(Note: In Jennifer Semple Siegel's Introduction to Literature class, students were offered the option of writing a prequel or sequel to a short story. Sarah Moser chose to write a prequel, from the point-of-view of the family dog, to Ray Bradbury's "August 2026: There Will Come Soft Rains.")
I lay on my rug in front of the fireplace just waking up from a deep, dream-filled sleep. The day before had been full of intense activity and play. The prospect of what today might hold was almost too much to handle. I had even woken up to my feet furiously fluttering, as if running at high speed. After a brief stretch, I was ready to begin my routine. It always made me stop and stare, head cocked, when I moved away from my rug. The funny, little mice came out, buzzing furiously, while vacuuming up the hair I had left behind. In my younger days, I would bark at these interesting creatures, but now I just watch in amusement, day after day.
Walking over into the kitchen, I waited for the muffled voice I knew would come. Tick-tock, five o’clock, time to eat, time to eat, five o’clock! As if coming to greet me, a nook in the wall opened up to reveal a small robot Dalmatian carrying a miniature hose. It zipped out to my bowl and a stream of cold water majestically began to arc out of the nozzle. A minute passed and the Dalmatian, hose-in-hand, retreated into the wall it came from. The water tasted amazing! It always did, but today it seemed to dance on my tongue as I lapped it up. Almost on cue, three choices lit up on the screen behind my food dish and a new voice asked, “Turkey and gravy, Lamb and rice, or Beef and potatoes?” This was my favorite part of the day, until dinnertime any way. I pressed my nose to the Beef and Potatoes option and a robotic arm emerged clutching a can. A small saw buzzed in a circle around the top and the arm flipped over. The moist food glistened in my dish. Eat up, no time to waste, no time to waste, eat up! In a moment, the food was gone and my stomach was pleasantly full.
As I strolled back into the living room, a voice chirped again. Five-six, time to play, time to play, five-six! A bundle of toys appeared in the corner of the room; a rope, a few balls, and a bone. Normally, I would take turns playing with each of these toys until my family woke up. Today, however, all I wanted to do was go outside and play. After that fantastic dream, I was ready to run. One whine at the front door was all it took and I was free.
Outside, a breeze was blowing and the air was filled with familiar smells. The one that caught my attention was the scent of a rabbit. The hair on my back perked up and my eyes did a quick scan of the perimeter in search of my target. There it was! I darted over the hill and followed the speedy rabbit into the woods. Around bends and trees, carefully avoiding roots and rocks, my family should be up by now, but I persisted in my pursuit. Suddenly, as I ran through the winding creek a brilliant light seared my eyes.
The next thing I remember is waking up with half of my body in the creek, I didn’t know how long I had been unconscious, but my stomach told me I hadn’t eaten in awhile. My weak body struggled to get up. I felt nauseous, but sheer will-power kept me moving in the direction of home. The family must be worried!
What felt like a hurried pace was more of a slow crawl. As I came over the hill, I saw funny markings on the wall; however, my only thought was going inside to let my family know I was alive. Arriving at the door, a chill swept over my body and I let out a whimper. The door opened. I was feeling so weak that I barely even noticed the robot mice scurrying all around me. I hurried from room to room. What is going on? Where is everyone? I knew something was wrong, but the smell of breakfast lured me to the kitchen. The familiar scent was a small comfort. My family was gone and I frantically tried to think! The room started to get hazy and I felt myself spinning in circles. I fell to the ground and my last conscious thought was of my family and the hope that I might be with them once again.
____________________
LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2007
Published with permission
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Pursuit of Absence (Lindsay Klunk)
(Note: In Jennifer Semple Siegel's Introduction to Literature class, students are offered the option of writing a prequel or sequel of a poem, story, or play. Lindsay Klunk chose to write a prequel of Sylvia Plath's poem "Edge" as a stream-of-consciousness short short story.)
My hands are tired from carrying out the tasks of yet another painstakingly long and meaningless day in this place that hardly deserves the name of home. A more suitable name might be “residence,” or “quarters." I stay under this roof, inside these four walls. I don’t live in this place. To say that I live would suggest that there is some life inside this shell of a body. There is no laughter or smiling faces in this place, at least not when I am present. It is late, but the night differs little from the day for me. My days blend together from the lack of sleep. My world is one of 24 hour periods of monotonous time followed by more 24 hour periods of monotonous time. This never changing process is too much to bear, mostly. The children sleep and I am torn. Shall I take them with me, or leave them behind? Surely no good mother would abandon her children. Would any good mother have kept them to suffer along side of her for as long as I have? Oh, the quandaries I face this night, and every night. For I have thought to go on with it every time the moon is full, or half, or absent, or anywhere in between. She is gone this night. Perhaps I will join her soon. And be absent. I do miss her lonely smile, her lonely eyes when she is not present. But she always returns, as do I. You see, on occasion I have gone beyond simply thinking of leaving. I have left. But something drags me back here, every time. The stillness of this night engulfs my body like an ocean. The darkness surrounds me as I drown in a sea of my own short comings. I have failed miserably at life, and I am unable to succeed, even in death. What a triumph it will be, what a glorious day when I take my final breath and God carries me home. Mother Earth will finally have had enough of me. She will breathe a sigh of relief to see me go on my way. This world will be at peace to be rid of me. And I will be at peace to be rid of her. She has shown me no hospitality. My heart aches at the thought of what could have been, things that should have been, but will never be. Guilt and regret claw and tear and rip at the very core of my being. My soul is weary, exhausted from the battle within. Will my soul sleep? Or will it be awakened with a new life, with new opportunities in a new place? One can only hope. Would an eternity of rest be so terrible? My thirty-one years have left me with little more than enough energy to pry my eyelids open when the alarm sounds at seven with that persistent and undying burst of ungodly noise. An eternity of rest might be refreshing. The children stir. What is left of my cold heart seems to be fighting its way towards the back of my throat. I have got to face it. I simply must take them with me if they wake. It will be my sign from God himself. He will make the decision. It is in His hands now.
I attempted to take on the persona of the woman from the poem, while keeping Plath’s voice. I wrote this piece as a diary entry, which is why I chose not to separate it into paragraphs. It is more of a stream of consciousness piece, from the point of view of someone about to commit suicide. I intentionally jumped from one thought to another in an attempt to recreate the irrational thought process of someone who is so out of touch with logical thought. I realize that I took a risk in writing this way.
February 6th, 1963
My hands are tired from carrying out the tasks of yet another painstakingly long and meaningless day in this place that hardly deserves the name of home. A more suitable name might be “residence,” or “quarters." I stay under this roof, inside these four walls. I don’t live in this place. To say that I live would suggest that there is some life inside this shell of a body. There is no laughter or smiling faces in this place, at least not when I am present. It is late, but the night differs little from the day for me. My days blend together from the lack of sleep. My world is one of 24 hour periods of monotonous time followed by more 24 hour periods of monotonous time. This never changing process is too much to bear, mostly. The children sleep and I am torn. Shall I take them with me, or leave them behind? Surely no good mother would abandon her children. Would any good mother have kept them to suffer along side of her for as long as I have? Oh, the quandaries I face this night, and every night. For I have thought to go on with it every time the moon is full, or half, or absent, or anywhere in between. She is gone this night. Perhaps I will join her soon. And be absent. I do miss her lonely smile, her lonely eyes when she is not present. But she always returns, as do I. You see, on occasion I have gone beyond simply thinking of leaving. I have left. But something drags me back here, every time. The stillness of this night engulfs my body like an ocean. The darkness surrounds me as I drown in a sea of my own short comings. I have failed miserably at life, and I am unable to succeed, even in death. What a triumph it will be, what a glorious day when I take my final breath and God carries me home. Mother Earth will finally have had enough of me. She will breathe a sigh of relief to see me go on my way. This world will be at peace to be rid of me. And I will be at peace to be rid of her. She has shown me no hospitality. My heart aches at the thought of what could have been, things that should have been, but will never be. Guilt and regret claw and tear and rip at the very core of my being. My soul is weary, exhausted from the battle within. Will my soul sleep? Or will it be awakened with a new life, with new opportunities in a new place? One can only hope. Would an eternity of rest be so terrible? My thirty-one years have left me with little more than enough energy to pry my eyelids open when the alarm sounds at seven with that persistent and undying burst of ungodly noise. An eternity of rest might be refreshing. The children stir. What is left of my cold heart seems to be fighting its way towards the back of my throat. I have got to face it. I simply must take them with me if they wake. It will be my sign from God himself. He will make the decision. It is in His hands now.
Author's note
I attempted to take on the persona of the woman from the poem, while keeping Plath’s voice. I wrote this piece as a diary entry, which is why I chose not to separate it into paragraphs. It is more of a stream of consciousness piece, from the point of view of someone about to commit suicide. I intentionally jumped from one thought to another in an attempt to recreate the irrational thought process of someone who is so out of touch with logical thought. I realize that I took a risk in writing this way.
_________________
LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2007
Published with persmission
There Will Come Soft Rains (Autumn Darbrow)
(Note: In Jennifer Semple Siegel's Introduction to Literature class, students are offered the option of rewriting a story, poem, or play in another genre. Autumn Darbrow chose to rewrite Ray Bradbury's short story "August 2026: There Will Come Soft Rains" as a poem.)
Tick tock, seven o’clock.
Breakfast is ready
In an empty house
Standing all alone, steady.
Tick tock, eight o’clock.
Time for work and school,
But the house is empty,
The air is calm and cool.
The breakfast is old
And discarded right away.
Dishes are cleaned
And put back to stay.
Tick tock, nine o’clock.
Robot mice come darting out.
It’s time to clean.
They do it with no doubt
They whirl around
Cleaning every spot;
An empty house immaculate
Not even a dot.
Tick tock, ten o’clock.
The sun shines now
On a city of ash and ruin.
This house still stands somehow.
The west face has been burned.
No pretty white paint.
Only spots here and there,
But ever so faint.
Tick tock, eleven o’clock.
The house is paranoid.
It waits for the tenants
To come fill the void.
It still asks for passwords
And inquires who’s there.
Nothing better come close.
It better not dare.
Tick tock, twelve o’clock.
A starving dog cries.
The house opens the door.
Its voice it does recognize.
The dog searches
For the long gone family.
It soon realized the emptiness
The house can also see.
Tick tock, one o’clock.
The dog runs around, cries,
Spins in circles, bites.
Then it dies.
Robot mice come flying out
And dispose of the dog.
An incinerator burns it to ash
As if it were a log.
Tick tock, two o’clock.
Bridge tables fold down.
Playing cards flutter out
As chairs sit all around.
Martinis appear
Ready to be drank
With egg-salad sandwiches
Sitting on the bench’s wooden plank.
Tick tock, three o’clock.
Silence still around.
No cards being played.
No laughter. No sound.
Food is cleared away
With drinks following, too.
Tables fold into walls.
Silence still seeps through.
Tick tock, four o’clock.
The nursery comes alive.
Animals on the wall dance:
Many different types, even butterflies.
Giraffes, lions, antelopes
Dance in brilliant colors.
Some animals move to the waterhole
Followed by all the others.
Tick tock, five o’clock.
Bath water falls.
The tub is filled up,
And steam the mirror draws.
Tick tock, six, seven, eight o’clock.
Dinner dishes come out.
Inside the study, a fire is lit,
And a cigar burns, patiently waiting about.
Tick tock, nine o’clock.
Circuits turn on.
Beds become warm
Thwarting a waiting, cold dawn.
In the study a voice comes alive
And asks Mrs. McClellan for a poem choice.
No reply comes back.
“Sara Teasdale, your favorite poem, then,” says the voice.
Tick tock, ten o’clock.
The house begins to die.
A tree bough crashes
through a window.
Cleaning solvent shatters over the stove. “Fire!” comes a cry.
Doors spring shut
As the house tries to live,
But windows are shattered open and
Oxygen to the fire the window gives.
Water falls from the ceiling.
Tiny mice try to help, too,
But the water reserve is empty.
The house is through.
Walls are burnt, revealing wires,
And voices cry out until the fire stops them.
The house falls down now.
It’s not even worthy to condemn.
As dawn approaches,
There stands one wall.
The fire did not get it.
This one did not fall.
A lone voice comes from the wall saying,
“Today is August 5, 2026.”
It plays repeatedly over and over.
“Today is August 5, 2026.”
_____________________
LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2007
Published with permission
Tick tock, seven o’clock.
Breakfast is ready
In an empty house
Standing all alone, steady.
Tick tock, eight o’clock.
Time for work and school,
But the house is empty,
The air is calm and cool.
The breakfast is old
And discarded right away.
Dishes are cleaned
And put back to stay.
Tick tock, nine o’clock.
Robot mice come darting out.
It’s time to clean.
They do it with no doubt
They whirl around
Cleaning every spot;
An empty house immaculate
Not even a dot.
Tick tock, ten o’clock.
The sun shines now
On a city of ash and ruin.
This house still stands somehow.
The west face has been burned.
No pretty white paint.
Only spots here and there,
But ever so faint.
Tick tock, eleven o’clock.
The house is paranoid.
It waits for the tenants
To come fill the void.
It still asks for passwords
And inquires who’s there.
Nothing better come close.
It better not dare.
Tick tock, twelve o’clock.
A starving dog cries.
The house opens the door.
Its voice it does recognize.
The dog searches
For the long gone family.
It soon realized the emptiness
The house can also see.
Tick tock, one o’clock.
The dog runs around, cries,
Spins in circles, bites.
Then it dies.
Robot mice come flying out
And dispose of the dog.
An incinerator burns it to ash
As if it were a log.
Tick tock, two o’clock.
Bridge tables fold down.
Playing cards flutter out
As chairs sit all around.
Martinis appear
Ready to be drank
With egg-salad sandwiches
Sitting on the bench’s wooden plank.
Tick tock, three o’clock.
Silence still around.
No cards being played.
No laughter. No sound.
Food is cleared away
With drinks following, too.
Tables fold into walls.
Silence still seeps through.
Tick tock, four o’clock.
The nursery comes alive.
Animals on the wall dance:
Many different types, even butterflies.
Giraffes, lions, antelopes
Dance in brilliant colors.
Some animals move to the waterhole
Followed by all the others.
Tick tock, five o’clock.
Bath water falls.
The tub is filled up,
And steam the mirror draws.
Tick tock, six, seven, eight o’clock.
Dinner dishes come out.
Inside the study, a fire is lit,
And a cigar burns, patiently waiting about.
Tick tock, nine o’clock.
Circuits turn on.
Beds become warm
Thwarting a waiting, cold dawn.
In the study a voice comes alive
And asks Mrs. McClellan for a poem choice.
No reply comes back.
“Sara Teasdale, your favorite poem, then,” says the voice.
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white;
Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
Tick tock, ten o’clock.
The house begins to die.
A tree bough crashes
through a window.
Cleaning solvent shatters over the stove. “Fire!” comes a cry.
Doors spring shut
As the house tries to live,
But windows are shattered open and
Oxygen to the fire the window gives.
Water falls from the ceiling.
Tiny mice try to help, too,
But the water reserve is empty.
The house is through.
Walls are burnt, revealing wires,
And voices cry out until the fire stops them.
The house falls down now.
It’s not even worthy to condemn.
As dawn approaches,
There stands one wall.
The fire did not get it.
This one did not fall.
A lone voice comes from the wall saying,
“Today is August 5, 2026.”
It plays repeatedly over and over.
“Today is August 5, 2026.”
_____________________
LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2007
Published with permission
A Prequel to Alice Childress' “All About My Job” (Julie E. Pennella)
(Note: In Jennifer Semple Siegel's African-American Literature class, students were offered the option of writing a prequel or sequel to a story assigned for the course. Julie Pennella chose to write a prequel that retained the original dialect, still from Mildred's perspective.)
Well, Marge, I was walkin’ home tonight from Miss Jennie’s and, wouldn’t ya know, it was gittin’ cooler out and so I put my coat on. I hate that raggedy ol’ thang, but it wasn’t doin’ me no good carryin’ it, so’s I put it on anyhow. I dug my hand into the pocket and, do ya know what I found, Marge? There was a ticket for that fancy movie theatre over on Main Street. And with the ticket I found a note from Miss Jennie. It said, “Thank you for all your hard work this week. See a movie on Thursday night. My treat.”
Can you believe that, Marge! Miss Jennie treatin’ me to a movie. How nice! Well, come to think of it, she probly is just tryin’ to keep ma mouth shut about Mr. Dixon stoppin’ by the house this afternoon. Miss Jennie’s husband don’t like it when that man talks to Miss Jennie. Actually, he gits aweful mad at her for it. Miss Jennie don’t seem to care much though. Mr. Dixon already been over to the house twice this week and both times Miss Jennie would fluff up her hair and put on her red lipstick before she answer the door. I don’ know why she likes that color on her lips anyhow. It looks like her mouth is bleedin’ or somethin’.
But, anyhow, Marge that’s not all I wanted to tell ya. As I said, I was walkin’ home tonight and I found the ticket in ma pocket. I was holdin it in ma hand as I was a walkin’ and this nasty wind came and blew it right outta my grip! I was so mad at that wind I could’a kicked it if it had a physical bein’ to it. Marge, I looked around where I was standin’ and around where I looked for damn near ten minutes for that thang! I was too damn dark to see nothin’ and that ugly wind was blowin ma hair in ma face. Finally I seen it lyin’ in the middle of the street.
Well, Girl, I walked over to it, to grab it before the wind blew it up again and before I knew it I was gettin’ tackled to the groun’! Ya know what happened, Marge? A car almost took my out! That’s right, it almost ended me right then and there. Luckily, this man quick pushed me outta the way of the car. It hurt some, but I’s just thankful to be alive! Marge, I tell ya, the man saved my life!
Well, I got maself collected again and we stood on the sidewalk talking for ‘bout a half hour. He was a nice man, Marge…good lookin’ too. Tall and big with great big hands and shoulders and deep dark color skin, like chocolate. Yeah, Girl, he was a looker! And he looked like the kind’a man who has a good appetite. Someone who be needin’ a housewife to cook for him and take care of him. Well, Marge, we got to talkin’. I told him my name was Mildred and he says I looks like a Mildred. Do ya think I looks like a Mildred, Marge?
Anyhow, he told me his name is Henry and we got to talkin’ bout this-n-that and where I was headed and everything else in the universe. But, Marge ya know what happened next? I told him I was a houseworker comin’ home from Miss Jennie’s. I know…ya thinkin’ so what. Well, soon as I told him that, he said he had to be gettin’ home to his wife! His wife, Marge! I’ll be damned if he actually got a wife! He was talkn’ to me for bout a half-hour on that side walk and he wasn’t wearin’ no weddin’ ring on his finger! He ain’t got no wife, Marge! He was just usin’ it as an excuse to stop talkin’ to me. That’s what men do, Marge…it’s easy for em’ to just say they takin’. Gotta be getting’ home to ma wife! Men like him, they don’t want no houseworker. They want a pretty-face, size-ten or so, red lip stick-wearin’ girl who ain’t no houseworker with a free movie ticket.
Damn he was a good man though, Marge. He was a good man needin’ a wife. Girl, you been married before…Ya think he has a wife? Ya think he really is takin’? I suppose it could be the truth. Girl, thank the Lord I got a friend like you, cuz Lord knows when men like that come ‘round we be needin’ friends to keep us goin’.
Epilogue (Author's note)
I chose this piece as a springboard because I really liked the sense of pride that the main character portrayed throughout the story. In the beginning of the story, she says that she hates her job as a houseworker, but by the end, she changes her mind and realizes that she should not be ashamed of her occupation. I felt like I could relate to the story in this way because I grew up on a farm, working hard for my parents all my life. My mother was always a homemaker, keeping busy with the farm; she never had a paying job outside of our home. While I knew some other children whose mothers were housewives, it was not too common among families. Most children had mothers who were dentists, teachers, hairstylists, and even artists. Growing up I was somewhat ashamed of the lifestyle my family lived; however, I look back now and realize that I am proud to have grown up under those conditions. It instilled in me a sense a pride and a good work ethic.
I also liked the stylistic aspects of this writing. I enjoyed reading the story because I felt like the main character was personally having a conversation with me. The story is written in a kind of stream-of-consciousness manner. It takes on the form of a person talking to another. The main character rambles on with her thoughts, sometimes going on tangents. I tried to simulate this style of writing as I composed my prequel to the story.
I also tried to write using the dialect that the main character uses in the original story. As I wrote the prequel, I used words that are grammatically incorrect and some sentence fragments here and there. It was a little difficult to keep the writing legible, but it was actually quite fun. As I was writing, I was talking in my head with a southern accent! It actually helped!
There were also many elements of the story that I used to create an idea for the plot of the prequel. I wanted to include Mildred’s negative feelings toward housework in the prequel, since that is where the original story begins. I also wanted to end the prequel with Mildred feeling thankful to have a friend like Marge, since this is also mentioned in the beginning of “All About My Job.” I chose to include an encounter with a potential mate for Mildred in the prequel because, in the story, she talks about her need for a husband and mentions that Marge has been married once. She also talks about her weight, referring to herself as a size fourteen. I used all of these elements to come up with a plot for my prequel; however, I added some unrelated elements of the story such as, the character of Miss Jennie, and the story about the movie ticket.
In all, this piece was very fun to write and I think that it is a pretty decent prequel to the original story.
Well, Marge, I was walkin’ home tonight from Miss Jennie’s and, wouldn’t ya know, it was gittin’ cooler out and so I put my coat on. I hate that raggedy ol’ thang, but it wasn’t doin’ me no good carryin’ it, so’s I put it on anyhow. I dug my hand into the pocket and, do ya know what I found, Marge? There was a ticket for that fancy movie theatre over on Main Street. And with the ticket I found a note from Miss Jennie. It said, “Thank you for all your hard work this week. See a movie on Thursday night. My treat.”
Can you believe that, Marge! Miss Jennie treatin’ me to a movie. How nice! Well, come to think of it, she probly is just tryin’ to keep ma mouth shut about Mr. Dixon stoppin’ by the house this afternoon. Miss Jennie’s husband don’t like it when that man talks to Miss Jennie. Actually, he gits aweful mad at her for it. Miss Jennie don’t seem to care much though. Mr. Dixon already been over to the house twice this week and both times Miss Jennie would fluff up her hair and put on her red lipstick before she answer the door. I don’ know why she likes that color on her lips anyhow. It looks like her mouth is bleedin’ or somethin’.
But, anyhow, Marge that’s not all I wanted to tell ya. As I said, I was walkin’ home tonight and I found the ticket in ma pocket. I was holdin it in ma hand as I was a walkin’ and this nasty wind came and blew it right outta my grip! I was so mad at that wind I could’a kicked it if it had a physical bein’ to it. Marge, I looked around where I was standin’ and around where I looked for damn near ten minutes for that thang! I was too damn dark to see nothin’ and that ugly wind was blowin ma hair in ma face. Finally I seen it lyin’ in the middle of the street.
Well, Girl, I walked over to it, to grab it before the wind blew it up again and before I knew it I was gettin’ tackled to the groun’! Ya know what happened, Marge? A car almost took my out! That’s right, it almost ended me right then and there. Luckily, this man quick pushed me outta the way of the car. It hurt some, but I’s just thankful to be alive! Marge, I tell ya, the man saved my life!
Well, I got maself collected again and we stood on the sidewalk talking for ‘bout a half hour. He was a nice man, Marge…good lookin’ too. Tall and big with great big hands and shoulders and deep dark color skin, like chocolate. Yeah, Girl, he was a looker! And he looked like the kind’a man who has a good appetite. Someone who be needin’ a housewife to cook for him and take care of him. Well, Marge, we got to talkin’. I told him my name was Mildred and he says I looks like a Mildred. Do ya think I looks like a Mildred, Marge?
Anyhow, he told me his name is Henry and we got to talkin’ bout this-n-that and where I was headed and everything else in the universe. But, Marge ya know what happened next? I told him I was a houseworker comin’ home from Miss Jennie’s. I know…ya thinkin’ so what. Well, soon as I told him that, he said he had to be gettin’ home to his wife! His wife, Marge! I’ll be damned if he actually got a wife! He was talkn’ to me for bout a half-hour on that side walk and he wasn’t wearin’ no weddin’ ring on his finger! He ain’t got no wife, Marge! He was just usin’ it as an excuse to stop talkin’ to me. That’s what men do, Marge…it’s easy for em’ to just say they takin’. Gotta be getting’ home to ma wife! Men like him, they don’t want no houseworker. They want a pretty-face, size-ten or so, red lip stick-wearin’ girl who ain’t no houseworker with a free movie ticket.
Damn he was a good man though, Marge. He was a good man needin’ a wife. Girl, you been married before…Ya think he has a wife? Ya think he really is takin’? I suppose it could be the truth. Girl, thank the Lord I got a friend like you, cuz Lord knows when men like that come ‘round we be needin’ friends to keep us goin’.
Epilogue (Author's note)
I chose this piece as a springboard because I really liked the sense of pride that the main character portrayed throughout the story. In the beginning of the story, she says that she hates her job as a houseworker, but by the end, she changes her mind and realizes that she should not be ashamed of her occupation. I felt like I could relate to the story in this way because I grew up on a farm, working hard for my parents all my life. My mother was always a homemaker, keeping busy with the farm; she never had a paying job outside of our home. While I knew some other children whose mothers were housewives, it was not too common among families. Most children had mothers who were dentists, teachers, hairstylists, and even artists. Growing up I was somewhat ashamed of the lifestyle my family lived; however, I look back now and realize that I am proud to have grown up under those conditions. It instilled in me a sense a pride and a good work ethic.
I also liked the stylistic aspects of this writing. I enjoyed reading the story because I felt like the main character was personally having a conversation with me. The story is written in a kind of stream-of-consciousness manner. It takes on the form of a person talking to another. The main character rambles on with her thoughts, sometimes going on tangents. I tried to simulate this style of writing as I composed my prequel to the story.
I also tried to write using the dialect that the main character uses in the original story. As I wrote the prequel, I used words that are grammatically incorrect and some sentence fragments here and there. It was a little difficult to keep the writing legible, but it was actually quite fun. As I was writing, I was talking in my head with a southern accent! It actually helped!
There were also many elements of the story that I used to create an idea for the plot of the prequel. I wanted to include Mildred’s negative feelings toward housework in the prequel, since that is where the original story begins. I also wanted to end the prequel with Mildred feeling thankful to have a friend like Marge, since this is also mentioned in the beginning of “All About My Job.” I chose to include an encounter with a potential mate for Mildred in the prequel because, in the story, she talks about her need for a husband and mentions that Marge has been married once. She also talks about her weight, referring to herself as a size fourteen. I used all of these elements to come up with a plot for my prequel; however, I added some unrelated elements of the story such as, the character of Miss Jennie, and the story about the movie ticket.
In all, this piece was very fun to write and I think that it is a pretty decent prequel to the original story.
___________________
LIT203 African-American Literature, Spring 2007
Published with permission
I Am a Motherless Child (Valerie Anderson)
(Note: In Jennifer Semple Siegel's African-American Literature class, students were offered the option of rewriting a poem into a story. Valerie Anderson decided to rewrite "Motherless Child" [Anonymous], an African-American (Negro) spiritual, into prose.)
*****
I do not know who my mother is or who my father is. I do not know who this “God” is that the other Negroes sing about. I feel like a motherless child because that’s what I am. I am motherless, fatherless, Godless, hopeless. When I pick cotton I try to daydream, try to close my eyes and imagine a family and a warm wooden cabin with a freshly swept dirt floor. I can hear my momma singing as she stirs a stew over the fire and I can hear my pa’s soft and hypnotic voice telling all of my brothers and sisters a story.
In this house I can smell the fresh, clean earth, devoid of blood and sweat. That smell coming from over the hills is a feast for my family to enjoy, and not for the white family that has enslaved me and caused me to forget, to never know, who I am and where I came from.
In my daydreams it is my birthday, it is April 15, because that day is always beautiful and sunny and flowers are in bloom. It is beautiful, just like my momma tells me I am. I am wearing a clean new cotton dress that belongs to me and only me. It is not a dull brown color, smeared in dirt and sweat. No one has worn it before me because it was made just for me. And I look just as fresh as the beautiful April day.
But the story stays the same – just a story. The crack of a whip and warm blood trickling down my back bring me back to a harsh and unpleasant reality. There is no cabin, no stew, no dress, no ma, no pa. There is only myself in my dirty clothes and cracked and blistering hands.
I am a motherless child, a family-less child. Yes, I know I have been adopted by the older slaves as their own, but it’s just not the same. I am their child for their own sake and not for my own. I am replacing their children but I don’t want to be a replacement, I want to by part of my own family. How dare they pretend to know how I feel! How dare they call me selfish and stubborn when they can’t possibly understand how my life is! I do not feel lucky to be alive, to be provided for, to be loved by God. I feel alone and miserable and spent.
This life is too long and too hard and I know that there is more to the world than this. I know that I could endure my breaking back and bleeding hands if I was loved, if I had a family, not just the mournful and pitying eyes of slaves just like me, whose position in life is not much better than my own.
I feel ready to quit, ready to lie down and die in the dirt that I toil in day after endless day. I am a motherless child, forgotten in a world of motherless children. I have no more hope, no more future, and only one foster parent – the cruel and unforgiving King Cotton. What a poor replacement for the family and love I want more than anything. I feel like I am almost gone.
Epilogue by author
When I was in high school, I sang an a cappella version of this spiritual. In order to be able to sing this with feeling, I tried to imagine what it would be like to feel like a motherless child. This prompt gave me an opportunity to imagine the back story that I had already partially developed several years ago.
Although the poem is fairly simplistic, it is still incredibly powerful. I wanted to create a short piece that had the same power behind it as the fifteen-line poem that I was inspired by. The part of the poem that struck me the most was the line, “Sometimes I feel like a feather in the air.” I really wanted to focus on what would help a slave feel unburdened by their hardships.
Therefore, it seemed entirely appropriate to me that the person who would relate most to this poem would be a young child who is not only motherless, but also doesn’t feel as if she has a place or purpose in the world. The added tragedy is that the child is so young and already wants to give up.
My goal was to create a story that read like an extension of the poem, and I think I accomplished that. My story is about a girl who is imagining an escape and a better life, just as the author of the poem is imagining flying away from her circumstances.
___________________________
LIT203 African-American Literature, Spring 2007
Published with permission
Biography of J. Alfred Prufrock (Lauren Penkala)
(Note: in Jennifer Semple Siegel's Introduction to Literature, students are offered the option of responding to literature in a creative manner. For T.S. Eliot's poem "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," Lauren Penkala decided to write J. Alfred Prufrock's biography--from the point of view of an added character: Emily, his sister. This piece was done during a 75-minute test)
I, L. Emily Prufock, sister of J. Alfred Prufock, think of my brother as a man who lived an interesting life. Here today, at his funeral, I will give a short biography of his 68 years of life.
When I think of my little brother, I think of a mischievous boy, always curious, throwing caution to the wind. He got himself into more trouble as a child than all of our other siblings combined, but this helped him in the future. He did learn from his mistakes, and this made him an experienced contemplative, deeper man.
In his teen years, he became more quiet, but not shy. J. Alfred loved the ladies, and most loved him as well. Maybe it was his dark, full head of hair, or his muscular, masculine frame. Maybe it was his occupation – a business man. Some say it was because of how handsome he always looked in his simple yet eye-catching business suit. He listened to music on a regular basis – to help him clear his mind. Alfred was an orderly person who hated not knowing the future, and planned out his every moment – all the way to his death.
After work, Alfred, despite his handsomeness, did not go out with the ladies (he only flirted), he went home for a quiet evening alone, where he drank tea, had toast, and watched his sleek yellow cat, Chester.
Alfred could have made many friends, and probably even found a wife. But he was a hard worker and valued his time alone. He did not enjoy art, which made it difficult for him to relate to a woman once the relationship got past flirting (if it ever did).
Alfred got his strong body from walking on the beach. Sometimes Alfred ran. He imagined mermaids in the ocean, and he swam too, but never found a mermaid.
My brother had one weakness, the fear of death. After retiring from the business world at a fairly young age, 40, he began to have this fear. He wrote much about it too. Alfred even spoke of it to me. He read the Bible and believed in God, but that did not end his fear.
So he wrote about it, hoping the fear would disperse. Alfred compared death to his cat, Chester, and worried so much that by the age of 42, he had a bald spot shining. He was very self-conscious and thought people were talking about him. As he grew older, his body withered quickly, becoming frail and thin. Alfred went from a mischievous boy, to a confident teen, to a successful business man, to an old, weary man of age of 55. We assume that a disease overtook him – a 40 or 50 or 60 year old man should not look as badly as he did. He wept, fasted and prayed, as did we all, but he did not improve. On his final day, he requested to be taken to a nearby window to look out at the ocean. This was difficult for me, an 80 year old woman, but I managed – I could see it in his 68-year-old eyes that this was his last desire. I lugged him to the window, and left to prepare lunch. When I returned 25 minutes later, he could not be awakened. He had met his mermaid.
Maybe he could reunite with mom and day, our two older sisters, and my husband. Maybe, just maybe he is no longer afraid.
______________________________
LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2007
Published with permission
_________________
I, L. Emily Prufock, sister of J. Alfred Prufock, think of my brother as a man who lived an interesting life. Here today, at his funeral, I will give a short biography of his 68 years of life.
When I think of my little brother, I think of a mischievous boy, always curious, throwing caution to the wind. He got himself into more trouble as a child than all of our other siblings combined, but this helped him in the future. He did learn from his mistakes, and this made him an experienced contemplative, deeper man.
In his teen years, he became more quiet, but not shy. J. Alfred loved the ladies, and most loved him as well. Maybe it was his dark, full head of hair, or his muscular, masculine frame. Maybe it was his occupation – a business man. Some say it was because of how handsome he always looked in his simple yet eye-catching business suit. He listened to music on a regular basis – to help him clear his mind. Alfred was an orderly person who hated not knowing the future, and planned out his every moment – all the way to his death.
After work, Alfred, despite his handsomeness, did not go out with the ladies (he only flirted), he went home for a quiet evening alone, where he drank tea, had toast, and watched his sleek yellow cat, Chester.
Alfred could have made many friends, and probably even found a wife. But he was a hard worker and valued his time alone. He did not enjoy art, which made it difficult for him to relate to a woman once the relationship got past flirting (if it ever did).
Alfred got his strong body from walking on the beach. Sometimes Alfred ran. He imagined mermaids in the ocean, and he swam too, but never found a mermaid.
My brother had one weakness, the fear of death. After retiring from the business world at a fairly young age, 40, he began to have this fear. He wrote much about it too. Alfred even spoke of it to me. He read the Bible and believed in God, but that did not end his fear.
So he wrote about it, hoping the fear would disperse. Alfred compared death to his cat, Chester, and worried so much that by the age of 42, he had a bald spot shining. He was very self-conscious and thought people were talking about him. As he grew older, his body withered quickly, becoming frail and thin. Alfred went from a mischievous boy, to a confident teen, to a successful business man, to an old, weary man of age of 55. We assume that a disease overtook him – a 40 or 50 or 60 year old man should not look as badly as he did. He wept, fasted and prayed, as did we all, but he did not improve. On his final day, he requested to be taken to a nearby window to look out at the ocean. This was difficult for me, an 80 year old woman, but I managed – I could see it in his 68-year-old eyes that this was his last desire. I lugged him to the window, and left to prepare lunch. When I returned 25 minutes later, he could not be awakened. He had met his mermaid.
Maybe he could reunite with mom and day, our two older sisters, and my husband. Maybe, just maybe he is no longer afraid.
______________________________
LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2007
Published with permission
I Am Woman (Jamie Sterlacci)
I, too, am a woman
I am heavier then most
My hair is not perfect
My skin is blemished.
The boys call me
To complain about the others
I listen
I answer
I laugh at their silly ways.
They look through me.
One day they’ll call me
Just to talk to me.
And I will know it’s because
Of who I am inside.
I’ll listen
I’ll answer
We’ll laugh at their silly ways.
He sees into me.
One day, they’ll see
That under my skin I am gorgeous.
They will be sorry they undervalued
What I can do.
But I won’t need them; I never did need them.
I, too, am Woman.
I used Langston Hughes’ poem "I, Too" as a starting point for my poem. His poem is about how black people are oppressed and shunned. They are ignored and considered a lesser being, but others do not realize what they, specifically Hughes, are capable of. Hughes does plan to show them what he can be – that he has the potential to be something great and that he will rise up against the oppression. Hughes is proud of who he is and considers himself an important part of America. One day, people will be ashamed of how they treated him and they will appreciate him for all his worth.
In the year 2007, although most people do not make judgements based on skin color, they still judge people on the way they look – if someone is not as aesthetically pleasing as others, they are often judged and become outcasts. I know that most people have felt less then beautiful at some time in their lives, including myself. People who are outcasts because of their looks are oppressed in sort of the same way as African-Americans were during slavery or in the South under the Jim Crow laws, when Hughes wrote this. The less beautiful are kept apart from those that are considered to be better looking, just like black people were separated from others. These separations have nothing to do with who is better, smarter, or earned the right to be considered accepted. Instead the separations are based on shallow notions that what a person looks like on the outside defines who they are on the inside.
It is important that people do look past the exterior and get to know someone because they could be truly great on the inside. My poem is based on the idea that all women are beautiful, not just the ones who are obviously so. It also stems from the idea that the only way some one can be completely happy is to see past looks and get to know someone and appreciate him or her for it. Relationships that are based on looks become as shallow as the reason for starting it. On the other hand, relationships based on love and appreciation of the other person tend to give the most pleasure to both parties involved. This is similar to the relationship between white and black people in the South. Because they were not working together, the people of the South did not reach their full potential. Instead, there was always fighting and people dying senselessly.
The woman in the poem finds someone who gets to know her and love her for who she is despite her weight, skin, and hair, or maybe even because of them. She thinks maybe one day other women will see how great she is, but she will not need them as friends. She realizes she has never needed anyone who is shallow. She knows that their shallowness prevents them from reaching full happiness and she laughs at them for it.
Like Langston Hughes considered himself an important and overlooked part of America, the woman in the poem is not appreciated because of her looks. Both poems recognize the potential of the oppressed and how great things could be if people saw them for who they are.
___________________________
LIT203 African-American Literature, Spring 2007
Published with permission
I am heavier then most
My hair is not perfect
My skin is blemished.
The boys call me
To complain about the others
I listen
I answer
I laugh at their silly ways.
They look through me.
One day they’ll call me
Just to talk to me.
And I will know it’s because
Of who I am inside.
I’ll listen
I’ll answer
We’ll laugh at their silly ways.
He sees into me.
One day, they’ll see
That under my skin I am gorgeous.
They will be sorry they undervalued
What I can do.
But I won’t need them; I never did need them.
I, too, am Woman.
___________________
I used Langston Hughes’ poem "I, Too" as a starting point for my poem. His poem is about how black people are oppressed and shunned. They are ignored and considered a lesser being, but others do not realize what they, specifically Hughes, are capable of. Hughes does plan to show them what he can be – that he has the potential to be something great and that he will rise up against the oppression. Hughes is proud of who he is and considers himself an important part of America. One day, people will be ashamed of how they treated him and they will appreciate him for all his worth.
In the year 2007, although most people do not make judgements based on skin color, they still judge people on the way they look – if someone is not as aesthetically pleasing as others, they are often judged and become outcasts. I know that most people have felt less then beautiful at some time in their lives, including myself. People who are outcasts because of their looks are oppressed in sort of the same way as African-Americans were during slavery or in the South under the Jim Crow laws, when Hughes wrote this. The less beautiful are kept apart from those that are considered to be better looking, just like black people were separated from others. These separations have nothing to do with who is better, smarter, or earned the right to be considered accepted. Instead the separations are based on shallow notions that what a person looks like on the outside defines who they are on the inside.
It is important that people do look past the exterior and get to know someone because they could be truly great on the inside. My poem is based on the idea that all women are beautiful, not just the ones who are obviously so. It also stems from the idea that the only way some one can be completely happy is to see past looks and get to know someone and appreciate him or her for it. Relationships that are based on looks become as shallow as the reason for starting it. On the other hand, relationships based on love and appreciation of the other person tend to give the most pleasure to both parties involved. This is similar to the relationship between white and black people in the South. Because they were not working together, the people of the South did not reach their full potential. Instead, there was always fighting and people dying senselessly.
The woman in the poem finds someone who gets to know her and love her for who she is despite her weight, skin, and hair, or maybe even because of them. She thinks maybe one day other women will see how great she is, but she will not need them as friends. She realizes she has never needed anyone who is shallow. She knows that their shallowness prevents them from reaching full happiness and she laughs at them for it.
Like Langston Hughes considered himself an important and overlooked part of America, the woman in the poem is not appreciated because of her looks. Both poems recognize the potential of the oppressed and how great things could be if people saw them for who they are.
___________________________
LIT203 African-American Literature, Spring 2007
Published with permission
Monday, May 15, 2006
On Holiday (Liv Carlson)
America
Green acres and purple sky
Yellow houses
England
Island of green hills and sheep
Rainy days
Steaming cups of tea
Uni students in a queue
The flat London sky
Train station
The big clock strikes one
Travelers run
Cloudy moors
Cliffs upon the ocean’s edge
Foggy Foothills
Rock
Black and rough volcanic ash
Many brick walls
“Bonjour, merci!”
croissant, baguette, escargot
Eiffel Tower
Rollerbladers
in Notre Dame’s shadow
Men selling art
Blood red sun
setting on the piazza
smallest country
Volcanic ash
Body cast in cement
Bicycles
Ride down the canals
Smoke in the air
Dark beer,
Calico cat at my feet
Amsterdam
Big fast cars
Large portions of food to eat
America
Green acres and purple sky
Yellow houses
England
Island of green hills and sheep
Rainy days
Steaming cups of tea
Uni students in a queue
The flat London sky
Train station
The big clock strikes one
Travelers run
Cloudy moors
Cliffs upon the ocean’s edge
Foggy Foothills
Rock
Black and rough volcanic ash
Many brick walls
“Bonjour, merci!”
croissant, baguette, escargot
Eiffel Tower
Rollerbladers
in Notre Dame’s shadow
Men selling art
Blood red sun
setting on the piazza
smallest country
Volcanic ash
Body cast in cement
At Pompeii
Bicycles
Ride down the canals
Smoke in the air
Dark beer,
Calico cat at my feet
Amsterdam
Big fast cars
Large portions of food to eat
America
________________
WRT310 Creative Writing, Spring 2006
Published with poet's permission
Barbie’s Boyfriend (Amanda Dinmore)
(Apologies to Marge Piercy)
Another boy arose
Blue pajamas, blue booties
Dinosaurs and G.I. Joes.
He played football, it was his life.
Then one day his coach said,
You play like a girl, try ballet.
Intelligent from all angles,
Never even needed to study,
Yet he saw nothing in himself.
Nothing but a body,
A body he would never have.
Spent day in and day out trying,
At the gym, on the football field,
Alone no matter where.
People smiled as he waved
But never lifted a hand.
Never sought him out,
So he cut his hands off.
Teary eyed they came,
Never knowing why he left.
They gathered in a line
Each waiting their turn to
Finally lift their hands to him,
Only to fold them over his casket.
______________
WRT310 Creative Writing, Spring 2006
Published with Poet's permission
Another boy arose
Blue pajamas, blue booties
Dinosaurs and G.I. Joes.
He played football, it was his life.
Then one day his coach said,
You play like a girl, try ballet.
Intelligent from all angles,
Never even needed to study,
Yet he saw nothing in himself.
Nothing but a body,
A body he would never have.
Spent day in and day out trying,
At the gym, on the football field,
Alone no matter where.
People smiled as he waved
But never lifted a hand.
Never sought him out,
So he cut his hands off.
Teary eyed they came,
Never knowing why he left.
They gathered in a line
Each waiting their turn to
Finally lift their hands to him,
Only to fold them over his casket.
______________
WRT310 Creative Writing, Spring 2006
Published with Poet's permission
Friday, May 12, 2006
Desert Sestina (Rachael Noble)
In the heavy silence
Blood in the dust
And on a stone.
Bones already bleaching in the heat,
Life soaked into the earth.
Sun holds a vigil for the dead.
Sun sets, the sky is dead
Still there is only silence.
Blood-soaked earth,
No wind to stir the dust.
The heavy, crushing heat
And blood on a stone.
Blood, bones, and a stone.
All else is sand, stone-dead.
Madness born of heat,
Anger in the silence.
Death in the dust,
Blood drunk by parched earth.
Half buried in the earth
Almost like a stone,
Bones in the dust,
Sign of the dead,
Reveal nothing, only silence,
Burning in the heat.
A blow in the heat
Blood spilt on the earth
No reply in the silence.
Weapon made of a stone.
Now the dead
Lies in the dust.
Now wind blows the dust,
A sandy blast of heat.
The sky watches over the dead.
Bones covered by earth
Now there is only the stone,
And the silence.
Through the silence, in the dust,
By the stone, in the heat,
Under the earth there is the dead.
________________________
WRT310 Creative Writing, Spring 2006
Published with permission of poet
Blood in the dust
And on a stone.
Bones already bleaching in the heat,
Life soaked into the earth.
Sun holds a vigil for the dead.
Sun sets, the sky is dead
Still there is only silence.
Blood-soaked earth,
No wind to stir the dust.
The heavy, crushing heat
And blood on a stone.
Blood, bones, and a stone.
All else is sand, stone-dead.
Madness born of heat,
Anger in the silence.
Death in the dust,
Blood drunk by parched earth.
Half buried in the earth
Almost like a stone,
Bones in the dust,
Sign of the dead,
Reveal nothing, only silence,
Burning in the heat.
A blow in the heat
Blood spilt on the earth
No reply in the silence.
Weapon made of a stone.
Now the dead
Lies in the dust.
Now wind blows the dust,
A sandy blast of heat.
The sky watches over the dead.
Bones covered by earth
Now there is only the stone,
And the silence.
Through the silence, in the dust,
By the stone, in the heat,
Under the earth there is the dead.
________________________
WRT310 Creative Writing, Spring 2006
Published with permission of poet
Thursday, May 11, 2006
According to “The Experts” (Ruth Ann Hake)
(Creative non-fiction)
*
INDIVIDUAL CABINS
COLOR TV AND AIR CONDITIONING
OTHER AMENITIES
COLOR TV AND AIR CONDITIONING
OTHER AMENITIES
*
She hoped they were as nice as they sounded.
They had two days together, and no one knew where to find them.
“I’ll wait in the car. I’m nervous,” she said. “What if they ask for identification?”
“We’re not doing anything illegal. And I have my driver’s license,” he answered, looking more like a teenager than a man as he made his way to the office to register.
This was the first time they had stayed in a motel.
“What was taking so long?” she thought. “I bet we won’t be able to get a room.”
They had two days together, and no one knew where to find them.
“I’ll wait in the car. I’m nervous,” she said. “What if they ask for identification?”
“We’re not doing anything illegal. And I have my driver’s license,” he answered, looking more like a teenager than a man as he made his way to the office to register.
This was the first time they had stayed in a motel.
“What was taking so long?” she thought. “I bet we won’t be able to get a room.”
They brought very little with them, an old brown suitcase for her and an army duffle bag for him. It was late, and a summer storm was brewing. The weatherman said: Severe thunderstorms.
“We have Cabin #5,” he said as he returned to the car just as the rain started.
She sighed with relief and he with anticipation.
It was easy to find; there were only eight cabins. As he opened the door to #5, a blast of hot air greeted them. When he found the light switch, a bare bulb shone from the yellowed ceiling.
“It won’t take long to cool,” he said.
The room was sparsely furnished; in fact, the bed was small and uninviting.
“Where’s the air conditioner?” she asked as she sat her suitcase by the door and glanced around the room.
They looked everywhere, but Cabin #5 didn’t have one.
“That’s okay,” she said. “Let’s just sit for awhile and watch TV. That might help us to relax.” Her hair was a little wet from the rain, and she wondered what she looked like.
There was nothing to sit on but the bed.
And where was the color television?
There wasn’t even a black and white TV in Cabin #5! But, there was a radio, a big old cabinet radio.
“We’ll listen to music. Maybe we can find something romantic to put us in the mood.”
She was easy to please even when she got upset. He said he liked that about her.
“This is unbelievable!” he said as he tried to turn on the radio. “This contraption needs quarters. I don’t have any. Do you?”
He was sweating. The heat was stifling. The rain pounded on the little cabin’s roof.
“No, but that’s okay,” she said as she headed to the bathroom, averting her eyes from the bed. “It’s late. I’ll take a nice cool bath, and we’ll go to bed.”
She took her suitcase with her. She brought a special nightgown.
The tension was mounting between them. Their getaway weekend was falling apart. She didn’t ask him to find the manager to complain. She was too embarrassed, this being their first time. And she suspected the manager was in bed in HIS air-conditioned cabin watching HIS color television.
“Honey,” she called. “There’s no bathtub, just a shower behind a plastic, mildewed curtain. I’m afraid I’ll catch something if I get in this shower.”
Maybe these cute, little log cabins trimmed in pink, advertising air conditioning and TV weren’t a good idea.
“I’ll just wash my face and be right there,” she said as she heard the bedsprings squeak.
She would lock herself in the bathroom for a little while to calm her nerves. She felt like she might throw up. Maybe he would fall asleep before she came out.
She didn’t notice when they first walked in, but now she did. There was only a ratty, plastic curtain for the bathroom door. And it didn’t even reach the floor! This was NOT okay! He could hear every sound she made. He would see her feet and know what she was doing. She would hold her bladder, all night if necessary.
“I’m coming out now.” Her voice quivered as she removed some clothing. Forget the nightie!
So in her slip, underwear, and a pair of socks that she brought along, she dashed from behind curtain number two to the bed. She could get through this ordeal if she covered up. She didn’t care how hot she was.
Where were the blankets? The bed was bare. Why didn’t she notice this before?
“What did you do with the blankets?” she asked as she turned her back to him and closed her eyes tightly.
“There aren’t any,” he replied.
She was on the verge of tears when he spotted the blankets hanging from hooks on the far wall. He retrieved one and covered her up to her chin.
“I want to go home.”
He turned off the bug-stained light and lay down beside her without even a kiss.
“It’s okay,” he said, keeping a distance between them. “We can just go to sleep. We have tomorrow, and the day after that. In fact, we have a lifetime.”
He was easy to please also.
A few hours earlier, they were pronounced man and wife, and this was their honeymoon in Cabin #5.
“We have Cabin #5,” he said as he returned to the car just as the rain started.
She sighed with relief and he with anticipation.
It was easy to find; there were only eight cabins. As he opened the door to #5, a blast of hot air greeted them. When he found the light switch, a bare bulb shone from the yellowed ceiling.
“It won’t take long to cool,” he said.
The room was sparsely furnished; in fact, the bed was small and uninviting.
“Where’s the air conditioner?” she asked as she sat her suitcase by the door and glanced around the room.
They looked everywhere, but Cabin #5 didn’t have one.
“That’s okay,” she said. “Let’s just sit for awhile and watch TV. That might help us to relax.” Her hair was a little wet from the rain, and she wondered what she looked like.
There was nothing to sit on but the bed.
And where was the color television?
There wasn’t even a black and white TV in Cabin #5! But, there was a radio, a big old cabinet radio.
“We’ll listen to music. Maybe we can find something romantic to put us in the mood.”
She was easy to please even when she got upset. He said he liked that about her.
“This is unbelievable!” he said as he tried to turn on the radio. “This contraption needs quarters. I don’t have any. Do you?”
He was sweating. The heat was stifling. The rain pounded on the little cabin’s roof.
“No, but that’s okay,” she said as she headed to the bathroom, averting her eyes from the bed. “It’s late. I’ll take a nice cool bath, and we’ll go to bed.”
She took her suitcase with her. She brought a special nightgown.
The tension was mounting between them. Their getaway weekend was falling apart. She didn’t ask him to find the manager to complain. She was too embarrassed, this being their first time. And she suspected the manager was in bed in HIS air-conditioned cabin watching HIS color television.
“Honey,” she called. “There’s no bathtub, just a shower behind a plastic, mildewed curtain. I’m afraid I’ll catch something if I get in this shower.”
Maybe these cute, little log cabins trimmed in pink, advertising air conditioning and TV weren’t a good idea.
“I’ll just wash my face and be right there,” she said as she heard the bedsprings squeak.
She would lock herself in the bathroom for a little while to calm her nerves. She felt like she might throw up. Maybe he would fall asleep before she came out.
She didn’t notice when they first walked in, but now she did. There was only a ratty, plastic curtain for the bathroom door. And it didn’t even reach the floor! This was NOT okay! He could hear every sound she made. He would see her feet and know what she was doing. She would hold her bladder, all night if necessary.
“I’m coming out now.” Her voice quivered as she removed some clothing. Forget the nightie!
So in her slip, underwear, and a pair of socks that she brought along, she dashed from behind curtain number two to the bed. She could get through this ordeal if she covered up. She didn’t care how hot she was.
Where were the blankets? The bed was bare. Why didn’t she notice this before?
“What did you do with the blankets?” she asked as she turned her back to him and closed her eyes tightly.
“There aren’t any,” he replied.
She was on the verge of tears when he spotted the blankets hanging from hooks on the far wall. He retrieved one and covered her up to her chin.
“I want to go home.”
He turned off the bug-stained light and lay down beside her without even a kiss.
“It’s okay,” he said, keeping a distance between them. “We can just go to sleep. We have tomorrow, and the day after that. In fact, we have a lifetime.”
He was easy to please also.
A few hours earlier, they were pronounced man and wife, and this was their honeymoon in Cabin #5.
* * * * *
For the next thirty-nine years on her anniversary, she remembered Cabin #5. What a beginning! Maybe they should have waited until they had more money and honeymooned in Aruba, or even the Pocono’s. Cabin #5 was an omen!
Today while she waited for her husband to come home from work, she listened to Dr. Phil and his guest, a marriage expert. Did they marry too young? Would they have been happier if they had more money to start with? But they loved each other in spite of age and money.
As she watched and listened, she made his favorite supper, shrimp lasagna and apple crisp.
They greeted each other with a kiss on the cheek.
He looked tired when he finally sat down to the table.
It was her turn to say grace, and she added a postscript, “Help our table-talk to be productive. Amen.”
“Do I smell apple crisp?” he asked.
She shouldn’t have said anything until supper was over, but she didn’t wait.
“Our marriage needs help,” she said. She patted his arm.
As he bit into a shrimp, he sighed, “What have you been watching now?”
“Dr. Phil. And he had a lot to say about us. We never had a real honeymoon, and our fortieth anniversary is coming up in a couple of months. Remember?” she asked as she took the salad dish from him abruptly.
“Have I ever forgotten an anniversary?” he asked as he put his fork down with a clang.
“You came pretty close sometimes,” she said. “Dr Phil says that to keep a ‘long time’ marriage fresh and teeming with passion we need to be spending quality time together. New hobbies or a shared sport were two of the expert’s suggestions. A second honeymoon also might do us good. You do remember the first one, don’t you, dear?”
“Of course, I remember! Cabin #5, dear!”
“And we’d have to start sleeping together again,” she said. They hadn’t slept in the same bed for two years. That was a big problem, according to the experts.
However, something needed to be fixed before she considered going away with him and sharing a bed. She didn’t know how he would take her next request.
“If we decide to go on a second honeymoon, will you get the operation?”
His face registered fear and shock. The only sound was the ticking of the timer.
“I’ll never let a doctor touch me again with surgical instruments. How many scars do I have from the ‘simple’ gall bladder operation?” he asked. “I can’t believe you asked me that!”
“The surgeon apologized to you for his resident’s mistake of missing the gall bladder with his first incision. And it was the young doctor’s first operation.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” he said. “ I won’t go under the knife again, not even for a second honeymoon.”
“I’ve hardly ever said a word about our first honeymoon, but each anniversary brings back the memories of that fiasco. We could take pictures this time, get a tan, read, and reconnect,” she said.
“Is that one of the expert’s words, reconnect?”
“As a matter of fact, yes! I can’t reconnect with you until you fix the problem that only surgery can cure.” She stared straight into his eyes.
It was his turn to stare back. The timer ticked louder.
“According to the experts, is there anything else wrong with our marriage that we can fix with an expensive honeymoon? We might as well get this all out in the open while my favorite supper gets cold!” he said. He sat back in his chair.
“I wanted to talk to you while the show is fresh in my mind.” She sipped her ice tea before her next announcement.
“We failed the quiz!”
“What quiz?” he asked.
“The Will This Marriage Last quiz.”
“How could I fail The Quiz when I didn’t take it?” He leaned forward, elbows on the table.
“I knew what your answers would be, so I answered for you. Except for question number eight, I wasn’t quite sure.”
“And what was question eight?” he asked.
“I can’t remember exactly. It was something about nudity and lighting.”
“What was my answer?” he asked. “I’d like to know!”
She sensed his interest now. Interest was good! Maybe their marriage could be fixed.
“That question is the least of our worries. According to the experts, we didn’t get off to a good start. We had several strikes against us,” she said.
“I can name a few,” he said as he counted on his fingers. “We were too young, I was still in college, and my father hated you. And your dad thought I couldn’t take care of his first-born.
“Am I right?” he asked as he held up four fingers.
She nodded and added, “Our first baby was born too soon, you quit school, and we had to rent a house from my dad.”
Now they were up to seven reasons.
He continued, “I made barely enough money to support us, I worked an extra job in the evenings, and two more babies came within three years.”
“Why didn’t we know we were in trouble?” she asked.
It was his turn.
“And then for the next thirty-five years, we took care of a handicapped daughter who zapped our energy, our hopes, and our resources. It should have been obvious at that point, that our marriage was doomed, don’t you think, dear?” He ran out of fingers to hold up.
“So I wonder why we are still together, against all odds, dear?” she asked.
“Probably because we didn’t have as many experts back then as the world has now. Stop listening to the experts and listen to your heart.”
That’s all she needed to hear.
“So about our second honeymoon. Let’s see if the cabins are still there,” she said, happy once again.
“If they’re still there, we’ll drive right by!”
They picked up the silverware since the crisis was over. Neither noticed if the food was cold.
“Forget that I mentioned your operation, I’ll keep sleeping in the extra bedroom, just don’t tell anyone. If we go on a second honeymoon, I’ll use earplugs and you can try breathing strips to stop your snoring.”
“And no more quizzes!”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
The timer rang. Dessert was ready.
___________________
WRT310 Creative Writing, Spring 2006
Published with author’s permission
The Promise (Christy Torres)
(Short Story)
It was 1987. Tracey was seven years old. She lay outside in the grass, and stared at the clear blue sky. The sun was shining. Its warmth caressed her skinny arms and legs, and it kissed her freckled face. The blades of grass swayed in the wind, and tickled her neck. She watched the cotton-ball clouds float by. Her eyes fluttered shut, and her body twitched toward imminent sleep. Suddenly a huge gush of frigid water poured over her. She sat up gasping to steal back the breath she had just lost. Goosebumps immediately popped up covering her arms and legs as the scream reached her lips.
As the sound of Tracey’s discomfort echoed throughout the yard, a new sound joined it. High-pitched laughter poured out of Ted’s mouth. He laughed so hard that tears ran down his face, and he clutched his stomach. Tracey jumped up with a yell, startling him. Wide-eyed, he watched his twin sister run full force at him. He had no time to move, duck, dash, or even think. She tackled him to the ground.
Tracey stares out the window of the hospital as the nurse enters the room. “Are you ready?” the nurse asks. Tracey stares at the vials lying neatly on the table, and swallows hard. She nods and lies down on her back on the hospital bed. The nurse wipes her arm with an alcohol pad. The smell stings Tracey’s nose and the prick of the needle fires hot pain up her arm. She clenches her teeth and looks out the window. “I am all done. I am going to take your blood to the lab so they can compare the DNA to see if you are a match. Try to rest; the surgeon will be in shortly to talk with you.” The nurse smiles and leaves the room. Tracey gets up and walks to the window and stares at the world outside. Her mind continues to drift.
It was 1988. Ted walked into the living room. He wore a Detroit Tigers baseball cap and a jersey. He had a huge smile on his face, and cradled something in his hand. “Whatcha got there?” Tracey asked from her seat on the worn-out couch.
“It ain’t anything for you. Daddy got it for me after the game. It’s a baseball card to add to my collection. Ya know it’s probably the best card I got. It’s an original and everything!” The excitement in Ted’s voice piqued her curiosity. She sat up from her reclined position and took her feet off the coffee table.
“Well, can I see it?”
“No.”
“Please, I won’t hurt it.”
“No. It’s mine!” Ted yelled. Tracey got up from the couch and lunged for his hand. Ted jumped out of the way, causing her to lose her balance. She stumbled forward and tripped over the coffee table; she tumbled to the floor. She sat up stunned. She rubbed her head and tried to fight back the tears stinging her eyes.
“Ha, ha, that’s what you get,” Ted said. He continued to laugh as he walked down the hall to his bedroom. Rage filled her, and her body trembled. She got up and raced down the hall to Ted’s room. She burst through the door and grabbed his new baseball card from his hand. Before he could take it back, she took Ted’s baseball card, an original 1909 Ty Cobb, ripped it into small pieces and ate them.
Ted stood there in shock. His mouth was gaping open, his eyes were glossy with tears; he was clenching his fists so hard that his fingernails drew blood in the palms of his hands. In a split second he tackled her to the ground.
Tracey turns her head toward the door at the sound of a soft knock. A doctor walks in and flashes a toothy grin. He sits on the edge of her bed and extends his big hand to her. “Hi, I am Dr. Smith, your surgeon. You probably don’t remember me, but I helped take care of your family in 1989. Of course I was just an intern then. Anyway, back to business, we got the results and you are a perfect match to your brother. Twins usually are. So, do you have any questions for me?”
Tracey’s mind races, he helped my family? She thinks. She takes a deep breath and clears her throat. “Well, after surgery, will his cancer be gone? Will I be okay with one kidney? Will he be okay with only one?” The doctor pats her shaking hands and nods his head.
“We caught your brother’s cancer early before it had time to spread anywhere else. You are both young and healthy and will do very well with only one kidney. After surgery, I am optimistic that you will both make full recoveries. The best thing is that Ted will be cancer free. I want you to know that I think this is a very brave thing you are doing for you brother. Try to rest, surgery is in the morning. Tomorrow evening you’ll both be right as rain.” Dr. Smith smiles and leaves the room. Tracey sighs and turns on the television. Lost in thought, time fades away to the past.
It was 1989. Tracey and Ted were sitting in the backseat of their parent’s car, thumb wrestling. They were on their way to Disney World. It was the family’s first real vacation, and they were all really excited. Ted had been nagging their parents to go there for years. He was so excited that he could barely contain himself. Their father was driving and their mother hummed softly to the music playing in the background. “Are we there yet?” Ted asked.
Their mother turned and smiled, “We just left home, Teddy. It is going to take us a few days to get there. Be patient, and we will be there faster than you know it.” She turned in her seat and smiled at her husband. He reached over and patted her leg.
“Eww…they’re getting all lovey-dovey again.” Tracey giggled. She turned and looked out her window. They were entering an intersection, and Tracey saw a truck barreling toward them. “Daddy?”
Tracey woke up with a sharp pain in her side and her leg felt like it was on fire. She looked beside her at her brother. His head was down and he looked like he was sleeping. She craned her neck and looked at her father in front of her. He looked like he was sleeping too. Then she looked at her mother. “Mommy?” she asked.
Her mother looked back and smiled. “Don’t be scared honey. The truck hurt the car, but help is coming. We’re going to be okay. Mommy and Daddy love you so much. Be a big girl and always be there for your brother. Okay, honey?”
Tracey was confused, “I love you too Mommy, and I will watch Teddy if you want. I feel sleepy and my leg hurts.”
“It’s okay, baby. I love you.” Tracey closed her eyes and the world slipped away with the sound of sirens in the distance.
The nurse walks in snapping Tracey back to reality. She quickly wipes the tears from her checks. “I’m just here to take your temperature and blood pressure. We have to make sure there isn’t any sign of infection before surgery,” the nurse says. She finishes and charts the information, and then she leaves the room. Tracey turns off the television and then the lights. She closes her eyes and falls into a restless sleep full of haunting dreams.
It was 1989. It was a dreary day, full of dark clouds, fits of rain and rolling thunder. Tracey stared out the window of the car as it drove through the cemetery. Rain splashed off the car, rolled down the windows, and distorted the tombstones that danced by. The car pulled up behind the hearse and sputtered to a stop. She turned and looked at Ted sitting beside her. His eyes were red and bloodshot, his checks were stained with tears, and his lips were bright red from chewing on them. There was a bandage over his right eye covering the stitches he needed from the accident.
Tracey took his hand and opened the door. They slowly walked hand in hand to the two coffins resting side by side. Family and friends surrounded them to offer their condolences; but Tracey and Ted were oblivious to those around them. Ted sobbed and his whole body trembled. Tracey turned and hugged him tightly. “I want Mom and Dad back,” he said in her ear. Tears welled up in her eyes and she blinked them back rapidly.
“I do too, but they’re gone. It’s just you and me now. I’ll watch you, I promised I would. I’ll be there for you always, whenever you need me.” Ted continued to shake in her arms.
Tracey wakes up to the gentle touch of the nurse. She opens her eyes and knows it is time for surgery. She remembers her long-forgotten promise that she made to her mother and brother. The nurse wheels her down the hall to the surgical suite. She watches the lights flash by overhead and the butterflies in her stomach threaten to overcome her. She closes her eyes and sees her mother’s face smiling at her.
Once in the operating room, they prep her for surgery and the anesthesiologist begins to put her under. The drugs wash over her and her fears fade away. She knows that she is about to fulfill her promise to her mother. She is going to be there for her brother in his time of need, and she is comforted in that fact.
Tracey opens her eyes. She feels groggy and tired. She looks over and sees Ted beside her. His handsome face is pale from the surgery and chemotherapy. She tries to speak, but can’t yet talk. She clears her throat. “Hey there Teddy,” she says. His eyes open slowly and he smiles at her.
“Hey.”
“Looks like we both made it.”
“Yeah, I guess we did.”
“How long do we have to recover?”
“A week, maybe, why?” he asks.
“Just wondering,” she closes her eyes and goes back to sleep, dreaming of the past.
It was 1990. Tracey was ten years old. She was sitting on a tire swing tied to a huge oak tree in her grandmother’s front yard. She looked down at her white shoes and slowly swung herself back and forth. The autumn sun glowed low in the sky, and leaves fell lazily to the ground. Ted walked up to her on the swing. “Can I have a turn?” he asked.
“No, I was swinging first.”
“Come on, please, let me.”
“No,” Tracey said and smiled while she swung higher. Ted started picking up pebbles and throwing them at her. She laughed as they missed her. Ted sat down and pulled his knees to his chest and put his head down. Tears rolled down his checks and he sniffled. Tracey stopped and got off the swing. She went over and sat down beside him. “What’s wrong?” she asked softly.
“Nothing, just leave me alone.”
“Well, why are you crying?”
“Because.”
“Because why?” she asked scooting closer to him.
“Because you are always mean to me. You never do anything nice for me. Remember when you hurt my baseball card that Dad got me? That was my favoritest thing ever. And now you won’t let me swing on the tire. I wish I would have died with Mom and Dad.” Tracey sat there stunned. She did not know what to say. Tears filled her eyes and she felt terrible.
“I’m sorry Teddy,” she said softly, “You can swing if you want. I promise I will do better. Someday I will get you a good baseball card. Heck, someday I will take you to Disney World. I promise. I’m glad you didn’t die with Mom and Dad.” She got up and walked slowly to her grandmother’s white farm house. She looked back at her brother crying softly in the yard and renewed her vow to him.
A month after leaving the hospital, Tracey drives to Ted’s apartment to pick him up. She honks the horn and he comes out with a suitcase in hand. He pulls open the blue car door; throws the bag in the back seat and gets in. “So where are we going?” he asks.
Tracey smiles and reaches over to open the glove box. She pulls out a small box wrapped in blue paper and hands it to Ted.
“Let’s just say I had a lot of time to think while I was in the hospital,” she says as she turns onto the highway. He pulls off the paper and opens the box, inside is a baseball card, an original 1909 Ty Cobb. He looks out the window speechless, tears in his eyes, and sees a sign that says Disney World 1100 miles.
__________
WRT310 Creative Writing, Spring 2006
Published with author’s permission
WRT310 Creative Writing, Spring 2006
Published with author’s permission
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Daddy's Little Girl (Danielle Fugate, Ashley Reid, Stacey Pusey) (Group Project)
These three writers developed this poem based on the following prompt: In a similar style to Sylvia Plath's "Daddy," write a poem called "Daddy's Little Girl"; thus, the speaker of your poem is the father or estranged husband of Plath's speaker. The writers had about 25 minutes to write the poem. After working on various exercises, the entire class listened to Sylvia Plath reading her poem "Daddy."
You do not do, you do not do
You never did, you always knew
What I was, a man of
passion when love was new.
I didn't have to kill you,
you did for yourself.
Cold to the core, burdened by two,
Not strong enough. It all fell
through.
If I am a vampire, you are
my cross. The very image of
you burns and sears.
A broken soul before me,
but I gave you my sanity.
You only borrowed; didn't
you know I'd need it
back?
My darling wife, you
hollow being, I'm through.
___________________
LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2006
Published with writers' permission
You do not do, you do not do
You never did, you always knew
What I was, a man of
passion when love was new.
I didn't have to kill you,
you did for yourself.
Cold to the core, burdened by two,
Not strong enough. It all fell
through.
If I am a vampire, you are
my cross. The very image of
you burns and sears.
A broken soul before me,
but I gave you my sanity.
You only borrowed; didn't
you know I'd need it
back?
My darling wife, you
hollow being, I'm through.
___________________
LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2006
Published with writers' permission
A Pet's Love (Hank Weikel, Michelle Miller, Colleen Pisano) (A Group Project)
These three writers developed this poem based on the following prompt: In a similar style to Ted Hughes' "The Lovepet," write a poem called "A Pet's Love"; thus, the speaker of your poem is the estranged wife of Hughes' speaker. The writers had about 25 minutes to write the poem.
Is he a blessing or a curse?
it overtook my life
He watched it passed by
I nourished it
hoping for healthy growth
looking for signs of life
He paraded around with others
I waited
it overtook my emotions
He ignored it
It started to fade away
I held it tight
off again it went
I lingered a moment
waiting for return
then off I went
finding another way
to pull him in tight
I watched its sickness spread to our children
So I tried to heal it
But I felt it dying in him
It overtook my life
As it left his
___________________
LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2006
Published with writers' permission
Is he a blessing or a curse?
it overtook my life
He watched it passed by
I nourished it
hoping for healthy growth
looking for signs of life
He paraded around with others
I waited
it overtook my emotions
He ignored it
It started to fade away
I held it tight
off again it went
I lingered a moment
waiting for return
then off I went
finding another way
to pull him in tight
I watched its sickness spread to our children
So I tried to heal it
But I felt it dying in him
It overtook my life
As it left his
___________________
LIT160 Introduction to Literature, Spring 2006
Published with writers' permission
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