While working on a photo project, a memory burst into my head; one of my many projects dating back to my student days pursuing my Masters degree in the late 80’s. It led me to collect litter on sidewalks, fields and forests, beaches, parking lots, stores and more. Not the truly abhorrent kind such as the ever present debris–bottles, cigarette butts and other garbage but discarded litter–anything on paper. It is amazing how careless people are or unaware of their loss or just not caring about the environment. One of many stands out in my mind, long gone in efforts to downsize but still poignant. The item was Sophomore year high school worksheet, crumbled, damp but still legible. The following is a re-construction.
Your Assignment; write a short short story using the front and back of this paper only as needed. Be mindful of the use of grammar and form. Let your imagination fly. Due on TUESDAY.
My Story; Entitled A Fly Stared me in the Eye.
There I Sat deep in meadow, sobbing, sourfull trying to sleep. This is my escape. My parents fight and yell, usually at my bedtime. I am alone with no siblings, no pets, no neighbors I feel I can run to. Just me. The late spring is hot, no rain, iffy at this season in upper New York State. The stars shine and help me to sleep. Awakening at early dawn, warm from the beloved quilt that I have hugged from the age if 6 or 7. It is faded and soft now with some frayed areas, pinks, greens, blues, showing Alice in Wonderland falling down the rabbit hole. I feel the dew, smell the sweet flowers and reluctantly sit up trying to shake away my groggy head and the dried tears from my eyes knowing I should go into the house before my parents wake up. I hesitate just another moment and feel a tickle on my left arm. A fly. I flick it away. It returns. I try several times. It persists and then leaves my arm to hover as if saying “follow me.” But it is going the wrong way. I must get home and get into bed as if I had slept there all night. The next mornings were the same. the eyes of the fly small and dark appeared to be staring into my eyes asking for my trust.
One morning I tried following the adamment fly risking abuse for not being in the house. How many people are “adopted by a blackfly?” Breathless, I sat down at the edge of a brook, watching the fretful face, mine, shining back at me rippling with the flowing stream showing how wan, pale and sad I looked. During the last night’s nightly assault, my dad blurted out “Your mom’s become a dam lesbian and is divorcing me for her lover.” All I could think of was, her lover will probably be loving, gentle and sober. He stormed out of the house. Mom and I were alone, a rare event. We were not being insulted, verbally put down or punched. How tempting it was to lock the doors and barricade dad’s return and possible vengeance. We hugged and talked, something I had missed doing. She told me her plans that I would stay with her in this house that my dad would have to leave. Bravely I left the house seeking out the persistent blackfly. I walked, I sat, It was nowhere to be seen.
The paper was simply signed Amy, in small, pale print on top of the crumpled page.
Was this Amy’s only copy. Did she loose the paper on the way to school and fail the assignment? I will never, ever know.