vonnegut. beda 14.
Remember that Lavender Fields piece I posted here a while ago? Well, I reworked it a lot to go with another writer's workshop assignment: model a piece after an author you like. Now it's Vonnegutized.
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1
LAVENDER
The glass window was not the only thing that separated me and the lavender fields. I could almost feel the breeze on my cheek, but I never would. Everything was fuzzy, fading, a dim overcast, since I fell.
My brother, or good as, lie parallel to the floor in his cot, with no pillows to support his head. He called for his mother. He was twenty, two years older than when he first left home. He was a little boy who made a rash, stupid mistake. Maybe I was, too. He came from a traditional family, like they all did. His mother supported the war, supported his going. They cried over each other, when he left.
I chose to go to the war. I chose to leave. I was an escape artist. I didn't cry. No one did. My mom hated it.
He came from Idaho. He and his mother and his farmer-father and his little sister, growing ripe in college; they all came from Idaho. They came from the little lavender fields in Idaho. They hated the potatoes. Once, when we were separated, I found some lavender, and I stuffed my pockets full of the stuff. He always smelled of it, from growing up eating it and bathing in it. So I stuffed my shirt, stuffed my socks, stuffed my bag -- and I smelled like him. I didn't ever give it to him, though.
I blink. When I open my eyes, I can't see him. I can't see the lavender. I'm blind. I blink again. I can see again. I looked over at my brother, or good as, and coughed. He looks over at me, but couldn't say anything. Not yet. Too traumatized, said the Doctor. He could only call for his mother. I could hear him crying at night, see the tears on his bed sheets, smell the piss since he could hardly get up anymore.
I blink.
Everything goes dark.
I blink again. It's enough.
He fell apart, when he caught up with me in the lavender fields. It tore him to pieces. He remembered it, remembered his home, remembered his mother and his sister, remembered that he was German, remembered that they were German, and he lost it, got shot, fell back, broke his leg. Now the infection is setting in, slowly killing him, says the Doctor.
The Doctor didn't realize he was already dead. He had been dead. He was just continuing his deadness until eventually his mental state and his physical met, and he would be dead for the Doctor.
I had suffered damage to my Occipital lobe. Funny how I fell backward and went blind. Or I'm going blind, says the Doctor. We'll all go blind by the end of it. The Occipital lobe isn't strong enough for all of us, we can't all see everything.
We'll keep getting pushed backward, kept getting farther and farther away from the Enemy Base. We're going to wind up in the ocean. I could almost see the ocean now. By the time we made it there, though, my Occipital lobe will be beyond repair.
I wonder what will happen when we die. Because I'm as close to death as he is. Will we get an obituary? I hear a groan from my brother, or good as.
“Hey,” I grunted.
“Yeah?”
“You alright?”
I thought I saw him smile. Another groan.
“Might be. Not sure. Yet,” he said. A pause. “You know what, I think I'm going to die.”
“You'll be fine.” But he wouldn't be.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
And I lie parallel to the floor and wonder about an obituary.
2
IMPORTANCE OF ERNEST
Survived by his mother, younger sister, and father, Ernest Wilde was a foot soldier in the Second World War. He always smelled of lavender. He had many friends in the Army, but wanted to fly planes more than anything else. It was too late to get involved in the Air Force, but that never stopped Ernest! He was the perfect soldier, followed orders, and never backed down. His sense of humor kept everyone, even the superiors, laughing for hours! He never whined about being hungry – unless the meal was potatoes! - and never complained about missing home. But don't let that fool you – he loved his family and would have done anything for them or his friends. He was such a powerful force in This Man's Army, it's a wonder what we'll do without him.
Or maybe that's just what they want.
3
DOCTORED
My name is...
I don't think I can write my own obituary. It seems a bit off. Maybe I'll ask Ernest to do it for me... if he wakes up again soon. Otherwise I'll forget. I might be blind by that time. Not even the Doctor knows.
He won't give anyone a straight answer. We all wait, wondering when we'll be better, when we'll be cured. But he never says, just keeps to his rounds, keeps to himself. Says we're going to die, even if it's not right now, so why does it even matter? The nurses bring us the food and he tells us we're going to die. A lot of people go mad, off themselves with homemade nooses or just stop eating. No one really notices if it's their own fault or the Doctor's or just the actual ailment.
For Ernest, it's going to be the infection.
4
BLIND
I blink.
I open, and there's nothing.
Blink.
Nothing.
Blink, blink, blink.
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
“I'm blind,” I say.
“We're all blind,” I hear, but I can't tell if I said it or if it was Ernest.
---------
1
LAVENDER
The glass window was not the only thing that separated me and the lavender fields. I could almost feel the breeze on my cheek, but I never would. Everything was fuzzy, fading, a dim overcast, since I fell.
My brother, or good as, lie parallel to the floor in his cot, with no pillows to support his head. He called for his mother. He was twenty, two years older than when he first left home. He was a little boy who made a rash, stupid mistake. Maybe I was, too. He came from a traditional family, like they all did. His mother supported the war, supported his going. They cried over each other, when he left.
I chose to go to the war. I chose to leave. I was an escape artist. I didn't cry. No one did. My mom hated it.
He came from Idaho. He and his mother and his farmer-father and his little sister, growing ripe in college; they all came from Idaho. They came from the little lavender fields in Idaho. They hated the potatoes. Once, when we were separated, I found some lavender, and I stuffed my pockets full of the stuff. He always smelled of it, from growing up eating it and bathing in it. So I stuffed my shirt, stuffed my socks, stuffed my bag -- and I smelled like him. I didn't ever give it to him, though.
I blink. When I open my eyes, I can't see him. I can't see the lavender. I'm blind. I blink again. I can see again. I looked over at my brother, or good as, and coughed. He looks over at me, but couldn't say anything. Not yet. Too traumatized, said the Doctor. He could only call for his mother. I could hear him crying at night, see the tears on his bed sheets, smell the piss since he could hardly get up anymore.
I blink.
Everything goes dark.
I blink again. It's enough.
He fell apart, when he caught up with me in the lavender fields. It tore him to pieces. He remembered it, remembered his home, remembered his mother and his sister, remembered that he was German, remembered that they were German, and he lost it, got shot, fell back, broke his leg. Now the infection is setting in, slowly killing him, says the Doctor.
The Doctor didn't realize he was already dead. He had been dead. He was just continuing his deadness until eventually his mental state and his physical met, and he would be dead for the Doctor.
I had suffered damage to my Occipital lobe. Funny how I fell backward and went blind. Or I'm going blind, says the Doctor. We'll all go blind by the end of it. The Occipital lobe isn't strong enough for all of us, we can't all see everything.
We'll keep getting pushed backward, kept getting farther and farther away from the Enemy Base. We're going to wind up in the ocean. I could almost see the ocean now. By the time we made it there, though, my Occipital lobe will be beyond repair.
I wonder what will happen when we die. Because I'm as close to death as he is. Will we get an obituary? I hear a groan from my brother, or good as.
“Hey,” I grunted.
“Yeah?”
“You alright?”
I thought I saw him smile. Another groan.
“Might be. Not sure. Yet,” he said. A pause. “You know what, I think I'm going to die.”
“You'll be fine.” But he wouldn't be.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
And I lie parallel to the floor and wonder about an obituary.
2
IMPORTANCE OF ERNEST
Survived by his mother, younger sister, and father, Ernest Wilde was a foot soldier in the Second World War. He always smelled of lavender. He had many friends in the Army, but wanted to fly planes more than anything else. It was too late to get involved in the Air Force, but that never stopped Ernest! He was the perfect soldier, followed orders, and never backed down. His sense of humor kept everyone, even the superiors, laughing for hours! He never whined about being hungry – unless the meal was potatoes! - and never complained about missing home. But don't let that fool you – he loved his family and would have done anything for them or his friends. He was such a powerful force in This Man's Army, it's a wonder what we'll do without him.
Or maybe that's just what they want.
3
DOCTORED
My name is...
I don't think I can write my own obituary. It seems a bit off. Maybe I'll ask Ernest to do it for me... if he wakes up again soon. Otherwise I'll forget. I might be blind by that time. Not even the Doctor knows.
He won't give anyone a straight answer. We all wait, wondering when we'll be better, when we'll be cured. But he never says, just keeps to his rounds, keeps to himself. Says we're going to die, even if it's not right now, so why does it even matter? The nurses bring us the food and he tells us we're going to die. A lot of people go mad, off themselves with homemade nooses or just stop eating. No one really notices if it's their own fault or the Doctor's or just the actual ailment.
For Ernest, it's going to be the infection.
4
BLIND
I blink.
I open, and there's nothing.
Blink.
Nothing.
Blink, blink, blink.
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
“I'm blind,” I say.
“We're all blind,” I hear, but I can't tell if I said it or if it was Ernest.
The last one reminded me of Life of Pi