Scenes from my City

A couple of reasons to keep a little hope alive...

The Park

The day is glowing with a mild autumn smile. A young Caucasian mother, barely past her teen years is reading a well worn paperback romance while her two small children are methodically making the rounds through the various playground apparatuses. The boy wants to ride the rocking dinosaur, but his sister enjoys having something that her brother wants so she refuses to yield her turn. After her brother tires of threatening, then begging, for a chance to sit on T-rex, he heads for the slide. His sister follows.

A complaining car, well beyond it’s useful years, pulls into a parking spot. Creaking doors open and two other children, African American, spill out and race for the playground. Their mother slowly exits from the drivers side of the vehicle and trudges behind. She finds an empty bench as her kids reach the slide.

A peculiar standoff develops when the two sets of kids discover each other. As each mother pretends not to watch, the kids size each other up. Maybe in a few years the outcome will not be worth writing about, but today these kids are just…kids. It doesn’t take them long before they are flying down the slide together, their laughing voices growing with excitement.

The girls pair off and skip away to the swing set. The boys strive off to conquer the closest tree. Eventually, the girls start to build a small castle in the sand. The boys amble their way back to the girls and join in. Working and chattering together, the group creates a magical kingdom, full of adventurous heroes and heroines. They are proud as they call their mothers over to see what they have made.

Slowly, each mother makes her way to stand and admire the piles of sand and offer their approval. The kids bask in their glory for a few seconds, then speed away to the merry-go-round. The two mothers start talking and their conversation guides them to a single park bench. Soon, they too are smiling and laughing as the crisp blue sky floats above.

Out of simple grains of sand, friendships were born.

The Ice Cream Parlor

She is dressed in a light blue cotton dress accentuated by a gentle, white laced collar. He is wearing a dark blue Sunday suit; his faded black Fedora sits on the table. They both have deep silver hair and noble wrinkles that reflect a humble and enduring life. They sit next to each other, with him positioned nearest the aisle as if to protect her from the outside world.

He is having a plain vanilla cone, while his wife has a tutti-frutti Sunday. The woman is animated with graceful, fluttery movements. She is talking in the comfortable manner that only intimate friends know. Her husband remains still and listens quietly, adding an occasional nod of his head. He leans over and whispers something into the womans ear. She blushes, which causes the man to smile.

I wonder what it takes to make it through a lifetime with one mate. What is the secret to finding that one special person that keeps you smiling over something as simple as an ice cream rendezvous?

As I am leaving, the man once more leans toward the woman. He softly kisses her cheek.

Again, she blushes. Again, he smiles.

Reviews

[Michelle Coleman]

This seems to be two different, and entirely unrelated stories.

I will begin with the first.

You have some lines, which are great in their creative description.

"The day is glowing with a mild autumn smile." Sentences like this carry your reader to the scene. I could feel that gentle sun.

Then you throw in Caucasian and African American rather than finding a way to describe their features without being lazy. To me, it is like saying the sun is orange. If inter-racial playgrounds (most tend to be these days) is your focus, try latching on to their features that make them stand out. Describe hair, how it responds the environment. Is there a breeze, for example. How can you describe the tone of their skin against the bench or a colorful fabric. Have some fun with it. In writing, I believe in the rule of "show, don't tell."

If diverse ethnicity is something you want to explore, make it clear why that is. What does it mean to you?

Again, "playground apparatuses" doesn't do much to pull us into a scene. Don't be afraid to take your time to develop a scene we can all climb into.

The relationship between the brother and sister was something that stood out to you. Were it my story, and I get that it's not, I would include a fragment of their bantering. Why does the mother not intervene? Is she so wrapped up in her old, battered copy of a romance novel that she cannot be made to teach her children the basics of sharing and getting along? How do you know she is the mother? How do we know? She is barely past her teens. She could be a nanny, for all anyone knows.

"A complaining car, well beyond its useful years, pulls into a parking spot." Brilliant. I can hear it. I can see it. Poverty is brought to the scene.

"A peculiar standoff develops..." How is it particular? What was the tension? Was it race? Was it poverty? You focused on these two things very lightly. Was it about who was king or queen of the jungle? Take us there.

Why do the mothers move so slowly. Are they in pain? Are they beyond fatigue? When writing a story, short or long, it is the small details that stand out. Especially when presented in a way that makes them memorable.

The Ice Cream Parlor

There is still alot of telling vs showing in this piece, but it reads easier than the first. There is a sweetness in the way the man can still make his wife blush after all those years, though he hardly contributes to the conversation. She seems to understand that this is how he is and doesn't mind being the animated one. It is that comfortable intimacy acquired after years of being being friends.

My advice for you is to focus on ways that will bring the little details to life.

[ANTO]

damn fine review and a lot of effort Michelle, kudos.

[Michelle Coleman]

Thanks, Anto. 😊