#SaturdayScenes: No. 14

For #SaturdayScenes this week, I bring you a piece of flash fiction I wrote a few weeks ago for an informal contest over on the the Writer's Discussion Group community on G+. +Amy Knepper posts these challenges and I always enjoy them. Hope you enjoy mine!

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Em Wakes Up

It was a miracle. As Michael watched, the flatline monitor began to blip. Once. Had he imagined it? No! There it was again. A blip, and another. He ran to the hospital door, his face still wet with tears. “Nurse!”

No one came. He ran back into the room and punched the call button about fifteen times. An annoyed woman’s voice came on. “Yes?”

“She’s alive!”

“What?”

“Her machine. It’s blipping. She’s alive!” He dropped the device on the bed, and grabbed Emily’s hand. It was cold and unmoving, as was her face. But the monitor continued to beep steadily, picking up speed bit by bit.

“Em? Can you hear me? Em?”

The hand in his twitched, then gripped his fingers. Michael gasped. He wasn’t imagining this. She was definitely beginning to move. Em’s grip tightened and tightened again. It was incredibly strong. Painful. Michael tried to pull his fingers away and found that he couldn’t.

“Em? Em, honey? That hurts. Em? Can you hear me?”

Emily didn’t open her eyes, but Michael could see the quick movements beneath suggesting that she was conscious or dreaming intensely. He suppressed a yelp of pain as she continued to squeeze his hand. “Help!” He yelled toward the hallway. Fumbling for the remote he pressed the call button again, but no one answered this time. He yelled into it anyway. “Somebody help! She’s breaking my fingers!”

Em let go of his hand. Michael jumped back from the bed, pulling his injured fingers against his chest, afraid to move them and find out the full extent of the damage. In one fluid movement, Emily sat straight up in the bed. She turned her head towards Michael. The movement was impossibly fast, not at all like someone who had just been unconscious and presumed dead. She moved like some kind of tiger.

The stare she turned on Michael froze something deep within him. The eyes were cold and seemed to look through him rather than at him. There was no recognition in them. Michael looked behind him quickly, praying someone had come. Someone who could help. Instead, he saw only the closed hospital door. He was sure he’d left it open.

He turned back and Em was standing right in front of him, near enough to kiss him, if she chose. He hadn’t hear her leave the bed or cross the floor. “Em?” he said one last time, his voice soft and pleading.

The woman in front of him cocked her head to one side, then smiled, revealing a mouth full of razor sharp teeth. Michael didn’t even have time to run before she was upon him. 

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If you would like to check out more scenes by some really great writers, you should search under the hashtag #Saturdayscenes. The movement is the brainchild of +John Ward , who suggested that writers should share their work each Saturday.

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My other #SaturdayScenes contributions:

Week One: Elopement Day from WIP, Cold Spring

Week Two: Linda Makes a First Impression from WIP, Her Father's Daughter, sequel to Going Through the Change

Week Three: Claiming Alex, from unpublished novel His Other Mother

Week Four: Things Get Hairy for Linda, from unpublished novel Going Through the Change

Week Five: a poem: A Clear Day in Kodiak, Alaska

Week Six: a snippet from an idea barely begun, Lacrosse Zombies

Week Seven: Mathilde's Visit, from WIP, Cold Spring
Week Eight: Sherry bakes, from His Other Mother
Week Nine: I Said So, Didn't I? (a scene in dialogue)
Week Ten: Losing Faith (a poem)
Week Eleven: Shop Girl, from WIP, Cold Spring
Week Twelve: Mary Braeburn, from WIP, Her Father's Daughter
Week Thirteen: Patricia is Kidnapped, from WIP, Her Father's Daughter

#SaturdayScenes No. 13

For #SaturdayScenes this week, I bring you Patricia O'Neill, from my WIP: Her Father's Daughter. Patricia was kidnapped in one of the first chapters of the book. Let's see where she was taken:

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Patricia awoke some hours later, strapped to a hospital gurney. A bright light burned above her. There was a whooshing sound behind her and off to the right. She arched her back a little trying to see behind her, but couldn’t make out anything other than more bright lights. The room smelled sweet and Patricia remembered the pink powder. That bitch! To think she’d been feeling all sentimental, worrying about what had ever happened to her good friend, worrying that she was lost to the system or dead somewhere.

She was going to wish she was dead when Patricia was done with her. Apparently the Cindy she knew was gone, if she had ever existed. She was taking all her plays straight from the crazy handbook. And she was crazy if she thought bright lights and gurney straps were going to keep Patricia O’Neill in a place she didn’t want to be in.

Patricia closed her eyes to channel her anger and upset and trigger her transformation into what she’d come to think of as the Dragon Lady. It wasn’t like she had to dig for it. This was fresh hurt, new betrayal. It was right there, barely beneath the surface. It was only a matter of seconds before she felt the gurney beginning to collapse beneath the weight of her fully armored self. The Hyde to her Jekyll. The metal supports squealed as they bent and Patricia stood, shaking off the remnants of the restraint straps like ribbons.

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She took a strong stance, arms at the ready and weight balanced on her toes to facilitate quick movement and waited for the attack. But none was forthcoming. The bright lights were painful. Patricia shielded her eyes with one taloned hand, but couldn’t make out any details of the room. She stalked to the nearest light and pushed it over, knocking it into the neighboring light. That one hit its neighbor in turn and before long Patricia was standing in a pile of broken glass and steaming light poles, grinning.

The lights extinguished, Patricia began to be able to make out the details of the room. She seemed to be in a medical observation room. Above the operating floor she could see a glassed-in observation area. The whooshing sound she had heard when she first regained consciousness was coming from a machine against the far wall. It was glowing a pale yellow color. Patricia walked towards it, still fuming and looking for more things to smash.

The machine had a glass top. Something about it seemed a little familiar. In spite of herself, she felt curious. There was something to be said for looking for answers before smashing the place up, after all. She’d need to know where she was and if Cindy had anyone else helping her. As she moved nearer the machine, she began to hear another sound intermixed with the whooshing, a metallic tapping. It seemed to follow a pattern, but she couldn’t parse it. She stood still, listening. Was it Morse code? Who the hell would be trying to communicate with her in Morse code? She only barely knew what Morse code was, and certainly couldn’t translate it into words.

Patricia stopped and examined the machine from where she stood in the middle of the room. It was a long rectangular box, maybe four or four and a half feet long. It appeared to be silver, though it was hard to tell in the diffuse light. The only illumination came from the observation area above her now that Patricia had broken all the other lights. There were industrial handles on the top of the case that somehow reminded Patricia of outer space. Or maybe it was just the other-worldly yellow light that emitted from the glassed in portion of the top. Whatever the device was, the tapping was definitely coming from within.

Patricia looked around again. She felt apprehensive, though she couldn’t have said why. Nothing about the sounds or the lights had changed. She saw and heard no one. Other than the tapping, and the whooshing noise the functioning of the machine seemed to make, it was deadly quiet.

Shaking off her foreboding, Patricia moved towards the machine. The spikes growing from her upper back and arms seemed to grow longer. She was aware of them in a way that she usually wasn’t. But she made no effort to calm herself and pull them in. She still felt that some kind of attack was imminent and she wanted to be ready for it when it came.

Alongside the machine, she wiped a layer of moisture from the glass and peered through it. Inside was an Asian girl, approximately age eleven, her face tense with concentration. She was tapping against the metal tubing that ran over her head. Her movements corresponded with the sounds Patricia was hearing. Patricia felt her heart begin to race. The girl turned and met Patricia’s gaze through the glass. She stopped tapping and spread her palm against the glass, tears filling her eyes. It was Cindy Liu.

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If you would like to check out more scenes by some really great writers, you should search under the hashtag #Saturdayscenes. The movement is the brainchild of +John Ward , who suggested that writers should share their work each Saturday.

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My other #SaturdayScenes contributions:

Week One: Elopement Day from WIP, Cold Spring

Week Two: Linda Makes a First Impression from WIP, Her Father's Daughter, sequel to Going Through the Change

Week Three: Claiming Alex, from unpublished novel His Other Mother

Week Four: Things Get Hairy for Linda, from unpublished novel Going Through the Change

Week Five: a poem: A Clear Day in Kodiak, Alaska

Week Six: a snippet from an idea barely begun, Lacrosse Zombies

Week Seven: Mathilde's Visit, from WIP, Cold Spring
Week Eight: Sherry bakes, from His Other Mother
Week Nine: I Said So, Didn't I? (a scene in dialogue)
Week Ten: Losing Faith (a poem)
Week Eleven: Shop Girl, from WIP, Cold Spring
Week Twelve: Mary Braeburn, from WIP, Her Father's Daughter

#SaturdayScenes: No. 12

For #SaturdayScenes this week, I bring you Mary Braeburn, a new voice in my WIP: Her Father's Daughter. Mary's been trying to find her mother, the fire-wielding henchwoman, Helen, from the first novel. Digging in the wrong places got her captured by the Department. Here's where she ended up:

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“She’s awake.”

Mary heard the voice, but, when she tried to open her eyes, she plummeted back into darkness. Waking felt like a steep climb up a slimy-walled pit. It took several more tries before she was able to convince her eyelids to lift. When she finally succeeded, she immediately closed them again. She had to still be asleep.

She sat up in bed, ducking her head into her hands and rubbing at her eyes with the heels of her

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hands. She opened her eyes again. She was in a child’s room. The walls were painted pink and decorated with a border featuring white fluffy bunny rabbits. The bed she was in had a canopy made of white lace and the bedsheets were a shade of pink that matched the walls. It looked like someone had painted the room in Pepto-Bismo. “Where the fuck am I?” she asked the walls.

Sliding her feet out of the bed, she sat up. She felt a little dizzy and her mouth was dry and cottony and tasted terrible. She stood, gripping one of the posts of the bed to support herself as she found her balance. She was wearing a hospital gown, she realized. One that was too short for her, and printed with pink checks and white daisies.

She could see a bathroom a few steps away and pushed off towards it. Her knees wobbled, but she was able to stumble to the doorframe and into the bathroom. She made it just in time to relieve her suddenly painfully full bladder into a too small toilet. She was washing her hands at a sink that only came up to her thighs when she heard the door open.

“Ah! I’m glad to see that you’re awake. Here.” The woman handed her a pile of pink hospital scrubs. “These will fit you better.”

When Mary just stood there, dumbstruck, the woman smiled. “It’s alright. I’ll wait.” She pushed Mary back into the bathroom and closed the door to the smaller room.

Mary stood behind the door listening. She heard the sound of bedsprings creaking and figured the woman must have taken a seat on the bed. Mary had no idea what was going on, but figured whatever it was would be better with pants that covered her ass, so she pulled on the scrubs as quickly as she could, gripping the towel rack for balance. She banged her elbow painfully, scrambling to open the door.

The woman was, indeed, seated on the bed. She was a short, slender woman with big squarish black glasses and brown hair pulled back from her face in a severe bun. She didn’t look any older than Mary, though she wore a lab coat and a badge that announced that she was Dr. Kimberly Sugg.

“That must feel better. Please sit down.” The woman patted the bed beside her and pulled a small medical light out of a pocket. “Just follow the light, please.” Mary cooperated with a series of small commands, similar to what the doctor had asked her to do when they’d thought she might have a concussion after that car wreck last year. Her mind tried to form questions, but it was like her thoughts were too spread out and she couldn’t quite rein them in and form something coherent from them.

“I’m sorry for the confusion. When they told us they had Ms. Braeburn’s daughter, we assumed you were a child and you were placed in the girl’s room. I’ll have you moved to another room soon.”

Mary finally managed to speak. “Does that mean you have my mother?”

“Us? No. She’s being held at another division. We’re the pediatric division.” The woman tapped her ear then, apparently activating some kind of ear piece. “She’s fine. Is transport ready?” Turning back to Mary, the woman smiled. “I know you must be confused. They’ll explain everything soon.” There was a tap at the door. Dr. Sugg stood and opened the door, admitting a tall, thin man who had to duck to get through the doorway. He was pushing a wheelchair. “You probably don’t need the chair, but we don’t want to risk you falling. The drugs can affect your nervous system for a few hours after waking.”

The man approached the bed, and place his arm under Mary’s, presumably to help her stand. His grip was gentle, but firm. She let him lead her to the wheelchair. Dr. Sugg waggled her fingers at her as the man rolled her away. “Bye bye now!”

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If you would like to check out more scenes by some really great writers, you should search under the hashtag #Saturdayscenes. The movement is the brainchild of +John Ward , who suggested that writers should share their work each Saturday.

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My other #SaturdayScenes contributions:

Week One: Elopement Day from WIP, Cold Spring

Week Two: Linda Makes a First Impression from WIP, Her Father's Daughter, sequel to Going Through the Change

Week Three: Claiming Alex, from unpublished novel His Other Mother

Week Four: Things Get Hairy for Linda, from unpublished novel Going Through the Change

Week Five: a poem: A Clear Day in Kodiak, Alaska

Week Six: a snippet from an idea barely begun, Lacrosse Zombies

Week Seven: Mathilde's Visit, from WIP, Cold Spring
Week Eight: Sherry bakes, from His Other Mother
Week Nine: I Said So, Didn't I? (a scene in dialogue)
Week Ten: Losing Faith (a poem)
Week Eleven: Shop Girl, from WIP, Cold Spring

#SaturdayScenes: No. 11

I finished a draft of my new novel on Thursday. So, in celebration, I bring you a #saturdayscenes from Cold Spring, my historical fiction piece. This scene comes near the end of the book.

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Chapter Thirty-Two: 1930, Shop Girl

Freda liked working at Whitaker’s. She liked her striped apron and little white cap. She liked listening to the women talking as they shopped. She liked the thousands of small ways that it had brought she and Simon together over the past two years. Working by his side was like getting a taste of what it would be like to be his wife someday. They worked well together, finishing each other’s sentences and knowing which way the other was going to move. It was good to see that they could work as well as play together. Of course, Simon wasn’t in the store that often anymore, his duties for City Council taking a lot of his time and energy.

When they were in the store together, Simon never failed to treat her respectfully, as he might any other employee. The occasional rumor still floated by within Freda’s earshot, but she didn’t let it worry her, trusting to her future with Simon. When they were alone together, he had began to call her “Miss Wurth,” mocking the formal tone they used with each other at the store, until her touches had him calling out her first name again. “Oh, yes, Freda.” Simon had still not yet broached the topic of their marriage again, but Freda believed in him, and trusted that he would choose the right moment. In the meantime, she could be a wife to him in spirit, if not in fact. She tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach that sometimes came upon her when she thought about her position. She had to trust to the goodness of the man to whom she had given her heart. Some days that worried her more than other days.

When Simon had first proposed that Freda take the job as shop clerk, two years before, Freda had expected that he would have to fight for her. On the contrary, Mr. Whitaker hadn’t objected at all. In fact, he had welcomed her warmly, seeming glad to have the opportunity to know her better and to train her in the store management. He had paid her a good wage, too, one that Freda suspected was a little higher than another woman would have earned for the same work. It was enough to let Freda take care of the farm taxes and refill the emergency fund in the coffee can in her kitchen.

In her two years at the grocery, Freda had worked most of the jobs in the store. She had weighed the vegetables and bagged them up for delivery. She had helped fussy ladies choose material for their dresses and cut the requested amounts from the huge heavy bolts. She helped Mr. Whitaker count up the money at day’s end and do the inventory. He said that she had a better head for figures than his son did. Freda had beamed all day from the compliment. Most days it was wonderful.

This, however, wasn’t one of those days. Freda had been alone in the shop most of the day. Mr. Whitaker had stayed home nursing his sore back and Mrs. Whitaker had excused herself late in the morning to see to her husband. The store had been very busy, and Freda felt like she had been running all day. It was going to be very good indeed to get home and put her feet up.

Her tiredness made it hard to muster a smile when Mary Perkins, the mayor’s daughter, came in at nearly the end of the work day. Mary had been rude to Freda over and over again during her tenure at the store. While other women who shopped in the store called Freda by name if they knew her or “Miss” if they didn’t, Mary always called her “shop girl.” There was something in Mary’s tone that made the two innocuous words sound more like “insect” or “mongrel.”

She didn’t speak to Mr. and Mrs. Whitaker with that tone. In fact, she seemed to become simperingly sweet if one of them were nearby. She was also polite and even somewhat friendly if young Mr. Gibson, the other shop clerk, waited on her. Freda had no idea why, but Miss Perkins seemed to have singled her out as the target for all her sharp-tongued ill-nature.

It was even worse when Mary simpered at her Simon. If Simon were in the store, she’d always manage to make sure it was he who helped her with her purchases. She’d touch him more than was necessary and flutter her eyelashes at him. Sometimes, Simon seemed to flirt back. Freda reminded herself that Simon was a politician now and that his personal charm was essential to his success, but she wished he would be a little less charming when it came to Miss Perkins. She didn’t complain directly, but she was sure Simon knew how she felt about it.

Given this history, Freda tried to keep herself busy in another part of the shop whenever Mary was in the store and let someone else wait on Mary and her friends. Today, though, she was alone in the shop. Freda would have to deal with the mayor’s daughter herself. Taking a deep breath, Freda drew herself up straight and waited for the strident call of “Shop girl!”

Freda knew that Mary had been to a finishing school in Boston. She overhear her lamenting to the other town girls about the lack of refinement and breeding in Cold Spring. Obviously, she didn’t think much of the small Kentucky town her father had brought her to. The fabrics Whitaker’s stocked were never elegant enough for her. The home goods were not appropriate for the home of a lady of sophistication. Even the produce, apparently, was of larger size and higher quality in Boston.

Though she dearly wanted to, Freda never spoke up to defend her store, her employer or her town. She knew that Mr. Whitaker would want her to provide quiet service, not give her cause for complaint. So, she bit her tongue yet again today, listening to Mary chatter to her friends as they made fun of the new table linens the store had just gotten in the week before. Freda thought them lovely and often fingered them when she was alone in the shop, imagining buying them to use on her own table when she hosted a fine dinner party for her husband and his friends. It hurt to hear them disparaged, almost as if they were already hers.

Fighting down her anger, Freda stepped to the back of the shop and brought out more bags of beans. It wasn’t really necessary. There were still five on the shelf. But, it gave her something to do and took her out of earshot for at least a few minutes.

She was surprised when she turned around after placing the beans and found Mary standing directly behind her. “Can I help you, Miss?” Freda asked, her voice even and her face carefully blank.

“No. It simply can’t be true,” Mary said.

Freda blinked. What couldn’t be true? She held her tongue, giving Mary the opportunity to speak her mind, but not asking. Curiosity killed the cat, she thought. There was definitely something cat-like about Mary Perkins, and Freda felt instinctively that, were she to respond, she’d see the claws up close.

Mary seemed disappointed by her response, or lack thereof, and flounced away, speaking loudly as she left to make sure that Freda heard her hurtful words. “They say that frumpy spinster once had the heart of Mr. Whitaker’s handsome son. I simply refuse to believe it!”

Freda leaned heavily against the counter. It was a relief the woman had left, and at least now she knew why Miss Perkins hated her so much. She was interested in Simon. She could hardly wait to tell him what had happened. He would laugh with her over the idea of a silly and shallow little thing like Miss Perkins setting her cap for her Simon. She was everything he’d always said he’d hated. She lowered her hand to her stomach, trying to quiet the strange feeling that had erupted there. Had. She was quite sure that the girl said had. Not has.

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If you would like to check out more scenes by some really great writers, you should search under the hashtag #Saturdayscenes. The movement is the brainchild of +John Ward , who suggested that writers should share their work each Saturday.

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My other #SaturdayScenes contributions:

Week One: Elopement Day from WIP, Cold Spring

Week Two: Linda Makes a First Impression from WIP, Her Father's Daughter, sequel to Going Through the Change

Week Three: Claiming Alex, from unpublished novel His Other Mother

Week Four: Things Get Hairy for Linda, from unpublished novel Going Through the Change

Week Five: a poem: A Clear Day in Kodiak, Alaska

Week Six: a snippet from an idea barely begun, Lacrosse Zombies

Week Seven: Mathilde's Visit, from WIP, Cold Spring
Week Eight: Sherry bakes, from His Other Mother
Week Nine: I Said So, Didn't I? (a scene in dialogue)
Week Ten: Losing Faith (a poem)

#SaturdayScenes No. 10: Independence Day

Independence Day always makes me think of my grandfather who was a WWII vet. This week for #SaturdayScenes, I bring you a poem I wrote about him and his ambivalence about his service.

Loss of Faith

He said loss

was certain in war—

we must all sacrifice for the Greater Good.

Friends, family, even faith—

surrendered like offerings,

head bowed, eyes averted.

Still, he wondered . . . wished

he had not recovered

from the scarcity of his youth.

If he had stayed home

with flat feet—

with polio—

would he still trust

in G-d and Country? 

But he had witnessed the children,

served them bread and thin soups,

their wide eyes solemn over spoons

clasped in hands grown so thin

bones float in slack skin.

If these had remained words in the paper,

pictures in Life magazine,

he could have still believed

in something, held on to his faith—

that G-d cared, that good would prevail. 

The army taught him eighty ways to kill,

but never

to forget that his enemies were his brothers.

He learned to apologize in seven languages,

but never

to look the other way.

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If you would like to check out more scenes by some really great writers, you should search under the hashtag #Saturdayscenes. The movement is the brainchild of +John Ward , who suggested that writers should share their work each Saturday.

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My other #SaturdayScenes contributions:

Week One: Elopement Day from WIP, Cold Spring

Week Two: Linda Makes a First Impression from WIP, Her Father's Daughter, sequel to Going Through the Change

Week Three: Claiming Alex, from unpublished novel His Other Mother

Week Four: Things Get Hairy for Linda, from unpublished novel Going Through the Change

Week Five: a poem: A Clear Day in Kodiak, Alaska

Week Six: a snippet from an idea barely begun, Lacrosse Zombies

Week Seven: Mathilde's Visit, from WIP, Cold Spring
Week Eight: Sherry bakes, from His Other Mother
Week Nine: I Said So, Didn't I? (a scene in dialogue)

#SaturdayScenes No. 9

#saturdayscenes #samanthascenes

For #SaturdayScenes this week, I bring you a little scene written entirely in dialogue. Hope you enjoy!

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I said so, didn’t I?

So, that’s it then?

            Yep

Really?

            I said so, didn’t I?

I guess I hoped you didn’t mean it.

            Why would I say it, then?

I hate it when you do that.

            What?

Answer everything with a goddamn question.

            Why?

It’s not funny, asshole. Especially not if this is really it.

            Hey, I never promised . . .

Like hell, you didn’t. Everything you did was a promise.

            I didn’t mean—

Don’t give me that shit.  Don’t you try and put this on me.

            I hate when you do that.

What?

Try to make it all about what I did.  You did things, too, you know. You asked me to live here with you. You told me about him.  You told me you needed me.

Yeah, well, I meant what I did.

            Of course you did! You never do anything you didn’t mean to!

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

            Jesus, you really don’t get it, do you?

Maybe I’m just not as smart as you.

            Do I have to spell it out?

Maybe you do. Maybe you should just say it for once. Just tell me what you’re thinking. Stop making me try to guess.

            You say that like it’s easy.

Isn’t it?

I’ve never met anyone as frustrating as you.  You can be right here with me and yet I feel like I don’t have you. You tell me things that break my heart, but they don’t even seem to touch yours. You’re somewhere else, behind your eyes.  I’m leaving because you already left me months ago, if you were ever here in the first place. You just forgot to take your body with you.

Is that what you think?

          I said so, didn’t I?

I don’t want you to leave.

I said I don’t want you to leave.  You can’t just not fucking respond to that. 

Say something!

          Why don’t you want me to leave?

I love you, idiot!

          You love me?

I said so, didn’t I?

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If you would like to check out more scenes by some really great writers, you should search under the hashtag #Saturdayscenes.  The movement is the brainchild of +John Ward , who suggested that writers should share their work with the public each Saturday. 

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My other #SaturdayScenes contributions:

Week One: Elopement Day from WIP, Cold Spring

Week Two: Linda Makes a First Impression from WIP, Her Father's Daughter, sequel to Going Through the Change

Week Three: Claiming Alex, from unpublished novel His Other Mother

Week Four: Things Get Hairy for Linda, from unpublished novel Going Through the Change

Week Five: a poem: A Clear Day in Kodiak, Alaska

Week Six: a snippet from an idea barely begun, Lacrosse Zombies

Week Seven: Mathilde's Visit, from WIP, Cold Spring
Week Eight: Sherry bakes, from His Other Mother

#Saturday Scenes: No. 7

This week for #Saturday Scenes (the brain child of +John Ward ), I bring you a scene from Cold Spring, my current WIP. It's a historical piece set in rural Kentucky in the early 1900s following the lives of two sisters, Lena and Freda. At this point, it's looking like it might be a three or four books series, following these sisters through the decades.


This scene is near the beginning of the novel and introduces the older sister, Mathilde, a minor character who now lives in Lexington. It's 1915. Mathilde is 23 and married, but without children. Lena is 16, and has been running her father's household for two years, since the death of her mother. Mathilde has just arrived for a visit.

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Mathilde stood when their father came in. She held her hands primly at her waist and watched as Gustav

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hung up his hat, removed his boots, and washed his hands and face in the basin Lena had placed for that purpose. She smiled in greeting when he raised his eyes, but their father walked past her without acknowledgement and headed for his usual chair near the fireplace.

“Why is my tea not waiting, Lena?”

Heat rushed to Lena’s face. After her sister had just praised her household skills, it was embarrassing to immediately be called on the carpet by Papa. “It’s here, Papa, at the table. I thought you would want to sit and talk with Mathilde.”

The man looked at his older daughter briefly, then turned back to Lena. “I will have my tea as usual, daughter.”

Lena scurried to bring his cup and biscuit to him at his accustomed seat by the fire, not sure what to make of Father’s treatment of Mathilde. Mathilde’s face was frozen, set in an expression of shock. After a moment, she recovered. “Quite right, Father. It is nicer here by the fire.” She picked up her own cup and plate and seated herself opposite Gustav in Mother’s chair.

No one ever sat in Mother’s chair. In fact, Gustav had once given little Freda a hiding for sitting in the chair. Lena was shocked by her sister’s audacity and, at the same time, admired her for it.

“How is the farm, Papa? What did you plant this year?”

“Why would you care?”

“I only meant to inquire--”

“Be nosy, you mean. It’s no business of yours. Not anymore.”

“What?”

“I’ve heard about what you’re doing in Lexington.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re one of them--one of those ridiculous ladies marching and meeting to get the vote.”

“Papa!”

“Maybe if you stopped going to useless meetings and stayed home like a woman should, you’d have children by now!”

Lena knew that her sister had struggled through a difficulty pregnancy at the beginning of her marriage only to bring forth a stillborn son. She couldn’t believe her father’s cruelty in attacking Mathilde with her tragedy as if it were a personal failure. Mathilde’s face showed the sting in the verbal slap. “I nearly died, Papa. The doctor says--”

Father brushed off her words with a gesture of his hand. “If you can’t give your husband children and me grandchildren, what use are you?” He paused, long enough to put down his cup and leaned menacingly towards his daughter. “Your mother was more delicate than you, yet she birthed me six sons.” Lena noticed that the three daughters were not listed among her mother’s accomplishments.

“And it eventually killed her!”

Gustav stood then. It seemed as though his body had grown with his anger, the hulk of him filling all the space in the room. “Get out of my house.” He grunted between gritted teeth. When she didn’t immediately move, he took a step towards her, and shouted. “Get out of my house!”

#SaturdayScenes No. 5: Kodiak, Alaska

I've moved around a fair bit in my life.  I'm forty-three now, and, though I spent most of my childhood in a single location, I have now lived in fourteen places. They're clustered in certain parts of the world, but there's a fair spread.

map made at https://www.zeemaps.com/

I got to thinking about all these places in terms of scenes and settings. Right now, as I face moving into summer in North Carolina (I don't like heat so very much . .. I wilt), I'm nostalgic for Kodiak, Alaska and its lovely Pacific Northwest rain and fog.  So, for my #SaturdayScenes this week, please enjoy this poem, written by a much younger me, many miles ago.

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A Clear Day in Kodiak, Alaska

On a day such as today
when the fog has lifted at last,
when a collective dream
of green mountains
materializes in our midst,
and I can see that the sky
had been blue all this time,
I fear I have dreamed this place.
I test each step for sureness,
digging my toes under warm black sand,
and walk slowly, keeping
my feet anchored, lest the sky
drag me into its undertow.
Without the integument of clouds,
the exposed horizon makes these mountains
a mirage brought on
by miles and miles of water
with an unquenchable thirst for land.

http://www.alaskatravel.com/photos/fort-abercrombie.jpg