#herosim

Anyway, so this week I am starting on online seminar about Heroism in WWI and how it changed the idea of what a Hero was/was not. It should be pretty interesting so I am looking forward to that. I am also going to start getting organized for NaNo! I have never done full on NaNoWriMo so this will be a first for me. As I am not ready to begin my HF WiP I am going to use the time to focus on the editing of my current MS and try to get that finished.

In book discussions this week look for:

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And on Wednesday I am going to share a short story that I wrote recently. I’m pretty nervous about it so be nice! Not that you all are usually mean, but you know. . .

Earlier today, a few people shared a painting of two children in a boat with a brief quotation about siblings and how they are in the same boat or something. It reminded of a literal time where my brother and I were in a boat.

    At some point in the early 90's (I had to be younger than 13), the midwest was tormented by a winter storm that left an impenetrable patina of ice over every exposed surface. As a family committed to sledding, my dad packed us up and took the family to the empty lot that he had bought to build a house on. It was about 3/4 an acre dominated by a long gently sloping hill that led into a wide flat area punctuated by a steep hill at the left rear of the property. The right side of the field terminated in a small wood.

    When we arrived several of our future neighbors were already making use of the ersatz luge track created by mother nature. The slight incline of the front hill was sufficient to launch sledders nearly across the rear field. The rule of friction had seemed to have been abolished.

   Some particularly inventive snow enthusiast had borrowed/purloined a large plastic raft. The kind normally found as life boats on some larger craft. This boat could probably hold 7 or 8 people and had the incredible ability to traverse the entire ice covered grassland.

     A few spectacular runs were made. The boat performed admirably. Rows of gleefully screaming children transformed into human Iditarod teams and dragged the raft back up the hill. My father beamed proudly. It was the precise sort of enjoyment he imagined people would have when he purchased the property.  As was often the case, he stood armed with his most ubiquitous accessory, the camcorder, and stood filming each trip.

    I'm uncertain why, but as we prepared for one particular attempt, I took the very front singular seat. In mirrored placement, my one and only younger brother took the tail position.  Our fellow passengers sat bookended by the Krock brothers. 

    The ride commenced without incident. I enjoyed the unsullied view of the front seat as we flew across the icy plain at speeds approaching multiples of 10. From my perch, I also held the best knowledge for our skiff's unguided course. I fearfully realized we were aimed at the lone tree planted a good 20 yards from the treeline. It was a hardy tree, defiant in its lonesomeness, and strong in its isolation. It was like an arboreal representation of Jeffersonian America, and our fledgeling ship was rocketing toward this metaphor.

    I prepared for the only logical response to this impending disaster, bailing out. I first half stood and placed my left foot out of the boat. With my right leg, I heaved my body over the side and tumbled across the slippery surface. I slid for what felt like minutes, but recovered in time to see the craft glance off the tree. The boat pivoted as the bow struck the trunk. There was a dull thud followed by a sharper thump.

    I raised my arms in triumph. I had saved the ship. By tossing my weight overboard, I had diverted our path and prevented a head-on collision. When the boat came to rest, I went to greet my grateful passengers only to discover my brother clutching his head and moaning.

    The sharp thump, a noise like someone smacking a watermelon, had been his head striking the frozen wood. I tried to placate him and explain my heroics, but he angrily waved me off, claiming I had operated under some selfish plan. I shrugged in dismissal and helped pull the boat back to its earthen quay.

    At the top of the hill, my father was exclaiming how he captured the fateful trip on video. He proved this point later that evening as we watched the brief clip of my brother's stocking cap stick like woolen velcro to the offending tree. Safe in front of the fireplace, we replayed the tape innumerable times. Each instance we marveled at the uncanny set of events that placed on that inevitable trajectory. I wish I could say this was the last time my brother's skull suffered some calamity, but it was a scene repeated an uncomfortable number of times. To date, this was the lone example of our sibling adventure involving a nautical catastrophe. (Unless you count the unbidden foot massage my mother received from a stranger on a ferry in New Orleans. Perhaps another time.)

Here's the original pic.

بقلم: كياله