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PAGE TWO Exercise Assignment February 14, 1999 Exercise 08: Story Starters No.1: Use the following phrases as the start of a sentence, poem, or story. Or they may make interesting titles. Feel free to change from first to second or third person, and vice versa. You may also want to change from statement to dialogue. Write, have fun, and submit! WHEN I WAS STILL A MAN
Ten years ago, when I was still a man, I dreamed as a man dreams. My wishes were simple, and seemed to match those of my peers. I wanted a house, larger than I could easily afford, and well appointed. I wanted land--acres of it-- fertile, verdant, and more than I could maintain. A car--red, sleek and as hard as I wanted my cock to be--to announce my virility. A full head of hair and an athlete's body--too well muscled for me to keep that way--were also part of the dream. I wanted one or two showpiece children, as well bred as their mother would be. Yes, my wife would be beautiful--not too bright, that could be a problem--and would hold onto her attractiveness with a grip so firm, it could never slip away.
When I was still a man I wished for a brood of sexual partners--all willing, all gorgeous--of all persuasions; more of them than I could comfortably service. I wanted my bank accounts filled with more money than I could ever hope to spend. And happiness, ah--happiness. That would follow, of course it would--I'd be happier than any man deserved to be. When I was still a man, I dreamed as a man dreams.
When I was still a man I graduated from university as an accountant. I lived my life as a man lives. I held my dreams before me as a standard, and prepared to work to the death for them. I had my home, large and expensive, but still not enough, and I appreciated it not. It sprawled on a lush suburban section, groomed by a gardener who came once a week (in my wife, it turns out, but I was ignorant of that then). As proud as I was of my quarter acre paradise, it still wasn't enough. I burned for more.
My wife said she loved me, and was loyal and accepting of the need to maintain her appearance. She never questioned my wishes, doubted my excuses, nor spurned my advances. She cared beautifully for our house and two healthy but average children. I took lovers when I could, female and male, but still thought of myself as Hetero sapiens. These lovers gave me fleeting glimpses of the willing bevy I had once fantasised about. When I was still a man, I loved as a man loves.
I worked hard--every hour in the office added to my bank balance; every dollar earned bore mute testimony to my success. It wasn't enough--when would it ever be enough? I dreaded to spend it, hence was always striving to earn more. When I was still a man, I worked as a man works.
When I was still a man, I drove like a man. Fast, impatiently, and not as skillfully as I imagined. The sleek red car of my dreams waited for the kids' orthodontic work and the wife's annual liposuction and overhaul to be paid up. Mine was a high-maintenance family, you understand. A big, blue European sedan was my temporary chariot, and I whipped those horses into shape. Soon I would be able to afford my dream car. Always soon. . . .
I would commute to work along a notorious stretch of the coastal State Highway; a road driven by other men, other driven men. The death toll along this stretch was extremely high--flocks of white crosses attested to its grim reputation. I would fly along this road. Ah, when I was still a man, I drove like a man.
The last morning of my life as a man is etched into my brain - the memory accessed so often there must be a neural pathway devoted solely to its maintenance. That last day still feels like the here-and now.
It begins when my wife--beautiful, smooth, ageless, newly overhauled at my expense--tells me she has taken a lover of her own: the gardener. He is young, and virile, with the face and body I'd once dreamed I would possess. She says he has more time for her--he has none of my relentless ambition. My manhood is threatened--she effectively castrates me with her confession. I rage like a man.
I leave the house in a fury, slamming doors, too mute with anger to stay there and fight. I drive like a man possessed. My foot presses the accelerator flat to the floor, the engine screams, the sea wind wails past the opened window. I tailgate and overtake crazily, as I blindly flee the life I once thought I wanted. I overtake blind, on a bend, and lose control of the car--spinning, spinning, and yet miraculously missing other vehicles before it slams headfirst into a bank. My senses have never been more alive. I hear every crunch of metal, glass and bone, smell tyre rubber, hot oil and my own blood and urine. There is a fleeting heat between my legs, then numbness. I am fully conscious all the time, knowing I am hopelessly pinned by wreckage. The only movement I seem to have is in my face and eyes. I am too mentally stunned to have full cognisance of what this might mean--thoughts of paralysis are still far away. Other motorists stop to assist; I can hear some of them saying I got what I deserved, for driving like an idiot. Someone uses their cell phone to call the EMS, who arrive very quickly in a flash of red and blue lights.
My mind seems fine--if a little shocked. I can see, hear and speak, and believe that once I am free of this cruel metal carapace, will surely walk.
"It's okay, mate--we'll get you outta here--you'll be right", says a fireman. His eyes tell me he's lying.
The paramedics are professional and upfront.
"Can you move your fingers?"
An arm must be free--why can't I feel it?
"I think so, can't see or feel them though". My brain sends messages to the fingers. I assume they're getting through.
"Any pain, mate?"
"Not really. I can't feel much at all, actually."
"I'll give you a shot anyway--it could hurt like buggery getting you out of this mess." The EMS man is kind, his face professionally neutral, I have no idea how bad things must be. It's funny--I can hear the seagulls. I'm in this mess, and I can hear the bloody seagulls. "Just a small needle in your arm now."
I feel nothing, but see a bag of fluids being held high by a medic. They must have put me on a drip. An oxygen mask is placed over my face, the smell of the sea replaced by that of old rubber. I can still hear the sea though--the waves and the cries of the winged rats they call gulls.
"It's just oxygen, breathe deeply."
I go a bit woozy; they must have given me something through the drip. I lose my hold on consciousness. There are scattered scraps of memory here - a half-awake sense that seems endless.
I don't know when it is I wake fully, but now I'm deaf, and blind, and have no voice. I have sensation again though. My toe itches--the middle one on the left--I want to scratch it, but it seems I can't move. It will only be a matter of time, though--surely--before I'm back on my feet. My optimism is wavering a little now, but I hold it closely, like a shield. Maybe the drugs they've given me are making me paralysed.
I am recalling more of the crash every day. Initially it was the type of piecing together you do after a hard night on the booze--the way I drank when I was still a man. I feel I'm in a kind of limbo at the moment--a hiatus until my manhood resumes.
Being an accountant, a practical man, I don't panic, but take the time to exercise my brain. In my periods of wakefulness I devise new tax avoidance schemes, perform complex mental arithmetic, and flex my intellectual muscles. I think of my faithless wife and our children. I wonder--do they visit me? Does anyone hold vigil over my body? Does anyone weep? I fear not. I suspect I am alone.
As I think of my latest lover, I feel a heat in my groin, feel my cock begin to thicken. My 'phantom' cock I call it now, as although I am aware of it, I cannot touch or see it. Its tumescence is real to me, but there is no way I can effect its release.
I sleep--probably more than I used to--the mind is poor company when deprived of sight, of sound, of taste, of speech, of touch. Thus dislocated from my surroundings I can no longer think of myself as a man. I wonder how they're feeding me, but know they must be--no hunger or thirst troubles me. I can't wait till they wake me from this drug-induced sleep. I'll follow my dreams then--throw over the cuckolding wife for a hot new lover or two, and buy myself that Ferrari. I now occupy my mind with protecting my assets when I divorce the two-timing bitch.
***** As Brain WPM47 schemes away in its plastic nutrient bath (lovingly known as the 'Think Tank'), the electrodes attached to its convoluted pink-grey surface monitor its activity. It is a miracle. It's been close to ten years since the brain was harvested, and it still shows sign of intense mental activity. The sexual arousal centre in the 'primitive' area of the brain still functions, but that is no surprise, as this area is always the last to die off. No, the fact the cerebral cortex--the 'human' part of the brain is still active, is nothing short of a triumph. This functioning cortex was, in fact, the very essence of the man whom this brain once controlled.
The code number, WPM47, shows the donor was once a white professional male, who was aged 47 at time of harvest. Perusal of its file notes shows the donor's body died in a motor vehicle accident, leaving an intact, uninjured intellect. The man's crushed and useless frame would never recover, a fact that eased the conscience of the ICU specialist who was bribed to declare him brain dead, freeing the brain for harvest. The dead body was divested of its grey matter in a highly secret, experimental procedure, without approval from any Ethical Committee. This reaping of human brains with a view to transplantation was then in its infancy. A secret research facility had been removing the brains of primates and lower animals for several years, and had now developed the technology to the point that their successful transplantation was occurring. The facility needed to access a human organ, and this chance--an intact cerebrum atop a dead body, was too good to turn down.
Mr WPM47 had his brain removed at autopsy; he was buried without it. So, this procedure did not yet have ethical approval, but social mores do have a habit of catching up with technology, especially where mortality is concerned.
Mrs WPM47 is living with the gardener. She grieves not for her lost spouse. She is enjoying the freedom of 'letting herself go', and the space she has now the children have left home.
Meanwhile WPM47 himself floats in his think tank, full of dreams of how he'll live when he is a man again.
The End?
(c)1999 Lauren Roche
Exercise Assignment February 21, 1999 Exercise #09: Childhood Story Themes: There seem to be a few basic themes from which all stories are derived. The difference is in the telling of the stories.
Think about all the childhood stories you know--fairy tales included. Which was your favorite? Was it Cinderella? Chicken Little? Old Yeller? Sleeping Beauty? The Superman Stories? Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn? Beauty and the Beast? Jack and the Beanstalk? Three Little Pigs? Princess and the Pea? Ugly Ducklin? If you didn’t have a ‘favorite’, just pick one from the list, or select your own. ;-) What was the theme of the childhood story you’ve selected? Utilizing that same theme, write a short story for us.
CRAZY MARY AND THE SHINY VASE
The wheels wobbled and creaked as the rusty old shopping cart lurched along the uneven ground. The woman stopped pushing the cart from time to time, leaning over to sift through the piles of throw-aways . . . looking, always looking.
Crazy Mary was a throw-away herself. She didn’t remember her real name much of the time, she’d been called “Crazy Mary” for so long. What difference did it make anyway? Division Street was the only home she had, and nobody cared who you were down there. Maybe the police did, or the people at the shelter, but she tried to avoid them. As long as she stayed on the street, she was safe during the daylight hours. Winos and addicts didn’t bother with an old woman pushing a shopping cart, not until night when they were high and looking for trouble and cash. She’d been beaten several times because she was still out after dark, teaching her a lesson. Find a dark place to hide when the street lights came on--she knew this only too well.
They caught her once before she reached safety, breaking her arm before they tired of kicking and punching her. The police found her that time--she didn’t know why the voices didn’t warn her--taking her to the hospital. When one officer poked through her belongings with his flashlight, she remembered screaming and kicking at the man until he stopped.
“Oh, please, please, don’t look in my cart. Don’t look in my cart,” she’d begged until finally the officer promised he would take ‘the damn nasty thing’ to the shelter where it would be safe until she got the broken arm fixed. She remembered--that time--heading straight for Father Dan’s office as soon as she was back on the street.
“Stay here for a bit, Mary. Let us try to help you,” Father Dan pleaded, but Mary wasn’t listening. Not looking up, too busy feeling for her treasures hidden so carefully under the flotsam of the cart’s contents, she shook her head. The voices were getting louder, telling her what she had to do. She had to find more shinys.
The city landfill was Crazy Mary’s favorite place. It was warm here, even in winter, and if she stayed behind the hills of smoldering garbage, out of sight of the guard’s shack, it was safe enough. She’d found a lot of shinys here. If she kept on looking, maybe the children would quit crying. Their voices were louder here and sometimes she thought she understood their cries.
“What’s wrong with Mommy? Is she going to leave us, Daddy?”
She thought they might stop crying if she could just find something pretty enough, a shiny thing to make them smile. All children loved shiny things. Crazy Mary had things carefully wrapped in old rags and hidden deep--a Christmas ball, all metallic red, and unbroken. A tiny mirror with jewels sparkling in the corners of its frame, a hood ornament from some long-junked automobile, all found their way into the corners of her cart. But nothing was quite right, not yet. The children still cried.
Shoving aside an old tire with her foot, Crazy Mary spied something, partly hidden in the ashes of burnt trash. She dropped to her knees, digging frantically, holding her breath in anticipation. Removing her mismatched gloves to get a better grip--‘mustn’t drop it,’ cried the voices--she lifted the object carefully. It appeared to be a vase, or perhaps a jug, with a tight fitting lid. Polishing frantically with the tail of her outermost coat, Crazy Mary could see that this was going to be the best treasure of all. Oh, was it ever shiny! Rub, rub, rub, she worked like a demon, finally managing to twist off the stubborn lid in the process. Not interested in the contents, she dumped them on the ground, it just looked like rust and old ashes, anyway. She smiled, hugging the strange item to her breast . . . she could hardly hear them crying now.
She felt the man’s presence long before she looked up. He squatted on the same tire she had kicked out of the way such a short time ago. Why hadn’t she noticed him before? Why didn’t they tell her he was there? A young man, he had the look of a street person, so she wasn’t frightened. Just angry.
“Leave me alone,“ she cried, “This is my spot! I was here first.”
The young man just smiled, but Crazy Mary wasn’t taking any chances. Not with so much at stake. She carefully wrapped the front of her coat around the vase, hiding it.
“Get away from me,” she yelled, though the young man had not moved. She turned away, not wanting him to see what she clutched beneath the coat, and mumbled, “I just wish you’d leave me alone.”
When she looked again, the young man was gone.
Crazy Mary scrambled through the cart’s contents, looking for something good enough to wrap around her treasure. An old sweater had to do, and she swaddled the vase in the garment, giving it as much care as a mother would her newborn child.
The sun was setting and she knew she needed to get back to Division Street, needed to find a place to hide before it got dark. Pushing hard, wheezing, almost at a trot, she wound her way past the derelicts already sleeping in doorways. She knew an alley--‘Hurry, hurry, hurry,’ the children cried--with a dumpster, good for hiding. Nobody had bothered her in the two weeks since she’d starting sleeping under folded stacks of cardboard in a corner between buildings. She carefully hid the flattened boxes each morning in case the garbage truck came. Looking both ways before she turned into her alley, she darted through trash and broken bottles to reach her haven.
Rummaging in the cart again, she tucked the sweater-wrapped bundle inside her coat for safekeeping. She wrapped herself in her one ragged blanket, pulled it over her head and snuggled into the cardboard nest. It was getting late in the year, and a chill already swept across the ground. Crazy Mary shivered, and wished for another blanket, a woolen one, good and warm. She dreamed about the young man from the landfill that night, and it was so real - him standing over her and smiling. In the dream, she felt as though someone had wrapped her in a new blanket, the warmth of it like a drug. She hugged the vase tighter, the voices almost gone for awhile.
She slept so soundly, it took a bit for her to realize the pain in her side came from a kick. The three men looked down at her, laughing, one with foot drawn back to kick again. Crazy Mary tried to curl into a ball, the vase still clutched tight, hoping to protect herself.
“What you got there, old woman?” the kicker asked.
“Hell, I bet the old bitch’s got a million dollars hid in this garbage. Let’s see what you got, Grandma,” said another. “Look in that cart, Jimmy.”
Crazy Mary started screaming then. She couldn’t stop. Louder and louder she wailed, and the children’s voices cried louder than she. They couldn’t take her cart or her treasures. The voices would never stop, and they were more than she could bear. Oh, please. Make the children stop crying.
The strident blast of a police whistle echoed down the alley, frightening the men away, but Crazy Mary never noticed. Her screams drowned out the sound of the siren as the ambulance pulled up to the curb. Still she screamed--the children were crying so hard now it hurt her head - and as the paramedic slipped the needle into her arm, he thought he heard the old woman mumble something before the tranquilizing drug dropped her into black oblivion.
“Oh, I just wish I could make my babies stop crying.”
The young man smiled and slipped from Crazy Mary’s dreams forever.
The End
Based on Aladdin and the Magic Lamp
(c)1999 Elsie Roark
Exercise Assignment February 28, 1999 Exercise #10: "A Stranger's Story": Go to a public place, such as a mall, doctor’s office, grocery store, restaurant, emergency room lobby of the hospital, the courthouse hall way on a day when adult disputes are being heard, etc., and study the people around you. Notice what they are doing, wearing, their expressions and how they interact with people around or with them.
ZERO IN ON ONE and write a story about this person using what you have observed. Explain what that person is doing there. How is the person dressed? Is there something unique about the person? (Must have been something to have made you select them. 'Show' us what it is.) Who is the person he/she is with? Why is this person happy, sad, laughing, scowling, etc.? Have fun.
SONYA
Sonya awoke as she did every day at exactly 6:30 a.m. And as always
she regained her faculties all in a rush and all at once. She was a
little woman with a big personality. Her friends told her, "Sonya, you
should slow down now. At your age, you could hurt yourself going like a house afire." She was seventy-five and didn't feel a day over
twenty-five.
Her children told her, "Mom, it's time you started taking it easy and enjoyed life. You don't have to work. You can just garden and play
bingo on Tuesday nights and . . . " But she just laughed at them and
kept doing what made her feel young and alive.
This morning she bounced out of bed, already thinking about the day
before her. She was due at work at 8:00. She was a greeter at the
WalMart two blocks from where she lived. Then at noon, she was to meet
Mr. Louder at the Taco Bell for lunch, which they did every Thursday.
That afternoon she planned to put a fresh coat of paint on her living
room, bright yellow this time she thought. That off-white her kids
talked her into last time was getting on her nerves.
As she was preparing to take a shower and thinking about maybe
surprising Mr. Louder with an unexpected visit tonight bearing pizza and beer and maybe a movie, the phone rang. Hanging her clothes on the
towel rack, she dashed for the phone. It was Bev, her youngest
daughter.
"Mom, I wanted to catch you before you left. I was wondering if you
would like to come over tonight and visit with Dean's grandmother.
She's here for a week, and um, well we've reservations for dinner. It's our anniversary and if we don't go, it'll be two weeks before we can get them again. Granny Iris surprised us and came a day early. We hate to leave her here all alone and she can't come with us. You like her don't you?"
Sonya rolled her eyes. Iris was five years younger than herself, but acted like she was about a hundred. "Well dear, I did have some plans."
"Oh Mom, please. It's our anniversary and we've been looking forward to it so long."
"Okay, Bev. I'll do it, but you owe me. You know that woman drives me batty with her latest ailment, talk of pansies and knit one, purl two. The only place she ever goes is the doctor's office, trying to get them to agree with her that she's surely dying."
Bev was suitably grateful and promised to be extra non-naggy about her mother's activities for the next few days. Sonya hung up the phone and sighed hugely. Happy visions of pizza and beer floated away, replaced by cookies and tea. She could picture herself falling asleep as Iris talked about her last doctor's appointment and clicked those damn knitting needles. In her mind's eye, she saw herself growing old as Iris, falling dead on the floor from boredom, and Miss Iris talking on, oblivious to everything. Oh well, she thought, Bev did promise to leave her alone for a while about her choice of activities. She took her shower, dressed and put on some minimal make-up. Focusing on the remainder of her day that she could have fun with, she didn't notice she had put on a blue right loafer and a black left one.
The walk to work put her back in good spirits. The sun was warm, the birds were singing and best of all she got to talk. All along the way, old friends came out on their porches or stopped watering their flowers for a moment to chat. She was almost late because of it, but she jogged the last little bit and made it just in the nick of time. If she hadn't slipped down in that mud puddle in fact, she would have been early.
She clocked in and took her position by the door. It was going to be a busy day she thought. People were streaming in almost faster than she could greet them. After awhile, Mr. Colter, the store manager came over and pointedly looked down at Sonya's feet. She followed his gaze down and saw her mismatched shoes. The streak of mud on her pant's leg seemed to point the way. So she brushed it off. Mr. Colter smiled and said, "Sonya, would you like to finish out the day in the garden center?" So she was banished to the garden center, where she delighted in telling everyone she knew, which was a considerable lot, that while Mr. Colter was pointing out her booboo, she noticed he had a smudge of toothpaste on his chin which she said not a word about to him.
Noon came and Sonya clocked out and briskly walked to the Taco Bell, looking forward to her lunch with Mr. Louder, whom she had known about a year now and liked quite a lot. He was funny and lively like her. They had fun together. He was there, his bright blue eyes smiling at her as he stood up and gestured to a molded plastic chair, always the gentleman. He would have pulled it out for her if it hadn't been bolted down. Plopping down, she bumped the table, spilling the coffee he had waiting there for her. Absently, she drug a sleeve over the spill to wipe it up.
"My dear," he said excitedly, "I've got a proposition for you."
"You want to sleep with me?" she teased.
His boyish old face got just a mite red, she noted with satisfaction. She could still rattle him sometimes. Then he regained his composure and threw one back at her.
"Why yes, dear, shall we just skip lunch then?" She laughed heartily and he went on. "What I wanted to ask you is, would you like to go to a horse race tonight? I have four tickets. My old buddy Sam wants to go, but doesn't have a date. If we could find another lady, we'd have a double date."
"I'm sorry Pete, but I can't. I've got to babysit someone tonight." His crestfallen look was something to behold. His whole face drooped. Then a thought came to her. "Wait a minute, maybe," she smiled and then laughed. "No, I can't see it." In her mind she saw Iris sitting in the stands complacently knitting, while all around her people were jumping up and down cheering wildly. Then her mind took another turn and she saw Iris jumping up and down, gray curls bouncing loose from her bun, knitting needles thrown skyward. It tickled her so much, she burst out laughing. Mr. Louder smiled inquiringly.
"Tell you what, Pete, I'll go and I'll bring a date for Sam too. Be
warned though, she's a real rounder."
(c) 1999 Tresa Newton
Exercise Assignment March 07, 1999 Exercise #11: All in a Picture:
Members were given a choice of six photographs from which they were to choose one and write the story behind the scene.
Long Trip
By Tresa Newton Roger found Betty on the garden bench in the back yard, watching the finches and sparrows squabble over the feeder. She hadn’t noticed him yet and he studied her unguarded expression and manner. The look on her face was so wistful it made his heart ache. Outwardly, she looked the same as always, that God-awful bouffant hairdo she was so fond of and that he delighted in teasing her about, her neat appearance and rather shy demeanor. These things were still there, but a shadow touched them now like a stain on a pastel print. He cleared his throat and she jumped a little. She turned to him, the sad look already being forced off her face. Her monumental attempt at cheerfulness for his sake sent another pang of love and grief through him. "Bets, I can’t find my garden trowel. Could you check your hair for it, hon?" he said jauntily. She smiled weakly; obviously trying to work up the lightness of mood that would match his. "Oh you," she said, waving her hand in the air. "You’ll never leave me alone about my hair, will you?" He stepped to the bench and sat down beside her. Taking her hand, he said seriously, "I just want to make you smile, Betty. You thinking again? Which is it? Tim or the cancer." She looked away from him and sighed. "Both, I guess. This has been a hard life. But," she said looking back at him and smiling a bit. "It’s been a good one too. All those years we had with Tim before he died and our life together." She swallowed hard and then her attempt at composure crumbled. "Roger, I’ve been thinking a long time on this, and I’ve made up my mind. I think I’d like to stop it all now. The doctor said that the bad days are coming soon, maybe within the month." She clutched Roger’s hand convulsively. "Roger, I don’t want to go through it. I want to end it while I’m still myself and not some pitiful remnant of a thing that you will be sorry for and still love, but will be just a bit relieved when the time comes." At the look this brought to his face, she shook her head and said, "Wait now. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty. I just know human nature. Try to understand, Roger. I just can’t stand the thought of being a bedridden invalid that will begin to stink and pee uncontrollably and . . . oh I just can’t stand it." Tears began rolling down her cheeks. Roger put his arms around her and rocked her gently back and forth, his heart feeling like an overfilled balloon on the verge of bursting. When Betty got control of herself, she went on. The length of this speech was a testament to how serious she was about this. She had always been quiet and easy going; happy to do what pleased the people she loved. "I want to do it with those pain pills Doctor James gave me. It’s a full bottle and they are strong enough to do it. And I want to do it tomorrow morning. And when I take them, I want you to drive me to the cemetery where Tim is buried." "Betty, stop. I don’t want to hear this. I can’t do it." His mind reeled from the things she was saying. Putting his face between her hands, she said, "Roger, please listen to me. I want this. It will be better for both of us. I want to leave this world with what dignity I’ve got left. Can you understand that?" Softly she added, "And I want to see Tim and be with him again. I won’t be any good to you here. But there, I’ll be well and more alive than I can ever be in this life again." Barely able to speak, tears glistening in his eyes, Roger nodded finally. "Okay hon. If you’re sure that’s what you want." The rest of the day was spent in an unreal atmosphere of normal activities overlain with a torrent of emotions battling it out. The simple act of helping Betty on with her sweater encompassed volumes of their history together, along with a newness that was strange and frightening. Betty on the other hand seemed more content and relaxed than she’d been in months. But he knew her so well, he knew that part of it at least was an attempt to comfort him. They went to her favorite restaurant and leisurely ate, lingering over a bottle of champagne. To the casual observer, they would have seemed like a comfortably married couple, getting up in years, but enjoying each other’s company with expectations of many more such outings. After they ate, they went to the movies. A picture that Betty had been wanting to see for some time was playing. It was a comedy and she laughed delightedly at the antics of the actors and actresses. Roger couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was more precious to him than he could even begin to put into words. How could he go on without her? What would be left for him? That night, they made love so tenderly and meaningfully that when it was over, both were crying silently, their tears mingling and spilling onto the pillow. "I love you Roger. If there was any other way, you know I wouldn’t leave you." She wiped the tears from his cheeks and they slept still holding each other. The morning brought with it a brief reprieve of memory as Roger’s mind struggled to fasten on what was wrong. For a blessed second, he knew nothing of cancer, the death of a son twenty years before or his wife’s plan for suicide. But then he remembered and the force of the remembering felt like a physical blow. He looked over at Betty. She was awake and smiling. "I’m ready," she said. They dressed warmly, a fact that stuck in Roger’s mind as odd considering the steps they were about to take. But the chill they felt had nothing to do with the weather. It leached through them from the inside out. Betty disappeared into the bathroom and Roger could hear the medicine cabinet open and close, water running, the sound of a glass filling, a tiny sound of pills rattling together and then a long silence. Then he heard the glass clink as it was placed back on the counter top. Betty came out smiling. "Let’s go." By her demeanor, she could have been preparing to enjoy a happy day shopping. The mountain road leading down to the cemetery was deserted, as Roger knew it would be. It was a family cemetery and was rarely visited, since many of the would-be visitors lived out of state. They parked their Fairlane beside the road affording them a view of the picturesque scene below. It was a beautiful place, peaceful and quiet, still well maintained. Few words had been spoken between Betty and Roger during the thirty-minute trip. The radio was on and a Patsy Cline song drifted up from the speakers. "Do you want to get out?" he asked. "No. I just want to sit and look." He thought he could detect a difference in her, a slowing down, a barely noticeable slurring of words. She snuggled close to him and leaned her head on his shoulder. "Are you going to be all right Roger?" she asked sleepily. "I’ll be ok, Bet. Don’t worry about me." He took her hand and felt the warmth of her. "It’s been a long trip for us, hasn’t it?" she mumbled. "Yes it has." He knew she wasn’t speaking of the road trip, but their life together. "Went everywhere together, we did. I’m just going to get home a little before you is all. I’ll wait for you Roger." As he felt her body relax against him and her breathing slow and then stop, he began feeling the effects of his own overdose. Betty hadn’t known she wouldn’t be alone in this one last trip. "You won’t have to wait long, my dear," he said and his eyes closed. By the time the radio announcer played the next block of golden oldies, Betty and Roger were already beginning a new adventure together, now joined by a third. They had all finally made it home. It had, indeed, been a long trip. The End © 1999 Tresa Newton Exercise Assignment March 14, 1999 Exercise #12: The Plastic Cup:
It's almost midnight and a woman drives down a deserted road alone. She's well-dressed, and has one knee-hi nylon on and one off. The one that's off is wrapped carefully over the top of a plastic cup, secured with a rubber-band. Tell us who she is, where she's going, and what’s inside the cup. Sugar Water, Peanut Brittle and Tree Leaves By Marcia Colpan Science projects are wonderful things that are meant to promote understanding of basic concepts by interaction and give the parents a chance to work with their children in a meaningful way. At least, that’s what we’re handed as reasoning for being tortured periodically in the pursuit of our child’s education. This year, pursuit took on a whole new meaning. It started when I mistakenly threw away the sugar water that was supposed to become sugar crystals. There was no sign on this thing, no indication at all that this crusty flytrap of debris with a string dangling in it was every going to be anything other than a health hazard. Being a good mom and a believer in a germ free kitchen, I cleaned it up. My daughter made me write a note to her teacher admitting that I was guilty and confessing to the crime of science experiment terminator. Suddenly, I’m the Arnold Schwarzenegger of science projects. The teacher decided to give us another shot. We’re supposed to make peanut brittle. This time, I was not the guilty party. It was my husband who had to sit down and write out a confession to the science teacher. He suggested that she not send home any more experiments that were edible. We’ve tried leaf collecting. That worked well until my son started to cry because we were undressing the trees. It seems that his teacher is teaching conservation this week and taking leaves off trees is not good for the ecology. The kindergarten teacher had to write a letter to the junior high teacher who by now is getting quite a collection. We also had to explain that most trees don’t like having their leaves glued back on. Well, we’re down to the last quarter of the school year. This is my last chance to prove that I am a good mom, and at least semi-proficient at completing assignments. It also explains why I’m driving down the road in soggy pants with one knee high covering a coffee cup that keeps jumping around the car seat. The dang thing won’t keep still and it keeps falling off so I have to pick it up again to keep it from sliding under the gas pedal. At least I sincerely hope it explains everything, because that’s the only explanation I have for the nice officer that just pulled me over. Good Lord above, let him be a parent. © 1999 Marcia Colpan Exercise Assignment March 22, 1999 Exercise #13:They Lived Happily Ever After #02 Imagine a couple, who have made a commitment to each other and are either about to be married, or have been married a short time. Names, sexes, etc., are left to your discretion and imagination, as is the way in which they view their marriage and the nature of their commitment. Pick one of the following. Tell us how your couple comes to terms with this phase in their mutual growth. Some of you participated in a similar exercise several weeks ago. You can use the same couple as before, or create a new couple. THE RING By Tracy Field Joe reached out and lifted Ruth’s hand away from the crisp linen sheet. He couldn’t remember the last time he had held her hand. He stroked it gently, grimacing as he felt her bones through their paper-thin covering. He gazed down at her, watching the steady rise and fall of the bed-covers which hid from view the thin, frail body. He wondered how this could have happened to her without his notice. Ruth didn’t get sick. She never got sick he reassured himself, cursing the situation he now found himself in. There was little doubt that Joe was uncomfortable with his surroundings, made more difficult by the uncertainty of where it was all heading. The sky had managed to distract Joe’s and turn his attention outside. It was on fire - a palette of crimsons, oranges and blues. The clouds danced across the sky as the last rays of the sun framed them with a golden halo, as if blessing them before they were tucked away for the night. Joe sighed as he made a note of the beautiful sunset Ruth had missed, again. She sure would be disappointed. Every sunset since they has met, they had seen together. Even when Joe had been away, they had seen them together. Ruth used to call to chat about her day just before sunset and they paused to watch as the sun gently reached down to kiss the horizon. He had smiled when she told him she closed her eyes and imagined it was her kissing him and that final burst of warmth he could feel from the sun’s rays, was her love stretching out to find him. He remembered laughing, amused by the way Ruth always looked at the world. Somehow it didn’t seem funny any more and the beauty of the sunset they could have shared left Joe feeling flat. Joe had been lucky to get Ruth the first time. He knew that. She had been so popular with the local townsfolk and her easygoing nature had made her many friends. Her looks had made securing a date a milestone for many of the local lads. Joe included. He stared at her for a while taking in the details of Ruth’s face and the calm that embodied her. She was so angelic, he mused to himself and despite a situation like this the goodness of her heart still radiated from her body. Her lashes gently brushed her skin, although once thick and dark they now just gave a peppery outline of her eyelids. It had been Ruth who instigated their first real date. They had always moved in the same circle of friends, Joe with his dates, Ruth with hers. But there hadn’t really been anything permanent or lasting for either of them - eventually they just stopped bringing dates along. It was ironic really, Joe thought. One day they realised they had just stopped enjoying other people’s company and looked forward to seeing each other more and more. Their friends support had been overwhelming, both then and now. The masses of bouquets, flowers and cards softened the otherwise harsh sterility of the private hospital ward. It had been the best choice for Ruth. A private room that allowed her to surround herself with her things, which had been carefully packed from home to bring with her. A photo here, a memory there. They were the fibres that held the fabric of her life together, which Joe had now set out around the room so that Ruth could see them when she woke up. That was two weeks ago. Joe was disappointed Ruth hadn’t seen them since to appreciate his efforts. The flowers reminded Joe of the glorious gardens where they were married, the fragrance stirring his memories, bringing them flooding back. Fingering the cold metal band on her left hand, he thought about how it had ended up being so unusual. Ruth had always believed that dolphins had special healing abilities and after she had taken the opportunity to swim with them at Monkey Mia, it had only served to reaffirm her beliefs. She believed the group of little gold dolphins that formed her wedding band would help to heal any problems their marriage suffered. They hadn’t had many problems and he wondered whether Ruth’s screwy ideologies were closer to the mark than he gave her credit for. It didn’t matter, he guessed, Ruth loved the ring telling him on many occasions that the only time it would leave her finger was when Joe needed it to heal his heart. He never could understand what she went on about half the time. It had been a long day. It seemed longer he guessed because there was no change to Ruth’s condition. He noticed the Charge Sister had walked past a few times, checking to see if he was still there. Better that he get going and he could come back earlier tomorrow. He had a long journey in front of him. Bending down to place a kiss on Ruth’s pale lips, he stroked her short silvery locks of hair into place before reaching for his cane. "I’ll be back tomorrow, blossom" he whispered in her ear, planting a final kiss on her check before leaving. As he walked down the corridors of the hospital the nurses wished him good night, their sympathetic smiles puzzling Joe. He would deal with it tomorrow, he thought to himself. He had enough for one day. A clean crisp envelope with his name scrawled boldly in black ink awaited him in Ruth’s room when he arrived the next morning. But there was no Ruth. What the hell was going on he thought angrily as he glanced around the room. Maybe they had to run some tests or something. Nothing seemed out of place. All Ruth’s things were where they should be. It was exactly as he had left her last night - except now there was this envelope. Maybe it was to tell him where she was. Turning it over he ripped at the edges in his effort to get open in a hurry. A small gold band fell onto the cover of the bed. It was Ruth’s ring. Had they taken it off to operate, he wondered as he stuffed his fingers into the envelope searching for an explanation. He felt small folded piece of paper and pulled it out of the envelope. He didn’t recognise the writing but dismissed that detail to read it’s message. Dear Joe, I always said this ring would heal your heart. Please keep it with you and take me to see the sunsets with you once again. Remember that I will always love you. Thank you for marrying me, it was the best three weeks of my life. Remember the vow, ‘Til Death Do Us Part’. Keep my ring with you and I will always be with you, but move on in your life. God knows, it took you long enough the first time. I always wondered what would come first, my seventieth birthday or my wedding. Remember me, Joe and that although it was brief it was rich. You completed my life. Ruth. This was a joke. What the hell was going on. Snatching up the letter and Ruth’s ring he marched out to the Charge Sister’s desk in the hallway, angry that nobody had called him to tell him what was going on. "Where is my Wife", he demanded. "Ruth isn’t here. She woke briefly last night and called for a nurse asking them to write a note for you. Didn’t you get it?" she questioned. "Yes, I got it. But what sort of deal is this anyway. Is it some sort of sick joke?" he asked searching her face for the truth. "Ruth woke briefly last night Mr Bambling, asked us to take her wedding ring off because it was hurting and put it in the envelope with the letter for safe keeping. When the nurse went back to check her this morning she was gone." Joe was getting exasperated with all this babble. "Gone. How the held could she just be gone. Where did she go." "Mr Bambling, your wife died this morning. She was a very sick woman and there was nothing we could do for her. It was always a matter of time. We explained that when she first arrived. You did understand that, didn’t you?" Joe looked at the Charge Sister as if she were from another planet. "Died. That’s not possible. She was getting better. I know she was. Ruth was coming home. She has to come home, what am I going to do without her?" he pleaded. "I’ll get someone to come talk to you Joe. It will be better that way. It will help you to understand," she offered gently. "Take a seat here in the lounge and I’ll send someone down." Joe’s reaction was automatic. He placed the cane beside him as he sat down, reaching inside his pocket for Ruth’s ring. He turned it around slowly, reading the inscription he had enjoyed having put on. "Every cloud has a silver lining and you are mine" She really had been sick and he had been to preoccupied to take any notice. It had taken him so long to finally get Ruth in the first place and now he had lost her. He didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye. He thought about what she had said to him in her letter. She was right. His heart did hurt. He guessed that was a good sign. But he didn’t like it much. Slipping the ring on his little finger, he vowed to listen this time and to continue to share the sunsets with Ruth for as long as he had left on this earth. It was the least he could do for her he decided. Who knows, maybe she was right and it would help him to heal his heart. (c) 1999 Tracy Field Other New Writers' Choice Selections Page Seven
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