I had just about finished writing this post when my computer spazed and I lost all of it. Anyway, I've always wanted to be a writer, so I have tons of half written stories lying around my house. I found this particular one in a notebook today and I thought I might share it with you. I wrote it earlier this school year.
"With what money?' She screamed back, her throat chocked with tears. " we have nothing!" I hit my wash rag against my apron and looked at my daughter. I did not understand her pain, for I had not gone through it, but I knew that screaming would fix nothing. She quieted, for she knew my actions better than a goose girl knows her flock. My movement was one of instinct, which always foreshadowed my thoughts. I slapped my apron, wiped my brow and turned my back to grab the broom. This would mean the end of our discussion.
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I never quite understood what was wrong with me, sure I had some acne through my growing years but I wasn't considered ugly, I was quiet but not awkward. I guess I was just too average. Not the ugliest, not the prettiest. Nor was I the tallest or shortest. I was always in the middle. I was the sixth of thirteen children, the fourth of eight girls. My family did everything to make me feel special, but they couldn't change the facts. Some how I was swept up in a jungle of invisibility. Besides my sisters, I had no real friends. No boy had ever "come a courting" for me, and I guess that is really the reason I got into this whole mess. I just wanted to be wanted, and I guess, now I am.
"Wanted" is a funny word, for you see, it has two distinct meanings. The first is a good things, this form of wanted refers to being accepted and loved. The other term however is often used to describe criminals, those running from the law, those the government are trying to find. I probably should have realized this, but with no education or real purpose in knowing definitions, I found it unnecessary.
It was early fall. The wind was harder, the air crisper and the pumpkins bigger. Much harvesting had already been done, but the fear of winter was not yet in full swing. This was before we were poor, before the horrible winter in which I met Brice.
I sat in the apple tree. The weather was perfect, the wind blew around my skirt and beckoned me to loosen my bun. I had washed my hair the night before and my slightly damp locks were gracious for this pleasureful opportunity. I could hear my baby brother crying from inside the house. He was getting his first tooth and no one could seem to stop his tantrums. I saw my father through the trees' limbs.
I always felt bad for Papa, he worked so hard. He never allowed us girls to do "a man's job." While I appreciated his act of gentlemeness, (which I'm almost positive, isn't a real word) I knew he needed more help. Us girls out numbered the boys and although we did clean, cook and picked in the orchards, we could not assist our father in what he needed. He had always wanted a house of boys. Yes, he has five, but Norin isn't even walking and Nathan has a mental disorder. Of course, that did not stop him, he is probably the most accomplished of my father's children.
So there you go, a piece of a story I will never finish.
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