EXERCISE TWO: Am I Saramago
LeGuin reminds her readers that punctuation is an essential tool of good writing, and so wants us to try this activity that includes a seven day interval.
First, we should “Write a paragraph to a page (150–350 words) of narrative with no punctuation (and no paragraphs or other breaking devices).” A week later, we should punctuate the passage.
Remember, if you’re part of the #WriteLGBTQ and #WritingCommunity groups on Twitter, maybe you’ll join me on this excursion by sharing your response to this post on Twitter! Use the hashtag #steeringthecraft.
I am still working on “Old Ghosts”, but the assignment has forced me to move to an uptempo section, similar to the prompts suggested in Steering the Craft. But while I have a high tempo section, it’s not a part that I especially like. I think I can push this idea further if I add it in as a whole new idea. It’s noted in the text below.
Old Ghosts
A spring wind whipped the woods to life. Daffodils lifted yellow faces to the sun, and blossoms blown from the trees speckled the stream in pinks and whites. Mountain ridge snowmelt strengthened the headwaters. The stream swelled; muddy banks submerged, lost until summer. The peepers chirped away the sun each night. Bullfrogs croaked. Little furry things scuttled beyond the rushes. Snakes slithered over bent logs and wound their way across the surface. Shad and trout returned. And with them came the people.
I happened upon a pair the other day, just after dawn. They set up camp on a fallen oak, a beaten metal pail between them. The older man was scruffy; his hat brim frayed from weather. His trousers were patched in one knee, the waistband taut around his girth.
“Like this,” he said, and cast his line again.
The waif was a scrawnier version of his teacher. From the muddy, waterlogged state of his overalls and the dirt on his face and hands, it seemed the natural lack of grace in boys that age had already taken its toll that morning.
The fishing rods seemed antique, perhaps forced back into service? Bamboo rods had gone out of style even before I was a boy, and their lines were too visible, too thick to be modern.
I waved. My right, of course. They were on my property.
“You there!” I called. “How’s the fishin’?”
They nodded. The fat man doffed his hat.
“I said, ‘how’s the fishin’?'”
They ignored me. The wind blew gently. The stream burbled. A woodpecker pecked a poplar. I could think of no earthly reason they should ignore me, so I called out.
“You’re on private property, you know.”
It was true. I hunted the woods and still cleaned the carcasses in the shed behind the stone cottage. Fished the stream and scaled and cooked that fish on red coals. Cut down the trees to keep the cottage warm in winter, to say nothing of cooking my meals. Cleared the dead wood, picked wild raspberries, planted the garden. Drove the stakes tied with white cloth to mark the corners. I worked it; it was mine.
“It’s disrespectful of you—”
Tee-and-Flannel got a bite. A little tug, a stronger tug, and a trout popped out of the stream. It flailed in the air. The big man punched his shoulder. They continued to act as if I wasn’t there.
“Now, look here,” I called. “I don’t mind you–“
The younger fella released his catch, and the pair sat down on the bank again.
I picked up a stone and skipped it across the water toward them.
“–I don’t mind you–“
“Hey,” Straw Hat called out. “Who are you?” He stood up and pointed at me with a sausage finger.
“I might ask you the same question,” I said. “Since you’re on my property.”
“Excuse me?” he said. “This is my property.” He motioned to his fishin’ buddy. “Get me the rifle, son,” he said. the younger one dropped his makeshift pole and ran up the path.
“You’re gonna get violent?” I asked.
“When you try to steal my land from me, damn right I will,” he said.
“But it’s not your land,” I insisted.
“Like hell,” he said.
I reached down into the water and pulled up a skipping stone. I played a bit of shortstop in high school. I thought I could peg him in the thigh. He was a big target anyway.
Several seconds of glaring silence passed. His boy reappeared with the gun.
“Mister,” I called out. “You touch that gun and I’ll break your hand with this stone.” I palmed it like a baseball.
He grabbed the gun. I chucked the ball at his hand. It hit him square. Then it passed through his hand, his gun, and his son on the other side.
Well, shit.
He raised it and fired. Then he stared. His boy turned white.
“Son–“
“Right through him, Pop, I swear to God.”
NEW MATERIAL HERE
The crack rent the morning sent a flock of geese skyward their honking cacophony carrying away all other sound silence slipped in behind them and I noticed the old Lenape woman with a basket of plants on the opposite bank another one fetched water in a clay bowl a column of revolutionaries stopped to drink before the dusty forward march muskets perched on slumping shoulders weary faced a grandfather joined the man and the waif a teenager in a saggy black drape and smudged eyes sat on a log a pistol in his hand at once the woman rose up the soldiers marched on grandfather, man, and son disappeared the boy blew his head off I dropped to my knees clutched my chest sweat tickled my nose I hoisted up with my walking stick but they were gone all of them gone from my stream so quiet it didn’t even burble and the wind had blown out a calm before a storm a chill raced through me and I swore to write it down just had to go back to my cottage up by the road I staggered with the shock I’m sure it was shock yes it was
END NEW MATERIAL
I kept walking toward them. They turned and ran. I chased after them, but they disappeared up the path. Somewhere beyond the trees I heard an engine turn over. I dropped into the big guy’s seat on the log. The wood had been worn; it was well used. I looked into the pail. It was empty. Rusted through.
So this is where I sit, waiting for the guy and his kid to come back. Seems like it’s been a while. I should probably head home soon. It’s my property after all.
*****
Works Cited
Le Guin, Ursula K.. Steering the Craft: A Twenty-First-Century Guide to Sailing the Sea of Story (p. 18). HMH Books. Kindle Edition.
Nicanor Abbott 