Write a 1000 word (or less) piece of Genre Fiction Here.

[maggenpye]

That was excellent - I skimmed past the title (The Last Day of the War, perhaps?) so for me it was a gradual revelation that she was not human, which worked really well. In six hours, to create a world and a believable character who draws the reader in, that's 'out of practice'???

[vison]

OK. This is over the 1,000 words. I have been tussling with it for awhile. The conversations in this story are made up, of course, but conversations like it must have taken place in real life: I know two people who are in this situation right now. I don't know how the real life story is going to end, though.


“I have something to tell you,” Jim said.

Bethany looked at him, waiting. She knew it wasn’t going to be good. Maybe he’d quit his job again. Maybe the car had broken down. But he didn’t look exactly like he looked when things had gone wrong. She didn’t know what to expect, it wasn’t some ordinary bad thing.

“You remember last Halloween?” he asked.

“Halloween? What about it? We went to Val’s,” she answered.

“Yeah. And remember? I wore that dress and the shoes and everything? And you thought I looked good?”

“Yes.” She sat down and put her hands on the table..

“You’re not making this easy,” he said.

“Making what easy?”

He shrugged. “I thought you’d guess.” Then, with the smile she hated, the one he smiled when he told her he’d signed up for wrestling lessons, or bought a guitar, or quit his job to be an extra in the movies, he said, “I like wearing women’s clothes.”

She shook her head. “You want to dress up for Halloween again?”

“No,” he said, annoyed. “I mean, I like to wear women’s clothes. It feels good.” He leaned closer.

She could hear the TV in the living room, Sammy was watching cartoons. “You mean sex,” she said. “To get turned on.”

He leaned back in the chair and lit a cigarette. “Yeah.”

But she knew he wasn’t done. “Is that it? Is that all you want to tell me?”

He stared at the ceiling. “Not quite.”

“Then tell me the rest,” she said. “I have to finish getting ready for work.”

“Hey,” he said. “This is more important than you getting ready for that jerk job.”

She knew her voice was shaking and she hated it that her voice was shaking. “No, it isn’t, Jimmy. If I’m late again, they’ll hire someone else. I told you that last time. And we need the extra money.”

“I’ll tell you while you get dressed,” he said.

She had already put her makeup on, and the underwear. Jimmy watched her as she pulled on her skirt. She usually liked that, usually liked that it excited him to see her put on the clothes that other men paid to watch her take off. But this time she wished he wasn’t looking at her.

“Well?” she said. She was piling up her long hair, pinning it into a loose knot. “What else do you have to tell me?”

“I’m transgendered,” he said. “I’m a woman trapped in a man’s body.” He said it the way you say something you learned by heart, like the lines in a play.

Just then Sammy came running in. “I hungry,” he said.

“Hey, buddy,” Jimmy said. “How would you like two mommies instead of a mommy and a daddy?”

Bethany saw that he was already down that road, miles ahead of her. He always did this, he never worried about the in-between parts, just the end, where he was going to be a wrestler on TV or a movie star.

“And what about me and Sammy?” she said.

“Why do you always have to do that?” he said. “It’s all about you, isn’t it?”

She put out her hand. Reality was slipping away, and she could not hold on to it. “I can’t do this right now,” she said. “I can’t, Jimmy.”

“You’re never there for me,” he said petulantly.

Sammy tugged at her skirt. "Mommy, I hungry."

"Daddy will fix you something after Mommy goes to work. You go watch your show, Sammy. I have to talk to Daddy."

"Yeah," Jim said. "I'll take you to Mickey D's, okay?"

"Jimmy," she said. "We can't afford that all the time. Make him something. Eggs or something."

"There's nothing in the goddamned fridge, Bethany."

"But you - I thought you did some grocery shopping. You said . ."

He fidgeted and looked away. "I ran into Cass. We went for a few beers. Jesus, Bethany, I have to have some down time, I go nuts cooped up here all day with the kid. "

"Where was Sammy when you went for the beers?"

"I left him with the sitter. Christ, did you think I'd leave him on his own or something?" He shrugged. "You can go grocery shopping tomorrow, can't you? You got tomorrow off."

She looked at the clock. "I have to go. I have to go, Jimmy."

She put her jacket on. "Where are the car keys?"

"You're gonna have to get gas, Beth," he said, handing her the keys. "I didn't have enough on me to get any." He avoided her eyes. "Look, Beth. Give me a couple bucks, so Sammy can have some supper."

"Get some money out of the bank machine, Jimmy. My cheque is only going to cover the rent. " Then, "What did you do with it, Jimmy? You didn't spend it all?"

"Fuck. I hardly had any hours, you know that. Cheap bastard, he never gives me the hours."

"But still. Jimmy. I can't do it all by myself. You have to - " Now she was crying. "What did you spend it on?"

"Not dope, if that's what you mean," he said. He went to the closet and took out a shopping bag. "I bought something for myself, Bethany. My counselor said it would be a good idea."

"Your counselor? What counselor? "

"At community services. You know, the one I saw when I first got out. " He emptied the bag onto the bed. "See?"

She saw a bra and panties. Some nylon stockings, the kind you need a garter belt to hold up. The garter belt.

"She says I should start like this," he said. His eyes were shining. "Under my regular clothes, you know?" He was using that voice, the one he always used when he was starting out on something new.

This was the new thing that Bethany couldn't have seen ahead to worry about. Dope. Getting fired. Not paying the phone bill. Buying a snake. But not this.

She looked around the ugly room, at the piles of clothes, the mess on the dresser top, the unmade bed. She thought about the club, and the smell, the men watching her, the sounds they made. She thought about the plastics plant, all day on her feet on the concrete floor, and the noise, the noise.

"I can't," she said. She took off her jacket and put her purse on the dresser. She lay on the bed, face down. "I can't go in," she said.

"I'll phone," Jimmy said. "I'll phone for you, okay?"

She thought about praying. That was what Mama would suggest. "Pray. The Lord will hear you." Mama was probably on her knees right this minute, praying for Bethany, praying for repentance.

"Dear Lord, my husband wants to turn into a woman. What should I do?" That was the prayer she came up with in the time before Jimmy came back into the room. "Help me, Jesus. Help me, please."

It turned into a real prayer. She whispered. "Help me, Jesus. Help me, please." But she saw no sign that Jesus had heard her.

"I phoned for you," Jim said. "I told him you were sick. I said you might be able to work tomorrow night." He said it like he had done something wonderful, some thing that was too hard for her to do for herself.

She felt his hand on her back.

"I'll rub your back, baby," he said. After a minute or so he said, "So, what do you think?"

"About what?" Bethany said.

"You know. About me. About my - gender issue," he said.

"I can't think about it right now, Jimmy."

"Baby," he said. "It's important to me. Now I know what's always been wrong. Why I never felt right, you know?"

"No, I don't know." She rolled over and sat up. "I can't, Jimmy. I just can't. You can't expect me to." Crying again. It was always something, with Jimmy. Some reason why he couldn't be like other people. He was a half-breed. His father died before he was born. He had an addictive personality. She wanted to say all that, all the crummy reasons he had always had, the lies, the stories, the stupid dreams that could never come true.

But what she said was, "I don't want to be married to a woman, Jimmy. If you do this, if it's real and not some scam, then I can't do it."

"I never thought you be like that," he said, his voice low. "I thought you'd be cool with it. I never thought you'd go all straight on me."

"Suppose," she said. "Suppose I told you I wanted to be a man." Then, right away, more words. "I might as well get a goddamned dick, I am the man in this house anyway. You sure as hell ain't."

He raised his hand, but he didn't hit her. "You sound just like your old lady," he said. "Laying there praying, yeah, I heard you. Like mother like daughter. Well, get out then. Go back to Alberta and live a good Christian life. "

"No, Jimmy," she said. "Jimmy, I'm sorry. I don't want to leave you, you know that." Terror made her tears stop.

He shook his head. "I don't know. "

"Please, Jimmy," she said. She shifted closer to him, drew an uneven breath. She put her arms around his neck. "I have to think about all this, Jimmy. It took me by surprise, is all."

"I guess it's a pretty big surprise, " he said. "I've been thinking about it for so long, it's not new to me any more."

"That's what it is," she said. She picked up the bra and garter belt. "These are nice, Jimmy. Too bad they won't fit me."

"I'll get you some nice stuff, too," he said. "We can go shopping together, you know?" He smiled. "I like the name Crystal," he said.

[vison]

I lke this story. I mean the Ant war!!! Not my own.

[maggenpye]

I like yours too. Wow, that's such an amazing journey, I don't know whether to cheer the FMC on or pity her - either way, I believe in her. They're both so real. I want to clip the MC upside the head for what he's about to put his family through, but I know some TG people so ... just wow.

[Harlequin]

Last Day of the Ant War: The title lets the story down. It feels like the whole point of the story is the bit-by-bit revelation of Xuxu's and her people's identity, but with that title the scene is set from the start and there is no surprise. I have a hard time judging how well it would work with a neutral title, but I think it would have been good.

vison's untitled story: I find it very difficult to do short, character-driven stories. I don't know why, it's just a blind spot of sorts. That's why I'm impressed when other people do it well.

I have to say that even for someone who "never worries about the in-between parts" (I liked that line a lot; nice characterisation), it seems unbelievable that they would blurt out "How would you like two mommies?" to their little kid. And if he is the kind of nut who acts like that, why does Bethany (who appears smart and sane) still like the guy, as she shows in the ending? It went over the line, I think.

I liked the "It was always something, with Jimmy. Some reason why he couldn't be like other people." bit, too. We've all known people like that.

[Elysian]

vison, I quite liked that. Very readable, and I wanted to hear more. I, for one, definitely understand why she would stay with him -- out of fear what it would be like to leave. I like to think that the rest of the story was about her getting the gumption to leave.

Give me a couple of minutes, I'll post a short one...

[Elysian]

An old crone opens an oak door, and bright light outlines her rags and wild hair for a moment. She has come into this dark cave from the adjoining kitchen, where someone seems to be baking a lemon cake from the redolent scent. Bright chintz wallpaper and pink curtains can be seen before the crone uses the toe of her rag-wrapped foot to press the door closed with a cheerful click.

The resulting gloom is both creepy and obstructive, but the crone doesn't falter. She makes her careful way around boulders and over old bones (horse, but one doesn't look very closely at bones usually, unless one is a doctor -- and hag-infested caves generally don't get visited by doctors) to join another hunched old woman in the center of the cavern. The second crone accepts the proffered mug of coffee with a pleased hum.

"How goes it, deary?" says the first beldame.

"Am I glad to see you!" the second one states, slurping noisily. "This rock is getting harder every minute."

The first makes "tch" noises and shakes her head. "Aren't you using your pillow?"

"Oh yes! I've downright squashed the thing flat. Pillows aren't made like they used to be."

They both nod and sigh at the state of the world. More mist rolls into the cave and settles into every crack and crevice. A wind howls mornfully outside the cave.

The second crone adjusts her pillow. "Still, can't be hanging out around here for very long. Wouldn't people talk if they saw two unworldly hags instead of one, or three!"

The other sighs. "I wish Betsy were still with us."

"The last fellow had a right fright though! That never gets old. Nearly fell backwards when I walked up to him and asked what he thought he was doing in the cave!" She cackles and slowly gets up, using hands to push off rocks and very slowly straightening her back and knees. "Oof, that's better."

The other witch appropriates the pillow, and fluffs it. It is embroidered with cats. "He's not likely to be back, then?"

"Oh, dear me, no. Not with what I told him!"

"And what would that be?" asks the first witch, pausing in getting comfortable. "Alice, don't tell me you did it again!"

"No, no, nothing nasty," chortles the other hag, picking her way towards the oak door. "This time I told him that the fate of the world depended on his actions," she says, laughing harder.

The first crone gasps, "You didn't!"

The cave rings with their cackles of glee....

And meanwhile the sounds of war carry on outside the cave....

[maggenpye]

I like that Elysian, I like it a lot (one hag or three, but never two - snerk!). I struggle with it being in present tense, the passive story doesn't seem to fit with that immediacy, but that's my only criticism.

[vison]

One problem for me with my story is that I know a girl whose boyfriend made such an announcement just before Christmas last year. And while I really tried to write it as if it was HER and HIM, I couldn't in the end. The truth is that the truth, in the actual people, is much more "unbelievable" than my fictional people. The real guy is much more of a jerk than Jimmy and the real girl is, at once, more and less like Bethany. Does that make sense? Probably not. I can understand Jimmy quite well, just as I understand the real life guy. It's the girl that gets me, that I have a hard time with. On the one hand, so capable and smart, on the other hand so completely attached to a guy who is one of life's "losers", a guy who is never going anywhere, never doing anything. The real life guy is no more a transgendered person than I am, of that I am quite firmly convinced. It's a stunt, like all the other stunts he's tried. I won't believe it unless he actually has his manly bits cut off and ditches the beard. He's about 6 foot 4, built like a truck, heavily bearded, etc.

I sometimes do this as a kind of exercise, making up converations between real life people, but it's a waste of time in the long run, my fictional people are much more realistic than people are in real life!

I am totally impressed with the talents on display here. I also see that a lot of people like fantasy/horror stories, which are the kind I don't much read, as a rule. Still, these are interesting.

[xenophon41]

Last Day of the Ant War: The title lets the story down. It feels like the whole point of the story is the bit-by-bit revelation of Xuxu's and her people's identity, but with that title the scene is set from the start and there is no surprise. I have a hard time judging how well it would work with a neutral title, but I think it would have been good.

Yep. maggenpye had a nicer way of saying it, but yours is more specific and actionable. Thanks.

[Baldwin]

I liked the Ant War story, even though you accidentally wrote it in present tense.

[maggenpye]

I wasn't being polite xenophon41- I skimmed the title. It was a complete surprise to me that the Last Day of the Ant War was about non-humans. I liked the use of present tense in that one, Baldwin, the MC of that story was in immediate danger and so the story felt more active. YMMV, of course, but why do you think it was accidental?

[Harlequin]

I also see that a lot of people like fantasy/horror stories, which are the kind I don't much read, as a rule. Still, these are interesting.

Well, it does say "genre fiction". That tends to mean a lot of science fiction and fantasy.

I liked the Ant War story, even though you accidentally wrote it in present tense.

Why do you think it was an accident? I think it was a conscious choice to give a sense of immanence, and I think it worked.

[Elysian]

I like that Elysian, I like it a lot (one hag or three, but never two - snerk!). I struggle with it being in present tense, the passive story doesn't seem to fit with that immediacy, but that's my only criticism.

Thank you very much, maggenpye. There was a reason why I wrote it in present tense, but I've forgotten now. I remember that writing it in that tense was a struggle because I almost always write in past tense. Maybe that's why I did it -- for a change in pace.

[Baldwin]

I wasn't being polite xenophon41- I skimmed the title. It was a complete surprise to me that the Last Day of the Ant War was about non-humans. I liked the use of present tense in that one, Baldwin, the MC of that story was in immediate danger and so the story felt more active. YMMV, of course, but why do you think it was accidental?

I didn't, really; just making fun of xenophon41 (my brother IRL). I'm pretty sure he knows I'm prejudiced against present-tense writing.

[maggenpye]

Then that's probably why he did it - good on him too! Maggenpye, younger sister.

[xenophon41]

Baldwin's sense of humor, if you didn't catch it from the bus ride, is juuust a little bit wicked.

[maggenpye]

I can see why your avatar is a rolleyes!

[Baldwin]

So I forgot about doing another story, then I put it off, and finally crapped this out (Sorry; it came out at about 1,400 words.)

Arbor Day

It was a sunny April morning, and the little graveyard made a pretty sight, with neat rows of white stones surrounding the big spreading oak. Shady and peaceful. I prefer my relatives dead and silent.

But I was there with my still-living, talking grandfather. Gramps and I got out of his ancient pickup, and he leaned against it, pulled a pack out of his dirty old jacket and lit an unfiltered Pall Mall. "Harve, I got nut cancer." I waited while he sucked down some smoke. "Nut cancer, ass cancer, who knows what else cancer."

"Lungs?"

"Nah."

"Seriously, after two packs a day since Eisenhower was in office? You're one lucky bastard." Damnit, I'd miss the old guy.

"Kid, you should have knocked up Peg when you were married. If you're not gonna have kids, it's all up anyway, family's over. God knows your homo cousin Reggie isn't gonna have kids. You gonna have kids or let your family just die forever?" He seemed suddenly out of breath and leaned against the truck.

"Jesus, okay, I'll have some fucking kids."

"With a woman."

"Sure, why not."

"I mean don't have a test tube baby. Stick it in a woman, so it counts."

"You should write Hallmark cards, Gramps."

He abruptly straighened up and went to the back of the truck, opened a toolbox, pulled out a tubular steel implement and held it up. "Increment borer. For dendrochronology. Got it?"

"Excellent. No idea what the hell you're talking about."

Gramps headed toward the oak tree, lighting another butt. "Help me get a core from the tree. Grab the straightedge level from the box. And the 3-in-1."
We walked past my dead aunts and uncles, my dead dad and all the other dead Dwyatts. The stone for Walter Jefferson Dwyatt, aka Gramps, was already there, lacking only the second date. My own stone was still in storage, ready and waiting; I could remember picking it out on my tenth birthday.

Gramps walked past his waiting plot, into the shade under the spreading branches. He got the borer started into the trunkthen leaned against the tree and nodded at the tool. "Steady and even. You work, I'll talk."

"So we'll both be boring." I twisted the handles.

He got another healthy lungful of nicotine. "Keep putting some oil on it as you go. Okay, remember in my will where it says you have to take care of the family tree? This is the tree."

"What? I thought that meant my Mom's genealogy collection."

"Why the hell would I care about a bunch of Vicky's family crap? You mother was a good woman with nice cans, but that bunch of halfwits on her side aren't blood."

"They are to me. How far in do I go with this?"

"Up a few inches short of the handle. Oak tree's exogenous, grows outward. Living on the outside, dead in the center."

"Like my ex-wife."

"You only want to do this every few years, so we'll make it count today. That's good; let's get the bore out."

We extracted a pencil-thick, foot long cylinder of wood, striated with sections of the growth rings. Gramps took the core from me, holding it gingerly. He peered through his bifocals at the piece of wood, sliding his tobacco-stained thumbnail along it from the bark inward as he counted rings. He nicked the wood with his nail.

"Right there, that's either the right ring or close to. That's your great-grandmother Lucille. My mother, you never met her." He mused for some time, his eyes far away. "Shrieking harridan, really. Not well."

"So, that ring marks the year she was born?"

"Why the hell would it?"

"I thought you were trying to make a point about family tradition. So, what, it's the year she died?"

"She jumped off a bridge, and my father had to bribe the coroner to get the body away in time to be buried over there." He pointed to a big marble stone.

"Damn, I always wondered why there was a picture of a bridge carved on there. Does that mean Uncle Gary shot himself? And what about the skull and crossbones on his sister's stone, Aunt Hedda?"

"Rat poison. Had the stone carved before she did it. She's about here." He nicked another spot on the rod of wood. "You see why this tree has got to be taken care of."

I didn't really. "Fine; tradition. You can mark everybody's death on the growth rings. Some people use calendars, but what the hell."

He stared at me, for a moment looking confused and close to the end, not the scary, hard old man I knew. He pointed again to the first nick. "This is your great-grandmother Lucille. Her soul's tied up in the wood. They all are. Clean the wax out, Eddie, they live in the tree."

I couldn't think of a good response. "Our dead relatives all live in a tree."

"Only the direct descendants of Augustus Dwyatt. Every soul buried here, man or woman, is a Dwyatt by birth."

"And they're dead, but they live in this tree."

"That's the fact."

"Are they baking cookies in there?"

Gramps grabbed my shoulder. " A person's soul stays with the body for a little while, maybe thirty hours."

"It does?" I could see Gramps was serious. Anyway, he had no sense of humor.

"Absolutely. That's why I made your dad's suicide look like an accident, got him in the ground the next day."

"I remember you said you'd see him again. I thought you meant, like, in Heaven."

He shook his head at me. "No Heaven or phony-baloney God stuff. But we got this tree. The roots spread out, see, into every one of these plots. You put a Dwyatt in there and the roots extract his soul, carry it up like water and it becomes part of that year's growth ring, like my mother here. That's why we don't use coffins. Saves money, too."

He carefully put the bore back into the trunk. "More of us in that tree than out, that's for sure. My turn soon -- but you need to have some damn kids, or you're the end of the line."

"Ah, Jesus. I'm gonna sit down for a second." The insanity of our whole family was coming into focus for me. All the social isolation, the unfortunate tendency to suicide, everything I'd always wanted to get away from. All tied to a monumentally ludicrous piece family legend.

Gramps took my shoulder again, practically hauled me up. For a dying old crazy person, he had a good grip. "Augustus Dwyatt disappeared in 1851, declared dead in 1858. The last time anybody saw him, he came out here. Said he was going to cheat death and then go to town for some tobacco. Never seen again. I figure he's inside the trunk, maybe in that bole where it divides."

I looked up at it. "What -- what do you think he did?"

"You can ask him yourself some day. Spend a few nights out here by this tree, you'll start to hear them. Seventy-four Dwyatts, including Augustus. Oak's got another five hundred, maybe a thousand years in it, if it's taken care of. You've got to carry on the line, make sure it's done. Has to be direct descendants."

So I promised Gramps I'd do it. He must have felt like he could let go then, because he was dead inside of a week. My guess is he induced a coronary somehow, but there was no autopsy, and I got him buried the next day.

There was nobody to contest his will, and even if there were, a vague "take care of said tree" clause is hard to enforce. After ten years of heavy drinking, I woke up one day, still childless, and decided to get out of the family psychotic delusion business. I rented equipment and took the oak apart in sections. In a week's hard work I chipped, burned or blasted it all. The roots would die, the remaining bits would rot.

I sold the house and anything else that reminded me of my crazy family, my family tree, craziness in general, families in general or trees in general.
Walked away to start my own life. I did take one thing: a human jawbone that was inside the bole in the trunk. Odd finding that, but somehow not surprising. Three gold teeth in it. Did Augustus Dwyatt have gold teeth? There's nobody left to ask.

[vison]

:shock:

Aha.

[maggenpye]

Great! Good characterisation on Gramps. Excellent twists at the end.

[Harlequin]

Sorry; it came out at about 1,400 words.

Well then, report to room five for a purple-nurpling.

The story. You're a good writer, no doubt. The dialogue, the characterization, all good, but to my mind the story kind of petered out in the end. I expected a bigger surprise or a shaggy dog ending of sorts. I'm also left wondering why Gramps found it so important to keep the tree going. Why does it matter to him so much that people's souls keep getting trapped in the tree? Why is it important to make new people to imprison in the tree? Sure, he wanted someone to take care of the tree, but that doesn't mean you need more direct descendants in the dirt.

[Baldwin]

Sorry; it came out at about 1,400 words.

Well then, report to room five for a purple-nurpling.

The story. You're a good writer, no doubt. The dialogue, the characterization, all good, but to my mind the story kind of petered out in the end. I expected a bigger surprise or a shaggy dog ending of sorts. I'm also left wondering why Gramps found it so important to keep the tree going. Why does it matter to him so much that people's souls keep getting trapped in the tree? Why is it important to make new people to imprison in the tree? Sure, he wanted someone to take care of the tree, but that doesn't mean you need more direct descendants in the dirt.

In Gramps' mind, at least, the tree only draws up the souls of direct descendants. Gramps anticipates being preserved, in a way, along with his whole family. For the protagonist, the idea sounds more like an eternal trap.

I agree about the end. Easier to start a story than to end it well.

[maggenpye]

I liked the ending, though that's pushing shit uphill if its own author doesn't.

I liked that he gave the old man what he wanted, a promise and a quick burial, then reacted to it (10 years of hard drinking). Even when he chopped down the tree and sold 'everything', he still kept the jawbone. Regardless of his intent, he was still linked to Dwyatt.

[Baldwin]

I liked the ending, though that's pushing shit uphill if its own author doesn't.

I liked that he gave the old man what he wanted, a promise and a quick burial, then reacted to it (10 years of hard drinking). Even when he chopped down the tree and sold 'everything', he still kept the jawbone. Regardless of his intent, he was still linked to Dwyatt.

Well, I felt a need to wrap things up; could have written a novel's worth of backstory, though I don't know if it would have been interesting for anybody. I really admire the masters of the short story; hope it's not a dying art. Maybe the Internet will save the short story, since there are precious few print publications for it anymore.

[maggenpye]

Well, I'm trying to keep it going.

I promise another 1k story tonight (3.5 hours from this post). I have nothing planned and no idea what it will be.

Flash fiction for the brevity challenged!

[Harlequin]

I really admire the masters of the short story; hope it's not a dying art.

To be fair, a thousand words barely qualifies as a short story. Flash fiction is a different art.

[Baldwin]

I really admire the masters of the short story; hope it's not a dying art.

To be fair, a thousand words barely qualifies as a short story. Flash fiction is a different art.

"Flash fiction" is a superfluous term describing a short-short, which is a subset of the short story. Short-shorts do require special skill. They can be good, even great, but it helps if your name is Fredric Brown or Ray Bradbury.

[Harlequin]

I really admire the masters of the short story; hope it's not a dying art.

To be fair, a thousand words barely qualifies as a short story. Flash fiction is a different art.

"Flash fiction" is a superfluous term describing a short-short, which is a subset of the short story.

Shrug. I think it's a useful term.

[maggenpye]

"Flash fiction" is becoming the term for very short pieces of writing done within a limited time frame. I've only been seeing it for a couple of years within groups at NaNoWriMo and similar. It's starting to move out into the general writing population slowly.

I used it because I'd set myself a time limit.

Which I failed to meet by a little over half an hour.

It's a horror story. It's exactly 1000 words, plus title.

[Harlequin]

It's a horror story. It's exactly 1000 words, plus title.

Well, what are you waiting for? I want something to read.

[maggenpye]

Cut.

For many years Jehale had not been back to the village. This was against tradition, but what could one expect? She had been married to the traveller.

The traveller moved between worlds, he spoke of magnificent cities, machines of wonder. It was an honour to the village that Jehale had been chosen from the six families. It was a blessing that she returned to them at all.

The children shrieked around her, gathering the treats she scattered, begging kisses, though the eldest of them had been barely crawling when Jehale was married to the traveller. Such was her fame. The traveller himself stayed at the high tower, conducting his trades with the elders, sweet smoke swirling and binding their deals.

Jehale entered a hut like any other hut. Her path had not wavered, though her smile stayed with the children and her mouth and eyes grew as hard as the pounded earth floor.

“Anya.” she said with neither reverence nor fear. “Anya of the six families, I am here.”
“An honour for an old woman.” The voice was frail, though she wasn't old, not even old enough to be Jehale's mother. The youngest anya in thirty generations it was said.

They went through the formalities, seated each side of the fire. Jehale accepting food and offering a gift. “Please, drink it now, that I may see your enjoyment.” she said softly. So naturally the anya had to fetch a cup. She moaned softly as she rose. No anya could heal herself, such was the way of things.

Smacking her lips over the sticky sweet liquid, the anya nodded her appreciation. It was a good gift, worthy of the long wait for Jehale to return. “It is a good marriage?” Merely the hint of a question.
“Yes, he is strong, he is prosperous.” Jehale waited a long moment before adding, “He is kind.”
“Kind of what?” This time, the question was genuine.

Jehale looked around the walls of the hut, at the anya's tools. “He is kind to me. I do not expect you to understand.” There was the whip to encourage obedience, to teach girls their wifely duties. “He does not beat me, he does not have other women.” Another long pause, another glance at another tool. “He did not want me cut.”

The anya gasped. The traveller was alien, she'd known that. But to be so very strange.
“He does not want you to have children?” she asked, shaken to the core of her being. Her aching joints protested as well, hunching her ever smaller. “He thought he was wedding himself to a ... a -” She could not say the word.

“Not a whore.” Jehale said. Her glance returned to the knife on the wall, patterned and patinated, old with use and stained with the pain it had meted out. “He prefers me as a whole woman.” She held up a jewelled hand to stop the protest. “There are other anyas, with other medicines, in the city. They have returned to me that joy you removed.”

The two women faced each other, both encased in certainty.
“You will not have children.”
“I have two, I choose not to have more.”
“Impossible.”
“Which? The children or the choice?”
“Both.”
“Impossible.”

Jehale held out a picture of two children within her embrace. These could be no other relatives than hers – they had her eyes, her smile – she had not been back to the six families since she was fourteen. Other pictures, of damage and repair.

“You cannot hurt me now. I am married, I am beloved.” Jehale said with hatred. She dropped her skirt and let her shoulders sag and drag her back down to the cushioned floor. “You cannot tell me lies, I am no longer a child.”

The anya glared at her. So many traditions broken! So many insults to their shared culture! She could not choose which atrocity to confront first, so said nothing while her retorts chased each other out of her mouth before they passed her lips.

Jehale was the first to move from their impasse. She offered the flask again and the anya, by habit, held her cup as it was filled. By habit she drank the liquid. “Why do you say these things?”
Jehale sniffed at the question, checking its sincerity. Licking her lips to ease release of the answer.
“Because you have cut many girls.”

Every girl of the six families, when her blood came, was transported to womanhood on a wave of agony and clever knife cuts. Every girl was to accept the pain of being a wife. Every girl since Jehale's mother and grandmother and back to the first Anya, back to the meeting of the six families and the first village.

“It is necessary!” The older woman said and stood abruptly. “How dare you come here to accuse.” She stormed around the small room. “How dare you say it was wrong!” She drew herself up. “We must be cut to marry. It is the way. To have children. It can be no other -” But she couldn't finish.

Jehale watched her. Watched that little doubt worm its way in her mind.
“We were cut for no reason, other than we have always been cut.” She raised a hand again, in appeal this time. “I am speaking to you because you are young enough to question, to remember the pain from your own time.”

The anya was cautiously stretching, caught between horror and wonderment. “The drink, what was in the drink?”
“What you deserve, anya.” Jehale was sad. Sadder than she had ever been, sadder than the day she was cut.
“You have killed me?” For surely only a numbing poison could have stolen the familiar aches.
“No.” Jehale's face expressed nothing but pity. “Medicine. You will live a long time. You will remember.”

For a moment, the anya looked pleased. Then she looked at the knife on her wall.
“It was not needed?” She asked softly.
Because she had cut many girls.

[maggenpye]

It's a horror story. It's exactly 1000 words, plus title.

Well, what are you waiting for? I want something to read.

Previewing. And reading Wiki.

The usage of Flash Fiction I've been hearing is either wrong or new.

Flash <= 1000 words.
Short short 1001 - 2500 words
'standard' short story 2501 - 7500 words

Learn something new every day.

And hey, (editing yet again) where's your next story?

[Harlequin]

And hey, (editing yet again) where's your next story?

Somewhere. I was very happy with my first story in this thread and much less happy with the second one - the story has been told a million times before - so I've been hesitant to post a third one until I have an idea that I think I can do something really good with.

I like how your story gradually changed its mood. In the beginning, despite the "neither reverence nor fear" part, I felt that Jehale had respect for the anya, and then she is transformed into an object of despise. I did feel sorry for her, though. I got the impression that she really did believe the cutting (some form of female circumcision, I assume?) was necessary.

One thing I like about brief forms of fiction is that you can leave some things vague which gives a sort of legendlike, fairy-taleish quality to the story. You do this with the traveller. You don't tell us what the worlds are that he moves between, what the magnificent cities or machines of wonder are. It could be that the story takes place in a small village in Africa and the traveller is simply a person from modern civilization, or it could be that he's a wizard, or it could be that he's a science fiction worldjumper or time-traveller. Either one would explain Jehale's transformation during her years with him.

[iampunha]

For a moment, the anya looked pleased. Then she looked at the knife on her wall.
“It was not needed?” She asked softly.
Because she had cut many girls.

Only thing I don't like about this is how quickly the resolution comes. It doesn't really make sense unless the job was unwillingly taken and has been unwillingly pursued in the name of tradition -- in which case it's ingrained and it'll take more than this much to get her to think about cutting as something not to be done. (At which point the guilt will come flooding out.)

Was this story meant in the fashion of referencing FGM or a cultural equivalent?

[maggenpye]

Cultural equivalent. Probably some form of female circumcision, but the truly squeamish can fanwank it as piercing, tattooing or scarificaton if they really can't handle anything more.

The resolution could use some work, but it's not far from reality. There was something on the TV about a young woman visiting a tribe where this was routinely carried out - the excuse being that girls could not conceive without it. The european girl just scoffed and said no one had it done where she came from, but they all had babies. The other girls made jokes about it, but the old lady who did the cutting ... she didn't appear on camera again.

It's why I made the anya young and in pain, I was hoping that would come across as some kind of sublimated guilt. Especially since it went back through generations (they cannot heal themselves). I wondered how it would be if someone you knew and trusted came back, and instead of thanking you for preparing them, just simply stated that you were wrong.

Might have been influenced by Josef Fritzel's change of plea, too. That was a huge turn around just because he finally saw the other point of view.

Harlequin, you are very kind. I started as trying to do fantasy, and this is what came out. So the traveller could have been anything. I was going to rewrite the beginning, but, like you, I thought the ambiguity worked.

I know what you mean about waiting for a good idea. My hard drive is littered with scraps and scenes that haven't gone anywhere, or didn't tell a story. It's a hangover from my journalism days that I do better with a deadline, even if it's one I made up myself. I was sitting here last night, and it was almost 11.30 with a midnight deadline and I was thinking, "What am I going to write about?" If I hadn't said I would submit a story, I might still be waiting for the first line.

[Baldwin]

Maggenpye -- great last line and overall a really nice style. I was confused about exactly what the cutting meant. Why would they think women couldn't have babies without it?

I don't care what some idiot on Wikipedia said. Short-short stories do not have a lower limit of 1,000 words, or any other number.

[maggenpye]

I agree about the names - I grew up calling stories with a specific word count 'Precision' stories, but I can't even find that name with google.

No one is more surprised than me to find out I've written four flash fictions in a little over a week (five if you count the striped pyjama vignette.)

Cutting, whatever is cut, male or female, tends to be a cultural thing. Enhancing fertility is just one of the reasons used. God(s) or attracting a husband are others. There does seem (I haven't done much research in this area) to be a strong emphasis on stopping women from enjoying sex, so they'll stay faithful.

[Baldwin]

I agree about the names - I grew up calling stories with a specific word count 'Precision' stories, but I can't even find that name with google.

No one is more surprised than me to find out I've written four flash fictions in a little over a week (five if you count the striped pyjama vignette.)

Cutting, whatever is cut, male or female, tends to be a cultural thing. Enhancing fertility is just one of the reasons used. God(s) or attracting a husband are others. There does seem (I haven't done much research in this area) to be a strong emphasis on stopping women from enjoying sex, so they'll stay faithful.

Interesting. I like the way you write from within the culture, without a block of exposition explaining just what they're talking about (even though you might get the occasional dense reader, such as myself -- though I think that's because of the limitations imposed by the short form).

[maggenpye]

I left it deliberately vague - I explained why to Iampunha earlier. He's made a valid point about the swiftness of the anya's change of mind - I'm going to rewrite and add a stronger relationship between the two women, some reason for the anya to care deeply about Jehale's opinion.

It's one of those things that can turn a reader away if it's all up front and 'in yer face', but as long as they get the idea that something bad is happening (knife, cutting, pain), then they'll think and try to find out more, as you have.

I could have gone much further. I was speaking to a friend about this today and she said she'd run a refugee clinic within a European hospital. She dealt with all ranges, from the simple female equivalent of male circumcision which reduced pleasure (as it apparently does for men) so that sex was about making babies, not having fun. Right through to girls who'd been literally sewn shut at five or six years old, they had to hope they'd be married and cut open (proving their virginity) by their husbands before beginning menstruation or the blood would have nowhere to go and they'd likely die from the resulting infection.

Isn't knowledge a wonderful thing? I'm writing a comedy next time.

[iampunha]

Right through to girls who'd been literally sewn shut at five or six years old, they had to hope they'd be married and cut open (proving their virginity) by their husbands before beginning menstruation or the blood would have nowhere to go and they'd likely die from the resulting infection.

A friend told me a few years ago about a woman she'd heard of who was taken to the doctor (presumably in America or somewhere else slightly more forward-thinking than Somalia) because she was very pale and weak.

[spoiler:3ikyjubk]The doctor eventually noticed something rather large and unfriendly in her genital area. After receiving permission (I think), he cut the woman open, and out dropped this black ball of dried blood from more than a few menstrual cycles (no idea how many, but apparently it was fairly condensed.[/spoiler:3ikyjubk]

(I obviously have no firsthand proof that this happened, but it seems possible.)

[maggenpye]

Yes, if she's sewn tight enough, there'd be no infection route. If she's sewn loose enough there's space to clear the menstrual flow - most fall into the latter, a few in the former, a significant minority dies bloody and painful deaths.

There's also the infections that happen during the initial procedure and during the wedding night cutting. Even without infection, in your example, the outcome without medical intervention, wouldn't have been 'a long and healthy life'.

As an aside, my friend said there were some women who insisted that, after giving birth, they be left as they were, but many women and their husbands wanted at least partial and if possible full reconstruction.

[vison]

This is in the genre of "fictionalized memoir". Most of it is absolutely true to my recollection, but a couple of things aren't. Not that it matters, really:

Years ago we had occasional visits from a neighbouring farmer, whose name was Len. He was the kind of farmer city people mean when they say farmer and feel smug about their sophistication. He was bent and brown and wore the woolen army jacket he’d brought home from the war, and thick woolen pants held up with braces, summer and winter. He wore slouchy gumboots folded down at the top; they always had cow manure on them. He wore a hat which had once been a fedora but was now more like an upside-down bucket than a hat. He seldom said much. His voice was low and he used a lot of backwoodsy expressions that even my Dad thought were old-fashioned. But he came by now and again and “yes, he allowed as he’d take a saucer of tea” and that’s what he would do, pour the first part of the first cup of tea into the saucer and slurp it up. My grandpa used to do that, and so did I now and again, copying him. Granny said it was bad manners, though, so I stopped doing it.

His farm was a disgrace. Nothing was tidy or kept shipshape. Fences leaned and sagged, propped up by whatever came quickest to hand. One end of the hay barn had collapsed over the hay inside and stayed that way for years. Once he had shipped milk to the dairy but hadn’t for decades because his milking barn was never up to standard. So he did a little of this and a little of that, raising heifers and beef, selling hay or cutting hay for other farmers. People called him shiftless and pointed out that his brother, right across the road, was what a farmer ought to be. They had started out together and one prospered and one didn’t and it was obvious that the difference was for two reasons: first, one man worked hard and the other didn’t - maybe not “harder” but “to the purpose”, directed, steady, sensible and to plan.

The other reason, which people seldom said out loud, was that the prosperous farmer had a proper wife and Len, well, Len’s wife was not proper. How to describe her? A potato in woman form, an animated vegetable, as long as you know that “animated” means only “can move from one place to the other” and not “lively”. Lumpy and plain with long greasy hair pinned up behind, dressed in something like a big gunny sack. Her common footgear, when she wore any footgear, was a pair of gumboots cut off just at the ankle. No socks that anyone could see. My mind flinches away from those sockless feet, those boots. My mind tends to flinch away from her in general, she was legally a person I guess, but anything less like a woman is hard to imagine. God knows if you saw her chucking haybales or manhandling spooky cattle onto a trailer you would see not one feminine attribute, except maybe her great swaying breasts that one guy said looked like two dogs fighting under her shirt. Yes, indeed they did and I’m half-ashamed to admit I laughed when he said it.

Nonetheless she and Len had produced 5 children, 4 boys and 1 girl. They were as nearly feral as children born in this country could be. Wild and shy, peculiar. The stories went that they fought like the young of the Tasmanian Devil, snarling and kicking and biting and that the girl was fierce, more savage than her brothers. The boys are still like that, although two are in their fifties now. We see them about occasionally, driving some wreck of a truck. Actually, one of them lives not far from us, he lives in a 16 foot trailer in the bush with a pair of pit bulls. He has wild white-blond hair crammed under a ball cap, has never shaved that anyone has heard of, and can be smelled from furlongs away. Their sister has somehow done well, having managed to finish high school and marry an ordinary hard-working guy. I saw her last at her dad’s funeral and I scarcely knew her. Whatever solemnity and decency there was about the event belonged to her, the boys stood in an unkempt cluster near the tea table and wolfed down the sandwiches provided by kindly neighbours, then mooched off and got crazy drunk at the biker bar in Aldergrove.

Mrs. Len died of something or other when she was only about 35. Len was left with that pack of wild kids, bewildered and lost without the wife. He shuffled on womanless for a time, then somehow fell into the clutches of a widow from Newfoundland. The logistics of that meeting puzzle me and I guess they always will since both he and she are long dead, but “everyone” knows that she only married Len for his money.

Maybe she did, but if she did, by god she earned it. She moved in with Len and began to try to finish bringing up those kids, tried to clean a house that had never been cleaned, tried to make the yard presentable. It’s hard to say how well she did. The kids hated her, and I suppose if I was to ask they would tell me they still do. She drove them out. We all heard stories of rows and ruckeses, of her after them with a broom and them cussing on the bottom step. We heard how Len, clean for the first time in years, just put his head down and ignored it all. She wasn’t a bad woman, not at all. I rather liked her, she had that Newfie sense of fun and she longed for friends. She confided to me that marrying Len was the worst mistake she’d ever made but being a Catholic she was not going to give up.

Len sold that farm, causing a terrible family row. He’d been left the land by his father and he by his and he by his and that grandfather had homesteaded it. It was supposed to stay in the family, but things don’t always go by what they’re supposed to go by. He bought another farm a few miles closer to the river, one with a decent house, and he kept on dealing in cattle and hay. He stayed more or less clean, but when he came into my kitchen with his damp old woolen coat on, he still smelled of cowshit and some other, nameless fug; I swear I thought could smell 1944 English cigarette smoke.

He supped his tea and worked his gums around a few cookies and nodded. He did a lot of nodding. He looked out at the day, grey with spring rain. His eyes met mine and I noticed for the first time that his eyes were a clear, pretty blue in his brown, dried-apple face. He said, “I always feel a little melancholy in the spring.”

If he had stood up and began reciting Shakespeare I don’t think I could have been more surprised. “Melancholy” he said. This man, with his “I reckons” and “I seens”. He said “yander” for “yonder” and who the hell says “yonder” any more, anyway? That expression in those pretty dark-lashed blue eyes, sad and sweet, “Melancholy”.

Well, I get a little melancholy in the spring, too. I don’t know why it is, when it is the season of promise and expectation.

Now it is fall, and my favourite time of year. Today it is raining after weeks of fine weather. It’s not raining hard, the ground under the big trees is still bone dry and hard. Last night it was a bit windy and this morning the gravel in the back yard was covered with dry leaves. Yesterday there were only a few and I could say it was still summer, but not today. I had to close the kitchen windows at breakfast, for the first time in months. I feel like baking bread, putting a casserole in the oven, putting firewood on the hearth.

But I also feel restless. Did our ancestors once migrate, leaving their summer range, going maybe where the winter was warmer and drier? I want to put on a pack and set out with my walking stick, head into the blue hills and uplands where the grass is burned white and the sky goes on forever. The longing to move is in my bones.

What brought old Len to mind today? It’s hard to say. The weather, the window. My sweater still smelling of smoke from last night’s fire. The heifers in the pasture across, the bits of hay clinging to my barn jacket. I wonder who else remembers him but me and his family? Yesterday we had our local Fair at the school and there were oldtimers in plenty, but none of his kids. His brother was there, very old and frail now, Alzheimers has cruelly bewildered him and he didn’t know me. His wife did, a stout old lady with a mop of improbably black hair. They still live on the farm, still prosperous and tidy, still the centre of their family, surrounded by kids and grandkids. Where the ramshackle brother used to live, across the road from them, are now three or four “hobby farms” and fancy houses with fancy gardens. I’m sure no one who lives there has ever had anyone like Len in their kitchen.

But it’s bothered me ever since. I wonder what else Len could have said, what words he might have used, if a person had cared to talk to him? I confess I used only to wish he’d go.

Sometimes, like today, I know that it is not only the fall of the year but the fall of my life. One day, not too soon but still too soon, I will be only a memory. That makes me feel a little melancholy.

[maggenpye]

I loved this, especially the ending, which brings it into a cohesive whole.

I loved the surprise of 'melancholy'.

Because I tend to skim, I got a bit confused at the end of the first paragraph - too many people narrator, Dad, Grandpa and Granny. I lost Len himself for a while there - could you put his name at the start of the second paragraph, just to remind people like me who the story's about?

Well done. You say in the beginning that he's "the" type of farmer, and then go on to draw that archetype perfectly before springing his humanity on us. Really nice.

[vison]

Thank you very much. I have a lot of these, I've been working on them, "cleaning them up", making them a little less personal. I find them interesting to write because the memories come swimming up so fast! Things I had clean forgot, and then, there they are.

I lived in a world that is long gone. That's the truth.

[maggenpye]

Is that a hint that you'll be posting some of them here? Good-oh.

[Baldwin]

Nice, Vison. (And I don't mean "nice" as generic, meaningless praise. I mean, nicely done.)

[Harlequin]

Another thing I don't do well: writing about things that actually happened to me. I can never fictionalize them, turn them into interesting reading. Well done.

[vison]

Another one, then I'll lay off, I promise:

This has been one of those meandering days. Sometimes I feel guilty for meandering and sometimes I don't. I guess, on balance, I don't feel guilty today.

Tay was invited to a birthday party, his first real boy/girl party. This sensible hostess (or her ma, I suppose) said the party was from 4 pm to 9 pm, which suits me fine as I hate having to go out and pick people up after about 8:30 pm - it will work perfectly, it will take me about a half hour to get to the house anyway. It is in the back end of nowhere, this house. Way up behind the town of Mission, across the river from me. Up a long, winding, narrow, paved-but-unmarked road. There are still 3 foot snow banks along the side of this road, which is fine with me because, where there isn't? A million feet straight down. My feet tingle, looking over that edge. My stomach goes all flopbot. It's a wonderful vista, if you don't look down. But I always look down and I always regret it.

So with parting admonitions to Tay, "Watch your p's and q's, and have fun", I headed back down the mountain. I should have turned right, to go on with my errands, but I turned left and drove east along the river for a stretch. Why did I do that? I thought it was time I found out how the new car felt about going fast on a long, flat bit of highway, that's why. The road was bare and dry and empty. The car seemed to like it. I believe that car would happily get up to and even over the 200's on her speedometer, but I'm a granny and sometimes I'm a wimp. I went fast enough, believe me, but there is a limit. I'm getting to like this new car and seldom think about my lovely old black car any more, except when I forget I have a different car and I'm standing in a parking lot somewhere wondering where I parked it.

One of the things I like is that it has a much better stereo than my old car. It's not one of those ones where you can put 20 CD's in, it only holds one, but that's okay, it sounds terrific. I had carefully selected CD's for my listening pleasure, and as soon as the door shut behind Tay I hit "play" and along comes The Original Carter family with "Keep on the Sunny Side of Life". I know that The Original Carter Family is an acquired taste, but I acquired it long, long ago. I suppose, if truth be told, I acquired it more than 60 years ago.

The Carter family, Maybelle, Sarah, and A. P. Carter, recorded hundreds of songs, mostly by "Trad.". "Trad." wrote some wonderful, wonderful things. So many of these songs feature a maiden dying for love, and singing about how her faithless swain might come and weep o'er her grave. God knows, I weep listening. I am an utter sap that way. I even cry listening to Sarah Carter sing "The Wabash Cannonball", but I think that one makes me cry because it reminds me so strongly of my Dad. I generally sing along at the top of my voice and since I'm alone in the car, why not? I used to sing these songs when I was little, my sister Lindy and I sang them all the time. I said once before we used to sing in the back seat of the car so's we wouldn't fight - and at the risk of spilling tears o'er my keyboard I have to say, I wish I could sing with her now.

At any rate, I turned her around, the sleek new car, and headed westward again, past the Hatzic Rock and Westminster Abbey, and over the bridge and along to Costco. It had come on to rain, and all the way there the Carters kept time with the windshield wipers, just like in Eddy Rabbit's song, or when Janis sang about Bobby McGee.

Costco was the usual Saturday afternoon zoo. I usually avoid it, since I can go any old day, but what with one thing and another I didn't go earlier in the week. Being alone, I could mooch about looking at DVD's and books. Tell me, why haven't I written throbbingly emotional epics about teenagers in love with vampires? Why did it not fall to my lot to do that? Jeez. Why has Danielle Steele got 580 million books in print and I have none? Sometimes life sux, that's a fact. I have to find a gimmick, so I can be a best-selling author and have a heavily air-brushed photo of myself with long, witchy hair and 40,000 bracelets on my withered arms. I wonder if there is a mountain somewhere composed of 580 million cheezy novels? I bet there is, because I don't know a single person who ever bought one of her books.
(Yes, yes. I am a snob. I admit it. The kind of trash I like is Good Trash. What I mean is, if I like it, it's not trash.)

A stop at the liquor store. Beer for the old man, and some sherry for me. I like Croft's, but this store didn't have any Croft's so I bought Harvey's Bristol Cream. A lady came along as I was standing in front of the shelves and she bent down and grabbed a bottle of the really, really, really cheap "made in BC" sherry.

She gives me this look. She says, "I had a glass of this today with my sister and I said I was going to go right to the liquor store and buy a bottle for myself." She was neat, tidy, had makeup on, her hair was only a little out of order, but you know, I think she'd had more than one glass of her sister's sherry.

She saw my bottle of Harveys'. "Oh," she says. "Is that good?"

I allowed as how it was nicer than the BC brand and she put that bottle back on the shelf and put a bottle of Harvey's in her basket with an weird kind of triumphant little crowing noise. I do hope that lady got home before she opened it. I have a vision of her drinking from the bottle whilst zooming along.

There was a longish line at the till - it was near closing time and the end-of-the-day rush was on. It's funny, or it seems funny to me, the things people say to complete strangers. I've noticed this before in a liquor store: "I hardly ever drink, you know," someone will say. "I mean, I bet I'm not in a liquor store more than 3 or 4 times a year."

Well, how the hell would I know and what's more, why would I care? I sometimes want to make a confidence myself at that point: "Oh, god, I'm in here 3 or 4 times a week, I'm a raging alcoholic!" So far, I've resisted that temptation. But think of the entertainment I would be giving everyone who heard me!!!

Still, it got me to thinking. Listening to the Carters and the speed at which they played their music reminds me of what I said the other day, about how people used to talk and move quicker years ago. Their music is what people used to dance to, too. But anyone I ever saw actually dancing to it generally had "had a few", the kind of people I came from weren't much for dancing when stone cold sober, they were never at ease in their bodies. Maybe white folks ain't got no rhythm, maybe that's it.

I have the most vivid memory of my great-uncle dancing, he was "clogging" as they say, wearing his big heavy lace-up work boots and overalls and he had his hat on the back of his head, and he was absolutely absorbed in watching his feet. He had black, black hair and when his hat fell off, his hair danced up and down, up and down, in time with his booted feet. I don't know if he was a good dancer or not, but he was an enthusiastic one.

Nowadays all singers sound alike. The Beatles, singing, could have been from Omaha. The old time singers sounded like where they came from. Sarah Carter sings, "I'm going down to the river of Jordan, one of these days" and "Jordan" sounds like "Jerdan". She sounds like what she was, a hillbilly. I love that. She was a great lady, I've heard, but she never got above herself. I love that they were not airbrushed into mediocrity, the way people are now. They sang the way they talked, and at times you wonder how they twisted the words so far from what we're used to. They sang about death, and Jesus, and broken hearts. They sang about trains, and I do love train songs.
One song I heard today that I don't recall hearing before. "I'm going where there ain't no Depression" they sang. Well, that place was Heaven, of course. "Where there ain't no hongry children. . . . where there ain't no death." That song wasn't written by "Trad." I wonder if anyone nowadays is going to dig that song out? Maybe the guy who was standing in the traffic island at Costco with a sign saying "Will work for food". Maybe the people whose yards have trucks and cars in them with "for sale, cheap" signs on them.

Those songs that I love so much, and the raw country voices that sang them, came from a hard time. Even when I was a little girl, things were tough for people. I lived in what would be called a shack now. We had no electricity or running water or telephone. My folks weren't living an "alternate" lifestyle, they were living the way everyone lived. Everyone we knew, pretty much. Off in "the city" people had luxuries, tiled bathrooms and telephones. In 1950 New York was already the world's greatest metropolis, but for all it meant to us, it might as well have been on the moon. I knew about Glasgow, because Grandpa came from there. I knew about Belfast, because Uncle Bill Kyle came from there. I almost knew about Vancouver, but I'd never been there. I didn't go to Vancouver at all until I was in high school! I never ate in a restaurant, a proper restaurant with tablecloths and china dishes, until I was probably 18 years old. I never ate away from home except for 2 places: a relative's house or fish and chips at the beach.

I think now about how I've eaten Chinese food in Hong Kong and Chicago-style Pizza in Chicago and incredible Italian food in New York City and I know a good hotel when I see one, and I know a good wine when I taste it. I am a snob about food, and this from a woman who grew up on mashed potatoes and home-grown beef and hardly anything else! I've drunk champagne for breakfast in First Class on an airplane and I've been at fashion shows where millions of dollars worth of furs and jewels are on display. All those things were fun and cool. But when I listen to The Carter Family, I am myself again. I wish Sarah and Maybelle and A. P. Carter were still alive so I could write them a fan letter.

[Harlequin]

Another one, then I'll lay off

Don't. I love having all this new stuff to read.