Under the Devil’s Axe
Barbra’s hands were trembling, laced together so tight she could feel between her bones. She knelt beside the bed, her nightgown not on straight and hair half out of her braid, standing in static wires. Her face was pinched and flushed pink, tears running down.
“You listen to me.” Barbra said to the floor. “You listen to me good! I want you to know my deal I’ve got for you. You like deals too, so shut up and listen.” She took a moment to steady her breath.
“I got something for you, and I know you want it. You get me away from here, somewhere new, and it’s all yours.” She waited.
“You hear me Devil? I’ll wait for you under the maple tree on the hill tomorrow. You come and get me and my soul’s all yours,” she spat at the ground. “I dare you, Devil.”
She unlocked her hands. Flopping down on her bed, Barbra passed out.
****
The sun was beginning to peek over the hill when Barbra came walking up to the maple tree. The trunk was fat and tall, filled with a million arms and leaves. She always thought the leaves looked like dinosaur foot prints. As a little girl Barbra would make a trail of them up and down the hill, then follow them, hoping they would lead to a real dinosaur.
She climbed the rest of the way and planted herself under the tree, the bark digging against her back. All she had to do is wait and assuming the devil was a busy creature, she planned to sit all day.
No one would be awake yet at home. Her parents would be still laying apart, faces pressed in odd ways against their pillows. Barbra’s mom would scratch her behind and toss over, bumping into dad’s back. He’d roll farther to the side so only half of him was on the bed. The alarm wouldn’t go off for a few hours, and when it did her mom would grumble how “his” clock always woke her up and he’d roll to pee. He’d ignore the stack of dishes and go for a cereal bowl. Realizing there was no clean one he’d grab a small pot and have at it. Her mom would zombie her way in after he slipped out to work and she’d be welcomed by his tower of dishes. She’d swear and start making soapy water.
Barbra dug her boot into the earth, tearing up the grass and loosening out the dirt. An earthworm wiggled through. He curled and uncurled, his peach skin dulled by the shade. She put the dirt back on him.
“Let’s keep your life normal,” she said.
She crossed her arms behind her head and leaned against them. She tried to decide what the devil would look like. He had to be handsome, too handsome, like eating a fistful of molasses in one gulp. He’d have a baby’s eyes, blue to the core and unsettled. Blonde hair seemed right. And white, the devil had to be very white.
Before Neil had died, he had eyes darker than anything she had ever seen. They looked like nothing could weigh them down. His skin was the darkest too, and soft, soft enough to make her cry. But it was his laugh that made Barbra need him. It was too high to match his wide shoulders and thick legs. The final note always went up. She couldn’t help but join in when she heard it.
****
It was under the maple tree where she first heard it. She climbed the hill, hugging a chubby paperback to her chest, determined to get lost inside it. She had sat and opened it when the laugh came from somewhere. She looked down the hill, to the left, and to the right, and above. On the fattest branch was a boy, long meaty legs stretch across. He took no notice of her, his focus on a comic book held on his chest. She had only seen light colored people before and he was not just dark, but dark-dark, as if his skin could swallow her hole. Unease in her stomach told her to leave. Her fingers etched the bark of the tree; the tiny and large bumps ran under her skin. She quieted her stomach. This was her tree.
“Excuse me,” she said.
The boy looked up, left, right, and down. “Oh, hello,” he said.
She bit her bottom lip. “I’m trying to read.”
“Oh,” the boy said.
“I need quiet to read,” she hinted.
“Oh.”
“You’re laughing too loud.”
He drank in her sentence for a moment, and laughed again. “You sound like an old lady.”
“Excuse me?”
The boy straightened up. “I just mean you look like my age, but you sound like you’ve stopped being a kid,” he stopped and thought. “Have you ever read Superman?”
She raised her pointer finger. “I am not…wait-what?”
“Superman?” he asked.
“No.” She replied.
“Well, let me tell you,”
He jumped down from the branch, landing with a thump in front of her.
“He’s way too perfect, perfect hair, perfect face, only a rock gives him issues.” He laughed. “I don’t think it’s really fair, but he’s not human.”
“So you can’t expect him to be one?” She said.
His eyes widened. “Exactly,” he smiled, “what’s your name?”
“Barbra.”
He laughed again.
“What’s so funny?” She snapped.
“Even your name’s old sounding!” he smiled.
“How dare-” She said, beginning her way down the hill.
“Hey wait,” he caught her by the arm his soft skin prickling against her, “Mines Neil and I’m sorry.”
She stared at his hand. The nails were worked down, but the skin was untouched. Thin strands of black hair poked from his knuckles. His grip was easy, holding only tight enough to show his plea. She looked up at him and automatically smiled, it was the same as exhaling or scratching her nose.
“I’m not aloud to read comic books,” she said.
“I own thousands,” he said, letting go of her arm.
****
The sun had made it up to the center of the sky. Barbra drummed her nails against the ground. The Devil was a sinner; he probably enjoyed making her wait. He must have thought it was funny. He had to have a sense of humor. She knew God did. God was always on a cloud, ready with a lightning bolt of sick humor. The Devil probably couldn’t use lightning being as it was God’s medium, and he probably ditched the pitchfork a million stereotypes ago. She pictured him with an axe, an innocent axe. He’d pass by a town and people would think: “There goes a beautiful man to chop some wood.”
Wood, the Devil would need lots of wood. She doubted he got his from trees.
****
Barbra came into the house with mud on her heels. She and Neil had met yet again under the tree. They had made a habit to do so everyday, except Sunday. It had begun to drizzle so they had to cut their time short. Her mother was at the entry, a mug in her hands.
“I saw that you were under the maple tree again,” she commented as Barbra took off her boots.
“Yes Mom,” she answered.
“It seemed a little dark under there.”
Barbra’s face wrinkled, confused, but she smiled. “No, it’s shady enough to keep the heat away, and bright enough to read, when it’s not raining.”
She went into the kitchen; everything was a mess. The dishes were half done. The tiled floor stained with mud.
“Nothing interesting to tell me about?” Her mom appeared, leaning against the door frame.
“No.” Barbra answered.
She tried to walk past her mother to go upstairs. Her mom moved so she blocked the way.
“Mom, can I-?” she began.
“Are you pregnant?” Her mom’s face didn’t stir.
Barbra jerked her head in shock. “What?”
“Their kind likes to leave babies all over the place. Has he gotten you pregnant?”
“He, he who?” Barbra thought. She couldn’t mean-
“That boy.” She was calm.
“No, Mom! He’s-”
“I’m going to have to tell your father about this.”
“What? Why? I haven’t done anything.” Barbra said.
“It isn’t right. He’s not someone you should be around.”
“Why?”
“Look at him.”
Barbra thought. “Because he’s black,” she whispered.
“It’s not normal, you look ridiculous together.”
“Because he’s black,” Barbra couldn’t find her voice to raise it.
“It’s not right.”
“You really feel this way? Aren’t people above this sort of thinking by now?”
“That wasn’t by our doing, just because they have rights doesn’t make them fit for us to be seen around.”
“How can you be like this?”
Her mom’s gaze was fixed on the floor. She didn’t blink. The bags under her eyes seemed heavier. “Go to your room. If I were you, I’d pray.”
“Pray?” Barbra could feel her heart breaking through her chest. Her fingers were wiggling with anger as she held them to her face.
“Yes.” Her mom answered. “Now go.”
Barbra started out, but turned around.
“Go,” her mom ordered.
Barbra walked past her. She felt as though she was repeatedly blacking out, unable to see the stairs. She felt something cold like the knob of her bedroom door. The bed felt like it was underneath her.
“I don’t care. I won’t pray,” she whispered, “I won’t pray ever again,”
****
The tree was their spot. He’d have his comic book in hand and she a paperback. They never actually read, except for the times when Neil insisted on acting out a battle between Batman and the Joker. Sometimes Barbra would recite a few lines from her book, but find her voice monotone in comparison to his and give up.
“You’ve really lived here your whole life?” Neil asked, he in his usual laying position across the branch. Barbra sat underneath, against the tree.
“Yes,” she sighed, “my father cleans the local church. He never wants to move.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” Barbra thought, “I guess he went there his whole life and he’s lived in our house forever too.”
“So he doesn’t like change?”
“I guess not.”
“And your mom”
Barbra thought. “I’m not sure. She moved here for my dad, gave up her job-”
Neil’s eyebrow rose. “For your dad?”
“Yeah.”
“Interesting,” he gazed off, “and you?”
“What about me?” Barbra looked up at him. Neil was leaning against his fist.
“Are you going to live here forever, too?”
“I guess so,” she thought. “What else would I do?”
Neil laughed. “That’s up to you.”
“Never thought of it like that.”
“Maybe you should,” he said.
Barbra thought about throwing her book up at him. Instead she laughed.
“Well what about you?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “I think I’m going to travel when I’m old enough.”
“Travel?” Barbra asked. “Where?”
“Probably somewhere like Egypt, kick some mummy butt. Or France, and fall in love.”
“Love?” She laughed.
“Yeah,” he looked serious. “Everyone says you fall in love in France, and I figure by the time I’m old enough to travel; I’ll be old enough to fall in love.”
“Why do you need to be in France to fall in love?” She asked.
“Why does your dad have to stay here to live?”
“How would I know?” She said.
“You could come with me. We could see the pyramids together! Fight mummies too!” He said.
She raised an eyebrow. “What about France?”
“Well,” he was concentrating. “If we go together we could just fall in love with each other. It’d be a lot easier than trying to find someone.”
“How would we fall in love?”
“I don’t know, probably by kissing or something.”
She thought about it. “That makes sense.”
“Okay then, when we’re old we’ll go to Egypt and fight mummies then go to France and fall in love.”
“In that order?” Barbra asked.
“Well of course! It wouldn’t make sense to fall in love and then fight mummies! Love always comes at the end of the adventure.”
Barbra laughed. “You read too much.”
****
Barbra held her hands over her ears as if that could make all the memories go away. She was still under the tree. No Neil, no devil. She looked up. The fat branch was there, empty. She felt like it was covered in scares only she could see. He had waited for her on that branch the day after her mother had told her father about Barbra and Neil. Barbra wasn’t aloud to leave the house. She had no way to tell Neil not to wait. He had waited too long and too comfortable. They had said he must have fallen asleep. He turned too much and fell off, landing too hard. His neck took all the weight. She could only imagine the noise it must have made. It had to be like if the branch would have snapped. God would have been listening and laughing.
“Good riddance,” her father grumbled at the news of Neil. “He’s the devil’s problem now.”
Barbra was at the top of the stairs, listening to the truth she wasn’t meant to know. She was only halfway ready for bed. She tried to push her tears back, but they were breaking through.
“Then I’ll go to the devil too.” She whispered as she stumbled into her room. She folded her hands and assumed the devil was listening.
She knew the devil had to be there soon. He would want her soul. It was young and naïve, she thought. So naïve to the point that she couldn’t understand what her parents thought was wrong with knowing Neil. The Devil would probably like that. She, Neil, and the Devil could go to Egypt and France together. The Devil would like killing mummies, but probably not falling in love. Barbra wondered what would have happened after her and Neil fell in love. They’d probably get married and find a house to live in. He’d have a room filled with comic books and she would have one filled with paperbacks. They’d own no bible.
“Are you going to live here forever, too?” Neil’s voice burned against her ears.
“I guess so. What else would I do?”
He laughed his wonderful laugh. “That’s up to you.”
Barbra let that sentence settle inside her stomach. It was up to her. The Devil didn’t have an axe, but gave an axe away. Barbra could make her way with it.
“No,” she said to herself. “I won’t live here forever.”
Barbra stood up. She ran her fingers up and down the tree trunk, wondering where she could get a paperback on Egypt.
She laughed. “Well, I guess the Devil’s got my soul.”
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Journal-Going to the Movies!!!! (I<3MOVIES!)
Sweeney Todd-The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
Supernatural Aid
“It’s just up here.” Mrs. Lovett said has she turned the key to the upstairs door. It clicked in approval for them to come inside. She let Mr. Todd go first.
He stepped in, the rush of cold and dust sticking to his skin. It was nothing like how he remembered. The once buttercup wall paper was now faded to brown and peeling. The floor boards groaned underneath him as he went to the wide window. Through the dirty glass he could see the smog filled city. Outside everyone wandered to their business. In the corner was the crib, untouched after all these years. He went to it, not noticing Mrs. Lovett’s crouch down and fumble with a loose floor board.
A molding blanket was draped over the crib. He removed it. Underneath was a doll, the doll he had given his little Johanna when she was so small. It had once had a powdered face, its little lip and little eyes glossy. It had worn a silk dress that would be soft against Johanna’s skin. Now its face was broken, its dress mangled with age and wear. What wasn’t ruined from that long time ago?
“Here we are!” Mrs. Lovett’s chirped from behind.
Mr. Todd wandered in a daze over to her.
He knelt beside her at the hole. Inside sat a box. He knew this box.
“When they come for the little girl I hid them. I could have sold them, but I didn’t,” she said.
He opened it. It creaked with age just as everything else did in the room. Inside were eight razors, all sleeping and untouched.
“Those handles are chaffed silver, ain’t they?” Mrs. Lovett’s said with awe.
“Silver,” he whispered fondly, “yes.” He tried to flick a bit of happiness in his lips away.
He ran his finger slowly across, touching each razor. He pinched one by the handle and took it out. He was slow to lift it in front of him.
“These are my friends,” he declared as he twirled for Mrs. Lovett’s to admire their glimmer. She stared at them with hungry eyes.
He flicked it open. “See this one shine.” He spoke only to the blade, his eyes filled with desire. “How he smiles in the light. My friend.”
He stood so he could inspect it in the window light. He flipped it over and over, watching the glimmer off the silver.
Wandering away from the window he held it to his ear, as if could whisper a secret only he could hear. These razors had been locked away for all these years, just like him. He could feel their longing for freedom, just as he had heard it in his own soul. He would promise these friends, his only friends what they deserved.
Mrs. Lovett’s, still watching, smiled. Her heavy eyes were filling with a mother’s care. She placed her hand on Mr. Todd’s shoulder and breathed deep. He paid no attention, his eyes focused on the blade.
“I’m your fried too Mr. Todd.”
“You will soon drip rubies,” he promised to the silver.
He stared at his reflection in the blade. His face was worn and ashy and his hair was streaked with white. He tilted the knife and saw Mrs. Lovett’s with her chestnut eyes.
“Leave me,” he said over his shoulder.
She turned and with out protest, walked out. He looked once more at his reflection. He stood before the window, holding his weapon to the light.
“At last,” he declared. “My arm is complete again!”
Supernatural Aid
“It’s just up here.” Mrs. Lovett said has she turned the key to the upstairs door. It clicked in approval for them to come inside. She let Mr. Todd go first.
He stepped in, the rush of cold and dust sticking to his skin. It was nothing like how he remembered. The once buttercup wall paper was now faded to brown and peeling. The floor boards groaned underneath him as he went to the wide window. Through the dirty glass he could see the smog filled city. Outside everyone wandered to their business. In the corner was the crib, untouched after all these years. He went to it, not noticing Mrs. Lovett’s crouch down and fumble with a loose floor board.
A molding blanket was draped over the crib. He removed it. Underneath was a doll, the doll he had given his little Johanna when she was so small. It had once had a powdered face, its little lip and little eyes glossy. It had worn a silk dress that would be soft against Johanna’s skin. Now its face was broken, its dress mangled with age and wear. What wasn’t ruined from that long time ago?
“Here we are!” Mrs. Lovett’s chirped from behind.
Mr. Todd wandered in a daze over to her.
He knelt beside her at the hole. Inside sat a box. He knew this box.
“When they come for the little girl I hid them. I could have sold them, but I didn’t,” she said.
He opened it. It creaked with age just as everything else did in the room. Inside were eight razors, all sleeping and untouched.
“Those handles are chaffed silver, ain’t they?” Mrs. Lovett’s said with awe.
“Silver,” he whispered fondly, “yes.” He tried to flick a bit of happiness in his lips away.
He ran his finger slowly across, touching each razor. He pinched one by the handle and took it out. He was slow to lift it in front of him.
“These are my friends,” he declared as he twirled for Mrs. Lovett’s to admire their glimmer. She stared at them with hungry eyes.
He flicked it open. “See this one shine.” He spoke only to the blade, his eyes filled with desire. “How he smiles in the light. My friend.”
He stood so he could inspect it in the window light. He flipped it over and over, watching the glimmer off the silver.
Wandering away from the window he held it to his ear, as if could whisper a secret only he could hear. These razors had been locked away for all these years, just like him. He could feel their longing for freedom, just as he had heard it in his own soul. He would promise these friends, his only friends what they deserved.
Mrs. Lovett’s, still watching, smiled. Her heavy eyes were filling with a mother’s care. She placed her hand on Mr. Todd’s shoulder and breathed deep. He paid no attention, his eyes focused on the blade.
“I’m your fried too Mr. Todd.”
“You will soon drip rubies,” he promised to the silver.
He stared at his reflection in the blade. His face was worn and ashy and his hair was streaked with white. He tilted the knife and saw Mrs. Lovett’s with her chestnut eyes.
“Leave me,” he said over his shoulder.
She turned and with out protest, walked out. He looked once more at his reflection. He stood before the window, holding his weapon to the light.
“At last,” he declared. “My arm is complete again!”
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Weekly Journal (Emotion Lists)
What makes you happy?
1. Loving someone.
2. Blank paper and a ready pen.
3. A flood of cold, nighttime air creeping through my bedroom window.
4. The crunch of snow under my boots.
5. Clean sheets.
6. My family. Whether were sitting around talking or watching a movie together.
7. Writing. Period.
8. Buying a brand new book.
9. Going to Barnes and Noble and staring at the shelves
10. Analyzing Broadway actresses’ performances.
11. Drawing nonstop until my fingers are stained with every color imaginable.
12. Baking something warm and yummy.
13. Accomplishing something whether big or small, from doing the dishes to writing twenty pages.
14. Children.
15. A tight hug from my Mom
16. My dad pinching my ear
17. Wearing a well planned outfit.
18. Watching a good movie. Preferably V for Vendetta or Stranger than Fiction.
What do you want?
1. To write something great, something that impacts someone.
2. To love someone with all my heart and to be loved back.
3. To have children that I can pour all my love into.
4. To change the world.
5. Always be close to my family.
6. For my family to always be happy.
7. To be a college English professor.
8. Get the lead in my high school play.
9. To travel. I want to not just see place, but feel them. I want to feel other cultures flow through me
10. To know that this world isn’t just made up of horrible things.
11. To learn as much as I can.
12. To make the world understand that it needs to change and learn to love before it’s too late.
13. To meet the Dalai Lama and talk to him about living life.
14. To always be able to write for my entire life.
What are you Afraid of?
1. Failing to be everything I have the potential to be.
2. Not getting good enough grades.
3. Not trying hard enough.
4. Being below the bar with what I accomplish.
5. When my OCD kicks in and that “I have to!” impulse thumps through me.
6. Too much light hurting my sensitive eyes.
7. Not Belonging.
8. Belonging.
9. Going insane.
10. Being normal.
11. Not helping the world with the gifts I have.
12. Not having children.
13. Not being able to love.
What makes you cry?
1. Remembering every little detail of things I can’t change.
2. Regretting not saying the “right” thing
3. Reading memories in my journal that were happy at the time and hard to think about now.
4. “Desert Song” by My Chemical Romance on rainy days.
5. Standing in the empty room that my great Grandma once called home.
6. Blank paper that stays blank.
7. That last phone call. You said you didn’t want to hurt me anymore, but you still did.
8. Writing this list
9. Praying and doubting my religion at the same time.
10. Being pushed down so often by the people who take advantage of my kindness.
11. The evil in the world.
12. People not appreciating the love they have.
13. Losing the people I love.
1. Loving someone.
2. Blank paper and a ready pen.
3. A flood of cold, nighttime air creeping through my bedroom window.
4. The crunch of snow under my boots.
5. Clean sheets.
6. My family. Whether were sitting around talking or watching a movie together.
7. Writing. Period.
8. Buying a brand new book.
9. Going to Barnes and Noble and staring at the shelves
10. Analyzing Broadway actresses’ performances.
11. Drawing nonstop until my fingers are stained with every color imaginable.
12. Baking something warm and yummy.
13. Accomplishing something whether big or small, from doing the dishes to writing twenty pages.
14. Children.
15. A tight hug from my Mom
16. My dad pinching my ear
17. Wearing a well planned outfit.
18. Watching a good movie. Preferably V for Vendetta or Stranger than Fiction.
What do you want?
1. To write something great, something that impacts someone.
2. To love someone with all my heart and to be loved back.
3. To have children that I can pour all my love into.
4. To change the world.
5. Always be close to my family.
6. For my family to always be happy.
7. To be a college English professor.
8. Get the lead in my high school play.
9. To travel. I want to not just see place, but feel them. I want to feel other cultures flow through me
10. To know that this world isn’t just made up of horrible things.
11. To learn as much as I can.
12. To make the world understand that it needs to change and learn to love before it’s too late.
13. To meet the Dalai Lama and talk to him about living life.
14. To always be able to write for my entire life.
What are you Afraid of?
1. Failing to be everything I have the potential to be.
2. Not getting good enough grades.
3. Not trying hard enough.
4. Being below the bar with what I accomplish.
5. When my OCD kicks in and that “I have to!” impulse thumps through me.
6. Too much light hurting my sensitive eyes.
7. Not Belonging.
8. Belonging.
9. Going insane.
10. Being normal.
11. Not helping the world with the gifts I have.
12. Not having children.
13. Not being able to love.
What makes you cry?
1. Remembering every little detail of things I can’t change.
2. Regretting not saying the “right” thing
3. Reading memories in my journal that were happy at the time and hard to think about now.
4. “Desert Song” by My Chemical Romance on rainy days.
5. Standing in the empty room that my great Grandma once called home.
6. Blank paper that stays blank.
7. That last phone call. You said you didn’t want to hurt me anymore, but you still did.
8. Writing this list
9. Praying and doubting my religion at the same time.
10. Being pushed down so often by the people who take advantage of my kindness.
11. The evil in the world.
12. People not appreciating the love they have.
13. Losing the people I love.
Journal- Harper’s Index (On a Personal Level)
1.) Number of stuffed animals I slept with as a little girl: 11
2.) Years I’ve been afraid of dolls: 10
3.) Number of dolls I own: 10
4.) Number of things for me to get done this week on my “To Do” List: 30
5.) Average amount of times I say “I’m sorry” in one apology: 7
6.) Number of diaries I’m keeping: 5
7.) Chances I will ram half my body into the kitchen door frame because I take the corner too tight: 100%
8.) Chances of my voice being too quiet to hear, at first, when I talk to someone: 85.5%
9.) Number of high school plays I’ve been in: 5
10.) Times I’ve allowed others to break my heart instead of doing it myself: 2
2.) Years I’ve been afraid of dolls: 10
3.) Number of dolls I own: 10
4.) Number of things for me to get done this week on my “To Do” List: 30
5.) Average amount of times I say “I’m sorry” in one apology: 7
6.) Number of diaries I’m keeping: 5
7.) Chances I will ram half my body into the kitchen door frame because I take the corner too tight: 100%
8.) Chances of my voice being too quiet to hear, at first, when I talk to someone: 85.5%
9.) Number of high school plays I’ve been in: 5
10.) Times I’ve allowed others to break my heart instead of doing it myself: 2
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Week 3-Journal 2 (Picture Story)
Marbles in Kyle
Kyle had done it, and now he was going to be the knight of the play ground. He had battled great odds, scaled treacherous terrain, and outwitted an out casted enemy. Only he had actually formed a bet with his friends, walked across to the swing set, and punched Meryl so hard that he dropped his precious marble bag for Kyle to steal it. He had made a point to hold the marble bag high, like the mid-day sun, above his head. The sounds of his fellow men’s cheers hummed in his ears as he sprinted to the other side of the school by the giant dumpsters. Now it was only a matter of time before the recess aid would come looking for him. He was going to be a legend, the Robin Hood of his era. His chest puffed with pleasure as quick breaths worked in and out.
He inspected the bag and found nothing special. It was worn, fake leather, with an unraveling string pulling it shut. Kyle undid the string and spilled its contents into his sweaty hand. There they were six fat marbles the size of a cat’s eye, each a dull earth tone. Kyle wanted to spit on them. There was nothing special about these…rocks! He didn’t see why Meryl was so proud of them, why he hugged them close to his chest like he would a baby blanket, why he kept the tied tight around his belt loop when he wasn’t counting them.
Kyle dropped the sack to the ground, hoping the fall would cause it to fall apart. It landed with a slight thump. Kyle inspected the bag with the toe of his sneaker. There was still one marble inside. He dumped the last one out. This marble was different from its opaque brothers; it was bright blue, pellucid, and smooth. Kyle put away the others and put the sack in his pocket. He pinched the new marble between his fingers, holding it close to his for inspection. He blew on it, his hot breath forming a temporary fog over the glass. It seemed real, like any normal marble, but it didn’t feel that way. It was colder than the others, and smoother, too smooth, not delicate but…
“Meow,” came from behind.
Kyle jerked, expecting the aid to be behind him, and dropped the marble. It rolled in a streak behind the dumpster. He turned around. A white cat with dull eyes was watching him, its head tilted to the side. Kyle whipped his sweat away; he had cheated death for a little while longer.
The cat hissed and retreated behind the dumpster. Kyle was reminded that the marble was still lost and followed the cat’s trail to find it. He held his breath and analyzed the shadowy area underneath. A hot stew of rotting lunches and spoiled milk swelled in his nose. He saw nothing. No marble and no cat. He stood up wanting to end the stench. He turned and the cat was behind him, staring. It looked not with it’s dulls eyes, but with one dull eye, the other was a bright blue.
Kyle paused. That eye looked to familiar.
“No,” Kyle declared. He waved the cat away, “Go!”
The cat didn’t blink. That eye, that glossy eye, remained focused on him.
“Go!” He said.
The cat took an arched step forward. Kyle felt himself, uncontrollably, back up. The cat began to hiss, its little teeth barring. Kyle took out the sack of marbles, winding up to throw. The cat stopped, a purr rumbled from its throat. Kyle looked from the bag to the cat.
“You want these?” He threw it in front of the cat. “Fine, they’re yours.”
The cat poked its nose against the opening of the bag. It worked its way inside, barely able to fit half its head. It remained there for a few moments, Kyle watched, eyebrows stuck upward. The cat finally came out, it’s eyes normal again. Kyle ran forward and poured the marbles into his hand. He found the blue one, and five earthy ones. He counted twice more. Five normal ones, there were six before, he was sure of it. The cat purred again.
Kyle took another step back, his stomach swimming with unease.
“Kyle Gale,” a voice from around the corner called, “I want you to come out right now!”
Mrs. Youngsmee, the recess aid, appeared.
“I don’t want to hear any stories. Give me Meryl’s marbles-"
Kyle shoved the bag in her hands. “Take them. Keep them. I don’t want them!”
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Journal-"I Am a Camera"
The library balcony is lined with tables, the corner one; just by the stairs, is where I am seated. A woman is thumping down the stairs. Her backless heels click as the stick and un-stick to the souls of her feet. People by the dozens are glued to computers, all with a fixed gaze at the screen. The motor of quick typing is coming from somewhere, also is the hum of talking.
A girl is sitting bellow me in an arm chair. She is carefully draping her plum sweater over the arm. She smoothes it down and then fumbles with her cell phone. The light steps of another girl come up the stairs with only the swishing of her jeans making noticeable noise. She’s followed by heavy steps of a stout man and girl with a yellow backpack. They disappear into the hallway behind me. The talk is getting louder, but only a few people are speaking. I can hear one girl’s voice over it all, but I don’t know what she’s saying. The light step girl has disappeared back down the stairs; she doesn’t carry a backpack like everyone else. A man with many keys walks right beside me and picks something up off the ground. He is about to go down the stairs but stops at the rain covered window and looks out for a brief moment. He carries coffee in his hand, in a paper cup with a lid. The sweater girl is now reading, headphones on. Her sweater is still there and untouched. She looks focused, but a faint smile is on her face; it’s almost unnoticeable. She yawns.
I meet eyes with a boy in a plaid hat. We hold the gaze; it is short but feels long. I couldn’t see his mouth; it was resting against his fist. His eyes are back on whatever he has in front of him. His mouth is still buried.
A girl is sitting bellow me in an arm chair. She is carefully draping her plum sweater over the arm. She smoothes it down and then fumbles with her cell phone. The light steps of another girl come up the stairs with only the swishing of her jeans making noticeable noise. She’s followed by heavy steps of a stout man and girl with a yellow backpack. They disappear into the hallway behind me. The talk is getting louder, but only a few people are speaking. I can hear one girl’s voice over it all, but I don’t know what she’s saying. The light step girl has disappeared back down the stairs; she doesn’t carry a backpack like everyone else. A man with many keys walks right beside me and picks something up off the ground. He is about to go down the stairs but stops at the rain covered window and looks out for a brief moment. He carries coffee in his hand, in a paper cup with a lid. The sweater girl is now reading, headphones on. Her sweater is still there and untouched. She looks focused, but a faint smile is on her face; it’s almost unnoticeable. She yawns.
I meet eyes with a boy in a plaid hat. We hold the gaze; it is short but feels long. I couldn’t see his mouth; it was resting against his fist. His eyes are back on whatever he has in front of him. His mouth is still buried.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Kitchen Memory-Bread Blues
The kitchen is the heart beat of my house. Its walls littered with the every knick-knack of memory and youth. Cabinets filled with crayon birthday cards to Mom and Dad, copper cookie cutters in shapes from gingerbread men to moose glimmering, pots hanging thanks to my Dad’s contraption on the ceiling. Flour both contained and free covers the counter tops along with our mixer, bowls, sugar, rice, and spices. Whatever cooks on top of the stove will be the scent for the evening, sticking to our clothes whether we like it or not.
My father is a dedicated baker. It relaxes him. Baking is like an art but with restriction and structure he and I so often crave for with our over active imaginations. He’s shown me everything I know when it comes to baking, his way of passing on the torch, and I am thankful for this gift. We share a love of making bread, because it is like an art as well as the basis for life. Bread can mean everything. Not many people pay attention to this.
Irish soda bread is our preference. It’s crunchy crust and soft, doughy inside makes it perfect for dipping, spreading, or bread pudding making. I love it. So when one day we set to work, I was placed in the driver’s seat for its assembly. The kitchen table, one King Arthur would envy, quickly was littered with flour, bowls, measuring cups, and everything else needed to get this job done. I mixed the dry ingredients and added the wet to it. I plunged my hands into the mix, my fingers webbing together with the sticky goo. Gloves of dough were protecting my hands as I kneaded.
“You’ll have to knead for 15 minutes.” My Dad instructed as I placed the dough on a floured cutting bored.
I moaned at the thought of 15 minutes of nonstop arm work, but knew that the exercise would do me some good. I worked as the mix, but it was sticky, too sticky for dough being kneaded. I could not get it to come together. We dumped a truck load of flour onto, into, and near the dough but it still clung to my fingers like leeches. Dough is supposed to let go and fend for itself. Still I kneaded.
With a minute left the dough still was stubborn. My Dad scanned the recipe to see if anything was left out. Nothing was missing.
“Wait.” My Dad said.
I waited.
“Knead for 30 seconds.”
I looked down at the dough in front of me, tempted to throw it against the wall. How could we miss that? Irish soda bread is kneaded for 30 seconds and BREAD STICKS are kneaded for 15 minutes.
“Well,” my Dad laughed, “Start over.”
That’s bread, if you mess it up there’s nothing to do but to start over. I grabbed a measuring cup and started again. The smell of baking bread was worth it.
My father is a dedicated baker. It relaxes him. Baking is like an art but with restriction and structure he and I so often crave for with our over active imaginations. He’s shown me everything I know when it comes to baking, his way of passing on the torch, and I am thankful for this gift. We share a love of making bread, because it is like an art as well as the basis for life. Bread can mean everything. Not many people pay attention to this.
Irish soda bread is our preference. It’s crunchy crust and soft, doughy inside makes it perfect for dipping, spreading, or bread pudding making. I love it. So when one day we set to work, I was placed in the driver’s seat for its assembly. The kitchen table, one King Arthur would envy, quickly was littered with flour, bowls, measuring cups, and everything else needed to get this job done. I mixed the dry ingredients and added the wet to it. I plunged my hands into the mix, my fingers webbing together with the sticky goo. Gloves of dough were protecting my hands as I kneaded.
“You’ll have to knead for 15 minutes.” My Dad instructed as I placed the dough on a floured cutting bored.
I moaned at the thought of 15 minutes of nonstop arm work, but knew that the exercise would do me some good. I worked as the mix, but it was sticky, too sticky for dough being kneaded. I could not get it to come together. We dumped a truck load of flour onto, into, and near the dough but it still clung to my fingers like leeches. Dough is supposed to let go and fend for itself. Still I kneaded.
With a minute left the dough still was stubborn. My Dad scanned the recipe to see if anything was left out. Nothing was missing.
“Wait.” My Dad said.
I waited.
“Knead for 30 seconds.”
I looked down at the dough in front of me, tempted to throw it against the wall. How could we miss that? Irish soda bread is kneaded for 30 seconds and BREAD STICKS are kneaded for 15 minutes.
“Well,” my Dad laughed, “Start over.”
That’s bread, if you mess it up there’s nothing to do but to start over. I grabbed a measuring cup and started again. The smell of baking bread was worth it.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Response- Ron Carlson Writes a Story
“Ron Carlson Writes a Story” is a simplistic easing into the world of writing fiction. It doesn’t beat around the bush on what to do, though it did occasionally use artsy vocabulary. Usually when I read a book that teaches how to write I get stressed out. Mental pressure begins to sink in. I feel if I’m not writing all the time than I’m not really a dedicated writer, and Ron Carlson’s book did not make me feel this way. Instead it gave me straightforward motivation through example. I appreciated him admitting that he’s often tempted to runaway from his writing. I want to also bail when I get stuck. I enjoyed how he shows how to train your mind to hang in there. “Stay in the room” was good line to repeat as often is he did. It’s a phrase that sticks with you and you can’t help but remember it when you’re having the time-for-coffee attack. Your ability to stay in the room is controlled by yourself. Bottom line, you decide whether or not to go get that cup of coffee; no ones pulling the string and the devil does not make you do it. Once you plant down to write it’s up to you to see it through to the final punctuation. I enjoyed the line on page 81 “Stretch the legs, that’s it, and then while I’m in the kitchen, peek outside at the other world, see what’s happening, breathe the larger air, witness the passing traffic, every car full of writers who have already given up.”. This line hits home with the severity of seeing a story through. There’s no easy way out of writing. It’s work. Either you commit to it or not. This book offers a good look at the challenges presented when trying to get through a story. It can be a frustrating experience. There will be more than one moment when you want to leave, but if you hang in there your story will reveal its potential, just as “The Governor’s Ball” did for Ron Carlson. You can’t count on the story to do all the work, but you can count on it to give you hints on what is supposed to and what will happen. It’s your job as an author to observe and listen.
Friday, September 5, 2008
101 (Dalmatians?) Word Story!
"What It's Worth"
Stacy drove top down, map in lap, beneath the clouds. The sun was beginning to filter its way down as it inched higher into the sky. Stacy had to hurry up.
She scanned the car clock, realizing that was going to be a hard feat. Her wedding ring drummed against the window frame, sliding up and down her finger. Mark wasn’t going to forgive her this time. She pressed the gas harder. As she did the map flew upward. Stacy grabbed it noticing something was different. Her ring was gone. She was now late. Stacy pulled a u-turn, and was free.
Stacy drove top down, map in lap, beneath the clouds. The sun was beginning to filter its way down as it inched higher into the sky. Stacy had to hurry up.
She scanned the car clock, realizing that was going to be a hard feat. Her wedding ring drummed against the window frame, sliding up and down her finger. Mark wasn’t going to forgive her this time. She pressed the gas harder. As she did the map flew upward. Stacy grabbed it noticing something was different. Her ring was gone. She was now late. Stacy pulled a u-turn, and was free.
MY-First Sentences (Ideas)
1. Nightmares are short in length, but long in the lasting.- generalization
2. Despite Kya’s lazy eye most men, and even a few women, found her beautiful.
3. “If I shot you right now would you stop crying?” Jack said as he scratched his head with the barrel of the gun.- Dialogue
4. The feeling of my grandfather’s ashes has never escaped my finger tips, not after all these years. –reminiscent
5. Broken bones often made Richard laugh.
6. It was 97 degrees Fahrenheit and Diana was wearing an ankle length, wool coat.
7. Charlotte started her spring cleaning by burning all of her photo albums.
2. Despite Kya’s lazy eye most men, and even a few women, found her beautiful.
3. “If I shot you right now would you stop crying?” Jack said as he scratched his head with the barrel of the gun.- Dialogue
4. The feeling of my grandfather’s ashes has never escaped my finger tips, not after all these years. –reminiscent
5. Broken bones often made Richard laugh.
6. It was 97 degrees Fahrenheit and Diana was wearing an ankle length, wool coat.
7. Charlotte started her spring cleaning by burning all of her photo albums.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Week 1, Challenge 1- A First Sentence
Week 1-Challenge 1
In every library there is a book that kills. Sometimes it is because of the length of the book. At least four bibles have caused fatal deaths in the Western world-one of the victims an 87 year old woman who had just converted to Catholic three days before. Other times it is what’s in a book that kills. It is impossible to count how many people have gone on to become homicidal maniacs after miscuing the context of a book.
In the case of Liddy Lacroft, it was both thickness and content that lead to her problem. Raised by nuns who were deeply involved in community service she had volunteered at the Locklove City (which was more an ant farm than a city) library since she had learned to read at the age of three and a half. Unable to stack books on the shelves on a ladder and being unable to see over the front desk with out 3 phone books, she was sent to order newspapers by issue, date, and number of copies. This work entertained Libby at first, her eyes absorbing the front headlines with ease, but at age 5 she began to lose interest.
Still a tiny size, Libby was assigned to shelve the bottom rows of books, but after only stocking 3 out of 18 books due to her reading the others, she was let go. This did not deter Libby from the library and she because a faithful customer. By age 12 Libby had read every book from Dr. Seuss to Stardust at least twice.
The library had no plans to expand and due to a lack of funding, could only afford a new set of books every 6 to 8 months. For Libby this wait would not do. She began to write her own books at age 14 and half. She started with simple, sloppy sentences like:
“Mr. Gentleman cried because he was very sad.”
And,
“Ms. Lady laughed because she liked to see Mr. Gentleman cry. She was very mean.”
By age 15 and quarters her writing had advanced to:
“Ms. Porter swelled with anger. She could not believe Mr. Brown would embarrass her in such a way.”
The only problem to Libby’s growing hobby was that she had neither the paper nor the space to write. She grew up with a gaggle of nuns who insisted that no one needed possession to mature right. So when Libby asked for paper she was answered back with contempt snorts, the loudest from Sister Dully.
Libby did discover that the library did have plenty of paper. It was only a matter of looking in the right place. She could not take it from the printer for a librarian always had a vulture eye on it, but there was paper in the library books. Libby had noticed that many books had at least 2 to 4 blank pages in the front and back of the book. Libby calculated how much paper she would need and agreed to 50 sheets to start. Every day she checked out 3 books, took them home and ripped out the excess paper and return the book the next day. She continued this ritual until her fifty sheets were gathered. There was a problem with some sheets being larger of smaller then each other, but Libby was not picky. She had paper, sweet, beautiful paper for her to attack with her thoughts.
Libby did just this. She wrote everyday for at least four hours and made lovely stories. But the paper did not last long and soon Libby had to snatch more paper from the library. If the nuns were to find Libby’s secret writing she surely would be in trouble for stealing so she hid the paper under her pillow. But the voice of the paper talked to her in her sleep, reminding her that it was only a matter of time before a nun would insist of washing her pillow case and discover her secret. Libby knew this would not do.
The next day she entered the library with the paper tucked under her coat. She crept to the back isles where no one went- the religious exploration section- and stuffed her writing into a copy of “The Art of Happiness”. Libby smiled and she left the building, the weight of her burden easing off her shoulders.
Libby’s writing grew to be over 356 pages of the next few years. She had to spread her work out amongst 5 different books. One day she discovered broken books in the trash behind the library and helped herself to the front and back cover of a book whose pages had long since fallen out. She snuggled her precious paper into the binding and shelved it like any other book.
By the time she was 19 Libby was on her was to fulfilling her training as a nun (not by her own selection) and her book house over 967 pages. The binding ached and moaned every time Libby forced another piece down its throat. All seemed well, until Sister Dully began her mission for “academic cleansing”. She had had her eyes opened after attending a seminar “Book Burning and You-Protecting the Young from the Wicked” her first victim-the library. Libby heard of this mission only after attending a three hour rosary reciting. Sister Dully had already embarked on her mission. Libby managed to behave as if by being a loyal library customer she rejoiced at the idea and had to rush down to help. Libby arrived just after an ambulance, housing Sister Dully, had driven away.
Libby managed to gather the story from three hysterical sisters. Sister Dully had just finished ripping a copy of “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows” when she set off to cover the Religious Exploration section. She had found a hand written book and read one paragraph. Sister Mona waved the copy almost knocking three sisters out. She read it out loud with caution.
“I once read that some believe we come back for a second life instead of going to heaven or hell. I find this interesting. I would like to come back instead of having to worry about whether or not I was good or bad and will have to go to hell. If I did come back I’d hope to come back not Catholic. I’d want to be something exotic. Being Catholic in this little town is like being just another pigeon among pigeons. I want, no wish, to be a peacock amongst the pigeons. I want to have wide wings with splashes of every color. I want to sing. I don’t want to believe in hell. I hate worrying about it. So if I don’t believe in hell I’ve decided not to believe in heaven either. No, instead I will believe in being a bird, a great bird that will fly out of the church, if only in my head or on paper. If I don’t believe in heaven, I suppose I don’t believe very much in God either. I will believe in being recycled instead.”
It was then that Sister Dully had frozen where she read for 30 second before seizing her left arm in pain. By doing such she dropped the book on her brittle foot and collapsing back, in to the shelf. It fell, many of the booking hailing down on her. The ambulance arrived to retrieve the body. Cause of death: Shock and accidental.
No one ever figured out who had wrote the book, but 5 intense prayer sessions were performed to “cleanse the sins of the writer” as well as to seek justice for Sister Dully’s “murder”. Libby never told anyone about the book. She continued writing but now hid her paper where no one would ever look, inside the public unabridged bible.
Libby became Sister Libby at age 21. She never prayed to be forgiven for the incident her book had caused. But she still dreamed of being a bird. She became an English elementary teacher at the Catholic school for girls. At age 51 a group of children bought her a pigeon as a birthday gift. Sister Libby did not decline gaining a possession. She named the bird Dully and left its cage door opened all the time. But Dully never once left on her cage on her own free will.
In every library there is a book that kills. Sometimes it is because of the length of the book. At least four bibles have caused fatal deaths in the Western world-one of the victims an 87 year old woman who had just converted to Catholic three days before. Other times it is what’s in a book that kills. It is impossible to count how many people have gone on to become homicidal maniacs after miscuing the context of a book.
In the case of Liddy Lacroft, it was both thickness and content that lead to her problem. Raised by nuns who were deeply involved in community service she had volunteered at the Locklove City (which was more an ant farm than a city) library since she had learned to read at the age of three and a half. Unable to stack books on the shelves on a ladder and being unable to see over the front desk with out 3 phone books, she was sent to order newspapers by issue, date, and number of copies. This work entertained Libby at first, her eyes absorbing the front headlines with ease, but at age 5 she began to lose interest.
Still a tiny size, Libby was assigned to shelve the bottom rows of books, but after only stocking 3 out of 18 books due to her reading the others, she was let go. This did not deter Libby from the library and she because a faithful customer. By age 12 Libby had read every book from Dr. Seuss to Stardust at least twice.
The library had no plans to expand and due to a lack of funding, could only afford a new set of books every 6 to 8 months. For Libby this wait would not do. She began to write her own books at age 14 and half. She started with simple, sloppy sentences like:
“Mr. Gentleman cried because he was very sad.”
And,
“Ms. Lady laughed because she liked to see Mr. Gentleman cry. She was very mean.”
By age 15 and quarters her writing had advanced to:
“Ms. Porter swelled with anger. She could not believe Mr. Brown would embarrass her in such a way.”
The only problem to Libby’s growing hobby was that she had neither the paper nor the space to write. She grew up with a gaggle of nuns who insisted that no one needed possession to mature right. So when Libby asked for paper she was answered back with contempt snorts, the loudest from Sister Dully.
Libby did discover that the library did have plenty of paper. It was only a matter of looking in the right place. She could not take it from the printer for a librarian always had a vulture eye on it, but there was paper in the library books. Libby had noticed that many books had at least 2 to 4 blank pages in the front and back of the book. Libby calculated how much paper she would need and agreed to 50 sheets to start. Every day she checked out 3 books, took them home and ripped out the excess paper and return the book the next day. She continued this ritual until her fifty sheets were gathered. There was a problem with some sheets being larger of smaller then each other, but Libby was not picky. She had paper, sweet, beautiful paper for her to attack with her thoughts.
Libby did just this. She wrote everyday for at least four hours and made lovely stories. But the paper did not last long and soon Libby had to snatch more paper from the library. If the nuns were to find Libby’s secret writing she surely would be in trouble for stealing so she hid the paper under her pillow. But the voice of the paper talked to her in her sleep, reminding her that it was only a matter of time before a nun would insist of washing her pillow case and discover her secret. Libby knew this would not do.
The next day she entered the library with the paper tucked under her coat. She crept to the back isles where no one went- the religious exploration section- and stuffed her writing into a copy of “The Art of Happiness”. Libby smiled and she left the building, the weight of her burden easing off her shoulders.
Libby’s writing grew to be over 356 pages of the next few years. She had to spread her work out amongst 5 different books. One day she discovered broken books in the trash behind the library and helped herself to the front and back cover of a book whose pages had long since fallen out. She snuggled her precious paper into the binding and shelved it like any other book.
By the time she was 19 Libby was on her was to fulfilling her training as a nun (not by her own selection) and her book house over 967 pages. The binding ached and moaned every time Libby forced another piece down its throat. All seemed well, until Sister Dully began her mission for “academic cleansing”. She had had her eyes opened after attending a seminar “Book Burning and You-Protecting the Young from the Wicked” her first victim-the library. Libby heard of this mission only after attending a three hour rosary reciting. Sister Dully had already embarked on her mission. Libby managed to behave as if by being a loyal library customer she rejoiced at the idea and had to rush down to help. Libby arrived just after an ambulance, housing Sister Dully, had driven away.
Libby managed to gather the story from three hysterical sisters. Sister Dully had just finished ripping a copy of “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows” when she set off to cover the Religious Exploration section. She had found a hand written book and read one paragraph. Sister Mona waved the copy almost knocking three sisters out. She read it out loud with caution.
“I once read that some believe we come back for a second life instead of going to heaven or hell. I find this interesting. I would like to come back instead of having to worry about whether or not I was good or bad and will have to go to hell. If I did come back I’d hope to come back not Catholic. I’d want to be something exotic. Being Catholic in this little town is like being just another pigeon among pigeons. I want, no wish, to be a peacock amongst the pigeons. I want to have wide wings with splashes of every color. I want to sing. I don’t want to believe in hell. I hate worrying about it. So if I don’t believe in hell I’ve decided not to believe in heaven either. No, instead I will believe in being a bird, a great bird that will fly out of the church, if only in my head or on paper. If I don’t believe in heaven, I suppose I don’t believe very much in God either. I will believe in being recycled instead.”
It was then that Sister Dully had frozen where she read for 30 second before seizing her left arm in pain. By doing such she dropped the book on her brittle foot and collapsing back, in to the shelf. It fell, many of the booking hailing down on her. The ambulance arrived to retrieve the body. Cause of death: Shock and accidental.
No one ever figured out who had wrote the book, but 5 intense prayer sessions were performed to “cleanse the sins of the writer” as well as to seek justice for Sister Dully’s “murder”. Libby never told anyone about the book. She continued writing but now hid her paper where no one would ever look, inside the public unabridged bible.
Libby became Sister Libby at age 21. She never prayed to be forgiven for the incident her book had caused. But she still dreamed of being a bird. She became an English elementary teacher at the Catholic school for girls. At age 51 a group of children bought her a pigeon as a birthday gift. Sister Libby did not decline gaining a possession. She named the bird Dully and left its cage door opened all the time. But Dully never once left on her cage on her own free will.
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