Pac got shot up in ’96, this time on a famous strip in Las Vegas. In three days he’d rise again like Jesus, a Lazarus in the Bible, outside of his hometown claiming victory over Hades. He’d be back…
Elvis Presley’s warbling on the overhead speakers as Mom and I browse a warm, wood-splashed Barnes & Noble. She wants to buy a puzzle for my nephew in Florida. She turns to me. “Oh god, the day Elvis died?…
I told my mom I loved her at a gas station in Minnesota but I’m not sure she heard. The cashier must’ve been stocking drinks or something so it felt like it was just me and her in there.…
“She cursed that baby—” “Her thirteenth, I heard, and who can blame her—” “You can’t blame her for thinking it, but doing—” “Who among us—” “I wouldn’t—” “That’s you, though, isn’t it?” “You’re better than us?” “You think she’s…
“The fuck you take your gloves off again?” you growled, never letting up, the oldest. Brother trip, our third in two years, anywhere there’d be northern lights. We hiked out of the frozen Alaskan woods—the black-dark, wraith rider intimidation…
I should have noticed when my wedding ring fell out of my pocket. I should have heard it strike and plink on the concrete floor in Big Willie’s dressing room behind the bar when I slung my jacket over…
Since we’ve moved to England for the year, my son Bodhi fears being alone. He can’t verbalize what it is he fears. Everywhere we go he follows, hand linked into an arm or fingers pinching the fabric of a…
Orode walked slowly on the wooden bridge. The water beneath him assaulted his senses. It smelt of tar and shit. He strode across the wooden planks. Reeds broke the surface of the murky river. Toads croaked loudly. Mosquitoes buzzed…
Here they are, the two men in my life who have stepped forward in an executioner’s line. We’ll take the shot, they’re saying, as they assume positions in twin chairs stationed in every cardiologist’s office we’ve visited since my…
Sometimes Mrs. Bowman rode the school bus to her jobs. She’d be waiting on the road with her children—her daughter, Suzette, and son, Buddy—both of whom I knew to be in High Levels of reading and math, as were…
One day, in casting around for a story, a line came to me: Sometimes Mrs. Bowman rode the school bus to her jobs, and I paused to think, what a boon, there she is—that adult in a coverall, who rode my school bus a couple of times before the days I was able to read. That single scrap of far-off memory set my imagination on a tear. “Don’t Laugh” is pure make-believe, and yet, with such an honest scrap pile to pull from (kindly bus drivers, fields of derelict cars, hand-me-down bookbags), writing the scenes felt truer and truer as I went along.
It’s been many years since I left the rural community where I grew up, and I’ve spent a lot of time writing stories about the new places I came to independently. With this story, it was a delight to craft a tale out of so many pieces of earliest memory, and to push its narrative along through the voice of a kid, Rosie Cotton, to whom I had easy access. By providing Rosie with a couple of tools I had myself at her age, I was able to better perceive what her reactions would be, and what path she’d choose to put herself on. The tension of the story would be in the space between Rosie’s thoughts and actions, and in letting her decide how far she’d go with her impersonations of the people she lived among. Unconsciously, I protected Rosie’s sensibilities—her awareness that people deserved her attention, that people were brave and easily misunderstood—even while Rosie’s own intentions were being misconstrued.
How people talk and carry themselves through the world, how they engage with others, or disengage, has always been something I’ve paid attention to. Among my earliest memories is one of a stranger, a local preacher, who visited our house out in the country. What made the man stand out was the quality of his voice, whatever he said, and his way of looking at my parents, and their way of looking at him, as they made dialogue together. While I don’t remember it, I’m certain I would have tried impersonating him after he left—not for the attention, not for a laugh—but because he left his impression upon me, and it’s always felt oddly reassuring to connect, to notice some quality about another person that is absolutely theirs alone, then be able to reveal this trait to other people in a true enough way that they re-see it for themselves. A carefully rendered impression can sometimes feel exactly like crafting a story.
It was a pleasure writing “Don’t Laugh” and remembering what it felt like being little, with a hardwired compassion for other people who lived so differently from almost everyone else. I wrote this small tale to fulfill a challenge, and unexpectedly, I’ve tapped a vein, and found a character, Rosie Cotton, with a voice that keeps talking, story by story.
VAL BRAMBLE is a nurse at a small island health clinic off the coast of Portland, Maine. When writing stories, she draws from what she is learning about people struggling with illness and social stressors. She also draws from her experiences trying to pursue theater acting, and from her childhood growing up on farmland with her sisters and brothers in rural southwestern Pennsylvania. “Don’t Laugh” is her first published story, and she’s so grateful to CRAFT.
