Sunday, January 07, 2007

BlogStory Ivan....And Then My Story

All right, all right Jaye Wells.

I'll play your game of "blog story". But then you have to put up with my novel fragment just below the actual game instructions and my tiny one-word input.

Yeah, it's my Black Icon again. Gee, some of us have a hard Icon to bear!

Beware of Ukies bearing gifts?

I'm really into potato famines, rejection, failure, pain, war, pestilence, hunger --the good stuff.

But I'll start with the instructions for the game.

Let’s write a blog story. Here’s how it works. I start with the first word below. Then you take that word and add another one and post it to a blog entry on your blog with these instructions. Then add the link to your part of the story to another person’s blog comment area like I did with the link to your blog added to the list. Anyone can end a sentence, but whoever does must start the next sentence with the next word. Please keep it family friendly. My adverb, "as" is so original! LOL Keep the story called BlogStory YOUR NAME - so we can track it through Technorati and/or Google.

Start of story:

Dark as ebony, cold as

End of Story

Story participants:

http://www.snarkthenews.com/
http://misswritenow.blogspot.com/
http://www.eamonroe.blogspot.com/
http://www.jayeblahg.blogspot.com/
http://www.creativewriting.ca/

I've probably effed it up, but at least I tried.
(I am told drunks can actually regenerate a part of their brain, the part used for hard thinking, even if drunk. Ha).


So, that done (I think), here is Chapter Fourteen of my magnum opus, THE BLACK ICON



Chapter Fourteen


Krakow, the bustling, nervous railway terminus was the first stop for the Galicians who wanted to go to Germany. From here on, there was a continuous connection clear to the German heartland. In the days following their arrival, dozens of Galicians, Roumanians and Hungarian civilians would be at the freight yards to pester the authorities about places and trains. In two days, Sophia managed to board a boxcar and win a corner for herself and the children. Once more the doors were shut and they were off.

Genyk got his nightmares back and Katerina would comfort him. Sohia would put some lard on the boys head, which had broken down into louse nits that were beginning to fester. At night, while the rails thumped under them, Genyk would hear Katerina crying softly. He would put his arms around her, and in his turn, in his inept young way, lisp out a story to her.


Katerina, now thirteen, intelligent, sensitive, eyes set wide apart, quietly nursed her new curse for the next five days. She said nothing to Sohia whose own inner world was in danger of collpse. There had been Danilo, the blond roofer, his hair alwalys falling over his eyes. How good it was to see him working on the roof, sixteen years old, brown forerearms like longbows. He would tease her. And she hated him. For minutes at a time. Where was he now? Dead? Running like her own family? She moved toward the crack of light, and put her face to it, as much as the vibration of the car would allow.

For the next four days, Sophia and the other families in the car practised the most basic communism possible. Everything was shared, including food and clothing. A system of sanitation was worked out, there was pot duty, and despite cramped quarters, darkness and endless motion, the families arrived in Bohh-Rhineland in surprisingly fair health and spirits.

Genyk, tired but curious, could not get over the recurring arches over every factory window the boxcar passed. The bricks were fanned out like the fingers of an uplifted hand. How can they arranged bricks like that without having gaps in-between the top parts of the arch? It wasn't until a few years later that Genyk realized that the bricks were irregularly-shaped to accommodate the arch.

Sophia's German, though very poor, was good enough to apprehend passersby and asking them about Michaels's adddress in Bonn.

After endless questioning and begging for rides, the family arrieved at Michel's front door; lousy, tired, slightly diseased and very hungry.

He was there to meet them, scratching his head and wondering how to respond. It had only been a few days since he had, by a miracle, been released from the concentraion camp because of repeated petitioning from his former boss, George Vogel, who insisted Michael was desperately needed at Mercedes-Benz, and that no one could replace him, and it would be a shame to murder a valuable man like that, valuable to the German war effort.

Geny could not get over the way his father had changed, how disheveled, how ordinary-looking and, say it on--how morose he looked.

Two years ago he had been such a god, such an exotic person. Now the overalled man who faced him was small, balding a little, tiny eyes, red, tired. His left hand was badaged and appeared useless.

And Michael, seeing this group of ragged, miserable migrants, somehow could not identify them as the healthy, sun-browned family so often on his mind. He kissed Sophia and the children. Mechanically, almost. He bade them in. The reaction on both sides had been a kind of shock.

He led them inside the house where his landlady was frying up potatoes. Three stomachs suddenly churned. Food. Eat. All sentimentality was forgotten in the frantic request for food.

After they had eaten and bathed, Michael, without any further niceties, demanded to see all his old clothing, his suits.

"Suits" Sophia asked in amazement. "Suits?" You're lucky enough to have us here in one piece. It was hard enough getting our bodies into those boxcars, let alone anything else!"

The children retreated inot a corner of the room, the impromptu spat new and frightening to them.

"You cold at least have packed them into tight bundles and brought them along."

"Fool," Sophia hissed at Michael.



Michael found work for Sophia in a restaurant, and economically, all seemed well. It was after the first week of the family's arrival that friction between Michael and Sophia flared up once more.

Michael came in one evening smelling of Schnapps. Before the concentration camp experience, the life of the single man had agreed with him and now, with the arrival of the family, he was completely unsettled.

"Where's supper?" he demanded of Sophia.

"Did St. Peter tell me that you would be in so early?" she snapped in reply.

"Never mind St. Peter," he shouted. "Where the hell is my supper?"

"Look, be reasonable," she said levelly. It is just now being cooked."

"You should have had it ready. You know how hard I work. I need my nourishment."

"Go to hell," she said, disgusted with him.

"You go to hell, you bitch. Here you come, bare-assed into Germany, you don't bring a single suit of mine or trace of our belongings and you dare to tell me to go to Hell.
"I'll bet you were the biggest whore in the village after I was gone. Go to Hell indeed! You wait. I'll question Genyk and Katerina about the men you were carrying on with while I was slaving away iin Germany, dying in the concentration camp."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she answered. "Unless you feel guilty about all the whores you'd been seeing while I was in the Ukraine and working my fingers to the bone, and starving when you didn't send any money...and you call me a whore, you bastard."

Michael said nothing. He began shuffling around the room, finally setting his oyes on a pot in which some meat was boiling.

"What's this garbage?"

"It's swill. Garbage for pigs like you to eat."

"Well, you can shove this garbage right up your ass," he said as he took the pot by the handle and yanked it off the stove, spilling the contents ofn the floor.
She nailed him across the shoulder with an aluminum pan.
There was neither supper nor rest that night for Michael, Sophia and the children.

.................................end Chapter Fourteen, THE BLACK ICON.



My what a domestic!
No wonder now and then I get into fights with bloggers.
Ha.

Ivan

8 comments:

ivan said...

O Lord.
Blogger has half-eaten my template.
And my sitemeter and my archive box.
Just trying this comment out to see if it gets in.

Ivan.

p.s.:

Who invented my life?

JR's Thumbprints said...

Weren't you supposed to pass that blogger story on? Or did I miss something? Not that I want it.

ivan said...

jr, thanks.

Yeah, I was supposed to pass it on.
Seems I was fighting both Baileys
Irish Cream and Blogger at the same time.
Seems when it comes to passtimes I am the "Girl With the Curl".
When she was good, she was very good; When she was bad she was horrid.
I ain't no girl, but I sure make mistakes a lot.
Should you change your mind, you can take the blog story and pass it on.
Thanks for pointing it out.
This is why I'm reluctant on memes and such. Writers hate time-killing passtimes.
Real camper, huh?
Trying to write good and then in comes something, you double-paste it and totally begaffle the Blogger editor . And screw up your blog while you're composing your own stuff on top the "blog story.

I guess I'm like the way the North Vietnamese described John McCain after they let him out of the tiger cage. "John McCain, after tiger cage, very cranky. Oh. Cranky man. Very cranky!"
Heh

ivan said...

jr, thanks.

Yeah, I was supposed to pass it on.
Seems I was fighting both Baileys
Irish Cream and Blogger at the same time.
Seems when it comes to passtimes I am the "Girl With the Curl".
When she was good, she was very good; When she was bad she was horrid.
I ain't no girl, but I sure make mistakes a lot.
Should you change your mind, you can take the blog story and pass it on.
Thanks for pointing it out.
This is why I'm reluctant on memes and such. Writers hate time-killing passtimes.
Real camper, huh?
Trying to write good and then in comes something, you double-paste it and totally begaffle the Blogger editor . And screw up your blog while you're composing your own stuff on top the "blog story.

I guess I'm like the way the North Vietnamese described John McCain after they let him out of the tiger cage. "John McCain, after tiger cage, very cranky. Oh. Cranky man. Very cranky!"
Heh

EA Monroe said...

Good morning, Ivan.
I rushed right over to see if you had stopped up the loo! ;-)

Everything looks fine from my end. I enjoyed the next chapter of The Black Icon.

Who did you pass the tag on to? JR?

ivan said...

Hi Liz,
Thanks.
I guess JR can have it if he wants it.
I somehow was driven half-mad with it. Pasted and copied too many links all at once. Confused Blogger. Confused me.
I am just now going to put in a new "safe" blog. No serious subject matter, just writin'
Gonna put it in and hope I don't lose my template again.
Hugs.

Ivan

ivan said...

p.s.:

I had to use a jackhammer on the loo.
I think life is trying to tell me that I am full of it.
Heh.

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