By Rona Laban
The snow was coming down at a hard clip. Rachel pulled on her scrubs and was rummaging in the dark, so as not to wake Derek. Where are those damn ugly Sorels he bought me last xmas? she thought to herself.
“You best take the new car," Derek mumbled from the pile of bedding. “We won’t go anywhere til you get back."
“Sorry, did I wake you? “
“S’ok, I’m sure our boy there will be cryin for his mama any minute.”
“See you round one then”, she said, quickly kissing him on the cheek.
Rachel slipped down the stairs quietly, hoping not to wake Jake; she hated saying good bye to him, seeing her sweet boy cry.
Next house has to have a garage, she thought as she cleared off the car. Not many people on the street at 7 AM on a Saturday in the middle of a snow storm. Her next thought: might as well stop at Dunkies -- it’s gonna be a long ride.
Now I wish I had my night job back, she thought, tuning in the radio. And nice having a radio that works and heat. They were actually supposed to go looking for a new car today to replace her old Lynx - a total piece of junk that Derek inherited when they bought the dreaded wagon when she was 8 months pregnant with Jake.
She remembered the perky Ford salesman bringing them out to pick it up. “Aren’t you excited, a brand new car!”
"Not exactly," sassed Rachel back, “not exactly my dream car,” and Derek poking her in her ribs, saying,”Easy on the guy, jersey girl. You can take the girl out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of the girl.”
Wow, I’m gonna be late, Rachel thought as she made her way through the slushy snow on the highway; damn plows -- not even out yet.
Then without warning, the car skidded hard to the left. She couldn’t pull it out and before she even realized it, she’d crossed two lanes of traffic and was perpendicular to the highway. As the guardrail came looming up on her, her life as they say was passing in front of her eyes. Not for long because when the car hit the rail, she spun around into the oncoming traffic and a pickup truck hit her head on. The air bag deployed, but she didn’t know that. All she saw was smoke in the car amd, panicking that the car was on fire, she grabbed for her purse and jumped out of the car.
The guy in the pickup truck got to her first. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think I’d hit you. I thought you’d pull out of it."
“Well, I guess you thought wrong.” said the jersey girl under her breath.
Welcome to the online home of the North River Arts Society Writers Workshop. We are a group of writers of all genres, sharing our original work and constructive feedback with each other.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
The North Wind
By Ann Falcone
Long ago, a young girl named Simza had cause to challenge the North Wind. Simza and her poor widowed mother had barely enough to keep them from hunger during the long cold winter on their little farm high in the mountains. Each day they carefully measured a ration of kasha hoping to make their food last until spring. One day, when Simza was returning from the barn with a handful of kasha in a little bowl, the North Wind blew so hard the grain scattered on the ground. From far and wide, from every chink and crevasse, mice scampered across the snowy yard and gobbled the grain. While the mice feasted on the kernals, tears welled in Simza’s eyes.
“Oh,” cried Simza, “now what shall I do for my supper?”
“You’ve no quarrel with us,” replied a tiny brown field mouse. “The grain was spoiled once it was strewn on the ground. You might as well complain to the North Wind.”
Well there was nothing to be done about it. Simza’s mother was ill, and needed her kasha porridge and a glass of hot rose petal tea to restore her health. Simza had to go back to the barn and get another ration of kasha for her mother. That day Simza herself had to go without supper so there would be enough to see them through the winter. She tied her apron tightly to keep her stomach from rumbling.
The next day, when Simza returned from the barn, she wrapped her shawl around the little bowl of kasha to protect it from the wind. But the wind blew so hard that her shawl ripped from her trembling fingers and the kasha scattered across the snow covered ground. From far and wide, from every tree and rooftop, the crows flew into
the yard and devoured the grain.
Now Simza was in tears. “This North Wind is a hard fellow. Twice he has spoiled all that I have for supper, and now I must again go hungry. I can bear this for myself, but my mother is frail and ill and now I fear she may have to go hungry too.”
The crows were moved to pity, having often known the sting of hunger themselves. “Maiden,” they cawed, “we know where the North Wind lives. He is a fine and jolly fellow who likes nothing more than to bring the roses to your cheeks and watch the leaves dance from the trees. Let us carry you there that you may plead your case with him. We’re sure he will set things right.”
So the crows lifted Simza and flew high above the tree tops until they reached the ice palace of the North Wind.
“Dear child,” he bellowed, for the North Wind is a great and blustery giant with a great and blustery voice, “what business brings you here?”
“If you please, your majesty,” replied Simza, “your puffing and
blowing has twice spoiled all that I have to eat and I have had to
go hungry. This I can bare, for I shall only tighten my apron until tomorrow, but my mother is ill and sorely in need of food.”
“My dear maiden, I most humbly beg your pardon. I was only trying to blow the very last leaf off a linden tree in Martonfa and meant you no harm. Please accept this magic cloth with my deepest apology. When you are hungry simply place the cloth on a table and command ‘cloth serve me,’ and it shall be spread with all kinds of dishes, hearty, savory, or dainty, as you wish. When you are done, command ‘cloth fold yourself’ and all shall be put away.”
Simza thanked the North Wind and set out on the long journey home. When she had traveled nearly a whole day, she came to an inn. As she was still a half day's journey from her home she thought, “I am too tired to walk any further today. If I offer to clean their stables perhaps they’ll let me sleep in their barn tonight.”
Simza spoke to the innkeeper, suggesting as she had no money that she could clean the stables in exchange for lodgings in the barn, and so the deal was struck. She raked, mopped, swept, strewed fresh straw and even curried the horses until it seemed as grand and fine a stable of that of the emperor himself. The innkeeper’s wife was so impressed she decided to treat Simza to a supper of borsht and black bread. As the landlady carried the supper tray into the barn, she spied Simza placing the magic cloth on the floor.
“Cloth, serve me!” commanded Simza.
At once the cloth spread itself with trays of roast goose, suckling pig, braised duckling, red cabbage, polenta, savory breads, cold fruit soups, crisp apples, fresh pears, fried string beans, vegetable stews, deviled eggs, cheese dumpling, pies, cakes, cookies and sweet creams. Simza sampled them all; each tastier than the last. The innkeeper’s wife hid in the shadows, watching in amazement.
At last Simza placed a cookie in her apron pocket and said, “Cloth, fold yourself.” All the food vanished and the cloth lay folded at Simza’s feet.
“What a marvel!” thought the innkeeper’s wife. “Why should that child keep such a treasure to herself, when I could use it to feed my hungry guests?” So the innkeeper’s wife decided to steal the magic cloth.
Later that night as Simza slept, the landlady crept into the barn and exchanged the magic cloth for an old linen that looked just like it.
When Simza rose the next morning, she tucked the false cloth into the band of her apron and walked the half day’s journey home.
When she returned to her hut, she found her mother much improved. Simza told her of her grand adventure to visit the North Wind and showed her the cloth. Her mother smiled, and clapped her hands, saying, “A wonderful story, my treasure. The thought
of such a miracle fills me with joy. But seeing, is believing.”
Simza placed the false cloth on the table. “Cloth, serve me!” she ordered.
But the Landlady’s old linen simply laid there.
So instead of a offering her mother a fine feast, Simza trudged to the barn for their ration of kasha.
After their humble supper, Simza went out into the yard. She remembered the cookie in her apron pocket. “Crows,” she called, “I offer you this treat, if you would carry me again to the palace of the North Wind.”
From far and wide, from every tree and rooftop, the crows flew into the yard as Simza crumbled the cookie on the ground. “It would be our great pleasure, maiden,” they squawked as they feasted on the crumbs.
The crows grasped Simza’s clothing in their claws, lifting her high above the trees as they flew to the North Wind’s ice palace . . .
Read the rest at: http://www.annfalcone.com/NorthWind.html
Long ago, a young girl named Simza had cause to challenge the North Wind. Simza and her poor widowed mother had barely enough to keep them from hunger during the long cold winter on their little farm high in the mountains. Each day they carefully measured a ration of kasha hoping to make their food last until spring. One day, when Simza was returning from the barn with a handful of kasha in a little bowl, the North Wind blew so hard the grain scattered on the ground. From far and wide, from every chink and crevasse, mice scampered across the snowy yard and gobbled the grain. While the mice feasted on the kernals, tears welled in Simza’s eyes.
“Oh,” cried Simza, “now what shall I do for my supper?”
“You’ve no quarrel with us,” replied a tiny brown field mouse. “The grain was spoiled once it was strewn on the ground. You might as well complain to the North Wind.”
Well there was nothing to be done about it. Simza’s mother was ill, and needed her kasha porridge and a glass of hot rose petal tea to restore her health. Simza had to go back to the barn and get another ration of kasha for her mother. That day Simza herself had to go without supper so there would be enough to see them through the winter. She tied her apron tightly to keep her stomach from rumbling.
The next day, when Simza returned from the barn, she wrapped her shawl around the little bowl of kasha to protect it from the wind. But the wind blew so hard that her shawl ripped from her trembling fingers and the kasha scattered across the snow covered ground. From far and wide, from every tree and rooftop, the crows flew into
the yard and devoured the grain.
Now Simza was in tears. “This North Wind is a hard fellow. Twice he has spoiled all that I have for supper, and now I must again go hungry. I can bear this for myself, but my mother is frail and ill and now I fear she may have to go hungry too.”
The crows were moved to pity, having often known the sting of hunger themselves. “Maiden,” they cawed, “we know where the North Wind lives. He is a fine and jolly fellow who likes nothing more than to bring the roses to your cheeks and watch the leaves dance from the trees. Let us carry you there that you may plead your case with him. We’re sure he will set things right.”
So the crows lifted Simza and flew high above the tree tops until they reached the ice palace of the North Wind.
“Dear child,” he bellowed, for the North Wind is a great and blustery giant with a great and blustery voice, “what business brings you here?”
“If you please, your majesty,” replied Simza, “your puffing and
blowing has twice spoiled all that I have to eat and I have had to
go hungry. This I can bare, for I shall only tighten my apron until tomorrow, but my mother is ill and sorely in need of food.”
“My dear maiden, I most humbly beg your pardon. I was only trying to blow the very last leaf off a linden tree in Martonfa and meant you no harm. Please accept this magic cloth with my deepest apology. When you are hungry simply place the cloth on a table and command ‘cloth serve me,’ and it shall be spread with all kinds of dishes, hearty, savory, or dainty, as you wish. When you are done, command ‘cloth fold yourself’ and all shall be put away.”
Simza thanked the North Wind and set out on the long journey home. When she had traveled nearly a whole day, she came to an inn. As she was still a half day's journey from her home she thought, “I am too tired to walk any further today. If I offer to clean their stables perhaps they’ll let me sleep in their barn tonight.”
Simza spoke to the innkeeper, suggesting as she had no money that she could clean the stables in exchange for lodgings in the barn, and so the deal was struck. She raked, mopped, swept, strewed fresh straw and even curried the horses until it seemed as grand and fine a stable of that of the emperor himself. The innkeeper’s wife was so impressed she decided to treat Simza to a supper of borsht and black bread. As the landlady carried the supper tray into the barn, she spied Simza placing the magic cloth on the floor.
“Cloth, serve me!” commanded Simza.
At once the cloth spread itself with trays of roast goose, suckling pig, braised duckling, red cabbage, polenta, savory breads, cold fruit soups, crisp apples, fresh pears, fried string beans, vegetable stews, deviled eggs, cheese dumpling, pies, cakes, cookies and sweet creams. Simza sampled them all; each tastier than the last. The innkeeper’s wife hid in the shadows, watching in amazement.
At last Simza placed a cookie in her apron pocket and said, “Cloth, fold yourself.” All the food vanished and the cloth lay folded at Simza’s feet.
“What a marvel!” thought the innkeeper’s wife. “Why should that child keep such a treasure to herself, when I could use it to feed my hungry guests?” So the innkeeper’s wife decided to steal the magic cloth.
Later that night as Simza slept, the landlady crept into the barn and exchanged the magic cloth for an old linen that looked just like it.
When Simza rose the next morning, she tucked the false cloth into the band of her apron and walked the half day’s journey home.
When she returned to her hut, she found her mother much improved. Simza told her of her grand adventure to visit the North Wind and showed her the cloth. Her mother smiled, and clapped her hands, saying, “A wonderful story, my treasure. The thought
of such a miracle fills me with joy. But seeing, is believing.”
Simza placed the false cloth on the table. “Cloth, serve me!” she ordered.
But the Landlady’s old linen simply laid there.
So instead of a offering her mother a fine feast, Simza trudged to the barn for their ration of kasha.
After their humble supper, Simza went out into the yard. She remembered the cookie in her apron pocket. “Crows,” she called, “I offer you this treat, if you would carry me again to the palace of the North Wind.”
From far and wide, from every tree and rooftop, the crows flew into the yard as Simza crumbled the cookie on the ground. “It would be our great pleasure, maiden,” they squawked as they feasted on the crumbs.
The crows grasped Simza’s clothing in their claws, lifting her high above the trees as they flew to the North Wind’s ice palace . . .
Read the rest at: http://www.annfalcone.com/NorthWind.html
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Procrastination: or sometimes it just feels like Fate is against me.
by Kristine Jelstrom-Hamill
Here it is, a dreary, rainy day in January. The kids are asleep, wiped from a weekend of skiing, and the husband swears he’s off to bed early. “Ah ha!” the voice in my head cries. This is it. No excuses. I pour myself a glass of wine and prop my laptop on my knees. OK, so a few pesky emails while the husband finishes up whatever it may be he’s doing, then it’ll be me and the rain drops.
What’s this? A sudden phone call from his office? Procedures forgotten, overlooked?
The rain drops are still pattering on the roof, but my own clicks of the keyboard seem overshadowed by his. I drank my wine way too fast and now wonder if I should pour another.
Is he almost done? Will he go to bed and leave me an hour of tranquility to write?
No, he will talk. He will tell me about the issue. I will nod and try to be sympathetic. In reality, I think damn his job. This was it, my night to write. Twelve hundred words or less. Piece of cake. I’d dazzle them with my winter’s wit.
Could it be? Is that my daughter moaning in her sleep? She who never sleep walks or talks or grinds her teeth. Tonight, the night of bad dreams?
I will not give up. One more paragraph to prove I tried. To show something creative.
On a dreary, wet January night, the rain spattered on the windowpanes, and I dreamed of somewhere else. Safe and warm in my heated house and oversized armchair, my mind wandered across frozen wastelands and vibrant jungles and endless deserts. Characters flitted by but never paused long enough for me to capture them.
Slap. His laptop is shut. Lights out regardless of my presence still in the room. Questions about towels and dishes. Am I procrastinating?
I’d rather believe it Fate. Gazing down with Her benevolent eyes. Tonight She is laughing at me I think.
Here it is, a dreary, rainy day in January. The kids are asleep, wiped from a weekend of skiing, and the husband swears he’s off to bed early. “Ah ha!” the voice in my head cries. This is it. No excuses. I pour myself a glass of wine and prop my laptop on my knees. OK, so a few pesky emails while the husband finishes up whatever it may be he’s doing, then it’ll be me and the rain drops.
What’s this? A sudden phone call from his office? Procedures forgotten, overlooked?
The rain drops are still pattering on the roof, but my own clicks of the keyboard seem overshadowed by his. I drank my wine way too fast and now wonder if I should pour another.
Is he almost done? Will he go to bed and leave me an hour of tranquility to write?
No, he will talk. He will tell me about the issue. I will nod and try to be sympathetic. In reality, I think damn his job. This was it, my night to write. Twelve hundred words or less. Piece of cake. I’d dazzle them with my winter’s wit.
Could it be? Is that my daughter moaning in her sleep? She who never sleep walks or talks or grinds her teeth. Tonight, the night of bad dreams?
I will not give up. One more paragraph to prove I tried. To show something creative.
On a dreary, wet January night, the rain spattered on the windowpanes, and I dreamed of somewhere else. Safe and warm in my heated house and oversized armchair, my mind wandered across frozen wastelands and vibrant jungles and endless deserts. Characters flitted by but never paused long enough for me to capture them.
Slap. His laptop is shut. Lights out regardless of my presence still in the room. Questions about towels and dishes. Am I procrastinating?
I’d rather believe it Fate. Gazing down with Her benevolent eyes. Tonight She is laughing at me I think.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
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