Kokomo Moonlight

Okay, so the setting of my short story inspired by the Beach Boy’s song “Kokomo” isn’t in the Florida Keys or in the Caribbean. Instead it is set in south Florida’s seaport Fort Lauderdale. It is a common overnight stop for boaters traveling on the Intercoastal Waterway. I hope you enjoy it.

Moonlight

by Fay Moore © 2012

The sailboat glides through a small channel from the Intercoastal  Waterway into Lake Sylvia. The gunkhole is a perfect overnight anchorage for the weary sailors aboard the small sailboat. It is quiet and protected from the winds.

The moon rises as the anchor drops off the bow into the water. The anchor light twinkles at the top of the mast, looking no brighter than a distant star. A small galley lamp lights the inside of the tiny cabin, but ebony blackness inhabits the deck.

On the shoreline are a few waterfront homes of some of Fort Lauderdale’s prosperous residents. Nightfall cloaks the mansions in darkness; the houses are merely silhouettes dappled by intermittent patches of moonlight filtering through palm fronds.

An occasional house window is illuminated. If the fatigued sailors wished it, they could peer into the lighted rectangles from afar and pry into the doings that transpire inside the glass. Instead they focus on chores.

The woman comments that she wants to clean herself from the salt spray accumulated during the day’s sail. She grabs a bucket and fills it with tepid water from the faucet. With a sloshing bucket, soap and wash cloth in hand, she calls to her partner that she is going up to bathe on deck under the starlight.

Once at the bow, where her movement is unencumbered by the boat’s contraptions, she sets down the bucket and begins to remove her clothing. It is a sultry night, so she works slowly at her task, peeling off one piece of clothing at a time. She makes a neat little pile that she sets atop a hatch cover several paces away from the bucket.

Her clothing secure from a soaking, she turns and dances toward the bowsprit. Standing in the pulpit, she slowly raises her arms toward the full moon and throws her head back, her long hair tickling its way down her spine. A messenger line is tied to the rail. She takes hold of it for balance as she leans back, lifting one toe above the rail and pointing it skyward, in a nymph ballet with her partner the moon. The heat makes her glisten, her moist skin reflecting moonlight.  If light were hands, then the moon holds her everywhere at once, highlighting her curves.

She starts bathing, making sponging a part of her dance routine. She is alone on her stage, watched by an adoring universe of stars.  And by one dirty old man with a pair of binoculars.

What To Do with Vocabulary

Recently, one of the local writers group members read one of my sudden fiction pieces.  He highlighted the word “obscure” and suggested I use the word “hide” in its place. He had reasons for his suggested word change.

For one thing, he felt the word was too elevated for the genre. For another, he felt many readers wouldn’t know the word. It wasn’t a conversational word, he said.

I argued to keep the word. I felt the meaning of the word obscure more aptly described what was happening in the story. To “hide” something implies intent. One can “obscure” something without intending to hide it. In the story, a face is obscured, not purposefully hidden.

His comments about usage raised points to consider.

Is there language that is suitable or unsuitable for a specific genre? Sudden fiction may be considered “low brow” compared to the novel, or even the 3,000 word short story.  Obviously, that opinion is subject to debate.

How does one balance vocabulary usage with one’s readership?

Some argue that today’s society needs the stimulation of mental challenge. Others say that today’s society doesn’t have time to stop and look up words every few minutes when reading.

As a writer, I thanked my friend for his input. His remarks were helpful.

I haven’t settled on an answer to the questions his remarks generated. I’d love to hear what you think about using big words in short, short stories.

On the Good Ship Diaspora

Mother corrals her sleeping infant in the corner of the berth, behind stacked pillows and life vests. She, husband and child are lucky ones. They push off from their island home, source of ill winds and invisible death, in their junque Diaspora. They have an exit plan. They will sail west and wait for sunrise.

An Homage to The Hunger Games – Microfiction

Two A.M. The farm family is roused inside the remote cottage by the sounds of  running engines and the glare of headlights. Father, mother and three children fuse in the living room. A banging fist. The farmer turns the knob and a tsunami of soldiers flows in and around the family knot. Others move to the kitchen, the hall pantry, throwing open doors.

“The law says no more than seven days of food. I could arrest you for domestic terrorism.”

 The children, now crying, cling to their parents. Soldiers box up food and shuttle the boxes to waiting trucks.

“Farming is our livelihood. It’s what we’ve done for generations. What are we to eat?”

“The law says no more than seven days of food.” Soldiers exit. The food is gone. Silence, except for children’s sniffles. Father’s eyes are hollow. Children’s eyes are fearful. Mother’s eyes are knowing.

 Hidden away in the rafters, there are strings of jerky, dried beans, fruits and vegetables. Mother is both squirrel and ant. Her family will be fed.

Copyright 2012