This blog will no longer be updated; as of May 2015, I have changed username to pricklypoetess and moved sites to https://pricklypoetree.wordpress.com/
Thank you, everyone who followed and read; it has had a good run. I felt that my graduation from college merited a change of scenery and a fresh start.
This blog will remain up as an archive.
She sits in seaweed, stringily strewn
An adornment fit for this lady renowned
And serenaded by goose and loon
With reed and lily is aptly crowned
With longing gaze she contemplates
A vision gold and green and gay
And swaying, bending to the fates
Allows her reeds to blow away
Where’er they will; she wisteth not
Her heart is lightened by their flight.
She swims in seaweed, all uncaught
By caring where her reeds may light.
There are days I hope you have your back to me, so you don’t notice when I forget not to stare.
There are days I hope you notice.
If he didn’t know by now, he would never know, she told herself firmly. He just… didn’t think of her that way. And she was okay with that, she had to be. She would rather live in a world where he was oblivious than a world where they never talked.
She forced herself to ignore the pang that sent through her.
Romance novels made it seem so easy… there was an instant connection, and an equal attraction; love just… happened.
What do you do when it only happens on one side, though?
She was far too sensible to be a tragic heroine; suicide held little appeal, and was a bit too melodramatic, anyway. On the other hand… she wasn’t quite sensible enough to let him go. No matter how much she tried to squelch the desire for something more than friendship, it just… lingered, popping up at horribly inopportune moments.
Some days I’m doing life, and I am just fine, and then you smile, and I turn to mush inside. I didn’t realize what it meant to have your stomach turn inside out before.
Some days you say the most horrible things, and even when they burn through me, I still love you.
He often turned up at her job, which was horribly unkind of him. Hair flying, wild-eyed, he made it difficult to get work done both as an obstruction and a distraction.
She loved him for it.
Some days I haven’t heard from you in ages, and you just turn up and continue a conversation like I should remember what we were talking about all that time ago.
She would be whatever he needed, even when nothing came of it, when she was alone with her cats in her flat and old and grey.
She could bear it, for him.
There are days that I pretend not to know what you’re talking about, you know. So that you can explain it to me. I’m more intelligent than you think.
I just know how much you love explaining.
She could bear anything, for him.
Even giving him up.
~~~~~~~
Inspired by the relationship between Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes, on the BBC show Sherlock.
Lately I’ve been writing. But it’s different this time. In the midst of the six-page papers and the frequent (or not-so-frequent) blog posts, I have finally started a novel. The story’s almost complete, though I still need several tens of thousands of words more to make it long enough. That’s okay though. Writing stories takes time.
The story started out as a brief image–the final scene. Then it became a short story. The original final scene was retained in spirit, but its form was less blatant. After that, some friends work-shopped it in class and gave me some helpful suggestions. They didn’t really care for the ending as it stood, so I changed it again, making it more subdued. But the story wasn’t right yet. Too short. Not enough detail. My main character begged for more time, more pages to make his case and tell his story. So I prepared…
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Often literature is posited as in opposition to more technical disciplines, such as science, math, and technology. However, opposition amongst disciplines almost always leads to loss of knowledge and beauty. The wedding of science and literature–science fiction–has been used to great effect over the past century, in such stories as Frank Herbert’s Dune series (which also welds political theory), Kurt Vonnegut’s novels, Isaac Asimov’s brilliant Foundation series, and countless others.
Christians have written very little good science fiction, mostly because we often espouse a sharp divide between imagination and reality. In practice, though, we should be of those who are best at wedding the seen and the unseen, the known and the mysterious. What little has been written is not very good–because the Christians who write and the Christians who understand science, math, and technology are of two different sets.
Christians who write must lose their fear of science, and Christians who love science must stop clinging to pragmatism.
The 21st century needs good science fiction, along the lines of C.S. Lewis’s space trilogy.
Blessed be the bed sores
That make them notice
That I exist
And give me those fifteen minutes of humanity.
Blessed be the medication
that falls from my hand
to the cold tiles
Forcing them to touch me.
Blessed be the little children
who actually see me
Even if
they don’t understand. “What’s wrong with her, Mommy?”
Blessed be the well-wishers
who utter empty platitudes
and then leave
But don’t send them back, please.
Blessed be the dirty floors
and the janitor
and laughter
that echoes past the sound of the mop
Blessed be the flowers from who-knows-where
That sit by my table
and fill the room
with sunshine reflecting on tiles.
Blessed be my daughter
and forgive her
and my sons
They mean to come more often, I am sure.
Blessed be.
“That’s horribly species-ist of you,” said the dragon.
Princess Louisa Verdantia Primavera Pastellori de la Rosa blinked. Then, as if to rectify her committing such a common action, she blushed. Coquettishly. Although she wasn’t quite sure what coquetting was, she was relatively certain it was something princesses did. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your assumption that I would kidnap you simply because I am a dragon and you are a princess, and that is simply what dragons do with princesses. I find it horribly species-ist. Perhaps I should assume that because you are a princess, you will squeal and carry on and faint at the very mention of blood?”
Louisa blinked again, trying to quell the nausea. “Of course not. I do not squeal, nor carry on, nor faint. I am a princess. At the most, I might swoon at the sight of– of blood.”
The dragon cleaned his teeth with one of his claws. “Well, that’s good to know. If I plan on killing anyone gruesomely in front of you, I will kindly ask you to shut your eyes, then.”
“Well, th-thank you, I think.” Louisa replied faintly.
“May I ask why, exactly, you thought it was a good idea to try to get kidnapped by a dragon?”
“Oh, that. Well, since my father went bankrupt fighting his brother for the crown, it’s been impossible to get any suitors. Mother suggested creating some sort of situation from which I needed to be rescued, and hoping that he didn’t ask too many questions until after the wedding. That’s how she landed father, after all. And a dragon seemed like the most economical answer, given our lack of funds and conveniently high towers.”
The dragon blinked, this time. “Wait, I’m just a path to a good marriage?”
“Yes.”
“You decided that a fifteen ton killing machine without morals and with a reputed taste for human flesh and a well-known greedy streak was the best way to land a good husband?”
Louisa almost second-guessed herself, but she was a princess, and princesses do not back down. “Yes.”
“And you weren’t,” the dragon whispered, “For one second, worried that it might have detrimental consequences to yourself?”
“N-no.” she whispered, desperately trying not to gibber insanely because princesses don’t gibber…
The dragon snorted. Then he laughed. Then he collapsed on the floor, heaving with uncontrollable laughter.
For the third (and final, if she had anything to say about it) time, Louisa blinked. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh… oh,” the dragon wiped the tears from his eyes, “I was just thinking… you really would make a better dragon than a princess.”
“Oh!” Louisa gasped. “I would not!”
“You’re probably right.” the dragon said. “A dragon would have been smarter than to walk unarmed into an enemy’s home. But then… dragons are never unarmed.”
Louisa took a few steps back. “Yes, well, if you’re not going to kidnap me or anything I guess I had better be going…”
The dragon raised a scaly brow. “Who said I’m not going to kidnap you?”
“But… you said…”
“Just because you are species-ist doesn’t make you useless… or inedible, in fact.”
Louisa whimpered.
~
I couldn’t wait a minute longer than I had to. As soon as my parents were asleep, I crept downstairs catlike, grabbed a few things out of the kitchen, and snuck out the door, quiet as you please.
The old lady was back in her chair, still rocking, still watching. I picked the rocker up one last time, and carried it off the porch, quiet as you please. The wind was whistling gently through the leaves. It sounded like the old lady’s breathing. Once I got her far enough away from the house, I pulled out my bounty: a box of matches and a jar of kerosene.
I doused the rocker in the kerosene—I never saw any of it go through the old lady, but she stayed as dry as a raisin through the whole thing. It just sorta slid around her. Then I lit a match.
It blew out instantly.
I lit another—the same thing happened. Now, I was bound and determined that I would burn this rocking chair before the night was out. I lit five at once, and threw them at the old lady. They were out, just like that.
Then I got an idea. I had seen something like this when I went to a movie with my cousin in Chicago—the bad guy had used some dynamite to blow up a bridge. I carefully lay the rest of the kerosene in a line leading back towards the house. It was still there, under the eaves. After I got the last drop out, I struck another match, then dropped it there. I watched the fire lick its way towards the chair, wavering in the wind a couple of times; then the chair went up in flames. I had won.
Then she started screaming. I couldn’t look away—she was in agony. I had never thought that she could be hurt—only that I had to get rid of her. I was transfixed, hypnotized, watching her shrivel and blacken.
My parents must have smelled the smoke, or seen the fire, or something, because all on a sudden I heard them yelling. It was enough of a disturbance that I could wrench my eyes away from the sight to see what they were yelling about.
The house was on fire.
We all watched in our nightclothes as the house burned to the ground. The old lady was screaming all the while. She didn’t stop until the last ember went out. I remember my parents asking me why I had done it, why I had burned the house down, but I couldn’t speak. She had screamed until she had stolen my voice.
We tried to find someone’s house to stay in for the night. Apparently, no-one wanted the crazy little firebug anywhere near them. I don’t really remember that much. The next thing I remember clearly, I was lying in a makeshift tent pitched next to the ruins of our house. Peeking under the edge, I could see the spot where I had started the fire—where the old lady burned to death. Except she was already dead. Wasn’t she?
As if dreaming, I found myself standing over the charred spot. I reached down to touch it—to make sure she was gone— And all of a sudden she was there, still all on fire, still screaming She grabbed my wrist, and I thought she was going to take me with her. I could feel my skin burning, burning, burning—
And my dad grabbed me, pulled me back from the spot. My mother was standing there, face white. They never did tell me what they saw, but they never blamed me for the house burning down, either.
We never went back to Tennessee. My parents somehow scraped enough together that we could afford to go back to Chicago. The marks from where she had grabbed me never faded away. I went back eventually, found the records for that house. The first owner of that house had had a son named Luke, who had gone off to fight in the War Between the States. I found a picture of him in his uniform. We did look an awful lot alike. He never came back, and I guess the old woman was just waiting for him still, until she met me.
So you can believe what you want, son, but I know that ghosts are real.
~
That was a cold winter. We didn’t go out unless we had to; I spent a lot of days at the kitchen table doing school. The old lady preyed on my mind; what was she doing out there in the cold? What if she came in? I never could hear her rocking over the snow and wind, and I never saw her. I was getting stir-crazy, of course; too long cooped up in that house. I thought I would go wild. When the thaw finally came, I was dying to get outside and do something. I finished my school and chores double-quick that day; when my mother finally told me I could go out, I near flew out that door. I was whooping and hollering and generally raising a ruckus, when I saw her.
She was still sitting there, still rocking. And all on a sudden, all the terror of that year froze inside of me, and I hated her. I hated her so much. How dare she make me be afraid in my own home? Who did she think she was? I swore to myself at that moment that I would get rid of her if it killed me. I didn’t want to do it when my parents were around, though; I was just sane enough to realize that they would think I was crazy if I started trying to kill an invisible old lady.
Come to think of it, that does sound pretty crazy.
Well, my parents had cabin-fever, same as me. Pretty soon, they went to our neighbors for a day. It wasn’t hard to get them to leave me behind. This was my chance. I snuck out onto the porch, and looked. She was still there; still rocking. With a roar like an angry bull, I charged that rocking chair. With my eyes half-shut I grabbed the rocker and dragged it off the porch—with her still in it—it was uncommon light, as if there was no-one sitting there. I was yelling every time I had breath all the way to the hayfield, trying to make myself forget she was right there. When I got to the field, I put it down and sprinted away as if all the demons of hell were after me.
When I got back, she was sitting on the porch again. Still rocking. It was as if I had never moved that rocker.
I roared again, all unreasonable, and hauled the chair off in the other direction. Same result.
I didn’t want to touch the old lady; but I was sure if I could move the rocker far enough away, she wouldn’t come back.
By the end of the day, it had been all over creation, and the old lady was still rocking on the porch.
I gave up. I dragged myself inside, collapsed by the stove, and just shuddered. I couldn’t get rid of her. She was going to send me to the grave, with her incessant rocking, rocking, rocking–
Which had stopped.
I sat up and listened to the silence, unconsciously backing up to the wall. There was a creak from the porch. Then another. Then another–and the old lady’s silhouette appeared, framed in the kitchen door’s window.
I stopped breathing.
The knob turned–slowly–hesitant, as if she had forgotten how to open a door. It opened, though. I couldn’t look; I scooted back the few inches it took to get behind the stove. I heard her walking across the floor, but she stopped before she reached me. Then she spoke.
“Luke, you come out here,” she said, and it was the most natural-sounding thing I had ever heard, as if my own mother were speaking to me. I half-expected Luke to come out from—well, wherever he was.
“Luke, you come on out here right now.” Where was that darned Luke? She obviously wanted him real bad. I kind of had a suspicion rising in me, that maybe, maybe she thought—but that was impossible. Wouldn’t she know who her Luke was? The floor creaked. I peeked out to see what she was doing, and almost smacked my face on her knees. I screamed, and jerked back, banging my head hard against the stove.
“Stop that hollering, Luke.” Was the last thing I heard before blacking out, confirming my suspicions and withering my courage.
Next thing I remember is my parents standing over me. I didn’t have a real good explanation for why exactly I had hit my head on the back of the stove—I knew well enough that “the ghost lady made me do it” was not going to fly. After my mother spent hours fussing over me, they finally sent me to bed, with instructions to let them know if I felt dizzy. I must have hit my head pretty hard, ‘cause I didn’t care. In fact, I was deliriously happy.
I finally had a solution.
The man sits on the porch, rocking. He is old; his hair is grizzled, and his face wrinkled. A young boy clambers onto his lap.
“Grandpa, how did you get that scar?”
The man looks at his wrist. Fainter now than it once was, you can still see the shadow of a hand clasped around it.
“A ghost gave it to me.”
“There’s no such thing as ghosts, Grandpa.”
It was… oh, ’bout round my eleventh birthday when we moved to Tennessee. I remember the day we moved into the new house. It had a nice little wrap-around porch, and when I jumped up the steps they creaked and groaned, as though they had never felt the weight of a boy. I scurried through all the rooms, laughing my fool young head off. A new house was nothing but an adventure. I jumped on every creaky board, tested every rocker–except one. The last one was occupied.
I didn’t know who she was–that woman on the porch. She was just sitting there, rocking, so I went up to her bold as brass and said, “This is my house now. What’re you doing here?” She turned her face towards me, and I shuddered; it was a mighty lonesome face, all full of angry wrinkles. After staring at me for what felt like hours, she finally said, “You can stay for a while, I guess. Don’t you go bothering me, though; I’m waiting for my Luke.”
“Who’s Luke?” I asked, but she just stared through me.
I didn’t like her much. She didn’t bother me none, though, so I let her be. It seemed like she was always there, sitting on the porch, rocking. I couldn’t figure out why she seemed to like our porch so much, but I was young, and old folks were a mystery to me.
My room was right above her spot on the porch. I remember laying there in bed, just listening, and hearing the creak of her rocker all through the night. She never stopped rocking–all night and all day, just rocking, watching the horizon.
She was a sad old lady; never saw her smile, nor laugh, nor even look hopeful. She just–watched. It sort of sucked the joy out of my days, too. I’d go out to kick a ball around, or climb a tree, or what have you, and she’d just sit there, a-rocking. I could feel her eyes, watching me, always watching—and the ball just seemed to deflate, and the tree was too short to get any fun out of climbing it.
~
I remember the day I figured out that no-one could see her but me. It was harvest-time; the big oak tree outside my window was starting to lose its leaves. Our next door neighbors–we called them ‘next door’ on account of the fact that their house was the closest to ours, just over the hill and not quite to town–had come over with some squash and apples, and the grown-ups were all in the house talking about something or other. Their son, Tom, and I decided to play outside. I remember he had brought his brand-new baseball bat, and we were taking turns pitching and hitting, but I kept getting distracted. The old lady frowned at me a lot that day, see, and I kept looking up at her, just sitting on the porch, rocking and watching. Tom finally gave up on trying to get me to toss the ball back, and said “What’re you watching the porch for, anyways?” Well, I told him ’bout the old lady, and how she never stopped rocking, and I’ll never forget what he said to me. He looked me dead in the eye, all scornful-like, and said, “There ain’t no old lady up there!”
That was the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard; not see her? How could he not see her? She was right there—
But then I remembered my parents ignoring her when they were painting the house—and the strange way they smiled when I mentioned her at the table, as if I were a little kid. And it struck me—I was the only one who could see her.
I ran.
I spent the rest of that day hiding in the hayfield; the warmth and light and golden hay seemed like a rejection of that old lady, who only ever sat, and rocked, and watched. When it finally got dark, I knew I had to go back in; my dad would tan my hide for being out so late as it was. I was powerfully afraid of walking past that old lady to get into the house, though. I approached slowly, cautious.
The rocker was empty.
Somehow, that was more terrifying than anything else that could have happened. I fled, blindly, sprinting for that front door. I couldn’t stop, couldn’t look back, she was back there–
And I slammed the door behind me, all out of breath. I ’bout cried tears of joy when my dad laid into me; he was real; he was alive; he was safe.
But when I got up to my room, I heard her. She was still there; still rocking. I slept not a wink that night. Nor the next. Nor the next after that. The incessant rocking–I knew she was out there, waiting. Watching.
The Oak Dialogues 