American Dreams

In the midst of the Great Depression, one family among thousands travel West in search of work

The sky is the colour of steel. Any clouds left long ago. An oppressive heat has fallen, pressing down so that the air is dense and compacted. The earth stretches out in every direction, with no end, scarred only by the parallel rails, an unsightly gash through the barren earth. Red dust, scudded by angry footsteps, lifts and eddies in the air then floats back down like rain. The train waits behind me.  Its metal sides radiate heat and a plume of ash and smoke spirals high above the blackened chimney.

I let my gaze drift, not focusing on any one spot.  A little lizard scurries across the earth. I twist my hands in front of me. They are browned, and engraved with scratches and scars. The veins are thick ropes under my skin, and dirt is engrained in my bitten nails. I used to look after my nails.

On a Saturday night Lotte and I would meet. We would dress up as if we were famous, and then get to work, filing and buffing and painting our nails. Mine blood red, hers deep black. We would blow frantically on them and waggle our hands around in the air, laughing at how ridiculous we looked. She would make me up, widening my eyes, reddening my lips and cheeks. Her tongue stuck out a little as she worked, always making me laugh.

I made her up too, and we did our hair together. Lotte spent hours each week perming and pulling and curling. She looked like a film star �"unfailingly glamorous. We sparkled in fake gold jewellery and glimmering jewels, parading ourselves in front of the mirror like peacocks. We’d go dancing, or to the pictures. Lotte always ended up with someone new, but I was a romantic, told her that love would find me. And it did, in a way, at the newsagents, 21^st February.  Jack told me I was beautiful. He loved to run his hands through my hair, said it felt like silk.

I allow myself a half-smile at the memory. Lotte moved west two years ago with her family. Two years ago. Haven’t seen her since. I push my hand through my hair and it is as though I am running my hand through a scouring brush. My hand drops to my side. No point thinking of how it used to be, how it could have been. I turn and step into the carriage, the sudden gloom forcing me to stop as my eyes adjust.

The only light comes from the open carriage door. Bent over silhouettes huddle into the shadows, marking out their territory with bundles and bags and the paraphernalia of human life. The heat intensifies tenfold, and the smell of unwashed bodies, sweat, and dirt lingers in every corner. One of the men told me we’re riding in an old cattle train. I would have been offended once, but now, we all seem to have accepted that this is our fate; we will never get anything better, never truly live again. My tears were used up long ago. I used to cry after putting the children to bed, I used to pray that it would get better. Our situation is so surreal, yet somehow, it’s real, and as I look through the shimmering curtain of heat, it is as if I am in a different reality entirely.  Some part of me still thinks that I’m at home, with Jack, and the kids, and Lotte, and nothing ever went wrong.

I make my way to the corner of the carriage that has become my home, and perch myself on a tin, filled with old drawings, mementos, souvenirs of the life I used to lead. It’s strange to think that my entire life can fit inside a box. I grab hold of a faded rug, and play it between my fingers, the threads fraying as I run them through my hands. Lucie sits beside me, dirty blonde hair bundled into two little pigtails. Her doll leans against a battered briefcase. She chatters away to it as if the rest of the world did not exist. The doll has wide black button eyes, painted rosy cheeks, thick brown hair. A mocking reminder of what my daughter could have been.

“What you doin’ Luce?” My voice is barely a whisper, and each word rasps against my throat. Lucie glances at me with dull blue eyes, pointed pink tongue running hungrily over parched lips.

“Marnie’s having tea.” Lucie mimes spooning something into the doll’s mouth.

“Do you want some apple juice?” she asks, pretending to lift a glass to Marnie’s face.

My hands tremble slightly in my lap, and my mouth suddenly feels as though it is full of sand.

“See, you can have it all to yourself. Is it nice?” Lucie leans forward and nods the doll’s head, making its curls bounce up and down.

“How about some cake?” 

Lucie feeds the doll Victoria sponge, strawberry tart, chocolate tiffin, cherries, jam roly-poly, meringue, lemon pie, vanilla ice with whipped cream and sprinkles.  I can only sit and watch. The taste of each food dances on my tongue, mocking me. My stomach writhes, and I close my eyes for a second against the light-headedness which clouds my vision. The wistful, famished look on Lucie’s face burns a hole in me. I need her to stop, but it’s a form of torture which I somehow want to endure.

Finally, I wrest myself away and kneel beside her. I grip her hands and tilt her head to mine, and in her eyes is my face reflected over and over. My hair is turning prematurely grey, and lines crease my forehead. A small smear of dirt freckles my nose. Lucie tries to tug her hands away but I’m holding her fast.

 “Don’t do that, Luce. What’s the point to it?” I’m begging her to stop, as much as for my sake as for hers. It’s possible to bear it if you don’t remember how things used to be, but each of Lucie’s words sends me spiralling back into the past.

She gazes up at me with big innocent eyes, gnawing at her lip with chipped teeth. I hold her tight and turn my head away. She looks so young. The muscles in my throat clench suddenly so it is a struggle to draw in the stale air. She is so young. What did she do to deserve this? I want to leap up and kill whoever took away Lucie’s childhood, but of course, there is no one to kill. Like Jack says, it’s the banks; the banks are the ones who wrecked everything. Lucie is still looking up at me, and her pale face is so full of trust. I squeeze my eyes tight closed. You can’t kill a bank.

I am jolted from my thoughts as someone thumps down beside me.

“Hey, Danny.”

He glances at me briefly, an empty smile flickering on his lips, but doesn’t answer. His bottom lip has an ugly gash carved through it and a fresh bruise blooms around his left eye.

“What happened?” My words are sharp, breathless. All of a sudden there’s a knot in my stomach, tying, undoing itself, tying, and being undone again. He’s too young to be fighting.

Danny shrugs and reaches into his pocket, and when he pulls his hand out his fist is clenched around something. He uncurls his fingers slowly and a stream of silver coins cascade into my lap, clinking against each other as they fall. I stare at them, my mouth hanging slightly agape.

“Where did you get them?”

Danny shrugs again, his shoulders bunched up tightly around his neck. His face is set in a sullen, defensive mask. The muscles in his back tense under his shirt as he turns to face the wall. In my lap, the coins glint treacherously, and I have the sudden urge to take them and hurl them as far as I can. I want to scream. Where did he get those bruises? Where did the money come from? Even if Danny was prepared to tell me, I’m not sure I want to know. It occurs to me I don’t know much about my son at all.

I rub the coins between thumb and forefinger, treasuring the way the rusty edge grazes my skin. Before I can change my mind, I slip the coins into a bag. I know I shouldn’t, but money’s money. There’s enough there to buy a little food for Lucie. I have to take it.

Lucie wriggles away from me. I loosen my grip, feeling her slip away.

“Danny…”

He doesn’t move. My mouth opens involuntarily, but I have nothing to say, so I close it again. I watch him as he broods, and I realize that I missed him growing up from a child with a thatch of sandy hair and that gap-toothed smile of his. He was always running around, scratches on his knees, covered in mud. He’s not my little boy any more. We sit there in silence for God knows how long. Danny doesn’t turn round again. His shoulders heave up and down as he takes long, drawn out breaths.  He can feel me looking at him and it’s the closest we have been in a long time. Lucie seems to feel the tension and huddles against the wall with Marnie, enfolding the doll in her arms.

Through the open carriage door the sky gradually darkens, blood red streaks cutting through the horizon. I pluck at the rug with nervous fingers.

A chill runs through my body. Someone is watching me.  I raise my head to see Jack leant against the door, regarding the three of us without any trace of emotion in his face. Dark half-moons encircle glassy eyes, and his cracked lips are pressed together in an angry line. I catch his eye. His gaze flicks away for a moment before settling on mine again. He gives his head a terse shake, and turns away, staring out at the world beyond the train. Black dots circle my vision, and I smooth at my forehead to ease the pain. Surely, he will find work soon. We can’t do this forever.  Some part of me always believes Jack will get a job, and that we will get off this train, maybe live in some little village. I could work, and we’d have enough money to get by. The kids would go to school, and it would be like it was before.

Each night, that future seems further and further away.

Danny heaves himself to his feet and goes to join his father. Jack doesn’t turn as Danny approaches.  I watch the two of them nervously. They wait, neither of them making the first move. Danny lays his hand on Jack’s arm and Jack whirls around instantly, throwing Danny off. He stumbles, but manages to catch himself again, watching as his father storms out. The judging eyes of the other passengers follow him. Danny’s head dips to his chest and his hand’s clench in helpless bundles. He glances one last time at Jack then walks back to us, shoulders slumped and arms hanging loosely at his sides.

“Danny, he doesn’t mean it. He’s just had a hard day…”

Danny throws himself down, back to us all. He’s not listening to a word I say. I put my hands under Lucie’s armpits and hoik her up into my lap. She burrows deep into my dress, her sharp ribs digging uncomfortably into me. I shift her carefully. Her arms and legs are like twigs, and I’m afraid to snap them.

“Sit with us, Danny.” I lay my hand on his shoulder and he throws me off in disgust.

“I’m sixteen for Christ’s sake!” He pounds his fist on his lap, shifts further away from me. I rest my head in my hands. Danny’s right. He grew up quicker than I could ever have imagined.

I wrap my arms protectively around Lucie and lower my mouth to the level of her ear. She rolls her neck from side to side in an effort to make the weight of her head more comfortable. I start to sing, a simple lullaby that my mother used to whisper to me when I had trouble sleeping. Lucie sinks deeper into my lap. My voice wavers slightly, and I have to stop suddenly to draw breath a couple of times.

Soon, Lucie’s breathing grows even and peaceful, and her face sinks into a blissful smile. I lay her down gently on the floor, and cover her little body with a rug. Her eyelids flicker in sleep and they are so pale as to be almost translucent.

I kneel and press a kiss to her forehead, before standing and heading out, weaving my way past luggage, sleeping children, mothers holding their babies close, men playing cards for change.

The air is still warm out but a chill runs through it now night has fallen. The sky is almost black, spilt ink mixed with dirt. Jack stands alone, hands thrust deep in his pockets. I walk over to him and wait. We don’t acknowledge each other, or make any indicator of noticing the other’s presence. Instead, we face the horizon, looking down the rails. I can sense him beside me, his body strong but wiry, dirt worked into every crease in his clothing, his eyes hard as pebbles. His hand reaches for mine in the darkness and our fingers entwine. We stand like that for a while, just holding each other.

Jack loosens his grip and seems about to turn and leave, but just as he begins to move, something changes his mind. He clutches my hand as if he were drowning. I hold him as well, and we grip each other until the blood draws away. His fingernails cut into my skin and looking down, I see that little crescents have been engraved into his palm. Jack’s breathing relaxes slightly, and we release each other, waiting for dark to fall completely. I rest my head lightly on his shoulder blade and I know that we can get through this. We look up at the stars, and it suddenly strikes me how very, very small we are.

“It’ll be fine. Everythin’ will work out in the end.”  Jack’s voice is barely a whisper, and I have to strain to hear him. I don’t think he believes what he says, and I’m not sure that I believe it any more either.

Tomorrow we will get back on the train, and continue on our journey, but after that, who knows? We can only afford to live one day at a time. Any more, and we’d lose all hope for sure. Now, we’re just four amongst millions, trying for a better life. The odds are against us. But think like that for too long, and you lose the will. Too many people get like that. You see them in the trains, glassed over eyes, not caring where the next stop is. I don’t want to be one of them. For now, we just got to keep hoping.

Reviews

[TLK]

This is very well written, with a strong feeling of Steinbeck. However, while there was a lot happening beneath the surface I feel that some more overt conflict would make it more enjoyable for me personally.

I'm really annoyed that I can't give more specific feedback, so I'm inviting some of my friends-list over to have a look. You might get more reviews out of it.

[Sarah Tabuso]

I found this to be a thoroughly engrossing read. You've deftly evoked the oppressive feelings that poverty creates. Lots of fine detail that pricks the senses. I look forward to reading more.

[Tiny Glitch]

Thanks ;)

[Ufi Auttorri ~ Amy C. T..]

Thank you anonymous author Tiny Glitch and thanks again to you, KT. This is certainly a worthy read.

I like the short, rabbit-punch like sentences for this type of piece. It dovetails nicely into a story of struggle and survival. One where you don't want the reader to get lost in flowery prose that might seem out of place (or worse). No, style-wise you've nailed it squarely in place as with resounding hammer blows upon steel spikes through hard oak wood.

I also admire the mental lensing and camera work that plays over just the right amount of detail; simultaneous on the character descriptions, their environment, and the slow but determined revelation of the desperate world that is their existence and the persistent slender hopes that are their dreams.

As a classroom assignment, such as you've mentioned, it is a tribute to your significant talent and the tutelage that could inspire and give direction sufficient to produce this vignette.

I lament the fact that it will, in all likelihood, remain buried with the domain of the mostly-unread on this site. It is also somewhat distressing that it has nothing unique to add (at present) that would help a reader understand better the segment of history it draws from or, if it is to be more about the people than the history, to fulfill the promised writer-reader contract and permit the character's lives to unfold, each into an appropriate destiny.

I think you have much to offer the world with your developing writing skill and insights into the depths of the human experience/condition. Be sure that you anchor it in a firm conviction that what you write can and will make a difference to someone somewhere at some point in time; hopefully for a long time to come. I urge you to not give in to the petty malaise of energizing your writing with the vain praise of others nor of permitting them to deconstruct your ego with acerbic remarks issuing from an oppressive and listless spirit. These things you must stride through with a bold and firm conviction of who you are, what you are and your purpose in writing.

I trust it will be so.

[Tiny Glitch]

Thanks for the long review. Not sure about good tutelage - my teacher couldn't be bothered to even read it, so I turned to the internet instead. When you wrote about the reader understanding the history, are you talking adding in dates and details? I'm not sure how to do that without sounding heavy handed, added to the fact that I don't know all that much about the time period myself. And I didn't really want to do the whole lives unfolding thing, partly because I don't know enough about the time period to write a longer piece well, but also because having them reach an appropiate destiny - well, it's not how life works. There is no end for these people, and that's what I wanted to show. Thanks again for the review :)

[Ufi Auttorri ~ Amy C. T. Serrat]

Thanks for the comments. I'm sorry your teacher didn't bother to read this. I'm glad you reached out to others for some feedback; it shows good judgement and strong sense of self that will stand you in good stead in the future.

With respect to my comments regarding the history of the period. I was trying to say that if this piece were to become part of a larger work then it would be good to steep yourself in research of the period, the people and their challenges/motivation. While you can get a good sense of that from one or two well-written books it might be good to actually interview some real people that actually lived through it - while they're still alive. Not everything makes it into the books. As for "how life works", well, I will say that if you're young (less than 20 or 30 years old) then you probably still some things left to learn about how life works and more importantly what what is meant by that oft-bandied phrase. The other opinion that I would offer up is that I totally disagree with your comment that "there is no end for these people." If that's what you think then you may be missing the point. People's lives do end... one way or another. The beginning and the ending is important but the middle, their lives, what they did with them and why - these are the important things.

As for the review; your welcome. I hope you keep writing but more importantly I hope you get out more. In my opinion, every writer needs a lot of "interesting" life experiences to be worth a damn. Here's hoping that yours is full of them. ;-)

[Tiny Glitch]

I see what you mean now about the detail of the period. And yes, I do still have a lot of learn about life - I'm only 15, but maybe I know things that you lose as become an adult ;) Haha, you're the first person to tell me I'm missing the point about my own writing. I guess what I was trying to say was that while yes, of course everything has to end, there is no neat ending, no finish line, so I didn't want to wrap thinsg up too neatly as that isn't a representation of life. Thanks again for commenting and for looking at my work in detail...and here's to having an interesting life!

[unsavable_soul]

Here it goes,
I always try to give honesty, while I am not great at grammar I tend to think I side more toward creative aspects. So understand my disclaimer that all is said with personal honesty and opinion only. I far from pressume myself right, only opinionated. Let me be clear I have loved this read from the first or second paragraph. My biggest question is when can we buy it friend? So now on to the review which I hope reflects my love of this piece and my wish to help it and you along any way I might be able.

"but I was a romantic, told her that love would find me. And it did, in a way, at the (newsagents, 21st February)."

This above portion didn't quite read out right to me. For instance who or what is the newsagents. Also should it read 21st (of) February?

Almost the whole of the fifth paragraph is down right elegant in it's layout and imagery. I love the description and thoughts of her hair. I feel very intune with the character through this. Very nice.

After the seventh paragraph I am contemplating who this Lucie is. I love the interactions going on with her, but am left wanting to know who she is or where she fits in. This becomes magnified by Danny's arrival and short after explaination of his relation to the character. Toward the point Jack is brought in against the door, I begin to think Lucie must be a daughter to the narrartor but this is still not sure.

"Each night, that future seems further and further away. "

Excellent line summing up the surmmounting problems faced by the main character. I say you nailed it there.

"I put my hands under Lucie’s armpits and (hoik) her up into my lap."

This line after the first interactions between Jack and Danny seemed a little odd, hoik might be better written as hoist. again just a thought, and may be unneccassary as I am not a grammar guy myself. I try though.

"“I’m sixteen for Christ’s sake!” He pounds his fist on his lap, shifts further away from me. I rest my head in my hands. Danny’s right. He grew up quicker than I could ever have imagined."

I loved this line, it is so true in many ways. It bares light upon the need for a relationship between a boy and his father, also how as a boy getting older you feel you should not be bothered by the emotional drains of life. Like wanting your father's attention and not getting it shouldn't bother us. Exquiste!

"Jack loosens his grip and seems about to turn and leave, but just as he begins to move, something changes his mind. He clutches my hand as if he were drowning."

You truly bring the reader into almost every moment and thought with strong emotional and situational descriptions of moments and their impact. I am very impressed, very pleased with the depth and reader involvement. Masterful.

My biggest complaint is the ending, I felt it might have been rushed. The rest of this work is complete in it's drawing nature, however the end seems to quick and to the point given the depths the narrarator has described all things up to this point. This would be my biggest eye sore in my critique.

Allow me to close by saying what a magnificent read this has been. I don't like books set within an older time frame ie. the wild west, the great depression, and more. I find them usually hard to relate with and using to much direct referance to their time period which leaves me feeling out of the loop. This was perfect, I am not sure the time frame the story occurs in but it sounds like the great depression era to me. I wouldn't know because the writing is so good, I don't need to. You are a weaver of a most excellent story, and a very gifted writer. This is truly one of my favorite book reads on here so far. I truly love it. 100/100.

I hope this helped more than hurt in any sense or at the minimal was useless but not offensive. I hope you will read request me on any continuation. I don't have to review I would just like to read this book. You are talented beyond any shadow of a doubt. Thanks for the most excellent read Tiny Glitch, I happily thank you.
Sincerely
Christopher

[Tiny Glitch]

Thank you so much for the review. Lucie is the narrator's daughter. I'll try and make that a bit clearer. Things make sense in my own head so I sometimes forget to make them clear on the page. I'm not sure hoik is an actual dictionary word, but it's a word that I've heard used all my life. Maybe it's not used in America, I'm not sure. I will try fix the ending as well. I'll try and review it in about three weeks time when I have a holiday. I have eight hours of history exams next week, so time is unfortunately limited. Thanks again!

[unsavable_soul]

My pleasure,
I found this a most enjoyable read. I am sure if any edit need be done, your obvious talent will make it an even more excellent read.
Chris

[James Winter]

This was a lovely read! You have a very intense, interesting way of writing which caught my attention immediately. At first I was a little bothered by the amount of short sentences, but I quickly came to love them. Because it's a personal touch and because it works well for the kind of story you're trying to tell.

I enjoyed the characters, their personalities and the way you chose to portray these; they seemed alive to me, depressingly alive. I could imagine everything you wrote, see how it acted out in my head like a movie. I'm very impressed with your descriptions and I don't agree with TLK that it would be better with a conflict; a lot is left unsaid and it really works in that way. It's lovely to think: why this, why that? It makes the piece come alive.

Thank you for sharing, this was a great read!

[Tiny Glitch]

Thanks - I'm glad you liked it!

[Tiny Glitch]

Thanks for the review. I'm glad that you mentioned Steinbeck, as I wrote this in class as a response to Of Mice and Men. I'll try and add some more conflict. I see what you mean, though, as I'm aware that there isn't much conflict to hold the story together - it's more a snapshot of their lives. I'll have a think about what I can do to make their lives more miserable :) And yes, I am Nightingale. No need to apologise.

[TLK]

Are you on Wattpad as http://www.wattpad.com/user/Nightingale20 ?

Edit: I see that you probably are, as that writer is doing English GCSE, and you are also in the UK. Therefore my suspicions of plagiarism drop quickly. Sorry!