Mirror Image Published

Jessie *

I'm excited because I just got a story published in Stone Canoe.  The story is 4 and a half pages long, and I have included the first page here, along with a link to the rest.

Mirror Image

We were all invisible then, each in a different way. If I’d known what was going to happen, I’d have paid more attention. Or, perhaps,I’d have at least tried harder. I should have been better at it. I’d just read “Our Town” again, for my college lit class. I’d read it in highschool, too. I kept saying to Jesse and Jesse, “Look at me, Mother. Please, just look at me.” And they would look, glazed, and maybe giggling, or sober, or half-crocked, and then we would all laugh. Or be spooked. Or turn away, tired of the game. But I did not see. I was too burnt and too hidden inside myself, and it would get worse before it got better.

It wouldn’t get better for a long time. 

We lived in the stone house at the bottom of the park. When I think

of it now, it seems at is if opened into the park, bright and airy yet

somehow shadowed, but that’s a dream fragment from the mixed up

dreams I have about the place. In some of the dreams, it is me who

dies of AIDS and I see everything as if I were watching from above.

Or I am killing Jesse Peters, or maybe Jesse French. In the dream, I

pull the trigger.

The real apartment opened away from the park. We lived in the

basement. To get to the park, we walked up around the house and

through the wild locusts and the grove of tree-lilacs. Up and up and

up to the brick water tower at the top of the hill where the whole

city spread below. And in the winter, down the great hill on sleds at

breakneck speeds.

Because the house was built on a hill, the back of our stone-house

apartment was below ground, but the front, downhill corner was

above ground. It faced south and had large leaded glass windows in

the front that filled the basement living room with sparkly light and

rainbows.

We three Jesses looked almost as if we were siblings. We each

had shoulder length wavy auburn hair, with varying degrees of red,

and freckles. Jesse Peters was tall, lean, loose limbed and always

looked a little out of focus, at least in my memory. He was highly

freckled, fuzzy and slightly unkempt. Jesse French was the best looking. He was more compact, more handsome. Shorter. More coiffed.  His face looked almost like a movie star’s, except for the long waving auburn hair. He had the fewest freckles. And then there was me . . .   to continue reading, click here

© 2013 Stone Canoe Journal - http://www.stonecanoejournal.org

*Image of Jessie adapted from Ami with Crow, a gouache painting by me.

This story is fiction but based in part on real events.  I have fiddled and fiddled and fiddled with the formatting and cannot get it right.  I truly tried, I apologize.

WeekWord: Tenacious (Tenacity)

Killer (Amigo) and Tiny Lee Latham have a tenacious friendship--see story below.

The WeekWord this week is Tenacious.

So far, we have the following participants (besides me):

• John the Healing Seed
• Biomouse
• Sowandsew

I will add others if/when they appear. If you would like to participate, leave a comment below. I will away part of the day and evening, so I will the names when I can.

This will be my post, it is currently under construction. I will remove this note when it is finished.

I chose the word tenacious (tenacity) because I feel I need more of it. As personality trait, think of tenacity, for example, as the ability to hold fast to a goal or a belief and not let go in the face of challenge and hardship. Tenacity is the ability to stick with a project through to completion even when difficulties arise. I would like to be more tenacious in that respect!

In the process of looking up the meanings of the word Tenacious on the Webster dictionary site, I discovered that they had a list of words that rhyme with tenacious. Taking those words (I used all of them), I made a little "poem" (DOGGEREL!) for the WeekWord:

Pertinacious in Love, a Silly Little Doggerel for Aging Tenacity

Sometimes I feel audacious, perhaps even bodacious;

Because I am edacious (which often means voracious),

I’m curvaceous and cetaceous and a little bit drupaceous.

Though my heart is quite capacious and I often am flirtatious,

I rarely am capricious and seldom wholly hellacious.

When my bare feet grow crustaceous and moods slip by fugacious,

my words won’t turn fallacious and I’ll still hold on, tenacious.

Mary Stebbins Taitt, for Keith, and for Robert his birthday

I then wrote a little short short story. I wanted to write a flash fiction piece, but this turned out a little longer than I'd intended. Still, I hope it is short enough for you to read (if you're too busy, I forgive you.) The illustration above goes with the story, which, although written as a memoir, is actually fiction:

Miss Lothrop’s 7th grade English	Tiny Lee Latham
2nd period

Doing His Job

Tenacity, Extra Credit Vocabulary “Memoir”

When my brother Jake came back from Iraq, he brought a pit bull, Killer. The army dog squad was going to put Killer down because he was so mean, so Jake brought him home thinking maybe I could tame him. People in Mountain Home call me "The Whisperer," because animals like me. I don't whisper to them, though, not like in the movies. When Killer arrived, despite his name and reputation, he was a wimp. He hid under the back porch and would not come out, except at night when no one was around. Jake says that some of the army dog trainers beat the dogs to make them mean. I believe it. Killer has nightmares. He cries and whines and yips and cringes in his sleep

Jake locked Killer in the chain-link pen behind the house where Fonsie, our blue tick, used to hang out before he finally gave in to old age and decrepitude. I was assigned the task of feeding Killer. In addition to his daily ration of kibbles, I snuck him all the codfish cakes, hotdogs, over-salted ham and other crappy food Mom gave me. She insists I have sit at the table until I finish my dinner if it takes all night. Grandma taught me to hide plastic bags in my pockets, and when my mother tired of watching me like a hawk, I'd slip the goodies into the bag and give them to Killer.

I put his food into the hole Killer dug in order to crawl under the porch, and put the treats on top. Every day, I enlarged the hole a little, moved the dish further into the hole and climbed a little farther in myself.

I talked to Killer. I didn't whisper, but I did kind of croon the way Mom speaks to a baby. I told him he was pretty, even though I couldn't see him, hiding in the dark under the porch. He's not exactly pretty. He's plain brown, kind of tan-brown, a few spots, a wide head, pointed ears. But when I said pretty, I didn't mean pretty like a movie star or pretty is as pretty does. What I meant is, "You could be my friend, and I will be your friend, and you won't be alone any more." Once I realized what I meant, I said that, too.

I took Pa’s has a hand drill. I turned the handle slowly and its corkscrew bit into the wood. Little curls of wood spiraled out through the hole in progress. After I turned it for so long that my arms got tired, a hole appeared, all the way through. Each day, I drilled a hole in the side of the porch. Each hole is a little smaller than a quarter. At first, I put them a foot apart. I measured with my yardstick. Then I drilled halfway between.

Meanwhile, I wormed my way slowly under the porch, a few inches closer each day, until one day, I emerged all the way out of the tunnel and into the cave where Killer huddled in a corner. By then, I’d made enough holes so I could see him, dimly, and I held a fat piece of steak that Grandma got from the all-you-can-eat Chinese Buffet, after she was too full to stuff any more in her belly. The plastic bag trick. I held the steak and called the dog. I didn’t call him Killer; I called him “Amigo.” I sat, held the steak out with an outstretched arm, waited, and slowly he came over, took it, ran back to his corner and bolted it. I told him he was a good dog.

Every day, I moved my hand closer to my body until he finally let me pet him. For a month, every day, I just petted him and fed him and crooned to him, my Amigo. My friend. Everyone else still referred to him as Killer.

One evening, Jimmy-Jeff Fairchild climbed over the fence just as I was emerging from the hole I had lined with old rugs, so I wouldn’t get dirty climbing in and out of Killer’s den. Jimmy-Jeff was carrying a pillowcase. All the lights were out in the house and no one was home but me and I’d been in with Amigo so long it had gotten dark. Looked like Jimmy Jeff intended to rob us.

He tossed the pillowcase onto the porch and grabbed my breast and my crotch and knocked me down, almost into some dog poop. I kicked and pummeled him and Killer, who'd only come out from under the back porch at night to do his business came charging out and latched on to the Jimmy-Jeff’s leg. He would not let go. Jimmy-Jeff, who is only a couple years older than I am and kind of skinny, pounded Killer with his fists and kicked with his other foot. Killer held on. Mom had taken Slime Mold, my other brother, to some soccer game in Timbuktu, and Pa was working the evening shift. I called Pa at work and he called the cops and came straight home.

The cops arrested Jimmy-Jeff. Killer let the cops and Dad pet him and praise him. He must have thought he was doing his job—the one he was trained for. Jimmy-Jeff spent the night in the tank. When the cops pulled up the kid's sweatpants, Jimmy-Jeff had marks from Killer’s teeth, but they weren't deep. Killer, my Amigo, was fairly gentle. He just held on. The cops said the most damage was from his struggling.

Dad said, as he looked at Killer, "That dog sure is ‘tenacious.’” And then he looked at me and smiled. “Just like my daughter,” he added, smiling. “It took a lot of tenacity to tame that beast, and Tiny Lee, you did it.”

Mary Stebbins Taitt

Another New Story

I'm writing another children's story, and it is dream-related, so it is posted to my dream blog. I wrote the prologue and chapter one yesterday and I wrote chapter 2 today. If you are interested, here are the links:

chapter 1
chapter 2. That's all I've written so far and it is in first draft form.

I've also written a whole new version of The Girl Who Loved Flowers, but haven't posted that yet. I may post it soon, or not. I hope to send it out soon.

Rain?

What do you do when it's raining? Take a walk in the rain? Stay in and paint a picture, write a poem, or write a story? Clean the house?

Tell me about it. Leave a rainy-day comment. Or a sunny-day comment would be nice, too.

I do all of the above, and more. Or less. Read.

Write a new poem. Write a new story. Unpack a box. Hold my sweetie. Take a photograph.