Weekly exercise

An Evening

The man turned his head and died.

There was a light shining high above his head.

The lights buzzed in the empty halls that echoed with silence.

A shot broke out, throwing off the tranquility into chaos.

A breeze blew into a room.

A door opened at the end of the hallway, around the corner, where the darkness outside
didn’t show who was entering.

The sky outside was blackened by gray clouds that obscured the sliver of moon.

The leaves blew in the trees, while the wind made a low, whistling moan.

The sidewalks were all empty, except for the man walking towards the building.

A man was walking by himself down the walks amidst the trees.

The street lamps were mutedly shining through – or rather against – the night sky.

The yellow glow against the darkening bluish-black sky added to the wind’s coolness in
making the night have a sense of anticipation – a feeling that something was about
to happen, on the brink, but just out of reach, being brushed forward by the wind’s
fluid fingertips.

Back on the streets, the black streetcars sat motionless, sleeping along with their owners
that slept behind hushed, clouded windows.

A dark red truck made its way through the slowly blinking orange-yellow lights at the
edge of town, creeping around the curb to take a turn onto the hard earthen road
that faded into the clouds of darkness, swallowing the truck as it ambled up to a
house with darkened windows and black shadows gracing its porch chairs and
corners.

Down another road, coming from the west, a car disguised as ordinary rolls towards the
blinking red light that marks the turn towards the inner portion of town.

No one is out tonight.

Trouble seems as far from the landscapes and dozing buildings as the snow that covers
the footsteps of a stalking Indian in the native lands across the prairie.

The soft wings of moths grace the lampposts, brushing them with dust that sticks to the
textured, gray poles that will feel hard and cold in the dusk’s freezing chill when
winter comes, but now, graced with the moth’s gift, they are soft and subtly drawn into the muted, gray, embracing atmosphere.

A single bat kisses the horizon with its swooping circles and erratic wing-beats.

The empty, calm evening is hushed by the clouds gently hugging the edges of the town,
hills, and protecting it from the chilling night sky.

His wife lies in his bed, smiling in her sleep to think that he is hers and she is his, and that
he is next to her in this life and love and wondrously comforting, soothing, balmy
summer’s eve.

The empty space next to her is filled with blankets and pillows to fill his absence till he
should return.

She rolls over in her reverie, and sighs with content.

Non-traditional story form

The Journal of:

Valentina Stratini

Place of Birth: Venice, Italy


March 23, 1921

Dear Diary,

My name is Valentina Stratini. My friends call me Valie. I am 11 years old. I live with my mother in Venice, Italy. This is my first entry in this journal. I find that it is very difficult to express the feelings that are now within me. Mother has just told me that we will be leaving Italy tomorrow. She wishes to go to America, the United States. I don’t know if I want to go.
She has very good reasons for going. She says she cannot stand all the memories of father that Italy brings back. Father died two weeks ago. I miss him so much. I wish he was here now. Anyway, she also says that the disease that killed father is in Italy and we must get away from it as quickly as possible. She says that there are many opportunities that come from moving to the U S, such as freedom. Freedom to choose our religion, freedom of speech, freedom of dress, freedom of voting, and much more! I hear that an am-m-m, um, oh! amendment to the Constitution was passed saying that women and men are equal. That means that there are also many offers for a job for a woman. Believe that! Women being able to work, and vote! How exciting! To a woman of 34 years, these are very wonderful sounding, but to me, they just get me confused.
If I leave, I may never see any of my friends ever again. I feel so afraid and helpless. I wish I had someone to go to, so that I could pour out the feelings of my heart.

~Valentina

March 24, 1921

Dear Diary,

You are being written in from aboard the ship, the “Columbia.” It is so crowded in here. Early this morning, Mother woke me up so that we could get to the dock in time to board the ship. Well, we made it and here I am. The boat is ready to leave, but I am not. The teary faces of my friends stare after me. There’s Bella Frachini, Stella Bracco, Val Tralini (we call her Val and me Valie), Janelle Ricolini, and others. I stare into their faces until they are lost in the distance.
We have finally left the Italian shores. I remember all the happy memories that I have shared with them. Ah, how blissful! Then I remember that it is now and present. All my memories can never be lived again.
For food, we get nothing but dried bread and beans. But it doesn’t matter to me. I stare off into the watery horizon and daydream about the splendid feasts that I once enjoyed. Oh, does America really hold the “streets of gold” that my mother seeks?

~ Valentina

April 5, 1921

Dear Diary,

We have been on this dreadful ship for two horrible weeks. Many of the immigrants, as we are called, are suffering from cabin fever. Others from sea-sickness. It is awful to see the cheerful faces turn literally green. Worst of all, Mother is sick. So sick that the other immigrants let her have one of the few beds in the immigration section of the ship. Oh, I do hope that she will be all right!
The most terrifying thing happened last evening. A young mother and her baby were strolling down the deck when the mother was knocked over into the rail by the movement of the ship. Her child flew out of her arms and into the waves. She screamed, and dove in after it. She was tossed out of sight. What became of them, no one knows. Isn’t that just terribly awful!
The captain says that there are only one-and-a-half weeks left until the trip to Ellis Island is complete. I hope I survive until then.

~Valentina


April 20, 1921

Dear Diary,

Ellis Island at last! My hair is in bad need of washing and combing, and my body needs grooming. Poor Mama is still ill. An old man on the ship who is a doctor said that it is probably cholera. Cholera!!! Isn’t that what Papa died from?!!! Oh dear!
It feels so good to be on land again. It will take a while for us to get used to the firmness of the ground. As we file out of the ship, we meet the runner of the booth. We were asked ever so many questions. I, surprisingly, was let through without one single chalk mark. I wait patiently while they check Mother. What? What’s that they say?!! She won’t be let in because she’s ill!?! As they cover her coat with chalk marks, tears fill her eyes as she gazes at me one last time. I try to race towards her to keep them from dragging her away, but they hold me back.
If I felt alone as I was leaving my homeland, I certainly feel solitary now. I try to fight back tears, but all it does is increase the pain that stings my heart. Questions race through my head: Why, oh, why did they take my mother from me? What will become of me? Where am I to go?

~Valentina

April 21, 1921

Dear Diary,

Today is my first day in America. I am still in Ellis Island, where they let me stay for the night. Since I have money that is worth one dollar in U S money, I am going to be sent to an orphanage. Oh, how did this happen? Why am I here? Where did all my dreams run away to?
I know very little English, so I will not be able to talk to people much. All I know are the absolutely necessary words.
My life has been ruined by someone else’s dream.

~Valentina

Stock Characters

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