wellownedbkup (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wellownedbkup) wrote2009-11-01 02:17 am
wellownedbkup) wrote2009-11-01 02:17 am
Entry tags:
(this mortal coil) Her Hope Chest
Title: Her Hope Chest
Prompt: China (brigits_flame, November, Week 1)
Verse: This Mortal Coil (NaNo 09), Apocrypha
They’re twelve years old when she first shows him her trunk, and Joe’s pa’s given him the afternoon to follow Annie around wherever she’ll lead him. Her hope chest, she calls it, and the sunshine bright of her smile only adds to the mischievous dimple in her left cheek, almost too bright to be contained in one person. Twelve years old and dust motes are like a halo in the streak of summer cutting a swathe across her room.
She makes him promise over and over that he won’t break anything. Won’t touch anything that she doesn’t specifically place in his hands for him to hold. “It’s delicate,” she says slowly, like the sun has his brain over-addled or that he hasn’t heard it all from her before. He sighs, and if he wasn’t nearly so enamored of her, he’d be fishing right now. The creek behind their houses is still just high enough that he’s likely to catch at least a little something. And lying on the bank is definitely more restful than kneeling beside Annie’s bed and being polite to her mama when she invites him to stay for dinner. But, somehow, this girl, his Annie? She’s got him wrapped around her too-tanned little finger.
The chest opens with almost no struggle at all, the lid heavy and solid enough to keep out the dust and the weather that whips around out in the middle of Nowhere, South Dakota. Annie’s sigh at the dress folded on top with a sprig of lavender lets him know almost immediately what it is, if he wasn’t clear before when she called it her hope chest.
“Your ma’s dress?” he asks, knowing that his question is what she most wants to hear.
She nods quickly. “She wore it at her wedding back East. Finest dress in Chicago, my daddy said. Made for the prettiest girl he ever did saw.” She runs her fingers across the lace at the high neck gently, afraid of snagging a thread out of place and too used to the fussing about her hands not being as soft as a woman’s hands should be. Out here, it shouldn’t be that way, but standards are always standards. “Isn’t it beautiful, Joe?”
He nods, happy if she’s happy. “Bet your ma was something special.” He blushes softly. “Bet you’ll look pretty as a picture in it.”
She chuckles a little and brushes a kiss to his cheek before moving the dress out of the trunk to lay safely on the bed, uncovering the treasures beneath. It’s not too much yet, he knows. It’s enough to make a good start, though. Lace curtains that he’s seen Annie and her mother work on every now and again when he stopped by during the holidays, if the snow drifts didn’t keep him away. There are other things as well tucked here and there in the box, table cloths and bed linens. She shows him a handful of handkerchiefs she’s been working on shyly.
“I trimmed the ends myself. Aren’t they pretty?”
He rubs his finger and thumb along the ribbon bound edge, wondering if she knows how feminine the handkerchiefs are, how unlikely it is that her future husband would carry such a thing around when the work to be done would need something sturdier, more up to the wear and tear of farming and cattle raising. The look of hope in her eyes, though, stops him from saying anything along that line of thought. He smiles sweetly and hands them back gently, nodding his head and relieved he hadn’t tattered the edges. “They’re something special, Annie.”
She beams, proudly basking in his scant praise.
He leans over the scalloped edge of the cedar chest, one hand catching in the painted filigree on the corner. At the bottom of the box, set more gently than anything else, he sees some delicate china plates. He almost reaches in before he jerks back and looks questioningly at Annie. “Can I?” Her eyes wide, she reaches in instead and pulls out the smallest saucer left free on the top of the stack and holds it between their kneeling figures.
The plate barely looks like it can stand up to wind and air, let alone any kind of food, and Joe is fascinated by it. He runs a fingertip lightly along the rim, feeling the hand painted bumps of each rosebud and leaf and vine that curls therein. He marvels at it, thinking back at his own plate at home, hard stoneware piece of a plate. He’s sure that he’s dropped his own plate about a dozen times in the past week alone, grateful it’s stayed intact every time. He can’t bring himself to hold such a delicate flip of dinnerware and sits back carefully.
“It’s beautiful, Annie.”
She puts it carefully back into the chest, tucking some linens around it to safeguard it from breaking. “Ma said it was her mother’s mother’s plates. She said that, before Ma moved out west, they were still being used at Grandmother Mae’s special suppers when Grandfather Ernest was still alive. She called them heirlooms, like they’ve been in the family for ages.”
Joe doesn’t know quite what to say, instead helping her quietly put the trunk back together. The last thing she puts in is the dress, smoothing the fabric one more time before quickly patting the lavender. It still smells fresh, and Joe figures that they probably open it often, working on Annie’s hope chest whenever they get the chance to add another piece. He stops her just before she gets to the ladder back down to the kitchen.
“Why’d you show me all this stuff, Annie?”
She laughs and gives him a quick hug. “Joseph, I was trying to let you know that when you ask me to marry you, I won’t be coming to you with nothing. And I’ll be ready whenever you are.”
Joe stands in the room for a long time after her fiery red hair disappears through the floor, feeling like the wind has been knocked clear out of him. That Annie Harper sure had him wrapped around her little finger. 12 years old, with dust motes caught in the spray of sunlight cutting through her bedroom and he knows, sure as shooting, that he’s got a damn fine future ahead.
Prompt: China (brigits_flame, November, Week 1)
Verse: This Mortal Coil (NaNo 09), Apocrypha
They’re twelve years old when she first shows him her trunk, and Joe’s pa’s given him the afternoon to follow Annie around wherever she’ll lead him. Her hope chest, she calls it, and the sunshine bright of her smile only adds to the mischievous dimple in her left cheek, almost too bright to be contained in one person. Twelve years old and dust motes are like a halo in the streak of summer cutting a swathe across her room.
She makes him promise over and over that he won’t break anything. Won’t touch anything that she doesn’t specifically place in his hands for him to hold. “It’s delicate,” she says slowly, like the sun has his brain over-addled or that he hasn’t heard it all from her before. He sighs, and if he wasn’t nearly so enamored of her, he’d be fishing right now. The creek behind their houses is still just high enough that he’s likely to catch at least a little something. And lying on the bank is definitely more restful than kneeling beside Annie’s bed and being polite to her mama when she invites him to stay for dinner. But, somehow, this girl, his Annie? She’s got him wrapped around her too-tanned little finger.
The chest opens with almost no struggle at all, the lid heavy and solid enough to keep out the dust and the weather that whips around out in the middle of Nowhere, South Dakota. Annie’s sigh at the dress folded on top with a sprig of lavender lets him know almost immediately what it is, if he wasn’t clear before when she called it her hope chest.
“Your ma’s dress?” he asks, knowing that his question is what she most wants to hear.
She nods quickly. “She wore it at her wedding back East. Finest dress in Chicago, my daddy said. Made for the prettiest girl he ever did saw.” She runs her fingers across the lace at the high neck gently, afraid of snagging a thread out of place and too used to the fussing about her hands not being as soft as a woman’s hands should be. Out here, it shouldn’t be that way, but standards are always standards. “Isn’t it beautiful, Joe?”
He nods, happy if she’s happy. “Bet your ma was something special.” He blushes softly. “Bet you’ll look pretty as a picture in it.”
She chuckles a little and brushes a kiss to his cheek before moving the dress out of the trunk to lay safely on the bed, uncovering the treasures beneath. It’s not too much yet, he knows. It’s enough to make a good start, though. Lace curtains that he’s seen Annie and her mother work on every now and again when he stopped by during the holidays, if the snow drifts didn’t keep him away. There are other things as well tucked here and there in the box, table cloths and bed linens. She shows him a handful of handkerchiefs she’s been working on shyly.
“I trimmed the ends myself. Aren’t they pretty?”
He rubs his finger and thumb along the ribbon bound edge, wondering if she knows how feminine the handkerchiefs are, how unlikely it is that her future husband would carry such a thing around when the work to be done would need something sturdier, more up to the wear and tear of farming and cattle raising. The look of hope in her eyes, though, stops him from saying anything along that line of thought. He smiles sweetly and hands them back gently, nodding his head and relieved he hadn’t tattered the edges. “They’re something special, Annie.”
She beams, proudly basking in his scant praise.
He leans over the scalloped edge of the cedar chest, one hand catching in the painted filigree on the corner. At the bottom of the box, set more gently than anything else, he sees some delicate china plates. He almost reaches in before he jerks back and looks questioningly at Annie. “Can I?” Her eyes wide, she reaches in instead and pulls out the smallest saucer left free on the top of the stack and holds it between their kneeling figures.
The plate barely looks like it can stand up to wind and air, let alone any kind of food, and Joe is fascinated by it. He runs a fingertip lightly along the rim, feeling the hand painted bumps of each rosebud and leaf and vine that curls therein. He marvels at it, thinking back at his own plate at home, hard stoneware piece of a plate. He’s sure that he’s dropped his own plate about a dozen times in the past week alone, grateful it’s stayed intact every time. He can’t bring himself to hold such a delicate flip of dinnerware and sits back carefully.
“It’s beautiful, Annie.”
She puts it carefully back into the chest, tucking some linens around it to safeguard it from breaking. “Ma said it was her mother’s mother’s plates. She said that, before Ma moved out west, they were still being used at Grandmother Mae’s special suppers when Grandfather Ernest was still alive. She called them heirlooms, like they’ve been in the family for ages.”
Joe doesn’t know quite what to say, instead helping her quietly put the trunk back together. The last thing she puts in is the dress, smoothing the fabric one more time before quickly patting the lavender. It still smells fresh, and Joe figures that they probably open it often, working on Annie’s hope chest whenever they get the chance to add another piece. He stops her just before she gets to the ladder back down to the kitchen.
“Why’d you show me all this stuff, Annie?”
She laughs and gives him a quick hug. “Joseph, I was trying to let you know that when you ask me to marry you, I won’t be coming to you with nothing. And I’ll be ready whenever you are.”
Joe stands in the room for a long time after her fiery red hair disappears through the floor, feeling like the wind has been knocked clear out of him. That Annie Harper sure had him wrapped around her little finger. 12 years old, with dust motes caught in the spray of sunlight cutting through her bedroom and he knows, sure as shooting, that he’s got a damn fine future ahead.
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i think i'll probably be intimately acquainted with caffeine by the time this is over.
good luck with nano! and idol. i enjoy reading your work, even if i don't always comment.
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I am so glad I was assigned this story. It's extremely endearing, reminding of Richard Paul Evans or Mitch Album with it's subtle nature and warmth.
Is this an independent story or an excerpt of your NaNo? I can completely envision it as either, which is why I ask.
I especially enjoy the authentic voice, the country dialect given.
This was such a joy to read. Thank you so much for sharing it.
:)
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i'm so glad you enjoyed it! i'm going to have to look up those authors so i'm clearer on what you mean, but i'm flattered to be in such company in your eyes.
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They’re twelve years old when she first shows him her trunk, and Joe’s pa’s given him the afternoon to follow Annie around wherever she’ll lead him. Her hope chest, she calls it, and the sunshine bright of her smile only adds to the mischievous dimple in her left cheek, almost too bright to be contained in one person. Twelve years old and dust motes are like a halo in the streak of summer cutting a swathe across her room.
Great imagery here! In the last sentence, it sounds like the halo has nothing to do with Annie, that it is only a part of the strip of sunshine in the room. You could try “. . .with a halo of dust motes floating in the streak . . .” or “Twelve years old, and the dust motes in the streak of summer cutting a swathe across her room a halo ‘round her.”
She makes him promise over and over that he won’t break anything. Won’t touch anything that she doesn’t specifically place in his hands for him to hold. “It’s delicate,” she says slowly, like the sun has his brain over-addled or that he hasn’t heard it all from her before.
If this is the first time he’s seen the contents of her hope chest, how has he heard it all before?
He sighs, and if he wasn’t nearly so enamored of her, he’d be fishing right now. The creek behind their houses is still just high enough that he’s likely to catch at least a little something. And lying on the bank is definitely more restful than kneeling beside Annie’s bed and being polite to her mama when she invites him to stay for dinner. But, somehow, this girl, his Annie? She’s got him wrapped around her too-tanned little finger.
Your evocation of summer is so vivid, it’s heartbreaking on a rainy November weekend :D Also, “too-tanned little finger” is such a telling detail- even if you know nothing about American culture of the late 19th century, you get the idea that it’s not really good for a young woman to have browned hands.
</>The chest opens with almost no struggle at all, the lid heavy and solid enough to keep out the dust and the weather that whips around out in the middle of Nowhere, South Dakota.
Replace ‘struggle’ with ‘effort’- struggle makes it sound like the trunk is actively resisting opening. Also- you may want to consider capitalizing ‘middle’- it would make ‘middle of nowhere’ more of a title; unless Nowhere is the name of the town they all live in.
Annie’s sigh at the dress folded on top with a sprig of lavender lets him know almost immediately what it is, if he wasn’t clear before when she called it her hope chest.
“Your ma’s dress?” he asks, knowing that his question is what she most wants to hear.
Your boy is pretty smart; if he were in a more populated area, he’d have all the girls fighting over him :D Again, you give the impression that he’s seen these things before, or at least heard about them. If the later, you may want to let the reader know that.
She nods quickly. “She wore it at her wedding back East. Finest dress in Chicago, my daddy said. Made for the prettiest girl he ever did saw.” She runs her fingers across the lace at the high neck gently, afraid of snagging a thread out of place and too used to the fussing about her hands not being as soft as a woman’s hands should be. Out here, it shouldn’t be that way, but standards are always standards. “Isn’t it beautiful, Joe?”
Again, nice cultural details. You could make the second sentence flow better by removing the ‘and’. Also, does she fuss about her hands, or is it her mother? You could clarify this a bit by taking out ‘the’, and replacing it with ‘her mamma’s’, if it is her mother.
He nods, happy if she’s happy. “Bet your ma was something special.” He blushes softly. “Bet you’ll look pretty as a picture in it.”
Again, your boy is such a charmer! So sweet!
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She chuckles a little and brushes a kiss to his cheek before moving the dress out of the trunk to lay safely on the bed, uncovering the treasures beneath. It’s not too much yet, he knows.
Again, I get the sense that this is a ritual between them; “it’s not too much yet” sounds like something he’s heard from her before, not something he would know on his own. Change ‘lay safely on the bed’ to ‘lie safely on the bed’, or ‘and lays it safely on the bed’.
It’s enough to make a good start, though. Lace curtains that he’s seen Annie and her mother work on every now and again when he stopped by during the holidays, if the snow drifts didn’t keep him away. There are other things as well tucked here and there in the box, table cloths and bed linens. She shows him a handful of handkerchiefs she’s been working on shyly.
Replace the ‘if’ with ‘when’; ‘if’ is for things that are possible in the future. Also, place the ‘shyly’ before ‘shows’; the way you have this structured makes it seem as if she’s been shy about working on the handkerchiefs, not about showing them to him.
“I trimmed the ends myself. Aren’t they pretty?”
He rubs his finger and thumb along the ribbon bound edge, wondering if she knows how feminine the handkerchiefs are, how unlikely it is that her future husband would carry such a thing around when the work to be done would need something sturdier, more up to the wear and tear of farming and cattle raising. The look of hope in her eyes, though, stops him from saying anything along that line of thought. He smiles sweetly and hands them back gently, nodding his head and relieved he hadn’t tattered the edges. “They’re something special, Annie.”
She beams, proudly basking in his scant praise.
Another beautifully sweet detail. Are the handkerchiefs meant for her, or her future husband? I got the impression that the boy was misunderstanding what they were meant for; I doubt that any girl’s mother would let her trim men’s handkerchiefs with ribbon.
He leans over the scalloped edge of the cedar chest, one hand catching in the painted filigree on the corner. At the bottom of the box, set more gently than anything else, he sees some delicate china plates. He almost reaches in before he jerks back and looks questioningly at Annie. “Can I?” Her eyes wide, she reaches in instead and pulls out the smallest saucer left free on the top of the stack and holds it between their kneeling figures.
You are doing a tremendous job of conveying the almost sacred meaning of these things without saying “the contents of Annie’s hope chest were sacred to her.” :D
The plate barely looks like it can stand up to wind and air, let alone any kind of food, and Joe is fascinated by it. He runs a fingertip lightly along the rim, feeling the hand painted bumps of each rosebud and leaf and vine that curls therein. He marvels at it, thinking back at his own plate at home, hard stoneware piece of a plate. He’s sure that he’s dropped his own plate about a dozen times in the past week alone, grateful it’s stayed intact every time. He can’t bring himself to hold such a delicate flip of dinnerware and sits back carefully.
Beautiful juxtaposition of the sublime and the ordinary!
“It’s beautiful, Annie.” I feel like you could add something about his behavior or his feelings.
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She puts it carefully back into the chest, tucking some linens around it to safeguard it from breaking. “Ma said it was her mother’s mother’s plates. She said that, before Ma moved out west, they were still being used at Grandmother Mae’s special suppers when Grandfather Ernest was still alive. She called them heirlooms, like they’ve been in the family for ages.”
Change “Ma said it was . . .” to “Ma said they were . . .” I know I keep saying this, but you do such a good job of placing this scene in the culture of the Westward Expansion.
Joe doesn’t know quite what to say, instead helping her quietly put the trunk back together. The last thing she puts in is the dress, smoothing the fabric one more time before quickly patting the lavender. It still smells fresh, and Joe figures that they probably open it often, working on Annie’s hope chest whenever they get the chance to add another piece. He stops her just before she gets to the ladder back down to the kitchen.
“Why’d you show me all this stuff, Annie?” Again, lovely, and this shows that he’s never seen the chest before.
She laughs and gives him a quick hug. “Joseph, I was trying to let you know that when you ask me to marry you, I won’t be coming to you with nothing. And I’ll be ready whenever you are.”
this is funny; such blunt salesmanship!
Joe stands in the room for a long time after her fiery red hair disappears through the floor, feeling like the wind has been knocked clear out of him. That Annie Harper sure had him wrapped around her little finger. 12 years old, with dust motes caught in the spray of sunlight cutting through her bedroom and he knows, sure as shooting, that he’s got a damn fine future ahead.
This is sweet, a really fine, tight ending to this piece. You might want to think about changing ‘with dust motes’ to ‘standing in the dust motes’ or ‘watching the dust motes’. It would make light and dust more part of the scene.
I love this! It’s so sweet, and intimate! You’ve done a great job with the atmosphere and culture of late 19th century America. Bravo, this was a pleasure to edit!
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I'll be making a few suggestions for improving the flow, keep in mind they're just that: suggestions. You only had minor grammatical/punctuation errors. Also, I'm a true hick, so I appreciate the dialect you have here :D
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*She makes him promise over and over that he won’t break anything. Won’t touch anything that she doesn’t specifically place in his hands for him to hold. Placing a semicolon between anything and [w]on't, combining the sentences into one with a slight pause, I think will improve your flow. Also, I agree with your first editor on or that he hasn’t heard it all from her before. This is his first gander at the hope chest, so that sentence doesn't jive.
*And lying on the bank is definitely more restful than kneeling beside Annie’s bed and being polite to her mama when she invites him to stay for dinner. But, somehow, this girl, his Annie? She’s got him wrapped around her too-tanned little finger. This is just a teensy awkward. My suggestion would be to leave off the "And" at the beginning of the first sentence. For the last two sentences, my suggestion would be: (combine sentences), but somehow this girl, his Annie... she's got him wrapped around her too-tanned little finger. The comma isn't necessary after somehow, and in my opinion, adding the ellipsis brings a dreamy quality to Joe's obvious possessive feelings. He's all moon-eyed over this girl and I envision him sighing a little before thinking about "his Annie" :D
*She runs her fingers across the lace at the high neck gently, afraid of snagging a thread out of place and too used to the fussing about her hands not being as soft as a woman’s hands should be. I would restructure this. Possibly: She runs her fingers across the lace at the high neck gently, afraid of snagging a thread out of place. Her hands weren't as soft as a woman's should be.
*“Bet your ma was something special.” This is a bit confusing. I think he's trying to say she was something special on her wedding day years ago, but I got the impression for a second that ma "was", as in she's gone now, but she was just mentioned inviting him for dinner. You may want to clarify that.
*trunk to lay safely on the bed, uncovering the treasures beneath. Should be: lay (it) safely
*tucking some linens around it to safeguard it from breaking. You can actually remove "some" from this sentence, it causes a conflict with the plural form of linen.
*“Ma said it was her mother’s mother’s plates. This is awkward. You could improve it by saying: "Ma said these plates belonged to her mother's mother."
*12 years old, with dust motes caught in the spray of sunlight cutting through her bedroom and he knows, sure as shooting, that he’s got a damn fine future ahead. I think "12" should be spelled out, and in my opinion "shooting" should be shootin'.
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Alrighty! I'm all finished! This is a very sweet story, I just loved it. Great job with conveying the emotion and making the imagery so vivid!
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