Kelly Garriott Waite's Blog, page 9

The Promise of Spring

"The soldiers stare at Annika when we go for rations."

"Let them look." Liam snatched a biscuit from the plate. "Her beauty will save us. As long as there is something to dangle in front of them, they will leave us alone."

"She is your daughter, not an enticement. When will they be no longer satisfied with...?"

"We all need to survive, Bekka." Liam looked out the window. "It will be a cold winter. We must find more wood."

"The hickory shells..."

"...mere phantom of warmth. You and Annika go to the forest tomorrow. Bring back what you can in the sled."

"I won't take her, not with the soldiers."

"The New Decree forbids your disobedience."


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Oh, darn

When my mother found something particularly funny or helpful in the newspaper, she would clip it out and post it to the refrigerator where it would remain for family and visitors to read until the paper yellowed and the edges curled and, eventually, the piece's significance would be forgotten. Mom would put up Erma Bombeck columns. Recipes she wanted to try. Comic strips.
One Hi and Lois strip has remained in my memory for thirty-six years: In the first frame, Hi hands his wife a sock and tells her that it needs to be darned. Lois takes the sock in the second frame, and studies it intently. In the final frame, Lois throws the sock into the trash can with the words, "Oh, darn."
My mom laughed out loud when she read the strip. Of course, I didn't understand.


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Woods

Yellow locust leaves criss-cross the sky, hither-and-yoning like a girl I once knew who couldn't decide what to do with her life so she hurried into one thing after another until finally she had to stop and rest like the locust tree which will take its repose before emerging in white glory, announcing spring.

The lost girl will find her way into the clearing.

The view is better there.

But every so often, the girl will come back to the woods and immerse herself in nature's orderliness which we humans read as wild confusion because we do not understand.

Neighbors

The neighbors have been great about stopping by and introducing themselves since we moved to our hundred-year-old house three months ago. There's Earl. Darwin. Pickles. And this timid male who comes frequently but as of yet hasn't introduced himself. Oh, and Patches, of course.

Evil Patches.

These cats come at regular times throughout the day to visit our cat Alex and to partake of the bountiful bowl of cheap kibble my son fills every morning. The bowl of food (and usually a bowl of milk as well) sits on a plastic Rubbermaid cube, three by three by three, that houses summer flip flops, old work shoes, and other smelly footwear from which my children refuse to part.

Earl, a beautiful grey male, comes in the morning, eats daintily, then settles in for a nap beside Alex, both cats' tails gently moving in the misty morning light.

Sometime around noon, Darwin, the new cat from overseas, leaps onto the front porch, walks along a piece of white trim past the dining room, around the corner to the kitchen windows and on to the back porch.

The dogs are indignant at the cats' visitations. Tails up, ears up, they stand at the window, barking, turning around at me, wondering why I don't intervene with these freeloaders who, unlike Alex, don't bring me presents of chipmunks and mice, setting them at my feet with a proud and gentle mew.

But I let them eat.

All except Evil Patches who beat up Alex on his first night in the neighborhood.

Evil Patches is not welcome here.



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Visions

"A stranger approaches from the east!"

Before the war, strangers were welcome. Now...

"Haste, Marcus."

I hurry along the grassy path leading to the village's center.

The baker is here already, a dusting of flour on his skin. The ironworker clenches a hammer in his hand. The mute healer sits on the ground, herbs spread upon her lap, hair wild, eyes wilder, rocking to a rhythm she alone can hear. Wrapped up in her visions, the healer never sees the world as it truly is.

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Illusions

Clouds of white bloom in Charlie's coffee, the colors blending: dark to light; light to dark. Outside, snow begins to fall. Fat flakes land upon the grass and dissolve immediately: white to clear.

There's a knock at the door of the cabin. He remains still, expecting no one. He hasn't seen a human being since he went to town three weeks ago.

The knock again, more insistent. He sips his coffee and waits for the person to go away.

The doorknob turns. The door swings open. A woman stands there, wearing a down jacket and a striped scarf. She unwinds the scarf from her face.

"Jennifer?"

"I've been looking for you for four months."

"Here I am."


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Notes from the Enquiry

"They weren't supposed to have emotion or intelligence, outside of basic instincts that would detect danger: fire, say, or a burglary," Orwen said.

"Nannies. That's what they were for?"

"That and hospital attendants. People don't trust machines."

"So you turned computers into humans."

"More the reverse. Humans into computers."

"Sub-humans."

"Yes, sub the prefix meaning..."

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Tendril

"Prayers are threads." Ian lazily drew his oar towards him before pulling it from the water.

The sun slanted across Findley Lake, temporarily strewing it with gemstones. "Prayers are just words, Ian."

"Prayers bind us to each other, unite us in common purpose."

"Not if we ain't all praying for the same thing."

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Partake

How to stage a murder: Contaminate the water and the fields. Ring up the world. Invite all to a banquet. Chew your deeds thoroughly. Swallow your actions with care. You, too, must partake.

Crack

"I need to tell you something."

There had been rumors about his affairs. "What is it?"

"There's a crack in the universe."

My father had taught literature for forty years until the board forced his retirement. At the time I'd thought it was a bad idea. Now I wasn't so sure.

"Maybe it's a crack in time."

"A wrinkle?"

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