I'll try and be brief.
It was a sunny day, in Mindanao. We were shopping in a market that sold native crafts from the local tribesmen, as well as batik and such things brought in from Indonesia. We were given warning that we needed to go home and hide, as a government-overthrow attempt was in progress.
I was a teenager, and these were the days of the Corazon Aquino government. Our friend, the Colonel (later General... later still, the late General) took troops to the local airport, and prevented the rebellion from spreading to southern Mindianao. When we got home, I tuned in Channel Four, as it was the only one of the five local television stations that had a live satellite feed from Manila (or from anywhere at all, for that matter).
I kept it tuned there, and watched the aerial combat, and all the people and children standing below laughing and joking, as the shells flew.
NEW! .4K Writing Competition: A Season to Be Brief
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scottielvr
- Posts: 1348
- Joined: Tue Aug 27, 2002 6:00 pm
- Please enter the next number in sequence: 1
- Location: NC mountains
Entry:
creatures of the wind
Town Hall, NYC, 1959. Cavernous stage: Bass, drummer in the shadows; concert grand. Solitary spotlight limning a woman; white gown, brown hands strong on the keys. The first piano note cues the whispers to hush. The woman sings. The timbre of her voice is eccentric, unforgettable -- deep; not husky, just deepness beyond mezzo, almost a growl, such as he’d never heard... molasses-dark, raw and sweet.
* * *
Daddy was cool then...into the West Coast scene...Frisco’s Fillmore Street, the Blackhawk … dim, musty clubs where you didn’t talk or clatter silverware, you smoked and drank and quietly dug Mulligan, MJQ, Miles. Rumors from the other coast fed a fashionable ennui; he’d wandered east in search of sensation. Austere bebop instrumentals were his thing, not blues or ballads; but at Town Hall he forgot that at once – borne away on the power of that voice. “Love me, love me, say you do / let me fly away with you…” As the last note of “Wild is the Wind” floats into rapt stillness, he is lost; lost.
* * *
From tiny Tryon, NC, where she found the piano early and hungered for more, homely little Eunice ventured into a world with which she'd brook no compromise for the next five decades. Dreaming of the concert stage; a year at Juilliard. But in 1950s America that was no dream for a black woman: In Philly she gave piano lessons. Atlantic City...she gusted into a lounge gig; changed her name--not for them, but so her mother wouldn’t know. A measure of success blew her toward a growing storm of recording and performing. The civil rights struggle; that bitter gale whirled her away from America, into volitional exile.
* * *
Daddy settled uneasily into the square life; dutifully did the job thing, the family thing. What never left him, though, after that night at Town Hall, was her voice, captive and captivating on vinyl, tape or disc; it never failed to soften the edges, fill the empty spaces. He thought it an injustice: She gave completely; what she took back from the unseen faces beyond the lights was so very little, by comparison.
Her final bow was taken: she is gone. But he has her, forever. He touches the button, closes his eyes, and again she is singing for him--only for him.
In memoriam: Nina Simone, 1933 - 2003
creatures of the wind
Town Hall, NYC, 1959. Cavernous stage: Bass, drummer in the shadows; concert grand. Solitary spotlight limning a woman; white gown, brown hands strong on the keys. The first piano note cues the whispers to hush. The woman sings. The timbre of her voice is eccentric, unforgettable -- deep; not husky, just deepness beyond mezzo, almost a growl, such as he’d never heard... molasses-dark, raw and sweet.
* * *
Daddy was cool then...into the West Coast scene...Frisco’s Fillmore Street, the Blackhawk … dim, musty clubs where you didn’t talk or clatter silverware, you smoked and drank and quietly dug Mulligan, MJQ, Miles. Rumors from the other coast fed a fashionable ennui; he’d wandered east in search of sensation. Austere bebop instrumentals were his thing, not blues or ballads; but at Town Hall he forgot that at once – borne away on the power of that voice. “Love me, love me, say you do / let me fly away with you…” As the last note of “Wild is the Wind” floats into rapt stillness, he is lost; lost.
* * *
From tiny Tryon, NC, where she found the piano early and hungered for more, homely little Eunice ventured into a world with which she'd brook no compromise for the next five decades. Dreaming of the concert stage; a year at Juilliard. But in 1950s America that was no dream for a black woman: In Philly she gave piano lessons. Atlantic City...she gusted into a lounge gig; changed her name--not for them, but so her mother wouldn’t know. A measure of success blew her toward a growing storm of recording and performing. The civil rights struggle; that bitter gale whirled her away from America, into volitional exile.
* * *
Daddy settled uneasily into the square life; dutifully did the job thing, the family thing. What never left him, though, after that night at Town Hall, was her voice, captive and captivating on vinyl, tape or disc; it never failed to soften the edges, fill the empty spaces. He thought it an injustice: She gave completely; what she took back from the unseen faces beyond the lights was so very little, by comparison.
Her final bow was taken: she is gone. But he has her, forever. He touches the button, closes his eyes, and again she is singing for him--only for him.
In memoriam: Nina Simone, 1933 - 2003
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Lark
- Posts: 152
- Joined: Sun Nov 17, 2002 6:00 pm
- Please enter the next number in sequence: 1
- Location: Windsor, Nova Scotia
- Contact:
I'll have a go at this 
:
Condemned house
Single story rambling house, one car garage attached. White paint pealing, chips dropping on the brown grass and weeds. You can see on the roof where the shingles are coming up and water gets in the house, all that dam mold growing in the attic, never could get rid of it completely.
What a run down place, the walk way is still broken where billy tried to jump off the roof on his bicycle. Never knew a crazier kid, makes it worse he is my own son. Broke both his legs that day, but did that stop him? As soon as the casts were off he was out racing around again. Always looking for adventure. I knew when the war came he would go, knew he would look for danger and glory. My wife, Mary, believed he would come back, so did the rest of the family. We were all took it pretty hard when that flag was delivered. Anne, my daughter, especially. There was a part of me that knew that I wouldn’t see him again. Too much of a thrill seeker, but a man has to be true to him self, and bill was.
Anne still visits his grave on remembrance day, takes him a wreath of poppies. I used to go, but it’s hard now that I’m in the chair. She says it’s no problem, but I know it’s hard for her to see me like this. She was always so sensitive. When she was a little girl, everyday when I would get home from work, she would come running down the walk, and with a squealing cry of “Daddy!” would throw her arms around me. That made everyday worth it. She seemed to know when I had a rough day, and would squeeze extra tight, maybe I just needed a hug more those days.
Up in the doorway would be Mary, she was a vision. That first kiss from her when I got home was better then all the money in the world. God I miss her. I’m going to miss this place. What did they say they were going to build on it? A book store?...
... I hope who ever works there has a little house of there own, a place to fill with memories...
... lets go back to the home, it’s starting to get chilly out here.
:Condemned house
Single story rambling house, one car garage attached. White paint pealing, chips dropping on the brown grass and weeds. You can see on the roof where the shingles are coming up and water gets in the house, all that dam mold growing in the attic, never could get rid of it completely.
What a run down place, the walk way is still broken where billy tried to jump off the roof on his bicycle. Never knew a crazier kid, makes it worse he is my own son. Broke both his legs that day, but did that stop him? As soon as the casts were off he was out racing around again. Always looking for adventure. I knew when the war came he would go, knew he would look for danger and glory. My wife, Mary, believed he would come back, so did the rest of the family. We were all took it pretty hard when that flag was delivered. Anne, my daughter, especially. There was a part of me that knew that I wouldn’t see him again. Too much of a thrill seeker, but a man has to be true to him self, and bill was.
Anne still visits his grave on remembrance day, takes him a wreath of poppies. I used to go, but it’s hard now that I’m in the chair. She says it’s no problem, but I know it’s hard for her to see me like this. She was always so sensitive. When she was a little girl, everyday when I would get home from work, she would come running down the walk, and with a squealing cry of “Daddy!” would throw her arms around me. That made everyday worth it. She seemed to know when I had a rough day, and would squeeze extra tight, maybe I just needed a hug more those days.
Up in the doorway would be Mary, she was a vision. That first kiss from her when I got home was better then all the money in the world. God I miss her. I’m going to miss this place. What did they say they were going to build on it? A book store?...
... I hope who ever works there has a little house of there own, a place to fill with memories...
... lets go back to the home, it’s starting to get chilly out here.
Lark Wood Works: Fine wood crafts
http://www.larkwoodworks.com/
http://www.larkwoodworks.com/
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NicoMoreno
- Posts: 2100
- Joined: Tue Jun 26, 2001 6:00 pm
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- Please enter the next number in sequence: 8
- Tell us something.: I just wanted to update my location... 100 characters is a lot and I don't really want to type so much just to edit my profile...
- Location: St. Louis, MO
Monday was a sad day... So today I wrote a lament: Song of the Blackberry I call it....
There is a story to go with it. (As there always are with Irish songs)
Back in the beginning of summer, when the little people were just coming out of hiding, a special kind of fruit started to be grown on the RIM of the world.
This fruit wasn't like all the other fruit growing in the gardens in the country. This was a very special kind. It had all the little people curious: "Why do YOU have it?", "What does it DO?", "Where did you get it from?", and all sorts of other questions.
My relationships with this magical berry started in July. It took some getting used to at first. The cute little dance it did every so often really surprised me. It was hard to use, but quickly became second nature. I tried not to push its buttons inproperly. I knew it couldn't take that. I soon realized that this dark little berry and I were quite inseperable.
This made the first hint of trouble extra poignant. It was in August that it happened. I had to go away, "North", they said, for a couple of days. I had to get someone else to look after it for me. "Goodbye, little Blackberry" I said. "Be good for her. Don't forget me!"
Of course it didn't. We had ever so much fun for the rest of August. But the sad day was coming, when I had to give it up. But wait! A reprieve? Yes indeed!! I was given the chance to keep it for a while longer. Our fun was never greater. Our bonding complete.
Then the day came: "It must come back to me," he said, "Monday."
And so our last weekend was spent in quiet and reflection. And Monday, I returned my little Blackberry. No longer will we spend time conversing, talking, and dancing together.
So today I wrote this lament: "Song of the Blackberry"
And every time I feel that phantom vibration, or sit at a computer to check my email, I'll remember.
There is a story to go with it. (As there always are with Irish songs)
Back in the beginning of summer, when the little people were just coming out of hiding, a special kind of fruit started to be grown on the RIM of the world.
This fruit wasn't like all the other fruit growing in the gardens in the country. This was a very special kind. It had all the little people curious: "Why do YOU have it?", "What does it DO?", "Where did you get it from?", and all sorts of other questions.
My relationships with this magical berry started in July. It took some getting used to at first. The cute little dance it did every so often really surprised me. It was hard to use, but quickly became second nature. I tried not to push its buttons inproperly. I knew it couldn't take that. I soon realized that this dark little berry and I were quite inseperable.
This made the first hint of trouble extra poignant. It was in August that it happened. I had to go away, "North", they said, for a couple of days. I had to get someone else to look after it for me. "Goodbye, little Blackberry" I said. "Be good for her. Don't forget me!"
Of course it didn't. We had ever so much fun for the rest of August. But the sad day was coming, when I had to give it up. But wait! A reprieve? Yes indeed!! I was given the chance to keep it for a while longer. Our fun was never greater. Our bonding complete.
Then the day came: "It must come back to me," he said, "Monday."
And so our last weekend was spent in quiet and reflection. And Monday, I returned my little Blackberry. No longer will we spend time conversing, talking, and dancing together.
So today I wrote this lament: "Song of the Blackberry"
And every time I feel that phantom vibration, or sit at a computer to check my email, I'll remember.
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FJohnSharp
- Posts: 3050
- Joined: Thu May 30, 2002 6:00 pm
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- Please enter the next number in sequence: 8
- Tell us something.: I used to be a regular then I took up the bassoon. Bassoons don't have a lot of chiff. Not really, I have always been a drummer, and my C&F years were when I was a little tired of the drums. Now I'm back playing drums. I mist the C&F years, though.
- Location: Kent, Ohio
NOT an entry--just for fun
This is dedicated to Dale and his submission guidelines
I have one dog (alive) and one cat (dead), and I live with my grandparents (both alive, but only temporarily (of course, aren't we all alive only temporarily?)). I keep the cat in the freezer in the basement as a hedge against a food shortage or a sudden (but not unexpected) week of being locked there. Again.
The dog has cancer. The vet told me it's incurable. Just like Mom's. Coping is hard.
I keep hoping my grandparents will catch cancer from my dog, as I have been letting him lick their plates before I serve them their peanut butter and marshmallow fluff sandwiches for lunch (which they seem to enjoy to excess). They're mean to me and they were mean to my parents (and when I say mean, I mean average mean, like in the middle) and the sooner they die, the sooner they'll be gone. Then I can get all their money and go to the movies every night.
The other day I was in their attic which is full of grandparenty things like an old sewing machine (which I imagine Grandma using to teach my mother how to sew as a little girl (awww)) and some hat boxes full of hats (which I imagine my mother using to play dress-up when she was little (awww)) and an over/under twelve gauge (which I imagine was the one my mother used to kill my father just before the cancer got her (we buried them on the same day)). I happened upon some old photos, which made me cry (as you can imagine) because all I wanted was for things to be the way they used to be, which is me and Mom (with no cancer) and Dad (without the big hole in his chest) and my dog (also without cancer) and my cat (somewhat warmer and alive), living in the trailer,
I was in love once, to a waitress named Samantha, who use to bring me my favorite lunch (baked hot dogs on toast) without even asking, until I asked her to marry me. The next day the owner (her husband) told me I couldn't eat there any more. I still have a picture of her I took with a digital camera I snuck under my jacket.
Anyway, I miss the old days and, if there's anything I've learned that I can pass on it's this: Don't take a frozen dead cat to the movies.
This is dedicated to Dale and his submission guidelines
I have one dog (alive) and one cat (dead), and I live with my grandparents (both alive, but only temporarily (of course, aren't we all alive only temporarily?)). I keep the cat in the freezer in the basement as a hedge against a food shortage or a sudden (but not unexpected) week of being locked there. Again.
The dog has cancer. The vet told me it's incurable. Just like Mom's. Coping is hard.
I keep hoping my grandparents will catch cancer from my dog, as I have been letting him lick their plates before I serve them their peanut butter and marshmallow fluff sandwiches for lunch (which they seem to enjoy to excess). They're mean to me and they were mean to my parents (and when I say mean, I mean average mean, like in the middle) and the sooner they die, the sooner they'll be gone. Then I can get all their money and go to the movies every night.
The other day I was in their attic which is full of grandparenty things like an old sewing machine (which I imagine Grandma using to teach my mother how to sew as a little girl (awww)) and some hat boxes full of hats (which I imagine my mother using to play dress-up when she was little (awww)) and an over/under twelve gauge (which I imagine was the one my mother used to kill my father just before the cancer got her (we buried them on the same day)). I happened upon some old photos, which made me cry (as you can imagine) because all I wanted was for things to be the way they used to be, which is me and Mom (with no cancer) and Dad (without the big hole in his chest) and my dog (also without cancer) and my cat (somewhat warmer and alive), living in the trailer,
I was in love once, to a waitress named Samantha, who use to bring me my favorite lunch (baked hot dogs on toast) without even asking, until I asked her to marry me. The next day the owner (her husband) told me I couldn't eat there any more. I still have a picture of her I took with a digital camera I snuck under my jacket.
Anyway, I miss the old days and, if there's anything I've learned that I can pass on it's this: Don't take a frozen dead cat to the movies.
"Meon an phobail a thogail trid an chultur"
(The people’s spirit is raised through culture)
Suburban Symphony
(The people’s spirit is raised through culture)
Suburban Symphony
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IDAwHOa
- Posts: 3069
- Joined: Fri Jul 11, 2003 9:04 am
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- Please enter the next number in sequence: 8
- Tell us something.: I play whistles. I sell whistles. This seems just a BIT excessive to the cause. A sentence or two is WAY less than 100 characters.
I'm sorry, are you supposed to be laughing out loud at such a sad story?FJohnSharp wrote:NOT an entry--just for fun
This is dedicated to Dale and his submission guidelines
I have one dog (alive) and one cat (dead), and I live with my grandparents (both alive, but only temporarily (of course, aren't we all alive only temporarily?)). I keep the cat in the freezer in the basement as a hedge against a food shortage or a sudden (but not unexpected) week of being locked there. Again.
Steven - IDAwHOa - Wood Rocks
"If you keep asking questions.... You keep getting answers." - Miss Frizzle - The Magic School Bus
"If you keep asking questions.... You keep getting answers." - Miss Frizzle - The Magic School Bus
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FJohnSharp
- Posts: 3050
- Joined: Thu May 30, 2002 6:00 pm
- antispam: No
- Please enter the next number in sequence: 8
- Tell us something.: I used to be a regular then I took up the bassoon. Bassoons don't have a lot of chiff. Not really, I have always been a drummer, and my C&F years were when I was a little tired of the drums. Now I'm back playing drums. I mist the C&F years, though.
- Location: Kent, Ohio
One would hope.NorCalMusician wrote:I'm sorry, are you supposed to be laughing out loud at such a sad story?FJohnSharp wrote:NOT an entry--just for fun
This is dedicated to Dale and his submission guidelines
I have one dog (alive) and one cat (dead), and I live with my grandparents (both alive, but only temporarily (of course, aren't we all alive only temporarily?)). I keep the cat in the freezer in the basement as a hedge against a food shortage or a sudden (but not unexpected) week of being locked there. Again.
"Meon an phobail a thogail trid an chultur"
(The people’s spirit is raised through culture)
Suburban Symphony
(The people’s spirit is raised through culture)
Suburban Symphony
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Bloomfield
- Posts: 8225
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- Location: Location: Location:
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Will O'B
- Posts: 1169
- Joined: Thu Apr 15, 2004 12:53 pm
- Please enter the next number in sequence: 1
- Location: The Other Side Of The Glen (i.e. A Long Way From Tipperary)
- Contact:
An embarrassing confession (at least on this thread): I played around at trying to be one for a time. Or at least that's what I made the school administrators believe each time they came around with the pay checks.emmline wrote:or threatened...did anyone here have a writing teacher?Will O'B wrote:Wow. There's some really good stuff being posted here. It's enough to make any writing teacher proud.
Will O'Ban
Will O'Ban
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!
