Lynn Donovan's Blog, page 6

Fulfilling My Sister's Dream

Those of you who do no know me well, I have a younger sister who is a "Ruebella baby" which means she was born blind and deaf, with other mental limitations and health issues due to our mother having Reubella measles while she was pregnant with her.  She has a dream of becoming a Marine Biologist and running a Shark Center.  She will never accomplish that dream, her special needs prevent that from becoming a reality. However, the beauty of being a writer is that I can write her story as if she had accomplished this dream.  Her name is LeeAnn, but in our fictious story, we call her Faith.  Please enjoy "Blind and Deaf Faith."


Blind and Deaf FaithShort Story FictionBy Lynn DonovanFaith was just like everybody else; she grew up, went to college, established herself in a rewarding career. The only thing she didn’t have—sight and sound. Gestational Rubella measles left her blind and deaf at birth She knew nothing different. Thirty surgeries, lens implants, and corrective lensed glasses allowed a myopic view of her surroundings. It let her read and maneuver without the gaudy, white cane that screamed, “Blind person walking!” Hearing was another matter. Hearing aids and even cochlear implants were ruled out early in her life due to her non-existent nerves. But she didn’t care. Life was—as it was. Besides, she could hear through her feet. Approaching footsteps were felt and she would turn toward the person. The mail cart rattled so violently, she knew when to step out of her office and receive her bundle with a nod. Few realized she could not hear. She liked it that way.As a marine biologist, she communicated with everyone by writing notes or sending e-mails. The notes were simply passed on through intra-office mail or a giant clip on her office door. This aloofness had gained her a reputation as an eccentric bitch, but she’d rather be thought of as a bitch than deaf, handicapped, or worse yet—different. Besides, she preferred to work alone, except for the sharks. They were her life, her single-minded focus. She loved working with them, studying them, feeding them, and writing about them. Interacting with peoplewas unimportant to her. With her immediate family, mom, dad, and sister, she communicated with her hands. But with the rest of the world, she wrote down her thoughts, commands, and instructions. The internet made that easy. Everyone typed rather than spoke on the internet. She simply refused to participate in any video conferencing where speech was required. Everything was as she wanted it to be. Her routine was, well—routine, and that suited her fine. She contributed to the knowledge-gathering infrastructure of the marina through her diligence and dedication to sharks. Her life was fulfilling and complete. Until he walked in.Dr. Donnie Fitzgerald, PhD., Marine Scientist, and now her supervisor, had been transferred in by a committee she ignored. Her lack of verbal skills had found the one niche she could not fill—public speaking. She could publish anything they needed to disseminate her valuable knowledge about the importance of preserving the sharks and their habitats. She set up social networking sites where she could “chat” with the public. But she could never present any information publically. Now she had to deal with Dr. Donnie Fitzfumble, Fitzfutile, Fitz-whatever, just stay out of the way. She hated him instantly. In her mind, she signed his name with an F at her right temple. That allowed her to insert an additional vulgar name. Since she was forced to share her office, her marina, and her sharks with him—it was her own delightfully private insult.“Funding. It all boils down to funding,” signed Hope, her older sister, at Thanksgiving.“Why can’t we get funding from the blog, Twitter, Facebook, even Pininterest? What about the mail?” Faith demanded. “I set up a webcam. The sharks can be observed twenty-four-seven. Why isn’t that enough?” She folded her arms across her chest.“Look at me!” Hope gestured with two hooked fingers pointed at her eyes. “Some things require face to face. Sales, fundraising, things same as that, require face to face.”Faith frowned. She knew Hope was right, but it didn’t make her like it any better.On the day she and Dr. Fitzgerald were to enter the tanks, she typed up all the shark information, laminated the multi-colored papers and bound them with a plastic ring. She had inserted pictures of the sharks beside the descriptions and, in particular, why they were in captivity. The print was large, so she could see it. To anyone else, it appeared to be benefit readability under water. Since communication underwater was all point and signal anyway, her goal was to point at the picture and then at the actual shark. He could read the rest. Or not.The scuba gear was arranged on a bench in the non-public access area of the pools. She was mostly geared up when Dr. F arrived. Ignoring him, she hoisted the air tank onto her back. She reached for the regulator, but missed due to the extreme angle it hung from her tank. The hose appeared in her limited peripheral as his fingers guided it toward her face. She grabbed the regulator and jerked away. Sharp, glaring eyes told him she didn’t appreciate his interference. His eyebrows rose but his mouth did not move. She paused. Glancing back at him, she shrugged. He nodded and returned to squeezing into his wet suit. She’d never considered him before. His muscular limbs and smooth abs might place him around her age, maybe younger. She remembered his face from a photo she had examined. Light sprigs salted his otherwise dark neatly cut hair, but the skin around his aqua-blue eyes was smooth. Premature grey, maybe? He glanced up at her as he zipped his black and green suit. Her eyes darted to the bench, and she sat down next to the laminated manual. Her heart beat violently in her chest. She consciously inhaled and exhaled to slow down the uncomfortable feelings—all of them. She hoped he would assume she was oxygenating her lungs, preparing for submersion. Once he bounced up and made a two-finger salute, she stood and handed him the manual. He opened it, scanned the pages, and nodded. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder indicating she was ready to go in. He gave the scuba signal, “okay.” They stepped over to the side of the pool, suspended one finned foot over the water and hopped in. Pain instantly pressed against her skull. She removed her regulator, squeezed the nose of her mask and pushed air out her ears for relief. Dr. F hovered, watching her, then held up the “okay?” sign again. She did the same and took the lead, swimming down into the shark tank. An eight-foot-long tiger shark swam toward them. Faith reached over to the laminated manual and turned to the orange page. She pointed at the picture and then at the shark as it serpentined past them. Dr. F nodded and scanned the page. He pointed to his side, indicating the shark’s original injury. She nodded and pushed off the bottom of the pool. The shark made a side-ways arch with its spine and doubled back toward them. It slithered through the space they no longer occupied, then doubled back again. She knew its territory had been invaded, and it did not like it.She swam over to where the nurse shark hung out. She showed Dr. F the appropriate blue page. It had been caught in a fisherman’s net as a newborn. It’d never had a chance to learn to survive in the wild. Now six foot in length, it was a member of Faith’s family. Dr. F held up two index fingers, “small.” Then pointed down, “here.” Faith nodded.On through the tank they swam locating and identifying each species. A dark mass passed into Faith’s visual range. The Tiger shark was still agitated. It was time they left him alone. She would treat him to fish chunks once they got out. She turned to Dr. F and gestured the scuba sign, “go up.” He signaled, “Okay.” In the lead, she propelled herself toward the exit ladder. A dark hazy contrast against the light-blue wall indicated she wasn’t far from the ladder. Three, maybe four more strokes then she would remove her fins.Suddenly her chin slammed against her chest and she tasted blood. Her body jerked backward, and the strap to her air tank slipped away from her shoulder. Another jerk pulled the other strap and spun her around. The Tiger shark was attacking her. It held the tank in its razor-sharp teeth and shook it violently, yanking her along with it. She kicked at its underbelly and struggled to remove her arm from the strap. The shark let go of the tank and darted past her. She swirled to keep her eyes on its position. It was between her and the ladder. Her eyes darted around. Where to escape? Where was Dr. F? The shark arched its spine and glided through the water, straight toward her undulating legs. She drew her legs and arms in close to her body and screamed. Bubbles spilled from her mouth. The shark rammed into her torso. Plastic scraped across her wet suite rather than teeth. She opened her eyes. Dr. F’s multi-colored laminated pages protruded from the shark’s mouth as it shook its head fervently. A firm grip took hold of her arm. Dr. F kicked long fluid strokes with his fins, pulling her toward the ladder. He shoved her up out of the water and scrambled backward, fins sticking out from the ladder. He fell on his bottom next to her and stuck his feet straight out across the sloshing surface of the pool. Crab-walking away from the sinking dorsal fin, he wiggled to get the air tank off his back. Faith’s eyes darted from him to the water. She could not stop hyper-ventilating. “Uhh, uhh,” the sound escaped her mouth as she tried to regain normal breathing. She swallowed. A metallic, copper taste caused her stomach to lurch. She closed her eyes to fight the nausea. A hand touched her shoulder. She jerked and kicked away from it. “Uhh!” she screamed. Dr. F grabbed her by both shoulders and held her firmly. She stared into his eyes and shook her head. His eyebrows knitted tightly together, and he slowly nodded as his mouth moved. Something about his face cleared the terror in her mind. She stopped fighting and relaxed. Her head turn to the right. Red covered her shoulder. She jerked away. It wasn’t her, it was him! Blood flowed from a gash that laid open from his knuckles to beyond his wrist. She grabbed his forearm and squeezed her fingers around the muscle. He looked up into her eyes and smiled, then his eyes rolled up as color drained from his face. He fell limp across her lap. She held tightly to the arm. It was the closest thing to a tourniquet she could devise. “Ooooo!” she screamed and stamped her foot. “Ooooo! Ooooo!” She felt the vacuum effect of air moving and knew the heavy doors had been opened. People frantically ran in to them, cell phones to their ears. “Mum, mum, mum.” She screamed the best she could and held up Dr. F’s bloody, torn hand. Someone wrapped something white around Dr. F’s arm and pried her bloody hands off. Adrenaline waned. The room tilted and began to spin. Everything elongated into a darkening tunnel—consciousness waned with it.# # #Faith sat next to her family as Dr. Fitzgerald stood at the podium, delivering the speech he and Faith had written. His heavily bandaged hand resting on the podium, it had been six weeks since the accident. Representatives from large corporations sat among local residence as Dr. F spoke. A slide show flashed brightly colored pictures of severely injured sharks; rescuers feverishly scrambling to save them; medical staff, including himself and Faith, administering hypodermic aid to the animals; expansive undersea terrains; healthy, revived sharks traversing the aquarium; and finally young people pressed up against glass walls admiring and learning about the sharks. The words of his speech scrolled along the bottom of the huge screen. Faith drew her eyebrows together. Subtitles? She scratched out a question on her program and handed it to her sister. Hope glanced down and then back up at her. “Don’t you know?” she signed with small, discreet gestures. Faith leaned back, “Know what?”Hope turned her head and glared at her for a moment. “Dr. Fitzgerald is deaf, Faith. The subtitles help the audience understand him. Although, I don’t think they’re necessary.” She leaned away from Faith and shook her head. “You really didn’t know?”Faith shook her head. She lifted her eyes back to the podium and the man who stood before the people. Suddenly the audience jumped to their feet. Their hands slammed together and vocal vibrations filled the air. Faith stood and clapped too. She smiled at her sister, who stared at Dr. F. Faith touched her sister’s shoulder. Hope turned. “I saw him first.” Faith signed.Hope dipped her head and smiled.

 

Thank You U.S. Veterans

Creative Non-FictionBy Lynn Donovan The Eleventh Chapter “I know I am going to Heaven because I have already been to hell, in 1968.”SSG Donald L Conant, Sr.Retired Army DAVDad sent a surprise in the mail to each of us kids, but when my brother read it, he had a surprise for Dad. For months our dad had sat at the computer typing, crying, pacing, and staring into space. This was no labor of love. It was a confession of his soul. He wrote about the year he spent in Vietnam. We knew very little about that year. All we knew was he had a pathological fear of having a flashback. At times it was debilitating. My siblings had seen him come home blanch-faced and mousey because he heard about a buddy “losing it” at a filling station. The buddy shot several people, killing them, because he thought he saw “gooks.” Loud noises and closed-in spaces terrified Dad. My sister and I laughed at him for years. While our brother, Donnie, stayed silent as if he understood.Donnie hated it at times, because they couldn’t do the things other fathers and sons did, like hunting, because Dad couldn’t handle the affects it had on him. He tried once, I’ll give him that, but when they got into the woods, holding their guns at the ready, Dad had to stop. He was in tears as he apologized and hurried back to his truck. They drove home in silence. As soon as they were home, he went to bed. Donnie didn’t see him for three days. Mom said he was sleeping. But Donnie wondered what he had done. Still Donnie didn’t blame him.After Dad typed his memoirs into the computer, he printed every gut-wrenching word onto tear-apart track paper, tore the perforated edges off, punched holes in it, and mounted each set in a black manuscript folder. He autographed them for each of us kids. At last, we could read the things he refused to tell any of us, his deepest, darkest secrets. Finally, we would know the causes for his insomnia, why he drank so much, and the reason why he dove into depression when I married a Filipino. Dad had a comedic style for telling stories, so we expected humor mixed with seriousness, like watching a war movie. We had no idea what horrors would be revealed in this manuscript. A lump formed in my throat as I read his dedication.DEDICATED TO:My family, who I am sure suffered as others did, that had loved ones in Vietnam. I love them all and I thank them for their support and understanding.DLCI turned the page and began to read. I laughed and I cried throughout his stories. I couldn’t put the manuscript down. However, my brother had a very different reaction.The words, the descriptions, the tales were vivid, graphic, and haunting, all the while, familiar to Donnie. How could they be so familiar to him? He knew this book was a project, suggested by the V.A. doctors, for Dad to gain control over the insanity he felt nipping at his heels every waking and sleeping moment. But, when he read Chapter Eleven, he had to pick up the phone.“Dad? I am reading your book,” Donnie told him. He didn’t know how to tell Dad what he knew, so he simply said, “You’ve told me these stories before.”“No, son, I haven’t told anybody about these things. I just couldn’t talk about it.”“No, you’re wrong. You told me these stories. I remember them distinctly.”Silence crackled across the phone line. “How could you remember?” he asked.“I don’t know, but I do. I remember lying in a bed. You wore your straw cowboy hat. It lifted up as you pressed your head against the side rail. I remember the red indentation the metal made on your forehead. You talked to me for hours. I think that’s when you told me these stories—was I dreaming?”  “Oh my god.” Dad’s voice broke into sobs. “I wasn’t sure until I got to Chapter Eleven,” he said. “When I read about the local village being slaughtered, about the dead people everywhere, and you guys walking in on the mess.” He hesitated. Should he go on? Dad was already crying. He hadn’t heard Dad cry too many times in his life. It broke his heart. “Dad, when I read about the children strung upside down in the trees, their mutilated bodies, their Asian eye-lids sliced off and the grotesque death stare of each of them, I knew this was not anything you would talk about, yet I knew the story. How could I know these stories, Dad, if you didn’t tell them to me?” He sniffed and blew his nose.“Dad? Are you alright?”“Son, when you were ten, you got sick.” He cleared his throat. “You were in a coma. The doctors told us you were dying. I told them, ‘Look here, I don’t wanna know what my son died from. I wanna know what’s killing him!’ Those doctors ‘bout wet themselves, yes-siring me and running off to figure out what was wrong with you.” He sniffed, and I heard ice clink against his large plastic cup. He took a long drink. He knew it was RC Cola. “The nurses were really nice. They told us to talk to you. Even though you were unconscious, just talk to you. About anything, it didn’t matter. Your mom and I thought they were crazy, but we were willing to try anything. So I sat down by your bed, and I talked. I didn’t know if you could hear me or not. Eventually, I ran out of things to say, and you still didn’t move, so I started talking about ‘Nam.” Now Donnie sniffed. His tears wouldn’t stop flowing. Finally, he knew why he had empathized with Dad’s fears. He had told Donnie these stories, and Donnie had remembered. That was my brother’s surprise for Dad. Although we lived in three different states, we were talking about the manuscript within a week. After Chapter Twenty-One, his final chapter, we understood why Dad couldn’t carry a gun in the woods. It was too similar to the jungle in Vietnam. A flashback really could be triggered without warning. After reading about those mutilated children, we understood why almond-shaped eyes, especially children’s, put a chill in his heart. We admired his ability to overcome this branded nightmare for the sake of his two Filipino grandchildren.Our dad was, once again, our hero. He had survived a bloody, senseless “police action.” His memories had been his prisoner of war. Thank God the V.A. doctors had suggested he write them down. By doing so, he was able to set them free. He was able to let us know what he had been through. More importantly, he was able to face what he feared most—what we would think of him. He found out we still loved him. We did not judge him for what he had done, what he had seen, or what he did not do. “Chapter Eleven was the toughest chapter to write,” he had told us. It required him to stand toe to toe with the devil and spit in his face. He feared it would break his sanity, yet he kept pecking the story onto the screen. It was the bravest thing our father ever did. Well, second bravest. The first was surviving Vietnam, 1968. Personal note:  I love you Daddy! (deceased 4/13/2005)  Thank you Veterans. I appreciate and pray for you all the time.

A Halloween Story

The Crickets’ Warning
Short Creative Non-FictionBy Lynn Donovan
If I hadn’t been standing in the entry way in my baby-doll pajamas, pounding on the ceiling with my shoe to get a cricket to stop chirping, I wouldn’t have noticed the front door standing wide open.        It was eleven o’clock at night and my parents were not home. They had gone out with their friends for drinks and camaraderie, or whatever it was they got out of being with their boisterous buddies at a place called Polly’s Pub. I was sixteen. Well past the age of needing a babysitter.

Yet, here I stood, shoe in hand, arms raised over my head, trying to silence a cricket, unaware the front door stood open. The street was silent, but my dog suddenly, fearfully barked and I jumped. Oh God! Where was he? I looked at the gaping door. Should I step outside to look for him? I couldn’t move. His muffled bark came from the direction of the kitchen. The pantry, perhaps? OH GOD, someone was in the house and had put him in the pantry! And here I was, in skimpy pajamas, all alone. I ran to my parents’ bedroom and fumbled through the phone book. Tears soaked the yellow page ads as I searched for the Pub’s phone number. At last, I found it and pushed the numbers. Polly answered. I forced myself to speak clearly.“May I please speak to Everett Bryan, this is his daughter.”When daddy came on the phone, I lost it. “Daddy? There’s somebody in the house,” my octave peaked, “and I don’t know where Gaylord is, I heard him bark, but I can’t find him. I’m in your bedroom, and I’m really scared. Can y’all come home? Please!”He chuckled but agreed.Rocking back and forth, I sat on their bed and stared out the window for their headlights. An eternity pasted in the darkness of that window. Finally, their car pulled into the driveway and I ran down the hallway. “Come on Gaylord!” my dad said.The beagle ran into the house, ahead of them, tail wagging and happy to be let in.“Where was he?” I cried.“In the garage.” Daddy laughed.“I thought he was in the pantry!” I said, fighting the temptation to hug my dad. “How’d he get in the garage?”“I don’t know. I guess you heard him at the door.” Dad said with a dismissive shrug. The door leading into the garage was next to the pantry door, I supposed it did make sense. Still, how did the front door get open? They didn’t seem any too concerned. So we all settled into bed.I slid under my pink and white gingham comforter and listened to every unfamiliar creek of the house. I couldn’t sleep. Even the crickets were silent now. Were they scared too? Did they know something was wrong? Why were my parents so calm? The front door had come open, somehow. Gaylord was in the garage. Something wasn’t right.Then I heard it. The crickets’ rhythmic chirping began again. They were mocking me in my fearful, sleepless state. I turned on my side, covered my ears and cried. I was alone in my fear. I was alone in my consciousness that something was wrong. But what? I never knew. Not then. Not now. But every time I hear crickets’ chirping, I think of that terrifying night. And wonder—Who opened that front door?

Chance to Win

Help me increase my membership to 100 and your name will be entered in a drawing to win an autographed copy of The Clockwork Dragon anthology.  The drawing will be held Sunday, November 25, 2012. Good Luck!!! Three Authors, One legend, One dragon.
A Legion of demons. Nine Stories.
Who will survive and who will lose their soul?
  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rGRmAMRQoUw 

The Clockwork Dragon Released Soon

October 25, 2012
Look what will be released very very soon!  I have four stories and one collaboration in this collection of Clockwork Dragon short stories.  I'm excited to share it with all of you. For me and Jennette Mbewe, it is our first publication. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them.  See you in print!  The Publisher is AltWitPress.

And now we have the trailer on Youtube.com:  Check it out!  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rGRmAMRQoUw

Am I Muddying the Water?

The Bible says, 2 “Son of man, take up a lament concerning Pharaoh king of Egypt and say to him: ‘You are like a lion among the nations; you are like a monster in the seas thrashing about in your streams, churning the water with your feet and muddying the streams. Ezekiel 32:2 NIV

The daughters loaded up and left today.  With them went … happiness, I suppose you’d say.  Yes that’s it, happiness.  While they are here, I feel happy; tired, worn out, ready to have my house back, ready to not wash so many dishes, ready to take a nap if I want, but happy all the same.  Now that they are gone, I am alone to deal with my feeling, or lack thereof, for my dementia inflicted mother.  I love my mother, I hate my mother. I feel nothing for my mother.  Somehow in her dementia fog, she knows it.  She keeps saying things like, “honey if I’ve done something to upset you…”  I look at her with my best practiced confused look and say, “Mom, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  And I either get up off the couch to go do something, like it’s the most important things I need to do at this very moment, or I pick up my Kindle and begin reading, like this is so much more important that talking to her about this “misunderstanding?”  In reality even if I discussed it with her, reassured her I am not upset about anything, which I’m not really, I just don’t enjoy interacting with her, talking to her.  Partly because of the dementia, partly because I just don’t feel like talking to her.  The dementia has reduces her ability to converse to topical, cliché, canned conversations anyway, but even if I did reassure her I was not upset and went into great lengths explaining how I am not upset, she wouldn’t remember my explanation nor the conversation in a few minutes and would probably start the whole thing over again in a few hours. And I really do not like having the exact same conversation about the same subject which I did not want to discuss in the first place.Yes, I could take the time to reassure her I was not upset with her and that I love her, and in a few hours, she’d say, “Honey, I don’t know what I’ve done to upset you, but I want to tell you I’m sorry.”  For one thing, that’s not an apology.  I hate it when people apologize by saying, “If I did anything wrong, I’m sorry” because that means to me, “I did not do anything wrong but apparently you are mad at me for nothing so I will tell you I’m sorry and you will feel better and be nice to me.”  Yeah, well that doesn’t make me feel better or want to be nice to you.  It makes me madder because you obviously to do recognize what you did or acknowledge your responsibility for what you did.  Either way, you are not apologizing, you are “making nice” and that doesn’t do it for me. But I say, “Mom, I don’t know what you’re talking about?”  ”Well, I don’t either, but I thought I said something that upset you.”“Like what?”“I don’t know, I thought I said something … silly”“Well, I don’t think you did.  Maybe you had a dream and thought you said something…But you did not and I’m not upset”“Well, ok then” she says, maybe ready to put it to rest.“Ok.” Lord, I hope we are done with this.And then the next day she will be sitting on the couch watching her favorite TV Channel which has Gun Smoke and Bonanza reruns.  I will have just sat down from puttering around the house, doing whatever needs to be done, like dishes, laundry, straightening up, or checking my e-mail, and she’ll say, “Honey, I wanted to talk to you…”Oh God here we go again!I look at Paul for help, but he just gives me a blank glance up from his computer in which he is vehemently playing solitaire, since he’s seen the Gun Smoke episode so many times he could recite every line not to mention it’s not his nor my favorite TV channel.  It’s on that channel for mom and mom alone.“If there’s anything I’ve said or done.” She starts in.“Mom, this is the third day you’ve said something about this.  There is nothing that you did or said.  We are alright.” Mic check. Mic check 1…, 2…, 3..., God I hope I don’t sound harsh!  “I think you dreamed this and now you are confused. Don’t worry about it.”Lord help me love my mother, comfort her, just be nice toward her!In my mind, I see me putting my arm around her shoulder and comforting her and she feels much better.  But outside of my mind, in my physical reality, I just cannot do it.  So I pick up my Kindle and begin reading, or go outside and check on the tomato plants.  Very important thing I must go do right now, I’ll be back.  Pull some unwanted grass, count how many tomatoes are currently formed and wish I could be a better person toward my mom.  I walk back in the house and tell mom there are three tomatoes and I can’t wait for them to ripen up.She sounds happy when she responds agreement to the idea that the tomatoes will be wonderful once they are ripe!  She seems happy again.  Thank god.