Index Card Story Components:
Camille plunged her husband’s wool shirt into the soapy water and slapped it against the wash board, rubbing it hard against the rails. She dipped it into a bucket of water, twisted the shirt into a croissant-shaped knot, shook it out and hung it on the line. That was the last of it. It was getting dark. She knew she should have done the wash earlier so it could dry in the July sun, but she had spent the day darning and sweeping out the tent--that, and cooking breakfast and dinner for the miners. She toiled over crepes and pea soup and sugar pie, but it was her chicken and dumplings they liked best. With a sleepy sigh she peeled open the flaps of the tent and dragged the rocking chair to the mouth of it, sat down and began to rock and softly sing to herself, resting her hands on her swollen belly. Frère Jacques, frère Jacques, Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous? Thomas hadn’t wanted to cart the chair all the way from Canada, but it was just about all she had left of her mother, so he strapped it to the back of the buckboard in silence, which was not unusual. Before they settled here, Thomas was not one for much talk.
They had come for the gold. They chased news of a vein all the way to South Pass City, Wyoming. Wy-o-ming. When Thomas first told her of it, Camille thought it sounded mysterious and exotic, like some remote village in the Orient. She surveyed the small city from her spot on the edge of the tent town. It had rained the night before and Main Street, lit by the light of the brothels, was thick with mud, forcing everyone to travel by foot on wooden planks. There were miners and merchants and cavalry soldiers on leave. Gaudy dance hall girls gathered on the steps of the saloon, having slept all day in the city’s only hotel. They smoked cigarettes and belly-laughed and slapped each other on the back like men. Camille caught Thomas’s figure in the crowd. He was talking to another miner who appeared short only because Thomas was so tall. The man took a swig from a small bottle before handing it to Thomas who took a sip and slipped it in his back pocket before turning on his heel and heading in the direction of the tent. As the sun set in a blaze of orange on the horizon, his face darkened. Soon, he was a silhouette. He could be any man walking toward her. Then, suddenly, there he was with his thick dark hair slicked back from his face and grizzled cheeks. He was smiling—almost jaunty. Camille had to admit to herself: sometimes Thomas could surprise her. But then, it was probably just the drink.
- 1st Person
- Chef
- Seventeen and pregnant
- A barn in Wyoming territory, 1867
- "Blueberry slurpees are the very best."
Camille plunged her husband’s wool shirt into the soapy water and slapped it against the wash board, rubbing it hard against the rails. She dipped it into a bucket of water, twisted the shirt into a croissant-shaped knot, shook it out and hung it on the line. That was the last of it. It was getting dark. She knew she should have done the wash earlier so it could dry in the July sun, but she had spent the day darning and sweeping out the tent--that, and cooking breakfast and dinner for the miners. She toiled over crepes and pea soup and sugar pie, but it was her chicken and dumplings they liked best. With a sleepy sigh she peeled open the flaps of the tent and dragged the rocking chair to the mouth of it, sat down and began to rock and softly sing to herself, resting her hands on her swollen belly. Frère Jacques, frère Jacques, Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous? Thomas hadn’t wanted to cart the chair all the way from Canada, but it was just about all she had left of her mother, so he strapped it to the back of the buckboard in silence, which was not unusual. Before they settled here, Thomas was not one for much talk.
They had come for the gold. They chased news of a vein all the way to South Pass City, Wyoming. Wy-o-ming. When Thomas first told her of it, Camille thought it sounded mysterious and exotic, like some remote village in the Orient. She surveyed the small city from her spot on the edge of the tent town. It had rained the night before and Main Street, lit by the light of the brothels, was thick with mud, forcing everyone to travel by foot on wooden planks. There were miners and merchants and cavalry soldiers on leave. Gaudy dance hall girls gathered on the steps of the saloon, having slept all day in the city’s only hotel. They smoked cigarettes and belly-laughed and slapped each other on the back like men. Camille caught Thomas’s figure in the crowd. He was talking to another miner who appeared short only because Thomas was so tall. The man took a swig from a small bottle before handing it to Thomas who took a sip and slipped it in his back pocket before turning on his heel and heading in the direction of the tent. As the sun set in a blaze of orange on the horizon, his face darkened. Soon, he was a silhouette. He could be any man walking toward her. Then, suddenly, there he was with his thick dark hair slicked back from his face and grizzled cheeks. He was smiling—almost jaunty. Camille had to admit to herself: sometimes Thomas could surprise her. But then, it was probably just the drink.
I love the setting you created in these paragraphs and the way that you wove details into your sentences to make the historical setting seem authentic!
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