A Child is Born in a Miner's Town
By EllenKey10
word count 396, allowed 400
Elizabeth’s man was not back from the mine yet, with busy hands she swept the dirt floor until no dust was necessary to bend down and clear. While hanging the broom in place the mine whistle blew, three-blasts warning disaster. Her body straightened rigid with fear, pale hands instantly crossed her huge belly. Looking down between bare feet water began to pool, Elizabeth was in labor.
All morning Elizabeth could not rest; she paced, kept hands busy and feet tired. Now gripped with fear that her man could be in danger labor betrayed her body and mind; she never planned to be alone.
Without warning Mary, the neighbor, forced the cabin door open while gasping for air to shout, “The mine collapsed!” Wide-eyed Mary summed the fact there was perilous trouble facing the young pregnant woman. Without moving or speaking and with an ashen face, Elizabeth stared at Mary. Blood mixed with water and dirt below Elizabeth’s near standing body. Out the door, Mary ran to the road among the chaos to gather help for this desperate need. A woman with worn hands, weathered face, and soft voice coaxed Elizabeth to her bed in the one–room cabin. Mary ran to the outside water pump while a third woman started a fire in the hearth. Water boiled and all three women were busy at work for the baby and mother to survive. These three women prayed hard, Elizabeth pushed hard and gently the weathered woman quietly talked Elizabeth through the worst day of her life.
A baby boy announced his arrival as the four women cried and prayed that their men would be all right and thanked God this small baby survived. Elizabeth exhausted, relieved, and worried tucked a handmade quilt around the wee one. Swiftly the door flung open, Elizabeth’s man rushed to her side, he brought news of twenty deaths. In this house, only the husband of the woman whom delivered the child was killed. The newly widowed woman’s composure drained, openly showing her only powerful emotion all day, she wailed as she knelt down, covering a grieving face with worn hands. How was she to survive this harsh life with none of her children old enough to work the mine? The baby’s cry reminded her of nine mouths she would have to feed on her own. Elizabeth's young family of three clung to each other.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Worries of Places Unknown
Worries From Places Unknown
By EllenKey10
Word count 294, allowed 300
Elizabeth walked the mountain slowly, a modest spun cotton skirt brushed bare legs as she walked though the pasture grass, she was in no hurry to reach the store five miles away, this was private time away from the family. Her slender frame bent easily as she gathered a few wild flowers between callused small fingers, tiny bare feet allowed the cool grass to comfort her and the quiet breeze softened the echoes of living with a loud family. Each member had such strong opinions of the warnings War was coming and would it matter to their mountain. How could the government take their men folk when harvest was near, fence posts need fixing, worn barns and sheds needed shored up for the animal’s winter keep?
David crossed into her thoughts. He was strong man, a few years older than her sixteen and able to work the lower end of the mountain alone. Elizabeth could marry a man that worked that hard and he was so tender when they were together. Twisting the flowers in her long, dark, black, trusses of hair she hoped he might be at the store for his own staples. Gentle full lips smiled, soft green eyes, and long lashes shaded the morning sun as she remembered his hello when he came calling. A crease traced across her brow as she wondered if war was to come to their mountain and take David. Would he leave her without a good by?
Strong legs quickened along the dirt road, maybe Elizabeth could catch David at the store or the mountains bottom to the little two-room house he was building. She wanted to ask him about this war. Was it true? Could she reach him somewhere and stop the worries she carried.
.
By EllenKey10
Word count 294, allowed 300
Elizabeth walked the mountain slowly, a modest spun cotton skirt brushed bare legs as she walked though the pasture grass, she was in no hurry to reach the store five miles away, this was private time away from the family. Her slender frame bent easily as she gathered a few wild flowers between callused small fingers, tiny bare feet allowed the cool grass to comfort her and the quiet breeze softened the echoes of living with a loud family. Each member had such strong opinions of the warnings War was coming and would it matter to their mountain. How could the government take their men folk when harvest was near, fence posts need fixing, worn barns and sheds needed shored up for the animal’s winter keep?
David crossed into her thoughts. He was strong man, a few years older than her sixteen and able to work the lower end of the mountain alone. Elizabeth could marry a man that worked that hard and he was so tender when they were together. Twisting the flowers in her long, dark, black, trusses of hair she hoped he might be at the store for his own staples. Gentle full lips smiled, soft green eyes, and long lashes shaded the morning sun as she remembered his hello when he came calling. A crease traced across her brow as she wondered if war was to come to their mountain and take David. Would he leave her without a good by?
Strong legs quickened along the dirt road, maybe Elizabeth could catch David at the store or the mountains bottom to the little two-room house he was building. She wanted to ask him about this war. Was it true? Could she reach him somewhere and stop the worries she carried.
.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
I hear Voices v.2
I hear voices ( V.2)
Practice by http://www.internetwritingworkshop.org/
Ellen Key
Word Count 220 allowed 300
Two frogs are sitting in a cement pond, feet dry, one looking up and one resting its head thinking. I over heard their conversation as I walked the path of the conservatory.
“Lucy, do you think our pond will ever be full again? This drought is not good, not good at all.”
“Darren, I rather like the drought. It keeps the children from splashing our eyes. We are left to ourselves to hear our own thoughts, not having to block out the extra noise.”
As Darren looked over the manicured lawn he spoke, “I did not know you minded the children. There have been day's you mentioned missing them.”
While Lucy looked down, resting her head on her hand, quietly she shared, “Yes, but the drought put more time between their visits and I have become rather at peace having my own thoughts, our life experiences keeping me company. Maybe a visit or two, from the children, would be nice. Darrin, I have come to love our own time together.”
Darrin contemplates what his love has spoken. No, it does not set well with him. He thinks the trade off for the kids splashing and a wet foot, wet bath and wet drink is a better trade than listening to Lucy and her constant dialog droning on and on.
Practice by http://www.internetwritingworkshop.org/
Ellen Key
Word Count 220 allowed 300
Two frogs are sitting in a cement pond, feet dry, one looking up and one resting its head thinking. I over heard their conversation as I walked the path of the conservatory.
“Lucy, do you think our pond will ever be full again? This drought is not good, not good at all.”
“Darren, I rather like the drought. It keeps the children from splashing our eyes. We are left to ourselves to hear our own thoughts, not having to block out the extra noise.”
As Darren looked over the manicured lawn he spoke, “I did not know you minded the children. There have been day's you mentioned missing them.”
While Lucy looked down, resting her head on her hand, quietly she shared, “Yes, but the drought put more time between their visits and I have become rather at peace having my own thoughts, our life experiences keeping me company. Maybe a visit or two, from the children, would be nice. Darrin, I have come to love our own time together.”
Darrin contemplates what his love has spoken. No, it does not set well with him. He thinks the trade off for the kids splashing and a wet foot, wet bath and wet drink is a better trade than listening to Lucy and her constant dialog droning on and on.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Dancing with glass slippers
Dancing with Glass Slippers
By Ellen Key
March 23, 2008
I was an online auction virgin with too much confidence from watching auction television. At three o’clock AM I wandered in the virtual door and bid on forty-one items. Within a week I found I had “won” each bid. Who knew no one else was interested in three inch glass slippers I had bid on these one particular quiet night as the household slept and I could not. I now have a life paying for the slippers, answering the door as the mail man holds boxes carrying a delivery more familiar at an engineering business I had worked. Boxes come one, four, five and eight at a time. Sometimes three deliveries a day come to the house. I wish for the embarrassment to end. I have found the computer that can connect to the world, late at night, may not be a friendly thing.
As I figure how to pay without touching our private finances I choose a national store visa opportunity, one that people with undocumented residence can surely use without fear and with ease. I found the hidden costs have added to my bids, the high shipping costs of each item, some of which I believe are padded for the low bids that “won.”
I loaded this Visa with two-hundred dollars, thinking this should take care of the total cost of my night of ignorance. Using a visa to pay was easy; finding the high costs in shipping a dollar forty-cent dish totaling twenty-one dollars was my shock. My two-hundred dollars did not pay my responsibilities I had so easily agreed upon.
A rarely used established visa of my own was enrolled to continue paying my debt to the auction house. After four purchases I was notified nothing was accepted. I called this visa card company, they commented there was suspicious activity. I fesssed up on the activity and asked for my visa use again. It only lasted four more times; once again I was shut down. Embarrassed to confess again I did not make a return call to the visa company.
Back to the store to load another two hundred dollars on the new Visa, at a cost of four dollars, mind you I paid eight-dollars for the use of the store visa, a fee of eighteen-dollars per month was agreed upon to have the privilege of the store visa. The temporary card could not be relaoded, the real card would be in the mail. I know was getting three and four text messages to a cell phone that did not have text messaging as a package subscriber. Now, adding the cost of my bidding, the cost of the card fees and the fees of the cell phone notifications I was really racking up real money from my late at night innocent wandering into a national online auction experience.
Glass slippers, Cinderella’s slippers, romance of holding a three-inch beautiful glass piece only a child’s dream could hold precious and wonderful. As ten, twelve and fourteen slippers were added to the kitchen table, their beauty and romance vanished, the embarrassment of the late night decision was a huge burden on my shoulders.
I waited until my real card from the store visa arrived in the mail. It was delivered with four more boxes of slippers. While loading another two hundred dollars, I asked text messages not be used on a cell phone that was racking up costs at a rate of cents-per-letter, the paragraph messages were adding too much to my upcoming bill cycle. I did not understand this “real card” had a different number. The messages stopped only for the temporary card. In order to officially request to stop the text messages, for the cost of two-dollars I could talk to a person on the eight-hundred phone number and make my request. I requested only for the temporary card messages. The two-dollar fee was waisted for that would have been automatic. Now I have messages on my cell phone for the card recieved in the mail.
As I entered my membership to the online auction I deleted the two previous Visa card numbers. I now had trouble entering a third Visa card. Using the eight-hundred help line, at another two-dollar cost, I found I now was in “Fraud alert” at the online auction house. Minutes before adjusting my account I was awarded a star for the wonderful use of this online purchase account. To go from “you are a wonderful customer” to a fraudulant customer in a matter of minutes was beyond comprehension. I needed to wait two to three business days in order to make sure a dollar ninety-cent charge was accepted on the newest store visa account. Three days later I quickly paid my responsiblities, noticing a complaint had been registered by an agent wishing payment by personal check or money order. I did not read beyond my first page of agreed bids to notice this problem. I could have solved this as I stood in line to purchase the original temporary Visa in the store. Now, I needed another ride, I do not drive a car, to get a money gram. Meanwhile the fraud statement and the alert message bothered me. Would I loose my yellow star as a wonderful customer? The pressure of this one night innocent, no longer a virgin, auction bidder was heavy, very heavy to carry.
After three days I was able to use my permanent store card, quickly I used two-hundred dollars, keeping a seven dollar reserve, not enough for the eighteen dollar monthly charge. I then received text messages on my cell phone about the necessity to add more to my permanate account.
Again I added my personal rarely used visa card. I had only four purchases to pay. The band was lifted and now all payments are complete. I get pleasant “feedback” and complements for fast payment. The mail man comes daily and has asked “are you sure this was only one night of purchases? I should have kept a count of boxes.”
Looking at selling back the glass slippers on the same online auction I found hidden costs of their services, both as advertisement and purchases through visa. My husband decided to have a display box for the kitchen wall. “Now we can laugh at you for the rest of your life about your one night stand as an online bidder.”
Oh the choices we make as young and old innocent romantic fools. How many times in a life does one have to wish to be a virgin again?
My shoes are tied today. I noticed the laces are a little frayed. Do I exchange them for fresh laces or enjoy the familiar feel each time I attempt to tie them?
By Ellen Key
March 23, 2008
I was an online auction virgin with too much confidence from watching auction television. At three o’clock AM I wandered in the virtual door and bid on forty-one items. Within a week I found I had “won” each bid. Who knew no one else was interested in three inch glass slippers I had bid on these one particular quiet night as the household slept and I could not. I now have a life paying for the slippers, answering the door as the mail man holds boxes carrying a delivery more familiar at an engineering business I had worked. Boxes come one, four, five and eight at a time. Sometimes three deliveries a day come to the house. I wish for the embarrassment to end. I have found the computer that can connect to the world, late at night, may not be a friendly thing.
As I figure how to pay without touching our private finances I choose a national store visa opportunity, one that people with undocumented residence can surely use without fear and with ease. I found the hidden costs have added to my bids, the high shipping costs of each item, some of which I believe are padded for the low bids that “won.”
I loaded this Visa with two-hundred dollars, thinking this should take care of the total cost of my night of ignorance. Using a visa to pay was easy; finding the high costs in shipping a dollar forty-cent dish totaling twenty-one dollars was my shock. My two-hundred dollars did not pay my responsibilities I had so easily agreed upon.
A rarely used established visa of my own was enrolled to continue paying my debt to the auction house. After four purchases I was notified nothing was accepted. I called this visa card company, they commented there was suspicious activity. I fesssed up on the activity and asked for my visa use again. It only lasted four more times; once again I was shut down. Embarrassed to confess again I did not make a return call to the visa company.
Back to the store to load another two hundred dollars on the new Visa, at a cost of four dollars, mind you I paid eight-dollars for the use of the store visa, a fee of eighteen-dollars per month was agreed upon to have the privilege of the store visa. The temporary card could not be relaoded, the real card would be in the mail. I know was getting three and four text messages to a cell phone that did not have text messaging as a package subscriber. Now, adding the cost of my bidding, the cost of the card fees and the fees of the cell phone notifications I was really racking up real money from my late at night innocent wandering into a national online auction experience.
Glass slippers, Cinderella’s slippers, romance of holding a three-inch beautiful glass piece only a child’s dream could hold precious and wonderful. As ten, twelve and fourteen slippers were added to the kitchen table, their beauty and romance vanished, the embarrassment of the late night decision was a huge burden on my shoulders.
I waited until my real card from the store visa arrived in the mail. It was delivered with four more boxes of slippers. While loading another two hundred dollars, I asked text messages not be used on a cell phone that was racking up costs at a rate of cents-per-letter, the paragraph messages were adding too much to my upcoming bill cycle. I did not understand this “real card” had a different number. The messages stopped only for the temporary card. In order to officially request to stop the text messages, for the cost of two-dollars I could talk to a person on the eight-hundred phone number and make my request. I requested only for the temporary card messages. The two-dollar fee was waisted for that would have been automatic. Now I have messages on my cell phone for the card recieved in the mail.
As I entered my membership to the online auction I deleted the two previous Visa card numbers. I now had trouble entering a third Visa card. Using the eight-hundred help line, at another two-dollar cost, I found I now was in “Fraud alert” at the online auction house. Minutes before adjusting my account I was awarded a star for the wonderful use of this online purchase account. To go from “you are a wonderful customer” to a fraudulant customer in a matter of minutes was beyond comprehension. I needed to wait two to three business days in order to make sure a dollar ninety-cent charge was accepted on the newest store visa account. Three days later I quickly paid my responsiblities, noticing a complaint had been registered by an agent wishing payment by personal check or money order. I did not read beyond my first page of agreed bids to notice this problem. I could have solved this as I stood in line to purchase the original temporary Visa in the store. Now, I needed another ride, I do not drive a car, to get a money gram. Meanwhile the fraud statement and the alert message bothered me. Would I loose my yellow star as a wonderful customer? The pressure of this one night innocent, no longer a virgin, auction bidder was heavy, very heavy to carry.
After three days I was able to use my permanent store card, quickly I used two-hundred dollars, keeping a seven dollar reserve, not enough for the eighteen dollar monthly charge. I then received text messages on my cell phone about the necessity to add more to my permanate account.
Again I added my personal rarely used visa card. I had only four purchases to pay. The band was lifted and now all payments are complete. I get pleasant “feedback” and complements for fast payment. The mail man comes daily and has asked “are you sure this was only one night of purchases? I should have kept a count of boxes.”
Looking at selling back the glass slippers on the same online auction I found hidden costs of their services, both as advertisement and purchases through visa. My husband decided to have a display box for the kitchen wall. “Now we can laugh at you for the rest of your life about your one night stand as an online bidder.”
Oh the choices we make as young and old innocent romantic fools. How many times in a life does one have to wish to be a virgin again?
My shoes are tied today. I noticed the laces are a little frayed. Do I exchange them for fresh laces or enjoy the familiar feel each time I attempt to tie them?
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Digital Ghosts
Digital Ghosts: Memories of Momma’s last days
It has been 8 months now, almost long enough to make a baby. The memories of Momma’s passing are as fresh as the few days it took to watch her slip away. Had I known, or understood what was actually happening, I would have done things differently. She taught us how to live with her various cancers and heart disease so well, death was not a thought - not a daily thought as events unfolded.
Life is one day at a time when hospital visits are so close together. The normal life is listening to doctors tell softly spoken warnings in gentle voices that run into long sentences. Time suggested differently.
Momma's home was my home for nearly two years. I was exhausted. Each night, during Momma's sleep, I bent toward her mouth to make sure she was breathing comfortably. Not as if she were dying, just wanting her to be comfortable. One night my long hair brushed against her face and startled her. A quick visit to a strip mall salon was the effective resolution. I did not mind the short, nearly one inch, clip from the “new girl.” Hair grows back. Not a week later I was standing in front of my home town community with this ridiculous hair during Momma’s funeral.
Pictures were taken. As if we siblings were gathered for a reunion or vacation. Why? What was the point of marking the occasion? I felt like I had fought my own war. War against Momma’s diseases, war against the attacks my dearest friend, that happened to be my sister, surged upon me in public humiliation, and numbness that takes root to get one through the unthinkable.
Three days of a long week Momma left us. I did have three days but used it as a break. My dearest friend/sister traveled from many states to take Momma for yet another fractured vertebra treatment. As I “rested," trusting all was well, my sister staged a movement of Momma from my home; undermining the fact I could understand her needs and disregarding that twice a week nursing visits never detected problems in the home, problems with Momma's care or Momma’s own need for removal.
I will write about those days. But they are too raw still.
My sister used my own fight against Parkinson's in order to make Momma’s care a primary sacrifice on her own part. Tools that were used to stop me from talking to doctors were: betrayal, overbearing our hospitalized, weak mother and manipulation with the hospital staff -having them call her "Doctor" when she holds a PHD, not a medical degree.
What need did my sister have to push, twist and manipulate hospital staff to call her “Doctor” in a medical environment when her PHD is in Political Science? Maybe that is the root. Political Science, the science of spin. The spin master in her that made all to see, in her own world, that only she was the one person that fit the imediate cause.
Eight months is only measured by seasons changing. I still can close my eyes, feel her presence, hear her breath; her oxygen machine can still be heard humming in my memory. The hole in my heart still aches as I think of standing at Momma's open grave. There is a gap, a loss of my most prized friend/sister as I witnessed a dark side she had never shown me.
Maybe the camera was my sister's shield, a tool. The pictures were proof of a bond with the family she helped raise; colorful digital images that are the true ghosts at our Mother and Father’s graveside.
My shoes are tied today. I can tie them myself. It is a good moblity day. Stress from Momma's passing has not waned. Stress of betrayal has not waned. My medicines help me, just as they helped me while caring for my Mother.
It has been 8 months now, almost long enough to make a baby. The memories of Momma’s passing are as fresh as the few days it took to watch her slip away. Had I known, or understood what was actually happening, I would have done things differently. She taught us how to live with her various cancers and heart disease so well, death was not a thought - not a daily thought as events unfolded.
Life is one day at a time when hospital visits are so close together. The normal life is listening to doctors tell softly spoken warnings in gentle voices that run into long sentences. Time suggested differently.
Momma's home was my home for nearly two years. I was exhausted. Each night, during Momma's sleep, I bent toward her mouth to make sure she was breathing comfortably. Not as if she were dying, just wanting her to be comfortable. One night my long hair brushed against her face and startled her. A quick visit to a strip mall salon was the effective resolution. I did not mind the short, nearly one inch, clip from the “new girl.” Hair grows back. Not a week later I was standing in front of my home town community with this ridiculous hair during Momma’s funeral.
Pictures were taken. As if we siblings were gathered for a reunion or vacation. Why? What was the point of marking the occasion? I felt like I had fought my own war. War against Momma’s diseases, war against the attacks my dearest friend, that happened to be my sister, surged upon me in public humiliation, and numbness that takes root to get one through the unthinkable.
Three days of a long week Momma left us. I did have three days but used it as a break. My dearest friend/sister traveled from many states to take Momma for yet another fractured vertebra treatment. As I “rested," trusting all was well, my sister staged a movement of Momma from my home; undermining the fact I could understand her needs and disregarding that twice a week nursing visits never detected problems in the home, problems with Momma's care or Momma’s own need for removal.
I will write about those days. But they are too raw still.
My sister used my own fight against Parkinson's in order to make Momma’s care a primary sacrifice on her own part. Tools that were used to stop me from talking to doctors were: betrayal, overbearing our hospitalized, weak mother and manipulation with the hospital staff -having them call her "Doctor" when she holds a PHD, not a medical degree.
What need did my sister have to push, twist and manipulate hospital staff to call her “Doctor” in a medical environment when her PHD is in Political Science? Maybe that is the root. Political Science, the science of spin. The spin master in her that made all to see, in her own world, that only she was the one person that fit the imediate cause.
Eight months is only measured by seasons changing. I still can close my eyes, feel her presence, hear her breath; her oxygen machine can still be heard humming in my memory. The hole in my heart still aches as I think of standing at Momma's open grave. There is a gap, a loss of my most prized friend/sister as I witnessed a dark side she had never shown me.
Maybe the camera was my sister's shield, a tool. The pictures were proof of a bond with the family she helped raise; colorful digital images that are the true ghosts at our Mother and Father’s graveside.
My shoes are tied today. I can tie them myself. It is a good moblity day. Stress from Momma's passing has not waned. Stress of betrayal has not waned. My medicines help me, just as they helped me while caring for my Mother.
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