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The Aldermen's meeting room consisted of a ring of desks about ten feet from a central desk. The ring of desks was for the Aldermen, while the central desk was for the town mayor. Every desk was occupied. On the mayor's desk were a gavel resting sideways on a small wooden plate and a telephone.
It had not been a quiet evening of discussion, to say the very least. Argumentative would have been more accurate.
“You said that you would enforce this rule!” one of the Aldermen shouted.
“A rule is not a law,” the mayor said as calmly as he could. “During my time as mayor, I've done what I could to keep those who aren't adults yet from congregating. Even if you demanded it, I couldn't send the bobbies to every single bloody house in town and you know it. That's like putting up a neon sign, saying that none of us can be trusted. The inter-denominational fighting is thankfully nothing more than a memory for some of us old enough to remember it. The children of today thankfully never experienced any of it. Don't they deserve a chance to evolve from the past rather than just repeat it over and over again? Saying that it's for the good of all isn't an answer.” The mayor pointed to a man who stood up just then. “Yes, Gareth?”
“I know I don't speak for everyone here,” Gareth said calmly. “But I speak for myself and my brother – who couldn't be here – and for everyone who frequents our pub. There is no danger in letting both denominations mingle in public. Our pub is proof of it.”
“You're just one of those whiny, weasely –” one of the elder Aldermen started to say.
The mayor slammed the gavel hard on the small wooden plate. “You are out of order, sir! It is Gareth's turn to speak. When he is finished, you are welcome to take your turn. Is that understood?”
The elder Alderman made a face and shrugged, but said nothing.
“Thank you,” the mayor said. “Do you wish to continue, Gareth?”
Gareth nodded. “I have no desire to see any return to the years of violence that nearly tore apart both Ireland and Northern Ireland. My brother and I both know about the destructive force of that violence. Our parents were killed when a bomb exploded in the train they were traveling on from Dublin back to Belfast.”
The elder Alderman snorted. “An I.R.A. bomb, I bet.”
Another slam of the gavel by the mayor. “Do you wish to be ejected from this meeting, sir?” the mayor asked him.
“I'll do better than that,” the elder Alderman said and stood up. “I'll eject myself from this stupid, useless farce. The Orangemen don't care to be silenced like this. If you're smart, the rest of you would follow me out.” He left his desk and walked out of the meeting room without looking back.
“Is there anyone else that wishes to do the same?” the mayor asked the rest of the Aldermen.
Some nodded, stood up, and left. The rest stayed seated.
“Now, then,” the mayor said, trying to calm down. “I believe that it's still your turn, Gareth. And then anyone else who wishes to speak will be permitted to do so.”
No one interrupted this time.
Gareth sighed. “I've heard my share of arguments at our pub, but they're usually much more civil. Even when you can hear them from twenty feet away. Which is no mean feat in a pub as noisy as ours can be.”
The mayor smiled and nodded. “I've been there on some of those noisy nights.”
“Words are permitted but not weapons,” Gareth went on. “So far, we've had no trouble with that policy. But lately, things have changed. Not always overtly. Even the police aren't as tolerant as they once were. Possibly since the hiring of the new chief constable. My brother and I did argue against his hiring, but we were outvoted at the time. Harold Mencken was never one to keep his opinions to himself. Neither in London's East End nor here in our town. To say that he struts is putting it mildly.”
“I've seen him do it,” another Alderman said. “I don't know who he thinks he's trying to impress.”
“He should've gone into politics,” grumbled another Alderman. “His ego belongs in the House of Commons. It doesn't belong here.”
Rather than fuss about the interruptions, the mayor glanced from one Alderman to the other. “And how do you propose we deal with the fact that we're stuck with him for the foreseeable future?”
“Fire the stupid bugger,” the second Alderman said. “Send him back where he came from.”
“If only it were that easy,” the mayor said. “Because if it were, I would've happily gotten rid of him long before now.”
“Either you can do something and refuse to, or you can't do anything,” the second Alderman said. “Which is it?”
“We could take a vote of no-confidence,” the first Alderman suggested.
“What good would that do?” the second Alderman demanded. “That's like slapping him on the wrist. He'll just keep doing what he's doing. Bloody Bantam rooster doesn't belong in our town. If I could, I'd kick him in the knickers and send him on his way.”
The mayor sighed. “We seem to have a plethora of suggestions, but no solutions.”
“Can't we complain to anyone?” another Alderman asked. “After all, how did the problem get solved the last time?”
One of the elder Aldermen who stayed said, “By the idiot getting shot in the back. The bloody fool thought he could do what he wanted in our town. Let's just say we disagreed with him.”
“Well, I'm sorry but I don't think we can get rid of Mr. Mencken in the same manner,” the mayor told him. “Much as I wish we could.”
The telephone chose that moment to interrupt.
The mayor looked at it, then sighed and picked it up. “Mayor Kirkwood here.” He listened, nodded once or twice. “Keep them there. I'll try to be there in about fifteen or twenty minutes, at most.” He listened again. “I guess we both have our hands full, then. See you soon.” He hung up the phone. “That was someone calling from the police station. Mencken is there and demanding my presence.” Demanding was putting it mildly. Howling with rage and impatience would've been more accurate.
“Need anyone at your back?” the elderly Alderman asked. “I wouldn't trust that bugger any further than I could throw him. Which, at this point, wouldn't be more than a few feet.”
“If it isn't any trouble?” the mayor asked.
The elderly Alderman smiled. “No trouble at all, sir.”
The mayor looked at the Aldermen. “If there are no protests, I move that we continue this meeting tomorrow at noon.”
“I second it,” the elderly Alderman said a moment later.
“I third it,” Gareth said.
“Anyone else?” the mayor asked. Everyone else shook their heads. “Then it is moved that this meeting continues here tomorrow. Same time, same place.” He banged to gavel to signal the end of the meeting.
Everyone but the mayor and elderly Alderman departed.
“You really don't have to, Terrence,” the mayor told him.
“I know, sir,” the latter said. “I've been in this town since I was a little tyke, sir. My parents came from here, as did their parents. My grandfather was one of the workmen who helped construct the Titanic in Belfast. I've seen the booms, the busts, and everything in between. Instinct tells me that you might need me at your side at the police station. There's no telling what the chief constable might do if you went there alone. Probably something either foolish or stupid.”
“Probably,” the mayor said. “All right. But no weapons. I don't want to give Mencken any chance to claim that he's the victim.”
“Understood,” the elderly Alderman said. “And if all goes well, we can go get a pint or two at the pub afterward.”
“As long as I can treat you,” the mayor said.
“It's your nickel,” the elderly Alderman said.
“So it is,” the mayor said. “So it is.”
----------
The chief constable sat on the edge of his desk, facing Niamh and Devon. “You two bairns are old enough to know the rules about line-crossing. What made you think you could break them with impunity?” He shook his head. “I've spoken with the headmaster at each of your secondary schools. They're of the opinion that I don't really need to involve the police in this.”
“And I gather you disagreed, Harold?” Niamh's father asked calmly.
Mencken frowned at him. “Things have been far too lax in this town before I was hired. Rules bent in all sorts of directions. You'd think we were in bloody America instead of Northern Ireland.”
“Punishing our son and their daughter isn't going to fix those problems,” Devon's father said.
“Probably not, but maybe it will send out a message that this sort of misbehavior will not be tolerated any longer,” the chief constable said. “Or do you want the children in this town to end up like the ones in America?”
“Or like the ones who fought in the 1970s and 1980s, shooting and bombing at will?” Devon's father asked. “My brother Niall was involved in that and not one of you bleeding hearts ever put a stop to it. He killed Eoin's uncle. But did he get incarcerated? Of course not. Just a pointless slap on the wrist. And you're blaming us for bad management of our children?”
“I'm warning you, Padraig,” Mencken said, pointing a stiff forefinger at him. “You're not in charge of this town, much less its police force. I could have you arrested.”
“For what? Insubordination?” Devon's father asked, mildly surprised. “I don't work for you. Is that what you're stooping to, Harold? Just throwing people into gaol when they disagree with you and your supporters?”
Mencken was about to respond when the mayor arrived, along with the elderly Alderman. “Kirkwood. Terrence. I guess I shouldn't be surprised to see you both together.”
“We aren't dating, if that is what you're trying to insinuate,” the mayor said.
“Not yet, you pair of pansies,” Mencken said. “Someone should've crowned you both as queens a long time ago.”
Terrence's eyes narrowed at the chief constable, but he kept quiet for the time being.
“There's no need for that kind of language here, Harold,” the mayor said.
“This is my territory, not yours,” Mencken told him. “What I say here, goes. If you don't approve, you know where the exit is. After all, weren't you the one who agreed with my employment here?”
“I was out-voted, if that's what you mean,” the mayor said. “Now to get back to topic: What were you discussing when I interrupted the proceedings?”
“Line-crossing,” Mencken said. “And how to punish those who willy-nilly break rules they know about. Don't give me any guff. They knew and they broke them anyway.”
“Are you insisting that we ground them?” Niamh's mother asked. “If so, shouldn't that be left up to the parents, not the local police?”
“Mum!” Niamh protested.
Her mother nudged her. “I'm sorry, but he might have a point. Grounding might be better for you both than just letting it slide.”
Mencken smiled approvingly. “That sounds better already. Now see? That didn't take much, did it?”
“Just the application of some undue pressure,” Niamh's father pointed out. “From someone who has never had any children. Or even been married, for that matter.”
Mencken narrowed his eyes at Niamh's father. “That has no bearing on this.”
“Doesn't it?” the latter asked. “How often have you punished the bairns in London's East End? Taken it on yourself to do your worst to them, often without even notifying their parents.”
“You ever been in the East End?” Mencken asked him.
“My accent may have changed over the years, but my memories haven't,” Niamh's father replied. His accent changed and he didn't sound anymore like the father she'd grown up with. He sounded more like Eliza from “My Fair Lady”. “I grew up there and with far more to fear than your bloody ego. You should try walking the streets there without your band of thugs at your back. You probably wouldn't last half an hour. We'd have you down on the ground before you knew it. You'd be crying and screaming bloody murder at us, and you know it.”
“Eoin,” Niamh's mother said, sensing that her husband's temper would boil over even more than it already had.
“I don't have to listen to this strutting bastard spewing his hate and ignorance in my face,” Niamh's father said and turned to leave.
One of the officers blocked his way, shaking his head.
“Surely you'll let him leave, Harold,” the mayor said. “After all, all he's done is told the truth. You can stand to hear the truth, can't you?”
Mencken swore under his breath. “Fine. Let him go. Anyone else care to join him?”
Niamh's mother nodded and followed his husband out of the chief constable's office.
“Now that we've gotten the idiocy out of the way, perhaps we can get down to the real core of the issue,” Mencken said. “We have a pair of adolescents who care nothing about line-crossing, much less mingling with those on the other side of the street. The rules are strict about it. But they broke those rules.”
“As Niamh's mother suggested, why not just ground them and get it over with?” Devon's mother asked. “Would that appease you? Or would you demand that more be done to them?”
“Not just grounding, but absolutely no communication between them,” Mencken said.
“Does that include email?” the mayor asked.
“Especially not via email,” Mencken said. “Are we in agreement, then?”
“And you'll leave them alone for the duration of their grounding?” the mayor asked.
“Yes,” Mencken said.
“Promise?” the mayor asked.
Mencken fumed but nodded. “Fine. I promise. Now get out of here before I change my mind.”
---------
Niamh lay face-down on her bed, her face resting on her crossed arms, and trying not to cry.
Her mother sat next to her. “I'm sorry, dear, but if I disagreed about anything else the chief constable said today, he was right about your breaking the underage mingling rule.”
“You let me,” Niamh said. “I asked and you said I could.”
“That was at the pub,” her mother said. “Why didn't you tell me that you'd not only met him in the park after school but also sent him an online message at that poetry website?”
“And if I had,” Niamh said, “would that have changed anything?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” her mother said. “Something you have to do something for the good of all, rather than having special exceptions for specific people. If you keep allowing some to break the rules, then the rest will ask why they can't break them as well. You have to draw the line somewhere.”
“Even if it's down the middle of the street,” Niamh said.
“If it's any comfort, imagine what it's like for Devon at his house,” her mother said. “His parents weren't exactly pleased to hear what he'd done with you.”
Niamh looked up at her mother. “How did you know that?”
“I could tell when we were in Mencken's office,” the latter said. “Also, I talked with Devon's mother afterward.”
“Is there any way I could send a message to him?” Niamh asked.
Her mother shook her head. “That was part of the agreement about grounding you both.”
Niamh's eyes lit up. “We can't … but you could.”
“Dearie,” her mother said. “You've bent the rules. Haven't you done enough harm as it is?”
“He didn't say the parents couldn't communicate with each other,” Niamh went on. “Only that Devon and I couldn't. Please say you'll send him a message from me. Please?”
Her mother sighed. “Lord, but you're stubborn.”
“Just like Dad?” Niamh asked with a grin.
Her mother made a face. “All right. If it isn't a long message. A page at the most.”
“And I can say anything I want to?” Niamh asked, hopefully.
“Within reason,” her mother said, then shook her head. “From the sounds of you, one would think you two had done more than just talk. You did only just talk, right?”
Niamh nodded. “And drank some Coca-Cola at the pub. With no rum in it.”
“I'll call Deidre and ask if we could talk for a bit,” her mother said. “I can't guarantee that she'll agree to give your message to Devon. All I can do is ask if she's willing to.”
“Good enough for me,” Niamh said. “I'll have the message ready in a few minutes.”
“And I'll give you some privacy in which to write it,” her mother said. “Do be careful, Niamh. Mencken isn't anyone to play games with. He isn't like us or Devon's parents. If anything, he has much more in common with Devon's Uncle Niall.”
“Warning taken,” Niamh said. “Thanks, Mum. I owe you one.”
“Indeed you do,” her mother said and left Niamh's bedroom, shutting the door behind her.
Devon –
I hope this message reaches you. I asked my mother to give it to your mother. If your parents permit it, look for a poem from me at the poetry website.
– Niamh
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You've done it again. This story flows so nicely and the dialogue was on point. I was able to catch the slang, and I thought that it was just the right amount of it. The slang added a nice stylish touch to make the dialogue sound even more authentic. Natural dialogue is always pretty hard for me to do and I'm always trying to learn pointers from other writers like you.
I've also noticed that Devon's rebellious spirit is rubbing off onto Niamh. Whether this is a good or bad thing, I guess I'll have to find out n the next part. I totally agree with Deidra; this would make an amazing screenplay. Then, when you added Niamh's short letter at the end it really heightened the suspense causing me to crave for more. Looking forward to the next part. I'll make sure to let others know about this story (and the previous one) because they're amazing.
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If only each sequel was easier to write and edit than the original story was.
I'm glad you like it so much. Deidra (I think that's the correct name) even thought it was good enough to use as a script for a mini-series on PBS or Netflix. No one's ever said that to me before. I'm truly humbled and it makes the editing time and effort definitely worthwhile.
I'm trying to keep the idioms/slang authentic, but it's not easy for an American to write like someone from Ireland and/or Northern Ireland. Some terms I've heard before (in British books, in British TV shows, and in British movies). But other ones I had to look up via Google to make sure I had the correct term. There are probably still spots that could be made more Irish/Northern Irish, but that might be trying a little too hard to be authentic. If I succeeded too well at authenticity, some readers might not believe that I'm actually American.
It's interesting that when Neil Gaiman lived in England and wrote the scripts for his "Sandman" comic book series, people would ask him why he, an Englishman, set so much of the series in America (he explained that England was almost like a 51st State because of how many America TV shows and movies are shown in England). Well, I guess I'm doing it in reverse: I'm American and setting my story in a town divided by the international border of Ireland and Northern Ireland (and divided in other ways, of course).
Oh good. You noticed! You're the first (besides me) to mention that now it's Niamh who is turning rebellious. Btw, another thing to notice: Devon's mother is named Deidre. I'm not sure if I was thinking of Deidra's name when I tried to name Devon's mother. Instead, I think I was thinking of the female member of the Baker Street Irregulars in the animated "Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century". But then realized, "Oh, wait. Deidre ... Deidra. I wonder if Deidra has noticed that."
I'm already brainstorming what might happen in the next story in the series (which doesn't have a title yet). I know I need to have Niamh's mother and Devon's mother meet (and the former gives the latter Niamh's letter to give to Devon). I also thought that there might be another scene at the pub (which may or may not be in story #3; it might end up in story #4 if there isn't enough room for it in story #3). When I was in bed last night, it was like watching a movie scene or a scene from a TV show. Arsonists are setting fire to the pub and Gareth is inside it at the time. His brother tries to rescue him but Gareth tells him not to bother. His brother does it anyway (and with Devon's help). It turns out that Gareth and his brother (the pub's owner; I need to find a good name for him) are closer than just brothers. I think they might also be boyfriend-boyfriend. Which is just fine with me. And it might explain part of the reasons the arsonists set for to the pub. Not just because it's an oasis for religious tolerance, but also because the owner and his brother are in a gay relationship. I suspect that Niall was the person who told the arsonists to burn the pub down. Niall seems to be a homophobe (as well as being anti-Protestant). Whether the mayor and Terrence are also in a gay relationship, I'm not sure yet. But if they are, that's fine with me. How will Niamh and Devon meet again? I don't know yet. [I'm copying this paragraph to a blank document on my computer.]
I've let as many of those who've read the first story know there's a sequel ready and waiting for them to read it. But not all those who liked it left a response. I only notified those who *had* left a response.
Now as long as I don't do too much editing of other people's stories and tomorrow's new list of weekly story prompts has at least one promising prompt, I hope to have at least one more story written over the next week (I'm not sure which series it'll be a part of, though; that depends on the prompts). Editing seems to take more out of me than writing a story does. Probably because editing needs much more focus and thought than writing does.
Good luck with your own writing!
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It's so annoying when you ask people to read your story, (especially if you don't ask them for a favor that often) and all they do is like it without commenting. I also made the connection between the names Deidre and Deidra, that was quite the coincidence or was it? I'm so glad that you're thinking about using that long paragraph as part of the idea for the next part. (When I begin writing (more like typing) a short story, I brainstorm a couple of ideas, (which can take minutes, hours, or days) then I sit down at my desk, open up a google doc, type down the prompt, write my ideas down, and begin typing.) When I'm actually typing my story, new ideas appear that I never even considered when I sat down a my desk. Other times, I'm talking with my family about it and more ideas surface there. It's just how my mind works, I guess.
I think that Gareth and the owner's relationship will make the characters much more complex and seem more realistic. People often decide to hide the truth as long as possible because when the secret leaks into the world many people will stand against it, even if they know deep down inside that it's wrong. It's kind of sad to think that those who win the battle have the ability to rewrite history.
I've been writing a drama/mystery/crime series inspired from last week's prompts. Since I'm new to writing and all, I'm trying to find my "voice" and what genres I like to write best in. Let's just say when I was experimenting with those genres mentioned above, they're not my style. I'm just going to finish the series off (going through the grammar stage at the moment or the last part), dust myself off, and try again. This week I was writing another story with these prompts, but I'm not sure how it's going to turn out. I'm still writing it and I'm about three fourths done. This time, I tried doing something way out of my comfort zone and something I've never tried to do before with this story: using (rhyming, if I can pull it off) poetry that tells a story. I have no idea where this story's taking me, but I'm going to stick with it until the end.
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Agreed. But I have to remind myself: Maybe they don't enough free time to spend on a paragraph (or two or three), describing their thoughts and feelings about a story. I'm "lucky" to be mostly unemployed and therefore I have plenty of free time to read, write, and edit. If I had a steady job, I probably would have very little free time.
I think it *was* coincidence that I chose "Deidre" for Devon's mother's name. Like I said before, I don't think I was consciously thinking about "Deidra" (the writer on this website). I think I was thinking about the female character in the animated "Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century" (whose name is pronounced Dee-dree; I'm not sure if that's how it's pronounced in Ireland or Northern Ireland).
Maybe you could do like what Piers Anthony does: add bracketed notes about story ideas (not necessarily for that story, but maybe about other not-yet-written stories) every time an idea occurs to you. Then just copy them from that story to a blank document (and, of course, delete them in the story you copied them from). I don't usually do it that way. Ideas usually come when I'm answering emails or messages on this website and I think, "Hmm. I should save that. That sounded pretty good." And I copy the text over to a blank document. That way it's ready for me when I'm ready to write whatever story the idea(s) inspired.
I try to make characters three-dimensional. My middle brother once said that our late father tended to create two-dimensional characters. Maybe I should've loaned our father some of the books I've read that have complex characters in them ("Cyteen", "Merchanter's Luck", and "Downbelow Station" by C.J. Cherryh are three good examples; "Sung in Shadow" by Tanith Lee is another one; "The Moon is a Harsh Mistress" by Robert Heinlein is another; "Dragonsinger" by Anne McCaffrey is another (it's a sequel to "Dragonsong" -- I find the first half of it to be rather difficult to read, but the second half makes it worth the effort to read the first half); "Neuromancer" and "Idoru" by William Gibson are two more; "The Russia House" by John le Carre' is another; and so on).
To paraphrase Shakespeare, "Prejudice sometimes makes cowards of us." So does fear. We prefer our familiar surroundings and when we encounter something new, we have to decide whether the exposure is a good thing or go back and hide in our "shell". It's never easy stepping outside of a comfort zone. Stepping out of a box, for me, is apparently quite easy. To the point, where I'm rarely (if ever) in a box. I told my ex-girlfriend once, "I get the feeling I don't spend much time in the box." She gave me an amused look and asked, "You mean there's a box?" I gave her a sheepish grin and said, "Oops." (Which meant: That should've been obvious to me a long time ago. But thank you anyway for pointing it out to me.)
This is true. "The winners write the history." This is why we don't know what it was like for the Trojans during the Trojan War (before, during, or after) except what Homer chose to tell. In another context, how well do we know what life was like in the South during the American Civil War? It may have started out well enough and then gotten steadily worse as they started losing battle after battle. Sherman's "March to the Sea" and the burning of Atlanta, Georgia, only reinforced the fact that the South had pretty much lost by then. Maybe that's what I should try to write about someday: What is it like to be on the loser's side of a conflict?
I'm not sure if I've found my "voice" yet. If I haven't, it continues to be an interesting journey on the way to finding one. If I have, then it's definitely not the one I expected to find all those years ago when I first started writing stories. I do wish I could write fantasy stories, but I don't seem to be good at it (there are plenty of authors on this website who *are* good at it). I do wish I could write science fiction stories like the ones my favorite authors have written, but that doesn't seem to be my thing either. It seems that my focus is primarily here on Earth, on the struggles between groups that don't always agree with each other and aren't always happy to live with or near each other, as well as complicated relationships (not just romantic ones).
Glad you have the motivation to stick with an idea and not giving up prematurely (or after finishing the rough draft and then not wanting to edit it, much less share it with others). That's great. It really is.
Btw, I'm not sure if you've read the poems (what I call "prose poems" -- stories in poem format) that I've shared with others on this website. If you haven't, I'll post some here and see what you think. If you like them and want to read more, I have more to share (at least of the ones I think are good enough). Fair warning: some are about 4-5 pages each (or longer). Here's the first batch:
THE PORTRAIT
Women used to come to me to get their portraits painted – they said that I made them
Look more beautiful than they were in real life – they wouldn't go to a photographer –
He wouldn't improve their looks – but somehow I had the ability to do so.
They even claimed to look and feel younger than they have in many years – but I'm just
A painter – I paint what I see – and what I see is the woman inside them, the woman who
Never grew old, the woman they became after leaving their childhood behind for good.
The week I remember best was also one of the worst, most unproductive of my life: No one
Came into my studio – not on Sunday, not on Monday, not the rest of the week – by the time
Saturday rolled around I was ready to close up shop and go on vacation for the first time in years.
Then the front door opened.
The doorbell rang to tell me someone had finally come.
I went to see who it was.
It wasn't a woman. It was an old man. He looked even
Worse than my grandfather had when he was in his 90's.
“What can I do for you, monsieur?” I asked.
“I need you to do a portrait,” he said.
“Of you?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Of my wife. She's dying, and wanted
To leave me a memory of herself: A painting of her by you.”
“You don't look like you can afford my rates,” I told him.
He made a face. “I have better clothes than these,” he said. “But I tend to dress according
To mood. I don't want my wife to die, but I don't want her to suffer anymore. She knows.
So she sent me to find you and bring you to her.”
I nodded. “I'll do it. Where is the hospital?”
“No hospital room,” he said. “She's lying in her own bed. The doctors have done all they can.
They think that it is unlikely that she has more than a day or two to live.”
I gathered my easel, a fresh canvas, palette, brushes, and what
Hopefully was enough tubes of paint to do her justice.
He drove me to their house. It was large, hidden behind an old, ornate gate. The grounds
Were open, plenty of space, many old, tall trees, flower gardens, and even an orchard.
He helped me carry my equipment up the stairs to her room. It had a large, open window,
And through it I could smell the mixture of salt air from the nearby sea and the scents from
The orchard and the flower gardens. It didn't seem like a room for the dying. More like
Limbo before the soul is released to either heaven or hell.
She looked up, saw me and smiled. “You came.” Her voice
Was soft, but weak. Not much more than a whisper.
I nodded, setting up my easel, putting the canvas on it,
Choosing a set of colors to pour out onto my palette.
“Should I try to sit up?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Stay where you are. I want you to be
As comfortable as possible. This may take awhile.”
“In hospitals they say that cats know when you are
Going to die,” she said. “Are you going to be my cat?”
I shook my head. “I'm your painter,” I said.
I looked at her tired face, the wrinkles, the bags under her eyes, the double chin,
The bedraggled hair on the pillow under her head – but her eyes – her eyes were still alert –
And since they were, so must her mind be. Maybe my portrait would be of good cheer to her.
Whether it would do anything else remained to be seen.
I sketched first, and then used a thin pale green as a base color,
Adding other layers of color, building up the painting as I went.
It wouldn't be of her as she was in that bed, I knew,
But as she had been all those many years ago.
While I painted, we talked.
“Were you always an artist?” she asked.
“A poor one when I was a child,” I said. “I improved greatly when I went to an art school.
Sometimes the paintings I did there seemed more real than reality itself. Or so they told me.”
“Did you believe them?” she asked.
I shrugged. “When all's said and done,” I said, “I'm just a painter and I paint what I see.”
“What do you see here?” she asked.
“A beautiful bedroom,” I said. “Renaissance paintings on the walls. A mirror above a vanity.
A closet full of beautiful dresses, hats, shoes. The sounds of a party downstairs. Guests
Are arriving. Your first party since getting married. Your husband is wearing his best tuxedo.
The small orchestra he hired is tuning up, deciding what music to play.
“A princess leaves this bedroom and heads downstairs. All the eyes below are watching
Her descent. They have never seen her look so beautiful, arm in arm with her
Handsome husband. The music starts and the princess and her prince lead the dancers
Onto the dance floor. One dance after another. a break for dinner – champagne, escargot,
Truffles, and then more dancing. A night of joy and wonder that none of them will ever forget.
“Outside, the moon is pale and full, bathing the housing and the grounds in its light. The princess and her prince stand together on the terrace, enjoying the night and each other's company.
“At midnight, rockets climb into the sky and fireworks erupt in spreading flowers
And booms as each shell reaches its apex and explodes. It feels like a dream,
One that neither wants to end. They kiss and return inside, rejoining the happy guests.
“As the party winds down, they are there at the front door to say good night to each and
Every guest. They watch each car start up, their headlights lit, driving off into the darkness.”
The painting is almost done. Just some tweaking here and
And there. Then I sign it in the usual place near the bottom.
“May I see it?” she asked.
I nodded and turn it toward her.
She froze when she saw it. “No – that's impossible –
How could you – mon dieu! – turn it away – please!”
I did so, and heard her sobbing.
“I'm sorry, madame,” I said.
“I should never have asked you here,” she said. “I was told what you were capable of,
But I found it difficult to believe it until I saw it for myself. No one else can do what you do.”
“I'll have it destroyed if it displeases you,” I said.
“No – keep it,” she said. “You see what not even my husband has probably ever seen. –But how?”
“I do not know,” I said. “I am just a painter.”
“Not 'just',” she said. “You are something more than that. Much more. It was as if
The hand of God Himself guided your eyes and hands. To reveal what I am deep inside.”
She took a deep breath, let it out.
“Thank you for coming,” she said. “Au 'voir, monsieur.”
I nodded, gathered what I had brought, along with her portrait.
Her husband also didn't ask to see it. Not yet, anyway.
He did finally ask when we arrived back at my studio. I hesitated – remembering his wife's
Reaction – and then turned it so that it faced him. He looked haunted at first, then nodded. “Yes,
That is her. Not as she is now, but as she was when we first met. You are truly gifted, monsieur.”
He paid me, and drove away.
I still have the portrait. It has never been framed.
I only look at it when I must, as I pass by it. But it is the
Proof that I can do what others have said I could.
The wife died the next day.
But she will always live on in the portrait.
She is kneeling in a field of wildflowers, picking some of them. She is wearing a beautiful dress,
Her hat – its string tied around her neck – has fallen backwards, to lie against the back of
Her head and neck. The sun shines down on her face. She is smiling and seems to be singing
To herself. Then she looks up, as if she knows that I'm looking at her. She smiles and waves.
I have never painted another woman's portrait since.
(written 4-13-2017)
A TREE IN THE GARDEN
There's a tree in the garden,
A tall, beautiful tree,
Its leaves are big and bright green
Most of the year and then
In the Fall its leaves turn red
And fall, like butterfly wings,
Only to turn brown and the wind
Blows them away, “clearing the table”
So that the tree is ready for
New leaves in Springtime.
This tree was planted by my
Great-grandfather, a gift to my
Great-grandmother, a way to tell
Her that he loved her, when he
Usually found it difficult to say it,
I heard that it made her smile
And she hugged and kissed him,
Thanking him for being so kind
And thoughtful, especially during those
Times when life was difficult for them.
This tree is more than fifty years old
By the time I'm writing these words,
Sitting on the bench across the garden
From the tree. I can see children playing
In and around the tree, and one
Of them is my daughter, Lucia.
Tall and beautiful like the tree,
I watch her run over to me,
She gives me a hug and a kiss,
And I feel like I've been given
A gift more precious than life itself.
“What are you doing, Mama?” Lucia asks.
“I'm writing about us,” I say. “Mostly about you.”
“Can I read it?” she asks.
“Not yet,” I say. “Maybe when you're older.”
Years later, I watch her walk down the aisle
In the village church, arm-in-arm with her
Father; she smiles at me as they pass my pew;
They head up to the altar where a young man
Is waiting; her father gives him Lucia's hand,
Says something, and the young man nods;
Her father walks back to my pew, joining me.
“I can remember when she was born,” he says.
“Me too,” I say. “And I can remember her
Climbing in and playing near that tree
In the garden. It feels like yesterday.
Hard to believe that it was ten years ago.”
“Wish her well,” he says.
“I already have,” I say. “You do it too.
“After all, it took both of us to bring
Her into this world. With God's help.”
He nods. “With God's help.”
The couple says “I do” and the priest
Declares them husband and wife.
They kiss and everyone claps, even me.
Arm-in-arm, they walk down the aisle.
As they're about to pass our pew, I hand
Lucia a sheet of paper with writing on it.
She smiles and gives me a big hug, and
Then gives her father an equally big hug.
After that, she and her husband continue
Their walk to the front door of the church.
Rice is thrown into the air above their heads
And the crowd cheers. I've never seen
Lucia so happy. Her husband looks like he's
The luckiest man in the whole world.
An old white Fiat rolls up, decorated
For the wedded couple. It used to belong
To my parents, and now it will belong
To Lucia and her husband. I watch as
They wave to the crowd and kiss each
Other again. Lucia turns away and
Tosses her bridal bouquet into the air.
I'm pleasantly surprised to see it land
In my hands. I hold it carefully. One last
Gift from Lucia before she starts her new life.
I hope that she won't forget us. Or the tree
In the garden. The poem that I wrote and
Gave her a copy of should help her remember.
Maybe she'll read it to her own children,
Reminding them of their grandparents.
This is the price of being a parent. You raise
Your child or children as best you can.
You watch them grow up. You watch them
Meet the person they eventually marry.
You watch them move to their new home.
There might be a slightly empty nest
Where my husband and I still live.
But it's definitely full of years and years
And plenty of memories. Until there's
A knock on the door, and there's Lucia,
A little older, but still happy, her husband
Next to her, and their first child, a son,
Standing between them. They named
Him after my great-grandfather.
His mother and I watch him play in the garden.
“He's so happy here,” Lucia says.
“He loves both his parents and the tree,” I say.
She nods. “Thank you for your poem,
Even if the thoughts and feelings are
Really mostly your own. Were I to
Ask Papa, I think he would say
That he agrees with you. You just
Find it easier to say them than he does.”
“Just like my great-grandparents,” I say.
“Did they ever write poems to each other?” she asks.
I nod. “I borrowed a little from theirs.”
“Let me hear yours, please,” Lucia says.
I happily do so.
Live well, live long, live happily.
You are the joy of my life.
You are the tree in the garden.
Reach up to the sky, breathe in
Fresh air, soak up the sun and rain.
Grow strong, tall, and beautiful.
You are the happy product
Of the love that your father and
I share each and every day.
We would not have you be
Any other way than as you are.
We're so proud of you, Lucia.
Love, Mama and Papa.
“Thank you,” she says, hugging me.
“You're welcome,” I say.
Soon after, her son runs over and jumps
Into her lap. He hugs her and kisses her.
Then leans over and does the same to me.
As he does so, he puts something into my hands:
It's one of the leaves from the tree.
(written 3-11-2017)
THE DOVE AND ME
I lifted my hand
A dove landed on it
And I asked it
“Where have you been?
Have you been east to the sunrise?
Have you been west to the sunset?
Have you been up into the sky
Where it's noon and midnight?”
The dove looked at me,
Then out to sea
And said, “I have seen
A world of wonder
That you've only dreamed of.
I have seen the fountains of the sun
And the frozen glaciers of the moon.
If only you had wings
So that you could go where I go.”
I sadly shook my head
And sat down on a rock,
Watching the waves flow onto the beach
Only to stop inches from me,
And then slip back into the sea,
An endless pattern like eternity.
“I have no wings,” I said.
“I only have my imagination.”
And the dove said, “Silly human.
Did you think that I meant wings
Like mine, covered with feathers?”
“Didn't you?” I asked.
“Of course not,” the dove said.
“Now imagine your arms are wings.”
I did and they were.
“Now imagine that you're lifting them,”
The dove said. “Now sweep down
And jump into the sky.”
I did and I was suddenly
Rising above where I'd sat.
“Now come with me,” the dove said.
“There are thousands of places
That I have been to, places
That I want to show you.”
I did and we did.
“Is this what heaven is like?” I asked.
“Where did you think we were?” the dove asked.
“But what about my body?” I asked.
“You won't need it anymore,” the dove said.
And I didn't.
(written 5-14-2020)
And two much shorter ones:
CALICO KITTEN
Calico kitten,
With whom I'm smitten,
Fur of black, orange, and white,
Purring with all your might
I know in time you'll get older,
For now you're still small enough
To curl up and sleep on my shoulder,
A ball of soft fur filled with love
(written 6-3-2020)
BEAUTY IN KYOTO
There is beauty in Kyoto all year long,
I can see it even with my eyes closed,
When it rains, the petals fall
From the cherry trees,
When it is sunny, the trees
Whisper to each other,
And when it snows, it's like watching
The cherry blossoms falling again
(written 6-10-2020)
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Thank you so much for the book recommendations. I really want to improve on character development so I’m sure those will help me a lot.
I feel like I’ve just received a birthday or Christmas present. I love your prose stories. The short sentences are full of meaning and beauty. With your words you show that their is more to people than their looks. Their will always be more. I really can’t expresses in words how this touched me in so many ways. This is why I love poems so much, they bring back memories that have almost been forgotten. This is beautiful. Thank you so much for showing these with me, it means so much to me. I’d love to read more of them. I’ve never written poems like these every before. I was mesmerized in the story, the words, the dialogue, the characters. The length of some of the poems really didn’t matter at all since I was mesmerized the entire time, and I never wished for them to end. My particular favorites were “The Portrait” and “The Dove and Me.”
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You're welcome. Fair warning, though: I can recommend far more books than just the ones I've referred you to. And not just books published in America, Canada, or England. I can also recommend Alexandre Dumas (pere -- the father -- not fils -- the son) and his books, the Three Musketeers series, there's a series about the French Revolution, there are two books about the Count of Monte Cristo, and so on. You can also try reading Leo Tolstoy's books, "Anna Karenina" and "War and Peace", if you don't mind a long, partly tragic drama (as in the first book) and a *very* long book where the war parts bored me (I just read the peace parts). There's also Dostoyevski and Solzhenitsyn. And then (if I have the name correctly) there is Garcia y Marquez, as well as Cervantes who wrote "Don Quixote". Plenty of books to choose from and read.
I seem to better at dialogue and description than I am at action scenes. Maybe I should've been a scriptwriter and/or playwright instead.
I'm glad you liked the poems. They don't necessarily follow the format that poems usually follow (with rhythms, rhymes, etc.). I call them "prose poems" because they're like sketches rather than complete paintings. I used to write them because it was easier to get the bulk of a story idea down without having to write *everything* down.
"The Portrait" seems to be a favorite among those I've shared it with. Glad you like it, too. It had an interesting set of inspirations: 1) two stories from a book that came out in 1975, I think, called "Strange But True"; and 2) the term "moving pictures" (the title of one of my favorite Rush albums). I may be mixing up the two stories I borrowed from, but basically, one story is: a man is traveling on a train and a sad woman asks if she can sit across from him; he says yes; she asks him if he was an artist and he says yes; she asks if he could draw a face from memory and he says yes; at the next station, she stands up (ready to leave) and says they'll meet again soon. She leaves the train. He travels on to his own destination and takes a carriage to a man's house. Inside the man's house, before he meets the man, he meets the sad woman again. He asks how did she get there more quickly than he did and says he'd like to travel the way she did. She says that he wouldn't enjoy the journey she took. She leaves him and goes into another room. The artist meets the man who owns the house and mentions the sad woman that he met both on the train and in the house. The man asks if he could draw the woman's face and the artist does so. It turns out that the woman is either the man's dead wife or dead daughter. Another story is about a child in rags who goes to a doctor's office and begs him to come and help her father. Outside, it's a raging snowstorm, but the doctor agrees. They make it to her father's home whereupon the child disappears. The doctor takes care of the father and the father asks how did the doctor know where the father was and that the father was ill. The doctor mentions the child in rags. The father goes to a cupboard and shows the doctor a pile of rags. But these rags are dry, unlike the ones the child had worn. The child died months or years earlier. Had the child's ghost come to fetch the doctor and lead him to the father's house? No one knows for sure.
If you're interested in reading more of my poems, I can send you more right here:
A BARGAIN WITH MADAME
There is always a cost,
Whether the prices goes up
Or down is of no consequence.
The question for the buyer is:
Are you willing to pay,
And take the risk that
The vendor might not be entirely
Trustworthy – or will you walk away?
Sometimes it is best to
Turn down the offer, because there
May be a hidden trap awaiting
The unwary – other times it is
Still better to accept and cross
The threshold, to see what lies
Beyond and if it be of use to oneself.
One fine day in late September
I found myself in precisely such a
Position – straddling the gap between
Certainty and ambiguity, the latter
Supported by casual indifference
And lazy ambivalence – wondering
If the offer were genuine and if
I would be in receipt of it if
I placed my payment on the
Table standing between us.
“You must be new to this, are you not,
Monsieur?” she asked, briefly lifting her
Dress to reveal her ankles before hiding
Them once again, and smiled at me
As she approached and sat on the bed.
“I am the veteran, you are the recruit.
I can only offer what is mine to give –
And you are free to accept or refuse.”
“Correct,” I said. “But to assume that
I was visiting merely to acquaint myself
With your place of business and the
Charms of the proprietress herself
Was a mistake, Madame. You are in
Possession of valuable information.”
“And you would like access to it,” she said.
“A bargain seems to be in order. Begin
Your haggling, Monsieur, and I may yet
Decide that what you offer is sufficient.”
I walked slowly about her “office”,
Noting the bookcase filled with books,
The telescope at the window, partly
Hidden by the curtains, the harpsichord
With sheet-music on it ready to be played,
The bed with its singular occupant, and
The desk with an unfinished letter on it.
“Pray, do not pry where I would not have
Your eyes be,” she said. “There are sides
To me that need not be revealed to you.”
“Your – cousin – asked me to come
Here today,” I said. “To speak with you,
To see if you would be willing to assist.”
She laughed. “My cousin? Is that
What he thinks he still is? Once my
Lover and now kept at a distance.
O how the mighty have fallen.
My cousin is a frightened child who
Rarely sets foot outside of Versailles,
Constantly surrounded by the
Hustle and bustle of courtly life.
What would he care about a
Poor relation earning her keep,
Here in the slums of Paris?
If he believes me so easily persuaded,
He has sent you to me in error.
I have nothing to tell him.”
The wind had changed; another
Tack was obviously needed,
Else there was no way to
Progress this close to the wind.
“Your brother rots in the depths
Of the Bastille,” I said. “What you
Know could be enough to free him.”
She narrowed her eyes at me.
“That recalcitrant malcontent?
He is even more worthless than
Our cousin. His gambling debts
Are legendary. Surely you must
Have heard that even the most
Dishonest of gambling houses
No longer permit him entry.
If not for our cousin, he would
Have been rendered destitute
Much sooner. It would be better
To save a drowning rat, even
At the risk of contracting plague.
Only a fool would help him.”
One last card to play;
I prayed it would suffice.
I reached into my coat and pulled
Out a medallion on a chain. I threw
It to her; she caught it easily, and
Laid it in her lap. She looked at me.
“How did you come by this?” she asked.
“A bargaining chip,” I replied. “One
That I was assured you could not refuse.”
“Indeed, Monsieur,” she said. “For it
Used to be my own. Until it was stolen
One night, and I thought it would be
Unlikely that I would ever see it again.”
She opened the medallion. “The miniature
Within is a painting of myself many years ago.
When I was far prettier than I am now.
When I was permitted to visit Versailles
As often as I wished to, and this was the key
That opened doors that nothing else would.”
“Then I believe we have a bargain?” I asked.
She made a face, said nothing, and got up
From the bed. I watched her walk over to
Her dresser and open the bottom drawer. She
Pulled something out and closed the drawer.
With her back to me, she asked, “I have your
Word that these will go to my cousin and
No other eyes will peruse their contents?”
“You do,” I said.
“Take them, then,” she said and I did so.
“Lest he delude himself, I can only
Hope that my cousin does not believe
That my thoughts and feelings for him
Are as they once were. I have aged.
My heart has changed, as has my
Position in society. I am not the
Little girl he once knew. Still, I am
His subject, as you are. I am his ally.
I will support him publicly, even if
I do not do so in private. But love –
That will not pass between us again.”
“I understand,” I said. “My thanks, Madame.”
I bowed. She showed me to the door –
No longer the king's favorite – discarded
By the changing whims of royal attention –
Descending to earth to become just another
Middle-aged woman struggling to survive
In a world that had passed her by – manager
And working-girl in a house of ill-repute.
I found it in myself to pity her. She
Deserved a much better life than this.
If only I had some way to assist her.
The door closed behind me, and I silently
Bade farewell to Madame Pompadour.
(written 3-14-2017 and 3-15-2017)
THE HUMMINGBIRD IN MY FLOWER GARDEN
It's wonderful to
See you again, my friend,
Hovering there in front
Of a beautiful flower
Wings beating back and forth
Until they almost blur
Just to keep you in place
As you poke your proboscis
Deep into the flower,
Drinking the sweet nectar
I didn't want to say good-bye to you
So I decided to immortalize you
By using stained glass and lead,
Shaping them until I could
See you there, oblivious to me,
Before you finished and
Flew on to the next flower
Now I can see you whenever I want,
Even when this part of the world
Is in deepest winter, falling snow,
Wind blowing what's on the ground
Into mysterious, wavelike snow-drifts,
I can sit on the sofa and reach up
To touch the stained glass and lead,
Where it hangs in front of the window,
It almost feels as if it was the real you
Then, when Spring returns,
The leaves and flowers reappear,
The grass starts growing again,
And there in the midst of a sea
Of colors I can see you or maybe
It's your sister or brother or
One of your children, hovering
In front of flower after flower,
Making sure that year after year
There will always be flowers to see
And wonderful scents to smell
This morning I decided to make a bouquet
And placed the flowers in a crystal vase
Half-filled with water on the table
Near the sofa I like to spend afternoons on,
That way I can enjoy both the artwork
That freezes you in place like a photograph,
And the flowers that you tend so well
Come and go as you please, my friend,
I will always be happy to see you again,
Knowing that when you leave
You will return again another day,
You and others like yourself,
Perennials just like the flowers
That grow, wilt, die, and are reborn
In my flower garden each and every year
(written 6-1-2020)
ZEN GARDEN
I carefully place the rocks
In a sea of grey sand,
Creating furrows of parallel lines
Around them with an old rake
The bonsai stand in their pots
At either end of the rock garden,
Their sleeping spirits resting
As a gentle rain falls from the sky
My wife comes outside to join me,
Carrying a bamboo tea tray for us to share,
We sit down on a bench along one side
Of the rock garden, sipping hot tea
This is the peace and contentment we cherish,
Which makes our marriage and retirement
Well worth the effort we have put into them,
Until we are no longer driven by the need to earn
I lean towards my wife,
Kissing her softly on the lips
As our arms encircle one another,
No sound to disturb our happiness
We are not ignorant of the fact that somewhere,
Twenty miles away from here, lies the bustle and noise
Of the modern-day city of Tokyo, but we prefer
Our stronger connection to the ancient city of Kyoto
The sight and scent of cherry blossoms in springtime,
The sight of koi swimming in the tree-bordered lakes,
The inspiration for this zen garden, our quiet oasis,
Its gentle harmony guided and arranged by fung shui
If only everyone on this overcrowded world
Could feel as we do at this moment,
Experience the intimate interconnection of
Every living being in the universe with one other
In return, we offered our prayers of thanks
For the gift that we have been given here,
A gift we hope will be shared with everyone,
A sign of hope that somewhere beyond the chaos
Of modern life there will always be a garden
Like our own, filled with peace and contemplation
(written 8-19-2015)
TOGETHER ON A RAINY DAY
I love it when it rains, because
There are all these wonderful puddles
To run across or jump in, and it
Really doesn't matter if I get soaked
I put on my raincoat and my boots,
Grab my favorite clear umbrella,
Then hurry out the front door and
Look for the nearest puddles
I feel like a duck, waving my arms,
And jumping from puddle to puddle,
Sometimes I laugh as I quack, and
I don't care if anyone thinks I'm silly
Sometimes if it rains really hard
The creek will flood, and overflow
The stone walls that it flows between,
Then you can't see the yard anymore
If I just wear my swimsuit,
I can sit down where it's flooded,
And it's like having my own pool,
Only bigger than the wading pool
I used to play in when I was little
But this time I'll wade down
To the edge of the creek,
And watch the rafters go by,
They wave, and I wave back
I'm glad our house is uphill
From the creek, so that the water
Can't go inside and cause
All sorts of problems
But as long as the creek behaves,
And there isn't too much rain,
Then you can have fun all day
Before the creek shrinks back down
Oh, good – my best friend Jenny,
Is also coming out to play,
She waves from her back door
And I wave back to her
We've been best friends since
We were both in Kindergarten,
And I've always been envious
Of her beautiful long dark hair
She told me once that it's not
That special having dark hair,
And that she'd really rather have
Long dark red hair like mine
I know she wouldn't lie to me,
But why would anyone want
Red hair like mine, since it only
Seems to cause me problems
Jenny is wearing her swimsuit
And her boots, but no umbrella,
So her hair is already soaked,
Lying like a rug on her back
We spend the next few hours
Playing in the flooded grass,
Splashing each other and laughing,
Happy to be together again
We pretend that we're searching
For buried treasure under the water,
Or that this is a huge swimming pool,
Or that we've found a frog prince to kiss
We make up a story about a flooded kingdom
That used to be here, but one day it rained
And rained and rained and before you knew it
The kingdom was underwater and forgotten
There was a princess in the kingdom who
Was supposed to watch out for the rising water,
But she started daydreaming about the prince
She hoped to marry one day, and forgot to look
Next thing she knew the moat was a huge lake,
And treetops were barely visible above its surface,
She heard her father calling to her, so she turned,
But he slipped and fell, and she never saw him again
She spent the rest of her life alone, living on
The battlements of the castle, as if it was an island
Surrounded by an ocean, wishing she hadn't
Started daydreaming and could undo it all
“What about the frog prince?” Wendy asks me,
“What happened to him?” and I think and say,
“He visited the castle one day and she kissed him.”
“And they lived happily ever after,” Jenny said
Then I hear her mom calling to her
And my mom calling to me, telling us
That it's almost lunch time and that
We need to come inside, dry off, and change
Jenny and I hug, and before I know what
I'm doing I'm kissing her on the cheek,
And she gives me a surprised look, because
I've never done that before, then kisses me back
Then we separate and run back uphill
To our houses, and go inside to dry off,
Change into shirts and shorts, and then
Have lunch with our parents and siblings
Maybe, if we're lucky, our backyard will
Still be flooded after lunch and our moms
Will let us go back out and play some more,
Because there's always more we can do
And when we're older, hopefully we'll happily
Remember days like this, and tell our children –
If we have any – what it was like when it rained
The creek flooded, we played, and told stories
Until then, though, we won't have to worry
About tomorrow, who we'll fall in love with,
Who we'll go to the prom with, which college
We'll study at, and what we'll grow up to be
For now, we're two girls, two best friends,
Still in grade school; you'll find us at either
Jenny's house or at mine, sitting together,
Holding hands, and watching the rain fall
(written 4-26-2020)
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Heya, so how are ya doing today?
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Tired. I edited two stories (and they weren't even my own). But I did submit a second story for the week yesterday, "The Endless Forest". Not what I call my best, but I was stepping out of my comfort zone in order to try to write a fairy tale that's more like the Grimms' Fairy Tales and Ridley Scott's movie, "Legend", than like most of Disney's animated movies. If a parent complains that my story scared their elementary-school-age child (or children), I'll say, "It wasn't written for someone their age. It was written for readers from about age 12 or so up to at least my age, if not older."
How's your week been so far? You've been rather quiet (at least as far as messages to me are concerned). I thought maybe you were busy with school or work or on vacation (though, I hope not to Florida).
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Not many people have been talking on here recently, so I haven't really done a lot of stuff, I mostly just talk to friends on here. Though I guess I've been doing good for right now, I'm a little bit tired though. I've still been working on my novel aswell, which has been really fun.
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I can't say the same. I've been "chatting" about the same amount as usual (not too much, not too little). Sometimes it's nice to just "chat" and not have to be about any particular story.
I wish you could post parts of your novel on this website. I'm curious and want to read what you've written so far.
I can't imagine trying to write a novel. It takes enough out of me sometimes just writing a short story. For me, a short story is like a tent in the backyard, and a novel is like a mansion. The tent is challenging enough. I think I'll just sit inside it and enjoy watching writers build their "mansions".
Story (or scene) idea for Cora/Axel/Reboot: What if they're camping in a desert and get caught in a sandstorm? They hide inside their tent (or whatever it is) until the storm blows past. They emerge and have no idea where they are anymore. Everything looks different covered with sand. Even the stars in the night sky look different now.
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I mean, I could possibly try to post parts or scenes from my novel on here at some point, but it would probably get deleted. None of them would probably match the prompts. Hm, do you got any other ideas for a scene for Cora/Axel/Reboot? I still have that suggestion that you could try to do? The one with Axel going and saving Cora from drowning?
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Hmm. What if you started your own website or blog? You could post parts of your story there. Or maybe you could create a newsletter and each issue would include a part of your story. But then you'd need to email it (I think I've already given you one of my email addresses; you haven't emailed yet, though) to each reader.
I thought it was Reboot who fell into the frozen lake, not Cora. Or am I confusing two different scenes with each other?
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Will definitely keep waiting for more of this. Feels like the start of something that's for sure. Can i ask what sort of time period it was set in?
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Glad to hear it.
It will definitely have further stories (once I get a prompt or prompts to inspire them). I just hope the editing will get easier, the further along the story gets. I'm trying to add idioms and slang that would be used in Ireland and Northern Ireland. Since I'm American, they aren't native to me. I just hope it doesn't sound like I'm trying too hard. I want it to feel as natural and realistic as possible.
As far as *when* the story is set? I think either in the current year or maybe in the near future (about 5-10 years from now). The idea is that the fragile peace between the Catholics and Protestants is fraying and slowly falling apart. It's possible that Devon and Niamh will play a major role in trying to bring peace back to their divided town. I'm hoping it won't have to be tragic like in the play. Though, one of my potential ideas for story #3 is that the pub gets burned down by arsonists (sent there by Niall, Devon's uncle). What series of events that will put in motion, I'm not entirely sure yet.
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Ah cool! Will keep looking up for the next one then. I see! As an Englishman, I hope you don't mind a suggestion? You could use brexit too. There's been a lot of arguing over the border there between us and the EU.
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I have no problem getting help from someone who lives *much* closer to the scene of the action than I do. Any help would be most appreciated.
I didn't think about Brexit (since these stories take place while that's active). Why would that affect things in Ireland/Northern Ireland? Is Ireland still part of the EU? If so, then I could understand some "friction" between Ireland and Northern Ireland over Brexit (because Northern Ireland, since it's part of the UK, would naturally follow England's lead). Maybe that's another thing that's causing things to fray and get worse in the town (which I haven't named yet; I don't know what to call it, to be honest). Each side is (openly or covertly) blaming the other side for the worsening economic situation (if Brexit is making things worse rather than better, I mean).
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Unsure about the current climate over there, I've been for work and party weekends but most younger people aren't too fussed over religion or territories I found. Exactly like your story.
Well the EU wanted a hard border, passport control and everything. So someone who works 20 minutes from home would possibly have to cross that. They came to an agreement thank god, but it was a close thing and tensions were definitely high. Huge worry about something like your story beginning to flare up again, since it's not long since settled down. Just a thought mate, the story definitely doesn't need any help so I hope you don't take it that way.
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The closest to Ireland/Northern Ireland I've ever been is Heathrow Airport near London back in 1978 (on the way from America to West Berlin). I've seen some of Rick Steves' travel shows on Ireland and Northern Ireland, though. It's a beautiful part of the world. And I remember back in the late 1970s and early 1980s when it seemed that there were reports of violence not just in the Middle East but also in Ireland and the UK.
I wasn't in favor of Brexit, but I am still in favor of Scottish independence (maybe it's the Scottish part of my ancestry; I'm part-Scottish on my mother's side) ... and, if it ever happens, Welsh independence (I'm part-Welsh, I think on my father's side).
At least Brexit doesn't seem to be ruining the Channel Tunnel and all the time, effort, and money that went into digging it and building it.
Some things come in cycles. There is peace sometimes ... there is war other times. The current situation here in America hasn't improved a great deal since Biden was elected. I think Trump's administration and the ongoing killing of black people and Asian people by white people only made the unpleasant undercurrents of America more obvious than they already were (rather than sweeping them under the carpet and pretending they don't exist). This is one reason that I think history will *always* be relevant. There is *always* something worthwhile to learn from history.
Btw, if you haven't seen it yet, I recommend Michael Wood's mini-series, "In Search of William Shakespeare". It discusses not just Shakespeare, but his family, the culture of the time, and the police state during Queen Elizabeth I's reign. It doesn't pull any punches.
I don't mind. But if you *do* sense something isn't quite right in the rest of the stories in the series (which I haven't written yet), *please* point those parts out to me and how you would fix them. It's one thing to watch British TV shows and movies and read British books, but it's another thing entirely to *live* there every day. I won't be surprised if I stumble sometimes when it comes to vernacular. We both speak English, but the differences between your English and mine can be considerable sometimes and it's nice to have someone willing to "translate" between the two variations of English.
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Hi, Philip!~
I've missed talking to you. How have you been?
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Hi. Likewise. Get any stories written?
I've submitted some more stories (the two recent ones are popular and I'm already looking forward to adding another story to that set ... once I find a story prompt that inspires it).
Outside (in the real world), I think this year we just might get some *real* Springtime weather this year (as in, for three months, instead of one month and then straight into Summer weather). Hopefully, there won't be any late winter snowstorms. Looking forward to Springtime flowers (snowdrops, daffodils, tulips, azaleas, etc.).
How's the weather where you are?
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Yes, actually!!! I wrote "I love my Brinn" just a few days ago as a collab with Avani!~
I'm so happy to hear that!
Yess, I can't wait for spring weather! It's been getting warmer and warmer recently and we started planting our garden and setting it up! We focus more on vegetables outdoors~ Do you grow any vegetables? Do you plan on seeing your family members anytime soon?
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Excellent! I'll go check that as soon as I can.
I confess I'm not exactly thrilled with the story (of mine) that made the shortlist. I wouldn't say it's one of my best (it feels incomplete and in need of a sequel or two to flesh it out). But ... I'm not one of the judges, so I must abide by their decision. I'll just keep trying to write better stories so that, maybe, the next time I'm on the shortlist it will be with a story that I'm really happy with.
I live in a mobile home. No gardens. I do have a large front deck with railings that I could put small houseplants on (like spider plants and anything else that grows downward more than upward). If only I had the money to buy houseplants. I miss having green plants growing near me. I remember in years past when I had good-sized indoor gardens (houseplants, ferns, herbs, and flowering plants like hibiscus). One plant I could never get to flower again once I got it home from the plant store was an African Violet. The hibiscus, however, would happily flower almost all the time ... as long as I remembered to almost drown it with water (if I missed a day, it would start drooping on me, as if to blame me for not watering it regularly). The same would happen with the spathiphyllum (aka "peace flag").
My mother has a back deck which she grows herbs on (rosemary, basil, etc.). My female best friend actually has a bonafide garden in her backyard (unfortunately for me, she lives north of Seattle and I haven't been to her house in about 4 1/2 years). She has a friend who also has a garden (they both grow vegetables in their gardens), who is also the head of their local gaming group (board games, card games, etc.; no RPGs as far as I know).
Right now my mother's financial situation isn't good (to call it "fair" would probably be an exaggeration) and she's afraid she might have to sell her house and move somewhere less expensive. Right now she lives inside the Beltway in northern Virginia. I was shocked to hear from her that her house is now worth close to a $1,000,000. No joke. Thirty years ago it was worth about $300,000-350,000. I think the appraisers think that people that live near or in big cities are all wealthy. I told her that if the housing prices are even worse than 4 years ago, she probably will end up living at least an hour away from where she lives right now, which will cause her commutes to/from Washington DC to increase quite a bit. Once that situation calms down (if it ever does), I'll try asking my mother what would be a good day to visit.
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Thank you!!!
CONGRATULATIONS ON GETTING A SHORTLISTED STORY!!! Your writing is amazing :) Regardless of how you felt, I'm happy you at least got one shortlisted!!!!!!!!
Ohhh, okay!! That makes sense. Maybe you could buy little succulents-those are really cheap and pretty! We do own a HUGE spider plant, it's about the size of a big dog!
My mother loves plants, and she owns an African Violet she's REALLY proud of! They're gorgeous :) That's really, really cool! We grow oregano, rosemary, and basil as well-we have TONS of plants!
Wow!! Yeah, houses are really expensive nowadays T-T The prices are really, really rising, and it's hard to find a house that fits all of one's needs that's also in their price range.
I hope you can visit your best friend and mother sometime! How is the pandemic situation in your area?
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You're welcome.
It's my first time having a story shortlisted on this website. It reminds me of Jewel Staite talking about Kayleigh and Simon Tam (two characters in "Firefly") possibly finally kissing each other, "Long time comin'."
I try to tell myself that I will try hard not to submit any story that I don't think is good enough to share with others. I've done my best to abide by that rule of thumb. Which is probably why I don't submit that many stories, but I try to make each story the best it can be.
Spider plants are great because (as long as they get watered regularly and fertilized every so often) they seem to last forever. And you can cut off one of the trailing plants, put it in water, wait for the roots to grow out, and then transplant it into a pot. Also, it doesn't seem to fuss too much about how much sunlight it gets.
That is definitely a huge spider plant! Wow! I wish I could see what it looks like and then share the photo with my mother.
If I could only encourage an African Violet to flower again once I get it home, I'd risk buying one again in the future. I love the colors of the flowers (I've seen blue and purple ones).
Wish I could see your houseplant/herb collection.
Sellers will try to convince you that inflation is a good thing. The higher the price, the better, right? But if they knew anything about economics, they would be anti-inflation. It's about rarity vs. so common it's everywhere. The rarer it is, the higher its value tends to be. The more common it is, the lower its value tends to be. The more US dollars are in circulation, the less they're worth and the more you need of them to buy things. This is an important lesson that Germany learned after World War 1, when their currency's value crashed. There's a picture of a woman with a wheelbarrow of nearly worthless money heading off to buy a single pair of shoes. No joke. I don't want that to happen here in America. Ever. Another currency that had to be fixed is the Turkish lira. Inflation was so bad that they had to lop off zeros (I don't remember how many; three or four?) to reach its new value. I bet it's already headed back up to over-inflated value again (I just hope more slowly than last time).
I check Weather Underground's website and, along with the weather forecast, they also give you your county's amounts of people who have gotten sick with COVID and how many of those have died. Right now, the sickness amount is 19,222. The death amount is 511. I wonder how bad it was in this area during the 1918 influenza epidemic. Probably horrifically bad.
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In the very first sentence, I decided to change "fifteen feet" to "ten feet". Fifteen feet just felt like it was too far. This isn't the Senate or the House of Representatives after all. If any of you think that it should go back to fifteen feet, I'll change it back.
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Its a beautiful sequel to 'Two sides of the street'. You are a 'master'story writer and a perfect editor.
All the best for your next one.
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Thank you very much. I'm glad you liked it after all. (When I sent you the incomplete rough draft, you said you didn't like it.) It's wonderful being appreciated for the time and effort put into creative writing. It's why I'll keep trying to do my best with the stories I submit to this website. Readers like you, Jose, B.W., Deidre, Annette, etc. definitely make it worth it.
I bet that someday someone will tell you that you're a great writer, too. I just hope it doesn't take you about 30 years to reach that level (because that's how long it's taken me to get this far). Also, if there's an easier way to "climb" up to a "mountain", don't avoid and take the hard way up like I tend to do. There's nothing wrong with taking the easy way.
I'm already brainstorming and making notes for story #3 (and possible story #4 as well; it depends on how much I can cram into story #3; there will probably be something that just doesn't fit and will have to go into story #4). With the encouragement and support I get on this website, I want to keep trying to do better and experiment more. Without that encouragement and support, I bet I would've given up (or written far less).
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Thanks for your kind words
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I hit the delete button and your reply was deleted too, will you reply to it again?
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Just reread the story again and a word was missing. I've added it. See below:
"He isn't like us or Devon's."
should've read:
"He isn't like us or Devon's parents."
*sigh* I hope I don't find more errors before the weekly contest ends on Friday. Wish me luck.
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Okay this needs to be a screenplay almost immediately—this is something I’d love to watch on PBS or Netflix!
You have it all—pacing, characterization, dialogue.
Make this miniseries happen!
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Glad you liked it. Thank you so much for your enthusiasm and support. It means a lot to me.
It wasn't easy writing it (except for the third scene) or editing it (ditto). But I'm glad it was worth the effort. Now I just want to see what happens in the third story (since I've gotten past the two meetings -- the Aldermen's and at the police station). I'm surprised you didn't point out that this time it isn't Devon who's bending the do-not-mingle and do-not-cross-the-street rules; it's Niamh doing it. (Btw, I haven't written her poem to him yet (it'll be in the next story and I'm curious to see what she tells him). In "Romeo and Juliet", it was Romeo who sent a message to Juliet; I decided to flip it around ain my story and have Niamh send the message to Devon.)
I hope the next story is easier to write and edit. (knock on wood) No one said being inspired by Shakespeare was easy.
P.S.: I've been telling as many readers on this website as I can that this sequel is ready to be read. I skipped some because I haven't read any of their stories yet. Feel free to share this story with anyone you think might enjoy it as much as you did.
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Thought I'd send you this link at the BBC website:
https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-northern-ireland-56664868
Real life is even worse than what I'd already written in these two stories (I haven't written a third story in the series yet).
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Agreed. Real life is always worse -- :)
You have great talent. I so look forward to reading more from you.
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It reminds me of June 1991 when I was trying to write a Helen MacInnes style of suspense story set in Moscow, having no idea what would be happening in real life two months later. I didn't finish the story, but even if I had, real-life events had already zipped right past anything I was able to imagine. I remember reading the newspaper in August 1991 and saying (no joke), "Wait a minute. Who gave them a copy of my story? I wasn't even finished with it yet."
I just wish that my creative urges were more frequent. I had to completely rewrite this week's short story. The first draft was full length, but I didn't like it much and never edited it. The second draft (completely different story and series) is only up to page 3 out of maybe 10 or 11 pages. The only thing I kept from the first draft was the quote at the start of the story.
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That's the thing with the muses. Sometimes they show up. Sometimes you have to go and kidnap and threaten them to provide inspiration.... :)
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I think my muse is doing her best, but she's having to deal with someone who isn't young anymore (at least, not physically). Someone who's trying to do his best to listen to her and write what she gives him. Thankfully, she's more patient with me than she used to be back in 1989.
I would never dream of threatening my muse. She would go away and I might never hear from her again (and it's already hard enough spending sometimes entire years without my female best friend, who lives a couple hours north of Seattle, Washington State; hard to believe that she's been a grandmother for the last several years; tempus fugit).
Maybe I'd tickle my muse into submission. Are muses ticklish? Do they like being tickled? I don't know. I wish I could ask Orpheus but he hasn't been here in a long time.
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