NaNoWriMo

Even if you’re not a writing enthusiast, the idea of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) is a way to diligently extract ideas from your head while putting a sense of urgency on your brain to create during a month-long period of time.

Last year I moved into NaNoWriMo with absolutely no idea what I was going to put down on paper. I simply started typing that November 1st, writing from the mood I was currently in, mainly a dark place, very displaced and feeling a loss of control.

I’m thrilled to introduce the beginning of my third novella, “Ablaze,” which tells the tale of Brit, a woman laden with the overwhelming loss of her husband and sons in the Peshtigo, Wisconsin fire of 1871. While this blaze wreaked more havoc than it’s southern counterpart, the Great Chicago Fire, the residents in and around Peshtigo perished in an often described “tornado wall of fire.” The last person to see Brit’s family alive was a woman named Trudie, who traveled from her own personal hell in Peshtigo to Bailey’s Harbor in Door County, to offer Brit a business proposition that would entail both women shaking off her gut-wrenching remorse to make a living.

CHAPTER ONE

She sat on the floor next to the fire examining her skin and squeezing scabs on her arms until her dried out flesh was the color of a cherry. In some way, this ritual extraction left her feeling a bit more in control of her life and less like a mindless drone tired in a body.

The house was quiet that morning, which was glorious because she was in no mood for human interaction. The pressure in her head had been building for months and while she loved everyone in her life, she desperately needed silence.

After twenty minutes of picking at her skin, she felt a pang of guilt that she was shirking her responsibilities. Time was being wasted and she had a lot of work to do. The sun beat down into the living room which was her favorite space. Many books had been read aloud to small audiences in that living room. She sat briefly in the wooden chair her grandmother had given her, a birthday present of sorts, when she was first married.

The garden needed to be tended and whose bright idea was that to grow a garden? Smirking, she confessed to herself that it was her idea, to be sustainable and “save money.” She flicked at the corner of her shirtsleeve, which released a tiny thread from the row of intricate stitches. This too, made her giddy with a little bit of freedom. Something out of place and out of order, and it was all hers for the keeping.

Leaving the thread hanging, she saved the thought of unraveling the stitch for another time and rose from the chair. Walking slowly to front door, she swung it open and paused to listen to the wind blow in the miles of long grass beyond the front porch of her house.

She had longed to live in a meadow since she was a girl. The breeze moved the Midwest grass back and forth, like waves in rough water. It was amazing how different this scene looked, depending on the weather, and although a tiny voice nagged at her to get to work and be productive, a smaller hint of suggestion told her to abandon her chores. Placing her bare feet on the flagstone porch, she took in the warmth of the stone through her toes and closed her eyes, allowing the sensation of comfort to zip through the rest of her body.

A bird called overhead — a turkey vulture — probably happy to spot a dead animal among the field in front of her. She thought for a moment about the assumed dead animal, connecting with the dead carcass emotionally, as she frequently lay in bed at night waiting for something to gobble her up and end it all.

The next voice that spoke to her was angry. Frustrated at the hopeless attitude of it’s being, it threw out some ritual tough love sayings, which were quickly shushed by the voice that longed for wandering.

Stepping off the stone, she quickened her pace, running from the list of chores that plagued her mind and tried to pull her back into the house. As she met the grass, a faint wisp of death hit her nostrils and an excitement to find the rotting animal filled her chest.

The vulture was silently circling now, north of where she stood, and following the bird’s lead, she quickened her pace just under the soaring animal. Still looking up, she tripped and landed on her face into the soft grass, laughing as her face bounced off the ground. The bird called above her, almost to say “You’ve found it!” and as she gathered herself to stand, her eye caught sight of a foot and then a leg and a backside, then a shirt stained in red and a dark brown head.

It surprised her that she wasn’t appalled by this sight, instead, she was curious, like she had just discovered a pretty shell or a coin on the ground. Still sitting in the grass, she poked at the man’s foot with hers and when he didn’t move, crawled over to the side of him to see who this was, lying in her meadow.

His face looked roughly familiar, and even though she couldn’t place him, she knew it would be wrong to leave him for the animals to consume. An ant crawled over his hairy fingers and she watched it, frantically exploring a new type of land. His head had been bleeding for a very long time apparently, his hair was matted and red stained the ground and grass beneath it. As she pushed him over onto his back, crystal blue eyes stared up into the sky.

“A peculiar thing, death,” Brit thought to herself.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there in the grass with her mysterious friend, but what shook her out of peaceful contemplation of the afterlife was the sound of her husband’s voice.

“Brit?”

Brit turned her head upward and gazed through the beams of sunlight at Abe on his horse.

“When did you get home?” Brit asked of her husband, as if nothing had happened and there was no body in between them, rather something simple, like dinner.

Abe ignored her question, got off his horse and scratched his head, saying, “We’d better clean up this mess, huh?”

Brit looked down at the man in the grass and nodded her head. She knew it was time to get back to her chores anyway, and this distraction would need to be dealt with. Besides, the boys would be home soon for lunch, and she had to start making cornbread and bacon.

-CHAPTER TWO-

She woke the next morning, unsure of how the rest of the day got away from her but thankful for the rest. She vaguely remembered hearing the boys getting ready for their day at work at the Phillips farm, all 4 of them were gainfully employed in a partnership between the Phillips’ family and theirs. The boys had always worked very well together, bringing home just enough to buy them food and tuck a little away for Teddy, their oldest to go off to school one day.

Abe did a good job raising these boys to be men, Brit thought, staring out the window next to their small bed. Peeking out from the stitches of the cloth covered mattress were multiple sheathes of straw. Everything was in need of a mend around this place, but Brit could not bring herself to do more than make meals and do the dishes as of late.

The chickens clucked happily outside and Brit lifted herself begrudgingly out of her bed. She looked around at her home and stared at the wall hanging above the threshold of the front door.

DO UNTO OTHERS AS YOU WOULD HAVE THEM DO UNTO YOU.

Brit rolled her eyes, the biggest form of emotion she could remember coming out of her for a long time. Abe had sung that proverb since the day she met him and although deep down, she agreed, Brit had since changed her tune. Nobody cared for her like her own family. Even their friends, who were few and far between seemed to raise eyebrows at her now.

She didn’t go to church anymore, Brit couldn’t bear the eyes looking at her and the last time she went to worship, she couldn’t understand why she sat in the pew alone. Church was a waste of time as far as she was considered, and nobody wanted to go with her anyway, let alone fellowship with her, so she stopped asking the boys to go with her and stayed at home instead to read.

Still sitting in bed, Brit reasoned she should probably eat and went to the pantry. Just yesterday this space was full of food and Brit cursed those boys for growing up and eating her out of house and home. Venturing out to the water pump, Brit grinned as the sun hit her face and knew today was to be another beautiful spring day. Thankfully, their well was full of water still and filling the only pitcher she had to the brim, Brit walked back to the house to start the stove fire. She desperately needed coffee that morning and her head was aching. It had been aching for months now.

After a handful of nuts and 3 cups of coffee, Brit went to the garden and wondered why the hoes and shovels were laying on the ground and not in the shed. She sat on the bench she positioned next to the fence that kept out the rabbits. Weeds grew through the slats and wove around the wood, making for a fine mess in Brit’s mind.

An hour later, she had weeded the entire garden and wondered what kind of seeds she should plant this season. A trip into Peshtigo was in order, to see Sissy, her only friend, who owned a shop with her husband.

“Sissy can get me seeds and this season will finally be a success,” thought Brit.

The chickens fluttered their wings behind her, stirring up dust, and Brit reminded herself to gather the eggs. Just beyond the giant oak tree at the end of their property, she saw a form. Maybe it was Abe, she couldn’t tell from this distance and year after year her vision was not as crisp as the birthday before. Brit waved at the off chance that it was Abe or one of the boys, but she couldn’t imagine they would be coming home so early.

Eager to stop working, Brit went into the house and began to greet the oncoming visitor with music. Their family piano had come all the way from Norway with her grandparents and her mother’s 13 brothers and sisters. It was all she had of them. Brit sat to play a tune she knew the traveler would be able to hear over the hills of tall grass. The wind saw to that.

The song was a happy one, and carried well over the spring breeze. It was new to her, but easy enough so she could play it as if she knew it forever. An Irish ditty, Brit tried to recollect where she had learned the tune as her fingers danced on the opal colored keys.

She couldn’t place the source of the song but did feel her heart pick up in her chest the louder she played. Brit leaned backward to check on the traveler, who had now stopped just passed the fifth apple tree on their property.

The small orchard on their land easily produced enough to help pay for whatever they needed. When she and Abe set up their life here, they plunged into creating a legacy for their children’s children, planting and tending to roots growing deep in the land.

The trees were all starting to produce small buds of what would eventually be apples and cherries. As Brit played, she looked forward to the harvest and the pies and sweets and jams. She dreamed of owning a farm stand or to be a grocer, delivering fresh goods to those in need, but how would she do that?

Brit abruptly stopped playing. It was as if someone had slapped her square in the face, and she didn’t know why. Watching the unknown visitor made her nervous now, as the form did not quickly make its way to her door, rather, skulked under the trees, taunting her to come out.

So she did.

“How dare you linger on my land,” Brit grumbled to the air, grabbing Abe’s rifle.

Brit took to the ground and stomped through the grass, determined to intimidate this trespasser. Stumbling through the field, the blurry figure blended in with the trees and she could no longer make out if the form was a human being or the trunk of one of the apple trees.

Stopping, Brit lowered her weapon and sat in the tall grass, willing the intruder to make a move. She waited there for hours, until her stomach growled with hunger and she gave up on the thought that there ever was a person.

Out of nowhere, Abe rode up, and as she greeted him with a loving pat to the leg, he said nothing and walked with her back to the house.

“What should we have for lunch?” Brit asked her husband, and before he could even answer, she decided they would eat light that afternoon. There was bread leftover from the day before and as they approached the house, she noticed a part of the threshold was hanging loose, in need of repair. So much had become unraveled since last fall. The winter was harsh, and honestly, a blur to Brit.

The preserves were running low, which made her excited for the warmer months. Finally something to do, instead of sit and think and recollect and go mad. A chicken wandered in front of her and fluttered its wings in the dust on the floor. Brit spread apple butter over her bread and watched it bathe, imagining how wonderfully simple it was to be a stupid chicken.

Squinting, Brit looked out the front window from the kitchen table at something moving in the grass. A soft cool early spring breeze wandered in and out of the curtains, making it hard to get a clear sight on what it was. Brit licked apple butter from her pinkie and wished she had a dog. A big one with sharp teeth that she could sig on people who came too close to her house.

Wiping her fingers on the front of her skirt, replacing the stains she made yesterday, Brit walked back over to the piano and played a sad song that echoed in her heart. She could almost remember, as the pictures of melancholy and loss surfaced to her mind, but instead she beat any memory of back down in her soul, not ready to thaw out the horrors of last fall with the coming spring.

She played for what seemed like hours, until her stomach started to growl again and she could see the sun almost ready to set in the west. One last chorus and she would be finished, like rounding the corner toward a finish line she worked harder and more intense to finish strong. Sweat dripped down the side of her temple as she finished the last few bars and crescendos and finally, the song was over. It had been so long since the air was quiet that Brit sat there, in silence, staring at her shaking hands that rest on the keys.

And out of nowhere, like a bomb exploding behind her was the sound of a single applause.

Thank you for reading! Ablaze will publish in the Spring of 2019. Follow The Modern Domestic Woman or Nibble Fiction on Facebook for launch and other publication info.