freevistas (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
freevistas) wrote2024-03-02 10:40 am
freevistas) wrote2024-03-02 10:40 am
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Story: Without Homeland
Colors: Teary-eyed #13: Forgot charger
Word Count: 1006
Rating/Warnings: T (period-typical racism/xenophobia)
Notes: Alost posted to Rainbowfic
From the diary of Mrs. Rose Fairchild
1 June, 1916
I can hardly steady my hand enough to write these words–but let me compose myself and begin at the beginning.
I’ve been feeling so restless since the Clean-Up Week ended; the Civic League–the lifeblood of my social life, as William calls it–seems so depleted of energy by the whole undertaking that they haven’t managed to hold a meeting in weeks, and most of the ladies seem utterly uninterested in social calls that don’t double as fundraising or networking opportunities.
William, on the other hand, has been busier than ever between his business affairs and his politicking–and the line between the two seems to grow thinner by the day. The other night over dinner he asked–with that pretense of off-handedness he reserves for the questions troubling him the most–if I’ve been lonely since he’s been spending less and less time at home. If I valued
truthfulness more highly than sensitivity to the poor man’s feelings, I’d have told him that no, I’m not lonely. I’m simply bored. One can only read so many novels.
And so I’ve been taking drives. Just short jaunts to Noank, Mystic, Stonington–I don’t want to find myself stranded with a flat tire or a dead battery in some strange town miles from home. I hardly set my foot on the ground once I reach my destination; it’s the drive itself that I enjoy, the freedom, the sense of pushing beyond a limit, crossing through an invisible barrier that seemed to circumscribe my life. You know better than anyone, diary, what a fearful girl I’ve been for most of my life.
I'd been so looking forward to another outing today: the weather is glorious. But I haven’t told William about this new hobby of mine, and so he’d had no reason to think the car battery would need charging; in my own excitement, I’d neglected that crucial detail as well. And so as I write these words, the Baker sits inert and stone cold in the garage.
I nearly panicked at the thought of all the empty hours stretching out before me. How was I to occupy myself?
I decided I’d conduct an impromptu inspection of the house; after all, the spirit of Clean-Up Week should carry on through the whole year, shouldn’t it?
The girls were out on some errand or other, and so I began my audit without them, moving from room to room and making an inventory of their lapses: the streaks on the windows in the dining room, the billowing cobweb in the corner of the bookcase in the study, an errant handkerchief under the settee in the parlor. But this survey proceeded far more quickly than I would have liked, and I was still faced with the maddening prospect of a dreadfully dull day ahead of me.
Then it occurred to me to continue my inspection with a visit to the attic. I hadn’t been up there in ages–not since the Italian girl moved in–and I must admit that I’ve come to think of it as something of a world apart rather than a room like any other in our house. Truth be told, I’d been avoiding even thinking about the squalor I suspected I’d find up there; it amazes me the filth in which these people are perfectly content to live. But as long as they kept our part of the house tidy, I’d been telling myself, I’d choose to ignore the state of their little domicile.
But there was no reason I shouldn’t take a peek every once in a while.
And so I took a last glance at the street below to make sure the coast was clear, and I crept up the narrow staircase that led to the attic apartment, sure to keep my kerchief over my nose and mouth as I entered.
But I found, to my slight disappointment, that for all its shabbiness, the apartment was about as tidy as any other room in the house. The girls’ dresses hanging from the rafters created a rather ghastly and spectral image, but otherwise, the room was fairly unremarkable. The two beds, sagging in the middle though they were, and covered with a motley assortment of patchwork blankets, were made up fairly neatly. There was even a little crucifix nailed to the wall over one of them. The glass chimney of the hurricane lamp on the humble little writing desk was even remarkably clear of soot.
But it was there, on that very writing desk, that I found it, amongst an assortment of books and papers: anarchist propaganda!
The pamphlet was in Italian, of course, but there was no mistaking the nature of its contents. I held the paper in my trembling hands, trying to convince myself that my eyes were deceiving me, or that there must be a reasonable explanation for the presence of such a document in my home. Perhaps the girl had picked up the pamphlet unknowingly, or perhaps it had been forced upon her by one of the lazy Italian brutes when she’d passed by their picket line sometime. Perhaps she had a purely academic interest in the subject of anarchism.
But none of these scenarios seemed as plausible as the most likely one: that we were harboring a terrorist under our very roof.
I was so lost in my feverish reveries that I hardly heard the back door open, announcing the girls’ return. I stuffed the pamphlet into my jacket pocket and made as quick and silent an exit from that dreadful lair of criminality as I could.
I could hardly look at the girls as I gave them the instruction to leave me undisturbed in the study where I now write these words, that anarchist tract resting on the desk beside my diary like a loaded gun or a stick of dynamite.
What am I to do with the thing? I haven’t a clue. Nor do I know why I can’t refrain from smiling as I think about it…
Colors: Teary-eyed #13: Forgot charger
Word Count: 1006
Rating/Warnings: T (period-typical racism/xenophobia)
Notes: Alost posted to Rainbowfic
From the diary of Mrs. Rose Fairchild
1 June, 1916
I can hardly steady my hand enough to write these words–but let me compose myself and begin at the beginning.
I’ve been feeling so restless since the Clean-Up Week ended; the Civic League–the lifeblood of my social life, as William calls it–seems so depleted of energy by the whole undertaking that they haven’t managed to hold a meeting in weeks, and most of the ladies seem utterly uninterested in social calls that don’t double as fundraising or networking opportunities.
William, on the other hand, has been busier than ever between his business affairs and his politicking–and the line between the two seems to grow thinner by the day. The other night over dinner he asked–with that pretense of off-handedness he reserves for the questions troubling him the most–if I’ve been lonely since he’s been spending less and less time at home. If I valued
truthfulness more highly than sensitivity to the poor man’s feelings, I’d have told him that no, I’m not lonely. I’m simply bored. One can only read so many novels.
And so I’ve been taking drives. Just short jaunts to Noank, Mystic, Stonington–I don’t want to find myself stranded with a flat tire or a dead battery in some strange town miles from home. I hardly set my foot on the ground once I reach my destination; it’s the drive itself that I enjoy, the freedom, the sense of pushing beyond a limit, crossing through an invisible barrier that seemed to circumscribe my life. You know better than anyone, diary, what a fearful girl I’ve been for most of my life.
I'd been so looking forward to another outing today: the weather is glorious. But I haven’t told William about this new hobby of mine, and so he’d had no reason to think the car battery would need charging; in my own excitement, I’d neglected that crucial detail as well. And so as I write these words, the Baker sits inert and stone cold in the garage.
I nearly panicked at the thought of all the empty hours stretching out before me. How was I to occupy myself?
I decided I’d conduct an impromptu inspection of the house; after all, the spirit of Clean-Up Week should carry on through the whole year, shouldn’t it?
The girls were out on some errand or other, and so I began my audit without them, moving from room to room and making an inventory of their lapses: the streaks on the windows in the dining room, the billowing cobweb in the corner of the bookcase in the study, an errant handkerchief under the settee in the parlor. But this survey proceeded far more quickly than I would have liked, and I was still faced with the maddening prospect of a dreadfully dull day ahead of me.
Then it occurred to me to continue my inspection with a visit to the attic. I hadn’t been up there in ages–not since the Italian girl moved in–and I must admit that I’ve come to think of it as something of a world apart rather than a room like any other in our house. Truth be told, I’d been avoiding even thinking about the squalor I suspected I’d find up there; it amazes me the filth in which these people are perfectly content to live. But as long as they kept our part of the house tidy, I’d been telling myself, I’d choose to ignore the state of their little domicile.
But there was no reason I shouldn’t take a peek every once in a while.
And so I took a last glance at the street below to make sure the coast was clear, and I crept up the narrow staircase that led to the attic apartment, sure to keep my kerchief over my nose and mouth as I entered.
But I found, to my slight disappointment, that for all its shabbiness, the apartment was about as tidy as any other room in the house. The girls’ dresses hanging from the rafters created a rather ghastly and spectral image, but otherwise, the room was fairly unremarkable. The two beds, sagging in the middle though they were, and covered with a motley assortment of patchwork blankets, were made up fairly neatly. There was even a little crucifix nailed to the wall over one of them. The glass chimney of the hurricane lamp on the humble little writing desk was even remarkably clear of soot.
But it was there, on that very writing desk, that I found it, amongst an assortment of books and papers: anarchist propaganda!
The pamphlet was in Italian, of course, but there was no mistaking the nature of its contents. I held the paper in my trembling hands, trying to convince myself that my eyes were deceiving me, or that there must be a reasonable explanation for the presence of such a document in my home. Perhaps the girl had picked up the pamphlet unknowingly, or perhaps it had been forced upon her by one of the lazy Italian brutes when she’d passed by their picket line sometime. Perhaps she had a purely academic interest in the subject of anarchism.
But none of these scenarios seemed as plausible as the most likely one: that we were harboring a terrorist under our very roof.
I was so lost in my feverish reveries that I hardly heard the back door open, announcing the girls’ return. I stuffed the pamphlet into my jacket pocket and made as quick and silent an exit from that dreadful lair of criminality as I could.
I could hardly look at the girls as I gave them the instruction to leave me undisturbed in the study where I now write these words, that anarchist tract resting on the desk beside my diary like a loaded gun or a stick of dynamite.
What am I to do with the thing? I haven’t a clue. Nor do I know why I can’t refrain from smiling as I think about it…