WITHSTANDING MY FEARS.
I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all. -Richard Wright
FOLLOWING MY DREAMS, because they know the way. QUIETING MY INNER CRITIC, because I am more than my fears. I REACH BEYOND MY GRASP. Doing the thing I never thought I could do. WRITING A HISTORICAL FICTION. Daring to believe I can. REMEMBERING my father's word: TRY.
A special thanks goes out to my readers. Thank you for encouraging me to share excerpts of my MORNING SUN.
-Mia
I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all. -Richard Wright
FOLLOWING MY DREAMS, because they know the way. QUIETING MY INNER CRITIC, because I am more than my fears. I REACH BEYOND MY GRASP. Doing the thing I never thought I could do. WRITING A HISTORICAL FICTION. Daring to believe I can. REMEMBERING my father's word: TRY.
A special thanks goes out to my readers. Thank you for encouraging me to share excerpts of my MORNING SUN.
-Mia
WIN THE WAR, OR YOU WILL LOSE YOUR FAMILY—
A moment from a scene with Manh and his comrades, Khen and Tinh, in
MORNING SUN, a historical fiction and work in progress
by Mia T. Starr and inspired by her father.
It is May, 1954. Dien Bien Phu, Viet Nam.
On the plane over the valley of death, fear peeks out of Khen's eyes. "Breathe, Manh. Do not make it worse." He steadies my dangling elbow, lays it on my chest. "Keep breathing."
I try to open my mouth. Panic grips the back of my throat and chokes my voice.
My rosary.
Khen cannot hear me.
Someone--make it stop.
The shadows and clouds descend around us. Khen’s face disappears.
My son.
Father.
My eyes close against the memories resurfacing, the permanent stain of weakness on my hands. I hear the wheels. Mr. Tran and his creaking cart coming to collect the dead bodies, coming for my father then and now. The wheels are churning louder—
Re … re … re …
I run, run to find my mother and brothers. Go to Sai Gon. I pray in the dark and through the pain, through the things I do not want to see.
Please, God, do not take my family from me.
Re … re … re …
The wheels hinged to the cart spin faster, rolling from my village to the cries of boys and men in the valley of death. Rain begins to pour on the blood and battle.
I am awake with a nightmare, unable to speak, unable to make it all stop.
RE! RE! RE! RE! RE! RE!
The plane trembles from the turbulence. Anti-aircraft artillery flies through the skies, misses us by the length of a rocket. Rain smashes against the airplane’s windows. The paratroopers are quiet, restraining their grief and fear.
The echoes of death below rise and ring in my ears. In the dark I see Chi’s truths come to light. The enemies are marching.
ADVANCE SOLIDLY! FIGHT SOLIDLY!
The enemies—slow and steady—attack as a human-wave assault on all sides, strangling our soldiers in hand-to-hand combat, killing our strongest and mightiest. Another wave rise with shovels on the airstrips, pounding the metals into the grounds, digging trenches. DEATH TO ALL WHO OPPOSES US! DEATH! DEATH! They destroy the fields, cutting off our ability to land and reload with troops and supplies.
ADVANCE SOLIDLY! FIGHT SOLIDLY!
Thousands more die in the valley. Another hill falls in a battle gone too long, going on its fortieth day. The season of the monsoon approaches and brings with it a doom, salt on an open wound of the earth.
I scream for my mother and brothers, scream for my family, scream to return to the battlefield. My scream is a soundless cry.
Our plane lands. My body convulses, and my eyes widen from the shock. To the side of me is Tinh wearing a smile. He grabs his bloody stomach and says, “We are alive.”
Khen’s face reappears, sweat dripping from his brows.
A moment from a scene with Manh and his comrades, Khen and Tinh, in
MORNING SUN, a historical fiction and work in progress
by Mia T. Starr and inspired by her father.
It is May, 1954. Dien Bien Phu, Viet Nam.
On the plane over the valley of death, fear peeks out of Khen's eyes. "Breathe, Manh. Do not make it worse." He steadies my dangling elbow, lays it on my chest. "Keep breathing."
I try to open my mouth. Panic grips the back of my throat and chokes my voice.
My rosary.
Khen cannot hear me.
Someone--make it stop.
The shadows and clouds descend around us. Khen’s face disappears.
My son.
Father.
My eyes close against the memories resurfacing, the permanent stain of weakness on my hands. I hear the wheels. Mr. Tran and his creaking cart coming to collect the dead bodies, coming for my father then and now. The wheels are churning louder—
Re … re … re …
I run, run to find my mother and brothers. Go to Sai Gon. I pray in the dark and through the pain, through the things I do not want to see.
Please, God, do not take my family from me.
Re … re … re …
The wheels hinged to the cart spin faster, rolling from my village to the cries of boys and men in the valley of death. Rain begins to pour on the blood and battle.
I am awake with a nightmare, unable to speak, unable to make it all stop.
RE! RE! RE! RE! RE! RE!
The plane trembles from the turbulence. Anti-aircraft artillery flies through the skies, misses us by the length of a rocket. Rain smashes against the airplane’s windows. The paratroopers are quiet, restraining their grief and fear.
The echoes of death below rise and ring in my ears. In the dark I see Chi’s truths come to light. The enemies are marching.
ADVANCE SOLIDLY! FIGHT SOLIDLY!
The enemies—slow and steady—attack as a human-wave assault on all sides, strangling our soldiers in hand-to-hand combat, killing our strongest and mightiest. Another wave rise with shovels on the airstrips, pounding the metals into the grounds, digging trenches. DEATH TO ALL WHO OPPOSES US! DEATH! DEATH! They destroy the fields, cutting off our ability to land and reload with troops and supplies.
ADVANCE SOLIDLY! FIGHT SOLIDLY!
Thousands more die in the valley. Another hill falls in a battle gone too long, going on its fortieth day. The season of the monsoon approaches and brings with it a doom, salt on an open wound of the earth.
I scream for my mother and brothers, scream for my family, scream to return to the battlefield. My scream is a soundless cry.
Our plane lands. My body convulses, and my eyes widen from the shock. To the side of me is Tinh wearing a smile. He grabs his bloody stomach and says, “We are alive.”
Khen’s face reappears, sweat dripping from his brows.
✶ A top story in The Becoming Daily. January 2012. ✶
✶ A top story in Anita's Finding Inspiration Daily. June 2011. ✶
✶ Next week on June 20, 2011, Mia shares parts of her writing application that took her to the steps of the Writing Immersion In Sustainable Tuscany, opening the door to new possibilities. ✶
✶ A top story in Anita's Finding Inspiration Daily. June 2011. ✶
✶ Next week on June 20, 2011, Mia shares parts of her writing application that took her to the steps of the Writing Immersion In Sustainable Tuscany, opening the door to new possibilities. ✶
