27 Day Karma Free Writing Prompts - Honorarium

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Thursday, April 1, 2010

Day #14 - Theme: Time & Space


#14 - Theme: "Time & Space"

17 comments:

  1. 1986, Eastern North Carolina, spring, summer, fall. A wave of migrant workers traveled from Florida to Maine and back again. They plant and pick on the way north, and harvest what was planted on the way south.

    There were the crews that spoke Spanish. They were from El Salvador, Mexico, Honduras, Nicaragua, and a few from Cuba. Many of them had their families with them. All of them sent most of their money home.

    There were crews from Haiti.

    There were crews from the U.S. These were people who fell through the cracks in one way of another. I led a church service for one of these crews. They were so illiterate they could not read numbers or tell if a book was right size up. Rats ran on the rafters while we prayed. Once in a while one would fall and dash around our feet.

    I helped find the workers to make certain they had medicines and clothes and food. I learned if there were children at the camps so a school bus could pick them up and take them to the summer school.

    Three little girls lived in a converted pig barn. It was a better home than some of the workers had. The worst part was the cow right outside the barn.

    She was a big beautiful polled herford, but she had an exposed tumor on the left side of her head. It ate her eye and a big swath of her face. Maggots writhed in it.

    It smelled bad.

    The oldest girl was nine. The next was seven. The baby was two.

    They did not go to school because someone needed to stay home and watch the baby.

    I brought them books, crayons, tooth brushes, tooth paste...all the things the kids at the school got.

    I visited them every day.

    They were smart, pretty and funny.

    I brought them combs and brushes and little toys and candies.

    I left notes for their parents. I wanted them to know who this person was leaving things for their girls. I left my phone number in case they wanted to call.

    Once I went late, when their parents were back from picking cucumbers, so I could meet them.

    The man was not their father. He was a gringo.

    They had been in Washington and Oregon. They picked cherries. They decided the east coast might be nicer than the cold and grey of the Pacific northwest, so they came to North Carolina.

    The girls played games with me and told me stories.

    They were afraid of the man their mother loved. He drank. He yelled and sometimes he hit their mom. Some nights he crawled into bed with the nine year old. When he tried to crawl in with the seven year old, the nine year old would call to him so he'd come to her instead.

    One time the police came to the house where they lived in Washington. That night their mother woke them, put them in the car, and they drove all the way to North Carolina.

    I told the social worker at the school about all the children I visited who weren't at the school. She kept records.

    Sometimes she visited; if the stories were compelling.

    She went to see the three little princesses living in the pig barn.

    I drove out the next day, like I always did.

    When I pulled up, the farmer who owned the land, the pig barn, the tumor riddled cow, stood in the drive. He motioned for me to stop and roll down my window.

    He cocked the shotgun and put it at my nose.

    I think you've done about all the good you're gonna do around here preacher lady. Now git.

    The family had left in the night.

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  2. Inkydinkyparlevous:

    WOW! Very moving story told with power in such a short space. I want to know more about your experiences with families and their children and the out come of same. Thanks for sharing and glad the farmer didn't pull the trigger.

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  3. Inkydinky - incredible, heart wrenching. Want to know more about that church and the other families. The visual of illiteracy really struck me(and yes, the others too, but I'm avoiding them).

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  4. I’m torn… wish I had more time and space.

    Each day ticks by at an alarming rate.

    Part of me wants to continue the 27 days and yet my own baby, the pages I’ve lovingly and guiltily and begrudgingly exposed, call to me. Remember your commitment?

    Can I commit to more than one at a time? Ah, another profound question, a mother mirror – only one “special” at a time. But first, before I split into a million trains of thought…

    The question that sits and stares, my own prompt that loops – when is it time to stop?

    Silly lesson or profound lesson? Both come up, just depends how I want to look at it. With depth of course, I hear inside.

    It was a small rip, but it caught my eye, running vertically across the shiny horizontal stripes. I pulled the cover off and sat it in plain site, telling myself I’d get to the repair sooner if I walk by it a thousand times a day.

    About ten thousand trips later, I hear myself, fix that before Connie comes over again.

    What? I’ll fix it for Connie but can live with the glaring white pillow, missing its perky red, sage and gold finishing touch? Okay, where’s that iron.

    It was a simple repair, five minutes at the most. Of course I know the iron-on tape is in the perfectly organized sewing drawer. Cut the 4” strip, grab the iron from the top of the closet shelf, lay out the towel on the kitchen counter, turn on the iron. While it’s warming start some tea water – oh yea, that’s why I got up from the desk in the first place – lay out the repair strip, then the case on top, yep, perfect, the stripes line up almost invisibly. Now the iron, the commitment, hum… I wonder if it’s hot enough, let’s spin it up to cotton/linen, just for a boost. Now, one press, straight down, don’t want to mess up those stripes. A big grin across my face, ah perfect. Great job!! Now, just one more press, just to be sure. Oh no, shit, what the fuck? I pull the iron away, not lift, but pull, feeling the fabric unwilling to release it’s connection. Horrified, I see the result. One beautifully repaired split, now surrounded by a dozen new gapping wounds on the verge of melting into polyester goo.

    The lesson, know when to say when. Ah yes, when to stop. The reminder now smiles at me from it’s place on the bed, a gaping, toothless grin. Good thing the dog usually covers it up.

    Compulsive personality that I am, I’m also posting the riff I wrote before heading off on this tangent! Then back to editing. Oh wait, have I checked my crops yet today?

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  5. I hated her the first time I heard her soft, titillating voice come across the radio. Shit, he thinks we can be friends? I purposefully took my time that trip, letting go of frustration as I sat in the hour, or was it two, gas line. Last gas in Texas. I told myself I was being safe, didn’t want to get stuck on I-10 in the middle of nowhere on a Friday night. And I was playing it safe – buffering myself from that temptress on the airwaves.

    I loved her the moment we met. Time meant nothing. We were soul sisters – twins from different mothers. He thought we were lovers, silly boy, or did he see what the future held before we did?

    Ah, the good times, cruising in my bimmer, sunroof open onto the back woods of Louisiana. The Cars blasting out the speakers and into the wind that blew just as wildly around our free spirits. Those were the days, the early days, before sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll got tired, before I got clean and she got, well what?

    On the surface it was nothing, we were still two “best” girlfriends, though I’d heard her use the term for another, soiling the fabric for me. She tried to clean it up, sending one of those nice girl, bullshit emails about best for this and best for that, but it was too late. I’ve stopped using that childish term, at least for humans.

    Our last visit – hum, I wonder will it really be the last, have time, space and silence come between us now?

    The goodbye was welcomed, both of us exhausted from the three day visit. She didn’t even pick up when I called to say, my flight is delayed, let’s have dinner. And yea, I was relieved she didn’t.

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  6. Inkydinkyparlevous - I fell right into the ease and flow of your writings. I felt a magnetic pull and gentle wave as I read on amidst the horror, disturbing situations and shocking realities. After reading, I felt as if I had been hit by a lightning bolt. But, I kept thinking you were there, you made a difference, you were there for the children.
    I so appreciate you sharing this story with us, and so very much appreciate your caring being and generous writings

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  7. Inkydinky: the pig and tumor and maggots is fantastic context. Sets up the story so well in so few words.

    ShameShamon: "When is it time to stop?" Now that's a big, fascinating question. Would love to hear more about you around that.

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  8. So here we are on this little Caribbean island for an intimate marriage ceremony. Except few of the guests know one another. The groom-to-be had warned us that their friends were 'fascinating." Sounded like a warning.

    I walked down the long boardwalk to the little building that promised good coffee. Sitting outside at the beat up round outdoor table with the permanently tilted umbrella was a tall, white-haired woman.

    "Morning," I said on the way into coffee. On the way out I stop and asked, "Hi, are you here for Rosanne and Wayne's wedding?"

    "Why yes I am," she said. I plopped down and we started to talk.

    You get the basics out of the way. Name. Connection to the bride and groom. Where you're from. Married or other status. Children.

    "Frank and I tried and had some false starts. I guess we were too old when we got together."

    Only later would I learn that Peg had been a nun and Frank a monk before finding each other.

    "Do you have children," she asks.

    "Yes one. We had our son late. I never thought I wanted children. I worry that we're such old parents. If we were younger we'd be doing so much more. We use to be so much more social. Now we're so quiet and introverted. We didn't use to be like this."

    Why am I telling all this to a woman I met three minutes ago?

    "I hope it's not bad for an only child to be growing up with such old parents," I say.

    "Perhaps," says Peg, "your son's soul chose you."

    What? Souls choosing their parents?

    For the next five days Peg and Frank and Greg and I can't get enough of one another. Our conversations travel.

    Greg and I are not quiet and introverted this week. We are sealed to these two people who each lived in silence and contemplation for many years.

    The quietness of their beings and the openness of their minds and hearts is intoxicating.

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  9. We tried to make it work this time. Get our date planners out and make it happen. How funny time and space work.

    It feels like he’s here with me. The dropped calls, the missed opportunities, the possible flights and cancellations. In spirit there’s a connection. Run and hide, one spirit guide says. Or is that my gut? Or my heart? My conscience, perhaps?

    Maybe absence does make the heart grow fonder? How about out of sight out of mind. Why do these clichés exist?

    OK, says my logical self. You can do this. Courage, mon ami. No biggie. We have all the time in the world. There are far greater losses and triumphs. But, we get caught up, in endless tasks and errands. Overdraft checking needs to be balanced. Mortgage rates need to be checked.

    Somewhere past time and space. After a glass of wine; I reminisce better times. A love who made it all look easy and effortless. Naturally, hindsight has an airbrush effect…. Long distance is just not humanly possible, says the logical self. The heart knows no logic says someone. Maybe it’s just the wine talking?

    Yet I feel connected—stronger than the unreliable mobile signal. Or the all-knowing time zone widget that spells it out in black & white. There is definitely time and space between you two!

    My thoughts are interfered by the strong ring tone of my landline.

    Hello?

    It’s my father. Faraway on the other side of the globe. But, he sounds like he’s in my living room.

    You said you had news.

    All of a sudden I am propelled back to being a little girl. In my nightgown, sneaking to the stairs to spy on the grown ups at their cocktail party.

    It’s like a technological miracle! Daddy is here to save the day. Well, he’s returning my call, and time stops still. I am 6 years old, I am twenty-one, I am here. Who cares what science says? The human heart can breach all logic with time zones.

    Congratulations!

    Daddy is proud and I feel jubilant. Maybe we can conquer all time and space?

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  10. Inkydinky: your have a knack for not just storytelling, but setting the stage for a mini motion picture! How riveting and heart wrenching--all at once we are propelled back into our living rooms or cubicles to face our mundane lives. Thank you!

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  11. Shane Shaman: Stay, please stay. (response to your first riff.) Your love/hate connection and final absolution of deciding not to care... How compelling and.. real. Funny how the deepest emotions seem to span time and space.. I wonder if that's why we wrote about stuff close to the heart.. I like how you nail the emotions with the follow up call and nonchalance, but self-awareness of it. Amazing stuff!

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  12. BloodRedRoses: love - hindsight has an airbrush effect and how you spin back time with daddy tugs at my heart

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  13. Thank you to all of you for your encouragement.

    Thank you for your stories. Stepping into the middle of your tales, your lives, is a fascinating and engaging way to see others and the world anew.

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  14. Time had passed, lots of it since I walked out the door and left him with his bottle in hand. I stayed out of his life, the children stayed in it for a short while. After all, he had adopted them, they were not his flesh and blood, born of his own DNA.

    I did not want to hinder his forgetting me, the one true love in his life he had said. Five years after the divorce I would find notes tucked into my books saying "Wherever you are I still love you." I found one such note carved into the bottom of a stone book end. I'd think we were done and then there would be another note.

    I stayed away for 17 years. He met someone, but then it would not work out. This happened often. We even tried to be friends, but he got drunk because it was too painful for him to see me.

    He married the ex-wife of a friend, had a son. I knew all of this through Crystal my eldest daughter who forced him to stay in touch with her. Her daughter just 1 year younger than his son. Then Lisa said "No more contact with that family or I take your son away." So he lied to his wife and met Crystal now and then on the side to catch up.

    Crystal moved away and the contact ended. She grew ill and at one point near death, asked that I contact him. I called, but could not leave a message. Found I was completly unnerved by the sound of his voice, that voice that once made me feel loved, safer from all harm. She recovered.

    Then the dreams came. I would hear him call my name, asking me to come, to see him before it was too late. I visited a friend that lived near him and almost knocked on your door. I did not want to open an old wound. Time had passed, he had a new family and I did not want to interfer in any way with that. I did not stop or knock.

    A year later I was moving to San Francisco and thought I'd send a letter to ask him if he wanted to come to the funeral if Crystal died. I gave him my phone number and e-mail address.

    The reply came not from him, but his wife to let me know that he had died a little over a year ago of a massive coronary at the age of 54. If I had knocked on his door that day, I would have seen him the Saturday before he died, before he left the constraints of this world for the timelessness of space.

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  15. ...There was no surprise after our hands touched what happened. After our intentions were said aloud, once our fears were acknowledged…we simply didn’t care, we plainly had no help, no restraint, we were without all control; we were in for a horrible adventure. Yet, somehow we held onto the hope that a fairy tale might take root; we’d be carried on wings of love to a hushed safe place.
    “Fuck everything and fuck everybody, “ she said.

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