Scent of Sage

 

 

Pine Ridge  

Dove Whitehead stood over the body, peering around with telescope eyes, focusing on what was there, and more importantly, what wasn’t there.

Where was the blood spray?  The pooling blood beneath the body?  The splatters of blood drops on the wooden floor?  There were none.

Dove turned her eyes to search the room, not moving from the spot where she stood.  The man had lived here on the reservation for eighty years, nearly all his life.  Where were the accumulations of a lifetime?  The room was spartan, with the simplest of belongings. 

Closing her eyes, Dr. Dove Whitehead tilted her head and shut out all sounds.  Lifting her hands over the body, Dove inhaled.  It was there, the evil was there.

The scent of salt.  The scent of blood.  The scent of sage.

Word count: 200 for  "Scent of Sage" possible post 

I have an outline of this story.  Hmmm.

Struggles with the Past

Writing memories of stories told to me by my father is an almost

Mom's senior high school photo

easy delight. Experiencing those stories as if Dad himself were there beside me fills me with a warm satisfaction; those stories will not disappear when I do.

My last post on Susan Kane, Writer is a true to the images what Dad told me more than once. He always said that a good tale can be told over and over. This last post was one tale Dad told me which had me laughing each time, Gift, Freely Given.

My mother never told these detailed stories, ever. Instead, she talked with us as we worked with her. We would be washing dishes and she would have us laughing at some event from her youth.  A small event, like going to dances at her high school when she was sixteen, would have my sister and me in stitches.  

Mom in High School

Mom was vivacious. Mom loved people and they remembered her for her kindness and enthusiasm. Mom was born in 1928, part of the Greatest Generation. Mom grew up on a farm. Mom was a cheerleader and played the flute in HS. Mom did...

But there was no connection from one situation to one part to the next, just free-flowing.

Baby brother Donald with Mom and Dad, 1947

How do I weave those brief memories into a picture of who my mother was and how did those parts make her who she was?

As writers, what do you do with characters about whom you have to build around, to construct with pieces of understanding?  How honest do you have to be when this is a telling of someone like my mom? And keep the story true and solid?

How do I keep my voice accurate in trying portraying their voice?  Her voice.  Do I try to create a new persona for Mom?

Also, what do I do to be true to the character when their persona has flaws? In my Aunt Helen, her voice includes profanity.  In real life, Aunt Helen did not do this.  However, she held onto the anger of her growing-up years for her entire life. Her photos show that. So, I endowed her with inward profane dialogue. 

If I had that anger, what would I do to release it? What would you do with this way to express the character's anger?

So there you have it. And here I ask you: What do I do? What can I do? What would you do?

If this post leaves you confused, please check the post site in yellow above.

Samuel: The Aftermath

Source

It was Nana who rounded all the children up, and took them to the deck.  The whole flock of three-year olds plopped down and waited with serious eyes.  Soon they would be whisked away to be cleaned up and taken home for their naps.

The pitchers of Sangria had been drained dry, causing some of the mothers to stagger as they wiped down the cake mess.  Nana put on some coffee and started force-feeding the women with extra caffeine.

Samuel sat off to the side with his crew.  To look at them, no one would know that this was all their doing.  That all the destruction, the soiled and busted bouncing castle, and the run-away pony—all was accomplished with those four children.

Samuel felt an inner glow that always came after a successful venture, the sense that all was well with the world. Such a great day, the best birthday yet!  Everything, all of it!  Man.  I wish we could do it all over.

Then Nana took him by the hand and led him to his bedroom.  They sat down on his ‘big boy’ bed, and Nana looked Samuel straight in the eyes.  She held his eyes with her own until Samuel felt the glow shrivel, the pride shut down.

“Samuel.  Did you even think about what would happen to the pony?  To the young man who loves him?  Did you wonder about that boy Jason who had to go into the ‘castle’ to save all your little friends?  What if he had not done that?”

Samuel’s eyes grew big and he blinked big earnest tears.  I..no, well…I didn’t know…  Nana’s words hit him harder than any hand could.

“Think about those two young men, what they have to do now.”  Nana stood up and took off Samuel’s shoes, getting ready for a nap. She led him to the toilet where he could pee.  After all, Samuel had not been in the castle.

Later, his bed was a silent sepulcher for Samuel: stone cold and devoid of any happy thought at all. What will I do now?  Now that I know about other people, and actually care?  What can I do?

To read about Samuel's third birthday, go to this link:
Uncle Marvin tells what he saw 

What do you think Samuel will do now?  How will he deal with this conflict of conscience and talent for destruction?  After all, the very essence of Samuel is at stake!