Recovery
Sunday, September 23rd, 2007
This weekend managed to be very, very busy. Lots and lots of driving. Very tired now. Should return to writing tomorrow night.
Category: Life
Archive for September, 2007
Cold Harbor: 04
Thursday, September 20th, 2007
Two Lines to Elsewhere
Nobody noticed that Sticks was missing. He didn’t say much and his figure was small and somewhat insubstantial; as a result, most of the children accidentally tripped over him rather than greeting him. The phrase “watch out for Sticks” was often spoken to someone slipping out of bed at night to retrieve or deposit something. Tholamew once tried to name him “picayune,” though everyone agreed that the word was much too long and complicated.
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Category: Cold Harbor, Writing
Intermission
Wednesday, September 19th, 2007
My two primary goals over the course of the Summer were to find a new place to live and get out of my present job. As of the beginning of this month I had moved into a nice new place, and with my two week notice submitted at work I should be out of that place by the beginning of next month. I can’t guess at where I’ll be in another month’s time. I’ll just have to creep forward day by day and see what happens.
Category: Life
Cold Harbor: 03
Tuesday, September 18th, 2007
Rainy Intermission
“Sabotoge,” shouted Tholamew. He paced back and forth, shaking his thick hair with his hands. Between him and the front door stood the others, each tending to their clothes. Charlie’s arms were wrapped around himself, and though he looked the least wet he had begun to shiver. Bones hit a derby against his thigh to clear it of condensation, and Mike had begun to pull off his shoes. Matt “Stacka” Wood had the front of his linen shirt in his hands and was flapping it up and down, revealing a pale round stomach with each motion. Jay the Rope had his arms crossed and was leaning against the doorway with a frown on his face, staring outside.
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Category: Cold Harbor, Writing
Cold Harbor: 02
Monday, September 17th, 2007
A Person in a Name
Thomas stared down at the chipped plate that held his food. There was a wash of eggs, fluffy and golden, next to a thick mass of crudely cut and grilled potatoes. Something wet leaked from beneath the eggs and made its way slowly toward the pieces of potato.
Thomas swung his feet, which only just reached the ground of the long bench that served as his seat. He chewed quietly on his lower lip, his front teeth sticking out just a bit from years of the habit. He dug a fork into the eggs and came away with a chunk, though he only set it back down and looked around through tired eyes.
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Category: Cold Harbor, Writing
Cold Harbor: 01
Sunday, September 16th, 2007
The Long Train
A loud horn awoke Matilda. The skin around her eyes was red and swollen and she winced as she rubbed them. The room trembled and she heard only the soft sounds of breathing from the beds near her own.
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Category: Cold Harbor, Writing
Out and bout
Thursday, September 13th, 2007
I managed to see Nic again. For reference, the last time I saw him he and his wife were planning on having kids, and now he has a five-month-old son. We ate at a place called Baba Yega. Which is a great name for a restaurant. It wasn’t bad.
Did some drafting for more story. I think they’ll be every other night, as I get a lot more picky and slowed down by writing than my line drawings.
Category: Life
The Autobiography of Cold Harbor Orphanage
Wednesday, September 12th, 2007
Arrivals
Two large carriages ascended a narrow dirt road leading up a tall hill. Their drivers looked only half awake, each occasionally moving a hand just enough to keep the horses motivated to continue. The wheels creaked and snapped, the hooves clopped and clapped, and a light breeze shifted a thick knot of pines that surrounded the road. From the front carriage came the sounds of weeping and a soft shushing. A small and pudgy hand occasionally extended from the doorway of the second carriage, each time pointing at a tree or rock, after which a stream of giggles and high-pitched laughter followed.
At the top of the path stood a wide and tall house. It was two stories of cracked white paint and sun-bleached boards. Two enormous oak trees, one on each side of the central doorway, hid most of the windows facing the road. An aged man sat beneath one of the trees, fanning himself with an old brochure. He had trouble shifting his large bulk enough to bring himself to his feet as he noticed the approaching visitors. The air was cool and dry, yet the seat of his slacks and back of his thick linen shirt were dark with sweat. He waved and smiled, turning his face into a mass of wrinkles. One of the carriage drivers looked to the large man for a moment before turning back to the horses. The man stood and watched as the two transports were pulled under the shade of the oaks and stopped.
From the weeping carriage stepped a middle-aged woman. Her brown hair was pulled back tightly, tied into a knot just above her neck. She wore a flowing brown Sunday dress, its edges lines with tiny white frills. She glanced at the man before looking up at the building. The drivers hopped off of their perches and began unloading boxes from the back of the carriages.
“These are the last of them, straight off the train,” she said, then looked back to the large man, squinting. “You are to introduce them to the others. Give them each a bed. Three have a small bag of personal effects. Put the things in the back, with all the rest. Is Sarah left yet?” The man nodded, his attention on the small figures exiting the carriages.
“Very well,” the woman said. She turned around and watched as four children stepped barefooted into the shade of the oaks, each looking around with mouths slightly agape. One was a girl, no older than eleven, her eyes puffy and red. She pushed the palm of one hand across her lightly freckled cheeks as the other tried to tame strands of sandy-blonde hair. There was a boy near her, with a narrow chin, dark and sunken eyes, and two large front teeth that protruded slightly from beneath his upper lip. Near the other carriage were two much younger children, each close to six years old, both boys with rounded faces that looked the same. They clung to one another as they first stepped outside, peering around nervously before one puckered his lips, put a finger in his nose and shouted “big chicken.” They both laughed for some time.
“I must be going now,” the woman said. The drivers returned to their seats. “If you have anything more, send word in the morning.” She looked at the boxes that the drivers had unloaded. “These should last through the week. It’s all we could gather. It should be enough.”
“I getting more help? This is four more I can’t alway watch you know. I can do oh all right but I need more help most time.” The woman sighed.
“We have gone over this at the town meeting. Most stay busy tending to their own families, and we can’t compensate anyone who comes here. We do expect Mrs. Timmons and Ms. Landsmith to start coming to see to cooking and clothes twice a week. I will see what else can be done.”
“Just I don’t want them to be hurt, Miss Delila,” the man said, nodding to himself. He focused his light green eyes on the back of the woman’s head, though she didn’t turn around. “Some of them is real rascals you must know, but I do what I can with this.”
“Do what you can,” she said. “This is all they have now. These last four they gathered from up in Summersville. It’s very grim there, you should know. They need to be safe.” The four children made their way to the woman.
“This the place?” the girl said, sniffing.
“This is your home now,” Delila said. “You will have friends here, and people to watch over you. We may even have a teacher for you soon.” The woman made a smile with her mouth and set her hand on the young girl’s head. “You behave yourselves. I will visit occasionally. Mr. Walter here will show you in.” The children looked over the towering figure of the man. He nodded his head widely.
“I am pleased to meet you. You can call me Walter or James, whichever suits you more. I prefer Walter but some of the others do not.” The girl looked back up to Delila, but the woman was already making her way to a carriage. One of the twins pointed at Walter and exclaimed, “hello watermelon.” The other repeated the words, and again they laughed.
At the top of the path stood a wide and tall house. It was two stories of cracked white paint and sun-bleached boards. Two enormous oak trees, one on each side of the central doorway, hid most of the windows facing the road. An aged man sat beneath one of the trees, fanning himself with an old brochure. He had trouble shifting his large bulk enough to bring himself to his feet as he noticed the approaching visitors. The air was cool and dry, yet the seat of his slacks and back of his thick linen shirt were dark with sweat. He waved and smiled, turning his face into a mass of wrinkles. One of the carriage drivers looked to the large man for a moment before turning back to the horses. The man stood and watched as the two transports were pulled under the shade of the oaks and stopped.
From the weeping carriage stepped a middle-aged woman. Her brown hair was pulled back tightly, tied into a knot just above her neck. She wore a flowing brown Sunday dress, its edges lines with tiny white frills. She glanced at the man before looking up at the building. The drivers hopped off of their perches and began unloading boxes from the back of the carriages.
“These are the last of them, straight off the train,” she said, then looked back to the large man, squinting. “You are to introduce them to the others. Give them each a bed. Three have a small bag of personal effects. Put the things in the back, with all the rest. Is Sarah left yet?” The man nodded, his attention on the small figures exiting the carriages.
“Very well,” the woman said. She turned around and watched as four children stepped barefooted into the shade of the oaks, each looking around with mouths slightly agape. One was a girl, no older than eleven, her eyes puffy and red. She pushed the palm of one hand across her lightly freckled cheeks as the other tried to tame strands of sandy-blonde hair. There was a boy near her, with a narrow chin, dark and sunken eyes, and two large front teeth that protruded slightly from beneath his upper lip. Near the other carriage were two much younger children, each close to six years old, both boys with rounded faces that looked the same. They clung to one another as they first stepped outside, peering around nervously before one puckered his lips, put a finger in his nose and shouted “big chicken.” They both laughed for some time.
“I must be going now,” the woman said. The drivers returned to their seats. “If you have anything more, send word in the morning.” She looked at the boxes that the drivers had unloaded. “These should last through the week. It’s all we could gather. It should be enough.”
“I getting more help? This is four more I can’t alway watch you know. I can do oh all right but I need more help most time.” The woman sighed.
“We have gone over this at the town meeting. Most stay busy tending to their own families, and we can’t compensate anyone who comes here. We do expect Mrs. Timmons and Ms. Landsmith to start coming to see to cooking and clothes twice a week. I will see what else can be done.”
“Just I don’t want them to be hurt, Miss Delila,” the man said, nodding to himself. He focused his light green eyes on the back of the woman’s head, though she didn’t turn around. “Some of them is real rascals you must know, but I do what I can with this.”
“Do what you can,” she said. “This is all they have now. These last four they gathered from up in Summersville. It’s very grim there, you should know. They need to be safe.” The four children made their way to the woman.
“This the place?” the girl said, sniffing.
“This is your home now,” Delila said. “You will have friends here, and people to watch over you. We may even have a teacher for you soon.” The woman made a smile with her mouth and set her hand on the young girl’s head. “You behave yourselves. I will visit occasionally. Mr. Walter here will show you in.” The children looked over the towering figure of the man. He nodded his head widely.
“I am pleased to meet you. You can call me Walter or James, whichever suits you more. I prefer Walter but some of the others do not.” The girl looked back up to Delila, but the woman was already making her way to a carriage. One of the twins pointed at Walter and exclaimed, “hello watermelon.” The other repeated the words, and again they laughed.
Category: Cold Harbor, Writing
Change of Pace
Wednesday, September 12th, 2007
I don’t particularly feel like drawing tonight. I do, however, feel like writing, as I have for the past week or so. I have started reading again, a fact which has contributed greatly to my newfound need to externalize some of the whisperings of my imagination with prose rather than ink. I think that the People I Know project lasted roughly a month and a half, and the Lines has gone on a bit less. And now onto something else that I’ve been kicking around for a while, though never quite had the courage or momentum to go through with.
It’s a series of short stories that I may or may not have mentioned to a number of people on a number of occasions. The name of the collection is “The Autobiography of Cold Harbor Orphanage.” The premise is somewhat simplistic, though not worth ruining in this introduction to the work. I’ll try to make them worth reading. My writing is somewhat under-developed due to neglect, so most of them–like the Lines pieces–will be practice and experimentation.
They may be posted less frequently than a nightly drawing. Maybe every other night. I’ll promise nothing and see how it goes.
Crushed
Tuesday, September 11th, 2007
I went to Agora to meet with someone, and when I went back outside I found that someone had broken the window of one the back doors of my vehicle. Sadness. Nothing was stolen, and nothing in the back looked as though it had even been touched. Just completely knocked out window. This doesn’t seem like it’s going to be a very good week.
Category: Life