The Reaches of Our Sight

We are seeing stars, millions and millions of stars like specks of paint flecked onto night blue canvas in a spontaneous arrangement of particular brilliance. The North Star startlingly apparent. Understanding that the stars are actually bigger than the sun, and farther away, yet seeming close enough to touch. The stars lying over us like a blanket, colder and more foreboding than the blanket my sister cuddles at night. The star-blanket settling over us out of the depths of eternity, as it will settle over us at the end; knowing this while we are lying there admiring the beauty, and it is smothering us. 

That was what we saw the night we drove up to the dam and spread blankets on the cold hard asphalt between our parked pickup and the dam wall and lay there to admire the stars. We saw what the night wanted us to see; we could see which pinpricks of starlight the moon and the clouds had chosen to expose. We had been living in the city for too long, and our country raised souls yearned for natural light unpolluted by the bright city…for the whispering wind that dances through the trees and the leaves…for the shadowed night creatures that lurk curious and unthreatening at the reaches of our night-limited sight. It was cold and the breeze nipped at our uncovered faces. We were each cocooned in quilts to keep the frigid air from the rest of our bodies. Every few minutes a star shot across our sight in a quickly dying display of light. I wished on each and crossed my fingers for extra luck. 

On Moving Back Home After Graduation

I graduated from college two weeks with two, apparently useless, degrees: one in history and one in political science. It turns out that both are really only good for graduate school or for teaching elementary school kids who really, really want to be someplace else. And in the end it all comes back to teaching because that is also what you do after graduate school (except then you teach college students who may or may not feel the same as the younger kids). And what do you do between graduation and graduate school? 
     You move back in with your parents, apparently. Or in my case, you move back in with your parent. After four years of freedom! and living the high-life on my own, moving back in with my father has opened my eyes to things I never realized about family or about myself until now. 
     My father graciously welcomed his college-age daughter back home with open arms and free room-and-board. Both things a jobless recent college grad certainly appreciates! In return, I clean our house. And I clean it again. And I pick up the yard. Make the beds. Cook dinner. And clean some more. Because not only am I a jobless college grad, I also don’t own a car, so I have spent the greater part of the last two weeks at home all day, waiting for my father to return with the car so I can get away for an hour or two in the evenings to ride my sister’s horse. My schedule is the type of thing any intelligent person with a paying job would envy: wake up around 8, eat breakfast and leisurely drink a cup of coffee while reading, go for a run, shower, read some more. Clean the house, wash my dishes. Check my emails, follow my Tumblr, play around on Pinterest, search for jobs. Do some writing. Do some yoga. Repeat. I am stir crazy. 
    I am stir crazy, and emotional. I go through phases of intense lassitude in which I lay on the couch, emotionless, mute, relaxed. Sometimes I cry - I do not want to live in this small town where I know no one and have nothing to do outside of our house and no way to get there if I did. Then I feel a strange burst of determination: I clean the house madly, with the kind of intensity and dedication an employer would appreciate (and somehow I think this will help me find a job). Then I am bored, because I have done the same thing everyday and the monotony is killing me and it seems as if my father will never get home and then he does and we eat dinner over small talk and then he wants to go the barn with me and so I let him and then we watch a movie and then he goes to bed and then….I go to sleep too and the whole cycle repeats the next day. 
     I do not see a light at the end of the tunnel. But I do see my father, grateful for my company but anxious for me to find a paying job. I see myself slipping into this routine and losing motivation despite my best efforts, or at least, I fear that this will happen. I fight my indignation when my father wants to know everything I plan to do and where I plan to be and why! but then I realize, that he has not changed, only I have. I am used to being independent, he is used to being my father. And so I try to humor him (while resolving that I must change this situation as soon as I can). I do not want pity, and I hate the contemptible looks members of my family give me over this situation….this is not the scenario I would have foreseen four years ago, and if it was, I guarantee I would have majored in something more useful. And yet, I try to appreciate this situation for what it is and make the best of it. After all, there is a roof over my head and food on my plate and a kind companion who does care about me despite it all. 

Cracks in the Mirror

Young moms deadbeat dads dirty kids. I
Cannot get out. I am
Pinned beneath the trash and junk over my
Heart. Trailer spouts red rust through
Pipes beaten and crushed.
This is what I think of when I
think of home; what is home to you?
There is no home for me.
A house a trailer a hell; screams pierce
The night. They
Splinter my heart splinter the sky. And
 I cry. I cry. I want out
No way out for teenage girls with
Ugly babies. And I
Hold him tight because
I never wanted this for me. You know
the world was at my feet. I
Missed the train that
Other kids rode out on.
They say I can leave.
Chains on my neck my hands my feet.
Rusty black ugly dirt ugly red land ugly
House ugly life. Alcohol and cigarettes fume
Thickly down my throat. And I
I strangle in the heat.
Old-young mom rail-thin TV lighters
Got the radio on. That would never be me I
Said but when I look between
The cracks in the mirror
Who is it that I see?
You know me but I,
I cannot see the truth. 

"Nossir, Sorry, Sir"

"Son of a bitch," he muttered. "You're a damn fool. We gotta wait here real quiet, and here you are comin' up outta nowhere and makin' all kinds of noise. If you don' wake the dead right 'bout now then I'll be damned. You git your fool ass over here and siddown." The sergeant continued to swear under his breath. This was not the first time the new guy had done something foolish and put everyone's lives at risk. As far as the sergeant was concerned, though, it would be the last. "This is the last time I put up with this kind of behavior," he growled.
"Yessir, I'm sorry, sir." The new guy shifted uncomfortably, rocking forward on the balls of his feet. Sweat rolled in large, slow beads down his face.
"Damn right you are. I oughtta throw you to those yellow dogs right here an' now."  His tirade was over, though, and he began to be sorry for the new guy. Sure, he was pretty foolheaded, but the sergeant knew he was trying. Guys like him belonged back behind the lines, handling the mess or sitting in an officer's tent behind a typewriter. The real fault, he knew, was with the administration. He would try to go a little easier on the new guy. The sergeant was a softie, and everyone but the new guy knew it. "All right man," he softened his tone. "We're jus' sittin' here waitin' for orders to come down from the top. We ain't seen nobody yet, but you better keep your eyes w-i-i-i-d-e open," the sergeant emphasized. At this point, the most he could do was warn the man, talk straight and clear about what he expected. Tomorrow he would see if he could get the guy transferred.
"Yessir, sorry, sir," he mumbled again.
"Git down next to me," directed the sergeant, and waved his hand impatiently.
The man crouched down next to him, continuing to rock on the balls of his feet, as sweat still rolled over his drawn face. It was then that the sergeant noticed the man's hands, clenched around the barrel of his rifle so tightly the color had drained from his knuckles. They were shaking violently.
"Calm down, man," the sergeant whispered.
"Yessir, sorry, sir."
"God, you're givin' me the jitters, shakin' like that."
"Sorry, sir."
"You don't talk much."
"Nossir, sorry, sir."
"Jesus." The sergeant swore quietly. Nobody could call this guy the sharpest knife in the drawer. He would have to ignore the man and focus on his job. He peered out over the top of the ravine against which he and the others lay. Dusk was settling over the jungle, the half-light falling slowly from the tree tops onto the damp earth below. The dusk created shadows that played with his eyes. Suddenly, a slight movement about fifty feet in front of the ravine caught his eye. At the same time, the new guy slipped in the soft soil and knocked against his shoulder.
"Dammit! I thought I saw somethin' up there, an' you distracted me an' i can't find it no more," he seethed quietly to the man.
"Sorry, sir."
"Git down on your belly like me an' take a look-see over that ravine. I'm done pokin' my head up like a fool. I ain't gettin' killed over the likes of you."
"Nossir, sorry sir." The man remained where he was, on his knees, elbows propped, hands tightly gripping the metal. The sergeant waited for the man to get up.
"Nossir," the man whispered, white hands still shaking crazily.
"Nossir what?" breathed the sergeant furiously. "Was that a, 'Nossir, I ain't gettin' up there', like I thought I heard?"
"Yessir, I'm afraid so, sir."
"O-o-o-h-h-h you did not just say that."
"I'm afraid I did, sir, sorry, sir." The man's voice was barely audible.
The sergeant was furious. "Get up there, now," he paused between each word, pronouncing each one slowly and carefully, so their meaning could not be mistaken. His voice was tight. This was no longer funny. A damn fool man like this could get the whole squadron shot to hell.
The man remained where he was, and did not respond. The sergeant shoved him with the heel of his hand. As the sergeant leaned in and shoved, touching the man's shoulder, he realized that the man was soaked, and the salty, ripe smell of his sweat rose up from his body. The sergeant could smell the man's fear, but he was resolute.
"Take a look over that hill right now before I shove my gun right up your fool ass."
The man did not respond. The sergeant shoved him again, this time with the butt of his machine gun.
"Don't touch me! Don't touch me! Don't touch me!" The man was nearly hysterical now, nearly shouting. He leaped to his feet and dropped his rifle. "Don't touch me," he repeated, quietly this time.
"Shit man, git down," the sergeant urged, surprised. "C'mon, you'll get killed standin' up there."
"Yessir, sorry, sir, don't touch me, sir," the man repeated, in one breath.
"Alright, alright, but git the hell down!"
The man hesitated, and the sergeant could see the fear in his eyes. A long minute passed, both men frozen in place, breathing heavily, staring at the other.Then, slowly, the man crumpled to the ground. The sergeant stared at him, unsure what to do. He was afraid to give the man his weapon back, but afraid to leave him unarmed in case of attack. He remembered the unidentified shadow he had seen, the original cause of the man's outburst.
"Git on your knees," he ordered gruffly.
"Yessir, sorry, sir." The man struggled to his knees, grasped his rifle without being told, and commenced to shake and sweat in place, rocking slowly from side to side.
"Dammit," grumbled the sergeant. "The least you couldda done was git shot while you were standin' up there an' then at least you'd be outta my hands an' into the Lord's. Didja manage to git a look-see while you were standin' up there at least, make yourself useful for once, maybe? You ain't even worth the bullet it would take to kill you." The sergeant raged under his breath, not caring if the man heard him or not. "Well didja see anything? Huh?"
"Nossir, sorry, sir."
     The sergeant was not surprised."Christ." He shook his head.

     "I'm sorr - "

     "Shut up," the sergeant cut the man off. He did not want to hear the man apologize again. He had wasted enough time already and the situation was getting serious. He was sure he had seen movement in the near distance. He lay against the damp soil of the ravine, thinking. To his right and left his men lay in similar positions, quiet and still and calm. They relied on him. Even the fool probably relied on him, he realized. He would have to take another look."Alright, man," he addressed him. "I'm goin' up to take another look. Cover me, an' I won't ask you to git up here with me."

       "Yessir." The man's hands shook, although less violently than before.

       The sergeant hesitated. He did not want to place his life in this man's incapable hands. He looked to his left, and motioned to the man nearest him to crawl over. The man skimmed capably over the ground and dropped down next to the sergeant. It was the radioman.

        "Yessir?"

        The sergeant appreciated the man's skill and prompt obedience. This was the kind of man he liked to have in his squadron. This was the kind of man he could rely on."I'm goin' up to have look. Pretty damn sure I saw some movement a while back, but this fool here went nuts on me and I ain't sure now."

        The fool turned red, and opened his mouth, to apologize again, presumed the sergeant, but snapped it shut when he saw the withering looks both men sent his way.

        "Yessir, I saw that. Guys like that oughtta be shot for puttin' everybody else in danger," he agreed. "But you don't gotta worry 'bout me, I got your back."
        The sergeant crawled carefully up again, and looked out over the top of the ravine. He squinted his eyes and struggled to focus. The jungle had darkened considerably since he had last looked out into the shadows of the trees. He strained his eyes and ears, but the jungle was quiet, except for the soft crackle of the radio and the low voices of the radiomen coming through the airwaves. The radioman motioned for him to come down."Jus' heard from Alpha Company," he informed the sergeant. "They're heading back to camp now. They haven't seen anything, but they said to be careful. They've got some scouts who think there's a few spies or something out in the jungle now."

            "S-s-s-ir?" piped the fool, addressing the sergeant. "Are we heading back now?"

"Shut up an' let me think. We'll leave when it gets a little darker."

            "Maybe you should just stay," sneered the radioman to the fool.

            "Shut up," repeated the sergeant. "That ain't no way to talk."

            The radioman sulked and the fool became jumpier. He began, again, to rock from side to side on his knees. A cool wind rushed through the jungle, stirring the trees violently and casting an eery chill over the sergeant and his squadron.

            "Calm down, man," urged the sergeant."Jus' wait."

            But the man did not calm down. The wind grew steadily stronger and the trees slapped their limbs and leaves against each other. The sound of the wind and the sound of the shaking trees arched over the jungle in an ominous crescendo of noise. Like a tiger that soars through the air onto the back of its target, the sound of the jungle descended upon the men hunched beneath its boughs, deafening them.                                                       

            Suddenly, the man leaped to his feet, shouting, his screams swept up by the jungle and lost in the wind. "I can't wait! I can't wait! I can't wait!" He turned to run up the other side of the ravine, towards camp. The sergeant and the radioman dove to grab the man and missed. He leaped over the edge of the embankment, and as he did so, a single shot rang out, its sound somehow distinct from the jungle-noise, and arrested the flight of the fool. He paused in mid-step, and then collapsed and rolled down the steep slope.    

            The sergeant rushed to the man's side, instinctively keeping low. Around him, a volley of machine guns fired out over the ravine and into the darkness. What a fool, what a fool! The sergeant knelt by the man's side, peering in the darkness to find the point of the injury. He searched frantically, but could not see. “Hush now, rest easy,” he consoled the man as he writhed in the dirt. “You’ll be ok.” The man grew quieter, and lay still upon the damp earth.
            “Nossir, I won’t, sir,” the man whispered. “Sorry, sir. I couldn’t wait, sir . . . couldn’t wait . . . had to go.”  The man’s voice halted, and his breathing ceased.                                

            “Damn,” muttered the sergeant, “damn. What a fool. They shouldn’t let these high strung types into the army.” Reaching over, he closed the man’s eyes. 

[The River]

The best part of the river isn’t even in the water; it is above it, on top of the lichen-clothed boulder that juts out over the water. Sometimes I lay with my belly flat against the cool, damp rock, staring down over the edge at our reflection. The water is clear enough, and when its still I can flip my world upside down, and pretend my rock and I are the reflections. But I can only see this on a still day.
  It’s hard to find the perfect kind of day. Most days, a slight wind glides over the surface of the water. It brushes the river, distorting our reflection, and sweeps upward, over my back, into the boughs of the sycamore trees overhead. I like the sound the wind makes, how it sweeps my hair away from my face, and the way it dries the sweat beads forming on my shoulders and back. The wind is always warm, because I don’t go down to the river in the winter.
  Even when the wind moves faster, it is peaceful at the river. On days like that, the sycamores send showers of leaves down from their canopies. They rustle softly as their branches sway, and the leaves make ripples in the water. The sycamores protect me from the sun, and I welcome their silent company. I went down to the river once, when the trees were dormant and bare, and I felt vulnerable and afraid. I missed the animals too.
  I am the only human at the river, but I am not alone. If I lay still and silent enough upon my rock, I can trick a vulture into circling overhead. But when I do that he scares away the other birds, and I miss their music. Once I saw a doe and her fawn sipping quietly from the cool water, but they haven’t come back. I suppose it is because somebody started mowing hay from the field that borders the opposite side of the river.
  The best time to sit here is in the early morning. If I face east, I can see the sun rise slowly as the night fades away. The rays reach through the trees, touch my forehead and my cheeks, and chase away the fog rising over the water. When I look out over the rock now, I see more than our reflection; I see bass and sun perch moving slowly through the water, their bodies swaying from side to side as they glide forward with the current. Turtles with upturned noses and red-striped faces move upward from the deep and float on the surface of the water. They too are waiting to greet and be warmed by the rising sun. If I lay here long enough, I think, I will become a part of the river, a part of this rock; I will melt into the water with the turtles and the fish, with the leaves and the wind. 

[Gritty, Part 1]

This is a short story I am working on for my fiction writing class - there will be more to come, let me know what you think!


  His name was Danny Tucker. Most of his buddies called him Tucker, but his best friend, Wilson, had always called him simply, “Tuck”.
  But Tucker hadn’t been called “Tuck” in a long time, because Wilson, like all the best boys, had been killed. Tucker had seen Wilson die. Wilson’s wasn’t a particularly gruesome death, but tragic, just the same. Tragic, as all the deaths of bright young men with bright futures are. Tragic, as all such deaths are, when a country’s newest generation is in a foreign country, fighting a politician’s war. Wilson had gone quickly, the bullet slamming into his left temple, and in the next instant, even as his bright red blood bubbled up from the hole and ran down the side of his face onto the ground, staining it, Wilson’s hair, and his suddenly paling skin a bright and ghastly red, his eyes remained calm. He hadn’t felt a thing. At least, that’s what Tucker let himself believe, when he thought about the look on Wilson’s face.  Wilson had been faintly smiling, as his last breath sneaked out from between his lips.
  Tucker was 21 years old. Too young to watch his best friend’s death, yet too old to escape the draft. 21 years old, and in the prime of his life. He should have been home, courting his sweetheart, Kate. Wilson shouldn’t be dead. Tucker should have been on his father’s farm gathering the harvest, steering the rusty tractor skillfully over rolling Missouri hills.    
  Tucker was scrappy and broad-shouldered, with supple arms and quick feet, his square jaw set always with a hint of determination in his thin lips, but no one could call Tucker a fighter. Tucker was gentle and easy, the last to pick a fight, and the first to leave when conflict brewed. The problem was, Tucker could not cope in a world where those qualities, qualities his gentle, quiet parents had instilled in him from an early age, were alien. Wilson had been okay, he had always been more adaptable than Tucker. But Wilson was dead, and Tucker couldn’t fill the void he left behind, couldn’t seem to care enough, somehow. He didn’t even care if they won the war.
  But these were old problems, problems he had grappled with since before Wilson’s death, since before he had gotten that ugly slip of paper in the mail.
  Tucker’s problem, just now, was that he was being discharged from the field hospital. The doctors told him that, congratulations, his wounds were healed, that, thank goodness, all the shrapnel was successfully removed, that good news, the stitches didn’t even leave a scar. Tucker knew it would have been better news if he had been infected by pieces of shrapnel, hiding from the evil doctors behind layers of muscle and soft tissue.