Fifteen Facts

1. I want to travel the world.

2. I have been to 28/50 states.

3. I collect snow globes and have over 50.

4. I adore swimming every chance I get.

5. I love manatees.

6. I have an obsession with sailboats.

7. I dream of living on a coastline.

8. All of my previous writing was lost before this.

9. I'm extraordinarily good with remembering music.

10. I have seen the Dirty Heads live!

11. The JFK assassination fascinates me.

12. I love my kitty and everyone's else's too.

13. I'm very much an introvert.

14. I'm jealous of people who can snowboard.

15. I'm definitely a pack-rat.

White Doves At Morning

               This is just a taste of my dialogue writing from an assignment in my American Lit. 214 course. Recreating the characters of White Doves At Morning.

            “My momma always says I’m cursed with the gift of Cassandra, and that I’m not going to fit in and I’m always condemned by others, but I feel obligated to fight, you know?” Willie Burke said as he dropped down alongside a tree.

            “No, Willie, you should believe in what you’re fighting for.” said Robert.

            “But if I don’t go out and fight I’ll just be that lazy son of a bitch who is too cowardly to fight. I have to show I care somehow.” Willie continued.

            “Willie, you can’t fight a war and expect to win if you don’t know what you believe or stand up for. If you just go out there killing men it’ll change you.” Robert tried to explain.

            “But I’m too afraid not to fight…” Willie confessed.

            “You’re a good man, Willie Burke. I hope we run into each other again someday, old pal.” said Robert.

            “I will definitely see you again, as long as you don’t get caught up in some Yank prison camp or something,” Willie laughed nervously as he patted Robert on the back.

            “You know that won’t happen ‘cause a man like me won’t get caught with doin something awful risky like a Willie Burke would try,” Robert winked at Willie.

            “I wish I had the bravery and guts you got there, Robert.”

            “It comes with believing in what ya stand for, old pal.” Robert said as he rubbed the pommel of his knife in his pocket.

                “Miss Abby? Can I ask you a question?” Flower cautiously stammered as they mustered together on a park bench.

            “Anything sweetie, you know I’m always here to answer anything that’s troubling you,” replied Abigail.

            “How did you learn to read and write?” She asked while starring at her shoes.

            “Oh Flower, I grew up in Massachusetts and went to school and received a proper education. My daddy also taught me well,” Abigail stated with pride.

            “You embarrass me a great deal with the way you talk to me sometimes, Miss Abby,” Flower stated.

            “I’m sorry, Flower. I have a lot of respect for a woman like you who never gives up.”

            “I forgive you, Miss Abby, I don’t understand why you and Mr. Willie decided to help a poor nigger woman like me though,” Flower wondered.

            “Don’t call yourself that name, Flower! And Willie Burke is a good man at heart, but he should be running off with girls with flaxen hair, not fighting a war,” Abigail said more to herself than Flower.

            “I wish he makes it back safe so he can give me more books, Miss Abby.”

            “He will be back, he always makes it somehow,” Abigail said thoughtfully.
           

            “What is it exactly you want me to do with these men sir? And what are the boundaries?” asked Atkins fixing his meretricious outfit.

`           “I want you to continue to get the same amount of work from these men as if they were your slaves, but treat them a little better so we don’t get shut down.” demanded Jamison.

            “Yes, sir. Do you want us to do anything about the nigger girl?”

            “Leave Flower alone. Any man to lay a finger on her will have to answer to me,” threatened Jamison, “But do with Ms. Dowling as you please.”

            “Yes, sir, she’s ruined your reputation pretty well with all the newspaper talkings and such.” Atkins pointed out stupidly.

            Jamison glanced at Atkins bitterly, “Burn her house for all I care, as long as no one harms Flower and I get my pay from the penitentiary on time.”

            “Should the children of the prison still be required to take on manual labor, sir?”

            “Most definitely, make them work just as hard as they can. Don’t let them screw around or tell them they will go without a day’s worth of food.” Jamison sighed.

            “I will make sure they get their work done. Even if they are now prisoners, they’re still damn nigger to us, and will deserve what’s comin to them...” sneered Atkins.

            “We won’t let the South forget the preponderance of white males and their status.” Jamison reassured Atkins.

            “Carrie, if you wanna save your white-trash business, you gotta help me with sometin.” Jean-Jacques pressed, waving a plot in her face written on a napkin.

            “I’ll do anyting if you can rid me of the terrible tings I done back home, just tell me what to do,” Carrie begged, “Or else God won’t hear none of my whining when the time comes.”

            “I’m helping Miss Abigail smuggle them Negros out of Jamison’s grasp with my ship just up the river into Yankee territory,” Jean-Jacques confessed.

            “I ain’t got any money to spare, Jean, least I can do is leave my money in my will to the poor Flower girl and maybe my house so she won’t be bothered by them bleating paddy rollers no more.”

            “Damn it, Carrie, haven’t you got any money at all from the grog and company at your whore house? Or even some room to hide them overnight?”

            “I can’t risk having them blackies here while the Captain is still in line for my girls upstairs every night!” exclaimed Carrie.

            “Can you at least lend a guy some grog for the trip? You write that will for Flower while I’m gone,” demanded Jean, “You best watch your back ‘cause you know that Todd McCain is on to you and wants your house for his own profits.”

            “ I know, Jean, word has it there’s an auction for that big white house, and I ain’t gonna let Todd McCain start runnin the business round here. I’ll try to help Flower best I can.”

            “Sister, I know I’d never heard myself saying this, but you should see the priest for your guilt if you can’t help me now to save men,” suggested Jean.

            “I reckon you be right,” agreed Carrie, “I’ll write my will and count my days, and try to ask the Lord for forgiveness of my sins. Good luck, brother.”

           

            “We gotta get these niggers and their nigger-lovin folks in line or Marse Jamison might fire us,” Rufus Atkins smiled at his out loud remark while his yellow teeth glistened in the last bits of sunlight before the sun was covered by the gloaming.

                “Those bitches ruined my chances of a perfect place for meetings and making money,” complained McCain, “I say we start with LaRose and Dowling, they both are part of the nigger-smuggling group and are getting in our way.”

                “I know one way we can get inside their minds and rip them to shreds. We begin by ravaging the nigger bitch who walks around likes she owns the town ‘cause she can read and write,” Atkins spat.

                “But Marse Jamison told us not to touch her any more or else we be feeling a lot of pain…”

                “He doesn’t have to find out about it, ‘cause the only person on this land who would go cryin to Jamison about that nigger is Abigail Dowling, and we’re going to shut her down for good.” said Atkins.

                “I suppose she ain’t never gonna come out of her house ever again after we’re through with her.” McCain agreed with a smirk dancing on his lips.

“The Knights are gonna restore power to the rightful white landowners and get rid of this stupid shit idea of niggers walking free with a purpose other than making my meals and picking my crops.” continued McCain as they stepped out onto the gallery.

                “I agree, they’re only good for pleasure and work because they are soulless, and the nigger-loving president should put them all back where they belong. But to hell with what Jamison says about Flower. She’s mine to do whatever I want.” Atkins claimed.

                “Just as long as we send these Underground railroad people back up to their Yankee states to mind their own God-damn business.” McCain noted while the sweet scent of rain gathered from the distant storm.

                “Don’t worry, we’ll restore our power and continue to have our peace after the White Camellias rise above all.” 

Ghost On The Shore

    On a cool evening on the border of Upper Michigan, predictable Lake Superior unleashed her wrath on the cream colored sands of White Fish Point. The lighthouse on shore beckoned to distant ships, piercing the dark fog through the night. When the wind began to pick up I ran over to my boat and tied it to a tree with mangled rope before I found refuge in the tiny room below the beckoning light.

    The rain pounded in sheets against the stone, and gales of wind hammered at the lighthouse entrance like a persistent salesman. To my surprise there was a bed in one corner of the dust covered, spider infested building. I found sympathy with the spiders since I would have been lost forever if I hadn't found comfort with them away from the early November storm. The tiny jail-like window above the bed proved to be a worthless source of light with its moth-bitten curtains hanging loosely over the sill.
    I scoured the wall with my hand to locate a switch or candle to provide some light. I found the flat surface of a light switch and flicked it up and down but no light was produced from the overhead light bulb, just a soft buzzing sound that was drown out by the furious sounds of the storm. Luckily there are a few things I carry with me in my journeys including a handheld lighter. I began searching for another source of light and my hand grazed a cool metal object hanging on the wall near the broken light switch. A rusty old lantern hung there with a generous supply of kerosene ready for me to use.
    Thunder cracked the sky and shook the stone building while I cautiously peered around the small room. The stairwell on the opposite wall from the bed wound to great heights and I was semi-curious to know what else was up there besides a rotating light.
    "Hello?," I called timidly up the stairs, "Is anyone up there?"
    The only response I received was the howling wind telling me I was dead alone. I shrugged off the eerie feeling I received and continue to search the room for some sort of information pertaining to civilization.
    Next to the stairwell stood an unbalanced, dust-covered writing desk with moldy papers and a ruffled quill resting on top of it. I tried opening the drawers but they were stuck and no matter how much strength I put into pulling them open, they wouldn't budge. A gust of wind swept down from the stairwell and unsettled the papers momentarily. The words on the papers were small and slanted and spoke of past ship wrecks and major storms, but I was distracted from reading when I saw something move.
     A spider crawling across the wall above the desk caught my attention as it hurried under a cracked mirror away from the sudden light from my lantern. I caught a glimpse of my reflection when I followed the spider with my big blue eyes. My face was as pale as a ghost and my once bright blonde hair that flowed down my back was now a shiny silvery blonde. I was shocked at first to see myself standing in a damp, dimly lit room with little color added by my presence. I figured my lack of complexion was due to fatigue and the lighting. 
    The spider then scuttled to the bed that was next to the ancient looking mirror and I wondered how long this place had been abandoned. I stroked the bed with the tips of my rough sea-bound fingers and felt no dust or dirt but rather a silky sensation compared to the tattered and worn look it gave off. There was something peculiar about this place, but I couldn't wrap my mind around what it might be, I was only glad to be away from the monster of a storm that crashed all around me. 
   I crossed the room and lifted my lantern up the stairwell a little ways to see if the metal stairs would support me all the way to its summit. It looked fairly safe so I ventured up the stairs making a loud clanking noise with each step. The attic-like entrance to the top of the lighthouse  gave me chills while I tried to find enough courage to stick my head through the opening.
     I set the lantern down on the edge of the hole and peaked over it to see an even smaller room filled with broken light bulbs and seagull droppings. The top of the tower was called home by a number of different bird's nests in the rafters. I hoisted myself up into the room and walked to the back of the rotating light, peering out over the Bay. My mind raced with memories of the previous month out travelling the Great Lakes. This wasn't my first tragic storm, in fact it might have been the seventh storm I encountered within the long, dreary month of October into November.
    In mid October my dear sister was lost in the ferocious tides of Lake Superior when we encountered a storm much like the one I watched from the tower of the lighthouse. We traveled on separate boats, but drifted hopelessly apart by winds that changed direction much like the switchbacks of the Rocky Mountains. I spent hours upon hours and days upon days searching for my sister, but she was no where to be found. The storms became steadily worse as the month continued to drag by, and I could no longer manage without food and shelter on my boat; I was forced to head to shore. My devastation from the loss of my best friend overrode any exhilarating thought of exploring as I floated toward a beckoning light which was the very lighthouse I was standing in now. Adrenaline and numbness must have keep me going in those last few weeks sailing to the sandy beach.
     A forceful strike of lightning branched down from the black clouds and woke me from my dreadful reverie and I focused my eyes back to the storm. My vision was impaired by sheets of cold rain, but I spotted  my boat anchored to the small tree just off the shoreline. It seemed to be holding up alright considering the gales were so strong, but I noticed something I didn't see before sitting on one of the branches of the tree. The object was white but translucent at the same time and I wondered if it was some sort of distorted seagull. It appeared to stretch out its legs and arms and I could see it was not an animal but a human.
    I ran in front of the rotating light and absentmindedly stuck my head out of the lighthouse tower to get a better look at the human sitting by my boat. My face stung as hard pellets of rain struck my face and I retreated almost immediately. I grabbed my lantern and and flew down the metal stairs two at a time. I zipped up my raincoat and ran into the storm yelling at the top of my lungs for my sister. The wind blew me sideways and the rain pierced my body with a thousand little ice chunks  but I needed to save her.
    The sky had an eerie hint of yellow-green over the horizon on the lake and the clouds above were swirling black, grey, and navy blue. Lightning forked through every inch of the sky lighting up the beach enough for me to not take my eyes off of my target. I trudged through the wet sand as fast as my legs would carry me but the lightning began to tapper off just as fast as came and I lost track of where the tree was. I ran blindly in the dark, my eyes not yet adjusted to the darkness of the night, and soon collapsed into the sand near the tree saying my sister's name as another crack of lightning lit up the sky. I was still looking directly at the tree and she was no longer there. I didn't know how this could be possible. The world was dark again and my mind exploded with possibilities of where she could have gone. Maybe she heard me calling her name and ran back to the lighthouse, but she couldn't have disappeared into thin air.
    I'll never know if I was crying for the rain soaked my body to my bones and devastation took control of my mind once more. I grabbed a smooth, round stone from below the tree and flung it hard into the lake's depths. I couldn't believe I lost her again to this terrible sort of storm. The lightning began to strike more and I looked to the water to see my boat tugged loose and was floating away from shore.
    I sprinted toward the water and catapulted myself into the harsh whitecaps to the mercy of the lake. The strange sensation of numbness and adrenaline pounded through my veins again as I drove my way through the waves to my boat. I hoisted myself into it and laid down face first so I wouldn't be thrown overboard or be pounded in the face with ice pellets. Ten minutes went by before I noticed the storm began to let up. The wind and rain ceased and I felt safe enough to turn around and look up at the sky while letting the waves carry me further from shore. The water no longer crashed over the sides of the boat and silent lightning struck the distant horizon. Exhaustion claimed my body, mind, and soul and I soon dreamed of the happy days of sailing the Great Lakes with my sister.
    The screeching of seagulls woke me with a start. My mind was blurry from the events that took place the night before. I sat up too quickly and my head throbbed with dizziness. The air was thick with swirling white fog and the lake was as calm as ever with only the ripples from my boat making tiny dents in the glassy water. I had no sense of time since the fog was barring my sight from the sun. I figured I still must be near land since seagulls were pestering me for fish. I grabbed a piece of driftwood floating near me and began to paddle into the endless fog. It felt like I was paddling for hours until I caught a vague glimpse of shoreline and the outline of a pale object. 
    I nearly tumbled out of the boat seeing the human form again. I stretched my hands over my head and yelled my sisters name. She was starring my way with hope in her eyes. I frantically paddled my way to shore where she was standing and jumped out of the boat. Her green eyes watched the boat with fear as tears brimmed them.
    "Don't cry, sister! I'm right here! I'm okay! You're okay!"
   She ignored my words and starred directly into my face with an expression of deepest sorrow and hurt. She clutched something tightly in her hands, a silver chain with a sailboat charm hanging from the middle. Absentmindedly my hand reached around my neck, I hadn't realized I lost my necklace during the chaos. I extended my arm and touch her hands gently to say a silent thank you. A prominent shiver ran through her body and her eyes darted toward the boat once more. Tears trickled down her blotched cheeks and her breath hitched momentarily. She lifted her hands away from mine and unclasped the necklace carefully and put it around my neck and fastened it tightly. I watched her collapse into the sand in front of my feet and as I looked down, the necklace she just fastened around my neck was laying in the sand right in front of my devastated sister. 
    In that solitary moment I realized I'm the Lord of the lake and I didn't want to leave it. Now all who sail off this coast ever more will remember the tale of the ghost on the shore. My boat was yet again drifting steadily away from shore on the calm waters of Lake Superior.