The boy could not read the neatly printed words on the letter he carried home from school, pinched between finger and thumb. But he could read his failure in the stark black ink on the white paper, in the way the sun smacked off the school letterhead and the imposing signature of the headmaster.
He had taken the letter out of the envelope as soon as he left the headmaster's office. He knew he wasn't supposed to do that, a letter like that should be brought home in pristine condition, the way a shirt worn to a funeral should be freshly washed and creased. But he had taken out the letter and thrown away the envelope and now the grease from his fingertips was seeping into the clean white paper, and the breeze was batting it like a stiff little flag, and these signs of the physical world imposing itself on the lexical had themselves become words in the language of his defeat.
It was hot that day. It was always hot in the town where he lived, hot and dry with the roadside ditches baked to a trickle and the lawns outside the clapboard houses full of dead yellow grass. He had left school some minutes ago and was passing through the streets around his house. He felt a little ridiculous there, walking the sleepy pavements with the letter held out from him in his dainty grip.
He stopped in the middle of a road he crossed twice a day. Although the road was broad there was so little traffic on it that he walked down it as freely as a pavement. He stopped and held the letter up above him, attempting to eclipse the sun. Light burned through the paper. The grain of the fibres and the circular watermark in the upper right corner were as visible as veins in sunlit leaves, or as his never-born sister in the scanner that had bared his mother's womb. He was thinking, this scrap of pulp could not protect me from anything. And I would not sacrifice anything to protect it. An engine droned in the distance. Sweat prickled at his temples. There was one place he knew that would be fresh and cool: the stream that flowed through the woods on the edge of town. He dropped the letter and watched the breeze drag it to the gutter beside the road. It looked no different from the other refuse paling in the sun. He set off towards the stream.
On his way he thought how much he hated that town, hated the way it had no centre and no edges either, the way its boundaries seemed to crumble into the dry but fertile land beyond, like the meaning of an insignificant dream. He began to see that the headmaster had given him a passport when he had pressed that envelope into his shaking hand, a ticket to the vast world outside.
When he reached the stream he stood in the dappled shade of the trees and felt the cool breath of water against his face. The stream was swollen with rain from god knows where, it had not fallen anywhere near there. He undressed and felt his body naked and pale in the shade and felt the twigs and pebbles sticking into his soles and the soft mud beneath them. He walked carefully down to the stream. When he stepped in the water was colder and faster than he expected. His ankles ached as it flowed across them. Clouds of mud billowed up as he moved his feet. He saw in them something of the dirt and confusion that had settled on his life, the alphabets and algebras his teachers had failed to hammer into him, the numb pain of their repeated scorn. He waded further into the stream. Before he dove in it occurred to him that he had embarked on a second baptism, one unmediated by church or family or God, a washing clean not of sin but of the bitterness and despair that the world had ground into him.
He started to swim, battling the current, barely able to keep the place where his clothes were heaped on the bank. He felt strong. He felt bright as air, quick as water, light as light. He felt his illiteracy as a release rather than a burden, his loneliness as freedom, his stillborn sister as an augury of his escape.
When he returned to the bank he hunched, dripping and shivering in the warm air, and wondered how far the stream would take him if he swam with it and not against it.
Comments
lenchenelf | June 13, 2009 - 17:28
Filigree.
'as visible as veins in sunlit leaves, or as his never-born sister in the scanner that had bared his mother's womb'
Anything I could say would be superfluous, except thank you for sharing this. atb Lena
jennifer | June 13, 2009 - 20:47
Superb prose. Takes me right there, it is so beautifully described.
Just one point - God should have a capital 'G'.
J x
celticman | June 13, 2009 - 22:40
Great.
sarah wilson | June 14, 2009 - 06:35
Wonderfully evocative piece of writing. Well deserved cherry. Sarah x
johnshade | June 14, 2009 - 08:45
Thanks for the encouraging comments everyone. Glad you liked it. god is now God, as requested.
sunshine | June 14, 2009 - 09:09
really good - clever stuff. Margot
asxz (not verified) | June 14, 2009 - 11:46
Really?
Let's see shall we?
"...he stood in the dappled shade of the trees and smelled the piercing smell of cold fresh water."
This is one example of your horribly overwrought prose. First of all it's not the shade that is dappled. It's the ground that would be dappled. So either he stood in the shade or he stood on dappled ground. Either is infinitely more succinct.
Then you have him smelling a piercing smell... of something cold. Read it again and you sill see how little sense it makes and how little it advances the narrative.
You're just not consistent as a narrator putting feelings into the boy's head. On the one hand he is unable to read, on the other he relates to his illiteracy as "an augury of his escape". No he doesn't. You do.
This is an unsuccessful attempt to get inside the head of a boy with overwritten prose that is more concerned with throwing in an extra adjective than it is with the slightest amount of authenticity.
jennifer | June 14, 2009 - 11:53
Right, 'asxz', it's one thing to offer constructive criticism to enable someone to improve their writing and quite another to rip apart someone in this, quite frankly, rude fashion.
There is not one word of encouragement in your comment - if you don't like a piece or see a fault, suggest ways in which the writing can be improved, which would be a helpful thing to do.
J x
Ewan | June 14, 2009 - 12:04
asxz,
"Terrified. Aspiring. Still Terrified."
The above is a quote from your profile on this site.
Whilst I think you may have a point when you comment on narrator intrusion influencing what goes on in the boy's head, the whole of your comment is unrelentingly rude in tone:
'Really?
'Let's see shall we?'
was a spectacularly sarcastic beginning.
'Tread carefully, these are someone's dreams you tread on.' Recognise these words at all?
Your comment, whilst actually containing lucid points, has successfully, I would guess, rendered someone into the state you claim for your own on your profile. Forgive me if I doubt the truth of it's veracity.
Regards
Ewan
asxz (not verified) | June 14, 2009 - 13:54
I'll try again.
My constructive suggestion is to rewrite the entire piece without a single adjective or adverb.
@jennifer. You are correct. There was not one word of encouragement in my comment. I'm not sure how helpful it was of you to point that out. The poor author may not have noticed and now you've made him feel worse!
@Ewan "Spectacularly sarcastic"? Why thank you, sir. I'm afraid I didn't recognize the quote so I googled it and arrived at Yeats. Never really liked Yeats. I'm more of a Larkin kind of person. He too could be spectacularly sarcastic. He also had very little time for bad writing. Other than that, you were making a fine point right up until that spectacularly unnecessary apostrophe right in the middle of your tautology -- "truth of its veracity"? Really?
jennifer | June 14, 2009 - 14:09
I think, asxz, it is unfair of you to put blame on me for your comment.
J x
Ewan | June 14, 2009 - 14:39
Yes, your comment annoyed me so much I made an elementary mistake... congratulations. Tell me, are you Mac in disguise?
asxz (not verified) | June 14, 2009 - 14:51
The apostrophe was elementary. The tautology indicates a more worrying degree of literary incompetence.
I don't know anyone called Mac.
Ewan | June 14, 2009 - 15:10
I repeat myself when I'm angry and furious.
Don't know Macjoyce? Pity, I think you'd get on well.
Ewan | June 14, 2009 - 15:31
I note you have changed the content of your profile, asxz.
asxz (not verified) | June 14, 2009 - 15:35
You made me realize how banal it was. Thanks.
Ewan | June 14, 2009 - 16:40
Apologies to John Shade for hi-jacking this page dedicated to his piece.
celticman | June 14, 2009 - 20:08
Hi asxz. I often make the most rudimentary mistakes in writing. And most, if not all, of my writing is crap. I'm sure you are a brilliant editor. But I see none of your writing on this site. Action my friend.
lenchenelf | June 15, 2009 - 04:05
I read the narrative pov as the boy writing as the man he has become; the style chosen to reflect the life choice made by the character, alluded to in closing 'and wondered how far the stream would take him if he swam with it and not against it.'
Of course, this is just an opinion.
I look forward to reading more of your work. atb Lena
whiskey | June 19, 2009 - 12:53
Yes, there probably is a little too much description here (and a few over-long sentences that could be simplified), but we've all been guilty of that and it's easily remedied. It's all part of every writer's learning curve and, sadly, most of us will have met a few asxz's along the way. Constructive criticism is one thing, utter sarcasm and rudeness quite another! The important thing is that the story is a good one, which is why it was cherrypicked. A moving piece, with a clever, uplifting ending that brought a tear to my eye. Looking forward to reading more of your work. :-)