WRITERS' CORNER
Published Works and Announcements by Local Authors
Brevard Authors Society introduces the Writers' Corner. The website page of literary works by members of the Society will begin publishing on a monthly basis selected submissions by local authors. If you would like to submit your story, or your poem, please follow the instructions below. Please send your submissions to: brevardauthorssociety@gmail.com. The following criteria applies to all submissions:
- Author's portrait picture, 2" X 2"
-Author's Bio, not more than 150 words
-Short story, poem, essay, one act play
- Submission in Word doc, not more than 2500 words
- Author's portrait picture, 2" X 2"
-Author's Bio, not more than 150 words
-Short story, poem, essay, one act play
- Submission in Word doc, not more than 2500 words
BRACKISH WATERS
by Rosangelina Baptista
by Rosangelina Baptista
Rosangelina Baptista is an American-Brazilian, new aspiring literary voice of multicultural heritage. Based in Central Florida as a bilingual freelance writer with interests in poetry, oriental art, Eastern philosophy, and cognitive sciences, her recent efforts have focused on promoting poetry and mindfulness for public schools and reviving Indo-Portuguese literature. Her essay ‘Bojja Tharakam: A Brazilian Perspective’ was published by Bojja Tharakam Trust, Hyderabad, 2018. Her unpublished poetry manuscript titled ‘Seven Saris to Maria’ features Goa and is dedicated to the artist Angelo da Fonseca.
Review by Gene: If the melodious fervor of Rosangelina's verses doesn't conquer your heart, wait for another breeze of her poetry that slowly enters your soul and floods your senses. You are then in the magic waters of Amazon, numb-happy, mesmerized. Like I, you will say 'this is wonderful'. My kind of poetry, something from the insides, not covered with lime. It breaths, it sounds, it stirs, and it cries. Read it twice, then you'll feel it.
Review by Gene: If the melodious fervor of Rosangelina's verses doesn't conquer your heart, wait for another breeze of her poetry that slowly enters your soul and floods your senses. You are then in the magic waters of Amazon, numb-happy, mesmerized. Like I, you will say 'this is wonderful'. My kind of poetry, something from the insides, not covered with lime. It breaths, it sounds, it stirs, and it cries. Read it twice, then you'll feel it.
LET US CRY
by David "Jack" Jackson, Homeless Poet
Sometimes blessings fall like rain
From the gracious sky,
In a world full of pain
Sometimes we must cry.
Let us cry a river of hope that would never stop flowing,
A tree of love that would never stop growing,
Let us cry good deeds that will continue to multiply,
A strong presence of God impossible to deny,
Let us cry for those who are sinfully mislead,
And for the rejuvenation of the spiritually dead.
Let us cry a truthful spirit daring without fear,
A heart of trust reliable and sincere.
Let us cry a rod of faith that will never bend,
And merciful tears forever our cleansing friends.
David Jack Jackson
From the gracious sky,
In a world full of pain
Sometimes we must cry.
Let us cry a river of hope that would never stop flowing,
A tree of love that would never stop growing,
Let us cry good deeds that will continue to multiply,
A strong presence of God impossible to deny,
Let us cry for those who are sinfully mislead,
And for the rejuvenation of the spiritually dead.
Let us cry a truthful spirit daring without fear,
A heart of trust reliable and sincere.
Let us cry a rod of faith that will never bend,
And merciful tears forever our cleansing friends.
David Jack Jackson
Wanda Luthman - Author for Children of All Ages
Wanda Luthman, the educator and the author of children's books, announces the establishment of the Brevard County Children's Writers Group.
Story Playground is a local children's author/illustrator group for current published and pre-published authors/illustrators. Our mission is to serve as a resource for the business side of writing such as marketing/publishing and to hosts workshops to enhance our unique creative talents in order for each of us to share our message with the world. Our vision is to become "the" professional children's group in Brevard County that is the place to go to for all things children such as speaking engagements, activities, promoting literacy, etc. You can connect with us at Story Playground on Facebook (just search and ask to join) or reach out to Wanda Luthman at author.wandaluthman.com
Story Playground is a local children's author/illustrator group for current published and pre-published authors/illustrators. Our mission is to serve as a resource for the business side of writing such as marketing/publishing and to hosts workshops to enhance our unique creative talents in order for each of us to share our message with the world. Our vision is to become "the" professional children's group in Brevard County that is the place to go to for all things children such as speaking engagements, activities, promoting literacy, etc. You can connect with us at Story Playground on Facebook (just search and ask to join) or reach out to Wanda Luthman at author.wandaluthman.com
Wanda Luthman writes fiction for children ages 7-11. She especially likes fantasy themes that carry a thought-provoking message. Wanda Luthman’s first self-published book is The Lilac Princess. Wanda was inspired by her daughter but the story is about her own struggle. She always longed to grow up and get out of the house but once she did, she realized how much she missed home. Dreama, the protagonist, is an only child to an elderly King and Queen who follows her heart to go outside the castle walls despite being warned against it only to be captured by the most evil force in the Kingdom, Liam, the dragon. While he has a devious plan, she unravels it with a choice that not even she realizes will change the future of her Kingdom.
Wanda’s second book is The Adventures Of Tad, The Turtle. Tad doesn't like his shell because it makes him too slow. He meets different characters both good and bad throughout his journey to the Wizard whom he hopes grants his wish to be rid of his shell. This story is full of whimsy and warmth that will leave a smile on your face. This book will be available on Amazon towards the end of March/beginning of April.
Wanda has future plans to write a sequel to The Lilac Princess which will feature Liam, The Dragon. She has completed writing her third book about a Unicorn and a Girl who goes on Magical Adventures. Wanda hopes to publish the book later this year.
Wanda loves to write and enjoys sharing her love of writing with children. Her goal is to encourage children to love reading and writing also.
Wanda Luthman is a High School Guidance Counselor of 18 years and a Licensed Mental Health Counselor of 28 years who understands the need for children to engage in creative thinking. Reading allows children to use their creativity in visualizing the characters, the scenes and anticipation of the storyline.
Wanda’s social media accounts are
www.facebook.com/wluthman
www.twitter.com/wandalu64
www.instagram.com/wandalu64
https://plus.google.com/+WandaLuthman
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14469611.Wanda_Luthman
www.wandaluthman.wordpress.com
www.amazon.com/author/wandaluthman
here's a link to Amazon that will change to the person's country when they click on it. myBook.to/WandaLuthmanAuthor
Wanda’s second book is The Adventures Of Tad, The Turtle. Tad doesn't like his shell because it makes him too slow. He meets different characters both good and bad throughout his journey to the Wizard whom he hopes grants his wish to be rid of his shell. This story is full of whimsy and warmth that will leave a smile on your face. This book will be available on Amazon towards the end of March/beginning of April.
Wanda has future plans to write a sequel to The Lilac Princess which will feature Liam, The Dragon. She has completed writing her third book about a Unicorn and a Girl who goes on Magical Adventures. Wanda hopes to publish the book later this year.
Wanda loves to write and enjoys sharing her love of writing with children. Her goal is to encourage children to love reading and writing also.
Wanda Luthman is a High School Guidance Counselor of 18 years and a Licensed Mental Health Counselor of 28 years who understands the need for children to engage in creative thinking. Reading allows children to use their creativity in visualizing the characters, the scenes and anticipation of the storyline.
Wanda’s social media accounts are
www.facebook.com/wluthman
www.twitter.com/wandalu64
www.instagram.com/wandalu64
https://plus.google.com/+WandaLuthman
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14469611.Wanda_Luthman
www.wandaluthman.wordpress.com
www.amazon.com/author/wandaluthman
here's a link to Amazon that will change to the person's country when they click on it. myBook.to/WandaLuthmanAuthor
Poet Susana Balaguero
Jim’s Poem
Once upon a time on a clear, sunny day,
My brother, first born, came here to say,
Hello world, How do you do?
What will my life be? my question to you.
Hey there James Winthrop Lyman, great name we agree.
Your sisters are coming, just two not three.
Our family complete, Mom, Dad, the 3 of us,
We had rules, and restrictions without any fuss.
We moved around but did finally make,
Our forever home in the town of Fox Lake.
A peaceful place to live, grow and play,
We loved it there, we all wanted to stay!
Jim was in High School with his friends hanging out,
“Look, there’s a puppy,” someone did shout,
Jim scooped him up and brought him home,
Put him in the basement so he wouldn’t roam.
When Mom finally met him, he gave her a scare,
She yelled in fright, “Gladly my Cross I would bear!”
That is how ‘Gladly’ got his new name,
A dog in our town who soon earned his fame.
With pink nose, shaggy fur, he looked like a bear,
Wandering the neighborhood with never a care,
Every day he walked me and my sister to school,
Our father to the train station, also his rule.
Got sent home in taxies, ‘cause Dad was alarmed,
Didn’t want Gladly by a speeding train to be harmed.
Thank you Jim for bringing us our Gladly so dear,
Who gave us joy, love and laughter, year after year.
- 1 -
Jim went off to college with future dreams in store,
Where he soon got drafted because of the war.
Fort Sheridan Army Barracks where he did train,
An MP doing rescue work was his domain.
2 years later back to college on the GI bill,
He returned, his wishes and dreams to fulfill.
So began a new chapter for this young boy,
Life with its problems, triumphs, sadness and joy.
He came once to visit when I lived in Madrid,
Showing him the sights, he was just like a kid.
As we stood with our friends in our small local bar,
Jim towered over most of the men by far.
They looked at him with great interest and awe,
Seems like he was the tallest man, they ever saw!
Several times he tried to buy drinks all a round,
But the Spaniards were faster as he soon found.
Even in a foreign land how could he be so charming?
It was a mystery to me, but not the least bit alarming.
Much laughter and joking when hanging with him,
Tall, handsome and funny, people always liked Jim.
Spent a summer with them at the cottage, Jim, Judy and me,
What a lively trio we turned out to be.
Mr. Martini and the Fun City Sisters we became,
And it didn’t take long to live up to that name!
He asked us to put a roast on the grill one night,
Which we did, but forgot the coals to light!
He arrived tired and hungry and ready to eat,
And what does he see but a big hunk of raw meat!
In spite of his hunger he was able to smile,
We fixed some martinis and after awhile,
We dined under the stars by the tranquil shore,
Making memories that night with laughter galore.
- 2 -
One night in a pub he asked, “how do you say
I have potatoes in my mustache in Spanish?” O.K.?
“Tengo patatas en mi bigote!” He practiced awhile,
Then told everyone in sight, with his special smile,
“Tengo patatas en mi bigote”
I didn’t know they were people he knew,
And let me tell you, there were quite a few.
Who had no idea what he was saying to them,
But they just smiled and said, “That’s our Jim.”
Happy 4th of July, is what we would cry,
At the party he threw every year.
There was food, drink and laughter, rejoicing and fun,
Fireworks on the lake, people filled with good cheer.
I remember waiting with him on his pier,
For his brand new pontoon boat to appear.
Wearing his Captain’s hat, bursting with pride,
Anxious to take us all for a ride.
Other memories of my brother, he loved a good book,
Was awesome in the kitchen, an exceptional cook!
He loved his family, his friends, the lake, his life,
For all that he went through, the joy and the strife.
He was my big brother and I miss him dearly,
I wrote this for him to help you see clearly,
He was a good man, beloved by many,
Who now is in Heaven telling jokes to Jack Benny.
Susana Balaguero
10 June 2018
Jim’s Poem
Once upon a time on a clear, sunny day,
My brother, first born, came here to say,
Hello world, How do you do?
What will my life be? my question to you.
Hey there James Winthrop Lyman, great name we agree.
Your sisters are coming, just two not three.
Our family complete, Mom, Dad, the 3 of us,
We had rules, and restrictions without any fuss.
We moved around but did finally make,
Our forever home in the town of Fox Lake.
A peaceful place to live, grow and play,
We loved it there, we all wanted to stay!
Jim was in High School with his friends hanging out,
“Look, there’s a puppy,” someone did shout,
Jim scooped him up and brought him home,
Put him in the basement so he wouldn’t roam.
When Mom finally met him, he gave her a scare,
She yelled in fright, “Gladly my Cross I would bear!”
That is how ‘Gladly’ got his new name,
A dog in our town who soon earned his fame.
With pink nose, shaggy fur, he looked like a bear,
Wandering the neighborhood with never a care,
Every day he walked me and my sister to school,
Our father to the train station, also his rule.
Got sent home in taxies, ‘cause Dad was alarmed,
Didn’t want Gladly by a speeding train to be harmed.
Thank you Jim for bringing us our Gladly so dear,
Who gave us joy, love and laughter, year after year.
- 1 -
Jim went off to college with future dreams in store,
Where he soon got drafted because of the war.
Fort Sheridan Army Barracks where he did train,
An MP doing rescue work was his domain.
2 years later back to college on the GI bill,
He returned, his wishes and dreams to fulfill.
So began a new chapter for this young boy,
Life with its problems, triumphs, sadness and joy.
He came once to visit when I lived in Madrid,
Showing him the sights, he was just like a kid.
As we stood with our friends in our small local bar,
Jim towered over most of the men by far.
They looked at him with great interest and awe,
Seems like he was the tallest man, they ever saw!
Several times he tried to buy drinks all a round,
But the Spaniards were faster as he soon found.
Even in a foreign land how could he be so charming?
It was a mystery to me, but not the least bit alarming.
Much laughter and joking when hanging with him,
Tall, handsome and funny, people always liked Jim.
Spent a summer with them at the cottage, Jim, Judy and me,
What a lively trio we turned out to be.
Mr. Martini and the Fun City Sisters we became,
And it didn’t take long to live up to that name!
He asked us to put a roast on the grill one night,
Which we did, but forgot the coals to light!
He arrived tired and hungry and ready to eat,
And what does he see but a big hunk of raw meat!
In spite of his hunger he was able to smile,
We fixed some martinis and after awhile,
We dined under the stars by the tranquil shore,
Making memories that night with laughter galore.
- 2 -
One night in a pub he asked, “how do you say
I have potatoes in my mustache in Spanish?” O.K.?
“Tengo patatas en mi bigote!” He practiced awhile,
Then told everyone in sight, with his special smile,
“Tengo patatas en mi bigote”
I didn’t know they were people he knew,
And let me tell you, there were quite a few.
Who had no idea what he was saying to them,
But they just smiled and said, “That’s our Jim.”
Happy 4th of July, is what we would cry,
At the party he threw every year.
There was food, drink and laughter, rejoicing and fun,
Fireworks on the lake, people filled with good cheer.
I remember waiting with him on his pier,
For his brand new pontoon boat to appear.
Wearing his Captain’s hat, bursting with pride,
Anxious to take us all for a ride.
Other memories of my brother, he loved a good book,
Was awesome in the kitchen, an exceptional cook!
He loved his family, his friends, the lake, his life,
For all that he went through, the joy and the strife.
He was my big brother and I miss him dearly,
I wrote this for him to help you see clearly,
He was a good man, beloved by many,
Who now is in Heaven telling jokes to Jack Benny.
Susana Balaguero
10 June 2018
FROZEN COURAGE by Steven Anthony Charles, The Second Prize Winner, 2018 Novus Annos Short Story Contest
I found out the hard way it was cold enough to become a permanent fixture of a corner street sign. As I stood there, the sensation in my right hand becoming a distant memory, I watched my former friends have a snowball fight. I say former because I refuse to play with them again after what they did to me. I would cry right now, but my dad said only sissies cry, and I’m no sissy, whatever that is; I just know I’m not one. My dad said sissies cry and act like little girls and come from New York and California and I’m a 10 year old boy from Mississippi. So I can’t be a sissy. I wish I was because now I can’t feel my hand and maybe if I cried they would help free me.
“Robby,” I shouted at the group of boys in a pile in the slushy street. “Help me get my hand free. I can’t feel it no more.” Robby, Frank, Billy and Craig looked at me as if they had forgotten I was stuck to the street sign. These northerners are stupid. It hadn’t been 10 minutes since they told me to stick my wet hand to the pole. They wanted to see what would happen, they said, but I think they already knew. When they all started laughing I realized I was right. Robby laughed so hard, snot shot out and dripped down his face. Smiling, he licked his lips.
“I’ll help you country boy,” Robby said as he struggled to his feet with Frank and Billy trying to tackle him and drag him down into the slush.
“Leave him,” shouted Billy.
“Let his hand freeze off,” said Craig as he picked up a handful of slush and let it loose at my head. It hit me square in the eye and I saw stars. My eye was now as frozen as my hand. I won’t cry. I WON’T cry.
“Step off, Craig. I got this!” Robby stared down Craig who looked away after a few seconds. Craig was strong and looked older than all of us, but everyone was a bit scared of Robby since he set an alley cat on fire. If he could do that to a cat, what else was he capable of?
Robby shook off Billy and Frank and sauntered over. He circled me a few times, considering my situation. He brought his hand to his face, blew a huge gob of snot onto his hand and jammed it into my face. My mouth was open because the cold New York weather kept my nose clogged and it was the only way I could breathe. I naively thought he was going to help me so I was caught off guard. I felt the warm, slimy boogers creep into my mouth and mingle with my own. I pulled away, slipping on the ice. My hand being stuck to the pole kept me from falling on my rear, but it would have been a better fate as the shock of the fall made me inhale forcefully.
I swallowed.
I began to cry like a sissy. Now they all laughed. I tried to spit out whatever was left and it made them laugh harder. They joined hands, encircling me and the pole and laughed their black hearts out.
My dad would be so ashamed of me if he were alive. He would have dragged me into the garage and made me put on the boxing gloves to go a few rounds with him. I always ended up bloody, but it was worth it, he would say. He said it would make me into a fighter and a real man. He would say, “Jonathan, you a sissy, but I’ll learn you to fight if it’s the last thing I do.” It wasn’t. The last thing he did was put a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. I know because I found him. I knew it was him because the headless body I found in our garage had the same steel toed work boots he always wore.
The boys kept circling me, but I stopped noticing them. I was back in the garage in Mississippi. I could smell the motor oil spotting the floor, the gasoline from the lawn mower, and the overwhelming smell of copper. My vision narrowed and I began to shake and hyperventilate. I was having what my mom called a flashback like a soldier who came back from war. She said I was broken but she loved me anyway. Thanks Mom.
When I came to my senses, the boys were still circling me but now they were chanting, “Jonathan’s a faggot! Jonathan’s a faggot!” I remembered my dad would call me that when he was drunk. I didn’t know what that meant either but I figured it was the same thing as a sissy. I guess I used to cry a lot back then, so he was right, but now I was crying again and they thought I was a sissy too!
“NO!” I yelled. I righted myself, put my foot on the pole and yanked my hand hard. I didn’t feel anything but I heard a sickening rip. The boys stopped in their tracks and stared at me with their mouths open except for Robby who smiled. When I slapped him with an open bloody palm, his smile disappeared. I followed up the slap with two quick jabs and an uppercut with my bloodied hand. I grimaced from the pain, but when the snow settled, he lay on his back, unmoving with a bloody nose and a couple of teeth missing from his formerly smiling face. Thanks dad. Did that make you proud?
I turned to the rest of them, but they retreated a couple of steps when they saw my face. I walked over to Robby, pulled off his gloves, dipped his dry hands in a slush puddle and began to drag him over to the pole. He was heavy, but I made it. He was moaning so I knew he was waking up, but it was too late. I wrapped his hands around the pole and held fast. When I let go, his hands remained.
“I ain’t no sissy and I ain’t no faggot,” I yelled at his prone body. His eyes fluttered and opened. He looked up at us, but seemed confused. My dad always said, “When you knock a bitch out, ain’t nothing better than watching his sorry ass come too.” Guess he was right. It felt good. He tried to get up but his movements were sluggish and he hadn’t noticed his hands stuck to the pole yet. When he did, he panicked and screamed, “Ahhh! Help me! Get my hand off here. I’m gonna lose my fingers!”
The other boys stood silently until Craig began to laugh, which freed them to laugh as well. Robby started to cry. I stood there watching silently. Why do I feel bad? I should be happy, right? Craig clapped me on the back hard enough to make my jaw rattle and said, “Guess he’s the faggot after all, not you!” The boys grabbed hands and circled Robby as he tried to tug his hands free. Craig reached for my hand, but I refused his offer. He shrugged and began the chant, “Robby’s a faggot! Robby’s a faggot!”
I took that moment to turn and run. I ran the half block to my house as fast as I could. My hand was throbbing and every step brought me closer to passing out. I went through the back door and burst into the kitchen. My mom yelped, startled by my loud entrance and our next door neighbor, Mrs. Valenti, jumped out of her chair. I stood there dripping slush and blood all over my mom’s clean floor. I could see she was about to yell and I prepared myself for a tongue lashing, but her voice caught in her throat when she saw my hand.
“Oh my God!” she screeched. She grabbed the back of the chair to steady herself. Mrs. Valenti apparently didn’t have my mom’s constitution as she crumpled to the floor with a faint gasp.
We stood there a few moments, me staring at my mom’s paling face and her staring at my bloody palm when I said, “Guess I need a band-aid, huh?” This snapped my mom out of her shock and she sprung into motion. She ran to the counter, grabbed her keys, took my other hand and dragged me back outside to the car. She threw me in the front seat and slammed the door. She slipped and slid her way around the car and jumped in beside me. I was starting to feel lightheaded and I didn’t hear what she was saying. Huffing, she reached across me and yanked the seat belt and clipped it into place.
She slammed the car in reverse and we skated out onto the street. As we approached the corner and the street pole, I looked out the window to see if Robby was still there. He was! “Mom, stop the car!”
“What? No, we have to get you to the hospital!”
“Mom, please, stop the car!”
“I don’t know what you’ve been up to, but I’m sure it ain’t no good. It’s bad enough we don’t have insurance, so we ain’t waiting till it gets infected. As it is, I’ll be paying the hospital bill for the next 10 years! Now zip it!” She used the tone of voice that meant the argument was over, so I grabbed the emergency brake between the seats and yanked it. We fishtailed and skidded to a stop inches from a parked car. I popped my seat belt off and got out as fast as I could. I left a bloody smear on the door handle and it made my stomach lurch. I don’t know if it was from the pain or the sight of the blood, but whatever it was, I puked.
I could hear my mom screaming at me to get back in the car but I ignored her and the puke and ran over to the street sign where Robby was curled up in a fetal position whimpering quietly. He had given up. I guess he wasn’t as tough as he pretended to be.
“Robby,” I said as I knelt down beside him. He looked up at me, his eyes a web of red and said, “Please help.” After a moment I nodded and grabbed one of his hands with my good one and I was about to yank when my mom yelled, “STOP! You’ll do to his hands what you did to yours. “
We looked up as she skidded over to us, a bottle of water in her hand. “You have to melt the ice to get his hands off or you’ll rip off his skin. You’d think you’d know that by now!”
“ Why we moved to this god forsaken frozen hell, I’ll never know,” she muttered to herself as she knelt down beside him.
“But water is what got him stuck in the first place,” I reasoned.
“Cold water. Hot water will melt the ice.” She held up the Dasani water bottle she had grabbed from the car. “It may not be hot, but it is nowhere near freezing. It should work. If not, you can piss on his hands.” Robby’s face went white and I could feel my privates shrivel at the thought of exposing them to this cold. Besides, I was pee shy.
“When I pour the water, you pull his hands off slowly” she instructed me. She opened the bottle and slowly poured the water. I began to pull and I could feel his hand give. Robby began to yell, “Stop, it hurts!!” I ignored him and pulled harder. His hand slid off the pole with a satisfying, sticky squelch. The second one came off even easier.
Robby stayed in the fetal position for moment catching his breath. After a moment, he looked up at me and said softly, “thanks, and, uh, sorry.”
“Don’t mention it,” I said. He nodded but I grabbed his bruised face with my bloody hand and repeated, “I mean it, don’t mention it. Ever.” He nodded vigorously as he clamored to his feet. He stood there a moment looking at us before he took off at a gallop down the street. He fell theatrically a few times before he made it to the end of the street and took off out of sight.
“What was that all about,” my mom asked me sternly.
“Nothing. Let’s go to the hospital now. I can feel the germs coursing through my body already.” Nothing alarmed my mom more than germs so I figured this would get her moving and change the subject. We got back in the car and silently began our slippery journey to the hospital. I stared out the window, thinking about my dad. Would he have been proud of me today? I shrugged to myself. I wasn’t a sissy today, dad. I was a man.
I felt my mom’s touch and looked up at her face. She wiped a tear that had fallen, unnoticed by me, down my cheek. I immediately felt ashamed and turned away.
“Jonathan” she said softly to me. I ignored her. She tried again, “Hey, baby. I’m very proud of you today.” I looked at her, shocked. I didn’t understand. “Proud? Of what? Of me crying like a sissy?”
“Don’t you dare say that!” she admonished me. “You’re no sissy, and even if you were, I would love you anyway. Don’t let that crap your dad fed you poison your mind.”
“But I am a sissy. I tried not to cry but after everything those boys did, I couldn’t help it and now I’m crying again!”
My mom slowed the car and came to a stop. She grabbed me by the chin and looked me in the eyes. “You may think your mom doesn’t know anything, but I know. I know how boys are and I know how your father was. What you did back there, letting that boy go, took more courage than what you did to your hand or to that boy’s face. Only the best kind of man could do that. You showed compassion when it wasn’t deserved. Your dad didn’t get that. He was a bastard. Maybe that’s why he…” She trailed off, but I knew what she was going to say.
“I am more proud of you today than I ever was of your dad. Do you understand me? Ever.” I nodded, my eyes full of tears. I couldn’t speak so I turned away and looked out the foggy window. So no, my dad wouldn’t be proud of me. Good. That’s good. Sissy, or not, today I became a real man, something he never was.
Thanks mom.
I found out the hard way it was cold enough to become a permanent fixture of a corner street sign. As I stood there, the sensation in my right hand becoming a distant memory, I watched my former friends have a snowball fight. I say former because I refuse to play with them again after what they did to me. I would cry right now, but my dad said only sissies cry, and I’m no sissy, whatever that is; I just know I’m not one. My dad said sissies cry and act like little girls and come from New York and California and I’m a 10 year old boy from Mississippi. So I can’t be a sissy. I wish I was because now I can’t feel my hand and maybe if I cried they would help free me.
“Robby,” I shouted at the group of boys in a pile in the slushy street. “Help me get my hand free. I can’t feel it no more.” Robby, Frank, Billy and Craig looked at me as if they had forgotten I was stuck to the street sign. These northerners are stupid. It hadn’t been 10 minutes since they told me to stick my wet hand to the pole. They wanted to see what would happen, they said, but I think they already knew. When they all started laughing I realized I was right. Robby laughed so hard, snot shot out and dripped down his face. Smiling, he licked his lips.
“I’ll help you country boy,” Robby said as he struggled to his feet with Frank and Billy trying to tackle him and drag him down into the slush.
“Leave him,” shouted Billy.
“Let his hand freeze off,” said Craig as he picked up a handful of slush and let it loose at my head. It hit me square in the eye and I saw stars. My eye was now as frozen as my hand. I won’t cry. I WON’T cry.
“Step off, Craig. I got this!” Robby stared down Craig who looked away after a few seconds. Craig was strong and looked older than all of us, but everyone was a bit scared of Robby since he set an alley cat on fire. If he could do that to a cat, what else was he capable of?
Robby shook off Billy and Frank and sauntered over. He circled me a few times, considering my situation. He brought his hand to his face, blew a huge gob of snot onto his hand and jammed it into my face. My mouth was open because the cold New York weather kept my nose clogged and it was the only way I could breathe. I naively thought he was going to help me so I was caught off guard. I felt the warm, slimy boogers creep into my mouth and mingle with my own. I pulled away, slipping on the ice. My hand being stuck to the pole kept me from falling on my rear, but it would have been a better fate as the shock of the fall made me inhale forcefully.
I swallowed.
I began to cry like a sissy. Now they all laughed. I tried to spit out whatever was left and it made them laugh harder. They joined hands, encircling me and the pole and laughed their black hearts out.
My dad would be so ashamed of me if he were alive. He would have dragged me into the garage and made me put on the boxing gloves to go a few rounds with him. I always ended up bloody, but it was worth it, he would say. He said it would make me into a fighter and a real man. He would say, “Jonathan, you a sissy, but I’ll learn you to fight if it’s the last thing I do.” It wasn’t. The last thing he did was put a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. I know because I found him. I knew it was him because the headless body I found in our garage had the same steel toed work boots he always wore.
The boys kept circling me, but I stopped noticing them. I was back in the garage in Mississippi. I could smell the motor oil spotting the floor, the gasoline from the lawn mower, and the overwhelming smell of copper. My vision narrowed and I began to shake and hyperventilate. I was having what my mom called a flashback like a soldier who came back from war. She said I was broken but she loved me anyway. Thanks Mom.
When I came to my senses, the boys were still circling me but now they were chanting, “Jonathan’s a faggot! Jonathan’s a faggot!” I remembered my dad would call me that when he was drunk. I didn’t know what that meant either but I figured it was the same thing as a sissy. I guess I used to cry a lot back then, so he was right, but now I was crying again and they thought I was a sissy too!
“NO!” I yelled. I righted myself, put my foot on the pole and yanked my hand hard. I didn’t feel anything but I heard a sickening rip. The boys stopped in their tracks and stared at me with their mouths open except for Robby who smiled. When I slapped him with an open bloody palm, his smile disappeared. I followed up the slap with two quick jabs and an uppercut with my bloodied hand. I grimaced from the pain, but when the snow settled, he lay on his back, unmoving with a bloody nose and a couple of teeth missing from his formerly smiling face. Thanks dad. Did that make you proud?
I turned to the rest of them, but they retreated a couple of steps when they saw my face. I walked over to Robby, pulled off his gloves, dipped his dry hands in a slush puddle and began to drag him over to the pole. He was heavy, but I made it. He was moaning so I knew he was waking up, but it was too late. I wrapped his hands around the pole and held fast. When I let go, his hands remained.
“I ain’t no sissy and I ain’t no faggot,” I yelled at his prone body. His eyes fluttered and opened. He looked up at us, but seemed confused. My dad always said, “When you knock a bitch out, ain’t nothing better than watching his sorry ass come too.” Guess he was right. It felt good. He tried to get up but his movements were sluggish and he hadn’t noticed his hands stuck to the pole yet. When he did, he panicked and screamed, “Ahhh! Help me! Get my hand off here. I’m gonna lose my fingers!”
The other boys stood silently until Craig began to laugh, which freed them to laugh as well. Robby started to cry. I stood there watching silently. Why do I feel bad? I should be happy, right? Craig clapped me on the back hard enough to make my jaw rattle and said, “Guess he’s the faggot after all, not you!” The boys grabbed hands and circled Robby as he tried to tug his hands free. Craig reached for my hand, but I refused his offer. He shrugged and began the chant, “Robby’s a faggot! Robby’s a faggot!”
I took that moment to turn and run. I ran the half block to my house as fast as I could. My hand was throbbing and every step brought me closer to passing out. I went through the back door and burst into the kitchen. My mom yelped, startled by my loud entrance and our next door neighbor, Mrs. Valenti, jumped out of her chair. I stood there dripping slush and blood all over my mom’s clean floor. I could see she was about to yell and I prepared myself for a tongue lashing, but her voice caught in her throat when she saw my hand.
“Oh my God!” she screeched. She grabbed the back of the chair to steady herself. Mrs. Valenti apparently didn’t have my mom’s constitution as she crumpled to the floor with a faint gasp.
We stood there a few moments, me staring at my mom’s paling face and her staring at my bloody palm when I said, “Guess I need a band-aid, huh?” This snapped my mom out of her shock and she sprung into motion. She ran to the counter, grabbed her keys, took my other hand and dragged me back outside to the car. She threw me in the front seat and slammed the door. She slipped and slid her way around the car and jumped in beside me. I was starting to feel lightheaded and I didn’t hear what she was saying. Huffing, she reached across me and yanked the seat belt and clipped it into place.
She slammed the car in reverse and we skated out onto the street. As we approached the corner and the street pole, I looked out the window to see if Robby was still there. He was! “Mom, stop the car!”
“What? No, we have to get you to the hospital!”
“Mom, please, stop the car!”
“I don’t know what you’ve been up to, but I’m sure it ain’t no good. It’s bad enough we don’t have insurance, so we ain’t waiting till it gets infected. As it is, I’ll be paying the hospital bill for the next 10 years! Now zip it!” She used the tone of voice that meant the argument was over, so I grabbed the emergency brake between the seats and yanked it. We fishtailed and skidded to a stop inches from a parked car. I popped my seat belt off and got out as fast as I could. I left a bloody smear on the door handle and it made my stomach lurch. I don’t know if it was from the pain or the sight of the blood, but whatever it was, I puked.
I could hear my mom screaming at me to get back in the car but I ignored her and the puke and ran over to the street sign where Robby was curled up in a fetal position whimpering quietly. He had given up. I guess he wasn’t as tough as he pretended to be.
“Robby,” I said as I knelt down beside him. He looked up at me, his eyes a web of red and said, “Please help.” After a moment I nodded and grabbed one of his hands with my good one and I was about to yank when my mom yelled, “STOP! You’ll do to his hands what you did to yours. “
We looked up as she skidded over to us, a bottle of water in her hand. “You have to melt the ice to get his hands off or you’ll rip off his skin. You’d think you’d know that by now!”
“ Why we moved to this god forsaken frozen hell, I’ll never know,” she muttered to herself as she knelt down beside him.
“But water is what got him stuck in the first place,” I reasoned.
“Cold water. Hot water will melt the ice.” She held up the Dasani water bottle she had grabbed from the car. “It may not be hot, but it is nowhere near freezing. It should work. If not, you can piss on his hands.” Robby’s face went white and I could feel my privates shrivel at the thought of exposing them to this cold. Besides, I was pee shy.
“When I pour the water, you pull his hands off slowly” she instructed me. She opened the bottle and slowly poured the water. I began to pull and I could feel his hand give. Robby began to yell, “Stop, it hurts!!” I ignored him and pulled harder. His hand slid off the pole with a satisfying, sticky squelch. The second one came off even easier.
Robby stayed in the fetal position for moment catching his breath. After a moment, he looked up at me and said softly, “thanks, and, uh, sorry.”
“Don’t mention it,” I said. He nodded but I grabbed his bruised face with my bloody hand and repeated, “I mean it, don’t mention it. Ever.” He nodded vigorously as he clamored to his feet. He stood there a moment looking at us before he took off at a gallop down the street. He fell theatrically a few times before he made it to the end of the street and took off out of sight.
“What was that all about,” my mom asked me sternly.
“Nothing. Let’s go to the hospital now. I can feel the germs coursing through my body already.” Nothing alarmed my mom more than germs so I figured this would get her moving and change the subject. We got back in the car and silently began our slippery journey to the hospital. I stared out the window, thinking about my dad. Would he have been proud of me today? I shrugged to myself. I wasn’t a sissy today, dad. I was a man.
I felt my mom’s touch and looked up at her face. She wiped a tear that had fallen, unnoticed by me, down my cheek. I immediately felt ashamed and turned away.
“Jonathan” she said softly to me. I ignored her. She tried again, “Hey, baby. I’m very proud of you today.” I looked at her, shocked. I didn’t understand. “Proud? Of what? Of me crying like a sissy?”
“Don’t you dare say that!” she admonished me. “You’re no sissy, and even if you were, I would love you anyway. Don’t let that crap your dad fed you poison your mind.”
“But I am a sissy. I tried not to cry but after everything those boys did, I couldn’t help it and now I’m crying again!”
My mom slowed the car and came to a stop. She grabbed me by the chin and looked me in the eyes. “You may think your mom doesn’t know anything, but I know. I know how boys are and I know how your father was. What you did back there, letting that boy go, took more courage than what you did to your hand or to that boy’s face. Only the best kind of man could do that. You showed compassion when it wasn’t deserved. Your dad didn’t get that. He was a bastard. Maybe that’s why he…” She trailed off, but I knew what she was going to say.
“I am more proud of you today than I ever was of your dad. Do you understand me? Ever.” I nodded, my eyes full of tears. I couldn’t speak so I turned away and looked out the foggy window. So no, my dad wouldn’t be proud of me. Good. That’s good. Sissy, or not, today I became a real man, something he never was.
Thanks mom.
THE TOBOGGAN by Stephanie Passero, The First Prize Winner, 2018 Novus Annos Short Story Contest
THE TOBOGGAN
In the early morning, as the Earth transitions from night to day . . . the temperature dips . . . the wind shifts . . . and the oppressive stillness of a winter night dissipates.
=====
Grace stepped onto the back deck overlooking the frozen trout pond, hot tea in hand. It was early. Her lungs welcomed the sharp clean February air. Her cheeks stung from its slap and she wiped her runny nose on the sleeve of her down parka. Shivering, she sipped her tea. The warm mug eased the morning stiffness in her arthritic fingers. This morning, it felt good to be alive.
They’d had a good night, she and Carl. A good night together as husband and wife beneath the quilt she made years ago for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. The flannel sheets soft and warm cuddled their skin. A good night. A tender night. A night shared rather than taken.
=====
Their familiar morning routine was simple and comfortable. Grace was an early riser, Carl was not. She would sip a quiet cup of tea before putting on Carl’s coffee and starting breakfast. Carl would smell the coffee, make a trip to the bathroom and head downstairs. His feet heavy on the pine stairs announced his arrival all grumpy and scruffy. He’d fix his coffee; give Grace a peck on the cheek and grunt, “Morning Hon”, before seating himself for breakfast. Oatmeal. Every weekday morning the same. Eggs and bacon only on the weekends.
But last night made this morning exceptional, not routine.
Something deep within Grace had shifted. Everything was the same but different. Her view had expanded. Everything had heightened dimension and depth. This morning, she was happy and serene. Grace fixed Carl’s coffee just the way he liked it and quietly headed upstairs. He was still in bed, feigning sleep, but she knew better. When she placed the steaming mug on the nightstand, he took her wrist and pulled her to him. His eyes were barely open, foggy from sleep and intimacy. He forced them to widen, focused on her, and grinned.
“Good morning, Wife.”
“Good morning, Husband “
“You’re beautiful you know.”
“Carl, you are so full of it!”
“I’m full of love for you.”
“Come here” . . . . He pulled her closer and kissed her so deeply her eyes squeezed shut and tears escaped from the outer corners. After all these years, he still took her breath away.
“I love you too.”
They held each other, resting in the satisfying stillness of a long time married couple. Grace pressed her ear to Carl’s chest listening to its reassuring rhythm. Every beat a gift. She kissed her fingertip and traced the bumpy surgical scar running down the center of his chest. A permanent reminder of how blessed they were to have been granted more time together.
“Thanks for the coffee.” “You’re welcome.”
“Thanks for last night.”
“And this morning.” She purred.
“Are you complaining?”
“Are you?”
Carl stroked her arm and then her breast.
“How about some breakfast . . . I’ll cook.” “You’ll cook?”
“Yup . . . a real he-man breakfast!”
“Fine by me.” She said, “But who’s the he-man?”
=====
They gorged on scratch buttermilk pancakes smothered in butter and local maple syrup with real pork sausage. After his second helping, Carl reached across the table and took Grace’s hand. He rubbed her palm with his thumb and looked directly at her. He kissed her palm and then her wrist
“How would you like to play hooky today?” “Hooky?”
“Hooky. Let’s go into town. You can stop by the little shops you like, and I can pick up some things at Jake’s Hardware. We can meet for lunch.”
“Lunch! Look at the time, it’s almost noon and I have a ton of laundry to do.”
“How’s this? We split up to run errands, meet at the bookstore for some browsing, and have an early supper at Joyce’s Diner?”
Grace raised an eyebrow. He was asking her to go against her practical responsible side. He was offering to spend the day together, but is that what she wanted? It was a foolishly wonderful offer.
He looked up at her with those wicked little boy eyes and grinned. “Can’t the laundry wait until tomorrow?”
How could she resist? She couldn’t and nodded yes. Then added a caveat, “Fine. But don’t complain to me if you run out of underwear.”
He was beaming. She was grateful for his invitation, but refused to give him the satisfaction of showing it.
“I’ll just have to go commando . . . like a true he-man!” “In this weather . . . good luck!’”
“Let’s get the kitchen straightened up and get this show on the road before you change your mind and find something else to feel guilty about.”
She whacked him on the arm and their laughter came easily . . . naturally. Like icicles melting and dropping from the eaves during a winter thaw.
=====
Their afternoon was easy. Relaxed. Grace bought yarn to knit a baby blanket for the Wilson’s down the road. Carl picked up screws, bolts, and a drill bit for his project in the basement. They met at the bookstore as planned and after purchasing several hardcovers from the remainder bin headed to Joyce’s Diner holding hands like teenagers.
Carl ordered a steak rare with steak fries and onion rings. The ever-sensible Grace ordered broiled salmon and a house salad with dressing on the side. They shared a carafe of wine and the time melted away.
The waitress cleared her throat and began to clear away the dishes. “Well, I hope you folks enjoyed your dinner.”
“Yes, yes. Everything was just fine.”
“Great. Can I offer you some dessert? Joyce has some fresh apple crisp in the back. Goes great with ice cream."
Grace shook her head no.
Carl looked at her, “Are you sure Grace? Apple crisp with ice cream. Doesn’t that sound great?”
“I’m sure your cardiologist would be delighted.”
The impatient waitress began tapping the eraser end of her pencil against her order pad. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Well, that settles it. We will have two apple crisps with vanilla ice cream and a pepperoni and sausage pizza to go.”
“Carl!”
“Oh, sorry, Grace. I forgot the vegetables. Throw some mushrooms and green peppers on that pizza.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Carl! What are you thinking?”
“I’m not thinking. I’m feeling and I feel great!”
“But Carl . . . ”
“No buts about it . . . this day will be a fabulous memory when we are in our 90’s and can’t remember how to put in our teeth.”
Grace had to laugh. He was right. These rare moments are the tethers to grasp when the sinkholes of life threaten to swallow you whole.
=====
It was dusk when they headed home, the mountain road a slick washboard. Carl’s night vision was limited. He gripped the steering wheel and leaned forward trying to get a better view. Grace checked her seatbelt buckle, pumped an imaginary brake and white-knuckled the “oh shit bar” until they parked.
Carl turned off the ignition with a sigh of relief. “Well, that was an adventure. I need a nap.”
=====
Carl pulled the recliner lever to sit up. He yawned, stretched, and turned on the lamp
He shook Grace who was snoring away on the couch. “What. What is it?’
“Come on Grace. Wake up.”
“I don’t want to wake up. Go away.”
Carl shook her again.
“Come on. Get up.”
“What in the blue blazes is wrong with you?” “Nothing's wrong. I have an idea!”
Grace groaned and rolled over.
He jostled her again, persistent.
“Get up and get dressed. Dress warm.”
“Dress warm?”
“Get that cute little butt moving. We are going out.”
“Out? Outside?”
Grace squinted at the grandfather clock. “It’s almost midnight. Are you crazy?” He pulled her to her feet and squeezed her so hard she feared he’d pop a rib. “Yup. Crazy for you!” and he planted a big sloppy kiss hard on her lips.
Grace heard him put on his heavy winter gear and slam the door. She loved that man, but this was insane. She had no choice but to follow him. If she went back to sleep and he fell, he’d freeze to death in a few hours. She wasn’t carrying that guilt to her grave.
=====
“Carl! Carl, where the hell are you?”
“In the shed. Come give me a hand.”
When she got close, he tossed something in her direction.
“Catch. Wax her up good. It’s been awhile.”
“Wax. The toboggan?”’
“I’ll tie on a new tow rope while you wax.”
Grace knew that tone. There would be no argument or discussion. His mind was set. He hummed while they worked and she fumed.
Carl handed her a portion of the tow rope. “Okay, let’s go!”
“It’s not okay . . . it’s nuts. You’re nuts!” “No, I’m in love.”
Together, they dragged the toboggan to the top of the sledding hill. Their boots crunched through the thin ice glaze coating the snow. Carl rocked the wooden sled back and forth and back again.
“Yup . . . feels like there’s enough wax.”
Carl boarded first, settling himself in the sled’s curved front.
“Come on, Honey . . . get on board.”
Grace stood there with her arms crossed and shook her head in reply, no, no, no.
“Please,” he pleaded.
“If we go too far we’ll end up in the trout pond and drown. Or maybe we’ll freeze to death first.”
Carl shook his head and muttered, “My wife, always the optimist. “Trust me.”
In response, Grace sat on the flatbed behind Carl, wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his chest and whispered, “I love you.”
“This is going to be great!”
And it was . . . all the way to the bottom of the slope where a four-foot snow embankment prevented them from continuing into the trout pond.
The anticipation of another run made the slow trek up the steep hill bearable. Their laughter rang sharply in the frozen stillness. Grace’s face tingled beneath a dusting of wet blown snow. She settled herself behind Carl ready to go again. Maybe, Carl’s idea wasn’t so crazy after all.
"I love you, Gracie."
“Thank you.”
And they pushed off . . . the toboggan’s wooden slats groaned in protest. It turned sideways and flipped. “Woohoo!” shouted Carl as they were tossed into a snow bank.
Laughing, they rolled out of the snow bank and onto their backs. Carl scooted closer to Grace, his hand searching for hers. Hand in hand they lay quietly viewing the waning gibbous moon and stars. Each feeling the reassuring warmth of the other through snow-caked woolen mittens.
“Does this remind you of anything, Grace?”
"Don't go there, Carl."
He rolled on top of her . . .
“That night was our first time together.”
Grace grabbed Carl behind the head and drew him close. She opened her mouth wide and tongued him. She ran her tongue along the top of his teeth and sucked his tongue hard before pulling hers out.
Carl rolled off and on to his back.
“Guess you remember.”
“What gave you a clue?”
He stood to assess the situation.
“We only made it halfway down,” he said, offering her a hand up. “How about one more run?” They retrieved the toboggan and Carl looked it over.
“Looks okay . . . let’s go.”
Grace was exhausted and glad this climb up would be short. She could hear Carl breathing heavy with a bit of a wheeze. This would definitely be the last run.
At the top, they boarded without comment. The snow was hard packed by the previous runs making it slicker. This run would be faster.
“One . . . two . . . three,” they counted.
They flew past the point where they had flipped. The toboggan gained headway as it roared toward the pond. It fiercely collided with the snow embankment forcing its curved nose to rise vertically like a whale breaching the ocean’s surface. CRACK! Rusted screws tore through old wooden slats and aged leather lashing snapped as it twisted in mid-air. Splintered wood shards soared before plummeting and piercing anything in their path.
=====
In the early morning, as the Earth transitions from night to day . . . the temperature dips . . . the wind shifts . . . and the oppressive stillness of a winter night dissipates.
In the early morning, as the Earth transitions from night to day . . . the temperature dips . . . the wind shifts . . . and the oppressive stillness of a winter night dissipates.
=====
Grace stepped onto the back deck overlooking the frozen trout pond, hot tea in hand. It was early. Her lungs welcomed the sharp clean February air. Her cheeks stung from its slap and she wiped her runny nose on the sleeve of her down parka. Shivering, she sipped her tea. The warm mug eased the morning stiffness in her arthritic fingers. This morning, it felt good to be alive.
They’d had a good night, she and Carl. A good night together as husband and wife beneath the quilt she made years ago for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. The flannel sheets soft and warm cuddled their skin. A good night. A tender night. A night shared rather than taken.
=====
Their familiar morning routine was simple and comfortable. Grace was an early riser, Carl was not. She would sip a quiet cup of tea before putting on Carl’s coffee and starting breakfast. Carl would smell the coffee, make a trip to the bathroom and head downstairs. His feet heavy on the pine stairs announced his arrival all grumpy and scruffy. He’d fix his coffee; give Grace a peck on the cheek and grunt, “Morning Hon”, before seating himself for breakfast. Oatmeal. Every weekday morning the same. Eggs and bacon only on the weekends.
But last night made this morning exceptional, not routine.
Something deep within Grace had shifted. Everything was the same but different. Her view had expanded. Everything had heightened dimension and depth. This morning, she was happy and serene. Grace fixed Carl’s coffee just the way he liked it and quietly headed upstairs. He was still in bed, feigning sleep, but she knew better. When she placed the steaming mug on the nightstand, he took her wrist and pulled her to him. His eyes were barely open, foggy from sleep and intimacy. He forced them to widen, focused on her, and grinned.
“Good morning, Wife.”
“Good morning, Husband “
“You’re beautiful you know.”
“Carl, you are so full of it!”
“I’m full of love for you.”
“Come here” . . . . He pulled her closer and kissed her so deeply her eyes squeezed shut and tears escaped from the outer corners. After all these years, he still took her breath away.
“I love you too.”
They held each other, resting in the satisfying stillness of a long time married couple. Grace pressed her ear to Carl’s chest listening to its reassuring rhythm. Every beat a gift. She kissed her fingertip and traced the bumpy surgical scar running down the center of his chest. A permanent reminder of how blessed they were to have been granted more time together.
“Thanks for the coffee.” “You’re welcome.”
“Thanks for last night.”
“And this morning.” She purred.
“Are you complaining?”
“Are you?”
Carl stroked her arm and then her breast.
“How about some breakfast . . . I’ll cook.” “You’ll cook?”
“Yup . . . a real he-man breakfast!”
“Fine by me.” She said, “But who’s the he-man?”
=====
They gorged on scratch buttermilk pancakes smothered in butter and local maple syrup with real pork sausage. After his second helping, Carl reached across the table and took Grace’s hand. He rubbed her palm with his thumb and looked directly at her. He kissed her palm and then her wrist
“How would you like to play hooky today?” “Hooky?”
“Hooky. Let’s go into town. You can stop by the little shops you like, and I can pick up some things at Jake’s Hardware. We can meet for lunch.”
“Lunch! Look at the time, it’s almost noon and I have a ton of laundry to do.”
“How’s this? We split up to run errands, meet at the bookstore for some browsing, and have an early supper at Joyce’s Diner?”
Grace raised an eyebrow. He was asking her to go against her practical responsible side. He was offering to spend the day together, but is that what she wanted? It was a foolishly wonderful offer.
He looked up at her with those wicked little boy eyes and grinned. “Can’t the laundry wait until tomorrow?”
How could she resist? She couldn’t and nodded yes. Then added a caveat, “Fine. But don’t complain to me if you run out of underwear.”
He was beaming. She was grateful for his invitation, but refused to give him the satisfaction of showing it.
“I’ll just have to go commando . . . like a true he-man!” “In this weather . . . good luck!’”
“Let’s get the kitchen straightened up and get this show on the road before you change your mind and find something else to feel guilty about.”
She whacked him on the arm and their laughter came easily . . . naturally. Like icicles melting and dropping from the eaves during a winter thaw.
=====
Their afternoon was easy. Relaxed. Grace bought yarn to knit a baby blanket for the Wilson’s down the road. Carl picked up screws, bolts, and a drill bit for his project in the basement. They met at the bookstore as planned and after purchasing several hardcovers from the remainder bin headed to Joyce’s Diner holding hands like teenagers.
Carl ordered a steak rare with steak fries and onion rings. The ever-sensible Grace ordered broiled salmon and a house salad with dressing on the side. They shared a carafe of wine and the time melted away.
The waitress cleared her throat and began to clear away the dishes. “Well, I hope you folks enjoyed your dinner.”
“Yes, yes. Everything was just fine.”
“Great. Can I offer you some dessert? Joyce has some fresh apple crisp in the back. Goes great with ice cream."
Grace shook her head no.
Carl looked at her, “Are you sure Grace? Apple crisp with ice cream. Doesn’t that sound great?”
“I’m sure your cardiologist would be delighted.”
The impatient waitress began tapping the eraser end of her pencil against her order pad. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Well, that settles it. We will have two apple crisps with vanilla ice cream and a pepperoni and sausage pizza to go.”
“Carl!”
“Oh, sorry, Grace. I forgot the vegetables. Throw some mushrooms and green peppers on that pizza.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Carl! What are you thinking?”
“I’m not thinking. I’m feeling and I feel great!”
“But Carl . . . ”
“No buts about it . . . this day will be a fabulous memory when we are in our 90’s and can’t remember how to put in our teeth.”
Grace had to laugh. He was right. These rare moments are the tethers to grasp when the sinkholes of life threaten to swallow you whole.
=====
It was dusk when they headed home, the mountain road a slick washboard. Carl’s night vision was limited. He gripped the steering wheel and leaned forward trying to get a better view. Grace checked her seatbelt buckle, pumped an imaginary brake and white-knuckled the “oh shit bar” until they parked.
Carl turned off the ignition with a sigh of relief. “Well, that was an adventure. I need a nap.”
=====
Carl pulled the recliner lever to sit up. He yawned, stretched, and turned on the lamp
He shook Grace who was snoring away on the couch. “What. What is it?’
“Come on Grace. Wake up.”
“I don’t want to wake up. Go away.”
Carl shook her again.
“Come on. Get up.”
“What in the blue blazes is wrong with you?” “Nothing's wrong. I have an idea!”
Grace groaned and rolled over.
He jostled her again, persistent.
“Get up and get dressed. Dress warm.”
“Dress warm?”
“Get that cute little butt moving. We are going out.”
“Out? Outside?”
Grace squinted at the grandfather clock. “It’s almost midnight. Are you crazy?” He pulled her to her feet and squeezed her so hard she feared he’d pop a rib. “Yup. Crazy for you!” and he planted a big sloppy kiss hard on her lips.
Grace heard him put on his heavy winter gear and slam the door. She loved that man, but this was insane. She had no choice but to follow him. If she went back to sleep and he fell, he’d freeze to death in a few hours. She wasn’t carrying that guilt to her grave.
=====
“Carl! Carl, where the hell are you?”
“In the shed. Come give me a hand.”
When she got close, he tossed something in her direction.
“Catch. Wax her up good. It’s been awhile.”
“Wax. The toboggan?”’
“I’ll tie on a new tow rope while you wax.”
Grace knew that tone. There would be no argument or discussion. His mind was set. He hummed while they worked and she fumed.
Carl handed her a portion of the tow rope. “Okay, let’s go!”
“It’s not okay . . . it’s nuts. You’re nuts!” “No, I’m in love.”
Together, they dragged the toboggan to the top of the sledding hill. Their boots crunched through the thin ice glaze coating the snow. Carl rocked the wooden sled back and forth and back again.
“Yup . . . feels like there’s enough wax.”
Carl boarded first, settling himself in the sled’s curved front.
“Come on, Honey . . . get on board.”
Grace stood there with her arms crossed and shook her head in reply, no, no, no.
“Please,” he pleaded.
“If we go too far we’ll end up in the trout pond and drown. Or maybe we’ll freeze to death first.”
Carl shook his head and muttered, “My wife, always the optimist. “Trust me.”
In response, Grace sat on the flatbed behind Carl, wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his chest and whispered, “I love you.”
“This is going to be great!”
And it was . . . all the way to the bottom of the slope where a four-foot snow embankment prevented them from continuing into the trout pond.
The anticipation of another run made the slow trek up the steep hill bearable. Their laughter rang sharply in the frozen stillness. Grace’s face tingled beneath a dusting of wet blown snow. She settled herself behind Carl ready to go again. Maybe, Carl’s idea wasn’t so crazy after all.
"I love you, Gracie."
“Thank you.”
And they pushed off . . . the toboggan’s wooden slats groaned in protest. It turned sideways and flipped. “Woohoo!” shouted Carl as they were tossed into a snow bank.
Laughing, they rolled out of the snow bank and onto their backs. Carl scooted closer to Grace, his hand searching for hers. Hand in hand they lay quietly viewing the waning gibbous moon and stars. Each feeling the reassuring warmth of the other through snow-caked woolen mittens.
“Does this remind you of anything, Grace?”
"Don't go there, Carl."
He rolled on top of her . . .
“That night was our first time together.”
Grace grabbed Carl behind the head and drew him close. She opened her mouth wide and tongued him. She ran her tongue along the top of his teeth and sucked his tongue hard before pulling hers out.
Carl rolled off and on to his back.
“Guess you remember.”
“What gave you a clue?”
He stood to assess the situation.
“We only made it halfway down,” he said, offering her a hand up. “How about one more run?” They retrieved the toboggan and Carl looked it over.
“Looks okay . . . let’s go.”
Grace was exhausted and glad this climb up would be short. She could hear Carl breathing heavy with a bit of a wheeze. This would definitely be the last run.
At the top, they boarded without comment. The snow was hard packed by the previous runs making it slicker. This run would be faster.
“One . . . two . . . three,” they counted.
They flew past the point where they had flipped. The toboggan gained headway as it roared toward the pond. It fiercely collided with the snow embankment forcing its curved nose to rise vertically like a whale breaching the ocean’s surface. CRACK! Rusted screws tore through old wooden slats and aged leather lashing snapped as it twisted in mid-air. Splintered wood shards soared before plummeting and piercing anything in their path.
=====
In the early morning, as the Earth transitions from night to day . . . the temperature dips . . . the wind shifts . . . and the oppressive stillness of a winter night dissipates.
Joanne Fisher, writer, member SCWG, member Brevard Authors Society
Published Author - With All of Me
Published Author - With All of Me
Her Spring Date
by Joanne Fisher
published April 10, 2018
Vanessa was looking out the window of her therapist’s office. Spring was in full bloom but her heart was still in full winter. It was her third visit to Dr. Greer and she still wasn’t convinced of this. The only reason she went is because of her sister, Katherine.
“Vanessa, you really need to speak to a professional.”
“I don’t know Kathy. I really don’t want to tell my problems to a stranger.”
“I understand that. But Dr. Greer is a professional and she’ll be able to help much better than I can. I don’t have the education to help you but she does.”
Vanessa let out a sigh: “Fine. I’ll go.”
“Thank you!” she exclaimed as she hugged her sister.
That was over a month ago and she’s been going ever since. Dr. Greer walked in and closed the door, as she usually did.
“Good Morning, Vanessa. How are you doing today?”
“I’m all right, I guess.”
She sat down and opened a folder. “Well, you’re not there yet—but you’ve made progress.”
Vanessa wasn’t convinced at all, but she wasn’t going to argue with her therapist. And besides, she was a professional, and most likely knew her clients well. “You’re the doctor.” She simply replied.
“I am.” She paused. “So, have you thought about online dating?”
“Not really. I’m not hearing good stories.”
“I disagree. I don’t think it’s healthy for you to stay cooped up at your house and feeling sorry for yourself. Once you get out there, your outlook will change. You’ll see.”
“Again, you’re the doctor.”
“Please promise me you’re going to at least try.”
“I will. I promise.”
“Good. Here.” She slid some pamphlets to Vanessa. “These are some dating websites more adept to your age group.”
She collected the pamphlets and dropped them in her handbag. They finished the session and Vanessa left. She stopped by her sister’s home. She was watching Vanessa’s kids.
“Hey, Kathy.”
“Hey, Sis! How’d it go?”
“You know, the usual.” She collected her thoughts and courage. “So, Dr. Greer suggested I start online dating and she gave me these pamphlets.” She pulled out the pamphlets and handed them over to her sister.
“Oh, cool.” She breezed through them. “Oh, I heard this site is good. I have friends who are on it.”
“That’s good.” Vanessa said as she went to the living room to check on the kids. All four of them were quietly watching TV. “Can you help me set up an account?”
“I’d be happy to.” Katherine grabbed her sister’s hand and headed for the stairs. “But first, you need to take a picture, and you’re going to need make-up and a hairdo.”
“I have pictures on my phone.” She pulled her phone out to show her the pictures she had.
“Oh, no! They’re ugly. Trust me Vanny, I’ll make you look like a million bucks!”
Something told her that her sister was exaggerating, but after a session of light make-up and a quick hairdo, she liked what she saw in the mirror. Kathy had Vanessa stand against a white wall and took a few pictures, then she had her sit in her wing chair and took a few more pictures. Kathy quickly headed to her laptop and uploaded the pictures into a folder she had previously named Vanessa. She opened a browser and typed in the URL. Vanessa was surprised at how much of an expert her sister was. She barely knew how to send an email. A few clicks later, Vanessa had her account set up.
“There, now you’re back in the dating pool. Please let me know if you get any hits.”
“Sure and how will I know that?”
“You’ll get emails—and hopefully, lots of them.”
When Vanessa got home, she tucked her kids into bed. Only a few hours had passed since the account had been opened and she didn’t think there was any activity. She decided to watch a movie instead, and later went to bed. The next day was Saturday and both her sons had soccer games. As she was loading the minivan with water, snacks, blankets, lawn chairs, hats, sun screen and other “Soccer Mom” paraphernalia, her phone dinged. It was her email notification. There were about twenty emails from a variety of men. Some were twenty years her senior asking to be her sugar daddy. Some indelicately, and with poor grammar, offered to father her next child. Some asked about her hobbies and her preferred foods. She was overwhelmed, and politely declined each offer.
When she told her sister and therapist, they both scolded her. She had agreed to at least give it a try, not to just open a profile and practice rejection. Unwillingly, she went online again that evening after the kids were in bed. She noticed more offers and overlooked them. Then she saw a few emails from the site that matched her with new potential love interests and ranked them. There was a 94% match and his name was David. That was some number. She pulled up his profile to discern what baggage he carried by studying the picture of him on a beach with a cocktail in his hand. Vanessa dug a bit deeper into his profile.
He wasn’t a smoker. Good. He owned his own business. Maybe that wasn’t good or was it? She preferred a good steady job with a well-known company but then again, he may have a successful business. He liked Italian. Good. She loved Italian. He was recently divorced. Good. Just like her. He was Christian. Very good. She couldn’t handle a nonbeliever. She needed God in her life to get her through all the stuff. And after the divorce, she needed Him more than ever. He liked to fish. Eh, so-so. She didn’t like fish, but whatever. He was handsome, she had to admit. And the cherry on the cake was that he was only a few miles away from her. That was great. At least she didn’t have to drive far to meet him--if they got along.
“Okay, David, I’m going to give you a shot,” she said as she hit the “message him” button. She waited a few minutes and, as she was closing her laptop, she heard a ding sound. She opened it up again and saw a message from David. He replied right away. How cool was that?
“Hello there.”
“Hello.”
“Did you notice that we have been matched? 94%! Not bad, right?”
“Right. Not bad.”
She was definitely uncomfortable.
“Vanessa, right?”
“Yes. David?”
“Yes. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
“Not much of a talker, are you?”
“I’m sorry, I’m really new at this. I don’t know if I like it yet.”
“I hear ya…I’m fairly new myself.”
They were in the same boat. That helped her feel more and more comfortable.
“Tell me. What do you like to do?”
“Well, I like to read and watch old movies.”
“Okay. I’m not much of a reader. I prefer the newspaper but I love to watch old movies. Especially the classics.”
“Yes, me too! My favorite is Gone With the Wind. Which one is yours?”
“Casablanca, without a doubt.”
“Oh, I love that movie too. I’ve seen it a few times.”
He likes classic movies. He can’t be so bad.
“LOL…so what else do you like to do?”
“That’s about it. I really don’t have much time for anything else.”
“What do you mean?”
At this point, she had to tell him about her children. She didn’t want to lie to the first man she’s ever interacted with since her divorce. She wanted to get off on the right foot.
“I have two kids: Liam is my oldest and Arabella is my baby girl.”
No movement. He was not typing. He was taking his time. Why? Maybe he didn’t like children? Then she noticed he was typing.
“Funny, so do I.”
He has children too. She was very happy to hear that.
“Oh, and how many?”
“I have two girls, Tabatha, 10 and Elizabeth, 8.”
“Oh, those are lovely names!”
“Thanks.”
Another long pause.
“So, I’m just going to come out and say this…would you like to have coffee with me?”
And there it was. Let’s start with coffee and then we’ll see how it goes. She agreed with him, but she wondered if it was indeed too early. Oh, what the heck! What’s the worst thing that could happen?
“Okay. When and where?”
“Great! How about the coffee shop on Thomas Street? Tomorrow? Around three?”
She was amazed at his timing. It was right after Liam’s soccer practice.
“Yes, that’s perfect.”
They didn’t stop their chatting. It lasted for another two hours. They talked about their exes, their children, their families, their jobs and much more. It was comfortable, genuine and fun.
David was the first to enter the coffee shop. He was early but only by five minutes. He wanted to get there so he could see her walk in the door. He really enjoyed her company the other night. There was good chemistry and he hoped that the chemistry was going to be there when they met in person as well. He
was checking his phone for text messages but none were there. It was three o’clock on the nose and still no Vanessa. He went on the mobile app to see if she had sent him a message. Nothing. So why was she late? He was already frantic. What was going on? Why all the fuss? He was checking his phone again when he heard the door chime. There she was! Wow! She was much more beautiful in person. She was wearing a trench with black heels. He stood up to greet her.
“Vanessa?”
“David? Hi!”
“So nice to meet you!” he shook her hand. There was a spark.
“Nice to meet you too. Have you been here long?”
“Just a few minutes—" he lied. “May I take your coat?”
“Sure.” She removed her trench to reveal a burgundy dress with a low cut neckline showcasing her breasts in an alluring manner. He raised his eyebrows.
“You look amazing!” he hung up her coat trying not to take his eyes off her. He went back to his chair and asked:
“So what’s your poison?” he couldn’t stop looking at her breasts.
“Poison? I don’t see any liquor here.” She giggled. She caught him looking at “the girls.”
“Right.” He blushed. “Only coffee here.” he looked away so she wouldn’t notice his pink cheeks.
She did notice.
“I think I’ll have a cappuccino.”
“Cappuccino! Coming right up!” he shot up and went to order.
She giggled under her breath. She thought he was much better looking in person. He was taller than she, fairly slim, but his behind was round and
very nice to look at. He was wearing indigo jeans, a long sleeve rusty colored Henley and navy blue sneakers. Very sexy indeed. She pulled out her cell and sent a quick text to her sister.
“OMG! So cute! I’m in love!”
“LOL…so when’s the wedding?” Kathy texted back.
Little did they know that the wedding would be one year later, to the day.
Six months after the wedding, Vanessa and David were at the movies, enjoying one of their many “date nights.” Afterward, they went to the car and headed to their favorite ice cream shop.
“I’m so glad I opened that dating site account,” David reminisced while he licked his vanilla ice cream.
“Yeah, me too! And to think that initially, I didn’t want to have anything to do with it.”
“Neither did I. I owe it to Tabatha. She really insisted that I go on that site.”
“Well, I’m glad she did.” Vanessa placed her hand on his. “I really am the luckiest girl alive,” she thought to herself as she licked her ice cream. “How many women have a husband who sends red roses regularly and empties the dishwasher every morning? Oh, and he whispers poetry to me during Liam’s soccer games. I’ve really found a keeper!”
“Yep, she’s a smart one,” he agreed. “I’ve really found my soulmate,” he thought. “ I really love Liam and Arabella, just the same as Tabatha and Elizabeth. I especially love how she sings along with those hokey love songs on the radio. The faces the kids make are priceless! I truly am blessed!” David noticed that Vanessa seemed to be daydreaming. “A penny for your thoughts.”
“I was just thinking about how much I love you.”
“Yeah, me too.”
by Joanne Fisher
published April 10, 2018
Vanessa was looking out the window of her therapist’s office. Spring was in full bloom but her heart was still in full winter. It was her third visit to Dr. Greer and she still wasn’t convinced of this. The only reason she went is because of her sister, Katherine.
“Vanessa, you really need to speak to a professional.”
“I don’t know Kathy. I really don’t want to tell my problems to a stranger.”
“I understand that. But Dr. Greer is a professional and she’ll be able to help much better than I can. I don’t have the education to help you but she does.”
Vanessa let out a sigh: “Fine. I’ll go.”
“Thank you!” she exclaimed as she hugged her sister.
That was over a month ago and she’s been going ever since. Dr. Greer walked in and closed the door, as she usually did.
“Good Morning, Vanessa. How are you doing today?”
“I’m all right, I guess.”
She sat down and opened a folder. “Well, you’re not there yet—but you’ve made progress.”
Vanessa wasn’t convinced at all, but she wasn’t going to argue with her therapist. And besides, she was a professional, and most likely knew her clients well. “You’re the doctor.” She simply replied.
“I am.” She paused. “So, have you thought about online dating?”
“Not really. I’m not hearing good stories.”
“I disagree. I don’t think it’s healthy for you to stay cooped up at your house and feeling sorry for yourself. Once you get out there, your outlook will change. You’ll see.”
“Again, you’re the doctor.”
“Please promise me you’re going to at least try.”
“I will. I promise.”
“Good. Here.” She slid some pamphlets to Vanessa. “These are some dating websites more adept to your age group.”
She collected the pamphlets and dropped them in her handbag. They finished the session and Vanessa left. She stopped by her sister’s home. She was watching Vanessa’s kids.
“Hey, Kathy.”
“Hey, Sis! How’d it go?”
“You know, the usual.” She collected her thoughts and courage. “So, Dr. Greer suggested I start online dating and she gave me these pamphlets.” She pulled out the pamphlets and handed them over to her sister.
“Oh, cool.” She breezed through them. “Oh, I heard this site is good. I have friends who are on it.”
“That’s good.” Vanessa said as she went to the living room to check on the kids. All four of them were quietly watching TV. “Can you help me set up an account?”
“I’d be happy to.” Katherine grabbed her sister’s hand and headed for the stairs. “But first, you need to take a picture, and you’re going to need make-up and a hairdo.”
“I have pictures on my phone.” She pulled her phone out to show her the pictures she had.
“Oh, no! They’re ugly. Trust me Vanny, I’ll make you look like a million bucks!”
Something told her that her sister was exaggerating, but after a session of light make-up and a quick hairdo, she liked what she saw in the mirror. Kathy had Vanessa stand against a white wall and took a few pictures, then she had her sit in her wing chair and took a few more pictures. Kathy quickly headed to her laptop and uploaded the pictures into a folder she had previously named Vanessa. She opened a browser and typed in the URL. Vanessa was surprised at how much of an expert her sister was. She barely knew how to send an email. A few clicks later, Vanessa had her account set up.
“There, now you’re back in the dating pool. Please let me know if you get any hits.”
“Sure and how will I know that?”
“You’ll get emails—and hopefully, lots of them.”
When Vanessa got home, she tucked her kids into bed. Only a few hours had passed since the account had been opened and she didn’t think there was any activity. She decided to watch a movie instead, and later went to bed. The next day was Saturday and both her sons had soccer games. As she was loading the minivan with water, snacks, blankets, lawn chairs, hats, sun screen and other “Soccer Mom” paraphernalia, her phone dinged. It was her email notification. There were about twenty emails from a variety of men. Some were twenty years her senior asking to be her sugar daddy. Some indelicately, and with poor grammar, offered to father her next child. Some asked about her hobbies and her preferred foods. She was overwhelmed, and politely declined each offer.
When she told her sister and therapist, they both scolded her. She had agreed to at least give it a try, not to just open a profile and practice rejection. Unwillingly, she went online again that evening after the kids were in bed. She noticed more offers and overlooked them. Then she saw a few emails from the site that matched her with new potential love interests and ranked them. There was a 94% match and his name was David. That was some number. She pulled up his profile to discern what baggage he carried by studying the picture of him on a beach with a cocktail in his hand. Vanessa dug a bit deeper into his profile.
He wasn’t a smoker. Good. He owned his own business. Maybe that wasn’t good or was it? She preferred a good steady job with a well-known company but then again, he may have a successful business. He liked Italian. Good. She loved Italian. He was recently divorced. Good. Just like her. He was Christian. Very good. She couldn’t handle a nonbeliever. She needed God in her life to get her through all the stuff. And after the divorce, she needed Him more than ever. He liked to fish. Eh, so-so. She didn’t like fish, but whatever. He was handsome, she had to admit. And the cherry on the cake was that he was only a few miles away from her. That was great. At least she didn’t have to drive far to meet him--if they got along.
“Okay, David, I’m going to give you a shot,” she said as she hit the “message him” button. She waited a few minutes and, as she was closing her laptop, she heard a ding sound. She opened it up again and saw a message from David. He replied right away. How cool was that?
“Hello there.”
“Hello.”
“Did you notice that we have been matched? 94%! Not bad, right?”
“Right. Not bad.”
She was definitely uncomfortable.
“Vanessa, right?”
“Yes. David?”
“Yes. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
“Not much of a talker, are you?”
“I’m sorry, I’m really new at this. I don’t know if I like it yet.”
“I hear ya…I’m fairly new myself.”
They were in the same boat. That helped her feel more and more comfortable.
“Tell me. What do you like to do?”
“Well, I like to read and watch old movies.”
“Okay. I’m not much of a reader. I prefer the newspaper but I love to watch old movies. Especially the classics.”
“Yes, me too! My favorite is Gone With the Wind. Which one is yours?”
“Casablanca, without a doubt.”
“Oh, I love that movie too. I’ve seen it a few times.”
He likes classic movies. He can’t be so bad.
“LOL…so what else do you like to do?”
“That’s about it. I really don’t have much time for anything else.”
“What do you mean?”
At this point, she had to tell him about her children. She didn’t want to lie to the first man she’s ever interacted with since her divorce. She wanted to get off on the right foot.
“I have two kids: Liam is my oldest and Arabella is my baby girl.”
No movement. He was not typing. He was taking his time. Why? Maybe he didn’t like children? Then she noticed he was typing.
“Funny, so do I.”
He has children too. She was very happy to hear that.
“Oh, and how many?”
“I have two girls, Tabatha, 10 and Elizabeth, 8.”
“Oh, those are lovely names!”
“Thanks.”
Another long pause.
“So, I’m just going to come out and say this…would you like to have coffee with me?”
And there it was. Let’s start with coffee and then we’ll see how it goes. She agreed with him, but she wondered if it was indeed too early. Oh, what the heck! What’s the worst thing that could happen?
“Okay. When and where?”
“Great! How about the coffee shop on Thomas Street? Tomorrow? Around three?”
She was amazed at his timing. It was right after Liam’s soccer practice.
“Yes, that’s perfect.”
They didn’t stop their chatting. It lasted for another two hours. They talked about their exes, their children, their families, their jobs and much more. It was comfortable, genuine and fun.
David was the first to enter the coffee shop. He was early but only by five minutes. He wanted to get there so he could see her walk in the door. He really enjoyed her company the other night. There was good chemistry and he hoped that the chemistry was going to be there when they met in person as well. He
was checking his phone for text messages but none were there. It was three o’clock on the nose and still no Vanessa. He went on the mobile app to see if she had sent him a message. Nothing. So why was she late? He was already frantic. What was going on? Why all the fuss? He was checking his phone again when he heard the door chime. There she was! Wow! She was much more beautiful in person. She was wearing a trench with black heels. He stood up to greet her.
“Vanessa?”
“David? Hi!”
“So nice to meet you!” he shook her hand. There was a spark.
“Nice to meet you too. Have you been here long?”
“Just a few minutes—" he lied. “May I take your coat?”
“Sure.” She removed her trench to reveal a burgundy dress with a low cut neckline showcasing her breasts in an alluring manner. He raised his eyebrows.
“You look amazing!” he hung up her coat trying not to take his eyes off her. He went back to his chair and asked:
“So what’s your poison?” he couldn’t stop looking at her breasts.
“Poison? I don’t see any liquor here.” She giggled. She caught him looking at “the girls.”
“Right.” He blushed. “Only coffee here.” he looked away so she wouldn’t notice his pink cheeks.
She did notice.
“I think I’ll have a cappuccino.”
“Cappuccino! Coming right up!” he shot up and went to order.
She giggled under her breath. She thought he was much better looking in person. He was taller than she, fairly slim, but his behind was round and
very nice to look at. He was wearing indigo jeans, a long sleeve rusty colored Henley and navy blue sneakers. Very sexy indeed. She pulled out her cell and sent a quick text to her sister.
“OMG! So cute! I’m in love!”
“LOL…so when’s the wedding?” Kathy texted back.
Little did they know that the wedding would be one year later, to the day.
Six months after the wedding, Vanessa and David were at the movies, enjoying one of their many “date nights.” Afterward, they went to the car and headed to their favorite ice cream shop.
“I’m so glad I opened that dating site account,” David reminisced while he licked his vanilla ice cream.
“Yeah, me too! And to think that initially, I didn’t want to have anything to do with it.”
“Neither did I. I owe it to Tabatha. She really insisted that I go on that site.”
“Well, I’m glad she did.” Vanessa placed her hand on his. “I really am the luckiest girl alive,” she thought to herself as she licked her ice cream. “How many women have a husband who sends red roses regularly and empties the dishwasher every morning? Oh, and he whispers poetry to me during Liam’s soccer games. I’ve really found a keeper!”
“Yep, she’s a smart one,” he agreed. “I’ve really found my soulmate,” he thought. “ I really love Liam and Arabella, just the same as Tabatha and Elizabeth. I especially love how she sings along with those hokey love songs on the radio. The faces the kids make are priceless! I truly am blessed!” David noticed that Vanessa seemed to be daydreaming. “A penny for your thoughts.”
“I was just thinking about how much I love you.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Carol Anne Dunn
Writer, member Brevard Authors Society, member Martin Anderson Writing Workshop
Coffee Date
by Carol Anne Dunn
Published April 1, 2018
Sally Price’s heart skipped a beat as she sank down into the soft cushion of a booth, a faint flush suffusing her skin giving her a youthful appearance despite her sixty-five years. Time had become a confusing continuum for her since Rob’s death, a painful hurdle for her to get through each second, minute, and hour of the day.
Her friend Annie looked at her steadily; there was something different about Sally today. Sally was painfully aware of Annie’s eyes boring into her skull with an incredible intensity. Like an immature schoolgirl, she resented her friend’s ability to read her so accurately. She stifled feelings of resentment and tried to assume an air of studied nonchalance. Sally felt as if her whole interior needed a steam clean, perhaps it did. However, she did not have time to analyze those feeling right now.
“What’s new,” said Annie with studied innocence.
“I’ve been asked out on a date,” Sally blurted the words with a staccato speed, “by a man.” She added almost as an afterthought.
“Well, I didn’t think it was a performing monkey,” said Annie, with a grin that reached from ear to ear.
“You know the guy that moved in two doors down,” said Sally, “the one that moved down from Pennsylvania to look after his grandsons because his son’s wife died.”
“Hmm, “said Annie encouragingly.
“That’s the guy, Daniel, he has asked me out when I met him Sunday. I met him when I took Ben for a walk,” said Sally incoherently. “He has a dog, named Sophie, and she is a Boston just like Ben.”
“Well, I hope she is better behaved than Ben,” said Annie dryly. “That dog needs obedience school, Sally,” said Annie, perhaps with too much severity, “with an emphasis on ‘Obedience.’” Annie was considering carefully, what next to add. She knew that the irascible Ben had been Sally’s constant companion since her husband died and that he had provided a reason for Sally to get up in the morning and a reason to get out and about.
“I know,” said Sally, looking uncomfortable. “Daniel is signing Sophie up for School and has offered to sign up Ben.” “I said that I would think about it.”
“Well don’t think too long,” said Annie, “he might change his mind. Well, this invite is hardly a nuclear crisis!” Her grinning was really beginning to infuriate Sally. “I couldn’t think what had you up at 4 a.m. in the morning. I thought you were sick and in need of medicine or taking to the hospital or something.” Sally had the grace to look uncomfortable. Overcome with remorse at having disturbed her friend at such an ungodly hour.
“I am so sorry to call you at that time in the morning. You really are a good friend,” she finished lamely, not knowing what else to say. Annie had guessed the reason for the call, since she had heard through the community grapevine that Sally and Daniel had been seen talking at length. The Grapevine had even noted that Sally had laughed uncontrollably at something Daniel had said.
“I am indeed,” announced Annie with a twinkle, “and don’t you forget it.” This time the grin spread slyly across her whole face lighting up her eyes, which in the early morning light looked almost indigo.
“I cannot go”, said Sally miserably considering the black morass of coffee that remained untouched and stone cold. If Sally’s coffee remained untouched, it was a sure sign that she was seriously disturbed.
“Why,” Annie asked, wanting her friend of a lifetime to articulate her feelings for once. Sally took her time, squirming like a two-year-old on the plastic cushioning of the booth, and screwing up her eyes with concentration. “I am just not ready to replace Rob with anyone.”
“Listen, Sally, Rob would not want you to molder away without some form of companionship, male companionship, “she added for emphasis. She realized that although concerned for her friend’s mental and emotional health was paramount, she had an ulterior motive. She had done her best to help Sally through this difficult time, sometimes to the detriment of her own marriage. Her husband Mark had been a close friend of Rob’s and he too had grieved his passing. If Sally was able to move on now, perhaps once again they could do things as a foursome.
“He’s a retired Geometry Teacher, Annie,” said Sally now with real anguish bordering on real horror in her voice. “You know what a lame brain I am at math.”
“That was over 45 years ago,” said Annie dismissively and with a certain amount of relish, as if she enjoyed pointing out the length of time they had been friends and out of school. “It’s about time you got over that.” She said curtly. “Think how well you have been managing since Rob’s death,” she added merrily. Sally could see that Annie was enjoying the situation hugely and she had to concede to herself that Annie was right. She had been taking care of the house and managing the money well since Rob’s death. She even managed to take Ben to the vet on time for his shots and make sure that he was getting a nutritious diet.
Sally looked around their favorite Coffee Shop – “The Jumping Bean,” and for a moment, time stood still for her. It was as if she was looking at the coffee shop for the first time--she seemed to see clearly the Mint green walls and the dark brown plastic booths, scored to look like imitation leather—everything was jumping at her with vibrant color. She was conscious of the wonderful smell of coffee and she savored it. She saw the case of pastries, so colorful in arrangement, and so decadent and inviting. She marveled that for the first time in two years she had had a whole conversation without feeling the dull ache of despair that she usually did when thinking about Rob. Suddenly, she realized how lucky she was to have a friend like Annie. Not many people would take a call at 4 a.m. and remain calm.
“When are you going out,” Annie asked.
“Tonight. We are having dinner at Kelsey’s.”
“Well he is hardly splashing out,” said Annie, more to herself than to Sally, “but perhaps he does not want to scare you off with anything too fancy. Mind you, Florida is hardly the place to dress up for dinner. At least you can get away with jeans and a cute top.” Sally looked at her friend glumly. “You have accepted,” said Annie more as an afterthought, looking at Sally with that intense laser stare of hers.
“Oh yes,” said Sally hesitating, “I couldn’t think how to say No.”
by Carol Anne Dunn
Published April 1, 2018
Sally Price’s heart skipped a beat as she sank down into the soft cushion of a booth, a faint flush suffusing her skin giving her a youthful appearance despite her sixty-five years. Time had become a confusing continuum for her since Rob’s death, a painful hurdle for her to get through each second, minute, and hour of the day.
Her friend Annie looked at her steadily; there was something different about Sally today. Sally was painfully aware of Annie’s eyes boring into her skull with an incredible intensity. Like an immature schoolgirl, she resented her friend’s ability to read her so accurately. She stifled feelings of resentment and tried to assume an air of studied nonchalance. Sally felt as if her whole interior needed a steam clean, perhaps it did. However, she did not have time to analyze those feeling right now.
“What’s new,” said Annie with studied innocence.
“I’ve been asked out on a date,” Sally blurted the words with a staccato speed, “by a man.” She added almost as an afterthought.
“Well, I didn’t think it was a performing monkey,” said Annie, with a grin that reached from ear to ear.
“You know the guy that moved in two doors down,” said Sally, “the one that moved down from Pennsylvania to look after his grandsons because his son’s wife died.”
“Hmm, “said Annie encouragingly.
“That’s the guy, Daniel, he has asked me out when I met him Sunday. I met him when I took Ben for a walk,” said Sally incoherently. “He has a dog, named Sophie, and she is a Boston just like Ben.”
“Well, I hope she is better behaved than Ben,” said Annie dryly. “That dog needs obedience school, Sally,” said Annie, perhaps with too much severity, “with an emphasis on ‘Obedience.’” Annie was considering carefully, what next to add. She knew that the irascible Ben had been Sally’s constant companion since her husband died and that he had provided a reason for Sally to get up in the morning and a reason to get out and about.
“I know,” said Sally, looking uncomfortable. “Daniel is signing Sophie up for School and has offered to sign up Ben.” “I said that I would think about it.”
“Well don’t think too long,” said Annie, “he might change his mind. Well, this invite is hardly a nuclear crisis!” Her grinning was really beginning to infuriate Sally. “I couldn’t think what had you up at 4 a.m. in the morning. I thought you were sick and in need of medicine or taking to the hospital or something.” Sally had the grace to look uncomfortable. Overcome with remorse at having disturbed her friend at such an ungodly hour.
“I am so sorry to call you at that time in the morning. You really are a good friend,” she finished lamely, not knowing what else to say. Annie had guessed the reason for the call, since she had heard through the community grapevine that Sally and Daniel had been seen talking at length. The Grapevine had even noted that Sally had laughed uncontrollably at something Daniel had said.
“I am indeed,” announced Annie with a twinkle, “and don’t you forget it.” This time the grin spread slyly across her whole face lighting up her eyes, which in the early morning light looked almost indigo.
“I cannot go”, said Sally miserably considering the black morass of coffee that remained untouched and stone cold. If Sally’s coffee remained untouched, it was a sure sign that she was seriously disturbed.
“Why,” Annie asked, wanting her friend of a lifetime to articulate her feelings for once. Sally took her time, squirming like a two-year-old on the plastic cushioning of the booth, and screwing up her eyes with concentration. “I am just not ready to replace Rob with anyone.”
“Listen, Sally, Rob would not want you to molder away without some form of companionship, male companionship, “she added for emphasis. She realized that although concerned for her friend’s mental and emotional health was paramount, she had an ulterior motive. She had done her best to help Sally through this difficult time, sometimes to the detriment of her own marriage. Her husband Mark had been a close friend of Rob’s and he too had grieved his passing. If Sally was able to move on now, perhaps once again they could do things as a foursome.
“He’s a retired Geometry Teacher, Annie,” said Sally now with real anguish bordering on real horror in her voice. “You know what a lame brain I am at math.”
“That was over 45 years ago,” said Annie dismissively and with a certain amount of relish, as if she enjoyed pointing out the length of time they had been friends and out of school. “It’s about time you got over that.” She said curtly. “Think how well you have been managing since Rob’s death,” she added merrily. Sally could see that Annie was enjoying the situation hugely and she had to concede to herself that Annie was right. She had been taking care of the house and managing the money well since Rob’s death. She even managed to take Ben to the vet on time for his shots and make sure that he was getting a nutritious diet.
Sally looked around their favorite Coffee Shop – “The Jumping Bean,” and for a moment, time stood still for her. It was as if she was looking at the coffee shop for the first time--she seemed to see clearly the Mint green walls and the dark brown plastic booths, scored to look like imitation leather—everything was jumping at her with vibrant color. She was conscious of the wonderful smell of coffee and she savored it. She saw the case of pastries, so colorful in arrangement, and so decadent and inviting. She marveled that for the first time in two years she had had a whole conversation without feeling the dull ache of despair that she usually did when thinking about Rob. Suddenly, she realized how lucky she was to have a friend like Annie. Not many people would take a call at 4 a.m. and remain calm.
“When are you going out,” Annie asked.
“Tonight. We are having dinner at Kelsey’s.”
“Well he is hardly splashing out,” said Annie, more to herself than to Sally, “but perhaps he does not want to scare you off with anything too fancy. Mind you, Florida is hardly the place to dress up for dinner. At least you can get away with jeans and a cute top.” Sally looked at her friend glumly. “You have accepted,” said Annie more as an afterthought, looking at Sally with that intense laser stare of hers.
“Oh yes,” said Sally hesitating, “I couldn’t think how to say No.”
History Of Manhattan’s Bryant Park
https://classicnewyorkhistory.com/history-of-manhattans-bryant-park/
https://classicnewyorkhistory.com/history-of-manhattans-bryant-park/
VIRGINIA REPKA-FRANCO, author
Virginia Repka-Franco
Group Leader - Cocoa Beach Writers Workshop
Family Affair
by Virginia Repka-Franco
February 16, 2018
Jenna carefully put the self-service nozzle back in the metal holster—she was all decked out and didn’t want to drip gasoline on her black patent pumps.a
She slid back in the car and checked her phone. Two more texts from her Mother asking where she was and how soon she would be there--We are starting to worry, she wrote. In her dysfunctional family that’s code speak for: “You’re cutting it rather fine,” or more like “Don’t be late and embarrass me and your father like you always are like the time yada yada yada!”
Gee, everyone must have their manners on, Mom only texts instead of calls when she’s holding back and doesn’t want to have a screaming match. She must already be there.
“I won’t be late,” she tells the screen. Getting back on the highway, she mentally scans her family tree.
Her relations are a bunch of nutters alright—Grandma Betty who is a kleptomaniac (watch your purse), her brother Jeffrey, the sometimes recovering addict (watch your prescriptions in your purse as well as the bag), and Uncle Billy the letch (he’s gonna get a kick in the nether region this time). “Relax, breathe!” she said aloud to herself as she felt inside her purse for her trusty Xanax and steered with her knee for the seconds it took for her to pop the child safety lids. One quick gulp and she swishes them down with the dregs of cold take out coffee.
The thought of seeing him pushed her on to buying the dress, booking the rental car and driving up Route 84, a highway that allows semis to pass you in lanes hardly big enough for a Hyundai. She has several pictures of them from the old days to give to him.
Crossing the Putnam County Line, she knows she’s close. At the next rest stop she turns on the GPS, as she is directionally challenged—even in her former home town. Especially here, as Brewster, New York, has grown into a tiny metropolis and aside from the Metro North train station, she would be lost.
Jenna parks the car—lipstick check, run a brush through her hair, and she’s ready to go in. First one to greet her is good old Billy, who rubs her back while hugging her hello. She dodges his kiss and pulls out of that creeptastic encounter only to be met by her grandmother, who instead of embracing her shows her where to put her ‘things’--No thanks, light fingers, I’ll keep my coat, she wants to say, but just nods and breezes by her and the throng of familiar faces who are strangers to her.
She walks up to Bryan. To her surprise and pleasure, her cousin looks much the same. The wavy brown hair she used to pull during fights when they were little, frames his Greek god features. He’s looks great in a suit, he never liked dressing up but she guesses they made him this time—for this very special family occasion.
She carefully kisses his cheek and places the photos in his coffin. Everyone is staring. She is not going to fall apart—it’s not a ‘safe place’ as Bryan used to say. She pulls out her phone. I love you Bryan, Jenna types and hits ‘send’.
A text alert ping resounds from Grandma’s purple tote bag.
* * *
Angel Advice
by Virginia Repka-Franco
Being raised Catholic, I thought when I died I would just go straight to my final destination, hopefully the one located above these grey clouds, but no, turns out the Buddhists were right, the soul hangs around for a while after we breath that last breath. So that is why I am here, sitting in the snow besides the woman who used to be me. I clearly remember hearing the snap of rope that disengaged me from the safety line. I screamed all the way down.
Next thing I knew I was alone, here, no one turned back to help me. I could hardly blame them, they thought I was a goner, and I was, except it took some time for the life to drain out of me. So cold, so cold, why won’t the cold numb the pain! was all I thought. Had I died from exposure instead of the fall, I would have been warm and woozy floating off, but no alas, I fell in a twisted heap on snow covered rocks near the second step I just smashed against the second step of Mt. Everest. It was a raw, throbbing, pain worse worse than anything I could imagine--searing pain, horror movie type pain, up my back and through my skull. How long was it? Hours? I’m not sure?
By now, the rest of the gang have made it to the top. They must be celebrating for sure. They don’t think of me, but perhaps they will later after their orgasmic adrenaline high.
I do hope I won’t be stay here forever. My body will of course, but I’d rather not have to look at myself like that for eternity. I am so glad I’m not cold anymore.The frigid breeze just tickles my face. I look over at my corpse and laugh to see that our hair is blowing in the breeze. . I feel light, as if I could dance on glaciers. I bend over and take the ice ax out of my corpse’s gloved hand. It pulls out easily. I must have loosened my grip on it at some point. Going uphill the ax felt sturdy, heavy, now I can twirl it like a drummer on stage, laughing at the absurdity of it all.
Oh, here they come, my friends are coming down. I can tell by their jackets. The Sherpas, out in front avert their eyes, dead bodies are bad luck, best not to look. My corpse has twisted legs, and my face is upturned, frozen in a grimace. Not my best look.
The others do the same, except my fiance unclips and steps near me for one last look.
“He’s coming!”, I said to myself with smug satisfaction, “Now, he’ll feel terrible...just horrible!” I say aloud but heard by no one. He’ll cry buckets I’m sure but that serves him right for not trying to help me as I started slipping. Though my goggles, while looking up at him (could he see my last pleading look) I could see him fumbling doing something on the line but he didn’t think to reach down his hand to grab hold of me. If he was trying to pull me back up by the safety rope he botched that but good. Well, he will live with the guilt forever, I guess.
So here he is, I can’t really see him but I can see his orange parka trudging as fast as he can toward me. He peers close at my frozen visage. Now, I can see under his visor that he is smiling, smiling? What the heck! He bends down and whispers something that I can’t hear against the roar of the wind. Maybe he’s in shock? It must be that as it’s only four weeks until our wedding. We lived together this past year, shared everything, bought a home together...paid cash thanks to my inheritance. How many couples get such a great start in life! My friends warned me that Jim was too good to be true, but I scoffed at those haters who could not be happy for me finding true love. How will he live without me? Thoughts filled my head. He would not be an acutal widower but the closest thing to it. Women will no doubt be flocking to take my place. Oh and the money! Once we got engaged naturally we became each other’s beneficiaries for life insurance, Although the policy on my life is through my Fortune 500 Company employer--his policy is a small term polity he applied for via a junk mail advertisement. Now that I think of it, this accident of mine is going to work out rather well for him. Looking at it from the outside (literally outside my dead body) I see how this is the best thing that ever happened to this adventurer sportsman who never held a steady job in his life.
Yeah, I guess the wedding’s off and he’s a happy camper, at least he will be when he gets back to Camp 4 and snuggles in a sleeping bag with the gorgeous blonde Norwegian women who had his eye on him since Base Camp. She’s older than him and her face is weathered but she’s fit and trim. I was never an athlete, I was a wanna be. I felt clumsy next to this ice princess. She speaks on English but that’s no obstacle when the wind chill is -40 at night. Oh yes, she seems the sort that will comfort him. Her body next to him, soothing him after such an awful loss….” He turns and rejoins the throng who are freezing, yet elated. They tried to look sad for a total of two minutes but once they past me it’s clear I am forgotten.
Okay, here comes somebody else, someone I don’t recognize . He calls my name. He can see
me--looks right at me---the spirit me.. Am I really dead, or hallucinating? He says he’s here to take me home. I didn’t know that the angel of death wore North Face gear from REI, but this one does. He explained that he dresses that way as not to unduly scare the dead climbers.
“You’ve had enough of a fright, you know you screamed the whole way down”
“How did you know, were you there?”
“No but your guardian was, he tried to tell you not to go. That your fiance (oh, how do I say this, each time it’s so hard!) could not be trusted.. But you wanted to stay with your man, Stupid girl. He messed with your safety line! But no, you let him check the equipment, you always deferred the important things to him. You didn’t want to climb, in fact you feared heights ever since you were four--remember that time you fell off the refrigerator and broke your ankle? “
All I could do was nod. I’d forgotten about the pain from that fall. Even when the particulars escape your recall, the fear stays with you. It nagged me all the way to Nepal, to Base Camp, and on up the mountain. Something kept telling me to turn around, but I wanted to prove...hmmm. I can’t remember what I was trying to prove. I was trying to hang onto my fiance, who loved outdoor sports. He assure me that we would have guides to help us if anything happened. Yeah, the guides who kept on climbing after I fell.
Well, lesson learned, for me at least. All I can tell you is if you have a gut feeling that won’t go away, it’s your angels--ignore them at your own peril.
by Virginia Repka-Franco
February 16, 2018
Jenna carefully put the self-service nozzle back in the metal holster—she was all decked out and didn’t want to drip gasoline on her black patent pumps.a
She slid back in the car and checked her phone. Two more texts from her Mother asking where she was and how soon she would be there--We are starting to worry, she wrote. In her dysfunctional family that’s code speak for: “You’re cutting it rather fine,” or more like “Don’t be late and embarrass me and your father like you always are like the time yada yada yada!”
Gee, everyone must have their manners on, Mom only texts instead of calls when she’s holding back and doesn’t want to have a screaming match. She must already be there.
“I won’t be late,” she tells the screen. Getting back on the highway, she mentally scans her family tree.
Her relations are a bunch of nutters alright—Grandma Betty who is a kleptomaniac (watch your purse), her brother Jeffrey, the sometimes recovering addict (watch your prescriptions in your purse as well as the bag), and Uncle Billy the letch (he’s gonna get a kick in the nether region this time). “Relax, breathe!” she said aloud to herself as she felt inside her purse for her trusty Xanax and steered with her knee for the seconds it took for her to pop the child safety lids. One quick gulp and she swishes them down with the dregs of cold take out coffee.
The thought of seeing him pushed her on to buying the dress, booking the rental car and driving up Route 84, a highway that allows semis to pass you in lanes hardly big enough for a Hyundai. She has several pictures of them from the old days to give to him.
Crossing the Putnam County Line, she knows she’s close. At the next rest stop she turns on the GPS, as she is directionally challenged—even in her former home town. Especially here, as Brewster, New York, has grown into a tiny metropolis and aside from the Metro North train station, she would be lost.
Jenna parks the car—lipstick check, run a brush through her hair, and she’s ready to go in. First one to greet her is good old Billy, who rubs her back while hugging her hello. She dodges his kiss and pulls out of that creeptastic encounter only to be met by her grandmother, who instead of embracing her shows her where to put her ‘things’--No thanks, light fingers, I’ll keep my coat, she wants to say, but just nods and breezes by her and the throng of familiar faces who are strangers to her.
She walks up to Bryan. To her surprise and pleasure, her cousin looks much the same. The wavy brown hair she used to pull during fights when they were little, frames his Greek god features. He’s looks great in a suit, he never liked dressing up but she guesses they made him this time—for this very special family occasion.
She carefully kisses his cheek and places the photos in his coffin. Everyone is staring. She is not going to fall apart—it’s not a ‘safe place’ as Bryan used to say. She pulls out her phone. I love you Bryan, Jenna types and hits ‘send’.
A text alert ping resounds from Grandma’s purple tote bag.
* * *
Angel Advice
by Virginia Repka-Franco
Being raised Catholic, I thought when I died I would just go straight to my final destination, hopefully the one located above these grey clouds, but no, turns out the Buddhists were right, the soul hangs around for a while after we breath that last breath. So that is why I am here, sitting in the snow besides the woman who used to be me. I clearly remember hearing the snap of rope that disengaged me from the safety line. I screamed all the way down.
Next thing I knew I was alone, here, no one turned back to help me. I could hardly blame them, they thought I was a goner, and I was, except it took some time for the life to drain out of me. So cold, so cold, why won’t the cold numb the pain! was all I thought. Had I died from exposure instead of the fall, I would have been warm and woozy floating off, but no alas, I fell in a twisted heap on snow covered rocks near the second step I just smashed against the second step of Mt. Everest. It was a raw, throbbing, pain worse worse than anything I could imagine--searing pain, horror movie type pain, up my back and through my skull. How long was it? Hours? I’m not sure?
By now, the rest of the gang have made it to the top. They must be celebrating for sure. They don’t think of me, but perhaps they will later after their orgasmic adrenaline high.
I do hope I won’t be stay here forever. My body will of course, but I’d rather not have to look at myself like that for eternity. I am so glad I’m not cold anymore.The frigid breeze just tickles my face. I look over at my corpse and laugh to see that our hair is blowing in the breeze. . I feel light, as if I could dance on glaciers. I bend over and take the ice ax out of my corpse’s gloved hand. It pulls out easily. I must have loosened my grip on it at some point. Going uphill the ax felt sturdy, heavy, now I can twirl it like a drummer on stage, laughing at the absurdity of it all.
Oh, here they come, my friends are coming down. I can tell by their jackets. The Sherpas, out in front avert their eyes, dead bodies are bad luck, best not to look. My corpse has twisted legs, and my face is upturned, frozen in a grimace. Not my best look.
The others do the same, except my fiance unclips and steps near me for one last look.
“He’s coming!”, I said to myself with smug satisfaction, “Now, he’ll feel terrible...just horrible!” I say aloud but heard by no one. He’ll cry buckets I’m sure but that serves him right for not trying to help me as I started slipping. Though my goggles, while looking up at him (could he see my last pleading look) I could see him fumbling doing something on the line but he didn’t think to reach down his hand to grab hold of me. If he was trying to pull me back up by the safety rope he botched that but good. Well, he will live with the guilt forever, I guess.
So here he is, I can’t really see him but I can see his orange parka trudging as fast as he can toward me. He peers close at my frozen visage. Now, I can see under his visor that he is smiling, smiling? What the heck! He bends down and whispers something that I can’t hear against the roar of the wind. Maybe he’s in shock? It must be that as it’s only four weeks until our wedding. We lived together this past year, shared everything, bought a home together...paid cash thanks to my inheritance. How many couples get such a great start in life! My friends warned me that Jim was too good to be true, but I scoffed at those haters who could not be happy for me finding true love. How will he live without me? Thoughts filled my head. He would not be an acutal widower but the closest thing to it. Women will no doubt be flocking to take my place. Oh and the money! Once we got engaged naturally we became each other’s beneficiaries for life insurance, Although the policy on my life is through my Fortune 500 Company employer--his policy is a small term polity he applied for via a junk mail advertisement. Now that I think of it, this accident of mine is going to work out rather well for him. Looking at it from the outside (literally outside my dead body) I see how this is the best thing that ever happened to this adventurer sportsman who never held a steady job in his life.
Yeah, I guess the wedding’s off and he’s a happy camper, at least he will be when he gets back to Camp 4 and snuggles in a sleeping bag with the gorgeous blonde Norwegian women who had his eye on him since Base Camp. She’s older than him and her face is weathered but she’s fit and trim. I was never an athlete, I was a wanna be. I felt clumsy next to this ice princess. She speaks on English but that’s no obstacle when the wind chill is -40 at night. Oh yes, she seems the sort that will comfort him. Her body next to him, soothing him after such an awful loss….” He turns and rejoins the throng who are freezing, yet elated. They tried to look sad for a total of two minutes but once they past me it’s clear I am forgotten.
Okay, here comes somebody else, someone I don’t recognize . He calls my name. He can see
me--looks right at me---the spirit me.. Am I really dead, or hallucinating? He says he’s here to take me home. I didn’t know that the angel of death wore North Face gear from REI, but this one does. He explained that he dresses that way as not to unduly scare the dead climbers.
“You’ve had enough of a fright, you know you screamed the whole way down”
“How did you know, were you there?”
“No but your guardian was, he tried to tell you not to go. That your fiance (oh, how do I say this, each time it’s so hard!) could not be trusted.. But you wanted to stay with your man, Stupid girl. He messed with your safety line! But no, you let him check the equipment, you always deferred the important things to him. You didn’t want to climb, in fact you feared heights ever since you were four--remember that time you fell off the refrigerator and broke your ankle? “
All I could do was nod. I’d forgotten about the pain from that fall. Even when the particulars escape your recall, the fear stays with you. It nagged me all the way to Nepal, to Base Camp, and on up the mountain. Something kept telling me to turn around, but I wanted to prove...hmmm. I can’t remember what I was trying to prove. I was trying to hang onto my fiance, who loved outdoor sports. He assure me that we would have guides to help us if anything happened. Yeah, the guides who kept on climbing after I fell.
Well, lesson learned, for me at least. All I can tell you is if you have a gut feeling that won’t go away, it’s your angels--ignore them at your own peril.
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SEND YOUR SUBMISSIONS TO: brevardauthorssociety@gmail.com.
SUBMISSIONS: The following criteria applies to all submissions.
- Author's Portrait, 2 x 2 in
- Author's Bio, not more than 150 words
- Short story, Excerpt from a novel, One Act Play, Essay.
- Submission file cannot exceed more than 2500 words, typed in Word format (doc or docx), single spaced lines, manuscript size 8.5" X 11"
- Submit your work via e-mail to: brevardauthorssociety@gmail.com
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About the Author
A native Floridian, Ruth Rodgers grew up on a farm in Madison County, Florida. She holds Bachelor’s and Master’s Degrees in English Education from Florida State University. After a thirty-plus year career as an English teacher, most of those years at the Titusville campus of Brevard Community College (now Eastern Florida State College), she is now retired and enjoying having more time to devote to reading and writing. She lives in Titusville with her husband and has three grown children. Her poetry and fiction have been published in a variety of literary magazines and anthologies, Her first novel, Reparation, published in 2013 by the Florida Historical Society Press, won the Don Argo Prize for Florida Fiction Writing in 2014. Her second novel, Patchwork, was published in 2015 by August Press. Both novels are available in paperback and Kindle versions on amazon.com, and signed copies can be purchased from the author through her website www.ruthrodgersauthor.com.
A native Floridian, Ruth Rodgers grew up on a farm in Madison County, Florida. She holds Bachelor’s and Master’s Degrees in English Education from Florida State University. After a thirty-plus year career as an English teacher, most of those years at the Titusville campus of Brevard Community College (now Eastern Florida State College), she is now retired and enjoying having more time to devote to reading and writing. She lives in Titusville with her husband and has three grown children. Her poetry and fiction have been published in a variety of literary magazines and anthologies, Her first novel, Reparation, published in 2013 by the Florida Historical Society Press, won the Don Argo Prize for Florida Fiction Writing in 2014. Her second novel, Patchwork, was published in 2015 by August Press. Both novels are available in paperback and Kindle versions on amazon.com, and signed copies can be purchased from the author through her website www.ruthrodgersauthor.com.
Gene Luke
From the collection of short stories published in Europe circa 2000, by the JR Publishing House, Gene Luke introduces one of his favorite tales of human nature.
February 1, 2018
KNOCK ON MY DOOR
For Mr. Barkin, time was one worn-out expression. He stood confused unable to face the loneliness in the periods of anxiety. He gasped for air and searched desperately for an answer.
For a long time, Mr. Barkin carried bruises on his exasperated soul. Occasionally he steamed out his inner furor for Mrs. Penny. She defiantly baffled him with inexplicable bitterness for a middle-aged woman. Her laughter was unbecoming, provocative, and at the same time intoxicating. Her coquettish body movements would spring forth a storm of reactions in his lonely cache of desires.
He was a widower, in his late fifties, feeling a desperate need for the touch of a woman. Mr. Barkin met Mrs. Penny through the custodian, but he never found the way to enter her capricious circle of intimacy. Anonymously, he sent flowers on several occasions. He offered informal invitations for concerts and theatrical performances and even prepared a party at his apartment, inviting neighbors from the second floor, some he never met before, only to lure her over. She never showed up.
Mrs. Penny lived on the second floor, directly above Mr. Barkin, and she often imagined his eyes following her steps through the spacious rooms of her apartment.
Sometimes, she’d stand nude in front of her bathroom mirror, giggling excitedly, and sometimes she’d put her ear to the parquet floor of her bedroom and wish for their spirits to meet somewhere between the ceiling and the floor of their apartments. She also felt the need for the touch of a man’s hand. She fantasized being caressed by his long arms that passed through the floor and embraced her inflamed body, touching divine pleasures of paradise with his gentle fingers. In a trance of aroused feelings, her body vented in a flurry of imagined copulation. At the end of culminating orgasm she screamed and called his name, Fred.
Already asleep, Fred snored heavily right at the moment when Mrs. Penny was erupting in a sea of pleasure.
With total fulfillment, she’d spread out on the floor and whisper words of happiness, trying to decipher his reaction, but she’d quickly get up with an expression of disgust when she recognized his snoring.
A few days later, on his way out, Fred didn’t feel her eyes watching him. No reflections of the moving curtains in the pool either. This morning, her house-maid walked in, and he assumed everything was in order. As he shuffled away, he asked: “Did Mrs. Penny go on a cruise?”
“Hm, hm!” – The custodian caught his attention. “Mr. Barkin! Mr. Barkin! Ms. Penny left a letter for you!”
He turned around in confusion, and took the envelope absentmindedly.
“For me?” He asked.
“Yes, sir! She moved out a few days ago.”
Mr. Barkin stood motionless for a few moments and stared at the envelope. Then he walked back into his apartment. It was the only familiar place in his mind at that point. Cold, slow-rolling sweat ran down his neck. Dizziness and sadness filled his beguiled mind. Blindness surrounded the space of his being without steps, sounds, and laughter from above.
He opened the envelope with his trembling hands, put on his reading glasses, and read:
“My Dear Mr. Barkin,
I am not sure if I should address you this way, because I’d rather call you a miserable, incompetent bore than a man of substance. For years now, you’ve been acting like an old ass tied down to a water mill, travelling in circles, looking at your feet, and not seeing what is thrown at you.
Don’t you know when the woman says no, she means yes? When she is capricious, she is the most vulnerable? When she wants you and calls you with her eyes, she is not sending any signals but bewildering signs to an ignorant, snoring log. Your gentle walks and dreamy eyes, that so many times furtively printed images of yearning on my windows in the morning, stole my heart and inflamed my feelings of love. I wanted you so much, but you never found the courage to knock on my door, to pick up the phone and call me, to stop and talk to me when we crossed paths. You never had the gall to look me in the eyes when we travelled to the city on a bus. I am a woman, and I need a man who would search me with his lusting eyes from top to bottom, to undress me and want me right there and then. In your cowardly stance, you always looked at your feet, searching for shadows.
What’s in a man who smiles so heavenly, and yet he stumbles and stoops over the softest touches of a woman? Is he a lost dreamer, a lost messenger? Or, just a dead log?
Goodbye, Mr. Barkin! I am leaving and will never see you again. Perhaps my spirit will linger on for a while until the next tenant arrives. Goodbye, my snoring log, I hope someday you will wake up and find courage to knock on somebody’s door.”
Yours affectionately,
Penny Horton
From the collection of short stories published in Europe circa 2000, by the JR Publishing House, Gene Luke introduces one of his favorite tales of human nature.
February 1, 2018
KNOCK ON MY DOOR
For Mr. Barkin, time was one worn-out expression. He stood confused unable to face the loneliness in the periods of anxiety. He gasped for air and searched desperately for an answer.
For a long time, Mr. Barkin carried bruises on his exasperated soul. Occasionally he steamed out his inner furor for Mrs. Penny. She defiantly baffled him with inexplicable bitterness for a middle-aged woman. Her laughter was unbecoming, provocative, and at the same time intoxicating. Her coquettish body movements would spring forth a storm of reactions in his lonely cache of desires.
He was a widower, in his late fifties, feeling a desperate need for the touch of a woman. Mr. Barkin met Mrs. Penny through the custodian, but he never found the way to enter her capricious circle of intimacy. Anonymously, he sent flowers on several occasions. He offered informal invitations for concerts and theatrical performances and even prepared a party at his apartment, inviting neighbors from the second floor, some he never met before, only to lure her over. She never showed up.
Mrs. Penny lived on the second floor, directly above Mr. Barkin, and she often imagined his eyes following her steps through the spacious rooms of her apartment.
Sometimes, she’d stand nude in front of her bathroom mirror, giggling excitedly, and sometimes she’d put her ear to the parquet floor of her bedroom and wish for their spirits to meet somewhere between the ceiling and the floor of their apartments. She also felt the need for the touch of a man’s hand. She fantasized being caressed by his long arms that passed through the floor and embraced her inflamed body, touching divine pleasures of paradise with his gentle fingers. In a trance of aroused feelings, her body vented in a flurry of imagined copulation. At the end of culminating orgasm she screamed and called his name, Fred.
Already asleep, Fred snored heavily right at the moment when Mrs. Penny was erupting in a sea of pleasure.
With total fulfillment, she’d spread out on the floor and whisper words of happiness, trying to decipher his reaction, but she’d quickly get up with an expression of disgust when she recognized his snoring.
A few days later, on his way out, Fred didn’t feel her eyes watching him. No reflections of the moving curtains in the pool either. This morning, her house-maid walked in, and he assumed everything was in order. As he shuffled away, he asked: “Did Mrs. Penny go on a cruise?”
“Hm, hm!” – The custodian caught his attention. “Mr. Barkin! Mr. Barkin! Ms. Penny left a letter for you!”
He turned around in confusion, and took the envelope absentmindedly.
“For me?” He asked.
“Yes, sir! She moved out a few days ago.”
Mr. Barkin stood motionless for a few moments and stared at the envelope. Then he walked back into his apartment. It was the only familiar place in his mind at that point. Cold, slow-rolling sweat ran down his neck. Dizziness and sadness filled his beguiled mind. Blindness surrounded the space of his being without steps, sounds, and laughter from above.
He opened the envelope with his trembling hands, put on his reading glasses, and read:
“My Dear Mr. Barkin,
I am not sure if I should address you this way, because I’d rather call you a miserable, incompetent bore than a man of substance. For years now, you’ve been acting like an old ass tied down to a water mill, travelling in circles, looking at your feet, and not seeing what is thrown at you.
Don’t you know when the woman says no, she means yes? When she is capricious, she is the most vulnerable? When she wants you and calls you with her eyes, she is not sending any signals but bewildering signs to an ignorant, snoring log. Your gentle walks and dreamy eyes, that so many times furtively printed images of yearning on my windows in the morning, stole my heart and inflamed my feelings of love. I wanted you so much, but you never found the courage to knock on my door, to pick up the phone and call me, to stop and talk to me when we crossed paths. You never had the gall to look me in the eyes when we travelled to the city on a bus. I am a woman, and I need a man who would search me with his lusting eyes from top to bottom, to undress me and want me right there and then. In your cowardly stance, you always looked at your feet, searching for shadows.
What’s in a man who smiles so heavenly, and yet he stumbles and stoops over the softest touches of a woman? Is he a lost dreamer, a lost messenger? Or, just a dead log?
Goodbye, Mr. Barkin! I am leaving and will never see you again. Perhaps my spirit will linger on for a while until the next tenant arrives. Goodbye, my snoring log, I hope someday you will wake up and find courage to knock on somebody’s door.”
Yours affectionately,
Penny Horton
IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO SUBMIT YOUR STORY, PLEASE FOLLOW THE INSTRUCTIONS BELOW. THE ORDER OF PUBLICATION WILL BE DETERMINED BY THE SUBMISSION DATE. THE POSTING WILL BE DISPLAYED ON THE FIRST MONDAY OF EACH WEEK. BREVARD AUTHORS SOCIETY RESERVES THE RIGHT TO DETERMINE THE APPROPRIATE SELECTIONS FOR PUBLISHING.
SEND YOUR SUBMISSIONS TO: brevardauthorssociety@gmail.com.
SUBMISSIONS: The following criteria applies to all submissions.
- Author's Portrait, 2 x 2 in
- Author's Bio, not more than 150 words
- Short story, Excerpt from a novel, One Act Play, Essay.
- Submission file cannot exceed more than 2500 words, typed in Word format (doc or docx), single spaced lines, manuscript size 8.5" X 11"
- Submit your work via e-mail to: brevardauthorssociety@gmail.com
SEND YOUR SUBMISSIONS TO: brevardauthorssociety@gmail.com.
SUBMISSIONS: The following criteria applies to all submissions.
- Author's Portrait, 2 x 2 in
- Author's Bio, not more than 150 words
- Short story, Excerpt from a novel, One Act Play, Essay.
- Submission file cannot exceed more than 2500 words, typed in Word format (doc or docx), single spaced lines, manuscript size 8.5" X 11"
- Submit your work via e-mail to: brevardauthorssociety@gmail.com
|
Peggy Insula
An educator, psychotherapist, writer and editor, Peggy renders an array of literary creativity with a superlative ability to plot, to paint the vivid backgrounds, and to confront her characters with realities and abnormalities using her humorous techniques in a skillful weaving through life's most complex matters. She is a confessor, soul's inquisitor, interrogator, and a master communicator in many of her published dialogues, oratories, and stories that keep us reminded about the quality of our literary achievements. Her publications include anthologies: Pearls, Vain Imaginings, and other works: Murder Runs in My Family, Sudsy, Just Murder, You’re No Body ’Til Somebody Kills You, How Not to Steal a Car, Letters to Uncle Jeb, and The Fight. Insula’s poetry appeared in Metaphor. Other works found homes in Driftwood, a local anthology, and in Space Coast Writers’ Guild anthologies. |
January 15, 2018
NEVER TAKE A WRITER OUT TO THE BALLGAME
Peggy Insula
“Take me out to the ballgame…” Maggie sang as she sped from work to pick up her grandkids from daycare. She watched the rear view mirror for blinking blue lights like a bug-eyed hometown umpire watching for a third strike. She looked at her watch. Eight-year-old Zeke had a baseball game in just over an hour. They had three stops to make before rushing home for a quick pre-game dinner. Arriving at the school, she heaved a sigh of relief. No speeding tickets. She pushed away a nagging idea that a speeding ticket might be a good thing--it would force her to slow down, get her out of a ball game, and save wear and tear on her nerves.
“Jump in the car, kids. We’re trying to beat the clock.”
The children scurried down the walk and into the car. Maggie drove as fast as she dared past crossing guards and through the school zone. They headed for the kids’ house to scavenge through the massive disorder of laundry piles, cast off shoes, and scattered toys to find Zeke’s equipment bag and game clothes. Maggie knew that if she let Sally, the eleven-year-old who was already in the throes of adolescence, into the house, she may get sucked into a mirror or caught between competing outfits, never to emerge again. What was a grandma to do?
While Maggie watched for blue lights once more, a light bulb of her own flashed in her harried brain. “Kids, if you can get in and out of your house in two minutes or less with everything you need, we’ll stop by the Kangaroo Mart for snacks. Otherwise, we won’t have time.”
Both apparently starving children were back in the car in ninety seconds.
“Now we have a five minute limit in Kangaroo. Get whatever you want, but we have to check out in five minutes.”
Again the children gathered snacks and drinks faster than Olympic relay racers. They beat the clock with seconds to spare as Maggie swiped her debit card for $49.27. Amongst their purchases the kids had chips, bags of beef jerky, several varieties of cereal bars, huge chocolate bars, Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, and two flavors of Gatorade.
Maggie zoomed to her house, fed the children her husband’s gourmet chicken wing dinner, and had Zeke dressed and on the field on time. Without his protective cup. Leaving her grandchildren in the care of the team mom, Maggie raced back to the kids’ house, sorted through three rooms of rubble, and was back on the field with the tiny improbable object in less time than it took the adult pitcher to spit tobacco and scratch his privates twice. Whew! You have to be fast in baseball. Then she repeated the run to locate Zeke’s cap. As she huffed and puffed back to the field for the third time, she passed an elderly man dropping an Alka Seltzer into a bottle of water. “Little League pill,” he explained.
“I just had to make three trips to bring all of Zeke’s equipment here,” she said.
“I made two.” The old man smiled and shook his head.
Sally wandered off to watch the game with her friends as Maggie settled gratefully into her portable game chair. Determined to be supportive, she watched the warm up session intently for several minutes and concentrated on preventing her attention from wandering.
“Why do they hold the glove in their left hands?” she asked the nearest spectator.
“They need their right hand to pitch.” The man looked at her as if she were crazy.
“And why is the cup so all-fired important? How much could an eight-year-old have to protect?”
The man threw his hands up in the air and walked away.
Knowing her duty, Maggie turned her attention back to the warm-up on the field. After awhile she rummaged in her oversized purse for gum and found her journal instead. When she took the book out to see if the gum was hidden under it, the journal fell open to a page that simply said, “Professor White”. Her mind wandered back to her college days when she was the psychology professor’s student assistant. “Ah, Professor White.” She sighed, opened the journal, and began to write.
“Dr. White and I stood at the second story picture window and watched the snow cover the hill sloping away from the building.”
No, she thought. Can’t tell whether the snow or the hill was sloping. Change to “hill that sloped”.
A burst of loud cheering erupted. The game must have started, she mused without looking up from her journal.
Several minutes later the spectators roared. Shouts of “Zeke! Zeke! Zeke!” boomed around the field.
That’s nice, part of her mind acknowledged as she chewed on her pencil with her nose still stuck in her journal.
“As the snow piled higher,” she wrote, “a wobbly old man with a cane embarked on a slippery journey down the treacherous hill.”
No. Never embark when you can simply start out, she corrected herself, remembering a writer who had told her, “Never masticate when you can chew.” And do I need to say the hill was treacherous? I’ve already described it.
Pow! Maggie jumped straight up in her seat when a bat cracked a ball. Now where was I? Oh, yes. “Doctor White and I held our breath and watched the old man’s progress.”
“Maggie!” shouted the nearest spectator, a burly man wearing an Atlanta Braves cap. “Wake up! Zeke just knocked the ball over the fence and got a home run with the bases loaded!”
“Um-hum. Loaded with what?” Her pencil never stopped.
The man rolled his eyes and stomped off.
She wrote, “The elderly man lurched, slid about four feet, flailed his arms and finally stopped himself with a lucky stab of his cane into the snow in front of him. Dr. White and I exhaled deeply. ‘That was a close one,’ Dr. White said.
My eyes widened, and my mouth dropped open as the old guy doggedly headed on down the steepest part of the hill.”
Doggedly. What does doggedly look like? Maggie wondered. Do I need that adverb? I’ve been warned off ‘ly words.
“Hey, Grandma!” Zeke yelled from the fence. “Watch me! I’m playing third base!”
“Hmmmm…,” she said as she scribbled on in her journal. Am I building suspense? Does anybody care about the old man in the snow by now? I read lots of technically correct writing that I just can’t bring myself to care about. How do I get my readers to care?
Another roar went up from the crowd. “That kid on third just caught a line drive and made the winning play of the game,” someone shouted.
“Isn’t that the kid who hit the home run and brought in three other runners?” another man asked.
“Yeah, that’s Ben the Man.”
Maggie vigorously erased the word “doggedly” and sat thinking of another adverb. As the game ended, she wrote, “Our shoulders tensed and we grasped the window sill together. We stared unblinking at the old man in the snow. ‘He’s too old and frail to be out in there,’ Dr. White leaned forward. His shoulders tensed as he watched..
The old man tottered a few more shaky steps. All of a sudden the cane flew into the air. The old geezer splattered the snow with a thud as he landed on his backside. His arms whirled like helicopter blades. He bumped and slid the rest of the way down the hill on his bottom. Dr. White and I grasped our sides and doubled over in uncontrollable laughter.”
Finally Maggie looked up at the field. The team was carrying Zeke on their shoulders.
“Oh, no!” she cried. “I hope he’s not hurt!”she wrote.
NEVER TAKE A WRITER OUT TO THE BALLGAME
Peggy Insula
“Take me out to the ballgame…” Maggie sang as she sped from work to pick up her grandkids from daycare. She watched the rear view mirror for blinking blue lights like a bug-eyed hometown umpire watching for a third strike. She looked at her watch. Eight-year-old Zeke had a baseball game in just over an hour. They had three stops to make before rushing home for a quick pre-game dinner. Arriving at the school, she heaved a sigh of relief. No speeding tickets. She pushed away a nagging idea that a speeding ticket might be a good thing--it would force her to slow down, get her out of a ball game, and save wear and tear on her nerves.
“Jump in the car, kids. We’re trying to beat the clock.”
The children scurried down the walk and into the car. Maggie drove as fast as she dared past crossing guards and through the school zone. They headed for the kids’ house to scavenge through the massive disorder of laundry piles, cast off shoes, and scattered toys to find Zeke’s equipment bag and game clothes. Maggie knew that if she let Sally, the eleven-year-old who was already in the throes of adolescence, into the house, she may get sucked into a mirror or caught between competing outfits, never to emerge again. What was a grandma to do?
While Maggie watched for blue lights once more, a light bulb of her own flashed in her harried brain. “Kids, if you can get in and out of your house in two minutes or less with everything you need, we’ll stop by the Kangaroo Mart for snacks. Otherwise, we won’t have time.”
Both apparently starving children were back in the car in ninety seconds.
“Now we have a five minute limit in Kangaroo. Get whatever you want, but we have to check out in five minutes.”
Again the children gathered snacks and drinks faster than Olympic relay racers. They beat the clock with seconds to spare as Maggie swiped her debit card for $49.27. Amongst their purchases the kids had chips, bags of beef jerky, several varieties of cereal bars, huge chocolate bars, Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, and two flavors of Gatorade.
Maggie zoomed to her house, fed the children her husband’s gourmet chicken wing dinner, and had Zeke dressed and on the field on time. Without his protective cup. Leaving her grandchildren in the care of the team mom, Maggie raced back to the kids’ house, sorted through three rooms of rubble, and was back on the field with the tiny improbable object in less time than it took the adult pitcher to spit tobacco and scratch his privates twice. Whew! You have to be fast in baseball. Then she repeated the run to locate Zeke’s cap. As she huffed and puffed back to the field for the third time, she passed an elderly man dropping an Alka Seltzer into a bottle of water. “Little League pill,” he explained.
“I just had to make three trips to bring all of Zeke’s equipment here,” she said.
“I made two.” The old man smiled and shook his head.
Sally wandered off to watch the game with her friends as Maggie settled gratefully into her portable game chair. Determined to be supportive, she watched the warm up session intently for several minutes and concentrated on preventing her attention from wandering.
“Why do they hold the glove in their left hands?” she asked the nearest spectator.
“They need their right hand to pitch.” The man looked at her as if she were crazy.
“And why is the cup so all-fired important? How much could an eight-year-old have to protect?”
The man threw his hands up in the air and walked away.
Knowing her duty, Maggie turned her attention back to the warm-up on the field. After awhile she rummaged in her oversized purse for gum and found her journal instead. When she took the book out to see if the gum was hidden under it, the journal fell open to a page that simply said, “Professor White”. Her mind wandered back to her college days when she was the psychology professor’s student assistant. “Ah, Professor White.” She sighed, opened the journal, and began to write.
“Dr. White and I stood at the second story picture window and watched the snow cover the hill sloping away from the building.”
No, she thought. Can’t tell whether the snow or the hill was sloping. Change to “hill that sloped”.
A burst of loud cheering erupted. The game must have started, she mused without looking up from her journal.
Several minutes later the spectators roared. Shouts of “Zeke! Zeke! Zeke!” boomed around the field.
That’s nice, part of her mind acknowledged as she chewed on her pencil with her nose still stuck in her journal.
“As the snow piled higher,” she wrote, “a wobbly old man with a cane embarked on a slippery journey down the treacherous hill.”
No. Never embark when you can simply start out, she corrected herself, remembering a writer who had told her, “Never masticate when you can chew.” And do I need to say the hill was treacherous? I’ve already described it.
Pow! Maggie jumped straight up in her seat when a bat cracked a ball. Now where was I? Oh, yes. “Doctor White and I held our breath and watched the old man’s progress.”
“Maggie!” shouted the nearest spectator, a burly man wearing an Atlanta Braves cap. “Wake up! Zeke just knocked the ball over the fence and got a home run with the bases loaded!”
“Um-hum. Loaded with what?” Her pencil never stopped.
The man rolled his eyes and stomped off.
She wrote, “The elderly man lurched, slid about four feet, flailed his arms and finally stopped himself with a lucky stab of his cane into the snow in front of him. Dr. White and I exhaled deeply. ‘That was a close one,’ Dr. White said.
My eyes widened, and my mouth dropped open as the old guy doggedly headed on down the steepest part of the hill.”
Doggedly. What does doggedly look like? Maggie wondered. Do I need that adverb? I’ve been warned off ‘ly words.
“Hey, Grandma!” Zeke yelled from the fence. “Watch me! I’m playing third base!”
“Hmmmm…,” she said as she scribbled on in her journal. Am I building suspense? Does anybody care about the old man in the snow by now? I read lots of technically correct writing that I just can’t bring myself to care about. How do I get my readers to care?
Another roar went up from the crowd. “That kid on third just caught a line drive and made the winning play of the game,” someone shouted.
“Isn’t that the kid who hit the home run and brought in three other runners?” another man asked.
“Yeah, that’s Ben the Man.”
Maggie vigorously erased the word “doggedly” and sat thinking of another adverb. As the game ended, she wrote, “Our shoulders tensed and we grasped the window sill together. We stared unblinking at the old man in the snow. ‘He’s too old and frail to be out in there,’ Dr. White leaned forward. His shoulders tensed as he watched..
The old man tottered a few more shaky steps. All of a sudden the cane flew into the air. The old geezer splattered the snow with a thud as he landed on his backside. His arms whirled like helicopter blades. He bumped and slid the rest of the way down the hill on his bottom. Dr. White and I grasped our sides and doubled over in uncontrollable laughter.”
Finally Maggie looked up at the field. The team was carrying Zeke on their shoulders.
“Oh, no!” she cried. “I hope he’s not hurt!”she wrote.
IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO SUBMIT YOUR STORY, PLEASE FOLLOW THE INSTRUCTIONS BELOW. THE ORDER OF PUBLICATION WILL BE DETERMINED BY THE SUBMISSION DATE. THE POSTING WILL BE DISPLAYED IN THE FIRST WEEK OF EACH MONTH. BREVARD AUTHORS SOCIETY RESERVES THE RIGHT TO DETERMINE THE APPROPRIATE SELECTIONS FOR PUBLISHING.
SEND YOUR SUBMISSIONS TO: brevardauthorssociety@gmail.com.
SUBMISSIONS: The following criteria applies to all submissions.
- Author's Portrait, 2 x 2 in
- Author's Bio, not more than 150 words
- Short story, Excerpt from a novel, One Act Play, Essay.
- Submission file cannot exceed more than 2500 words, typed in Word format (doc or docx), single spaced lines, manuscript size 8.5" X 11"
- Submit your work via e-mail to: brevardauthorssociety@gmail.com
SEND YOUR SUBMISSIONS TO: brevardauthorssociety@gmail.com.
SUBMISSIONS: The following criteria applies to all submissions.
- Author's Portrait, 2 x 2 in
- Author's Bio, not more than 150 words
- Short story, Excerpt from a novel, One Act Play, Essay.
- Submission file cannot exceed more than 2500 words, typed in Word format (doc or docx), single spaced lines, manuscript size 8.5" X 11"
- Submit your work via e-mail to: brevardauthorssociety@gmail.com
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