Please post a story about a scar you have on your body. Our first class is January 10, so post something before that date. Enjoy your holiday and stay safe. Please edit your story at the Writeboard links I provide to you. The password is writing12
Brad's story: The Scar on My Pinky (at Writeboard.com for editing)
Suzanne's story: Scar on My Index Finger (at Writeboard.com)
Hongxin's story: The Scar: The Remains of the Past (at Writeboard.com)
Kamila's story: A Child and a Motorcycle Mean Trouble (at Writeboard.com)
Zarghoona's story: The Scar of My Hand (at Writeboard.com)
Remember to write every day at least a little to stay in practice.
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The Scar on Brad’s Right Pinky Finger
In 1974, I was working for Cominco as a bull cook in the north of Canada near the Arctic Circle. I had just finished my first year at UBC and had turned eighteen the month before. One of my regular duties was taking the garbage out to the dump that was at the far end of the camp. It must have been early in the summer because there was still snow on the ground. As I walked out with two full bags of garbage, the snow bridge I was crossing gave way and I fell down about one meter or so. Not too horrible, really, except that my pinky finger caught the edge of a ham tin (ham often came in a tin that opened with a key in those days). The sharp edge sliced my finger through to the bone. It hurt. A lot! The camp’s first aid attendant bandaged my finger and made sure it was protected from infection. Then, it was back to work for me! No one had any sympathy although the wound was very painful. One of the consequences of my injury was that I could no longer sleep on my stomache, something I had done since a small child. In fact, I never went back to sleeping that way. It took more than a decade before I could feel anything above the scar and still, sometimes, if I bang it accidentally, I have to stop while the end of my finger throbs painfully, reminding me of a time and a place from very long ago. –261 words
Scar on My Index Finger
“Hey! Beautiful girl!”
“Whose daughter is that?”
“The boss’s daughter,” someone answered as loudly as possible. That way, the others were warned in time when they spotted me coming.
In 1960’s, sugarcane harvest was like an annual festival in the south of Taiwan. This activity benefited whoever was involved. The government sent many workers to reap for manufacturing sugar. The villagers nearby cut the leaves off the top of sugarcanes to feed their cattle. My family had income from some portions of sugar. So the whole field was filled with people from many villages.
Farmers could grow white sugarcanes but could not keep them. The secret government inspectors sometimes patrolled to enforce the law. My appearance was also a kind of spying, for people might conceal some sugarcanes inside their sheaves. Therefore, at 15-years of age I was big enough to be my father’s assistant.
To avoid them, I decided to hide in the bush. In order to clear a space, I tried to remove the long grasses with a sharp sickle.
“Whoa!------my goodness,” I cried out with an agonizing pain. The blood gushed from my index finger, sweat dripped off my forehead, teeth gnashed hard in my mouth. Although I pressed the wound, the blood oozed like a leaking pipe. I could see my muscle protruding which was frightful.
They loaded the sugarcanes on the flatcars waiting for the locomotive to transport them to the factory.
The family had to take turns watching; my shift was the early evening. Eager to see my father, I felt the time went too slowly, especially when my wound thumped.
The scar has always reminded me of that painful experience. Since then, I have been very careful whenever I cut something.
296 words
The Scar--The Remains For the Past
Every scar on my body has its story.The big scar remarks a big memory.I have a huge scar on the back of my left hand that got in 1958,the time of "the Great Leap forward" in China.
At that time,I was a university student,and we would go to help reaping rice on farm for a period of time.We worked all day long from sunrise to sunset in July.The only tool was a reaping hook.At the evening,we lurked our tired body back to our camp.At the next early morning,we went to work with yawning.Our leader called us:"go all out,aim high", so we worked on and on under the mid-summer sun. Two weeks later, we were all exhausted,and the amount of the work slipped down obviously.I was so tired, and the event happened.Holding a sheaf of rices with my left hand and using the sickle in my right hand to cut them down,the "relative movement" happened.The rices kept absolutely still,but my body moved forward.The sickle slipped on the back of my left hand and made a huge cut in it, almost 5cm long,1cm deep.I stunned.At first, no pain, no bleed. What I saw was the
open lips with the white muscles.Suddenly,the blood gushed out, stained all my hand and dripped on the ground.I wrapped it hurriedly with my handkerchief.Then I put my left hand on the top of my head and went to the nearest clinic 5 kilometers away.
The scar is the mark of my life at that time remained to me. But the invisible scar remained in the mind of our nation was "the Nature Calamities" that lasted three years.
A CHILD and a MOTORCYCLE mean TROUBLE…
Why is it that when there is something bad to happen, it will always happen to me?! After so many years I finally realized that I must be a member of some kind of an “unlucky group”. Unfortunately! One of the most common experiences that I am extremely likely to go through is HITTING…Yes, I am always hitting my head on something. What can I say- I was a very active child in the past and till today I have plenty of signs of my previous activity that appear as a scars (mostly on my forehead).
One time, my mother tells me that when I was three or four years old, I climbed up on my grandfather’s motorcycle.
-“Bip, bip!! Brummm! Mummy I am driving!”
Oh, it must have been a lot of fun for such a young child. The motorcycle seemed so powerful and most of all- very inviting… But it was standing on the ground and not on the pavement. It was just the matter of time when it fell over and my imaginary trip ended so unexpectedly. The handlebars hit me on my forehead- no more laughing from that moment. Instead- a loud cry of the child and the moaning of the scared mother filled the air. My head had swollen like a watermelon. Tears mixed with a huge drops of blood were running through my whole face downwards.
-“Call the ambulance! We need to go to the hospital!”-my mother shouted while she was picking me up from the ground.
I remember my mother’s hands- so soft and delicate but shaking all the way to the clinic. The doctor took care of my hurt head. Not a deep cut and only about 1.5 cm long but a terrifying experience for such a small girl. I was hit just millimeters from the corner of my left eye!
All in all, considering the circumstances, I can only be grateful that the handlebars did not hit me straight in the eye, for instead of gaining the scar I could lose something more precious…
The Scar of My Hand
Scars at the beginning are painful, but then they are becoming a memory for life.
I had been living in Moscow, Russia when I was ten years old. We just moved to this city, and the area was unfamiliar for us.
We, my two girlfriends and I, walked a pretty long distance talking and laughing that we lost the truck of the time.
“It’s late, and will get dark, soon” said one of us.
“let’s run !” Said the other.
In the twilight we headed home. We chose the shortest way, through bushes. Some of the bushes had dry and sharp brunches.
Since it was not bright enough to see, running, I injured the back of my hand on one of those dry brunches. I felt a sharp pain in my right hand. “Oops!”
I saw the injury, shook my hand to ease the pain, and was running home. I didn’t stop as though we were competing in a race. It was bleeding.
At home, my mother took care of it, “You have to be more careful,” she said. I thought it was like my other scars, and soon will disappear. It didn’t.
It still remains in place even after I burned my hand when I was in the fifth year of university. It is the reminder of that evening of my childhood.
I like it now.
216 words
Memory of Luck by Masaru
One of my scars almost killed me. It located on my right hand wrist with 4 inches crescent shape. No, I didn’t attempt suicide but one might think I did.
When I was 12 years old, I was delivering morning news paper around 100 houses in two hours. To finish delivery in time, I was running like a chased rabbit. Taking shortcuts was something I did to save time. One of them crossed school ground, which was protected by barbed wire. I jumped off, caught my arm on the wire, punctured my skin and then fell all the way down. I looked down and saw my shirtsleeve was soaked in blood, my blood. I stood up, took off my shirt, and wound it around my arm. Then, I finished my deliveries.
By seeing my bloody arm, my mother realized what had happed. Without saying anything, she took me to a medical intern student who lived in neighbourhood because we couldn`t afford to go to a doctor. He treated me very well and gave me a shot which protected me to get tetanus. Deadly disease if you don`t do prevention.
I didn`t remember I took a day off from school, but I remembered I kept running for delivery. For many years, I saw this scar as a memory of my hardship days. Then, I realized suppose the student didn`t give me a shot, what would happen? Suppose the wire was one eighth longer, what would happen? It surely cut off artery! I decided to take bright side of accident and this scar is my lucky symbol after all.
272 words
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