Han Marlowe

Hendrik E. Sadi

Description

A collection of stories exploring the experiences a main character has from an early teenage life to middle age.
This, a collection of short stories, explores the experience of love, lost love, remembrance, defiance, fear, regret, hurt, anger, death, hope, rage, observation, guilt, blame, the main character has from an early teenage life and on.

There he is reading at late forty, in "SWAK", love letters he has kept since fifteen, and realizes again why he is still single. When he reads the names of some Junior High school classmates on the new war memorial in his New England boyhood town in "Stone Names," after being re-visited by some personal experiences from his youth, he is struck by how a name, cut in stone, can have such an affect on him when he reads who is on the Vietnam column. In, "Among the Old," he has gotten lost with his girlfriend and has taken refuge in a resort for elderly people. But it is his preoccupation with the past that threatens his relationship with her when he wakes up early in the morning and imagines the elderly people lining up for an early morning exercise are inmates in a Nazi concentration camp, and the muscular looking man who has given them the room a camp commandant.

Sujets

• 6-12 ans
• Toute la fiction jeunesse
• Jeunesse Animaux
• Psychological
• Anguish
• Blame
• Guilt
• Fear
• Hurt
• Regret
• Despair
• Hope
• Love
• BLAME!
• Death
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: iUniverse
• Date de parution: 30 janvier 2002
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780595725601
• Langue: English

Extrait

Han Marlowe Short Stories
 
 
 
 
by   Hendrik E. Sadi
 
 
 
 

 
 
HAN MARLOWE SHORT STORIES
 
 
Copyright © 2002 Hendrik E. Sadi.
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
 
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
 
 
iUniverse
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www.iuniverse.com
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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
ISBN: 978-0-5952-1575-1 (sc)
ISBN: 978-0-5957-2560-1 (e)
 
 
 
iUniverse rev. date: 11/24/2023

CONTENTS
Stone N ames
Among the Old
SWAK
Twin Moons Obse rved
On Diamond Fi elds
Out of Uni form
The Tropical Ga rden
In Pharaoh’s Tomb
Han Mar lowe
The Lett er P
Papers of El Do rado

STONE NAMES
 
“If you feel like taking a walk, maybe you can get us some salt. We seem to be all out,” his mother said.
“Yes, of course,” he returned, knowing why she had sai d it.
And he got up from the sofa chair he had been sitting in and reading for the last three days with the flu, feeling the fever still trying to push him back down, knowing she had thought it would be good for him to go outside after being coopedup in the apartment for so long.
He went out then and tooke walkway out of the condominium complex and entered into a day, warm with a coming spring, he thought, remembering that it was still early March as he turned and found himself on another walkway high up on the edge of the town’s green. He swept his eyes down over the grass, still held in a winter’s fold of gray-green hue, to the asphalt road leading into the old New England town where his mother was now living and thought about how the town might have looked when it had been settled and incorporated in 1739, knowing the green had been there then, and swept his eyes back up to the narrow walkway he was walking on. And he walked on past some of the old houses that were set back on the green as historical time pieces to him, noticing the melting snow that had receded to the small mounds of dirty white lining the wal kway.
With each step he took, he could feel the sands of a coming summer under his shoes as he walked slower than he normally would, eyeing each house he passed with the curiosity of a newcomer, when in fact he was a longtime resident, having lived some of his early teenage years in Layland, Connecticut and always coming back to visit his mother. He paused to think about that, the Fifties at that time, when he came to the first red brick church at the end of the green, knowing that part of its history he would still tell others: That here was the church that had once been ministered by a father of a famous actress some time ago. He said her name, and for the moment, taking in the details of the church, he imagined it to vanish from its site, and wondered whether the history had gone with the bricks and woodwork now no longer, leaving only the settled vacant spot on the green as any evidence of where it had stood, before he went on, taking another walkway up the long incline of the main st reet.
He paused at top for a moment then, breathlessly previewing what he was about to come down to relive as a thirteen-year old school boy, he saw stepping out of the yellow school bus and entering the town’s elementary school, before he found himself by the front iron fence looking in at himself being photographed outdoors in front of the school for that year’s graduating class portrait in ’55, hearing the sound of a bat cracking from a hit hardball and a voice now he would never fo rget.
*     *     *     *      *
“Let me hit the ball,” she said, standing close to where he stood at recess time hitting the hardball out to his classmates scattered about the low-lying farm field of wild uncut grass. But he just ignored her when she kept insisting about it, hearing her telling him. “Let me hit the ball. I can hit as well as you can,” she told him.
And he turned and saw the thirteen-yearold girl, who had been so anxious to hit the hardball, standing there in a pair of dungarees that showed off her growing female body and the lipstick she wore, and said to her.
“This is our game. Why don’t go and find your own game,” while he took in her page cut auburn colored hair and sensuous, round face, noticing the way her school friends were watching them down by the seesaw and playth ings.
“Say’s who?” she voiced right back at him. “A girl can hit as well as a boy,” she told him when he turned and caught the ball thrown back to him from the field. He swung and missed this time, and she turned and walked back to the seesaw and playthings, chuckling to herself, because of what she knew she had caused him to do. Missed that ball and the next one when he felt her still near him, before he swung and hit the third ball far out over the field, hearing the bell calling them back to their classroom. He stood there on the worn patch of ground where he had been hitting from and waited for them to climb out of the field, holding the bat at his side when the first one reached him and said.
“That Linda MacNare!” and left it at that as they went back together with the rest of them and found themselves surrounded with their female looks and giggles crowding the back doorway, where she had been waiting to tell him a gain.
“I bet I can hit that ball better than you can,” she told him in that teasing way, with her school friends giggling and laughing when he felt the blood rushing into his face and blurted it back at her.
“Oh yeah, I bet!” he said, and tried to leave it at that as he walked to his classroom, still hearing the female giggling in the backgr ound.
He viewed it, with a welcoming retrospection filling him with a lost time, standing there now on the sidewalk, looking up the roadway leading to the back of the school, and walked up, feeling the sands of a coming summer again under his shoes on the asphalt driveway, when he saw the field of wild uncut grass again lying out in front of him below the playground, remembering the hard balls he had hit out to his schoolmates at recess time, when she came suddenly to him in the school bus that was taking him back home.
Coquettish and brash, she walked to the back where he was sitting watching the farms and silos passing him, unaware of her presence until one of his classmates poked him and said.
“Company’s co ming.”
And he turned away from the farmland he had been looking at from the window of the bus and saw her standing in the aisle smiling down at him, telling him what he knew everyone in the bus could hear, he heard a gain.
“Oh, there you are,” she said, as if she had been looking for him, while he looked up towards the front and saw the faces giggling and laughing at what she was doing to him and then suddenly burst out singing in that singsong way, the love song he had felt moving inside him when he had stood on the worn elevated ground at recess time telling he r no.
“Hanny’s got a girlfriend. Hanny’s got a girlfriend...and she loves him so...she does,” they sang to him.
It still rang in his ears when she turned and walked back up the aisle, still wearing those dungarees that showed off her growing female body, he saw as they came to her stop. Relieved, he was then, feeling the red color still warming his face as he watched her cross the road and walk up the footpath leading up to the yellow house hidden inside the spring leaves hiding it from the road, in that coquettish, teasing way that had all of them glued to the windows watching her. And when she came up to where the leaves grew thick, she suddenly turned and blew him his first kiss, and turned and lost herself to the w oods.
“Linda MacNare,” he said to himself, still feeling her in that warm way after all these years, as the first love he had experienced at fourteen, he now realized when he turned away from the hitting area he had been standing and looking out over the wild uncut farm field. And he began his walk back to the driveway, sweeping his eyes over the new addition, he saw had been built in the back of his old elementary school, when he came to him and said a gain.
“That Linda MacNare!” and was going to leave it at that when he shot back.
“What about her? What about L inda?”
“Oh nothing...it’s just that some of them were saying that well...well I mean...she’s fast,” he told him, avoiding his look.
“Fast?” he said. “Who says she is fast?” he wanted to know.
“Why...everyone...You....know that...I mean look at the way she dresses and walks and paints herself with that lipstick,” he said.
He seemed to find pleasure in reminding him of the very thing he knew to be true, but didn’t want to hear, still insis ting.
“Who, who says she’s fast?” he asked him again in such a way that had the other one telling him nervo usly.
“Steve Bransky,” and nothing more as he turned and