Diaries

Charles – Explorer

August 11, 1861
Bathed in rosy light, the mountain’s noble brow gleams in the glory of the setting sun. Beyond the jagged outline of the eastern peak, which rises abruptly from a gentle incline, lies a rough, almost horizontal platform. 3000 feet lower, like the trough between two mighty waves, rests the saddle separating the sister peaks.

August 15, 1861
The trough is all that hinders me, but what an all! Snow at eye level. Clouds above. White upon rocks and sky. Shining masses, looking like newly-washed sheep!  I cannot describe the sensations thrilling my heart. Knowing my caravan of men will keep me safe, I must continue. For God. For country.

Johannes – Preacher

August 18, 1861
We are in the midst of Chagga thieves, trickish men, who only desire our property. My single earthly friend disappeared after striving to reach the mountain’s peak with a caravan consisting of local thieves. God bless his soul.

Winter Baby

Today Pegman took us to Happy Jack, AZ. And I managed to write a happy story! Thanks for reading.

You told me town was shuttered due to inclement weather but I have to get home. Need to get to you. I love you.
You said you were fine. Everything at home was normal. But I heard worry inside the soft tones in your voice. I know you.
Streets are pretty bad. Looks like Doc Wilson is stuck on Main Street. So is Lars Nielson. I’m gonna’ make it, though. I’m better than this weather.
Why on God’s Green Earth did I drag you to Happy Jack? Hotter than the hinges of the hot place in summer. Glacial in winter. Lonely.
But you’re a strong gal. Always.
Almost home. One more mile. Mile and a half. Up the stairs. I’m home.
“Sarah?” Nothing. Then the tiniest whimper from the bedroom. My heart aches.
But you smile from the bed and show me our baby.
“Look, Samuel, we have a son.”

Brothers

Today, Pegman took us to Brasilia, Brazil. Thanks, Josh and Karen, for getting my writing mind back in gear!

Photo by Martin Karplus

Long ago, we needed no one. We had money and land, crops and livestock.
Women flocked to us. We were that handsome. That strong. That wealthy.
Children were conceived. Born. Or not. Many survived into old age. Others died playing the foolish games teenagers relish.
We mourned them before convincing our women to return to the connubial bed.

We picked our favorites. Both women and children. We favored male off-spring. Although we were aware a few girls were needed to keep our lineage viable.
If supplies grew low, we traded with neighboring tribes passing across our lands. Goats for girls. Or we stole as many girls as needed. Goats are precious.

Now, only I, Lucio, and my brother, Joaquim remain.
No goats, no children, women, or neighboring tribes.

We tell stories at night. We spar. We mourn parties with beautiful dancing women.
Most of all, we miss the laughter of children.

Keep it Simple

After last week’s dark post, I promised to write a light-hearted tale for Pegman who took us to Free State, South Africa this week. 147-words later, I think I’ve managed to do just that.

Life is good. Always.

Even in early spring when the weather turns hot and dry, and plants are dead or dormant, and supplies of autumn nuts are exhausted. In that season our people gather around permanent waterholes to hunt besbok and wildebeest that cannot range far from the receding waters. After rain replenishes the earth, ladies gather fruit, berries, bush onions. Children capture grasshoppers, beetles, caterpillars, and moths to supplement the meat our men bring home.

Mornings are met with a smile. We know what is expected and band together to accomplish our tasks. Community is key.

Evenings bring peace. The world softens. We laugh and dance and make love in the shadows. Women pass babies from lap to lap so they know they are loved. No one shouts at the children. Ever.

Our lives may seem simple but we would never trade them for yours.

Postcards

Today Pegman took us to Minsk. I’ve once again gone to the dark side because I’ve recently started a class about the Holocaust. Dark times. Dark story. On the other hand, Happy New Year, fellow Pegman Writers!

You send taunting postcards from AfricaChinaNorwayPortugal. Some signed MissYou, WishYouWereHere. Others WeWillVisitHereTogether-Someday. The worst say WeWillNeverSeeOneAnotherAgain. They arrive in a neverending mixed-up rotation I can’t process.
But this last postcard broke me. You are the one person who knows my parents were thrown into a ditch then shot by Schutzmannschaft in Minsk. You know, because, just as you shouldered your rifle you noticed me, legs shattered by a hail of bullets, clinging to my father’s chest.
For some godforsaken reason, you pulled me out of the mud. Hid me inside your coat. Gifted me to your wife who kept me as if I were a child of her own. You? You merely kept me.
Twenty years later I lie here, half a woman with a gun beside my bed while you travel the world with your mistress, and send postcards. Today, Herr Stein, I choose WeWillNeverSeeOneAnotherAgain.

A Quilt Sewn Just for You

Today Pegman took us to Aosta Valley, Italy. What a beautiful place!

Isabelle, something’s wrong with your Grandmother.
Why not call her Mother? What?
Look at her quilt. No pattern. The threads are all off-kilter.
For God’s sake, she’s already done Log Cabin, Flying Geese, Bear Paw. Leave her alone! Let her color outside the lines. Let her be.
It’s not like her. Do you think she has Alzheimer’s?
No more than you or I. Why don’t you ask her what she’s up to? Such beauty in the colors. The velvet textures. The silver thread. Look closely, Mother, look.

Come here, daughter.
I knew Grandma was listening.
See this zig-zag line?
Of course.
The road your father and I traveled to escape Aosta Valley during the war.
The unusual colors?
Unusual?
The colors of the mountains that sheltered our home.
This is . . . beautiful. But you’re scaring me.
Why? There’s a sweet memory in each stitch and every one leads to you.

Big Plans

It’s been a while since I took a trip with Pegman. I’ve missed the fun. I rarely read other author’s work before writing a story of my own, but I did this time and am glad. “Big Plans” is piggy-backed on Lynn Love’s story. Thanks, Lynn, for inspiring me. Happy Holidays!

Photo by: Iakov Filimonov / Shutterstock.com.

Do you see the boy? No, not the one in the red shirt, the other boy.
Oh, yes, the look in your eye tells me you see him now. His face is pleasing is it not?
When I grow up I will marry him and have at least six children.
We will live in a house made of red brick held together by fine-grained mortar flecked with gold.
Our garden will overflow with passion flowers and iridescent blue butterflies.

What? Impossible? Nothing is impossible.
I will not sell mangoes as Mother does.
Nor will I continue to mudlark while Father unloads ships on the dock.
For I have discovered what is in the containers being sent offshore.

I may be young but I am not ignorant.
The men who own those metal boxes will pay me to stay silent.
What? Indeed, they will pay me very, very well.

Missionaries, Guyana 1852

You drug me to this godforsaken place, promising renewal. Instead, I got a scrub board, and laundry hung outside to dry until it is so stiff cardboard would be more comfortable. Look what lye has done to my hands. Look.

Ah, my sweet, you were becoming too soft, too complacent. You rant at no longer having housemaids and gardeners but the money previously wasted on them now helps our village children – provides books, inoculations.

You purchase chickens for people we don’t know.

We have new friends who share food, stories, laughter.

I feel trapped. Water everywhere. Four rivers, an ocean. Mountains with unpronounceable names. The jungle. Take me home.

We leave tomorrow. A kiss.

Tomorrow? I will pack this instant. Oh, how I long to see New York. Thank you, my love, thank you.

Wait, you misunderstand. You and I are traveling deeper inside the jungle. Our help is needed elsewhere.

Bad Company

This is my contribution to Pegman. What a creepy place the Overbrook Lunatic Asylum must have been. Thanks for reading my 147-word story.

Yeah Luke was a phantom all right sliding in and out of the gang like vapor from our pipes he’d smoke a little of this a lot of that then disappear come back clean and start all over again we didn’t mind he was funny brought bloom flakka krokodil crank disappeared for good one day that was o.k. we’d already decided he was crazy anyone that lived in the decrepit lunatic asylum had to be of course authorities didn’t know or they’d a booted him out every now and then one of us or all of us or three of us would go in there to hang ’cause being inside creeped us out James was the one who opened the drawer and found Luke wrapped in a straight jacket dead as any doornail with hyde tattooed on his forehead hell yes we scattered ain’t been back since

A Wasted Opportunity

Today Pegman took us to Ljubljana, Slovenia. While looking at pictures of this beautiful town, I was reminded of the ungrateful me at sixteen when my parents sent me to Europe with my sister. What an opportunity. I enjoyed most of it but was so distraught over having to “leave my boyfriend” who was actually fighting in Vietnam at the time, I didn’t allow myself to absorb the culture. Ah, hindsight. Anyway, here are my 150-words. I hope you enjoy my wee bit of fluff.

“Mom! I don’t want to see another church!”
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to go home.”
“Honey, this is the trip of a lifetime. None of your friends will ever get a chance like this.”
None of my friends want a chance like this.
“How ’bout we get something to eat. Come on.”
“The hotdog I ate last night made me puke.”
“I think that was the ride on the boat, not the Kranjska Klobasa.”
“Whatever.” Dad has taken me sailing for the last twelve years. I doubt a boat ride was the problem.
“We could go to the square to see that statue Valbotg told us about last night.”
“I will stab my eyes out if I see another marble statue. Mom! Really?”
“Think of something, anything you’d like to do. Anything.”
Oh! Wait! Look at him. Look. At. Him. “Let’s rent some bikes!”