Creative Post 2

Bombs had been falling over London for as long as Emma Wayward could remember. “You just learn to deal with the fecking buggers,” she’d always say. In 1908 it wasn’t too uncommon to see remains of your neighbor’s kitchen sink in your front yard. But “as was life”, as Emma would put it. Yes, as was life, for a bit.
Emma lived in a one bedroom flat with her five year old son, Charlie. His father had died when Charlie was two months old. “Orrible stuff tis, cancer. Can’t believe it took my Jude, and Charlie, poor thing. Always ‘as been a strange little fellow. Playing by his lonesome like he does. ‘Arldy even talks to me. Me, his own mother. Oh well, ‘opefully ‘e’ll grow out of it.” In fact it was true, Charlie was a special one. Many would have found him slow, considering how his whole world came from within his imagination. While boys his age were playing with wooden toy cars in the street, Charlie spent his days in school and at home. For hours he would fanaticize about flying on carpets or hunting for rolliepollies with his pet unicorn. Emma, worried like she was, would say, “Mind you, I ‘ave the smart boy. At least he’s inside, away from the bloody explosions. I ‘ear it all the time on the radio, li’le boys missing a foot. All because their mums let ‘em play in the streets.” And so, Charlie remained a dreamer, full of hopes and daydreams.
February was the end and the beginning. That month the bombs destroyed 125,000 people. It wasn’t really until Emma was at work that she knew they needed to get out. For ten years, Emma worked in a button factory. Since her husband died, she couldn’t think of the last time she’d got around to chatting with anyone at the factory. But oh, she heard gossip. She usually kept to minding her own business, not getting involved with the “word rubbish” the other women often talked about. But as the bombs fell and less people showed up for work, she perked her ears at any news. Lately, she’d been hearing about “the cleanouts.” At first she didn’t think much of it. “Bombs fall e’ryday, no need to get my panties in a twist.” She knew it wasn’t the same. She could feel it in her bones. She’d supposed that day, February 21st, should have been expected.
“Did you hear about the cleanouts?” “Yeah I ‘eard the other day that an ‘ole city was cleaned out last week.” “It’s awful, just awful.” The loud hum of the machines seemed louder than the usual, but the women dropped their voices to the lowest of whispers. “My ‘usband is a pilot. Looks like the war isn’t going too well. The ‘ole city is to be cleared out.” “When?” “Well don’t say I told you, but tonight the bombs are supposed to drop like rain. My husband and I are leavin’ for Belgium tonight. Just wanted to get my wages today.” “Tonight?!” “Yeah, they aren’t announcing it. Some say it’s just a conspiracy I guess.” Emma knew, she could feel it in her bones. They needed to get out.
She felt anxious for the rest of the hour before she had to pick up Charlie. Her mind was running with ideas of escape. She couldn’t concentrate and her left eyelid began to twitch, while she couldn’t keep herself from shaking. She knew that she must get back to their apartment and pack their things right away. As she was walking back to the flat with Charlie, the air began to change. Everything became still.
They were only a few blocks away from their house when she saw the bombs fall. She had seen what they did and had heard the explosions. But she wasn’t prepared. She didn’t really know what to expect. But the bombs fell, like the first snow of winter. She could already hear the children scream as their mothers shouted hysterically. She’d almost forgotten about Charlie until he tugged on her hand. It was amazing, he wasn’t frightened. In fact the innocence and serenity he held on his face brought tears to his mother’s eyes.
They’d run inside when they felt the ground shake. Charlie sat patiently on the sunken sofa as his mother rummaged frantically through the hall closet. Tears were streaming silently down her face. She started to panic. She thought silently. Where is it? Where is it? Was it every sixth generation? Yes it was. Oh wait... yes, Charlie’s the right age. Aha! I’ve found it. Emma slowly pulled out the dusty orange turban from the back of the top shelf. She took a moment to look at it. She looked lovingly at Charlie; her beautiful boy. “Charlie?” He looked at her with confused eyes. He nodded. “There is something special about this hat. Only you can use it. It was your fathers, passed down from generation to generation. We didn’t want you to have it until you were a bit older. Maybe when you were ten. But anyway, it will give you the power to fly. It may sound silly or make believe, but it’s true. You’re part of the sixth generation pattern.” She took a time to pause. To let it all sink in. She finally caught her breath before she spoke again. “You need to use your imagination. You have to think happy thoughts, think about your dreams. It will take you to faraway places, safe places. It will take you to where you want to go. But you need to get out. Do you understand?” Charlie, again, nodded. “I won’t be able to go with you. I will find you some day. We’ll be together, I promise.” But in her heart she knew that she would never see her son again. Placing the turban on his head, and gathering up their things, they scurried into the hall.
Outside everything was destroyed. People were crying, running for their lives. In the back alley, Charlie and Emma ran toward the borders of the city. Emma looked frantically around. “Charlie, you need to go with something, to protect you.” She looked around and spotted their neighbor’s dog. Barder was the name. She lifted Charlie up and ran toward the dog. Placing him on Barder’s back, she said her lat words, “Charlie go. Follow your imagination. May life lead you to magical places. I love you and I’ll see you in a lighter place.” She kissed Charlie’s head and watched as he lifted into the sky. Charlie didn’t know where he was going. But he knew what she meant; he would see her again in a better place. He knew that he loved his mother, and with that thought, lifted above the clouds.

Writing in Reverse

In his Turnstile Photography Project, Bill Sullivan captures the face of New York City so to speak. In his collection Sullivan captures various faces of people walking through the turnstiles to get on the subway. The images that he produces portray a wide array of facial expressions and actions. In response to an image of a woman walking through the turnstiles, I have written a short creative story describing her day and life up to the point of that moment.

Bleak. Everything of the past month could be described by this one word. Celia woke up at exactly 5:32, the usual time. Ever since she could remember she had always set her alarm clock to this time, out of nervous habit she’d guessed. She was always afraid she would be late to work, which started 10:30. With transit and preparation for the day, she figured she’d make it with at least two hours to spare. She supposed that it was a bit ridiculous to leave her house so early, but her nerves always got to her. She wouldn’t be able to leave her house earlier without going into a dramatic panic attack. But, oh yes, today. We were talking about today.

Today’s morning was one of those days. Ever since her husband and two children died in a plane crash two years ago, she’d never been quite the same. Lately, it had gotten to her more than usual. She supposed it was because it was the Christmas season. She cherished the holidays with her family. Her favorite part was the weather. Celia loved the cold, or used to. On this morning Celia lingered in bed, an unusual inconsistency in her day. She couldn’t help thinking of her husband. She’d remember the first time they’d met. She had tripped in the middle of the grocery store, too embarrassed to get up right away. Ellis was so handsome then, olive skin with deep green eyes; not over the age of 22. But that was a long time ago, Celia preferred to remember the earlier years of their lives together.

Even in her lowest time, Celia could always remember the scent of her husband and children. The sweet smell of musky lavender is what it was. Ellis had worked in a flower shop, always bringing home her favorite flower and scent, Lavender. The aroma would overpower the house, but she loved it. It reminded her of a safe place. It reminded her that no matter what, she would always be welcomed home by her family. In their small three bedroom apartment she and Ellis had raised their two children, Luna and Elijah. They were close, as close as a family gets any way. She could almost remember the sound of their voices, but no. Not today.

That was the thing, she couldn’t remember. She couldn’t remember their voices or how all of their beautiful green eyes caught the light in Central Park. Their sparkle, their charm, their finesse, it was gone. Everything was gone. Now was her time to wallow. She’d decided to leave at a normal time today. She needed time; time to think, time to remember, or at least try. But she couldn’t. All she felt was emptiness, an emptiness that felt neglected and ignored, like a pothole in Brooklyn. Today as she sat one her bed, she couldn’t cry. This was unusual, considering ever since there death she could hardly be alone without bursting into tears.

Her mind went blank. She couldn’t handle it. She couldn’t be alone, she was ashamed. Ashamed she couldn’t remember, ashamed she couldn’t cry for her babies. Drained was what she was. She needed to go, it was almost 9:00. As she grabbed her battered brown purse, she stopped. As she faced the mirror she was shocked. Her reflection had changed. She was withered. The wrinkles around her eyes had set, her bones pertruding, her face was sunken it. But she needed to go to work. Her days had grown long and bland, but she needed to get out. She stpped out in a bit of hurry, and headed toward the subway.