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I learned long ago it is easier to write more words than less. I thought maybe it might be fun to sharpen our voices with a few more words. I propose 750-1000 words on any subject. Write about your favorite subject or a short story. Here's a couple of starter sentences. There are no rules and no critique unless you ask for one.
I learned long ago it is easier to write more words than less. I thought maybe it might be fun to sharpen our voices with a few more words. I propose 750-1000 words on any subject. Write about your favorite subject or a short story. Here's a couple of starter sentences. There are no rules and no critique unless you ask for one.
It was a dank and dreary night
The summer sun ...
That is waaaay to close to "It was a dark and stormy night."
The moon hung low on the Mexican horizon, and the heat was oppressive to the uninitiated. A cooling breeze, however, mercifully flitted through the open windows. Angela surveyed the sparse, somewhat delapidated room noisily filled to overflowing with brown-eyed children. Their ready smiles and laughter belied the poverty which defined most of their lives. With a quick prayer, Angela fervently hoped that her faltering Spanish would be up to the task. Since no interpreter was available tonight, it had to be.
This moment actually transported her back to another night in her own childhood, a quiet summer night in Texas, when Angela had sat thoughtfully and silently with the other children on the miniature chairs provided in the somewhat crowded room. Though nothing at the time had seemed to distinguish this special night from any other, many years later she would reflect back on what transpired here because the words spoken would resonate with her forever, becoming the foundation for the rest of her life. Typical of the long summer days, the August sunlight still flickered and danced through the windows on one side of the room. The teacher, tried to command the attention of the roomful of somewhat restless 8 year olds. Though the message would be burned within her soul, years later Angela would no longer recall the womans' face. Not that it mattered. Not at all.
The little girl trained her eyes on the woman as she softly spoke. Best the little girl could ascertain, teacher was showing the man the little girl recognized from past stories as God's son, Jesus. Though her parents showed little interest in such, the child had always been drawn to God, to stories of God and it was actually her own pleas which caused her parents to deposit her at the little country church every Wednesday night.
The words the nice lady was sharing instantly struck a chord in Angela's heart. Having been told that only "good little girls" went to heaven, she had tried to be good. She really had. But even in her child-like innocence, she somehow instinctively knew that her "good" was not going to suffice here. Maybe to some that might seem ludicrous or laughable. How big of a "sinner" could an eight year be, after all? But even at the tender age of eight, she knew that she had moments of extreme selfishness and anger. She had once even hit her mom in anger and frustration. This could hardly be described as "good" by anyone's standards. Yes, Angela was a typical fun-loving child, but she also possessed a definite serious, contemplative side.
But this lady with the flipchart had some good news, some very good news for Angela. Sharing that this Jesus had died and taken the punishment for the entire world, this truth struck like a lightening bolt in Angela's heart. She realized for the first time what that big word "atonement" meant. She had heard the words "atonement" and "grace" bantered about in church before by the adults, but she was clueless to the meaning. According, to what this lady was saying, Jesus took the punishment for her and for everyone else in the entire world. Suddenly, she realized that this God, this God whom she had unwittingly sought all her short life, this God whom her parents seem to know little about was interested in her. He loved her and had provided a way that she could be with Him. It wasn't all about her "goodness" anymore. He had taken her punishment Himself. Years later, she would understand that the word "gospel" literally means "good news." And to one eight year old on a humid, summer night in Texas, this good news had penetrated her heart.
It would be several years before Angela would actually act on what she learned that swelteringly hot night in the little Baptist church in Texas. In a few years, based on more understanding, she would totally commit her life to following this Jesus she had heard about, this Jesus who would be the savior of any who would receive him. And the ensuing years brought a deeper commitment as well, a commitment that would challenge her heart in ways fairly unimaginable to that young eight year old. She now sat in a isolated little building which sufficed as a local church on one of the dusty, unpaved roads on the outskirts of the little Mexican town. Many years had intervened since that night in Texas, but she knew she was committed now and forever to carrying the "good news" she had heard to wherever the Lord might lead and for right now, that "somewhere" was Matamoros, Mexico.
"Buenas noches, ninos y ninas. Traigo una buena noticia," she began as she turned the page on the flipchart...
_______________________
796 words Yes, yes, I know the popular wisdom. Never discuss politics, religion or sex. But since you said we could discuss our favoriite subject, I tried to combine my favorite subject of Jesus Christ into a short story form based loosely on my own life and childhood experience. Disclaimer: I am NOT currently a missionary to Mexico.
Also, anyone is free to critique at will. Just please don't be too rough. As I told Harry Chickpea, I haven't written fiction in any form since junior high and for me, that was many moons ago!
Again, I'm a bit over - this has just over 1,000 words.
Blizzard
They didn’t expect this winter to be different. It was cold, it was dark, it was windy, it snowed --my God how it snowed!--but that was interior Alaska. They were ready, they'd lived there 20 years.
This year the snow and dark were different. The snow never fell: the wind drove it against the cabin, the sheds, the cords of wood stacked to form neat windbreaks around the sheds. At night while they slept, snow blew through invisible chinks in the cabin walls, leaving ghostly white trails. The snow seemed alive, hostile, as if it didn't want them there.
The snow didn't pile up handy in front of the cabin. She had to carry buckets of snow further than ever before. It wasn't a chore that could be put off - if the barrel beside the stove wasn't kept full, there’d be no water for drinking, cooking, washing, for the dogs.
That galled her most: carrying snow to melt for his team. She felt the wind mocking her when it blew drifts around the edge of the clearing. Before, drifts had piled neatly at hand so she'd filled the buckets from the porch. Now she had to go to the edge of the clearing, and the snow was full of blown duff and bits of bark and twigs. Not only did she have to carry it ten times farther, it had to be strained before it was fit to use. This winter seemed colder and dryer, so the dogs (and they themselves) drank more and were still thirsty.
What bothered him was getting up and finding new tendrils of snow reaching across the floor. No matter how much he caulked the logs the wind found new places to penetrate, places that hadn't been there before. It didn't matter that as soon as he lit the fire the traces of white vanished; nor that they never felt drafts. What mattered was that the snow was mocking him.
She’d always talked to herself, things that happened, things she wanted to tell him when he got back from running the trapline. He’d always liked the way she muttered quietly or hummed to herself, never expecting an answer - it was the background to their life. But one day he listened when she wasn't talking to him. She was complaining viciously about hating carrying snow to melt for the dogs, how much she hated the dogs for wanting more.
He thought about it, running his trapline. He imagined conversations where she wanted him to shoot the dogs so she wouldn't have to carry snow. He argued with her silently, trying to convince her the dog team was their most important possession. Without the team in good health, they couldn't live here. No dogs, no trapline, no income, back to the village they both hated. He always won those debates on the trail, but when he got back to the cabin, half-frozen, beard bristling with little icicles that started dripping as soon as he stepped inside, he couldn't find the words to say anything. He'd used them all up on the trail.
He would unload the catch by the door and see to the dogs. Each dog was staked by a barrel half filled with hay, though they usually curled up in the snow. After he tied the dogs he would get the buckets of warm mash and water. The team cared for, he’d go over the sled, checking bindings, for parts that needed attention. Then he brought a last armload of wood in.
There was always a pot of stew on the stove, and when he carried the mash and water out, she’d start biscuits. When he got back inside, they’d be ready.
One evening, the biscuits were done before he came in. She took the pan out of the oven, set it on the warming shelf --still he didn't come in. She went to the door, to see him sitting on top of the lead dog’s house, rubbing the dog's ears.
"It's done." she said, looking out the door. "You coming or not?"
Slowly he stood up and turned away, going along the row of dogs, rubbing and petting each one, before he turned to go to the cabin.
The door flung open again before he was half-way across the yard.
"Son of a b*tch!" she yelled. "You think more of those damn dogs than me! You don't care what I do, those damn dogs always come first! All right, eat with them!" She threw the stewpot and biscuits across the yard at him.
He stared at the smear of stewed moose steaming across the yard, pointing toward him like a brown arrow. He pulled a mitten off and poked a finger at the edge of the stew--it was already viscous from the cold. He threw chunks of it to the dogs, one after another. Then he started over with the biscuits, finally going to the cabin and slamming the door open.
"Make more!" he snarled. She was standing next to the stove defiantly, her favorite butcher knife in her hand.
"No. Once today I cook, you don't come eat. You feed your dinner to the dogs, you eat the dogs' dinner."
He hung up his parka, then turned and slapped her once, hard. She staggered back against the counter, the side of her face red with the print of his hand.
He’d never hit her before, ever. Somehow they’d stopped being partners and turned into strangers.
She raised her hand to her face and saw the knife. With a scream, she struck out with it. He wasn't expecting to defend himself from her. That was how the knife slashed deeply into the side of his neck. The unexpected pain coupled with reflexes honed by a lifetime in the woods kept him upright long enough to lunge forward. slapping her again, harder. She fell backward, hitting her head on the edge of the stove. They both collapsed, fading into final blackness, together again, the back of her skull smashed, his blood a dwindling geyser spraying across the room.
Outside, the snow fell harder, as always that winter. The dogs, uneasy on their chains, stirred restlessly before settling back down for the night, curling up against the wind-driven snow.
Good, karibear. Quite good. May I add just the tiniest substitute final paragraph?
Across the floor, tendrils of snow, cold, sterile and pitiless, grew like a white cancer to claim the two and transform them from Alaskans into Alaska itself.
Good, karibear. Quite good. May I add just the tiniest substitute final paragraph?
Across the floor, tendrils of snow, cold, sterile and pitiless, grew like a white cancer to claim the two and transform them from Alaskans into Alaska itself.
The punchline is the dogs left chained to starve and freeze. In a somewhat different form, I took it to a writer's group and the only reaction I got was a horrified "Don't you LIKE dogs?"
Yup, that came through immediately - and was my first thought, actually - but human pathos is what pleases most readers, and tying in the creeping snow is a natural. Kudos, nonetheless.
The first time I saw Judy from a distance, she was dressed in a toddler’s sailor suit. She was on the hip of a woman who was surrounded by three-year olds.
I moved to Niles, Michigan two weeks earlier with my two toddlers. I tried to take my kids out once a week to see new things and experience new foods. After we settled in our new house, I decided to visit the Story Book Zoo that was located a few miles across the state line in Indiana.
When we finally got into the zoo I was disappointed. I was looking at retired circus animals that totally ignored humans. They were motionless as if they were stuffed with cotton. I was ready to leave when my girls spied the sailor suit and the chimpanzee in it. We went over and they soon found they couldn’t pet, hold, or play with the monkey named Judy. We stopped for a snack on the way home. When we got in the house I pulled out the road atlas and started looking for nearby towns for our foray the following week. It turned out to be one of the most unusual days of my life.
I decided to drive to Mishawauka, Indiana. It was not that far from the house. We passed a drive-in on they way. It would be a perfect place to stop for a sandwich on the way home.
I didn’t figure on Judy.
We drove by a small city park and stopped. The office was in a concrete building. We walked over to learn if there was anything in the park for kids; I did not see swings or slides. If the answer was no, it was my intent to immediately leave and take them to a kid friendly park. The office was more of a zoo than a place of business. It was devoid of human life unless one considered the screaming monkey, in the corner cage, human. In retrospect I should have left. I wanted information so I laid on the buzzer on the counter and waited. The noise one monkey can make in a concrete building is ear splitting to say the least. Finally a teenage boy came through the side door.
“Can I help you?” he screamed.
“What’s wrong with the monkey?” I screamed back.
“Diaper is dirty?”
“I can’t hear you. Change its pants.”
“Can’t. Don’t know how.”
“Where’s the zoo keeper?”
“Lunch”. Getting information was like pulling teeth.
“When are they coming back?”
He held up two fingers. The monkey screamed louder and seemed to be in distress. I never raised a monkey, but I was always a sucker for animals.
“Got a clean diaper? I’ll show you how to change it:,
“I don’t know….. ”
I interrupted, “Get the diaper.”
He handed me a cloth diaper, took the monkey out of the cage and laid it on the table. The monkey stopped screaming. The silence was deafening. While I was showing him how to put the diaper on without pinning it to the monkey, I formulated the perfect plan. I would clean it up, put it in the cage and leave.
The monkey had other ideas. I walked to the cage and reached for the door.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you?” The warning sounded ominous.
“Do what?”
“Try to put the monkey in the cage.”
“Why?”
“See it smile?” I nodded. “If you try to put it in the cage it will bite you?”
“You’re kidding?” He shook his head side to side.
“What am I supposed to do with the money, baby sit?”
He shook his head. “The handler might be back in an hour, maybe.”
I held the monkey. Every time I sidled up to the cage, it smiled. Little did I know this 3-month old had a full set of adult teeth, the strength of a Rotweiller, and the curiosity of a two year-old. When I switched hips it removed my sunglasses and regular glasses simultaneously. I gently removed my glasses and put them on a shelf, where upon monkey discovered my hair. While I walked with monkey, it inspected my head for lice, my nails for vermin, and every strand of hair. When it was done, my hair covered my face. My children were laughing; they thought I was funny. An hour has passed and I had no hope of leaving. Monkey would not let the teenage boy pick it up. My hips hurt, my back hurt and my feet hurt. My neck was the monkey handle bar and it hurt too. The only relief I had was momentary while I switched hips.
We’re hungry!” My oldest whined.
“I can’t put the monkey down.”
She pointed to a steel basket shaped like a purse on a shelf. I saw the basket and smiled. It was a buffet made for a monkey.
“Get it down”, I snarled.
“I can’t. It’s against the rules”.
“GET IT DOWN!”
“Now go open the cage door.”
The monkey smiled. I prayed.
I put lettuce in one hand, an apple in the other, and picked up a banana as I walked toward the cage. I tossed the banana inside the cage. As the monkey eyed the banana, I shoved it in the cage and slammed the door. I grabbed my glasses, my kids and left, but this is not the end of the story. .
I later learned the male monkey I diapered was Judy! Kids submitted names in a zoo contest. ‘Judy’ was the winning name.
Forty-two years ago, Judy was a research chimp. He was taken very young and treated like a human baby. This study was to learn if chimps and babies develop at the same rate, and if chimps could be taught like a child. Judy drank from a cup or glass, dressed by himself, used a fork and spoon. And he learned sign language, too.
Note: This is a variant of the original copyrighted story that was published.
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A Night of Good News
As I told Harry Chickpea, I haven't written fiction in any form since junior high and for me, that was many moons ago!
