Introduction: In a field in the heart of _______ grows a splendorous white flower. Its powder-white petals unfurl around midjune, and blooming with it, a revived memory of struggle, turmoil, and death. You may ask, but only if you listen hard enough, will it tell you its story.
This is kind of starting at the end of the story, like the exercise we did in class the other day. The white flower is in a field that the boy this story is about grew up in, and returned to every night in hopes of finding a better world. It represented his hope. When he dies, he is buried here, and this flower grows over his grave.
Conflict: The boy is Jewish and growing up in Germany. His family had before this time lived out in the country as farmers, but when they go bankrupt, they are forced to move into the city so that both the mother and father could obtain jobs. They live in a large apartment building with many, many other people, and it is difficult for the boy to get used to, but after a while he begins to like it. He meets new people, including a girl he begins to like. He is 15.
Complication: Word starts to spread that Hitler, their newfound savior of a leader is starting to kill people off. His family hears by radio that Hitler is planning on 'getting rid of' some select people in society that would make things much better for them all as a whole. This is the beginning of the 2nd World War. This is by far the most involved part of the story, but the situation becomes to get so bad that his family must hide out in their apartment. When the Nazis being taking people out of their homes to move them into ghettos, the boy decides to join the army. He joins forces with Hitler, his enemy, to ensure the safety of his family.
Climax: He puts on the mask of being just another one of the parts of Hitlers child legions, and even starts to believe he is really one of them. Only when he sees one of the girls he used to go to school with in a concentration camp, skeletal and dying, does he realize he is wrong. He brings himself around and snaps himself into place, recognizing he is Jewish, and does care about the people he has been torturing for the past few years. He knows that he is one of them. He tries to help her escape, only to watch her get shot down right in front of his eyes.
Falling Action: He asks to be transferred, and is moved to the less front-line job of policing the streets of civilian towns. He is informed that his mother is sick. When he goes to visit her, he realizes that she is dying, and quickly. His father and little brother had died of some sickness during the winter, and she was also sick from it. She had outlasted them. She asks him to bury her in the field where they used to live, with the flowers and the rest of nature. Away from all this poverty and destruction. He obliges, and when she dies, takes a car out with her body to bury her.
Resolution: When he comes to the field, it is completely war-torn, barren and destroyed. Nowhere near the field that he had conjured up every night in his imagination to bring some sort of serenity to his heart. He digs a grave for his mother. He looks around in despair, and sees what his world has come to. Feels the blood of all the people he had killed on his hands. Memories flood back, and in his despair, he raises his gun to his temple; the gun that had taken so many lives before in his hands, took his also. The flower represents his story.
Sunday, April 8, 2007
Setting Exercise 4
The Hospital
She walks down the hallway, her heeled shoes clicking on the linoleum flooring. She holds a chart in her hands; a bundle of papers all nicely wrapped into one organized life. Tabs of different hues stick out in every direction. Red for flow sheets, blue for lab reports, pink for radiation therapy, purple for medication history, yellow for personal information and contacts and so on. Her white coat billows around her as she walks with purpose, exposing her pink flowered blouse and navy work pants. Her hair bounces in coils of black, unwinding and rewinding with every step. The perfumed trail she leaves behind is just as light as her appearances.
The hallway ahead stretches on forever, it seems, white walls and grey floor closing around like a cylindrical tube getting ever smaller and smaller. Like a funnel, leading everyone who walks down it to be sucked in. She slows for a minute to allow two nurses by. They are pushing what was once a man in a wheelchair across the hall to take a shower, one of them toting his IV drip behind him. This is what this place reduces some people to; beings living merely off machinery, some unable to even speak long enough to plead that they be left alone to follow Life’s bidding.
The smell envelops her, and not even her perfume can fend it off. The smell of hastily made food, and a chemical clean. Unnatural, this is a smell most often associated with death. This sad and lonely smell that accompanies rooms upon rooms of lives. One after another, this one is occupied by an old woman sitting in her bed and staring blankly at the television. The reason it is on is no longer for entertainment, but to keep her from going insane with loneliness. The next room has an empty bed where just yesterday a man slumbered.
At the Nurse’s station, she asks where to be directed to find this person, as she shows the nurse at the desk the name on her chart. "Wait one moment please Doctor, I will check for you," she coos as she walks away. At the soft click of the door shutting, she turns around and looks up at the monitors on either side of the nurses’ station. Black screens with green mountain-like lines blipping across them, each with a label underneath. Arden Johnson, 64. Cancer patient, vitals stable. No matter how morbid or outlandish the thought, she was watching someone’s life. A person who had been reduced to nothing but a name on a screen, and that green, undulating line blipping across the screen.
"Room 354, right down the hall that way and on the left." She looks back down at the chart, and says "I’ve got some lab work for you also..." and sifts through a pile under the letter T. She pulls out a white, black and green sheet of paper reading Quest Diagnostics across the top, and says with a smile, "Good luck."
The doctor tuns away and walks down the hallway, reading the piece of paper. She stalls in front of the door, her hand on the cold, smooth, silver knob. She wonders how exactly she is to tell a man he is going to die. With a twist of her wrist, the door is opened and she walks in.
She walks down the hallway, her heeled shoes clicking on the linoleum flooring. She holds a chart in her hands; a bundle of papers all nicely wrapped into one organized life. Tabs of different hues stick out in every direction. Red for flow sheets, blue for lab reports, pink for radiation therapy, purple for medication history, yellow for personal information and contacts and so on. Her white coat billows around her as she walks with purpose, exposing her pink flowered blouse and navy work pants. Her hair bounces in coils of black, unwinding and rewinding with every step. The perfumed trail she leaves behind is just as light as her appearances.
The hallway ahead stretches on forever, it seems, white walls and grey floor closing around like a cylindrical tube getting ever smaller and smaller. Like a funnel, leading everyone who walks down it to be sucked in. She slows for a minute to allow two nurses by. They are pushing what was once a man in a wheelchair across the hall to take a shower, one of them toting his IV drip behind him. This is what this place reduces some people to; beings living merely off machinery, some unable to even speak long enough to plead that they be left alone to follow Life’s bidding.
The smell envelops her, and not even her perfume can fend it off. The smell of hastily made food, and a chemical clean. Unnatural, this is a smell most often associated with death. This sad and lonely smell that accompanies rooms upon rooms of lives. One after another, this one is occupied by an old woman sitting in her bed and staring blankly at the television. The reason it is on is no longer for entertainment, but to keep her from going insane with loneliness. The next room has an empty bed where just yesterday a man slumbered.
At the Nurse’s station, she asks where to be directed to find this person, as she shows the nurse at the desk the name on her chart. "Wait one moment please Doctor, I will check for you," she coos as she walks away. At the soft click of the door shutting, she turns around and looks up at the monitors on either side of the nurses’ station. Black screens with green mountain-like lines blipping across them, each with a label underneath. Arden Johnson, 64. Cancer patient, vitals stable. No matter how morbid or outlandish the thought, she was watching someone’s life. A person who had been reduced to nothing but a name on a screen, and that green, undulating line blipping across the screen.
"Room 354, right down the hall that way and on the left." She looks back down at the chart, and says "I’ve got some lab work for you also..." and sifts through a pile under the letter T. She pulls out a white, black and green sheet of paper reading Quest Diagnostics across the top, and says with a smile, "Good luck."
The doctor tuns away and walks down the hallway, reading the piece of paper. She stalls in front of the door, her hand on the cold, smooth, silver knob. She wonders how exactly she is to tell a man he is going to die. With a twist of her wrist, the door is opened and she walks in.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Setting Exercise 2- Creating Character Through Setting
The Bedroom
As the lights are turned on, the room is illuminated. This is no ordinary room. The walls are painted blue from floor to ceiling, but in varying shades. One side is painted as day, a light periwinkle sky interrupted only by the occasional sponge-painted cloud. The other side is painted a dark, royal blue, gold stars twinkling down in groups, twirling in clusters and varying in intensity. The centerpiece of the ceiling is a moon and sun combined, the minty silver of the moon contrasting with the hot white and yellow swirls of the sun. Each stationary, representing the balance between dark and light that is natural in the universe.
All over the walls are mementos of the past, a poster of Alice in Wonderland, the Cheshire Cat orange and black smiling down from his perch in a gnarled tree branch. A dark-haired Alice walks through the forest of mushrooms, a bottle pleading “Drink me!” at her feet. A bottle cap nailed to the wall orders to ‘Hide for a few days,’ like a fortune cookie foretelling of impending doom. An oversize pirate flag that functions as a curtain for the sunroof blows in and out in the slight night breeze. The roses that act as a border at the top of the wall each hold a memory. One a congratulations, one a valentine’s gift, and yet another a 16th birthday decoration taken home to dry as a mark of the occasion. The list goes on.
The breeze continues and disturbs a swatch of fabric on the wall, sending the shards of glass glued down in the shape of a heart ringing like shells, picked up at the shore. The door pushes open, and in comes a German Shepherd, making her way towards the red Papisan chair in the corner. She hoists herself up, and slowly starts to drift to sleep.
As the lights are turned on, the room is illuminated. This is no ordinary room. The walls are painted blue from floor to ceiling, but in varying shades. One side is painted as day, a light periwinkle sky interrupted only by the occasional sponge-painted cloud. The other side is painted a dark, royal blue, gold stars twinkling down in groups, twirling in clusters and varying in intensity. The centerpiece of the ceiling is a moon and sun combined, the minty silver of the moon contrasting with the hot white and yellow swirls of the sun. Each stationary, representing the balance between dark and light that is natural in the universe.
All over the walls are mementos of the past, a poster of Alice in Wonderland, the Cheshire Cat orange and black smiling down from his perch in a gnarled tree branch. A dark-haired Alice walks through the forest of mushrooms, a bottle pleading “Drink me!” at her feet. A bottle cap nailed to the wall orders to ‘Hide for a few days,’ like a fortune cookie foretelling of impending doom. An oversize pirate flag that functions as a curtain for the sunroof blows in and out in the slight night breeze. The roses that act as a border at the top of the wall each hold a memory. One a congratulations, one a valentine’s gift, and yet another a 16th birthday decoration taken home to dry as a mark of the occasion. The list goes on.
The breeze continues and disturbs a swatch of fabric on the wall, sending the shards of glass glued down in the shape of a heart ringing like shells, picked up at the shore. The door pushes open, and in comes a German Shepherd, making her way towards the red Papisan chair in the corner. She hoists herself up, and slowly starts to drift to sleep.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
First Line... Last Line...
The Great Disappointment
Some secrets are best kept buried, dusty as old bones. This she said over and over to herself in her head. She couldn’t help but feel betrayed. The one person that she had learned to love and trust, was the one to hurt her. Why couldn’t he understand that some things mean so much to her? Something so little that may seem miniscule to him may mean the world to her. He said it was useless. Pointless. Meaningless. Something just for fun. But really, it wasn’t to her. It was something beautiful. Something that she could pour all her emotion into, and have him understand with just a glance. Just a touch, and not a single word spoken. A creation of her own.
How is it that he could not see how it affected her? She wept, screamed, and cursed, yet she couldn’t find the words to explain how she felt. Just a picture, just a touch, a single sound was all she could think of. Sentience is not a gift everyone is presented with, and she understood that. There was no way she could expect him to understand what she felt. She felt so guilty of this disappointment so deep, it cut her in two. Some secrets are best kept buried, dusty as old bones.
Some secrets are best kept buried, dusty as old bones. This she said over and over to herself in her head. She couldn’t help but feel betrayed. The one person that she had learned to love and trust, was the one to hurt her. Why couldn’t he understand that some things mean so much to her? Something so little that may seem miniscule to him may mean the world to her. He said it was useless. Pointless. Meaningless. Something just for fun. But really, it wasn’t to her. It was something beautiful. Something that she could pour all her emotion into, and have him understand with just a glance. Just a touch, and not a single word spoken. A creation of her own.
How is it that he could not see how it affected her? She wept, screamed, and cursed, yet she couldn’t find the words to explain how she felt. Just a picture, just a touch, a single sound was all she could think of. Sentience is not a gift everyone is presented with, and she understood that. There was no way she could expect him to understand what she felt. She felt so guilty of this disappointment so deep, it cut her in two. Some secrets are best kept buried, dusty as old bones.
Setting Exercise 1
Teddy Bear
This place smells of emptiness. The slate floor is cold on my hands and knees as I crawl around, giving off a smell both musky and old. Small pieces of cement from between the cracks stick into the palms of my hands, and scrape my knees, yet I continue crawling. I’ve lost him. The floor is red, blue, green, and even yellow in some places in the light. My shadow casts a grey figure across the floor, leaving it once again, desolate. The emptiness is overwhelming. Each move I make echoes in the deep crevasses of the wooden ceiling, so high above my head it might as well be the sky. I look up at the brown panels, the combination of the fans and the intricate electric lights set shadows playing across the ceiling. They look like octopuses, tentacles twisting like tendrils of hair, whipping in the wind.
I continue to crawl beneath the pews, the old creaking wooden bottoms grazing and scratching my back like sandpaper as I try my best to stay away. There. Beneath the next pew, I spot him. I reach him and pick him up, embracing him close to my face. I take a deep breath and breathe in the fresh smell of laundry detergent. I close my eyes and relax.
Defeated faces, some sneering at the trick, some sad for having lost the game, gaze down on me as I walk by. They are all cloaked in loose-fitting robes, tied around their waists with plain ropes. Red, blue, yellow, and one white. Bare footed they walk through their panels. I think of how sad it must be to have only one emotion expressible throughout time. I forgive them, because I understand the reasoning behind their stained-glass masks, smiling, frowning, expressions of disappointment and degradation.
This place smells of emptiness. The slate floor is cold on my hands and knees as I crawl around, giving off a smell both musky and old. Small pieces of cement from between the cracks stick into the palms of my hands, and scrape my knees, yet I continue crawling. I’ve lost him. The floor is red, blue, green, and even yellow in some places in the light. My shadow casts a grey figure across the floor, leaving it once again, desolate. The emptiness is overwhelming. Each move I make echoes in the deep crevasses of the wooden ceiling, so high above my head it might as well be the sky. I look up at the brown panels, the combination of the fans and the intricate electric lights set shadows playing across the ceiling. They look like octopuses, tentacles twisting like tendrils of hair, whipping in the wind.
I continue to crawl beneath the pews, the old creaking wooden bottoms grazing and scratching my back like sandpaper as I try my best to stay away. There. Beneath the next pew, I spot him. I reach him and pick him up, embracing him close to my face. I take a deep breath and breathe in the fresh smell of laundry detergent. I close my eyes and relax.
Defeated faces, some sneering at the trick, some sad for having lost the game, gaze down on me as I walk by. They are all cloaked in loose-fitting robes, tied around their waists with plain ropes. Red, blue, yellow, and one white. Bare footed they walk through their panels. I think of how sad it must be to have only one emotion expressible throughout time. I forgive them, because I understand the reasoning behind their stained-glass masks, smiling, frowning, expressions of disappointment and degradation.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Short Story
The Motor Bike
“Daddy can I have my toy back?” asked the little boy, sitting at the kitchen table. “Now why would you ask for something like that? I’m holding it,” said his father in reply. “But I want to play--” he stopped short as his father smashed his spider man action figure to pieces on the floor in front of him, stepping on the tiny arms and legs, breaking bones with the toe of his dirty brown boot. The boy looked up at his father with tears forming in his eyes, and like the water breaking over the top of a dam, started to cry.
His father’s face contorted into an expression of disgust, and he raised a large, callused hand. “Don’t touch him!” a panicked voice exclaimed timidly from the background. Liz, his wife, stood in the kitchen over the beginnings of Sunday afternoon’s lunch.
Gerson raised himself out of his chair and screamed “Don’t you tell me what to do!” he picked up a piece of mail off the counter in front of her, “You have my name! You are raising my kid and living under my roof! If you had wanted a man to boss around, you should have thought about that before you married me!” He threw the piece of mail at her and turned to walk towards the door. “I loved you when I married you,” she said. She turned her back to him as she walked upstairs to quiet her screeching 4-year-old, who had run to his room for safety. As she took the first step up, a strong, rough hand grabbed her neck from the side. He tightened his grip, and slammed her head against the wall as he yelled “Don’t you ever insult me again, you ungrateful whore!” and with a last shove, he tramped out the door red-faced, the crooked screen door bouncing off its frame behind him.
She heard him start his motorbike, and she was left sobbing in the stairwell, each breath raking through her lungs like nails down canvas. As she listened to him roar away, she knew that like every other night, he was headed to the bar down town with his friends Taylor and Jane. Like every other night, he would return home fuming and full of that fire called alcohol, in need of someone to take it all out on. If never for a confidante or someone to console him, for that atleast, he would turn to her.
Her son made it down the stairs, and settled in her lap. She stroked his hair as she calmed herself. He looked up at her with his big brown eyes, and she saw the bruises all over his arms. That was when she realized, enough was enough. “ ‘Kay you… we’re goin’ out. Get your sneaks and I’ll put them on for you.” She picked her car keys off the side table and held her baby’s hand as they walked out the door. She sat him in his carseat, strapped him in well, and closed the door. She leaned against the car door and sighed, thinking of her decision. It weighed on her like a million pounds, but she knew it was the right thing. She knew that he would never agree to a divorce, after all, who would take care of him then? That would just make things worse. So this was the only way. “This is the only way… this is the only way,” she repeated to herself like a mantra. She got into the van, and started it. They rolled down the gravel driveway, the white van leaving a wake of dust.
She drove down the road, and stopped the van three driveways down from the Coopers’. Sure enough, in no time at all the three of them, Gerson, Jane, and Taylor were on their way out the door. “What are we doing, Mommy?” her son asked. “We’re waiting. Just be patient and maybe after we’ll go out for food. Play with your toy, okay?” She watched the three of them as they rode down the road, and as soon as she felt it safe, she started after them.
She followed them as they drove through town for a while. Jane and Taylor were in front, Gerson trailing behind on his beloved Harley. Liz grimaced at the thought of how he cherished that thing more than her and her son combined. He would never hit his bike.
The traffic light ahead turned red, and Gerson slowed, while Jane and Taylor hit the gas to beat it. This is the only way… this is my chance, she repeated over and over to herself. “Honey, close your eyes for a minute,” she told her son. She looked at the man who had been the singular generator of five years worth of pain and terror. She accelerated. She closed her eyes and waited for the impact. The crunch of metal on her front bumper, and the soft thud of Gerson’s body hitting the top of her car told her that she was free. The car behind her honked its horn and swerved, and she kept driving. Leaving the chaos of her actions behind her. She was free. “Okay baby,” she told her son, “You can open your eyes now. Everything is going to be okay."
“Daddy can I have my toy back?” asked the little boy, sitting at the kitchen table. “Now why would you ask for something like that? I’m holding it,” said his father in reply. “But I want to play--” he stopped short as his father smashed his spider man action figure to pieces on the floor in front of him, stepping on the tiny arms and legs, breaking bones with the toe of his dirty brown boot. The boy looked up at his father with tears forming in his eyes, and like the water breaking over the top of a dam, started to cry.
His father’s face contorted into an expression of disgust, and he raised a large, callused hand. “Don’t touch him!” a panicked voice exclaimed timidly from the background. Liz, his wife, stood in the kitchen over the beginnings of Sunday afternoon’s lunch.
Gerson raised himself out of his chair and screamed “Don’t you tell me what to do!” he picked up a piece of mail off the counter in front of her, “You have my name! You are raising my kid and living under my roof! If you had wanted a man to boss around, you should have thought about that before you married me!” He threw the piece of mail at her and turned to walk towards the door. “I loved you when I married you,” she said. She turned her back to him as she walked upstairs to quiet her screeching 4-year-old, who had run to his room for safety. As she took the first step up, a strong, rough hand grabbed her neck from the side. He tightened his grip, and slammed her head against the wall as he yelled “Don’t you ever insult me again, you ungrateful whore!” and with a last shove, he tramped out the door red-faced, the crooked screen door bouncing off its frame behind him.
She heard him start his motorbike, and she was left sobbing in the stairwell, each breath raking through her lungs like nails down canvas. As she listened to him roar away, she knew that like every other night, he was headed to the bar down town with his friends Taylor and Jane. Like every other night, he would return home fuming and full of that fire called alcohol, in need of someone to take it all out on. If never for a confidante or someone to console him, for that atleast, he would turn to her.
Her son made it down the stairs, and settled in her lap. She stroked his hair as she calmed herself. He looked up at her with his big brown eyes, and she saw the bruises all over his arms. That was when she realized, enough was enough. “ ‘Kay you… we’re goin’ out. Get your sneaks and I’ll put them on for you.” She picked her car keys off the side table and held her baby’s hand as they walked out the door. She sat him in his carseat, strapped him in well, and closed the door. She leaned against the car door and sighed, thinking of her decision. It weighed on her like a million pounds, but she knew it was the right thing. She knew that he would never agree to a divorce, after all, who would take care of him then? That would just make things worse. So this was the only way. “This is the only way… this is the only way,” she repeated to herself like a mantra. She got into the van, and started it. They rolled down the gravel driveway, the white van leaving a wake of dust.
She drove down the road, and stopped the van three driveways down from the Coopers’. Sure enough, in no time at all the three of them, Gerson, Jane, and Taylor were on their way out the door. “What are we doing, Mommy?” her son asked. “We’re waiting. Just be patient and maybe after we’ll go out for food. Play with your toy, okay?” She watched the three of them as they rode down the road, and as soon as she felt it safe, she started after them.
She followed them as they drove through town for a while. Jane and Taylor were in front, Gerson trailing behind on his beloved Harley. Liz grimaced at the thought of how he cherished that thing more than her and her son combined. He would never hit his bike.
The traffic light ahead turned red, and Gerson slowed, while Jane and Taylor hit the gas to beat it. This is the only way… this is my chance, she repeated over and over to herself. “Honey, close your eyes for a minute,” she told her son. She looked at the man who had been the singular generator of five years worth of pain and terror. She accelerated. She closed her eyes and waited for the impact. The crunch of metal on her front bumper, and the soft thud of Gerson’s body hitting the top of her car told her that she was free. The car behind her honked its horn and swerved, and she kept driving. Leaving the chaos of her actions behind her. She was free. “Okay baby,” she told her son, “You can open your eyes now. Everything is going to be okay."
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Two Truths and a Lie
The Greatest Fall
I walked into the gym in my blue camo pants and a pink tank top, long dark ponytail swishing behind me. I surveyed the large room, ceilings extending 25 feet up from the ground, all covered in different shaped and colored blob-like hand holds. Ropes ran from floor to ceiling and back again, and I watched in amazement as climbers crept like spiders up the wall… with such agility and precision. I watched as one of them reached a long hand towards a small hold above it’s head, other legs and arms straining against the weight of gravity. It went for the hold, and stuck it for a moment, but slipped. I watched the man fall and gasped, but just as I thought it was over for him, the rope went taught and his partner, belaying him from the ground, caught him.
My Uncle Mike and I signed in along with my brothers, my two cousins, and my aunt, and together we advanced towards the nearest picnic bench. I remember thinking how funny it was to see a picnic table inside, but then again, how often do you see a rock wall inside? We donned our shoes and harnesses, and together walked towards one of the easier walls. I stepped over the raised wooden border separating the concrete floor from the gravel-padded floors beneath the walls.
After trying a few walls and watching my brothers climb them with just as much ease, I decided I had to show them up by doing something a little more challenging. I asked my uncle to point something out and if he would belay me, and he obliged. I tied in to another wall, and he got his belay ready.
“Belay ready?” I asked
“On belay,” he responded.
“Climbing,” I told him.
“Climb away,”… and I was off.
About two thirds of the way up the wall, my arms started getting a little shaky. I was straining to hold onto the small holds with the very tips of my fingers, but they hurt. My toes hurt from being jammed into the small, pointed shoes, and I looked down to my uncle. I saw the top of his head, way far down. He looked so small! Then I realized how far up I was, and that I wouldn’t be able to reach the top without falling. Remembering seeing the man fall off the other wall, I pictured that happening to me, and panicked. I asked my uncle to let me down, I couldn’t make it. He just looked up at me and shook his head, shifting his weight to a more comfortable position. I told him again, I wanted to come down. I was tired. He said, “No! Don’t be such a baby,” and turned away. I got angry at that point, and started climbing again. I pulled and pushed myself upwards with all the strength I had left, my hands and arms shaking from the effort. One hold away and I would be at the top.
At last! Victory! I looked down to see my uncle smiling at me. He told me to sit back, and he’d let me down. I did, and he let me down slowly as I kicked off the wall. About five feet down, he let go. I fell towards the ground, still thinking about the spidery man on the other wall. Would Uncle Mike catch me? I remember hitting the ground with my feet and my hands, the belay catching just in time to stop the majority of my weight from crushing my arms. I stood up shakily, hearing my uncle’s laughter, and picked the gravel out of my hands. I untied myself, and thought that never again would I let someone belay me.
Germany
I sat in the restaurant staring at my swan-shaped baked potato. Everyone around me was laughing and having a good time, and completely ignoring me. My cousin Victoria had come along with us for dinner, and she had seemed to replace me. She was talking to my father in German, and joking about his parents, both her and my grandparents, whom I had never met because they refused to see my family because we aren’t Aryan. Atleast not us kids and my mother. I decided to leave.
“I’m going to go on a walk… to take pictures,” I told them.
“All right,” smiled my mother, merely glancing at me before turning back to the conversation.
The clock tower tolled nine o’clock as I left the restaurant, and I set of in the first direction I saw. Any way I looked there were shops, because we were in the shopping and touristy part of Munich. I walked in search of something interesting until the bell tolled 10:30. I glanced up to find my bearings, and realized I had no idea where I had gotten myself. I scanned up and down the streets, but there was not a soul in sight. Figures, it being ten thirty and all the shops having been closed for atleast two hours already. I read a few street signs as I walked down the road, trying to recognize: Freidrichstraße, König Straße, Bismarkstraße, Branitzer Platz… I didn’t see anything I recognized, and it was getting late. I was lost in Munich , without a map, and not able to speak German. I couldn’t even remember the name of the hotel we were staying at, nor the restaurant where we had eaten.
I tried to backtrack through streets I knew. How could I not see the Neues Rathaus from here? Our hotel was right near there. I tried to find something I could climb to see the horizon better… but with no luck. I found a fountain and sat down on its edge, admiring the beautifully carved stone lions next to the spouting fountains: the symbol of Germany. I watched as a couple walked passed by on the other side of the street, no longer so eager to ask if they knew where I could go. “Wo ist die Nues Rathaus, bitte?” was getting kind of old. All the directions, “Links hier… rechts dort…” were blurring together and much too difficult for me to follow. I watched the cobblestone sparkle in the changing light reflecting off the rippling water and noticed trolley tracks. I looked up as I remembered that there were tracks near the Neues Rathaus. I got up and walked to the edge, one question remaining: which way to go? I decided to walk to the right.
I followed the trolley tracks for what seemed like hours until I heard the tolling of a church bell sound 11 o’clock. I followed the sound into the middle of a plaza, and realized where I was. I was right outside the restaurant! I looked in the window at the table everyone had been sitting at, and realized that another family had replaced them. By the looks of their plates they had been there a while. I wandered back through the streets and with much relief found myself back at the hotel. I took my key from the night porter, and headed to bed where I found everyone sound asleep.
Last Resort
When I was younger, I was much more of an outside-girl. I was the one wearing boy shorts and skate t-shirts with a pocketknife attached to my belt loop, climbing trees, rocks, and adventuring. The adventures I had in the 26 acre plot of land my house was built on were endless.
One day, I was exploring the woods when I noticed a white spot in the distance. I walked closer, and near the edge of the stream (well… it was only a stream when it rained) I found a pile of scattered bird feathers. Intrigued, I looked around just to see even more of the similar piles. I followed the trail to a huge rock formation half way down the mountain face in front of my house. I climbed around the rocks for a little while, taking on whatever challenge showed itself. I noticed some sort of animal waste on the ground… maybe it was a fox, or a mountain cat, or a coyote. My imagination ran wild.
I came upon what looked like an entrance to a den, and looked inside. I could only imagine what kind of animal lived in there. I shone my flashlight into the hole to try and see what was back there, and noticed two green, reflecting eyes staring back at me. Surprised, I continued to look. They stared at me for half a minute or so, until a loud noise came out from inside the hole like nothing I could have ever imagined. It sounded almost like a dying cat, but like a scream… rasping and threatening, yet pleading at the same time. In an instant, I found myself face to face with a fox.
I jumped back onto my feet as it came out of the hole, and grimaced at the sight. It’s fur was falling out. Missing in some places because of mange of some sort. It looked terrible… It showed its jowls and continued to scream at me, but I felt nothing but pity for the poor animal. I could tell that something within it had gone mad… because it wasn’t at all afraid of me.
Unsure of what to do, I thought back on everything I could remember about dealing with wild animals. Most books had said not to move… but the fox was advancing, however slowly, towards me. It also looked like it had rabies, and I did NOT want to be bitten. The only other thing I could think of was to throw a rock at it, or poke it with a stick, but I didn’t want to anger it. I had never dealt with anything like this and didn’t want to risk it. Instead, I did the last thing I could think to do.
I reached up and with all the strength I had, pulled myself straight up into the branches of the pine tree above me, scratchy bark grating into the skin of my fingers. I strained and got myself over the edge, balanced, to safety. I climbed up a few branches, just to be safe, and watched the activity below from my safe point. The fox was barking its sickly bark, and circling the trunk of the tree. It staggered around, not looking up at all, almost as if it forgot what it was searching for.
There I waited until the sun set, when I was sure it was gone.
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