Virgie: A Woman and Her Name

The sun hadn't even time to rise before Mrs. Crawford was waking the family with her cries of pain. The moment had come for her to deliver her baby, but the farm was miles and miles away from town and the nearest neighbor would take hours to arrive. No one could afford a vehicle during the Depression's severe abuse so Mr. Crawford was compelled to roll up his sleeves and play doctor as well as supportive husband. Despite the fact that he had already seen his wife give birth to five boys, he always felt his stomach churn as his wife gritted her teeth and tried in vain to keep her piercing contractions hidden from her concerned husband. He put her arm over his shoulder and helped her out to the shed where the necessary apparatus for the delivery could be found.

Little Fish, Big Pond

(The profanity is only used for making the character and the situation a little more realistic.)

Ugh! That fucking smell! It’s worse than the relentless mosquitoes and the disgusting slime covering this little pond. I look like a fucking sixteen year old with a bad case of acne, but it wouldn’t be so bad if that smell would just go away. It smells like…like…fertilizer, dead fish, blood, and swamp filth all combined in one. I’m not over exaggerating. I’ve never inhaled a poison like this or anything this revolting. At least I have the stupid frogs to serenade me. It’s amazing how some living things are so unaware of the danger they’re in. I envy them. They don’t understand the evil deeds of humans. Ignorance is bliss, I guess.

Tender Brevity

There was never a time when she felt more comfortable. Resting in a striped hammock between two sturdy oak trees, she combed the boy’s red hair with her fingers as he prodded each freckle on her arm playfully. The hammock swung lightly in the autumn breeze which sent tides of ripples through his hair. He would be turning three in the upcoming month, and although his beaming eyes showed no sign of his exceptionally quick growth, in his mother's opinion, his baby pudginess was beginning to melt away. Very much aware of his fleeing youth, she felt helpless, and so began to whisper his favorite story in a desperate attempt at consoling herself.

Virgie: A Woman and Her Dreams

“Virgie! Wake up! There was an accident, and we need as many people as we can get!”

That’s all he said to me. I didn’t sleep much in those times, anyway. Large numbers of casualties were flooding in, and I was on edge even when I was lying flat on my bed. My muscles wouldn’t relax no matter how many deep breaths I gulped down. Despite the screams, the blood, the missing limbs, or the vast cases of gangrene, I was always, and still am, haunted not by the horrors of the war, but rather by the serene faces of men whose bodies were mangled, mutilated, and sometimes burned so badly that the offensive stench of their burnt flesh was enough to bring up the little amount of food I had managed to hold down temporarily. But even though those brutal injuries had nearly devoured the life of their victims, there still remained some young men who were frozen in an expression of tranquility. Perhaps it was the shock of severe pain or pure insanity provoked by the war, but whatever it was, it affected me in a way that is beyond repair.

Her

Her again. Always walking as if trying to escape her shadow--managing to keep up a quick pace with a constricted gait. Her long dress is to blame for that. Long hair laps upon her back like waves of the ocean. Never have I seen her face even though her hair is flipped back like a veil. I’m sure she’s beautiful. She has to be. You could just know by the way she walks. I watch her as she moves hastily like she’s scared-- like a refugee. From what? I wish I knew. There’s something about her shyness that makes her so different than the rest. There is no showing skin, plastering on make-up, or even talking up the guys, but something about her silence bothers me. There’s no kidding myself. I know why she’s quiet and so unsure of herself. Everybody does and it goes against everything I’m dying to stand for. Maybe I could be the one person she could confide in? Her first male friend; well, her only friend. I’ve only conversed with her once. “Hello, Missy. How are you?” “Fine.” She replied with her head bowed and hair obscuring her face like a mask. She said she was fine. Fine?  No, I don’t know her, but fine was a lie. A sweet lyre; singing unintentionally. She has that kind of voice that sails smoothly until it drifts into silence. Why? What about me is such a threat? Why is she so cautious? I’ve never done anything.

A Faerie Tale

It was Halloween Eve, of course, and I was walking alone at night. Perfect conditions, right? Well let me tell you, I'm not superstitious. I don't believe in those ghost and paranormal crazes that people here are obsessing over. Come on! Transparent people and demons? What am I, five? Five... I wish I was. Then people would just ride it off as a childish nightmare or one of those pooka man tales. Ironically, when I walked into Kane's Pub, I ran into; literally ran into my good friend Tony who was ordering a pint for his lassie Gen. I couldn't spit out what I wanted to say and would have thought myself paralyzed if I wasn't suffering a fit of shaking. Tony grabbed my shoulders, handed me a Guinness, and lead me over to the table where Gen sat with a worried look on her face after seeing me. “You're as white as a ghost!” Of all things for her to say! At first my story was incomprehensible. I jumped from beginning to end, stuttered on every other word, and then dove back into the middle of the story. After a few swigs of my pint, I put things in order and began.