Sunday, March 20, 2011

The national guardsmen checked my identification

In the days immediately after the plague the buses were running again, though there were few passengers. During long stretches of the day, a coach would be occupied by the driver alone, guiding rows of empty seats through the rainy avenues. The smell of burning was still in the air. Everything smelled like fire: our hair, our clothes, our shelters, even the food we ate. It would take a whole winter of rain to wash all that burning from the air, to clean the soot from the faces of the buildings and citizens left behind. We didn't mind the charred air; it masked other, worse smells we wanted to forget. The buses were part of a general plan to return life to its normal state as soon as possible. Vast numbers of citizens and large swaths of the city had been reduced to cinders but public transportation was up and running. Schools, hospitals, churches and liquor stores were open and I made pilgrimages to all of them in their turn. We all did. What else were we going to do?

I saw the woman outside one of the hospitals, where she stood on the sidewalk opposite the main doors. People broken and breaking, mending and fading, living and dying all streamed past while she held herself immobile. Her hands and face were pale, almost the yellow of fresh butter, startling against a black wool coat. Beneath her coat a crimson scarf wound about her neck, a burst of color that brought to mind houses aflame in the middle of the night. I had seen this woman before, during the days of panic. I shuddered and walked on, into the hospital to do my duty. The woman and I were destined to collide; her duties intersected unhappily with mine and I didn't wish to associate with a thing like her. These were the sorts of thoughts I couldn't afford to be distracted by at the hospital. It was best to concentrate on the awful task that lay ahead of me.

The national guardsmen checked my identification and I was escorted back into the secure wards. A stack of files in sickening yellow binders with crimson and black tabs was waiting for me. The charge nurse put the files into my arms and then scuttled away as if it was me who was unclean. Her name badge said Angela.


  1. I've been following this intriguing opening with real interest--and like your other readers want to see how it develops. But let me throw in a couple of cavils:

    "Her hands and face were pale, almost the yellow of fresh butter" confuses me. I'd argue it would be more effective to leave out the pale, the almost, and the yellow, thus: "Her hands and face were the color of fresh butter"

    "The woman and I were destined to collide" is one of those forewarning tricks that I dont like, and you dont need. She already, with your vivid imagery, catches my imagination, and I suspect (and hope) we will meet her again.

    I really like that you dont explain too much--what plague, from where, etc. Youve posited a dynamic situation, with lots for us readers to discover, and I look forward to the discovery...thanks!

  2. D.N. Thanks for reading and for your comments. Alas, I respectfully must disagree with you on both points! To say more would be to give spoilers, but let me suggest that I don't care so much about "effective" writing in the sense I believe you mean than I care here about mood and building the narrator's character along certain lines I have in mind. Also, the woman's skin was not the color of fresh butter.