A is for . . . . Short Prose Pieces Centered Around a Single Letter

alone
Alan Bern

In Aina Haina Valley, Honolulu, on one short block, Kimokeo Street, 52 kids! 52! Always a game going in the street. Mostly German dodgeball: the best way to stub toes. Just a little blood, but so bad hurt. That hot day while sister napped, I looked out to the street and saw Ronnie and Lynn — both older than me — kicking the ball around. I rushed out, no shoes, and ticked a big toe on the curb — oh sting! I looked up, embarrassed. “Ronnie!” I yelled. But they were going in. “Lunch,” Lynn called. I looked across the street, no Stephen or Stuart. But there was a ball. I stepped carefully across and kicked it softly. No one to play with. So so quiet. Where was Ivan? Hot day. Then I remembered: my dog! I’d named her ʻeleʻele one (pronounced élay élay óhnay). I called her whole name two times, and she ran over wagging and wagging. We could play dodge ball! Oh, well, maybe not, but what a good good dog.


astronaut                  
Alan Peat

We are sitting in the space where the cookery books were yesterday. Not many of us; thirty at most. When the nervous young man introduces the evening’s speaker he jokes about the poor attendance — calls us “a select group.” No-one laughs. The astronaut doesn’t look up. Last week a Spice Girl was moved to a bigger venue. Twenty-odd of us eagerly wait for the man who walked on the moon to start talking. Then he begins and an hour passes quicker than you can say Saturn 5  — the dangers of being a test pilot in the 1950s; what it was like to enter Tokyo Bay at the end of World War II; a couple of anecdotes about being one of NASA’s Mercury Seven. He doesn’t look like his heart’s in it but, after he’s done talking, I stand in the short queue, waiting my turn with the requisite recently bought hardback autobiography in my hands. And, when I reach him he dutifully signs it and I can’t quite believe that I’m shaking hands with Alan Shepard: the first American in space; commander of Apollo 14; the man who played a golf stroke on the moon.


apple (cider)                                                                    
Antonia Matthew

I went to stay with my uncle and aunt in rural Devonshire. One afternoon my uncle said, “I’m going to get some apple cider. Come along.” It was a long walk along country lanes to a farm.  There was a large open barn; inside were tall round tanks with pipes coming out of them. My uncle gave a whistle. A man appeared, grinning. “Cum for your zider now, 'ave yer, Mr. Bill?”  My uncle nodded. The farmer walked into the barn followed by my uncle.He turned a tap, ran some brown liquid into a mug and handed it to my uncle. My uncle took several swallows, then handed back the mug. “Good cider John, lousy, good and lousy.” Lousy, I thought, doesn't that mean no good? The two jugs were filled, my uncle paid the farmer who slapped him on his back, “cum agin soon, Mr. Bill,” and my uncle nodded. We set back down the lane. Later, I asked my aunt, “why did Uncle Bill call the cider lousy?”  My aunt laughed, “wait till supper.” At supper we lifted our glasses. “Cheers,” they said. I took a drink and the cider hit the back of my throat, so sharp-tasting, that I spluttered and coughed. They both laughed. “That's what cider's meant to do, catch you at the back of the throat, good and sharp. We call that lousy.”


agriculture
Barrie Levine

I am a suburban New Jersey native. My husband grew up on the mean streets of Boston. We married in 1972 and purchased an uninsulated cinderblock house, north of Boston, but we couldn’t resist the magical property, ten acres of meadow bordered by a stand of mature pine and lakefront. Paul quickly took to country life and bought a John Deere farm tractor with attachments. He built stone walls, the borders that make good neighbors in New England. He rototilled the soil and planted vegetables, including an impressive field of cornstalks. He built a coop and our children collected eggs and tended chickens, until the flock was decimated by a wily hawk who left piles of feathers. Paul enrolled in an animal husbandry program at the county extension school. He purchased a pair of Oxfordshire sheep, a handsome breed with dark faces, and they thrived chewing the meadow down to the ground. We delivered the lambs, thanks to my husband’s knowledge of animal breeding and behavior. A hairdresser by trade with his own salon, he bought shearing equipment and we sold the wool. I could never have predicted that, during an idyllic phase of my life, I would become a farmer’s wife.


allergic
Blue Waters

When I was little I used to love all the excitement at our family’s farm near Greensburg, Kansas whenever it was time to mow the hay from the fields, thresh it into piles of grain, and store it in the big silo. All those enormous whirring machines were magical to me. But soon an itchy rash would spread across my face, and my eyes would burn and swell up. When it got so I couldn’t breathe anymore, I would go and hide inside the pick-up truck, roll up the windows, and wheeze into a paper bag.


angel
Carole Johnston

I did see a bright green halo above that little girl’s head. I really did. However, I should not have posted it on Facebook. Immediately, I got a text from my daughter telling me to see a neurologist because it might be an aura signaling an ocular migraine or an impending stroke. So . . . after I endured the horrendous cacophony of a head scan, the neurologist said that my brain was normal, although a snarky friend insisted my brain never had been normal. I started googling auras (the spiritual kind) and angels. What else could I do? A green aura designates the person as a healer. Then, I had a dream about an angel wearing green, standing behind my cousin who was about to undergo a liver transplant. I was spooked. I called my friend, Normandi Ellis, who is an Egyptologist and Spiritualist minister. She confirmed that a dream about an angel wearing green was a good sign for my cousin’s transplant surgery and recovery. The surgery was, indeed, a success, but what about the little girl with the green aura? I saw her again and she appeared to be perfectly average — no halo. So . . . is this girl a healer? Is she an angel? Or did she need healing that day? After three years, I still have not had a stroke nor seen another glowing green aura. Was it delusion or hallucination or just a bright spot on a grey day? It’s a mystery.


artichoke
Deborah Burke Henderson
 
During the height of the sticky, summer months, Dad relished having a big steamed artichoke with dinner. He introduced us four kids to this enjoyment, too. Settled in his armchair at the head of the table, he’d warn us about the spiny tips sprouting from each leaf. Then, he’d carefully pluck a deep olive green outer leaf, dip the wide, ridged edge in a small ramekin of shimmery melted butter, bring the beauty to his lips, and let his tongue savor the blend of flavors as he chewed. After the pile of discarded leaves grew deep in a nearby bowl, he went on to explain how to prepare and eat the choke’s heart. “This is the best part,” he’d exclaim, a gleam in his eyes. Soon, warm droplets dripped down our wrists as we shared butter pots. Grins spread across our faces. Sometimes, young Dud let out a screech whenever a thorny spike pricked his chubby little fingers. Dad introduced us to so many new experiences through food, music, and travel, and inspired each of us to challenge and stretch ourselves. Grateful for that. Grateful for you. Miss you, Dad.


ants
Ellen Orleans

“I’d always imagined I’d live in a modern split-level,” my mother says, wrestling with a stuck kitchen drawer. I am ten and have never lived anywhere else. Drafty rooms in the winter, basement floods in springtime, ants in the kitchen each summer. Just yesterday, my mother swept six carpenter ants into a dust pan, while I tugged open the kitchen door, then deposited them outside. This is not uncommon. “If you wanted a split level, why did you buy this house?”  “Your father wanted to move here.” “What about what you wanted?” “I imagined him on his house calls, driving past the home he wished he’d bought.” I don’t notice she didn’t answer my question. I do know my father stopped making house calls before I was even born. Years later, long after I have moved away, my mother will still sweep ants. But first she will step on them, then drop them into the trash. Too difficult now to balance the dust pan in one hand, open the heavy kitchen door with the other, before shaking them loose — alive — into the grass below.


aura
Emily Rhoads Johnson

I was practicing a Mozart sonata on the piano when suddenly sections of notes on the page disappeared. In their place were large black patches that slid from one spot to another. How fascinating, I thought. How thrilling! Was it some kind of magic? Was I having a vision? (At 14, I was into stories with a supernatural twist: the Brontes, Dickens, Poe.) When I told my mother what was happening, her face fell. She told me I was seeing an aura, a visual disturbance that often precedes a migraine, something she had experienced many times in her life. To her, it was a sign of misfortune — an indicator that my life, like hers, would probably be plagued with excruciating headaches. She was right. Today, decades later, the start of an aura fills me with dread. Oh, how I wish I could still feel that same sense of wonder I felt at 14 — believing that somehow I’d been singled out to experience beautiful, glimmering emanations because I was touched with magic!


awe
Florin C. Ciobica
 
Crack of dawn. Like every day, I go for a walk in the neighborhood with my puppy. Toto doesn't understand what humanity is going through. Suddenly I notice something that terrifies me. A featherless swallow chick lying on the sidewalk. I realize he's fallen out of the nest. I immediately pick it up, wrap it with a napkin and then put it in a small plastic bag. In the distance, the siren of an ambulance can be heard. I bring the dog home and get on my bike. I have to find a proper place to bury the baby bird, not among concrete blocks of flats. I pedal until I am away from the hustle and bustle of the city. I stop at a small park where there are a few fruit trees. I kneel down and dig a small hole under a bitter cherry tree. I place the baby bird into the hole, muttering a short prayer. The breeze covers him with a few petals. I burst into tears. Nobody observes me.


abject
Joan Leotta

Perhaps a word of disheartenment seems odd for a birthday word. But I am writing it on this day to loosen its ties on my mind and heart, to expel it from my being. “Be Not Afraid” is the message of the angels — and so we walk ahead into whatever life has spread along our path, looking forward, without fear, and with confidence, even if it is only of the shaky variety. If abject takes over, I will be dropped to my knees, unable to progress. If I become an abject-controlled person then I will be walking without the light of hope to guide me. Right now, as I wait for my daughter’s surgery date and see her growing weaker, the light on my path feels dimmer, as if the wind has blown down the power lines. I sense abject circling, but remind myself that even abject cannot sever the tie between me and my faith. I know that the light is still there.


answers
Kathleen Kramer

The Baltimore Catechism — it had a dark blue cover, worn soft from much use. It resided next to the Douay Bible on top of the piano. Every Saturday evening, Mother would take it down, sit in the rocking chair with the needlepoint seat and call me for our weekly lesson. So while Grandma clattered the supper dishes in the sink, Mother quizzed me on the Catechism. Full of questions, full of answers. I got most of them right and loved the approval on Mother’s face. Maybe that’s why, in school, third row, 4th seat from the front, I would wave my hand wildly, eager to give the answer, the right answer, and see that look of approval. Some of the other kids undoubtedly hated me. And I don’t blame them. But now I’ve come, instead, to love the questions, the ones without an answer. Scientists are discovering how things happen, when they happened. The Big Bang. Giant tube worms, squirming a mile deep in the sea. Us. Me. But do they know why? There could have been nothing. But here we are. Seeking for that why is reason enough to keep going.


artist
Katrina Morse
 
From the earliest age I was Observer. Before I was 2 years old I remember looking under my great-grandmother’s kitchen table in Kansas, my head just under the tabletop when I was standing. I saw a big gallon glass jug in the corner. My mom told me it was root beer, getting bubbly the old-fashioned way with yeast and sugar. As I grew and my brothers and sister were born, I was Big Sister, telling my younger siblings not to swear and to feed the cats. Then I learned the miracle of sewing and made stuffed animals and my own bell-bottoms. I was Seamstress at age 8. When I was 12 I had the false title of Tennis Pro when I won a neighborhood tournament, being the oldest contestant. I got to go to the Tennis US Open for that. That was also the age that I was Strongest and Fastest, being the tallest child, boy or girl, in 6th grade. In Junior High and High School I was Scientist, studying nature and loving the periodic table. But I also became Artist — a creative thinker and maker of things and happenings. Now I realize I’ve been an artist all along.


aglow
Margaret Walker
 
When I was growing up it seemed every house had a piano and long before we started piano lessons we learned to pound out two songs on the piano. The first was Chopsticks followed soon by a one-finger version of Heart and Soul. “Graduating” to playing Heart and Soul with both hands and then as a duet was a major accomplishment — and one to be repeated as loudly as possible when having new guests for whom to display this prodigious talent — sometimes including our own flourishes that we were certain added magnificently to the arrangement. At some point, my friends and I discovered the sheet music and lyrics and were able to add to the cacophony by singing at the top of our lungs to our own accompaniment. It was some years before I fully appreciated the lyrics — “…that little kiss you stole held all my heart and soul.”


a-line
Peaches Gillette

1965. I run through the tall summer-green grass in Prospect Park, in search of a place to hide — my brother is the seeker. I stay close to my mother who sits on a bench smiling and looking toward the sky. She is my sun, in all I am, in all I do, in all I feel; she is the center of the universe. Her yellow A-line dress curtains around her, and sweetly rests upon the top of the grass, grounding her to the earth. Her glow pulls me in. I tuck away under the bench where she sits. Her dress conceals me, her motherness protects me, my brother cannot find me. Her A-line dress becomes a place in which I drift away. I am at peace.


allowance
Pris Campbell

When I entered eighth grade in the fifties, grown up enough to wish for lipstick and perfume, my father began giving me 25 cents a day during the week as my allowance. It was his intention to teach me how to save money for special things, in advance of the time when I would have to budget for rent, clothes, and food. Lipstick was still a no-no and cheap toilet water was barely within reach, much less perfume, so I saved for daily sodas and cheese crackers at Kohlers drug store, a weekly barbecue sandwich at Press’s Grill, and occasional drive-in movies across the state line in Monroe — often with a couple of friends stashed in the trunk to make our money stretch far enough for popcorn and soda for each of us. My parents relented and bought me a bottle of perfume for Christmas when I was 15. The bottle was white with large marble-like bubbles across its surface. It was shaped like it held a genie, with a beautiful ceramic stopper and a cork plug. The bottle could be upended, saturating the cork, which was then used to dab faint aromas behind my ears and on my wrists. Not for school days, my parents admonished. But it was allowed for the occasional dances at the community center or square dances at the edge of town. I still have that bottle. I’ve kept it sealed up for all these years but the few times I’ve opened it there was still the slight hint of perfume lingering on the cork. As if a genie truly inhabited the bottle, each sniff brings back my parents’ faces, my South Carolina home, and friends who are now long gone — as well as those secret hopes I had that a boy might be so entranced by my scent that he would kiss me.


alice
Theresa A. Cancro

"A my name is Alice" was one of the jump rope rhymes I learned on the school playground. And Alice happens to be my middle name. When I was growing up, it was considered old-fashioned. In first and second grade, I was proud of it, but later I was reluctant to tell anyone who happened to ask. Over the years, I learned about Aunt Alice, an older sister of my great-grandmother. She was very much ahead of her time: a free spirit who outlived two husbands and divorced another, moved to California, and bragged about her family heritage to anyone who would listen, including claiming to be distantly related to General Lafayette. During the roaring twenties when she dared to wear short skirts, she talked my great-grandmother into cutting her long hair. As an adult, I've grown to like my middle name, and even though I never knew her, I feel a kinship with Aunt Alice, especially when I strike out on a new, unusual project.


acres
Tina Wright

When I was a kid 20 acres was a big field and it took forever for my dad to plow even 10 acres with the John Deere A tractor and a 2-bottom plow with no hydraulics. As a farmhand years later, I was expected to polish off such a field pretty damn quick with 100 horsepower (or more) tractors, 4- or 5-bottom plows. Way back in the day, you felt every rock on the old John Deere that Dad was bouncing on . . . at the same time a farmer across our little valley was plowing with horses! I only saw Joe Cashun and his horse team from far away, never close up.  


ants
Zee Zahava

My mother used to buy her magazines at the check-out aisle in the supermarket: Family Circle, Woman’s Day, Redbook. She read them at night, in bed, to help her fall asleep. She carefully studied the recipes — every cup and every teaspoon — until her eyes closed. She tried hard to replicate these recipes: cheese and bean casseroles topped with marshmallows; cornflakes smashed to bits and mixed into meatloaf; tuna and Jell-O pie. The magazines also gave Mom ideas for “healthy snacks” to serve in the afternoon, in case anyone wanted a “pick me up.” I never did, but that didn’t stop her. One time, and only one time, it was ants on a log. My mother took celery stalks, stuffed Skippy peanut butter into the crevices, and placed plump raisins down the “log.” She presented this with a ta-da flourish. I said No. I said it loudly and I said it forcefully. Some foot-stamping might have been involved. What was she thinking? Ants? Ants??!!?? The only thing worse than celery is celery with ants. Even if those ants were really perfectly harmless raisins. It was still unthinkable.