Perspective

by Moriah Freeman

Letter to my Readers

Because I started writing creatively later in life, I’ve permitted myself to experiment with poetry, essays, nonfiction, and fiction, knowing I may never master any one genre.    My late start and lack of a fine arts degree have also made it impossible for me to get published, at least so far. I’ve self-published three books and 89 blog posts over the past nearly 10 years.  Having one poem, “The World Is Coming Apart at the Seams,” included in one poetry collection, does not a published author make!

Last summer, I attended a couple of book festivals and saw self-published and co-published authors promoting their work. Very few of the potential customers who walked by my display or others actually made a purchase. I came away feeling uncomfortable contributing to the increasing cascade of words, pages, and books flooding the world, or, more accurately, sitting in boxes on storage room shelves, or in garages and attics.

Yet, I can’t stop writing, and though I have no illusions about my talent, I still want to share my words and thoughts—share, not try to force them upon readers.  So, I’ve hit upon a new, or rather, quite old idea. I will publish my fiction along with my essays and poetry on my blog in installments. This way, they are free, both for me to publish and for readers to read. If they are found and found meaningful, how delightful!  If they are not, I’ve still enjoyed the writing and the sharing.  I will put them out there and let go of the outcome.

Perspective is my first experiment in this new venture. It’s a short story about how the various people involved in one incident each see it through their own unique lenses. Let me know what you think.

Moriah

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Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe.

Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe.

Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe.

For months, Deborah had imagined swimming at one of her favorite places – her family’s retreat on Concord Lake in Nova Scotia. When she was a child, her parents built the cabin on the lakeshore, and she and her siblings splashed, swam, canoed, and boated in its warm, shining waters. Now her parents were gone, and her sister Meredith owned the property. Deborah and her partner visited every couple of years for vacations and family gatherings.

During the journey, Deborah had daydreamed about this swim. As she stroked out from shore, she felt like she had been set free. No narrow lane confined her; no black line on the bottom of the pool insisted she swim straight; no wall demanded that she turn every thirty-two strokes. As she headed out into the open expanse of water, the murky lake’s bottom was no guide. She had imagined how it would feel to swim without a goal: no pressure from the clock; no fellow swimmers with whom to compare her strokes, her speed, or her form. Relaxed, slow arms sliced through the tepid water like a lazy knife through soft butter. No resistance. Legs gently waving like the tail of a mermaid. She felt calm, at ease in her body and the world, at home.

A minute or two after the swim began, she felt tiny pinpricks of raindrops on her shoulders. Though she had been determined to swim on this first day of vacation, the clouds she glimpsed while wading into the lake had conjured both defiant and cautious impulses in her.

“The hell with the rain, I’ve waited long enough, I am swimming regardless,” was countered by, “If it starts to rain hard, I will get out.”

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Roxy, Deborah’s partner, lounged in the Adirondack chair on the cabin porch, her Kindle beside her on the chair’s yellow arm. Jiffy, their standard black poodle, perched at alert behind the bars of the baby gate just inside the cabin door. They both watched Deborah wade into the lake, Roxy wondering how Deborah could have the energy to swim after driving for two days. Older and less fit than Deborah, Roxy tired more easily and moved more slowly. They had only arrived at the cabin on Concord Lake a couple of hours before, and all Roxy wanted at this moment was some quiet to read and to nap. Jiffy was whining off and on and pawing at the gate. No surprise. Any separation from Deborah made him anxious.

Roxy was relieved to be here at last, but was nonetheless slightly uncomfortable. This cabin stay was not her idea of a dream vacation. Mosquitoes, uncomfortable beds, the outdoor shower, and Deborah’s sister, nephews, and their families dropping in unannounced meant that this visit would require more patience and extroversion from her than a vacation should. Roxy liked ease and privacy.

The sky looked ominous. “Why the hell couldn’t Deborah wait for better swimming weather?”  Roxy grumbled internally. She felt obligated to watch the lake and Deborah in case anything happened – a cramp, for instance.

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Inside the cabin, Alex, Deborah’s 35-year-old nephew, tapped the screen on his mobile while his five-year-old son, Jason, fiddled with his iPad. Jason, Alex, and his wife, Trisha, had made the trip from Quebec to Nova Scotia for a partial family reunion—partial because some family members were not attending due to a recent misunderstanding. When they arrived a couple of days ago, the air was already charged with tension as everyone tried to make the best of things. He was tired of trying to be upbeat and sociable. Surfing the net and zoning out for a few minutes while everyone else was occupied would, he hoped, renew his patience for his role of family go-between and peacemaker. He, Trisha, and Jason were staying at his parents’ house in the village, a 15-minute drive away. His mother and Trisha had just left the cabin to prepare for the evening meal in its better-equipped kitchen.

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The raindrops started slowly and gently. Jiffy whined and yelped. Roxy uttered a firm “Quiet!” and turned to make sure that the baby gate was securely fastened. All she needed was for him to get loose and go dashing into the water, looking for his mistress. When she turned back to the lake only a few seconds later, she could see Deborah’s lime green bathing cap far out from shore. Rain pelted now, and thunder rumbled in the distance. She shouted. “Alex!” and dashed down to the lakefront. In the seconds it took to cross the narrow strip of lawn and arrive drenched at the dock, the bathing cap disappeared. Torrents of rain pounded the surface of the lake, thunder roared overhead, and a vicious spear of lightning punctuated the dark sky.

To be continued tomorrow