) to Mexico upon her return. Never did find out what happened to the house on Atlantic Drive. I know you'll be about 80 miles from there, but just in case you hear anything.Have a great time.
Philo
C&F Writing Competition. Can you freaking believe it?
-
PhilO
- Posts: 2931
- Joined: Wed Jun 27, 2001 6:00 pm
- Please enter the next number in sequence: 1
- Location: New York
Hey Em, if you learn anything about the current state of Hatteras, please let me know. We had vacationed there (right at the tip about 3/4 mile from the ferry) one week for the past four summers in a house by the beach. Then came that horrible washout. We couldn't go this year as our daughter has become enamored of all that is Spanish and is still in Spain and will drag us ( ) to Mexico upon her return. Never did find out what happened to the house on Atlantic Drive. I know you'll be about 80 miles from there, but just in case you hear anything.
Have a great time.
Philo
) to Mexico upon her return. Never did find out what happened to the house on Atlantic Drive. I know you'll be about 80 miles from there, but just in case you hear anything.Have a great time.
Philo
"This is this; this ain't something else. This is this." - Robert DeNiro, "The Deer Hunter," 1978.
-
Wanderer
- Posts: 4453
- Joined: Wed Mar 24, 2004 10:49 pm
- antispam: No
- Please enter the next number in sequence: 8
- Location: Lovettsville, VA
- Contact:
Another entry
--------------------------
Randall checked himself over with a critical eye. He sighed and wished again that his Pa could afford a mirror, so that he could check himself better. He knew he was clean, though, because he hadn't done any heavy lifting since he helped move hay last week, and he'd taken a bath immediately after. The stain on his breeches was hardly noticeable, and the jerkin he was wearing had only been mended once.
Today was the day! Randall was certain he wouldn’t be passed over this year at the Job Faire. And besides, Melinda would be there…
He had been so preoccupied about his appearance lately that his brothers had begun teasing him at every opportunity. Eric, the eldest, had begun calling him "Lord Priss", an obvious play off of the name of King Prius, who was also known to be a vain man. Randall smiled a little when he thought about the whipping Eric had gotten when Pa had heard him making fun in the name of Tallia's sovereign lord. Eric liked to think of himself as too old for a whipping, but his taunting was dangerously close to sedition, and John Miller was a loyal man. Joshua still got away with calling Randall "Your Hiney-ness," though. He was only eight, after all.
It probably would have been easier to tolerate if Pa had ever gotten around to adding another bedroom, like he promised to do every year. As it was, all three Miller boys had to squeeze into one shared bedroom. During the coldest parts of the year, the boys spent much of their leisure time together in this room. Tensions often ran high as the winter wore on, and arguments were commonplace. outright fistfights weren't that rare either, though that kind of behavior often earned a hiding from Pa..
"Randall! Come get your breakfast! Hurry up or it'll get cold!"
--------------------------
Randall checked himself over with a critical eye. He sighed and wished again that his Pa could afford a mirror, so that he could check himself better. He knew he was clean, though, because he hadn't done any heavy lifting since he helped move hay last week, and he'd taken a bath immediately after. The stain on his breeches was hardly noticeable, and the jerkin he was wearing had only been mended once.
Today was the day! Randall was certain he wouldn’t be passed over this year at the Job Faire. And besides, Melinda would be there…
He had been so preoccupied about his appearance lately that his brothers had begun teasing him at every opportunity. Eric, the eldest, had begun calling him "Lord Priss", an obvious play off of the name of King Prius, who was also known to be a vain man. Randall smiled a little when he thought about the whipping Eric had gotten when Pa had heard him making fun in the name of Tallia's sovereign lord. Eric liked to think of himself as too old for a whipping, but his taunting was dangerously close to sedition, and John Miller was a loyal man. Joshua still got away with calling Randall "Your Hiney-ness," though. He was only eight, after all.
It probably would have been easier to tolerate if Pa had ever gotten around to adding another bedroom, like he promised to do every year. As it was, all three Miller boys had to squeeze into one shared bedroom. During the coldest parts of the year, the boys spent much of their leisure time together in this room. Tensions often ran high as the winter wore on, and arguments were commonplace. outright fistfights weren't that rare either, though that kind of behavior often earned a hiding from Pa..
"Randall! Come get your breakfast! Hurry up or it'll get cold!"
Entry:
Corruption and degeneration
I don’t know when she left me or how long she has been gone, or the days and months that we were together. I don’t even remember her slamming the door, or screaming at me!
She is gone.
She wasn’t my muse, an inspiration, or the demon that drove me to the canvas. She was a warm body that my demon mistress couldn’t be.
She came to me out of curiosity after walking into a local gallery and seeing my work on the wall and talking to the gallery owner, who gave away more information that I would have.
Unbeknownst to me, I had become the hunted.
She finally showed up at one of our weekly studio bashes, a pot-luck affair that this small community of artist did every week. In most cases to make sure that we all ate something that week, although it always seem that drinking was to be the greater share of the evening.
She was pointed out to me as a whisper in my ear. Looking up and across the room, I didn’t have the chance of subtlety to read her message; my hide had all ready been mounted on the wall. Seconds later, she was introducing herself to me and spieling how my work did this or that to her and how she would really like to know the man/person/artist behind this.
“Really, can I use your body tonight?”
Without hesitating she moved into the couple’s intimate space that we have all shared.
“What was/were my secrets/thoughts/ideas/drive that put such and such colour/movement/dynasism on canvas like that!” And make her want to fly!
That was a beginning of a relationship sort of. She had moved in within a week.
And all was fine.
Then slowly I heard the words of couples doing this together and “You’re not painting another weekend away, are you?” “Are we going to such and such’s for dinner tonight?”
“Are we blah blah blah blan or something like that….. “
She has had enough of the artistic romantic starving artist, “I have to paint” crap. It’s now a we thing, as we together doing this, going here etc. etc.
“Paintings don’t do themselves, that’s what you loved about me and this life!”
You can have the paintings and the artist, but you can’t have the artist without the painting!
Slam!
“Where’s that cadium yellow!”
MarkB
Corruption and degeneration
I don’t know when she left me or how long she has been gone, or the days and months that we were together. I don’t even remember her slamming the door, or screaming at me!
She is gone.
She wasn’t my muse, an inspiration, or the demon that drove me to the canvas. She was a warm body that my demon mistress couldn’t be.
She came to me out of curiosity after walking into a local gallery and seeing my work on the wall and talking to the gallery owner, who gave away more information that I would have.
Unbeknownst to me, I had become the hunted.
She finally showed up at one of our weekly studio bashes, a pot-luck affair that this small community of artist did every week. In most cases to make sure that we all ate something that week, although it always seem that drinking was to be the greater share of the evening.
She was pointed out to me as a whisper in my ear. Looking up and across the room, I didn’t have the chance of subtlety to read her message; my hide had all ready been mounted on the wall. Seconds later, she was introducing herself to me and spieling how my work did this or that to her and how she would really like to know the man/person/artist behind this.
“Really, can I use your body tonight?”
Without hesitating she moved into the couple’s intimate space that we have all shared.
“What was/were my secrets/thoughts/ideas/drive that put such and such colour/movement/dynasism on canvas like that!” And make her want to fly!
That was a beginning of a relationship sort of. She had moved in within a week.
And all was fine.
Then slowly I heard the words of couples doing this together and “You’re not painting another weekend away, are you?” “Are we going to such and such’s for dinner tonight?”
“Are we blah blah blah blan or something like that….. “
She has had enough of the artistic romantic starving artist, “I have to paint” crap. It’s now a we thing, as we together doing this, going here etc. etc.
“Paintings don’t do themselves, that’s what you loved about me and this life!”
You can have the paintings and the artist, but you can’t have the artist without the painting!
Slam!
“Where’s that cadium yellow!”
MarkB
Everybody has a photographic memory. Some just don't have film.
-
Nanohedron
- Moderatorer
- Posts: 38226
- Joined: Wed Dec 18, 2002 6:00 pm
- antispam: No
- Please enter the next number in sequence: 8
- Tell us something.: Been a fluter, citternist, and uilleann piper; committed now to the way of the harp.
Oh, yeah: also a mod here, not a spammer. A matter of opinion, perhaps. - Location: Lefse country
Entry:
It was time again to make the yearly trip from the townlands of Donegal to the bothies of Scotland. Diarmuid was one of the able-bodied, stocky, strong, and ruddy in both his cast and his hair; they used to call him Diarmuid Óg, but his arrival into manhood was wholly his own, and he was lately more referred to as Diarmuid Rua by those who talked about him, especially remembering the time he saved a boy from a drowning. Still, the old men and women called him Diarmuid Óg who knew him from a child in remembrance of his father, rest his soul, lost to the wild sea two autumns ago in a curragh and a hunt for cod.
There wasn't much of a choice in it. The life of a Scot's seasonal hireling was his if he was to make anything of himself. And there was Mórág, light of his day and the fever of his nights. He would marry her next year if she would have him; he knew she was waiting for him to only ask, but he still was anxious. Mórág was not one to be taken for granted, yet the fire of her was what drew him. Maybe in time he'd be able to save enough to afford arable land; just a spot would be fine. He wanted at least that much for her.
He finished packing, straightened up, and looked around. He scratched his head; something was unfinished.
-Now don't be forgetting your pet, his mother said pointing from her lacework to the kitchen wall.
And that was it: his fiddle. Diarmuid got it down from off its peg, put it snug in its case, and packed it away with the rest.
-What would I do without you, he said, and kissed her soft cheek. There's money in the box on the mantel, don't forget, now. And write if you'll be needing more before you run out this time! I've got to run. I'll write soon. And give Padraig a cuff on his ear for him.
Diarmuid smoothed his clothes, put on his cap, laid hold of his travel-bag, and walked out the cottage door into the soft grey light, westward to where the ships lay waiting.
It was time again to make the yearly trip from the townlands of Donegal to the bothies of Scotland. Diarmuid was one of the able-bodied, stocky, strong, and ruddy in both his cast and his hair; they used to call him Diarmuid Óg, but his arrival into manhood was wholly his own, and he was lately more referred to as Diarmuid Rua by those who talked about him, especially remembering the time he saved a boy from a drowning. Still, the old men and women called him Diarmuid Óg who knew him from a child in remembrance of his father, rest his soul, lost to the wild sea two autumns ago in a curragh and a hunt for cod.
There wasn't much of a choice in it. The life of a Scot's seasonal hireling was his if he was to make anything of himself. And there was Mórág, light of his day and the fever of his nights. He would marry her next year if she would have him; he knew she was waiting for him to only ask, but he still was anxious. Mórág was not one to be taken for granted, yet the fire of her was what drew him. Maybe in time he'd be able to save enough to afford arable land; just a spot would be fine. He wanted at least that much for her.
He finished packing, straightened up, and looked around. He scratched his head; something was unfinished.
-Now don't be forgetting your pet, his mother said pointing from her lacework to the kitchen wall.
And that was it: his fiddle. Diarmuid got it down from off its peg, put it snug in its case, and packed it away with the rest.
-What would I do without you, he said, and kissed her soft cheek. There's money in the box on the mantel, don't forget, now. And write if you'll be needing more before you run out this time! I've got to run. I'll write soon. And give Padraig a cuff on his ear for him.
Diarmuid smoothed his clothes, put on his cap, laid hold of his travel-bag, and walked out the cottage door into the soft grey light, westward to where the ships lay waiting.
-
dubhlinn
- Posts: 6746
- Joined: Sun May 23, 2004 2:04 pm
- antispam: No
- Location: North Lincolnshire, UK.
Entry:
God damm that Kesh Jig.
The apology would have to be immediate.There was no way back.Only forward
That was why he was stood outside a public phone kiosk in a downpour.
Standing there,cursing cell phone batteries to damnation,he wondered when the old Asian woman would get off the phone.She seemed to be shouting one minute,then crying the next.
Time passes slowly in the rain.
A car pulled up,one of those big German things that he often dreamed about owning. Two huge asian guys got out and approached the kiosk,nodding imperceptibly in his direction.from the car came a slow mournful sound,not unlike the sean nos style of singing which he always loved but never understood.
Without any apparent effort,the old woman was comforted and gently coaxed into the car. The melody faded and was gone.
"Thanks be to jaysus for that", he thought
Entering the booth,apology composed,he dropped his dime.
Nothing.Nada.Zilch.
Clicking the button,he looked down only to find that the handset was severed.surveying the damage,he thought " Help me Jesus!" From the decay and rust,the handset was damaged weeks ago.
Off into the night he ran,seeking another kiosk.
In his mind was a sad,strange melody and in his heart the sound of faraway voices.
Slan,
D.
God damm that Kesh Jig.
The apology would have to be immediate.There was no way back.Only forward
That was why he was stood outside a public phone kiosk in a downpour.
Standing there,cursing cell phone batteries to damnation,he wondered when the old Asian woman would get off the phone.She seemed to be shouting one minute,then crying the next.
Time passes slowly in the rain.
A car pulled up,one of those big German things that he often dreamed about owning. Two huge asian guys got out and approached the kiosk,nodding imperceptibly in his direction.from the car came a slow mournful sound,not unlike the sean nos style of singing which he always loved but never understood.
Without any apparent effort,the old woman was comforted and gently coaxed into the car. The melody faded and was gone.
"Thanks be to jaysus for that", he thought
Entering the booth,apology composed,he dropped his dime.
Nothing.Nada.Zilch.
Clicking the button,he looked down only to find that the handset was severed.surveying the damage,he thought " Help me Jesus!" From the decay and rust,the handset was damaged weeks ago.
Off into the night he ran,seeking another kiosk.
In his mind was a sad,strange melody and in his heart the sound of faraway voices.
Slan,
D.
And many a poor man that has roved,
Loved and thought himself beloved,
From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.
W.B.Yeats
Loved and thought himself beloved,
From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.
W.B.Yeats
-
thurlowe
- Posts: 461
- Joined: Tue May 07, 2002 6:00 pm
- Please enter the next number in sequence: 1
- Location: Kalamazoo
- Contact:
I'm amazed by some of these entries. Wow. I was inspired to waste some time at work, too.
Entry
It was a dark and stormy night. Quit messing with the windshield wipers, he said. What is it with you and windshield wipers. She kept her hand on the speed selector. I don’t like the squeaks when it gets too dry, she said. I’m trying to avoid the squeaks. This is the kind of rain that needs me to do this by hand. I was hoping you wouldn’t notice. Yeah well, he said. Reaching over to mess with the controls is noticeable.
He moaned. Aagh, why does Saskatchewan have to be so flat. Is an S-curve too much to ask. A hill. She looked away from the windshield for a few beats. Let's pretend we’re Columbus, she said, and we’re about to sail off the edge of the world.
I think he knew the world was round, honey.
I know, I’m too tired to think of any explorers before him.
Huh.
...Okay, we’re Joe & Janet medieval explorers, and we’re about to sail off the edge of the world. Tell me, Janet, how does it feel. Well, Joe, it's really dark out there and I can't even see the edge of the world. But entering a spiritual dimension, that'll be nice. I’m feeling icky from eating McDonald’s all day.
...Icky from McThighBones & Ale, you mean, fair maiden.
I stand corrected, kind sir. She adjusted the wiper controls from slow to intermittent. She gave a little smile. You know, I’m pretty sure I can’t technically be called a maiden. What you and I do at night, when we’re not on the most monotonous road trip of our lives, disqualifies me. Oh ho, he said. Well I’m not sorry about that. I know, she said, my only regret is I can’t call the unicorns out of the woods anymore. She switched back to the higher setting. Alack, she added.
He took her hand from the windshield wiper wand and held it between them, over the cupholder still protecting long-cold Starbucks takeout. Please promise me we’ll never start dressing up and going to Renaissance Faires and speaking to each other in fake olde English, he said. And I’ll let you work the windshield wipers all you want. She squeezed. All right, my love, she said. For you. I promise.
Entry
It was a dark and stormy night. Quit messing with the windshield wipers, he said. What is it with you and windshield wipers. She kept her hand on the speed selector. I don’t like the squeaks when it gets too dry, she said. I’m trying to avoid the squeaks. This is the kind of rain that needs me to do this by hand. I was hoping you wouldn’t notice. Yeah well, he said. Reaching over to mess with the controls is noticeable.
He moaned. Aagh, why does Saskatchewan have to be so flat. Is an S-curve too much to ask. A hill. She looked away from the windshield for a few beats. Let's pretend we’re Columbus, she said, and we’re about to sail off the edge of the world.
I think he knew the world was round, honey.
I know, I’m too tired to think of any explorers before him.
Huh.
...Okay, we’re Joe & Janet medieval explorers, and we’re about to sail off the edge of the world. Tell me, Janet, how does it feel. Well, Joe, it's really dark out there and I can't even see the edge of the world. But entering a spiritual dimension, that'll be nice. I’m feeling icky from eating McDonald’s all day.
...Icky from McThighBones & Ale, you mean, fair maiden.
I stand corrected, kind sir. She adjusted the wiper controls from slow to intermittent. She gave a little smile. You know, I’m pretty sure I can’t technically be called a maiden. What you and I do at night, when we’re not on the most monotonous road trip of our lives, disqualifies me. Oh ho, he said. Well I’m not sorry about that. I know, she said, my only regret is I can’t call the unicorns out of the woods anymore. She switched back to the higher setting. Alack, she added.
He took her hand from the windshield wiper wand and held it between them, over the cupholder still protecting long-cold Starbucks takeout. Please promise me we’ll never start dressing up and going to Renaissance Faires and speaking to each other in fake olde English, he said. And I’ll let you work the windshield wipers all you want. She squeezed. All right, my love, she said. For you. I promise.
Last edited by thurlowe on Sun Aug 01, 2004 10:50 am, edited 1 time in total.
-
FJohnSharp
- Posts: 3050
- Joined: Thu May 30, 2002 6:00 pm
- antispam: No
- Please enter the next number in sequence: 8
- Tell us something.: I used to be a regular then I took up the bassoon. Bassoons don't have a lot of chiff. Not really, I have always been a drummer, and my C&F years were when I was a little tired of the drums. Now I'm back playing drums. I mist the C&F years, though.
- Location: Kent, Ohio
This is nicethurlowe wrote:she said, and we’re about to sail off the edge of the world.
I think he knew the world was round, honey.
I know, I’m too tired to think of any explorers before him.
.
Also, ever heard of this? http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/
Not to imply your piece qualifies--it's actually quite nice. But the opening sentence reminded me of Bulwer -Lytton, or Charlie Brown, whichever you prefer.
Nice work.
"Meon an phobail a thogail trid an chultur"
(The people’s spirit is raised through culture)
Suburban Symphony
(The people’s spirit is raised through culture)
Suburban Symphony
-
thurlowe
- Posts: 461
- Joined: Tue May 07, 2002 6:00 pm
- Please enter the next number in sequence: 1
- Location: Kalamazoo
- Contact:
Thanks John, that's funny (very funny), I hadn't heard of it, or if I had, it was in a sort of weekend-news-we're-desperate-for-human-interest-stories kind of way. I just used the line as a place to get started, in the absence of an original line.
By the way, apologies to those who enjoy dressing up and speaking in fake olde English accents, I'm sure it's a blast.
I was motivated to try this by reading your stories, John, as well as several others. It's been edifying.
Cara
By the way, apologies to those who enjoy dressing up and speaking in fake olde English accents, I'm sure it's a blast.
I was motivated to try this by reading your stories, John, as well as several others. It's been edifying.
Cara
-
Zubivka
- Posts: 3308
- Joined: Sun Sep 29, 2002 6:00 pm
- Please enter the next number in sequence: 1
- Location: Sol-3, .fr/bzh/mesquer
Entraille.
« No, it's an Entry. Like Enn-tree, she said.
--Entrez or Entrée? Make up your mind.
--Not enn-treh nor enn-tray, and certainly not your bloody entrails.
--You're telling me how to pronounce Entrée? You don't even know what Les Entrées are in a proper meal... And since you didn't ask, it's like zakuski, but without bliny.
--Are you going to name your entry "zakuski"?
--No. I can't get proper bliny here. Pancakes just don't do it.
--Doh! Don't DO it. Like "doo", not your "dough".
--It's your dough which isn't right. Proper bliny are sourdough.
--Oh, never mind. Just give me some bar dough, will you?
--What will you do with Bardot? She's way too old!
--I thought age was a quality in bardough? Beside, it's an it, not a she.
--Whatever her vintage, if a man said it, he'd be called an emancipee.
--It's emm-see-pee, but who cares! OK, Bordeaux. Bore and doh. Just gimme some wine, you hopeless Frog!
--Bardot is no hooker. Frogs are an entrée. The one with the wine is a sommelier. Beside, zakuski go with vodka, not wine.
--Ok, gimme a bliny, with the vodka.
--I told you I can't get a single blin. And it's one blin, two bliny.
--Then bring them both, for Pete's sake! »
Luckily, we couldn't find a common language.
« No, it's an Entry. Like Enn-tree, she said.
--Entrez or Entrée? Make up your mind.
--Not enn-treh nor enn-tray, and certainly not your bloody entrails.
--You're telling me how to pronounce Entrée? You don't even know what Les Entrées are in a proper meal... And since you didn't ask, it's like zakuski, but without bliny.
--Are you going to name your entry "zakuski"?
--No. I can't get proper bliny here. Pancakes just don't do it.
--Doh! Don't DO it. Like "doo", not your "dough".
--It's your dough which isn't right. Proper bliny are sourdough.
--Oh, never mind. Just give me some bar dough, will you?
--What will you do with Bardot? She's way too old!
--I thought age was a quality in bardough? Beside, it's an it, not a she.
--Whatever her vintage, if a man said it, he'd be called an emancipee.
--It's emm-see-pee, but who cares! OK, Bordeaux. Bore and doh. Just gimme some wine, you hopeless Frog!
--Bardot is no hooker. Frogs are an entrée. The one with the wine is a sommelier. Beside, zakuski go with vodka, not wine.
--Ok, gimme a bliny, with the vodka.
--I told you I can't get a single blin. And it's one blin, two bliny.
--Then bring them both, for Pete's sake! »
Luckily, we couldn't find a common language.
-
BrassBlower
- Posts: 2224
- Joined: Mon Jan 14, 2002 6:00 pm
- antispam: No
- Please enter the next number in sequence: 8
- Location: Fly-Over Country
THE SNIPER
He sat behind a rock, exhaling the last puff of smoke from his cigarette into the crisp morning air before crushing it out on the rock.
He opened up his shotgun, inserted a single 16-gauge buckshot shell, and closed it back up. He knew his target could not be too far away.
Suddenly, a bearded figure appeared walking down the road. The sniper's pulse began to quicken as his target came into range.
The air was rent by the sound of the shotgun going off. The sniper's target had little time to react, and let out only a small bleat as the buckshot tore gaping holes in his skin.
"There's one more goat who will never become a bodhrán," said the sniper, smiling.
He sat behind a rock, exhaling the last puff of smoke from his cigarette into the crisp morning air before crushing it out on the rock.
He opened up his shotgun, inserted a single 16-gauge buckshot shell, and closed it back up. He knew his target could not be too far away.
Suddenly, a bearded figure appeared walking down the road. The sniper's pulse began to quicken as his target came into range.
The air was rent by the sound of the shotgun going off. The sniper's target had little time to react, and let out only a small bleat as the buckshot tore gaping holes in his skin.
"There's one more goat who will never become a bodhrán," said the sniper, smiling.
https://www.facebook.com/4StringFantasy
I do not feel obliged to believe that that same God who has endowed us with sense, reason, and intellect has intended us to forgo their use.
-Galileo
I do not feel obliged to believe that that same God who has endowed us with sense, reason, and intellect has intended us to forgo their use.
-Galileo
-
FJohnSharp
- Posts: 3050
- Joined: Thu May 30, 2002 6:00 pm
- antispam: No
- Please enter the next number in sequence: 8
- Tell us something.: I used to be a regular then I took up the bassoon. Bassoons don't have a lot of chiff. Not really, I have always been a drummer, and my C&F years were when I was a little tired of the drums. Now I'm back playing drums. I mist the C&F years, though.
- Location: Kent, Ohio
HA!
"Meon an phobail a thogail trid an chultur"
(The people’s spirit is raised through culture)
Suburban Symphony
(The people’s spirit is raised through culture)
Suburban Symphony
-
Nanohedron
- Moderatorer
- Posts: 38226
- Joined: Wed Dec 18, 2002 6:00 pm
- antispam: No
- Please enter the next number in sequence: 8
- Tell us something.: Been a fluter, citternist, and uilleann piper; committed now to the way of the harp.
Oh, yeah: also a mod here, not a spammer. A matter of opinion, perhaps. - Location: Lefse country
Yes: Ha. 
Remembering that a true story was offered in this thread, I thought I'd do the same. After this, you'll have to go back to guessing about me.
Entry:
I never really fit in, not even in what was by seeming default my "circle". I wasn't handsome, burly, talented, a wit, an achiever, moneyed, or a Romeo, but all in all it didn't matter so much. I was me, and it was somehow enough. No one else could properly do the job of being me, and instinctively I knew that. It was all I had, so it had to do, and therefore it was enough. I was excellent at being me.
What I could say for myself was that I was a swimmer. Couldn't hack the football --not burly, remember?-- but I could swim. Sort of. Actually, I was a backstroker. That was my strongest form. I didn't really care for competition; I was a swimmer because that was what my siblings and I did, and our parents encouraged it. But I was secretly pleased with my ability in the backstroke; I had that, if nothing else. Crawl, breaststroke, and butterfly (in descending order, due to a dispropensity --if that is even a word-- toward pectoral muscles): my coaches urged me to develop myself in them to our mutual frustration and eventual parting of ways. But left alone, I would backstroke for hours if I could.
I decided that I could maybe be a lifeguard at the Y, and went to Water Safety Instructor training camp for it. I was up against the better, the stronger, the sexier, as ever. I was used to that, and had to work hard to succeed. At 129 lbs it wasn't a picnic "saving" a near 200 lb hulker from the chop of Storm Lake, but I kept at it, and doggedly went on to earn my WSI certification even if I wasn't star material. Not everybody could say they had that; it was enough.
Now to cap off and celebrate the end of our training (did anyone fail? I only now realise that I don't know), we held a swim meet. Naturally, I mainly entered the backstroking events: no point in flirting with your weak points when it's crunch time, after all. I didn't outright suck, but at the solid-honest-to-God-whatever-meter-it-was backstroke event, I just FLEW, passing even one of my coaches by at least a half length or better. As I was helped out of the pool, I saw the opprobium in their eyes, and heard the mutters chiding me for what I ought not to have done, as if I ought to have known. That's when I realised in full that even in the little things, the race goes not to the swift, but to the popular. I still don't care.
With that in mind, don't forget to vote, kids!
Remembering that a true story was offered in this thread, I thought I'd do the same. After this, you'll have to go back to guessing about me.
Entry:
I never really fit in, not even in what was by seeming default my "circle". I wasn't handsome, burly, talented, a wit, an achiever, moneyed, or a Romeo, but all in all it didn't matter so much. I was me, and it was somehow enough. No one else could properly do the job of being me, and instinctively I knew that. It was all I had, so it had to do, and therefore it was enough. I was excellent at being me.
What I could say for myself was that I was a swimmer. Couldn't hack the football --not burly, remember?-- but I could swim. Sort of. Actually, I was a backstroker. That was my strongest form. I didn't really care for competition; I was a swimmer because that was what my siblings and I did, and our parents encouraged it. But I was secretly pleased with my ability in the backstroke; I had that, if nothing else. Crawl, breaststroke, and butterfly (in descending order, due to a dispropensity --if that is even a word-- toward pectoral muscles): my coaches urged me to develop myself in them to our mutual frustration and eventual parting of ways. But left alone, I would backstroke for hours if I could.
I decided that I could maybe be a lifeguard at the Y, and went to Water Safety Instructor training camp for it. I was up against the better, the stronger, the sexier, as ever. I was used to that, and had to work hard to succeed. At 129 lbs it wasn't a picnic "saving" a near 200 lb hulker from the chop of Storm Lake, but I kept at it, and doggedly went on to earn my WSI certification even if I wasn't star material. Not everybody could say they had that; it was enough.
Now to cap off and celebrate the end of our training (did anyone fail? I only now realise that I don't know), we held a swim meet. Naturally, I mainly entered the backstroking events: no point in flirting with your weak points when it's crunch time, after all. I didn't outright suck, but at the solid-honest-to-God-whatever-meter-it-was backstroke event, I just FLEW, passing even one of my coaches by at least a half length or better. As I was helped out of the pool, I saw the opprobium in their eyes, and heard the mutters chiding me for what I ought not to have done, as if I ought to have known. That's when I realised in full that even in the little things, the race goes not to the swift, but to the popular. I still don't care.
With that in mind, don't forget to vote, kids!
Last edited by Nanohedron on Sun Aug 01, 2004 8:50 am, edited 1 time in total.
-
dubhlinn
- Posts: 6746
- Joined: Sun May 23, 2004 2:04 pm
- antispam: No
- Location: North Lincolnshire, UK.
ENTRY.
The Letter.
She had been the supervisor of the sewing room for twenty years.In that time she had seen many girls come and go,some to husbands,some to better jobs.
Five years ago the management had erected a glass partition along the front of the gallery where her office was situated and every now and then she would have a look along the rows of machines to check on the progress of her girls.The girls were the closest thing she had to family.
The most recent addition to her family was an Irish girl who today ,on three separate occasions, had furtively removed a letter from her pocket and quickly read it while shaking her head from side to side.
The Supervisor could remember when she worked on a machine many years ago and had pulled a letter out from her own pocket,
" My dearest sister,I am so sorry to have to tell you this but last night ,our dear mother.....",the figures on the order sheet in front of her blurred as the tears came back.
She vowed to have a word with the Irish girl at the end of the shift.
"Molly,could I have a quick word,wont take a minute"
Molly blushed but before she could say anything the supervisior touched her arm gentlyand assured her there was no problem.
"I am not prying but is everything all right with you and your family"
"Grand" replied Molly,perplexed.
The Supervisor mentioned the letter that Molly had been reading from time to time. Molly stared back for a moment then burst into laughter
" Ah God no,no,no." She spluttered through the laughter " that wasn't a letter,it's a song.I sing in a band and I really need to learn the words for tonight ye see."
"Listen to me now ,we're playing tonight in the Dalesman off the Main street and all the girls are going.Sure ye must come along it'll be a great crack"
"Oh, I see well i am sorry..."
"Dont worry,you just get yourself there for about eight and I'll get ye a lift home n'all. Ye dont want to be sitting in on a friday night wondering if your phone is broken do ye?"
"Well, thank you..."
"Right so, see ye there.."
As the Supervisor walked towards her car the security guard,who had worked there even longer than she had,noticed a spring in her step that he had not seen in a long,long time.
The Letter.
She had been the supervisor of the sewing room for twenty years.In that time she had seen many girls come and go,some to husbands,some to better jobs.
Five years ago the management had erected a glass partition along the front of the gallery where her office was situated and every now and then she would have a look along the rows of machines to check on the progress of her girls.The girls were the closest thing she had to family.
The most recent addition to her family was an Irish girl who today ,on three separate occasions, had furtively removed a letter from her pocket and quickly read it while shaking her head from side to side.
The Supervisor could remember when she worked on a machine many years ago and had pulled a letter out from her own pocket,
" My dearest sister,I am so sorry to have to tell you this but last night ,our dear mother.....",the figures on the order sheet in front of her blurred as the tears came back.
She vowed to have a word with the Irish girl at the end of the shift.
"Molly,could I have a quick word,wont take a minute"
Molly blushed but before she could say anything the supervisior touched her arm gentlyand assured her there was no problem.
"I am not prying but is everything all right with you and your family"
"Grand" replied Molly,perplexed.
The Supervisor mentioned the letter that Molly had been reading from time to time. Molly stared back for a moment then burst into laughter
" Ah God no,no,no." She spluttered through the laughter " that wasn't a letter,it's a song.I sing in a band and I really need to learn the words for tonight ye see."
"Listen to me now ,we're playing tonight in the Dalesman off the Main street and all the girls are going.Sure ye must come along it'll be a great crack"
"Oh, I see well i am sorry..."
"Dont worry,you just get yourself there for about eight and I'll get ye a lift home n'all. Ye dont want to be sitting in on a friday night wondering if your phone is broken do ye?"
"Well, thank you..."
"Right so, see ye there.."
As the Supervisor walked towards her car the security guard,who had worked there even longer than she had,noticed a spring in her step that he had not seen in a long,long time.
And many a poor man that has roved,
Loved and thought himself beloved,
From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.
W.B.Yeats
Loved and thought himself beloved,
From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.
W.B.Yeats
I love this thread. I spent a number of years in community organizing, in large part because the approach our group used to form coalitions and develop an issue agenda was to seek out and listen hard to people's stories, and to share our own. The group had conservative, liberal, radical, white, black, Hispanic, Muslim, Christian, Jewish, Unitarian (guess who?), Democrats, Republicans, independents, rich, middle-class, poor....and despite those considerable differences, through our shared stories we found solid common ground. It's one thing to believe in the idea of health care for the uninsured; quite another to hear a welder, struggling through his broken English, tell you how scared he is because he is losing his eyesight and he can't afford an operation and he has no insurance, but without an operation he won't be able to work as a welder anymore, and he has growing children....It's the stories that move you from just supporting an idea to getting out into the fray of public life and trying to make a change. And you realize along the way that you need not go back more than a generation or so to find the same stories in your own family, and even now you feel the same shared fears and hopes. People sitting around kitchen tables talking about what matters in their lives: that's politics. Getting out the instruments after dinner and playing around the table: that's music.
It is a real treat to read these stories! Plus, look at all the neat ways I can use this thread to avoid my work: I can try to write stories, I can read your stories, I can write about enjoying reading your stories, I can write about how I use this thread to avoid my work....neato!
Carol
It is a real treat to read these stories! Plus, look at all the neat ways I can use this thread to avoid my work: I can try to write stories, I can read your stories, I can write about enjoying reading your stories, I can write about how I use this thread to avoid my work....neato!
Carol