.
“Sorry,” I said.
She turned back to the griddle without a word.
Daddy came to breakfast splashed with Aqua Velva and whistling. As he fixed his coffee he clanked the spoon in his cup until mama gave him the look. As usual that was his cue to stop. But this morning she didn’t smile.
“We’ve got a whole truck load of Silver Queen girls. Won’t that taste good this winter?” I knew that meant we’d be puttin’ up corn all day. As much as I loved a big bowl of it cream style in cool weather, it was hard to imagine that this heat would ever break. Everybody at church was saying what a great year it was for corn. The preacher even said something from the pulpit about a “corn offering” for the needy. I imagined the farmers putting that in the collection plate when it came around and laughed a little too loudly. Daddy had reached over and put his hand on my shoulder.
“Better get started before it gets any hotter.”
As promised, the bed of daddy’s old blue Chevy was piled high with corn. He stood by the lowered tailgate and shucked it as us three girls used soft brushes to remove the silks. Off and on I’d carry a dishpan full inside to mama. The boiling water on the stove added to the summer heat. The old box fan barely stirred up a breeze. I felt sorry for her but knew to stay out of the way. Wet curls framed her face which seemed unusually sad today.
“Claudia! Take a break and come outside for a minute! I’m cuttin’ the watermelon Larry brought us.”
Whack! The screen door slammed behind me. “Sorry,” I spoke through the door to mama. I waited for her to come out with me but she never did.
The cool sweet melon juice dripped from our elbows and made pink splashes on our legs. With our faces down in our treat we ate until the red turned white. Taking turns to see who could spit their seeds the farthest, I wondered how daddy got his to shoot like that. The sun was high in the sky, but it was still plenty early enough. I learned the hard way last summer not to eat watermelon just before bedtime.
“Go rinse off before you start back on the corn. Be careful now! The water’ll be hot when it first comes out of the hosepipe!” I hoped my sisters appreciated daddy’s generosity. The well had been trying to dry up for several years. Mama had long ago quit planting flowers.
We spent the whole day working on Silver Queen. With the corn finally shucked and silked I headed to the house with the last dishpan full. “Do not let the door slam,” I reminded myself. Through the screen I heard mama say to daddy, “What in the world are we gonna do?”
I set the corn on the porch table and quietly turned away, knowing I was not meant to be part of their conversation. The shaded porch and cool cement floor beckoned me to stretch out on my belly like a dog. But with the windows open, I might be suspected of eaves dropping.
Busying myself in the yard I took the broom and brushed the silks from the picnic table. Daddy’s voice was suddenly behind me.
“I love to see a kid who doesn’t have to be told what to do! Now hop up there and sweep out the back of the truck.”
I was glad to get caught being good. I wanted to ask what was wrong with mama but thought better of it. A few minutes later she appeared with an old sheet which she spread over the picnic table. Behind her came my sisters with the fixins for dinner.
The choice was as usual peanut butter and jelly or tomato. Daddy took a lot of joy in a tomato that could cover a whole piece of bread with one slice. Mama put our sandwiches in front of us. Daddy prayed his regular blessing.
“Thank You for this food and the hands that prepared it.”
Then like a kid in school who was unexpectedly called on to read, he cleared his throat and added,
“And thank You Lord for always gettin’ us through somehow. We know we can count on You. Amen.”
I noticed a tear slip down mama’s face. She quickly wiped it away with the back of her hand. Everyone started in on their sandwiches except the youngest who just sat there. Oh law, please don’t make a ruckus. Daddy’s not one to cater to picky children, and mama is sure not in a sympathetic mood. My tummy did a little flip flop.
“What’s wrong with you Youngin’?”
She answered in her most pitiful voice. “My peanut butter needs to be on the bottom and my jelly needs to be on the top!”
Mama broke her silence. “Oh dear! I’ll have to fix you another one!”
She looked at me and winked as she flipped the sandwich over while daddy pointed out a blue bird perched on the clothesline.
Mama and daddy shared a glance and a smile.
With that, my world was right side up again.
That’s a great ending. Nicely done.
Thanks Brian. Wasn’t sure I landed the plane ; /
I think you have marvelous details here, so much so that I was compelled to go make myself a tomato (and cucumber. and onion. and cheese.) sandwich :-).
Don’t forget the mayo! Hope it makes pink splashes on your plate. = )
I like your ending, it settles well with the warmth of the story.
Thank you Missaralee. Glad you were able to feel the warmth of the household even though trouble was brewing.
great ending Lynna, I love tales that start around food, morning food, aromas and that homeliness.
Lily
“Hey Petal”, someone said behind Lily.
“Stop calling me that, Justin,” Lily said, not glancing his way. She stared at the glittering water at her feet.
“Sorry, I didn’t call you back yesterday. We had a team meeting and we all went out after,” Justin said. Lily said nothing as she continued to stare at the water. “Are you alright?” Justin asked crouching beside her.
She shrugged her shoulders. “I’m fine, and it wasn’t important.”
“Are you mad at me?” Lily started to get up without answering, but then she sat back down. Justin watched her quietly, not really sure what was going on or why she was being so cold toward him. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. I’m here now, is something wrong?”
“Leave me alone, Justin. In fact, stop calling me, stop texting me. Go away,” she finally said, still not looking at him.
“Come on Pet,” Justin started to say, but Lily turned on him, glaring at him so fiercely that he recoiled, realizing she had been crying. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said sharply. “And stop calling me that. I just wanted to tell you — I don’t want you to help with Summer Solstice Festival.”
“I always help you with the festival,” he said, surprised by this entire conversation.
Lily turned back to the glittering water at her feet. “What does it matter? You’re the big man on campus now. You made the varsity football team. You have the cheerleader girlfriend. Everything in the land of Justin is just as it should be.”
“Big man on campus, girlfriend,” Justin repeated, confused.
This time Lily did get up, and turned her back on Justin. “So, those of us less fortunate people, or wait, what did you call us again? Oh yeah, tree hugging, star gazing, hippie’s, we will stay out of your perfect life.”
Justin started to argue his defense, but Lily ran off before he could say anything. He didn’t realize that he had upset her so much. Lily was the one person he knew he could always count on. He would never hurt her. All of this was out of character for Lily, and as Justin watched her run off, he felt horrible and didn’t know what to do. So he just watched her go, her long white skirt swayed in the breeze around her. Her head was low, and her long, silky, black hair hid the hurt on her face.
Justin noticed her feet were bare as she disappeared behind a row of trees. This time, he was the one left staring at the sparkling pond water. He noticed Lily’s favorite flip flops a few feet away, dark blue, with silver stars all along the straps. Stars were her favorite things in the sky. They’d spent hours together, staring up at them.
Lily lived on the other side of the small park, but Justin decided he should let her calm down. Still feeling confused, Justin looked at his own house across the street. He picked up her flip flops and slowly walked home. Just as he started to cross the street, a black Jetta pulled up, and Darcy waved at him from the driver’s seat. That’s when he realized what Lily had meant. Darcy wasn’t his girlfriend. She was his teammate Paul’s little sister, and chauffer, who happened to be a cheerleader.
“Surprise”, she squealed.
Justin forced a smile. “Hey, Darcy.” His brow wrinkled, “What’s going on?”
“It’s the first Friday of summer. There are three parties tonight. We are attending all of them, so Paul sent me to pick you up,” she said.
“Great,” Justin answered. He looked toward Lily’s house, then relented, “I’ll be right out.”
Lily rushed to her bedroom, avoiding her parents. The past few days had been stressful enough for her family, and she didn’t want them to see her upset. She looked in her mirror; her eyes were red and swollen. “It’s for the best. No reason to add another person’s worry and pity to my list,” she told herself. Her eyes filled with tears. “It’s better to tell him goodbye now, so he can move on with his life.”
Weeks had passed since Lily’s encounter with Justin at the pond. He didn’t listen to her wishes. He called and texted her everyday day, but she ignored him. When he brought her flip-flops to her, she refused to see him. Her mother questioned her about it, and Lily said she wanted to get distance from him, to make it easier on him. That of course, made her mother cry, so the subject of Justin stopped coming up.
The truth is that Lily was lonely without Justin around. He was her best friend, and had been since they were eight. Now, she needed him more than ever, but she didn’t want him to deal with the things she was going through. That would only make it worse. For the next few weeks, she consumed herself in the festival preparations, and her painting, despite how horrible she was feeling. This may be the last festival that Lily would be involved in, so it was important to her.
Justin sat on the couch, sulking, and staring blankly at the television. Lily still refused to speak to him. She had never stayed mad at him for this long. He was avoiding everyone else and he kept busy with the summer football program. But the rest of the time, he did exactly what he was doing now, sulk about Lily.
“Justin,” his mom said. He looked at her, she tried to have a blank expression on her face, but he could tell something was wrong. “Can we talk, before I head out to the festival?”
He sat up, “What is it?” he asked, concerned.
“I’ve noticed that you haven’t been spending time with Lily,” she said.
“She won’t talk to me. I said something stupid, now she won’t answer my calls, or my texts. She refuses to see me. I didn’t mean to upset her, but I don’t know why she’s doing this.”
“Well, I just got off the phone with Lily’s mother.” She paused. “Lily is sick,” his mother finally said.
He frowned. “What are you talking about? Sick how?”
The concern on his mother’s was more apparent. “Lily was diagnosed with cancer over a month ago. For the last few weeks, she has been undergoing aggressive chemotherapy. I’m sorry that you didn’t know. It’s bad,” his mother said softly, as if that would help.
Justin felt his throat swell with emotion, then put his head in his hands. “She didn’t tell me.”
“It seems Lily didn’t want anyone to know.”
Justin left the house with only one goal, to find Lily. He hoped she would be at the Summer Solstice Festival. When he finally found her, she was surrounded by sky themed paintings, smiling at admirers of her work. Her eyes still bright blue, like the sky during twilight. She was pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes. She looked more fragile then he remembered, but still beautiful. A blue bandana with silver stars covered her head, where there once was long black hair. When she saw Justin, she froze.
“I’m staying, no matter what,” he said. She smiled and nodded as her eyes filled with tears. “Do you know why I call you Petal?” he asked her.
“No. Why,” she asked.
He hugged her tight. “Because, the petal is the most beautiful part of the flower.”
Lovely story Tanya. Really heartfelt.
Because, the petal is the most beautiful part of the flower – very sweet tender story. Well done
Seventy-Eight
Breaking out of the old folk’s home was easier than Stanley Martineau expected.
“Stanley,” asked the morning orderly, “are you coming down for breakfast?”
“I’ll take it in my room. Today is a special day. I want to be alone.”
The orderly checked the calendar on his wall. “The summer solstice. You must be up to some Indian ceremony.”
Stanley let him think that, and waited for him to return with a breakfast tray. When the orderly was gone, he wrapped his pancake in a napkin and tucked it in his robe pocket, alongside his tobacco. He listened at his door for the creaky wheel of the breakfast cart to disappear. Then he took off down the hall.
Around the corner, past the elevator, and down the stairs he went, no problem. He went to the Yoga for Seniors on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.
He met a nurse at the bottom.
“Stanley,” she asked, “what are you doing down here?”
“Today is a special day. I want to see the birds.”
The nurse let him pass with a smile.
He knew that the front receptionist always snuck out back for a smoke when the residents were at breakfast. There was rarely anyone to welcome here anyway. Silent in his house shoes, he padded his way to the corner just behind her desk and waited. She was bound up in fit of hacking that quickly sent her outside to give her lungs reprieve from the sterile air of the nursing home.
“Here, kitty, kitty.” He patted the countertop and the resident calico hopped up. She arched and rubbed against his hand. He swooped her under his arm and waved good-bye to the birds behind their glass-fronted cage on his way past.
The alarm sounded when he went exited through the front doors. He dropped the cat and shuffled behind the hedge that lined the facade.
“Yee-ow,” she howled. Stanley heard her batting at the door handle with her paws. He doubted she had ever been outside.
He counted silently. “One, two, three…seventy-seven, seventy-eight.” Finally the alarm died, mid-beep.
“Bad cat!” the receptionist scolded with a raspy voice. “Get inside right now. You’re going to get me in trouble.”
The door clicked shut. Stanley ditched his robe behind the hedge, grabbed his pancake, walked two blocks to the highway, and hitchhiked to the rez.
#
A boy followed Stanley down the main drag to the edge of the woods.
“Where are you going?”
“I am going to my grandfather’s house,” Stanley said.
“You are too old to have a grandfather. Let me see who you are.”
Stanley did not turn around. “I must watch where I am going. The sun is setting in my eyes. If I visit you in a dream, you must not follow me like this. Now go home.”
#
Deep in the woods, Stanley opened his mouth. Mosquitoes filled it, a sign that his timing was right and the tree would be ready.
He fought the urge to spit the mosquitoes out. He let the saliva pool under his tongue and swallowed. They were a part of him.
#
Stanley followed the creek to the site where his grandfather had built his wiigiwaam. Like his grandfather, the wiigiwaam had long ago vanished to memory, but the clearing remained in rough, now all sweetgrass and bam. Stanley walked to the spot where the wigwam had been and faced west. He was now his story-self, the one his grandfather had told him would come to pass.
Crisp leaves quaked in the breeze. They whispered the same story they had when he was a child, and now they delivered his grandfather’s words to him again.
“When you were born,” the echo of his grandfather’s voice said, “I planted a birch sapling. It is due west of the wigwam and it will be bigger than the rest. You will see it when you are ready. You can peel the bark when you have seen Abitanibi, the midsummer moon, seventy times. You will not need it any sooner.”
His seventy-eighth Abitanibi would shine tonight, and seventy-eight was a lifetime.
#
Stanley found the tree. He loosened a strip of bark and gently peeled it back.
“Pip, pip, pip,” said the tree. And when a tree spoke those words, it meant that it was ready to offer its skin.
He cupped the test strip in his hands. It was thick. Short black lines ran along the white birch grain. They mirrored the wrinkles that stretched from the calluses at the base of his fingers, down his pale palms, to the points at his wrists where his heartbeat throbbed. The tree was offering its very flesh to him, and he had enough lifeblood within him to use it to make the canoe.
He dropped to his knees and dug around the tree’s base until he unearthed an old tin box. He brushed off the black soil and opened it. Inside, he found all the tools he would need.
He replaced the tools with tobacco and offered it to the tree’s crown before setting the tin on top of its roots. He explained why he was about to remove the tree’s skin, and he felt peace.
He stood on a log. He reached as high as he could toward the sun, now at its zenith. He slit the birch bark all the way to the ground. He loosened the full length of one edge and unwrapped it around the massive truck, pulling off a tall furl of bark.
He set to building his canoe. He had far from enough time or birch bark to do a proper job, but he only needed this canoe to sail one mission.
#
When the canoe was done, Stanley dined upon his rubbery pancake, imagining it was fresh, soft bannock. Then he packed the canoe overhead and followed the deer trail that ran alongside the creek into the sunset. In the thick of the bog woods, he arrived at a pond with an island in the middle where a pair of Canada geese tended their gaggle of bushy goslings. A bald eagle soared overhead. A loon vanished beneath the polished slate surface of the water in pursuit of a fish. These were precisely the birds he had wanted to see when he had left the nursing home that morning.
He launched his canoe into the pond. He dipped the rough paddle he had carved into the water and pulled. He no longer felt the presence of the unseen cancer he harbored, but only the resistance of the pond within his body.
When he reached the deepest part, he cocked the paddle like a javelin and threw it as far as he could. He lay on his back and watched the sky turn from juneberry juice to wet granite as the sky exchanged the sun for Abitanibi.
He slid his hand along the inside of the canoe until he found the fringe of bark he had left loose. He ripped it off. Cool water rushed through the gash.
As his face slipped below the water, he saw fireflies, and he knew them to be the lanterns of spirits flickering between worlds.
He followed.
I like this a lot. Really nicely done; this one is going to stick with me.
Wonderful imagery and detail.
Steph,
This is beautiful. Native Americans have always been the bravest among us …
like this, Steph, wd
Beautiful Step. I’ll remember this especially the scene of him in the canoe.
This is really good! The humor at the first with the nursing home staff and cat is exemplary; made me think of Matthou in Grumpy Old Men. The native lore is fascinating; uneducated, I had to look up all the words I didn’t know on Wiki, and gained knew knowledge of an indigenous culture. Including his meeting his death with dignity and the honor of his ancestors. A great story!
Thanks, everyone, for the thoughtful readings and encouraging comments. I have to say that I am so impressed with the stories I am reading in this month’s contest. I hope to make my way through all of them!
I really liked the spirit of this piece; it is so gentle and dignified.
I like the simplicity of your story. The humor and tranquility play off of each other nicely.
Lily
“Hey Petal”, someone said behind Lily.
“Stop calling me that, Justin,” Lily said, not glancing his way. She stared at the glittering water at her feet.
“Sorry, I didn’t call you back yesterday. We had a team meeting and we all went out after,” Justin said. Lily said nothing as she continued to stare at the water. “Are you alright?” Justin asked crouching beside her.
She shrugged her shoulders. “I’m fine, and it wasn’t important.”
“Are you mad at me?” Lily started to get up without answering, but then she sat back down. Justin watched her quietly, not really sure what was going on or why she was being so cold toward him. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. I’m here now, is something wrong?”
“Leave me alone, Justin. In fact, stop calling me, stop texting me. Go away,” she finally said, still not looking at him.
“Come on Pet,” Justin started to say, but Lily turned on him, glaring at him so fiercely that he recoiled, realizing she had been crying. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said sharply. “And stop calling me that. I just wanted to tell you — I don’t want you to help with Summer Solstice Festival.”
“I always help you with the festival,” he said, surprised by this entire conversation.
Lily turned back to the glittering water at her feet. “What does it matter? You’re the big man on campus now. You made the varsity football team. You have the cheerleader girlfriend. Everything in the land of Justin is just as it should be.”
“Big man on campus, girlfriend,” Justin repeated, confused.
This time Lily did get up, and turned her back on Justin. “So, those of us less fortunate people, or wait, what did you call us again? Oh yeah, tree hugging, star gazing, hippie’s, we will stay out of your perfect life.”
Justin started to argue his defense, but Lily ran off before he could say anything. He didn’t realize that he had upset her so much. Lily was the one person he knew he could always count on. He would never hurt her. All of this was out of character for Lily, and as Justin watched her run off, he felt horrible and didn’t know what to do. So he just watched her go, her long white skirt swayed in the breeze around her. Her head was low, and her long, silky, black hair hid the hurt on her face.
Justin noticed her feet were bare as she disappeared behind a row of trees. This time, he was the one left staring at the sparkling pond water. He noticed Lily’s favorite flip flops a few feet away, dark blue, with silver stars all along the straps. Stars were her favorite things in the sky. They’d spent hours together, staring up at them.
Lily lived on the other side of the park, but Justin decided he should let her calm down.
Still feeling confused, Justin looked at his own house across the street. He picked up her flip flops and slowly walked home. Just as he started to cross the street, a black Jetta pulled up, and Darcy waved at him from the driver’s seat. That’s when he realized what Lily had meant. Darcy wasn’t his girlfriend. She was his teammate Paul’s little sister, and chauffer, who happened to be a cheerleader.
“Surprise”, she squealed.
Justin forced a smile. “Hey, Darcy.” His brow wrinkled, “What’s going on?”
“It’s the first Friday of summer. There are three parties tonight. We are attending all of them, so Paul sent me to pick you up,” she said.
“Great,” Justin answered. He looked toward Lily’s house, then relented, “I’ll be right out.”
Lily rushed to her bedroom, avoiding her parents. The past few days had been stressful enough for her family, and she didn’t want them to see her upset. She looked in her mirror; her eyes were red and swollen. “It’s for the best. No reason to add another person’s worry and pity to my list,” she told herself. Her eyes filled with tears. “It’s better to tell him goodbye now, so he can move on with his life.”
Weeks had passed since Lily’s encounter with Justin at the pond. He didn’t listen to her wishes. He called and texted her everyday day, but she ignored him. When he brought her flip-flops to her, she refused to see him. Her mother questioned her about it, and Lily said she wanted to get distance from him, to make it easier on him. That of course, made her mother cry, so the subject of Justin stopped coming up.
The truth is that Lily was lonely without Justin around. He was her best friend, and had been since they were eight. Now, she needed him more than ever, but she didn’t want him to deal with the things she was going through. That would only make it worse. For the next few weeks, she consumed herself in the festival preparations, and her painting, despite how horrible she was feeling. This may be the last festival that Lily would be involved in, so it was important to her.
Justin sat on the couch, sulking, and staring blankly at the television. Lily still refused to speak to him. She had never stayed mad at him for this long. He was avoiding everyone else and he kept busy with the summer football program. But the rest of the time, he did exactly what he was doing now, sulk about Lily.
“Justin,” his mom said. He looked at her, she tried to have a blank expression on her face, but he could tell something was wrong. “Can we talk, before I head out to the festival?”
He sat up, “What is it?” he asked, concerned.
“I’ve noticed that you haven’t been spending time with Lily,” she said.
“She won’t talk to me. I said something stupid, now she won’t answer my calls, or my texts. She refuses to see me. I didn’t mean to upset her, but I don’t know why she’s doing this.”
“Well, I just got off the phone with Lily’s mother.” She paused. “Lily is sick,” his mother finally said.
He frowned. “What are you talking about? Sick how?”
The concern on his mother’s was more apparent. “Lily was diagnosed with cancer over a month ago. For the last few weeks, she has been undergoing aggressive chemotherapy.
I’m sorry that you didn’t know. It’s pretty bad,” his mother said softly, as if that would help.
Justin felt his throat swell with emotion, then put his head in his hands. “She didn’t tell me.”
“It seems Lily didn’t want anyone to know.”
Justin left the house with only one goal, to find Lily. He hoped she would be at the festival. When he finally found her, she was surrounded by sky themed paintings, smiling at admirers of her work. Her eyes still bright blue, like the sky during twilight. She was pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes. She looked more fragile then he remembered, but still beautiful. A blue bandana with silver stars covered her head, where there once was long black hair. When she saw Justin, she froze.
“I’m staying, no matter what,” he said. She smiled and nodded as her eyes filled with tears. “Do you know why I call you Petal?” he asked her.
“No. Why,” she asked.
He hugged her tight. “Because, the petal is the most beautiful part of the flower.”
Midsummer
Ra slowly rose from the East, spilling his golden rays across the horizon, illuminating the earth as it awakened from its slumber.
The animals stirred, invigorated by the warmth of the sun, and soon began their chorus of barks, calls, and songs to each other and to the heavens. Vegetation sprung to life as well, blooming, turning, reaching skyward to take in the light, the heat. The Calendula and St. John’s Wort spread their golden petals, reflecting the color and the shape of the glowing orb above them.
Suddenly, the sound of human voices. Nubile young women and virile young men awoke to the sights and sounds around them and strode across the earth’s verdant surface, the women wearing garlands of the golden flowers they had picked, the men carrying sections of wood freshly chopped from once mighty trees. The men brought the wood to the middle of an open field, where they deposited it in a neatly stacked and growing pile as an offering to Ra above. The women danced gaily in circles around the stacked lumber; the men, after solemnly presenting their offerings, joined the women in their dance, following their footsteps in passionate pursuit, the women tempting them but remaining ever elusive.
As Ra continued to rise in the sky, the pile of wood ignited into a glorious bonfire. The women continued dancing around the flames and the men continued following. All were energized by the enormous, barely-contained flames licking at the sky while consuming the wood, causing it to glow from within before turning charred and carbon black. Smoke billowed toward the sky; embers and sparks spat out from the flames for mere moments before being snuffed out. Ra saw the flames, breathed in the earthy smoke, and was pleased.
*****
Off in the forest, another man was foraging for what little food was to be found there when he heard the elated cries of the women and men in the distance. He looked up and spied a shape-shifting spot of orange in bits and pieces through the dense thicket. His wild eyes grew wilder at the sight. He was inexplicably drawn to it. His name was Ivan Kupala, and after spending almost his entire life alone in the forest, he emerged to make his way to the flames.
He reached the bonfire, squinting and rubbing his sunken eyes at the sight of the flame, the animal skins in which he draped himself and his unkempt flowing hair and beard causing him to perspire in such close contact with the fire’s intense heat. Nevertheless, he joined in the dance with the others, circling around the fire, throwing his hands to the sky and shouting with joy.
Shortly thereafter, another joined the dance, a mysterious hooded individual, dressed in a dark, tattered rag of a dress. She was hunched over, her face was hidden from view and her dancing was slower and out of sync with the others; there was something different about her, and the rest of them could sense it.
Finally, one of the bolder women approached the mystery woman from behind, grabbed the woman’s hood, and threw it back. The group gasped. The mystery woman’s pointed hat, crow’s black shock of hair, and pale green, wart-covered face outed her unmistakably as a witch. The men sprung into action, overcoming the woman and she scratched at them with her bony, clawed hands. In one fluid motion, they lifted her off the ground and flung her into the fire. A piercing shriek cut through the sky as the evil woman made contact with the flames, sending a tuft of pitch black smoke upwards.
The men and women all stopped to witness the witch’s dying muffled breaths. When she was completely consumed and could no longer be seen writhing around in the flames, Ivan Kupala fell to his knees, once again raised his hands heavenward, and let out a cry of victory. The dance around the bonfire continued, more joyful and energized than it was before.
But moments later, a shadow fell over the bonfire. The dancing stopped; the women and men looked up and saw a gigantic dragon descending upon them. Cries of panic rose from the earth and some of the celebrants started to flee for cover, but as the dragon neared the bonfire, the flames drove it away. It got no closer than the very top of the fire. A mere spark that alighted on the dragon’s wing was enough to send it back from whence it came, crying out and wounded.
The men and women returned and the dancing started again. The flames continued to—
“Wait, wait, WAIT A MINUTE. Cut! What the crap is that squeaking noise?”
“Uh…I think it might be the wires holdin’ me up. It sounds like it’s comin’ from right around here somewhere”, offered Jim from his harness above the stage.
“Oh, well that’s FANTASTIC!” shouted Will as he slammed down his clipboard. He rose from his seat in the middle of Row J and started looking around, settling his eyes on the tech booth in the balcony. “Can we get someone to fix that? PLEASE?” He turned back to the stage, where the rest of the cast stood frozen in their spots where they’d been since “cut” was called. “And ladies and gentlemen: I need to see SMILES on your faces! I know you’re working hard and it’s super hot up there, but the faces are throwing me off. Your dancing says “joy”, but your faces say “I’m in line at the Post Office”! And Ivan Kupala, can you PLEASE stop scratching your face? Please? It’s distracting!”
“Sorry…this beard’s just itchy. I think I might be allergic to the glue,” said Larry meekly from center stage.
“Oh, for the love of…IVAN! YOU HAVE TO WORK THROUGH STUFF LIKE THAT! HAVE YOU NOT HEARD “THE SHOW MUST GO ON?!” I mean…” Will stopped, shook his head, looked back up at the stage, then turned around once again to address the tech booth.
“AND WHY ARE THERE GREEN GELS IN THE LIGHTS?! THE WHOLE STAGE LOOKS LIKE PUKE! WHY HAVE THE GELS NOT BEEN CHANGED?!”
“Sorry, Will. My bad. I’m coming down to get that right now”, Stacy said over the intercom from the booth.
“All right, people. Take five, and then we’re starting again…FROM THE TOP. We’re gonna keep doing this until it’s PERFECT, so buckle up!”
Stacy grabbed the right gels for the lights and trudged out of the booth, heading downstairs. Tomorrow, this would all be over. Tomorrow was Dress Rehearsal; from tomorrow on the show would just go from start to finish, no stops or do-overs no matter what happened, no matter what got screwed up or started squeaking.
Tonight, however, was a different story. Tonight was Tech Rehearsal, the night they stopped to fix every little tiny thing that went wrong, and then did the whole show over again…from the top. As Stacy headed towards the stage, she could feel Will staring a hole through her. She kept walking and made her way backstage to grab the ladder.
She stood in front of the ladder and lightly slapped herself in the face a few times, trying to shock herself awake. It wasn’t yet the Summer Solstice, but this was definitely, without question, the longest day of the year.
You got me good, Brian. Way to bring us back to reality. Anyone who has been in a “production” can totally relate to your story. Good job.
Yeah, this was definitely a “write what you know” thing for me (although it’s not in any way autobiographical; anything specific was changed to protect the innocent and the theater nerds). Thanks for the kind words.
I was with you until we got to the witch burning part and then I was wondering where in the world you could be going with this story. I was waiting for the Monty Python guy to show up and start shouting “all right, now this has just gotten silly!” I really enjoyed the jolt when you threw out the fourth wall and brought us into the theatre. Oh tech rehearsal, I’ve been there!
Yeah, so the witch thing was something that I found in my exhaustive research (“exhaustive”=stuff I found on Google, Wikipedia, etc.). Apparently, during some Midsummer celebrations, the bonfire is supposed to keep away witches, evil spirits, etc., and in some cultures, they burn an effigy of a witch on the bonfire. My idea was for the story to start like a fantasy scene and gradually get weirder, and then at the reveal, you realize it’s just some mess of a theater/dance production where the writers/creators have thrown together bits and pieces of different Midsummer/Summer Solstice traditions into an incoherent whole.
Also, I love Monty Python. A little absurdity is always good. Thanks for the kind words.
The paper napkin is twisted tightly around my fingers. Boisterous conversations buzz in swarms around the plastic tables draped in too-bright, yellow cloths.
The sun will never go down.
“It’s a shame to let your little sister cross the finish line so far ahead of you. When are you going to get yourself hitched up dear?”
Hitched, like a horse to a plough.
My throat is dry. I reflexively reach for my wine glass, draining it in one gulp. Sparkling juice? Lucky, I guess. The last thing I need is to start drinking again.
“She hasn’t even got a date, Bea,” Katie whispers in false discretion. Turning to me: “not enough time to find one, dear?”
I clench the napkin in my fist. My index finger is now strikingly purple against the lime green of my bride’s maid’s gown. Green. The colour of envy.
“Oh, you know, Aunt Katie, long hours at work.” Followed by late nights at the dance clubs…
The darkness of the club had been our own personal grotto. His grace and strength had evoked the stag of druidic legend. The other dancers, crowded so close, had been no more than a forest of shadows, the rustling of leaves on an ancient night. Heat and rhythm had seeped into my bones and I was one with the trees and the night and the nameless stag…
“You do look rather drawn and worn out, dear. You know a good man would really take care of you. You wouldn’t have to work so hard to support yourself.”
I draw in a slow, measured breath. I can’t make a scene, not today. I listen for the soothing sound of waves lapping against the pillars of the pier. The summer breeze yanks at the gaudy paper streamers, flapping and whipping them overhead. Lily had insisted tangerine was this season’s “it” colour.
“Maybe someday,” I reply, flashing my sweetest portrait smile. I imagine a tidal wave swelling up and engulfing the streamers, the cake and my nosy aunts, and sweeping them out to sea, leaving me alone with my secret. A genuine smile plays across my lips as I drift into memory.
His warm, brown eyes had pierced so deeply that I hadn’t even considered breaking away as I always had whenever men would try to ensnare me with that look. His lips had set a fire under my skin and I had followed him into the cool caress of the night air. Orion’s famed belt was shinning brightly overhead.
“You know, she’s really starting to show.”
Suddenly I’m shipwrecked on reality’s shore. How could they know? My hand drifts to my new moon belly. It’s too early for it to be obvious.
Realization dawns on me in a cold shower of dread. Across the park, Lily and Jon are dancing cheek to cheek, lost in the pastel dream painted by the late evening sun. Her belly is a quarter moon, wrapped in antiqued lace.
“What do you expect? One sister gets all the beauty, the other all the brains. So shameful to have a shotgun in the family.”
I stand up abruptly, knocking over my chair. A one-month engagement, how had I missed this?
I grab Aunt Bea’s juice glass and cross the floor to Lily’s side.
Time to make a scene.
“I would like to propose a toast to my beautiful sister and my new bother in-law. I am so very proud to call you family. Umm,” I falter, why am I making a speech? This is insane. “May your love be evergreen. Cheers.”
I drain my glass; half hoping the juice had turned to wine.
“As some of you may know, we will soon be welcoming a new little addition to the family.”
The party falls silent as I brush off Lily’s pleading hand on my elbow.
“Jon and Lily, while the whole family is gathered together, I want to honour your commitment to each other and your love, by asking if…” my voice catches. The brash paper lanterns are blinding in the gathering dark. I continue, “if you would be my child’s Godparents.”
Everywhere I look, plastic forks loaded with coconut cake are poised before slackened jaws. Lily’s face is white under the day-glow lanterns.
“That should give the old buzzards something else to gossip about” I whisper in Lily’s ear as I pull her into a strong hug.
Without giving her a chance to reply I release her and walk quickly into the shadow of the redwood grove, my cheeks wet and burning with shame. The unforgiving daylight finally releases its grasp on the earth and I’m mercifully blanketed in concealing darkness, with little Orion growing under my belt.
Wow! You really do know how to make a scene! I have fantasies about making a scene like that, but I’ve never been pregnant, so I guess it will always remain a fleeting fantasy. Great story!
Thanks Tom!
I liked how this story was paced; the tension leading up to the making of the scene was really done well–not too fast, not too slow. Great job!
This is such a vivid story! I loved it. ‘lost in the pastel dream painted by the evening sun’ ‘her belly is a quarter moon wrapped in antique lace’… love the poetic images here!!
Excellent story telling and imagery! The scene, the emotion, your wording, all painted a very dramatic picture!
Missaralee, love this little tale, I love the sisters love most of all
“First & Last”
Dearest child,
I am the oldest of seven children and contrary to my younger brothers and sisters’ (your aunts and uncles’) belief, primogeniture carried far more responsibility than privilege. As far as births go — the delivery process, I mean — mine lived up to the schoolyard adage, “first is the worst.” Protracted labor that nearly resulted in being delivered via Caesarian section set the bar real low for my siblings’ speedy arrivals — honest to God, no more than two hours from onset of contractions to baby on chest — to the world.
My sisters complained about the hand-me-downs they got from me, but they didn’t realize until after they had their own children that I had to endure the outfits that bypassed them, straight to the trash heap. Those clothes were unsuitable for donation not for wear but for egregious ugliness (oh, the 1980s, modern fashion’s dark age) and thanks to my serving as scapegoat, my sisters were spared the faux-pas plague.
Being firstborn also meant I was first to finish school and being first to graduate meant I was first to enter the workforce. And being first among many meant I had to stay in the workforce until the third one (Uncle Geoff) graduated high school. I had to further delay medical school until the fifth (Aunt Gemma) began college to save for living expenses.
If you worry whether I’m bitter… I’m not. Truly. I wouldn’t have met Davis (my husband, your dad) if I hadn’t gone when I did.
Like me, he was going for dual degrees; he was halfway through when I began my studies. Our campus had a graduate student Christian fellowship group and he was the leader. We’d been friends for two semesters and a summer session when he asked me out on our first date. He waited after another semester to propose.
Your aunts and uncles and our friends wondered why he waited so long to pop the question; they were even more baffled by why we waited until after my internship to tie the knot. We were, after all, “old.”
Davis — that’s Dad, to you — contends that he “knew” after that first semester that we’d stay together forever. Despite what Billy Crystal’s character says in When Harry Met Sally (it’s a classic we’ll let you watch when you’re 30) about wanting the rest of your life to start right away when you know who you want to spend the rest of your life with, we understood a little too well what Paul meant when he said “love is patient.”
Being the last to marry meant upcycling my brothers and sisters’ wedding decorations and ideas — and having the luxury of choice! (This before the age of Pinterest, too). The youngest of the bunch (Aunt Gail) designed my dress — yep, the one that helped her career take off.
We chose the summer solstice as our wedding date because we wanted the sun to shine upon our celebration of a promise kept for as long as possible. We waited our whole lives for each other and we relished it from sunrise to sunset.
When the two of us wanted to grow to three, we found out we couldn’t; so instead, we found your brothers and sisters. But seven years later, it’s our anniversary and summer solstice again and found out we’ve been pregnant with you. As the news of your existence dawned on us, we rejoice.
Eagerly awaiting your arrival,
Jill (your mom).
Awww! What a touching ending.
Thank you, Steph!
I like the format of a letter to your child. What a sweet ending and how two promises are tied up in the longest day.
Appreciate it, Beck!
lovely sara