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It is a great story told only by a man who understands the world of sailing and the skills needed. I did get lost in the time period when you talked about the grandchildren. I thought he was the ancestor and not the descendant.
Since you posted the first story, I now understand better what you are looking for in a short story..
It is a great story told only by a man who understands the world of sailing and the skills needed. I did get lost in the time period when you talked about the grandchildren. I thought he was the ancestor and not the descendant.
Since you posted the first story, I now understand better what you are looking for in a short story..
The protagonist IS the ancestor, sort of. He died, (roughly in the current time) and at his death, with some misgiving on his part, all of the skills and memories of his brain were completely copied into a virtual reproduction, via my neologism "valsification." Since that reproduction was not flesh and couldn't die, those skills and memories were used to safely operate huge cargo sailing ships, and later a space "sailing" ship, which was set off to explore the universe until the end of time. His "program" had to be "rebooted" from time to time to keep him from going totally insane. Each time he was rebooted He looked up to the rigging, then down to his broken hands.
There is a sailing ship constellation in the heavens, Argo Navis.
"A ship pattern was recognized by several ancient civilizations. The Egyptians saw the constellation as the boat that carried the gods Isis and Osiris during a worldwide flood. The ancient Indians also saw a ship. The Greeks recognized a giant constellation which was called (in Latin) Argo Navis. The story most often associated with the constellation is that it represented the ship, Argo, sailed by the mythical Greek heroes Jason and the Argonauts in search of the Golden Fleece."
I tried to pack in some of the coarse texture of sailing, an idea of a modern or post modern return to sail, an exposure of the dangers inherent in sailing, a bit of science fiction, a bit of mythological storytelling, and a pointed disdain by the original man for how his great-(etc)-bastard descendants were able to corrupt the experience of his own personal past, among other things. I also wanted to import that there are some skills that are just too important for us to allow them to die out, and I was amused with the concept of a space ship that was enough like a true old four-masted sailing ship that those old skills would be required. Science fiction and fantasy writers have played with the idea, and most space-faring science fiction can be seen as transplanted stories of sailing to far-off lands. Sailing has held mythical proportions for humanity since man took to the sea.
The article in the National Geographic was impressive, centering on the Pamir, a German built metal hulled and masted Bark. The ship sailed from Wellington New Zealand to London in 81 days, making an average of 200 miles per day, without an engine. In 1948, she was one of only four remaining ships of her type.
"The next day the flamingos were gone. Her husband had arranged with the youth pastor for their "re-location." And the next month their son left for college. Gone, just like the flamingos."
Very nicely told, kaykay. Having lived in south Florida, and having had egrets and ibis preforming bug patrol on our lawn, I half expected those pink flamingos to be real.
I think the swing of the 400 word idea seems to be working. It pushes for more action and less "telling."
Last edited by harry chickpea; 07-15-2009 at 04:15 PM..
Buzz123
"Daddy, coming in the big double doors in front, catches up to Herman just as the latter is pulling his head out of the pile, face covered with you-know-what. Well, if that isn’t a disgusting enough picture, remember Daddy was loaded up with a handful of eggs. Picture Herman, covered with manure, and the yucky yolks of several eggs running down his face."
Good story, good humor, good ending. This is written as it would imagine it being told around a campfire. I might tighten it up in the translation to paper (or electrons), fix on the point of view, take it way from being relatives until the last line, with the kicker being "oh, BTW, that was my father..." or something along those lines.
None the less, he awoke dead. Alex rolled over on the scarred hardwood and glared at the woman who’d lured him away from his friends at the Electric Bluejay, his favorite club.
She glanced up. She was lovely, and he’d fallen right into her trap. Her name was. . .what. . .Arabella? Yes, that was it.
“Why?”
“Why what?” she asked.
“Why did you do this to me?” He pushed himself upright and his stomach cramped.
She stood and sauntered to him. “Because you’re so pretty. I couldn’t just kill you and throw you away.” She held her hand out to him.
Hesitating only a moment, he took her hand and she pulled him up. His legs shook.
She shoved cascades of long blond hair back from her face. “Poor baby, hungry aren’t you.”
Oh yeah, he was starving, but he wasn’t about to admit it.
She shook her head. “No need to play games. I’ve been at this a long time. I know what you need.”
“I don’t need anything from you.”
“Oh yes you do. You haven’t a clue about how to survive. Now come with me, you have to feed.”
Without a choice, he trailed behind her. She had a nice rear-end. He didn’t recall if he’d had sex with her or not. The last thing he remembered was her teeth sinking into him. He ran his tongue over his newly improved teeth. Too long, the damn things would give him away the minute he opened his mouth.
Well, he’d find a way to deal with them. Like he had a choice in the matter. But right now, the only thing he wanted was to stop the pain in his guts.
She took him back onto the streets, back to the entertainment district.
“Pick anyone you wish, male or female,” she whispered close to his ear. Her breath was as cold as the rest of her. He shuddered.
A group of young women emerged from one of the clubs. As they approached, he salivated and whined like a dog. He ran his hands through his shaggy hair and caught handfuls in tight fists. She’d turned him into no more than an animal.
He stifled a growl.
A young woman strutted down the sidewalk alone.
He could already imagine hot blood sliding down his parched throat. He licked his lips and a cold grin spread over his face.
“Take her,” Arabella whispered and moved slightly in front of him.
“Yes.” He would take her all right. He leapt forward.
He took her down hard and sank his fangs into her soft throat, cutting off her scream of surprise. He drank fast, draining her, taking her life away from her.
He lifted his head, licked the blood off his lips, and dragged Arabella’s lifeless body into the shadows.
404 Words
The Beehive
By linicx
Copyright 2009
All Rights Reserved
The Beehive
Closed. The red lipstick message scrawled across the piece of crumpled paper taped to the locked door said everything. The building was empty and the last occupant was in one big hurry to leave. I wondered why.
The Beehive was once the busiest store in town. In fact it was the only store in the dusty little town that time forgot and the nearby highway passed. But even after the road was opened to traffic the Beehive was still the lifeblood of the town.
The old men sat outside in good weather and played Checkers on makeshift tables made from wooden barrels while they smoked their pipes and complained about the weather. No one ever wondered where John, Joe, Billy and Bubba were or what they were doing. In the winter you could find them in the backroom of the store by the wood stove playing Euchre.
The Beehive was not only the community center for the town, it was also the post office, the drugstore, the soda fountain, the seed and feed catalog store, and it was my favorite candy store. There was always a dozen glass jars on the counter filled with brightly wrapped penny candy.
A tap on the shoulder snapped me back to reality. I spun around and bumped into Charlie. Before he could speak I stammered, “What happened to Beehive?”
Murder, he said. He paused for a long time before he continued.
After the new road was built and residents began to drive the twenty miles to Charlesberg to shop the town changed. Long time residents moved closer to shopping. They called it progress; I called it trouble.
It was a quiet town before the gangs came and started buying up land and empty houses for pennies on the dollar. They wanted the store, too. The only people standing in the way were Jake and Charlotte, but Jake wouldn’t sell.
The Wednesday after Thanksgiving I found my parents in the store laying side by side in a pool of blood. They were shot in the head gangster style. They never did catch the guys who did it.
The gangs finally left town. After my parents died they had a hard time keeping their cars running and their houses from burning to the ground. They never caught the guys who did it, either.
The only reminder is the sign on the Beehive door. I used mom’s lipstick to write it.
Many years ago, in a house no more than a shack, on a cold winters night, four children snuggled close together beneath a thread bare blanket.Their mom had carefully placed their winter coats on top in hopes of holding in the body heat produced by her small thin children.
Despite the cold and the nearly empty stomachs, the children felt safe and loved as they settled in and their mother sat on the bed, turned down the kerosene lamp and began to sing in her beautiful distinct voice that the children had been accustomed to every night since any could remember..
The wondrous images that came to the children's minds as she began singing "Over the Rainbow" in a soft, beautiful melancholy sound..The children had never heard the story of the Emerald City, so the images in their mind were of a home that stayed warm all winter like their relatives houses. One that shined with electric lights at night and a table set with real dishes that matched, and enough food for mother to sit down and eat supper with them without saying she was not hungry..
The mothers mother and siblings had come from Ireland at the end of the last century and brought their traditions, and song with them..The mother continued with a song that made the sleepy children long for the lush green hills of a land some would long for all their lives as she sang "Danny Boy"
Usually, the children were sound asleep when their mother finished the Irish lullaby "Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ra". Many times though one or another of the children would see her rise from the bed with great difficulty because there would soon be another child who would not live to be born. They would see tears on her face in anguish and pain over the children tucked beneath the blanket and coats.
All of these 60 plus years later I sing the same songs to my third generation of babies that my mother sang to us and through her song and gentle ways made lasting memories of a mother who never complained of our poverty, but did the best she could in a world so very different than todays.
365 words..This is a sample of a chapter that one day I hope to put together for my children and grandchildren because I think family history should be preserved and passed on..The story above is very trueand just one of many in my life
Last edited by Miss Blue; 07-15-2009 at 07:46 PM..
Troy stood just on the edge of the field and sized up his nemesis, his pale eyes narrowed behind the lenses of his glasses. The other figure was tall and slim and cast a long shadow in the afternoon sunlight. Even from this distance, the strength was unmistakable. The enemy was solid, unmoving. Troy had no doubt that this was why he’d lost so often during their previous engagements. How could he compete with such menacing implacability?
But Troy was no quitter. He would not be defeated. Not again, not this time.
Halfway across the field, the boy stooped and tightened his shoe-laces. It was a stalling technique, to be perfectly honest. His mind raced with strategy. How to win…how to dominate…how to prevail…?
He ached for victory.
He needed to remember to duck this time. That seemed obvious, of course, but that bugger was fast and could change directions in a second. Sometimes it was like Troy was battling air. His punches and kicks connected with nothing, just left him breathless and unprotected and open to the bruising blows.
And there was no mercy in those blows.
Troy tightened his jaw and adopted what he thought of as his Dirty Harry expression. (He’d been practicing in the mirror.) As he squinted at his enemy and walked manfully forward, he muttered under his breath, “You gotta ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?”
In his mind Troy could see Harry, could see those steely, squinty eyes, that sneer, that toughness. He let the image fill him up…felt Harry’s strength seep into his muscles, his bones. Still staring at his opponent, who hadn’t budged a single inch and seemed almost to welcome Troy’s approach, the boy straightened up as tall as he could.
Do ya feel lucky, punk?
Punk.
Troy said the word over and over again in his mind, relishing the hard sound of the k at the end. It sounded tough, mean. It was a winner’s sound. Punk.
Yeah, this time victory would be his. He felt it. It would be a hard fight and he knew he’d have bruises, maybe even worse. (The pinky finger he’d broken during one of the previous fights had hurt like the dickens, and it had been all he could do to not cry until he was back across the field. There was no way he’d let that smug, taunting bastard see his tears. No. Way.)
But yeah…this time, it would be Troy MacNamara who was going to come out on top.
Troy stopped three feet away from his enemy. The toes of his Chucks dug into the dust.
“You’re going down, tetherball," he vowed in his best Harry voice. "This time, punk…you’re going down.”
Last edited by Niftybergin; 07-15-2009 at 08:45 PM..
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