Linda's Literary Home

Tag: short story

  • Graveyard Whistler Features Stoney’s One Act Play

    Image 1: “Whistling past the graveyard”

    From that great treasure trove of the former Web site called “Stone Gulch Literary Arts,” the feature offered here is a one act play.

    Fiction Alert!
    Belmonte Segwic, aka Graveyard Whistler, is a fictional character, created to explore the world of literary studies. Thus Graveyard Whistler is free to invent characters, events, and places—all fictional. Any resemblance to real people, living or deceased, to actual events, or to real geographic locations is unintentional.

    Introductory Word from Graveyard Whistler 

    The late owner, Stoney, of the literary site was quite a prolific writer in many different genres.  He has a grand total of ten one act plays.  I don’t know if I’ll feature all of them here, but I just might.

    Just to refresh memories:  “Stoney,”—my nickname for him because he requested anonymity—the owner of the Stone Gulch lit site, gave me permission to use any of his essays and original fiction and poetry anyway I choose.  

    So as I base the pieces on the selections I make, I tinker a bit with them, for example, I always change names.  I have no idea if Stoney used names of real people or not, but for my purposes, I intend to keep these entries pure fiction, so my tinkering is geared to mask as much as possible any telling details that someone who knew Stoney might recognize.  

    The last thing I need is someone from Stoney’s circle of folks to suspect he sees himself and feel he’s being targeted.

    The following play features two characters who are engaging in a conversation through letters.  It is sparse, but it tells a story about two very different characters revealing their various qualities, strengths, and weakness.  It’s funny in some ways but mostly pathetic as it pulls the veil off of a decaying, dying, and possibly dead relationship between the two characters involved.

    Its original title was “Two Pathetic Women.”  I changed it, alluding to Bob Dylan’s song, “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” because I felt that allusion summed up the tenor of the letters the two women have offered.

    Enjoy!

    I’ll Just Say, “Fare Thee Well”

    A one act play by Stoney

    The stage setting features two writing desks, a woman at each with pen and paper.  The curtain opens as one is writing, speaking as she writes. The curtain closes then opens as the other woman, writes speaking as she writes.  This toggling continues until the final curtain closes. 

    Two pathetic women are exchanging correspondences.  

    Pathetic Woman 1:  It occurred to me that we could easily lose each other.  And if that is what you want, I am willing to accept it and respect it and will not bother you again.  But I suspect that deep down you do not want that and deep down I do not want that either.  We have a lovely and deeply inspirational childhood that we shared, and that we both cherish.  I know that it has seemed to me that when we reminisce about our common past we are most in sync. If any of this rings true with you, please let me know because I have an idea that may keep us in a relationship that we can both accept.  If not, just ignore and continue on, I won’t bother you again, and blessings to you.

    Pathetic Woman 2:  You think you are such a smartass intellectual with you fancy-ass ways of trying to look down on me.  I get it.  This just another way of saying I am at fault for our lousy relationship.  You are the one who left home and left me to take care of our family while they got old and died off.  Where were you when meemaw was dying, when peepaw was dying, and all the others I had take care of all by my lonesume.  You are a selfish fuckhead.  You never come to visit even when you are in town.  You never call me.  Most people who love each at least stay in touch.  As far as I am concerned you can take a flying leap and kiss my ass.

    Pathetic Woman 1: I think I understand.  As I said, I won’t bother you again.  And blessings to you.

    Pathetic Woman 2: You think your such a fucking saint with all your “blessing this” and “blessing that.” Your just a hypocrit and fraude and you think of no one but your own godam self.  You always try to make me look like I’m wrong when you know down deep I the one who has the common sense—peepaw even said that.  He said you had the book learning but I had the real smarts.  That what alway pisses you off.  You know I right about politiks and shit like that.  But just because you have choosen the wrong side you think you can bully me and make me think you are the smart and right one.  You don’t know shit.  As far as I’m concerned to can rot in hell with all the other crapheads.

     Pathetic Woman 1:  OK. You’ve convinced me.  I’m not worth having relationship with.  I annoy you, and I promise from now on I will simply leave you alone.  At the risk of flaunting sainthood, I’ll again wish you many blessings and a joyous life.  But before I go, one last thing: because you did not yet ask about the idea I had for keeping in touch, I’ll just mention it now. Every week or so we could offer a “blast from the past.”  Here is my first one:  I was playing my guitar this morning and realized that I have this particular brand of guitar because of Uncle Jedediah.

    I asked him on one occasion what the best brand of guitar was, and he said, “Martin.”  So that’s the brand of guitar I have.”  I thought it would be interesting and helpful for us if we could share such info from time to time, since we both think lovingly upon our past and our family.  

    However, I can see now that that thought was silly.  You would be much better off not keeping up a relationship with someone who is so repugnant to you.  So, as Bob Dylan once quipped, “I’ll just say fare thee well.”

    Pathetic Woman 2:  You know I love you more than anything, but I just wish you were different. I wish you understood how unsafe and stupid I feel every time I have to read what you write. I used to like to read you stories and shit, but now all I see is stupid  shit that makes me feel like a looser.  I AM NOT A LOOSER – NO MATTER HOW MUCH YOU TRY TO MAKE ME OUT ONE.

    Pathetic Woman 1:  All right then.  I think I’ve got your answer.  Won’t bother you again:  “I’ll just say fare thee well.”

    Pathetic Woman 2:  No response.

    The curtain closes. One woman lets out a blood curdling scream: the audience is left to wonder who screamed.

    Finis

    Afterword from Graveyard Whistler

    Just a quick note to thank my readers, especially those who offer useful suggestions. I could do without the insults, smears, and ghastly stupidity that gets slung my way, but what the hey!, that’s to be expected by anyone who goes public in anyway.  And I do treasure the kind words and helpful comments.  Keep them coming, please!

    Back to the drawing board, as the old saw goes . . . 

    Literarily yours,
    Belmonte Segwic
    (aka Graveyard Whistler)

  • Original Short Story: “Betty Sue’s Boutique”

    Image:  “Early Sunday Morning“

    Fiction Alert!
    This story is fiction.
    It does not depict any real person or actual event.

    Betty Sue’s Boutique

    Betty Sue commits a crime: how will she redeem herself in the eyes of Martha, her best friend, and Sally, her colorful mother? 

    Betty Sue Martin and Martha Westland were friends all during high school, after they met as freshman enrolled in the Commercial Curriculum Track at Centerville High School.  Betty resided on Main Street above the Medix Drug Store; her mother Sally worked as a waitress at the Big Boy drive-in restaurant about half-way between Centerville and Richmond.  

    Betty Sue’s dad had vanished from Sally’s life when Betty Sue was only five.   Sally’s time was taken up mostly with her work, with bowling, and bars rounding out her days.   Martha was fascinated by Sally, who would lean back, laugh and go into her spiel about her wacky life.

    “You girls better make sure you get yourselves a goddamned fine education, so you don’t have to settle for waiting on sick dicks in cars.  But still, Marti, don’t I bitch a lot, but I got me three B’s to take care of, don’t I? My sweet Betty Sue, my kickass bowling, and those smoky, fun-ass bars.  I’ve had a damn good whale of a time for a dumb bitch that let her man scurry off.  Damn Sam, I’m still partying hearty,  ain’t I?”  Sally would retort on occasion.

    And she’d light up her long Salem, lean back, and exhale the smoke as if she were on top of her game.    Martha was enthralled by Betty Sue’s life with such a colorful, off-the-charts mother.  Martha grew up on a farm just outside the city limits; her mother Harriet always maintained a perfect house, created perfect pies for her equally perfect husband Christopher and their four hard-working sons, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.  

    Martha, when saying her brothers names always reported, “Matt and John, Luke and Mark”;  she used that ploy since the time her third grade class bursted out on laughter after she announced the usual Biblical order.   

    Strangely enough, Martha’s folks did not attend church regularly, nor were they especially religious, even though their names appeared among membership is the First Christian Church of Abington.  Also they had burial plots bought in the cemetery next to the church, with special instructions for the pastor of that church.  

    Chris and Harriet had no interest in having a “good time”; they focused on the belief that life is filled with work and duty.  When the Centerville High School administration adopted a new curriculum plan for the school, including six new courses of study, Chris and Harriet made sure that their sons would be enrolled in the Agriculture Track while their daughter would study in the Commercial Track. Boys and girls must be educated for their future roles in life, after all. 

    Harriet had learned some typing, shorthand, and bookkeeping at her high school in Hazard, Kentucky, and she always felt blessed that she had been advised to take those courses.  They had proved so useful in her quest to serve as a proper wife to their county’s most crucial farmer.  Big agribusiness was waxing while the small farm was waning, and the Westlands were there to guide and take advantage of this state of affairs.

    After acquiring her driver’s license and luckily after her best aunt gave her a car for her seventeenth birthday, Martha remained at home on the farm as little as she could.  Nonetheless, she suffered  the disapproval of Dad and Mom and the four gospels, but every time they scolded her about her obligation to the farm, she would just continue to remain out later and later. 

    Martha passed most of those late nights with Betty Sue because Betty Sue talked so vehemently about realizing a dream, and Martha was curious about how that dream would be realized.  Martha also had a vague dream. She just was not quite sure what it was.  So she figured she would watch Betty Sue to see what would transpire.  Here is what transpired.

    Minnie’s Boutique

    Minnie Hazelaker was the proprietor of a little clothing store called “Minnie’s Boutique.”  The top clique at Centerville High shopped there, and Betty Sue craved to be a part of that in-crowd.  But on her slim funds, Betty Sue could not buy anything at Minnie’s Boutique.  Minnie had been noticing  how Betty Sue was coming and browsing a lot but never buying anything. 

    Then the C-ville Spring Sock Hop was fast approaching, and Betty Sue had had the good fortune to be invited to the dance by John Bluefield, a member of the male in-crowd.  She could not believe how lucky she was.  She kept whining to Martha that she had nothing decent to wear on such a momentous occasion.  

    She insisted that she had to acquire that light sea foam chiffon that dressed the mannequin in Minnie’s display window.  She had begged her mom to cough up a few bucks against her allowance, but Sally could let loose only a measly four dollars, meaning Betty Sue’s total equally an inadequate 15 dollars.  The dress sold for a whopping forty-seven ninety-nine!   

    Looking around at the shop about two weeks prior to the dance, Betty Sue stumbled upon a different dress that cost sixty-seven dollars.  She took it off the rack, with the thought that this one might work better, even though it did not please as much as the one on the mannequin.  Still it would undeniably be easier!

    Betty Sue observes Minnie who is working at the cash register,  two or three customers are looking at handkerchiefs and belts; and of course, someone is asking Minnie about some item. 

    Minnie is so well occupied that she will not notice that Betty Sue has dashed with the dress into the dressing room, put on the dress, tucked it into her pants, and made her getaway.  Or  that is what Betty Sue had thought would be the case.  However, as her feet hit the sidewalk, she senses a rushing up to her from behind:

    “Excuse me, miss, excuse me, dear, would you please step back into my shop with me a moment. I have an item that I believe is yours,” Minnie explained.

    “Oh, no, I didn’t leave anything in your store.  I know I didn’t . . . I know I didn’t! ” Betty Sue’s nerves were showing.  She felt like running.  But she had no reason to believe Minnie suspected her of anything.  

    Then she thought:  “Maybe I’m wrong, maybe I did leave something; better to cooperate and not look suspicious.”  She then follows Minnie back into the shop.  Inside the store, Minnie had Betty Sue wait for her by the cash register, on a stool right behind the counter.  

    Minnie walks over to the remaining browsing customers and asks them to leave.  After the last one had departed the store, Minnie locks the door and pulls down the shades, and before she could think, Betty Sue finds that little old Minnie Hazelaker is unbuttoning her blouse and her pants, leaving the purloined dress exposed.  Minnie takes a step back and peers at Betty Sue and speaks:  

    “Now, now, my dear.  What is this?  What can we do to make this situation right?”

    That was twenty-seven years ago.  Betty Sue made the situation right by serving as Minnie’s employee.  Betty Sue promised Minnie that she would work an entire year for free, if Minnie would not press charges against Betty Sue or  reveal the theft to Sally.

    Minnie had Betty Sue sign a contractual agreement stipulating that if Betty Sue skipped even a day’s work without a good cause, Minnie would both tell Sally and press charges.  Betty Sue turned into such a fine employee that Minnie recorded it into her last will and testament that Betty Sue would become sole proprietor of the boutique after Minnie’s death.

    After she had inherited the shop, Betty Sue revealed to her mother  all the information about her shop-lifting attempt.  Martha happened to be present as Betty Sue confessed her crime to her mother:

    “Mom, you’ll never know how sorry I am for what I tried to do.  I now know how wrong it was, but at that time it seemed like a good idea.”  Sally reclined against the back of her blue easy chair, blew out smoke from her long Salem as if she was at the top of the world, and in her relaxed, rustic philosophy, expounded, “Well, who says crime doesn’t pay?”

    So how did Martha pass those last twenty-seven years?  

    Right after graduating from C-ville High, Martha became a cop.  Since it was only after becoming the proud owner of Minnie’s Boutique that Betty Sue finally confessed her crime to her mom and to Martha, the statute of limitations had long expired on the petty theft. 

    But all in all, Betty Sue had more than redeemed herself in the eyes of Martha, her cop friend, and Sally, her colorful mother. 

  • Original Short Story: “Me & Iris”

    Image 1: Tracing Orphans in Your Ancestry

    Me & Iris

    Her eyes would shine as she told me them stories. That big old grin she had with just one tooth hanging on for dear life as she laughed and giggled made me laugh and giggle right back at her. She was so good at telling about it those sugar cookies and those Sunday dinners, it made my mouth water.

    Fiction Alert!
    This story is fiction.
    It does not depict any real person or actual event.

    A Woods Colt

    I can’t recall how old me and Iris was, I just remember that we was younguns living there with a bunch of other kids. We all seemed happy enough, I guess. We didn’t have much, but didn’t know any better for it. 

    We just never thought in those terms of having stuff or not having it. We just took every day as it come at us. I recall that Iris loved talking about her momma and daddy and how they all lived in a big house together and they was always laughing and loving each other. 

    Iris would tell me about how she would help her momma cook and clean that big house, and how they would bake sugar cookies almost every afternoon. Her neighbor friends would come around to play and she would hand out them cookies saying the Lord loves a happy child or some such. 

    I never took no stock in praying myself, it never did me any good. I prayed hardest when I knew Sister Jean Little Flower of Jesus was going to tan me for something. No matter how hard I prayed, she’d come around that evening and dust me good.

    Anyway, my sweet Iris just loved to tell me about how her momma would tuck her in with a kiss and a hug every night and then a little later her daddy would stick his head in to check on her. She had a cat named Friday, she called it Friday because it was black, that never made much sense to me, but I never said nothing. That cat would curl up in a ball and not move all night as Iris slept, kind of like a watch dog, I guess. 

    Her eyes would just shine as she told me those stories. That big old grin she had with just one tooth hanging on for dear life as she laughed and giggled made me laugh and giggle right back at her. She was so good at telling me about it, my mouth would water just thinking about those sugar cookies and those Sunday dinners. 

    I never said nothing, I just kept my trap shut as she told me them stories. She knew, and I knew, none of it was true. She ain’t never lived nowhere except here at the orphanage. Sister Jean said once, just to be mean, called Iris a woods colt. I didn’t know exactly what it meant back then, but later on I learned the meaning, and I hate Sister Jean for it even to this day. Iris didn’t know neither, but I could tell it cut her deep.

    That Story I Started

    I started to write that story some twenty years ago. Don’t know why I didn’t finish it then. Maybe I just ran out things to say.  Anyway, I think I had big dreams of becoming a writer back then, but then since I just became waitress instead, I didn’t write anymore until now.

    I started taking some classes at the Big Rapids State Community College after I saved up some money.  I also found out that if I had graduated from high school, I could take two years of community college free.  The governor of the state had promised some such program to get elected and it worked and it kept his promise. 

    Not much ever come of my college education.  After the two years, I got a thing called an associates degree which ain’t worth much without the other years getting me bachelors degree, but I never had enough money keep going to school.  So I’m still in the waitress business.

    Back to Iris

    I don’t know why I even bothered to write that stuff about me going to junior college.  All I really wanted to do was finish the story about poor little old Iris.  So here goes.  After we turned 18, we were turned out the orphanage.  Iris was invited to live with a cousin of hers that the orphanage had contacted.  They couldn’t find any of my relatives, so they arranged it so I could live temporarily with Iris and her cousin’s family.

    I could only live there until I found my own place. I was a lucky enough to find a place to work, The Glass House Diner, and it had an empty apartment in the back of it.  So I got the job at the diner and a place to live.

    Iris and me stayed friends, and she’d come stay with me at my apartment when she got tired of her cousin.  I tried to get Iris a job at the diner but for some reason the manager kept putting off hiring her.  She finally got a job at the Buy-Rite supermarket as a cashier.

    We were both doing ok for two ignorant little orphan girls.  We’d eat at the other diner in town, the Made-Rite. And we’d get to talking about the orphanage and then we’d talk about the future.  Iris got it in her head that she’d like to get married and have kids that didn’t have to live in an orphanage.

    “LuAnn, a new guy started working at the store yesterday, and he’s a real dreamboat.  I think I’ll marry him,” Iris popped out with this bombshell one day.

    “Have you even talked to him yet?” I asked Iris.

    “Yeah, he’s from somewhere up north, and he’s taking some classes at Big Rapids.  After that he’s going to Alabama State U.  He’s going to major in business.  He wants to own his own grocery store in a few years,” explained Iris.

    “So, y’all been on a date yet?”  I asked, getting rather nosey.

    “No, but I think he’s going to ask me soon,” said Iris.

    To make a long story short, much to my shock, it happened Iris and that guy, Willie Martin, did start going out and they got engaged.  So not to make the story too much shorter, I’ll tell you a little about the engagement.

    The Engagement

    Willie gave Iris a ring, took her home to his parents, the whole nine yards.  She was out of her mind happy.  Willie’s folks were what to Iris and me would be consider filthy rich, and turns out they were none to happy that Willie wanted to marry an ignorant little orphan girl.

    Iris went on planning the wedding, even though Willie kept telling her they would have to elope.  Willie told Iris his parents would disown him if he married Iris.  But she kept up the charade as long as she could, acting like they were going to have big beautiful wedding.

    Then all hell broke loose!  Iris came into the diner as I was serving a family its Sunday dinner.  She had been crying and she said she had to talk to me.  She sat by the door waiting for me to get a break.

    “Willie dumped me, LuAnn!”  she stuck out her hand and said, “See, he took back the ring and everything.  He took back all the gifts he gave me, the stereo, the charm bracelet, the electric coffee pot.  He said he really loved me but he couldn’t be poor and if his parents disowned him he’d be poor. LuAnn, I think I’m going to die.  I love him so much.  I can’t live without him.”

    “Iris, of course, you can live without him.   You lived without him until you met him, didn’t you?”  I said to Iris.

    Iris just looked stunned, didn’t say anything, and my break was over.  So I told her to come to my apartment after work so we could talk some more about this.  She said she would.

    Ten Years Ago:  The Philosophy of “Something Better”

    Can you believe it?  Iris’ engagement was ten years ago.  For some reason I didn’t finish the story back then, and I just ran across this story, and thought hey, there’s not that much to tell to finish this story.  So I might as will finish it.

    Anyway, I told Iris that day after I finished work that because Willie was dumping her just meant somebody better was coming along for her.  I had a funny way of thinking that not most folks would cotton to.  But I thought that way.  It had always happened to me like that.  I lost a kitten once, and then found two kittens.  I lost a set of earrings once, and then saw a better pair in the jewelry store window, and the store owner gave them to me because she liked the way I kept her coffee warm at the diner.

    I had a boyfriend once a little while after I started to diner waitressing job, and I didn’t really like having a boyfriend and was stewing over how to break up with him.  But I didn’t have to break up with him; he moved to Florida to be with his kids.  Funny thing is, he asked me to go with him, but I said I just couldn’t leave my job and I didn’t care much for Florida.

    Even how I ended up being an orphan shows that this “something better” deal works.  My parents were drug dealers and even though I don’t remember it, Sister Mary Grace had told me about how I came to live at the orphanage.  And it was because my parents had put me in danger, yeah, they were arrested, charged with child endangerment, and they went to prison and I went to St. Bartholomew’s Home for Abandoned Children.

    I keep thinking I should look them up, but then I’m a little afraid them being ex-cons and all they might not take too well if I showed up for a visit.  Anyway, that’s why I always think that when you lose something, it’s because something better is coming along.  It always worked for me, and I made Iris believe that it would work for her.

    And it did.  After Iris was dumped by Willie, she found out that she had an aunt and uncle living up north, and they were looking for her.  OK, to shorten the story again.  After Iris and her aunt and uncle united, they helped her get into the University of Alabama.  She majored in Spanish and became teacher at big high school in Montgomery.  She met another Spanish teacher and they got married and lived happily ever after.

    Well, that sounds little too much like a fairy tale ending but it’s close to the truth.  Since I lived not far from where Iris lived and taught, we’ve stayed friends and we talk about every day.  I went to her wedding which was the big beautiful one she had always dreamed of.  She had three kids and they turned out to be great kids in every way.

    My waitressing turned me into a business woman and even though I never finished any business degree, I did end up part owner of several diners in my little town and Montgomery.  I have not married yet, and likely never will.  I just like being alone, thinking about stuff, and now writing about stuff.  

    If I never end up being a writer that’s ok.  Because I know I have been a good worker in the hospitality industry and I have been a good friend to Iris.  We were just two little ignorant orphan girls who made it good.  Iris is living a fairy tale life, and I’m happy with mine, and will stay that way until something better comes along.

  • Original Short Story: “The Sylvin Sprite”

    Image : “Blue Universe”  

    The Sylvin Sprite

    The story of Sylvin is older than time, flowing more surely than the rapid river of the mind. It is a story of longing and waiting, and then waiting and enduring, and then lingering long enough to reach a cherished Love that beckons from all corners of the heart, mind, and soul.

    Fiction Alert!
    This story is fiction.
    It does not depict any real person or actual event.

    Sylvin Is Waiting

    Everyone wishes to view all the stars on Glory Hill. They follow their hearts to the place where the wind whispers secrets.  

    They let their own will go but do not go alone. There are trees and bushes and flowers and all kinds of spritely doves that warm Sylvin’s heart and she loves them all. Then she is free, and no one can ever know where she has gone.

    Sylvin waited for her Belovèd but He failed to arrive, as usual. She watched her watch. He kept on not arriving. She started walking back to the earth farm. 

    Her heart was full and her mind was calm.  She had spent the coin of the divine realm which is time, precious time, in Glorified Expectation.  She will wait again and again until His arrival sets her free.

    Sylvin’s Mother Saw Her

    Sylvin did not see her mother, but her mother saw Sylvin.

    “Syl, where were you, all this time?” her mother implored.

    “I just went for a walk,” Sylvin replied.

    “No, you didn’t! Gotcha this time, missy! I had your brother follow you, and he saw you at the Knob Hill,” screamed the mother. “Everybody knows what the Knob Hill is all about.”

    “I don’t know what you are talking about. I did not go to the Knob Hill. I don’t even know where that is,” insisted Sylvin. “I just went for a walk. I waited by the stars on Glory Hill, I waited for my Belovèd, but He did not come. I will go again as many times as it takes. He will in time come to me,” responded Sylvin.

    “You always talk such nonsense! Why can’t you be a problem like other girls? I don’t even know what you are talking about! You might as well be speaking Pomeranian,” cried the mother.

    Following the Flow of Time

    Sylvin follows her heart and soul and waits by the river where time seems to flow with the water. She hears footsteps. They gain speed. She does not look. She waits. And then waits again.

    This time Sylvin is not anxious, and she left her watch at home. She listens, she waits, and she listens and waits again.

    Again, Sylvin will be accosted by her mother, maybe too by her brother, maybe too by a townie whose mind has been filtered through the rhetoric of Sylvin’s mother and brother.

    “Where did you go this time, you silly girl?” the mother will ask.

    “Where did you go this time, you silly sister?” the brother will ask.

    “Where did you go this time, Miss Sylvin?” the townie will ask.

    And Sylvin will smile and respond, “Oh, I just went walking by the stream, listening to the bubbling waters pouring down from the glacial waters of Mount Bounty.  I listened to the cooing of the doves and the music of the stars until they shut up their voices in glad atonement.  Oh, I just went for a walk!”

    And again, they all will just shrug, scratch their heads, and move on for they have work to work, books to read, dinners to cook, children to tend, and a myriad other important dates with daylight occurrences.

    Sylvin walks on.

    Mother, Did You Ever?

    “Mother, did you ever love anyone before father?” Sylvin asks her mother this question on the eve of a day that would turn out to be very important to Sylvin.

    “Of course not. I only loved your father up to the day he died,” lied the mother. “I loved only him and he only me.”

    “That is so wonderful, Mother,” responded Sylvin. “Mother, I have to go away now. I am too old to be living with my mother and brother. I love you both, but I have to go away. Do you understand?”

    Silly Girl

    “You can’t go away. You have nowhere to go. You can’t do anything to get money and you have to have money to live, you silly girl?” said the mother.

    “Oh, well, never mind, Mother,” said Sylvin. “I’ll stay as long as I can.”

    Not mother, not brother, no one in the town or field was ever able to look and see Sylvin.

    Where she went, what she did, what she said, no one knows.  Maybe she lived like the sprites in the Atmosphere, or the spirits in Fork River Valley.

    Sylvin must have moved with lightning or waited by whole meadows of golden minded angels.  Did angels fill her days, did little people with courage and fortitude offer her succor? 

    The dark world remains a dark place, but not for Sylvin, not for where she lived—in the mind of her Spirit Soul Belovèd.

    Sylvin will stay as long as she can with her mother, with her brother, with her father’s grave in Fork River Valley. 

    Her bed will contain her body but the glories of expanded skyways will contain her mind. And she will stay as long as the molecules of her physical encasement remain in tact. 

    Though the winds of skyey glories threaten to rend her very atoms, Sylvin will remain as long as she can.  She will not speak in harsh tones, for she has long since left recrimination behind her.

    Her mother may still rebuke her.  Her brother may still follow her and report what he cannot understand: what can the blind report about a meteor shower?  Her demeanor will remain calm and her tongue at rest.

    Sylvin will stay the silly girl, walking in the sunless sunshine, feeling the wetless rain on her shadow skin, and fleeing down the corridors of lost pathways that lead only the silly to their journey’s end in Perfection. 

    Love on the Wind

    Love is on the wind. Love is in the deep blue sea. Love lifts all boats. Love brings in the crops and lets out the dogs. Love never fails.

    Love is work and play. Love leaves fall and springs spring. Love heats up summer. Love cools down winter.

    Sylvin waited by the brook flowing through green pastures. She took nothing. She sat alone. She did not think. She did not feel. She did not watch. She did not listen. She did not think. She did not feel. She did not notice.  She did not worry. 

    All she did was be.

    Sylvin moved into the place where money is not needed, where the love of a mate is not even considered—a genuine Sylvin Sprite.

    Sylvin moved slowly but deliberately into the arrival of her Belovèd. She thus found her Origin. She was then Free.  

    🕉

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