Kelly Parra's fiction blog, Fictional Musings is hosting a flash fiction contest! You have until midnight (PST) Friday, March 31st to submit a piece no longer than 80 words exploring the concept of "doorway."
Anything goes. I encourage everyone to join in.
Here is a link to my submission: "Inside" by Jason Evans
Remember, the theme is "doorway." Thanks for the contest, Kelly!!
Friday, March 31, 2006
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Meadow Crossing, Part 3 (Fiction)
(Just joining us? Go back to Part 1)
Amanda pressed her hand to the pages. She smoothed them hard in frustration. No use. Laughter rose from below. Commotion shook the walls.
She set the book aside and sighed.
Beyond her window, milky blue captivated the world. She drank it, even through its pang of loneliness. She closed her eyes. She let it pour into her skin. Twilight was hers.
But the coming night was his.
The moon hung low, preparing to rise, and Amanda thanked it. On those nights, it mirrored the sun. Climbing, and climbing, it gleamed as skies drained black.
She leaned toward the glass. She emptied herself over the land and its spectral light, vast and secret.
Then, she saw him. Moving in the trees. A confidence striding through the darkness.
Her heart quickened as he slipped from the shadows. The silvery showers of moonlight rained over him.
Despite the cold light, a warmth flowed to her fingertips. The way he moved. Strong, but careful. And when he bent his face to the sky, his face sculpted her dreams.
She wondered what he was thinking as he studied the moon.
And wished.
Someday she might earn a place in the majesty of his thoughts.
On to Part 4
Go back to Part 2
Amanda pressed her hand to the pages. She smoothed them hard in frustration. No use. Laughter rose from below. Commotion shook the walls.
She set the book aside and sighed.
Beyond her window, milky blue captivated the world. She drank it, even through its pang of loneliness. She closed her eyes. She let it pour into her skin. Twilight was hers.
But the coming night was his.
The moon hung low, preparing to rise, and Amanda thanked it. On those nights, it mirrored the sun. Climbing, and climbing, it gleamed as skies drained black.
She leaned toward the glass. She emptied herself over the land and its spectral light, vast and secret.
Then, she saw him. Moving in the trees. A confidence striding through the darkness.
Her heart quickened as he slipped from the shadows. The silvery showers of moonlight rained over him.
Despite the cold light, a warmth flowed to her fingertips. The way he moved. Strong, but careful. And when he bent his face to the sky, his face sculpted her dreams.
She wondered what he was thinking as he studied the moon.
And wished.
Someday she might earn a place in the majesty of his thoughts.
On to Part 4
Go back to Part 2
Monday, March 27, 2006
10,000th Visitor! We have a winner!!
A milestone! Exactly 222 days from my initial post creating The Clarity of Night, I have welcomed my 10,000th visitor! And the lucky visitor is:
KELLY PARRA
Whoo hoo! It's very fitting, since Kelly has been a long time regular in my quiet little world here.
So, what does Kelly win, you ask? A choice of one of two prizes. Behind Door #1 is an 8 x 10 print of any of my posted digital photography (signature optional). I've posted a few of my favorites below. Behind Door #2 is the invitation for her to determine my next post/series after "Meadow Crossing." She can assign me any topic or genre for a story or may assign a biographical piece. Kelly, just email me your choice!
Most importantly, however, I'd like to offer an extra special thanks to all of you who have visited (and keep visiting). Without you, this blog would be nothing.
The Gallery
KELLY PARRA
Whoo hoo! It's very fitting, since Kelly has been a long time regular in my quiet little world here.
So, what does Kelly win, you ask? A choice of one of two prizes. Behind Door #1 is an 8 x 10 print of any of my posted digital photography (signature optional). I've posted a few of my favorites below. Behind Door #2 is the invitation for her to determine my next post/series after "Meadow Crossing." She can assign me any topic or genre for a story or may assign a biographical piece. Kelly, just email me your choice!
Most importantly, however, I'd like to offer an extra special thanks to all of you who have visited (and keep visiting). Without you, this blog would be nothing.
The Gallery
A Life Left Behind
The me I know awoke when I was twelve years old.
I cracked open an eye and saw shaded sidewalks, warm summer days, and history so strong it walked the streets beside you.
Then, my family moved far from that place, and I packed a life, an identity, away. I wonder who I would've been if I stayed.
Maybe not better. Loss is more powerful than having. And in that pain, I learned.
Memory is precious, and words are memory shared.
(Question: Has a place or time defined the deepest parts of you?)
Friday, March 24, 2006
Meadow Crossing, Part 2 (Fiction)
(Just joining us? Go back to Part 1)
Lamplight shone warm on her dark hair, long with the barest wave.
Nathaniel knew she was tall, but not willowy. Powerful shoulders squared to the outside world as she read. Her stillness broke only to turn a page.
The other girls thundered in the house. He heard them. On the stairs. Down the hallways. Sometimes their laughter twinkled under emerging stars.
But she drew the twilight around herself and commanded it. Nathaniel cared only for her. Every moment, her intensity burned in his mind. It pained him as it fed him. And when she gazed up and sliced the world with her eyes, he bled.
By sheer force of will, she rooted him beneath that tree. He loved the sweep of her hair, the curve of her cheek, her defiance. But most of all, he loved the eyes he could never quite see.
He watched.
Silent.
And her spell drained meaning from the rest of the world.
Back to Part 1
Lamplight shone warm on her dark hair, long with the barest wave.
Nathaniel knew she was tall, but not willowy. Powerful shoulders squared to the outside world as she read. Her stillness broke only to turn a page.
The other girls thundered in the house. He heard them. On the stairs. Down the hallways. Sometimes their laughter twinkled under emerging stars.
But she drew the twilight around herself and commanded it. Nathaniel cared only for her. Every moment, her intensity burned in his mind. It pained him as it fed him. And when she gazed up and sliced the world with her eyes, he bled.
By sheer force of will, she rooted him beneath that tree. He loved the sweep of her hair, the curve of her cheek, her defiance. But most of all, he loved the eyes he could never quite see.
He watched.
Silent.
And her spell drained meaning from the rest of the world.
Back to Part 1
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Meadow Crossing, Part 1 (Fiction)
(An experiment in paranormal romance.)
Nathaniel walked under the dark reach of trees.
Sunlight faded, and night breezes stirred.
He liked the shadows. And the twilight. He liked their soft comfort. Blending with the colors, he passed through the meadows unseen.
A rabbit darted. Long leaps bounded into the open, then disappeared away in the gloom.
He slowed.
Easing into each step, he drew behind the final tree. Close. Very close. He peered around furrows of bark.
The house. Huge and moody. Slices of darkness brooded beneath the eaves.
But he didn't come to see the old walls or the stains running down the roof. In the last glimmer of light, he watched the second floor window and sighed.
He came for the young woman who sat there.
Nathaniel walked under the dark reach of trees.
Sunlight faded, and night breezes stirred.
He liked the shadows. And the twilight. He liked their soft comfort. Blending with the colors, he passed through the meadows unseen.
A rabbit darted. Long leaps bounded into the open, then disappeared away in the gloom.
He slowed.
Easing into each step, he drew behind the final tree. Close. Very close. He peered around furrows of bark.
The house. Huge and moody. Slices of darkness brooded beneath the eaves.
But he didn't come to see the old walls or the stains running down the roof. In the last glimmer of light, he watched the second floor window and sighed.
He came for the young woman who sat there.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
The Evans Critique System (catchy, isn't it?)
I had an idea this morning.
Giving critiques is hard, and receiving them is harder. Part of the problem is that there is no standard format. Trying to line up five different critiques can be exasperating. Where five different people agree, you probably have a problem, but where one feels a certain way and four others don't, you may not. How can we standardize the process to better compare critiques?
Here is my suggestion: a standard critique format in 2 stages. First, a piece of writing has to be entertaining, engaging, and skillful enough to hold you. So stage 1, and the most important is, did you want to stop reading, and if so, was it because of technical delivery (e.g., over description, bad grammar, etc.) or story telling (e.g., not believable, bad pacing). Stage 1 is "stop" or "go" and why.
Stage 2 is polishing and strengthening suggestions. You would answer specific questions for Stage 2, then have an opportunity for general comments.
So here is my suggestion (UPDATED with Sandra Ruttan's comments):
*****
The Evans Critique System
1. Stage 1--Did you want to stop reading? Stop/go. If "stop", break down why as follows.
1.1. Technical delivery (e.g., use of language, amount of description, spelling, grammar)
1.2. Story telling (e.g., characters, believable events, pacing)
2. Stage 2--Opportunities for polishing/strengthening.
2.1. Technical delivery
2.1.1. Narrative--strengths and opportunities for improvement (e.g., sense of setting, handling of exposition).
2.1.2. Dialog--strengths and opportunities for improvement (e.g., appropriate to the age and background of the characters? Does each character have a recognisable voice?).
2.2. Storytelling
2.2.1. Believable/compelling characters--strengths and opportunities for improvement (e.g., are characters vibrant, different from each other, three dimensional?)
2.2.2. Plot--is it engaging? Any holes? (e.g., does the plot hook you? When? If you couldn't put it down, when did that feeling begin?)
2.2.3. Pacing (e.g., does the story unfold at a natural pace? Where parts rushed or too slow?)
3. Any other comments.
Each question should be answered, whether positive or negative, so that the writer can focus on improving what needs work while preserving what's good.
*****
Here's an example critique:
1. Stage 1: Go. (Skip 1.1 & 1.2)
2. Stage 2.
2.1. Technical
2.1.1. Narrative: very vivid with a strong sense of mood. Some passages, however, go too long and break the flow of the story. Watch for over-description.
2.1.2. Dialog: strong. Each character has a distinct voice. Some of the regional flavor comes out. You could use more attributions (he said/she said), however, to avoid confusion in longer dialog runs, especially with more than two speakers.
2.2. Storytelling
2.2.1. Characters: protagonist is great. Love the conflicts and unexpected foul actions. Gives him depth. Many of the secondary characters are too superficial, however. Try to give them more substance/complexity.
2.2.2. Plot: Hooked from the first page! The suspense is wonderfully maintained. You've planned a great main plot. Secondary plots need some help though. Probably suffers the same fate as the secondary characters.
2.2.3. Pacing: just watch those long descriptions. They can break the flow. Also, you have a few flashbacks which go too long. Trim them to short paragraph length.
What do you think? Any critiques for the critique system?
If you think it would be helpful, feel free to pass it along or link to this post.
Giving critiques is hard, and receiving them is harder. Part of the problem is that there is no standard format. Trying to line up five different critiques can be exasperating. Where five different people agree, you probably have a problem, but where one feels a certain way and four others don't, you may not. How can we standardize the process to better compare critiques?
Here is my suggestion: a standard critique format in 2 stages. First, a piece of writing has to be entertaining, engaging, and skillful enough to hold you. So stage 1, and the most important is, did you want to stop reading, and if so, was it because of technical delivery (e.g., over description, bad grammar, etc.) or story telling (e.g., not believable, bad pacing). Stage 1 is "stop" or "go" and why.
Stage 2 is polishing and strengthening suggestions. You would answer specific questions for Stage 2, then have an opportunity for general comments.
So here is my suggestion (UPDATED with Sandra Ruttan's comments):
*****
The Evans Critique System
1. Stage 1--Did you want to stop reading? Stop/go. If "stop", break down why as follows.
1.1. Technical delivery (e.g., use of language, amount of description, spelling, grammar)
1.2. Story telling (e.g., characters, believable events, pacing)
2. Stage 2--Opportunities for polishing/strengthening.
2.1. Technical delivery
2.1.1. Narrative--strengths and opportunities for improvement (e.g., sense of setting, handling of exposition).
2.1.2. Dialog--strengths and opportunities for improvement (e.g., appropriate to the age and background of the characters? Does each character have a recognisable voice?).
2.2. Storytelling
2.2.1. Believable/compelling characters--strengths and opportunities for improvement (e.g., are characters vibrant, different from each other, three dimensional?)
2.2.2. Plot--is it engaging? Any holes? (e.g., does the plot hook you? When? If you couldn't put it down, when did that feeling begin?)
2.2.3. Pacing (e.g., does the story unfold at a natural pace? Where parts rushed or too slow?)
3. Any other comments.
Each question should be answered, whether positive or negative, so that the writer can focus on improving what needs work while preserving what's good.
*****
Here's an example critique:
1. Stage 1: Go. (Skip 1.1 & 1.2)
2. Stage 2.
2.1. Technical
2.1.1. Narrative: very vivid with a strong sense of mood. Some passages, however, go too long and break the flow of the story. Watch for over-description.
2.1.2. Dialog: strong. Each character has a distinct voice. Some of the regional flavor comes out. You could use more attributions (he said/she said), however, to avoid confusion in longer dialog runs, especially with more than two speakers.
2.2. Storytelling
2.2.1. Characters: protagonist is great. Love the conflicts and unexpected foul actions. Gives him depth. Many of the secondary characters are too superficial, however. Try to give them more substance/complexity.
2.2.2. Plot: Hooked from the first page! The suspense is wonderfully maintained. You've planned a great main plot. Secondary plots need some help though. Probably suffers the same fate as the secondary characters.
2.2.3. Pacing: just watch those long descriptions. They can break the flow. Also, you have a few flashbacks which go too long. Trim them to short paragraph length.
What do you think? Any critiques for the critique system?
If you think it would be helpful, feel free to pass it along or link to this post.
Monday, March 20, 2006
The General Sutter Inn (A Weekend Getaway)
March 18, 2006, 8:15p.m. The walls are so old here. The floors bend when you walk on them. The sound echoes, multiplied a hundred-fold , as if a century's footfalls answer your own.
Still preserved, a sitting room for guests. A warmly lit library to welcome the sleepy hours.
Welcome to the General Sutter Inn, Lititz Pennsylvania, Lancaster County in Amish country. In 1757, Moravians established Lititz as an experiment in religious utopianism. The rules were strict, and no one was permitted to live in the town without absolute adherence. In 1764, "for the necessary entertainment of strangers and travelers," an inn, the Zum Anker (Sign of the Anchor), was built. Replacing the original log inn on the site was a brick structure named The Lititz Springs Hotel. This Hotel was renamed The General Sutter Inn" in 1930 to honor John Augustus Sutter, a founding pioneer of California.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
The First Draft is Done!!!
A bit of writing news for you. The first draft of my second novel, THE BACKWARDS PATH (90,000 words) is done! The project has been very liberating after reworking my first novel again and again. Also, I've been able to reap the benefits of all the incredible experiences and lessons I've learned blogging. Thanks everyone! You've all played a part in helping me shape this novel.
(Now on to the first rewrite. I'm actually looking forward to it! So much more gratifying than the first draft. You really get to feel the life taking shape on the page.)
(Now on to the first rewrite. I'm actually looking forward to it! So much more gratifying than the first draft. You really get to feel the life taking shape on the page.)
Friday, March 17, 2006
A Parting in Spring
Inscription:
LOUISA IREY
DIED
May 6, 1866
AGED
53 Yrs, 11 Mo. & 23 D's
Farewell companion of my
youth, farewell;
thou'st left me lonely in this
world of pain.
O may we meet in heavenly bliss
to dwell.
~~~~~
I dedicate the first flower of spring I see
to Louisa Irey and her husband aggrieved.
~~~~~
(St. Peter's United Church of Christ, West Pikeland Township, Chester County, Pennsylvania)
NOTE: In honor of approaching spring and the stirrings of love it brings, my next serial fiction piece will be a romance. (Actually, make that paranormal romance. I know, I'm hopeless.)
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
The Martyrs, Part 3
(A tribute and a lesson in three fictionalized vignettes. The images are copyrighted by Radiology Centennial, Inc.)
"Doctor, is there anything I can help you with?"
"No," Dr. Kassabian grumbled.
He shoed away the medical student without looking up.
"Are you sure? I can--"
"No! I'm quite alright ."
"I just--"
"Good evening!"
The student hesitated. Something twisted in young man's face. Dr. Kassabian couldn't bear to see it.
The doctor moved his pen, but didn't lay ink on paper. Finally, the young man's heels pattered down the hospital halls.
At last. Peace.
A few lights burned in the windows of Medico-Chirurgical Hospital. The rest of Philadelphia slipped between bed linens.
Dr. Kassabian never slept any more.
He tapped and tapped, thinking, then the words once again emptied onto his journal papers. Descriptions of symptoms. Interpreted tests. A recitation of the patient's complaints.
A dreadful case. So many sorrows. But he yanked down his professional detachment like a curtain. It was his only hope. If he cracked now, all would be lost.
He yawned.
At times, the faceless hours of darkness would leap in random measures. He would write, then wake with his face pressed against paper, against the table. Never long, though. Not enough time to dream.
Despite the lonely quiet, his mind still rolled with some momentum. He would do a little more. Naps could come later.
On the table, his camera lay disassembled. With careful handling, his aching fingers erected the frame. It took too long, but while he struggled, the task pushed away his darker thoughts. When the apparatus was finished, though, much of the despair roared back.
He laid his hands down and closed his eyes. He tried not to dwell on his fingers.
With a pedal, he triggered the exposure.
He noted the time and date in the journal.
Document the patient. Record the unstoppable progress, the cancers erupting from healthy tissues. Skin. Bones. Lymphatic structures.
Growing. Growing.
He documented the pain, but refused to acknowledge it. Maybe they would learn from him.
Maybe he didn't lay down his life in vain.
Dr. Mihran Kassabian (1870-1910)
THE HISTORY
Standing in a quiet spot outside St. George's Hospital in Hamburg, Germany stands a monument to the radiation martyrs. One hundred and fifty-nine names were inscribed on the stone upon its erection in 1936. Hundreds more have been added since. These vignettes have been the stories of three of those victims. Their deaths are fact. My stories are not. With them, however, I've tried to restore the flesh on cold words in cold stone.
On November 8, 1895, Wilhelm Conrad Roentgen discovered x-rays. Imagine the excitement! An invisible light which dove into the body and emerged carrying miraculous information about the structures within. The implications for science and medicine were vast. But the same miraculous power of penetration held an insidious danger. X-rays are a form of ionizing radiation, which living tissue cannot endure. Long term effects of ionizing radiation are irreversible cellular and genetic damage. Short terms effects of high doses include the hideously painful x-ray burns.
So, who were the x-ray martyrs? They were the dedicated scientists, nurses, physicians, and technicians whose deaths helped us understand that nature does not respect human fancies. The laws action and reaction, cause and effect, are void of morality. As brightly as the triumphs of science may shine, just as brightly burn the devastation of its mistakes.
The first of my vignettes honors a nun who developed aggressive cancer in her hands after exposing herself to x-rays again and again to put the children of her hospital at ease. Such a poignant story. I must apologize about her name, however. I read about her in a source maintained by a European radiological society. In the months since I found it, the source has been removed. An email to the society went unanswered. Therefore, I chose the name Sister Hathaway to represent her. If I find her true name again, I will correct the story.
The second victim is Clarence Darrow, the first x-ray martyr in the United States. He was a glass blower in Thomas Edison's lab. After constructing each x-ray tube, he would test its operation and strength by observing his own hands in a fluoroscope. He too developed an aggressive cancer in his hands. Despite the progressive amputation of his fingers, hands, arms, then even his scapula (shoulder blades) the cancer still spread. His period of illness and death is reported to have been agonizing.
The last victim is Dr. Mihran Kassabian, a physician in the Medico-Chirurgical Hospital of Philadelphia. He suffered the same fate after repeated, unprotected exposure to x-rays in his lab. He meticulously documented the progression of his disease for posterity. It was the final gift he was empowered to give.
You've now seen the quaint photographs of an innocent age and reflected on the sacrifice these souls unwillingsly made. A lesson learned? A time of naivete left behind?
I think not.
Look around you. Look at yourself. There will always be martyrs. So long as our hopes outpace our fears, there will be those who pay the price of evolving knowledge. New therapies, new drugs, new technologies--despite all our prudence, only time will reveal the dreadful mistakes. Who will be next? You? Me? Should we stop pushing forward?
No.
We should learn with care, minimize the risks, but when the inevitable tragedies come, learn even then. Let hope shine brighter than fears.
And don't let the martyrs die in vain.
Back to Part 2
"Doctor, is there anything I can help you with?"
"No," Dr. Kassabian grumbled.
He shoed away the medical student without looking up.
"Are you sure? I can--"
"No! I'm quite alright ."
"I just--"
"Good evening!"
The student hesitated. Something twisted in young man's face. Dr. Kassabian couldn't bear to see it.
The doctor moved his pen, but didn't lay ink on paper. Finally, the young man's heels pattered down the hospital halls.
At last. Peace.
A few lights burned in the windows of Medico-Chirurgical Hospital. The rest of Philadelphia slipped between bed linens.
Dr. Kassabian never slept any more.
He tapped and tapped, thinking, then the words once again emptied onto his journal papers. Descriptions of symptoms. Interpreted tests. A recitation of the patient's complaints.
A dreadful case. So many sorrows. But he yanked down his professional detachment like a curtain. It was his only hope. If he cracked now, all would be lost.
He yawned.
At times, the faceless hours of darkness would leap in random measures. He would write, then wake with his face pressed against paper, against the table. Never long, though. Not enough time to dream.
Despite the lonely quiet, his mind still rolled with some momentum. He would do a little more. Naps could come later.
On the table, his camera lay disassembled. With careful handling, his aching fingers erected the frame. It took too long, but while he struggled, the task pushed away his darker thoughts. When the apparatus was finished, though, much of the despair roared back.
He laid his hands down and closed his eyes. He tried not to dwell on his fingers.
With a pedal, he triggered the exposure.
He noted the time and date in the journal.
Document the patient. Record the unstoppable progress, the cancers erupting from healthy tissues. Skin. Bones. Lymphatic structures.
Growing. Growing.
He documented the pain, but refused to acknowledge it. Maybe they would learn from him.
Maybe he didn't lay down his life in vain.
Dr. Mihran Kassabian (1870-1910)
THE HISTORY
Standing in a quiet spot outside St. George's Hospital in Hamburg, Germany stands a monument to the radiation martyrs. One hundred and fifty-nine names were inscribed on the stone upon its erection in 1936. Hundreds more have been added since. These vignettes have been the stories of three of those victims. Their deaths are fact. My stories are not. With them, however, I've tried to restore the flesh on cold words in cold stone.
On November 8, 1895, Wilhelm Conrad Roentgen discovered x-rays. Imagine the excitement! An invisible light which dove into the body and emerged carrying miraculous information about the structures within. The implications for science and medicine were vast. But the same miraculous power of penetration held an insidious danger. X-rays are a form of ionizing radiation, which living tissue cannot endure. Long term effects of ionizing radiation are irreversible cellular and genetic damage. Short terms effects of high doses include the hideously painful x-ray burns.
So, who were the x-ray martyrs? They were the dedicated scientists, nurses, physicians, and technicians whose deaths helped us understand that nature does not respect human fancies. The laws action and reaction, cause and effect, are void of morality. As brightly as the triumphs of science may shine, just as brightly burn the devastation of its mistakes.
The first of my vignettes honors a nun who developed aggressive cancer in her hands after exposing herself to x-rays again and again to put the children of her hospital at ease. Such a poignant story. I must apologize about her name, however. I read about her in a source maintained by a European radiological society. In the months since I found it, the source has been removed. An email to the society went unanswered. Therefore, I chose the name Sister Hathaway to represent her. If I find her true name again, I will correct the story.
The second victim is Clarence Darrow, the first x-ray martyr in the United States. He was a glass blower in Thomas Edison's lab. After constructing each x-ray tube, he would test its operation and strength by observing his own hands in a fluoroscope. He too developed an aggressive cancer in his hands. Despite the progressive amputation of his fingers, hands, arms, then even his scapula (shoulder blades) the cancer still spread. His period of illness and death is reported to have been agonizing.
The last victim is Dr. Mihran Kassabian, a physician in the Medico-Chirurgical Hospital of Philadelphia. He suffered the same fate after repeated, unprotected exposure to x-rays in his lab. He meticulously documented the progression of his disease for posterity. It was the final gift he was empowered to give.
You've now seen the quaint photographs of an innocent age and reflected on the sacrifice these souls unwillingsly made. A lesson learned? A time of naivete left behind?
I think not.
Look around you. Look at yourself. There will always be martyrs. So long as our hopes outpace our fears, there will be those who pay the price of evolving knowledge. New therapies, new drugs, new technologies--despite all our prudence, only time will reveal the dreadful mistakes. Who will be next? You? Me? Should we stop pushing forward?
No.
We should learn with care, minimize the risks, but when the inevitable tragedies come, learn even then. Let hope shine brighter than fears.
And don't let the martyrs die in vain.
Back to Part 2
Monday, March 13, 2006
Secrets of Spring
The sun climbs from its season in the south, and the world warms. Soft rains fall on water, no longer sealed behind frozen glass.
Thin grey dreams are lifting.
Listen to the peepers serenade the night. For once, you breathe the darkness rather than run inside to the orange light. Something is out there. Passion on the fog.
The air itself sighs with memories of what's waiting.
Friday, March 10, 2006
The Martyrs, Part 2
(A tribute and a lesson in three fictionalized vignettes. After the last, I'll give the historical context. The images are copyrighted by Radiology Centennial, Inc.)
(Thomas Edison Pictured in X-Ray Light)
(X-Ray Tubes from Thomas Edison's Company)
Clarence.
His name in a whisper.
He turns.
Glass blowing hot. He spins the rod. A teardrop molten. He spins, shapes, and blows into the rod. His movements dance as the furnace roars. His hair curls in stinking smoke before it grows.
Clarence.
His name in a whisper.
He turns.
Mr. Edison’s face unfolds above his workbench. Watching. Clarence has polished his workbench. Mr. Edison’s face smiles back in reflection. Everyone laughs.
No one laughs at his fingers.
Clarence.
His name.
He drops the switch to bring the power. Mother electricity leaps in blue arcs. Harnessed but not tamed.
He clamps his creation to the bench. A pear-shaped bulb with plates mounted carefully within. A masterpiece of mystery. He holds the viewing screen in his hand and waves his fingers in front of the bulb. He never tires of seeing those bones. Nature unveiled. Nature beaten.
He’s made a strong one. He's always the best.
Clarence.
He wakes from dreams to a hospital bed and wads of sopping sheets. His wounds are leaking, trying to seal.
“Nurse!” he screams.
Pain like a monstrous tide. He screams for his life.
“NURSE!”
Footsteps come. A light cuts away a little night.
He reaches, confused. He throws out his arms.
But something is wrong. He feels, but cannot see his hands. His weight won’t peel from the bed.
Then, through fever and infection he remembers.
(Studio Advertisement Selling "Bone Portraits")
They took his fingers. Took his hands. Took his wrists. They chased the cancer.
They took his arms.
On to Part 3
Back to Part 1.
(Thomas Edison Pictured in X-Ray Light)
(X-Ray Tubes from Thomas Edison's Company)
Clarence.
His name in a whisper.
He turns.
Glass blowing hot. He spins the rod. A teardrop molten. He spins, shapes, and blows into the rod. His movements dance as the furnace roars. His hair curls in stinking smoke before it grows.
Clarence.
His name in a whisper.
He turns.
Mr. Edison’s face unfolds above his workbench. Watching. Clarence has polished his workbench. Mr. Edison’s face smiles back in reflection. Everyone laughs.
No one laughs at his fingers.
Clarence.
His name.
He drops the switch to bring the power. Mother electricity leaps in blue arcs. Harnessed but not tamed.
He clamps his creation to the bench. A pear-shaped bulb with plates mounted carefully within. A masterpiece of mystery. He holds the viewing screen in his hand and waves his fingers in front of the bulb. He never tires of seeing those bones. Nature unveiled. Nature beaten.
He’s made a strong one. He's always the best.
Clarence.
He wakes from dreams to a hospital bed and wads of sopping sheets. His wounds are leaking, trying to seal.
“Nurse!” he screams.
Pain like a monstrous tide. He screams for his life.
“NURSE!”
Footsteps come. A light cuts away a little night.
He reaches, confused. He throws out his arms.
But something is wrong. He feels, but cannot see his hands. His weight won’t peel from the bed.
Then, through fever and infection he remembers.
(Studio Advertisement Selling "Bone Portraits")
They took his fingers. Took his hands. Took his wrists. They chased the cancer.
They took his arms.
On to Part 3
Back to Part 1.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Remember: George Miles Longstreth
We cling to the enduring strength of stone to fight the fear of being forgotten.
So please take a moment to remember:
OUR BABY
George Miles
Son of
Samuel & Anna
M. Longstreth
Died July 21, 1883
Aged 5M. & 6D.
BRIGHT HOPES LIE BURIED HERE
Rare it would be indeed
For five lonely words
To hit harder than these.
(St. Peter's United Church of Christ, West Pikeland Township, Chester County, Pennsylvania)
Monday, March 06, 2006
The Martyrs
(A tribute and a lesson in three fictionalized vignettes. After the last, I'll give the historical context. The images are copyrighted by Radiology Centennial, Inc.)
Sister Hathaway turned from the linen she was folding. A tiny child stood in the doorway.
"We have someone to see you, Sister."
She smiled. A girl in a beautifully soft dress. Her father rested a hand on her shoulder. Hallway shadows draped his face.
"Come in. Please."
The hospital orderly escorted them into the room. The child's arm was wrapped in a sling. A doll was squeezed in the other. The father's severe face glared down.
"I see. I see."
Sister Hathaway knelt. She always knelt.
Such a darling girl. Her eyes quivered in terror.
"My name is Mary. What yours?"
The nun's voice was so soft. Mystical. It could make flowers sigh.
A calm overtook the child, and the grip on her doll loosened.
"Helen," she whispered.
"Such a beautiful name, Helen."
The child smiled for the first time.
"She fell on her arm," the father declared. "Playing."
Some of the child's smile straightened. Rivers of tears had washed through dirt on her face.
"Well, we're here to take a look inside," Sister Hathaway said. "With the most miraculous of machines."
A robed arm gestured to the table across the room. An alien mass of metal frames, tubes, and a strange black pyramid sat. The girl curled inward again.
"Come, let's take a look. I have some amazing to show you."
She replaced the father at the child's side and led her to a wooden chair. The girl could not resist the gentle guidance on her shoulder.
Sliding the metal frames to a petite height, she positioned an odd glass bulb, pear-shaped with plates inside. The child shrank away.
"It won't hurt you. Watch this."
The nun depressed a rocker button, and a hum filled the silence. She waved her hand very near the bulb.
"See? Nothing. Not even warm."
The girl edged closer.
"But there's magic to see. Here."
She handed the girl the pyramid. Grasping a handle, the girl saw a viewing port in the small end. The wider side housed a screen.
"Go ahead. Look inside."
With the nun's help, the girl pointed the screen in the direction of the bulb. A glow of spectral green grew. It sparkled in random patterns. Almost alive.
"This is a fluoroscope," the nun said.
Something new emerged on the screen. Not clear. But moving.
"A little closer."
The girl saw the wispy shadow of a hand, but the bones showed darker. A skeleton danced in the green light. Its black ring seemed to float above the bones.
The girl gasped. "Does it hurt?" she asked. Wonder bloomed in her voice.
"No. Not at all. It's an amazing kind of light. Very special. I believe it's a gift from God."
She waved with her bones a while longer until the child begged to try.
Sister Hathaway positioned her quickly. The excitement soothed away the pain in arm.
"Now, we can see if your bones are safe."
She raised the pyramid to her own eyes and studied the green light. Satisfied, she cut the power.
"There. Perfect. It must be a bruise, dear. Nothing is broken."
Late that night in the solitude of her room, Sister Hathaway woke from red, churning dreams. Pain burrowed in her hand. Deep and ominous. She rubbed and rubbed.
The white patches on her skin began to burn.
On to Part 2.
Sister Hathaway turned from the linen she was folding. A tiny child stood in the doorway.
"We have someone to see you, Sister."
She smiled. A girl in a beautifully soft dress. Her father rested a hand on her shoulder. Hallway shadows draped his face.
"Come in. Please."
The hospital orderly escorted them into the room. The child's arm was wrapped in a sling. A doll was squeezed in the other. The father's severe face glared down.
"I see. I see."
Sister Hathaway knelt. She always knelt.
Such a darling girl. Her eyes quivered in terror.
"My name is Mary. What yours?"
The nun's voice was so soft. Mystical. It could make flowers sigh.
A calm overtook the child, and the grip on her doll loosened.
"Helen," she whispered.
"Such a beautiful name, Helen."
The child smiled for the first time.
"She fell on her arm," the father declared. "Playing."
Some of the child's smile straightened. Rivers of tears had washed through dirt on her face.
"Well, we're here to take a look inside," Sister Hathaway said. "With the most miraculous of machines."
A robed arm gestured to the table across the room. An alien mass of metal frames, tubes, and a strange black pyramid sat. The girl curled inward again.
"Come, let's take a look. I have some amazing to show you."
She replaced the father at the child's side and led her to a wooden chair. The girl could not resist the gentle guidance on her shoulder.
Sliding the metal frames to a petite height, she positioned an odd glass bulb, pear-shaped with plates inside. The child shrank away.
"It won't hurt you. Watch this."
The nun depressed a rocker button, and a hum filled the silence. She waved her hand very near the bulb.
"See? Nothing. Not even warm."
The girl edged closer.
"But there's magic to see. Here."
She handed the girl the pyramid. Grasping a handle, the girl saw a viewing port in the small end. The wider side housed a screen.
"Go ahead. Look inside."
With the nun's help, the girl pointed the screen in the direction of the bulb. A glow of spectral green grew. It sparkled in random patterns. Almost alive.
"This is a fluoroscope," the nun said.
Something new emerged on the screen. Not clear. But moving.
"A little closer."
The girl saw the wispy shadow of a hand, but the bones showed darker. A skeleton danced in the green light. Its black ring seemed to float above the bones.
The girl gasped. "Does it hurt?" she asked. Wonder bloomed in her voice.
"No. Not at all. It's an amazing kind of light. Very special. I believe it's a gift from God."
She waved with her bones a while longer until the child begged to try.
Sister Hathaway positioned her quickly. The excitement soothed away the pain in arm.
"Now, we can see if your bones are safe."
She raised the pyramid to her own eyes and studied the green light. Satisfied, she cut the power.
"There. Perfect. It must be a bruise, dear. Nothing is broken."
Late that night in the solitude of her room, Sister Hathaway woke from red, churning dreams. Pain burrowed in her hand. Deep and ominous. She rubbed and rubbed.
The white patches on her skin began to burn.
On to Part 2.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Where They Sleep--St. Peter's
Nestled atop the rolling hills of Chester Springs, Pennsylvania, stands St. Peter's United Church of Christ. All of the recent cemetery pictures were taken on its grounds. In 1771, land was purchased by German immigrants to establish St. Peter's Lutheran. One of the founders of this church was George Emerich. Perhaps Anne Emrich, whose grave was pictured earlier, was a member of his family.
In 1811, a one-half interest in the church and land was purchased by a German Reformed congregation which had been worshiping in private houses. The church then served a combined congregation. Later, the church joined the Evangelical and Reformed Church, which combined with Congregational Christian Churches to become the United Church of Christ in 1957. Local lore holds that the early church building served as a hospital during the Revolutionary War.
Amid this history, these souls sleep.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Check out "Hear Me" at Flashing in the Gutters
I'd like to thank Tribe for posting my submission at Flashing in the Gutters, a great flash fiction site featuring amazing writers. I'm honored to share a bit of space with them!
Check out my piece by clicking: Hear Me by Jason Evans. Thanks!
Check out my piece by clicking: Hear Me by Jason Evans. Thanks!
Cemetery Symbolism: Tree Trunk
Victorian cemetery art incorporated elaborate symbolism to convey the hopes and sorrows of those left behind.
The Tree Trunk: Not common. The cut trunk symbolizes the brevity of life, mortality. When cut to a short stump, it can indicate a life cut short. The tall example here evokes the grand memory of the tree--the core strength of faith. When used in a multiple grave such as this one, each cut branch may symbolize a person buried beneath.
Selection of Inscriptions:
Mary Ann Anderson
Died July 7, 1888
Aged 69 Years 3 MO
and 21 Days
REMEMBER FRIENDS AS YOU PASS BY
AS YOU ARE NOW SO ONCE WAS I
AS I AM NOW SO YOU MUST BE
PREPARE FOR DEATH AND FOLLOW ME
(St. Peters United Church of Christ, West Pikeland Township, Chester County, Pennsylvania)
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