| | archonknight | Sep 7, 2006 5:36pm | | more...more.... ^_^ |
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Sponsor |  MindHunterINFJ | Sep 7, 2006 5:45pm | NOTE: The following is an untitled vignette (short story) from my recently completed and copyrighted book: "Childhood's Rend: Memories Of The Dog Star." Copyrighted 2006 by Jack Clifford. All rights reserved. I am posting merely to share and to solicit criticism and feedback, and any additional publication in cyberspace and/or the print media and/or elsewhere is strictly prohibited without the prior, express permission of the author. ANOTHER NOTE: The story is too long for one post so I have broken it down into multiple posts. FINAL NOTE: The spelling IS correct: the story is set in an alternate/parallel universe! SORRY, FOLKS, I'm trying to get the "hang" of posting multiple parts! :).
Thanks, Archonknight, I ENJOY your stories, too. Why these length restrictions, do you know? I cannot contact the blogmaster.
PART THREE:
He could be, she supposed, on furlough, but then that was not likely, given the state of the war right then---or so the folks said at Rockport, Swamp Gas County seat---folks who may have heard from the captain or crew of one of the longboats that plied, even in wartime and at great peril, the muddy waters of the Washita River down to the Red River and on under cover of darkness past the Mississippi River Union blockades to the blackmarket cotton merchants in N'Orleans who had never paid a fair price for cotton but who now, given the difficulty of smuggling the bales offshore and onto blockade-runners bound for England, offered a pittance indeed.
Yes, he could be on furlough, but she doubted it, and that left only one alternative as far as she could see, but she was a charitable woman, was she not, who had bemoaned her own two sons going off to the war to fight for a system of slavery and cotton in which her family, upland hill farmers, had no stake whatsoever.
"It's just like all wars," she thought, "The rich folks get us in them, and then they send the poor folks to fight and to die for their mistakes."
Hank finished his meal and asked if he might fetch another dipper of water, and she told him to go ahead and help himself, that the bucket was on the back porch, or if he wanted some cooler water to go ahead and draw a bucket from the dug well in the back yard. He thanked her and went to the well, lowered the wooden bucket down into the damp darkness, the pulley screeching a little even on the frayed rope, and he pulled it up then, its weight heavy and promising, and drank thirstily from the bucket, dipped his hands into the coolness and splashed water over his face, hair, and neck, drank again, and then came back to the gate, pausing, thinking about the kindness he had received here, saying as he opened the gate and commenced on down the road toward Saginau and home:
"Mizz. Stainbridge"----for he knew her name by now, she had told him---"I don't rightly know how to thank ye for yer hospitality, so I'll jest say `God bless ye' and leave it at that. I rekkin I best be on my way, what with dark coming on so soon and everything."
She said nothing, nothing at all, merely nodded her acceptance of his words, and bent down, again on her knees, her long skirt pulled up around her ankles, and began to pull more grass from amongst her precious flowers. Only when Hank had been gone long enough to just about round the nearest bend did she glance through the wooden pale fence and see him round the curve, dust swirling about him, shuffling on toward home. She turned back to her flowers, and it must have been thirty minutes or, maybe less, that she heard the thunder of hoofs storming down the road past the Methodist Church and the cemetery, but she stood up only when a contingent of six horsemen, all outfitted with guns and sabers and gray mixed-and-matched and mismatched uniforms, reigned their sweaty and panting and frothing horses to a halt before her gate.
"Hey, lady," the man in charge yelled, "You ain't seen a Confederate deserter hereabouts, have you?"
She looked at him a few minutes before answering, trying to judge his intentions, read his face as she was wont to do, but she saw nothing there, only a mask that she could not penetrate, and she at first started not to answer at all or if she did answer say to this man and his fellow-soldiers:
"Why don't you jest take yourselves and your bloody war away from my gate? I want nothing of it. Isn't it enough that I have given, sacrificed, two sons of my body to your glorious and vain endeavor? Is that not enough for you? Isn't it? Isn't it?"
That's what she wanted to say, but she did not, could not, speak those words, could not, would not, speak any words because whatever she might try to say would choke in her throat and refuse to pass her lips, for she knew what would happen to that young man, Hank, knew it as if it had already happened and she had already been there on the far side of what later would be called Nalen Hill, shovel in hand, a patched sheet to wrap his body, she and old Sabre Eason doing what no one else dared to do for this deserter, this "coward" they called him: give Hank a decent burial if not a Cristan one.
No, she spoke no words, only nodded and pointed down the winding road to the curve and beyond, mutely, knowing and accepting that even in the nodding and the pointing that she, a Cristan lady, had already become complicit in that which, in her mind at least, had already happened, and so she did not even look up as they galloped off, and she did not even wince when she heard the shots, six of them, a few minutes later, but she simply traipsed into the house, pulled a sheet from a stack in the corner---not her best sheet, mind you, but a serviceable sheet---got her shovel, opened the gate, and waltzed down the road toward Saginau to do what she and Sabre had to do and in her mind had already done. |
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|  phayge | Sep 16, 2006 9:19am | The True Story of My First Day of Teaching
It is the first day of my first time back in a secondary school since I left school myself twelve years ago.Why am here? Well I've finally fallen for the government teacher recruitment drive -`those who can, teach' etc.
So here I am. It is a bitingly frosty October morning. Neither the heater nor the radio in my beaten up old Renault 5 have been working properly on the 30 minute drive here, and so I've had time to get thoroughly nervous. I have also had to give my full attention to driving whilst wearing heeled shoes - true they are only very low heels, but heels none the less and when you've spent most of the last 2 years in your Converse trainers, this is challenging. I've had time to come to terms with the fact that heels may have been a bad choice - since they are both uncomfortable and impractical, BUT they have the one saving grace of making me feel like a `grown up'.
Feeling like a grown up is particularly important when one is about to embark upon learning to become a teacher in a rough secondary school in a run down sea-side town located in an area known as the hidden unsung armpit of Britain. It doesn't feel like it was that long ago since I was a teenager myself, I try to convince myself half the time that I still look like one, but when you are on the verge of having to walk across a hideous, loud, bellowing, fag-smoking, text-messaging, jargon-swilling, name-calling, insult-hurling playground full of them, that is, teenagers, they are scary little blighters.
I check my watch. It is 8.23am. I have to be in the staff room at 8.30am. There is no time to waste - I don't even know where the staff room is yet so I'll have to negotiate a receptionist, signing in and such, in order to find my way to it.
I check myself in the rear view mirror one last time. Yes - the make up is understated and sophisticated (I hope), hair neat enough - by my standards anyway. I let my hands run over the `grown up' clothing I've chosen - having been unable to find a jumper with suede elbow patches, and deciding that that would be a little to deliberately ironic anyway, I've opted for innocuous cream blouse and grey trousers from Gap - plus the already mentioned major sacrifice towards true adulthood - court shoes.
I get out of the car. Remember to lock it, pull my coat around me, hoist my bag on my shoulder and make toward the gate in the iron fence through which pupils are streaming. I try to exude an air of confidence, without snootiness. Should I be friendly if any of them is nice? Don't they tell you not to smile until Christmas in this business? I decide to try to avoid eye contact with any of the little gits at all costs. I make it through the gate without comment or derision, so far so good. I can see the main entrance not far in front now, and stride out confidently towards it...
Wham. The ground meets my hand and my bottom simultaneously - I've barely had time to work out that I've fallen over in the stupid grown up teacher shoes when I hear the unmistakable taunt "HA, HA! Look that teacher's just fallen over!" Reflex kicks in: gathering myself up, I can't help but scan the crowds for the little squirt that said it- just fractions of a second have passed since the initial impact and the humiliation is swelling, and then, oh no, I can barely believe it: I see my left hand grasp for my right inside elbow, my right fore arm is rapidly twisting and straightening up, in perfect unison with my own embarrassment and indignation, and with all the style and panache of a football hooligan, yes, there I see it, my middle finger tall and proud in the universal one finger salute,: " FUCK OFF!" I shout. Loud and clear it reverberates around the concrete arena of the playground. Anyone who hadn't noticed me before has certainly noticed me now.
I take one last look at the enemy jibe master as I head off, suppressing my limp - he is roughly age twelve, he is standing, mouth agape just metres away and is in complete shock. He has probably seen teachers fall over before - but he certainly hasn't seen THAT.
`Well done' I tell myself, `exceptionally grown up'. In their own special way the shoes paid off. |
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|  d-monk | Sep 21, 2006 11:53am | The Giraffe and His Shell
There once was a giraffe that lived on the wide open Savannah. Now everyone knows that giraffes need friends and this giraffe was no exception. He had many friends with whom he whiled away his Savannah days. Each morning he would wake up in his home valley and look for his friends. They would graze together in the mornings and go to the watering hole in the afternoons. In the evenings they would gather amongst the brush and tall trees and enjoy supper together.
On one occasion when the giraffe and his friends were at the watering hole, the giraffe stopped drinking and raised his head in the air. He craned his long neck and squinted his eyes. There, on the horizon, was a lion! The lion was approaching! "Danger danger!" shouted the giraffe. "Danger coming from the east!"
Wings fluttered, hoofs stamped, and animals screeched, grunted, and roared. In moments the watering hole was left in quiet isolation as all the animals ran for the shelter of the trees and bushes.
That night at supper time the giraffe towered over his friends and smiled. "I am the most important animal on the Savannah!" said the giraffe. I am the tallest animal you will ever meet. I have four long legs for running and ambling. I have a wonderfully long tail for swishing away pestering insects. I have a tremendously long toungue for grabbing the tenderest and tastiest leaves from the tallest trees of the Savannah, and I have a gloriously long neck which lifts my head high into the air so that I can see for miles and miles around. In fact, you best pay attention to me for I will be the first animal here to spot predators!"
The next day the other animals ignored the giraffe. They didn't greet him in the morning and they didn't join him for the daily gathering at the watering hole. But when the giraffe got to the watering hole, there was a new animal there. A short, scaly, green thing with a hard shell on its back.
"What, may I ask, are you?" inquired the giraffe.
"Oh, not much," the animal answered, "I am just a turtle."
The turtle then looked up to the giraffe and said, "My, you sure are tall! What are you?"
"Why, I am a giraffe and, yes, I am tall. In fact, I am the tallest animal you will ever meet. I have four long legs for running and ambling. I have a wonderfully long tail for swishing away pestering insects. I have a tremendously long toungue for grabbing the tenderest and tastiest leaves from the tallest trees of the Savannah, and I have a gloriously long neck which lifts my head high into the air so that I can see for miles and miles around. In fact, you best pay attention to me for I will be the first animal here to spot predators!"
"Oh, how marevlous!" exclaimed the turtle.
"You look awfully short and awfully slow," muttered the giraffe. "What will you do when I give the warning that danger is coming?"
"Oh, that's easy," said the turtle, "nothing!"
"Nothing? What kind of a plan is that? No wonder I've never seen one of your kind before!" snorted the giraffe.
"I don't think you understand," said the turtle. "I carry my defense against danger on my back. If danger comes, I can draw myself up into this shell and be safe. See!" And the turtle drew his legs, tail, and head inside of his shell.
That evening while taking his evening meal amongst the brush and tall trees, the giraffe thought about the turtle. He told the other animals about the strange creature he had seen at the watering hole called a turtle. He told them about the turtle's short, stumpy legs, its wrinkly green skin, and its hard, heavy shell.
The other animals snickered and laughed at the giraffe. "There's that crazy giraffe with his long neck. Always thinks he can see things we can't! Thinks he's better than us!" And the animals walked away leaving the giraffe alone and sad. Very sad.
That night the giraffe thought more and more about the turtle's shell. What marvelous protection! "Perhaps," thought the giraffe, "I could use a shell to protect myself. Why should I let these other animals hurt me?"
So the next day the giraffe decided to build a shell. He roamed the Savannah collecting rocks and brought them all to the little valley where he slept at night. He began to pile the rocks on top of one another, leaving a giraffe-sized opening where he could enter. "Wow!" he exclaimed. "A shell of my very own!"
When he went to the watering hole, he told the turtle about his new shell. "Hmmm," the turtle mumbled, "I don't know if that makes sense."
"Silly turtle," laughed the giraffe, "you just don't understand the vision of high minds!" And he left.
At supper time he told the other animals about his new shell. They laughed at him even more than before. "This giraffe's gone mad! He thinks he's a turtle or whatever that imaginary animal is he talks about. He's a gir-urtle!" And they called him names.
"I don't have to take this," said the giraffe, "you simpletons just don't understand vision!" And the giraffe went to the valley where he had built his shell. He crawled inside and turtled for safety. He even closed up the giraffe-sized entrance hole so none of the other animals could come in.
At first, the giraffe was quite happy. But after a time, the giraffe began to feel lonely. After all, giraffes need friends to survive.
One day there was a scratching noise among the rocks at the edge of the giraffe's shell. The giraffe perked his once-long ears to listen. He craned his once long neck to look. And he swished his once-long tail in anticipation. Slowly, the scratching became a scrabbling sound, and then some of the rocks began to move. A small opening was emerged and through it crawled the turtle.
The giraffe could not contain his joy. A friend had come to visit! And as everyone knows, giraffes need friends. "Oh, my friend!" exclaimed the giraffe. "How come you're here?"
"Well," the turtle stammered, "it seemed to me that you were confused. So I began to crawl on my short, stubbly legs to find you. I'm sorry it took me so long."
"Confused?" answered the giraffe.
"Yes," said the turtle. "You said you were going to build a shell. But shells are only meant to protect from physical dangers. I feared you might be trying to block out your friends."
"But I just wanted to be safe," said the giraffe. "My friends kept hurting me."
"Shells cannot be used in this way," said the turtle. "The only way to have a friend is to be a friend. And as you and I both know, giraffes need friends!"
So from that point forward the giraffe abandoned his shell and went to be a friend to the other animals. And the giraffe had more friends than ever before. And as you know, giraffes need friends! |
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|  LinkJunky | Sep 21, 2006 7:48pm | This is my very first attempt at writing anything creative so if it sucks you can lick it.
Laying in a hospital ward Jakes mind filled with thoughts of suicide and rage. Tied and cuffed to a bed a guard stood silently by. Repeating thoughts of betrayal and pain corsed threw his every being. The dreams and percing images of his wife with another man became Jakes tainted escapes to visit the local gentlemen clubs. Sadly, he lost his life. ..... Next chapter the rebirth. |
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Sponsor | | sam-diablo | Oct 3, 2006 4:27pm | Ok, now back to more of your stories :)
Thanks for all of your contributions so far |
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| | civildis | Oct 3, 2006 5:30pm | This is a memoir I recently entered in a contest. It didn't make the cut, but I also didn't receive much feedback as to why, so comments are welcome. Cheers!
Rock, Paper, Scissors
by Michel Cicero
Every six months or so, my father's wife alerts me to the impending arrival of a large box. The box will contain artifacts from my past lives, carefully excavated from the second story of the house where I spent my youth. The house where my mother died.
Rusted tins of bobby pins
Broken jewelry
Matchbooks
Gift-with-purchase toiletry bags
Coins cemented together with decades old chewing gum
No item is trivial enough for her trash cans, but most find their way into mine. So, when the baby book arrived in the company of my mother's needlepoint kits and a fossilized candy bar, I was sufficiently nonplussed. I approached it with the guarded curiosity I'd once reserved for uncircumcised penises and more recently for the miniature mountain ranges of peri-menopausal skin flaps emerging on my abdomen.
I thumbed through pages devoted to the minutiae of my infancy: sleep schedule, eating habits, inoculation records. I meditated on my mother's penmanship and inhaled the fragrance of 60s-era, eco-unfriendly paper. I lapped up the milky details, unaware this magic moment was in peril vis-à-vis a bindle of baby hair a few pages ahead.
Twenty years earlier, my boots--seasoned by sweat, beer and the foul dance floors of Hollywoods underground--revealed more about me than my face would divulge. I quit school, wrecked my car and joined a girls only skateboard gang. But first, I sacrificed my long, virgin hair at the Temple of Fuck You.
With the salty residue of a bourgeois, seaside upbringing still clinging to my split ends, I was in no hurry to lose the hair I'd become so skilled at flipping and fluffing. But when my Bo Derek braids didn't make the cut at my first punk concert, I became willing. Plus, rumor had it that young women who preferred their tresses shoulder length or longer, were routinely dragged into grungy nightclub restrooms and liberated of their locks at scissorpoint.
When I finally acquiesced, the result was severe, irreversible and completely unjustifiable to my parents. It was perfect. My friends said it was a haircut I'd have to live up to. Indeed the punk haircut was a rite of passage that in 1980, invited scorn and harassment, especially from the L.A.P.D.
Dear Officers,
Your presence is requested at the next public function where females sporting extremely short, unnaturally colored, sometimes asymmetrical and possibly flammable hairstyles may be accompanied by males wearing bondage accessories.
Billy clubs optional. RSVP not required; theyll be expecting you.
The morning after, cool circled my scalp and fell upon my being. I rushed to the mirror for verification. As a young girl my hair belonged to my mother who favored a hairstyle not nearly as cute as its name: The Pixie. Monthly visits to the salon, nay, barber were not the stuff of powder-puff dreams and the mirror never had good news. Even as a small child I knew it was an assault on my femininity, I just didn't know why. The world has no mercy for little girls with short hair and wide knees, so when I got the green light to grow it out, I did so with a vengeance.
But at 19, with seven years of hair growth laid to rest in a dumpster in West Hollywood, my self-image was being altered in curious ways. Where previously my long hair provided me popularity credentials, my new hair accomplished the opposite. My new hair declared me the prodigal outcast, headed back to the fringe without apology. My new hair talked back to the mirror. My new hair had balls.
It was time for the reveal.
As I descended the staircase, I could hear my mother sharpening the tools of her suffering in the kitchen. I anticipated some resistance, but didn't imagine there would be tears. Wasn't entirely sure her tear ducts still functioned. Such is the cruel truth about daughters and mothers. And there we stood, facing each other across the tile counter. Two petite women with very little hair, equalized by our self-loathing, unified in our disdain for each other, humbled by the power of a haircut.
Now, cradled in my palm like silken soap leaves was the only pure thing left of me. Every cell in my body had since been replaced. Others were casualties of the war against myself. Blocks of memory from my childhood seemed to exist in a dark closet where the light switch was just beyond my reach. The parts I could recall were fragmented like a Picasso painting. Yet tucked between the pink plastic covers of a baby book for nearly 40 years under the heading, "Baby's First Haircut," was tangible evidence of an undamaged me. |
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| | LinkJunky | Oct 5, 2006 12:51am | I'm not sure why you didn't receive much feedback on your entry. Myself having returned to college for a second time afer 12 years had the opprotunity to give constructive feedback to several of my peers.
As I sat in class listening to several of the reviews my heart began to sadden as I heard the harsh overtones of a older lady verbally shredding the paper of a young girl. As I literally watched the heart of this young girl hit the floor, a rage of anger began to kindle within. Looking at the faces of my surrounding peers you could see a fear take hold. Each cringing as they anticipated a review of their own papers. When I write I just start putting things down, that go together. If I worry about the order I get stuck and the flow stops. I don't like what I wrote above because the flow is hard to follow. So I save it look at it a few days later sometimes and rearange it. If you can cut something out, then cut it. Rearange it. I'm no writer that's for sure I hate english can't spell, some people say I have a way with words, others say nothing, some don't like it. How did you feel whe n it didn't make the cut? Anger, Rage, Sadness, Pain, Unexceppted, rejected?
My next post has a few ideas, that's 1 person out of 6+ billon people. |
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| | GeekGirl04 | Mar 20, 11:55am | Late
by: Shanda
I was late. Not *too* late but late all the same. We made a u-turn and fell behind the line of cars. I plucked a pill from my purse and quickly swallowed it with some water.
I walked across the grass toward a small gathering of people; I felt like I was dreaming. There were a few people sitting in chairs underneath a green canopy. The folding chairs sat atop an unnaturally green carpet. The coffin stood shiny upon its braces. The scooped out mound of earth was hastily hidden beneath a tarp.
I did not feel steady yet I did not want to sit. I did not care they knew I was late but I did not trust myself to walk any further. I had only one person in mind. Tears pricked at my eyes as I caught a glimpse of her wrinkled cheek. I noticed thick, blue veins beneath the delicate skin of her forehead. I felt like a trapped bird.
She turned and caught my eyes with hers. I knew everything she felt at that moment. I knew she was filled with inexpressible sorrow. My heart felt icy with sadness.
I listened to words spoken from the Bible. 'Death is the enemy' was almost all I heard. I was suspended by the link created between she and I. I wondered how I could have forsaken that link. Was it fear of closeness? Yes, that and more but I couldn't place it. The effort was just too great at the moment so I stuffed the question down.
How long before I would be in a place like this again? How long before our link would be broken forever?
It was over. I saw my father and uncle help her to her feet. I had never seen her lean on anyone before. She did not raise her eyes. I went to her and touched her sleeve.
She said "Honey, it's just so awful. Just awful." I said "I know. I know."
I took her hand, so small, so fragile and kissed it. I hugged her gently as I thought of all the strong hugs she used to give me and how I missed those years. I backed away and told her I loved her. I told her I was sorry.
The day suddenly seemed too bright; the cars going by seemed too noisy. The link broke as my uncle guided her away. I felt relieved. I felt guilty. I felt late.
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Old House
by: Shanda
We suddenly turned off the highway into an overgrown, wooded road. Despite the hot and muggy day the car began to cool as we drove slowly along the path. The metal roof made small popping sounds. Branches said "screech" as we bumped along. It felt like we'd entered a cavern made of greenery.
I had no idea where we were going as I sat up and peered through the window. I could smell the Earth and plants. My mother turned the radio off.
We came to a stop in front of a very old house. It leaned like an old man on a cane. A few rays of sunlight struggled through the crowded tree branches above and winked off dirty, broken windows. Dad told us to get out of the car.
With a mixture of trepidation and excitement I scooted across the warm backseat of the car and pushed the door open. The weeds were just above my knees and I wished I was wearing long pants instead of shorts. I immediately felt itchy and wanted in the house despite its spooky appearance. I was grateful for the daylight.
My mom, dad, and sister waded ahead of me and found a doorway. There was no longer a door. It was cool inside. The floor groaned as we walked slowly from one room to the next. There were stacks of newspapers against the walls. My dad made a comment about "potential". My mom said "You've got to be kidding." with just enough shrillness to catch my ear. Worried, I stopped and looked at their faces. My dad looked amused. My mom did not. He turned and walked away from her.
My sister was looking at a newspaper from one of the stacks. I could see motes of dust circling around her. They looked like fairies. I sneezed. I sneezed again. Mom spoke up to my dad who was trundling around in other parts of the house. "This place is not healthy for the girls.". She looked grim. My dad said from the other room "We'll go in a minute." with a touch of impatience.
"Wow!" my sister said. "This thing is from 1892!"
"Really?" I said not knowing what that meant. I continue watching fairies dance around her head and feeling the tickle of dust in my nose and throat. I wished for a bathroom and a glass of water. I wasn't going to dare ask my mom or my dad. It was best just to be quiet when they were not happy. I was quiet a lot.
I wandered into the next room hoping daddy would ask if I needed anything. As I walked past my mom she said "Be careful where you step.". She stood in the center of the room with her arms crossed.
I found daddy peeking out another doorway which led to what was once a porch. The 'porch' was now a pile of a giant's discarded toothpicks. I could smell rotted wood. Despite this the view was amazing. There were various flowers growing in bunches here and there. The trees had crowed into what had once been a yard. I could hear birds singing and the wind stirring the branches above. It felt like someone was watching us. I decided whatever it was okay.
My dad sighed and said, "Okay, let's go."
We all went out the way we came in. My sister left with one of the newspapers in her hand. It smelled musty but it was an interesting smell.
Once we were settled back into the car I leaned my head back against the seat. I felt very tired but I didn't want to miss the trip back out to the highway. I watched again as we bumped along the 'road' and listened to the whisper of grasses under the car. My mom turned the radio on as we pulled back onto the highway. The sun was bright and I closed my eyes as we headed home.
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Just Another Day
by: Shanda
Daylight was fading. I heard a bell ring, once, clear and sweet. It set me to wondering about angels and earned wings.
I relished winter air, fresh and icy in my lungs. I could taste the day. I bent and gathered a small handful of dry pine needles. Crunching them in my hand released a whisper of scent which reminded me of childhood.
Echoing through the neighborhood were sounds of kids playing, people laughing, and cars going by. I began to feel outside of myself and, once again, thought of angels. A snippet of song played in my head..."Imagine all the people living for today..."
I daydreamed of many people doing many things, some things good, some things bad but always being done with a purpose. A stream with no end. Intelligent animals cycling through life. In my mind I could see a blue marble lit by a marvelous sun. That light, so fragile, could wink out at any moment; I decided to let the thought drift away like the echo of a bell and hope, instead, to someday earn my wings. |
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