Divine Symmetry

Heh.

2004-09-26T20:48:05Z

Back to 0.

Should I?

2004-09-26T20:01:54Z

Oh crap. NaNoWriMo is coming up again...

NaNo

2003-11-10T02:25:12Z

I am a full-time college sophomore. I have a part-time job. I have family and friends and outside interests. I've never written a story more than ten pages long. I will most likely not finish this NaNo, much less reach 50,000 words. I'll continue to write it, just to write it, but I seriously doubt meeting the deadline. But I'm not going to stress about it. Sometimes there are things in life more important.

divine_symmetry @ 2003-11-06T22:35:00

2003-11-07T03:36:15Z

Why can't I write anything right now? I know where the characters are supposed to go... but I just don't want to write it down.

Happiness!

2003-11-05T21:45:06Z

I was able to convince one of my male friends to join NaNo! Albeit, it didn't take that much to convince him... but still... real-life support!

Chapter 3 [1553 Words]

2003-11-03T23:55:37Z

It took Greta a week to recover from her attack. During that period, her mother advised her to remain in bed. It would be better to fully recover, than to mildly recover and then experience a setback. For the first few days she spent her time asleep. Never in her life had she slept so much. During the evenings, her mother brought up broth and bread to soothe her stomach. The night after her collapse, she heard a tentative knock at her door.

“Come in!” she called.

A tuft of unruly mousy brown hair peaked through the space between the door and the jam. The hair was followed by an angelic face, chin and lips smeared with something. “Ret?” it asked in a small voice. His lips hadn’t grown accustomed enough to forming words to pronounce her name, so she was called Ret.

“It’s okay, Mason. You may come in,” Greta reassured. At that, Mason nearly ran over to her bedside. She adjusted her position so that Mason could sit at the bottom of her bed. “Careful of the warmer,” she warned. The ceramic foot warmer had just been placed at the foot of her bed.

“Ret. I brought you something to make your tummy all better!” Mason announced. He took his hand out from behind his back. In his palm was a lump of chocolate cake that their mother had made earlier that day. “I sneaked this to you. Chocolate always makes me feel better.” He grinned at his accomplishment.

“Mason! Thank you so much,” Greta grinned at her younger brother. She took the moist cake from his hand into her own. The cake was sloppy and half-melted from his body heat, but she accepted the present and ate it in earnest. Mother’s baking was superb. She had the county fair blue ribbons to prove it, too. After licking up the remaining crumbs and icing in her hand, she looked over at her brother. His stare was fixated on her, his head tilted to the side, eyes glassed over as if in deep thought.

“What is it Mason?”

“Are you going to die?” the child candidly asked, his dirty chin trembling, revealing his anxiety.

Greta took a deep breath before explaining, “Everyone dies, Mason. It is a part of life. And after we die, we’ll all be together in heaven. You know that God has mansions for us up there and streets paved of gold, right? But, I promise to you. I’m not going to die for a very long time.” Suddenly, Mason threw himself into her arms and hugged her tightly.

“I don’t want you to die. I don’t want you to die like Clara.” She felt the boy’s hot silent tears flood through her thin top. She murmured comforts to a child who didn’t understand why people sometimes just ambiguously left the mortal coil. His innocence tugged at her heart. When she heard him sniff and begin to hiccup, she knew that the worst was over. Mason pulled back from her.

“Wanna know something Ret?” Greta nodded her head, urging him to continue. He stretched his food smeared mouth into a grin, “Me and you are twins.”

Greta quirked her eyebrow up at this. “Oh we are, are we? How are we twins?” Mason saddled up next to her and pointed at her face.

“We both have cake mustaches.” Greta smiled with her brother, glad to know that his melancholy had passed.

“That we do, Mason. If you could, go by the basin, dip the washcloth into the water and then bring it back to me.” The young boy did as he was asked. When he brought the rag over to Greta, she immediately began wiping down his face, despite his ardent protests. After ridding his face of chocolate, Greta cleaned her own.

Every night after that, Mason visited her. She suspected it was to make sure that she was upholding her promise. During the days of her bed-rest she worked on knitting and sewing. Although she felt completely useless, Mama had assured her that the sewing had been set aside far too long and being able to catch up was priceless. Her collapse had been a Tuesday. By that Friday, she was tired of being in bed. By mid-morning, she was ready to pull her hair out from the boredom of it all. Yarning and softly hummed songs could only occupy her for so long.

She pulled back her quilt and linens to get out of bed. Since the attack she’d only left her room to use the outhouse or wash up. During the first few days, she couldn’t find her legs like a newborn foal. She used her chamber pot and washbasin rather than attempt to descend the narrow, steep stairs. But now, she could feel her feet firmly planted on the cold, wooden floor. She grabbed her crochet cotton shawl at the bottom of the bed and went downstairs.

Mama had come in early from the fields to prepare supper. Before Greta reached the bottom of the stairs, the aromas pouring from the kitchen caused her to salivate. She approached the kitchen and saw her mother facing away from her, working on the fire keeping the stove hot.

“Mama, how can I help you?” Greta asked, alerting her mother to her presence. Mama spun her head toward Greta so fast that Greta couldn’t help but wonder how it had stayed on her neck.

“Greta! You should not be out of bed. Look at you down here in a nightshirt, you’ll catch yourself death of cold,” she scolded, striding over to her daughter. Eyes wide with concern, her tongue clicked in her mouth as she inspected Greta. Mama hands immediately went to her forehead to feel for fever or clamminess.

Greta gingerly took her mother’s hands off of her. “Mama. I’ll go out of my mind if I have to stay in that bed another second,” she explained. Sitting down at the dining table, she proved her ability to withstand the uneven temperatures of the kitchen. She tied the shawl in front of her to free her hands. “I know that there is much to prepare for supper. Allow me to help you, Mama.”

Instead of arguing with her obstinate daughter, Mama set a bowl of green beans on the table in front of Greta. As Greta snapped off the ends of the fresh beans she spoke with her mother about news about the farm. Mama notified her about how Matthew had to repair the wagon after its wheel got caught in a mud patch around the hedgerow, how Papa needed more Negro workers since they had acquired three more acres of land and how Mason had brought home excellent grades from the schoolhouse. Deftly she finished her green bean allotment, so she helped mould the biscuits that would accompany their meal. Helping Mama with the mundane chores of the house calmed Greta’s restless spirit.

That night, Greta joined the family in the living room. Mama remained in the kitchen to iron the family’s laundry. So, Greta sat on the sofa, where Mama usually sat, and listened to her father and brother heartily debate some pittance about the farm. Around seven, Mason grew tired of his blocks and crawled up next to her, falling asleep. She cradled his warm body against her own. When nine o’clock chimed, she had to rouse Mason from his sleep. Normally she would have carried him into the room he shared with Matthew, but as it was, she could barely walk herself up the stairs. Greta waited until her brothers and father had gone to bed before testing her strength again. Before she could try, her mother entered the living room and sat beside her.

“Greta. I’ve been having thoughts,” she began. Not one to dally, Mama was direct in her request. “I think you should call upon your good friend Mary in Boston after harvest. It will do you both good to be around each other. You were so close when you were younger.” Greta examined her mother’s features by the minute light of the oil lamp. The far light cast sharp contrasts, disfiguring her still young, but weather-worn mother.

“You do not wish for me to be here?” Greta could feel a great fear rise in her throat. An uncomfortable acid warmth took resident in her stomach and began to churn.

“Not at all!” her mother countered. “Greta, my angel. I only pray for your recovery. As you know, our crop was not substantial this year. Winter here on the farm will not suit your condition.”

Her family meant everything to her. Perhaps she had disappointed them with her attack. Immediately Greta spurned her condition. Inwardly she promised to never be weak again. She damned her weak body. Tears came to her eyes and she made no point to wipe them away. They streamed freely down her face as her mother pulled her to her bosom. Normally stoic and strong, Greta broke free and allowed weeping to wrack her body. Her mother whispered comforting German that had no literal English translation.

When she regained her composure, Greta agreed to write her best friend to suggest a seasonal visit. She had no doubt that Mary would gladly accept her into her home.

Chapter 2 [1668 words]

2003-11-03T01:36:45Z

I have no idea how I'm going to keep this up during the week. It seems like each block of 1667 words takes me hours to get done. :-/

The late summer heat was oppressive and relentless. The plants thirsted for the dingy river water. Their leaves were flaccid and hung by their sides like rows of tired, old drunks. Greta shook the loose dirt out of her hair and pinned it up again before bending down to start a new row. Feeling the muscles in her back shift painfully, she let out a long breath. One that she had been holding the whole day. Peeling the back of her shirt off of her back, she resumed spreading the fertilizer on the seedlings. She glanced across the field and saw her brothers doing the same. Singing a little tune to make the time passable, Greta continued down the endless row, giving the collard plants strength to survive.

That evening, around the fireplace, Greta stretched out her legs by sitting on the floor at Mama’s feet while they both knitted garments for the coming winter. As her needles twiddled back and forth, she watched Mason, her younger brother, build a fortress with a set of wooden blocks with dull, worn edges. Her father was sitting in the corner of the room in his chair smoking a pipe. His lids were half-closed, nearly asleep. Matthew was seated in the chair separated from their father by the table holding an oil lamp. He was reading the local gazette – catching up on politics. The clock on the mantle gave three brilliant chimes before counting off the hours. It was eight o’clock.

Reaching down, smoothing her hair, Mama quietly intoned, “You should wash up first. I saw how you were bearing the pain today. The hot water will do you wonders.”

Looking up at her mother’s weather-kissed visage, Greta spoke in hushed tones, careful not to wake her father or disturb her brothers. “Thank you, Mama. I will.” She gently got to her feet, set her yarns inside the wicker basket, and then kissed her mother on the cheek. She walked out of the living room and across the hall to the washroom. Earlier that day, Matthew had pumped water from the spigot outside and put it on the stove to warm. Now, she disrobed and eased herself into the ceramic tub. She broke off a new lump of lye soap and began to wash away the grime that had accumulated during her day in the fields. As she washed her extremities, she noted the newest bruises and the fading of the old ones.

Ever since she was a child, working in the fields had been harder on her than most other children her age. After a day of working in the fields, she would skip dinner to lay down in her bed and regain her head. She took care to never complain about it, though. Her family supported themselves by planting and harvesting each year. Every day of the growing season counted; it needed to last them through the winter when nothing profitable grew. Her Papa and brothers, oblivious specimens of the male species that they were, never realized her plight. It was her mother, doting Mama, who gave her reprieve when hot, humid summer days caused her knees to buckle and when the thousands of mums she had to pinch caused her fingers to bleed. Mama never made her knowledge obvious. Instead, she would send Greta inside to can vegetables or make bread for dinner.

If you lived on a farm, you were expected to earn your keep by working with the family in the fields. That was the way things were done. Greta looked again at her bruises. Their presence on her body looked so foreign, so invasive. The colorful greens and yellows and purples contrasted against her milky white complexion. She quickly soaped over them before getting out of the tub. She quickly dried off before putting on her nightgown. Adding more hot water to the tub for her father, she left the washroom.

She walked up the steps to the newly added second story and her small bedroom. It was barely larger than a closet, but it was her own – a rarity for the life she lived. She walked over to the window and kneeled before it, as she did every night. As she looked at the full moon in the sky, she began her prayers, devout and true. She prayed for forgiveness for the trespasses she had committed that day, she prayed for the farm, and she prayed for the health and wellness of her friends and families. As she opened her eyes, she allowed her gaze to rest upon the fields. During the night they seemed to rest, like the laborers. Moonbeams scattered across the even rows of plants and gave them and ethereal quality. She didn’t hate the fields as much at night. At night they seemed vulnerable and lonely. The polar nature of the fields fascinated Greta. She wished that somehow she could work out how they change state so subtly. Rising from her knees, she pulled the diaphanous curtains shut to decrease the evening influx of insects.

It was a rough harvest. The insects had been particularly brutal to their crop. The seasonal draught was worse than usual, wilting the already diseased plants. Papa was more severe than usual about chores. When the school house by the United Methodist church re-opened, he didn’t allow Mason to attend. Instead, Mason worked alongside the rest of the family around the farm. The horses needed tending, the hay needed baling, and even more importantly, they had to rescue whatever yield they could. Even Mama’s usual reprieves for Greta ended.

The days grew shorter, so everyone had to work harder during the precious hours of daylight. Even the holy Sabbath where God demanded that humankind rest, household chores had to be completed so that the other six days of the week could be devoted to the crop. Mama and Greta were constantly washing dirty clothing, preserving fruits and vegetables for winter, and keeping the house clean.

It was late October when the first frost came about that Greta’s body gave out. It was a gray, cold fall day and the family was hurrying to gather the remaining harvest before it blighted. Papa was in the far field, wrestling with the testy black mare and wagon to gather up the crates of collards that had been stripped by her brothers the previous day. She was in the field by the river, stripping the greens when, without warning, the ground surged up from the core of the Earth to meet her. She laid there. Unable to move, her heart thundering in her ears, her blood rushing, but her body not accepting messages from her head. The damp soil dirtied her face, but she couldn’t move her arm to wipe it away. As she breathed in, she could feel her lungs compressing against her chest, weeping for air.

Among the putrid smell of stripped collards she laid for a good hour before anyone came looking for her. When she was found, Mama gave out a cry of fear. Matthew, the family stoic, had rushed to her side and picked her up to carry her back to the house. At his legs, young Mason ran about asking why he was carrying their sister home and wondering why Mama was crying. It was Mama’s crying that caused Mason to go into hysterics. Mama was as strong as oak. Matthew hushed him and told him to fetch a jug of water from the spigot.

Once inside, Greta felt a great weight lifted from her chest. No longer was the air biting, but instead it was filled with the aroma of supper and canning vegetables. Matthew carried her upstairs to her room and laid her on her bed, careful to not upset the now cool footwarmer. Then, he quickly left the room to give Mama space to work.

Mama quickly disrobed Greta’s outerwear, tossed aside the grimy leather chaps that were constricting her legs. She brought the basin from the dresser to the bedside table. With the cool water, she washed Greta’s face and arms off, hoping to cool the fevered limbs. Papa came in, his hat in his hands.
“How is she?” he softly asked. Greta’s tongue was too swollen in her mouth to form any words. Mama spoke for her instead.

“She’s had an attack, Johann.” Mama caressed Greta’s face, softly, soothing her. Papa murmured something only Mama could hear and quickly left. Greta’s brain raced. The fever made her think of the impossible, of floating and being outside her body. Her hallucinations continued until they merged with sleep. Mama pulled the covers over her, but kept vigil at her side.

When Greta opened her sleep crusted eyes, she saw a blurry picture of the moon shining into the room, illuminating the rocking chair by her bureau. She gently shifted her head and saw her mother, asleep in a chair next to her bed. The candle on the bedside table was long since snuffed out.

“Mama,” Greta croaked, unable to control her vocal chords. Her voice sounded husky and old, as if she had not used it in years. Mama stirred in the chair and was roused from her sleep. “Mama, lay down.”

“Greta. Oh, darling, you’re awake. Do you want anything?” Mama asked, concerned. She turned in her chair to relight candle.

“Mama. Stop.” Mama turned to her. “Mama. Just come lay down.” Greta hated causing her mother to worry – especially since the death of Clara. She wanted to reassure her mother that she would be okay, in any way that she was able.

Mama put the matches back down next to the basin on the bedside table. Greta scooted over to the best of her ability to make room for her mother. Mama laid down in the bed. Greta put an arm over Mama’s stomach, like when she was younger. Feeling more at ease, Greta drifted back to sleep, content in knowing that her mother was by her side.

Word Count Update

2003-11-03T00:30:38Z

Chapter 1 [1663 words]

2003-11-02T02:19:37Z

The summer breeze wound its way through the languid trees, cooling their leaves, stopping their perspiration. It was there, at the secluded shelter of fauna by the lazy river that she had decided her purpose in life. Greatly ambitious for a girl of her age, far more ambitious than what society allowed. But Greta didn’t care. Passing by the meager gravestones, she had set herself on a path that allowed no turning back.

It was the family graveyard, kept less than an acre away from the house. The cluster of trees was bordered by Bird River to the north and the farm in all other directions. It was a peaceful resting place for the departed. The trees provided shade for the harsh summer days when the sun seemed to delight in making the soil dry and the plants wilt. And they provided protection from the winter storms that froze everything until the springtime’s kiss of warmth thawed the earth. Greta glanced down at the grave marker. Just like most of the others, it was simple, yet functional. She carefully knelt down to be close to it, burying her hand in the freshly tilled soil. It read: “Clara Earls 1881-1882”.

It had happened that spring. It was Greta who found her in morning; she was going to give her her breakfast milk. But she knew that something was terribly wrong when Clara’s little chest didn’t rise and her heart wouldn’t beat. In hysterics, Greta called to anyone awake in the house. She ran clutching Clara’s lifeless body to her bosom in search of her mother, hoping that her will would be strong enough to resuscitate her sister. It was without sign or symptom; Little Clara had died in her cradle during the night.

Clara was never a fussy baby. Mama had always praised the Lord that after three scoundrels, she gave birth to an angel. The whole family mourned the loss of its newest member. However, the planting season was upon them, so too much time in grief would cost them in yield. Papa was a strict man, but he was always guided by truest of intentions. Greta didn’t harbor any ill will towards him when he made them get up the next day to work in the fields.

But, the death was especially hard on Mama. She didn’t come out of her room a week. When Mama returned to them, it was as if Clara had never existed. Mama never mentioned her when they removed the cradle back to the barn or when they folded her clothes to put them in the chest or even when they buried her body, out here, in the sheltered graveyard. Greta and her brothers knew that in Mama had made her peace with God’s revocation, in her own way. But they never again spoke of Clara.

Greta ran her fingers over the name of her sister. She held back the tears that threatened to fall. Crying on the consecrated ground would not bring back her sister or anyone else resting there. It was better to stay strong and honor their memory. Beneath the marker, she laid a small bouquet of Black-Eyed Susans that she had picked earlier that day. And as she walked out of the blessed trees, her resolve for the future strengthened.

~~~~~~

On Sunday, Greta rose early with her parents and brothers to attend church. As she and mother finished putting on their fine clothes, Matthew, her older brother, fetched the horse and wagon. In a good mood, Papa had given them permission to put that black mare on the wagon, rather than walking to the church. Greta’s Sunday clothes consisted of one of Mama’s old day dresses, sewn to fit her still sinewy body, accented by a high neck and gathered waist. Her hair was pulled back into a bun and her head was topped off with a low-profile bonnet.

As she sat in the back of the wagon with her brothers, Greta was reminded why the Sabbath day was her favorite. She could hear the bird calls and the sweet sound of nature as the black mare made its was to the United Methodist church. Back at home, Mama’s homemade pie was warming in the oven. It was only on the Sabbath that they had a reprieve from working in the fields or around the farm. It was on the Sabbath that she was able to go to church and enjoy the company of her peers.

Outside of the church, Greta surveyed the crowd for a close friend or former schoolmate. The local families milled about outside, greeting each other and enjoying the beautiful weather. Her parents made their way inside to secure their seat. Her youngest brother was playing about with his friends from school. Greta made sure to remind him to not dirty his good clothing before resuming her search. Before going inside to meet up with the rest of her family, she was able to spot Mary York through the crowd.

“Mary!” she called out across the way. Breaking from her family, she walked through the dense rings of chatter to greet her best friend. It had been nearly a year since Greta had finished school and lost touch with her. The activities on the farm had kept her far too busy to visit.

“Look at you, Miss Greta Earls. All grown up,” Mary smiled, revealing her perfect teeth. She took Greta’s hands in hers, grasping them close to her.

“I’d rather look at you. Where did you get such finery?” Greta inquired, taking in Mary’s appearance. The dress that Mary wore was grand by country standards. It was made of a fine baltic cloth, trim around the torso, bustle in the back, enhancing her narrow waist.

“After school, I visited kin in Boston. Oh, you have to see Boston! It is so grand and busy. The buildings were so tall and there were people everywhere. While I was there visiting Aunt May and Uncle Daniel, I met Charles,” she disclosed. Searching about herself she mentioned, “He should be around here somewhere. It was love at first sight, Greta. He didn’t care that my father doesn’t have money or that my mother doesn’t have connections. Charles is a banker in Boston and he comes from a robust line of professionals. He came to the house to do my uncle’s taxes and within three months we were wed!”

Greta’s heart fluttered at Mary’s good news. Although she was disappointed that she didn’t get to be a part of the wedding, to see her friend float down the aisle in white, she was glad that her friend was so fortunate with finding someone to settle down with. Greta’s own advancements in that area of life were static and nearly dead. All of the eligible bachelors of the county seemed to be enthralled with girls other than her. At seventeen, she knew that it would only be a few more years until she was considered not unfavorable to court. But even so, Greta was excited for her best friend because she knew that Mary would finally be relieved of the situation at home and be taken into a life of greater happiness.

The church bells rang, indicating the top of the tenth hour. Wishing Mary the best and promising to visit, Greta scurried into the church to sit in the pew with her family. Her father gave her a stern look for her tardiness. She glanced up at the statue of Jesus pinned to the cross for her sins and prayed a prayer of forgiveness.

After church, her family suited up the wagon and returned to their small house on the farm. Changing from her fine clothes into her house clothes, Greta took time to think about her best friend. As she brushed out her long brown locks, she remembered past times of closeness between them.

They were running along the path that divided the farm into two. Mary was by her right side and they giggled with the wind. Close to the house, they veered off on an angle into the fields, oblivious to how they tramped the growing collards. They made their way to the swimming hole. Their secret place surrounded by cattails. Today they didn’t go there to swim, they had more pressing matters at hand.

Gasping for breath, Greta turned to Mary and said, “Are you sure about this?”

Mary smiled, “It’s what the book said.”

Greta took her sewing scissors out of her gingham apron. The metal blades glinted in the sun. They sat outside of the cattails beneath the weeping willow tree, facing each other, knees touching, with matching grins. Never one to be afraid of blood, Greta went first. She took the sharp edge of blade of scissors blade and gently sliced her thumb. Red blood rose to the surface to meet the humid summer air and spilled out of the wound, sanctifying the ground. Mary repeated the action, taking care to not stain her dress. Then, they pressed their thumbs together, mixing their blood and entwining their souls by saying in concert, “Friends forever”.

Putting down her brush, Greta delighted in the memory. She looked at her thumb and ran her other hand over it. No scar remained to tell the tale, but Greta didn’t need a reminder. It felt like it was only yesterday. Vaguely she wondered if the marriage between Mary and Charles from Boston could have somehow interfered with their vow of friendship. Immediately she shook that preposterous thought from her mind. Of course it hadn’t because she had felt that familiar warm feeling of love at the pit of her stomach when she had greeted Mary that morning. And Mary’s smile had shone just as brightly as the day they pledged their loyalty.

“Greta!” Mama was calling to her. It was time to prepare Sunday supper. Greta rose from her bed and made her way downstairs to assist her mother.

Hello

2003-10-30T01:35:14Z

Welcome to my NaNoWriMo journal. For those interested in what the heck that acronym means, you can go here to learn the specifics. Basically, it is a humungous effort by many people to each write a novel during the month of November. Pretty ambitious, eh? Well, that's why this journal is here, so I can update everyone with my writings as they happen - in real time. Ooooo, exciting stuff.