Meg Sefton's Blog, page 9

Relinquish

Florida Fish and Wildlife’s Division of Law Enforcement. Hurricane Ian FWC Response, 2022, FWC photo, flickr

As his eyes closed on what would be his grave, the lake now up to the windowsill, the humming of rescue boats dying out for the night, he thought of what he would have shown his young son: Fish jumping in their yard, an alligator swimming through the swing set.

Publication: The Journal of Radical Wonder

Canterbury Retreat Center, Florida, by jeannetteyvonne, flickr

I am pleased to share that a piece I posted here has recently been published by The Journal of Radical Wonder on Medium. Please stop by and give me a few claps. Follow me if you’re on Medium, where you can also read some of my other work. Consider joining the site with a free or paid membership. You can also say hi in the comment section, though you may need a membership to do so. I pay $5/mo which gives me unlimited access to stories I want to read and the ability to comment. I appreciate the people who follow my blog. I’m not sure I would have the courage and impetus to write what I do without knowing I have great readers. Have a wonderful day.—Margaret

Brother John

Beggar’s dog – Hoboken, Library of Congress, photo taken between 1910 and 1915

(This story began as an Inktober 50-word installment beginning with “Mute” and continuing on with “Mute II” and “Mute III.” See below. Feeling some limitations with writing metanarrative with 50-word constraints, I decided to combine these three, making some necessary revisions, and pushing it forward a bit with this post. I will entitle this “Brother John.” Hopefully, I will make installments, and as I go, entitle them with numerals. It will be interesting to see what happens. Thank you for reading and your faith, dear reader, that I might pull a rabbit out of this, eventually, and no offense, Brother John, it’s just an expression.)

The writing instructor said Greta Engevold’s story about a benign homeless man who lives in the Central Florida woods behind a suburban family’s home was naïve. He had meant she was a simpleton. That night, she dreamt she haunted the instructor, contorting her face and howling in anger, but his face registered nothing.

The houseless man confronted the instructor in his driveway. “Hey man, I’m in Greta Engevold’s story.”

The instructor sidled away but the man grabbed his arm. “If you keep interfering with my existence, you die.”

Pale and shaking, the instructor nodded.

“I think he gets it, kids!” The man did a little two-step.

“You were so busy humiliating Greta, you didn’t even ask if I made it through the hurricane.”

“You’re right, man, I’m sorry.”

“And now you want to erase me from my own story. That is the limit, man.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Look, I get it. I’ll bet Greta wouldn’t even imagine it that I might threaten someone and make good on it. She’s a sheltered young lady, you see. But let her alone. She’ll know soon enough how things are.”

This was all too much time to spend on one student’s limitations, thought the instructor. This was usually why he kept his feedback short and curt, hoping that in the end, it will all make sense to them.

“They made a documentary about me,” said Brother John. “That’s where she got the idea of me. But then she thought of the idea of these little half-feral kids whose parents work and they are lonely and come to visit.”

“Film is a different medium,” said the instructor, unable to help himself.

“You really are something, aren’t you,” Brother John grinned. “I’ll bet you really don’t believe a lot of us are tucked away in the woods in neighborhoods everywhere. around here. We’ve rigged up tents. I have tv, an easy chair. A cookstove.”

(Well, I’ve got some things to do today but I really did feel guilty about possibly leaving Brother John hanging for much longer. The little 50-word limits I have set for Inktober were hurting my progress, but maybe I will go back to them to make another future installment, or maybe I will increase my limit for this project. Have a wonderful day.—Margaret)

Lost

Photo by Iraj Beheshti on Unsplash

Weeks after Hurricane Ian, the Lauriers held a memorial service for their beloved aunt and sister who had called as her home was flooding. Panicked and confused, she had asked for her deceased brother’s help. Later, her cat had been found, but she had disappeared. They laid flowers in the sea.

Mute, part III

Photo by Matt Collamer on Unsplash

(Part 3 of a metanarrative beginning with “Mute,” below, followed by “Mute, part II)

The confrontation between Brother John—Greta’s fictional character—and the
writing instructor was taking place in the instructor’s driveway.

“You were so busy humiliating Greta, you didn’t even ask if I made it
through the hurricane.”

“You’re right, man, I’m sorry.”

John scoffed and shuffled off into the woods.

 

p.s. I may spend a little more time with this one. The constraints are holding it up, but I am enjoying the meta aspect. I hope you’ve had a good weekend. I’m sorry I may have filled your inbox today if you get email updates. I try not to make it a habit. Sincerely—-Margaret 

Mute, part II

Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash

(note: For part one, see “Mute” below.)

The houseless man confronted the instructor. “Hey man, I’m in Greta Engevold’s story.”

The instructor sidled away but the man grabbed his arm. “If you keep interfering with my existence, you die.”

Pale and shaking, the instructor nodded.

“I think he gets it, kids!” The man did a little two-step.

Mute

Photo by Dim Hou on Unsplash

The writing instructor said Greta Engevold’s story about a benign homeless man who lives in the woods behind a family’s home was naïve. He had meant she was a simpleton. That night, she dreamt she haunted the instructor, contorting her face and howling in anger, but his face registered nothing.

Jodok

Dave Anteh, public domain image, flickr

The coastguard found unmedicated bipolar Jodok Pfeiffer sleeping under a tarp on the beach with a pack of dogs, all lost and wandering after Hurricane Ian. Jodok had gathered food for them, and all seemed fairly well, though Jodok said he was their dog father: He knew their ancient fears.

Weep

Sunset on Florida Bay, Everglades National Park, Public Domain photo, flickr

When a child died of a fentanyl overdose, they determined it was not from rainbow-colored pills disguised as trick-or-treat candy, but from his discovery on a Florida west coast beach, further north from the hurricane destruction, where his mother let him explore. They said that night the quiet sea wept.

Grief

Florida Memory, Child and Dog, circa 1920, flickr

On Halloween, the widow Mrs. Bythesea noticed something different about one of the trick-or-treaters: He never grew from year to year and no one seemed to acknowledge him. In her grief, she fell under the delusion it was her own dear Fergus, returned to her as a living child.