The Edge of the Earth - Writers Forum

Midnight Runner · 06-30-2007, 03:02 AM

The Edge of the Earth

Bright lights shining in all directions convey a sense of urgency that is almost apocalyptic. They are the same hue as stadium lights, and just as bright too, adding to the potency of the moment. Thousands of people, hundreds of cars lined up; people walking
like refugees from a tsunami or some other natural disaster, a modern Bataan march with American Coast Guard instead of Japanese soldiers. Honks and shouts pierce the air like angry snakes making their presence known, everyone pressing forward determined. Yet there is too a cautious tinge to the atmosphere, as though everyone knows there is some sort of delicate line which needs to be precisely walked lest all be lost to the enemy. It could easily be a scene of desperation from an epic time: Moses leading the Jews in a mass Exodus to the promised land, war torn survivors of the first strike seeking cover while the calm before the storm still lasts, refugees fleeing the homeland before the great enemy finally descends in a long awaited confrontation that will surely bring the end of the world with its conclusion.
One survivor-refugee-pilgrim walks particularly quickly, the rapid pick-pock of his steps sending him flying by most of the others: lions to gazelles. There is a sort of gleam to his eye as he walks, a look not of anxiety but of excitement; the brand of anticipation one might expect to see in the eyes of a thrill-seeker, a rookie sky diver, perhaps, preparing to take his first leap into the atmosphere. For this reason the man was particularly noticeable, easily distinguishable from the sad, throbbing masses. It was not just his outward disposition, or the excitement in his step, no, it was more, somehow, something deeper. He carried something in him, with him, that was clearly absent in those around him. It may have been the bounce to his step which gave it away; more likely it was an added glint not just to his eye but to his expression as a whole. To call it hope would do it a disservice, ‘hope’ did not scratch the edges of this; nor would faith be adequate, though it perhaps came closer to an accurate description. It is likely best that no adjective is applied and it is simply presumed no word exists in English to precisely capture what this man had that set him apart so.
His rapid gait was slowed and eventually stopped entirely at the foot of the staircase on the highway, like an eager wave crashing on the steadfast beach. Everyone was walking for the staircase, which wound up twenty or so feet to a covered walkway that extended over the road below and into the customs checkpoint, which was built into the side of a small mountain. It was under this walkway which cars were checked in, and on the side of the walkway where a new Earth began.
People started moving, the man was up the steps eagerly, as quickly as those ahead of him allowed. He glanced out the window when he reached the summit, and his heart beat faster. There, ahead of him, lie his dream, automobiles maneuvering, people screaming, rushing, it was just like the other side except multiplied in intensity. But beyond the mayhem, deeper into the night, he saw beautiful strangeness: lights burning in the hills, shacks, buildings, houses lit up bright, a thousand voices speaking a new tongue with new ideas, new plans, new goals, new concepts. Just looking, the man felt renewed, refreshed, as he stood on the very precipice of all that he knew and all that remained to be discovered.
But still there was the present; babies crying, mothers yelling, drunk old men grumbling as they clutched plastic bags. As the man made his way further on to the walkway the divider came into sight, between those coming and going, headed down south or back north. There was no one on the other side, leaving, heading north. It soon became apparent why, for at the actual station were several police officers; two men were already arrested, a third was being thoroughly frisked, and guards were forcefully keeping the crowd in order.
This spectacle only kept the man intrigued for a short time, however, for he was restless and eager. A sad old woman stood at his side, holding grocery bags filled with various items which were clearly not groceries.
“How are you?” the man asked her.
No response at first, just a surprised look. Then, in broken English –
“I am Raquel Ramirez, I am from Tijuana, I live with my two daughters on the outskirts. I came to USA to see my husband in el hospital. Now I return. I was here for three day.”
The man gave her a curious glance. It sounded like the spiel she had to spit out at customs.
“I am not police,” the man responded, holding out his hand and smiling, “My name is Sam Folkstone.”
But the old woman recoiled in terror from his hand and backed away, eyes gleaming with fright, clutching her scattered bags close to her chest.
“She doesn’t understand you,” came the voice of a woman carrying two children. “She doesn’t know English, only for the crossing does she know it.”
“I was just trying to be friendly,” Sam Folkstone shrugged innocently. The woman put down one of her children as he began to squirm impatiently. She looked up into Sam Folkstone’s eyes, her own sunken, tired, depressed, and weary.
“How is it you are happy, if you are coming to Tijuana?”
Sam Folkstone’s eyes widened, taken aback again.
“What do you mean by that?”
The woman sighed, and glanced at the other side of the walkway, where one had a clear view of Imperial Beach and the start (or end, depending on one’s perspective of things) of the United States.
“Tijuana is not a place where happy people go,” she replied, placing just enough of a stress on the end of her words to give away her Mexican accent. “There is no place for happiness there.”
Sam Folkstone, at a loss for words, just held his arm up and pointed, out the window on their side, the one which offered the view of unfettered openness, the great beautiful unknown. The woman refused to turn around. She had no concept of his sentiments, just as he had none of hers. She watched him point, noting his arm, his face, his expression, his hope or faith or unnamed quality. She saw it and yet knew it not; like a child who cannot read picking up a newspaper. She reached down to grab the hand of her young boy, and refused to follow Sam Folkstone’s finger out the window. She remained steadfastly forward, eyes glued to Sam Folkstone and the United States of America behind him.
“I will see enough of it in coming months,” she said, by way of explanation, lowering her gaze slightly. “Perhaps if all your life you live there you would feel the same way, be thinking the same things.”
Sam Folkstone considered her for a moment, her sentiments weighing on his buoyant and excitable spirit, yanking it, tugging it down from its lofty heights like any buzz-kill. He thrashed the subject around in his mind violently, considering it, taking in the woman, her children, the whole world behind them, and words were on the tip of his tongue before he even realized they were formed in his mind and there really was nothing he could do to stop them from coming out.
“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” he said definitively. He realized what he had said a moment too late, and racked his brain for some way to take it back, but he knew that was it, it was final. That was not what he meant to say; in fact it was, but it didn’t capture what he really felt, didn’t describe his frustration over the woman’s miserable description of Tijuana. His insensitivity gnawed at him and drove him mad. The woman frowned and looked away, seeming to pull her children closer. She did not understand Sam Folkstone to begin with; nevermind when Sam Folkstone began to spout philosophy and other such ramblings.
And then silence: hanging and permeating the air and speaking to Sam Folkstone’s soul louder than any shouts or honks or screams or sounds of the night ever could.
“You say that as though this is all we exist for,” the woman finally said. “In America’s eyes, this is it. We exist for you to laugh at and wonder at, and other than that it does not matter, we do not matter.”
Sam Folkstone had neither the heart nor the wits to argue with her. In his mind, she had a very valid point. Yet he also knew a veritable cacophony of American voices which would rise up at the daring of a Mexican peasant mother who believed she was entitled to anything by America, or that her country was entitled to everything. As far as they were concerned, it was every man and woman for themselves.
Sam Folkstone put his hand on her shoulder, and woman seemed to hold herself back from drawing away. He understood her, if anyone did.
“But I like you,” he spoke softly, calmly. “I like all of this. I don’t want to just laugh and wonder. And if I do I won’t just do it for the sake of laughing and wondering at something, I’ll do it because I like what I am laughing and wondering at. There’s a difference.”
The woman returned her gaze to his face. “You are a strange one,” she said sadly. “There are few like you.”
Sam Folkstone waited for something more, for further approval, further certification, but the eyes of a peasant was not going to be where he found such things. The line continued to creep forward. On the other side of the walkway a few stragglers had been allowed through, but it was heartbreakingly slow; all the water in the world rushing through the narrow hose, and only a few drops came out. There was a definite smell to the air, it was clear that several of the travelers had not bathed in what could have been weeks or even months. Many appeared to homeless. There was an assortment of shady characters who looked miserable, what exactly their profession detailed he could not even begin to guess. There were girls five, maybe even ten years younger than he was dressed scantily, and he had the vague suspicion they were prostitutes. And out in the street below, in the line which was building with tremendous rapidity, this walkway scene was taken to an extreme; the crowd more rowdy, more impatient, the people more suspicious, the poor poorer, the sad sadder, the filthy filthier. And they were all headed for the promised land, the great US of A, which would not allow a bulk of them entrance. Many looked as though they knew they had no chance, as if coming here was something they were doing as a last act of desperate hope which they knew could not pay off; like the poor man who spends his final pennies on a lottery ticket.
When Sam Folkstone arrived at the station it was a matter of putting his hand in his pocket and handing the officer his papers. They barely glanced at his identification, his passport, his detailed itinerary. None of it mattered. They smiled courteously, asked no questions, and let him through. He paused and waited for a moment as the woman came up with her children and her bags. They immediately brought her to the side and commenced frisking her. He made eye contact with her, a melancholic, melodramatic moment in which she expressed to Sam Folkstone something tremendously sad that he could not quite place. He gave her a half-hearted wave goodbye.
He descended the opposite side of the walkway and stepped into the hot Mexican night, his emotions mixing wildly, glancing up into the hills of shining lights and beacons of hope, the long, winding streets conveying wild meaning and uncharted territory he’d only ever known in his dreams; infinite possibilities which were now tinged with shattering human reality in God’s final city.

Midnight Runner · 07-02-2007, 02:31 PM

i guess this is a bit long for here (2100 words) but i'd love any feedback!

Azmakna · 07-02-2007, 02:42 PM

i'll just take a glance if that's alright:

Quote:

Bright lights shining in all directions convey a sense of urgency that is almost apocalyptic. They are the same hue as stadium lights, and just as bright too, adding to the potency of the moment. Thousands of people, hundreds of cars lined up; people walking

be definite. plus this line feels like a general observation and not a scene setter. what colour are they? stadium lights are usually white.

like refugees from a tsunami or some other natural disaster, a modern Bataan march with American Coast Guard instead of Japanese soldiers. Honks and shouts pierce the air like angry snakes making their presence known, everyone pressing forward determined. Yet there is too a cautious tinge to the atmosphere, as though everyone knows there is some sort of delicate line which needs to be precisely walked lest all be lost to the enemy. It could easily be a scene of desperation from an epic time: Moses leading the Jews in a mass Exodus to the promised land, war torn survivors of the first strike seeking cover while the calm before the storm still lasts, refugees fleeing the homeland before the great enemy finally descends in a long awaited confrontation that will surely bring the end of the world with its conclusion.

superfluous do snakes honk angrily? if everyone is pressing forward, we know they are determined. this is misplaced. this sentence is too long. be definite

pretty good. it just needs tightening a bit.