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April 9, 2012


Not so long ago, I told you about the Bridge the Gap writing contest over at Obscura. I submitted a story. Well, two, actually.

I didn’t win.

With either story.


But it was a great experience because I have not written fiction in a v.e.r.y. long time. It was a fabulous way to try my pencil at it once again.

And, don’t tell, but I had a lot of fun with it.

Just in case you don’t remember, the contest organizers post two seemingly unrelated pictures and entrants must write a story (in a 1,000 words or fewer) to bridge the gap between them.

Before you read my story – you might want to check out the photos – I promise it will make a lot more sense if you do.

And if you want to read the story by the chick who won, you can do that too, I guess. 😉 Seriously, congratulations Elizabeth.

If you want to compete against join me in the next contest, click here. Just kidding, click here (pinky swear this time).

And now ……

by me

Chuck rocked back and forth in his mother’s old wooden rocker in a perfect hypnotic rhythm. He slowed only once to pick up his rooster so it would stop pecking at the holes in his camel-colored work boots. The tip of one of the rocker’s runners tinked against the blue Ball mason jar that sat on the splintering porch and held his drink. He leaned slightly forward and squinted his eyes just enough to form a “v” with his burly eyebrows. The distant wrecking ball drew in his focus.

As the ice in his drink trembled, his wife stood up to walk away. She had asked him a thousand times not to use that jar – it had been her aunt’s salt container and the only tangible reminder she had of the woman who raised her. The melodic ice coldly reminded Mae that her aunt was gone. Chuck simply ignored her pleas until she finally gave up asking. Now she just mumbled when she saw him using it. He liked the way the tinted glass masked the liquid inside, making it impossible to tell if it was sweet iced tea or watered-down Jack Daniels sweating along the inside of the glass. And, dammit, he could drink out of whatever vessel he wanted. Surely he had earned that much.

In the front yard, their grandson Trevor aimed his bb gun at the imaginary planes overhead. His battlefield was the abandoned airport that sat just off in the horizon. Trevor was training independently to join the Army because of its promise of a chance to avenge his father’s death. Five more birthdays and he could sign up officially. He ran over to the porch to grab his grandfather’s tattered straw hat right off his head. It was Trevor’s favorite helmet because it smelled like cigars and simultaneously protected his pale skin from the blazing sun and him from the enemy shots being fired from the air.

Watching Trevor, Chuck remembered the fight in the town over whether or not that airport should even be built. The farmers worried that the pollution would ruin their crops and the pilots would steal away their children to faraway lands. The town’s up-and-comers touted job growth and increased tourism. Decades ago, Chuck’s mother and father sat on that very porch and tried to make up their own mind about where they stood, ultimately deciding it didn’t matter much what they thought.

They believed progress had its own momentum and it was better not to be in the way. So, they did what they knew best and prayed that their own hens eggs would have thick enough shells to protect them from the fumes and that visitors would find more interesting things to do on the other side of town.

They didn’t realize praying for Chuck’s son Scott would be important too. They were unaware of the need to hope that he wouldn’t be enticed by the Marine recruiter’s offer to see the world. For generations the family flew a flag just outside the front door and instilled the very virtues of God and Country that made a military career appealing. Even still, they couldn’t know that watching planes take off every day would make Scott wonder what was beyond the horizon that had kept Chuck and the family safely rooted on the farm.

But Scott did sign up for duty and successfully completed his first tour. Upon returning home, his plane landed on the runway closest to the house. He was disappointed that he had to walk off the plane and could not just parachute into the yard. The whole family sat on the porch to celebrate his return. They cheered when the wheels came down and thanked God that the prayer they didn’t even know to pray had been answered. Chuck raced to the airport while Mae set the table with all of her son’s favorite foods.

Scott got married, had Trevor, and eventually signed up for tour number two. Chuck begged him not to tempt fate, but to instead focus on the equally important role of being a father. But Scott believed his country needed him. So the plane on runway number 12 took him away again.

This time the family knew what to ask God for when the wheels lifted. They pleaded that Scott would walk off the plane safely once again.

And Scott did return home – but this time in a casket draped with an American flag. The family imagined he also held a Bible secure in his hands.

The town named a park after Scott and called him a hero. There were headlines and then talk of statues. Townsfolk praised Scott’s character and commended his parents for doing such a fine job in raising a true American champion. Little did they know Scott’s parents would have gladly changed histories with Tommy Hattaway’s family. That idiot sat behind bars for robbing banks and stealing cars, forever smirking as if he had actually gotten away with it all.

Chuck and Mae often wondered if it was better to be so proud of a son who was lost or to be able to visit a son who still had a chance to live. They turned their anger to the airport that kept taking Scott away but never really gave him back. Chuck could not let go of the guilt that smothered him – the guilt of his child dying before him. He’d led a hard life of working the farm, smoking, and drinking. Scott died valiantly but way too young, his only vice being patriotism.

The wrecking ball on the tarmac rocked as Chuck rocked. Slowly and methodically, working up to full strength. As the ball struck to demolish the first of the buildings, Chuck was startled out of his trance. His foot kicked the mason jar near the rocker, toppling it. His watered down drink trickled across the porch with shards of blue glass in it. The ice began to melt.

9 Comments leave one →
  1. Amritorupa Kanjilal permalink
    April 10, 2012 11:32 pm

    Brilliantly beautiful story. really moving.

  2. naomihattaway permalink
    April 10, 2012 4:07 am

    Loved it! Very well written and expressed.

    One small concrit though … could Tommy’s last name be Jones, or something though? 🙂 (wink!)

    • April 10, 2012 8:39 am

      Thanks my dear – and isn’t that funny – you are the only Hattaway I know so you must have been on my mind – plus Hattaway has a lovely ring to it! 😎

  3. April 9, 2012 11:04 pm

    Hi Ellen, Beautiful imagery and pacing. I very much enjoyed reading and the thoughts that came while doing so. I remember playing war and soldier as a ten-year old. How easily the television images of our soldiers fighting overseas became my play and the natural thought that I would follow in these older boys’ footsteps. Whether the war was in Europe, Korea, Vietnam or the Middle East, I felt certain that I would be called upon to fight for our nation. As luck would have it one war ended and the next began late enough that there was no call for me. To serve my country would have been a welcome choice for me but the other side of the coin is that my life could have been cut short like so many before me. It’s a strange twist of fate and I often consider how it has shaped my life. Thanks for a moving and interesting story.

    • April 10, 2012 8:33 am

      Hey Vern – thanks! And I cannot imagine the weight of the draft. Such a heavy burden that was carried so valiantly by many.


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