Winds of Change - Susan

 I reworked this story of Fila based on a Reedsy prompt which suggested beginning a story with the sensation of a breeze brushing against a character's skin. That led to more images of wind. Fun exercise to rewrite to fit a prompt, instead of starting with the prompt.

Fila stood beside her stepfather’s Model A at the side of the hard-packed dirt road running from Dallas all the way to Fort Worth. The wind blowing in from West Texas stirred up fine dust and grit and warned of a coming storm. Looking up at an ominous sky, loose tendrils of hair escaped her bun, and she wished she had worn a hat. “Never mind,” she thought, “I won’t be here long.” She needed to get this over with.

In her hands Fila gripped a surveyor’s map with property specifications for the 26 acres spread out in front of her. Pushing her hair off her face, she gazed out at the property her husband was determined to buy. Fila had learned over the years that George’s ideas almost never panned out, and Fila was opposed to leaving McKinney and her mother’s family for the uncertainty of Dallas. However, George was convinced the construction in a city booming with oil and gas money would mean more work for him and more money to educate their four boys.

Although she remained unconvinced, Fila knew that George was one to dig in his heels when challenged, and her arguments only increased his determination to move the family yet again. To keep the peace and break his stony silence, she agreed to drive a borrowed car the 30 miles from Plano to look over the property. Fear of more debt kept her up at night, and here was George, intent on adding more debt to what they still owed her stepfather. They never seemed to be able to get ahead, always taking two steps back for every step forward. “When will it end?” she wondered.

Fila pushed aside doubt as took in what she could see of the 26 acres. Some of the land had been worked recently; the detritus of a past cotton crop swirled in the wind, little whirlwinds whipping across the ground. A small grove of pecan trees bending slightly in the west wind bordered a field to the east where a donkey stood motionless by a split rail fence, his companion bird dog asleep beside him in spite of the wind and the dust. Fila smiled at the sight and wondered if the dog and donkey came with the property.

Through the dust, she took in the boundaries of the fields and calculated that the spread could support a few head of livestock and a sizable vegetable garden. She imagined a summer trade where the boys could sell fresh vegetables and shelled pecans to the travelers who were sure to come when the proposed viaduct across the Trinity River was built.

With a keen sense of value and potential, Fila turned her eyes to the barn and the farmhouse, both large, well built, and, from where she stood, in good shape. The house faced north, a red brick, two-story, with a covered porch entrance and windows across the front. Given a choice, Fila would prefer a south-facing home with its back to the north winds that were bound to come in winter, but she was glad for the mature live oak tree that stood not far from a stone wall separating the yard from the field to the west of the house.

Sighing, she said to the god of winds, who may or may not have been listening, “This will do. This will have to do.”

Turning back to the car, and clutching the map to her chest, she leaned into the wind, glad to put this visit behind her. She took one last look, obscured now by rain drops as big as dimes. She knew she must resign herself to the move, must give in to the winds of change. Yet, in her heart she feared that this was an ill wind, solving nothing.

 

[Word count 632]

The Side of the Road - Susan

This started as a 10-minute exercise. I kept expanding it, trying to give a better sense of setting -- both time and place. We meet Fila again, now as a young woman, married with four sons.

Fila stood in the warmth of an early November afternoon beside the dusty, hard-packed dirt road running from Dallas all the way to Fort Worth. In her hands she held a surveyor’s map and property specifications for the 26 acres spread out in front of her. Shading her eyes with her hand, she gazed out at the property George was determined to buy. Fila had learned over the years that George’s ideas almost never panned out, and Fila was opposed to leaving McKinney and her mother’s family for the uncertainty of Dallas. However, George was convinced the construction in a city booming with oil and gas money would mean more work for him and more money to educate their four boys.

Although she remained unconvinced, Fila knew that George was one to dig in his heels when challenged, and her arguments only increased his determination to move the family yet again. To keep the peace and break his stony silence, she agreed to drive a borrowed car the 30 miles from Plano to look over the property, knowing full well her opinion would carry little weight.

Even as doubt crowded out optimism for this latest scheme, Fila knew that George needed to leave the blacksmith business where he was underpaid and overworked. With the automobile replacing horse and wagon, blacksmithing was becoming obsolete, and George’s future in Plano was limited. However, Fila carried a nagging knot in her stomach, born of fear for adding more debt to what they still owed her stepfather. They never seemed to be able to get ahead, always taking two steps back for every step forward. “When will it end?” she wondered.

Fila pushed aside doubt as she took in what she could see of the 26 acres. Some of the land had been worked recently, the detritus of a past cotton crop still littered the ground. A small grove of pecan trees bordered a field to the east where a donkey stood motionless by a split rail fence, his companion bird dog asleep beside him. Fila smiled at the sight and wondered if the dog and donkey came with the property.

Consulting the map, she took in the boundaries of the fields and calculated that the spread could support a few head of livestock and a sizable vegetable garden. She imagined a summer trade where the boys could sell fresh vegetables and shelled pecans to the travelers who were sure to come when the proposed viaduct across the Trinity River was built.

Fila was nothing if not practical. With a keen sense of value and potential, she turned her eyes to the barn and the farmhouse, both large, well built, and, from where she stood, in good shape. The house faced north, a red brick, two-story, with a covered porch entrance and windows across the front. A mature live oak tree stood not far from a stone wall that separated the yard from the field to the west of the house.

It was a long way from Plano and the life she and her family had built there, surrounded by her uncle's wealth and her stepfather’s family. But fate, not fortune, had intervened yet again. Resigned, she sighed and said to the gods who may or may not have been listening, “This will do. This will have to do.”

On Wings of Memory - Susan

 Note: This is a revised version of my story where Fila's idea of sin didn't seem so sinful. I have tried to strengthen her definition of sin so that it's clearer to the reader. 

“Lord, my knees hurt,” Fila moans as she bends to pick up the hoe off the hard-packed soil, dried by a relentless Texas sun. Leaning heavily on the hoe, she turns to examine the neat rows of vegetables, noting the ragged progress of cucumbers, squash, and beans that manage to grow in spite of the heat. Her gaze lingers on the five-gallon water bucket waiting under the lone live oak tree in the yard. She knows the tomatoes need weeding and watering, but that will take more strength than she can muster in the late afternoon sun. 

Supported by the hoe, she walks slowly on bowed legs to the porch at the side of the century-old farmhouse. “I’ll just set a spell,” she says to herself, feeling guilty about leaving the row of tomato plants un-hoed, but not guilty enough to keep going. She knows her arthritic knees will make her pay later. “Well,” she says silently, “we all pay for our sins, don’t we?” 

Standing the hoe by the dusty porch steps, she holds onto the handrail and pulls herself up the steps to the rocking chair placed nearby. A glass of tea, wet with moisture, sits on the small wicker table beside the chair. 

She lowers herself carefully into the rocker, settling her body to ease the pain in her back, a constant reminder of decades spent bending over wash tubs, weeding gardens, ironing shirts, and bathing displaced grandchildren in the old cast iron tub. She sighs as a nagging pain creeps down her left leg, “Yes, indeed, we pay for our sins.”

She picks up the glass of tea, wipes the moisture on the hem of her sun-bleached housedress, and takes a long, thirsty drink. Setting the glass on the table, she says aloud, “God knows I’m familiar with sin. Could write a book about it.” 

Her words come to rest in the memory of a 17-year-old Fila and the courtship of an old man, bent on taking her for his wife. She wonders, “Does the Lord forgive you the sin of marrying the wrong man? Of living every day as though he matters to you, when you hate even the thought of his touch, of his rough hands on your body?”

She reaches for the glass of tea again, but stops to ask herself, “Who’s the sinner anyway? The deceiver who makes your mama think he has cash in the bank, who pretends to be more than he is and to have more than he has? Or is it the girl who marries him, all the while knowing she’s marrying a man she doesn’t love and wishing he was someone else, someone she still writes to and pines for? Isn’t that the very definition of infidelity?” 

As she lifts the glass to sip the now lukewarm tea, Fila rocks gently, rhythmically, letting the motion loosen a memory of her youthful self and the dreamy romance of a long-ago poem:

Many a farewell word

And sweet goodnight

On the doorstep

Lingers in my heart.

Her thoughts drift to the young Alabama man she left behind, with eyes the color of midnight; a man of gentle speech who made her ache with sweet tenderness. But that was before the possible became impossible, before a good father ended his dispirited time on earth, leaving his widow and his daughter to pick up the pieces of a life crushed by debts and fears.

Fila has learned to live with disappointment and disillusion. She avoids too much reflection or memories of lost love. But today she is bone weary and mindful of her age and the infirmities that slow her body and mind. 

She sets down the glass, now empty, and closes her eyes as she rocks. Aware only of the setting sun and the cicadas scratching the still air, she whispers a poem for a lost love:

I dream of my darling tonight

My darling so tender and true;

Oh, had I but wings for the flight

Those wings, love, would bear me to you.

The tears come, not for the first time, but with a deeper regret for the road not taken when the one chance to fly came along. “I’d have needed more than wings to shift me from this place,” she sighs.

Being careful to steady herself on unpredictable knees, she pushes up from the chair, picks up the empty glass, and turns to take one last look at the tomatoes reminding her of their need for tending. Assuring them that she will be back tomorrow (God willing), Fila says goodnight, leaving thoughts of the past to sleep in the silent air of a windless Texas night.

A Girl and a Map - Susan

This is an expanded version of a story I posted earlier. I wanted to create a stronger sense of setting at the beginning and to tie in the ideas of hope and a new future at the end.

Fila sat on the wide wooden steps of the large white-washed farmhouse, a worn map of the Southern United States resting in her lap. She watched as day broke over fields of dry bark and lint, all that remained of the Alabama cotton crop planted six months ago and harvested just last week. It had been a decent crop, but not enough to convince Fila’s mother to stay and keep working the farm alone. The fields, desolate in the half light of early morning, mirrored Fila’s own mood of bleak acceptance. The land was no longer theirs, having been sold to neighbors, along with all the farm equipment. Save for the barest essentials required for this unwelcome move, the house and everything in it had been sold or given away. Nothing would remain of the family she loved, and nothing of her life in this place would be marked once they turned their faces to the west. Of the livestock, only the two family mules, Jack and Mike, were left. Now they stood hitched to a wagon, waiting patiently to pull two broken hearts to Texas.

Fila knew she should be studying the map, memorizing the route from her birthplace in Girard, Alabama, to her uncle’s farm in Plano, Texas. But her mind was blind to the paper in her hands. She sat, unmoving, and stared down at lines and faded words. They meant nothing to her, and she grieved the paper they were printed on. 

This was her father’s map, a good father’s map, and she wondered if he would have led them west had he lived. A moot question now. Her mother saw no future here in Alabama without a husband and income to manage the 40 acres of cotton, not to mention a heavy equipment business that thrived during the War of Northern Aggression, a business doomed after the restless peace of loss descended on them. Her father’s skill at building roads and rail lines for the Confederacy meant an end to the business and its owner.

Fila wondered where this move would lead beyond the miles a wagon train would travel. What good could possibly come from this uprooting of body and soul? From the brokenness of their hearts? Everything but a grave left behind? Fila’s mother, although grieving and anxious about the future, had assured Fila that this move was necessary and not entirely without hope. Their uncle in Texas was a good man who had befriended Fila’s family on more than one occasion. “We will trust the goodness of others and Uncle Ned’s promise to help us,” her mother said with conviction.

Fila was not so convinced as she stared at the map, giving it her full attention now. With her finger, she traced the route they expected to take, starting in Girard to meet up with the wagon train in Columbus, just across the river. From there they would cross Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana, then into east Texas, turning north at Dallas and on to Plano. The wagon boss estimated covering 10 miles a day, God willing and the weather held. How far was it, anyway? 800 miles? 900? 80 days minimum. That’s almost three months in a Conestoga wagon. Dear God, how would she ever survive such an ordeal? Yet, here they were.

As Fila folded the map and laid it on the porch step, she saw a young man walking slowly up the path to the farmhouse, a weathered hat in his hand. Fila recognized him as the hired driver of the wagon that would soon take her into her future. As she held out her hand to him, she smiled and said, “I hope you know the way.” Clasping her hand, the young man replied, “Yes, ma’am, I do. Your hope is not misplaced.” 

With that, Fila picked up the map from the step, nodded to the young man, and turned back to the farmhouse, her heart a little lighter knowing that, indeed, someone knew the way.

A Christmas Swan Song - Susan

The fir tree stood tall and twinkling next to the mantle decorated with fresh evergreens and fragrant pine cones. The smell of burning wood in the fireplace and a roasting turkey in the oven filled the spacious house, declaring that Christmas Day had arrived. The tree was regal, worthy of the effort it took Evelyn and her son, Roddy, to cut it down on a freezing day in rural Wisconsin. Not for the first time Evelyn’s husband, William, had failed to join them in the snowy woods, saying he had a meeting at the medical school. Over the ten years of life in Wisconsin, Evelyn and Roddy had morphed into a pack of two, with Evelyn trying to make up for both William’s absences and his emotional separation from them. She hoped that the resentment and anxiety that had crept into their marriage might be set aside today, might even be resolved without a permanent rift. 

Evelyn wrapped a cashmere shawl around her shoulders and sat down on the ottoman near the fireplace. “You can be Santa, Roddy,” she said to her man-child of 15. As Roddy handed out the presents spread under the tree, Evelyn breathed in the warmth of the comfortable room, the beauty of the art on the walls, and the sounds of a boy choir singing carols in the background. 

She picked up the box Roddy had laid beside her. William’s gift. The tag read only her name, not the nickname he gave her when they were newlyweds and still in love. She held the box on her lap, staring at it. A shirt box smelling vaguely of strawberry, no, of vanilla. So, something to wear. He never bought her clothing, which made her both curious and apprehensive.

The present was beautifully wrapped. William was very good at picking unusual wrapping paper and contrasting ribbon, the kind with a wire, molded into a perfect bow. He squared the corners of the paper, no crumpled edges or crinkles. He tucked the greeting card under the ribbon, always a card with the right sentiment, not too romantic, not too neutral. 

Evelyn slipped the card from under the ribbon and held it a moment, suspended between fear of getting a generic Merry-Christmas-to-Anyone card or a sincerely romantic card that she would mistrust. But, true to form, he had picked a perfectly balanced, barely sentimental greeting: “You make Christmas special….” The signature line caught her breath: “I will love you forever.” She sat without moving, trying to decode the message, suspicious of what lay in wait beneath the words.

Gently and precisely, she pulled away the wrapping paper – white swans wearing Santa hats on a green background. Swans, she thought, how interesting. Prescient? A subconscious swan song? Opening the lid of the box, she moved aside the white tissue, which reminded her of her mother’s perfect gifts from Neiman Marcus all those years ago. She sat staring, no, more like fascinated, as she examined a pink short-sleeved, loosely knitted pullover with little knitted flowers all over, front and back. She held it up, turning it first one way then another. Again, the faint scent of vanilla. She carefully folded the sweater back into the box, managing to mouth “thank you” to William, and laid the box back under the Christmas tree. 

She returned to the ottoman, where she sat watching, but not seeing, Roddy opening the pile of gifts on his wish list. Always analytical, Evelyn pondered the pink knitted sweater. Twenty-five years of marriage and still he didn’t have a clue about her. She was an Ann Taylor suede blazer kind of woman. Of course, she thought. He had taken someone to Christmas shop, another woman, younger, with a taste for floral pinks and scented candles. Evelyn wondered who the woman was this time. 

With a flash of insight, she knew could not escape now; fate had intervened with its inevitability, not entirely unwelcome, like losing an ache one has gotten used to. Confronting William, she knew, would mean the end of everything. She had lived with his betrayals for years, so what was different now? Why today? The sweater. Not the garment itself, but the sheer audacity of it, like sharp scissors that snipped the remaining delicate thread of a relationship that had slowly unraveled around her. 

Evelyn shrugged off the shawl as she stood and looked around the festive room, not allowing herself remorse or regrets. It was Christmas, and the severing would come later, after the presents, after the toasts and the eggnog. She straightened and breathed in the changes to come. As she turned, she bent and kissed her smiling son on the head, then moved resolutely to the kitchen. 

A Girl and a Map

 [Prompt: Write a story about hope.]

by Susan Hunt

Fila sat on the wide wooden steps of the farmhouse, a tattered and dirt-smudged map of the Southern United States resting, unseen, on her lap. The two mules, Jack and Mike, stood patiently in the dusty yard, hitched to a wagon loaded with the barest of supplies for this move to Texas. Everything else had been sold, and now only what was left -- the mules, the wagon, the heat, the very air itself -- seemed to be waiting for Fila and her mother to abandon their past to a future both unknown and uncertain.

Fila knew she should be studying the map, memorizing the route from her birthplace in Girard, Alabama, to her uncle’s farm in Plano, Texas. But her mind was blind to the paper in her hands. She sat, unmoving, and stared down at lines and faded words. They meant nothing to her, and she grieved the paper they were printed on.

This was her father’s map, a good father’s map, and she wondered if he would have led them west had he lived. A moot question now. Her mother saw no future here in Alabama without a husband and income to manage 40 acres of cotton, not to mention a heavy equipment business that thrived during the War of Northern Aggression, a business doomed after the restless peace of loss descended on them. Her father’s skill at building roads and rail lines for the Confederacy meant an end to the business and its owner.

Now, the land was sold and along with it, equipment, livestock, and the house that had been home to Fila since birth. With her finger, Fila traced the route on the map, wondering where this move would lead beyond the miles a wagon train would travel. What good could possibly come from this uprooting of body and soul? From the brokenness of their hearts? Everything but a grave left behind?

Fila’s mother, although grieving and anxious about the future, had assured Fila that this move was necessary and not entirely without hope. Their uncle in Texas was a good man who had befriended Fila’s family on more than one occasion. “We will trust the goodness of others and Uncle Ned’s promise to help us,” her mother said with conviction.

Fila was not so convinced as she stared at the map, giving it her full attention now. They would start in Girard, meeting up with the wagon train in Columbus, just across the river. From there they would cross Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana, then into east Texas, turning north at Dallas and on to Plano. The wagon boss estimated covering 10 miles a day, God willing and the weather held. How far was it, anyway? 800 miles? 900? 80 days minimum. That’s almost three months in a Conestoga wagon. Dear God, how would she ever survive such an ordeal? Yet, here they were.

Fila folded the map and stood to greet the young man hired to drive the wagon into her future. As she held out her hand to greet him, she said, “I hope you know the way.” Clasping her hand, the young man replied, “Yes, ma’am, I do. Your hope is not misplaced.”

 

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