Mark Bell's Blog: MUDDLED MINDED AND PROUD OF IT
December 24, 2012
Have any short you want: as long as its this one.
Appalachian Spring
Copyright 2012 Mark Bell
Boo hated water. He hated carrying it up the hill, he hated it for killing his father, and he hated the incident that caused them both. The mine opening was on the other side of the mountain. It just didn’t make any sense to him that the water that fed the house spring could be related to the water that flooded the mining shaft. One big dynamite explosion and the world as Boo knew it came to an end, and in the process convinced him that water was sneaky when it went underground.
The company man had come to the house to fetch his Mama. Boo didn’t see or hear him coming; he was too busy at the spring watching the water stop flowing, and suddenly the water in the spring box got sucked back into the ground. Even the frogs that hung around the little overflow creek looked dazed. Boo’s daddy had taught him never to pass up a chance for a free meal. He stopped wondering and got busy collecting donors for a frog leg supper.
Even the largest and slickest bullfrog, Jasper, looked perplexed. Three years ago, Boo had named him as he unsuccessfully tried to entice him to come to supper. In the ensuing years, Jasper had eluded capture. Not only did he refuse to be caught, he was the cause of Boo eating mud and washing it down with brackish water countless times. Boo tried everything. Headlong diving grabs came up empty. Stealthy backdoor swoops were unsuccessful. And if failure was not shame enough, Jasper always made it worse with his sanctimonious croaking as he jumped out of Boo’s grasp. Boo sometimes swore that he flashed him a froggy smile as he sailed away. But today was different. Jasper was finally confined in the gunny sack.
With a sack full of frogs and a story to tell he ran as fast as twelve-year-old legs, loaded down with supper, could. He turned the corner and was startled by the sight of a man half dragging his Mama toward a car.
“What the hell you doin’ to my Mama?” erupted from his mouth.
He knew that he would probably get a whippin’ for cussin’ but he thought, it wouldn’t be the first or last time. The man turned and Boo saw that it was Mister Johnson, his Daddy’s boss. Boo knew for certain that the ass whippin’ was coming now. His Mama had tears running down her face and Mister Johnson was scowling. Won’t like he ain’t never heard cussin’ afore, Boo thought.
“Get in the back seat, boy,” Mister Johnson growled.
Boo knew better than to hesitate, let alone open his mouth. Even at his young age he knew and understood the hierarchy in this part of the country. The mine was the giver of wages, the only local source of hard currency, so Boo sat quietly in the back of the car. Occasionally a frog would croak or try to jump, only to be reminded of the constraints of the sack. Boo wondered why they were in Mister Johnson’s car. No one bothered to tell him why they were racing around the curves to the other side of the mountain.
When Mister Johnson finally slammed on the brakes they were in front of a large, noisy pump that was spewing water down the mountain. Several miners were standing to the side and Boo’s Mama and Mister Johnson walked past them. Boo was forgotten but his curiosity forced him to follow. With his sack in tow he followed until he saw what the miners were shielding. A tarp bulged with the outline of a man lying beneath it, and Mister Johnson was pulling the corner up to allow Boo’s mother to see who lay underneath.
Boo dropped his gunny sack and frogs immediately covered the ground and hopping in all directions. The miners, not knowing what else to do, tried to catch them and put them back in the sack. Boo raced to his mother as she crumpled to the ground, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Jasper heading for the mine opening. His mother let out a sob that was audible over the drone of the pump. Even Jasper paused and looked back. Then as one of the miners closed in, he executed a mighty leap that carried him into the mine opening.
The return trip home was somber and quiet. Even the frogs had had enough: the sack lay still at Boo’s feet. The only sound that made it over the road noise was Boo’s mother sniffling into a handkerchief. They arrived home and Mister Wilson helped Boo’s mother into the house.
That was the last time anybody from the mining company came by and the only help they received. Boo was now the man of the family and the sole provider for his mother. He did what any man would do. He skinned out the frogs and got the fire going in the kitchen stove. Left-over biscuits and legs might not be the best meal in the world but it was a lot better than starving.
His mother half ate one or two legs and a piece of biscuit before she fell back into bed. She had married at the age of fifteen. For the first time in her life, she had no one to tell her what to do. Under the covers was the only place that felt safe so she took to her bed.
The next day several of the miners arrived with Boo’s father’s body and a handful of picks and shovels. Boo picked a spot right above where the spring used to be. In less than an hour the hole was dug. The preacher arrived with a gaggle of local women, bearing dishes of each one’s specialty: beans, chicken, corn bread, and even a couple of pies. Boo’s mother was brought to the grave. The preacher said a few words and finished his little speech with “ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” Boo wondered how his father was going to be ashes or dust seeing as how he was waterlogged, and that reminded Boo that he hated water.
It started when he was a little boy, four or five years old. He hated to stand in the foot tub and have his mama pour hot water over him and then scrub his hide with hard soap. Then it was his chore of totin’ water every day from the spring. It didn’t end with his father’s watery death either. He still had to lead the milk cow to the creek at the bottom of the hill for a drink. He had to do this twice a day and on the way back up he was burdened with fetching a bucket of water back to the house. The two pigs could not be led to the creek. Boo decided that he would let them go and when the weather turned cold he would use his daddy’s old rifle to hunt them down and kill them. That way he could avoid carrying water to them and still get the benefit of fresh meat. They would carry him and his mother through the winter.
He dutifully led the cow to the creek and let it drink. Boo noticed that the water was not as clear as it use to be and it had a faint smell of rotten eggs. He knew the lay of the land. The water being pumped from the mine was flowing around the mountain and into the creek. The cow was not that eager to drink, but given the choice of this water or no water she took a drink. Once the cow had her fill, Boo would take her home and milk her. He didn’t much care for milk but it was about the only thing that he could get his mother to drink. Boo was thankful his daddy had stored several jugs of apple cider in the root cellar. Boo drank a cup with every meal.
Every once in a while a neighbor lady would stop by and see how Boo and his mother were getting along. Each time the gossip was the same, “His Mama was grieving herself to death and something was going to have to be done about the boy.” Rumors of his mother’s malady grew and the visits became less frequent. They stopped when it was decided that she was crazy. Boo was no fool. He knew that if his mother died, the “good” people from the county would try to put him away. Boo thought otherwise, orphanages were for babies and he was a man.
As fall started to show itself, the leaves began to turn and so did the milk cow. It died the night before Boo’s mother did. He had left the house intent on leading her to the creek, but it was a journey he’d never have to make again. He ran to the house to tell his mother and found her in the same state as the cow. Boo did not mind that the buzzards would have the cow, but his mother was going to have a proper burial, or as proper a one as he could muster. He knew better than to let anyone know about his mother’s demise. He fetched a shovel and headed to the old spring, intent on burying her next to his father.
It was not as well done as the grave that the miners had dug but it served its purpose. It was deep enough to keep the wild animals from digging her up and Christian enough since he made her a cross. When he had finished his task he walked past the old spring box for old times’ sake.
Jasper sat next to the hole that used to be the spring. He was no longer the spunky adversary of old. There was no cocky joy of the game. He just looked tired. He had come back to the place of his birth to hibernate, but with the lack of water came a lack of mud suitable for burrowing. This was the same dirt that used to be part of Jasper’s muddy kingdom, but without water he was no longer a king..
He looked up at Boo and instead of his taunting croak, he flicked his long tongue and a large stone plopped in the dirt. Boo picked up the rock and noticed that it was clear and shiny. He stuck it in his pocket so that he could use both hands to pick up Jasper. His intention was to dig Jasper a hibernation hole. Jasper looked up and gave Boo a froggy smile and then collapsed. Lesions were all over the frog’s skin and Boo knew that it was the damn water.
His father’s old rucksack was big enough to hold a couple of jugs of cider, an extra pair of overalls, and his new shoes. Boo put on his coat and his father’s old slouch hat, slung the rucksack over his shoulder and walked out of his house for the last time. He thought that maybe he should let someone know that he was not dead but he had nothing to write a message on. As he walked onto the porch he had an idea. He pulled Jasper’s rock out of his pocket and decided that he would scratch the message, “Boo Gone” on the front window panes. The B made the pane fall out. He had cut clean through the pane. Damndest rock I ever seen, thought Boo. He put it in his pocket and headed down the valley.
He had made it about a mile when the rain started. Just a fall drizzle at first, then more of a steady winter rain. He turned his coat collar up as a shield and wondered how long it would be before rainwater would start to kill.
Copyright 2012 Mark Bell
Boo hated water. He hated carrying it up the hill, he hated it for killing his father, and he hated the incident that caused them both. The mine opening was on the other side of the mountain. It just didn’t make any sense to him that the water that fed the house spring could be related to the water that flooded the mining shaft. One big dynamite explosion and the world as Boo knew it came to an end, and in the process convinced him that water was sneaky when it went underground.
The company man had come to the house to fetch his Mama. Boo didn’t see or hear him coming; he was too busy at the spring watching the water stop flowing, and suddenly the water in the spring box got sucked back into the ground. Even the frogs that hung around the little overflow creek looked dazed. Boo’s daddy had taught him never to pass up a chance for a free meal. He stopped wondering and got busy collecting donors for a frog leg supper.
Even the largest and slickest bullfrog, Jasper, looked perplexed. Three years ago, Boo had named him as he unsuccessfully tried to entice him to come to supper. In the ensuing years, Jasper had eluded capture. Not only did he refuse to be caught, he was the cause of Boo eating mud and washing it down with brackish water countless times. Boo tried everything. Headlong diving grabs came up empty. Stealthy backdoor swoops were unsuccessful. And if failure was not shame enough, Jasper always made it worse with his sanctimonious croaking as he jumped out of Boo’s grasp. Boo sometimes swore that he flashed him a froggy smile as he sailed away. But today was different. Jasper was finally confined in the gunny sack.
With a sack full of frogs and a story to tell he ran as fast as twelve-year-old legs, loaded down with supper, could. He turned the corner and was startled by the sight of a man half dragging his Mama toward a car.
“What the hell you doin’ to my Mama?” erupted from his mouth.
He knew that he would probably get a whippin’ for cussin’ but he thought, it wouldn’t be the first or last time. The man turned and Boo saw that it was Mister Johnson, his Daddy’s boss. Boo knew for certain that the ass whippin’ was coming now. His Mama had tears running down her face and Mister Johnson was scowling. Won’t like he ain’t never heard cussin’ afore, Boo thought.
“Get in the back seat, boy,” Mister Johnson growled.
Boo knew better than to hesitate, let alone open his mouth. Even at his young age he knew and understood the hierarchy in this part of the country. The mine was the giver of wages, the only local source of hard currency, so Boo sat quietly in the back of the car. Occasionally a frog would croak or try to jump, only to be reminded of the constraints of the sack. Boo wondered why they were in Mister Johnson’s car. No one bothered to tell him why they were racing around the curves to the other side of the mountain.
When Mister Johnson finally slammed on the brakes they were in front of a large, noisy pump that was spewing water down the mountain. Several miners were standing to the side and Boo’s Mama and Mister Johnson walked past them. Boo was forgotten but his curiosity forced him to follow. With his sack in tow he followed until he saw what the miners were shielding. A tarp bulged with the outline of a man lying beneath it, and Mister Johnson was pulling the corner up to allow Boo’s mother to see who lay underneath.
Boo dropped his gunny sack and frogs immediately covered the ground and hopping in all directions. The miners, not knowing what else to do, tried to catch them and put them back in the sack. Boo raced to his mother as she crumpled to the ground, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Jasper heading for the mine opening. His mother let out a sob that was audible over the drone of the pump. Even Jasper paused and looked back. Then as one of the miners closed in, he executed a mighty leap that carried him into the mine opening.
The return trip home was somber and quiet. Even the frogs had had enough: the sack lay still at Boo’s feet. The only sound that made it over the road noise was Boo’s mother sniffling into a handkerchief. They arrived home and Mister Wilson helped Boo’s mother into the house.
That was the last time anybody from the mining company came by and the only help they received. Boo was now the man of the family and the sole provider for his mother. He did what any man would do. He skinned out the frogs and got the fire going in the kitchen stove. Left-over biscuits and legs might not be the best meal in the world but it was a lot better than starving.
His mother half ate one or two legs and a piece of biscuit before she fell back into bed. She had married at the age of fifteen. For the first time in her life, she had no one to tell her what to do. Under the covers was the only place that felt safe so she took to her bed.
The next day several of the miners arrived with Boo’s father’s body and a handful of picks and shovels. Boo picked a spot right above where the spring used to be. In less than an hour the hole was dug. The preacher arrived with a gaggle of local women, bearing dishes of each one’s specialty: beans, chicken, corn bread, and even a couple of pies. Boo’s mother was brought to the grave. The preacher said a few words and finished his little speech with “ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” Boo wondered how his father was going to be ashes or dust seeing as how he was waterlogged, and that reminded Boo that he hated water.
It started when he was a little boy, four or five years old. He hated to stand in the foot tub and have his mama pour hot water over him and then scrub his hide with hard soap. Then it was his chore of totin’ water every day from the spring. It didn’t end with his father’s watery death either. He still had to lead the milk cow to the creek at the bottom of the hill for a drink. He had to do this twice a day and on the way back up he was burdened with fetching a bucket of water back to the house. The two pigs could not be led to the creek. Boo decided that he would let them go and when the weather turned cold he would use his daddy’s old rifle to hunt them down and kill them. That way he could avoid carrying water to them and still get the benefit of fresh meat. They would carry him and his mother through the winter.
He dutifully led the cow to the creek and let it drink. Boo noticed that the water was not as clear as it use to be and it had a faint smell of rotten eggs. He knew the lay of the land. The water being pumped from the mine was flowing around the mountain and into the creek. The cow was not that eager to drink, but given the choice of this water or no water she took a drink. Once the cow had her fill, Boo would take her home and milk her. He didn’t much care for milk but it was about the only thing that he could get his mother to drink. Boo was thankful his daddy had stored several jugs of apple cider in the root cellar. Boo drank a cup with every meal.
Every once in a while a neighbor lady would stop by and see how Boo and his mother were getting along. Each time the gossip was the same, “His Mama was grieving herself to death and something was going to have to be done about the boy.” Rumors of his mother’s malady grew and the visits became less frequent. They stopped when it was decided that she was crazy. Boo was no fool. He knew that if his mother died, the “good” people from the county would try to put him away. Boo thought otherwise, orphanages were for babies and he was a man.
As fall started to show itself, the leaves began to turn and so did the milk cow. It died the night before Boo’s mother did. He had left the house intent on leading her to the creek, but it was a journey he’d never have to make again. He ran to the house to tell his mother and found her in the same state as the cow. Boo did not mind that the buzzards would have the cow, but his mother was going to have a proper burial, or as proper a one as he could muster. He knew better than to let anyone know about his mother’s demise. He fetched a shovel and headed to the old spring, intent on burying her next to his father.
It was not as well done as the grave that the miners had dug but it served its purpose. It was deep enough to keep the wild animals from digging her up and Christian enough since he made her a cross. When he had finished his task he walked past the old spring box for old times’ sake.
Jasper sat next to the hole that used to be the spring. He was no longer the spunky adversary of old. There was no cocky joy of the game. He just looked tired. He had come back to the place of his birth to hibernate, but with the lack of water came a lack of mud suitable for burrowing. This was the same dirt that used to be part of Jasper’s muddy kingdom, but without water he was no longer a king..
He looked up at Boo and instead of his taunting croak, he flicked his long tongue and a large stone plopped in the dirt. Boo picked up the rock and noticed that it was clear and shiny. He stuck it in his pocket so that he could use both hands to pick up Jasper. His intention was to dig Jasper a hibernation hole. Jasper looked up and gave Boo a froggy smile and then collapsed. Lesions were all over the frog’s skin and Boo knew that it was the damn water.
His father’s old rucksack was big enough to hold a couple of jugs of cider, an extra pair of overalls, and his new shoes. Boo put on his coat and his father’s old slouch hat, slung the rucksack over his shoulder and walked out of his house for the last time. He thought that maybe he should let someone know that he was not dead but he had nothing to write a message on. As he walked onto the porch he had an idea. He pulled Jasper’s rock out of his pocket and decided that he would scratch the message, “Boo Gone” on the front window panes. The B made the pane fall out. He had cut clean through the pane. Damndest rock I ever seen, thought Boo. He put it in his pocket and headed down the valley.
He had made it about a mile when the rain started. Just a fall drizzle at first, then more of a steady winter rain. He turned his coat collar up as a shield and wondered how long it would be before rainwater would start to kill.
December 20, 2012
LATEST REVIEW
Pleasantly Surprised December 19, 2012
By Stefanie
Format:Kindle Edition|Amazon Verified Purchase
When I first began reading Meandering in a Muddled Mind, I wasn't too sure what to expect. However, through reading Mark Bell's collection of stories, I was definitely pleasantly surprised what it seemed Mark wrote what he wanted to, not what a publisher or something might have told him to write. The stories, some a bit more colorful than others. His stories are hilarious, and the titles of some of the works are even funnier. My favorite was "Woodstock: The Parable". The kid in this story does every thing possible to impress people and somehow manages to come out on top while getting some from his peers, getting some from the locals when deployed and then getting some from a Mrs. Robinson figure. This guy is too much! Just like in the title, it seems like he kind of muddled his way through things and somehow ended up where he did.
The other story that really caught my attention was "Internal Growth" which focus's on Walter Wenchell and how he hanged himself. He goes through a series of events that leads you to believe that each thing in his life is more tragic and life changing than the rest.
This is my first experience with reading a collection of stories from one author and I did really enjoy how the stories told a lot of detail, but weren't too long and I was able to experience a lot of different mindsets and adventures throughout the entire book. I definitely recommend "Meandering in a Muddled Mind" to anyone who has an open mind and enjoys a few laughs along with a nice dose of reality!
By Stefanie
Format:Kindle Edition|Amazon Verified Purchase
When I first began reading Meandering in a Muddled Mind, I wasn't too sure what to expect. However, through reading Mark Bell's collection of stories, I was definitely pleasantly surprised what it seemed Mark wrote what he wanted to, not what a publisher or something might have told him to write. The stories, some a bit more colorful than others. His stories are hilarious, and the titles of some of the works are even funnier. My favorite was "Woodstock: The Parable". The kid in this story does every thing possible to impress people and somehow manages to come out on top while getting some from his peers, getting some from the locals when deployed and then getting some from a Mrs. Robinson figure. This guy is too much! Just like in the title, it seems like he kind of muddled his way through things and somehow ended up where he did.
The other story that really caught my attention was "Internal Growth" which focus's on Walter Wenchell and how he hanged himself. He goes through a series of events that leads you to believe that each thing in his life is more tragic and life changing than the rest.
This is my first experience with reading a collection of stories from one author and I did really enjoy how the stories told a lot of detail, but weren't too long and I was able to experience a lot of different mindsets and adventures throughout the entire book. I definitely recommend "Meandering in a Muddled Mind" to anyone who has an open mind and enjoys a few laughs along with a nice dose of reality!
December 9, 2012
Recent Reviewer Interview
Q.What excites you most about your book's topic? Why did you choose it?
The book is a collection of short stories. I wrote them because most of my writing is confined to screenplays that requires constraint. Short stories allow me to address a topic, place, or subject in a contracted space without any other restrictions.
Q. How long did the book take you from start to finish?
Six months
Q. What aspect of writing the book did you find particularly challenging?
I enjoy building plots with twists. The challenging part is bringing a story to a conclusion that is unexpected but in retrospect is obvious.
Q. What surprised you the most about the book writing process?
Not a lot. I have spent many hours in front of a screen writing screenplays and the pleasant thing about a short story is its brevity.
Q. What do you hope your readers will gain from reading your book?
Entertainment and amusement first and foremost but also I hope that in the end they are enticed to consider the question of what makes us human.
Q. What projects are you currently working on?
I have a screenplay entitled Minnie in Bloom that is currently in preproduction.
Q. Is writing your sole career? If not, what else do you do?
I am a retailer and an independent film producer.
Q. Did you do any research for your books, or did you write from experience?
I do a lot of research to make sure that historical events and products are correct. Woodstock: The Parable occurs during the late sixties and early seventies. The character is five years older than me. Yet to get the correct slang and document the correct periodicals,and locations required a lot of research. As to why I do not remember a lot of the early Seventies is not open to discussion.
The book is a collection of short stories. I wrote them because most of my writing is confined to screenplays that requires constraint. Short stories allow me to address a topic, place, or subject in a contracted space without any other restrictions.
Q. How long did the book take you from start to finish?
Six months
Q. What aspect of writing the book did you find particularly challenging?
I enjoy building plots with twists. The challenging part is bringing a story to a conclusion that is unexpected but in retrospect is obvious.
Q. What surprised you the most about the book writing process?
Not a lot. I have spent many hours in front of a screen writing screenplays and the pleasant thing about a short story is its brevity.
Q. What do you hope your readers will gain from reading your book?
Entertainment and amusement first and foremost but also I hope that in the end they are enticed to consider the question of what makes us human.
Q. What projects are you currently working on?
I have a screenplay entitled Minnie in Bloom that is currently in preproduction.
Q. Is writing your sole career? If not, what else do you do?
I am a retailer and an independent film producer.
Q. Did you do any research for your books, or did you write from experience?
I do a lot of research to make sure that historical events and products are correct. Woodstock: The Parable occurs during the late sixties and early seventies. The character is five years older than me. Yet to get the correct slang and document the correct periodicals,and locations required a lot of research. As to why I do not remember a lot of the early Seventies is not open to discussion.
MUDDLED MINDED AND PROUD OF IT
Books and, short stories in particular, are the most powerful tool to research and highlight the human condition. My interest lies in the form:Southern Gothic. It is my belief, that for what ever reas
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