Beth Bishop's Blog, page 8
September 8, 2015
September 7, 2015
Where the Wild Things Hunt
Shadow stood on the edge where the dormant grass met the rip-rap-covered bank. In the bay, the water gently lapped against grayish rocks. Rusty water, made less inviting by the bright sunlight. Through oval glasses he didn’t need, he stared at the ferryas itapproached the docks. He’d been compelled to wear them, putting on the face of an intellectual. People stereotyped glasses-wearers as geeks, nerds, and squares long before Velma began single-handedly solving mysteries for the gang. He coul...
August 29, 2015
Thunder
I remember staring west, waiting and watching as the sun dipped below the tree tops, below the street that curved to meet our driveway at the top of the hill. I heard it then — groaning, rumbling, rushing. At any moment, I expected to see great giants crash through the three line to trample my house and my family.
“Do you hear that?” I asked my brother. “It changes, but I hear it every night.”
“It’s just the trees growing,” my father said.
Later, I learned that, whether it was air masses coll...
August 28, 2015
Medieval
In a time and place where men inherited rather than purchased land, the fiefdom was plagued with territorial disputes. Generations of civil war meant that young men were scarce. Thus, although I was a young woman, I served on my father’s guard.
My duty was manning the closest watchtower to the keep. Hair cropped severely short — shorter than some of the men — and leather armor helped me blend. I was trained in all manner of martial weapons, but my talent was archery. I sat atop this tower, cr...
August 25, 2015
The Old Woman Who Lived in the Vinegar Bottle
I first heard this story in either kindergarten or first grade. I love old European fairy tales, Grimm’s and otherwise (and I love re-telling them). They teach children all sorts of life truths and lessons. There is one that is unspoken but undeniably true: Never trust a fairy.
THERE once was an old woman who lived in a vinegar bottle. Don’t ask me why. It was a common old vinegar bottle. Maybe a little larger than most, but, still, it made for a very small house. The old woman would often s...
August 23, 2015
The Bird Carver
I sat across his desk from him as he used his soldering gun to burn texture onto wood. It had changed drastically from the previous day. It wasa rough-cut hunk of white oak, a piece he’d scavenged after lightning killed theeighty-year old tree.After ten hours of carving,gouging and sanding,the hunktook on the form of asmall bird. Today, he added the feathers.
He wore two sets of glasses – his usual pair and his bifocals. He peered through both sets, studying his work. Next to the soldering gu...
August 21, 2015
A Stone Skipping Over Water
Our relationship was like that – here and there only a moment of contactbut with enough impact to make a mark. Not a bad one, mind you.
Our mothers played tennis together, and this was how we first met. My mother often dragged me to the courts and left me in the clubhouse with a lunchbox of toys. Even though I would’ve preferred being left at the swimming pool, this wasn’t often possible, but I had an active imagination and could make do with my toys and an almost-house.
One day, I sat upon o...
August 19, 2015
Rain-tinted Glasses
Clouds blanket the sky. Everything is saturated and squishy, but I take pleasure in the sharp contrasts found only when the land is drenched. Wet like this, things appear to exist more. The world looks skewed, as if I have been transported to a realm similar to my own but where every color is deeper, bolder, richer. Everything is off-set just a bit, distances seem further, and the empty spaces, emptier.
The tree bark is almost as black as the asphalt. Where they reach into the puffy, gray sky...
