Strange visions

Posted on May 7, 2013 by admin

Here’s another Belinda Blue Brown episode draft. What do you think?

Strange Visions
By Laura McHale Holland

As if I didn’t have enough to sort out, what with Velda Sue supposedly askin’ for me and me not bein’ sure if I should call her because we’ve got this complicated history, and then I find out that my Bernie’s been at it again, you know, befriendin’ odd characters, folks who aren’t anywhere near the norm. This time it’s Dunderhead. We’ve all been callin’ him that since grammar school, so nobody remembers his real name. Well, actually, that’s not true. Like I said, sometimes I lie, even to myself. His name is Dave Dunderfield, and we just started callin’ him Dunderhead way back when we were small, and maybe that’s not so nice. I mean, I don’t—and this is the truth—I don’t know how it got started. I just know that’s what we’ve been callin’ him ever since forever, and I just pray to the gods that be that I’m not the one who thought that up because, golly gee whiz, I don’t like to think of myself as someone who would do something like that. But like they say, kids can be mean, and maybe I was too. Heck, right now I might be mean as a hornets’ nest and maybe nobody wants to tell me that to my face. I sure hope not.

Now, as far as Bernie makin’ friends with Dunderhead goes, I’ve tried to keep my mouth shut and not say somethin’ stupid I’ll regret later even though Dunderhead is undoubtedly not workin’ with a full deck. I mean he can’t look anybody in the eyes more than a second or so, and he’s hard to understand, too, because he hoots and snarls between his words, not that I’m some sort of social marvel, but I can at least carry on a conversation without lookin’ cross-eyed and makin’ everybody within earshot start fidgeting and tryin’ to figure out how to get out of the room. But my Bernie, he didn’t have anyone to hang with after his mail route anymore since Jake the Wolfman’s demise. Oh, it still makes me sad to think of Jake gettin’ eaten up by his very own wolf-dogs, and I know it makes Bernie sad, too, and a little scared because we own four wolf dogs ourselves now, and we sure don’t want them jumpin’ on us, or on our little niece Pansy when she comes to visit, either. But then Bernie saw Dunderhead in town one day, and Bernie, being the amiable guy that he is, asked Dunderhead how he was, and Dunderhead said he was in a bad way because his daughter had gone off and left him with his grandbaby to care for. Dunderhead said he didn’t think his daughter had left of her own free will either, and he said he thought it was the same with our own Glory. Well, Bernie was fit to be tied because we never talk to anybody except ourselves about Glory’s disappearance, and Dunderhead knew things about Glory, like the note she left, that only the family would know. And so Bernie and Dunderhead got to talkin’

Now Dunderhead is one of those conspiracy theory nuts, too—it seems every flood, every bombing, every killing, every spill is a government plot in his book. Plus he’s always said he can see things happening when he’s not anywhere near. He gets little glimpses of scenes, and frankly, that creeped all of us out when we were younger, you know, having our very own cross-eyed, barking, psychic quack right here in North Bend, but Bernie got drawn in a few months ago now, and he started going over to Dunderhead’s home in the woods just outside of town. Now, his home started out as a cabin long ago, way back when going back to the land was more of a thing with young people, baby boomers, you know, and so Dunderhead and his wife, Clara, a real pretty gal who drowned in a river one day tryin’ to save a hound of theirs that had gotten swept away in a strong current, and that was a sad one for sure, because Dunderhead had to raise their four kids up himself. They were rangin’ at the time from about six years old to sixteen. Now, it’s the one who was six at the time who just up and left after she’d had a baby boy, just a few months into it, just like our Glory. Dunderhead says this is way too much of a coincidence. He thinks it’s some kind of plot he doesn’t quite understand, but he had a dream of a time-share condominium place way down on the Gulf Coast somewhere, you know, where they have all those hurricanes and such, and he looked online and found just the place he’d seen in his dream, and it was practically right on the beach. You could see the waves lap the shore from the window, and there was an opening for the top unit on the fourth-floor. Now, a strange thing about this building is that it looks like it was carted off from some place in Europe. It’s made out of some weather beaten stone and has one of those steep, slanted roofs. It’s so tall and narrow it makes me dizzy just to picture it in my mind, and its long windows have shutters, each one a different color, so it’s a strange mix of ancient and modern, and it has flowers on each windowsill, too, and a wrought iron gate with a flickering neon sign that says Welcome, and it seemed just not to belong on the beach in the Gulf Coast. But Dunderhead convinced Bernie we should go in on this time share. He was sure there’d be clues about our missing girls, and I said then and there that was a bunch of hooey, but you know what a pushover I am when Bernie turns on the charm, even after all these years together, and so we, and I’m still havin’ a hard time believing it, we bought a share in this place on the beach in the middle of nowhere, even though people are sayin’ time shares are a thing of the past. I guess me and Bernie and Dunderhead are a thing of the past, too, much as I hate to admit it.

Anyway, after a while I did warm to the idea of spendin’ time there when it’s not otherwise occupied, just not during hurricane season because, well, that would be foolhardy, now wouldn’t it. So we took our first trip there just last week, and, oh, we had a time. Even passed through New Orleans and stopped in the French Quarter and had beignets and coffee at Cafe du Monde. Think of that, us folks from North Bend doin’ somethin’ like that. I wanted to visit the graveyards where everybody’s in a crypt above ground, too, but Bernie and Dunderhead squelched that idea real fast. Dunderhead said there were too many voices cryin’ out for help in a place like that and he wouldn’t be able to think clearly if we got too close, so we had to skedaddle. I didn’t mention how it’s kind of questionable whether he ever really thinks clearly anyway.

When we got to the condo, it was all postcard quiet and peaceful. We had the entire beach as far as the eye could see to ourselves, except for one other resident who came and went, a guy who had a gold tooth right in front. Who has gold teeth these days, anyway? Dunderhead said that man was up to something no good. Bernie, of course, didnt’ believe that, and he got to talkin’ with the man and found out he was there year round unless there was an evacuation on account of hurricanes or oil spills or somethin’, but after a while the cold look in the guy’s eyes even gave Bernie the creeps. Dunderhead said it wasn’t safe to stay around him. So Bernie didn’t talk to him after that, and we all just sort of nodded if we were comin’ or goin’ in the lobby at the same time as that man was. Mostly he didn’t make any noise, except every now and then we thought we heard footsteps and murmurs in the unit below us. Other than that, our stay was uneventful, and before we knew it our week had whizzed by, and we were all packed up, car loaded and ready to go home. Gold Tooth pulled in just as we were about to drive off. The side door to the van was open, and there were ropes in there, and I got a vision of our Glory all tied up, and I wondered why I would picture somethin’ like that. And then I got real worried that Dunderhead’s weird vision stuff was rubbin’ off on me, so I closed my eyes and shook my head and tried to will that disturbing vision away.

And now, back at home I keep havin’ visions, things I’d never before pictured, like someone sneakin’ into Jake the Wolfman’s spread, climbin’ into the enclosure where his wolf dogs were sleepin’, and feedin’ them critters somethin’ that drove ‘em crazy enough to attack poor Jake when he came out to feed ‘em in the mornin’. Now, that’s even scarier to me than the notion of the dogs turnin’ on him for no reason at all, because that’s somethin’ that happens every now and again, but someone messin’ with the dogs so they’d go crazy on Jack? That’s downright twisted. And I picture Glory sometimes too in a room with other young women, all of ‘em tied up in ropes just like that man had in his van, and that’s makin’ it hard for me to sleep at night. I haven’t told Bernie. I don’t want to worry him. I did finally tell him about bringin’ our wolf dogs inside to spend the days with me, and I suppose I’ll have to tell him about these strange visions. I thought maybe I should go see my HMO doctor, too, you know, because maybe there’s a pill I can take to make this stop, but then I thought about side effects. I don’t want to spend my days sittin’ in a chair, lookin’ out a window and droolin’ if it comes to that. I mean, what kind of life would that be? So I decided against spillin’ out all this stuff about visions to a doctor. My Bernie. He does have a way of pullin’ me places I never thought I’d go, you know, bringin’ out things in me I sure never thought were there. I think I’m goin’ to have to pay a visit to Dunderhead myself and see if he’s been havin’ these visions too and ask him what they could possibly mean. And then once I can get a good night’s sleep again, maybe I’ll be able to pick up the phone and call Velda Sue. I sure could use a friend right about now.

Photo of head by TheoJunior; photo of window by ]babi]; crypt photo by wallyg

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That shocking proposal

Posted on April 18, 2013 by admin

Here’s another Belinda Blue Brown episode draft. The more of these I write, the more loose ends there will be to clean up when I pull them together into one document. I hope you enjoy that I’m sharing a bit of the writing process here. In the end, I don’t know if the whole project will be a keeper, but that’s part of the fun.

That Shocking Proposal

My friend Velda Sue, well, she goes by Suzette now, and since we haven’t spoken in, oh, thirty years and since I only heard about her plight third-hand, I don’t suppose you could say she’s my friend anymore. But, jeeze, we’ve known each other since we were tykes runnin’ barefoot in black earth that seemed a whole lot moister way back when, you know. Oh, that dirt. It smelled so good we didn’t just make mud pies, we tried eatin’ ‘em out in my backyard one day. And my mama, she came out to hang laundry on the line and saw that mud all around our mouths, and us chewin’ up a storm.

She hauled us inside, stripped off our clothes and dumped us in the tub real quick, nothin’ harsh about it though. She was speedy but never the punishing’ type, thank goodness. Neither was Velda Sue’s mom. They lived right across the street from us, so it wasn’t long before Velda Sue’s mom came over, and the two of them were laughin’ about our mud pies over Sanka coffee in the kitchen and my mom’s special-recipe pound cake that tasted a whole lot better than mud, come to think of it.

And when Velda Sue and I were gettin’ bored splashin’ in the tub, it was her mom who came in, gave us each a good scrubbin’ and dressed us in matching sundresses, and told us to play inside for a while, at least until our dads came home from the Good Days Bakery, where they both worked as supervisors—my dad in the cookie department, and her dad in the bread department. So Velda Sue and me were like sisters, twins almost, born just a day apart, and we went to the same school and took the same ballet class and played on the same softball team and all that. I thought someday Velda Sue and me would live across the street from each other and raise our babies up together, just like our mothers, but, you know, I could tell by high school that wasn’t gonna happen. I just didn’t want to admit it.

See, my pa died in an auto accident when Velda Sue and me were ten. Her dad was driving, and he survived without much damage, just a few bumps and such. But my dad went right through the windshield. And it turns out he didn’t have any life insurance, and Mama had no marketable skills, so it wasn’t long before we moved in with my grandma and grandpa on the outskirts of town. So Velda Sue and me didn’t go to the same school again until high school, and, well, by then let’s just say we traveled in different circles. She was gorgeous and blonde and real coordinated, made the cheerleading squad all four years, which was like being a rock star or some kind of goddess. Now I was slim enough, I guess, but shaped sort of like a pear and not at all coordinated. Plus my wardrobe was, um, limited, and back then clothes mattered, a lot. So, Velda Sue and I would say a quick hi sometimes if we passed each other in the halls, but that was all.

But then, here’s the thing, we did become friends again for a little while, not the best of friends like when we were kids, but friendly for sure. After graduation, she went off to some fancy school in the East, and I went to school in California, a junior college outside of San Francisco where my uncle worked, so he pulled some strings to get me in tuition free. I got my AA and did the books for a music store for a year or so after that, but then, well, okay, I’ll admit it, I missed my mom and my grandma and grandpa, who were gettin’ up in years, and they all missed me, too. I kinda missed my brother and sister, too, and even North Bend, though I never figured on that. When I got on that Greyhound headed west, I thought I was goin’ away for good.

About a year after I returned to North Bend, Velda Sue came back to town, too, and it turns out we both showed up to volunteer for this thing called VISTA on the same day. It’s kinda like the Peace Corps only folks work in America, not in other countries, and it seems a lot of folks in North Bend are underprivileged, according to the government, so there was plenty for volunteers to do right here. And you know who else was volunteering? None other than my Bernie, but of course he wasn’t my Bernie back then. And Velda Sue and Bernie and some other volunteers and me, we’d go together to Paulie’s Diner after work, or throw parties, and so we had a little social group goin’ that was pretty fun, and it turns out Velda Sue, she fell for Bernie.

Now, I’d had a crush on Bernie since when I first saw him standin’ by his locker freshman year. Oh those big brown eyes and that sheepish grin of his, they did me in, but I kept it to myself, so when Velda Sue said she had the hots for him, I didn’t have any claim on him, so I figured they’d be an item soon enough. She said she wanted to settle down with Bernie and that she’d had it with all those fancy guys back east. So I wished her well and said Bernie’d be lucky to have her, which I thought was true. And one day she got all dolled up with eyeliner and eyeshadow and sparkly lipstick and a skimpy knit dress that hugged her curves just right. She’d gotten wind of Bernie’s having bought an expensive ring at Carolina Jewelers in town, and she said her heart was all aflutter because her dream was about to come true, and soon enough we were all at our regular booth at the diner, and Bernie got down on one knee, and he pulled out a ring, and he proposed, but he didn’t propose to Velda. He proposed to me. And I was like to be flabbergasted, and so was she, and she stormed off. I ran after her, but she yelled at me that I was a traitor, and worse stuff I won’t repeat, and she said to leave her alone.

Well, my feelings were hurt, and I stood there, mouth open a mile wide, while she got into her Corolla and started the engine, but then I thought of Bernie back in the restaurant, with all the food gettin’ cold, and so I turned around and came back to the booth. He was slinked down real low and our friends were saying stuff like, man, that’s a bummer, gosh, that didn’t go so well, did it. And so I sat down next to Bernie and I admitted I’d had a crush on him for a long time, but I didn’t really know him, and he didn’t know me, so maybe we could back up a bit and get acquainted, and if maybe after a while he felt I was still wife material and vice versa, we’d get engaged. And Bernie, being his wonderful self and all, he said of course. A year later he proposed for real at the very same booth at Paulie’s, and we got married a year after that, and had our reception at Paulie’s, too. By then Velda Sue was back in school, studying abroad somewhere, and I didn’t think I should invite her. She never believed that I hadn’t somehow intentionally stolen Bernie from her.

Now I’ve heard from my mama, who heard from Velda Sue’s mama, that Velda Sue is back at home and in a real bad way. She won’t talk about it, and she won’t go out. All she does is watch Lifetime movies and eat carmel corn and D’Giorno pepperoni pizzas. And my mama said Velda Sue is askin’ about me. Now I still have her old phone number memorized, even though I tried to forget it because I was so jealous of her, and I’m tryin’ to decide if I should call her. I did pick Bernie over her that day when I gave up on following her and returned to him in the restaurant. I could have pounded on the car window, told her she had to let me in, but maybe it was a little like how she picked her popular friends over me in high school, and maybe I was getting back at her in ways I didn’t even realize at the time. But I swear I wasn’t trying to win him or anything before that shocking proposal. The thing is, though, how do I know if Velda Sue’s really askin’ for me or if my mama’s just havin’ some fantasy about Velda Sue and me being buddies again, which I tell you, is about as likely as a cow jumpin’ over the moon.

Comments are welcome. If you don’t see a comment section below this post, go here.

Mud pie photo by derringdos; Greyound bus depot sign by kuyman.

Blue Paisley

Posted on February 21, 2013 by admin

I wrote this story in response to another Lille McFerrin five sentence fiction prompt. The prompt is “abandoned”

Blue Paisley
By Laura McHale Holland

She tightened the blue paisley scarf tied under her chin, babushka style, slapped a $20 bill on the counter and strained to grunt, “Camels, please, filters,” as words tangled in her vocal cords.

The cashier picked up the money, pulled the cigarettes from a display above his head, put them on the counter, and then shuffled to the register to ring up the transaction and get the woman’s change. A horn blasted, and she dashed out, not even pausing when the cashier called, “Hey, lady, you forgot your change!”

Hours after she’d jumped back into a Nissan spewing a thick gray cloud from its tail pipe as it sped away from the store, a remnant of blue paisley fluttered, caught in the railing of a rickety bridge far up the road. Below, a crumpled pack of Camels floated at the river’s edge; above, a faint smell of exhaust lingered in the air.

Photo by Johnnie Utah

Telling stories from The Ice Cream Vendor’s Song

Posted on January 19, 2013 by admin

I have a little something different to share today: a video clip!

Last Monday I was one of several Sonoma County authors invited to share our work at Gaia’s Garden in Santa Rosa. I decided to tell two stories instead of read them. Ideally, with storytelling, the text is a guide, but you tell the story by heart, not through memorization, leaving room for the story to unfold in new ways during the telling. The stories didn’t deviate too much from the original text at this event, but if I continue to tell them, they will evolve in subtle ways with each telling.

Here’s the link: http://youtu.be/9K9ZM-0_DTw. I will welcome your feedback!

Flash fiction: Riding Still

Posted on October 17, 2012 by admin

Here’s my latest story. The first draft was short, and it shrank quite a bit in editing. I’m really drawn to the constraints of the micro story. The form reminds me of looking into a doll house.

Riding Still
By Laura McHale Holland

He’d pick her up in his Camaro, and they’d ride nowhere special. His pills fought off fingers of dread clutching their necks. So they thought. Bennies. Quaaludes. Meth. LSD. Mescaline. Washed down with malt liquor. Just the two of them. Creeping down silent streets until dawn. Again, again, again.

Then he gave her white lines on glass, and she fell into a poisoned velvet well. The next time he steered the Camaro into her drive, she wasn’t there.

He found new drives, new girls. She became a chocoholic. He’s riding still.

It came on the breeze

Posted on September 23, 2012 by admin

It Came on the Breeze
By Laura McHale Holland

It came on the breeze, sidled through Gracie’s nose and lodged in her throat. The vibration was ever so slight, just a hint of sensation. She forgot all about it as she spent the day splashing and sunbathing at the community pool with her girlfriends. But when she checked email one last time before bed, her laptop monitor emitted a strong sepia light. Her heart thump thumped. The light dissipated. Her pulse settled down. She went to sleep.

Then, in the night, her world split open to a thundrous sound directly above. She looked up to a wide crack splitting her bedroom ceiling, the attic and roof. From a sepia orb suspended above the house desended thousands of faerie-like beings, each about an inch tall and carrying a harp or flute. They swarmed her, jigged all over her and played melodies reminiscent of ancient folk songs, but more strident, discordant.

Behind Gracie’s bedroom door, her mother’s voice boomed, “Gracie, what’s going on in there? Turn that awful music down!”

At that, her visitors retreated; the crack in Gracie’s universe closed.

“Thank you.” Her mom strode away, satisfied.

Gracie rolled on her side, thinking maybe she’d been dreaming. Then she saw a tiny harp on her pillow. She dropped the harp into a velvet pouch she kept on her headboard. It landed on a ring of fake garnet and gold she’d gotten from a vending machine while shopping with her mom. In her sleep, she dreamed of flying among the stars.

In the morning, she peeked inside the pouch. The ring was gone, but the harp remained. “Gracie, time for breakfast,” her mom called. The voice sounded weak, as though far, far away. Gracie tucked the pouch into her T-shirt pocket. It vibrated every so slightly as she padded toward the kitchen.

Photo is from ketrin 1407′s flickr photo stream.

Last light

Posted on September 13, 2012 by admin

This is a variation on Slip Away, which I posted yesterday. What do you think?

Last Light
By Laura McHale Holland

She saw the boat so still on the water, their eyes fixed on each other as their laughter rippled into the woods where she stood. She raised her rifle but couldn’t take aim. She didn’t know whether to shoot her boyfriend or the woman who’d stolen his heart. She lowered the weapon and walked away.

When he came home later, no yummy aromas were in the air. She’d promised him a hot meatloaf sandwich and German potato salad. Where was she? Her purse wasn’t on the couch where she always threw it. He dashed to the kitchen, called her name. Silence. Bare kitchen windows. No cat dishes on the floor. He raced through the house. Her pictures, gone. Her furniture, gone. Her toothbrush, clothes, books, plants—gone.

Everything she owned was gone. Except for the rifle. It was tucked under the covers on her side of his bed, barrel up, glowing in the last light of day.

The photo is by Kevin Marsh, http://www.flickr.com/photos/kevinmarsh/1801817287/

Slip away

Posted on September 12, 2012 by admin

Slip Away
By Laura McHale Holland

She saw the boat so still on the water, their eyes fixed on each other, their laughter rippling into the woods where she stood. She raised her rifle but couldn’t take aim. She didn’t know whether to shoot her boyfriend or the woman who’d stolen his heart. Disgusted at her indecision, she lowered the weapon and walked away. She had just enough time to pack up her belongings and slip away before he came home.

So they chew

Posted on September 3, 2012 by admin

There’s more to this story than I thought when I scribbled the first draft a few days ago. That feels good.

So They Chew
By Laura McHale Holland

His gut is a giant diet gingerale, hers a sloshing jug of bitter lemonade. They are not hungry. But the 6:00 news is on; it’s time to eat. So they do. Tuna fish. Casserole. The kind with potato chips, peas, mushroom soup.

She saw the recipe on the Internet. Showed it to him. They had to try it for old time’s sake, he said. She bought the ingredients. Layered the casserole. Baked it today.

So they chew. Slowly. Just a few bites. Then a few more. It doesn’t taste like the tuna casseroles their mothers once made. Two-thirds gooey, one-third crispy. Burned around the edges. Grease on the tongue.

Their version tastes like a hanta virus in the toolshed, a white blood cell count rising, a bogey man in the crawl space, a neighbor walking away from her mortgage.

In silence, they chew on. They eat everything on their plates. It’s what they were taught to do.

(The casserole photo is from Salwa’s 5 alive flickr photo stream.)

At least

Posted on August 16, 2012 by admin

At Least
By Laura McHale Holland

I never meant to leave him like that. I was driving to the mall to exchange some shoes that were too tight, and I just forgot he was there. Then I got sidetracked by all those end-of-summer sales. And then I saw my friend Rosie in the Starbucks line and I stopped to chat. I finally came out loaded up with goodies galore—flip flops, a new swimsuit, v-neck T’s, even some wading pool toys. It wasn’t until I opened the Camry’s door that I remembered he was there, because I saw him. Dead as a doornail in his car seat. Oh, what a shock. I mean, I killed my daughter’s baby.

At first I could barely see or breathe; the gravity of the situation hit me like a head-on collision. I sat in the driver’s seat, sun beating through the windshield, and leaned over the steering wheel. I sat there sweating like a pig and wishing I could just erase the last hour. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even make a sound. But then I must have gone on automatic pilot or something because all of a sudden I was on the freeway, heading home.

Once I pulled into my driveway, I lifted my grandson out of the car seat and talked to him just like I would have if we were coming home after an ordinary afternoon of errands. Then I put him down in his crib and sang him a lullabye that would always put him right to sleep with the sweetest smile on his face. I tucked his favoite stuffed bunny up by his shoulder just where he liked it, too.

When my daughter comes to pick him up, we’ll walk into the bedroom and find him cold, unresponsive. We’ll both be completely done in. What will I do when she cries out? When she picks up her baby and leans against me, sobbing? Should I say it might be SIDS? I can’t tell her I forgot her baby was in my car. If I do that, then she won’t have her mother’s shoulder to lean on as she goes through this. I have to give her that, at least.

The four of us

Posted on August 8, 2012 by admin

Here’s another episode in what began as a connected flash fiction experiment. This may be the last one I post in this series. I’m getting the urge to collect the ones I’ve posted so far and rework them and see what kind of shape the project takes next. I’m inclined to pick one point of view to run with, and I’m wondering whose voice would be the strongest. Any ideas?

The Four of Us
By Laura McHale Holland

The kids, Chloe and Drew, knew we were a family from day one. Carly and I took longer to see we were like four ice cream flavors blending into one scrumptious shake on a sweltering summer afternoon. Now, our friends and family are whooping and laughing as we dash across the dance floor. We’re nearing the exit, one man, one woman, one boy, one girl, hand in hand in hand in hand.

Image is from icomers.com.

The social worker caught Carly’s bouquet of white roses. Carly insisted on inviting her. “She kept us apart,” I protested when I saw her name on the list. “She brought Drew into your life,” Carly countered. Then there’s the kidnapper. He runs the maintenance crew for Carly’s housing community. A little while ago he leapt up higher than anyone to catch the garter. He and the social worker are dancing together now, looking retro, like Uma Thurman and John Travolta in Pulp Fiction. They’ll probably dance long into the night while the four of us fly away.

We’re going to the land behind the waterfall. My people aren’t dead like I was told long ago; they’re hiding from the metal monsters that once spewed death down from the sky. Now a metal monster is bringing me home, along with my wife and children. I hope our lives all become entwined, the old and new, giving and receiving, without causing undue harm.

###

The prior posts in this series, in the order in which they were published are:

Back pocket wishes

Cascading to the sea

Right through the heart

Away today?

A dime a dozen

She doesn’t know them

On the seat

A pillar of the community

He needs a friend

Double rainbow

The one he always wants to hear

Give it some time

It gives my life meaning

Smiles

Extenuating circumstances

Smiles

Posted on July 10, 2012 by admin

Smiles
By Laura McHale Holland

Boys and girls fill the room with laughter, chatter and shrieks as they race to tables topped with watercolors, chalk and paper. The children, seven to nine years old, sift through the supplies, grabbing some, pushing others away. Their summer camp art teacher suggests they draw a scene from a favorite story. It could be one from a book or one they heard, true or untrue—just a favorite story.

Picture is from dragoart.com.

Chloe giggles with new friends as she begins painting a cloudless blue sky, flowing water, purple and blue rocks, lush green leaves. At the next table, a silent boy concentrates, chalk in hand. The teacher walks around the room, pausing often to offer encouragement as the children work.

As they finish, the children print their names on their pictures and then dash outside to play. Chloe’s picture is a waterfall cascading from a cliff. “This is lovely. What tale is this from?” the teacher asks. “The land behind the waterfall,” Chloe replies. “I don’t know that one. Where did you hear it?” Chloe looks down at her sneakers. “I don’t remember.” Outside, a gaggle of girls calls to Chloe, telling her to hurry up. She skips away.

The teacher steps to the next table as the boy finishes printing D-R-E-W at the bottom of his picture. She picks up the landscape. “This is beautiful; it’s just like Chloe’s.” Chloe is almost at the classroom door. “Wait a minute, Chloe. I want you to see this,” the teacher calls. Chloe walks back toward the table. “What story is this from?” the teacher asks. “The land behind the waterfall,” Drew says. Chloe moves closer to Drew. She smiles. He smiles back.

###

All of the episodes in this series in the order in which they were posted follow:

Back pocket wishes

Cascading to the sea

Right through the heart

Away today?

A dime a dozen

She doesn’t know them

On the seat

A pillar of the community

He needs a friend

Double rainbow

The one he always wants to hear

Give it some time

It gives my life meaning

Smiles

Extenuating circumstances

The four of us

A glowing review

Posted on July 2, 2012 by admin

I wrote a review yesterday of Rasana Atreya’s novel, and now here’s a review I just received from Michelle and Denise, who run the Families of the Mentally Ill blog. They posted it on their website (http://familiesofthementallyill.com/2012/07/03/book-review-reversible-skirt/), on Amazon and on Smashwords:

Reversible Skirt, by Laura McHale Holland, is a heart-breaking memoir about one young mother’s suicide as seen through the eyes of her youngest child, Laura. A toddler at the time of the tragedy, Laura is initially bewildered by the changes swirling around her family, including the appearance of a new stepmother, who is simply passed off as the same person to the children.

The author has done a masterful job of capturing the thought process of a young child as she struggles to make sense of the changes in her world. The tragic events of the girls’ lives aren’t over, unfortunately. The abuse they experience as they grow and confront of the truth of their mother’s death and their father’s choices can be painful to read. Yet it’s worth persevering, because the book ends with Laura and her sisters finding strength and peace in adulthood.

Reversible Skirt describes a time in our not-too-distant past where mental illness and suicide were swept under the rug. While we have made some gains as a society, the situation will feel familiar to those of us who have lived through mental illness in our own families. What was most intriguing about the book was how the author and her sisters forgave their abusive stepmother after everything she did to them as children. Their ability to survive and recover from their challenging childhoods is uplifting. The capacity they show for forgiveness is truly inspiration.

An absorbing tale

Posted on July 1, 2012 by admin

This is a review of Tell A Thousand Lies, a novel by Rasana Atreya

Tell A Thousand Lies is an ambitious, imaginative, engaging, unpredictable work. Author, Rasana Atreya roots the story in the specifics of rural India and, in particular, the trials and triumphs of protagonist Pullamma, who, along with two sisters, was raised in poverty by her grandmother. The sisters dreamed of a different life than their circumstances dictated, and the action one of them took to achieve that end set powerful forces in motion that ripped Pullamma’s life apart. The setting was itself a revelation for me, and I expect for others who have no direct experience of the culture, but the author also transcends time and place to plumb universal themes: betrayal, jealousy, greed, power, love, hate, forgiveness. Atreya conveyed the main characters clearly, with just enough quirks and flaws, so they jumped to life, engaged me emotionally, swept me into the saga, and left a lasting, positive impression.

It gives my life meaning

Posted on June 30, 2012 by admin

Here’s the next episode. What do you think?

It Gives My Life Meaning

By Laura McHale Holland

Carly stands at the ribbon, scissors in hand. She grins at the crowd gathering. “May this be just one of many dreams come true for us all,” she says. She snips the ribbon tied between two trees bordering the drive. The housing community she funded with part of her inheritance is now officially open. The crowd cheers. Right in front are Carly’s parents with her seven-year-old daughter, Chloe, jumping up and down between them.

Along the curved drive are 50 townhomes, all going to families that lost their homes to foreclosure in the last five years. Carly is carrying the mortgage on each one.

A reporter runs up to Carly. “Don’t you think it’s foolish to take such a risk?” He thrusts a microphone in front of Carly’s face. “When I was locked away for three years, I thought if I ever got out, I would devote my life to helping people in this community. So, no this isn’t foolish; it’s exactly what I want to do; it gives my life meaning.”

Chloe runs up and hugs Carly, then pulls her toward the nearest townhome. People file up the driveway to tour the landscaped grounds. In the back of the group is the chauffeur who was once Chloe’s only friend and is now a stranger to her. The restless boy at his side asks what all the fuss is about and can they please just go to McDonald’s. The chauffer smiles. “This is kind of an amazing day for our city, my little friend. I just need to take it in for a while. Then we can go.”

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All of the episodes in this series in the order in which they were posted follow:

Back pocket wishes

Cascading to the sea

Right through the heart

Away today?

A dime a dozen

She doesn’t know them

On the seat

A pillar of the community

He needs a friend

Double rainbow