Creative short story segments written and edited by Sylvan.

            The door opens inch by inch as an older woman struggles with a cane and keys in one hand and two full grocery bags in the other. A small, wiry dog runs to the door barking at Blair's arrival, issuing a notice for her daughter, Theresa, to help. 

"Oh! Go!" Blair says to Luna, the black and gray terrier jumping on her pant leg. 

"Go sit down. I am fine, honey. Just give me a second." Blair waves off her daughter, but Theresa takes the grocery bags. She takes them to the kitchen to unpack. Cold air floods out as Theresa opens the fridge, relieving herself of the unbearable heat inside the house. Between the broken AC and the annual weed whacking of the property starting at dawn until it became too hot to work at noon, Theresa sweats even after showering off the layers of dry grass and hard work. 

A couple of hours every day for a week is what it takes to rid the property of weeds. Theresa had to stop every half hour or so to restring the cursed weed whacker after hitting a rock or simply coming undone after heavy use. Every day Theresa would get a small section done, only to go back and rake the weeds, pulling them into the green bin.

  "Gosh, you were out there working hard, huh? Already so hot!" Blair says, using her sun hat to fan herself while wobbling with her cane into the living room. Blair got a new knee several months ago. Now, she uses her cane for extra strength, but it did not help with the heat fatigue of the early summer. It was not long ago when Blair used to do the work with Theresa before every fire season, battling the never-ending dead growth. Now Blair is far too old and can no longer kneel and unearth the dead; Theresa does it all alone. 

Blair continues, " I think I saw some smoke up near Cobb driving back. It did not look like much, but you know how much even a single smidge of smoke worries me. All that dry, old brush in April! The heat has never been this bad, this early! " She walks from one window to the next, scanning the hills from different views in the living room. 

"Yeah, no kidding. I will keep an eye out for it. I hoped coming to California for spring break would be the best time of year to weed whack. Guess I am wrong." Theresa's eyes follow her mothers in pursuit of a whitish-gray trail rising to the sky.

After earning a graduate degree in psychology at 45, Theresa decided she wanted to live in a city, any city with less fear and more rain. She started working at a community college in Washington with a small therapy practice. Leaving her house to be occupied by her mother, Theresa promised to come back to California for a week every year to take care of the never-ending weed-whacking and being the well-educated, doting daughter. Theresa left Blair to find solace in her church, clubs, and the heat. This move was not hard for Theresa because as they grew older, they also grew apart. Blair understood Theresa's need for escape despite not agreeing with her whims.  

"There is not a wrong or a right when the world is changing." Blair leaves to sit on the couch after a long day of church meetings and clubs mediating the flames of local opinions and passions. She flips through channels for the closest local news covering segments of the area and occasionally the county they resided in, only when it was ablaze. The background buzz was no longer records of classics that rang out through the houses they lived in, but it was the ever-present radio listing the endless threats.

"Is the climate changing your local wine grapes? Find out after the commercial break." After a couple of commercials and stories of smoke-tainted California grapes, a snore rises from the couch, echoing through the house.

Theresa gets up from her paperwork, looking at her mother peacefully resting. Wishing Theresa could someday feel that peace again, where she could put one of her mothers' old records on and freely be with the music as she did as a child. No one could feel like a child in this town: this inferno. Whether Theresa was in the California house or Washington for work, she could never rest during the endless hot season. She would spend nights upon nights awake, listening to the radio on her laptop while scrolling for updates on social media and obsessively watching any little burn. Theresa presses her t-shirt to her chest, soaking up her sweat, then gets up to move the big fan to face her sleeping mother. 

 

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           March 16, 1835

I live in an estate built atop the sand. The foundation forms cracks and crevices, shifting with the earth’s movement. I can walk through our estate to the wall of memories of young women pressed to live up to an image. An image of my mother and her mother and her mother. The image of lineage is crafted as a ship unto a single body, the body of a woman, the woman of the house. Prim and delicate like a pressed flower in a book, separate from knowledge but poised, present, and inserted next to the social spheres. Yet, there are no words prescribed for these petals. Words... do they not fall short? Words are unable to fully calculate the essence generated by the flower, is that not why we press them into books? To keep and remember, to look at that essence as complete and abstract. Language falls epically short of capturing its boundaries. So, I will allow myself to gaze longer than one ought to at the flowers. I am hoping for a day there will be words that embody each unique life that the earth carries. 

My fate has been deemed more useful in other callings, my calling as a lady and a wife, all before my twentieth year on this earth. Although, I was allowed more innocence than others. I must be grateful. Fearfully I foresee no future where I can live without the accompaniment of a man. Now instead of my father, it shall be a stranger whom I will serve. Perhaps when I wed this man, there will also be a crack in the foundation creeping up my future house. The walls where we shall hang our portrait cover the imperfections growing on the wall, like in my family home. There is a portrait of my father and mother with resolve-filled faces as the earthly divide crept up the wall, sprouting between them. Will I look the same in my destined place painted alongside a stranger I soon will know? Like all women in my family, I shall be an obedient God-fearing woman, and I will be proud of the match chosen by my father.

Of course, I will miss the presence of the ocean edge. Every day the beach allows me to explore the grains of sand, new and old, washed up by the murky blue waves. An unknown part of creation, its powerful beauty instills fear into the hearts and minds of all. I will miss the movement of the waves as they reach out towards the land and the people, then reach back into the depth. As if the ocean knows we are here and knows of us but stays true to its creation as the waves join to the larger body of rich blue. I will miss those blues as much as I will the tulip poplar in the front of our estate. I grew up sitting under this tree during the last decade of my life. When I was young, I would force myself to climb the branches until my dear mother, on the brink of an attack of fright, would run out to scold my bravery and joy. I felt like the world was mine to explore from the top of that tree. The tulip poplar has begun to bud this last winter. I expect this to be the year the flowers finally bloom. The last year of my childhood will send me off with the most beautiful gift.

As the days grow closer to my father's choice, I reflect on memories of the estate's beauty. Especially as my mother braids my long hair for the evening as I sit in front of the mirror in my bedroom. I can see her in the reflection tying up my curls, her wedding band sparkling in the candlelight. I try to envision myself in her place, but the image becomes so blurred and grotesque that I fear I may never become the image of my mother. The person I see in the mirror with skin like my own, yet it is a different beast of creation entirely. The skin looks like mine, but there is a force of difference, a force that begins to haunt me. How could this be what I see in the mirror? 

With Fear and Love,

 Eudora Graham

 

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                       They are buried in the weeks or months after their long rest begins. Each family has their own nuanced Euro-American traditions on how endowed their loved one will be after they have awakened from their long rest, hopefully, not frozen for eternity. This gentleman loved the fountain on his estate. His living family paid handsomely for the cryo-unit to sit in the middle, protected by a layer of marble. It was unique. The installation took several weeks longer than expected. I had more time than usual to research my hobby. Perhaps it is an invasive hobby, but I am always curious about their lives as I only meet my clients in death. Besides, death is not a great look, frozen in place. Nor is it telling of their lives. His wife wore black from head to toe, a holdover from old funeral practices. She carried a small trunk to the fountain edge after the spiritual leader spoke. She lifted the top to expose part of his fortune in cash, rocks, and bars of metals in the velvet-lined trunk.

I walked down the lawn from the hedges lining the house to the fountain. There was seating for the memorial; only one seat was vacant. The widow, Mrs. Marshal, walked back to take that seat in the front row. She waved me away as I approached and waved on the Marshal family servant. I returned to my position in the back of the service to dispel the awkwardness from her dismissal. Her servant ran to her and knelt next to her in the grass to listen to her commands. Her servant reminded me of my father bowing to keep a roof over our heads. Without glancing at her servant, the widow said, “Will you honor my husband one last time and put his nest egg in his chamber?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied as he untied his shoes and stripped his socks, leaving them at her side. It looked as though it caused her some dismay from the look on her face. Typically, this is a part of my job as preservation service director. I was glad I was not getting wet for this service, even though I prepared for it. He waded through the fountain's shallow water carrying the trunk in both hands. He gently placed his old employer's wealth into his frozen burial. The widow watched from her seat every movement this loyal servant made, counting each bundle of paper, bar, and rock he placed in Mr. Marshal's temporary grave. Her servant brought the trunk to the widow after he finished.

“Thank you,” she informed him as he took his leave with his shoes. She let the orchestra go on for a song. I would know its silenced words anywhere, How Great Thou Art. I could feel the hairs on my arm tingle with the vibrations of the violin. It had a power almost overwhelming with the words absent. She stood with the help of her cane and looked upon the crowd to begin the widow’s eulogy.

“My husband, Benjamin, was one of the greatest men of the modern era. I am not sure if I can express how much he has done for our family and our nation’s labor force. He was a successful businessman and politician. And still made time to be a wonderful husband, father, best friend, and philanthropist.” In all honesty, he held two terms in the House of Representatives. He voted twice not to increase the minimum wage from $7.25. He did give a sum of money to charities that sponsor victims of domestic violence in rural communities.

“Benjamin’s ability to make everyone feel comfortable, secure, and loved was his greatest strength. It has been nearly 40 years since we married, and I look back over those years with so much happiness.” Throughout those years, he was an honest man in his monogamous relationship constraints as far as I could research. Stories began to stir during his second term. Women said he would stare and make remarks unfitting of some with that much power. 

“He was my soul mate and inspiration – my steadfast rock that helped me through tumultuous times. Benjamin supported and loved us all. He was always there to help us navigate through life's challenges. Benjamin was a hard-working and self-made man. Not only was he committed to his job and this nation – working long hours, rarely giving himself a break – he was also committed to giving back to this community. When Benjamin was not on the Hill – or the road visiting towns in our district – he would be watching the news and working on his plans for his next business. He always encouraged our children to be involved in the world around us – he brought out the best in us all. He would always say to them, ‘You cannot rest. You must keep fighting ahead and make the United States of America our home as it should be.'"

While in office, he continued his business dealings, owning several rental properties in his district. When someone did not pay rent or was behind with an unexpected bill, he evicted them within a week because he helped make the laws that allowed him to unhoused people. But his children did go to excellent colleges as he footed the bill. The wealthy have security by owning their shelter, unlike many I grew up around. 

           "Benjamin may not be with us right now, but I know he will be ready to start his life again and continue his great work with a radiant smile. For now, he would want us to know as we continue in his absence that we must carry on till his return. He would tell us to 'forge ahead. We have work to do when we wake again.' Goodbye for now, my dear, sweet husband Benjamin Marshal Jr." It has always surprised me how many people want to be millionaires or billionaires to reinforce their legendary existence. Then they make millions and forget why people are in need. So, the worker could say, "I could be you one day. I live in America, land of the rich, home of the laissez law." 

In consumption, we trust.

 

The End

December 1793

Dear Nephew James,

I fear your father, before his early passing, did not have the fortune to tell you the legacy of the Bleecker name in the Americas. I shall record a copy for you. I hope you remember us and all we have fought to achieve from our landing here to this moment in history. When you come of age to carve your path, I would encourage you to read of our lineage and plan the future of the Bleecker legacy.

Sincerely,

Your Uncle Anthony 

In the year 1658, my great-grandfather, Jan Janson Bleecker, became the first in our family to arrive in the New World. He left his family in Holland at the age of sixteen. Barely a man, Jan settled in Beverwych, New Netherland, renamed in 1664 by the English Crown as Albany, New York. Jan became a colonial fighter for the English Crown at thirty-one, fighting against the French and the Indians. His son, my grandfather, often told me of the violence and dangers of being a militia man.

In one story my grandfather told Jan and other colonial fighters charged into the territories of the French and their savage allies. Soon after the fighting began, Jan's gun ceased functioning, and he was determined to continue the fight with his sword amongst the gunfire. Jan charged through the forest as the French began to flee from the Crown’s men. My grandfather told me when his father came home from the battle, the whole family was terrified a red man had come into the house to kill them. Jan’s wife’s hysteria calmed after she saw his clean, white skin. He brazenly survived the fight unharmed, only bloodied by the enemy's death.

That same decade, Jan became a captain of a militia and a part owner of a tract of land, the "Sarachtogie." My grandfather kept the sword his father was honored with by the Crown for his service. I remember the knicks on the blade, as its history sits on the wall next to his wedding portrait. My great-grandfather, Jan, received part ownership of the Saratoga land patent for his service and sacrifice.

His service graciously provided us to enjoy the privileges of various colonial and patriotic privileges for generations after him, like myself, who were born in this colony of the New World. During his service to the Crown, Jan was also engaged in land speculation and trade and became known in New York for his business. His trade involvement led to his receiving several positions in public office. On July 22nd, 1686, Albany became a city, and my great-grandfather held the title of City Chamberlain. In later years, he became Albany’s seventh mayor when the English Crown held it. My great-grandfather married the daughter of Rutger Jacobsen Van Schoenderwoert. The couple had ten children. Only two males passed on the Bleecker surname.

One of those children was my grandfather, Rutger. When I knew your great-grandfather, he loved to reminisce, always telling stories of our family and his life as a merchant with his brother Johannes. The tall, blond, and pale-faced brothers sold fur in New York like their father. Johannes was prone to explore the wooded areas beyond their land. One day when Johannes was sixteen, he went out into those same woods and did not return for a year. When Johannes did return, he told only my grandfather the truth of his capture. The day he did not come home, he was caught watching the Indian women bathing in a river close to their tribal lands. They kept him as a slave for months which allowed him to learn their native tongue and learn trading habits. Then a day came when several French men walked to the tribe to trade. Johannes was one of the good bartered to the French men. My grandfather said Johannes did not like the French and ran off the moment he could.

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