Just a place to write stories, just a place to write stories, just a place to write tales.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Later in the evening we were gathered at my house, waiting to go out to the carnival with my grandparents. We sat there, quieter than usual, barely talking to one another, each thinking about what we had seen that day. When my grandmother came into the room she looked at us all suspiciously and asked, “What’s going on? You all seem very quiet. Too quiet, I think,” she said, peering at me from behind her glasses. “Just a little tired I guess, grandma,” I replied. She opened her mouth and looked as if she was going to add more but then thought better of it and smiled. “Too tired to go to the beach carnival with us tonight?” she said, teasingly. We all smiled and shook our heads. We were all looking forward to a fun night where we could stop thinking about the events that happened so suddenly. The carnival was set up in an old parking lot that during the day many fishermen would park their cars so they could go fishing in the little harbor. As we approached the carnival we could see the lights of the various rides shimmering in the hazy summer night. The smells of popcorn, fried dough and cotton candy greeted us as we stepped out of the car and walked toward the entrance. My grandfather paid for our entrance and the man who took the money gave us each a light blue wristband to wear. “What do you kids want to do?” asked my grandpa. I turned to the others who were gazing around the area where every sense was being tempted. When grandpa saw that there were too many things that were drawing us over he chuckled and said, “How about you just wander around and meet us back here in an hour so we can eat together?” he asked. “That sounds like a good idea,” I replied. “Do you have money for the games?” my grandmother asked, taking out her wallet. “Yeah gram, mom gave me money, thanks,” I said. The others nodded and we walked off, waving to my grandparents. We tried a few games first, Mark trying to knock down the milk bottles that were stacked up. He only managed to knock down the top bottles off. We challenged one another at a waterballoon race, where we shot water into a hole and whoever’s balloon popped first would win a prize. Anna won a small stuffed toy and we moved on to a game where we had to pound little fists that popped up as fast as we could. None of us won this, but the woman who was standing beside me was the winner. After this we went to wait on the line for the ferriswheel. There was an argument going on in the front of the line. The man letting people into the ride was arguing with another man because he was not wearing a blue bracelet. Finally the other man stepped aside as security officers approached him. The line moved up and as we got closer to the front, I felt a jolt in my stomach. The man who was talking to security was the same man in the picture. I could only see the side of his face. In the light of the bare bulbs surrounding the ferriswheel I could see the white scar etched menancingly on his face. I turned to the others and pointed at him. They all gasped and watched him closely. We were all straining our ears above the noise of the music and people laughing, screaming and talking nearby. I could only catch the words “lost” “bracelet” and “alright, going”. Our car had come to a halt and we were ushered over to it. We sat around looking at one another as we ascended into the night sky. We stopped suddenly as the next car let people off and more climbed in. I looked down trying to spot the man. Anna’s hand grabbed my arm as I looked over. “Don’t do that. What if you fall out?” she asked worriedly. I nodded slightly but then I caught sight of the man again and I saw him looking up, staring up at me. I sat back, my heart beating wildly. “He was looking at me,” I said. “What do you mean?” Mark asked. “I was looking over the side for him and I saw him looking up and watching me,” I said. The ride had begun and we were rotating upwards to the very top. Anna clutched at the handle bar and soon we began to descend, getting closer to the landing. We looked over as we sped past and saw him standing there, looking at all of us. His eyes scanned us quickly and his face hardened. “He saw us!” Anna yelped. “What are we gonna do?” she asked. “As soon as the ride is over, jump out the opposite side from where he’s from and find your grandparents,” Rachel said. However, as we decended a second time he was no longer there. “Where did he go?” Mark asked. “Did anyone look at the other side of the ride?” I asked, but they all shook their heads. As we arrived once again toward the platform we looked at the other side but spotted no one. “Maybe he wasn’t looking at us because he recognized us,” said Anna, still clutching at the bar. “Maybe he was just glaring at whoever was riding the ride because he couldn’t get on,” she suggested. We looked at one another uneasily, unsure of what to do. The ride looped around a few more time and we still could not spot him. As it came to a stop
“It’s not the man with the scar!” I yelled over the phone to Rachel and Mark. “What?” they asked in a chorus. I looked over at Anna who was white. “We just solved the puzzle that Rob wrote,” I said, clutching at the telephone.
Dark days are upon us and even though we are a people of merriment and light I have caught looks of uneasiness in my peoples eyes. We have not heard from Lellinsha and I grow more tense with the coming days. I try to assure them that this world will soon come to pass and we will find ourselves in another place, stronger and clearer than what is to be held around us. They know that trusting the high council’s decision is the only way but I see the doubt creeping upon them and their songs are replaced by mutterings that threaten to shake their faith. I have been sorry to bring such news upon them, especially to my little Lyrathmus who no longer comes in for a story nor demands to hold my hand. My message has discomposed my people and I am afraid that before this storm is over they will be changed so that they cannot return to the glory of our days. I know better than to think of anything other than our exodus but the thoughts creep in and I wonder if we were better off staying here in this dying land than to have suffer a rent in our once strong selves. What gives me hope is that they listen and follow, though with a few grumblings and uncertainty, they follow and with this we will build again what we will soon lose here.
It was not alway so. We have tried slowly over the centuries to recapture what we have lost, to teach instead of turn away but to no avail. What once we thought we could remold and live in cooperation with has slowly devoured our life and caused a strife upon us. This was no longer in the hands of higher beings, those that have turned from us, those whom we turn away from and soon we will turn away forever. But before this we lived in adoration of those who have brought us to life and have taught us our ways. We excelled as a nation in living in harmony with things around us, we have brought to life beautiful creatures who would do well here, and bring forth only beauty and life.
I remember sneaking a peak at the people across the way while they played their music to cover up their grunts and groans, and I cannot think of Mary J. Blige without thinking of her song, Real Love, while they did it. I remember peering through the blinds after they were done and he was yelling, “I see you” and I had cowered back against the walls, creeping closer to the plants but he must have seen my shadow moving because he was again yelling across the emptiness between us “i see you” and I my heart had beaten so hard because I was caught and I was also thrilled because I had a crush on this guy who I’ve only caught glimpses of in the hallway. A few months later they were gone and they were replaced with a deaf woman who threw parties so that her people spilled out into the hallway all motioning and grunting while they played music and I wondered if they felt the beat pulsing against the hard cement, their way of listening to it. I would look into the eyehole and watch them in their silent world gesturing away while the music threatened to add me to their flock. One day there was a fight between two of them and all I could hear was “uh-uh, uh-uh” and one was making quick, aggressive gesture, one after the other while the other one would shove her hands to destroy the gestures and throw the finger at him. I laughed and laughed, while standing on our kitchen chair watching them through the eyehole.
This is my ode to Bram Stoker, called "Little Town"
"O Town,
The strange, unbidden guest?" The Poet’s Town By John G. Neihardt
I know there are vampires out there and not some gentleman who attacks you in the middle of the night when the moon's full. And definitely not the old stories that your grandparents and parents have brought with them from the old country. These are creatures that live next door to you, some you may even give Christmas cards to; you're kids growing up calling 'em Uncle Dan. These creatures don't burn to a crisp when the sun touches them and they sure as hell aren't afraid of garlic. I've known them; they're church going people who throw annual fourth of July barbecues. They are on the PTA, watch I Love Lucy, drink beers, maybe even pick their noses when no one's looking, and they do 'cause I've seen them.
I grew up with them in a little town in Idaho, in the years before I knew there were such things. We were so back woods you had to go through an entire forest just to find us. Over the years our little town grew bigger, with people trooping in from places east, west and south of us wanting to know what nature living was all about. Those who decided to stay permanently fit right in with our ways, our jokes, our annual pork festivals. But some visitors would step one foot into our town line and for some reason would bolt in their car and speed right back. This was a bad move since there was a speed trap just outside town. My uncle was a trooper and everyone he ever stopped for speeding always gave the same answer to why they were in such a rush, they had different names for it but it all boiled to "the willies". Some would say it sheepishly, others defiantly but none ever wanted to turn around just to make sure the feeling was wrong.
I got to hear this first hand one day. This was also the first day I got a glimpse of one. It was the last few days of August when you finally are motivated to get off your butt. It was just before school starts and the days are hazy, threatening some fierce storm to set fire to our forest border. We were lucky not to experience that so far that summer. I had been riding my bike through the forest and was heading back into town. The sun was fiery behind me, being chased down by the cool blue twilight. I decided to take Harker road into town instead of the way I had forged through the forest. As I was pedaling one bend close to town, enjoying the breeze on this slight incline, eyes half-closed I saw a car with the lights flashing away frantically. I slowed down and looked inside the car. Some fancy car with the red leather upholstery type that you saw old private eyes drive on those 70’s shows.
It was a couple. They were almost in tears when they found they had a flat tire close to the border of our town. I guess they didn’t know how to change a tire because Mick, the local mechanic was there. We called him Mick the mech. Anyway they kept telling Mick the mech to hurry up, which was asking for too much. He told them to calm down, that God would get the job done in time. He even stopped to ask them a few questions just to procrastinate with the job.
“So what’s the hurry folks?”, he managed to drawl out, as if savoring each letter. The woman had gone all red in the face like she just saw his jimmy johnson or some such and then she looks at him, probably thinking, “this hick can’t scare me” and blurts out, “this place gives me the heebie-jeebies”. The guy next to her pipes up, he’s pointing toward the town and says with this accent I couldn’t place, “something odd and unnatural is in there.” Mick starts laughing his tar laugh, rising out real slow from inside and it kinda bubbles out. “Alotta people say that but you folks have nothin’ to worry ‘bout”.
Then this is the weird part. Mick turns to me, still smiling, wearing his usual red cap, stained on the brim from the grease on cars, and says, “Listen I can handle this, why dontcha head home, s’lmost dinner.” Then he grins at me, the red fire sun glinting in his eyes. “Head on home there, it’s gettin late, I’ll help these folks” and he nodded at me. I suddenly realized that the hair on the back of my neck had stood on end. I glanced at the people in the car who were fanning themselves and looked at them pleadingly. What I was pleading for I had no idea but they just looked impatiently at Mick and ignored me. I looked back at Mick but he was looking at the people in the car. I saw that the tufts of hair that escaped the back of that cap were on end. Tiny needle points that looked excited more than alarmed. I got on my bike and started pedaling off when I heard the woman whine that they needed to be out soon. I caught the last thing Mick said, “I think it’s moren some tire problem”.
I had pedaled hard, trying to ease down the hairs on my arms and neck, going so fast around that turn that my bike skidded beneath me and slid sideways and threw me off. The rough road crashed against me, scratching at my open palms and I got up shaking. Bits of pebbles had embedded themselves into my palms and the sting of the fall had scared me even more. I located my bike and was about to mount it one more time when I heard an eerie sound. It sounded like the wind does when you’re on your bike going down a hill with no care in the world, plummeting toward the earth. A high pitched Wheeeeee. After that came a grunting, savage, ripping and panting, and then a sickening thud of a body fall to the ground, a jingle of keys accompanying. I clutched at my bike’s handles, forced my legs over the seat and biked away from the hideous noise behind me.
When the next day dawned I was faced with my head buzzing in agony and the town buzzing with horror. Mick was dead, left on the side of the road. No one knew where the couple was and their car was gone.
it drove me mad to think I would be the one to carry out this unfortune spree amongst the want nots. I hastily retreated toward the convent sacred and flung my strung nerves upon a pew and began a detailed account of my woes to some higher deity that answers the calls of innocent, if not inclined to faint, maidens and bequest upon me the power to keep my head high whilst I traipsed along the scourge and filth of the lower class. Mind you I was wont to stamp a foot and curse a tear that coursed upon my silken cheek. I had not yet known to question the authority of those insipid gods above and felt rightly that they would relieve my grievous heart. Had I known that all along they sat there dull and barren I would have gone to less heavenly powers. But of course I had not and so I went away with less of the horror that had found its way to me, like the poison of the ill fated snake in the creation story.
This is called "Nursery Jive" and isn't part of the Mulberry Street happenings. It's nowhere near done but I'll try to work on it.
Let’s say there’s a woman, we’ll call her Old Mother H., or as the neighbors call her, Mrs. H. She had several children, no husband, and barely anything to keep them in tow. Mrs. H was at her wits' end after husband had left her for the town’s teacher, Ms. Muffet, who happened to be a tiny, dainty thing. One day she happened to look into her fridge and found that she had nothing to feed the children. Finally she swallowed her pride, which wasn’t much because she had to succumb to the most menial tasks for her neighbors in order to keep everything from falling apart, and marched down the village to visit the Muffet cheese factory for the scraps. This was the same family that produced the house wrecker who ran away with her husband leaving her with seven children and a hungry dog. To be fair, the Muffets were rightly ashamed of their relative’s behavior and had sent her whey without even a sign of a curd, instead of the parmesan cheese aged for months, that she had a partiality for. As Mrs. H descended the hill the Muffets caught sight of her gaunt figure and hurried to fill a basket of aged cheese that no one wanted. Of course they couldn’t give her the best cheese, she had something to do with her husband leaving, and they couldn’t be responsible for all the charity cases of the town. This was enough to show that they were embarrassed over the whole incident and didn’t want her causing a scene in front of all the customers.
Mrs. H approached the back door of the Muffet’s cheese shop and was assaulted by the smell of spoiled milk and a mess of cats, scrambling over one another for the milk that had not gone rancid. She knocked on the door and had to wait a few minutes before someone came because the Muffets had expected her to enter through the front of the store. When they had seen her pass they thought she had gone to beg at another store and had breathed a sigh of relief that her pride was still up there. They were not expecting the knock at the back door and in any case were too busy gossiping about her in the front that they didn’t hear her knocking. It was only when the smallest of the Muffets, (who happened to be the brother of the above Ms.) a boy the age of Mrs. H’s eldest girl, about 14, heard the faint knocking and told his mother was she finally attended to.
Mrs. Muffet was quite appalled that Mrs. H would even go through the back door, then dismissed it as an act only someone of her low class would do. She placed an only-tolerating-you smile on her face and went to confront the lady. When she opened the door she was greeted by Mrs. H’s pinched and slightly tear-streaked face. Madame Muffet felt a tiny sense of pity for this woman, and as her eye wandered down she noted the filthy rim around the edge of her skirt, and graying blouse, that like her hair must have once been black, she thought of adding a loaf of bread to the basket that they had prepared. Mrs. H looked at her defiantly, reading the appraising eye and the bit of sympathy she caught in the eyes of her soon to be benefactor. She opened her mouth and closed it quickly as a smell of fresh bread toasted with a slice of cheese reached her, she tried not to show Mrs. Muffet that her mouth had begun to water. This caused her to be even more stiff towards the woman in front of her.
“I was wondering if you had any work that I could do here, because I need to earn extra money, what with the kids needing new clothes and all,” Mrs. H had every intention to ask for food, but the pity she had just seen made her change her long prepared speech. Mrs. Muffet blinked a few times, sure that this woman had come to ask for food and her proposal had caught her off guard. Finally she smiled once again and said,
“Yes, actually we were looking for someone who might just be able to help us seperate the cheese from the whey.”
After that interview Mrs. Muffet felt somewhat proud of herself. She believed heavily on teaching someone how to fish and all that.
“Have you been baking?” he asks, startled even more at the question that just came out. “I mean, have you been expecting me?”
“You have come to bring me something, yes?”
“Yes, the postcards had your address.”
She tsk-tsked and replied, “Well at least the mailman is doing some kind of work,” then she ushered him inside. Within the house the smell of baking was more intense, and he was sure it was gingerbread. What is it about old people and gingerbread, he asks himself.
“What is it about old people and gingerbread?” she laughs, “I guess it’s all the spices coming together, makes the house smell warm and comforting. Sit in here with me, while I take it out of the oven and we’ll talk of the weather and baseball, yes?” She had a slight accent but he was unsure what it was.
She led him into the back of the house where the kitchen was illuminated by the morning sunshine. He could see the dust particles float towards the sun rays, and he looked around. The ceiling sloped downward, creating a cozy little nook of the kitchen, but also forcing his tall frame to stoop low. In the corner, where the smells of baking was coming was an old-fashioned cast iron stove. Its little, squat body standing squarely on legs, that seemed to bend and splay outwards beneath the weight of the stove. Above it a flat surface where a tea kettle was whistling patiently, and behind this a long black chimney that seemed to jab at the ceiling. A window against the wall let the light inside. It was unfastened so that a tiny breeze washed in whenever there was a chance, ruffling the curtains hanging aside. A dark, wooden table lay against a bare wall and was decorated only by a deep blue vase containing cornflowers and thistles. She motioned to a chair by the table and turned her back to him to attend to the bread.
“He doesn’t seem to have manners, Geraldine.” Robert looked to the sound of the voice and saw that from the corner of the room a woman sat. Wearing a black dress, and a dark scowl; he had missed her in the shadows. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize...”
On the counter he finds the postcards and gives them one close look and another read of the backs. He doesn’t notice that where the postcard of the lake lay was a wet spot. He just places them in his back pocket and heads out the door. He walks to the corner of Mulberry Street and marches up to the next street and looks for the right house. He’s sure that he’s passed this house once or twice before, maybe. He reaches it. Unlike the houses on his street, this is encased in brambles and high grasses. A tiny, run down, cottage amidst the well-kempt homes of the neighborhood, but it makes the other homes around look over dressed. He smiles, thinking of it’s quaint, comfortable stlye, not in the least perturbed by the smoke rising from the chimney, though it was the middle of the summer.
He makes his way to the door, unable to find a path because of the overgrown brambles and finally reaches it. Hanging on a rusty nail, a braided wreath of dried twigs and flowers. From somewhere the scent of baking wafts towards him, he detects cinnamon, and he imagines a grandmother within, baking cookies or some such that a grandmother is wont to bake for her grandchildren. She is in some flower-printed material, wrapped in a starch-white apron with the ruffles around the border, white-hair pinned severely but deftly into a coiled bun on her head. There is a scent of powder and lilac from the ironed clothes. She turns around and walks to the door and opens it.
“You’re a tad early dear, but that doesn’t mean I’ll turn you away.” She beams at him and he steps backward, startled at her appearance at the door, and her likeness to the woman he just imagined.
