|
In
|
#
¿
Oct 17, 2014 23:17
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ Apr 25, 2024 22:03 |
|
|
Grandmother (934 words) Mr. McKinley sat at the edge of the bed, anxiously awaiting the orderly’s arrival. Jane, a new volunteer, is driving him to the park today. It was a warm August day, so he had dressed in a light pair of trousers, a short-sleeve woven shirt with his knitted vest and a matching flat cap. Jane arrived with the orderly and a wheelchair. She helped Mr. McKinley onto the chair and they made their way out to the parking lot and into her car. When they arrived, he directed her towards the center of the park. “Can we sit by the big oak? There,” he pointed with his cane towards a white oak tree over 200 feet tall, a behemoth in size and stature. Its leaves rustled loudly as the wind blew. “Of course,” Jane said and pushed the chair towards a shady spot under the tree, locked the brakes, and sat on the nearby bench. “Grandmother - that’s what we used to call her.” Mr. McKinley smiled. “Who?” Jane asked. He tapped the tree with the side of his cane, “This broad right here.” They both looked up at the white oak that was towering above them. “Maggie said this tree was lucky,” he said, interrupting the silence, “It’s where we met, it’s where we first kissed, it’s where I asked her to marry me and where we were wed.” Mr. McKinley smiled. He continued, “She almost got cut down a few years ago. And now, after all these years, she’s still here.” He sighed, paused for a moment and looked around, “This place is so different now. There’s so much more traffic, more people.” “Do you want to go somewhere else?” she asked. He didn’t answer and instead went on, “A developer came and wanted to build here. Some of the townspeople and I, we got together and formed a committee to stop the development and preserve all of this. “To be honest though, I really only did it for Maggie. She had just died and I didn’t really care about the rainforest or historical preservation or any of that stuff. This was Maggie’s tree so I had to save it for her. “So I joined a group of ‘tree huggers,’ ” he raised his eyebrow at the label, “... but we were very committed! Petitions, phone calls, rallies - we did all of that stuff but at the end of it all, we couldn’t do anything to stop it.” He stopped talking for awhile. Jane perked up in her seat, “So what happened?” Mr. McKinley chuckled, “Everything we did was meaningless. The signatures didn’t do anything. We were harassing the developers and councilmen by showing up at their offices, calling their houses. We tried everything. “We couldn’t avoid the inevitable. We had managed to stall the date, cause delays but after all that, the plans for the development was still going to go through - condos, a mall, some monstrous thing. So we all decided to do what all ‘tree huggers’ are expected to do. We chained ourselves to this tree here,” he laughed loudly, “It just seems so silly now, thinking about it! Half of the town must have been here and it was such a commotion.” “Well, did it work?” Jane’s eyes widened a little. Mr. McKinley continued, “We sat in silence around Grandmother, chained to each other, not saying a single word. The contractors with their bulldozers didn’t do anything but someone eventually called the police and before we knew it, there were officers with bolt cutters and handcuffs. “It all happened very quickly. The chains were cut and we were all arrested one by one. It was just like in the movies - they handcuffed us, they read us our rights, and it all ended with a violent shove into the cabin of a police car.” He was quiet again for a moment but then continued on, “As I sat in the police car, I heard the machines start up. ‘This was it,’ I thought, ‘I can’t save her. After everything I’ve done - she’s done. After everything.’ I saw a man with a chainsaw approach Grandmother. I couldn’t stop crying.” Jane was tightly clutching Mr. McKinley’s hand. She was holding back her tears. He was quiet for awhile then said, “Jane, I’m getting tired. Can we go back to my room now?” Jane was surprised but replied, “Yes, of course.” She unlocked the brakes on the chair and they made their way back. An orderly was already waiting for them in Mr. McKinley’s room when they arrived. As she helped him sit back on the bed, he said to her, “I need to rest now,” and motioned her to leave. She couldn’t resist asking him as she walked towards the door, “Mr. McKinley? What happened at the end? How was Grandmother saved?” “There was...,” he paused, “...a bearded man.” His eyes squinted a little. “The chainsaw was already in the first inches of Grandmother’s bark when this mountaineer appeared. I couldn’t see him very well but it looked like he had reached out and grabbed the whirring blades with his bare hands!” His voice started getting louder, “I heard the chainsaw stop suddenly! The man holding the chainsaw looked frightened and started backing away from the tree. As the police car drove away, I heard the rest of the machines stop.” He let out a hearty laugh then finished, “I don’t know what else happened but the developers eventually cancelled the project.” Mr. McKinley bid Jane good night and the orderly closed the door behind her.
|
|
#
¿
Oct 20, 2014 04:22
|
|
|
Thanks for the crits. In this week.
|
|
#
¿
Nov 4, 2014 14:48
|
|
|
Against the Cold (1145 words) My car broke down about an hour ago and I’ve been painfully trekking the road since then, a combination of walking and hiking, my numb feet digging into the white, deceptively beautiful snow. I’m on my way to spend the holidays in my parents’ cabin in rural northern Ontario. Unable to withstand the cold Canadian winter, like geese, they migrated south for the winter. Unable to withstand the pretentious social gatherings that inevitably came with Christmas, I drove away towards their isolated cabin in the woods. I was almost there when my car stopped running. Possessing no automotive skills, and with my cellphone battery out of power, I continued my commute on foot. The cabin should have electricity and once I charge my phone, I can call for a tow truck. I was dressed appropriately in a down-filled parka, a knitted toque with matching scarf, insulated boots, waterproof gloves, and a fleece sweater layer; but it’s twenty degrees Celsius below zero, cloudy, and after an hour of trudging through the snow on an unpaved trail, frostbite and hypothermia became imminent threats. The dull pain in my feet turned into an odd pricking. I can barely feel the lower half of my body and the wind was stinging my face. “Just a little further,” I kept telling myself. The woods were familiar enough that I knew my way but the approach of night meant an escalation of shivery aggression. I forced myself to walk faster, dragging my heavy feet. When I finally arrived at the cabin, the prospect of comfort and shelter disappeared as I was greeted with the unwelcoming arctic temperature inside. The oil furnace had no fuel and there was no electricity. My only solace now was to light a fire. The great room on the main floor centered around a jet-black, cast iron wood stove, an ebony statue elevated on a solid platform of bricks; its matte, sooty texture incited memories of warm, radiant heat. I can operate a wood stove well enough but there was no wood or kindling in the house. “The shed,” I remembered. Dry, seasoned firewood was stock in the shed outside. Reluctantly, I headed back out into the treacherous cold. The woodshed was just around the corner of the cabin but the path was covered in knee-high snow. My legs battled the white, powdery resistance but unable to see the ground, I misstepped and fell on my hands and knees. A gloating gust of wind then slugged me across the face complete with pelted snow. “gently caress!” I screamed angrily but I was compelled to relive the tender embrace of that warm fire so I got up and accepted my struggle. I reached the woodshed only to find that its door was blocked shut by more snow. Using a nearby shovel, I started digging. My heart was pounding in exhaustion and desperation as the dream of my comforting repose came closer and closer. I pulled the door open with all of my strength and in utter disappointment found the woodshed empty. As children, we were punished in the summer by being simply sent to our room with no entertainment but in winter, punishment was a harsh temporary excommunication from the house. I would stand outside, rubbing my hands for temporary relief, while looking in through the window at my family, comfortably snuggling on the couch near the wood stove. The bitter disciplinary method was better remembered than the lesson it meant to teach. I remembered from my last visit that there was also a stack of firewood located at the edge of the property. A half of a cord of firewood, still seasoning for next winter, might not yet be ready to burn, but it was my only option. Traversing a four-acre lot seemed like a perilous expedition so I went back to the cabin to prepare for the journey. I donned a second oversized wool coat, a pair of snow pants over my wet jeans, extra socks, and a fur-trimmed hat over my toque. I also found a sled, which will carry an axe and a shovel. I immediately went on my way, pulling the sled behind me. The weight and bulk of the extra clothes made my movement sluggish while the fervor of the icy wind knocked me from side to side. The sound of cracking branches echoed in the distance, thunderous snapping followed by a ringing thump that subsided to a gentle hiss. The soft, pillowy snow created a uniform blanket on the ground, an illusion of innocence and sentimentality, a violent temper hidden behind a semblance of calm. A callous adversary, I confronted it by moving as quickly as I could, reminding myself of the warmth that awaits me once my punishment was complete. The cozy respite that will end my suffering is a worthwhile reward. I was relieved to reach the wood pile as it also meant that I was halfway done my journey. My body, anesthetized by the heartless, boreal world, seemed to move slowly by each footstep. Still, I managed to clear the area of any snow, stack the firewood and kindling onto the sled, and arduously made my way back. I returned to the cabin just as nightfall approached. I carried my treasures into the house, simultaneously sighing with relief and panting with fatigue. My resolve was fuelled by the encroaching darkness. The wood stove, the stoic fixture, was my salvation. I checked the damper and intake for blockage. The doors on the stove creaked quietly as I opened them. I arranged thick, crumpled-up sections of newspaper at the bottom of the stove then I layered on it in order: twigs, kindling, and thin pieces of firewood. I grabbed the barbecue lighter from the kitchen. My hands were trembling in anxiety and shivering from the cold. The lighter made a clicking sound as I pulled its trigger. Luckily, it had enough fuel and its long nozzle was helpful in safely lighting the newspaper at the base. I watched the fire spread to the next layers. The twigs and kindling gently crackled as they easily caught the flame. The firewood, however, was poorly sizzling. The wood was moist and I can hear the water evaporating, rejecting the fire. I took turns of blowing on it and patiently watching it burn, conscious of inhaling smoke. I rubbed my hands together and allowed the glow of the wood stove to envelop me. I welcomed the revitalizing heat. The vibrancy of the flames lit up the room and shadows danced on the wall. The temperature in the room was slowly rising and I was relieved to be finally safe from the apathetic brutality of the cold. In the morning, electricity returned. I charged my phone, called a tow truck company, and made the decision to go back to the city, victorious against my frigid enemy.
|
|
#
¿
Nov 10, 2014 05:09
|
|