Story a Day May 5/6- Argh!

Wow.  Today has been a long one.  One of those days when, as a writer, you are having to fight and scrape for every word.   The prompt for today was to briefly research a place that you have never been, and use that as the setting for your story.  I read that and had this amazing idea that involved Seal Island off of the coast of South Africa.  It was perfect; gorgeous setting with lots of opportunities for adjectives, excitement, jumping sharks, self-awareness.  Except it never came.  It didn't flow and it would not be drug.  Really.  Everything I wrote was horrible.  However.  However, my muse, Cecelia, fickle wench that she is, apparently didn't forsake me altogether because as I was researching a well-loved book in my collection (The Shark God by Charles Mongomery), I became obsessed with trying to write part of my story in Bislama.  I thought that it would be a great tie-in as it covers the groups of Melanesians who believe that some spirits return as sharks.   The original story never got written, but the Bislama did. This may be horrible as well, in fact I think it is, but time runs short and it is all I have. So please indulge my little mental exercise.  The translation is below, but to best enjoy the beauty of this language, I suggest you read the passage out loud.  I think you will find the translation is not necessary.  And bear with me, I promise regular programming returns tomorrow. 

TakTak Tamavha Blong Mi
Mi Papa hem gudfala.  Katsom magic, i blong hem.  Wen son he blong hem draon mi bleve see hem nomo. Me bagarup. Kaikai nogud.  Stop swim mi. Mana blong mi nomo. But, one a monintie me see pigon blong solwata.  He taktak me.  Gudfala he go sanbich me fala.  I looklook solwata.  Papa! He swim.  He taktak say mifala cry nomo.  Gud tamavha taktak blong mi. I savve Papa shark, mi gudgud ogleta. Lookum mi bakagan blong hem.

An Answer Prayer
My father was a wonderful man.  He knew the magic and culture of our people.  When the sun set on his life I thought that I would never see him again, and I was broken.  I could not eat.  I did not bathe.  The will to live ran out of me.  But, one morning I saw a seagull.  The seagull talked to me, and told me to follow.  I followed him to a sandy beach and looked out into the water. There was my father, swimming in the water.  He spoke to me and said that I should not cry anymore.  It was an answer to prayer.  Once I knew that my father had returned as a shark, I felt much better altogether.  I finally got to say my goodbye.

A Story a Day in May 5/4

Today we focused more on character by using an obituary as an inspiration.  I combined the obituary I read about Motherwit, an Alabama midwife, mixed with a bit of what I saw when I was baby catching.  The speaker, though, is very much my Mammy Noon.  Mammy Noon was my great-grandmother and most of what is good in me came from her.  She was born and raised on a farm deep in Arkansas.  She used to tell me stories of her youth: napping on her parent's cotton picking bags, paying the local midwife a bottle of molasses to deliver my grandma. There are subtle signs that this is not our America, though, so this may be another "Brink" story. We will have to see. 

The Last Delivery
I don't rightly recall the first baby I helped bring into the world.  My Mama was a midwife just like her Mama was her Mam before that, back and back as long as anyone could remember.  There used to be a joke in these parts, that when Mother Lou gave birth to that precious Baby without knowing the touch of a man, it was a Cannon woman who'd been there to catch Him.  Daddy worked on the railroads and was gone most of the time, so if a woman's time came and it was just me 'n Mama I went right along with her, nightgown and all.  At first I just watched or played with my corn baby or napped on a pallet I'd make up in the corner.  When I got older I'd help a little bit, warming blankets, boiling water, making sure that Mama's needles were threaded with the special thread that was given to her by the kindly doctor who lived in town.  By the time I'd started my  monthlies I was standing in if Mama was sick or helping someone else when a frantic man showed up at our door.  My Mama was a good woman.  She was my best friend.  Lordy I miss her sometimes. 
So's like I said, I don't recall the first, but I sure do remember the last.  I was thirty years old when the sickness came, married to my Georgie and living in a pretty little house near town.  I loved that man more'n anything.  He was gentle and kind.  And handsome!  I like to never see another man as good locking as he was.  When the sickness came, he was one of the first to get it.  It started out with a rash, kindly like poison ivy and so at first I thought he'd gotten into somethin' out in the fields.  I made him up a poultice of cornstarch and wild plaintain mixed with a bit of water.  I smeared it on him and sent him to bed.  I figured by the next morning he'd be fine.  Around midnight, I reckon, I had to leave the house to tend to the of the Byrd girls.  The Byrd's were all easy births.  Broad-beamed, goo-natured and hardworking.  We'd all been pretty worried about 'em when their Mama ran off with a fast-talking tinker man, but their Granny did real well by them and they turned out to be fine, fine women.  Callie called out to me jest as soon as I walked through the door.  Covered in sweat with her big old belly low and hard, she was trotting around the living room just as fast as she could go.  "See Miss Lee," she called out, "I'ma walkng this baby out, just like you said."  See, most women went straight to bed as soon as the pains hit.  They didn't know that just made them get worse and last longer.  But Callie was a good girl, she'd tended what I said.  I was proud of her and I told her so.  After a couple of hours it was time; you can always tell 'cause a woman's voice gets real low, just like a growl.  When she starts growling it's time to push.  So I sat Callie down on an old milking stool that had been brought up and scrubbed 'til the wood was nearly white.  Three big pushes and that baby slid out, neat as you please.  It was a boy and I can tell you that pleased Callie's husband quite a bit.  He pulled off his hat and let out a screech I'm pretty sure they could hear all the way across the holler.  He and Callie were laughing and crying and hugging and kissing an staring at their son all at the same time.  By the time I'd tended to the afterbirth and cleaned up all my supplies both Callie and the baby were having a bite to eat.  It was a good birth.  One of the best. 
By the time I headed home the sun had come on up and the birds were singing.  I sang a little bit, too, some of my favorite hymns, and thought that when I got home I might make a bit of cornbread.  I first got the idear that something might be wrong when I heard Maybelle, our old milk cow, just bellerin and hollerin up a storm.  But, it wasn't 'til I saw the sky above our house; the clear, smokeless sky, that I started to run.  Georgie never let our cookfire go out.  Ever.  Sure enough, there he was in bed, so hot with the fever he'd like to catch the sheets on fire.  The rash and spread, and the parts that had been red the night before were grey and white, like ashes.  Well, I yelled out the door to old Kimmy Sample that she needed to get the doctor right away.  Kimmy was as dumb as a post, but she was an obedient child and she ran off quick as could be.  A week later, she was dead too.  The doctor came and he didn't know what to make of Georgie any more than I, though he told me hed'a been hearing about this kind of thing.  Well we tried everything we could think to do, and a couple of things we knew wouldn't work but did just o be doing something.  It weren't no use, though.  Those patches just kept spreading and after a couple of days they'd break open and blood and pus would just come pouring out.  Georgie screamed near all the time and sometimes he thought I was his mama and sometimes he thought I was an angel but all he knew was that he hurt.  He came to for a little bit right near the end, told me that he'd always loved me.  then he died.  When I set foot that afternoon out of my house, for the first time in a week, that's the first I knew about what was happenin' right outside my door.  The sickness had taken control.  Six weeks later almost everyone was dead.  What was left were a whole bunch of beat up-washed out torn down souls.  And barren.  Each and every one of us. 
So for the last forty years it's been just us, whilin' away the time, plugging along, watching each other grow old and die.  There ain't been no kids in twenty-five years or more, and no babies since Callie Byrd's.  None that was until today.  I was sitting there, watching the flames, trying to warm my old bones a bit when I heard a knock on my door.  Even though I ain't heard a knock like that in a coon's age, I knew just what it was.  Sure enough, there was Johnny Mac, his face bright read and his hat in his hands.  "Why Johnny Mac," I said, not able to keep the twinkle outta my voice.  I ain't seen hide nor hair of you or yours in about seven months."  "Yes ma'am," he said.  "It's Laura.  She's - we - well we just couldn't chance it.  Will you come?"  I took a minute to grab my bag, packed away for all these years.  Laura had to be forty-three or more, a rough age to be having a baby.  When I got to her house, though, I saw her just a walkin.  "Look Miss Lou," she cried, just as her auntie had all those years before.  "I'ma gonna walk this baby out." 

A Story a Day May - 5/2

Today's assignment was to pick a character and write a story based on something they want.  I decided to work on a story that I hope to include in a short story collection called "Brink." I was inspired to write "Brink" when I read an article about a planet that was orbiting a black hole.  The atmosphere had been torn from the planet, but the bulk of the mass was still intact, forever on the event horizon.  I started thinking about what life would be like on the edge of a tear in the time/space continum.  This is one of the stories.  It's a very, very rough draft.  I hope that you enjoy.  There is some mild profanity.

Brink – Circus

The two men sat beside the fire, huddled against the cold.  The fire was eerie.  The flames small, white-blue, and they hissed and danced.  Several such fires glowed amongst the trees.  Firestones, they were called.  Fifty years ago a team of marine biologist had found them growing on the edge of a vent deep in an underground sea.  Dry, they were unremarkable, porous white mushroom-like minerals brought up from the depths by the air that bubbled past. The d a couple of droops of water, though, and they came to life, giving off remarkable amounts of heat along with the freakish blue light.  Now, the vents were mined day and night, harvesting the stones, and the entire country was powered by them.  They were heavily favored among the Homeless, as they were called in these parts.  Lightweight, easy to stuff into a pocket, infinitely useful.  They were in fact, the reason the man had come here in the first place.  Of course, civilians weren’t allowed to possess a firestone.  Highly illegal.  But then to even be Homeless required a certain disregard for the laws of any given land. 

“Go home, kid,” the man said for at least the fiftieth time.  “You ain’t crossed yet, it’s not too late.”  The kid didn’t listen, just like he hadn’t any of the times before.  His head was full of all of these romantic notions of how it would be; the freedom, the adventures.  He was always wanting to hear stories.  “Tell me about this, tell me about that,” all the damn time.  The man had tried to tell the kid what some old man had told him decades before.  Simply put, once you stand in one world and piss in another somehow you can’t go home.  But, it hadn’t worked, just like it hadn’t worked with him. 

“What was it like your first time?” the kid asked.  The man shook his head.  “See, you don’t ask about stuff like that,” he said.  “It’s personal.  Like asking a guy about the first time he was with a woman.”  “Oh.”  The kid started at the flames.  “Well, what’s that like?”  The man sighed.  The kid wasn’t going to get it, plain and simple.  You can’t fix stupid, and the kid was as stupid as it got.  No, that wasn’t true.  Not stupid.  Just…young.  Green.  Still wet behind the ears.  It all came down to the same thing, though.  Oh well, he’d learn.  If he went through with it and didn't turn back shivering and crying from the line.  Or go insane.  Or kill himself when he finally realized what he’d done.  He’d learn.

Suddenly, there was movement from the edge of the wood.  Muffled curses, the crackling of leaves, thumps as the firestones were doused with sand.  Then the flashlights, sending out beams through the woods.  Cops, the man thought at first and packed up camp in a hurry.  Then he heard the shouts and the laughter.  Not cops then, but kids.  Locals. Teenagers, probably, got their dander up and were out to show how tough they were by beating on some Homeless.  A couple of years back a Homeless man had taken up residence in these parts.  Of course, he was also a psychopath and by the time he was brought down he’d killed about a dozen local girls.  Eaten some of them.  Pretty gruesome stuff.  The fact of it was that for every one that went bad, there were hundreds, thousands maybe, who just wanted to be left alone to live their lives.  Still, one was all it took to make a whole country turn on them all.  The man packed up his gear in a hurry and started to flee.  The kid stood by where the fire used to be, staring at the shadows behind the beams.  “What are you doing?” the man grunted, “run!”  The kid’s smooth forehead wrinkled.  He looked like a baby in that minute, not even fuzz o his checks.  “But why?” he asked. “I know them.  Or, I might.  Probably.  Maybe I could explain to them, let them know you’re good guys.  Then you wouldn’t have to run.” The locals were coming closer.  In a moment they’d be on top of them.  The man paused for a minute, torn, and then he shrugged.  “Have it your way,” he said, and sprinted to safety. 

The onslaught didn’t last long.  They never did.  Teenaged boys got bored easily, especially faced with a quarry that would rather hide than fight, had been hiding for more years than the kids had been alive.  A few sharp sizzles of electricity, a few cries of pain.  A few cruel laughs as they tore apart some packs, and then it was all over.  When he was sure that it was over, the man walked back to where their camp had been.  He found the kid right where he had left him, laying on his back, his eyes wide and unblinking.  A long, red gash ran across his stomach, the edges of the shirt around it melted into the skin.  The boy’s breath came in shallow gasps.  “Aw, hell,” the ma said. “What did you do that for?  You dam fool.”  The boy’s lips moved, making bubbles of blood and spittle.  The man leaned down to hear.  “Tell me,” the boy gasped,” tell me about your first time.  The man rubbed his rough calloused hand over his eyes.  He tossed his back on the round and leaned against it.  He gave the boy a drink of water.  Finally, he began.

“I was a boy,” he began, “not much older’n you.  I’d taken my girl to the circus.”  He saw the boy’s lips move again.  “What’s that?” The man gave the kid another drink of water.  His eyes had taken on an on, faraway look. “Now, don’t you bothering with questions.  I’ll get to it.  The circus, well what the circus really was, was something fun that happened once a year or so.  There were magicians, animals like from fairy tales and they could do tricks, pretty girls dressed it outfits that didn’t cover much and sparkled like the stars.  When we said we were going to the circus, though, what we meant was that we were going somewhere to park.  To kiss for certain, more if we could get it.  We called it going to the circus ‘cause of the the wires that ran right through the field where we’d go park our cars and into the woods on either side.  There was three of em, thick and black.  The first one was about twenty feet in the air, the second ten feet above that, and the third one was another ten feet above that.  They had yellow flags on them.  They were there to mark the timeline, and they reminded us of the wires that people would walk on in the circus.  Tightropes they were called, and whenever you watched you spent of of your time kinda hoping they’d fall, and the other half scared to death that they were going to.  That was one reason.  The other reason that they called it the circus was cause of the house.   The field was off of this country road.  It wasn’t more than a track, really, gravel, and if you followed it long enough you’d get to this crossroads.  At the crossroads was this house, and so matter which way you came from it was across the road and to the left.  We’d spend whole weekends, sometimes, my friends and I, trying to sneak up on the house and see if we could see the moment that it switched places.  One of us would come from one direction and another one of us would come from another.  It didn’t matter, though; we never could figure it t. We finally just figured that it was magic, like the rings or the birds that the guy used at the circus, and so we called it the circus house.  But anyway, my girl at the time was named AnneMarie and she was just the prettiest thing that I had ever seen.  Long brown hair that looked red when the light hit it just right, big, soft brown eyes.  I’d had a crush on her for as long as I could remember, and a couple of months before that she’d agreed to be mine.  We spent most every Friday night at the circus, and I spent most every Saturday taking cold showers and thinking about the way her lips had looked when she said something, or how her skin had felt, or how I could get even further the next week.  One night we went out there and it was business as usual, but soon I realized that something was wrong.  It was cold, that was the first thing, winter was coming and this was one of the nights that you could really believe it.  We were dressed like it was still summer, probably cause in our minds it still was, and we were both shivering even though we were pretending that we weren’t.  Second, I could tell that AnneMarie was mad, even though she kept saying that she wasn’t. We fought.  I turned on the car so we could have some heat and I bullied her until she decided to tell me what was wrong.  I said that I was concerned.  I said that I wanted to know so that I could fix it.  Looking back, what I really wanted was to have a reason to fight.  I was tired of going home every week with my balls throbbing.  I was tired of having to dress up every Sunday and make nice with her folks who hated me and were going to no matter what.  So, I got the fight that I wanted and she cried and I thought it would make me feel better but it didn’t.  I just felt tired. And guilty for making her cry. And mad at her because I felt guilty.  Anyway, we decided to call it a night and I got ready to take her home.  But when I pushed the ignition, nothing happened.  Just a click.  I got out and checked the tanks and sure enough we’d fought them both empty.  Well, that got me even more fired up.  I pulled one of the tanks out, made sure that I slammed everything really hard so that AnneMarie could tell how mad I was, laced up my shoes so that she could see, and started to stomp off to the nearest fuel station.  AnneMarie wanted to go with me, but I wouldn’t let her.  The last thing I needed was her shivering beside me in her skirt and heels, twisting her ankle. Besides, if I went by myself maybe she’d she how much I did for her.  Maybe she’d be a little grateful.  Looking back I didn’t treat her too well, but man I’m glad that I at least did that right.  So I stomped off, nursing my hurt feelings, telling myself all of the things I should have said, planning out a nice speech for when I got back the car.  I got to the station and they filled me up with air.  There was an old man there who offered to give me a ride back, but I said “no.”  It would look a lot better if I walked the whole way. That’s how much of a dumbass I was. So I walked back and for a good part of the way I was still good and mad.  Then I calmed down some.  I noticed that the moon was getting near full and remembered hoe pretty my girl looked when the moonlight flashed off of her smile.  I noticed the trees and vines and thought about how I’d never really see them before, always having been focused on something else.  There were these great white flowers that covered some of the old trees. Parasites, I found out later but damn they were pretty parasites.  After an hour or so, though, I still hadn’t come to the field.  I think I knew then.  Still, I kept searching, wandering around ‘til I found my car right where I had left it.  It was rusted all to hell and the forest had grown up right around it.  There was even a tree growing right through where the windshield used to be, but I knew it was mine.  Well I went a little crazy, bashing my head against a tree trying to put my own brains out.  All I did though was rip up my face and put myself to sleep.  I thought about going back to town, looking AnneMarie up if she was still alive and telling her that I was sorry, but I just couldn’t bring myself to it, so I crossed the line again, on purpose, and been doing it ever since.” 

The man finished and waited, staring at his hands, for the kid to say something.  The silence spun out into the darkness, and after a moment the man looked down.  The boy’s chest was still.  The man reached out and closed his eyes.  He rose, wearily, and put on his pack.  He thought for a minute about doing more for the boy, burying him or saying a few words or something.  After all, he was just a kid.  Then, he didn’t.  He wasn’t one for words and he’d never invited the kid along anyway.  Tried to make him go away.  Besides, let them see what they’d done, when the light came.  Let the townies see just who they’d killed with their pranks.  “I tried to tell him,” the man said to no one in particular.  “I tried. Damn fool kid.” Then, he struck out west, towards the nearest timeline. 

A Story a Day in May - Drabble

It's the first of May and Julie, the Prompt Goddess at A Story a Day went easy on us.  Today's assignment: write a 100 word Drabble.  A Drabble must:
1. Contain one or two characters.
2. Describe a decision and how it unfolds.
3. Give one or two vibrant details in few words.
4. Imply that the implications of the decision are far-reaching.

Short word counts are my Achilles' Heel. Still, here is my attempt.

I sat in the corner with my knitting in my lap as I did every week.  In three months I had completed two rows.  Still, it was important, this ruse.  "He must own his treatment," they told me.  God, I hated that. I hated most everything about this place: the therapists' pseudointellectual glasses, the outdated magazines.  Its existence.  She pointed to the toy again.  "You can do it, buddy," she chirped, "call your dog."  Suddenly the word was choking me.  I clenched my jaw until my teeth squeaked in protest, blinked away tears, gripped the chair with white-knuckled hands.  Red-faced, my son opened his mouth.

Another May Tradition

Here we are.  May has arrived and has brought with it two of my favorite tranditions.  The first is "Attempt Unsuccessfully to Celebrate an Archaic Holiday Day," occurring annually on May first.  My mom introduced me to this holiday when I was but a child.  We lovingly wove baskets out of wrapping paper, filled them with daffodils, and attempted to deliver them to neighbors.  The first two were not home.  The third threatened to sic her dog, a slavering, toothy, beast of a German Shepherd, on us.  When we attmepted to explain our errand she shreiked that she had enough flowers and ordered us to leave.  At that point, we settled for giving flowers to the nice girl in the hat at the ice cream window.  Not to be deterred, I set out to creat teh same joyous memories for my children.  Five weeks post c-section, and with a oble headed baby strapped to my chest I hobbled gmaely around our yard, gathing flowers and fighing to keep my toddler from falling into the "holler" and thus his death.  After that, we took a handful of pain medication and a nap.  Thus fortified, we set out.  at the first house I took my toddler by the hand and together we placed our basket of flowers by the door.  Ah, success!  At that moment, my world exploded.  It seems that I had not clearly explained to the boy that we would be leaving the flowers.  Said boy is, shall we say, a bit high strung, and his toddler years were nothing short of catastrophic.  For reasons I still cannot comprehend the fact that we were leaving the flowers totally unhinged the child and I found myself dragging a screaming, crying, snotting, biting vaguely child shaped creature back to the van.  At that  moment, I could help but look forward to the next year, when the tradition could continue.
May wasn't done with me yet, though.  Oh no.  You see, we still get to look forward to "Throw out the Seeds I Tried to Start and Admit My Utter Failure as a Gardener Day."  Each year I vow to grow my own food.  I have visions of a bounty filling my larder, all grown on my own land with my two grubby little hands.  The thing is, I have a black thumb that rivals that of a zombie with frostbite and so each March I buy peat pots and seeds.  I read the instructions.  Twice.  I sow the seeds gingerly, whispering endearments and encouragement.  I feed them.  I water them.  I keep them in the sunlight and out of the cold.  Each May I finally and tearfully throw out the molding, smelly balls of dirt and go visit my friends at the Farmer's Market. 
To this parade of masochism, I plan to add "Story a Day May."  A Story a Day, much like the autumnal counterpart NaNoWriMo is intended to get all of us who are going to write "someday," are going to finish the novel "someday" to get off of our collective sit upons and actually do it.  I'm not going to lie, I love these things.  In theory.  I love the extra push to write.  I love the community.  I love the formal excuse to eschew housework (but honey, it's  A Story a Day May!).  But I'm wary.   I'm certain that as I sit there, around the 20th, inky fingered and dangerously close to a coffee fueled arrhythmia, that the truth will hit me.  No matter how good my intentions may be, it's just another tradition in May.