All posts by k rawson

YA author, freelance writer, technoligista, mom

What Pegman Saw – Three Stayed Back

Frenchman's Cap

Frenchman’s Cap, Tasmania | Mungo Jones, Google Map

Here on this hill, we stayed back. We watched the other survivors pluck their way down the mountainside, past the burned shell of the fuselage, until the half-dozen figures were lost among the rocks and landscape; wondering, hoping, waiting.

We turned our eyes skyward and watched for rescue planes that never came and comforted the girl who grew tired as the hours turned to days, shivering even as we bundled our parkas around her, and gave her the last of the thin crackers wrapped in foil which we found amidst the wreckage of holiday baggage and broken bodies which were strewn upon the slope. And as waited, we told rescue stories which started out with big headlines and TV interviews, but then were more about meat pies and brown trout cooked on a fire, and finally just about living long enough to say goodbye to the ones who mattered most.

150 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.

Sorry so late! I never could get my first take completed to my satisfaction, so I abandoned it and wrote a new one! This is actually a photo of a climbing expedition and plane crash survivors, but there was something kind of forlorn in there which inspired this story.

A Fresh Start

S Railway Ave Drinkwater, Saskatchewan | Google Maps

S Railway Ave Drinkwater, Saskatchewan | Google Maps

“But Papa, he wants to marry me.” Her cheeks were bright. Whether it was from chill or passion he couldn’t say. He rested a hand on his shovel and studied her. Loosed from its braid, a strand of her hair waved in the wind.

He had plans when they pulled up stakes in Iowa and came to this featureless flat—plans that did not include marrying his sixteen-year old daughter to a handyman fifteen years her senior. “You’ll do no such thing,” he said.

“You don’t understand. We’re in love.” At that, her hand went to the curve of her belly.

It was a gesture he knew all too well, having seen it from his wife eight times these past twenty years. He understood all right. He understood there was no such thing as a fresh start.

137 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.

I have a personal connection to Saskatchewan so I took this opportunity to fictionalize a page from my family tree. My grandmother was born in Saskatchewan. My great-grandfather is the handyman of this tale, and the headstrong girl is my great-grandmother.

Like Forbidden Fruit

Greenwood Avenue, Tulsa, Oklahoma | Google Maps

Greenwood Avenue, Tulsa, Oklahoma | Google Maps

She had seen him before. He was one of the pretty ones, broad of shoulder and slim of waist. He had almond eyes and high cheeks, but it was his lips she thought of the most. She wondered how they’d taste. She wondered what it would be like to kiss them.

Would it be different than kissing a white boy? The thought sparkled like a sky full of stars under a new moon. Milky way stars. But instead of Clarence’s face huffing over her, drops of July sweat dripping down, it would be this boy, this beautiful boy.

She realized as he boarded the elevator that she didn’t even know his name. She only knew she had to know once and for all how those lips tasted.

He walked to the back. He stood at one corner, eyes looking down. She smiled and closed the elevator door.

147 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.

No one can say for sure what happened in the elevator between Dick Rowland and Sarah Page, the pair whose encounter launched the controversy and violence that was the Tulsa massacre. I went through many possible permutations in my mind, most of which I didn’t want to write, since neither of them can speak for themselves. Not exactly thrilled with this one either, but it’s hard not to wonder what really happened that day. 

Helene in a Fur Coat

The Fur ("Het Pelsken") by Peter Paul Rubens, 1630s

“Let it slip from your shoulder my kleine bruid.”

Helene blushed. The negotiations had begun an hour ago, leaving her petticoats in a pile on the divan, her corset slung over the chair, and her red dress on the floor beneath her like a rug. Only the fur was left.

“But husband, people will see this painting. The Janssens. The Duponts. The mayor.” Her breath hung in a cloud in the chilly studio.

He tilted around the easel to peer at her. “Indeed. And when the Lady Janssens’s raven tresses have gone gray, when the mayor’s bones have turned to dust in his grave, and when the mortar has crumbled on the Dupont château, and the last stone falls, you will still be fresh as dew. You will forever be the meadow bloom of the sweetest May morning. You will be immortal.”

She let the coat fall to her waist.

150 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click here.

Rubens spent the last ten years of his life in Belgium, where this photo of his second wife was painted. This was my attempt to decipher curious mix of wonder and triumph in her face.

Are You There Zoomers? It’s Me, Karen

The Karen, aka the speak to the manager haircut

The Karen, aka the speak to the manager haircut

I apologize for the radio silence lately. I’ve been heads down, finishing the first draft of my fifth novel. Working title is Silent E and the Hilarious Anonymous. It’s what happens when a shy journalism student turns to an online network of alter egos to promote herself. When she learns how easy it is to sway public opinion, she gets busy–rigging prom.

That isn’t all I’ve been up to. Regular readers know about my weekly Pegman flash fiction posts, and today I did my first post on Medium.

Check it out: Are You There Zoomers? It’s Me, Karen

If you’ve been following the Okay, Boomer movement and Karen-calls-the-manager-meme-ery, you might find it fun.

Thanks for stopping by. Stay gold, my lovelies, and I’ll see you in December with another update.

The Last Ghost

Htauk Kyant War Memorial Cemetery  Yaozai Huang

Htauk Kyant War Memorial Cemetery, Myanmar | Yaozai Huang, Google Maps

He woke up, the bed sheets damp beneath him. He sat up. Outside, the full moon glared through the window.

Some dreams fell away upon waking like a child’s sandcastle at high tide. But some dreams perch at the foot of one’s bed like a fishwife.

When they’d relocated the ghosts from Tatkon, he’d known it would be challenging. Ghosts, as a rule, were difficult—always wanting to ride front, and often playing pranks with the vehicle’s electrical system. They were vain, they were tricksters, they were quick to take offense. But the worst thing you could do to a ghost was forget it.

He pushed the covers aside and reached for his pants. He must call the natsaya. They must get to the cemetery immediately.

126 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.

This story was inspired by What Happened to Myanmar’s Ghosts. Apparently, in Myanmar, ghost relocation is a thing!

Run to the Jungle

Port Kaituma, Guyana | Martin Samaroo, Google Maps

There are moments that unfold like hours, and then there are those that hold a lifetime.

“Get in the jungle,” her father screamed from the stairs of the plane.

She looked down. Her mother’s body lay lifeless on the tarmac, a pool of blood where her trademark dandelion puff of blond hair should be. Her mother; a deck of images flashed through Tracy’s mind: the church in Charleston, the lemon cake Mom made for birthdays, her singing hush, little baby; her mother, gone. The men and their guns out of sight for now.

“Run.” His face was frantic. She turned. Her sister was running into the thick of it—the jungle that had seemed so frightening when they got there—the jungle full of centipedes and snakes and jaguars. The jungle as thick with danger as it was with darkness—even during the day.

It was the safest place to be.

151 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.

Inspired by Childhood Jonestown Survivor Recounts Desperate Escape into the Jungle as Cult’s Mass Suicide Killed Over 900