Creative Writing (Untitled), by Cecil Bethea

Keith Kirchner lived on the next block down from ours.  He must have been five years older than me because he finished school in 1940.  He was drafted in the spring ‘41.  After basic he went into the Army Air Corps.  Knowing the army like I do, I’d say he was pushed into the Air Corps–bombers, a machine gunner.  My mother and his used to talk on the phone several times a week. This way we kept in touch with him and his training.

First the telegram came telling that he was wounded, for anybody with a star hanging in the window, any telegram was almost as bad as a death notice. Not knowing anything except he was alive and wounded must have been mighty bad.  Slowly the news slipped across the ocean that he was badly burnt and couldn’t write.  I wondered if his arms had been burnt off,  A month or two later we found out that he’d been awarded a Medal of Honor.  Talk about a splash!  The paper printed on the front page the whole citation about how an incendiary bomb had exploded in his plane.  He’d picked it up and thrown it out the window saving the other men but burning himself just about to a crisp.  I was taking chemistry then and had just learned what a bitch phosphorus is.  Now I know he was wearing one of those heavy leather flight suits which would have protected him somewhat.  I see how he picked the bomb up in the first place.  What I can’t understand is how he continued to hold on to the thing.

When he finally came home, we didn’t see him without his long-sleeved shirt buttoned all the way up.  Of course most of the time he had a tie on.  His face and neck were scared something awful and his hands too.  Couldn’t hide those parts.  I’d wonder what his body looked like naked especially down there, you know

I have been cogitating about this ever since.  I did my time in Korea, All I got was a Purple Heart for being stupid and a Good Conduct Badge for not getting caught.  Keith and I’d have a beer ever so often.  While we were talking and drinking I noticed that his hands weren’t the color of mother-of pearl but more like unpolished opal.  Another time I remember regretting to him not doing something brave and famous like him.  He just said, “You didn’t have the chance.”

© 3 Sep 2008 

About the Author 

Although I have done other things, my fame now rests upon the durability of my partnership with Carl Shepherd; we have been together for forty-two years and nine months as of today, August 18th, 2012. 

Although I was born in Macon, Georgia in 1928, I was raised in Birmingham during the Great Depression.  No doubt I still carry invisible scars caused by that era.  No matter we survived.  I am talking about my sister, brother, and I.  There are two things that set me apart from people.  From about the third grade I was a voracious reader of books on almost any subject.  Had I concentrated, I would have been an authority by now; but I didn’t with no regrets.

After the University of Alabama and the Air Force, I came to Denver.  Here I met Carl, who picked me up in Mary’s Bar.  Through our early life, we traveled extensively in the mountain West.  Carl is from Helena, Montana, and is a Blackfoot Indian.  Our being from nearly opposite ends of the country made “going to see the folks” a broadening experience.  We went so many times that we finally had “must see” places on each route like the Quilt Museum in Paducah, Kentucky and the polo games in Sheridan, Wyoming.  Now those happy travels are only memories.

I was amongst the first members of the memory writing class.  While it doesn’t offer criticism, it does offer feedback.  Also, just trying to improve your writing helps no end.

Carl is now in a nursing home; I don’t drive any more.  We totter on.

Believe It or Not, This Really Happened to Me by Phillip Hoyle

Several years ago I developed an unusual medical condition that stumped my doctor and both interested and frightened me. One morning I discovered a growth on the index finger of my left hand. It first appeared to be a long splinter the length of the finger next to the thumb. Unlike a splinter, it seemed articulated and bent when my finger bent. I was fascinated but also knew I needed to show it to my doctor. I couldn’t get an appointment that first day but set one for the next. Overnight the splinter-like protrusion expanded a little bit beyond the finger, and looked like a kind of lobe, like a smaller finger attached to the index finger.

Many things went through my mind on the bus ride to Dr. Pierce’s office. Was this some kind of exotic infection from Africa? I had any number of African friends. Was it from the high Himalayas, the original home of my friend Ming? Or China where my friends Rong and Fong originated? Or Korea from which Chong immigrated? I decided not to worry and just kept my hand on my lap covered by my other rather normal appearing right hand. But I did worry. Would I ever again play the piano? Could one even play with six fingers? Would I have to give up my massage practice? I’d already cancelled half a dozen massages. Would I still be able to shuffle a deck of cards?

At the doctor’s office I watched as my physician examined the oddity. He said it was not a splinter but rather a buildup of fluid and proposed to extract some of it for further examination. Out came the needle. Into the finger it reached. Out came dark red blood. Doctor looked concerned and marked the sample for the lab to examine STAT. He asked me to wait and showed me to an empty room. I wondered what he’d find. I had wanted to excise the dark line that invited ideas of demon possession, an idea I had long excised from my mind. Couldn’t I simply cut it off like I once did a mole? I examined myself. I thought about the many projects I was planning. I made a list of friends to call, especially those I had lost track of over the previous couple of years. I checked my phone messages, listening to all those I’d not heard, erasing many, many voice and text messages, and otherwise filled my time with distracting tasks. After about an hour, a nurse brought me a bottle of water and some magazines apologizing for the long inconvenience. My one hour wait turned into two hours. Finally Dr. Pierce returned. He told me I would have to enter the hospital. My heart rate rose. “We need to keep watch over this.” He frowned; I wondered why. “The CDC wants you isolated,” he explained for their computers had matched the sample with something dreadful. My fears shook me.

I entered a world of sterile isolation. There all was bed rest, confusion, and fear. The staff members were nice to me yet cautious and also afraid. I was also amazed for when in my long life had anything I had ever done become of national concern? Finally I awoke from the dream that morning, December 29, 2010.

Morning Pages entry from 12-29-2010

Woke up from a dream in which I discovered a growth on my index finger. It looked like a long splinter the length of the finger but protruded a little bit beyond in a separate lobe as if the whole thing were growing alongside my finger. I used it as an illustration that, like this splinter, most folk in the room (were they UUs?) would like to excise the mythological elements from their minds. I wondered if it really was a splinter and thought I’d like to find out. The stuff that came out was liquid like pussy blood. The CDC said to contain the liquid and get it to a hospital for examination. The medics were to isolate me because their computers had matched it with something dreadful. Sterile concerns all along towards the end of the dream. Keep samples sterile, etc. keep the fluid isolated. Isolate me, too.

© Denver 2014

About the Author 

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com