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A Narrative for Mr. Wise

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A Narrative for Mr. Wise (inspired from here)

Dear Grandpa,

          Hi; Ned here.  How are you? I am fine.  I wanted to share the most inspiring thing I observed last week.  As you know, I journal.  In my journal, when mom lets me take walks, I draw sketches of scenery and write descriptions, poetry, and plot ideas.  The other day I was about two blocks from the park and found a large rock, bigger than me, under a tree.

I sat up on the rock thinking I would surely endure something; things happen in nature.  I was guessing I may see a bird fly by; I may have to endure conversation; or maybe traffic would proceed as normal and nothing too exciting would really occur.  Do you want to know what happened?  I got to speak to a police officer.  I was not in trouble; I saw him speaking with a woman across the way and he came and checked on me before he carried on.

“Was that nice lady okay?” I asked him.  I tried to sound intelligent.  I said, “I imagine you guys get called out for the elderly all of the time due to this excruciating heat index commonly over 110° f.”  I was ready to mogate (walk away) if he said it was not okay for me to be on my lovely rock.  Other people had sat there – it was polished.

“The nice old woman across the street is Ms. Feathers,” said the kind officer.

“She has lived there for forty years.  Her children all have jobs out-of-town and her husband died three weeks ago.  She is three months behind on her rent, has been living with no electricity for seven weeks.  It was sad to hear; she knows my grandmother who is ten years older than her and lives in an assisted living facility.  I was called to escort the nice lady to the street due to an eviction notification.  I paid her landlord, and I plan to move Ms. Feathers into where my mother lives if she cannot find work.  She will be able to, though.  I spoke with her.  She did not know about the government programs available for seniors; a buddy of mine can hire her for part-time work at McDonald’s.  I think she can do it; it is not too far from here and she should be fine.  I do not mind helping her out; my grandmother will be happy with me for it.”

“That is very nice of you, sir,” I said.  “I think there is a place in heaven for people like you that can give others a second chance.”  The man said, “I am a blessed man.  I enjoy my job.  Be good when you grow up.”  He then carried on, said he was back to his beat.  I imagine he patrols a few blocks on foot during the evenings.  He saw me with my writing pad.  It was nice of him to explain the story of the lady.  Her house was rather inspiring, too.  I sketched it.  It reminded me of large plantation houses mentioned in history books in the south before the civil war.  Her house has four large columns out front and an old swing; I am sure we can find someone to help her pay and live there, too.  We can ask around for her at her church, maybe.  There is always a way to help others.

I hope she can keep her house.  The government programs added together with something to do for work should at least buy her the time to find something somewhere, even if she has to move.  I was bold; I went and met her.  I asked her if she would like to be a my pen pal, let her know I write as a hobby.  She shared her current address with me, and I found the Classified Ads section of her newspaper for her.  She looked through it and said she may give  a few of the numbers a call, however McDonald’s would probably be a more sound route.  She attends the Presbyterian church on 9th and Rivers St.  Maybe we can go there to check on her, sometime.  I do not think mom would mind.  Do you think there would be any reason not to go?

At any rate, I am glad the old lady did not add to the homeless population.  I hope she does well, that the community gives her some options, somehow.  I know where the soup kitchen is downtown; mom, at times, dislikes it when I go see those people.  At least I eat my vegetables when I do.  I hope all is well with you; I look forward to hearing from you.  I included a brief poem for you and Grandma Wise:

A Noontime Raven,

by Ned

Oh black raven

how are you there?

The sun is up above;

no moon?

The heat is on your back.

Death here soon?

Fly, raven! Fly!

You, too, can

continue to try.

I hope you enjoyed the poem.  I, like many, am a huge E. A. Poe fan.  Ravens usually symbolize death, somehow; I wanted to visualize one during the brightest part of the day to see where it would take me.  I suppose it led to the idea of keeping on.  I can be dedicated to trying to do my best at what I can.  I wrote this letter to you listening to a disco mix.  Well, I am going to do my schoolwork, now; I look forward to seeing you!

Love always,

Ned

♦

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Joy in the Night

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Joy in the Night

One time their was a young girl and her name was Joy and she was of pale skin and dark black hair; her room was draped with the simple efficiency of common-wealth and clean and mostly white with its pale blue hues from the vast moonlit night.  The night breathed in terror as young Joy could not sleep and opened her sash to let in the cool damp breeze of the night.  In her gown she lay in fright wondering why she felt so alone. Continue reading →

The Airport Lady

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The Airport Lady

Ned was a twelve-year-old novelist.  He spent most of his time reading and writing, was going to fly on a plane to a conference on writing.  Ned had about 40 minutes to board his plane, so he went to check with the flight attendant near the entrance to the big tube that would connect to the flying jumbo-monster.

“Hello,” said Ned, “I have my boarding pass, here.  Do I give it to you now?”  “Keep that with you and we will announce boarding in 32 minutes,” said Wanda, the flight attendant.  Ned felt better, he then knew he was in the right place.  He left the entrance stand to find a place to sit.  Dressed in blue jeans, a tucked-in white t-shirt, and tennis shoes, Ned was dressed casually enough to have a bit of confidence.  He was flying alone; his mother was not too worried.  Airports to them were like shopping malls.

“Where should I sit?” wondered Ned, then he saw her.  The lady he saw was very pretty.  She was wearing an orange dress with navy-blue lines – the dress would have been impossible for other women to sport.  She was reading a magazine; Ned had to sit by her.  Even he did not really know why.  “Is this seat taken?” asked Ned.  “No sir,” said Ms. Flowers.  It seemed as though she was losing interest in her magazine.

“I see I am not the only person waiting to board this plane,” said Ms. Flowers, “Did you find the flight attendant to be somewhat uptight?”  “I think she could crack a glass marble in her… you know,” said Ned; the attendant might as well been a talking pair of starched pants.  Ms. Flowers nodded to agree as she glanced towards the attendant.  The woman in the orange dress looked to the ground.  She was sad about something.

“Is there something you would like to talk about?” asked Ned.  Ms. Flowers looked to Ned and said, “I would love to, you would not understand, though.  How old are you, 12?”  “I happen to be exactly 12!” said Ned, “You are quite the intelligible woman guessing.  Why are you sad?”

“Once a year, for four years in a row, I was able to see an ex-boss.  I currently work in consulting for another firm, however I was using my paid vacations to come and see this man.  He paid me.  I did not need the money; it was nice to see him, though.”

“This arrangement was professional?”

“You seem smart for a 12-year-old.”

“I am a prodigy; I study all sciences.  I write; I publish.”

“Wow, maybe you could give me advice.”

“I always think, ‘Let it go.’  I remember not to dwell on anything that may bring me to an unhealthy frame of mind.  As for you; I am no doctor.  I can relate a few things, albeit.  Do you want to hear these possibilities?” Continue reading →

My Bags!

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My Bags!

“Six hours will not be too long,” I thought to myself.  There would be plenty to do around the airport.  I went and tried out the coffee – its flavor was uniquely predictable, as always.  I put about six grams of sugar in it with some ice from the nearby soda machine.  I sat and thought for a while; why not write a story?  I was going to walk around asking for a pen and possibly find some napkins or something to write on, and I heard a woman scream “Ahh… He has my bags!”

I looked that way and saw a man running with a carry-on bag and a purse towards the front of the airport.  He normally would have been able to be stopped by the facility’s employees, however there were none by the door he was headed to.  I sprint in a dead run towards the man; he was sure to get away.  I ran after him, anyway, and, as luck would have it, the woman’s purse got caught in the door as the man was escaping.  I tackled the man in the revolving door like I was playing football, and attendants with hip radios were there in moments.  I tried to get a good look at the man’s face, however they carried him away in cuffs.

The woman thanked me, and the guards checked me out to make sure that I was fine.  “How can I ever re-pay you?” asked the woman.  “With a handful of cash,” I said, “Just playing.  I am glad he did not get away.”  The woman was fine.  I borrowed a pen from someone who said I could keep it, and a college student happened to be nearby to give me some paper to write on.  I wrote down everything that had happened, as well as a few thoughts on writing and pleasing a literate audience.  I checked the huge clock on the airport wall, I still had four hours.

There was a blind man near me, we spoke for some time and I fell asleep.  Time passed, and I woke up in time to board the airplane, finally.

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Day 7, A Juxtaposed Contrast

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A Juxtaposed Contrast

 One time, a pretty young girl, Rose, and her grandmother, Ema, went to an art museum.  It was nice – not too many people were there at 8:30 AM on a Saturday morning.  There was a curator and a college student, nearby.  The student was working towards a post-graduate degree in graphic design, took some time during the morning to go check out the local art museum.  “What, if you do not mind my asking, is your opinion on these works?” asked the curator.  He and the art student, Mathew, had already spoken together once or twice, before.

Rose and Ema were standing near enough to hear their conversation.  Rose was admiring a huge orange flower while trying not to be afraid of a scary cow skull.  “Well,” said Mathew,

“I have always enjoyed O’keeffe’s artwork.  It, like many things to me, has become too overly cliché to really talk too much about.  I am happy to see these works in person, do not get me wrong.  It is the whole life to death comparison idea, though.  This whole idea that we can compare good to bad, beauty to disgust, or life to death; put those things into a painting; and expect others to enjoy the picture or sing our praises is just not very impressive to me.  What makes her stand out are these vivid colors that radiate from her canvases; death can be a cool form of inspiration.  I like and appreciate what she knew how to do for what was able to be done, technique wise, during her time; her juxtaposition of life and death was a sort of cop-out, in my opinion.”

“I think I agree,” said the curator, “She could have conveyed a deeper message – I still like to see her paintings, too.  They far-surpass many, in my opinion.  At least she had a message.”  The admirers continued to look upon the various paintings in the large room, its polished marble floors were white with wavy grey lines.  “Grandma, what is a ‘juxtaposition’?” asked Rose, thinking it may be a tough question.  “That is simply a comparison of two ideas, pictures, or things that are usually perceived to be opposites,” said Ema, “Which one is your favorite?”  “Well,” said Rose, “I like the big purple orchid with the pink stripes, because I think it is pretty, however I also like the one there by it of bones.  I like the second one, because I know.  One day, we are all going to die.“

“She speaks rather well,” said Mathew.  “Most prodigies can,” said Ema.  Rose looked over to Mathew and smiled; she was proud to have heard the complement.  Rose and Ema held hands and walked through the rest of the exhibit.  All four people thought about comparing things for the rest of the amicable day.

♦

Person of 2014

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Person of 2014

“So, who is the most interesting person you have met this year?” asked the woman named Kady.  She was speaking with someone on the subway named Aklan, a person of religion from India.  Aklan had said, “It is nice meeting you – I am thinking to look up your writings, someday.  You are the most interesting person that I have met on this day.”

“Oh, I already know a great many interesting people,” said Aklan, “I sell gold with my husband.  We import metal and jewels from India, and we cater to some interesting people, indeed.”  “Are these people really wealthy?” asked Kady.  “I should hope so; we do stay in business, somehow,” answered Aklan, “I am trying to decide on the most interesting one.”

Kady looked at her watch; the ride would not be over for another twenty minutes or so.  “I think the most interesting person was a young woman,” said Aklan, “She came in and bought a rare sapphire bracelet with the saying ‘Forever Love’ engraved on the outside.  ‘Nice choice’ I said.  She said it was for her girlfriend.”  “Oh,” said Kady.  “I am not really like that,” said Aklan, “However I found it ‘interesting’ enough.”  The two finished their ride mostly in silence.

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A Place in the Sky

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A Place in the Sky

As I was sitting on the bench, I checked my watch.  I had about thirty minutes, and my bus would pull up, then.  An old man with a newspaper walked up beside me and sat down on the bench.  “Where are you headed?” I asked; why would he care if I spoke?  He was about to talk anyway.  “My friends call me Mr. Herund,” said the man holding out his hand.  At the age of ten, I figured I could give the old man a firm handshake.

I shook the man’s hand with a nice grip and said, “My name is Mike, and I am on my way to Kentucky.”  “Me, too,” said Mr. Herund, grimly.  “You sound somewhat sad,” I said, “Why?”  “Well,” said Mr. Herund, “I am going to visit my deceased mother.”  “Oh,” I said, thinking, “My aunt’s place is going to be at least funner than that.”  I decided to try to bring joy to Mr. Herund.

“Where could you go, if you could go anywhere, and what would it look like?” I asked Mr. Herund.  “That is a dangerous question to ask me,” said Mr. Herund.  “Why?” I asked, and he said, “I am an avid reader and private independent editor and book critic.  I can blow a living man’s mind like a blond on 4th st, and I just finished reading Austin Tappan Wright’s “Islandia”.  The book contained a fictional continent in our real world named Karain.  “Wow,” I asked, “What is ‘Karain’ like?”

“Well,” said Mr. Herund, “I could tell you all about it, that I would visit it if I found it to be ‘accommodable’, however it would not be as fun as asking you what you think your dream continent would look like.”  “Mine?” I asked.  “I think mine would be a whole lot like Australia, with a tropical jungle and shaped like South America.  I would live high up in huge trees with tree-house communities and large hammocks for summertime napping.  The birds would be vivid in color, the trees bulging with the water of life, and its rivers full of meaty fish.  I would hunt game and fish; I would write with the inks of plants for the enjoyment of others.”

“You have a pretty nice place to go to, alter-ed world wise,” said the old man, “Have you ever considered writing a book to describe a story there?”  “I have now, Mr. Herund,” I said, and the bus pulled up right in front of us, coming to a noisy halt.  We both boarded the bus and exchanged addresses – he was sure to make for an intelligibly enjoyable pen pal.

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writing 101 link

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