A couple months after the international banquet, we had solidified a tradition of weekly drinks and story swapping. We sat on her parents’ veranda, under mosquito netting, chatting like old friends. “Have you ever read Blake’s poem, ‘Tyger, Tyger?’” Ana asked. She didn’t wait for an answer, but began reciting as her hands danced in front of her face.
“TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,”
It was as though she were beckoning her muse to come closer. Her fingers brushed the netting, making the shadows dance.
“What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?”
Ana’s eyes were focused on the black ring of jungle beyond the back porch. A dull moon lit the shiny leaves.
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?”
Her hand lingered over the candles whose light danced on the netting. Her irises were golden rings around her wide pupil. I wasn’t breathing. The adrenaline was making me antsy as I tried to follow Ana’s eyes.
With a flick of her hand, she extinguished the few tiny flames. I instinctively reached towards my right hip, and that’s when it happened. Something in the brush off to the right rustled. Two beady eyes peered at us, and I choked back a scream. Fuck, I thought, Fuck civvies…no gun. Ana just started laughing, as I pulled the netting down on top of us.
“What in the hell’s so funny?” I snapped. She caught her breath and pointed. In the moonlight silver fur flashed as a little monkey darted back into the forest.
“I thought you were more collected, Private J—–,” she mocked, “But if you’re in the mood, I have a story that will really get your heart pumping—a feline story to rival Blake’s poetry, if you will.”
Thursday, June 23, 2011
The Narrator of Into the Pale
Narrator:
Full name—Jensen (God is gracious) Bryne (Fire) Burkrist
Peculiar Traits –
Jensen Bryne smokes (not picky)
Black coffee drinker
Both only as a side-dish to chill time
Keeps a military issued switch blade in her right boot at all times
When nervous, she gets quiet and presses her hands to her sides
Enjoys travel—architecture-and-if you could make a band that incorporated Enya, Dido, Imogen Heap, and Edward Maya, she'd listen to that band.
Date of Birth/Age—born 1980. January 9th
Full name—Jensen (God is gracious) Bryne (Fire) Burkrist
Peculiar Traits –
Jensen Bryne smokes (not picky)
Black coffee drinker
Both only as a side-dish to chill time
Keeps a military issued switch blade in her right boot at all times
When nervous, she gets quiet and presses her hands to her sides
Enjoys travel—architecture-and-if you could make a band that incorporated Enya, Dido, Imogen Heap, and Edward Maya, she'd listen to that band.
Date of Birth/Age—born 1980. January 9th
Monday, May 2, 2011
More of Into the Pale...
Ana Flynn grew up to be an extremely combative and confrontational woman. She spent her childhood dodging insults, rumors, and slurs because of her appearance. The only retort she could bring against the taunts and laughter was an excuse that, “One day, our race will be pure, and no child will have to worry about eyes that are not black. Until then, this is me, and I am one of you.” Hot weekend excursions usually led to some sort of skirmish between Ana and most of the local boys. Monkey hunting turned into Mwakadi hunting.
I first met Ana at an international banquet celebrating the fall of Portugal to North African troops. Her straight and confident posture hid the tension in her features as she methodically chewed her food.
Her eyes were surveying the room as she listened in on conversations around the table, and as she lingered on the figure of her mother across the table, we both reached for the glass water pitcher. Her startling eyes snapped towards me.
“I-I-I’m…excuse me Madame Flynn,” I stammered out, “Let me pour a glass for you.” My hands were shaking.
“Thank you, Miss…”
“Private B—–.”
Ana relaxed as I set the glass near her bread plate.
“Private, it is not often that one dares to speak to a member of my rank so freely,” I tensed, unable to read her smirk, but—
“I enjoy the change.” Ana’s mouth let a thin smile escape her lips, and she winked, ever so slightly.
Her mother, Getty Mwakadi, rose at that moment to thunderous applause. Thousands of hands were honoring Ana’s mother, when within a few years, they would be murdering them both. General and Mr. Mwakadi held hands as the microphone was handed to them. Ana’s posture regained its inflexibility as the cameras panned to our table.
“My husband, Marshall Flynn, and I, General Getty Mwakadi, are honored to be here
tonight in celebration of this great victory. Though this is only one small country from which to tie the first millstone—it is a great millstone which we tie. Though this victory is over a small country, our forces are enough to flood the oppressors, blot out their lives as they have done to us.” General Mwakadi paused to cheers and passed the microphone to her husband. Taking a bow, she sat again, with a smug glance to her daughter. Ana’s façade did not change."
I first met Ana at an international banquet celebrating the fall of Portugal to North African troops. Her straight and confident posture hid the tension in her features as she methodically chewed her food.
Her eyes were surveying the room as she listened in on conversations around the table, and as she lingered on the figure of her mother across the table, we both reached for the glass water pitcher. Her startling eyes snapped towards me.
“I-I-I’m…excuse me Madame Flynn,” I stammered out, “Let me pour a glass for you.” My hands were shaking.
“Thank you, Miss…”
“Private B—–.”
Ana relaxed as I set the glass near her bread plate.
“Private, it is not often that one dares to speak to a member of my rank so freely,” I tensed, unable to read her smirk, but—
“I enjoy the change.” Ana’s mouth let a thin smile escape her lips, and she winked, ever so slightly.
Her mother, Getty Mwakadi, rose at that moment to thunderous applause. Thousands of hands were honoring Ana’s mother, when within a few years, they would be murdering them both. General and Mr. Mwakadi held hands as the microphone was handed to them. Ana’s posture regained its inflexibility as the cameras panned to our table.
“My husband, Marshall Flynn, and I, General Getty Mwakadi, are honored to be here
tonight in celebration of this great victory. Though this is only one small country from which to tie the first millstone—it is a great millstone which we tie. Though this victory is over a small country, our forces are enough to flood the oppressors, blot out their lives as they have done to us.” General Mwakadi paused to cheers and passed the microphone to her husband. Taking a bow, she sat again, with a smug glance to her daughter. Ana’s façade did not change."
...blot out their lives
as they have done to us...
Thursday, April 28, 2011
The Culmination of an Education
Over the next few days I will be working on a story which I will submit as a final project for my college capstone English class. The parts that I am willing and wanting to share will be in the next few posts, so sit back and enjoy.
“What If I told you about Ana Flynn? They would kill me for telling you, and they would torture you for knowing. She was the only thing they were afraid of, and she’s gone now. And that is why, no matter the consequences, I must tell you about Ana.
“Ana was the only daughter of Getty Mwakadi, general of Zimbabwean martial forces. Many believed that her mother’s marriage to foreign politico, Marshal Flynn, was crucial to her role as general. Through her African-American husband, Getty Mwakadi had sway within the U.S. military forces. With such visibility, such power, and such an important marriage to hold together, it would be suicide for a daughter of Africa to sleep with a white man. However, Ana had “dark hazel eyes,” they said, not “African black,” and her hair was less unruly than either her father’s or her mother’s.
“The propaganda started half a century before you were born. Could you even imagine a time before broadcasts and advertisements were branding hate slogans against the Pales into our subconscious? The world was more balanced then. There was hatred, but tolerance and love to overcome it. Today, there is no love that hate does not snuff out. You may not believe me, but, despite the broadcasted lies, the Pales are the same as you and me. Ana was the last proof of that. She looked like us, but she was also a Pale.”
Into the Pale
Christina Richards
“What If I told you about Ana Flynn? They would kill me for telling you, and they would torture you for knowing. She was the only thing they were afraid of, and she’s gone now. And that is why, no matter the consequences, I must tell you about Ana.
“Ana was the only daughter of Getty Mwakadi, general of Zimbabwean martial forces. Many believed that her mother’s marriage to foreign politico, Marshal Flynn, was crucial to her role as general. Through her African-American husband, Getty Mwakadi had sway within the U.S. military forces. With such visibility, such power, and such an important marriage to hold together, it would be suicide for a daughter of Africa to sleep with a white man. However, Ana had “dark hazel eyes,” they said, not “African black,” and her hair was less unruly than either her father’s or her mother’s.
“The propaganda started half a century before you were born. Could you even imagine a time before broadcasts and advertisements were branding hate slogans against the Pales into our subconscious? The world was more balanced then. There was hatred, but tolerance and love to overcome it. Today, there is no love that hate does not snuff out. You may not believe me, but, despite the broadcasted lies, the Pales are the same as you and me. Ana was the last proof of that. She looked like us, but she was also a Pale.”
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