SAGMUN
04-04-2010, 01:58 PM
Warm Greetings Wordsmiths,
This 81 year old grandfather blocked-out his first short story. It need additional work concerning flow, transitions, diction, negative-positive beats; and the development between Emilie and Eric to be added after the first paragraph. But before I do so, your thoughts would be most welcomed, Please let me know if you like to read the revision.
__________________________________________________ ________________
One Saturday morning, a summer thunderstorm washed away the horse droppings. Variable breezes brought smells that only a dog could love: the Chicago's stock yards, dead Alewives, wet chicken feathers. The women stood, outside, by the chicken coops tapping a carrot against her leg. She was the women that visits her flat on Saturdays to fix lunch for the man she loved. The man she called, “Butterfly.” The man others called a rat killer.
The butcher's heart skipped a beat. He washed the blood from his hands, donned a fresh apron, slipped the package into the apron's pocket.
In a quick march, he went outside to the only women he ever bowed to, and with a bow said, “Guten Morgen Frau von Ott.” He realized he made a mistake.
“Please forgive me. I-I-I meant to say, as you have instructed, good morning Miss Emilie.”
She glared at him like his former Prussian Army Captain. “No heel clicks? You're as nervous as the potential spouses at the Kuh Stahl.”
Never-the-less, he was enchanted by her patrician ways. So were the men across the street. They were ready, including the iceman: Shoes polished. Clothes washed. Faces shaved. Fingernails cleaned. Hair combed. Suspender buckles polished, each with a purple aster tucked-in. As for the horse, his straw hat had their purple asters.
Except for the horse, he had a different hope, they all wondered: “Who would be the lucky one?”
Emilie picked Hans, the shy one. He took the carrot from her hand.
“Here's your reward,” she kissed Hans' cheek.
With the carrot held high, the greens swishing beneath, Hans returned like a conquering hero.
The carrot snack made the horse's day.
Otto said, “Miss Emilie, I saved the best fryers for your inspection.” He removed the top two coops, “they're in this one.”
“You're so thoughtful. Now remember Otto, lets not go any further,” she patted his cheek, then opened her purse.
“Please wait a moment, “Miss Emilie.” Otto pulled the package from the apron's pocket.
“My. My. My. What do you have there.?”
“New inspection gloves.”
“Otto, you're sweet, but, alas, your should never, ever make assumptions before their time. She pulled new gloves from her purse, slipped them on. She removed the purple asters from her blouse and pinned them to his apron. “There Otto, a lovely butterfly will make you, her husband.”
“Let's see.” She shoved her hands between the chicken coop's slats, checked the tenderness of several chicken's breasts. “A-a-a-h, this his is the one.”
“Will there be anything else, a pigeon or two perhaps?”
“Otto! You know better. Pigeons are to be honored not slaughtered. They were brave war messengers.
“Use a straight-edge razor to slit the chicken's throat. It's painless. Prepare two, extra-thin, breast cutlets, please.”
“With my pleasure Miss Emilie.”
“Otto I'm so happy. I feel today is the day he'll ask.
“Oh. Otto don't be sad,” she said as she patted his cheek.
She blew kisses to everyone. And went upstairs humming The Merry Widow Waltz.
On the back porch, her smile turned into a frown. “Oh. No,” she said as she picked the note off the wicker chair, “he never write notes.”
My dearest Emilie —
Please forgive me for this short notice. We'll lunch at the Golden Ox.
Love always, Erich
“I knew it. I knew it. I just knew it.”
The note slipped from her hand as she drifted-off.
Above the basement door, Erich had painted, “Butterfly Bunker.”
The large basement was lit by three 60 watt bulbs encrusted by insects. The floor was clay. The walls were limestone. Erich picked-up the last two rat traps.
Outside, he had a 55 galleon drum, half-filled with water. With each rat shaken from the opened trap, he said, “You die, because of what you did to Franz.”
Bang!
Emilie murmured, “Car backfire.”
Erich's mind left realty for the Western Front.
It was morning. He was shivering against the side of a shell hole alone, except for bloated rats floating in the greenish water. Bullets were seeking their prey like roaring lions. All around him shrapnel, mud, flesh were raining down: Between the shell bursts, he heard screams of those that were dying: “Help. Mother. Mütter….”
From the shell hole to his left, “Eric I'm over here.”
By nighttime, everything calmed down to a drum fire. He crawled over to the shell hole, but he was too late: The rats had eaten Franz's eyes.
“They'll pay for this,'' Eric said as ran into the bunker. Bang! Bang! Bang!
Emilie half-awake muttered, “Backfire,” and fell back into a troubling sleep.
“Wake-up. Miss Emile. Wake-up,” said Otto.
“What is it? Is Erich safe?”
“Your butterfly died in the basement from a ricocheting bullet.
“Before he died he gave me this package saying, “My mother wore it on her wedding day.”
“I'll open it later.”
Otto helped Emilie to the kitchen sink. She washed the mascara from her face, blotted black the drops on her blouse. She turned around, took the package and gripped it tight, brushed the wet hair strands away, straighten her back, lifted her chin, “I'll return him to his fallen comrades.”
“… Emilie did you have good fortune in Chicago?”
“I met a butterfly that saw my husband disintegrated in a shell burst.
“A butterfly named Erich von Heldenleben. A sensitive man, a gentle man that loved to waltz.
“Oh! Emilie he sounds like the one you always wanted. You've brought him back, haven't you?
As she fingered her gift, a cameo of Tristan and Isolde, she said, “In a way I have.”
“Erich lies beneath the poppies in Flanders Field, not too far from his twin brother Franz.
This 81 year old grandfather blocked-out his first short story. It need additional work concerning flow, transitions, diction, negative-positive beats; and the development between Emilie and Eric to be added after the first paragraph. But before I do so, your thoughts would be most welcomed, Please let me know if you like to read the revision.
__________________________________________________ ________________
One Saturday morning, a summer thunderstorm washed away the horse droppings. Variable breezes brought smells that only a dog could love: the Chicago's stock yards, dead Alewives, wet chicken feathers. The women stood, outside, by the chicken coops tapping a carrot against her leg. She was the women that visits her flat on Saturdays to fix lunch for the man she loved. The man she called, “Butterfly.” The man others called a rat killer.
The butcher's heart skipped a beat. He washed the blood from his hands, donned a fresh apron, slipped the package into the apron's pocket.
In a quick march, he went outside to the only women he ever bowed to, and with a bow said, “Guten Morgen Frau von Ott.” He realized he made a mistake.
“Please forgive me. I-I-I meant to say, as you have instructed, good morning Miss Emilie.”
She glared at him like his former Prussian Army Captain. “No heel clicks? You're as nervous as the potential spouses at the Kuh Stahl.”
Never-the-less, he was enchanted by her patrician ways. So were the men across the street. They were ready, including the iceman: Shoes polished. Clothes washed. Faces shaved. Fingernails cleaned. Hair combed. Suspender buckles polished, each with a purple aster tucked-in. As for the horse, his straw hat had their purple asters.
Except for the horse, he had a different hope, they all wondered: “Who would be the lucky one?”
Emilie picked Hans, the shy one. He took the carrot from her hand.
“Here's your reward,” she kissed Hans' cheek.
With the carrot held high, the greens swishing beneath, Hans returned like a conquering hero.
The carrot snack made the horse's day.
Otto said, “Miss Emilie, I saved the best fryers for your inspection.” He removed the top two coops, “they're in this one.”
“You're so thoughtful. Now remember Otto, lets not go any further,” she patted his cheek, then opened her purse.
“Please wait a moment, “Miss Emilie.” Otto pulled the package from the apron's pocket.
“My. My. My. What do you have there.?”
“New inspection gloves.”
“Otto, you're sweet, but, alas, your should never, ever make assumptions before their time. She pulled new gloves from her purse, slipped them on. She removed the purple asters from her blouse and pinned them to his apron. “There Otto, a lovely butterfly will make you, her husband.”
“Let's see.” She shoved her hands between the chicken coop's slats, checked the tenderness of several chicken's breasts. “A-a-a-h, this his is the one.”
“Will there be anything else, a pigeon or two perhaps?”
“Otto! You know better. Pigeons are to be honored not slaughtered. They were brave war messengers.
“Use a straight-edge razor to slit the chicken's throat. It's painless. Prepare two, extra-thin, breast cutlets, please.”
“With my pleasure Miss Emilie.”
“Otto I'm so happy. I feel today is the day he'll ask.
“Oh. Otto don't be sad,” she said as she patted his cheek.
She blew kisses to everyone. And went upstairs humming The Merry Widow Waltz.
On the back porch, her smile turned into a frown. “Oh. No,” she said as she picked the note off the wicker chair, “he never write notes.”
My dearest Emilie —
Please forgive me for this short notice. We'll lunch at the Golden Ox.
Love always, Erich
“I knew it. I knew it. I just knew it.”
The note slipped from her hand as she drifted-off.
Above the basement door, Erich had painted, “Butterfly Bunker.”
The large basement was lit by three 60 watt bulbs encrusted by insects. The floor was clay. The walls were limestone. Erich picked-up the last two rat traps.
Outside, he had a 55 galleon drum, half-filled with water. With each rat shaken from the opened trap, he said, “You die, because of what you did to Franz.”
Bang!
Emilie murmured, “Car backfire.”
Erich's mind left realty for the Western Front.
It was morning. He was shivering against the side of a shell hole alone, except for bloated rats floating in the greenish water. Bullets were seeking their prey like roaring lions. All around him shrapnel, mud, flesh were raining down: Between the shell bursts, he heard screams of those that were dying: “Help. Mother. Mütter….”
From the shell hole to his left, “Eric I'm over here.”
By nighttime, everything calmed down to a drum fire. He crawled over to the shell hole, but he was too late: The rats had eaten Franz's eyes.
“They'll pay for this,'' Eric said as ran into the bunker. Bang! Bang! Bang!
Emilie half-awake muttered, “Backfire,” and fell back into a troubling sleep.
“Wake-up. Miss Emile. Wake-up,” said Otto.
“What is it? Is Erich safe?”
“Your butterfly died in the basement from a ricocheting bullet.
“Before he died he gave me this package saying, “My mother wore it on her wedding day.”
“I'll open it later.”
Otto helped Emilie to the kitchen sink. She washed the mascara from her face, blotted black the drops on her blouse. She turned around, took the package and gripped it tight, brushed the wet hair strands away, straighten her back, lifted her chin, “I'll return him to his fallen comrades.”
“… Emilie did you have good fortune in Chicago?”
“I met a butterfly that saw my husband disintegrated in a shell burst.
“A butterfly named Erich von Heldenleben. A sensitive man, a gentle man that loved to waltz.
“Oh! Emilie he sounds like the one you always wanted. You've brought him back, haven't you?
As she fingered her gift, a cameo of Tristan and Isolde, she said, “In a way I have.”
“Erich lies beneath the poppies in Flanders Field, not too far from his twin brother Franz.