To Be Or Not To Be?

Mom asked a good question in email. Do I intend to keep this blog going now that I have set up the Putting Pen To Paper writing group? My initial reaction was "I dunno, what do you think?" because I'm a wish washy spinelss kind of guy. But now that I've thought about it a little, I think that keeping this one going is unnecessary.

I'll keep this blog open for a while so I can refer to all of the comments and get these stories spiffied up, but all my new writing work be posted first over on PPTP from now on.

So, anyone who finds this blog please visit the new blog, Putting Pen To Paper, where I hope to gather a whole bunch of writers , including my mom and bro and sis, and create a friendly and supportive place where all member writers can post their works for comment and critique by their peers.

Writerrific #1: Assignment #6

In this assignment we were to comb the newspapers for stories that got our creative juices flowing and then write a piece based on the stories. Then we were to edit it down as tightly as possible and then post the first 300 words and a summary of the rest. My piece tops out at 1,070 words and I posted the whole thing because I don't like posting partial stories. I'm such problem child.

The Path
By W. David MacKenzie

I hesitated, my pen poised over the documents, and wondered if I was doing the right thing. It wasn’t the first time I’d had doubts but I’d pushed past all of the previous reservations; I’d rationalized my fears and uncertainties until I was left with only one course of action, one right path to take. But now, when the task was about to be completed, it all rushed back at me; a tempest in my mind battering against the well-reasoned walls of my decision like inexorable waves pounding on that breakwater so many years ago.

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The vacation was nearly over, just two sites left to complete our “Grand Tour” of lighthouses on New York’s Lake Ontario shore: Oswego Light and then Selkirk Light. When my father and I reached the end of West First Street in Oswego late that afternoon, I discovered that this lighthouse was going to be something special. Every lighthouse we’d visited that summer had been built on shore and after one or two they’d become pretty boring for a ten year old boy, but Oswego was different. It sat right out in the harbor, a white building with a red roof topped by a short tower that housed the automated light. It was surrounded by heavy gray skies and rough gray waves and tethered to the shore by a narrow curving breakwater like a bright balloon on a string.

Dad excitedly snapped a few photos with his Leica then jogged to the foot of the breakwater. My shorter legs struggled to keep up but soon we were both leaning up against a barricade that blocked our way. A nailed up sign declared the lighthouse “Closed to Visitors”. That’s it, I thought glumly, end of the line. But then something miraculous happened; my father bent over, threaded his wiry body through the planks and squeezed out on the other side of the barricade.

“Come on, son. No one will see us.” He held out a hand and beckoned for me to join him. A stiff wind blew off the lake and I shivered, but a conspiratorial thrill ran through me as well. He was as excited as I was for a chance to see the lighthouse up close. I followed him through the barricade.

At the foot of the breakwater, though, my courage deserted me. The causeway ran atop the breakwater, a narrow rough-hewn sidewalk only three or four feet higher than the waves that beat upon the breakwater’s stony sides. The causeway extended out into the harbor for two thousand feet then hooked sharply to the right and connected with the masonry caisson that supported the keeper’s house and light. There was no railing and if I lost my balance there was nowhere to fall but the turbulent water.

“Keep your eyes on the end of the breakwater,” my father said. He stood behind me, his hands resting on my shoulders. I was sure he could feel the fear that kept my feet cemented to the edge of that ribbon of stone. He bent down and whispered in my ear, “I’m scared too but it’ll be alright.” Then he pushed my shoulders forward slightly and I took a stumbling step just to keep my balance.

“That’s good. Keep going, I’m right behind you.” His praise buoyed me and the second step, still slow in coming, wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. Soon we were pushing onward at a steady pace. We walked directly into the wind and it didn’t seem that bad, but by the time we reached the hook in the path we were leaning into a growing storm. Waves pounded on the stones beneath our feet and washed over the breakwater, soaking our shoes and pants. Wind driven mist bit at our exposed faces and washed away my tears.

“We’re almost there, son.” My father voice fought against the roaring wind. “We just need to reach the lighthouse and we’ll be safe.” I looked at the fifty feet of causeway we had to travel to reach the caisson and the ladder we had to climb to reach the safety of the deck where the lighthouse stood. It was too much.

I shook my head. “No, we have to go back.”

“We can’t go back. It’s too far.”

Again, Dad nudged me forward, and like before I took a halting step, but this time I was at right angles to the wind and it caught me off guard. I swayed, struggled to find my balance, and tipped toward the chaotic water. Dad’s hand gripped mine at the last moment and pulled me to him. We dropped to our knees on the stone causeway.

We held onto each other while the wind and waves tumbled against us, then, when the wind seemed to slacken a little, we crawled the last fifty feet on hands and knees to the caisson. I grasped the iron ladder and pulled myself up it toward the deck ten feet above. Dad was right on top of me, shielding me from the worst of the weather while we climbed. Just as we reached the top of the ladder we were assaulted by tremendous gusts of wind and several huge waves crashed upon the caisson. I clung to the ladder with all my might and when the tumult abated I scrambled up the final two rungs to the caisson’s deck and reached back to help Dad…but he was gone.

“DAD!” I screamed into the storm until another set of powerful waves rolled me back from the deck’s edge and threw me against the iron walls of the keeper’s house. The storm continued to assault my crumpled body until I worked myself around to the lee side of the building. There, in the relative calm, I cried.

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The pen quivered in my hand and my vision blurred, but I wiped away the nascent tears and swallowed the remembered pain. I put pen to paper and signed my name to the documents. “This is for you, Dad,” I whispered.

The Coast Guard legal officer took the papers, signed his name below mine, then handed the documents to the notary to finish off. He stood up and smoothed out his uniform before extending his hand to me. “Congratulations, Mr. Lloyd. Pursuant to the National Historic Lighthouse Preservation Act of 2000, you are now the owner of the Oswego Harbor West Pierhead Lighthouse.”

Writerrific #1: Assignment 4

The assignment was to choose a color to write about. Use the thesaurus function on your software or a printed thesaurus at least ten times during this exercise. Work to focus your writing and write tight. Make the assignment no more than 250 words. The example given by the instructor was to assume the personality of the color...be the color.

Apple White (184 words)

When I first appeared on the scene people were shocked. I wasn’t the tan or beige or buff they expected me to be. I wasn’t the black or steel or charcoal they hoped I’d be. I was something new, something innovative, something iconic.

Today, I shine like glistening snow in a world of soot and sand. For people used to oatmeal and cream I am as fresh as pasteurized milk. Basic black and traditional tan pale before my opalescent alabaster finish. I am refined and polished and posh. I am hip and cool, and cutting edge. One thing I am not is a flash in the pan. My affable achromatic appearance is aped again and again by apathetic artists and architects. Every “me too” iteration of my gleaming pearlescence highlights my own originality.

White says you have arrived. White says you are stylish and successful. White says you are cut from a different cloth, you’re your own man, you’re dancing to a different drummer. Gone are the days of rainbow colored fruit and bland boxes. I am white—-Apple White!

A Hard Day's Work (1292 words)

Blast, it was hot in this cornfield. You’d think they could have found a better place for me to work, someplace cooler or someplace with a stronger breeze, at least. No, it had to be here and the job had to get done today. The boss had been firm about that.

“It’s vital that this field be completed before noon today,” he’d said in his squeaky little voice. “The entire project hinges on this one field and you’re our best man.” Then he’d stretched out a spindly arm to pat me on the shoulder. Oh come on! What middle management seminar did that come from? My forced smile was reflecting his own when he dropped the real bombshell. “And you’re going to have to get the job done on your own. Jed’s called in sick.”

Sick! Can you believe that? I tossed down the wide-bladed tool I’d been using since before sun-up and wiped the perspiration from my forehead. When was the last time I’d called in sick? Uh…NEVER! To tell the truth, I was glad that Jed wasn’t here. He’d have just screwed things up anyway. If I didn’t watch him constantly he’d work the wrong section of the field or just lay around watching the clouds drift by. I should have gotten his scrawny butt fired years ago.

I kicked at a bent-over stalk of corn. This really was a thankless job: traveling away from my family for weeks at a time, sleeping in a dorm with a lot of unwashed students just killing time before the start of the next semester, and a real jerk for a boss. I sank to the ground and tried lying back. I clasped my hands behind my head and looked up at the sky. The hazy clouds were starting to break up and patches of blue showed through. I tried to see what Jed saw. Did they form shapes, like he claimed? Was that one shaped like a bird or a house?

On the other side of the field a bell rang, loud and slow. I sat up fast and looked around guiltily. I checked the watch hanging from my belt. Oh Blast! It was noon and my ride hadn’t showed up. I got to my feet, folded up my tool, and snapped it to my belt. I surveyed the field around me. I wasn’t going to win any awards for this job, but for all intents and purposes it was done, and today that was good enough for me.

There was still no sign of my ride, so I jogged across the field toward the sound of the bell and peered out between the standing cornstalks to gawk at the townies as they exited the large white church in pairs and family groups. Most of the people milled around the front of the church, not too eager to leave. I wasn’t religious, myself, but I’d worked enough fields in enough rural towns to tell what was going on. They were socializing, taking advantage of the one day each week when they could abandon their lonely farms and see someone other than their own spouse or parents or children. While the adults gossiped the kids ran and played with each other, wrestling, chasing, or waging mock battles among the tombstones in the adjacent cemetery.

I studied the townies by the church with all of my attention. If I could walk away from my life right now, would I find peace of mind growing crops and tending livestock? Would these bucolic folk accept me into their community? Maybe I could find a way to…. The scream pierced my brain like a needle thrust straight through my head. My hands flew to my ears, my mouth gaped, and my face knotted up even more than usual as I jerked my head around to face the deafening screech. A young girl in a frilly yellow dress, who must have snuck up on me while I was daydreaming about blasted rural life, stood in the green grass at the edge of the cornfield, just beyond my reach. She held a rag doll in the crook of one arm. The other arm, and an accusatory finger, was pointed straight at me. Oh great, this was going to go over really well with the boss.

I held out my hands, trying to get the girl to be quiet, but she just turned it up a notch and I yanked my hands back to my ears to try and block out some of the pain in my head. Motion in the corner of my eye caused me to look back toward the church. The townies, in their fancy church clothes, were running toward the girl…and me…and they didn’t look happy. The boys who had been playing in the cemetery launched themselves in my direction too, and they were closer. Blast!

I spun around and ran as fast as I could back toward my work area. I tore through the cornstalks, leaving an easy trail for the townies to follow but I didn’t care—I was trying to save my own skin! Already I could hear a dozen townies as they tore their own scattered paths through the corn trying to find what had frightened the girl. Their voices called out violent threats as they sought me out. One loud voice called out above the others and I heard the beaters change course as everyone honed in on my direction of travel. One of them must have seen the cornstalks moving as I rushed to the heart of the field. Blast them for being so tall! I tried to run faster.

Finally, I made it to the clearing in the center of the cornfield and spun around, looking for my ride. Nothing! I looked up, hoping against hope for some assistance, but the widening blue sky held only wispy clouds, daring me to find shapes and meaning in their high altitude water vapor. I was doomed.

When the stampeding townies burst through the wall of cornstalks they stumbled to a halt. Half of them didn’t understand how there could be a clearing in the middle of the cornfield. The other half just gaped at me. They hadn’t really seen me before, I guess, just acted on instincts triggered by the girl’s screaming. Now they didn’t know what to make of the gray little man with the big black eyes standing before them. When I heard the low whine above the breeze-rustled corn I breathed a sigh of relief that they weren’t going to get a chance to know me any better.

The bright light of the translev beam surrounded me like a spotlight and I started to float upwards. The townies spread out in the clearing as I rose higher. They pointed at me, then, as their gazed followed up the beam, they saw the ship for the first time. Some fell back on the bent cornstalks; others shielded their eyes to get a better view of the flying saucer hovering above them. I didn’t pay them too much attention, though; I was admiring the design I’d made in the cornfield.

A large round clearing lay at the center of the field, every stalk of corn bent, not broken, to lie flat on the ground. Three radiating lines thrust outward and each of those had a smaller circular clearing at the terminus. One of those smaller clearings was surrounded by a wider circle and beyond that a half circle. Off a little distance in one direction a triangular clearing pointed due north toward the next set of crop circles in the neighboring county. Yup, it had been a hard day’s work, but I’d done alright considering Jed had called in sick.
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copyright 2006 W. David MacKenzie
photo copyright 2006 by Bob frank