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Archive for the ‘short stories’ Category

Happy Birthday

Posted in creative writing, dreams, short stories, Uncategorized, Writing, tagged , , , on June 27, 2011| Leave a Comment »

Tiny dust motes drifted across her vision, carried by gentle breezes from the open window next to her bed.  Fascinated by their lazy fall down toward the 100-year old hardwood floor, she gently blew them away, stretched and arose from her soft bed.  “What a glorious morning,” she thought to herself as she wandered into the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth.

Looking into the mirror, she laughingly wondered who was staring at her in the antique mirror over the pedestal sink.  The face reflected was so much older than the young-at-heart girl standing with a toothbrush in her sadly gnarled hand.

So many years had passed in what seemed a single breath.  It simply wasn’t possible that today was her 80th birthday.  This moment she began her 81st year on this earth.  Giggling at the idea, she choked on toothpaste, spat it all over the sink and reminded herself, “You’re just being silly, Helga; age is only a number.”

For the grand accomplishment of staying alive for 80 years, she decided a special breakfast was in order.  Pancakes; yes, that’s what she would fix today, pancakes.  Pancakes, real bacon and the total decadence of rich, homemade maple syrup, not the nasty stuff from the grocery store.  Her syrup came from trees tapped right there on her Vermont property.  Yes, it was going to be a very special, indulgent day.

As she readied the old iron skillet on her now antique wood-burning stove, she heard Tom scratching at the kitchen door.  Tom was a barn cat who had wandered into her life one day and taken up residence permanently.   They had an agreeable arrangement, she and Tom.  He kept the vermin away, and in return was fed and allowed to nap on an old child’s iron bedstead she’d covered in a tattered quilt in the corner of the ancient kitchen.  Turning away from the stove, she opened the door and let the mangy cat come inside.  Tom jumped into his bed, turned several times, kneaded the quilt, causing a strange clicking noise, and finally settled in for a long nap.

The old woman lingered over her breakfast, savoring every bite.  Treating herself to a second mug of tea, she knew it was time to get her day started.  Just like every other day, a brisk walk down her mile-long drive for the morning paper and back again would get her blood flowing and work off some of those pancakes. She relished the exercise and fresh country air.

Taking the dishes to the sink, she looked over at the old iron bedstead with Tom softly snoring and smiled.  She rinsed her plate and mug and placed them in the drainer.  She would wash them later.

Lovingly, she bent down over the bed, moved the sleeping cat to one side and gingerly wrapped the quilt around her little sleeping angel.  “Time for our stroll, my lovely,” she cooed to the bundle in the quilt.  Tom rearranged himself in the bed and returned to his nap.

The old lady strolled through the house, out the front door and down the lane softly singing and cradling her bundled quilt; bits of bone and hair, the remains of her only child born 60 years ago and still the love of her life.

Yes, it was an absolutely glorious morning.

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Look Homeward Angel

Posted in creative writing, Life, memories, short stories, Writing, tagged , , on November 20, 2010| 3 Comments »

Pat had no idea what to expect as she neared her old neighborhood. This was her first visit back in so many years. The years had flown by. Married, divorced, buried both parents and a baby; this journey to her childhood home was a difficult one, yet she felt compelled to see it one more time.

Each street she turned down brought an avalanche of memories; some good, some not so good. She could hear kids yelling and screaming as they skated down the sidewalks or played in makeshift cardboard box forts…so long ago. Sitting on front porches, hanging out on the steps with the gang drinking Cokes and singing the latest tunes, dreaming of going to the beach after graduation some day; the memories started spilling out of the boxes where Pat had stored them.

On that corner, under that street light, her first boyfriend had kissed her. Such a bittersweet memory; he had been killed in the war. Over there – why, that used to be a corner market where Pat always went to get candy. Now it’s a McDonald’s. Things change. People change. Life goes on.

Arriving at her old street, Pat was surprised to see that many of the houses were gone; torn down and replaced with huge structures that didn’t fit in with the neighborhood architecture. These behemoths sat on tiny plots of land and made the houses around them look sad and neglected. What a shame.

Pat’s house was still there in its original form; the carport was intact. She could see the metal fence surrounding the back yard; the same back yard where she had played with her collie, Prince. As she drove by, Pat noticed the old redwood deck that Dad had built all by himself. The house looked so tiny – that’s not how Pat remembered it. As a youngster, that house had been huge with the terrifying gravity furnace in the basement. Pat never went to the basement.

She drove on. No sense stopping. She envisioned walking up to the front door, knocking and telling the owners she had once lived there as a youngster. Would they let her come in and look around? The odds were slim the current owners would allow it; too much crime these days. You can never be too careful. Just look at all the alarm signs at various houses. When Pat lived here, the front door was always unlocked. “How times have changed,” she thought to herself.

At the corner was the two story brick home that belonged to Mrs. Juvinetti. Ah…Mrs. Juvinetti. All the kids loved her. Children would show up at her door and find that Mrs. J had just baked chocolate chip cookies; everyone was invited in and there was always enough cookies and milk to go around. Pat spent many hours at the Juvinetti household and had even roomed in college with Cindy Juvinetti until the night of the murder. Pat hadn’t thought of Cindy in a very long time.

She pulled the car to the curb. The memories were overwhelming her. Pat got out of the car and walked up to the Juvinetti house. The grass needed mowing; the bushes were overgrown and the paint on the shutters was peeling. “I wonder…” she thought to herself.

Arriving at the front door, Pat rang the doorbell and stood back from the door. In a few moments, the door opened and there stood an old, stooped white-haired woman dressed in a flowery housecoat. Though the years had taken their toll, there was no mistaking Mrs. Juvinetti. She was still alive and Pat was so excited to see her again.

“Mrs. Juvinetti!” “Mrs. Juvinetti!” “It’s me, Patty Connor from up the street. The old lady looked at Pat and slowly started to smile. Then she opened her arms and in a soft voice said, “My little Pattycake!” “Come in, come in!”

Pat walked into the house and immediately smelled the mustiness of years of dust and clutter. Mrs. Juvinetti had always taken such pride in her home. Now it was decaying, like Mrs. J. Pat was saddened to see the conditions in the house.

Mrs. Juvinetti led Pat to the living room and Pat sat on the same sofa that had been in that room during her childhood years. It was a very large piece of furniture, with a bright floral pattern now stained and worn with years of use. Mrs. Juvinetti gently lowered herself into an armchair – the kind that had hand-crocheted antimacassars on the arms and the back of the chair – Mrs J had lovingly made those so many years ago they were yellowing.

Pat felt bad she hadn’t kept in touch with the Juvinetti family after Cindy had been so tragically killed. It was simply too painful. And then the years got away from her.

But she was here now and wanted to take advantage of the time as Pat knew this would be her last trip home. Her life was elsewhere now. She would stay a few minutes; have a cookie and reminisce then be on her way.

“Mrs. Juvinetti, you look wonderful,” Pat commented.

“Oh my dear girl, I’m an old woman now just waiting to die. There are so few children in the neighborhood these days. Not many come to visit me anymore. I still bake my cookies, but now once a week a nice lady picks me up and we take the cookies to the hospital and share them with the children’s wing. You know how much you loved my cookies when you were little! Why don’t I make us some tea, dear, and while I put the kettle on maybe you would go out to the garage and get some cookies out of the freezer for me. They will only take a few minutes to thaw out and then we can sit and chat to our hearts content.”

“That sounds lovely, Mrs. J – I’ll run to the freezer and be right back.”

Mrs. Juvinetti slowly got up from her chair and shuffled out to the kitchen. Pat stood up and stayed in the living room for a moment just taking it all in. She turned and went through the side porch to the breezeway which led to the garage. Opening the garage door, Pat saw the tall freezer at the end of the room and walked over to it. Pat smiled at the thought of those wonderful chocolate chip cookies.

She opened the freezer door and reached inside for a package of cookies. But there were no cookies in the freezer. There were no shelves in the freezer either. All that was in the freezer was the bent and long-frozen body of Mr. Juvinetti.

Perhaps it’s true…you can’t go home again.

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Hattie

Posted in Christianity, creative writing, Life, short stories, Writing, tagged , , , on May 15, 2010| 4 Comments »

What’s the word I’m searching for? Shallow…That’s it. That’s how I felt — shallow. No; maybe it was superficial. Oh let’s just get right to the heart of it and admit what I truly felt was useless. I was merely taking up space on this planet and I wasn’t sure it was even my space.

It was another late night and once again I found myself sleepless sitting in front of the tv watching one more informercial for some ridiculous kitchen gadget. It was enough to send me over the edge. Or maybe it was a ledge, not an edge — I was close to climbing a ledge and taking the big leap. But then again, I’m afraid of heights.

And then He showed up. Oh crap…here we go again. He is always there when I begin to wallow to pull me back off the precipice and speak to me of hope. I realy wasn’t in the mood for this discussion.

“Just leave me alone. I’m not worth your time,” I said outloud.

In the small still voice in my head came….”You aren’t shallow; you aren’t useless. I didn’t make you that way. I gave you special gifts when you were created; some of which you are aware; some you use frequently much to my delight. You have gifts which will surprise you when the time is right. In MY time, beloved, not yours.”

“Oh puhleeze…here we go again with that My time versus yours stuff.” But I knew He was right; His time would always trump mine. Good thing God and I never played chess.

I climbed back into bed and fell asleep. I dreamed of an old woman with snowy white hair. She seemed so pleased to see me and immediately invited me to join her for tea. I looked around and realized we were in some type of nursing facility. I could hear everyone in the background; the tv in the sitting room, ladies in brightly colored smocks milling about and I could smell flowers. An elevator dinged signaling someone’s arrival. But this little lady tugged at my sleeve and looked at me as if I should understand to follow her and have tea. I woke up in a cold sweat.

Looking at my alarm I realized I had forgotten to set it; I was late for my volunteer job at the Senior Assisted Living Center. I gulped down a cup of coffee, grabbed a muffin and got in my car.

I always enjoyed volunteering at the Center. I felt good when I was there –like I was giving something back to my community. I didn’t have a specific job there per se. I just generally showed up on Tuesdays and brought little items for the residents; books, magazines, a comb. Sometimes I would read to someone. Other times I sat and visited. Whether they knew me wasn’t important. I always hoped someday someone would do this for me. Most of these people were Alzheimer’s patients and knowing I carried the gene for this devastating disease made me want to spend time with these souls who were slowly losing their way. I too, was losing my way and I felt a connection here.

I walked into the facility that Tuesday morning and all was quiet. How unusual. No one was around. Coming down the hallway toward me was a tiny old woman with snowy white hair. I remembered my dream and was a bit surprised as she approached me. But this was different from the dream. There was no one else around. No one. No background noises, no ladies in colorful smocks. Just the old woman and me. She reached for my hand and led me to a sitting area. We sat on a lovely damask sofa. Feeling a bit awkward I introduced myself and asked her what her name was. She told me, “You may call me Hattie; all my friends do.” “Alright, I said, “Hattie it is. What can I do for you today? Would you like me to read to you or maybe brush your hair? “Oh no, dear,” Hattie replied, “That’s not necessary. I’m not staying long. My son is coming to take me home later today. Let’s have a nice cup of tea and chat for a bit.” I turned around to see an orderly carrying a tray with a china pot and two tea cups. I had never seen him here before. I shook my head as Hattie said, “Will you pour, dear? I’m afraid these days my hands aren’t as strong as they used to be.” I poured our tea, handed Hattie her cup and said, “So Hattie, what shall we chat about?”

“Well, dear, we need to discuss your feelings of uselessness of course. I thought I made myself clear in our little chat last night but you weren’t paying attention were you sweetie? You simply must start listening to me. You do have gifts and it’s time to start using then. You are needed.” She smiled and took a sip of her tea. I excused myself to go to the ladies room promising I would be right back. Hattied just smiled and continued sipping.

I was only gone a couple of minutes but when I returned Hattie was nowhere to be seen. I did see a nice lady in a brightly colored smock behind a desk close to the sofa. I walked over to her and said, “Excuse me, but did you see where Hattie went? We were having tea over there on the sofa and she seems to be gone. Did she say when she woulld be back?” Looking over over at the empty sofa and chairs in the sitting area and with a strange look on her face, the smocked lady said, “Honey, no one named Hattie lives here. We have a Dottie, and A Betty, but no Hattie. You must be mistaken.

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Whispering Oaks

Posted in creative writing, nature, short stories, trees, Uncategorized, Writing, tagged , , , on April 3, 2010| 2 Comments »

 

All was quiet in the Banagher Glen that morning.  Dew kissed the bluebells and gentle primroses lined the leaf-strewn pathways through the old woods.  Perched on the cliffs, twisted oaks clung to the edge with all their might so as not to fall to the Glenedra waters below.  For it was rumored that in those same waters lived a mighty serpent; one so great that St. Patrick himself was unable to drive him out to sea and left the huge snake there in the pool forevermore.

 Kieran stretched his skinny limbs remarking to the lads, “Right, then, another lovely day is it?” His mate Aiden looked toward the blue sky and agreed, “Aye, today is a right lovely day. Tis good to be alive!” 

 “Maeve?  Are ye with us, lass?” bellowed Kieran.  “The day’s  a’wastin’!  The sun won’t be out forever you know!”

 “Aye, Kieran, I’m here, ach aren’t I always right behind ye?”  Maeve shook as she giggled and all the lads joined in on the joke. 

 “I’ve not heard a peep from Callum this glorious morning!  Callum! What say you?”  Maeve bellowed down the lane. 

 Callum fair cracked the silence with his yawn, “I’m bringin’ up the rear, just like every other day.” Then he, too, lazily stretched his limbs toward the sun, shaking off the night’s cold.

 Banagher Glen was Siobhan’s very favorite nature reserve in all of County Derry.  She loved to wander its ancient twisty paths and look up at all the trees. For hours she would walk in the quiet woodland talking to the ancient trees, wondering to herself what they had witnessed in all their many years.  She could identify every ash, rowan, hazel, and hawthorn but felt especially close to the ancient oaks, their limbs gnarled and twisted.  Her friends laughed to find that Siobhan had even given names to some of the oaks.  Many days Siobhan thought she could almost hear the mighty oaks whispering as she passed by. 

 “Such a fine young lass,” remarked Kieran.  “Wouldn’t you agree, Maeve?” 

 “Aye,” whispered Maeve, “fine lass indeed.”

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The Awareness of Bees

Posted in Christianity, creative writing, short stories, Writing, tagged , , on March 6, 2010| Leave a Comment »

Payne heard the buzzing. Distinctly.  Loud, purposeful buzzing. She layed in her bed and listened.  Nothing made that type of sound but a bee.  Mmm-hmmm…a big bee, a big bee who had purposely sneaked into her bedroom late at night to sting her.

At the tender age of six, Payne had been stung by a bee.  The little bee smacked her hard on her ear, a very tender spot to be stung.  There was no malice in the sting; no plan of attack on the part of the bee.  Payne had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time and when she swatted at something close to her ear, that little bee did what Mother Nature taught him to do; he stung her.  Self-defense plain and simple.  Being only six, Payne didn’t understand self-defense, nor did she understand bees. Payne didn’t like what she didn’t understand  She decided immediately she didn’t like bees.

Payne never forgot her first experience with a bee.  In fact, as she grew older, she became more and more afraid of bees to the point that she would go out of her way to avoid a bee.  Payne made it a habit to attack first just in case a particular bee might have stinging on his little bee mind.  In her opinion, the only good bee was a dead bee.

This particular night, she heard a definite buzzing and it was intense.  Payne was no longer six years old but closer to 60.  Her morbid fear and loathing of bees had not tempered with age; if anything she disliked bees even more, simply because they were bees.

Lying in bed, Payne kept her eyes tightly closed and thought to herself, “It’s just my imagination.  There is no bee.”  And yet, she knew if she opened just one eye she would see a bee.  She moved to the farthest edge of her bed away from the buzzing sound.

Payne opened one eye just a little bit; just a crack, enough to quickly convince herself there was no bee in her room and she was having a dream.  Enough light cast from her nightlight to show something on the corner of her nightstand and it was black and yellow, fuzzy, had antennas,  and it was moving.  To her horror she saw that it was indeed a bee; a rather large bee at that.  Payne knew she wasn’t imagining things – a bee, a dreaded bee had invaded her room and was walking around like it belonged there.  Scared and angry at the same time, she loathed that bee.  One of the bee’s antennas twitched frightening Payne even more.  She had to do something; she had to be rid of the bee.

Slowly switching on the lamp next to her, Payne rolled back over to take another look.  Yes, he was still there and now he was bee-marching up and down her table taking a little bee-stroll.  Payne was sure he was plotting to sting her and waiting for his best opportunity.  She started to perspire from fear.  If she could just reach that book, maybe she could hit the bee with it, smash him to death and stop that infernal buzzing.  In the meantime, the bee continued to wander back and forth on the nightstand and watch Payne while she pondered what to do.

She slowly reached for the book and as she lifted it she heard clear as a bell, “Killing me will do you no good and is certainly not what I had in mind.”  Several thoughts ran through Payne’s mind simultaneously.  Thoughts such as, she had to be having a dream, bees can’t talk, maybe that extra glass of wine last night wasn’t such a good idea, and the most frightening thought of them all wasn’t that she was about to be stung.  No, what scared Payne at two o’clock in the morning,was the realization that she was being addressed by an insect…this was too creepy.

There was no husband to wake up; no cat to chase the bee away, even the phone was in another room.  And what was she going to do, call 911 to report a threatening bee?  Oh, that would go over well at the local police station.

Putting the book back down, Payne put on her glasses and looked at the bee from what she hoped was a safe distance.

“Alright, just because I know this has to be a dream, I’m going to play along Mr. Bee.  What would you suggest I do instead of whacking the daylights out of you and ridding the world of another useless bee good for nothing but getting in the way of others?”

“I suggest you sit there and listen to me; you might even learn something tonight,” replied the bee, maintaining his stroll and buzzing as he spoke.

“By all means, enlighten me Mr. Bee – but quickly so I can smash you, scoop you up in a Kleenex, and flush you down the toilet where your kind belong.”  Payne was secretly hoping she would soon awaken from this bizarre dream – c’mon this really had to be a dream.

“Dearest Payne, just because one of my kind stung you so many years ago, you think all of us deserve to die. Whenever you see one of us going about our bee business, you just want to swat us so we don’t sting you.  Seems like a rather narrow-minded attitude for such an evolved being as yourself.  Did it ever occur to you that we provide a useful service in nature, have some amazing skills and were, in fact, designed by God on purpose?  Did it cross your small mind that when God spoke each day of creation and said it was good, He was including us also?  No, I didn’t think so.”

Payne wasn’t sure when she finally drifted off to sleep but when the alarm went off at 7 a.m. she only knew it had been a troubling sleep and her bedcovers were every which way.  Though she couldn’t recall anything specific, Payne was sure she must have had one of those nights plagued by nightmares.  She felt weary, uneasy, and her stomach was a bit upset.  Reaching over to her nightstand, Payne turned on the lamp, smacked the alarm clock to shut it up and noticed some strange yellow dust on her table.  “That’s odd; I just dusted that table yesterday…it almost looks like pollen.”

Payne began her day just like any other day.  Showered and dressed, she went downstairs to make coffee and passed by her planning desk in the kitchen.  She tore off yesterday’s page on her Word of the Day calendar and saw today’s word was ‘Diversity.’  As she poured her first cup of coffee, Payne thought she heard a buzzing sound in her kitchen.  She just shook her head and laughed; it was the middle of winter and there were certainly no insects around yet.

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The Importance of Being Mabel

Posted in creative writing, Life, short stories, Uncategorized, Writing, tagged , , , on February 22, 2010| 1 Comment »

How she dreaded the first day of school.  Really dreaded.  This was high school; it was big kid time and all she wanted to do was roll over and go back to sleep.  Knowing there was no choice, she dragged herself out of bed and prepared to face the day.

The worst part?  That moment in Home Room when Mr. or Ms. Whatstheirname yells out the Roll Call and the snickering begins.  She couldn’t endure the thought of it one more time.

“Good morning, students!”  My name is Ms. Pendergrass and you will be seeing me every day first thing  — aren’t we all excited to start another year??!!”

She thought she would die.  Time was almost standing still.  Not only did she have to endure her name about to be called; the teacher was perky and had long straight brown hair… and will this morning ever end?

The Roll Call commenced.  All those cute names; Buffy, Jamie, Patty, it was enough to make her gag a maggot.  Uh-oh – she knew her name was coming up…panic setting in…

“MABEL JOHNSON?  MABEL?”  It seemed as if Ms. Pendergrass literally screamed out that name.  Oh the horror of it all.  Why did her mother name her that awful name?  Was that snickering she heard?  Dammit, it was.  Here we go again…

“Yes, ma’am, I’m here, and please call me Bel.”  She was mortified.  Her face was hot and she just knew it was red as Ms. Pendergrass replied, “Oh, but Mabel is such a pretty, old-fashioned name.  Bel it is, then.”  Snickering was heard.  And so the fun began.

Bel got through her first day at the new high school but not without her fair share of stress.  She found a table at lunch and sat with the other awkward girls.  She had just taken a bite of her cheeseburger as the “pack” of cute cheerleaders strutted past the table giggling and chanting, “MAbel, MAbel…”  She felt the burger coming back up her throat.  She simply couldn’t puke in front of these stupid kids.  She choked it back down.  Just ignore them and they will go away.  That’s what her dad always told her.

Bel had once asked her dad, “Why on earth did you give me such a horrible name – Mabel?   It’s positively ancient and makes me sound like I’m some old lady.”

“That was your mother’s idea, sweetie,” Dad patiently explained.  “The name Mabel was your grandmother’s middle name and you know how much Mom loved your grandmother.”

“Well, I’m having it legally changed as soon as I’m eighteen!”   Dad just smiled and walked away.  He had a Board meeting that evening and was running late.

Bel wished for all the world that she was tall and thin and pretty.  She wished she didn’t have this curly, frizzy red hair and she wished she had a name like Jessica or Emma; something pretty.  Living with the name Mabel day after day really wore on her nerves.  No boy would ever like her with that name.  Now she was really worried.  Worrying made her hungry.   Man, was she ever  hungry now.  Where did Mom hide those Pop-Tarts anyway?  Mom was always hiding food – hoping that it would help Bel lose some of those chunky 14-year old baby-fat pounds.  Gah.  Life just sucked when your name was Mabel.   She really was going to have it legally changed some day.  For now she would just go search for those PopTarts.  Bel closed her journal and set it on her nightstand.  She got up off her bed and headed to the kitchen.  Mom couldn’t find a hiding place Bel didn’t discover.  Yum – Pop Tarts were just the thing she needed right now.

He was a tall man, a bit on the lean side and his hair was just starting to turn grey at the sides.  Looking at him you would never know he was only in his late thirties; he seemed aged beyond his years; someone who had the weight of the entire world upon his shoulders.  He stood at the hospital bed and leaned on the rail.  There were so many machines in the room he could hardly get close to the bed. The sound of the respirator machine was the worst.  A tear fell down his cheek as he turned and walked out into the hospital hallway.  The doctor was there along with the rest of the family.

“How can I possibly make this decision?  What if she is still in there somewhere?  Can you assure me ending life support is really our only option now?”

“We see no brain wave activity.  I’m so sorry.  I’ll leave you with your family – take your time.  You can have me paged when you have made your decision,” the Doctor said in his “kind” voice.  He felt bad for this family; he always felt bad in these situations.  But there was no brain activity, of that he was certain.  Well, as certain as he could be.  And he had other patients to see.

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The Workshop

Posted in creative writing, dreams, memories, short stories, Writing, tagged , , , on February 16, 2010| 1 Comment »

It took all the strength she could muster to journey to the workshop.  Sneaking past the old woman she climbed down the steep staircase, past the ancient washing machine with the contraption she was always afraid might accidentally eat her arm while wringing out the laundry.  What a large white monster it was.  She crept slowly by so as not to disturb it.

She walked into the workshop.  Her small feet stirred up the piles of wood shavings collected on the floor and she smelled the aroma of cedar. Light made its way through dirty windowpanes to land on a work table covered with the tools she both loved and feared.  Wood chips were flying through the air with wild abandon.  Gramps was hard at work on his latest masterpiece; a special chessboard just for his granddaughter.  Not caring it was a chessboard since she didn’t know what chess was, she was captivated by the different colored squares of wood – each piece a different type and color.

It was slightly cool in there.  The workshop was next to the little hallway which held the beast.  Every once in awhile Gramps would walk into the hallway, open the small black door on the beast and take a shovel and scoop more coal into its belly.  Fire would light up and heat poured forth.  Gramps would put the shovel back against the black furnace and walk back into his workshop, his gnarled hands once again lovingly embracing the old wood cutting tools.

She pulled a stool up to the workbench, hopped up and watched Gramps at work on the chessboard.  “Watcha doin’ Gramps?”  “Little of this, little of that,” he replied and reached into his pocket for the tin of chewing tobacco he always kept there.  He got that grin in his eyes and said, “Want some?”  He knew she would try it – she always tried it.  The little girl took a wad and put it in her mouth just the same way he did.  Holding out as long as she could and finally with Gramps laughing, she spit it out in the handkerchief he handed her.  She never won their chewing tobacco game.

Staying on the stool while Gramps sanded the board; the rhythmic motion of his sanding lulled her to sleep and she put her head down on the workbench.

The alarm clock jarred me out of a sound sleep.  I rolled out of bed, slid on my slippers and padded my way to the bathroom.  What was that on the floor – it looked like cedar shavings.  And why did I taste tobacco?

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Cute Little Squirrels

Posted in creative writing, dreams, short stories, Uncategorized, Writing, tagged , , on February 14, 2010| 3 Comments »

Bucky, our resident squirrel, was hanging on the front screen door again screeching because there were no peanuts on the front porch.  My son, Patrick, had named him Bucky; for what reason I have no clue.  But the name stuck. Every day Bucky would arrive and usually there were some peanuts on the porch but today we had been in a hurry and hadn’t thrown any on the concrete for him.  Patrick couldn’t find his homework, he couldn’t find his iPod, his cell; that child couldn’t get himself together at all. He ended up missing the bus.  Yours truly had to take him to school.  Bucky would have to wait.

Patrick late to school made me late for work.  The boss was not pleased.  Let’s just say it turned into one of those days and not go into details.  Even the drive home seemed longer than usual and by the time I pulled into the garage, I was exhausted and dreading the thought of cooking.  I walked into the kitchen and heard my son yelling from the front of the house.

“Mom!” “Mom!”  “You didn’t feed Bucky and boy does he look mad!”

Bag of peanuts in hand, I hightailed it to the front of the house coming face to face with a very arrogant grey squirrel hanging sideways on my screened door demanding to be fed.  “You know, Mister Bucky,” I remarked under my breath, “this is getting annoying and you are destroying that screened door.”  “If you could just learn a little more patience, you’ll have your peanuts, my friend.”  I pushed him off the door, opened it and threw a handful of peanuts onto the front concrete porch.  Bucky dug in while Patrick and I went back inside to think about our own evening meal.

It was late Spring and I had been spending more and more time in the back yard trying my hardest to make my brown thumb turn green.  I planted flowers and put in a vegetable garden.  Patrick was the real gardener in the family; that boy definitely had a way not just with animals but with all of nature.  He always laughed at my pitiful attempts and then he would turn my sad plantings into garden art.

Patrick had set up bird feeders in our back yard, a bird bath and some concrete statuary.   I passed up the sale on gazing balls at the garden center and I stopped short of spray painting an old tire to use as a flower garden much to the appreciation of Patrick who would have been mortified had his mom made a flower garden using an old truck tire. Plastic pink flamingos were not allowed either. Patrick kept everything looking neat and  regularly swept the cobblestone patio of left-over peanut shells from Bucky. He wanted to construct some type of squirrel house, but I convinced Patrick that squirrels made their nests high up in trees.

I love nature and taught Patrick to respect all creatures.  But I didn’t mean for him to be quite that friendly with squirrels – they are still wild animals and carry diseases and fleas. Yet, I would glance out the kitchen window only to see Bucky and Patrick sitting on the stone bench and sure enough, Bucky would be eating peanuts right from Patrick’s hand.  This concerned me as I certainly didn’t want to have to take my son to the hospital for something horrid like rabies shots.  “Aw, Mom,” “they’re really kind and they won’t bite,” Patrick would reassure me.

What bothered me lately were the numbers of blue jays suddenly appearing. This was the first year I had noticed so many.  I confess I had a particular dislike of blue jays.  They never just grabbed a peanut and flew away; no, they seemed to take delight in tormenting the squirrels first, often pecking at them.  Blue jays were such aggressive birds. Usually when this happened, I would dash out to the back yard and shoo them away then watch as the squirrels would return to the patio scrambling for what nuts were left.

One Saturday I heard a tremendous ruckus coming from the back yard.  It sounded like another raid on the squirrels by the blue jays but this time there was more to it.  Seems my dear son had taken his target pistol out back and was shooting at the birds to keep them away from the squirrels.

“Patrick, stop it!” I hollered out the back door.  “You can’t shoot that thing in a residential area – you know better.”

“But, mom, there were blue jays everywhere and the squirrels were really getting dive bombed – it was so unfair I just thought maybe I could scare them away. ”

“I’m sure the squirrels appreciate your efforts, but that’s part of Nature, son, the squirrels will have to learn to run faster.”

Patrick took his target pistol back to his room and put it in the closet where it belonged and no more was said about the incident.   I was just happy no police knocked on the door as I was sure old Mrs. Johnston next door would immediately be on the phone complaining to the local cops about the noise.

The next day being Sunday was my day to sleep in. Later Patrick and I would go to the local pancake house and have breakfast; that boy could put away the pancakes.  For some reason, I couldn’t stay asleep and awoke around 8 a.m.  I rolled over and tried to shut my eyes but something was bothering me; an uneasy feeling I couldn’t put my finger on.  I got up, went into the bathroom, splashed some water on my face and slipped on my bathrobe.  I crept down the hallway and peeked in Patrick’s room – he was still sleeping peacefully.  Why did I feel so edgy?

I padded into the kitchen in my favorite silly bunny slippers and headed for the coffee pot.  As I went to fill the pitcher I happened to glance out the kitchen window and stopped dead in my tracks.  The pitcher slipped from my hand and made a terrible racket as it crashed to the floor, breaking into tiny pieces scattering every which way.

The back yard looked like something out of a bad war movie.  There were feathers and fur everywhere.  I kept blinking my eyes thinking maybe I shouldn’t have had that extra glass of wine last evening.  But each time I opened my eyes, I saw the same horror – there had been some type of skirmish and the remains were all over my patio and my back yard along with Patrick’s target pistol.

I must have screamed or it was the sound of the shattering pitcher, but within moments Patrick was by my side.  I tried to move him away so he wouldn’t see the bizarre tableaux in our back yard, but he wouldn’t budge.  I started to shiver a bit and I found Patrick’s arm going around my shoulders.  Wait a minute…I am the mom around here…I should be comforting him.  These were the animals Patrick loved to sit and feed.  Why did he not seem upset?  What was going on here?

Patrick took my hand and walked me to the kitchen door. He opened the door and we both walked outside, down the steps to the cobblestone patio.  It was deathly still as he led me to the grey stone bench.  I looked around and noticed squirrels slowly coming into the yard from behind bushes and trees, squirrels climbing down branches of the oak tree, squirrels coming through the opening in the fence between our yard and old Mrs. Johnston’s.  I was stunned at the sheer amount of squirrels amassing all around us.  I was becoming frightened but Patrick just held my hand and sat quietly until no more squirrels could fit into our yard.  At the front of the group was the little grey squirrel I knew as Bucky.

Bucky quietly crept forward closest to Patrick and me.  Standing on his hind legs he looked up at me.  He opened his little squirrel mouth and spoke.

“Please don’t be frightened, Mrs. James. We aren’t who you think we are and you were never meant to see this.  I truly appreciate all the peanuts and I am sorry for what has to happen now.”

I looked over at my son who just smiled and turned to Bucky.  “It’s alright, Bucky,” Patrick said in a quiet voice.  “She can be replaced.”

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The Purpose-Driven Accident

Posted in guardian angels, Life, short stories, Writing, tagged , on January 25, 2010| 4 Comments »

I should have died that night.  Sometimes life takes a strange spin and events happen that turn out different than one imagines.  Think of an old gnarled tree with lots of branches and each branch is a decision you can make or a path you can take in your life.  The night of my accident, I was decidedly on the wrong branch and I could almost hear the creaking of the wood as it started to splinter.

All I wanted was a pack of cigarettes.  Sure it was late, I’d had a few glasses of White Zin and whenever I drink wine I want a smoke.  Did I have any at the house?  Of course not; I had quit smoking several months prior and the craving was like voices in my head.  Anyone who has tried to quit smoking understands the voices.  They’re like two little GI Joes on your shoulders; one an angel and the other a devil and they continually argue with each other while flailing their little moveable limbs until you want to quickly duck your head while simultaneously moving both your left and right hands and smashing the everloving crap out of them.

“You know you want a cigarette.  You know you are going to get in your car and buy a pack so quit wasting time talking yourself out of it and go buy a pack of smokes,” said the little devil action figure on my left shoulder.

“No, you don’t want to buy cigarettes.  Look how long you have gone without them and I’m so proud of you,” argued the little angel action figure on my right shoulder.  Shut up!  Enough!  I rarely argued with my voices because it was easier to give in plus when I argued with them people tended to stare at me…a lot…particularly when I have these discussions in a public place.  But I was in no mood for them tonight.

Flicking off my action figures, I plucked my car keys from the key holder by the back door, dropped them on the kitchen floor, picked them up again and wobbled out to my car.  I wasn’t drunk yet, just a little buzzed, and the convenience store was just down the road a bit; that’s why it’s convenient.  Drinking always brings out the silliness in me and I really enjoyed my convenience store joke.  I was giggling like a fool as I revved up my car.

Having rained earlier, it was foggy and difficult to see the unlit country road on which I was driving entirely too fast. Just in time, I spotted the three deer as they began to cross the road right ahead of me.  I slammed on the brakes, but the road was slick from the rain.  While I thought I had successfully stopped short of the deer, in truth the car decided to keep going…sideways as it turned out…off the road and into a tree.  Yep – I was wrapped around one of those branches of my life and this one looked none too sturdy.

The last thing I remember was thanking Jesus for sending me the deer.  You see I had this thing going with Jesus.  Whenever I was feeling low about my life, Jesus would send me a deer or two or three and just the sight of them would cheer me up and reassure me that He was there and I wasn’t alone.  I know…I’m probably certifiable in your eyes, but it only matters to me and Jesus – and we know who sends those deer.  I often wonder if the deer get a message from Jesus prior to appearing before me, something on the order of “Hey deer, in 9 minutes I want you to be crossing Oxbow Road because one of my children will drive by and she needs to see you – I promised her a visit soon.”  Note to self:  can deer tell time?  Now that was really funny and I giggled some more – a deer with a Timex.  Takes a licking and keeps on ticking – oh I was so cracking myself up.

I must have blacked out.  One minute I was driving along and the next thing I know my eyes were closed and my head and neck hurt.  I opened my eyes slowly to the sight of a huge tree branch that had come straight through my windshield just missing my head by inches.  Shards of glass were all over the seat; my chest felt like it had been welded to the steering wheel and there were at least several pints of blood running down my face. Well, maybe only one pint. Seeing that massive piece of wood within grazing distance of my right cheek scared the bejeebers out of me.  There but for the grace of God and all that.

I knew I was really in trouble when I noticed I had company in the passenger seat.  I figured I had a concussion and was hallucinating because there was no other possible reason a big reddish brown dog would be sitting in my car grinning at me. I don’t own a dog.  But there he sat and, yes, he was grinning with his pink doggie tongue sticking out the side of his mouth.

It crossed my jumbled mind that I should do something; I just wasn’t sure what to do first. I wondered about attempting something logical like groping around for my cell phone to dial 911, and as I gingerly moved around the hunk of tree to look for my phone, the dog turned to me and said, “Jesus says to tell you He doesn’t mind sending the deer but you really need to do a better job of paying attention to your driving and, oh yeah, knock off the drinking and smoking nonsense.”

“Excuse me?,” I mumbled in the general direction of the dog.  I fully realize that was a pretty lame response on my part.  I’m answering a dog that shouldn’t be there in the first place, let alone have the audacity to lecture me on my human habits.   I was fresh out of witty retorts as my head hurt and this blood thing was getting on my last nerve.  I told myself the accident had scrambled my brains and the vision of this mutt would go away as soon as the ambulance guys arrived.  Where the heck was my cell phone?

I sat there awhile longer mopping blood off my head with the edge of my Washington Redskins tee shirt.  The team shirts are burgundy so I didn’t think a little blood would hurt the shirt too much.  As I mopped up and tried not to look at my canine companion he piped up with, “You need to get out of this car. You can wipe the blood off later. And, no, the stains won’t come out of the shirt but the Redskins aren’t worthy of your adoration anyway and you should seriously consider giving your remaining Redskins apparel to charity.  For now, unhook your seatbelt, open your door, get out and quickly move away from the car.  About 15 feet should do it.”

“Yeah, right, I’m gonna take orders from some flea-ridden mangy refugee from the local pound. Why am I even answering you?”

“You will pay attention to me because I am a messenger sent to you from God and for your information, I do not have mange, or fleas, nor have I escaped from any pound. Kindly get your large human ass out of this car and I suggest you run if at all possible and quickly, as in NOW.”  Man, nothing like a chatty dog with an attitude.  He did have a good command of English vocabulary; I’d give him that.  Who am I to argue with a hallucination?  I regularly talk to two guys who sit on opposing shoulders weighing the pros and cons of most of my life decisions without any input from me.

So I undid my seatbelt, shoved the door open, sort of fell out of the car, got back up and did my best impression of stumbling away from the car – about 15 feet, just like my dog hallucination told me.  As I tripped over the underbrush and fell on the ground, I saw the mutt had kept up with me and was now leaping on top of me – ouch – what the…?  And then my car…the one that still had 27 payments left…blew up.

I looked up at the dog and wheezed out the command, “Get. Off. Me”  “You could at least say thank you,” he replied.  “After all, I did save you from at least third degree burns while singeing some of my own fur.  The least you can do is show a little appreciation.”

“Who in blue blazes are you anyway?”

“I believe I already answered that rude question…I’m here on a mission from God,” replied the dog.

“You’re on a mission from God??  Are you kidding me; that’s a bad line from The Blues Brothers and now you’re just messing with me.”

“I assure you, young woman, it’s true and by the way, I’ve read the latest postings under your name in The Book of Life and I must tell you, I fail to understand why Jesus keeps you around.  All I can think is He seems to have a soft spot where you are concerned. Hence, He not only sent the deer He sent me, too.”

Feeling in need of a drink and temporarily forgetting the cigarette situation, I started limping in the direction of my house.  Fuzzy warrior canine followed me.  I know this because I kept turning around only to find him bringing up the rear.  He made a stop or two at a few mailboxes and a fire hydrant, but by the time I was at my door, he was right there next to me ready to follow me into my house totally uninvited.

Once inside, I made a beeline for the bathroom, washed off what turned out to be only a superficial wound, relieved a very full bladder and decided a glass of wine was in order.  I opened the bathroom door and there was Mr. red-brown mutt sitting staring up at me.  Oh crap, my hallucination was still here.

“Got anything to eat?”  I seem to have worked up an appetite and I could use a snack if you don’t mind.”  Great, I not only had a talking smelly dog hallucination, now he was demanding I feed him.

Taking a different approach, I patted him on his head and asked, “What’s your name fella?”

“Jesus calls me Gabe, and stop patting me on my head.  Contrary to popular belief, that is not a pleasant sensation.”

Well, great…my car was totaled in a fiery mess down the road, my head was splitting and I had a dog following me around claiming to be Jesus’ pet.  What next?  Trumpets blowing?  A burning bush perhaps?

Wine, I needed wine.  As I went in search of a new bottle, Gabe followed me into the kitchen, his doggie nails clicking annoyingly on my tile floor.  “Would you please just go away and leave me in peace?”

“Nope, Jesus sent me here specifically to have a talk with you about the direction your life is taking.  And calm down; I’m not really a dog, I’m an angel.  God simply felt you would respond better to a dog than a strange human.  He knows you have a warm spot for animals and he likes to use what is readily available. So put down the bottle, grab a Diet Coke instead, and don’t make me ask you again – fix me a hamburger; saving humans is hard work.”

I put down the wine bottle and walked over to a corner cabinet.  “If you take out that old bag of crusty dog kibble and try to feed it to me I swear to you woman, I will bite you on the ankle.  There is hamburger in your refrigerator.  Take it out and cook it – I prefer mine medium rare.”

I did as he asked.  It was going to be a long night

Though he claimed to be an angel, Gabe acted like a typical dog.  He wolfed down two hamburgers, belched, strolled into my living room and hopped up on my couch.

“That’s better, thanks,” he said.  Now I don’t have much more time so let’s get a few things straight.   Jesus isn’t fooling around here – He specifically told me to warn you that He has other plans for you and to stop trying to thwart Him.”

“Thwart?”  You use words like ‘thwart’?”  I burst into a fit of giggles.  “I’m sorry, it’s bad enough I am actually listening to a dog claiming to be an angel named Gabe and now you say the word, ‘thwart’.  How can you possibly expect me to take you seriously?  No self-respecting dog would ever use that word.”

About that time, the light in the room changed – Gabe took on a strange ethereal glow. The best way I can describe it is to simply say he started to shimmer.  I decided maybe I should just shut up and listen to whatever this animal, angel, or apparition was trying to tell me.

“That’s better,” remarked the dog.  I only have a few minutes left.  Believe me when I say, you ARE special in His eyes, He DOES have plans for you, and you need to clean up your act and quit being a pain in His holy backside.  Capiche? “

Gabe got off the couch, went to my front door and stood there looking back at me.  I walked over to the door and opened it for him.  He strolled out to the front porch, turned around and looked up at me, “Thanks for the hamburger, I gotta pee, see ya around.”

The nurses in the Intensive Care Unit were amazed when the young woman came out of her coma.  The doctors had said there was virtually no chance she would recover.

Her first words were, “What happened?”

Holding her hand, the kindly older nurse said, “My dear you were in a horrible car accident.  Apparently you swerved to keep from hitting a dog and ran into a tree.”

“A dog?”  Did I hurt him?”  The young woman started to cry at the thought of killing a child’s favored pet.

“No dear, the dog is fine.  He was wearing a collar and a tag with the name “Gabriel.”  The police called the number on the dog tag and a nice man came and took the dog home.  Now, you just relax and I’ll get the doctor.  We’re so happy to have you back with us.”

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Poor Al

Posted in creative writing, guardian angels, short stories, tagged , , on January 2, 2010| 3 Comments »

It had been a long day at the office, and Al was tired and testy.  Spending most of his week working hard on a project only to be told by his boss, “I’ve decided to take this in another direction, Al, and I’m handing it over to Larry,” he was feeling like Charlie Brown as Lucy pulls the football out from under him yet again. Deflated; yes, that was the perfect word to describe Al; deflated.  Worthless.  Unimportant to anyone.

As he put his DayTimer and other items into his briefcase and reached for his jacket, he wondered what he was doing.  He wasn’t happy.  He wasn’t fulfilled.  There was no sign of promotion in his future, no matter how hard he worked or how often he volunteered for overtime.  His boss didn’t like him.  Al’s co-workers mumbled under their breath at staff meetings and snickered behind their hands whenever Al piped up with an idea on a project. He had no friends; no respect.  He wasn’t important in the scheme of things.  He could disappear and no one would notice.

Al was beginning to think he had a dead-end life, too.  Nothing he did mattered.  His wife had her charity work and was busy with her causes.  Al’s kids were rarely home and when they were, their ears were plugged into an iPod or their eyes tuned to the latest video game. His daughter’s cell phone bill was killing him, but the one time he brought it up, she didn’t speak to him for a week.  His wife said all teenagers were like that and not to take it personally. Poor Al. Doomed to a ho-hum existence, at the bottom of the food chain;  that was his life.

Buckling his seatbelt, Al slid in a light jazz CD for the drive home to suburbia and wondered if tonight was a Committee Night for his wife and what was in the freezer he could microwave.  He drove down the highway, not letting his speed creep up more than five miles over the posted speed limit. His cell phone was ringing.  “Crap, stupid phone is in my suit coat pocket; guess it’ll go to voicemail and I’ll check it first thing when I get home.  Sure hope it’s not the boss calling.”

At Exit 17 off the highway Al suddenly turned right onto the exit ramp and up to the stoplight at Marshall Hall Road.  “Now why did I do this?” he thought. “I always get off at the next exit.  This is a longer way home and the traffic will probably be backed up.”  He settled in for the scenic route and drove on toward his house a few miles further.

Al was right about the local traffic.  Every stoplight at every intersection on this route turned red as he approached.  “This is taking forever,” he mumbled as he changed out CDs.  Thinking how nice a double shot of bourbon and putting his feet up in front of the tv would be, Al sped up just a bit and finally turned into his street.

Parking in the driveway, Al climbed wearily out of his car, briefcase in one hand, suit jacket over his arm.  He slowly walked up the sidewalk to the front steps and opened the front door of his house.  “I’m home,” he said more to himself than anyone else.  He could hear the television blaring from the family room.  Not even the dog was there to meet him.  Poor Al.

As he quietly walked into the family room, he saw his wife and children and even the dog all gathered around the tv set.  Everyone jumped up and ran to Al.

“I’ve been calling you – where have you been – Oh dear God I’m so glad to see you,” his wife exclaimed as she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him.  “Dad!” both children cried – “Yay, you’re okay!”

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” Al questioned.

“Oh honey, we’ve been watching the news,” said his wife.  “There was a horrible accident at Exit 18 and four people were killed.  “Isn’t that the Exit you usually take to come home?”

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