Anita's Notebook

I mostly hated the stuff I had to do at school but one of the bright spots in it for me was reading short stories in English class. Short stories make me think of songs in the way that they can evoke such a strong emotional reactions and connections, a lot of times better than any long novel ever could.

After school if I was in a library or bookstore I kept an eye out for good collections of short stories. One book of them that I really loved back then was Isaac Asimov’s ‘Earth’ and I still have that book even now, though these days it’s very well worn with creased up edges.

The premise behind the collection was that a common thread run though all the stories, they each had to be set in a time where the Earth was in a fragile state due to human mismanagement or destruction. This set the stage for many great stories in that book, apocalyptic yet still dealing with human issues that have stretched back through time.

Since this month is National Short Story Month I thought I’d share a snippet of my favorite story in ‘Earth’, it’s called Water Bringer and is written by Mary Rosenblum.

It tells the story of a boy, Jeremy, who lives in a time where water is incredibly scarce and people have to work hard to farm with what little water they have. He is an outcast in his family because he has a crippled leg but also because of something else, his ability to make incredibly real-looking illusions appear.

In this part a mysterious stranger has just shown up at the house with high promises of being able to bring water to the community. Jeremy, however, can’t resist using the distraction to get a secret drink of water…but he can’t keep himself from making illusions…

—–

This stranger made Dad angry and Mother sad. Jeremy thought about that while he waited, but he couldn’t make any sense of it at all. As soon as the stranger and Mother left the kitchen, Jeremy slipped out of his hiding place. Sure enough, the big plastic pitcher stood on the table, surrounded by empty glasses. You didn’t ask for water between meals. Jeremy listened to the quiet. He lifted the pitcher, clutching it tightly in his thick, awkward grip.

The water was almost as warm as the air by now, but it tasted sweet on his dusty throat. He never got enough water. No one did -not when the crops needed it, too. Jeremy swirled the pitcher, watching the last bit of water climb the sides in a miniature whirlpool.

Absently, he made it fill clear to the brim. What would it be like to live in the old days, when it rained all the time and the riverbed was full of water and fish? He imagined a fish, made it appear in the water. He’d seen it in another book, all speckled green with a soft shading of pink on its belly. He made the fish leap out of the pitcher and dive back in, splashing tiny droplets of water that vanished as they fell. Jeremy tilted his head, pleased with himself. Trout -he remembered the fish’s name, now.

“Jeremy!”

Jeremy started at his mother’s cry and dropped the pitcher. Water and fish vanished as the plastic clattered on the linoleum. Throat tight, he stared at the small puddle of real water. The stranger stood behind Mother in the doorway.

“Go see if there are any eggs.” His mother’s voice quivered. “Do it right now!”

Jeremy limped out the door without looking at either of them.

“Don’t mind him,” he heard his mother say breathlessly. “He’s clumsy, is all.”

She was afraid that the stranger had seen the fish. Jeremy hurried across the oven glare of the barnyard. What if he had?

—–