Hello all! It has been a very long while since I have posted on here but I have not forgotten, I promise. While I am hoping to have a new post, with details about my recent Cannock, England mission trip, up very soon, I thought I'd also share a piece of short fiction that I wrote a while back. This story was published by Samford University's Literary Arts magazine, Sojourn, back in February. But, for all of you who aren't on Samford's campus, I thought it would be fun to share. Hopefully new things will be coming soon but, for now, enjoy the story!
Fibers
The closet was pristine. A myriad of clothes hung on all sides of the large walk-in. The shirts hung on the right, white slowly fading into pink, pink slowly fading into red, and so on until every color of the rainbow faded in and out of each other in the seemingly most perfect system of organization. The pants hung under the shirts, the dresses hung on the left, and the shoes traveled the scope of the room – each organized in the same fashion, colors fading in and out.
She sat alone, in the middle of the floor, the black of her dress starkly contrasting with the bright white of the carpet, which hadn’t met a speck of dirt since it had been installed ten years earlier. Her shoes never saw mud; the ones that did were slowly and tenderly cleaned and polished until even the memory of grime was diminished.
She looked around at her collection, fondly breathing in the memories each piece held. The green blouse that she wore on her first day of college, the blue chiffon dress from her first date with Matt, the large, burnt orange maternity dress which she wore almost daily through all four of her pregnancies, the western-style cardigan she bought when the family vacationed in New Mexico – she thought of each piece just as dearly as each memory. She never threw anything away.
Sitting between her legs was a small, grimy wooden chest – the stained wood faded with age. She had been putting off opening it since last week, when Matt had handed it to her. He had just come from the old store. She had successfully avoided it up until now, leaving it several places - in her car, on the porch, in the garage - but this afternoon, when she went into her closet to remove the black dress, it was sitting there in the middle of the floor.
When she first saw the chest’s filthy presence inside her closet she immediately ran to remove it – but it was too late. The dirt had already fallen from the chest, deep into the fibers of her striking white carpet. No matter how lovingly and tenderly she scrubbed it the fibers would never let go of the stain it now possessed.
She knew Matt was responsible for placing the chest in her shelter. He had always pushed her to deal with her past. Throughout their 25 years of marriage Matt had tried several tactics that she constantly rebuffed until he finally seemed to give up entirely. But, after finding the chest, Matt had been relentlessly pressing her to open it.
The funeral was over. Mama had been buried on the family plot next to Papa and the two older sisters she never knew, neither making it past three years. Everything about today was final. This was Matt’s final push, and she knew it. Still, she felt she couldn’t leave the chest unopened. She knew he was right. She couldn’t avoid it any longer.
So there she was, legs splayed on either side of the chest, in a most un-ladylike position. Mama would have been appalled. She let her hands glide over the chest, carefully, as to not let any splinters find and puncture her fingers, and stopped them at the heavy iron latch. Opening the chest slowly, she braced herself for what she knew she would find. The color practically shone through the tiny crack in the lid. She lifted it out and held it up in the light. Aged but still bright: a yellow dress.
The cotton stiffly moved between her fingers as she lowered the dress to examine the skirt, made longer by adding new blocks of fabric to the bottom as she grew. The elegant pale yellow that started at the top faded into a vulgar yellow-orange with each new addition of fabric. The white thread that held the dreadful fabric together had snapped in disgust and was now slowly raveling its way out of the dress and into freedom. Her breathing became short and erratic. She closed her eyes and rocked back and forth, pressing the dress into her chest.
* * * * *
The rough oak floor creaked as she hurriedly entered the old country store. The new fabric was the first thing her eyes were drawn to. She had been praying for days that Mama would scrap the remains of the ugliest yellow dress she had ever seen. Since kindergarten Sadie had worn the thing, the yellow making her pale freckled skin look sickly and her red hair look like fire.
She always begged Mama to make a new dress – any color, any shape, any fabric would have been fine. They could sew it together. Maybe Mama would even tell her a story. Papa always told her Mama used to tell the best stories. On Fridays he would pick her up from school and take her out for ice cream. Fridays were her favorite. Papa would try to answer all of her questions: about life, God, her sisters, and, most importantly, Mama’s mind. No matter what she asked about Mama, Papa always finished his answer with the same statement:
“Now, Sadie, you’re Mama does love you, you know. It’s just that sometimes people don’t know how to ever let go of things. Sometimes people let pain settle in the fibers of their soul. It can get in the way of the rest of their life. It can hurt the people they love. But you’re Mama doesn’t mean it. She loves us.”
As brilliant as she thought her Papa was, Sadie always wondered if he was right. Especially when it came to her clothes, because every time she hit a growth spurt she’d come home from school to find Mama with a new yellow fabric, white thread, and the old wooden stool, ready to add another block and expand the sleeves. Still, as Mama absent-mindedly sewed, she would try to ask questions, talk, take in her voice. Maybe this time she would see the Mama that Papa had told her about.
Sadie had been growing a lot lately and, nearing eleven, she was about to grow a lot more. She was finishing her last few weeks of the 5th grade and was about to move up to middle school. With a new school, and several new inches in her legs, surely Mama would be willing to make her another dress.
She approached Mama cautiously, becoming more nervous with each step, and clumsily rushed through the suggestion, carefully studying Mama’s face as she asked for a new dress.
“Well, head on upstairs and wash up. Put on the dress on your way back down and I’ll give it a look and see if it’s worth scrapping.”
Hope swelled within her as she raced up the stairs and into the apartment. She hurriedly washed and dressed, then made her way back to the stairs but stopped when she saw Mama at the counter.
Mama sat at the counter surrounded by pieces of glass, twine, and paint. The glass was from the old barn windows that had been left over after the remodel. A few months ago Mama had said she was going to use the glass to make colored wind chimes to sell in the store, but up until now the pieces had just sat in a cardboard box. Intrigued, Sadie sat down on the stairs and looked on as her Mama molded these pieces into ornate ornaments.
Sadie watched as Mama painfully labored over the first two – cutting her hands on the glass, painting intricate designs on each one, tenderly binding the pieces together – she had never seen Mama dedicate so much attention, time, and emotion to anything in her life. When she was finished Mama lifted the two ornaments to examine them, the pride apparent on her face. Suddenly, the twine that bound the pieces together snapped – the glass shattering on the counter.
Mama spent several minutes silently staring at the broken pieces. Then she turned her attention to a third ornament, carelessly binding and painting. When it was finally finished, Mama gave a sigh and sloppily hung it over the register.
As the sun bled through the window, it caught the pieces of the small ornament – colors bursting into the room. She sat motionless on the stairs, entranced by the beauty of it all. The pieces of glass spun and swayed and the colors moved about the room – red fading into pink, pink fading into purple, purple fading into blue. She felt as if she had been entrapped in one of her toy kaleidoscopes. She turned to watch Mama’s reaction to the beauty she had created, but she only found Mama silently staring at the broken shards of glass that remained on the countertop. Immediately, Papa’s words began to echo in Sadie’s mind:
“It’s just that sometimes people don’t know how to ever let go of things.”
The orange of the sun faded to black as she despairingly watched Mama, the hope in her heart wilting away. She solemnly made her way down the stairs, grabbed the new yellow fabric, and stepped onto the wooden stool.
* * * * *
As she held the repulsive yellow cotton in her trembling hands she forced herself up, kicked the chest aside, and made her way into the kitchen. Rummaging through various drawers and cabinets, she finally found what she was searching for. She grabbed the match and began to walk away before turning back and pulling out a large soup pot. She then made her way to the porch.
She held the dress up to sky and watched as the setting sun surged through the cotton – brightening and distinguishing each fiber of yellow. Sadie remembered her Papa’s words once again.
“It’s just that sometimes people don’t know how to ever let go of things. Sometimes people let pain settle in the fibers of their soul.”
She thought of every story Mama never told and let the dress slowly drop into the pot.
“It’s time to let go, Mama.”
She lit the match. The multiple hues of yellow molded into a fiery orange and then faded into black.
Fibers
The closet was pristine. A myriad of clothes hung on all sides of the large walk-in. The shirts hung on the right, white slowly fading into pink, pink slowly fading into red, and so on until every color of the rainbow faded in and out of each other in the seemingly most perfect system of organization. The pants hung under the shirts, the dresses hung on the left, and the shoes traveled the scope of the room – each organized in the same fashion, colors fading in and out.
She sat alone, in the middle of the floor, the black of her dress starkly contrasting with the bright white of the carpet, which hadn’t met a speck of dirt since it had been installed ten years earlier. Her shoes never saw mud; the ones that did were slowly and tenderly cleaned and polished until even the memory of grime was diminished.
She looked around at her collection, fondly breathing in the memories each piece held. The green blouse that she wore on her first day of college, the blue chiffon dress from her first date with Matt, the large, burnt orange maternity dress which she wore almost daily through all four of her pregnancies, the western-style cardigan she bought when the family vacationed in New Mexico – she thought of each piece just as dearly as each memory. She never threw anything away.
Sitting between her legs was a small, grimy wooden chest – the stained wood faded with age. She had been putting off opening it since last week, when Matt had handed it to her. He had just come from the old store. She had successfully avoided it up until now, leaving it several places - in her car, on the porch, in the garage - but this afternoon, when she went into her closet to remove the black dress, it was sitting there in the middle of the floor.
When she first saw the chest’s filthy presence inside her closet she immediately ran to remove it – but it was too late. The dirt had already fallen from the chest, deep into the fibers of her striking white carpet. No matter how lovingly and tenderly she scrubbed it the fibers would never let go of the stain it now possessed.
She knew Matt was responsible for placing the chest in her shelter. He had always pushed her to deal with her past. Throughout their 25 years of marriage Matt had tried several tactics that she constantly rebuffed until he finally seemed to give up entirely. But, after finding the chest, Matt had been relentlessly pressing her to open it.
The funeral was over. Mama had been buried on the family plot next to Papa and the two older sisters she never knew, neither making it past three years. Everything about today was final. This was Matt’s final push, and she knew it. Still, she felt she couldn’t leave the chest unopened. She knew he was right. She couldn’t avoid it any longer.
So there she was, legs splayed on either side of the chest, in a most un-ladylike position. Mama would have been appalled. She let her hands glide over the chest, carefully, as to not let any splinters find and puncture her fingers, and stopped them at the heavy iron latch. Opening the chest slowly, she braced herself for what she knew she would find. The color practically shone through the tiny crack in the lid. She lifted it out and held it up in the light. Aged but still bright: a yellow dress.
The cotton stiffly moved between her fingers as she lowered the dress to examine the skirt, made longer by adding new blocks of fabric to the bottom as she grew. The elegant pale yellow that started at the top faded into a vulgar yellow-orange with each new addition of fabric. The white thread that held the dreadful fabric together had snapped in disgust and was now slowly raveling its way out of the dress and into freedom. Her breathing became short and erratic. She closed her eyes and rocked back and forth, pressing the dress into her chest.
* * * * *
The rough oak floor creaked as she hurriedly entered the old country store. The new fabric was the first thing her eyes were drawn to. She had been praying for days that Mama would scrap the remains of the ugliest yellow dress she had ever seen. Since kindergarten Sadie had worn the thing, the yellow making her pale freckled skin look sickly and her red hair look like fire.
She always begged Mama to make a new dress – any color, any shape, any fabric would have been fine. They could sew it together. Maybe Mama would even tell her a story. Papa always told her Mama used to tell the best stories. On Fridays he would pick her up from school and take her out for ice cream. Fridays were her favorite. Papa would try to answer all of her questions: about life, God, her sisters, and, most importantly, Mama’s mind. No matter what she asked about Mama, Papa always finished his answer with the same statement:
“Now, Sadie, you’re Mama does love you, you know. It’s just that sometimes people don’t know how to ever let go of things. Sometimes people let pain settle in the fibers of their soul. It can get in the way of the rest of their life. It can hurt the people they love. But you’re Mama doesn’t mean it. She loves us.”
As brilliant as she thought her Papa was, Sadie always wondered if he was right. Especially when it came to her clothes, because every time she hit a growth spurt she’d come home from school to find Mama with a new yellow fabric, white thread, and the old wooden stool, ready to add another block and expand the sleeves. Still, as Mama absent-mindedly sewed, she would try to ask questions, talk, take in her voice. Maybe this time she would see the Mama that Papa had told her about.
Sadie had been growing a lot lately and, nearing eleven, she was about to grow a lot more. She was finishing her last few weeks of the 5th grade and was about to move up to middle school. With a new school, and several new inches in her legs, surely Mama would be willing to make her another dress.
She approached Mama cautiously, becoming more nervous with each step, and clumsily rushed through the suggestion, carefully studying Mama’s face as she asked for a new dress.
“Well, head on upstairs and wash up. Put on the dress on your way back down and I’ll give it a look and see if it’s worth scrapping.”
Hope swelled within her as she raced up the stairs and into the apartment. She hurriedly washed and dressed, then made her way back to the stairs but stopped when she saw Mama at the counter.
Mama sat at the counter surrounded by pieces of glass, twine, and paint. The glass was from the old barn windows that had been left over after the remodel. A few months ago Mama had said she was going to use the glass to make colored wind chimes to sell in the store, but up until now the pieces had just sat in a cardboard box. Intrigued, Sadie sat down on the stairs and looked on as her Mama molded these pieces into ornate ornaments.
Sadie watched as Mama painfully labored over the first two – cutting her hands on the glass, painting intricate designs on each one, tenderly binding the pieces together – she had never seen Mama dedicate so much attention, time, and emotion to anything in her life. When she was finished Mama lifted the two ornaments to examine them, the pride apparent on her face. Suddenly, the twine that bound the pieces together snapped – the glass shattering on the counter.
Mama spent several minutes silently staring at the broken pieces. Then she turned her attention to a third ornament, carelessly binding and painting. When it was finally finished, Mama gave a sigh and sloppily hung it over the register.
As the sun bled through the window, it caught the pieces of the small ornament – colors bursting into the room. She sat motionless on the stairs, entranced by the beauty of it all. The pieces of glass spun and swayed and the colors moved about the room – red fading into pink, pink fading into purple, purple fading into blue. She felt as if she had been entrapped in one of her toy kaleidoscopes. She turned to watch Mama’s reaction to the beauty she had created, but she only found Mama silently staring at the broken shards of glass that remained on the countertop. Immediately, Papa’s words began to echo in Sadie’s mind:
“It’s just that sometimes people don’t know how to ever let go of things.”
The orange of the sun faded to black as she despairingly watched Mama, the hope in her heart wilting away. She solemnly made her way down the stairs, grabbed the new yellow fabric, and stepped onto the wooden stool.
* * * * *
As she held the repulsive yellow cotton in her trembling hands she forced herself up, kicked the chest aside, and made her way into the kitchen. Rummaging through various drawers and cabinets, she finally found what she was searching for. She grabbed the match and began to walk away before turning back and pulling out a large soup pot. She then made her way to the porch.
She held the dress up to sky and watched as the setting sun surged through the cotton – brightening and distinguishing each fiber of yellow. Sadie remembered her Papa’s words once again.
“It’s just that sometimes people don’t know how to ever let go of things. Sometimes people let pain settle in the fibers of their soul.”
She thought of every story Mama never told and let the dress slowly drop into the pot.
“It’s time to let go, Mama.”
She lit the match. The multiple hues of yellow molded into a fiery orange and then faded into black.