He and I - reworking of a story from a previous prompt

He and I

            We meet here. We always meet here. Under the orange tree in the circle, in the middle of town. It’s safe to meet here. No one knows that he and I meet here. Our tree is in the corner of the circle. I know how that sounds. Circle’s don’t have corners. But in this world, in the world where there is no one but him and me, me and him, there is just this one corner. We made it ours. The orange tree bares the names of many young lovers that came before us. We know that. Lovers that most likely made promises to one another. Most of those promises were never kept or forgotten about. We were going to be different, he and I. Our love was going to be different. It was going to last forever. We knew that. He and I.         

            There were days when we would sneak out. We were just sixteen when we first me. He and I. We met under this orange tree. I was sitting, reading a book on one side. He was sitting and writing on the opposite side. We made love for the first time under the orange tree. Late at night when no one was around. We snuck out. He and I. He picked me up in his father’s beat up truck. It was raining. It wasn’t the most comfortable place we had ever made love. But it was the most special place. This was our place. It smelled of oranges – it was perfect. We were perfect. He and I.

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            Today, it’s windy. And as I close my eyes and feel the breeze caress my face, smell the fresh cut grass, and the chlorine from the fountain – I know this is the place we belong. He and I. This is where we will stay. He and I. But there may be no coming back after. He’s going to fight a war that is not his to fight. It isn’t his battle. It shouldn’t be his battle. He shouldn’t be leaving. But he is.

            He won’t even tell me what is going on. He just wanted me to meet him here one last time before he leaves. I hate him for leaving. It’s the first time I have ever hated him. But I do. I love him and I hate him. I never knew that was possible until this very moment.

            A monarch butterfly flies around me. She circles me. Leaves. Come back. Leaves again. I name her, Madam Butterfly. She deserves a name. I laugh as she lands on my shoulder. Like she has a secret that is only for me. Does she have a secret for me? I ask her. She floats off. I make a wish. I wish for the unwishable. I wish that the wishes we made – he and I – when we carved our initials in our tree were to come true. They have to come true. Don’t they?

            I look at my watch. He’s late. He’s never late. I call. Voicemail. Did he just leave? Did he just leave and not tell me? No. No, he wouldn’t do that. Would he? No. No he would not. I leave him a message. He could be stuck in traffic.

            Sirens. Where are they coming from? I hear them. But I can’t tell which way they are coming from. They get closer. Closer. They enter the circle and go through the roundabout. There’s a feeling of emptiness in the pit of my stomach that I cannot place. I call him again. No answer. Ambulance. The sirens are so deafening, I have to cover my ears. My eyes tear for reasons I cannot fathom. Is it because of the noise? Can my ears just not take the noise? Can my eyes just  not take the sun light shining down on me today? It’s hot. For winter.

            Madam Butterfly floats by me again. This time frantically. Like she has a message for me. It’s been twelve minutes since the firemen and the ambulance have driven off. Twenty minutes since he was supposed to be here. Madam Butterfly lands on my shoulder. She does not move. I try to nudge her. Still, she does not move. I gently touch her again and her lifeless body falls from my shoulder onto the grass.

            My phone rings. It’s his father. Something is wrong.

            “Hello?”

            “You need to come to the house, sweetie.”

            “Why?”

            “Please. Get here as fast as you can.”

I feel the breath escape from my lungs. Like I was punched in the gut. It felt like one half of my heart stopped pumping blood into my body.

            I fell to the ground. I picked up Madam Butterfly. This wasn’t supposed to happen to him and I. We were supposed to grow old together. He and I.

            He decided that he would rather die than to be away from me. He hung himself in his bathroom. He had a not in his hand addressed to me. It smelled of oranges. 

"Death by Landscape" Reading response.

I have mixed feelings about this particular short story. I love the way that it is written. Atwood did such an amazing job using setting and dialogue and getting me to feel for the character's and even left that sense of mystery - even though I think that we do know that Lucy jumped off the cliff - there still is that sense of "what happened" because she never actually tells you what happens. Which is effective. It makes us think and to really be able to dive into the story and see it and look for things.

I think what threw me off was the fact that it was so predictable. I knew what was going to happen pages before anything actually happened. I think that was frustrating as a reader and as a writer. I wanted to be surprised. Maybe we are all too spoiled these days? That we need to be surprised for something to really capture our attention. 

But there is no mistaking that the imagery in this story is magnificent. 

"There are pictures of convoluted tree trunks on an island of pink wave-smoothed stone, with more islands behind; of a lake with rough, bright, sparsely wooded cliffs..." (pg. 45)

I don't even have to go on. I can see everything she is describing and it's wonderful. Even the relationship development throughout this short story, between Lois and Lucy is amazing. To think she was able to get through so much history in just 12 pages is wonderful. There is so much about this story that works and that grabs me. There were certain points where I was taken out a little bit and found myself skipping. I'm not sure if that is because I was expecting that ending or if it was because I just felt that those parts were necessary to the story - for me as a reader.

"We Didn't" Reading Response

I really, really liked this one for some reason. I think it is because it read more like prose poetry than a short story. Being naturally drawn to poetry these days, this really grabbed me. I love how at the beginning of the short story, there is a poem called, "We Did" by Yehuba Amichai. This short story almost seems like it is a response to that poem.

"Only the bodies of lovers remained behind, visible in lightning flashes, scattered like the fallen on a battlefield, a few of them moaning, waiting for the gulls to pick them clean." (pg. 459)

I think what really resonated with me while reading this is just the essence of what almost was. What could have been. It seems like such an emotional piece to begin with and even as you read, you can feel the longing in the narrator. What's interesting, because we have been talking so much about dialogue and how to integrate dialogue into our pieces - there's quite a bit as you read on. In the beginning the narrator SHOWS you and as you continue to see the interaction between these two people, it becomes even more apparent.

I still wonder, re-reading now, whether the actually did or if they really didn't. And maybe that is the point? Maybe the author is just that great at describing things and making each sentence take our breath away. One after the other.

"The Disappeared" Reading Response

"But the money meant little to him. It was America he was curious about, attracted by; especially its colorful disorderliness.

'Disorder, of which there was very little in Sweden, seemed sexy to him; the disorder of a disheveled woman who has rushed down two flights of stairs to offer a last long kiss." (pg. 110)"

I really liked this story. I think a lot of the reason is because how obsessed he (Anders) becomes with the woman in the story. Even when she warns him that she is "radioactive" (pg. 116). I like how Baxter makes it seem cosmic - their connection. But it's not real. It really is much more obsession what he is feeling rather than love. Though even he is not sure what he is feeling towards her.

"Happiness and agony simultaneously reached down and pressed against his chest. They, too, were like colors, but when you mixed the two together, you got something greenish-pink, excruciating." (pg. 119)

Even the imagery in the above statement is so telling. Giving the emotions colors instead of saying what they actually are is a very brilliant trick that the author used. You can feel more through those descriptions than you can by using simple words to describe the emotion itself.

I think Baxter did a wonderful job showing how some people "disappear." I am always so pleasantly surprised when with the readings - as in not everything is what I am expecting it to be. At first, I thought this was going to be a story of someone having been kidnapped. But I am glad that this was a story where the woman "disappeared" as in she left all on her own and she knew she was going to and even Anders knew he was going to do as well. Maybe it goes with people wanting to "change" others and maybe thinking that "I'm going to be different." After re-reading it, I have come to think that Anders is very much - "I will be the one she changes her mind for." But even her grandmother says that it is not so. That they almost all think that. That not only does she disappear from these guys' lives, but they disappear from hers as well.

 

"The Fix" Reading Response

My first initial reaction when I began reading this short story was, "tell me more." Even from the very beginning, when the author is introducing the reader to Douglas and Sherman, you get a sense of the place and these characters. And at first, you don't really know who exactly the story is about - whether it's about Douglas or Sherman, or whether it's about both - in the end, it may not really matter. Though I believe it to be about both.

"Sherman paused him with a finger, then, as if feeling the texture if the gum with his tongue, he took it from his mouth and stuck it into the workings of the refrigerator. And just like that the machine ran with a quiet steady hum, just like it had when it was new." (pg. 490)

I think that was one of the first cases of imagery in the short story that grabbed my attention. Just the way the author phrases each word and the way everything is organized, it gives a great sense of tenderness, for some odd reason.

The introduction of Douglas' wife is great and works well within the story. I think it was wise to have a certain voice of reason to cancel out Douglas allowing Sherman to stay at the store/shop.

I think overall, this story doesn't necessarily have to be about "someone" or one character or many characters. I think it's really about being careful what we wish for and what we ask for. And sometimes people can be quite selfish. Yes. Sherman has these amazing powers that allow him to fix things and people. But also, people in their brokenness are taking advantage of him and what he is capable of. And he is left feeling broken down and desperate for a way to escape.