The Floods of Felsenthal -- a poem by Grace Wagner

Grace Wagner

The Floods of Floods of Felsenthal

Every November, so says my father, the floods follow the ducks to
Felsenthal:
blue-wing teals, mallards, black ducks and gadwalls,
They gather in covens and bring the rain
which soaks the shallow roots of the loblollys
who stand evergreen over the pine-needle stratum; the rain
which gluts the earth till it brims and breaks, flooding
until it fills the basin of itself; the rain
which gives new roads to the fish, crawpie and walleye, largemouth bass
basking beneath the pine-filtered light of dawn.

As the water follows the birds, so my father follows the water.
He takes me out on its face, breaking
the water's waiting tension with the prow of our canoe.
Here two months ago my grandfather stayed, camped close.
But the flood takes it all, swallowing campsites and parking lots, slow
Southern apocalypse meandering in oxbows and bottom lands,
gathering itself in sloughs and buttonbush swamps.

Now the loblolly pines grow from water.
A small hill rises artificially high, bearing the weight of man-
made brick and mortar, restrooms for the campgrounds
when the ground was still visible.
My father sits in front of me, back to the trees,
rowing us through their shining corridors.
We say nothing and the nothing echoes
back to us across the water.

I look over the edge but cannot see
the ground only three feet below me.
The water shows me the sky and pine-lace.
I look up and see the same vision, sky and trees,
a perfect mirror of the water.
The light ripples as I move
beneath it, concentric circles radiating
from the centermost point of my eyes;
mandala in pine and sky.

The ducks watch us, augurs with webbed feet
sculling beneath the polished surface,
their buoyant bodies swiveling
to watch us pass.
They know we are not here for them.
They know the rain will soak and sink 
into the land, damp leaves left like carpet
after a hurricane.
They know my father will die
some day and that I will follow him.

A tackle box sits at my feet, but my father does not
open it. Does not pull out the assemblage of jigs,
of spinners and spoons and flies.
The buzzbaits sit unsummoned, sullen
in their rubber skirts.
Today my father does not pull out the rod
or the reel.

He rows
in silence through the trees,
knowing as I know
that nothing
needs to be said.

This is one of nine poems by Grace Wagner published in the Spring 2017 issue of Skidmore College's Literary Journal, Salmagundi Magazine

Anna, Babette, and Charlie or Why She's Late -- Flash Fiction

A 1900s postcard from Zazzle

The girls had their showers and bath last night before bed. Anna and Babette take showers these days. Charlie still takes baths.

We are scheduled to eat a late lunch with Neil's mother then sit for a family portrait in front of the Christmas tree.

I reminded Anna, my thirteen-year-old going on 20, of our departure time as she disappeared into her room. We had agreed that she would wear her new blue dress. Her first dry-clean-only dress. Nothing would do, but she have that exact one. And she did look lovely in it. She's a rather fastidious child so it seemed an acceptable choice.

"Babette, have you decided what you're wearing?"

"The white one with blue stars," she shouts over her shoulder as she plunks down on the couch next to her dad.

At eleven, Babette is the athlete/artist in the family. She couldn't care less what she wears as long as it's not "too girlie." I'm never quite sure just what "too girlie" is. Pink is fine. Flounces around the hem are fine. Ruffles at the neckline are not fine. "Too girlie." White with stars is perfectly fine for the portrait, but she is not a careful child. Not with her art supplies or eating. I don't know why Neil's mother planned a portrait sitting for AFTER lunch. I'm tempted to take a spare outfit for her. Babette, not Neil's mother.

Charlie (Charlotte MacKenzie) the baby of the family loves clothes. That child can change clothes more times in a day than the Crawleys on Downton Abbey. I decided to wait until the last minute to dress her.

"Mom," Anna calls. "I can't find my blue tights."

I poke my head into her room, the cat and Charlie close on my heels. "When did you wear them last?" I ask.

"Tuesday."

"Then, they're probably in the dirty clothes. Did you look?"

"Can you wash them?" She asks.

Might as well, throw in Neil's dark colored dress shirts. My dad was a welder, so he never wore dress shirts unless it was to a wedding or a funeral. Somehow, it always seemed kind of fun to wash Neil's "work" shirts. Almost like I was a kid playing house. Fancy house. But they had to be taken out of the dryer as soon as it finished or they'd wrinkle, and neither he nor I like to iron.

"Babette, do you need anything washed before school tomorrow?"

She races past me down the hall and into her room. The cat and Charlie flatten themselves against the wall.

All calm and in control she steps into the hall and hands me her soccer uniform. "Thanks, Mom. I almost forgot."

Thank goodness her team colors are blue and grey. They'll wash just fine with her sister's tights and Neil's shirts. But they're another have-to-take-them-out-of-the-dryer-quick.

Not a problem. I've got time.

Neil passed the laundry room on his way to our bathroom. "Gonna take my shower now."

"Okay," I say rummaging through the dirty clothes to find Anna's tights.

I hear the shower start and thank goodness for the new water heater. We haven't run out of hot water since we got it.

"Gloria, Hon, I forgot to get a towel."

"Just a minute," I say interrupting my search for the tights. "Charlie, don't let the cat get in the dryer."

I get Neil a towel, find the tights, and start the washer. Charlie and the cat have disappeared and I can't hear them over the washer and Neil's singing. He always sings in the shower. Opera, usually. He actually sounds pretty good when he limits himself to the baritone parts. Not so much when he does all the roles. But he enjoys it.

The dishwasher is finished so I put the dishes away. That's when I heard the most mournful yowl. Having survived two girls as toddlers, I knew I'd better see what Charlie had done to the cat. It wasn't in the dryer. I checked.

I knew they weren't in Charlie's bedroom because the door was wide open. My next guess was the hall bathroom.

"Charlie, have you got the cat in there with you?"

There was much scrabbling going on and things falling on the other side of the door.

"Charlotte, why is the door locked? Open the door."

Nothing. The hall bathroom had gone silent. Neil burst into his falsetto soprano part.

"Charlotte MacKenzie Smith. Open this door. NOW!"

Charlie opened the door and a wet cat streaked past me, sliding as he made the turn to tear down the hall. The four-year-old stood there, shoulders hunched, eyes huge in terror, her mouth puckered in an O.

"He's wet! He's all over my stuff!" Anna screeched from her bedroom.

Charlie was soaked. Toiletries lay scattered across the flooded bathroom floor. The picture of the young man tap dancing in New Orleans hung askew and the wall clock was practically upside down.

Babette peeked out of her door, took one look at me, then ducked out of sight.

"Babette, you come back here. Bring me a towel and take one to Anna."

"Yes, ma'am," she said sidling carefully past me.

Tears began trickling down Charlie's face. She didn't move. She didn't even blink. She waited for retribution of biblical proportions.

The shower in my bathroom stopped and Neil called, "Did you get deodorant for me? I can't find it."

"The cat walked on my library book," Anna wailed. "He's ruining it!"

Babette offered me two towels.

"No. Take one to Anna and tell her to dry the cat. Then you come back here and dry your sister."

"But ...." she started to object. After another look at me, she thought better of it.

"Thank you," Neil said as I removed the new can of deodorant from the top shelf in the medicine cabinet, less than an arm's length from him, and handed it to him.

"You're welcome," I said.

"Are the girls about ready to go?" he asked.

I didn't answer. How could he not hear the four-year-old down the hall, sobbing? Her big sister making soothing sounds.

I got the mop bucket out of the garage and sopped up the water on the bathroom floor, straightened the picture and the clock, and dried the toiletries before replacing them on the shelf. At least the cat hadn't knocked the shelf down or ripped the shower curtain in his wild careening around the room.

It wasn't until after I'd put the laundry into the dryer that I calmed down enough to wonder whether or not my youngest had been maimed by the near-drowned cat. But there hadn't been blood in the water on the floor, so I figured she must be fine or at least fine enough.

"How do I look?" Neil asked smoothing his tie. He was freshly showered, deodorized, shaved, and dressed in a white shirt and his navy pinstriped suit pants.

"You're barefoot," I said.

"Couldn't find any blue socks," he said.

"Wear black," I said.

It wasn't until then that he actually looked at me.

"Is something wrong?"

"No. Nothing is wrong. Now."

"Okay," he said cautiously. "I think I'll go clean out the car,"

Anna and Babette got themselves dressed and ready to go. Anna without her blue tights. I'll run the laundry again when we get home. Charlotte MacKenzie is dressed and I put a change of clothes in her Elsa backpack. If Babette spills food on her dress, we'll just turn it around back-to-front for the photo.

We're out of hot water and I've still got to shower. I have no idea where the cat's got to.

My husband sits on the couch reading the paper. His three beautiful daughters perched all lady-like around him watching "Meet the Press" or some such on TV as though they're interested. He checks his watch, waiting all too obviously patiently. He doesn't dare ask how much longer I'll be.

Margaret, Mother, Murder -- flash fiction

"Margaret, did you feed your fish?"

Margaret looked away from the TV. "Yes, mother." Her favorite television show was coming on. The only time she got to watch it these days -- during public television's fund raising. And, then not on all the fund raisers. Cooking with Julia apparently wasn't as popular with the donors as Celtic Woman or Yanni.

"Margaret, what are you watching?" her mother called from the kitchen where she was making herself an egg sandwich.

"Julia Child."

"I always watch Dancing with the Stars."

"That's not on tonight."

"Are you sure?" her mother asked coming into the room and putting her plate on the end table.

"I'm sure."

"Margaret, isn't this that show where she makes the fish stew."

"Bouillabaisse." Margaret watched Julia Child walk through a fish market in Marseilles, examining the piles of dead fish and explaining how to tell if a fish is fresh.

It was difficult to hear Ms. Child over her mother's off-key humming and her rummaging through the umpteen magazines she wouldn't let Margaret throw out.

"Sit up straight, dear. Slumping like that will upset your digestion."

"Yes, mother."

"Why've you got the TV so loud? Are you deaf?"

"No, mother. It's just hard to hear with you moving your chair like that."

Margaret's mother stood up and shoved her chair back to it customary position. She stepped between Margaret and the TV, hands on her hips. "Well, excuse me! But I thought my keys had gotten under there."

Margaret sighed and leaned around her mother to see the TV.

"Were your keys under the chair?" Margaret asked.

Julia Child looked into the camera then patted a very large fish lying on the work table in her TV kitchen, which was always spotless.

"No. Do you know where they are?"

"No, mother. Do you need them right now?"

"No, of course not." Margaret's mother sat down and took a bite of her sandwich. "I'll need them in the morning." She carefully balanced the plate on her lap and opened the newspaper, rattling the pages until she found the Life Style section.

Margaret turned the volume up.

"Would you look for them?" her mother asked raising her voice to be heard over the TV.

"Right now? Mom, I'm watching TV."

"Well, of course, if that TV is more important...."

On television, Julia Child raised a meat cleaver high over her head. The light gleamed off its stainless steel blade, her eyes open wide, focusing on the hapless fish.

Margaret turned the television off and stomped out of the room into the kitchen. It was a disaster. Butter spattered the stove top. Egg shell sat amidst egg white on the counter, not three feet from the trash can. The mayonnaise jar had not been put back into the fridge and the bread bag sat there, open. A nearly new loaf left to dry out and be good for nothing but toast.

How in the world could anyone mess up a kitchen like that for one insignificant and probably over-cooked egg for something so uninspiring as an egg sandwich?

She didn't see her mother's keys anywhere. The handle of the meat cleaver protruding from the knife block caught her eye.

First Draft -- Fix It

Yesterday I posted a flash fiction, The Elephant in the Room. It was a first draft, not seen by my editor or, for that matter, by my husband. I liked it. But I can almost always count on me to like something I consider finished. The thing is, I know what I meant to say. The question is, will a reader know what I meant to say?

I think the most important skill for a writer (You know, over and above good grammar and the ability to use spell check.) is the ability to rewrite. It's not my editor's responsibility to tell me how to fix a problem area. It's their responsibility to identify the problem area. Good Beta readers can also help in the same way. My husband is a good Beta reader. They can say what doesn't work for them. There again, it's my responsibility to fix it.

All this said, this is the fixed Elephant in the Room.

image from newh2o.com

Her daughter Carrie sat in her normal place at the table. So beautiful. So young.

The girl reached for the rolls and offered them to the young man seated next to her.

Two months married, the girl had completed her first year at State. It would be so easy to give up her future to follow a man.

She, herself had followed Carrie's father Paul. Not that she gave anything up. College wasn't that important to her. She could paint without college and where she lived didn't make any difference. But Carrie had a true gift for math. She should be in school.

Loxodonta, the African Elephant, is one of two extant genera of the family, Elephantidae. Elephas, the Asian, is the other. At an overall length of 18–21 feet, even the smaller Asian elephant would not fit in this room. It's very size would suck the oxygen out of the room.

Her chest hurt. She wanted to ask her brilliant daughter if she was sure she wanted to follow this young man.

"What about school?" she asked pouring them each a glass of lemonade.

"Oh, Mom. They have colleges in Virginia."

The African bush elephant is even bigger, females stand an average of seven to nine feet tall. An ear six feet long by four feet wide would cast a shadow twice that large over her dining table.

She took her own seat next to Paul. Her family was already scattered across the country by the time she married him. She hadn't had the reassurance of family in emergencies. Or when Carrie was born.

She knew exactly how far it was from Fort Wayne to Norfolk, Virginia -- 728.8 miles. She could drive it if she had to, but it would take too long to get there in an emergency. And Paul couldn't take off work just any time. He would, though. If it were an emergency.

When a calf squeals in distress, its mother rushes to its protection immediately. It is common for the bond between mother and daughter to last more than 50 years.

"Yes, Carrie. I know there are colleges in Virginia." She looked at Paul. Paul raised his eyebrows.

Michael reached for the meat loaf. "That'll give her something to do while I'm deployed. That and the baby."

"Yes, the baby ..." she murmured.

She wanted to say how hard it is to sit in a hospital waiting room or, worse yet, to wait 728.8 miles away.

She left the table to get something. Paul followed her. What was it she was in the kitchen to get? Napkins? No. A serving spoon.

The African elephant's trunk ends in two opposing lips, whereas the Asian elephant trunk ends in a single lip. The trunk is an important method of touch. Elephants use touch in much the same way humans do. In greeting. To reassure and soothe. She wanted to weep.

Paul touched her cheek, then took the spoon from her.

"It'll be all right," he said. "She'll be fine." He kissed her on the forehead. "You'll be fine."

Elephants exhibit grief behaviors, including a period of despondency, dragging behind the herd for days. Elephants have been reported to surround a grieving family member. 

The End

When my husband read it yesterday, he asked "What's the point?" 

And my editor felt that the elephant facts seemed too random, not relevant to the story.

Hopefully, the point is now more obvious and the elephant facts more relevant.

If you missed yesterday's post, click here.

                                             

The Elephant in the Room -- flash fiction

Her daughter sat in her normal place at the table. So beautiful. So young.

The girl reached for the rolls and offered them to the young man seated next to her.

Loxodonta, the African Elephant, is one of two extant genera of the family, Elephantidae. Elephas, the Asian, is the other. At an overall length of 18–21 feet, even the smaller Asian elephant would not fit in the room.

"What about school?" she asked pouring them each a glass of lemonade.

"Oh, Mom. They have colleges in Virginia."

The African bush elephant is even bigger, females stand an average of seven to nine feet tall. An ear six feet long by four feet wide cast a shadow twice that large over her dining table.

She knew exactly how far it was from Ft. Wayne to Norfolk, Virginia -- 728.8 miles. She could drive it if she had to, but it would take too long to get there if there were an emergency. And Paul couldn't take off work just any time. He would, though. If it were an emergency.

"Yes, Carrie. I know. But will you go?" She looked at Paul. Dear, steady Paul.

Michael reached for the meat loaf. "That'll give her something to do while I'm deployed. That and the baby."

The elephant's upper lip and nose form a trunk which acts as a fifth limb and a sound amplifier.

"Yes, the baby . . . ." she repeated leaving the table to get something. Paul followed her. What was it she was in the kitchen to get? Napkins? No. A serving spoon.

The African elephant's trunk ends in two opposing lips, whereas the Asian elephant trunk ends in a single lip. The trunk is an important method of touch.

Paul took the spoon from her. "It'll be all right," he said. "She'll be fine." He kissed her on the forehead. "You'll be fine."

The elephant's cortex has as many neurons as that of a human brain.


(The day after this was first posted, a properly edited, rewritten version was posted to show how important editing and rewriting are. If you would like to read that version click on Fix-It.)