My January exercise (m)

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Registered: 03-19-2003
My January exercise (m)
10
Wed, 01-02-2002 - 4:51pm

My January exercise (m)


Did I put in enough transitions to make it read smoothly?

A LAND CALLED HONAH LEE

What in God's name was I thinking, John Conway wondered, turning from the sunshine that poured like Angie's smile through the east windows of the old loft apartment. Grief and guilt hung like a great gray cloak across his rounding middle-aged shoulders. He ran blunt fingers through his thinning hair, leaving the short wisps around the crown standing in limp, disheveled peaks.

The phone rang. He ignored it, knowing Dylan would answer it in the bedroom. Probably another well meaning friend saying words that, like the memorial service two day ago, couldn't yet comfort. Dylan would know what to say to them. At thirty-three, he had worked his way up to general manager of a small Dallas TV station. A people person. Like his mother.

Tears threatened. John turned from the window and widened his eyes, straining to will the tears away.

"Pop," Dylan stood in the doorway of the sprawling living room. "That was the funeral home. You didn't pick up Mom's ashes yet." It was one tone shy of an accusation. Not the first one he'd thrown at him in the week since Angie had died.

"I ... uh, I ... don't know what she'd want me to do with them ..."

"Look, I've got a couple of hours before I have to check in for my flight back to Dallas." The tone was consiliatory. "I'll take you down there. We can talk about it on --"

"No." The image of the mangled Harley, temporarily stashed in back of the garage, made him wince with pain. "I'm sorry ..." He turned away. Pointing to the glass topped coffee table, he said, "Take the car. "I'll try to figure it out while you're gone."

Dylan nodded and picked up the keys. "I won't be long."

As the door closed, John plopped down on the long beige couch and flipped on the television. A puffy purple dragon, some kid's cartoon, cavorted with a couple of children across the TV landscape. He stared past the scene, tears spilling over his red rimmed eyes.

"Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea ..." An image of him and Angie wavered just beyond the tears. They were both eighteen. They'd met and fallen in love at college in California, in 1968. She was so beautiful. No makeup. Wild red hair -- the color of autumn maples in sunshine -- that danced around her face as she laughed at his silly jokes.

"... and frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee ..." They'd been dating for two months and were in the student union the day Bobby Kennedy died. A collective gasp rolled across the room. He'd watched her face go pale beneath the freckles as she turned toward the television. In slow motion, she'd turned back to him, her mouth open in a silent cry of pain and despair, the jade eyes shimmering with tears, the red hair flaming around the multicolored band tied around her forehead.

He'd dragged her through the milling crowd of students to his car. They drove up the coastal highway in silence. He could still see her long, thin hands, wet with tears, wrestling the love beads that hung in long ropes around her neck.

They stopped in a spot along the ocean, far from the noisy highway, hidden from the world by large wet cliffs. Hand in hand, the sand rough and soggy against their feet, they listened to "Puff The Magic Dragon" on the small black radio and danced the pain down before they collapsed in exhaustion.

At last, she'd stood and slipped out of the long, loose dress and laid back down while he undressed. "This is our Honah Lee," she said, slipping her pale, freckled arms around his neck.

They made love with all the firey anger of lost causes and dying dreams. When he rolled away, at last, she rolled on top of him, stretching her body along his -- palms to outstretched palms, toes entangled in toes. She raised her head and looked into his brown eyes, her moist hair falling along his face.

He had kissed her neck then and, in the heat of new passion, sobbed out, "You are my Honah Lee," before making love again.

And for thirty years, she had been. Dylan was conceived that day. For the next three years, they struggled through college classes, part time jobs, diapers and baby food. When they'd graduated, he took a job in Kansas City and put his journalism skills to work at the Kansas City Star while she painted and puttered around the big loft apartment they'd gradually made home.

He clicked off the television and stared at her studio in the north corner of what should have been the dining area. Through the years her paintings had sold and been scattered across the country -- living parts of her soul.

Then, three years ago, a puckering around her left nipple had sent her to the doctor. Breast cancer. They'd done a lumpectomy, with radiation afterward. But it was more persistent than they'd expected. A mastectomy, drugs, and more radiation. All useless.

He picked up the painting she'd been working on the day before she died. "God, why was I so stupid!" He dropped the painting without looking at it and paced the floor, rubbing his hand against the stubble he'd forgotten to shave.

He'd bought the Harley five years ago, in a fit of middle aged angst. She loved it. Several weekends a year, for that first two years, they'd put on their leathers and helmets and flown the old bike along the winding highways and hills of southern Missouri. But the cancer had quelled their lust for riding. Until that last morning.

They'd made love in the kingsized bed, among the violet printed sheets. She smelled of Sand and Sable perfume. He buried his face in the soft, floral scent of her neck, kissed the scarred, empty breast faintly traced with blue lines that still marked the area of radiation.

And when they were sated, she'd turned to him and said, "Let's go for a bike ride."

He'd stared into the laughing green eyes. "Are you sure you're up to it?"

"It's the perfect ending," she'd said. He thought she was talking about the love making.

They ate breakfast in Sedalia, lunched in Springfield. As they climbed back on the bike, she seemed stronger than he'd seen her in a while. The accident had happened on a narrow black top east of Ave. He'd gunned the Harley too hard getting up the hill, only to find the road dropped away into a tight turn as they crested. He could still see her helmet bouncing across the road just before the turn. She'd taken it off and tossed it ...

He'd held her shattered body in his arms while they waited for the ambulance a passing traveler had called for.

"Why, Angie?"

She'd frowned and looked up at him, her eyes clouded with pain. "I wanted to leave the dance before the music ended."

John shook the memory away and picked up the painting again. It was an oil sketch of the coastline in northern California. He set it on the easel, tracing the cliffs above the sea with his fingers.

He took a deep breath and sat down at the computer, pulling up the webpage of a local travel agent. After entering the destination, and clicking round trip, he picked a flight for the next day. Leaning back to wait for confirmation, he reached out for a pen and circled the date on his calender.

As the confirmation came through, Dylan opened the door, carrying the box with the urn.

"Pop, I'm gonna have to run, if I get to the airport in time to clear security. You know where you're going to take Mom's ashes yet?"

He nodded, "A place called Honah Lee."

Dylan frowned, then shrugged. "Well, take care of yourself ..."

They said their good-byes. After Dylan left, John wandered through the bedroom picking out a couple of shirts and pants, poking a spare toothbrush and the clothes into a backpack, taping the box with the urn for carry-on.

The next day, he landed in Sacramento before noon and picked up the rental car. At Woodland he turned onto the highway that would take him to 101 and along the coast. North of Ukiah, he found a road he thought would take him to the spot he'd been looking for.

At last, he pulled off toward the beach and turned the car off. Taking the urn, he began the climb up to the cliff overlooking the ocean. Out of shape, he stopped to rest and catch his breath a couple of times before reaching the height.

He stood on the rise as a wave smashed against the rocks below him. The moist spray danced across his face. He closed his eyes and licked at the salt taste, inhaling the fish smell of the mist. He heard the cry of an erne taking off above him. In the flapping of its flight, he was sure he heard the faint flutter of dragon wings. He smiled.

Opening the urn, he sighed, and whispered, "A dragon lives forever, not so little boys ..." He flung the ashes into the cool moist air, watching as the wind picked them up and carried the thin gray cloud over the ocean.

Then he walked back down to the beach. Pulling off his shoes and socks, he stretched himself out in the sand, as he had when he'd lain beside her that day. He closed his eyes and felt her slight weight against his body, palms to palms, toes entangled, the wild red hair resting against his neck.

THE END

cl-ozarker

"We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master." - Ernest Heminway

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iVillage Member
Registered: 03-25-2003
Wed, 01-02-2002 - 11:30pm

Way to go, Linda...loved it! (m)


Linda, you really did a terrific job with this month's exercise and I'm envious that you got it done so quickly. I’m still running ideas around in my head-LOL.

I thought your transitions were fine and I had no problem switching back and forth. But if you wanted to expand this story a little, i.e the paragraph where the breast cancer is discovered, I think it’d make your story even better. That part seemed “summarized2 And of course you can count on me for a nit-pick, huh? I think you missed a few words in this sentence, “"Pop, I'm gonna have to run, if I (WANT TO?) get to the airport in time to clear security.”

The whole ending with him taking her ashes to the coast and John on the beach was so good. I loved your whole story. Kudos Linda!

Mac

iVillage Member
Registered: 03-19-2003
Thu, 01-03-2002 - 8:36am

Thanks mac. (m)


This one did come unusually quick. It seems the words motorcycle and dragon triggered something and I just had to run with it.

Thanks for the nit picky. I'm bad about leaving words out sometimes -- thinking faster than I can write LOL.

I may expand this and try to get it published, but I kind of wanted that part to sound like intrusive thoughts about the cancer, which were so painful for him. What do you think?

Well, I've drunk my antifreeze and its off into the wild, cold yonder. See you Monday.

Linda

cl-ozarker

"We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master." - Ernest Heminway

iVillage Member
Registered: 03-26-2003
Thu, 01-03-2002 - 10:08am

Hello, Linda ... I told you I'd read this...m


and you asked me to leave a critique, but you didn't really say what kind you wanted. I've not spent any time on this board, so I don't know if you like the nit-picks (I found 3 spelling errors), or general plot-lines (liked the story a lot, even if you had me with the title, since "Puff" can still make me cry) or some of the things I've picked up in my very recent trying to learn to write better mode -- "Grief and guilt hung like a great gray cloak" -- too much alliteration according to the books I've read.

So -- rather than give you a line edit job, I'll just offer those observations and you can let me know if that's what you had in mind when you said to make some comments.

Enjoyed the early chat -- sorry I couldn't stay longer, but when DH says he's ready to upgrade my computer, I have to seize the moment, even if there's a pretty good chance that something else will go wrong after he touches it.

Now you owe me a critique!

Terry

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anonymous user
Thu, 01-03-2002 - 2:09pm

Touching, moving...


I like how you threaded the Puff story into the rest of the story. The characters seemed believable and their dialogue was realistic.

Was Dylan an only child? What other accusations had he made since Angie died? I like how her pictures were bits of her soul scattered across the country. The ending was touching, but the line "dragons live forever, but not so little boys" to me would make more sense if it was the son's ashes he was spreading there. Is there another snippet of the song that would fit the scene?

For nits, would it be "well-meaning friend", "conciliatory", "red-rimmed", "loose dress and lay back down...", "all the fiery anger...", "king-sized", "calendar"?

Great job, and done so quickly, you inspired person you! :)

Have a great day, Eyewrite

iVillage Member
Registered: 06-22-2003
Thu, 01-03-2002 - 3:48pm

wow! great story (m)


Someone else mentioned the thing about Dylan's accusations. My thought was that maybe Dylan was wondering if the accident was really an accident. I liked the fact that the relationship with Dylan and his father seemed strained even before the death. The minimal conversation between the two portrayed that. Excellent story - I hope you try to get it published!!!! Did you choose the name Dylan for any particular reason? (I have a theory).

Visitor (not verified)
anonymous user
Fri, 01-04-2002 - 11:37am

Great...(m)


...as usual Ozarker. The transitions seemed fine to me, I especially like the first one where the image of them wavered through the tears, or something like that. Good job, Linda. Sammi

iVillage Member
Registered: 03-19-2003
Mon, 01-07-2002 - 1:49pm

Hi terry, will do it today. (m)


I was reading through this again this morning and thought that was too much alliteration too. I'll have to run this through my spellchecker on my browser (my old Word doesn't have one)before I do anything with it.

Thanks for the feedback. I'll check your story out after I get the board reports done today.

Hope DH got the computer fixed all right.

Hugs,

Linda

cl-ozarker

"We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master." - Ernest Heminway

iVillage Member
Registered: 03-19-2003
Mon, 01-07-2002 - 1:59pm

Thanks eyewrite. (m)


I think I'll expand this a little later on. I'll think about that "little boys" line. (I was thinking more of him letting go of a part of his youth.) And thanks for catching the spelling errors. I don't have a spellcheck on my word so I usually run things through my browser's composer spellcheck when I get through with all the editing.

Will keep all the feedback and ideas with the story for the rewrite.

Linda

cl-ozarker

"We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master." - Ernest Heminway

iVillage Member
Registered: 03-19-2003
Mon, 01-07-2002 - 2:09pm

Thanks linella, I named him(m)


Dylan because when I think back to that period, Bob Dylan was so popular (I know I loved him)I thought they might have named him after him--heheheh.

Thanks for your feedback, and I am going to expand this and try to get it published.

Linda

cl-ozarker

"We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master." - Ernest Heminway

Visitor (not verified)
anonymous user
Mon, 01-07-2002 - 3:27pm

Very touching Linda...


I especially liked the way you really anchored us in time as we moved from moment to moment. I never felt lost, and the characters felt like they were complete in each time.

I wondered if he injured himself in the accident - he should have at least gotten scratched up...

The first paragraph seems a little full of similies, but otherwise the writing is, as usual, beautiful.

Thanks for sharing and Happy New Year my mountain gal!

Wendy

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