Sep 10, 2015 Original Short Story
A Love Story And A Canoe-Trip
©September 10th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
Every night, Jacob cleaned his hoe, his rakes, his pitchfork and his trowel, and put them away. He’d take out his fiddle, and play a slow tune on his back porch. His Bernese Mountain Dog, Buckminster, lay at his feet. The sunset stretched into infinity. The corn-stalks were ripening. The rain had been good this year, and the lake nearby was full of fish. He felt he should be happy.
He stopped playing, went inside, put the kettle on the stove, cracked open two eggs, made an omelette with onions, fresh-picked tomatoes and green peppers, and ate it with brown bread, smeared with yellow butter. He heated up coffee, sloshed in some rum, and drank deep and fully.
Then, he washed himself noisily at the large kitchen sink, and towelled himself off, humming tonelessly all the while. Something moved at the corners of his vision — a shadow, perhaps. He turned and looked. There was nothing, nothing at all. Disappointed, he went on towelling.
He had been born mute. He was not deaf, though. Everyone but his wife had thought he was a loser. Josie had been beautiful, dark-eyed and adoring — and he had loved her deeply during the ten years they’d been married. Then, one day, after the rains failed to come for three years in a row, she had left him, quietly, without awakening him, at dawn.
He had awoken to the sound of her car hitting a tree.
They say he was never the same after that, but he thought he was. Here he was, playing his fiddle, with his dog at his feet, working the fields, eating normally, sleeping at 10:00 every night. Here he was, sowing, tending, reaping the corn, with a few hired men and women. Here he was, playing at the local coffee-houses with the local Old-Time group cobbled together from old friends and school-mates, who’d come to see him for who he was — a strong, unspeaking, gentle giant of a man, with music pouring out his being, and with love for all things that grew. With grace, he had dealt with everything that was handed to him, even this, the most devastating blow of all.
Of course, he was fine. Wasn’t he?
He went upstairs, changed into his night-clothes, and took out the photograph of Josie. He looked at it carefully for a little while, then put it away, after wiping both the photograph and his eyes with a rough face-cloth.
Then, he got into bed, flipped open Robinson Crusoe, a book that Josie had loved, and read for a few minutes. Reading was always difficult for him, but he loved it, carefully mouthing the words to himself, loving the words, as his wife had taught him to do. He came to a description of a canoe, and paused in his reading.
Somehow, this canoe brought him pleasure as no other boat had before. He loved rowing, loved going onto the glassy stretch of water on the lake near his fields, loved seeing the reflections on it, the darting fish, the languidly waving fronds below, the rocks that slipped past his vision into unfathomable depths. His eyes closed, and the book slipped from his hands, and he was asleep.
And he was rowing, rowing, rowing onto a faraway lake on a canoe that gleamed silver and black in the moonlight. And at the prow of it sat his wife, smiling, holding out her hands to him, and gleaming silver and black in the moonlight. And his dog, Buckminster, sat proudly at the stern of the canoe limned in light, his tongue hanging out gladly. And Jacob sat in the middle, resting his paddles, smiling back at Josie, his eyes shining black and silver in the moonlight. His heart was filled with song, and he reached out to hold her hands.
In the morning, when the sunlight streamed in, and illuminated the room with gold, washing out the paler gold of the reading light, it found Jacob asleep, with a smile on his face, and the dog at his feet.
Neither of them stirred, even as the sun rose high overhead.
Somewhere, a beautiful shadow detached itself from the wall, and walked towards them. Golden dust-motes danced into the room.
The air was still. Outside, a fly buzzed outside on the window-sill, and a lone loon called across the lake for its mate.
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Tags: #Original Short Story by Vijaya Sundaram, canoe, love story
Sep 10, 2015 Original Short Story, Writing 101
The Attic Window
©September 9th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
The day that Shelby laid eyes on the old house to which she had to move with her parents and brother, she hated everything about it — the peeling paint on the cedar siding, its old roof shingles, its crookedly leaning pine tree in the back yard and oak tree in the front, its straggly, overgrown front-yard, the brick path leading to the house, and the old bird bath that looked like it had survived a few centuries of weathering.
Tears filled her eyes, and she brushed them away surreptitiously. Her father put down their bags, his voice sounding false and hearty, “All this needs is a lick of paint, some work on the roof, some weeding and watering, and it’ll be great!”
The truth was that they could not afford much of anything. Her father had come into a small inheritance, and he used it to buy this place from a slick realtor, who seemed very eager to sell it at half the going rate for a house this historic (it had been built in 1875).
Her father added, “At least we will have a roof over our heads. Think about that! And we’ll plant a vegetable garden. You can have your own flower-garden, Shelbs! What say?”
“That sounds … lovely, Dad!” she replied, looking around, not seeing how anything beautiful could grow on that messy, weedy patch of front-yard.
Her brother, three years old, and curious about everything, ran about happily, chattering at top speed, excited to be in a new place. “Stop it!” Shelby said loudly, suddenly, and he stopped short, eyes round and puzzled; she wasn’t usually so brusque and bossy. Then, he shrugged it off, and went around the side of the house, to see what lurked there. Shelby’s father went after him.
Her mother, tired from all the packing and moving, but seeing her daughter’s distress, said, “Shelby, come! Let me show you where your room is. You’ll be thrilled.”
Shelby picked up her two large duffel bags, and followed her mother through the door. She looked around, and was intrigued, in spite of herself. There was a large fireplace with a white mantel over it, and a bay window that looked out into the small stretch of woods on the left of the house. At the back was a sunny kitchen, and next to it, the ornate dining room. Shelby wondered cynically how they would furnish all these old rooms, when they had nothing more than a small kitchen table, four rickety kitchen chairs, an old, squashy sofa for the living room, plus their beds, small dressers and night-tables for the bedrooms. They did have a huge red rug, though, so that might cheer things up a bit in the living room, she mused, and the thought cheered her up.
Her mother pointed up their staircase. “Your room is above ours. Why don’t you go on up, and check it out?”
Shelby shrugged, and dragged her duffel bags up the staircase. On the next floor were two rooms and a large W.C. Above that, she presumed, was her room, so, after a quick glance around (it didn’t seem so bad here, after all), she went to the next floor.
Her bags fell to the floor with a soft thud, raising a sudden swirl of dust.
This was her room — it was meant for her. There was pretty wallpaper with roses and green leaves repeating themselves, and a little door that probably led to the eaves-storage space. There was a large clothes-closet with its own door. There was a built-in shelf, where she could put her books. And a tiny bathroom of her own!
But best of all was the window.
It stood there, at the end of the dormer, throwing light onto the floor, flooding the room with a golden glow.
Shelby was hypnotized by it. She found herself being drawn to it, drawn to its spare outline, as if it were some sort of window in a dream.
But as she walked towards it, a voice said Don’t do that! That’s my window! What are you doing in my room?”
She whirled around.
There was no one there.
I must be imagining it, she thought.
Still, it wouldn’t do to annoy whoever it was who’d spoken, real or not, so she said, to no one in particular, “It’s MY room, and I have a right to be here. And I will!”
An exclamation at the door made her turn around. Her mother, who was standing in the doorway, looked nonplussed, and said, “Of course, it is your room. And of course you have a right to be here.”
“Mom! Did you hear that voice?”
“There’s no voice, silly! How do you like your room?”
“I loved it, until I heard the voice. Mom, I don’t like it here. It’s … spooky.”
“Don’t be silly, Shelby! Look, why don’t you put some of your things from your duffel into your closet, and follow me to the kitchen. I need some help downstairs.” And, with that, her mother tap-tapped down the stairs.
Shelby looked around slowly. A strange palm print had appeared on the wall. The voice said, “I told you — this is my room. No one uses my room, and lives to tell the tale.”
Shelby could not even scream. She turned, and hurtled down the stairs, tripping and falling as she did so. Her voice could be heard, high and trembling, as she told her mother that she would never, ever, ever live in that house, and if they forced her to live there, she was going to run away to her grandparents’ home in Milton now, and nothing would change her mind, ever.
Upstairs, a swirl of dust shaped like a young girl smiled to itself, and held one of Shelby’s shoes which had fallen off when she’d hurtled out of the room.
Another one bites the dust, the dust-girl susurrated to herself, and looked out the window. A hysterically crying Shelby was walking out of the house, followed by her mother, and her father, who was holding her little brother’s hand.
Why did you do that, idiot? said another swirl of dust, as it materialized beside her, and watched the family leave. She’s just a young girl.
Shut up, Tom! You’re just my baby brother! said the dust-girl, and she slapped at him. He sank back into the floor, frowning.
The dust-swirl-girl went back to the window, and looked down. The hateful car that had driven up was now driving off.
Good!
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#writing101
Sep 10, 2015 Daily Life
Blazing heat. Muggy, too. Awful day. Didn’t do very much. Made lunch and dinner, but that’s usual. Wrote. Did laundry. The usual stuff. Dropped off daughter at friend’s place. Picked her up. The highpoint? Watered the garden, always a satisfying thing to do. Holly objected and woofed, because she wanted watering too — a true water-dog, she is! She loves to bite at, and eat, the water that jets out of the hosepipe. I indulged her a bit, and she was ecstatic. Continued on with the watering. Picked a bunch of vegetables.
I find myself loving beans on their vines. They’re shy. They hide. Then, when you lift the vine, you see them dangling there, rich and green. They reveal themselves gradually to the discerning eye. Here they are, along with the usual show-off tomatoes and a couple of small green peppers. Pretty, no?
Growing things make me happy (and growing things makes me happy).
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