TheBanyanTree: A SMALL DEGREE OF HOPE....

[Sharon Mack]

>From my writing workshop.....

PROMPT:  FRIDAY, AUGUST 13, 2004

WORDS OF WISDOM (from The Craft of Writing)
By Madeleine L'Engle

Why do we tell stories....

'Stories make us more alive, more human, more courageous, more loving.  Why does anybody tell a story?  It does indeed have something to do with faith, faith that the universe has meaning, that our little human lives are not irrelevant, that what we choose or say or do matters, matters cosmically.  We look at the world around us, and it is a complex world, full of incomprehensible greed, irrationality, brutality, war, terrorism----but also self-sacrifice, honor, dignity---and in all of this we look for, and usually find pattern, structure and meaning.  Our truest response to the irrationality of the world is to paint or sing or write, for only in such response do we find truth."

Create two characters, one with the negative traits of Ms. L'Engle's narrative and the other with the positive traits.  Using their contrasting characters interacting with one another bring forth 'truth' as you see it.

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A SMALL DEGREE OF HOPE....

by Sharon A. Mack

The first surge of power came fast and hard.  It seeped from his bloody knuckles up through his clenched fists into his arms where it banged into his lungs and pounded into his heart moving swiftly to his groin and down the back of legs.  He thought he might shit himself after the first few blows because of the power behind it but the feeling passed until all he knew was the pure power of his blows.  He knew somewhere in the deepest part of his mind he should stop.  A part of him desperately wanted him to stop, but the power wouldn't let him.  It whipped around the voice and strangled it out till it merely whimpered its warnings.

She fell at last, sliding down the wall that had held her up for most of the beating.  As her head fell forward, resting on her chest, blood spewed from her mouth.  It was the first time he saw the blood.  He had smelled it before, but the power had blinded him to the damage he had done.  Now he saw it and nausea overtook him.  He turned emptying his stomach into his hands and later at the sink.  His hands shook, his body quivered and as he stood there with the stench in his nostrils, the power left him.  He felt weak and small.  His knees weakened and he slid to the floor as he stared at the small frail woman whose limp body had at last fallen to the side.  He watched her eyes flicker and heard her shallow breathing.  Suddenly he began to cry uncontrollably with large loud gulping sounds.  What had he done?  Would she die this time?  He'd promised her...he'd promised her AGAIN and it still had happened*the all too familiar consuming rage.

He stood briefly trying to clean the mess up in the sink he had made  but was too weak.  The trembling made it impossible and his knees wouldn't hold his weight.  He went down again.  This time he heard her moan.  She was still alive.  He crawled to her on his hands and knees and took one of her small hands into his large trembling hands and kissed it and wept over it.

"Help me," She whispered.  "Help me....please."  She gasped for air after each word, the effort taking all her strength.

"I will," he said.  "I will."  His voice was broken and shattered and he wasn't even sure it was audible.

He stood up then and went to the phone and dialed 911 hoping she would live long enough for them to help her.

Going back to her side after the call, he picked up the small hand once more.

"Sylvie?  Listen to me.  I'm going to the hospital with you.  Then they'll probably arrest me, but let 'em this time.  Let 'em, ya hear.   I'll get help.  I'll get help that way.  You stay alive.  If when I'm done you don't wanta' take a chance I'll understand but I gotta' try to get this outa' me...this monkey, this devil.  I gotta' do it 'cause, Sylvie..." he shook her hand slightly and leaned close to her ear.  "Sylvie I love you like crazy.  You know I do.  I'm sick, Sylvie.  Please, don't die. Don't die."

They found him crying over her broken body.  At first he wouldn't let go of her hand but they told him they wouldn't be able to help her if he didn't.  He let go.  They felt for a pulse.  She was alive.  They didn't know if she would make it or not, they told him....and then the police arrested him and read him his rights.  They walked him out behind the stretcher.

Just as the medics were putting her into the ambulance, Sylvie waved her hand at them and opened her eyes as far as the bruises and swelling would let them.  "Please, let me say something to him, please," she whispered.

The cops brought him to her side.  The expressions on their faces told of their disgust.  "Charlie, listen to me." He had to lean close to hear her.  "I love you, too and I'm gonna let them take you and you get yourself that help and if I live, I'll take that chance with you but it will be a long time coming, okay?"  She was silent then.  He could hear her struggling to breath and he watched her eyes close.

He nodded his head and let his tears fall on her broken face as he kissed her one last time.



"A very small degree of hope is sufficient to cause the birth of love."
-Stendhal