Write On Edge Tattoo Challenge

I was torn with this prompt. At first I didn't think I could participate. I dislike most tattoos on most people. Yesterday however I typed up not one, but two responses. The challenge was written on October 11, 2011 by cheryl in Red Writing Hood Prompts. 300 words or less to compose a piece where a tattoo is featured prominently. I apologize if I'm cheating, but both these stories screamed for attention and I, as their parent, didn't have the heart to choose between them.

The first offering: For Grandfather

Five numbers lined up on his leathered skin, distorted from age. 32897.

It was rare when he showed it. Most days it remained hidden under the sleeve of his ever present grey sweater. It was taboo to discuss it. I mentioned it once at dinner and my mother kicked me under the table. I didn’t understand at the time. I was five years old.

He died. After a long battle, cancer finally claimed him. That afternoon I walked into a tattoo parlor. The artist Mina asked if there was something specific I was looking for.

I nodded, the conversation I had with my mother still fresh on my mind.

I had summoned up the courage to ask my mother about the numbers as we congregated in the hospital hallway. She flashed a nervous smile and sighed, “Your grandfather was only three when the Nazis marched into Warsaw,” she said. I couldn’t tell if her voice was shaking because of pride or grief, or perhaps a bit of both. “His family was sent to a concentration camp not long after…”

I knew of course, at least understood that there was more pain than even my dry history books could remember. There was no need for details. She didn’t offer any. “You never said,” I accused her meekly.

I had unintentionally wounded her with those words. She spoke apologetically, “It wasn’t my secret to tell Tova. He came here after, well where could he go really? The Fidels adopted him. He’s only talked about it twice in his life. Once to your grandmother, once to me…There’s so much pain he tried to keep from us, to protect us.”

“I know what I want,” I said pushing the unopened book back to Mina. “Five numbers in a line, 32897.”

Second Offering: Homecoming

“What if he doesn’t like me?” Faith asked her mother with wide blue eyes.

They stood at the dock, waiting anxiously for the prisoners to be released from the ship. Somewhere among those hardened criminals was an innocent man, a husband and father, and his was a homecoming six long years in the making. Sally gripped her daughter’s hand fighting tears of joy. It had been a long fight to free him, and it was almost over.

A tall, thin man stood out from the others. They hadn’t been in contact with each other since the day they sentenced him to life on that forsaken island, she eight months pregnant. Sally knew her husband anywhere, regardless of the weight loss and the haunted look. He rushed from the plank, pushing passed the columns of the condemned to scoop her up in his strong arms. “I never gave up on you,” she whispered through her tears. When he released her, he knelt eye-level with his daughter. The child he had never seen. He was crying. “Your daughter, Simon. We decided on Faith, remember?”

“Hello Daddy,” Faith said timidly.

“Hello, my beautiful little girl,” Simon voiced. He reached out to touch her cheek, the sleeve of his shirt pulling back just enough for Sally to see a tattoo on his wrist.

Instantly she realized what it meant. It was his tether to life, his reason for holding on in the dark when all hope was lost. Sally watched as all he had endured ebbed away with a tide of tears. She touched his arm gently, and traced the exposed indigo letters of the crude brand.

A simple word etched forever into his skin. Faith.

He clutched them both tightly as if to make up for lost time.

 

Write On Edge Setting Challenge

So I stumbled across this from an announcement on Twitter. In 200 words, galit for Red Writing Hood asked for writers to paint a setting as vividly as possible.

This place is drawn loosely from my own memory files. I remember the raw emotion overcoming my entire family as we happened across this very unexpected find.

  It is a crisp Tuesday afternoon. Autumn colors draw me from my home in solitary pilgrimage. Cold, grey clouds clot the sky like eiderdown and play peek-a-boo with the waning sun. The Appalachian earth not yet thawed, crunches like corn chips beneath my feet. The perfectly manicured grass is shock green between seas of fathomless, motionless white markers, the callous account of freedom's ransom. Row after row of these sentinels stand vigilant for those they serve. The loss is immeasurable and washes through me as a torrent. I turn my collar against the contesting breeze laden with the scent of cedar and wild columbine and listen as the song birds hush their melodies in reverence. The valley that once harbored war against brothers now cradles her victims in sheltering arms hidden among the golden ash and rowan, far from the view of the bustling highway. I stand rooted, absorbing the voiceless whispers from forgotten ghosts. The rest, the rest is silence, Hamlet would say. I turn from the dead to take the long walk home, my steps heavy. I am weary and changed like the season, preparing for winter’s slumber and the promise of peace.

Ooh shiny....

Okay so I've been doing a little spring cleaning. I know it's autumn, but there's something I'm looking for and I can't find it. Not that I would remember what I was looking for once I found it anyway...

Sorry. My mind works like lightning. One brilliant flash and it's gone again.

Anyway I've come across an old journal of mine. It was a class assignment, at least that's how it started out. Then it doubled as a venue to take notes from history class in. It also seems to house a character back-story for some random role I had in drama class. Doodles line the outside edges of the paper, swirling about like melting ice cream. And there it is, smack in the middle of the Whiskey Rebellion, outlined with several sloppy five-point stars.

No, not the object I originally was looking for, although I still can't tell you what that was, or why I was looking for it in the box marked "miscellaneous past".

This little comment I wrote I remember actually submitting to my high school poetry publication.

If the universe only stretched as far as our imaginations, many of us would never see the moon.

Me. I wrote that. I was thirteen-ish. Apparently, I have moments of profound clarity while in the middle of an important task.Where is that girl now, I wonder, as I look at the hearts and flowers tucked into empty spaces between words. Then I laugh. All the years that have passed have not affected my core being. I have not changed. I wrote my 50k for Nanowrimo 2010 in between projects at work. It's as if my creative muse has always taunted me like a pesky sister might,  begging me to come outside and play even though I have a deadline I absolutely have to make. She's tempting me even now. She sent me on a wild goose chase for something I can't find so I'd have something to write about when what I really should be doing right now is going to bed. I have to be at work earlier than normal tomorrow and mornings and I are not mutually compatible as it is.

Okay Muse, you can have one last glass of water while I tell you another short story, but then I'm tucking you in and it's lights out! No, not War and Peace. Les Mis, really? Let's count sheep instead. One two buckle my shoe...Shoes! I was looking for my sneakers...
SK

Confessions of a Word Junkie

When I was in my tender years and my mind full of mush was still extremely pliable, my brother (who is nine years my senior) told me that words have meaning.

I don’t know if he realizes the profound affect that his words had on my writing life. The voice I have I developed in part because of his simple statement. So credit applied where credit is due, I have a confession to make.

I am a word junkie.

To further foster my addiction, my parents introduced me to the world’s most valuable book extant, the dictionary. If there was a word I didn’t understand, they helped me look it up for the definition. It was a glorious discovery. I could insult adults and peers alike without calling them vulgar names, and most were none the wiser. I began to read the Complete Unabridged Webster’s Dictionary at the age of seven, avariciously. I’m not saying that I understood all of it at the time, nor was I in a position to voice newfound knowledge I may have happened across. Still I read it, cover to cover and back again.

My elementary school had a basic library. Once a week each class was allowed to go to the library and check out a book. It was required to check out a book. The trouble was, I had read almost every book in that library by the time I hit second grade. My mother was the parent/volunteer coordinator so I had spent a great deal of time in the library where I was quiet and out of the way. As all my classmates swarmed about the early reader chapter books, I struck out on my own path. The book I chose my first week was James Harriot’s All Creatures Great and Small. My second grade teacher attempted to talk me out of the choice and implied that I should act my age. The librarian, knowing how much material I could go devour in a week, defended me.

I also did not score any points with my fourth grade teacher when I tried to explain that the word august did not need to be capitalized in my sentence because I wasn’t using August the month, I was using august the adjective. Her reaction when she read the definition in the dictionary? I quote, “No one old enough to read a newspaper will understand this sentence, so change the word to wealthy and move on.”

“But I don’t mean wealthy, as in rich, affluent, or prosperous. I mean august, as in noble, majestic, or imposing.”

“People won’t understand. You want to be understood, don’t you?”

“I want to be understood by intelligent people who know how to use a dictionary if they don’t comprehend the meaning of words.”

Needless to say, I was not teacher’s pet that year.

I am continuously amazed at the scope in which our language has truly degraded. Most people, if they are honest with themselves, use the same 200 words in their daily speech. Why? English may not be the romance language, but every year we lose our ability to effectively communicate our ideas simply because we forget a word exists. Like the dandelion on the ill-used path of life; obscure words are tragically left behind unappreciated and misunderstood. There are nutrients in a dandelion that can feed the body. There are nutrients in words that will feed the soul.

I have another confession to make. I have to have my commercials on television screened before I can watch them. Every single time the animal shelter one comes on and that song about being in the arms of the angels, I cry for days. I want to adopt them all, It’s a silly notion. No one person can assume responsibility for every abused or abandoned creature and maintain sanity. Those who try are labeled hoarders and become the abusers they rescued their charges from, perpetuating the vicious cycle.

So how do my two confessions relate to one another? I have an unhealthy addiction for language and an overwhelming desire to adopt every word in the English dictionary. They are valuable. Each one has a meaning. So many languages die every day for want of someone to speak them. Unfortunately, the technology that helps us see into the dark stretches of the universes is also the catalyst that confines our ability to express our imaginations.

Inspired by a Press Gang

Press Gangs in and of themselves aren't inspirational. They are oppressive. Centuries ago one could be pressed into service if one accepted a king's coin. Any coin, be it copper or crown. The trouble was, a sober, well-thinking man would not take a mere coin in payment for his life. The phrase "Mind your ps and qs" is said to originate from this dark era. A wife would tell her husband on his way to the public house to trade, to "mind your pints and quarts" for a few, critical reasons. The tavern keep would begin to charge whatever he wished for a pint if one was too drunk to notice, making the tab hard to ever pay off. The most important of these reasons though comes from King's men slipping a coin into one's tankard of ale. Once the tankard was drained of it's contents, the "accepted" coin was revealed, and one would be dragged from the pub towards the recruitment officer.

It's the beginning of glass-bottom tankards. Before accepting taking a drink, one could simply lift his tankard and peer through the bottom in search of coin.

Of course, the Press Gang could just as easily catch a person unawares in a dark alley and beat him until he's surrendered, or even kidnap him, especially if that person was out after curfew.

So why do I say "Inspired by a Press Gang"?

It's what I thought of when I wrote these silly lyrics. I just stumbled across this in my creative writing stash and I thought I'd share.

Lucky to be Unlucky

Refrain:

Some might be lucky in love and even luckier in bed

Some might be lucky enough to be lucky with money instead

Me I’m lucky enough to say that I’ve no luck with luck at all

I’m lucky to be unlucky, whack fol liall diall

When I was just a young man, I fell for a lassie’s charms

Little did I know that she was destined for another’s arms

On the night that we were to wed she left me high and dry

She bore twins and is with child again, so better that man than I

I left the heather of Scotland because I was tired of the bog

London weren’t much better but I couldn’t see it through the fog

The press gang found me in a ditch and shipped me out next morn

I heard the fire swept through London by the time we reached the Horn

We were attacked by pirates and they set my crew adrift

The storm that found the pirates drowned all aboard the ship

My crew washed upon the shore of an uncivilized isle

But I found a stash of forgotten rum that would last me for a while

The natives there were cannibals and ate up half my crew

I was next upon their list but then their plan fell through

The mighty chieftain’s daughter had her eye on me to wed

The morning after the pox swept in and the entire tribe was dead

I thought that I had the last of luck since I then was all alone

Until a whaler bound for Liverpool stopped to ask directions home

Now I’m back aboard a bark and bounding o’er the briny sea

I wonder if I should warn the captain about little ole unlucky me.....

Nah, He thinks he’s seen a mermaid, I’d better let him be.

Another Short...

A writing prompt from Writers' Digest spawned this little thought. It's a bit rough, but I felt compelled to see it through.

Original prompt:

After living for years paycheck to paycheck, a windfall of money comes your way from a distant uncle. But in order to receive the money, you must complete a mission from your uncle’s will. What’s the mission and did you do it?

The Last Postcard

“Tara, I’ve some bad news about Uncle Jim,” Momma announced gently.

I knew what was coming next. My heart was going to break

.

There was no need for her to say anything additional, but she continued, her voice cracking like fine porcelain, “He died, two weeks ago. He was trying to save a family from a burning building…”

Momma had said that Grandfather believed Jim was the only son-in-law worthy of the title until Aunt Jolene and Cousin Grace perished in an apartment fire. Momma had watched it happen on the news channel. Jim had to hear about it from his commanding officer while they were in Grenada. Momma said that he was never right after that. He slipped into a bottle before I was born and then after my third birthday, he simply disappeared. I was the only family he spoke to after that.

He’d send me a random postcard, or he called when I was the only one home. I remembered the last conversation we had, about my dreams to attend an old world university, but there was no way we could ever afford the opportunity. We lived in Wilcox Springs, population 530, jobs 14. My uncle Jim may have been running from the pain of his past and this forsaken town, but it might’ve been the best thing he ever did after he crawled out of the bottle. 

My grandfather died angry with him. Jim had unfairly become his greatest disappointment. His wife, his three-year old daughter, both gone in one horrible night? How does one deal with such an immeasurable loss? A war-torn soldier like Jim might never find closure. “Fire claimed him?” I asked Momma hoarsely after the silence grew too much for me to bear. “I think somehow he would’ve wanted that.”

“He’s left this for you,” she said, pulling a postcard out of the legal-looking envelope. 

Too stunned to cry, I inspected the postcard, recognizing his terse script. Remember, Tara.  I turned the postcard around to view the peaceful grounds of Trinity College. “This is enough,” I said honestly.

“Honey, that’s not all,” Momma whispered, catching my gaze as she offered me the documents in her hand.

I took the communication delicately. The black words on white background played games with my vision momentarily. “To Tara,” I read aloud, shaking, “who reminds me of all that Grace would have been, I give all I would have given her had she survived me, to be held in trust with a small monthly stipend, and the remaining in full upon successful completion of a degree from Trinity College, or other higher learning facility of your choosing.”

“That sneaky, drunken fool made a fortune and he’s left it all to you,” Momma said without venom, tears dancing happily in her eyes.

I clutched his last postcard to my heart and refused to let go.

A Tale of Two Johnnys...

The following are letters found in a keepsake trunk located on the Winthrop estate near Cartersville, Tennessee and are dated during the Civil War, a time of etiquette and eloquence.

Dearest Thomasina,

            My Beloved One, not a day passes when I don’t hear your voice on the wind, your name whispered among the leaves of gossiping trees. I miss you.

            It seems strange now to write these words. I was so keen to war for glory and fortune that I neglected letters far too long. I have almost forgotten the sensation of a quill in hand and I have little remembered how to avoid messy ink blots. The scratching of the nib across the stolen velum grates at my nerves. It is a blessing that I chose the life of a soldier, for I am ill-equipped to keep books, although I suppose that is of little comfort to my mother or you, who must fear for my life daily.

            I had hoped that we would have leave September next, but it would appear that November will come before we are released for the winter. The commanders’ fears for snow in the mountain passes drive this latest campaign although it is still August and the sweltering heat pushes us on amidst complaints.

            I happened across a meadow near Brighton Forge some weeks back. It was an idyllic place, fed by a fresh stream and cooled with breezes. It felt like heaven to relax there at the end of our two day march. When the war is over, I should like to bring you there. Truly, you will come to love the place as I have done, and we can build our life there. It may be a harder life than you are used to or than you deserve, but you will see. The ground is dark with fertile soil and I am eager to root, to start a family, raising crops and children in abundance.

            I must hasten to close these few lines although it pains me much to do so. Know that my slumber is saturated only with images of you. I will write again when next I can.

Your faithful devotee,

John

A month later, John received this response.

My own Johnny,

            I was stunned to receive your words so carefully addressed and marked with such poignant love. Truly I feel undeserving of your attention. It saddens me much, but I cannot allow you to maintain your charade for my benefit. I release you from your promises made me.

            You are free to seek another companion to wife.

Regretfully,

Miss Winthrop

Johnny set this response a week following.

My dearest love,

            Now we are so formal? Pray tell me the offense that I have committed for I must make amends. There is no peace in my heart without your love. I will walk the ends of the earth to do your bidding. Every command I will follow. Please, love do not forsake me.

Your Devoted,

John

It was two agonizing months before he received a response.

Dear Mr. John Dempsey,

            I write you on behalf of my sister, who is quite sick of your correspondence. Your words, lovely and sincere though they may be, hold no merit and I must ask that you take this as a final sign that there can be no contract fulfilled between you.

            It is not due to our parents, who objected perhaps to your relationship but would not have forsaken their daughter for pursuit of her happiness, nor is it due another suitor vying for her affection. The fault therein lies with you.

            As you have asked which trespass you committed, I will oblige you. You have confused your mistresses. My sister, Miss Winthrop, is not Thomasina. Her name, should you ever be allowed to become so familiar with her again, is Abigail.

            I wish you good fortune in all your travels and pray that God keep you safe upon the battlefield.

Respectfully,

Mr. Eugene Winthrop

John responded.

Dear Mr. Winthrop

            Thank you for your candor. I am most embarrassed that I have visited this grievous event upon your sweet sister, and solely upon my own manufacturing. If you have a mind when place and time permits, please do not hesitate to make it known to Miss Abigail Winthrop and any who will listen that I am an ass.

Humbled,

Mr. John Dempsey.

It should be noted that according to his ill-kept journal, Mr. John Dempsey was most confused by the Winthrop responses, as the woman whom he met upon the Winthrop estate claimed to be Thomasina, the youngest daughter of Percival and Lily Winthrop. He ventured to return to Cartersville during his winter leave to investigate the enigma and discovered that indeed, Percival and Lily had three children, but only one was a daughter, a woman John had not yet met.

In Miss Abigail Winthrop's defense, she was a comely lass with several suitors, half of whom were named John, and one in particular was a soldier named John Damsette. The last name being so similar, she came to the conclusion that Dempsey was that suitor. 

So, it turned out that both Abigail and John Dempsey were victims of misunderstanding. However, upon their introduction, John became enamored of her, and she of him. Her parents approved of their relationship upon their betrothal and they were wed before Mr. Dempsey was to return to his squadron.

Shortly after his leaving, scandal broke out at the Winthrop estate for it became known that a neighbor’s servant, a woman named Thomasina Damsette had become with child outside of wedlock. When questioned, she admitted to having misrepresented herself once to a young soldier by the name of John Dempsey as part of a fancied, misguided decision. Then, just as winter settled in, her brother John paid a visit upon his leave of service. Receiving news of the visit, Eugene Winthrop, eager to confront the man who broke his sister's heart, rode to the Graves estate through one of the worst storms in Cartersville history. The estate was snowed in, leaving all occupants unable to leave for two days. When the snows thawed enough for travel, John Damsette rode for his squadron with a broken arm and a bruised ego and Eugene rode back to his father's estate in embarrassment with a broken nose. The child’s father it would seem was Eugene Winthrop.