Good suggestions, James. Thanks.
Short Story / White Shirts
When I was six years old, I rode with my mother on the bus to the grocery every Wednesday after school. In those days all the businessmen riding the bus wore white shirts. Most of the time they wore suit coats over the white shirts, but during the hottest parts of summer they carried their coats over their arms. It was the uniform, the fashion set by IBM I suppose. I noticed the white shirts many times and one day every man on the bus had one on.
“Why do all the men wear white shirts?” I asked, leaning against her arm and speaking quietly so none of the white shirts could hear.
She looked around the bus, considering. “Many centuries ago, when people lived simply, there was a tribe who taught themselves to make thread from flax stalks. They wove the thread into a fabric, which we call linen, but they didn’t know how to dye the fabric so it was white. They made all of their clothing from this fabric, pants, shirts, everything, head to foot. They covered themselves completely in white cloth. They lived simply, hunting, fishing, and raising their flax and most of the food they needed. They lived in tents made from the same white linen they wore.” She spoke quietly, watching the men in the seat in front of us.
“Were they Indians?”
“They might have been Indians; they probably were.”
I pictured Indians in white pajamas.
“It happened that near where the people in the white clothing lived, there were eagles, or birds that mutated from eagles. They looked like eagles, but they were huge, the size of Buicks, with wings that could reach out fifteen feet on each side. They lived on the same prey as eagles, fish, rabbits, and other small animals, but because of their size, they also preyed on large animals, deer and bear and wolves and people. They upset the balance of nature because they ate the animals at the top of the food chain. They were especially devastating for the people of the white clothes, since they lived in the same area and the white clothing stood out so.”
The bus pulled to a stop and several of the men got up and moved toward the door. We watched in silence. When they were gone and the newly boarded riders had taken their seats the bus pulled ahead again. Mother continued, “The white clothes people struggled to save themselves from the giant eagles, but what could they do? They’d be tending their gardens or fishing in the river and a giant bird would swoop down, impale one of them in its talons, and carry him off to its nest. They took children and old people and anyone. Whoever was in the open was in danger. The people of the white clothes lived in the thickest woods and stayed away from open areas because the trees gave them some protection, but their gardening and fishing required them to be in the open so they were in danger sometimes. This went on for generations.
“Where are the giant eagles now?” I asked, looking at the sky through the window.
She nodded her head, expecting this question. “One of the people of the white clothing, a young man named Sam, lost his sweetheart to the eagles. She was washing herself in the river and an eagle swooped down out of the sun. She never saw it coming and she didn’t have a chance.” Mother paused for a moment while this image settled in my mind. “Sam was devastated. They were to be married that week and suddenly she was gone. He blamed himself because he couldn’t protect her and he hated the fact that a mindless bird could disrupt the plans he made for his life so completely and so horribly. The tragedy turned his thinking upside down completely and he had an idea. He cut a long, slender, sturdy pole from a young maple tree and attached a sharp blade to one end. He went to the river, to the very spot where the eagle had carried off his sweetheart, and he waited. Soon a giant eagle swooped down on him, but he saw it coming; he set the pole in the earth and held it steady, pointing the tip in the direction of the attack. The giant eagle swooped down onto his spear and impaled himself.”
“Was it the eagle who had taken his girlfriend?”
“Nobody knows; it might have been the same eagle.”
“I think it was the same one.” The logic of just retribution seemed inescapable to me.
“What a difference Sam’s invention made for the people in the white clothes! All of them fashioned spears like Sam’s and carried them wherever they went. Now, when the eagles attacked, instead of carrying off their prey, they crashed to the ground, run through by the sharp blades and poles. This new device freed the people of the white clothes to return to the freedom they enjoyed before the eagles mutated. In fact, over a very short period of time all of the giant eagles where killed on these poles and the entire species was wiped out. It’s in honor of Sam and these people of the white clothes and their triumph over the giant eagles that men wear white shirts today.”
I looked at the two men sitting in the seat in front of ours; both were wearing white shirts. “Are you making this up?” I asked.
“Of course, but you can see it’s true, if you think about it.”
“How can it be true if you made it up?”
“The same way any story is true.”
“But you don’t know it happened that way.”
“What difference does that make?” She adjusted the collar of my jacket.
“True is when something isn’t made up; true is when a story tells what happened.”
“Isn’t every story made up?
While I searched for an answer to this question, a man wearing a blazing white shirt stood up and reached for the cord to signal the driver to stop. He pulled on the cord but the sound this produced wasn’t the ‘ding!’ I expected; it was a shrill ringing of my alarm clock.
I reached across the bed and poked the top of the clock, restoring blessed quiet. The question raised in my dream returned and perched there waiting for my attention. “Doe’s how things happened determine what’s true or are there other, perhaps more important factors?” the question asked.
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AlexSDS reviewed Version 1 -
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I liked this story all the way up until the ending. It may just be my personal taste, but I hate when you have something good and flowing only to have it end in a dream. You have a good scene here, the bus ride, the men in white shirts and the story this mother is telling. I think you could make a much stronger ending than having the whole thing be a dream.
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jhmckeogh reviewed Version 1 -
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I like that you frame this fable within the text of an adult telling a child a story. Princess Bridge – esque.
A couple things i think could improve the narrative.
Make the fable pop out in clarity. Make the eagles more evil, the fear they inspire in the townspeople more visceral. Also, what do the eagles represent, for you? Don’t tell the reader outright, but i think you should get a clearer idea of what kind of didacticism you want to come across.
Also, as far as the framing goes. Get rid of the dream portion. Have it start and end with the story being told. Keep the elements of speaking about story. Wasn’t in love with the line “its not what is true, but what has happened,” make that sentiment more distinct.
Good work, Keep writing
James
Rikivan reviewed Version 1 -
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The stongest factor of your story is the dialogue. The weakest is that it is a dream. The question at the end of the story should be strong. It should make an impression on the reader however it took me a while to actually figure out what you were trying to say. I am still not quite sure and thus trying to rephrase the question may change the meaning completly. What other important factors are you reffering to? Is this an open ended question? I love the actual white shirt story. I just feel the ending does it no justice.
jweeble reviewed Version 1 -
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Liked the story. You have a nice way with the dialog between mother and child. It is a little stilted on occasion, but overall very well done. Grammatical things – you use run-on sentences quite often.
lived; there or lived. There
stop, and several
Also – last line – Doe’s to Does
Otherwise, nice work.
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