Five Sentence Fiction - Silence

Although I’d asked my father for many things in my short life, I had never before asked him for his understanding.   Throughout my twenty two years, when our ideals and values differed, I let it slide; whenever my priorities collided with his plans, I let him have his way.  I never voiced an opinion, never uttered a sound that would have given him the prior knowledge he needed to dull the pain of my now spoken request.

In the end, my words just tumbled out, urgently, far ahead of conscious thought, thoroughly disregarding my much edited script;  half way through my impromptu speech, my father gave up looking at me and turned his eyes down, seeming to inspect the yellow formica kitchen table where we both sat.

When I'd finished, and he stood to leave, I felt it would be the last time I’d  see him, for my life had now made a two-wheeled corner turn from which it could not recover; but as my father reached the back door, he stopped and, looking me in the eyes so I could see he had begun to weep, he said: “I’m very proud of you, son - we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

Five Sentence Fiction: Foggy

Sitting across from the nurses’ station on Unit 9 was Annie’s regular resting spot; moved there by the morning shift so her hospital room could be cleaned properly, the attendants usually forgot about retrieving her until the food trays arrived on the ward at noon, four hours later.

“Come on Annie, let’s get you some lunch” was the daily refrain from whichever student nurse was assigned the laborious task of pushing her back down the hall to her room; Annie’s toes curled rigidly on the foot rests as if she was trying to engage parking brakes on the wheelchair, but her bony arms flailed out to each side, endangering frail patients and medical carts innocently lined up along the walls.

Annie’s rheumy eyes stared straight ahead on these brief journeys; no longer was she able to identify objects or people.  Though her vision remained intact, she could not see.

For over the tumultuous course of the past three years, Annie had retreated to a confusing world of memories covered over by cumulus clouds and present days overcast by a constant fog.

What have I?

Chimes and bells ring, catching my breath, piercing my soul.  Church sounds haunt me.  They return me to a childhood defined by discipline and critique. Devoid of love. 

Before the fire, before the end, I had walked through my days pretending to be proud. Pretending to be studious. Pretending to be.  But since the hills melted and the waves crashed in, I have only tried to exist.  Hearing those sounds has awakened me, though not in the gentle way of fairy tales. No, the music of prayer has shaken me and forced me to finally assess my circumstance.

I see her in the distance, clamouring to stay upon a raft in the murky waters left to us.  I try to call out but my voice has been used up.  Terror has taken it completely.  Now that I have a gentle use for my words, they cannot be uttered. 

I call with my eyes – is such a thing possible?  She seems overwhelmed yet somehow strong. Determined. I focus my attention completely on her, forcing her to feel my energy. I plead with her in silence.  Look at me! You are not alone! I am here!

I can tell she is frightened by the dark sea and the miasma that floats around her;  but she moves, her eyes searching for the source of empowerment lifting both her body and spirit. 

I realize that I am hoping. Surely this must be a sign that I am alive. I have hope.

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I don't usually put add explanations of my writing posts but perhaps this piece warrants one.  I have been thinking about genres of fiction, mostly prompted by the insightful writer, David Antrobus.  I felt it might be time to try out a different "voice" in my fiction, to ensure I have options available as I decide what stories I want to tell, and how I want to tell them. 

This piece was a challenge because the cadence is completely different than my usual.  The thread that ties this story to my others is the theme and the challenges of the protagonist.  No matter what era or sentence structure I employ, I hope the themes are personal and universal.

Girl Games

It sure seems dark tonight.  I guess there aren’t as many stars in the sky.  The lights on the bridge are the same.  So are the car headlights.  I sit in the same place, on the same rock every time I stop here. I like this rock, and I like sitting by the river, even if it does smell kind of salty and dirty.  The waves look green, don’t they? I think it’s a reflection off the bridge. Pretty smart eh? Yeah. Reflection. That’s what it is.

I saw Sandra in the cafeteria at lunch on Friday and she said she’d tell her parents if I kept following her home from school.  I don’t know why she made such a big deal about it.  I thought she liked me following her.  She smiled at me twice in the hallway and once in Chemistry.  I thought she finally liked me.  I guess I got it wrong again, like last year with Bethany. Girls play all sorts of games, I can’t figure it out.  

My buddies act the same stupid way too.  One minute you’re freaking best friends and then the next minute they tell you to get lost.  Lorne was a pretty good guy until he made goalie.  Now he won’t even look at me in class.  He sits in the back with that dweeb Mike who plays centre on the hockey team and they crack jokes all through Mrs. Langston’s English class.  It’s not right; she’s one of the few nice teachers we’ve got.  But Lorne and Mike are on ‘the team’ and that makes them gods.  Just ask ‘em, they’ll tell you all about it.  Of course, Lorne did kick his new best friend when Mike called me a dyke. I appreciated that show of support. He didn’t say anything but it was a pretty good kick in the thigh.

My brother Pete told me that I should stop being a tomboy and start acting like a girl.  I told him that I don’t have to because with the way he acts, Mom and Dad already have a daughter.  I didn’t mean to hurt his feelings but geez, come on.  I’m fifteen.  I know all about what I should be doing.  Doesn’t make it any easier to actually do it.  That’s why I like, no wait, make that ‘liked’, that’s why I liked Sandra.  She knows what she’s doing when it comes to being a girl.  

Sandra and I were friends in grade six.  That’s how long I’ve known her.  But I tell you, she really has changed since then.  Yeah, I know she’s older, I’m not an idiot.  But in grade six, all Sandra and I talked about was softball.  We learned it together.  I was a great pitcher and a great hitter; still have a good arm actually.  And Sandra – Sandra could run.  I could get her home from any base she landed on.  I hit the ball and she flew.  I’ll tell you a secret.  The best thing about softball that year was seeing Sandra run.  

Anyways, one day, we were sitting in the dugout after the game and she was talking about how she thought it was great that I could always get the baseball to the exact spot I wanted it to go.  Her arm was not meant for throwing.  So we went up onto the field, and I tried to show her.  I took her hand and explained how to grip the ball for maximum control. Then I stood behind her and showed her how to swing her arm.  We did that a few times, but as I was swinging her arm, with my arm holding hers in the right position, I couldn’t stop myself.  I leaned in and smelled her hair.  I stuck my face right into her golden brown-with-blonde-highlights-from-the-sun-hair and I took a deep breath.  

That wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done.  Sandra jumped away from me, like I’d given her an electric shock or something.  She turned and looked at me – stared right into my eyes. I stared back but I didn’t say anything, I couldn’t figure out how to explain what I’d done. Even then I knew she wouldn’t understand and I couldn’t make her.  Sandra kept looking at me but she didn’t say anything either. Her face kept changing, right in front of me.   It was like she went from being scared to being disgusted to being happy to being scared again.  We must have looked pretty odd, the two of us, standing under the lights on the diamond just staring at each other.

Sandra finally looked away and said she was riding her bike home so had to leave before it got dark.  I remember it perfectly because she ran across the diamond over to where the bikes were kept at the side of the field’s parking lot. I was mad she was leaving but she looked beautiful when she ran away.

Since that day, Sandra has only ever spoken to me when she was forced.  But like I said, last week was different.  She kept smiling at me.  Well, she smiled at me three times.  Smiling three times at a person you haven’t even wanted to look at for years? That’s a lot, isn’t it? No wonder I got the wrong idea. 

So I thought I’d follow her home, to see if she would talk to me.  Walking behind her was cool.  Like I said, she knows what she’s doing when it comes to being a girl. And I can tell you, I mean that from the front and from the back.  I know girls aren’t supposed to look at other girls’ butts but when you’re walking behind someone, what else are you going to look at?  A butt is the only thing then.  

 

Sandra knew I was there because when she got to her house, she turned as she was putting the key in the door, and looked right over at me standing beside her dad’s truck.   We walked to her house the same way two days in a row after that.  But on Friday, she walked over to me in the cafeteria and told me to get lost.  She said it kind of quietly but I knew she meant it.  She looked like she was going to cry.  I didn’t want to make her cry so I told her she didn’t have to tell me to get lost.  I wasn’t going to follow her again anyways.  I said that quietly too.  You never know in that cafeteria who’s listening to what conversation.  Anyways, it was just like in Grade Six softball again.  Sandra stared at me and I stared back, neither of us saying a word until she looked away after a few minutes, and said she had to go because her next class was French.  The language labs are on the other side of our high school.

So that’s it really.  I wouldn’t be thinking about any of this except tonight I got a phone call from her.   She said she wanted to meet me and talk.  Which is funny when you think about it - we aren’t much good at talking, her and I.  I’m willing to give it a shot though.  Sandra said she knew where I sat beside the bridge.  I don’t know how she knows this spot, I’ve never told anyone.  I didn’t ask her.  She said to meet her here at five o’clock.  I got here at four thirty.  I wanted her to know it was important to me.  

It’s five after five now, and here she comes down the path.  Wow, I sure am glad she’s late.  She still looks beautiful when she runs.