Baby Blue

Ms. Crankshaw was humming as she drove her old Buick downtown. Her heavy glasses balanced on the tip of her nose as if the force of habit fought and defeated the force of gravity. “People should smile more,” she said as she ran a red light. Two cars and a scooter barely managed to avoid collision in her wake. Happiness is myopia.

 

Ms. Crankshaw was a goddess. She always suspected it, but her modesty never allowed her to openly admit it. Her powers were undeniable and hard to conceal. She created and watched over the world, and made sure that nothing would disturb the harmony of her creation. She had rules for everything: how to dress, how to eat, how to talk, how to sit, how to stand, how to walk, how to have a conversation, how to kiss, or how to make love. “You can play but stay within bounds, follow instructions, and most of all, have fun,” was a kind of motto she had, although she never crystallized these thoughts into explicit instructions. It was everyone’s prerogative to discover the secrets of the universe for themselves. Ms. Crankshaw believed in free will.

 

She liked verbs that were “regular” like, “accept, avoid, beg, blush, calculate, command, deceive, destroy, drown, force, frighten, harass, haunt, identify, impress, jail, judge, kick, kill, label, lie, murder, obey, obtain, permit, please, pretend, pervert, program, punish, rule, scold, slap, smash, suffer, twist, use, wail, wreck, yell.”

 

She had no patience for the rule breakers, the so called “irregulars” like, “wake, become, begin, build, choose, dream, feel, fly, forgive, hold, read, sing, speak, think, understand, or write.” I lived in her house all my life. She was my mother - in a sense.  I always wondered about that. How can we be so different? Sometimes I wanted to don a white dress, a black wig, lock myself in my chamber, capitalize random words, and put a dash at the end of all my lines. Or, I thought I could build a cabin in the woods, watch the seasons change, and refuse to pay my taxes. On some especially wild days, I wanted to stuff Bartleby, Benito, and Billy Bud in a tin, join a whaling crew and slash marine mammal blubber. “But then,” she’d say, “you’ll never amount to anything.”

 

This morning, while I lay in bed, she came into my room, sat on the edge of my bed, and looked around inspecting the corners for cobwebs and dust. Her gaze lingered over an empty glass bottle on my desk. The bottle served as a vase for some wild flowers I had picked on a hillside in another dream.

 

 “What kind of flowers are those?” she’d say with mild disgust in her voice.

“What’s in a name?” I’d answer with a question.

“What’s your point?” she’d retort.

“It’s more of a cloud, not a point,” I’d say.

“You’re not making any sense,” she’d frown.

“Kafka, William Blake, and Miss Crankshaw walk into a bar,” I’d begin.

“And what happens?” she’d sigh.

“This.”

Ms. Crankshaw and I never saw eye to eye. Part of the reason was that I’d easily get distracted. For instance, after a string of words like, “She and I never saw eye to eye” my mind would get boggled. And she had no use for “I’s” only for “aye’s.”

 

“So, what happens in the bar?” she’d demand.

“I don’t know,” I’d shrug. “Who knows such things?”

“You’re not making any sense,” she’d say again.

 

I think I sometimes did this on purpose just to annoy her. I mean, why all the rules? I had nightmares about her, for crying out loud! She’d be sitting on my chest, choking me with her bony fingers. I wanted to scream, “I…I…I…” but I couldn’t. I had no place in Her universe.

 

She could also shape-shift. Sometimes she’d come to me in the form of a grumpy old man, or a teenage girl. I’m a curious, gentle person by nature, so I’d say to them, “Please, why don’t you take a seat?” I’d offer them tea and cookies, and just when I’d settle down to have a heart to heart honest conversation with them, they’d start laughing, their masks would melt away and there would be good old Ms. Crankshaw again telling me to dot my i’s and cross my t’s.

 

Once, I ran away with someone and it was a scary time - exhilarating, terrifying, and beautiful all at once. I wouldn’t dare look in the mirror for weeks, because there was someone new there looking back at me. I was pregnant, and could’ve given birth to a new me, but Ms. Crankshaw got to us first. We were separated, and severely punished. It was ages ago, and when I read history books sometimes I catch my breath for I recognize that the stories are about us. The Inquisition, the witch hunts, the concentration camps, or the stories about the horrors of the gulags that children pore and yawn over were all us. We were there, my lover and I, downtrodden, beaten, humiliated and shamed, forced to admit defeat to Ms. Crankshaw who washed her hands of our blood and went back to sipping tea with the priests, and the judges as they all shook their heads at our depravity.

 

Look up at the sad, drizzly, early morning sky, and find me there in the toothless baby blue smile breaking through the thick, gray clouds. Look up quick, before the world once again becomes an old woman’s frown.

 

 

Reviews

[John the Baptist]

Mrs. Crankshaw brings to mind those proper, respectable superficially pleasant people who in their hearts are rigid conformists who are distrustful of any behavior that diverges from the "norm." The list of her favorite verbs give a hint of the ways in which she would like to deal with deviants. Such people make up the supporters of authoritarian leaders whom they would follow blindly to dispose of "threats." In an extreme situation, I could imagine Mrs. Crankshaw commanding a women's unit of the SS.

[Laz K.]

Thank you for reading and commenting. I actually wrote this after someone critiqued another one of my stories saying how it failed to follow any of the rules of a proper short story. Now, I understand that there are conventions, but I thought that if I cannot freely express myself - not even in fiction - then that's the end for me. How is it "creative writing" if we ALL follow the same formula? So, that's Ms. Crankshaw's genesis.
Thanks again for reading!

[Chris Shaw]

Oh your last sentence Laz, 'look up quick before the world once again becomes an old woman's frown'. I started to think about older women I know or have known. Your Ms Crankshaw was the disciplinarian teacher at grammar school who never smiled. So inflexible and completely absorbed by rule books. I think she breakfasted on rules. I have never forgotten her. Then I drifted to my own mum and my grandmothers. Such tolerant and understanding women. Full of the milk of human kindness. Always had a smile, even in times of sadness. My paternal grandma actually asked me whether I had a nice time at Grandad's wake. Through her pain, she wanted to make sure the family were being looked after and that the occasion would remembered with fondness rather than sadness. I didn't understand that at the time, but I do now. I had so many thoughts as I read your words. Where there are rules, there can also be too many punishments. It's all about balance. Life should be fun not bogged down and weighed heavy with discipline. Of course there is a need, but with a lighter touch says I.

Chris

[Laz K.]

Thank you for reading and commenting.
You're right about the need for balance. And, btw, your grandma sounds like a saintly soul. Definitely not a Ms. Crankshaft. :)

[Delmar Cooper]

The books about writing, some of them, suggest beginning a flight of imagination with a "what if?" question.

I wonder what the question is here? And does this story answer the question? Possibly the answer is larger than any question that might be posed and needs to be pared to a state of elegance that fits the narrowness of a sharp question. A critic shouldn't be vague, but maybe the best form of critical thought is simply saying I don't know either.

But if the question was "What if God was an Eighth Grade English teacher...?" Maybe something like that could work...

Frankly, I thought this was magnificent and I envy your ability.

[Laz K.]

It's very interesting that you start by mentioning books on writing, and than you go on and wonder what the question here in this story is. I'm saying it's interesting, because actually the question was, "Can I write completely ignoring the requirements of a short story and just capture the colors and moods of the moment I'm in?" Or, in other words, "Is freedom as such possible at all?" Thank you very much for taking the time to read and comment!

[Delmar Cooper]

You may well have begun with random thoughts but they took you deep into story time and place.

[Dave Brown]

When I read things I am never sure of the underlying message, so when I offer a comment I am often sticking my foot in my mouth, however I will say I appreciate your imagination.
I often have trouble digging up subject matter but you don't seem to have that problem

[Laz K.]

Thank you for taking the time to read this. It's much appreciated!