Historical Vignette

    To MFA or not to MFA has been a quandary for awhile now. I’m a practical person, who is ambitious when I know the outcome is worth the investment. I spent some time over the summer considering what I really wanted out of higher education and weighing that against MFA programs.

    For me, the outcome did not match what I was hoping to achieve. Instead, I put together a study program for myself, using some online tools. Not as highbrow, but the end result will enrich my writing goals.

    I'm using my blog as a way to publish my writing assignments, cataloging them for my own record-keeping. Maybe someday a few may blossom into a short story or flash short story ready for submission to some muckety-muck magazine. For now, welcome to my Florida Gothic studies online journal. 

    For this quarter, my writing assignments are:

• Write a short historical vignette (today's post)
• Walk and write a 'land story' from your local area (that post can be found here)
• Begin building a 'Florida Notebook' with observations, phrases, and details (work in progress)

AN ALIEN LIFE

A Historical Vignette by Debi Canterbury

The chair beneath Bev’s sensible heels wobbles. Instinctively, she cradles her swollen belly. Of all the sunrooms in Florida, why did the snake have to be in hers? She curses Carl, who’s so wrapped up in his lunar landing project, that he hadn’t patched the screen yet, leaving the serpent-sized opening. 

    Bev’s heart pounds in her chest and she takes two deep breaths. “Shoo!” she gestures toward the open back door, but the snake merely gazes back at her, tongue flicking.

Her frustration mounts and the infant inside her womb kicks furtively. “Not now, I’m handling it.” 

This wasn’t what she wanted from her life. She’d imagined a cozy apartment within walking distance to theaters, restaurants, and museums - a place with culture and the changing of seasons. Instead, she was wallpapering an ancient bungalow which had been unscrupulously sold to them with palmetto bugs.

She squeezes her eyes shut, forcing herself to once more jump from the comfort of her usual decision-making and into this Florida life. 

“Brown Eyed Girl” by Van Morrison drones on the radio and she catches fragments of lyrics in between the static. This place didn’t even have decent radio reception. 

She precariously leans toward the wall. One hand balances her weight while the other reaches for the broom. The chair tilts and she lets out a scream. 

The snake curls into its tangled body.

She takes two deep breaths, then tries again. This time, her fingers graze the slick handle. She bites her lower lip, glancing down at the reptile, then back at the broom. The chair wobbles again - but she has it now, the broom in her hand. She clutches it to her chest, like a well-earned prize. 

“See?” she glances down at her belly, “I told you I’d handle it.” She nods, suddenly feeling nauseous from the acrid smell salt marsh wafting through the open doorway.

With both hands gripping the broom, she lowers the straw to the floor. At first, Bev gently nudges the creature. When that doesn’t work, she pushes with more force. 

The chair wobbles and her heart pounds. 

“Ahhhghhhh, get out!” The words release from somewhere deep inside her as she thrusts the broom forward. The snake flies across the terrazzo floor and slithers into the grass beyond the threshold.