UC San Diego Extension
Developing
Unforgettable Characters
120394_WI17_OL
Writing Exercise #01 - Using Alliteration (Use as Many S's as Possible)
D.Reinert (Just.A.Guy)
Sister Sarah Chanticleer Shaker
Screech! Screech! Stirred me from my deep slumber. Rolling from side to side, my sweaty arm wrapped around my sweetheart Stevie svelte waist. Yet the smooth skin of palm felt the smooth cool cotton of our sheets. I sat up, scanned the sleeping area, no Stevie. I got up and sauntered through doorway, past sofa, chairs and into the still solace of the solarium where Stevie stood near glass doors, seemingly staring past the Salvia and Santolina, over the Sorbaria and the Spartium, through trunks of She-Balsams, Slash Pines, Sycamores and Shortstraw Firs.
I said with a soft whisper and touch of fingertips to shoulder, “Stevie, Sweetie, sleep escapes you?”
“She’s back,” Stevie’s slender, strong body shuddered and shrank into my safe ursine embrace.
Sighs, heavy, serious sighs built layers of lassitude, sent waves of weariness through our embrace. Six nights free from Sister Sarah Chanticleer Shaker had ended. Stevie seemed to fear as if this night signaled a return to sixteen nights of Sister Sarah’s hauntings.
“What did you see this time?” I sought answers as Stevie sought a sleepy sojourn void of Sister Sarah.
“She was cooking again. But the food was different. This time she stirred seafood gumbo and sprinkled in sliced sassafras and nursed sauce piquant. She baked seafood stuffed sweet squash and was serving sweet dough custard tarts and surgery pralines.” Stevie shuffled to the sofa, stumbled then sat.
“Sounds New Orleans-ey, not South Carolinian?”
“Yeah.” Stevie’s soft words drifted into silence.
“Didn’t she usually make she-crab soup, shrimp and grits, eggs Sardou, smothered chops, and smothered beans with sausage in all your other seeings?” I sat beside him.
“Sure. Very Low Country. Momma said Sister Sarah sure was Low Country.”
Sister Sarah Chanticleer Shaker was counted among Stevie’s slave ancestors. Born into slavery in 1860, some twenty-six miles south of Sans Souci, South Carolina on the Sans Souci Plantation. Sister Sarah, the sixth child of Steven Chanticleer’s second wife, Samantha. Sister Sarah, stayed single, yet generations told other generations in Stevie’s family how Sister Sarah’s reputation as a sensible and sound elder known for showing soft-heartedness to all.
She was known to shake everyone’s hands and even called her own hands “shakers.” In time, Sister Sarah Chanticleer became Sister Sarah Chanticleer Shaker, as if it were part of her actual name.
“How did she seem this time? How did she look?” I sought answers why Sister Sarah returned.
“The same. Crow’s feet, pursed lips, crisp but glistening eyes, creased skin, but the sort of skin which is smooth from being stooped over boiling pots and steaming water, yet leathered by years of living in southern shacks, slugging through sultry summers where work is required from sunrise to sunset. Seeing her is seeing someone who’s sapient.”
Stevie hadn’t said so much in so long. I sat satisfied, noticing he was shifting from sad to settled. I hope for re-assured to settle in soon.
“So, what should we do?”
“I say we open Sister Sarah’s Supper Shack.” Stevie smirked, shaking his head to show his surrender to Sister’s messages.
Long had Stevie served a sous chef. Now he surrendered to the idea of himself as being a successful executive chef.
“Suh-weet!” I state supportively. “Let’s start!”
