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"The Sketch" (the eighty-ninth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "The Sketch" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), Jan 15, 2009 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| The Sketch By Linda.L.Rucker: Author@Large www.lindalrucker.com (Entry #3) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| The day Mary Louise didn’t show
up they were all alarmed. Dog park people were nothing if not consistent. If
you owned a dog, you had to be, and Mary Louise definitely owned a dog.
Now Chester wasn’t much of a dog to be sure, but he met all the qualifications. He had four legs, a tail that wagged, occasionally, and what most could consider a bark, although the jury was still out on that one; at least for the morning crew. They called themselves the ‘Morning Crew” because they were the ones who opened the park every morning at seven a.m., dogs in tow, coffee cups in hand. One look at the dogs and a person knew the Crew was there more for the camaraderie than the dogs’ exercise, but dogs being the loyal and devoted creatures they were suffered the early hour with dignity and aplomb and most promptly fell asleep at the owner’s feet until a more decent hour arrived. That was usually around eight when Mary Louise and Chester arrived. Neither Mary Louise nor Chester was overly friendly. The Crew learned their names by perseverance and being a bit nosey. Mary Louise reluctantly introduced herself one morning about a year ago when Angel, the unannounced ringleader of the Morning Crew walked over to her while she was bagging Chester’s morning contribution to fertilizer. “Hi,” Angel’s booming voice left little choice but response. One could hardly pretend one didn’t hear him, unless of course one faked deafness, which Mary Louise was not. “Mary Louise,” she’d replied softly. So softly, Angel later recounted to the rest of the crew that he wasn’t sure if she’d said Mary Louise or Beat it, please. They learned Chester’s name the usual way when Mary Louise yelled at him to come back to her once when he chose to actually try to make the acquaintance of the other morning dogs. After that brief exchange, there was nothing but the morning nod of acknowledgment as Mary Louise passed the Crew on her way to her favorite bench under the giant live oak tree in the far corner of the dog park, a trip she made seven days a week. By virtue of her self imposed solitary confinement, she became the object of daily speculation. The crew spent their mornings making up various scenarios and lifestyles for Mary Louise. In them, she became a retired spy for the C.I.A.; a closet child abuser, (although that was summarily dismissed as ludicrous because every one knew child abusers used puppies to lure children, not ancient mutts like Chester); a retired nurse, (although her apparent utter lack of any compassion belied that one); a retired teacher, or just a lonely widow woman who was painfully shy. The Crew wove stories around their guesses, but it was Angel who came closest to the truth, although at the time he had no way of knowing. “I think she’s a retired art teacher,” he announced one morning after Mary Louise and Chester arrived, “and she is bitter over being forced to retire.” “What makes you think that?” asked Jason, a bit winded. His morning game of find the poop ended with him stepping in the steaming pile left to him by Max and he was trying to clean his shoes in the still dew damp grass. “Well, doesn’t she look like every English teacher you had all the way through high school?” replied Angel, nodding in Mary Louise’s direction. “Not mine,” Maria laughed, “Unless she has a beard.” Angel and Jason laughed, too. “You don’t know, she might have a beard,” Michelle chimed in, walking up with Abbey in tow. “That’s very true,” Angel conceded. They all turned their eyes toward the bench, but as usual, Mary Louise didn’t seem to notice them. Her head was bent over her sketch pad, as usual. “You may be right about the teacher part,” Jason said, “but I think she was an art teacher.” “Could a been,” Angel said, turning his attention to Jazz who was busily trying to hump Jason’s leg. “Knock it off, Jazz.” “You can take the balls off the dog, but not the urge to chase them,” Jason said, grinning. And so it was, day after day for over a year that the crew gathered, joked, speculated about Mary Louise and Chester and left with their curiosity unabated. And then one day she didn’t show up. At first none of the crew was alarmed, although it was very unlike Mary Louise not to be there. She’d, in so far as any of them knew, never missed a single day in over a year, but after two straight days the speculation began anew. She’d died in her sleep and no one knew because she was a recluse; she‘d fallen and broken her hip and was alone and suffering because no one knew where she lived or missed her; she was gravely ill and no one had a clue. None of scenarios had a happy ending for Mary Louise. After a few days of wild speculation, the Crew became truly concerned. It just wasn’t like her not to bring Chester to the park. Angel suggested that they go to the police with their suspicions, but Jason reminded him that they had no idea where she lived or even what her last name was to which Angel had to agree. And so they waited and they worried and they wondered just when it was that Mary Louise had become one of them. She never stopped to talk; she rarely even looked their way. Chester kept to his Mistress’s side, only occasionally interacting, however briefly with the other dogs, so then when had Mary Louise and Chester become members of the Morning Crew? None of them had a clue; would even admit that it was true, but inside they all knew it was. Mary Louise and Chester were a part of their group whether they wanted to be or not, and as such, the others were now very worried about them and actually missed them, although there was little they could do about it. And then one day a week later, a woman came to the park. She carried a briefcase with her and she had no dog in tow. While it wasn’t unusual for dog less folks to come to the park it was bit odd to see one dressed in a business suit and high heels. The crew watched as she entered the dog run, opened the inner gate and stepped inside. They watched as she scanned the park, finally zeroing in on them and began walking toward them. “Uh oh, now what?” Angel said softly. “Good morning,” the woman said. Her voice was brisk, all business and the smile she flashed showed perfect teeth. “Good morning,” the crew replied as one. “Angel?” The woman looked at Angel and he nodded. “Yes, I’m Angel,” he replied. She nodded her head, and then in turn addressed Jason, Maria and Michelle. “Could we go over there to the bench?” the woman didn’t wait for a reply, but began walking briskly toward the bench where Mary Louise always sat. Dumbfounded the crew followed silently. At the bench, the woman sat down and placing the briefcase on her lap flipped the release and opened it. “What’s this about?” asked Angel. Not answering, the woman rifled through some papers and then withdrew several pieces. “I have some things for you,” the woman said. Sitting the briefcase on the bench next to her, she got to her feet. “Angel, this is for you.” She held out a large sheet of paper and Angle looked first at it, then at her, then at the Crew and finally back at the paper. “What is it?” he asked, not reaching, not yet. “Just take it, it won’t bite you.” For the first time the woman’s face creased in a genuine smile and nodding Angel gingerly touched the paper, and then grasped it. One by one, the woman handed the Crew identical pieces of paper, and one by one the crew looked at the papers and each reacted differently. Angel shook his head in wonder, Jason chuckled, Maria gasped and Michelle smiled her eyes bright with tears. “Mary Louise Parsons died last week,” the woman began. “She was a private person, as you all know. She had no friends, no family other than her dog Chester, and well, apparently she looked on all of you as a part of her family as well. She loved two things in her life, her dog, and her art.” She looked at the Crew who looked back at her, waiting, listening. “Mary Louise Parsons, does the name ring a bell with any of you?” They all shook their heads. “I didn’t think so. Well, be that as it may, Miss Parsons was a very well known artist, at least in certain circles, and she was very successful, becoming one of the few living artists whose art was sought after and fought over. But, money was merely an annoying side effect of her work to Mary Louise, so she lived meagerly and leaves behind quite a huge fortune.” Despite himself Angel gasped, and the woman smiled wryly, shaking her head. “Don’t get too excited, she didn’t leave her fortune to any of you,” she said, and Angel felt his face flame with embarrassment. “No, she actually left that huge fortune to the American Humane Society.” “Oh,” was all any of them could manage, and this one came from Maria. “I was charged with finding you all and giving you her gift to you and that gift was the satisfaction of your curiosity and those sketches. Now, having done so, I’ll bid you good day.” The crew stood silently as the woman walked briskly toward the gate, then looked at each other. “Now that was weird,” Michelle said. “Look at your pictures,” Maria instructed, her eyes bright with tears. Each held a picture of themselves and their dogs; Angel with Jazz; Jason with Max; Maria with Lady; and Michelle with Abbey. Each picture was like looking at a black and white snapshot, a perfect image of dog and owner, and each sketch had the same message scribbled across the bottom next to Mary Louise’s name: Love them, care for them, and they will love you and care for you. “Mystery solved,” Angel said and the other’s nodded mutely. |
| The Sketch By kws1949@gmail.com (Entry #4) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| Savanna insisted on home schooling
her precocious red headed child, which meant that art was Monday, Wednesday and
Friday for 15 minutes. Savanna saw the red flags, but not until it was too
late. First, her daughter, five year old Madeline Mae, used her left hand,
except on those special occasions – this drawing was her forth – when
she drew using a number 2 pencil. These special sketches came from her right
hand – from the left side of her brain. "Don't drag it out or force a young, developing brain. Attention spans are very short at this age and five minutes of coloring might be all a child will tolerate in one sitting." Mostly, the book was true and Maddy sat with her fist filled with a rainbow of colors, often using the whole bouquet as her medium. On the days her attention span lapsed and Maddy Mae gave up early, stretching out even five minutes was a chore, not for the light hearted, as Maddy's temper matched her red locks. When five minutes elapsed, then fifteen, then more, and Maddy showed no signs of stopping, red flag number two flew. Red flag number three: the pencil. All other art work displayed a typical five year old rainbow view of the world; giant, out of shape stick people; a huge sun; animals identifiable only because Maddy painstakingly told you what was a cat or a cow, the only prominent and universal animal trait was a long, stick straight tail. On those three other occasions when her drawings moved into incredibly detailed works of art, Maddy worked with a number 2 pencil, bringing more life from the graphite than any person had a right to. Not the rainbow of colors that graced their refrigerator, instead Maddy minutely detailed visions, from where Savanna could not guess. Her first, just after she turned five, detailed a horse drawn cart of some sort, the horses driven to madness by either the driver of the wagon or the images of flame and destruction behind them. Such detail; the horses' heads reared back, their manes fling in the wind, sparks and embers dancing across the panorama. Subtle clues evaded Savanna and Jeff, her husband. Six weeks later, Maddy Mae again sat at the kitchen table, perched on a phone book and dictionary, her feet swinging freely, just the tip of her pink tongue peeking out from her lips as she concentrated on a new drawing. Dismissing crayons, Maddy grasped her number 2 pencil and worked furiously. "What are you drawing today, Maddy?" Savanna asked as her cherub concentrated on the finer details of her work. "Soldier men," Maddy replied, never taking her eyes away from her drawing. Cautiously, so as not to disturb her child, Savanna padded forward but could make no sense of the drawing. 45 minutes later, Maddy announced it was time for 'cheese and mac' – lunch – and the sketch sat forgotten until long after Maddy was comfortably asleep. Almost forgotten in the rush of life's events, Savanna soon forgot the two sketches as Maddy Mae reverted back to her ever pleasant five year old antics. She was such a girl, such a doll. Every day with Maddy presented new adventures, new discoveries. Her art reverted back to the visions of a five year old in possession of the big box of Crayolas. Her nerves eased as she watched her daughter with a growing joy, her fears nearly forgotten. Friday. Art time. Sitting on her phone book and dictionary to bring her to the proper height, Maddy Mae eschewed the box of crayons and picked up her favorite number 2 pencil. Although preoccupied with Halloween decorations, Savanna wasn't truly aware that Maddy hadn't stopped until more than half an hour passed. As quietly as possible, she crossed to the table and peeked over her young daughter's shoulder. "Maddy?" A man's body falling backwards through the air, struggling as though trying to fly. Unlike the first two drawings, Maddy canted this vision almost 45 degrees. Savanna wondered how any artist, much less a small child, could work without turning the paper to match the view. Somehow, Maddy managed. Savanna drew up a chair to watch the finishing touches slip into place. "That's very interesting, Maddy," she said quietly. "What it is?" "The falling guy," Madeline responded without looking up, sweeping her red curly locks absently away from her face. Savanna smiled, relieved somewhat. Madeline's favorite movie these days was THE INCREDIBLES. She relaxed, thinking that Maddy invented her own super hero to star in a new version, whenever that came out. Her sketch complete, Maddy excused herself to go outside – "for recess" she said. Playing at school was serious business for Maddy once she discovered other kids her own age attended a real school with real classes and had a playtime called 'recess'. As her daughter dashed through the kitchen door with their huge male lab, Savanna brought the picture around to see the new image. Her first impulse was to giggle as the falling body struggled against gravity like a turtle on its back. In some quirk of humor, the focal point of the sketch wasn't the man falling, but an incredibly detailed sketch of his shoe, as though trying to step out of the picture. Without breaking her focus, Savanna pulled her cell phone to her and dialed her friend and Maddy's pediatrician, Dr. Jengal. On his way home, Dan Jengal pulled into their drive. By the time he arrived, so had Jeff, who sat next to Savanna, looking through her file of Maddy's Pictures. "When did this start?" Was Dan's first question as he thumbed through the stack, stopping when he reached the pencil drawing.. "Just after she turned five," Jeff said. "Six months ago." "When I told her we were starting school at home," Savanna added. "These are typical five year old vision of the world." Dan laid out some of Maddy's work. "All stick figures, two dimensional bodies; houses with windows and doors out of proportion; figures with hair that is colored at least in a natural spectrum," he set those aside. "But these, I've never seen anything like these. The detail is so rich!" He examined the first closely, almost touching his nose to the sketch. "Have you got a magnifying glass handy?" Savanna brought a small reading glass from her drawer in the kitchen. Dan spent a full minute before he spoke. "I thought it must be, but I wasn't sure," he said, leaning back and rubbing his eyes. "How closely have you examined these?" "Fairly close," Jeff said, ignoring Savanna. "I've come down here some nights and pulled the file out when I couldn't sleep." "What do you notice?" "I don't….I mean….there is simply too much detail for one to take in at one sitting," Jeff replied. "Look at that one, for instance. The horses, the burning building, the fire equipment in the foreground. The fire itself, spreading into adjacent shops. There is almost more detail than the eye can take in." "Here," Dan handed him the reading glass and Savanna and Jeff bent over the picture. "I'm not sure you quite comprehend. Look closely at the placard on the apparatus. It's on the boiler." As she peered through the glass, in fine lettering almost invisible, Savanna could just make out the engraving on the brass: "Company 3, Chicago Fire Depart…." "It can't be," she whispered. "What?" The details still escaped Jeff. "The Chicago Fire Department, Company 3, 1871," Dan said slowly, enunciating each word. "Unless I miss my guess, this is the Great Chicago fire, and the fire department is racing away from the fire." "Can't be," Jeff echoed his wife. "That was over 150 years ago. Hell, the only reason I remember it at all is because you just reminded me. How is Madeline supposed to have any reference at all?" "I wish I knew," Jeff said. "Pass me her next drawing, in order, please." "Well?" Jeff demanded. "What do you see?" He asked Savanna. "A Civil War battle," she replied as she again saw the Stars and Bars flag. "Do you recognize this at all?" Dan asked. "Seems like a big battle, that's obvious," Jeff replied as he pointed out the long line of men between the battle flags. "I mean, that line is really long." "A sunny day," Dan said, stating the obvious. "The troops are stretched in an almost straight line. That flag there, he pointed to one of the finer details, "is a specific flag; a battle flag from Tennessee. Unless I miss my guess, this is Gettysburg. More specifically, this is Picket's Charge on July 3rd, the worst military blunder of the Confederacy." "But how can Maddy know of Pickett's Charge?" Savanna cried. "She's five. We've never talked about that war. How could she know?" "I have no explanation," Dan shook his head as he put the drawing aside. "I know she reads already, but surely none of her books would go into the detail of the Battle of Gettysburg, much less Pickett's ill fated charge. What's left?" "Here," Savanna slid the picture across the table. "Just this morning." Originally Savanna convinced Jeff to ask their friend if Maddy might be some sort of artistic prodigy, a genius yet to be discovered. Now she feared to have him explore the last drawing. A simple drawing, Savanna thought, even she recognized the central focal point. "The detail is extraordinary," Dan said. "You can see the stitching, scuffs in the leather. I swear if I knew more about dress shoes, I could identify the make." "The Chicago fire picture makes some sort of sense," Jeff said. "Even the Gettysburg drawing is logical, if that's what it is. But this, a man's shoe?" "That's because your focus is drawn to the shoe. In the first, your focus is drawn to the wild look in the eye of the horses and you missed the finer detail," Dan explained. "In Gettysburg, you focus on the barrel of the rifle pointing at the Confederates and the Stars and Bars. You need to examine that picture a bit closer to draw the Gettysburg conclusion. Now, use that analysis and tell me what else you see." "His suit?" Savanna says. "Looks like it's flapping in the wind. Look at the coat riding up his back. Wherever he's falling from, it doesn't look like it's fun." "I don't see a landing spot," Jeff said. "Look again with the eye on the other details. Forget the man for the moment," Dan said. "Well, the background looks really odd," Jack said looking again as the symmetrical panels seemed to slide by the main figure. "I almost recognize them," Savanna said. "They're so familiar…" "It's the World Trade Center," Jeff said. "He jumped rather than be burned alive." "Oh my God," Savanna whispered in shock. "But how?" Dan asked again. "She's only five. She wasn't alive then and we don't allow pictures of the WTC." "I need some processing time," Dan said as he leaned away from the table and rubbed his eyes. Savanna collected the images and slipped them back into the vanilla envelop with the other, more typical five year old crayon drawings. "I wish I had an answer. I really do. I'll do some reading tonight. Let me make a few calls in the morning." "Should I not let her draw?" Savanna asked. "No, that's the wrong approach, in my opinion," Dan said. "I'd like to see where this goes from here. She's jumped almost two centuries in less than six months. It may be she'll just outgrow it, but the dichotomy between the styles are extreme. Dan had no other suggestions, except to let him know when Maddy drew another picture. After some awkward small talk, Dan left, in a hurry to get to his books. Savanna and Jeff spent a quiet evening, each lost in private thoughts, while Madeline Mae played with her toys, perfectly content to entertain herself. They turned in shortly after putting her to bed, but neither slept much. By the next Friday, Savanna dreaded sitting Madeline down for art time. Sure enough, Madeline pushed aside her crayons and picked up her pencil. "What are you drawing today, Maddy?" Savanna asked, almost afraid of her daughter's answer. "Fluffy," Maddy said without looking up. "Honey, Fluffy is gone now," Savanna sat across from her daughter. This was something she could deal with, she thought, but she was still afraid to touch her, afraid to break the concentration stretched across her young face. "We talked about that, Maddy. Fluffy can't come home anymore." "Oh yes he can," Maddy sighed as if the answer was obvious. "These bad people have him in a cage and he doesn't like it. Fluffy's scared now." "Maddy, Fluffy is gone forever honey," Alice said, afraid that reminding her daughter would simply cause more tears. "Fluffy died." "Did you see him die?" Maddy asked. When in the throes of such masterpieces, she tended to ask much more adult, pointed questions, but she never looked away from her drawing. "No," Savanna couldn't bring herself to watch her white corgi be put down. She wept all the way home, thankful for Jeff's strength because she was far too upset to drive. "Daddy knows," Madeline said. "He's going there to get Fluffy now." "Honey, daddy's at work today," Savanna explained. "Even if he wanted, he couldn't go see Fluffy." "Not today," Maddy said as her fingers danced across the page, the images becoming clearer and clearer. The view from behind Fluffy showed a lab filled with cages. Maddy's detail included a sign for Savanna to read: Check You Suit Integrity! Safety First" "They do bad things to animals there," Madeline said. "Daddy's gone to save Fluffy and turn the rest of them free." In fine detail, the rest of the cages stood open. A few had animals still in them, but only a few. Savanna's voice trailed off as Maddy drew in an arm, an unprotected bare arm, reaching into the cage for Fluffy. Hypnotized, she watched Savanna fill in the details. Small hair on the arm, a freckle here, a piece of tattoo peeking from short sleeves. A watch, worn inside the wrist like … Jeff's watch. Savanna couldn't move. She didn't dare speak and break Maddy's concentration. She wanted more detail and at the same time wanted to scream, to break away, to call to Jeff. Madeline kept working, filling in detail around and behind the cage bars…lines here, small flicks of the pencil there. Maddy's pencil skipped across the paper so quickly that Savanna knew another hand had to be guiding her. The pencil stopped just above the suit integrity warning, adding more letters: Live Ebola Virus… Maddy's words echoed in Savanna's ear. He's bringing Fluffy home and letting the rest of them go. And then another word she'd heard recently…"Pandemic." |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #8 Second place: #4 Third place: #1 Fourth place: #6 Fifth place: #3 Others receiving votes: #5, #9 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| The Sketch Ruby Astari author81@gmail.com |
#1 of 12 |
| 475 words | |
| I could sit for hours, listening to your tales about
her. Your description about her enabled me to picture her with my eyes closed.
Long brown hair with a red tinge under the sun. Her deep blue eyes...and how
you never minded being completely lost in them. Her smile...should I carry on?
As usual, I let you blab on. My soft pencil was dancing smoothly on a white paper, like a skater on an ice rink. Sometimes I only mumbled : "Uh-huh." Or I'd giggle at your facial expression. Your chocolate-brown eyes were sparkling. I smiled when your eyes suddenly softened. Salute Cupid for that. Look at how his arrow gave these lasting effects on you. That day, you suddenly stopped talking and noticed me staring at you. Seeing what I'd been doing, your hand slowly stretched forward. "May I see that please?" "Not yet!" I quickly protected my sketch-book. You pouted. I reached for your hand and gently told you, "Be patient, dearie. I'm not done yet." Your smile reappeared and you simply obeyed. I finished my drawing. Then I showed it to you. You sat there, agape. "My God!" you gasped in awe. You looked at me and the sketch, almost at a loss for words. "She--she--" "I know." "She is so beautiful," you complimented, your voice shaky with emotion. "You're making her look even more beautiful here." "Hey, I thought you said she really was beautiful," I teased you with a raised eyebrow. You chuckled. I took my sketch-book from your hands. I carefully tore out the paper and handed that sketch to you. Your eyes were gleaming. Don't you dare cry in front of me. "Thank you." Then I was almost choked by your sudden embrace. After you released me from your bear hug, I fell silent for a second. If everyone could be as happy as you are now, maybe the world might feel this beautiful. "Don't worry, I'll make you the colourful version of her," I promised, pointing at the sketch. "By the way, when will the wedding take place?" "Soon, you'll get the invitation." --- // --- That night, I was alone in my room. Lying in bed, staring at a wall full of papers. Faces with different expressions. Some were staring back at me. Faces of you. I sighed. What am I supposed to do with these? I felt my attention focused on one of those faces. I got up to take a closer look. It was you with the sweetest smile when you first mentioned her. I didn't know why, but I believed I'd managed to capture your inner glow. Carefully, I pulled the paper off the wall and peeled the sticky tapes from each corner. I suddenly wanted to give that picture to her and tell her, "He always has this look on his face, whenever he talks about you." As promised, you'd get to receive another sketch of her. A small blessing from a best friend. |
|
| The Sketch Joan Haara jhaara@sbcglobal.net |
#2 of 12 |
| 1445 words | |
| Standing in the shower with the warm water flooding
over her, she collapsed to the shower stall floor, crying. It was the only place she dared cry where no one would hear her. Uncontrollable, guttural, racking sobs came forth from her. He was five years old now. She had cared for him, alone--ever since she heard his cat-like first cry upon having excruciating labor pains and what-seemed-like hours of pushing in the delivery room. She knew the minute she heard his newborn cry that something was not right. It sounded weak and frail. They placed the swaddled newborn on her dewy belly in the delivery room. Instinctively, she could tell he was too light. He was tiny and skinny. His skin was ghostly and translucent. She could see his spidery veins through his blue-white, thin skin. He had tiny blonde hairs on his “preemie” face, and his body had hardly any body fat on it. He looked wrinkled, like an elderly man. A few hours after his birth, the obstetric nurse came into the room. She wasn’t smiling, and she did not give very much eye contact. She knew that could not be a good thing. The nurse shifted her weight and nervously placed some booklets on her nightstand. She noticed her hands trembling. “Ummm…you may want to read these pamphlets. A lot of premature babies have…well, umm….developmental “problems”. I just thought you might want to read about them…you know, ….just…in case.”, her voice trailing off. “Is something wrong with my baby”, she anxiously asked. “The Doctor will be able to tell you more, dear”, the nurse blurted out, and quickly left the room. But deep down, she already knew. The five years since his birth were trying ones, consisting of numerous doctor visits, specialized physical therapy sessions for him and a myriad of medical personnel to work with him as he slowly grew. His speech was limited to various grunts. Once, she thought she saw a smile on his lips, and her heart skipped a beat. Thrilled, she immediately leaned into him to hug him, only to be pushed violently back by his stiffened, spastic arms. She was not sure if his actions were voluntary or if it was just his clonic muscles in spasm. It was the closest to a meaningful interaction with him since his birth day. The medical personnel had told her that they had some interaction with him and that he was making his first progress on communication with a few elementary sign language motions. They said he was able to pile blocks up on top of one another and copy the Physical Therapist in doing so. She tried to copy what they did with him, but he never worked with her the way he supposedly did with them. Once home from these medical sessions, he would have to be spoon-fed his meals. This took her over an hour for each meal, as he would often drool and topple over to the side in his special chair. He was getting so heavy for her to lift up that her back constantly ached. She rarely got more than four hours of torturous, restless sleep. When she did sleep, she would half-listen for any choking or coughing from his room, afraid he would aspirate in his overly-large crib. He was in no way toilet-trained. He wore bulky diapers that needed to be changed as often as possible, because he was prone to urinary tract infections. His bowel movements were so powerful and offensive, she would gag as she changed his diapers and struggled to get him re-dressed. She tried not to be jealous of the other families and their children. For a while, she kept in touch with a few other mothers she had met in the obstetrics unit. But, as their children progressed into crawling, taking their first steps, saying “Mama” and blowing kisses, it became unbearable to her. This year was especially hard. She remembered standing just out of sight behind her living room curtains, tears welling up as she watched one of the mothers walking her daughter to the first day of school, along with the other families. Children were laughing, running, and playing tag with faces flushed with excitement as they scurried up the street toward the school--wearing new shoes and backpacks full of hope. She shifted her gaze from the outside scene back over towards him. He was wedged to the left in his special chair, spittle frothing from his lips dribbling down his chin. Applesauce was matted in his just-washed hair. His uncoordinated eyes rolled back in his head, and struggled to focus back into position. She got a nauseating feeling in her stomach. She had to look away. At Christmas every year, she searched everywhere to get him a toy that she hoped he could relate to. For the first few years, she resorted to cuddly stuffed toys. She didn’t know if he liked them or not. Often, they ended up soiled with his food, or worse yet…..from his excrement. She watched him at his physical therapy sessions. Even though he was already five years old, he would turn and turn the knobs on the Fisher-Price toy for babies that changed the screen and played music, his blank facial expression unchanged. She thought maybe she could find him something similar to that baby toy for a Christmas present. She hated Christmas shopping every year. The jolly music and children everywhere. Normal, healthy children. This year, while sadly wandering down toy aisle after toy aisle, she finally spotted it. She remembered playing with it for hours when she was little. She didn’t even know they still made them. There, on the shelf was the red square toy with two knobs. She took it down and turned the right knob, then the left, and it made the familiar squiggly lines she remembered so well. She shook the Etch-a-Sketch and the fine sand inside erased her art work. She smiled and then sighed. “At least he can work the knobs and maybe notice the lines it makes”, she thought. She went home and wrapped it with shiny blue Christmas paper with stars on it. Resentfully, she knew he would not understand how to unwrap it (or even that it was Christmas) and that she would only end up unwrapping it herself for him. The now-cool water startled her back from her memories. She weakly stood back up in the shower and quickly shut the water off. She gathered the fluffy towel around her and stepped out, feeling guilty for the resentment once again welling up inside of her. She had tried to love him. But it was so hard…she never knew if he felt anything for her or even realized she existed. She knew she had to go out and relieve the babysitter who came to watch him so she could get 30 minutes to herself for the hurried shower and another 30 minutes to get out to grocery shop. Shuddering, she quickly dressed. Taking a deep breath, she opened the bathroom door, letting the humid steam escape. Immediately, she heard her babysitter scream from the other room. She rushed into his room. He lay slumped to the side in his special chair. Still. Ice cold. Frantically, they called 911, heaved his stiffened body out of his chair, and began panicked CPR. They took turns blowing into his slack mouth and pumping on his twisted chest, exhausting themselves and changing places over and over until at last the ambulance arrived. A large EMS man quickly pulled her off of him and did a fast assessment on him. He gave a knowing glance to the other ambulance attendant, and with tear-brimmed eyes turned toward her and told her: “M’am….I am so sorry. It is over. There is nothing more you can do for him.” She slumped to the floor, next to his chair, sobbing. Spent. The ambulance crew loaded his body onto a stretcher and left with him. She could not watch. Despite protests from her babysitter, she firmly told her to leave. She barely heard her shut the door. The stillness was deafening to her. She lay on the floor, hugging her knees and softly crying. She did not know how long she remained there. She finally wiped her eyes and was getting ready to get up, when she saw it. A low, primordial moan escaped from deep within her. On the tray of his chair lay his Etch-a-Sketch. The screen had a large, crudely drawn heart with a trailing, dotted line to the edge of the frame………………………………....... |
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| The Sketch Linda.L.Rucker: Author@Large www.lindalrucker.com |
#3 of 12 Winner |
| 1741 words | |
| The day Mary Louise didn’t show up they were all
alarmed. Dog park people were nothing if not consistent. If you owned a dog,
you had to be, and Mary Louise definitely owned a dog. Now Chester wasn’t much of a dog to be sure, but he met all the qualifications. He had four legs, a tail that wagged, occasionally, and what most could consider a bark, although the jury was still out on that one; at least for the morning crew. They called themselves the ‘Morning Crew” because they were the ones who opened the park every morning at seven a.m., dogs in tow, coffee cups in hand. One look at the dogs and a person knew the Crew was there more for the camaraderie than the dogs’ exercise, but dogs being the loyal and devoted creatures they were suffered the early hour with dignity and aplomb and most promptly fell asleep at the owner’s feet until a more decent hour arrived. That was usually around eight when Mary Louise and Chester arrived. Neither Mary Louise nor Chester was overly friendly. The Crew learned their names by perseverance and being a bit nosey. Mary Louise reluctantly introduced herself one morning about a year ago when Angel, the unannounced ringleader of the Morning Crew walked over to her while she was bagging Chester’s morning contribution to fertilizer. “Hi,” Angel’s booming voice left little choice but response. One could hardly pretend one didn’t hear him, unless of course one faked deafness, which Mary Louise was not. “Mary Louise,” she’d replied softly. So softly, Angel later recounted to the rest of the crew that he wasn’t sure if she’d said Mary Louise or Beat it, please. They learned Chester’s name the usual way when Mary Louise yelled at him to come back to her once when he chose to actually try to make the acquaintance of the other morning dogs. After that brief exchange, there was nothing but the morning nod of acknowledgment as Mary Louise passed the Crew on her way to her favorite bench under the giant live oak tree in the far corner of the dog park, a trip she made seven days a week. By virtue of her self imposed solitary confinement, she became the object of daily speculation. The crew spent their mornings making up various scenarios and lifestyles for Mary Louise. In them, she became a retired spy for the C.I.A.; a closet child abuser, (although that was summarily dismissed as ludicrous because every one knew child abusers used puppies to lure children, not ancient mutts like Chester); a retired nurse, (although her apparent utter lack of any compassion belied that one); a retired teacher, or just a lonely widow woman who was painfully shy. The Crew wove stories around their guesses, but it was Angel who came closest to the truth, although at the time he had no way of knowing. “I think she’s a retired art teacher,” he announced one morning after Mary Louise and Chester arrived, “and she is bitter over being forced to retire.” “What makes you think that?” asked Jason, a bit winded. His morning game of find the poop ended with him stepping in the steaming pile left to him by Max and he was trying to clean his shoes in the still dew damp grass. “Well, doesn’t she look like every English teacher you had all the way through high school?” replied Angel, nodding in Mary Louise’s direction. “Not mine,” Maria laughed, “Unless she has a beard.” Angel and Jason laughed, too. “You don’t know, she might have a beard,” Michelle chimed in, walking up with Abbey in tow. “That’s very true,” Angel conceded. They all turned their eyes toward the bench, but as usual, Mary Louise didn’t seem to notice them. Her head was bent over her sketch pad, as usual. “You may be right about the teacher part,” Jason said, “but I think she was an art teacher.” “Could a been,” Angel said, turning his attention to Jazz who was busily trying to hump Jason’s leg. “Knock it off, Jazz.” “You can take the balls off the dog, but not the urge to chase them,” Jason said, grinning. And so it was, day after day for over a year that the crew gathered, joked, speculated about Mary Louise and Chester and left with their curiosity unabated. And then one day she didn’t show up. At first none of the crew was alarmed, although it was very unlike Mary Louise not to be there. She’d, in so far as any of them knew, never missed a single day in over a year, but after two straight days the speculation began anew. She’d died in her sleep and no one knew because she was a recluse; she‘d fallen and broken her hip and was alone and suffering because no one knew where she lived or missed her; she was gravely ill and no one had a clue. None of scenarios had a happy ending for Mary Louise. After a few days of wild speculation, the Crew became truly concerned. It just wasn’t like her not to bring Chester to the park. Angel suggested that they go to the police with their suspicions, but Jason reminded him that they had no idea where she lived or even what her last name was to which Angel had to agree. And so they waited and they worried and they wondered just when it was that Mary Louise had become one of them. She never stopped to talk; she rarely even looked their way. Chester kept to his Mistress’s side, only occasionally interacting, however briefly with the other dogs, so then when had Mary Louise and Chester become members of the Morning Crew? None of them had a clue; would even admit that it was true, but inside they all knew it was. Mary Louise and Chester were a part of their group whether they wanted to be or not, and as such, the others were now very worried about them and actually missed them, although there was little they could do about it. And then one day a week later, a woman came to the park. She carried a briefcase with her and she had no dog in tow. While it wasn’t unusual for dog less folks to come to the park it was bit odd to see one dressed in a business suit and high heels. The crew watched as she entered the dog run, opened the inner gate and stepped inside. They watched as she scanned the park, finally zeroing in on them and began walking toward them. “Uh oh, now what?” Angel said softly. “Good morning,” the woman said. Her voice was brisk, all business and the smile she flashed showed perfect teeth. “Good morning,” the crew replied as one. “Angel?” The woman looked at Angel and he nodded. “Yes, I’m Angel,” he replied. She nodded her head, and then in turn addressed Jason, Maria and Michelle. “Could we go over there to the bench?” the woman didn’t wait for a reply, but began walking briskly toward the bench where Mary Louise always sat. Dumbfounded the crew followed silently. At the bench, the woman sat down and placing the briefcase on her lap flipped the release and opened it. “What’s this about?” asked Angel. Not answering, the woman rifled through some papers and then withdrew several pieces. “I have some things for you,” the woman said. Sitting the briefcase on the bench next to her, she got to her feet. “Angel, this is for you.” She held out a large sheet of paper and Angle looked first at it, then at her, then at the Crew and finally back at the paper. “What is it?” he asked, not reaching, not yet. “Just take it, it won’t bite you.” For the first time the woman’s face creased in a genuine smile and nodding Angel gingerly touched the paper, and then grasped it. One by one, the woman handed the Crew identical pieces of paper, and one by one the crew looked at the papers and each reacted differently. Angel shook his head in wonder, Jason chuckled, Maria gasped and Michelle smiled her eyes bright with tears. “Mary Louise Parsons died last week,” the woman began. “She was a private person, as you all know. She had no friends, no family other than her dog Chester, and well, apparently she looked on all of you as a part of her family as well. She loved two things in her life, her dog, and her art.” She looked at the Crew who looked back at her, waiting, listening. “Mary Louise Parsons, does the name ring a bell with any of you?” They all shook their heads. “I didn’t think so. Well, be that as it may, Miss Parsons was a very well known artist, at least in certain circles, and she was very successful, becoming one of the few living artists whose art was sought after and fought over. But, money was merely an annoying side effect of her work to Mary Louise, so she lived meagerly and leaves behind quite a huge fortune.” Despite himself Angel gasped, and the woman smiled wryly, shaking her head. “Don’t get too excited, she didn’t leave her fortune to any of you,” she said, and Angel felt his face flame with embarrassment. “No, she actually left that huge fortune to the American Humane Society.” “Oh,” was all any of them could manage, and this one came from Maria. “I was charged with finding you all and giving you her gift to you and that gift was the satisfaction of your curiosity and those sketches. Now, having done so, I’ll bid you good day.” The crew stood silently as the woman walked briskly toward the gate, then looked at each other. “Now that was weird,” Michelle said. “Look at your pictures,” Maria instructed, her eyes bright with tears. Each held a picture of themselves and their dogs; Angel with Jazz; Jason with Max; Maria with Lady; and Michelle with Abbey. Each picture was like looking at a black and white snapshot, a perfect image of dog and owner, and each sketch had the same message scribbled across the bottom next to Mary Louise’s name: Love them, care for them, and they will love you and care for you. “Mystery solved,” Angel said and the other’s nodded mutely. |
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| The Sketch kws1949@gmail.com |
#4 of 12 Runner-up |
| 2433 words | |
| Savanna insisted on home schooling her precocious red
headed child, which meant that art was Monday, Wednesday and Friday for 15
minutes. Savanna saw the red flags, but not until it was too late. First, her
daughter, five year old Madeline Mae, used her left hand, except on those
special occasions – this drawing was her forth – when she drew using
a number 2 pencil. These special sketches came from her right hand – from
the left side of her brain. "Don't drag it out or force a young, developing brain. Attention spans are very short at this age and five minutes of coloring might be all a child will tolerate in one sitting." Mostly, the book was true and Maddy sat with her fist filled with a rainbow of colors, often using the whole bouquet as her medium. On the days her attention span lapsed and Maddy Mae gave up early, stretching out even five minutes was a chore, not for the light hearted, as Maddy's temper matched her red locks. When five minutes elapsed, then fifteen, then more, and Maddy showed no signs of stopping, red flag number two flew. Red flag number three: the pencil. All other art work displayed a typical five year old rainbow view of the world; giant, out of shape stick people; a huge sun; animals identifiable only because Maddy painstakingly told you what was a cat or a cow, the only prominent and universal animal trait was a long, stick straight tail. On those three other occasions when her drawings moved into incredibly detailed works of art, Maddy worked with a number 2 pencil, bringing more life from the graphite than any person had a right to. Not the rainbow of colors that graced their refrigerator, instead Maddy minutely detailed visions, from where Savanna could not guess. Her first, just after she turned five, detailed a horse drawn cart of some sort, the horses driven to madness by either the driver of the wagon or the images of flame and destruction behind them. Such detail; the horses' heads reared back, their manes fling in the wind, sparks and embers dancing across the panorama. Subtle clues evaded Savanna and Jeff, her husband. Six weeks later, Maddy Mae again sat at the kitchen table, perched on a phone book and dictionary, her feet swinging freely, just the tip of her pink tongue peeking out from her lips as she concentrated on a new drawing. Dismissing crayons, Maddy grasped her number 2 pencil and worked furiously. "What are you drawing today, Maddy?" Savanna asked as her cherub concentrated on the finer details of her work. "Soldier men," Maddy replied, never taking her eyes away from her drawing. Cautiously, so as not to disturb her child, Savanna padded forward but could make no sense of the drawing. 45 minutes later, Maddy announced it was time for 'cheese and mac' – lunch – and the sketch sat forgotten until long after Maddy was comfortably asleep. Almost forgotten in the rush of life's events, Savanna soon forgot the two sketches as Maddy Mae reverted back to her ever pleasant five year old antics. She was such a girl, such a doll. Every day with Maddy presented new adventures, new discoveries. Her art reverted back to the visions of a five year old in possession of the big box of Crayolas. Her nerves eased as she watched her daughter with a growing joy, her fears nearly forgotten. Friday. Art time. Sitting on her phone book and dictionary to bring her to the proper height, Maddy Mae eschewed the box of crayons and picked up her favorite number 2 pencil. Although preoccupied with Halloween decorations, Savanna wasn't truly aware that Maddy hadn't stopped until more than half an hour passed. As quietly as possible, she crossed to the table and peeked over her young daughter's shoulder. "Maddy?" A man's body falling backwards through the air, struggling as though trying to fly. Unlike the first two drawings, Maddy canted this vision almost 45 degrees. Savanna wondered how any artist, much less a small child, could work without turning the paper to match the view. Somehow, Maddy managed. Savanna drew up a chair to watch the finishing touches slip into place. "That's very interesting, Maddy," she said quietly. "What it is?" "The falling guy," Madeline responded without looking up, sweeping her red curly locks absently away from her face. Savanna smiled, relieved somewhat. Madeline's favorite movie these days was THE INCREDIBLES. She relaxed, thinking that Maddy invented her own super hero to star in a new version, whenever that came out. Her sketch complete, Maddy excused herself to go outside – "for recess" she said. Playing at school was serious business for Maddy once she discovered other kids her own age attended a real school with real classes and had a playtime called 'recess'. As her daughter dashed through the kitchen door with their huge male lab, Savanna brought the picture around to see the new image. Her first impulse was to giggle as the falling body struggled against gravity like a turtle on its back. In some quirk of humor, the focal point of the sketch wasn't the man falling, but an incredibly detailed sketch of his shoe, as though trying to step out of the picture. Without breaking her focus, Savanna pulled her cell phone to her and dialed her friend and Maddy's pediatrician, Dr. Jengal. On his way home, Dan Jengal pulled into their drive. By the time he arrived, so had Jeff, who sat next to Savanna, looking through her file of Maddy's Pictures. "When did this start?" Was Dan's first question as he thumbed through the stack, stopping when he reached the pencil drawing.. "Just after she turned five," Jeff said. "Six months ago." "When I told her we were starting school at home," Savanna added. "These are typical five year old vision of the world." Dan laid out some of Maddy's work. "All stick figures, two dimensional bodies; houses with windows and doors out of proportion; figures with hair that is colored at least in a natural spectrum," he set those aside. "But these, I've never seen anything like these. The detail is so rich!" He examined the first closely, almost touching his nose to the sketch. "Have you got a magnifying glass handy?" Savanna brought a small reading glass from her drawer in the kitchen. Dan spent a full minute before he spoke. "I thought it must be, but I wasn't sure," he said, leaning back and rubbing his eyes. "How closely have you examined these?" "Fairly close," Jeff said, ignoring Savanna. "I've come down here some nights and pulled the file out when I couldn't sleep." "What do you notice?" "I don't….I mean….there is simply too much detail for one to take in at one sitting," Jeff replied. "Look at that one, for instance. The horses, the burning building, the fire equipment in the foreground. The fire itself, spreading into adjacent shops. There is almost more detail than the eye can take in." "Here," Dan handed him the reading glass and Savanna and Jeff bent over the picture. "I'm not sure you quite comprehend. Look closely at the placard on the apparatus. It's on the boiler." As she peered through the glass, in fine lettering almost invisible, Savanna could just make out the engraving on the brass: "Company 3, Chicago Fire Depart…." "It can't be," she whispered. "What?" The details still escaped Jeff. "The Chicago Fire Department, Company 3, 1871," Dan said slowly, enunciating each word. "Unless I miss my guess, this is the Great Chicago fire, and the fire department is racing away from the fire." "Can't be," Jeff echoed his wife. "That was over 150 years ago. Hell, the only reason I remember it at all is because you just reminded me. How is Madeline supposed to have any reference at all?" "I wish I knew," Jeff said. "Pass me her next drawing, in order, please." "Well?" Jeff demanded. "What do you see?" He asked Savanna. "A Civil War battle," she replied as she again saw the Stars and Bars flag. "Do you recognize this at all?" Dan asked. "Seems like a big battle, that's obvious," Jeff replied as he pointed out the long line of men between the battle flags. "I mean, that line is really long." "A sunny day," Dan said, stating the obvious. "The troops are stretched in an almost straight line. That flag there, he pointed to one of the finer details, "is a specific flag; a battle flag from Tennessee. Unless I miss my guess, this is Gettysburg. More specifically, this is Picket's Charge on July 3rd, the worst military blunder of the Confederacy." "But how can Maddy know of Pickett's Charge?" Savanna cried. "She's five. We've never talked about that war. How could she know?" "I have no explanation," Dan shook his head as he put the drawing aside. "I know she reads already, but surely none of her books would go into the detail of the Battle of Gettysburg, much less Pickett's ill fated charge. What's left?" "Here," Savanna slid the picture across the table. "Just this morning." Originally Savanna convinced Jeff to ask their friend if Maddy might be some sort of artistic prodigy, a genius yet to be discovered. Now she feared to have him explore the last drawing. A simple drawing, Savanna thought, even she recognized the central focal point. "The detail is extraordinary," Dan said. "You can see the stitching, scuffs in the leather. I swear if I knew more about dress shoes, I could identify the make." "The Chicago fire picture makes some sort of sense," Jeff said. "Even the Gettysburg drawing is logical, if that's what it is. But this, a man's shoe?" "That's because your focus is drawn to the shoe. In the first, your focus is drawn to the wild look in the eye of the horses and you missed the finer detail," Dan explained. "In Gettysburg, you focus on the barrel of the rifle pointing at the Confederates and the Stars and Bars. You need to examine that picture a bit closer to draw the Gettysburg conclusion. Now, use that analysis and tell me what else you see." "His suit?" Savanna says. "Looks like it's flapping in the wind. Look at the coat riding up his back. Wherever he's falling from, it doesn't look like it's fun." "I don't see a landing spot," Jeff said. "Look again with the eye on the other details. Forget the man for the moment," Dan said. "Well, the background looks really odd," Jack said looking again as the symmetrical panels seemed to slide by the main figure. "I almost recognize them," Savanna said. "They're so familiar…" "It's the World Trade Center," Jeff said. "He jumped rather than be burned alive." "Oh my God," Savanna whispered in shock. "But how?" Dan asked again. "She's only five. She wasn't alive then and we don't allow pictures of the WTC." "I need some processing time," Dan said as he leaned away from the table and rubbed his eyes. Savanna collected the images and slipped them back into the vanilla envelop with the other, more typical five year old crayon drawings. "I wish I had an answer. I really do. I'll do some reading tonight. Let me make a few calls in the morning." "Should I not let her draw?" Savanna asked. "No, that's the wrong approach, in my opinion," Dan said. "I'd like to see where this goes from here. She's jumped almost two centuries in less than six months. It may be she'll just outgrow it, but the dichotomy between the styles are extreme. Dan had no other suggestions, except to let him know when Maddy drew another picture. After some awkward small talk, Dan left, in a hurry to get to his books. Savanna and Jeff spent a quiet evening, each lost in private thoughts, while Madeline Mae played with her toys, perfectly content to entertain herself. They turned in shortly after putting her to bed, but neither slept much. By the next Friday, Savanna dreaded sitting Madeline down for art time. Sure enough, Madeline pushed aside her crayons and picked up her pencil. "What are you drawing today, Maddy?" Savanna asked, almost afraid of her daughter's answer. "Fluffy," Maddy said without looking up. "Honey, Fluffy is gone now," Savanna sat across from her daughter. This was something she could deal with, she thought, but she was still afraid to touch her, afraid to break the concentration stretched across her young face. "We talked about that, Maddy. Fluffy can't come home anymore." "Oh yes he can," Maddy sighed as if the answer was obvious. "These bad people have him in a cage and he doesn't like it. Fluffy's scared now." "Maddy, Fluffy is gone forever honey," Alice said, afraid that reminding her daughter would simply cause more tears. "Fluffy died." "Did you see him die?" Maddy asked. When in the throes of such masterpieces, she tended to ask much more adult, pointed questions, but she never looked away from her drawing. "No," Savanna couldn't bring herself to watch her white corgi be put down. She wept all the way home, thankful for Jeff's strength because she was far too upset to drive. "Daddy knows," Madeline said. "He's going there to get Fluffy now." "Honey, daddy's at work today," Savanna explained. "Even if he wanted, he couldn't go see Fluffy." "Not today," Maddy said as her fingers danced across the page, the images becoming clearer and clearer. The view from behind Fluffy showed a lab filled with cages. Maddy's detail included a sign for Savanna to read: Check You Suit Integrity! Safety First" "They do bad things to animals there," Madeline said. "Daddy's gone to save Fluffy and turn the rest of them free." In fine detail, the rest of the cages stood open. A few had animals still in them, but only a few. Savanna's voice trailed off as Maddy drew in an arm, an unprotected bare arm, reaching into the cage for Fluffy. Hypnotized, she watched Savanna fill in the details. Small hair on the arm, a freckle here, a piece of tattoo peeking from short sleeves. A watch, worn inside the wrist like … Jeff's watch. Savanna couldn't move. She didn't dare speak and break Maddy's concentration. She wanted more detail and at the same time wanted to scream, to break away, to call to Jeff. Madeline kept working, filling in detail around and behind the cage bars…lines here, small flicks of the pencil there. Maddy's pencil skipped across the paper so quickly that Savanna knew another hand had to be guiding her. The pencil stopped just above the suit integrity warning, adding more letters: Live Ebola Virus… Maddy's words echoed in Savanna's ear. He's bringing Fluffy home and letting the rest of them go. And then another word she'd heard recently…"Pandemic." |
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| The Sketch glenlee10@sky.com |
#5 of 12 |
| 1221 words | |
| I managed to open my eyes but it was a futile act
because my world was out of focus. My ears seemed to be suffering the same. I
tried to think, couldn’t concentrate. The light was bright. People
surrounded me, but until I heard a snigger, I didn’t feel part of the
scene. It was that snort, quickly muffled that brought me round faster than
anything else could have done. Because I had a feeling it was aimed at me.
Alert now, I opened my eyes as far as I could, blinded by light from an overhead fluorescent strip. Suddenly I was shaded from the glare and found I was glaring up into the dark caverns of hairy nostrils. Fingers were fumbling at my wrist and then a deep voice boomed, “Ah. Awake at last, Mrs.Smith. Welcome back.” I flinched and tried to sink further back into the pillows; the doctor’s voice was really that loud. “Good. Good,” he was saying. “You’ve been extremely lucky. You’ll feel a bit sore for a while, but I’d pleased to say there’s no lasting damage done.” I heard a quiet chuckle to my right but turning my head seemed to be a task too far. Then I heard a giggle to my left. “Right,” the doctor dropped my wrist and patted the bedclothes somewhere in the region of my left knee. “The students and I will leave you alone and let you sleep off the effects of the accident.” I heard the rustling of clothing, the sound of soft clad feet on a linoleum floor, the sigh of a heavy door and silence. Who’d been laughing I wondered? The students? Why? What could be so funny about a woman who’d been in an accident? Which led me to ask myself, what accident? I was sore all over but no one part of me felt any worse than any other, so maybe I would make a good recovery. Goodness alone knew from what, though! I manage to raise my hand to my face. My cheeks felt swollen, my eyes puffy but already the raw light hurt less than when I’d first opened them. I was in a small, windowless room. A hospital side ward, I assumed. There was space only for the one bed. There were two plastic, orange chairs along the wall and in the corner, a sink with a mirror above it. Urged on by the need to assess the damage, I was determined to look at myself in that mirror. It was like conquering Everest, but I did it. Stiffly and with many muttered curses I was able to shuffle my bottom to the side of the bed, take a breather and then swing my legs over the edge. Ignoring the pain and the dizziness, I forced myself to stand and stagger to the sink. I held onto it for what seemed for ever, waiting for my ears to stop singing and the vertigo to go away. Then I opened my eyes and looked into the mirror. My cheeks were swollen and bright pink. My eyes were purple and blotchy-red. And I remembered the accident. And I understood why the students had been sniggering. I’d bought a new car, a Vauxhall Corsa. “The jelly mould,” my son called it. “The pink jelly mould.” “It’s not pink,” I protested. “It’s crushed strawberry. And I like it.” “OK. Little old lady,” he laughed. “Have it your own way. But you’ve got to admit, it’s a very girlie car and a very girlie colour.” “Go home and annoy your wife,” I told him. “I’m going shopping.” We laughed, kissed each other and he went home to help his wife and kids decorate the Christmas tree. It was two days before Christmas. The weather was cold. It was wet. It was dull. It was miserable. My new little car was snug, however and I was looking forward to doing those last few bits of shopping. If only I could find a parking space, I’d be fine. The roads around the shopping district were choked with traffic. They were even queuing to get off the motorway, it was so bad. All the roundabouts were gridlocked and the police were conspicuous by their absence. But I was patient. Which is more than could be said for many of the other drivers. There was much hooting of horns. As if that helps, I thought. I was in a queue behind a huge, dirty, black 4 x4. I could tell the type of driver it had by all the stickers on the back. “If you can read this you’re too f*****g close!” one said. Underneath that was, “If you’re close enough to my crack to read this, you must be a haemorrhoid!” There were more. All on a similar theme. There was notice one in the rear window that I couldn’t read and I allowed my car to creep forward to see it more clearly. It was a sketch. No words. Just a picture, which from a distance looked a bit like the map of the United Kingdom. It was too dark to see, so I stopped trying and began to sing-along with the carols on the radio. “Away in a Manager,” I croaked, glad to be on my own. I didn’t sing when I had company, so I indulged myself when I was alone. I’d never been allowed to sing in school assemblies, my voice was so bad, so I didn’t inflict it on my friends. Needing a handkerchief, I undid my seatbelt to reach behind my seat for my handbag. I wasn’t taking much notice of what was going on around me. We were all at a standstill, or so I thought. Ahead of me in the deepening dusk, the queue of cars stretched towards the multi-coloured bright lights of the Shopping Centre. Behind, without my noticing, a gap had opened up. I blew my nose and carried on singing. “….at little Lord Jesus asleep in…!” “…Christ!” A vehicle’s powerful headlights slashed back into my eyes from my rear view mirror, blinding me for a second, so I never saw what hit me. But it was big. Some nut had seen a space and driven into it, determined apparently that no one else should have it. Unfortunately, my little Corsa was in the way. The force of the collision threw me through my windscreen. It must have popped before I actually hit it because my face wasn’t cut. I flew over the miniscule bonnet and slammed into the 4 x 4, headfirst. The last thing I saw before losing consciousness was the sign I’d tried to read earlier. It wasn’t a sketch map of the British Isles after all, it was the picture of a hand with two fingers raised in a V-sign; a snarling salute to anyone who got to close…like me. I remember thinking, “Oh. So that’s what it is,” as my head took out the 4 x 4’s rear window. Standing now, clutching the cold, hard sink, I saw just how hard I’d hit that sign. Looking like a tattoo, the black ink had imprinted itself on my left cheek. And as the doctor was examining me, it must have looked for all the world as though I was giving him the finger. |
|
| The Sketch tinamorrison14@gmail.com |
#6 of 12 |
| 575 words | |
| He had already made her his next pursuit before
actually seeing her face. She had her back toward him, poised in an indecisive
position as she overlooked the water, pencil in hand. As the sun was setting
and dusk rolled in, he crouched near his bike and waited in the shadows created
by the looming bridge over the canal. She tilted her head to one side,
completely absorbed in her untouched canvas and seemingly unaware of
approaching nightfall. There wasn’t any foot traffic, and the woman seemed
drawn into the lull of the setting sun. She is, just perfect, he
thought, and crept slowly toward her. She leaned over the railing that
separated her from the calm, flat water, as a bad man approached her from
behind. She looked out at the sunset and sighed happily. The water hadn’t been this calm in ages, and its tranquility had a soothing effect on her. It’s like a giant slab of marble, she thought, picturing how she could capture its beauty. She tilted her head to one side as she imagined finishing a piece of artwork for the first time. This is just the right setting for the perfect sketch, she thought to herself. Her thoughts were interrupted as she noticed a flash in the water - a fish perhaps? - And ventured toward the railing to peer into the canal. As she scanned the water, she blinked in surprise. Suddenly, the reflection of a man, face twisted and grimacing, came into focus. There was a loud crack following her scream, and then, overwhelming darkness. Not a bite for two lousy hours! He thought, moody and pensive about the state of fishing in the reputably “teeming” canal. The old man shifted his weight from one side to the other, fighting off another assault of pins and needles. He had been fishing off of the bridge overlooking the canal and became increasingly restless as he noted the setting sun. Furrowing his brow, he painstakingly applied new bait to his veteran line, and then waited for the catch that would make his trials worthwhile. He slowly opened his newest novel, preparing for a long wait, but was no sooner along in his reading when he heard a loud commotion coming from under the canal bridge. Next came a piercing scream and he saw what appeared to be an easel collapsing and folding, breaking the uniform surface of the water. A shadowy figure was wrestling with the limp outline of a woman. A cry broke from the fisherman’s lips as he rushed forward to the edge of the bridge. The man below glanced up in surprise, releasing the woman before hastening away into the shadows. “That’s it, then?” the police officer asked, “not a detail more?” The meticulous old fisherman looked down and nodded his head. “That’s the best I could come up with…” his voice trailed off and cracked, and as he looked up at the officer his weary eyes brimmed with tears. “There was, is, nothing else that, that I could – err, can do,” he stuttered, breathing deeply and holding out his hand. The police officer carefully examined the document he had handed him. “Don’t worry, you’ve been quite helpful,” the officer reassured him, “This is the perfect sketch, just what we’re looking for. The drawing should be enough to help us determine who we already believe to be the killer. And with your attention to detail – it’s the perfect sketch.” |
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| The Sketch C. Denny reelgaga@gmail.com |
#7 of 12 |
| 1296 words | |
| Warren played with the paper napkin in his lap. The
kitchen was quiet and relaxing, and he was alone. After a long day of volunteer
work at the police station, he was content to sit still in the silence. It was
peaceful. He tilted his chair back and crumpled a corner of the napkin
absently. "I wonder where Maureen is," he thought. "She should have come and
started dinner by now." He twisted the napkin. "But then again," he reminded
himself, "it's not like you care whether she comes. She's nothing to you that
you should think about her. And she never will be." The napkin was suddenly
ripped in half. Warren looked down at his hands in surprised, and then grimly,
he placed the napkin on the table and dropped his chair to the floor with a
solid thud. "Man, I'm tired." He crossed his arms on top of the table, laid his
head in the center, and closed his eyes. He didn't know how long he'd been asleep. Eyes still closed, he raised his head and carefully rubbed his sore neck and face. Judging by the depth of the sleep lines etched into his face, he'd been asleep a long time. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and opened them to see Maureen calmly sitting at the table with him. "Woah!" In a flash he was half standing, eyeing her warily. "How long have you been here?" he demanded his voice rough with sleep. She shrugged seemingly unperturbed by his outburst. "Well…what do you want?" "It's Nora," she said. "What about Nora?" He made a move toward the kitchen door. "Is she all right?" "She's fine now. Earlier today she had a minor stroke." "What!" Warren starred at her in absolute shock and disbelief. "W-why didn't you call me? Why- Maureen this is insane! You can't keep something like this to yourself. You should have told me hours ago! What exactly happened?" Maureen saw that his usually dark face had paled and his jaw was clenched so hard it shook. Choosing her words cautiously, she told him how Nora had just gone limp during lunch and then "woken" up a few seconds later. She explained how she'd called 911 and talked to a professional, who'd said Nora was fine. They should bring her to a hospital if it happened a second time, but the doctor had thought that for now, Nora would feel better if kept at home with familiar friends or family. Warren glared at Maureen, tried to speak, and couldn't. He left to check Nora for himself, though he'd seen her not two hours ago. It was very still in the kitchen after he'd gone. Maureen couldn't hear Nora's voice, or Warren's, even in the quiet. She reached across the table and picked up a piece of torn napkin that was just lying there. It was an ordinary, plain white napkin. On a sudden whim, she got up and searched the kitchen for a pencil and was able to find one by the phone. Sitting down again, she listened. The kitchen was quiet; almost relaxing. Maureen stared at the white napkin. She cleared her mind from all the anxiety and fear that had accumulated in her in the last five hours. She focused on the one image she could not shake, the one of Nora lying in bed with the whites of her eyes showing and her head tilted to one side. Slowly, the pencil began moving of its own accord and unconsciously she began drawing the mental image. The pencil gently sketched in Nora's soft, lumpy body and hinted at her sweet face and expression. It drew in the rest of the bed frame and the tables beside the bed, but when the pencil came to the bottom-right corner of the page, it hesitated. Without realizing it, Maureen had shaded the room such that a halo of light surrounded Nora, while all the corners were dark and vague. The pencil tapped on the spot where the viewer's place would be, seeming uncertain whether to fill the space, or to leave it. Finally, it began drawing with dark, harsh lines, a shoulder. It scribbled in the arm of a jacket, and then a hand, and then a neck at the top of the shoulder. Some dark hair fell across the back, but no face could be seen. No sense of what the person might be feeling could be told from the posture. Finished, Maureen cupped her hands under her chin and took a look at what she'd done. She'd never really tried drawing anything before. Was this considered good for a first time? She wasn't happy with the result. The bed was lopsided; Nora wasn't right- and the room's dimensions…well, there weren't any dimensions. She took up the pencil and dutifully defined the walls with more detail. She brought up her mental image as vividly as possible again and again, and tried her best to faithfully replicate it. But in vain, for no matter how hard she tried, it wouldn't match the original. Maureen dropped the pencil onto the table in defeat. It's only a picture, she reminded herself. Did you expect it to be perfect on your first try? A Mona Lisa perhaps? She allowed herself a small smile and rubbed her neck. It was stiff from leaning forward so long. "Well, that's the first smile I've ever seen on your face," Warren spoke suddenly from the doorway. He raised an eyebrow. "What made the stone lady smile?" Maureen's heart was beating unacceptably fast. She shrugged one shoulder. "I dunno. Myself I suppose." While she spoke, she casually swept the napkin into her lap. Warren, however, did not only do paper work when he volunteered at the police station. "Hey, I saw that. What's on the napkin?" He shrugged himself off the door frame and slouched over the table. "Let's see it now…c'mon." Maureen stared at the table and wished him under a pile of rocks. He persisted. "Hey now. If you won't give it to me, I'll have to get it from you, understand? Hand it over." Maureen, knowing he meant it, laid the napkin - wrong side up - on the table. He smiled mockingly at her. "See, now that wasn't so hard, was it?" He picked up the napkin, saw the sketch…and almost dropped it. He looked at Maureen, then moved closer to the light and studied it. He got up and walked around the kitchen with it held above his head, studying it. Maureen had an intense desire to squirm in her seat. What did he see? What could he find out about her from the picture? She wanted to scream and snatch it away from him. He would know too much, she was certain. He'd know more about her than she'd ever want him to know- "Maureen. This was from today right?" She gave a faint nod. "Huh." He pursed his lips as he looked at the picture again. "You," he said lazily, "did Nora all wrong." And he tossed the napkin into the trash bin. She watched it fall with a flicker of regret. She had wanted to keep the scrap, crude though it was. They sat in silence for a minute or two, before Maureen decided she'd had enough. "Goodnight," she said quietly, and left him behind with a strong feeling of relief. As soon as she was gone, Warren knelt beside the garbage bin. Drawing the sketch out of a dirty paper bowl, he looked it over once more. He knew more about her now, than she had feared to think. In silence, he carefully, ever so carefully, folded the napkin in half, and tucked it into his back pocket. |
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| The Sketch sj.swain@bigpond.com |
#8 of 12 |
| 1639 words | |
| My Grandfather had told it like this: ‘I can remember climbing the old timber stairs to the first floor landing. It was a Sunday and Kristiania was feeling the first chilling bites of winter. The long nights were returning, it was mid afternoon and already it was gloomy. I reached the apartments door that was ajar an inch and with one finger I pushed it open. Its hinges creaked. “Edvard?” I whispered. My friend shared the apartment with three other artist hopeful’s. I leant forward to look behind the door into a small parlour. There was no sign of anyone and the room was empty but for some painted canvases against its walls. “Are you here?” I whispered a little louder, but there was no reply. Surely, I was thinking to myself, with the door open like this, someone must be here. “Edvard?” I waited another moment then stepped in. “Edvard. . . It’s Michael.” I can still recall,’ my grandfather would say, ‘how I felt when I looked into that next room. It was a lounge that, like the parlour, was empty of furniture but cluttered with easels and canvases and a foul stench, a mix of linseed oil, sausage and the wine stained carpet hit the back of my nose. “Is there anyone here?” I called as I crept further along the hall, past another couple of empty rooms, then heard a grunt from a room further down. “Is that you Edvard?” The door to that room was also ajar. There was another grunt so I pushed it open as I had the first door, with one finger. These hinges were quieter. It was a spacious bedroom that contained even more easels, more canvasses against its walls and more linseed oil in the air. Clothes and shoes and pieces of paper were scattered over the bare wooden floor and around the blankets that were piled high on a small wooden framed bed. “Edvard?” I stepped in, my eyes on the blankets. “Are you under there?” The blankets moved and my friends face emerged from beneath them. I had to smile. This was my first visit to this apartment that had tantalised me for months. I had always liked the idea of like minded students being set adrift to live and study together, and was reminded that a few months earlier, but for the anchor of the comforts of home, I had seriously contemplated being one of them. But any regrets that I might have still harbored from not taking that opportunity were snuffed from me then. The place was awful, freezing, dirty and smelly. I had heard that Edvard had dropped out of college and, knowing that he had been unwell of late, I was wondering if that might have been why. I glanced around the cold untidy room, the cause, I thought, of his colds and chills and then at him. He was twenty two then, about the same age as me. “Michael?“ My friend dragged himself up to a sitting position with the blankets still wrapped around him and looked for all the world like a pyramid of wool with a face and toes. Clearly he was surprised to see me. “Yeah. . . Hi.” He smiled then, and nodded. “You all right?” he asked, sniffing. “Yeah. I’m fine. . . But, what about you? They said you’re not coming back.” ‘Yep.“ He wrapped the blankets tighter and looked away from me. “That’s right.” “But why? You were doing okay.” “I was too.“ He spoke as if he was apologising, touched it seemed, even embarrassed that I should care. “I just want to work, Michael, that‘s all. . . I just want to paint.” “Yeah of course you do,” I said. “But, you know, wouldn’t it be best to learn more about it first?” He hugged his knees and glared down at his stockinged toe’s that were peaking from the blankets. I can still see him pausing, not wanting to offend this person concerned for his well being. “I just want to be myself.” He looked up at me again. He looked tired, I thought, his eyes were moist and red, like he had been crying. “They can’t really teach me that. Can they?” “No, I guess not.” I sat down at the foot of his bed. “But how are you going to manage?” He looked around at his canvases and his paintings on cardboard. “Some of these will sell.“ He nodded at them. ‘Some already have.” “Really?” I was taken aback. I liked his work but I had thought that they were just part of a learning phase that he was going through rather than an end product. To me his paintings looked unfinished, a lot of them were out of proportion, lacked depth and some were even sloppy, almost childlike. I couldn’t imagine that anyone would pay money for them. “I’m having my own exhibition soon, in town,” he said, lowering his chin to his blanket covered knees. For a moment he seemed to drift away then he sniffed again and wiped his face across the blankets. “I’m hoping to get a scholarship from it to study in Paris.” “True?” I shook my head in disbelief, partly because I had never heard of a one-man exhibition here before, especially an unknown. “That’ll be terrific,” I said, “but if you don’t, what will you do then?” He shrugged and raised his eyes to mine. “But I will get it. . . I have to.“ “Okay.” I remember laughing at that. I shouldn’t have and I regretted it immediately and told him so, but it hadn’t upset him. The one thing I knew about him was that he had never doubted his own abilities and maybe, I thought then, that might be enough. I looked down at the sheets of paper on his bed. They were sketches, all slightly varying themes of the same picture. Some were in charcoal some in crayon. “So what are these?” I asked, picking one up. “It’s just an idea I’ve been working on.” He pushed a hand through the blankets, picked up another of them and scowled at it. “It’s not right yet. That one. . .” He nodded at the one I was holding. “Is the best of them so far.“ Goodness, I thought, this time trying not to laugh. The crayoned sketch that I was holding was of the crude torso of a sexless figure, barely human, standing on a pier, its hands clasped to the sides of its face and its mouth wide open. In the background the fiords and a red swirling sky. “So what is it?” I asked. “I mean, what’s it supposed to be? Looks like someone who has forgotten something important?” “It could be,” he said. “I suppose it could be whatever you see it as. I see it as a tormented person. I‘m going to call it ‘The Scream‘ I think.“ “The sky looks like it’s on fire.” “Yeah. I saw it like that a couple of weeks ago” I sighed then, fearing for my friend and what might become of him. I remember hoping that the confidence he had in himself would be enough to see him through, help him survive because, I thought then, for sure his work was never going to. I stood. “Okay,“ I said and smiled meekly down at him. “I knew you hadn’t been feeling too good lately, so I just wanted to check up on you.” I let the sketch drop back to the bedcovers. I shivered. “It’s freezing in here, Edvard.” “Yeah I know,” he mumbled, still scowling down at the piece of paper in his hand. “I’ll get a fire going in a minute.” “Well I’ve got to get home.” I felt a need to flee. From what exactly I wasn‘t sure, it might have been the dingy apartment, the afternoon gloom or maybe just the sadness that seemed to always surround my friend. “I’m glad I got to see you again, my friend, and that you’re okay. I’m going to look out for that exhibition and try and get there if I can. Good luck with it.“ “Thanks Michael.” He nodded at the sketch that I had been holding. “You can have that one if you like.” “No, it’s all right. I’m. . .“ “Please take it. You never know, might be worth something one day. . . Give it here.” Another hand popped out of the blankets holding a charcoal. He signed the sketch ‘Edvard Munch,’ and smiled and so did I. For the life of me I couldn’t see how it could ever be worth anything but I folded it in half and sunk it into my topcoat pocket. “I might drop by again later, if it’s all right. . . Now I know where you are.” “You’ll always be welcome and thanks again.” “No worries.” I pulled up my collar and shuffled out of the bedroom and then the apartment without looking back. I eased the door closed to an inch, to how I found it, then hurried down the stairs and out to the street. It was almost dark. Feeling as if I had escaped something I looked up at the glow from my friends window and knew then, somehow, that that was the last I would see of him.’ My Grandfather would grin then and say, “At least, that’s how I remember it.” He too had had plans to be an artist then, but sometime soon after that afternoon he switched to and ultimately graduated with a degree in Architecture. Armed with it, he left Norway for the New World and lived a full and very long life. Like his friend, he’s been gone a long time now, but I still have, and treasure, some of the meagre belongings that he had carried with him across the Atlantic those many years ago. And the sketch that I guess probably is worth a lot of money, but, like my Grandfather, for the life of me, I can‘t see how. |
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| The Sketch Michael Pelc michaelpelc@yahoo.com |
#9 of 12 |
| 402 words | |
| In the comfort of the parlor the family eats catered
whole-wheat sandwiches of turkey and ham and sips afternoon tea. They sit in
overstuffed chairs with napkins draped across their laps to protect the Sunday
finest that they wear in the middle of the week and speak in gentle syllables
of the child laid out before them in her forevermore bed of satin and bronze.
- - - Outside, in the paint-by-numbers sky that glows vibrant crimson during the last hour before sunset, hummingbirds buzz through the courtyard where the child loved to spend her afternoons. Five and six to a group, they descend like fighter squadrons from the foothills. They dart through the neighbor's yard, rise up to clear the eight foot fence, then swoop through the courtyard at head level. Uncle Bernard, who has stepped outside for a smoke and was stationed at Pearl during that fateful December, can not unremember his past. He ducks back inside for the shelter of the house and the comfort of his scotch and water. - - - Father Murray has arrived and is sitting with the family now. It is by directive from the Bishop that he dresses in the modern tradition of workman's boots, denim jeans and a flannel shirt. He is less comfortable with his attire than he is with the presence of the dead. He leans forward, clasps the mother's hand between his own, and whispers, " I can not tell you how much it saddens me that, in this imperfect world which God has given us, Cinderellas are not permitted to arrive at the ball in a wheelchair. But take heart, my child, for your beautiful Essie is in a better world now." - - - The haphazard, meandering flight of a passing butterfly graces the fading warmth of the courtyard, and the air has become scented with the aroma of garlic that rises from the farmlands below to greet the oncoming night. A tiny wheelchair, its faded pink fabric embroidered with playful black-and-white kittens, waits dutifully in the shade for the crumpled body of the child who will never come again. It is because they do not know any better that the hummingbird squadrons continue darting through the open space. Who will take it upon himself to tell them that Essie has died? Will you? |
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| The Sketch Susan Parker msgillivan@aol.com |
#10 of 12 |
| 765 words | |
| Why was I constantly seeking it out? It was rather a
crude drawing, nothing distinct or outstanding. Yet, every time I travel this
hallway, my eyes are searching for it. No matter how many times I try to avert
my attention to another frame, another sketch; the overwhelming urge to look
always wins. I memorize the words scribbled below and try to understand.
When I was thirteen, I had the scary nightmare. Everyone I knew or loved was gathered on the banks of Lake Erie. Thousands of others were assembled there, too. Families, friends, neighbors, just a multitude of people sitting on the banks and listening to Christ speak. He was standing in the middle of the Lake. His voice was kind and powerful. His words I did not comprehend. His glowing image was radiating gold and the sky was dark, purple and pink. Suddenly the shore began to crack and tremble. Huge chunks of earth tumbled and floated into the waves. Thunderous sounds of heaving earth and terrified screams were deafening. Children became separated from mothers. People grabbed for loved ones, unable to breach the distance between chunks of shoreline churning in rough waters. Then, all grew dark and silent. Why does this sketch of a teenager in a wheelchair conjure up the memory of that frightening dream? I must walk this hallway each day, several times a day. The art instructor frames one outstanding student drawing each year. The hall is lined with interesting sketches. Some have brilliant colors and intriguing compositions. Over the nine years I’ve worked as librarian in this building, I traveled this hall a million times. A tortured voice whispered, “Susie,” when I answered the telephone. “Susie, Jake’s been shot!” I heard a sob catch in my throat; “Just a graze,” I gasped with a bit of hope. “No,” Angie said; “It is serious. Get here as fast as you can!” Angie is Jake’s girlfriend. They’ve been dating since they met at OWU two years ago. Jake is our beloved eldest son. Jake, funny, outgoing, never knew a stranger; how could he have been shot. We don’t own guns. Someone grabbed the phone from my hand. Someone hustled my reluctant body into the car. My son Todd drove while constantly reassuring me that everything was going to be alright. My husband rode in silent disbelief. I was sobbing, “Please God, Please God.” What possibly could have happened? We arrived at the hospital emergency room and throngs of people parted. We heard whispers of; “There are the parents.” We were led to a room where Angie and a woman Chaplin waited. Detectives in overcoats followed us into the room. My heart was unprepared to hear; Jake was shot in the neck by a robber as he an Angie sat in her car making plans for the next day. The car door was yanked open and a gun was shoved in Jake’s neck. When he couldn’t reach his wallet, the robber pulled the trigger. Jake would be paralyzed from the neck down. We must wait to see him. He wouldn’t be able to feel our touch unless we touched his forehead. Dear God! This can’t be true. Not my son! Not my handsome, healthy, basketball playing son. And now I understand. I am sitting on a bench overlooking the harbor in Erie PA. My son is learning to breathe again at Lake Erie Institute of Rehabilitation. They sent him here to be weaned from the ventilator. It is hell for him to endure. He has lost so much. He can’t move his athletic body and he feels like he is suffocating. I had to get out of there for a minute. I’ve been here with him for months. Our family is in Ohio. They get here when they can. It is a lonely, sad time for my son and me. But a miracle is in the making, he’ll learn to inhale and exhale once again. We were told this was physically impossible. The damage was too great. He is winning the battle through determination and pure gut strength. I am sitting on the banks of Lake Erie and my life has fallen apart. My son will be wheelchair bound for rest of his life. He will drive it with his chin. He’s lost his ability to hug his girl, wipe a tear, pick his nose, run or walk or play basketball or reach or feed himself……. Our lives have been churned and thrown in upheaval. The nightmare has come true. The sketch held a foreboding warning; “Here I sit all broken hearted.” |
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| The Sketch ron McCandlish ron.mcandlish@sympatico.ca |
#11 of 12 |
| 665 words | |
| Maybe he should have listened to them. The doctors. It
wasn’t real they’d told him. The voice that came to visit all these
years. It wasn’t real! Medication taken as they directed would
somehow… somehow keep this companion, this strange acquaintance who had
entered his thoughts, away and out of his life. Persistence was the answer,
dedicated visits for injections they prescribed were paramount. This substance,
injected into his veins would evict, cast out this voice that had danced,
advised, comforted him in his mind for so many years. “Stop the booze too! No booze.” Dr. Alex insisted. “It counteracts, diminishes the treatment. You can do it Ralph. You’ll never look back, discover a new life. You’ll be back to work. A new man.” The bar was crowded. People he knew, gathered with… a part of. Bridget the tall, red-haired waitress dropped the beer and shot of rye at his table. “Hi Ralph! Why the sad look?” she asked, “Loose you best friend on the way in here?” Ralph forced a smiled, “No. Saw my “croaker” this aft. He’s got this crazy idea ‘bout me givin’ up the booze. Thought I’d give it a try. One more night. Kiss you all goodbye. Hey! That rhymes.” Bridget laughed, “Oh, come on Ralph. Your just upset about Nancy. It would have never worked out anyway. Your too good for her pal. She was in a while ago. Sittin’ with some real slob I’ve never seen before. Cheap bastard didn’t even leave a tip. When it’s over… it’s over. She’ll miss you one day.” Ralph handed her his credit card, “Well, keep em comin’ kid. I’ll miss you and the gang. An’ I’ll miss her too. Tonight I’m drinkin’ for the road. That long… long, lonesome road I’ve heard about.” Friends dragged him into a cab at closing time. Took him home, flopped him on his bed, thinking when they slipped his key in the mail slot he was all alone. He wasn’t alone though. “Ralph… Ralph. Wake up!” The voice said, “Turn on the light. Have a smoke. We have to talk.” He was there. The voice! Ralph raised his head… switched on the lamp. Alone in his room, but, no, not really alone. The voice was there! “What the hells the matter with you! Why are you listening to these pill-pushin’, needle jamming, know it all, steth-ascoped, white coated assholes? Remember the pills they shoved down your throat, the way they made you feel? Tired… tired right? That’s how you lost Nancy. Now they want to stick you with tiny spears that’ll make me go away! I’m with you man! I’ve always been with you! I’ll get Nancy back for you. Can they do that! Do they care? We love Nancy don’t we? You and me. What the hell do all the rest of them know? “They say your not real. Your not someone… your something in my head… Your not real!” “Their telling you you’re a psycho!! A nutbar! Listen to me. Light a smoke. Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna get Nancy back. They can’t get Nancy back. I can tell you how. You’ve still got her apartment key. Go there tonight. Go there now! Talk to her. Do anything you can. Anyway you can. I’ll be with you. Like I’m always with you. Listen to me. Do as I say! Listen to me. Listen!” Nancy Swain was found strangled to death in her high-rise apartment. A tenant, a sketch artist for a local magazine informed police he had witnessed a man leaving the building and supplied them with a hurried drawing of this disturbed man he passed in the hallway who was talking, actually talking, muttering, waving his hands, as if he were not alone… as if there was someone walking beside him. The sketch was printed the following day in newspapers throughout the state. “I’ll leave you now pal,” the voice said, as Ralph walked that last, short mile to the execution chamber, holding both hands over his ears. “I never figured on “The Sketch.” |
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| The Sketch Angelique Thompson angeliquethompson@gmail.com |
#12 of 12 |
| 1640 words | |
| Bridget looked into the mirror longingly, hoping, that
just maybe, she would look in, and find she had gotten prettier. Bridget wasn't
an ugly girl, quite the contrary; she was actually rather good looking. Sure
she had little orange freckles scattered all over her, and sure she had crooked
teeth, but still. She had very nice brown eyes, and very decent lips. It was
just, in her small family of 4, in her eyes, she was the ugliest. Her older
sister, Janette, was a dark beauty. Dark brown locks, perfect complexion, and
perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. Her mother looked almost the same,
though Bridget thought she looked a bit prettier. Even her father, Christopher
Anthen was tall, well framed, and had a clean profile. Today though, it didn't really matter how pretty she was, she wasn't going anywhere special. Her mother had told her to put on a clean dress, but she thought a nice skirt and blouse would be fine. All they were doing was going to see their new neighbors, and they did not have any little girls, only two boys, one her age, and the other only three. So why dress up, all they were going to do was to say hi, right. But never the less her mother came in, excused the fact that she was in fact not wearing a dress, and hurried her out to the car. Bridget thought it was silly that they should take the car when it was only a five minuets walk to their house. After all, her teacher Miss Beasney, or as the students called her Miss Beasty, had said that wasting gas was killing animals. Or something like that anyway, and Bridget was rather fond of rabbits. Janette had put on a dress like their mother had said, and was fixing her already perfect hair in their mother's makeup mirror. Bridget sighed, seeing Janette look so pretty in a dress made her wish she had worn one. But it was too late now; they were pulling up in the driveway of their new neighbor's house. As soon as Bridget stepped foot out of the car she scrunched up her nose, and asked rather rudely, "What's that funny smell?" Her mother gave her 'the look' and Bridget looked down at the ground as if to say she was sorry. The Petersons, which was the name of their new neighbors, lived in a small, and at least on the outside, dirty house. Her mother often referred to houses like this as white trash. Bridget did not really understand why it was called white trash; she didn't see any trash at all. All she saw was a small white house that was rather dirt and stained, and the paint was peeling. The lawn was a little bit overgrown, and some of the windows were broken and only fixed with tape. Bridget was sure the inside would look much better, so she was relieved when a lady came out to greet them. "Why hello, I'm Mrs. Peterson, you must be the Anthens." Bridget stepped forward and corrected her, "No. Only my parents are Anthens, Im Bridget, and this is Janette." Mrs. Peterson, Bridget's parents, and Janette all started laughing. Bridget tuned red and scrunched her eyebrows, a way of telling them she didn't like what they were doing. Mrs. Peterson was the first one to stop laughing, and led the family inside their quaint little house. The inside was much better indeed. Though it had dingy wallpaper and stains on the carpet, it was clean, swept, and all the furniture was organized in a very tidy orderly way. Mrs. Peterson introduced them to her husband, but Bridget wasn't really paying attention. Instead she was paying attention to a sound, a sound coming from down their hall. The adults and Janette seemed to be busy talking, so Bridget silently excused herself and began to tiptoe down the hall. Bridget shouldn't have been surprised at what she saw, but she was. In a small room, on the floor, sat a boy, playing blocks with a toddler. The boy didn't look up at her, but said in a small, but confident voice, "Hello." Bridget walked in and said loudly, "Hi! My name is Bridget, do you live here?" The boy smiled and said, "Yes. My name is Nathaniel, and this is Daniel." Bridget beamed, "Hey. Nathaniel and Daniel, they rhyme!" Nathaniel placed a block on the tower they were building, but when he did it toppled over. "I know," he said, "My parents did that on purpose." Bridget sat down on the floor criss-cross apple sauce, and put her skirt over her knees. "May I play?" Nathaniel nodded, and Bridget began building a tower. Bridget was finished with her tower, and Nathaniel only had three blocks on his. "You're not very good at building blocks, are you?" Bridget observed, Nathaniel went very slowly when he placed his blocks on each other, and he often missed the blocks entirely and placed it on the carpet. "No. Im not, are you?" Bridget smiled proudly, "See for yourself, my tower is way up!" Daniel laughed when Bridget said this, and whacked the tower with his hand. Bridget folded her hands and said crossly, "You are not a very nice baby." Daniel laughed even more, and Bridget got up in a huff. "I'm not playing with you anymore!" Bridget went over to the dirty window and put her forehead against the cool glass. Bridget began to blow on it, fogging it up. Using her finger she began to draw pictures, first a heart, then a crooked smiley face. "Are you any good at drawing," Bridget asked Nathaniel, scribbling out her crown which looked more like a misshapen pumpkin. Nathaniel immediately perked up and stood up, "Yes. Do you want to see my drawing pad?" Bridget smiled and said yes. So slowly shuffling across the carpet Nathaniel pulled open a drawer and pulled out a forest green drawing pad. Suddenly, Bridget got a brilliant idea. "Hey! I got a great idea! Why don't you draw me!" Nathaniel began to protest, but Bridget cut him off, "Only you would make me prettier of course, because I don't think I am that pretty, mom sais I am and so does dad. My older sister Janette sais it's silly to wish I was prettier, but what does she know, she's already pretty. Do you think I am pretty?" The poor boy could only weakly answer, "Yes." At the moment Mrs. Peterson came in and said, "Boys, The Anthens are leaving soon and they want to meet you." Nathaniel began to slowly make his way to the door and Mrs. Peterson picked up Daniel. Bridget went into the living room to, but she didn't pay any attention to what the grown ups were saying. Instead she was imagining what the picture would be like. Maybe he would draw her in a beautiful princess gown, or with curly hair! Then she thought, well I guess he's a boy. Then scrunching her nose, she thought of what else he could draw her like. Maybe he would draw her with snakes in her hair, or with a fat nose. The she wondered if he was a good artist at all. But before she could even realize what was going on her parents and the Petersons were saying goodbye. "Will you draw me?" she asked Nathaniel quickly. Nathaniel sighed and said, "I guess so. But it might not look like you." Then they said goodbye and Bridget happily skipped out to the car. "So, did you like Nathaniel?" Bridget's mother asked, looking back at Bridget. Bridget smiled, "Uh-huh, he said he would draw a picture of me!" Mrs. Anthens frowned, "That's interesting, his parents didn't say he could draw." Bridget rolled her eyes, "Well he can." Mrs. Peterson still looked confused, "Well I mean, just being blind and all." Bridget's eyes opened wide, "He's blind!" Janette looked at her with her 'obviously' look. "Yeah, you didn't know that," Janette said, rolling here eyes. Bridget folded her arms, "He didn't tell me." Suddenly Bridget was worried, very worried, the picture was going to be horrible! That night Bridget didn't eat any dinner, Nathaniel was going to be at school tomorrow, and he would probably give her the picture. Then Martha and Emily would ask what she had and Bridget would have to show them. Then they would laugh and tell everyone how ugly the picture was. Then third grade would be officially ruined for good! But no matter how hard she prayed the next morning came, and before she knew it, she was standing at the door of Watlan Elementary school. Emily was waiting there, her golden curls back in a ribbon and hr blue dress perfectly ironed. "Hey Emmy." Bridget said in a melancholy tone. "Did you hear about the new kid, he can't see!" Bridget nodded, and opened the door. "My mother said there family is poor and unsophisticated, so I am not allowed to play with him." Bridget rolled her eyes, Emily's mom was very picky. When the two girls got into their classroom they found a crowd of about fifteen children all crowded around something or someone, all ooing and awing. "What's that?" Emily said, pushing her way through the crowd. In the center of the crowd was Nathaniel, his green sketchbook in his hand. Bridget gulped, "Oh' no! Everyone already saw it! They're all going to laugh!" "Bridget! Bridget!" Nathaniel tore the piece of paper out and handed it to her. It was a black and white sketch of a girl. The most beautiful girl Bridget had ever seen in her entire life. Prettier then mom, and Janette, and Emily! On it, in big black letters it said 'You are beautiful.' |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club