Antonya Nelson's "Kansas"

This story is about a teenage female who, on a whim, leaves with her toddler niece and her "Nana" for road-trip back to her grandmother's old house.  The short-story's tension revolves around the teen's unknown location.  With that being said, I found this story's tension misplaced.  I felt let down as a reader when I arrived at the story's ending because it was so plain in comparison to the story's characters.  This story could be improved by interlacing the teen's whereabouts throughout the story.  This side-by-side contrast would allow for the story's ending and not leave the reader disappointed.

Virginia Cannon's "Life Pictures"

This is a work in progress.  I was assigned to write a 1,000 word fiction short-story for class.  I have written several drafts for this assignment but did not like any of them because they do not embrace an important characteristic of myself, being Deaf (technically I am Hard-of-hearing but I culturally identify as Deaf).  I know there are MANY Deaf authors, but for nearly my entire collegiate career, all my assignments are by Hearing authors.  So, I would really like your feedback: How does the dialogue affect you?  Do you feel as you have entered Deaf dialogue or do you feel that interpretation would be better than writing the English translation?

 "Life Pictures"

          I'd rather have my life in pictures.  E taught me this motto.  She is my dearest Deaf friend, mentor, and, yes, my Super-Women.  She is now 86 years young and remains my teacher and friend. As I sit here at her bed-side, praying, "Please / You-for-me / No-take-her."
          My first childhood memory is of E.  It's afternoon and I am in my yard with my furry old English friend, Medic.  We are playing biker and cop and I can't pull over Medic to give her a speeding ticket.  E walks up to me and makes a funny gesture that I do not understand.  My chocolate-brown, three-year-old eyes stare into her neon blues yearning for comprehension.  We can't understand each other, so, I continue my high speed pursuit of outlaw English.
          E never gave up.  She knew something about me that I didn't; I was Hard-of-Hearing and needed to learn ASL.  She walked down to my house everyday to visit my mother.  They enjoyed Gin Rummy and cooking but E couldn't stand Mom spanking me all the time.  Finally, one day, E asked Mom, "Suppose / Tomorrow / V-E-R-I-T-Y / My-House / Visit?"  Mom stared at her.  She couldn't understand why E would want to babysit a disobedient child.
          On my first visit, E had personal pictures strewn across her kitchen table's speckled linoleum top: the banquet of enlightenment.  She motioned for me to sit on a chair and handed me one of the photographs: a group of girls dressed in roaring twenties night wear having a banquet.  E pointed, "Me / Smile."  She grabs my hands; I was supposed to repeat her gestures.  Again, she pointed, "Drink / And / Food."  Disappointed, E turned to her cupboards, pulled out Animal Crackers, and held the red and white box by it's cloth string in front of me, "Cookie / Want?"  I didn't understand her gesturing but I understood her look.  I nodded yes.
          She took me by the hand to her Foodarama Kelvinator refrigerator.  "Open," she signed.  Every item I touched; she signed.  I tried a couple of times to remove a Shasta but she shook her head no.  Finally, I repeated to her, "Soda-pop?"  E's arms went up like a football referee and her hands shook; I didn't know until a month later, she was applauding my accomplishment.  One hour elapsed from the time she opened her refrigerator until I chose to sign my first word, my first question, and gave birth to my actuality.
          A thump-a shift nurse drops E's chart on the floor while opening her door-arouses me from remembrances.  The nurse looks over at me but didn't say a word.  "I can talk, you know."  Her face reddens because she had assumed all of Esther Judd's visitors couldn't speak.
          "Sorry."
          "Her blood pressure remains high and her oxygen level remain low.  What medication is she taking?" the nurse's eyes about bulged out of her sockets because I signed and spoke my question.
          "You don't have to sign.  Esther is not awake.  It won't help her."  I want to slap this women's face.  Does she think she is the language police?
          "I am Deaf."
          "But you speak so well."
          I fight the urge to give her a lesson in prejudice; I fight the urge to speak only with me Deaf voice.  I resolve, however, to think like E whose hands artfully sing, "Please / Forgive / Evil / Same-as / Me / Forgive / Evil.  No-lead / Temptation.  Your / Kingdom / Power / Glory / Forever."  If only the cloud of Death would move away from my North Star, a star that had guided my for over forty years.
          She has been a leader and an activist in the Deaf community.  She has suffered their chastisement, "Language / Give-Away," and experienced many lonely nights when I first became her student because the community didn't approve of her choice to mentor me, a child of Hearing adults.
          "Later / She / Leave / Deaf-World.  Wait / See."  They would say to her.
          "Everyone / Must / Choice / Have."  E's hands zipped like a momma bear striking at a predator.  "Hearing-People / No / Patience / For-Her.  No-Understand / She / H-O-H.  We / Example / For-Her."  Their eyes softened and they went home.
          A tapping on the bed-rails arouses me from daydreaming.  "Hey / Here / Nice."  Her medicated, clouded eyes force focus on my face.  "Always / Beautiful / Picture / You."  Tears linger my face because her hands seemed confused, lethargic.
          "Happy / Awake.  Scared / Me / Scared," I said.  "Hold-On."  I picked up my black leather purse and reached out a picture: Medic, me, and E sitting on her front porch the day my family moved.  She holds the tattered edges and stares at the faded images.  I could see years of picture memories flood her eyes.
          "Ready / You / World / Got-to.  ASL / Learn / Wonderful.  No / Hearing-Brained.  World / You / See / Like / Pictures."  I lay my head on her soft belly looking up at her eyes . While she caresses my hair, my mind travels, I can see the occurrence like a picture: E consoles me because my classmates threw rocks at my talking hands.  Blood stains my sky-blue sundress and oyster white socks.  E knew what happened because  every Deaf experiences hatred and ignorance at the hand of Hearing.
          "Never / School / Never-Go-to / Again!"  I exclaimed to E who was pouring rubbing alcohol into the gnashes on my hands and legs.
          "Now / Only / One / Picture.  Later / More / Deaf / Go-to / Hearing-World / School.  You / Need / More / Pictures.  Later / They / Come.  A-L-L / Pictures / Like / Movie.  Later / Feel / Better."
          E's belly starts moving slower.  I check her vital monitors, all flashing lights.  E slightly raises her hand off the bed, "I-Love-You.  Life / Always / Pictures."

Sarah Shun-Lien Bynum's "Yurt"

http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2008/07/21/080721fi_fiction_bynum

Summary: Ms. Hemp a middle school teacher oozes with jealousy over Ms. Duffy's decision to travel and, possibly, her decision to leave teaching.


I was pleasantly surprised with this story.  This is the first story, for my Advanced Fiction Writing Class, that kept me turning pages without wondering when it would end.  The story moved along smoothly and maintained a well-paced rhythm.

Since I think that this read is worth your time, I am not going to spoil its ending.  My favorite characteristics of this story are its tone and withholding some pertinent information in order to make me, the reader, to want to keep reading.  Bynum uses her dialogue effectively.  I can see why my professor assigned this for class.

Daniel Alarcon's "The Idiot President"

Summary: A recent college graduate dreams of emigrating to America because he does not like the political and economical climate of his country.  While waiting on a Visa, he joins Deciembre which is a three-man play on tour.


This short-story has a well-controlled arc.  However, I was often left wondering what is main character's central problem?  Yes, he does not want to stay in his country and, yes, he is waiting on a Visa.  I just wish there would have been more to sink my reading-teeth into.

There were a couple scenes in this story that I enjoyed:  First, I appreciated that Alarcon, through his characterization of the protagonist, demonstrates that travel can lead to illness.  Second, when the narrator is cold and needs a coat, the host goes to the refrigerator to retrieve a blanket.  Genius!  I had never read anything like that before.

Adam Johnson's "Hurricanes Anonymous"

Summary: Nonc, a recovering Cajun alcoholic, searches for his son's mother while making Post-Katrina UPS deliveries.

I think the author exposes the reader to his indecisiveness: "Should I cut narrative or expand my story to a full-length novel?"  No, Johnson did not say this but this is my response.  I feel the story-line drags along until the last couple of pages and, then, Johnson hurries the ending as if to be done with a writing that he can't resolve.

Yes, this writing permits a reader to imagine Post-Hurricane Katrina; however, Johnson's realistic narrative clashes with his over-the-top characters who seem to be one of the following: recovering alcoholics praying to God, disabled people caring for someone more disabled than themselves, or con artists sccamming FEMA.

"Always Kamma"

Here it goes...my first fiction posting. This is a work in progress. I am trying to find ways to count down 350 words and adjusting dialogue. -Virginia.


"Always Kamma"

"I don't know what I am doing wrong," sobbed Kamma to the Indian mechanic behind the grease and oil stained counter. "I only use the highest octane gas and it still breaks down." His dancing brown eyes studied her. Aleem knew she was genuinely distressed, after all, this was her fourth broken down car in two years.

"If you like, I teach you car care," he offered to Kamma.

Her whimpering blue eyes locked onto his, "My mom always relied on mechanics to fix her cars and my Dad, well, I never remember him going to a mechanic. He drove the same car for twenty years; it was the first car to break down on me."

"Yes, your Dad is most excellent car owner. He treats his cars well, no?"

"Mom always said that he spent too much time and money on his cars and not enough on her." Aleem handed her a cup of the garage's coffee. Kamma's nose crinkled as she smelled it; her mouth contorted as she tried to drink it. "Disgusting!"

"Someting wrong?"

"It just doesn't smell or taste good."

"You prefer coffee house brew, no? My coworkers like dis Folger's." He replied while readjusting his turban. Kamma was fascinated by its colors: one band was canary yellow and the other was dark emerald green with canary yellow and ruby magenta flowers. She thought this was an odd contrast in lieu of his ecru shell jacket, fallow-beige shirt and pants, and typical black steel-toed work boots. If he wasn't wearing a turban, she would have thought Aleem was a second-generation Indian who was Americanizing quite well.

"If you like, you borrow my car today. I fix yours and you pick up later."

"Thank you!"

"Come back at six, ok?"

"Thank you Aleem," Kamma accepted the key and left for her salon appointment because her black roots were peeping through her bleached-blonde hair and her amethyst nail polish was chipped.


Straight up six, she returned Aleem's car. "Your car is a dream. The AC smelt like island air and the driver's seat felt like a fluffy cotton ball I would use to remove my eye makeup. I never felt any potholes although I know drove over several. How can I get a car like that?" He could hear the eagerness in her voice, now, he could teach her.

"Foremost, I always servant to car. Then, only good toughts and comments for car." Aleem watched her eyes look towards her nails; she rubbed them against her cashmere sweater to remove a piece of lint.

"I do service my car; I bring it to you when I have a problem."

"Yes, yes, I am grateful for business. You do not undertand me." Aleem paused and finger-coiled his black mustache into a u-shape. He knew that she needed to understand that her energy affects her car's attitude and performance. "Why color hair?"

"I want to be pretty and I have to look better than my friends."

"Car same ting. It needs shiny paint because it feel better, run better."

"You think cars have feelings."

"I know dey do." He said while shaking his head so hard that it nearly caused his turban to fall off. "My car runs great because it know I love and respect it, always." He paused to see if her red aura had changed. "A car must know you care and tink of it. You care for yourself by going to salon, right?" Kamma grinned. "You have new manicure, right?" She nodded yes. "Well your manicure is like cleaning de rims of de tires. You remove all hangnails and dirt and make nails shiny. Washing rims removes dead bugs and dirt and makes rims shiny. De car feel good, drive good."

"Have you been drinking Aleem?"

"No, no never drink at work. Look, do somting nice for car and I give you twenty percent discount on today's work and free fluid check next week."

"Well...I think you're crazy but I could use $100 for a new pair of K12 heels, so, deal."

Kamma made an appointment for a fluid check and left for home. "I wonder what nice thing I can do? If dying my hair is like a new paint job and a manicure like a rim wash...what would be the equivalent of painting my nails? I got it! I have to make the tires shine! Kamma stopped by Mercury's Auto Supply for Armor All.

The next morning, she first washed the tires and rims; then, she buffed Armor All into the tries. They gleamed in the spring sun and appeared younger, plumper. But there was something wrong...the entire car didn't sparkle. So after she finished her morning Whey smoothie, Kamma took her car to a hand wash that also had a coffee house. She spared no expense; after all, she could say the car's Works Package was like her getting a full body massage. She watched from the cafe as the workers buffed the wax into the paint with a fresh white cloth. Kamma thought, "It should feel better; a hot oil body massage always rejuvenates her." When the workers were done, Kamma thought the car's grill smiled.

"Well, I did something nice," she said to the car while getting into her seat. "Wait!" There must be a mistake...this seat is too comfortable, it's soft like Ameel's car." She opened the glove compartment and looked at the insurance papers, "Yep, you're mine. Let's go." Her seat was comfortable that she wondered, "Is this what babies feel like when they are in the womb--all free from danger?" It wasn't until she pulled into the driveway that she realized she hadn't felt any potholes. "Wow! Ameel is right; you have feelings. I can't call you 'it.' You need a name...Prita!"

As Kamma ran her hand along the dashboard, she noticed that it was already 4 p.m., "Oh no, I am about to miss Runway!" She dashed inside, tossed the keys on the coffee table, grabbed a mango, and plopped down on the couch. "Just in time!" She needed the camaraderie of other people who adore fashion; it was like gas in Prita's tank, it made Kamma zing.

The show ended, "If Prita has feelings, then she must get lonely by herself in the driveway. What can I do that would cause her to feel like she has friends?" She was pondering on Prita's dilemma when an old TV show, Knight Rider, began. She heard KIT the talking car speaker to its driver. "I wish Prita could talk to another car. That's it! She could watch episodes of Knight Rider, at least she could have some entertainment."

Kamma carried her Samsung 50 inch Plasma HDTV, her DVD player, and speaker system to the garage. She programmed the DVR to record the all-night showing of Knight Rider so Prita would not feel lonely. Then Kamma pulled Prita, who had spent her previous months in the driveway, into the garage. All of a sudden, Kamma felt as if a positive energy was radiating from her. "Good night Prita, my dear one. Tomorrow, we will go see Ameel."

They were on their way to Ameel's when another car almost hit them. Kamma wasn't for sure, but she thought she felt the car, on its own, swerve.

"Good morning," greeted Ameel, "How are you?" He didn't really have to ask because he noticed that Kamma's aura had changed from red to turquoise.

"The strangest thing just happened. I could swear that Prita kept another car from hitting us."

"Who's Prita?"

"That's what I named my car."

"Oh, very good."

"I was wondering if you could check her fluids and give her a tune-up? I figured that if I take vitamins everyday to keep me healthy, then, Prita needs something to help her stay strong." Aleem smiled.

Steve De Jarnatt's "Rubiaux Rising"

Summary:  
A Gulf-War, drug-addicted, amputee vet returns to his Aunt's house.  She locks him in her attic, during Hurricane Katrina, until he rids himself of his "demon," addiction.


(from Best American Short Stories 2009)

"When he slowly open his eyes again an hour later he sees them--the unholy menagerie.  All down on the ledge, crowded near him in awkward proximity, are: a large king snake; two smaller water snakes; four fat nutria; a half drowned feral cat and two shivering kittens; three pitiful brown rabbits...His eyes dart.  Theirs do too...Nobody is eating anybody this morning.  They share the same fear and confusion--orphan brothers in the storm." (38)

There are many aspects of this story that I enjoy; however, my favorite is its quirkiness.  I was not prepared to have a Gulf-War amputee vet to be locked in an attic during Hurricane Katrina with a menagerie.  I have read numerous stories that discuss the grieving process for amputees but they remain in a somber tone.  I was also surprised by the fact that De Jarnatt permits Rubiaux to experience a sense of community because of his disability.  After all, if he had both legs then the critters would not have a safe refuge, a Noah's Ark, to keep them out of Karina's rising flood waters and he would not experience a sense of community, albeit a dangerous one.

There are also a couple issues with this story that I feel are not resolved: Why would an Aunt leave a disabled vet alone in an attic during a hurricane?  Why would a vet permit himself to be "boarded up" in an attic?  These combined with Rubiaux's animal community definitely lend this story to humorous side of writing.  This leaves me to wonder, "How do veterans view this piece?"

Ramblings of the Hand and Pen

Welcome.

As the title suggests, I tend ramble. Unlike many of you, I ramble in American Sign Language and in written and vocalized Standard American English; however, not at the same time. I enjoy reading fiction and nonfiction stories. If I were to have to choose one style to write, I would pick creative non-fiction albeit I also dabble in poetry. You will find many references to all types of works in my future blogs because I created this blog for my Advanced Fiction Writing class that I am enrolled in at Oklahoma State University in Stillwater, Oklahoma. As a student in this class, I am to explore the craft of fiction through reading numerous fiction stories and writing my own.

So, join me as I go on my discovery and, maybe, together will expand our understanding of fiction.