True Fiction: A Pseudo Autobiographical Chapbook in Three Parts Read online



  True Fiction: A Pseudo Autobiographical Chapbook in Three Parts

  Carroll Ann Susco

  Copyright 2014 by Carroll Ann Susco

  ISBN: 9781311944016

  Cover design by Stuart Greenwell

  Table of Contents:

  Section I: Irreverent Historical Retellings

  Mary Queen of Scots, Published by Pound of Flash, October 2014

  Jane Seymour (Henry VIII’s wife not the actress), Published by Indiana Voices Journal, May 2015

  Joan D’Arc: An Autobiography, Published by Indiana Voices Journal, April 2015

  Queen Elizabeth II

  Salome

  Joseph, forthcoming in Ginosko Literary Journal

  Section II: Relationships

  Sinking, Published by Short Fiction by Women, 1992. "Burned,” a film about “Sinking,” won Best Narrative at the Ohio Film Festival, 1996.

  The Secret, Published by Pacific Review, 2011

  Daughter

  The Tree, Published in IndianaVoices Journal.com, December 2014,

  Nominated for storySouth award.

  Childhood Memories, forthcoming in Journal of Microliterature, Feb. 21, 2016

  Promise, Published by American Writing, 1993

  Section III: fini

  The Tracks of my Orbit, Published by Northern Liberties Review, 2013

  About the Author

  Section I: Irreverent Historical Retellings

  Mary Queen of Scots

  I would have liked nothing better than to have lived with my parents in a fishing village, or at least by the sea. But ideally, dad would have been a fisherman, and mom and I would have baked bread and knitted sweaters by the hour in our quiet little house. I would have gone out to feed the chickens and the horses and the ox. We would have had a pet rabbit who slept at the foot of my bed and made little rabbits that danced around the yard and that mom tapped with the broom when they got underfoot as she swept the rubble away, and we would have loved out homes and not wanted to leave Scotland ever. It would have been our solace and people would have been free from tyranny, hunger, and Queen Elizabeth.

  What did I do in my cell for 18 years before she found a way to execute me safely? I dreamed of another life. A fishing village. The sheep herder who would come with his son to visit. He would trade lamb for fish and my father would gut them with care. The boy would follow me out as I went to look at the sea and he would stare at me instead of the blue and he would say my eyes were like water and my hair like lamb's wool and my hands small treasures he wished only to hold.

  I picked out names for our children. One I would name Maria and she would be a poet with long red hair over her shoulder and against such pure fair skin. I lost my father when I was 6 days old. Our children would not lose Joseph, my sheepherding faithful hearted truth loving husband. Any my parents would grow old and come stay with us, and it would be a house full of love.

  The day of my execution I stopped dreaming and said: Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed by thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done on Earth, as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil for thine is the Kingdom and the Power and the Glory forever, Amen. In the name of your son, Christ, who died for our sins and who I hope redeems me, too, because I can't stomach spending eternity with Queen Elizabeth. I can't forgive her for my unborn Maria, a poet I think. Yes. Maria will find the words to make it all right. God, is that you? My soul feels lighter. God? Holy Ghost? I'm being embraced I think by an angel. Thank you.

  I kneel before the chopping block and rest my head on the stone. It is cold.

 

  Jane Seymour (Henry VIII’s wife, not the actress)

  I am a river flowing out to the sea. My new son flowed out of me into the waters of the earth and I, too, flow around the world, guided by currents. By the moon. Into a netherworld where I watch and wait. I feel its pull. I don’t tell them. They already know. I see the looks on their faces. My ladies in waiting and the midwife. They are afraid they, too, will lose their heads if they cannot stop the blood that comes out of me, that follows my son. It is as if my blood wants to give more life, and more, and more. Too much.

  It leaks out of me.

  I am so cold. They put more blankets on, stir the fire. But nothing stops the chill.

  More blood on the sheets. They change them so it will look like less.

  Henry. I wake up and see him standing by me, holding my hand. He has the look of a man who is trying not to cry, but has. Red eyes give him away and that look he gets when he gets sentimental. Pursed lips that won’t unpurse. He knows he is losing me. Everyone does, but no one tells me. So I tell him. I say, remember the day we walked through the garden?” I have to stop to breathe. “And I took your arm and told you I was pregnant?” He nods and his eyes are wet. “Remember that.” I said. “Not me like this.”

  He grips my hand, but I cannot grip back.

  “You are so beautiful,” Henry says. I want to stay. I want to take care of him and my child. He leans down and holds me and sobs into my hair. I feel the tears on my ear. I say, “I love you.” I say, “Henry, Henry.” I say, “What a sight you are!” It all comes out a whisper.

  They had changed the sheets, but it was time to change them again. More blood coming out of me. I gave life. It took mine. This is a good thing women do, brave. Perhaps God will forgive me for betraying Anne, seducing her husband, and conspiring to have her accused of treason. When they cut off her head, a lightning bolt shot through me. I would have to pay for what I’d done. I wouldn’t have my happiness. I knew it then. But I gave Henry what he wanted. In my saucy days that would have been a baudy joke, but I can’t think that way right now. Can’t be that woman, saucy, on my death bed, full of life. Too tiring. They bring me my son to nurse and the milk leaks out of me into the world. Giving my life to him feels good. My life leaks out of me into pools, into streams, into rivers, into seas, around the world. It circles dolphins and whales, freezes in the Antarctic and melts from my fever. Love.

  A Review of this story in IVJ: Your words flow out and capture duplicity, bravery, love, regret, competition, and surrender -- all of the elements that make life worth creating, living, and accepting of our final ending.

  Joan D’Arc: An Autobiography

  Waiting for something to happen. Pull the covers up. Try to sleep. Close your eyes. Open them. Something is going to happen. Watching my breath. A draft. Something is coming. Something powerful. Something old.

  God’s voice shakes the cabinet. “Go,” He says. I squeeze my eyes closed, as if to say, Don’t hit me. I’m going to be ill. “French Blood is spilling,” He says, “Lead the French to victory or it will be a massacre!” I am on a ship rocking and sea sick. I see the massacre. I see the French blood spilling. I say, French blood is spilling. French blood is spilling. I will say it many more times, my new mantra. I feel my own blood leaking out of me. The pain will not stop. Disoriented, my feet hit the floor. I tear at my arms. Stop! The candle falls over. The bloodshed. No longer can I see my breath. I want to say I am not up to this, but I cannot. I know then that He has chosen me and I don’t know why but I will—what? March on the enemy? I fall back into bed. I bite my lip. I must go. All of me says it, excruciatingly. And then I know what needs to be done.

  Mother, I scream. Father. Joan, they say, rubbing my red skin. I tell them. Joan! Our Joan ha
s been chosen by God! They give me a hug, and I faint. In the morning, everyone has already heard and the best men are gathered at the kitchen table. Okay then, I say, scratching up and down my forearm where the blood wants to leak. God has made them believe, but the king? He is not a Godly man.

  Together, we ride to the castle. Take our horses. We are here to see the king. He’s tricky, that king. Hides from me, but I find him. Now do you believe? Excruciating. French blood is spilling.

  God spoke. People believe. They will listen. They will charge.

  I am the king’s last hope. He gives us what we need and we are on our way.

  When we arrive, the soldiers are kind but half dead. All I can hear is my mantra and I say it, desperate for them to stop. Stop! Stop, I plead. Sleep leads to unruly dreams. I am sweating and cold and the blood is spilling. Every report is the same. We are going to lose.

  The only thing left: I don shield and sword, cut my hair. I grab the flag and a sword. Charge! My blood spills.

  Victory. My blood stops.

  God is good.

  We come home to cheers. I could sleep forever if these smiling faces did not make me want to be in this moment forever. Something is wrong. They stop my horse. They ask me to follow them, lead me to the Bishop. He asks if God talks to me and I say yes, but when I ask God to speak, only silence.

  They put me in a room, at the top of the tower with tiny windows to see the people at their daily business, free from bloodshed.

  And I get very confused. I hear many voices, good and evil. I hear many people tell me to recant, but why? And it starts to bother me that I only cared for the French blood. Something in me is spreading out to all bloods. Blood is spilling and I feel the burn in my veins. I am a troubled woman. I would go to the nunnery to pray for God to end suffering, but I cannot leave the tower.

  Recant.

  I cannot. GOD spoke!

  Recant.

  No. It’s not that way. I was embraced.

  Thoughts spin. Questions. I don’t understand. I can’t recant. They question me. They implore me. They threaten me. And I do not bend.

  Recant.

  But God…

  God does not talk to the good. Recant.

  Yes, yes he does the candle fell over my breath my blood.

  In the tower, filthy now, a small crack of light. Voices everywhere. God? I hold on. So alone. Gruel to eat. Torn frock. Please don’t rape me.

  Recant.

  I have no choice, the king says, you must realize.

  I see, I say, I see.

  Recant.

  I bite my lip.

  And so, I hear the lick and crackle of my skin as it roasts.

  God? May I find favor in your sight. They don’t understand. It was not me who chose to ride to the king, to ride to the soldiers, to ride to the Bishop, to ride to the tower, to walk down the steps. To tie my hands to the post, to lick my feet with flame, to feel the heat rising up, to feel the searing of my marrow until my soul rises out of me, a lick, smoke, rose toward you. I can hear you better now. Blood is spilling.