Rock Writers’ Guild

Sorry it’s late, I tried sooo many times to do this piece but hated them all at about the middle.  I hope this one turned out okay.      

           “Dad’s mirrored aviators slid down my nose as I looked at the two cards in my little hand.  I slowly lifted just the corner of the cards to see two aces.  At nine years old, I tossed my chips into the pot just like I had seen the guys on TV do many times before.  From that point on, I was never far from my deck of cards.

One day in college, I convinced my roommate to drive to Vegas with me.  I was overconfident while sitting at the Texas Hold ‘Em table.  I knew that no one else in the whole casino could beat me.  That is until the former World Poker Champion came and sat down next to me.  Knowing who he was, I began sweating immediately.  I lost the first two hands to him on stupidity.  I had to do something.  My pride wouldn’t let me loose to anyone, not even Joel Walsh. 

I stood to gather my thoughts.  After talking to myself, I sat back down, pulled a worn pair of mirrored aviators out of my shirt pocket and slid them on my face.  I was ready.  The dealer began dealing the cards.  I lifted the corners and checked to see what I had.  Five, seven off-suited.  Not a great hand, but I wouldn’t let myself fold.  I threw in my match to the bet placed and mentally coached myself not to be obvious with any tells. 

Impatiently I waited for the flop, my expressions held captive behind mirrored lenses.  The dealer flipped over three cards- four of diamonds, six of spades and king of diamonds.  My mind and heart were racing.  I was just one card away from a straight.  I could win with a straight.  I had won many times with less.  This was not a problem.  Then, I realized who was sitting next to me and my heart stopped.  Decision time.  If I didn’t get one of the two cards I could use, could I bluff the World Poker Champion out of the hand?  I thought I would loose everything I had for lunch right then.  The dealer was looking at me, motioning me to make a decision.  I watched my hand as it moved to raise the bet.  As the bet went around the table, two of the players folded.  That left Walsh, me and one other waiting for the turn card- queen of diamonds.  My heart sank.  My life was riding on the final card.  Meanwhile, there were three diamonds on the table, a possible flush for someone else. 

I called the bet again and waited for the last card.  The dealer lifted the final card from the deck and placed in next to the others on the table.  There it was, my heart stood still- the eight of hearts.  I had my straight.  Now I just hoped that no one had a better hand than me.  The betting went around the table three more times, each person trying to guess what the others held in their hands. 

Walsh threw a fifty-dollar chip into the center of the table, ‘Call.’  The third gentleman at the table showed his cards first- three kings.  My heart jumped.  I laid my cards on the table and smirked as I looked at Mr. Walsh.  He smiled and said, ‘You can take it all kid.’  He rose, leaving his cards face down and walked away.  From that day on, I knew I always wanted to play with the class of Joel Walsh.  I wanted to win this tournament.  Now that I have, seventy-five percent of the winnings are going to charity.”

            “Wow, quite a story.  I want to say thanks for taking time out to talk to us.  It’s been a pleasure.  That was Jimmy Rosedale, this year’s World Poker Champion.  Now back to you, Stuart.”  The announcer waited for the red light on the camera to go off, then he shook my hand again and we parted ways.

Sorry for the delay. I have had trouble with this blog thingy. And fiction is NOT my strong point!

“Ms. Worthington”
“Ms. Worthington…its 7:00. Its time for you to get up Ms. Worthington.”
I totally cringed at the sound of my own name. I was not ready to get up. How did 7:00 get here so fast?
“Ms. Worthington, you’re going to be late for your appointment if you don’t get up…”
“My appointment?”
“With your father.”
“Ugh…I didn’t know we had an appointment today? And since when did I have to start making appointments to speak with my father?”
“College Ms. Worthington. The options for your schooling”, Maria said matter of fact.
“I know where I want to go to school Maria”, I said still saturated in my 1500 count Egyptian cotton sheets, “The Fashion Institute in Los Angeles.”
“Um..yes, Ms. Worthington, I do believe that I understand to where you are referring”, Maria said filling my room with sunshine as she whisked open all of the chocolate suede curtains in my room. “But your father was hoping maybe you would consider attending somewhere like New York University or maybe even his alma mater, Notre Dame.”
“The place with the humpback guy? I’ve seen that movie Maria. And let me tell you, I am not interested”, I made sure to emphasize the ‘not’.
“Ms. Worthington, you must get up and go”, she said one last time as she exited my suite.
“Awgh…fine!”I stumbled out of the king-size mahogany sleigh bed, slipped on my Dolce & Gabbana frames and headed down to the gourmet kitchen to see what Henry had prepared for breakfast.
“Egg whites again”, I said in a monotone voice, “Yay”. My facetiousness made a path through the stainless steel appliances and marble counters. I plopped my behind down at the massive dining table with royalty size chairs. 

Name is Bryce Worthington. I’m 18, brown hair, brown eyes, and on the verge of changing the world. Through fashion…that is. I am going to challenge and mold the fashion world, as you and I know it. I am determined, in your face, and not to mention, extremely sassy. If there was a soundtrack for my life the song “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” would be my theme track, not to mention songs by Kelly Clarkson, Celine Dion, and one thrown in there by the great band Queen.My Daddy is a CEO. Don’t even bother to ask me what he does or what he makes. It is too hard to keep up with. I simply smile and ask for the Visa with each trip to Kate Spade, Prada, and Juicy Couture. I am at the top of my Daddy’s world; I am his girl. The one and only. I have been since I was four years old. That is when my Mom passed away. Cancer. In her lungs. Neither Daddy nor I like to talk about that time in our lives. But we do like to talk about her smile. And the fact that she was love.
My mother worked for years under the great names of fashion: Burberry, Louis Vuitton, and Calvin Klein. She left her mark wherever she was. Wherever she went. Whatever she did. Without question, everyone knew it was Dianne Worthington. And now I wanted to follow in her footsteps.
There was only one problem. The parental unit. Despite the success that my mother had in the fashion arena, my Dad is incredibly hesitant about me even considering the option of entering that field. “Bryce a business degree from an elite accredited college would take you a lot further than anything from a silly fashion school” or “Baby B” (as he would refer to me at times) “how about joining the leagues of my alma mater…like father, like daughter?”. But Daddy didn’t know my heart. He didn’t realize my passion. I wanted to change things like my Mom. I wanted to pursue something that I loved. And believe me fashion is something that I absolutely adore. And today was just another attempt for my father to completely diminish my dream and try to convince me that the proper decision would be that of the one he wanted. And he did his research and his planning for these “meetings” that we often had and now scheduled. He brought in the fashion school dropouts, the ones that graduated and filled in a pair of shoes at the local Quik Mart instead of the local offices of Ralph Lauren, and ones who are continuing their goals in the basements of their parents’ estates. You know, he goes the complete nine yards. He does everything in his human willpower and CEO status to utterly extinguish the dreams that I have. But maybe today will be different. Who knows? Well despite that, I am going to slip on my Manolo stilettos and grab my Balenciaga and I am out the door.   

I never saw it coming. I never saw the sharp sword of deception being waved in my face. It looked more like a fragrant bouquet of roses – the offering of a long anticipated romance.

It’s as if all of life is pouring out of these wounds. I see the blood, oh, God – all of the blood! But I do not feel anything. Nothing has a clear edge, everything is soft like a pencil mark smudged by a careless finger and somehow I know there is nothing I can do but give in to the inevitable. I beat the floor violently looking for something, anything to cover up this ugliness. But there is nothing, only soaked carpet and an empty room.

We met in high school. I was the awkward girl that everyone avoided in the lunchroom. The cold shoulder was my only familiar friend and after a while I embraced it with comfortable acceptance. But one day he walked into my life. I had never seen anyone like him! He was everything I thought I would never have….

The room is so cold….unbearably cold. Flashes of light burn my eyes, but closing them doesn’t help. I can feel my will to hold on seeping into the carpet and I feel alone. Terribly alone. I wonder how long it will take someone to find me when it’s all over…..

 We were married by the time I was sixteen. Phil was seventeen and decided it would be better to drop out of school and find a job so he could pay the bills. My parents flipped and have not spoken to me since. We were in love and ready to take on the world but the world closed in on me all too soon. Phil started coming home later and later every night with the smell of cheap beer and perfume oozing from his pores. Any questions from me unleashed a man that I did not recognize and did not want to get to know so I kept me mouth shut.
 
I’ve been trying to get my voice to work for hours it seems. I can feel my mouth moving, but there is nothing…. just horrible silence. There are neighbors just on the other side of these paper thin walls and if they could just hear me….but they must have heard the yelling and the commotion as he beat me….

 After a while it did not take much to set him off. A questioning look, a gentle plea for affection, a request for money to buy food – it didn’t really matter. There was an anger stirring in him that defied reasoning or logic. I was the brunt of his misery and there was no where to turn for help. I had been abandoned by my family and had no money, no car, nothing. He had isolated me for a reason.
 
I’ve seen the true stories on TV of people in horrifying situations that somehow find a way out and live to tell about it. There must be some way to make it…some way to live. I surrender….I give up….God, if you are real can you please at least act like you care about me? Don’t you think I’ve been through enough hell? I’m not sure what there is to stick around for, but I’d like to find out.

 I woke up in the intensive care unit at the local hospital, a nurse sat at my side quietly. She must have seen me stir because her warm hand gently rested on mine and she looked at me with genuine concern. There were tubes coming out of every opening, a ventilator down my throat, monitors beeping incessantly on both sides and various fluids being pumped into my veins.  I noticed that the nurse was mumbling something and I strained to hear what she was saying. The only words I could make out were “grace” and “Jesus”. I did not know much about prayer, but I somehow knew that is what she was speaking – a prayer to a God I did not know but remembered asking for help in the middle of that nightmare. I pleaded to her with my eyes to not stop. I could feel peace for the first time in my life, beautiful life-altering peace.

I am the only child of Richard and Dorothy Halstrom. Mother and Daddy named me Anna because it means, favor of the Lord.

Daddy was a musician and Mother was an artist. In the afternoons, Daddy could be heard practicing his cello while Mother sculpted. She often said that Daddy’s music inspired some of her most beautiful sculptures. Mother would bring me into their studio with her, where I would sit for hours contentedlly coloring pictures or forming simple shapes with her left over clay. The rich, deep notes that Daddy would play made my tummy vibrate until it almost tickled.

Sculpting became my passion since the first time Mother placed a pliable hunk of cold, wet clay in my tiny hands and told me, “See it in your mind, baby, and then form it in the clay.” No matter what my creation looked like, Daddy would pitch his voice up an octave and excitedly proclaim, “Yes Anna. I see it. You made it beautiful!”

I attended The Art Academy, after my high school years, where I met James. I knew from the moment that I saw him that he was the husband God had selected for me.

James had great success selling his original, impressionistic paintings at a studio in Soho. We lived comfortably in our moderate surroundings, even able to build an art studio on the side of our house. When our children came along we made an area in the studio for them to actualize their inherent love for all things art.

When I began to have problems with my eyes I just chalked it up to the age factor and made an appointment to get them tested. We were not at all prepared for the diagnosis of Macular Degeneration. It was rare in someone as young as I and nothing we tried was successful to slow it down. Finally, I lost my sight completely. I was devastated and fell into severe depression that lasted for months.

One of my darkest days, I was wallowing in the quagmire of self-pity. I went back to bed, pulled the covers over my head and escaped into sleep. In my dream, I saw a masculine, bronze skinned, warrior with a sword and shield in his powerful hands. He was swinging his shield to fend off a blow that was invisible to my eye, lunging forward, stepping sideways and wielding the gleaming, sharp sword over his head, he came down with a thunderous blow that I knew had destroyed his enemy. The image of this powerful victor stayed with me long after I awoke. My mother’s words came back to me; “see it in your mind, baby, then form it in the clay.”

That night, James prepared my work place for me. The moment my hands touched that pliable hunk of clay, I instinctually knew where to pinch for the nose and just how hard to push the almond shape of the eye orbs. I knew how high the shoulders needed to be in order to wield the sword over head. When I was finished, James said, “Yes, I see it, Anna. It is the angel of the Lord.”

I know that God allowed me to see the battle that was going on in the Heavens for me. I have never again resented my blindness. My other senses are heightened so that I can still create in the clay what I see in my mind’s eye.

My name is Anna Halstrom and I am blessed and highly favored.

I can’t help it…I have to write a disclaimer. Uhhh, fiction is not my strong suit and, now that I’m done, I’m not sure it actually ended up being a bio. Anyway, read on with an open mind and please be gentle.  C

—-

I am special. The first of my kind. Genetically pre-disposed for greatness. You see, my dad had the ability to choose my each and every quality. I was designed to be the most handsome, most intellegent, most artistic…and, I Am. I’ve excelled in every testable area more than anyone else who ever lived. I guess he didn’t like the fact that maybe I was even greater than him, because he kicked me out. I don’t get it…HE chose these qualities - not me! Why do I get punished for his choices?

Anyway, he must have gotten lonely without me ’cause along comes sister. Boy is she feeble! He didn’t alter her genetic code at all, and it shows! She’s mostly blind, can barely hear and ignores most of what he says to her. She gets tired and falls asleep constantly. He has to carry her just about everywhere she goes. But to see how he looks at her - eyes full of love and admiration. Yeah, can you beleive it? ADMIRATION! I don’t get it. She is so naive, so needy, so pathetic! Yet, she gets all the attention and I am the outcast. She absolutely drives me crazy.

Now, I hear he’s going be the first to try cloning. Back to choosing genes again, huh, dad? I guess the only thing really good enough for him is himself. And he says I’m the vain one.

It’s all well and good. You see, I have a plan - one that is sure to work. First, I’ll show dad how easily this little one will disown him. It’s going to be too easy - she’s so gullible. She’ll break his heart into a million pieces. And, as for the clone, well, I have a few favors to call in. It’ll just look like science gone wrong.

Yes, dad is sure to see that I am the child to be favored. He’ll realize he turned his back on the best thing that ever happened to him. After all, all I ever did was what he asked of me. Can I help that I did it so well that he felt threatened?

Here I am in Wilmington NC, Lured by the promise of a meal, clean clothes and a shower.I am waiting for a van ride to a church called the Rock.

I never thought I could wind up like this,after all I come from a prominant wealthy Boston family,My Grandfather was the mayor of Boston for Petes sake. How could innocent partying in college bring me to drunk tanks and gutters.

I listen to the preacher on the speaker talking about grace as I peal off my clothes and enter the shower stall.It has been at least three weeks since my last bath and the hot water pulsating on my back is refreshing. Reviving me and enabling me to think more clearly. I scrub the dirt from my feet using a cloth to gingerly wash the open sores and blisters caused from not wearing socks. It embarrasses me yet somehow helps to restore me as I watch the grime disappear down the drain.

There has to be a better way then this I exclaim out loud as I stare at a gaunt hollow eyed stranger mocking me in silence from the mirror as I scrap the beard from his face with a fresh razor. I start to have mind pictures of a time caught between reality and hallutionation. A castle on a hill, draped in smoke and delusion, filled with secret passages and fun house mirrors. Real yet so fragile it could come crashing down like a house of cards at the first stiring of an ill wind.

I think back to what I regard as my golden age. In reality it was a time of adolescent innocence, lured by the sweet siren’s call of success and blinded by the smiles of self indulgent frauds. Trusting that all the scales were balanced equally and all the cards were laid upright. I think about all the mistakes and wrong turns I have made and maybe could be corrected with a roadmap wrapped in hind sight and renewed ambition founded on a rock and not shifting sand.

I sit in the back of the church and listen to the preacher talking about salvation and returning to God and feel a stiring within my soul. I hear myself repeating the prayer “Jesus be my savior”! “Father I am home!”

“It’s a lie!  It’s a lie of the devil!  You’ve been eating off of his table, Little One!  You’ve been washing up his dishes for ‘im after supper!  You sit there with that smug look on yo’ face like you’re mighty pleased wit’ yo’self.  May the good Lord come smack you right up side yo’ dirt-eatin’ grin, Little One!  All of nature knows you’re a liar!  Can’t you hear the cry of the whip-o-will?  He’s screamin’, “It’s a lie!  It’s a lie!  It’s a lie!”  Oooooh, Little One, you better hope the good Lord gets to you before I do!  I don’t take kindly to the devil’s agents…”

Willa Jean moved purposefully towards the front porch where Maggie was now on her feet and slowly backing up from the irate Willa Jean.  Maggie’s eyes grew wide with horror as she realized she had no more room to retreat.  Quickly, she gathered all of the courage she could muster and dashed toward Willa Jean with the force of a locomotive.  The look of crazed anger on Willa Jean’s face turned to one of wide-eyed amazement as she realized the child was charging her like a mad bull.  Maggie caught Willa Jean with one foot in the air and pushed her backwards off of her Grandmother’s porch.  Willa Jean’s yell  was only outdone by the scream  of the cat she had landed on.  Poor Bartomus had been skulking through the grass at the wrong time.  Maggie didn’t bother to stop to see if he was alright.  She had to get away before Willa Jean recouped herself.

Maggie raced through the moonlight having no time to devote to the thought of snakes or any other wild creatures she could encounter.  The night air was cool against her cheeks as she ran to hide amongst the plum trees on the other side of the dirt road.  She knew Willa Jean wouldn’t cross the road to look for her.  She had a fear of crossing the road at night.  That’s why she had cut through Maggie’s grandmother’s yard in the first place.  Maggie had suspected Miss Willa Jean was on her way home from seeing Mr. Canty who lived about a mile or so up the road.  Maggie had taken the liberty of pointing out this suspicion as well as a few others to Willa Jean and the woman had exploded like a Fourth of July fireworks display.  Maggie should have learned by now to stop teasing the woman whom she had heard her grandmother refer to several times as being somewhat touched in the head. 

Maggie crouched down amongst the narrow trunks of the plum trees and listened for any sign of Willa Jean breaking with tradition and coming across the road to exact her revenge.  Maggie watched as fireflies would slowly illuminate and then extinguish their light leaving only darkness to fill the void.  Crickets chirped, Frogs croaked and Maggie waited for any sign of the now dreaded Willa Jean. As long as there was a lot of sound underneath the plum trees, Maggie knew not to worry.  If she heard the crickets and frogs go silent, she knew something or someone was lurking nearby.  That being noted, Maggie dropped to the ground and leaned against her favorite tree.  It was extremely bright for night and this was the first time she had enjoyed the comforts of this spot during a nocturnal visit.  Maggie closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The sweet smell of honey suckle tickled her nose and made her smile in spite of the circumstances that had driven her there.  Although the tree trunk was rough against her back, Maggie found herself nodding off, quite comfortable beneath the plum trees.  It didn’t take long before the dream began…

“Who are you?”  The little girl asked somewhat cautiously.  Maggie turned to see a pretty little girl who didn’t look to be much younger than her.  She had dewey skin the color of sifted cocoa. Her ebony hair, parted down the middle, was in two long plaits which just reached the back of her shoulders. A lavender satin ribbon held both of the plaits together near the ends. The girl wore a white cotton dress with a lavender sash around the middle.  She wore no shoes, yet she had on what appeared to be white tights and held a pair of white buckled dress shoes in her left hand. The girl squinted at Maggie as if the sun were in her large almond shaped eyes. 

“I’m Maggie Jakes. I live here with my grandmother and my sister Alberta.  Who are you?”   The little girl smiled as if she knew a secret, yet would not reveal it to Maggie.  Maggie questioned the girl again, yet was met with the same response. Maggie went on in an effort to get the girl to open up.  “I have an older brother, Thomas, but he doesn’t live with us.  Grandma says he’s off fighting wars he created for himself.  I write to him sometimes and ask how the war’s coming along and he doesn’t ever seem to know what I’m talking about.  He says he’s not in the army -  He’s simply a country boy trying to make it big in the city.”  The little girl smiled at Maggie and nodded her head once as if to encourage her to go on.  Maggie continued, “My sister Alberta is only three years older than I am but she likes to act as if she’s my mother. I tell her she’s not much older than me and she tells me to mind my elders! She always tries to trick me into doing her work, but I always have something to say about it!  My Grandma says I always have something to say about everything.  She says I get that from my Granddaddy.  I never met him.  He passed away way before I was born and he left Grandma all of this land, Grandma says it was just about all he left her.  But she seems to do pretty well, if you ask me.  We use the land to plant a lot of our food.  We also sell some of the crops.  Grandma’s got a head for business.  She says she never discovered that until after Grandaddy passed.  She did what she had to do. She had kids to raise and mouths to feed and nothin’ but the land and the Good Lord to work with.  I say she had all she needed.  But then again, Grandma does say I always have something to say! My best friend, Cori (that’s short for Corita) lives a few places down the road. She lives with her two brothers and her Mama and Daddy.  She hates being the only girl in the family and is always wishing for a sister.  I told her she was much welcome to Alberta.  Alberta overheard me when I told her and she didn’t speak to me for a whole half a day! When I’m not in school, I spend as much time with Cori and her family as I can.  When I’m here and bored with myself, I have old Bartomus, the cat, to keep me company.  We just about run this place, Ol’ Bartomus and me.  We understand each other.”  The little girl raised one eyebrow and seemed to smirk at Maggie’s last comment. 

Suddenly, the little girl’s eyes squinted to small slits and she broke her self-induced silence, “What about your Mama and Daddy?” 

Maggie was caught off guard as much by the girl’s sudden vocal skills as she was by the question. She wasn’t used to questions about her parents.  Maggie looked away and swallowed hard before turning back to the little girl.  “Grandma says my father’s name is Samuel… Samuel Jakes.  I’ve never met him.  I do have an old picture of him that belonged to my Mama.  I keep it in my shell box.  I keep all of my valuables in there.  Grandma said it belonged to my Mama and she would want her babygirl to have it.  I don’t remember too much about my Mama.  I was just three when she died.  Grandma doesn’t like to talk ’bout it much.  I overheard Cori’s mama telling a cousin of hers one day that my Mama’s death was no ordinary thing.  She said she was killed and that the killer was still on the loose. She said it was a mystery that had yet to be figured out.   When I interrupted and asked what a mystery was, they shut up and made me go back outside with the others.  I got home that night and when Grandma was tucking me in, I asked her what a mystery was and what it had to do with my mama’s death.  Grandma looked real sad and said we shouldn’t talk about such things.  Then she hugged me harder than I can ever remember.  She even forgot to tell me to say my prayers.  I said them anyway after she left the room.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything sadder than seeing my Grandmama cry….”  The little girl looked away with a sullen expression and almost seemed to nod in agreement.  All of a sudden, Maggie heard an unfamiliar sound.  Silence.  The crickets’ orchestra had come to an abrupt halt.  Fear began to envelope Maggie with the realization of what that meant.

Maggie’s eyes flew open and focused on a shadowy figure that had invaded her grove of plum trees and was quickly moving towards her.  She opened her mouth to scream when a stout hand clamped over it, stifling her cries.  “Hush child!  It’s me!”  Maggie’s mounting horror turned to relief as she recognized her grandmother’s voice and callused hands.

“Oh, Grandma, thank God it’s you.  I was afraid it was that crazy Willa Jean…”

“Hush!  We don’t have time for that now.  We’ve got to go!” Maggie knew by the sound of her grandmother’s voice something was seriously wrong.  She could tell by her tone it was not related to Willa Jean’s fall off the porch.

Grandma hurriedly pulled Maggie from beneath the plum grove, through a clearing and across the dirt road.  They ran all the way to the house and Grandma banged on the front door.  “Alberta, it’s me!  Let me in!”  Maggie wondered why Alberta was locked up in the house.  They hardly ever locked the front door before they went to bed. 

Maggie looked from her grandmother to Alberta and then back to her grandmother as she observed her quickly locking the door.  “Grandma, what’s wrong?”

Maggie’s grandmother shouted for Alberta to get her bible.  “Open it to the 91st Psalm.  We’ve got to fight this fear.”

Alberta did as she was told as Maggie continued to plead, “Grandma, what’s wrong?  What is it?”

Maggie’s grandmother looked at her with an expression of sheer pain mixed with anxiety.  “Oh, baby…It’s happened…It’s happened again…The Jefferies’ girl….just like with your mother!”  The girls watched as their Grandmother’s beautiful brown eyes filled with moisture that seeped down her chin before dropping off and staining her pink cotton blouse. Grandma’s tears preceded sobs that seemed to shake the whole house.  Maggie and Alberta held their grandmother as she gave voice to the grief that had been with  her for years.  As the night wore on and the moon began to set, all three of them wondered what peace, if any, the next day would bring.  

I remember as a kid running through acres of grass and climbing apple trees with Markie. He was four years younger, but was always able to keep up. He never seemed to tire. We’d eat apples, lie in the grass and stare up at the afternoon sun. It was warm on my face and its light danced in the clouds. I didn’t know then that it wasn’t real.

The trees grew well in the Preserve. Dad’s job as an eco-physicist gave us more time out there. We’d climb the nearby foothills and from there we could see along the long axis, westward and eastward, into infinity. To the south was grassy plain and beyond, the land gently curved upward to reveal Atwood, the town where we lived. Soon enough we’d have to climb down and head home to our studies as the reflector approximated a setting sun.

We live on a starship. A generational starship. A twenty-mile long, revolving cylinder, traversing interstellar darkness, now for hundreds of years. Seven thousand inhabitants bound for a place called Earth. We’re going home.

Dad was always careful when it concerned Markie. He would get sick and spend weeks in Southern Infirmary. Something about a weak immune system. The doctors said he would grow out of it eventually. But Dad was ever watchful.

“Don’t worry Dad, I’ll take care of him,” I said. Dad smiled. “I know you will, son.”

History records the time when people, humans like us, lived on Earth. The holovids in the Archives showed cities: London, San Francisco before the Second Great Quake, Old New York and what it was like to live there. Vistas of frozen tundra, emerald veldts and vast oceans unfurled like a panoramic tapestry. They seemed like dreams to me.

But Earth was real – and in trouble. Long-range scans showed that its ecology was unstable. Terraforming was the solution but it would take decades of analysis. Markie and I were both selected for the team while we were teens based on intense aptitude testing and our predilection for complex geophysical theory. Being bioengineered for smarts didn’t hurt either.

I met Elizabeth in tech school. Long black tresses framed her warm, caramel-brown face and smoldering, black eyes. She had a trusting and gentle spirit. We were married within a year.

Soon, Marcie came along. Ebony-skinned like her Dad, she had her mother’s eyes. Liz was patient with me when I wanted to name Marcie after her Uncle Markie. Marcie was the jewel in her mom’s eyes, as she was in mine.

Dad passed on right after Marcie married Dave, before the worries became public. Mom got to see little Marquitta just before she joined Dad.

Marcie loved her Uncle Markie. The terraforming project was critical, but Markie always found time to visit, bearing gifts and playing with his great niece.

There was a problem with the atmospheric matrix. The project was crippled. It will take decades to resolve. Decades we don’t have.

Then the pandemic came. Markie was in Infirmary for weeks. But he never gave up. He never did. He worked on the matrix problem from his hospital bed. One day he flashed sheets of paper packed with hand written notes and formulae. “Here. This will work.” The people would live on.

Liz and I go to the Preserve often with Marcie, Dave and the kids. Marquitta and her brother Marcus, nearly grown, still make an old man laugh out loud. I miss Markie. Liz and Marcie, bless them, know when I’m distant and what to do to bring me back. I tried to watch out for Markie, Dad. I really tried. I can see Dad’s face, “I know you did, son.”

We won’t live to see Earth, Elizabeth and I. Our great grandchildren will have room to run under an open sky. But we’re already home.

My apologies to Allison for trampling into her territory!

-Eric

The Russian MIG shot the plane in two as Mom leaped into the sky while giving birth to me. My head was appearing when she hit the door. I was halfway when she pulled the ‘chute. I was completely born free when she hit the ground in Kazakhstan. She handed over the bogus plans for the anti-gravity cone to the Soviet agent near Georgia. Reagan had NASA release the faked footage of the cone “defying gravity.” The USSR spent near a billion in futility trying to produce what couldn’t be. Reagan was a genius.  Mom didn’t want me going through life a Kazak. She smuggled me back into the states. Gave birth again. I’m an American.

Dad came and went according to his missions. The few times he was around it was like this: “Here’s how to short circuit a building with two paperclips, son.” So much for playing catch and fishing. No, I learned to shoot firearms from age five on. Dad just said I needed to know such things.

“Scale the side of the house, boy.”

“You hold a knife by its blade when you throw at the target.”

“Mr. Gray is a BAD man, boy. Run from him!”

“There’s the north star, boy. Which way’s east?”

“You hide in the brush like this, boy. That’s right.  Now stay here ‘til sundown. I’ll be checking on you and I’ll know if you moved.”

“Here’s what you do if you ever hear Mom being attacked while I’m gone.”

“I just spoke in what language, son?”

“Here’s how you use a needle to pick open handcuffs, son.”

“Mr. Brown is a GOOD man, son. If he calls, immediately get Mom or me.”

“Then you press these wires together and the engine will start without the key.”

“These are banking bonds, son. Here’s how they work.”

“Hollow points or flat heads for this situation, son?”

“What was that phone number we heard at the hardware store yesterday?”

“The government wants you to work for them, Lance. They pay well and you’ll be a secret to everyone.”

“That’s the trick to breaking into a safe when you don’t know the combination, Lance.”

“That man just lied to us, Lance. How can we tell?”

“Lance, this is Mr. and Mrs. Smith. They’re going to teach you some things today.”

“It’s like the internet, Lance, but only people like us can access it.  Now you set up an off shore account, Lance.”

Mr. Gray was bad. I knew what to do when he took out Mom.  I got away. Dad discovered the hard way that Mr. Brown wasn’t good, either. I was 16 when I was sent on my first mission. Who’d suspect me?  They tried to fake Ohio’s ballots, too. I stole the fakes from those politicos. Only Florida became an issue. Bush is now serving his second term. At 22, I’m full-time active. Mr. Brown and Mr. Gray both rot in Git Mo’. I put them there. And they don’t even know it.

Man, I can’t believe I have homework for the summer,  what a bummer!  I mean, how can my new teacher, Ms. Cuttbush expect us to write about ourselves and our families?  This stinks, summer is supposed to be spent having adventures, solving mysteries and staying up late.  Not writing essays or book reports!  Oh well, here goes nothing.

 I shall call this master piece, Summer Fun, Johnson Style.  Ms. Cuttbush wants a biography and she is gonna get one!  It is going to be the best one in all of sixth grade. 

So let me intro you to my family:  We will pick this thing up at the dinner table,  that is my father Herman Johnson sitting at the head. He was in the Marine Corps, a sergeant I think.  He’s got great big ole hands that could easily crush a beer can or blister my back side when necessary.  But, I ain’t afraid of him cause he is my daddy and he takes good care of us.  After he got out of the Marines, he moved home and became a policeman.  He is the Watch commander now.  It’s a fansy way of saying he’s the boss.  My mother Honey Johnson is seated at the other end of the table.  She used to be a school teacher before she started having kids.  I would have liked to had her as my teacher.  She loves us kids, and she loves my daddy even more.  She is always sitting in his lap after dinner, giggling and carrying on about something.  I sure am lucky to have them as my folks.  A lot of kids I know don’t have it so good.  Yep, I thank God every night for my folks, yes sir.  Now, next to my daddy, is BUC: that is short for BALD UNCLE CHARLIE.  He’s my dad’s older brother.  He came to live with us about 3 years ago when his wife died.  My dad didn’t want him to be alone, so BUC moved in with us.  It’s fun because he always has great stories to tell about when he and dad were young.  My dad tells us not to believe everything BUC says, but we can’t help it.  I asked my dad one time, how BUC got his name and he simply said it had something to do with a bet and a can of gas.  Obiviously the gas won, because Charlie was bald ever since. 

My big brother Calvin is next to BUC.  He is in high school.  He is build just like our dad, big hands and all.  He likes to slap me around with those mitts when I get on his nerves.  He also likes to go fishing and if I play my cards right he will let me tag along.  Most guys don’t like having their kid brother go places with them, but Cal doesn’t seem to mind.  My dad is always reminding him to look out for me and for the most part he does a pretty good job.  He wants to be a Marine just like dad when he graduates.  He figures if dad could do it, so can he.

Across from Cal is our little sister Beatrice Ursula Teresa Johnson.  We just call her Butter for short.  She is in the fourth grade and she always gets her way.  Something about being a daddy’s girl or some such thing.  She likes dolls and riding bikes, especially if Cal and me are going fishing and she wants to tag along.  Cal always rides just fast enough for her to keep up, which drives me crazy cause I want to loose her.  I can always hear her saying, Mom said wait for me!  So we wait.  She is not all that bad cause when Cal ain’t around we like to make up adventures and such.  We pretend to be crime fighters and ride all over the neighborhood looking for some injustice to make right again.  It is easy for Butter cause she has a great imagination, probably from listening to all of BUC’s stories.  I am seated between my dad and Butter.  My name is Octavio Johnson: Ocho for short.  I like to think of myself as the “glue” that holds this family together.  The one who can supply a quick joke or timely advice when needed.  Talents that have been refined from watching countless hours of Brady Bunch reruns.  I am the middle child and as my moms says, I strike the perfect balance because I ain’t the oldest nor the youngest.  Harmony was the word she used but I preferred the glue better because it never hurts to elevate your status. 

When I grow up I want to marry a woman like my mom and be just like my dad.  I want to be close to my brother and sister so we can continue to sit at this table and talk about the times when we were young.

 HOW’s That Ms. Cuttbush!

I have written six or seven things for this assignment & destroyed them all.  I’m afraid of doing something I’m not very good at.  So I’m trying to face my fear & just do it badly.  After all- it’s not the end of the world if it’s not great, is it?  So here we go…

 I grew up on the prairie, loving horses, loving my folks.  My dad kept stock.  I helped him early on.  He said once I was riding before I could rightly walk.  I loved tagging after mom in the house and in the garden.  She’d pick a tomato for me and I’d sit sucking out the juice and the seeds while she’d work.  A garden is a humming place full of bees and full of bugs for a little boy.  I liked to sit sucking tomatos under the shade of the corn and watch her stoop and work.  She had an almighty detestation of weeds.

Later on I went to school.  Thrashed my way through learning to read like a two-year-old colt.  Ate a lot.  Fished a lot.  Spent my summers on the back of a horse up in the high country watching cows.  I delivered a calf once.  That was an adventure.  Bet there aren’t many boys anymore can say that.

I met Betty when she was thirteen.  I walked her to the picture show.  Afterward I sassed her and she threw a handful of acorns at me, like to blacked my eye.  She wasn’t ever as pretty as some, but it was like heaven when she laughed.  She was just a little bitty thing, even full grown, with brown eyes like a trout pool full of sunshine.  She loved sunflowers and babies, but we could never have more than one.  It most broke her heart.  She said she married me because of my foolishness.  I used to work harder to make her laugh than I worked breaking horses.

I worked with dad for a few years, until it got hard to make a living at it.  Then I went to work keeping stables for a dude ranch.  Can’t make money running cows, anymore, but you can make a mint letting people pretend to run cows.  Don’t make no sense.  But the ranchers were good people, and those were good years.  Raising Connie, and Betty in the kitchen, and teaching kids not to shy away from horses.  I’d squire Betty to the dances every Friday and make the tourists look bad.

After the accident it was harder, but Connie was a tough girl, even when she was young.  She was a serious little thing, and between her and Betty they got most things done.  The way Betty could rely on her was a beautiful thing.  Connie’s grown and married now, with a houseful of kids.  She cries over every one that’s born, cause her momma didn’t get to see it.  “Ole Paw,” she’ll say to me (That’s what her kids call me.  I’ve learned to put up with it.)  “Ole Paw, do you think she’d like this one?”  And she’ll hold up a little wrinkled red baby, looks like one of last year’s apples all withered up.

“Yes, honey,” I’ll say, “That’s there’s a beautiful baby.  Have to be.  They come from good stock.”  I have to watch her, or she’ll get me to crying, too.  I admire all those little babies for Betty, else she’d have something tart to say when I get up there.  For myself, I like ‘em better when they get big enough to throw a leg over a horse.  I reckon I’ll hang around long enough to buy this last one his first pair of boots, but not much longer.  I’m getting tired, and missing Betty.  I’m starting to long for home.

My name is Sauda which is Swahili for “Dark beauty.” I looked it up on the computer at the library. Grandma says momma named me Sauda because she was trying to be uppity and name me after some fancy car, but didn’t know how to spell it. Momma says, “It’s just a name girl; don’t go trying to make nothing of it.”

I’ll be in forth grade next year, but I’ve already read The Diary of Anne Frank, so I kind of know what a biography is. I’ll be ten in August, the hottest month of the year. My momma said she almost gave up and died before having me, I made her so hot, and sick. When she finally got me outta her, she left Grandmas and didn’t come back until the funeral last month. I felt real bad for momma, on account of how small she looked and how everybody talked about her like she was deaf or something. Aunt Neada, said having to take care of me would do momma some good, teach her some R.E.S.P.O.N.S.O.B.I.L.I.T.Y. Spelling it out like no one knew how to spell such a long word. How would she know anything about taking care of anyone, all she ever did was take care of her big fancy house, with her mean little dogs.

I’m not sure where Aunt Neada thought momma and I would be living, but I bet she didn’t think it would be in a car. Momma says we just hit hard times and we won’t have to live like this long. She has a friend that said he would help her, so we just have to hang in there for a little while.

I guess the nights are the hardest for me. That’s when I’m by myself, and I try to scrunch down real low in the back seat so no one can see me. Momma says she has to work nights because that’s the only work she can get now. I sure do miss Grandma, and my nice little cot out on the back screened in porch. You could hear the frogs and the cadadids (SP?) singing all night long, and part of the night you could watch the fire flies glowing in the thick night air. Some nights I could feel a nice cool breeze coming up from the creek. The air was so sweet with honey suckle you could almost taste it on the tip of your tongue.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to go back to that cool spring night when I hear fire crackers in the distance. I know they are gun shots, but I tell myself they are fire crackers like my Uncle Rex used to bring up from South Carolina and set off on the 4th of July every year.

Tomorrow we are going to church; those people come down here and get us, right on our corner. I look forward all week to that shower and those clean cloths. Mrs. Brown always gives me a long hug when I get there, even before I get all cleaned up! Grandma used to say I looked like someone who needed a hug, and she gave the best hugs. The secret to a good hug is not to squeeze too hard, and not to let go too soon. That’s the hard part, figuring out when too soon is.

After we get cleaned up, momma usually goes outside for a quick smoke, but I head straight for the Fun Station tables in the children’s church. I can’t wait to see what we are going to do this week, last week we made bottles filled with different colors of sand, and we learned how the sand is all the same although there are different colors. The teacher shook her bottle up and you could see that when you mixed all those colors up it didn’t look the same. I don’t want to shake my bottle, although I do think I might go ask Mrs. Brown for another hug before we leave today. It sure does make the week ahead easier to look at when she gives me a hug before getting on that bus to go back to our car.

The Lord revealed His unique sense of humor by placing me in the craziest family on the face of the earth.  Being the fourth of ten children exposed only part of God’s wit; He revealed the remaining factors through His call on my parents, grandparents and even great-grandparents on my father’s side.   You see, I belong to Ernie and Genell Swanson, of the ‘Swanson Clown Family’.

I arrived on a warm spring day in May.  Mom was driving the clown car in the middle of a show when her water broke.  Dad insisted there was time to finish the routine before heading to the hospital twenty miles away.

With the elevator trapped between two floors, the delivery nurse was forced into action as a mechanic hurriedly struggled to repair the system.  Mom laughingly shared for years, it was a miracle I didn’t try to swim back upstream, particularly since the first thing I saw was my father; Hobo Ernie was in full costume including his huge red nose.  Dad insisted on naming me Daisy May Swanson in his traditional a,b,c order. My older siblings were Andy, Barney and Clyde.  Later Ethel, Fairy, Georgia, Harvey, Isabel and Jocko joined our loco but loving troop.  The small travel camper was almost as crowded as the sardine clown cars used in our act.

In one of my earliest memories, Dad shared our call to be clowns for Jesus.  There were numerous chances to impart the Gospel with circus workers and townspeople as we traveled from place to place.  At each new stop, several of the children would walk with Dad in full costumes laughing and joking with everyone we met.

I watched my father repeatedly turn a casual conversation to the love of Jesus.  My father’s clownish ways often embarrassed me until I accepted Jesus as my personal Savior; I too joined heart with my folks to be a ‘fool for Jesus’.

Our performance consisted of several short skits, with all the members of our family playing various characters.  One was Romera saving Judy, his love from a burning building.  My favorite was Daisy the Hillbilly as a wild and dangerous man-hunter on the prowl for a mate.  We also played cops and robbers, and other typical clown routines.  The crowd’s laughter was music to our ears.

At times, my concern grew of ever finding a husband with our constant travel.  Then one day, my father hired Cecil, a new clown, since two brothers and one sister had left for SeymourClownCollege.  As soon as I saw the new clown with his red hair and countless freckles, I knew the Lord had once more had the last laugh on me.   My spirit echoed with His chuckle “Daughter, behold your future husband.”

Within months, ‘Freckles’ proposed.  Dad laughing rejoiced with the thought of a new son.  The great Swanson Clown tradition would carry on.  Two years later, in true family fashion, Kitty decided to make her presence know in the middle of an act and insisted on arriving even as we made our way to the local hospital.  Her Aunt Fairy, in full clown costume, of course, proudly clutched her as this little one made her grand entrance into this world in the backseat of the family van.  Within a few years, Leo, Markie, Nick, and Opal joined our loving and crazy family in our crowded clown camper.

Yes, I can say I have a wonderful but crazy life.  I know the loving antics of the ‘Swanson Clown Family’ bring laughter to my Father God.

By Joyce Sykes