© Jamie Johnson Jamie Johnson ©

Cover by Jamie Johnson, Maynard, Arkansas Silver Quill Society Best Short Fiction 2015 Contest The Euple Riney Memorial Award 3,000 words max 3,000 words max Must be postmarked by September 25, 2015 Must be postmarked by June 30, 2015 Entry fee: $5.00 (may enter as often as you wish, but entry fee must Entry fee: $5.00 (may enter as often as you wish, but entry fee must accompany each entry.) accompany each entry. 1st place: $50.00 1st place: $50.00 2nd place: $25.00 2nd place: 25.00 3rd place: $15.00 3rd place: 15.00 4th Honorable Mention: $10.00 Honorable Mention: $10.00 This is an open genre contest, but send your best and remember There will also be an editor’s choice award. the first place story will be published in The Storyteller (publication not required to win) so remember to check the regular submission Open genre, but must be about family in some way. Can be fiction guidelines at: www.thestorytellermagazine.com or non-fiction. First place only will be published in The Storyteller Include title page with title, author’s name, address, phone num- (publication not required to win). Do not send anything we would not ber and email, along with number of words. If your name appears accept for general submission. Check our guidelines at anywhere else on the manuscript, the entry will be disqualified. For www.thestorytellermagazine.com details on what the judges look for, go to Must include cover page with title, author’s name, address, phone www.thestorytellermagazine.com and click on Silver Quill Contest number and email, along with number of words. Please indicate and/or submission. whether fiction or non-fiction. Do not put name anywhere else on the manuscript or entry will be disqualified. No cover page will also be disqualified. All manuscripts must be double spaced. Please write Memorial Award on outside of envelope. PASTURES EDGE FINE ART Nancy Riney Black and white photographs Summertime Blues Poetry Contest Water colors

Up to 40 lines Must be postmarked by August 31, 2015 Entry fee: $5.00 (per 3 poems, but can enter only 1 or 2) May enter as often as you wish, but entry fee must accompany each set of poems

1st place: $25.00 2nd place: $15.00 3rd place: $10.00

All entries must have a cover page for each poem, listing the title, author’s name, address, phone number and email. Please write Po- etry Contest on outside of envelope.

Can be rhyming or non-rhyming and should be about summer, but it isn’t mandatory. 1st place winner only will be published in the maga- Pocahontas, Arkansas zine. contact: [email protected]

Send all contest entries to:

The Storyteller 2441 Washington Rd. Maynard, AR 72444 Editor’s Notes

First I’d like to apologize for the July/August/ September 2014 issue not being printed. Appar- I have just finished the April-June issue of The Storyteller, and again I ently, print material is going the way of the dino- am impressed with the content of my favorite magazine. (Three times saurs and coming up with enough money each in fact!) I enjoyed reading the children’s poetry. Some of the verses quarter is getting harder and harder to do. We are caused Cheshire cat grins to escape from what was a dull day. The going to go online only in March, where you can find it for your tab- young people that you showcased have great talent that I am sure lets, IPods, IPads, desktops, etc. We are going to do our best to stick will blossom into amazing writing skill as they get older. I was also around a while longer yet, but please encourage friends and family to heartened by your desire to grow the magazine. I am enclosing a gift purchase subscriptions and copies to help us to do that. subscription to help. Harold Perkins Please check out www.magzter.com for us. We’ll be on in the next few weeks, so please keep checking if you don’t find us the first time. Editor’s Note: Thank you so much. It is most appreciated and makes We’ve been getting some really great stories and poems and I a huge difference. know people still like short stories, so please help me get the word out that we’re still here and still accepting submissions. Attached is my sub. Please stay in business. The world needs the We know that a lot of you will not be happy about us moving good stories and poems you publish! Leonard H. Roller online, but we feel at this point, we have no choice. It’s either that, or we shut it down completely. Editor’s Note: Thank you so much, Leonard. We are trying! There is some good news attached to the online only—since we won’t have to pay for the printing and postage any longer, we will be You wrote that your spring issue of The Storyteller sold out! Con- able to pay our authors, which I know will be good news for most, if gratulations! It deserved to sell out just as your wonderful publication not all, of you. deserves all the attention it can possibly receive. The Storyteller is a Congratulations to the winners of the Euple Riney Memorial such a great help to both new and seasoned writers. Thank you for it. Award and the Summertime Blues Poetry Contests. There were Garrison Phillips some great stories and poems and I am glad it was not me having to pick out the winners. It would have been a very hard choice. Editor’s Note: It is rare that we sell out, but with help from our If you don’t see your story in the December issues as we first said, reader’s, it could be an every quarter event! Thanks! please know that it will be in the January/February/March 2015 issue. Due to September not coming out, we had to do some creative shuf- fling to make sure we still used the material we had already accepted. Any orders for the September issue will be moved to the December People’s Choice Awards issue as well and anyone ordering the December issue will have their April/May/June 2014 order moved to the March issue. Fiction Winter is coming. Find a warm, comfortable place and visit your creative world and write. 1st place: The Hobos Fairy Tale Bill Judge 2nd place Lost and Found Mary Ann Bedwell Keep writing— 3rd place Dumb Beasts Caroline Taylor

Regina Non-fiction 1st place The Trip Diane DeAnda 2nd place Easter Ken DiMaggio 3rd place Our Summer Trek Donna McGuire www.thestorytellermagazine.com Tanner www.reginarineywilliams.com Essay www.mockingbirdlanepress.com 1st place: Once Along the Way George W. Maybee 2nd place: Gratitude Anad Trebolt 3rd place: Lighten Up Dixon Hearne

Poetry

1st place: Craft For the Daft J. Michael Strong 2nd place: Alone David Steece 3rd place: Little Book Violet Whittaker

Features Katie Waechter 14 Dusty’s Column 6 C. David Hay 17 Fossil Creek Publishing Barb’s Tidbits 7 Debbie Richard 17 2441 Washington Rd. The Finish Line 72 Rick DeBaun Thomas 19 Maynard, AR 72444 Patricia R. Reed 19 Fiction Tony Walton 21 Editor/Publisher Leonard H. Roller 23 Regina Williams Natalie Hendricks 3 Michael R. Tovrea 23 Associate Editor/Assistant Bill Judge 8 Jerold Zell 24 Jamie Johnson Lori Schafer 13 Jane Sinclair 26 Jan Ball 26 Associate Editor Johnny Gunn 16 K. N. Copeland 18 Leonard R. Roller 26 Ruthan Riney Leroy Bohrer 20 Aline Zeng 28 Proofreaders Rosalie Lombardo 22 Leslie Milliken 30 Rick Jankowski Ramona Scarborough 24 Richard S. Powell 30 Articles Editor Walt Polzin 25 Celine Rose Mariotti 32 Dusty Richards Gaye Buzzo Dunn 29 K. S. Hardy 32 Art Director Adron Love 31 Maura Gage Cavell 32 Otis Lawson Linda Wowk 36 Charles Larsen 34 Associate Art Director Jeffery Stone 38 James B. Nicola 35 Nancy Riney John P. Kristofco 40 Gil Hoy 35 Carol J. Zileski 37 Lanette Kissel 44 Les Williams 49 Caryl Calsyn 39 The Storyteller is a quarterly magazine M. A. Mendoza 51 d. n. summers 42 that is published in March, June, Septem- Lisa Gray 52 E. V. Wyler 43 ber, and December. Sarah Kruel 54 Anna Sykora 43 The editor reserves the right to refuse any Henry G. Miller 56 Robert L. Martin 43 submission deemed unsuitable for the Elizabeth Standing Bear 59 Christopher Fried 43 magazine. The editor also reserves the D. Ferrara 64 William A. Hall 45 right to edit submissions for content and Karen Tesdahl 66 Walt Polzin 45 length. Watt William Dozier 46 The editor assumes no responsibility, Non-fiction Anna Sykora 46 John Schwabe 48 or liability, for plagiarism of the works Janet Goven 6 Gwen Southgate 27 Andrew Jarvis 48 herein. All writings are presumed to be the Dorothy L. Bussemer 39 Marlon Jackson 53 original work of the contributing authors. Beth Bristow 47 Rick DeBaun Thomas 53 No portion of this magazine may be Joyce Heiser 55 Melanie Eyth 54 copied in whole or in part or distributed in Daniel Leckie 58 Thomas A. Chipman 55 any form written or electronic without the Cheri Stow 57 express permission of Fossil Creek Pub- Essay Michael S. Morris 57 lishing and Regina Williams as editor. Betty J. Sayles 57 Pat Gilmore 11 Ron Flowers 61 ISSN 1523-6021 Gail Mattingly 15 Dan Edwards 61 Jane Stuart 61 Tonya Dale 33 Kelly Graham 46 Kate Duvall 63 Copyright 1996 by Regina Cook Wil- Loren Stephens 62 Leonard Henry Scott 63 liams. All inquiries should be addressed to Marty Carlock 68 William T. Guest 65 The Storyteller, 2441 Washington Rd., Spenser Ryan Jennings 65 Maynard, AR 72444. Poetry John R. Kristofco 67 Subscription Rates: $24.00 1/yr US, Conrad Gurtatowski 67 $28.00 1/yr Canada & foreign. Sample Rick DeBaun Thomas 3 Lauren Leonard 67 copy $8.00 US, $10.00 Canada & For- Rhiammon Pelletier 5 Maura Gage Cavell 68 eign. Ginger Peters 5 Vern Miller 68 The Storyteller is funded solely by the Paul Smith 5 Gina R. Daniel 69 Lela Merrrell-Savage 69 contributions of its subscribers, without Eugene R. Gryniewicz 7 James Horne 10 whose support this publication would not C. L Perry 10 Bunny D. E. Smith Inside back page be possible. James McKee 12 Richard King Perkins II 12 Linda Hudson-Hoagland 12 Nancy L. Dahl 12 Sean Lause 14 Kay Martin 14

The Storyteller ©

October/November/December 2014 Recognized by Harvard University Volume 19, Issue 4

The Colors of Life Natalie Hendricks

My name is Jemma. I don’t know who I am or I never can see the face clearly, but I do In this issue: how I died. When I happen to catch my re- see colors. Both children have golden hair. flection, I see only a shadow. All I know is The soft carpet is sky blue. The walls are Dusty Richards 6 what I see. Different events pass by in which I painted creamy white. The toys are all the Barb’s Tidbits 7 am merely an observer. I cannot interact with colors of the rainbow. The toys perk my inter- the people there or even hear what they are est the most. The tower of colored rings, the The Finish Line 72 saying. The events coincide with the days of small stuffed cat, and the rocking horse are the week. They’re always the same. I have all so magical. They light up the room with the seen them all many times but each time is glow they bring to the children’s faces. different somehow. Just when I think I know Tuesday starts with the first day of school. what to expect, another thing comes to my The boy is frightened. He hesitates to leave attention. the car and refuses help from his mother. It starts on Sunday. That is the day I see Then the girl comes to him. She extends her birth. It’s always the same scene. There’s a hand and smiles softly at him. He takes her hospital, lit up in the late of night. The floors hand and exits the car. They enter the class and walls are all white. The only other colors I together, hand in hand. see are the aqua scrubs worn by the doctors. The classroom has more colors than any Red and Brown Nurses scurry around in their pink scrubs to other room I see. The whiteboard is deco- help doctors with their patients. rated with orange, red, yellow, and brown Red and brown have turned to gray I travel through, invisible as a ghost. I al- leaves to resemble fall. The walls are covered From the wear of many years ways stop at one particular room, where a with playful designs of animals and charac- The depth of all the pain we’ve lived woman is preparing to give birth. Her belly is ters made to look like school supplies. Each Is present in our tears. extended high and her face full of pain. Her desk has a name tag on it with the names golden hair is wet with sweat. Her hands are handwritten on them. In the left-hand corner The passing of a thousand joys clenched into tight fists. The nurses assist her there’s a rug, colored red, yellow, and blue. Too numerous to mention however they can in making the process eas- The boy sits at the desk next to the girl. Shared with a single word ier. Twenty-three other children enter and sit all Two objects of affection. The doctor enters and nods his head. The around them. The teacher steps in front of woman spreads her legs wide and holds her Ithe class. Her face is soft and delicate. Her So effortless to pass these days breath for a few seconds. Her mouth opens hair floats down her shoulders like a choco- Together for so long wide in what I presume is a scream. Her face late cloud. Each child stares at her with won- The value lies in thankfulness turns red while she pushes with all her might. der when she begins teaching. The way we share this song. The doctor encourages her, hands ready to When school is done, the children go deliver the baby. All goes quiet when the child home together. They both go into the same So close we seem to live as one emerges. It’s a healthy baby boy. room they played in as toddlers. The carpet I see things through her eyes Sunday ends and Monday begins. The isn’t as soft and the walls are smudged with And she the stuff of angels baby boy has grown into a toddler. He wan- black marks. The toys are all still there. The Loves me through my lies. ders around the living room with soft carpet children gravitate to them and begin the play. ready to cushion any tumbles he takes. There The boy gets on the rocking horse while the I don’t believe in happy endings is a bin filled with toys. The child proceeds to girl cuddles the stuffed cat. I know someday we’ll part empty it all over the floor. The mother with I like to imagine what their game involves. But I have lived the best of life golden hair enters the room holding another The boy raises his arm like he has a lasso. The sharing of one heart. child in her arms. She sets the little girl down His twirls the imaginary rope and pretends to to play. Instantly the children engage in their throw it. The girl acts like it has caught her playtime. There are no barriers between around her arms. He pulls her toward him Rick DeBaun Thomas them. They understand each other and re- and hoists her up onto the horse. The boy Wyoming, MI spond to things in the same way. The Storyteller 4 starts rocking the horse again and together they pretend to ride off to sports car. He puts on his hat and goes to his car with the red and new places. blue lights on top. Wednesday is a whole new experience. The boy is now grown tall, Saturday is the day I hate to see. The boy, not a man, stands but lanky. He runs down the stairs and skips the last three. His alone in a black suit. His eyes are red and puffy at the edges. The mother hands him a brown sack while he awkwardly pulls on his wind blows his golden hair from his forehead. In front of him there is a backpack. Her golden hair now shows a few silver strands. He heads gathering of people. Like him they are wearing black. They are all out the door to where the girl is waiting for him. She is staring at her standing in front of a coffin that is being lowered into the ground. The watch, looking very annoyed, while playing with her curled hair. She’s mother goes to the boy with tears falling from her chin. Her purely wearing a green blouse with dark blue jeans. Her golden hair spar- silver hair escapes from its bun in places. He grabs her in a tight em- kles in the sunlight. The boy runs out to meet her with a guilty grin on brace and together they cry. I never understand this. Who is in that his face. She glares at him and they head off to school. coffin being lowered into the ground? Where is the girl who normally This school is different from the first one. It’s darker and hardly stays so close to the boy’s side? any fun is in sight. The colors are all gray. The carpet isn’t soft. It’s I have seen this too many times. This time I choose to look away. rugged and always appears dirty. The teachers aren’t soft, they are By doing so, I see my reflection in the window of the black hearse strict. I see the faces of the students drop when the teachers begin that just delivered the coffin. Everything becomes clear. I see a beau- their lectures. At the end of the class, the students look even less tiful woman with lush golden hair that falls past her shoulders. She pleased when they are handed papers that are their homework. looks just like the boy, so much that she could be his sister. I look Despite what looks to be torture, the teens seem to be happy. back at him and he looks directly at me. Shocked, I turn to see if When all the classes are done, they head home together, laughing there is someone behind me, but there isn’t. and smiling the whole way. When they get to the house, the colors The scene melts away into a pure white cloud. His black suit also are different. The carpet is brown and flat. The walls are tan. The toys turns white as he approaches me. I’m too shocked to move. This has are gone. The teens don’t appear troubled by this. They head straight never happened before. He smiles when he’s in front of me. His hair to the beige couch and turn on the television. sparkles in the white light. This is where the colors return. The shows they watch are full of “Jemma,” says the boy. life and adventure. They are glued to it as am I. The hero of this show I have never heard him speak, but I know his voice. I stare at his is a burly man with strong shoulders. The heroine is a lively lady with face, and it becomes clearer. Suddenly, I feel like I know him more long blond hair and brown eyes. They travel through scenes filled than just from watching him. with all sorts of colors. There is blue in the skies with white puffy “James?” I ask, not sure how that name comes to mind. clouds. The sun leaves a golden glow on everything it touches. When “Finally,” James says. He looks up to the heavens with a face full it is nighttime, the moon leaves silver light on the quiet setting. of relief. “I have been waiting for you to remember, showing you what Thursday always makes me sad. It is the day the children grow I could to bring it back to you,” up. The mother’s golden hair is now almost completely silver. Wrin- “Why go through so much trouble?” I ask. kles have formed on her face. Laugh lines crease again when she “I wanted you to remember our life together,” he explains. He smiles at the boy. He’s getting into a blue SUV with the girl. Together points behind him to a cloud where the Sunday scene is showing they wave goodbye. The mother smiles through her tears, looking again. This time I see past his birth, exactly one minute past another strong for the children. This part confuses me. Where are the children baby is born. It’s a baby girl. going? Why is it so sad? I wish I could hear what they say but I never “We’re twins,” I gasp. can. I can only see what they do. “Yes, brother and sister,” James says. “We were always together The car pulls away. It leaves the house that once had soft blue since our birth.” carpet and creamy white walls. The house that now has flat brown “But I died.” carpet and tan walls. The house the children played together in. The “You did, and so did I. All people die eventually when their time place they call home. The horizon turns orange and red behind the comes.” car as they drive away. The mother watches until the blue car can no He turns again and points to a softly white staircase. I look up and longer be seen. She then returns indoors. suddenly feel afraid. He puts his hand out to me and gives me a soft Friday shows the boy grown up. His golden hair is thick on his smile. “It’s okay to be afraid of what’s new to you,” he says. head. His body is no longer lanky. He’s tall and muscular, traits that I realize that I once said the same thing to him on our first day of help him in his profession. I see him wearing a uniform with a badge school. “Will you be with me?” I ask. on his hip. The uniform is blue with a sharp looking hat. He drives a “As long as you are with me,” he replies. car with red and blue lights. He helps people, by saving their lives, by I take his hand and together we go up the stairs. Together we are giving protection or just assurance. set free. He meets with the girl at a coffee shop. She too has grown up. Ms. Hendricks lives in Layton, Ohio. Her hair is like his, golden and thick, falling past her shoulders with lush volume. I always think the same thing. Who is this beautiful woman? Why is she always there with this boy? They talk together, and of course, I cannot hear what they say. She laughs when his cheeks turn red with embarrassment. He hugs her and kisses her cheek. She hugs him back before leaving the table to go to her red The Storyteller 5 All I couldn't say Strip Mall

This evening is dwindling away, First we asked ourselves the sun will soon peak over the horizon with the promise of day. ‘Do we need this?’ I think of tomorrow and I come undone, As a construction crew attacked realizing our time together quickly slips to none. The vacant lot at Dempster & Bronx Northwest corner I cling to the twilight. It’s as blue as the sweater you wear There was no answer that smells of Old Spice and you, so I cling to that too. A crew in unmarked, unnamed trucks We’re as infinite as the twinkling sky, I swear. Cleared the land, poured a slab I will stay until the last second is through. Put up a sign, followed by masonry Erected metal studs We’re here right now and, like me, the seconds are falling Hung dry-wall against the morning’s obligations I’ve fervidly stalling. Shut off everything from view This single embrace, I could ask for no more, And then there was a strip mall every ounce of you, I realize, is what I’ve come to adore. ‘Why?’ we asked, If there was already an empty one across the street I yearn to tell you all of these things Southwest corner but I can’t bring myself to be so true. This one would be different You might take off and discover your mighty wings Did we need: and I’d be left to start anew Modern Massage Therapy As you release me I wonder if you can see it in my eyes. CASH FOR GOLD Does with withholding of words make thoughts lies? Cynthia’s Nails Here you have it, all the things I couldn’t say, Paint ‘n Party so instead I say goodbye and drive away. We admired the variety Rhiannon Pelletier But the sameness got us Raymond, ME None of this was necessary Not for us We watched In two months there was a New sign, indicating a ‘Renovation’ We were reminded of the Reformation in Europe Maybe by the bold face type The hopefulness Smile That the past would be swept away And the world along Dempster St. would be changed

A smile makes everything brighter, But it wasn’t a smile makes a heavy load lighter. There were vacancies A smile sends good wishes to all, And we imagined lawyers & accountants a smiles makes everyone feel ten feet tall. Fighting over the meanings of things

In contracts that didn’t matter Ginger Peters Because when you’re broke Santa Fe, NM All that counts is

You’re broke

And then another crew arrived

In unmarked trucks

Now both strip malls

Stare at each other

From each side of Dempster

Like twins

Not even asking questions

Anymore Paul Smith Skokie, IL The Storyteller 6

Dusty’s Column Roses At Work Dusty Richards Janet Goven

This business of a new e magazine all began last spring when I “Janet, please take this note down to Lois in the business office,” met for lunch with Greg Camp and Casey Cowen in Fayetteville, Ar- my boss told me that day. It was right before lunch break, and the kansas, at the Atlantic Bread Company to discuss a plan to promote other girls had just gone down to lunch. I asked them to pick up western books. I felt we needed a western magazine to first attract something for me. The business office was right around the corner the people who read western books. I suggested we have some short from the cafeteria, so I wondered why Lois asked me to go. I as- stories, and historical articles about the west. We decided it would be sumed she had missed them, so she had no choice but to ask me. I an e magazine, you could get for free online. We will begin to feature didn’t know that Lois had called up to our department and requested the new books available by western authors as they come out. my presence. Little did I know what I was walking into. We pay our contributing writers with a full-page ad about their When I got to the office, the girls who worked in there were all books in the magazine. That is a good place to start and help western standing around the desk, the desk that had a large vase with a writers meet the people who buy their books. I set out to find western dozen roses on it, tied up with a big, pink bow and my name printed writers to send me the material. Some great writers came forward, on the card. I just stood there in shock and surprise of the moment. I and we presented a fine first edition out online by mid-September. All couldn’t believe it! you need to do is type in www.saddlebagdispatches.com and you will “Is it your birthday, your anniversary, what is it?” They were all find it. asking at the same time. What do I need? A well-written short story about the west.have no “No, it’s none of those,” I replied. “No special occasion.” time limit from the mountain men to modern ranchers. Writers asked Ah, but now it was a special occasion. He made it a special day. how long? I don’t have to pay postage, so write it—a few pages or a One of the happiest, special days of my life. He did this to tell me and novella. I am using some novellas right now as serialized. One is Rod the world where I worked, just how much he loved me. Because he Miller’s story about a modern day murder of a rodeo bucking horse. knew what I was going through each day. It was right in the middle of My story is a serial about a cowboy out of work and goes in a general winter, shortly after the Christmas holiday, when we all go through store for matches while it’s being robbed—there is a shoot out, and periods of feeling blue, depressed, or just plain stressed. We feel like the story spills forth. we are losing the battle, even though we know it will be all right I have some nice stories about people and their lives on the fron- again. But this was now, and now was when I was in need. tier. They make interesting reading because each is a private viewing I will never forget how I felt when I told them that the roses were of their lives. Read it and if you have something you feel will do that from and there was no special reason for sending them. The card ship it to me—[email protected]. All I can do is say no or yes. simply read, “Because you are always there for me. Love, Nick.” Many readers are little shocked at our quality. Mind you, if it had I had to carry those roses all around the workplace to get back to come from me it would have been printed on a hand-cranked mimeo- my department. Many people asked me who the roses were for, graph. First, Greg Camp is a college professor and a highly regarded since they thought I was delivering them. book editor who does the editing, plus he is a great western novelist. “They are for me,” I told them. He’s solid and has a good head to have on my side. Then, Casey I brought them home that evening and put them on the kitchen Cowen is a master with setup. You will see it the minute you open the table. Oh, they were so beautiful. Their fragrance permeated the air magazine. This man is a very thorough craftsmen at assembling a for days, a constant reminder of the love that sent them. How happy I professional style and setup for the magazine. was to receive them meant so much to Nick. I must never forget that Future plans include a file for western writers to list their books. So look on his face, the tenderness in the tears that escaped from his if you like one author’s book you will be able to go in and find his eyes as he sat there listening to me tell him how it affected me at books and where to get them. work. He thought I would not be happy about him sending them at all, That is in the future, but we will start assembling that list in De- let alone to work. I told him he made it one of the happiest days of my cember. I have to say, I personally was very impressed with our first life. edition. The job my partners did with my contributions are enormous. It was not a special occasion for us, but he made it a special occa- Tell your western reading friends how to get it—they will thank you. sion for me. Everyone should experience this feeling, have this Until we meet on these pages again have a great holiday and a chance to enjoy a “once in a lifetime” day. I will be forever grateful prosperous New Year. God bless and keep you, your family and all that I did. America. Ms. Goven lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Dusty Richards

The Storyteller 7

BarB’s tiDBits Barbara Mims Deming has been writing since a child in that mul- Barbara Mims Deming berry tree. She’s published four books that are available online: The Quiltmaker, a collection of short stories; Growing Up Barefoot in the

South, a collection of short stories, Pink Poodle Pie and Other Stories Everyone Needs Room to Grow of How Women Get Even a collection of short stories. Her first novel, Aunt Lutie’s Blue Moon Café, is a mystery set in 1960’s Texas. Ms. All my life, everywhere I’ve lived, I’ve sought out a place to call my Deming lives in California, where she continues to write. own, a spot to write or daydream in peace. As a ten-year-old, that place was in the upper limbs of a mulberry tree, hidden behind the Check out Barbara atwww.barbaramimsdeming.comyou will find large leaves, insulated from Mama’s call to chores. There weren’t too what's happening with Aunt Lutie's Blue Moon Cafe. many places to hide and write/read when you had younger siblings poking around, but I certainly tried. Aunt Lutie and Harts Corner characters are talkin' to you athttp:// Once I threw an old chenille bedspread over a short length of auntlutie.blogspot.com. clothesline used for drying hand washing on our screened-in front porch. I staked that as my territory, and kids were forbidden to ven- Barbs Write Tree blog coming soon! ture in. I had a stack of books, my Red Chief Tablet, a couple of pen- cils sharpened by Daddy’s trusty pocket knife, and I was sure I’d have privacy to begin my first novel. That lasted about two hours. Between Mama’s calls to help out with lunch and a little brother I couldn’t say no to for a pull in his red wagon, I was out of my writing “room.” Years later, I wrote in the bathroom and hid my notebook beneath the stack of towels in the linen closet; my first husband thought writ- ing was a waste of good time when I could be working at some- thing—preferably cooking or mowing the large lawn he never seemed to find time to tend. During those times, I also wrote on my lunch hour, writing material tucked beneath the driver’s seat when not in the storyteller use. As a single mother, when I found the time from job, running teen- i kneel at your feet; i listen agers to sporting events, and making a small apartment as cozy as to your stories until i am old extra pennies would allow, I wrote in the car, in my bedroom late at enough to tell them as though night, and sitting beneath a tree outside the Los Angeles City Library. they were mine to tell… No matter where I have rested my head at night, somehow I fit in that safe place where I could find time to write—or dream. until i am old enough to share them For many years, my dear husband has made sure I have had a with children who grow old, telling them place of my own to write. He’s built in entire offices in most homes to other children...who grow older… we’ve had and it paid off in hundreds of articles, short stories. and listening to children poetry being published. These sanctuaries have allowed me the op- portunity to clutter up desks, tops of file cabinets, and the floor with telling stories. reference material, folders to be filed eventually, and the blessing of i am old enough, now, to know closing the door on the mess when visitors arrive. And, yet, I cannot i will never be old enough. I can only hope, tell a lie. All of the progress I made with writing was never done solely one day, to be a story myself a child will want to tell. in those wonderful offices.

I still find cubby holes and living room chairs to squeeze into with Eugene R. Gryniewicz pen and paper. I take my laptop out to the front porch, or onto the Tinley Park, IL patio table. I’ve been known to retire to the bedroom, drag a chair up to the side of the bed where I prop my feet up and, writing board on lap, compose a first draft of a creative writing lesson, essay, or poem. Sometimes I drive over to Starbucks, order a pumpkin spice latte, and utilize their outside tables for a writing space. The gist of this story, at least for me, is that no matter how large or small the home I’ve lived in, what emotional upheaval has gone on around me, how many responsibilities I’ve had to others, there has always been room somewhere to chase after this passion for writing that gripped me over sixty years ago. If you cherish a dream, you can find the time and place to nourish it . The Storyteller 8

One Worse Than the Other “Don’t you dare be a crybaby now, you worthless bug! You just get out of here!” Bill Judge It only made him cry some more. Then. And now. 1st Place Winner of The euple Riney Memorial Struggling to hold back his tears, he rubbed his eyes with the back Award Contest of his wrist, down across his mouth and tasted the salt. Maybe he was worthless as he gazed at his hands. Approaching the Little River Bridge, still almost a mile ahead, Dr. Orange and white barrels, stacked in a line to his left, re-directed Easton tapped the brakes, well aware how black ice could form a the traffic across his east bound section. The highway department deadly skin over the exposed concrete and steel structure. Not so had split the two-wide into a pair of two narrow lanes. Snapping his odd, he thought to himself, that the image of skin came to mind, con- thoughts into place, he saw how the concrete dividers were similar to sidering how many times he had sliced a scalpel through it. what he needed to do with the surgery. Separate the atrial and ven- Orange cones, black and white signs, and yellowish flashers tricular sections of the heart so the blood, the traffic, would flow warned him of the work ahead. On his way to an early surgery, he smoothly past each other as long as the walls would hold. As long as lightly gripped the steering wheel of his Lexus with lambskin gloves he could hold it all together. He could do this, he told himself. He and then eased his foot off the gas. He had to be careful. A child with could do it—he had to do it, at least one more time. Sixty-five years a hole in her heart depended on him. ago this day, she’d tossed him like garbage to the street. Maybe he A hole in her heart. He knew better than to call it that. The medical could do this. term was AVSD—atrioventricular septal defect. Her heart pumped The previous evening, he had visited Olivia and her parents in the but the blood just shmooshed through the cardiac muscle without pediatric cardiac care ward. much hope of going further. Most ASD or VSD cases were not life “Doctor, if anything should happen, I don’t know what we would threatening. In fact, most hearts functioned normally after the first do,” Mr. Grayson twisted his hands together as his wife laid her head year, but Olivia’s condition was so bad that she could not live without on his shoulder. “I don’t think we could live without her.” Separated all the devices that crowded her crib at the hospital. from the baby by a wall of glass, they were both fixated on Olivia. The Fully aware of the danger of the surgery, trepidation seeped baby was only a few weeks old. through his fingers as he navigated through the temporary bends of How could they feel so much, he thought to himself. He had three the road, and he tried to will his hands to be calm. Lately, they had years with his own mother and, at the end, she felt nothing for him. betrayed him. With much more confidence than he really had, Easton replied, Just then, like a spider web, a barely noticeable tremor tingled in “There’s nothing to be worried about. She’ll do fine. I’ll have the best his right hand, and he dropped his head. Could it be palsy? Could it team of doctors assisting me.” Like a destitute actor assuming the be Parkinson’s? He had denied it before because he knew all the role of a king, he locked his eyes on Grayson to project the upmost ramifications. Maybe he didn’t have it. Maybe it was stress-related. assurance. The father nodded and swallowed his doubts. While he’d Maybe it would go away. But he shouldn’t do the surgery. It was too fooled the father, Easton wasn’t kidding himself. Anything could hap- delicate, too intense, and too risky for him, and for her. But there pen. Feeling a twitch in his fingers, he crossed his arms. Oh God. were only two surgeons and he didn’t want to risk transferring the Mr. Grayson raised his hand and traced his fingers on the window baby to a big city hospital. And, with a shudder at another thought, looking over his baby’s bed. “Thank you, doctor. She’s everything to what if he couldn’t do surgery any longer, what would he do? us.” Straining against the flutter in his fingers in a personal battle of life How different that was from the day he stood before the green and death and purpose, Easton felt the words, “Physician, heal thy- doors. Stupidly staring at the glossy paint, he felt his mother reach self,” settle in his chest next to his own heart. He coughed at the con- over him, grab the brass handle and pull the door open. With her gestion of fear and inadequacy that crept in on him and, with a deep knee, she rammed him in the back and pushed him forward. Easton breath, reflexively glanced at the digital clock below the dashboard. remembered looking over his shoulder as an old newspaper blew 5:05 a.m. That’s better. He breathed again. He had time. Maybe he down the sidewalk. Even at three, he realized he was like the pa- could loosen up. The wipers flip-flopped like a metronome and he let per—not as free as the wind but radically spinning out of control. his mind drift back to when he and his mother had lived in a large city The ice crunched under his tires and plinked like little bullets up north. against his windshield. The rain had changed into sleet and snow. He was just a three-year-old boy when he stumbled up the grey Fish-tailing as he hooked a right onto Hospital Way, he slowed again. limestone steps to a set of heavy green, double doors. Black iron Both hands shook a little more, and his heart sank. Making a left, grates wrapped in the windows high above his head. Although he Easton drove underneath the hospital and sat in the dark with a didn’t know the word at the time, he thought of a medieval castle. A memory from years ago. cold, forbidding fortress set back about twenty feet from the street. In When his mother pushed him through the door, he stepped into a one of her moods, when his mother swayed and said crazy things cave of complete darkness. But not a cave, an empty room. In a few after smoking her pipe, she yanked him by the collar and dragged seconds, he noticed the marble floor was just a shade lighter, and him down the street. He could feel her frigid breath on his neck, and then the walls seemed to float forward in a ghastly grey. Fear raced he knew she was taking him to the witches. Cold, scared and lonely, from the pit of his stomach to the apple in his throat, and he jumped he shivered and cried. when the heavy door finally clapped closed behind him. He knew The Storyteller 9 that his mother had not followed him. She had ‘banded him. He knew Mr. Grayson nodded. about ‘banded children from the TV and they were no good. He didn’t He tried to simplify the procedure but had to use terms like median understand exactly where he was, but he knew that this was where sternotomy, sterna retractor, heart lung machine, defibrillator, and he the witches lived. His mother had told him that. purposely didn’t mention the saw that would cut through the baby’s Abandoned, he thought, that was the word. For the longest time, chest. They nodded, and he knew they didn’t understand him. But he thought he was ‘banded. The lights flared in the garage and there was nothing he or they could do. From then on, they had to Easton made his way to the elevator, clutching his briefcase against trust him. Just like he had to trust the witches—but he didn’t. him to settle his sour stomach. As the door slid closed, he punched After cleaning up his vomit, the old witch led him to a cafeteria the eighth floor and leaned back on the wall. where at least four more witches fed a roomful of kids. Remembering He remembered doing the same thing in the blindness of the ves- the story of Hansel and Gretel, he knew the witches liked to fatten up tibule. He had moved backwards and bumped up against the door the kids before they ate them. He tried to remain alone. and then struggled to find the handle. Once he did, he couldn’t open Sliding the curtain open, Dr. Easton turned back to the parents. it. My God, the door was too heavy to move! “You can wait here, or,” he gestured,” you’ll probably be more com- “Lobby,” the elevator’s electrical voice announced and he looked fortable in the waiting room. We will send someone out when we at the panel, waiting for the doors to open for other passengers. Even know.” at six a.m., there would be others. Sure enough, an old woman with a “Thank you doctor, and God be with you.” walker and her husband entered and pressed number six. The wait- Dr. Easton shook the father’s hand and ducked out of the room. ing area. He broke out in a cold sweat with his own waiting until the God had left him a long time ago. door to eight opened and he walked across. “Okay, we’re ready,” he looked around the room at the masked “The baby’s on the floor, doctor.” team. He nodded to the nurse. “I’ll see her parents in a minute.” “Okay,” Dr. Raj replied. “Count down. Ten, nine, eight,” in mono- The lights flickered. “Oh, my God, now what?” His whole hand tone. “She’s out.” trembled as he clenched his fist. “Let’s go. Swab.” He bent over the infant. “Scalpel.” His hand did- “I think it’s the ice storm,” Dr. Rajamoorthu, the anesthesiologist, n’t shake but the strain that it might tore at him. answered in passing. A half an hour later, Dr. Easton suspected. An hour into the sur- “We don’t need this,” Easton snapped and immediately remem- gery, he knew there was a tremble. A couple of hours later, a huge bered the same words from years ago. tremble. The baby’s heart was worse than he had thought. He could- One of the witches opened a door at the end of the long room and n’t simply patch the holes. The atrioventricular canal was defective flipped a light switch. Covered in a flowing black dress, with a set of and the mitral valve wouldn’t close on its own. He couldn’t reconstruct beads hanging from her hip and some kind of white cloth around her it and it needed to be replaced. face and neck, the witch crossed the room and the three-year-old boy As he bent over the baby with a set of magnifying scopes stared wild-eyed at her. strapped to his head, the lights blinked. “Oh, no,” he groaned. “Where did you come from?” She looked around the room for “Please not now.” The lights went out. God had disappeared again. someone else. The first night in the castle, he dreamt that they both stood over a He couldn’t answer. chasm, and the witches were coming to get them. Suddenly his “No mother, no father?” mother leaped off the cliff. The witches surrounded him in their white He barely shook his head. bibs and black dresses. They wanted to eat him. With a silent “Come with me,” the witch said simply, and took his hand. He scream, he stared into the abyss after her. Squirming, he tried to wanted to run but he couldn’t. She had him in a spell. She led him to jump, but the witches held him tight. He started to hyperventilate. a room and told him to sit. He sat, positive she would turn him into a “Jesus, Dave!” Dr. Koehler, his assistant, cried out. toad. Lifting his eyes, he saw a statue of a bloody man hanging on In horror, Easton flashed his eyes at Koehler and then at the knife the wall behind. that had strayed into the heart muscle. Not enough to cause a prob- “You should be thankful the good Lord loves little children,” she lem, but close, close, close. With sweat beading on his forehead, he said as she pointed to the tortured man. The boy threw up. tried to hold his hand steady. He couldn’t lose this baby. “We don’t need this.” “Are you okay? Do you need me to take over?” Koehler reached He kept his head down. He didn’t want to look at the witch. out, and Easton eased back. “What, doctor?” “It’s just the lights,” he muttered and tightened his thumb and in- “Huh?” Easton replied to a nurse. dex finger on the handle of the scalpel. He knew he shouldn’t do that. “You said we don’t need this, what don’t we need?” His fingers needed to be loose. “Oh, nothing, never mind.” “Back ups coming on.” “Sure.” The nurse raised a brow. The brights flared up, temporarily blinding him. “Thank God,” “Where are the baby’s parents?” Koehler said. The operation lasted much longer than it should “Number three.” have. In the early afternoon, they had trouble with the cardiac electri- Easton met the Graysons one last time and explained the proce- cal firings and had to call in Dr. Morse. He thought the trouble would dure again. “We’ll put her to sleep. You met Dr. Raj, the anesthesiolo- be temporary and added an external pacemaker. gist, right?” In the early evening, he replaced the valves, patched the holes, The Storyteller 10 and sewed her with interior stitches. Now if only the muscle would A construction spotlight swooped across the bridge and seared his push. Push, damn it. They waited, and the assistant listened. eyes. The lights of heaven! He turned to see her. But his shaky “Regurgitation,” Koehler said without emotion. hands betrayed him as they slipped on the steering wheel and he “Bad?” swerved to the left, not right, away from his mother. He hit a barrel of “Bad enough.” water, another barrel and then a wall of sandbags and then bam! The Damn, it might be that nick of his knife. How could he screw up airbag burst and knocked him out. like that? He had to go in again. To hide his shaking, he stripped off As an RN peeked into recovery, Mrs. Grayson asked, “Will Dr. his bloody gloves and asked for a new pair. That gave him a second Easton stop by?” to loosen his fingers. Raj voiced concern about the amount of anes- “Pardon me?” thesia. Maybe the infant could take two more hours. “Dr. Easton, will he stop by tomorrow? We want to thank him. Dr. Feeling the tick of the clock, Easton stepped forward. It had to be Koehler said he was brilliant.” one of the patches. It had to be. It couldn’t be the nick. It had to be “Didn’t you hear? I’m sorry. Dr. Easton is in the hospital, in sur- the patch. Had to be. But it was probably both. He closed his eyes for gery. He had a terrible accident on the way home tonight. He might just a second. not make it.” Opening them again, the first witch asked him his name while the “But that can’t be! He saved our baby. He saved our family!” other witches stared at him. He had to answer. Bill Judge has won numerous awards, several in The Storyteller “David.” contests. His new book, Pick Up Your Halo, Harry, will be available “Oh, like the boy who killed Goliath?” One of them cackled. within the next few weeks. He lives in St. Charles, Missouri. He threw up again, and the witches closed around him. The entire team worked around the table, and by seven, he had stitched the infant, and the heart pumped as it should. Glancing at Translation Koehler, who said nothing, he wondered how he would explain the day to the parents. Yes, I listened, Exhausted, he pulled off his mask and turned to one of the nurses, I listened carefully; “Please tell the Graysons that we’ll be out in a moment.” He slumped I heard what the iguana said, in a chair and put his head to his hands. He had almost lost this one. of dreams, Would he lose the next one? Should there be a next one? He remem- and rocks, bered the push in the back and his life-long tumble into darkness and and skillets, loneliness. how two eyes can see individually, In time, he learned the witches names, such as Sister Mary Mar- and the pleasure of slipping sand, garet, Sister Louise, Sister Bea, and the very old Sister Edith. And, how hot the highway can be, later, he learned that they weren’t witches at all, but nuns who ran an how beautifully empty orphanage in the older section of town. And they weren’t evil. And, in the desert can feel, that, they weren’t his mother. and the pain “That was close, Dr. Easton, but you pulled through. Good work,” of shedding your skin. Koehler stopped by.

Easton smiled but he knew better. “Could you talk to them for me, James Horne Dr. Koehler?” Atlanta, TX “Sure,” he said with sympathy in his voice.

He sickened. His mother had taught him to hate sympathy. But he could imagine how he looked to the younger Koehler. A worn out old man with pasty blue skin stretched around his eyes and his hands. Sweat still dribbled down his temples. Shower “I need to get some fresh air.” He gathered his things, climbed into his car and headed out to the Thoughts tickle down highway. He was dead tired. between my palms and glass He had almost killed that baby. His hands shook the wheel and as i lean the car skidded on the ice. Gathering his wits, he steadied the Lexus. against the cold shower door With the lights flashing in his eyes, he didn’t slow for the bridge, eyes closed he didn’t slow for the bridge as the barrels tried to push him to the left the taste of soap but a chance to be free drew him to the right. To the water. cracks my lips Although nobody could pin it on him, he had almost murdered that baby. Koehler should have operated. C. L. Perry The river opened its arms to him. Eldon, MO His mother was there. He knew it. Sixty-five years ago today, she finally wanted him. All he needed was a sign. The Storyteller 11

My Ocean Heart Recently, I sailed on waves of good fortune and am berthed within Pat Gilmore sight and sound and scent of a magical stretch of Northern Califor- nia’s Pacific Coast. It is here that a recent experience was added to

my catch of the unexplainable. There was a time when I believed that I knew everything. In ex- This shoreline is treacherous and unpredictable. Although observ- change for my poverty, chastity, and obedience or I think of it now, ing tourists blithely walking at the water’s edge belies this. That is at 24/7 servitude, I was given a god suit and absolute certainty that I least until the all-too-frequent sirens of rescue vehicles override the knew how heaven and earth functioned. If a question or concern puz- ocean’s roar. Residents recognize that someone has once more dis- zled me I had many resources providing me with absolute answers. regarded the sea’s power. Heady grog indeed! However, as the hangovers increased, so did I usually walk beside the bay, which only occasionally kicks up wider and wider cracks of doubt, which riddled the hull of my belief. and acts like an ocean. This day followed savage storms of high Oh, where is that promised wisdom? Currently, I accept an old winds and rain. Irish saying that “life is stumbling along between the immensities.” The storm-ravaged beach was strewn with debris. Fragments of One current mystery for me is the strength of ocean allure. sea weed and shells filled the shore. Most amazing to me were gi- I grew up within close range of the Great Lakes and experienced gantic stalks of uprooted seaweed. Their tiny short roots showing their many beaches and lake-effect snows. Therefore, I considered clearly how they are able to wave in the sea waters. At a distance, myself cognizant of the advantages and hazards of life near large the plants are often mistaken for the heads of bobbing seals. bodies of water. I also ate fish for more Fridays than I wish to esti- This day there was no apparent tideline, which usually provided, mate but perhaps that doesn’t count. early in the day, an area of smooth walking surface, not yet disturbed In spite of this familiarity, I was completely washed away by my by successions of human, canine, and equine walkers. No children first ocean sighting. It occurred when I stopped in Florida en route to had yet dug holes or built edifices of sand. a teaching assignment in the Dominican Republic. Landing in Miami The beach seemed a metaphor for my heart. At the first sight of during an especially hot and humid August, all thoughts left my brain my familiar, but now storm-torn beach, I thought, Oh, my ravaged except wondering if I would ever breathe normally again. heart. Recently, my beloved companion Schnauzer, Skye, had died. I Walking outside was as if treading water. My vision was impaired was sinking into grief, floundering in the murky depths. by the sweat flowing from my head gear, which had inconveniently I searched the sea for comfort, not knowing how or why or if it collapsed. I gasped since my lungs were unfamiliar with extracting air would come. This day, I plodded along the shore. The waters of the from this wall of steaming humidity. Sweat wicked through my collar, bay had retreated from her storm stance but her rumblings masked the last of five layers of cotton and wool, which made up my religious the loud barks of the sea lions from their nearby rocky island. habit. I’ll spare you other details but seriously, being a model for the At first, I was alone on the beach, but quite a distance in front of then popular nun dolls was not in my future. me, walking toward the water, there appeared an old bearded man, I was the final teacher flying to the Dominican Republic that au- wearing only baggy black shorts and carrying a long-handled garden tumn because I had been assigned to a four-week glass blowing spade. I almost smiled thinking that if he were carrying a red pail, I’d course following summer school. I kid you not, but the why’s and conjecture that he was trawling his memory for past childhood pleas- wherefores of that experience are left for another time. I was con- ures. vinced that my whining about the heat of the blow torch was the uni- Our paths were perpendicular and crossed at such a distance that verse’s (I did use the “g” word) way of saying, “You ain’t seen noth- no acknowledgment or greeting was required or possible. I continued ing.” walking until a set of small paw prints set off a fresh wave of grief and The day before my flight, the local superior asked me to accom- tears. I decided to turn back and as I did, I noted that the old man pany her on a shopping trip from some final items I was to carry with was walking toward a chair set up at the edge of the beach. me. After a number of stops, the superior said, “We’ll eat at a restau- I looked toward the water to see that he had shoveled the outline rant near the ocean.” I said nothing. Nuns were forbidden to eat in of a large heart into which I could easily fit. Although the outline ap- restaurants, and the usual response to a superior’s directive, “May peared to be the width of the spade, there were no piles of disturbed God reward you Sister, didn’t seem appropriate. Great, more water! I sand in the area. I decided he had cast each spadeful of sand into thought. the surf. Nothing, except falling in love at first sight with the woman who The point of the heart was at the water’s edge where in a short captained my life for thirty-five years, approximates my emotions at time the now gentle waves would wash over it. What did it mean? that initial sighting of the Atlantic Ocean. Today I think that both fal- Why did he draw it? Why was I go affected by the sight of it? ling in love and being captivated by the ocean are universal experi- This was certainly a meaningless coincidence, happenstance, or ences. To me it appears there is infinite diversity in the details, but fluke. Or was this one more example of what I don’t know? Was the the “what” is standard. ocean revealing what she could do for my heart? I don’t know. what it My personal log demonstrates this belief as anchored in the sea of means, do you? I do know that my heart and feet were lighter as I left writing, music, and art, which all have great bounty in praise of, de- the beach. spair over, joy in, and sadness about, both love and oceans. Lately, I Ms. Gilmore writes in Bodega Bay, California. Her work has been collect evidence from the numbers of people I see stopping published in The Storyteller, Maize, Sinister Wisdom, Bellowing Ark, stopping to stare at the ocean. Even coastal cowboys in their ladder and others. topped white pickups, take pause from their wide rides to gaze. The Storyteller 12

Visit 1st Place Winner Summertime Blues Poetry Contest By now the wards are familiar to the son, The nurses kind, suffering a normal sight; DaD’s GarDen For years the mother had said her life was done: This is the day that proves her right. Perfectly straight rows of green leaves

reaching up to the bright sunshine. That they have been here twice before at least Worked by a man with rolled up sleeves Is true enough and makes no difference; whose love will forever be mine. His talk troubles her less since he has ceased

Ever to speak in the future tense. My dad irrigates each seedling

with the sweat dripping from his brow. An old man’s groans, a gurney trundling by, There could be no greater feeling Cannot sever the stillness joining them, than the joy of showing me how. Which will turn out to have been the goodbye

Neither would need to say again. To place each plant into the ground,

carefully urging it to grow The final clarities this moment gives into special things to be found Cut off, for each, a type of childhood: to feed us so we could all glow. His, that lasts as long as one parent lives,

Hers, that cradles the mind for good. He allowed no weed to creep in

to ruin his present to life. She is asleep. He quietly goes out. He kept us all happy within, The jealous world reclaims him with a pounce feeding us through all of life’s strife. Walking the crowded streets, he frets about

Her test results and bank accounts, His garden was a sight to see.

His love poured into the green plants. But not how soon she will have her relief Dad’s love that was given and free. From the slow grind of pain against despair, He tried to fill our needs and wants. Nor why loss will be but the edge of grief

After it happens without him there. His garden was a sign that we

would never go hungry and cry. James McKee He gave his heart and soul, you see, Long Island City, NY to feed us, and we all knew why.

Linda Hudson-Hoagland

North Tazewell, VA

If My Daughter is a Garden To All

I say to you— Living each day draws us if my daughter is a garden one more step to God. then I am all pumpkin How great is that, to see and watermelon our family and friends once again and a bit of scarecrow, If you’re not boxed into one faith for the soil that’s okay. which becomes her God belongs to all of us is half my soul. whatever you name the ONE

it belongs to all— Richard Kind Perkins II find this...and you will find… Crystal Lake, IL peace within…

Nancy L. Dahl

Ypsilanti, M

The Storyteller 13

The Long Walk Home The loveliness of afternoon was rapidly fading, and she sighed, Lori Schafer already regretting the soon-to-be-lost sunshine. Her limbs cried out for rest, and she withdrew again from the road, but more purpose-

fully, less panicky this time. She set down her pack and fished her She ducked and dove into them, the backwoods littered with trees, pocket road atlas from its depths, seeking, once again, to confirm her choked with leaves, infested with ferns and bracken. Sought security position. Tucked into the book, marking her place, was the flyer, the among them, her harshest but dearest friends, the sturdy shoots of one with her face on it, a melancholy, elongated face, an ancient undergrowth scraping her bare hands, tangling her feet, entwining face, robbed of the youth it should still have possessed. An abject her body with their invasive arms and fingers. face, the face of misery. Numerous days and towns had passed since The threat was passing, and she tilted, rotated her neck back to- she had found the paper with its pathetic, hypocritical plea, since she ward the narrow county road, unable to resist knowing whether they had ripped it off the corner store corkboard where it had been tacked had seen her, whether they had spotted her impending escape. But up next to the faded announcement of the local elementary school’s the unfamiliar sedan merely cruised carelessly along without stopping Easter play and a handbill hawking handymen. It was the very photo- or even pausing, the heads of its passengers turned toward one an- graph that had prompted her to go, the one that had shocked her into other in deep, meaningful conversation or deep, reverent silence. realizing how unhappy she had become. The one that had boldly Sandra shook. She was still soaked, and the early spring sun did shown her what the timid bathroom mirror had failed to do, that had not, perhaps could not, penetrate the dampness of the layers in exposed her life for what it really was. Her future for what it really which she had cloaked her back, her arms, her legs, her head. But at wasn’t. least the rain had stopped, the overnight downpour that had sent her She folded it back into her map and packed it purposefully away. scurrying into the dark, wet wood for protection that she had failed to One day she might like to see it again, to compare. The face of the find. That had left her plodding instead through the muddy ground still new woman with the face of the old. sodden from the violent storms of the day or the week before, seek- The exhausted sun had faltered behind the pines and it was grow- ing in vain a flat, dry patch of dirt on which to pitch the thin canvas ing chill, but she was no longer weary. The sweat had ceased to drip tent that would blunt the force of the chill wind and water. down the crease of her spine, but the cold couldn’t penetrate the Cautiously she emerged, peering both ways down the deserted warmth in her bones, the exertion of her hardening muscles. She rural highway, her ears alert for rolling intruders, invidious threats to smiled again, less clumsily this time, and it seemed to her as if the her peace and her progress. She scraped the fresh mud off her earth pale crescent moon that was just beginning to broach the horizon -brown boots and onto the man-gray asphalt, hiked her sweat-soiled smiled back in welcome, calling her forward, leading her on, drawing backpack higher onto her shoulders, and continued walking. her toward it like a parent teaching a child to walk. Come to Mama, Only five miles to the next town, she reckoned, brightening as the come to Papa. Come. sun struggled higher, warming her frozen face and feet while the Perhaps the line was calling, too; perhaps it always had been. She shallow road-puddles steamed visibly away. The thought of a real squinted in the descending darkness and wondered how long it might cup of coffee cheered her further, inducing her almost to smile, the be, before she would dare to venture back, to follow again this foolish awkward tautening in her cheeks discomfiting her. Less than fifty passage through the back roads lining the border and come home in miles now until it was over. Only one road more until she was free. peace, in secret. Maybe one day. When the woman she had been It was quiet here, quieter even than it had been twenty miles south was long forgotten. When the woman she would be was ready to or a dozen miles east, and she relished the silence, revered it, felt return. safe within its stillness and calm. Automobiles had grown rare, and The stars were winking into life, and she stumbled, watching the the mechanical whine of their engines could easily be discerned now sky and forgetting the asphalt; but she no longer cared, was no over the natural sounds of the forest; tightly packed tree limbs whis- longer daunted by bruises and scrapes. Out here there were neither tling in the wind; fleet, furry creatures cracking through branches. homes nor streetlights to illuminate her path, merely sporadic silver Friendly noises, that covered her tread, her own whistling breaths reflectors, working their magic only for motorists. But when she and crackling steps. Noises surpassed only by the diligent squawking glanced into the wood, she saw that it, too, was scattered with stars high overhead, of flocks of migrant birds flapping in formation across blinking to life, yellow and brown ones that reflected and stared but an increasingly azure sky, the angle formed by their flight seeming to didn’t menace, didn’t unnerve her. That glowed instead like a hun- guide her along her way, point in her direction. dred tiny flashlights lighting her way, dozens of mysterious, mystical She took her sandwich to go, the steaming black coffee, too; nod- guides. Strange, silent, but loyal friends, like the moon overhead and ding politely at the cashier as if she were merely an ordinary traveler the stars up above, anonymous benefactors who had at last taken an passing through, a staunch, stoic New Englander of natural reserve. interest in helping, protecting, caring for her. Only a few days more, Sandra thought, as she lifted her bag once She closed her eyes against the darkness, and it fell away, clock- again over her shoulders and shuffled slowly, painfully away from the ing her as she clunked soft and straight along the side of the silent town, no more than a crossroads containing a truck stop and a diner. highway, treading the invisible white line with heavy, hurting feet and Perhaps she would even rest for a day before she arrived. Her pack imagining she could already see the gate, the passage into hope, had grown heavy and her knees sore, a small price to pay for liberty away from desperation. Soon she would be walking through it, pass- and liberation. But she didn’t want to begin again on hobbled feet, ing over the barrier as if it were a falls, a powerful shower that would swollen ankles, and weary toes. Hoped to start fresh and new, mo- purge and restore, wash away her frustration and fear, grant her mentarily, at least, free of pain. The Storyteller 14 renewal and rebirth: a baptism by border crossing. A welcoming wall Imaginings of water on the other side of which she would emerge, clean and bright and unknown to anyone, unknown to all. Lying amidst the green grass Just a little further tonight, she thought, urging her tender feet to gazing at the sky follow faster after the twinkling lights in the forest, to overtake the I spy moon and stars. Just a little bit more, and I’ll be there that much a pirate ship sailing by. sooner.

Her heart ached. She kept walking. I close my eyes and Ms. Schafer’s flash fiction, short stories, and essays have ap- see with sword in hand. peared in numerous print and online publications, and she is currently Fighting and jumping from ship to ship at work on her third novel. Her memoir, On Hearing of My Mother’s on every side the pirates stand. Death Six Years after It Happened: A Daughter’s Memoir of Mental When I open my eyes Illness, was published in October 2014. Ms. Schafer lives in Castro the fleet is gone. Valley, California.

Now comes horses

racing into view. With eyes closed tight I whip my horse into shape. We trot, we canter, we run and escape. Leaving the Concert Hall They fly so fast that soon they disappear. She is eleven, maybe twelve, but numbers no longer matter, Gazing skyward once more for she had heard Bach and Mozart a train pulls into view. for the first time, Settling deeper into the grass has mastered the mathematics of the wind, I see myself as engineer, the heart’s algebra, shoveling coal where A is not A and need not be, waving at the passers-by and now her fingers conduct the weather blaring the horn as we fly until it shivers with illuminations. Alas, when next I view She walks, then skips, then all images are gone spins to a private pantomime leaving behind only an ocean of blue. that need not reveal itself, for she is the conductor. Kay Martin Silent notes come swirling around her Phoenix. AZ in wizard colors of the new, and the ecstatic leaves whirl in xylophones of dance. She feels her joy float from breath to breath.

Bezeled light dazzles round a point, Planes a perfect jewel, emerald, topaz, diamond, as her will decides, for she is the conductor, Planes are quite extraordinary things and everything is all right, for a moment all right. To mock birds without moving its wings Then, as the sky imagines a storm, With bodies of steel and manmade tons and the school bus pulls up, It’s a miracle the flying machine runs she folds a crescendo inside a breeze, and sets it free. Katie Waechter Las Vegas, NV Sean Lause Bluffton, OH

The Storyteller 15

For the Love of Books page, and I threw away Scruples when I ran out of breath on page three twenty three; but mostly I keep books. Gail Mattingly When a good tale gets a little mossy in my memory, I like to read it again, re-enter that kingdom. So, I hoard books. Spending more money than I should on books, just this year I’ve That is, I try to keep books, but that isn’t always easy. Since I’ve purchased a Bible concordance, a Webster’s dictionary, dozens of been married, we’ve moved nineteen times. So have Bruce Catton best sellers and classics, a biography of Winston Churchill, how-to and Betty Crocker, but somehow, every time we move my herniated books on gardening and quilt making, nutrition books and birds of husband “loses” at least one box of books. North America books, plus a few of the romance variety. And there are those people who borrow books but never return Obviously, I have a thing for books. I am addicted to reading in them. I went to a friend’s garage sale once, and while browsing general. In addition to books and cereal boxes, I also read the adver- through the paperbacks, I found We the Living with my name on it. I tisements that are dumped in my mailbox. I read Fortune and News- gathered up all the rest of the books she had borrowed and vowed to week, Redbook, and Saturday Evening Post. I read billboards and never lend her another one. the daily newspaper including “Dear Abby,” “The Born Loser,” and There is no more space in my home to store books. In addition to everybody’s horoscopes. I read the Bible, bumper stickers, and T- various shelves, the linen closet is full of volumes. They are under my shirts. I can’t help myself. I read in bed and in the bathtub. I prop up a bed, stacked by my chair, and molding in the utility room. book while doing the dishes and peeling peaches. I read over the Sometimes I think I should get rid of my books and purchase a shoulders of strangers when they are writing a check in the grocery Kindle, but they are so...electronic. I imagine that things would be store. different in a Kindle story. What would happen to the misshapen tree When I get started on a good book, nothing can jar me loose from branch in The Secret Garden? Would it become a metal bench it. Not sleep. Not even food. If I were being whirled away in a cyclone painted industrial orange? I am fearful that all the magic and romance as Dorothy was, I would still be holding my place, huddled over to will go away when the pages disappear taking their quality, their protect the pages from the ripping wind and soaking rain, shielding thickness, and their frayed edges with them. my glasses, greedy for the next scene, nuance, chord, the next heart- I love used books with their dog ears showing where a person thumping line in that fabricated realm. Never mind what is happening paused, opening and closing. I like finding edits by previous readers, in real time. And when it’s finished, when I am staring sorrowfully at the underlined dangling participle, the crossed-out bad word, and the “The End,” there I am looking about my ordinary home, a little word that was looked up in the dictionary, the definition scribbled in dazed, not quite able to exit that other sphere of being. the margin. The energy of those readers lingers and snuggles be- I immediately begin choosing another book, another place to be. tween the pages, leaving old paths to be followed. As I run my finger along a shelf, perhaps I will pause over the book New books have unbroken trails to be scythed and trodden, the with green tape along its spine. It has been glued and is held together foliage turned leaf by pulpy leaf, the texture felt by the thumb rubbing with a rubber band. The title has faded from the cover, but I know its softly. name. It will release a musty odor and a crackling sound when I fear the Kindle would be soulless and intangible, leaving me with opened. watered-down fancy. When I think of it, I touch the spines of my A vision will appear of a carriage driving up with prancing horses. books, caress them, hug Frenchman’s Creek to my chest and smile, I’ll step in, settle into the deep burgundy cushion and spread my hand “Not yet,” I say. “Not yet.” over the velvet. I’ve been there often. Ms. Mattingly has articles in Looking Back and Good Old Days. Though I will eventually, I don’t immediately read all the books I She lives in Yukon, Oklahoma. buy. I have a three-volume set by Bruce Catton on the Civil War that I purchased in 1963. I’m going to read them, one of these days. I probably have two hundred books that I plan to read one of these days. That’s the reason I shy away from libraries. Gone with the Wind cost me a small fortune in fines, and I never did read it until years later when I found it in paperback at a used book store. While there are those unread books on my shelves, there are also those that I have read again and again. I’ve probably read A Confed- eracy of Dunces six times and would read it again, but it seems to have disappeared from its slot. Although I cannot learn patience with an author’s slow beginning, I will stay with a book that begins well but deteriorates, such as the one that started out, “The letter arrived on Monday. The bomb came on Wednesday.” Now, that’s a good beginning, and I stuck with that book to the bitter, disintegrating end even though I thought the author should find another means of employment. I threw that book away, which is something I’ve not done more than a dozen times in my life. I threw away Her after the second The Storyteller 16

Sign Talker laughin’. It’s somethin’ to see.” José downed his morning bracer and Johnny Gunn hurried down the street. “What the heck is going on?” José said, coming back in, just in time to see Dusty make some kind of weird gesture and Marlene They called him Dusty, more because of his appearance than break out in a little fit of laughter. anything else, covered with a layer of trail dust that would defy imagi- She looked up at her husband with a flashing smile. “Sit down, nation. He wasn’t much at socializing, didn’t belly up to the bar with José and listen to this story. No, grab some coffee for all of us first, the rest of the trail-weary bunch in the saloon, rarely spoke to any- then sit down.” Coffee poured and everyone settled, including several one, rather, grunted out something or just babbled incoherently. If he people standing around the table and Marlene told the story. had a real name, no one knew it, no one cared. “Dusty was kidnapped by the Lakota when he was a boy of about Except, that is, Marlene Jacobson, the nice little old lady, married ten, and raised as a slave. He learned Indian sign language, lived as to the Mexican, who ran the café. “José, I want you to bring that an Indian well into his early twenties when he was able to escape and Dusty back in here. He left about ten minutes ago. I think I may have make his way to a town.” She stopped long enough to take a healthy learned something watching him try to tell me the mush was too hot.” swig of hot coffee and continued. “See that horrible scar on his Dusty never said real words, just a jumble of noises, and at the cheek? An arrow went through his cheek, ripped his tongue right out, café he simply pointed at the menu. When people didn’t understand and he almost died. That’s why he can’t talk. Why he only eats really the rubbish that came out of his mouth, he got upset, his hand mov- soft food. ing about, the gibberish getting louder, but no sense being made any- “He can read a few words, doesn’t know how to write, so for all where along the line. José had more than one run-in with the man, these years, he’d only be able to make a few sounds, and few people but did what Marlene said, always. “You can’t talk to the man, know how to sign as the Indians do. José, this man has so many Marlene, can’t understand a word he says, what did you see?” wonderful stories to tell, he has a fine sense of humor, and I’m going “You just bring him back, and I’ll show you.” to teach him how to read and write.” José scuttled out the door and down the long dusty street, figuring The story flew up and down Main Street in Little Bend, all forty- Dusty would be somewhere near the livery or blacksmith shop. He seven people hearing some form of it within two hours, and Dusty found him lighting a cigar at the blacksmith’s forge. had a new reputation that fast. Marlene was an excellent teacher and “Marlene wants to see you, Dusty. Better get back down to the put Dusty to work in the café, washing dishes, cutting firewood, café. You know how impatient she can be,” and he spun on his heel swamping out at night, and learning how to read and write. and walked across the street to the saloon for a pick-me-up. “I’m not ** gonna listen to your nonsense this morning,” he muttered, stepping “I can’t tell you just how intelligent this man is, José. It’s been six through the heavy front doors. months, and he can read and write very well. He learns immediately.” Dusty shuffled his way down to the café, wondering what he had With money coming in regularly, finding himself living in a real done wrong this time. Nobody ever wanted to talk to him unless he house, not under a sagebrush on the outskirts of town, Dusty cleaned had done something wrong. himself up nicely. A hot bath once a week, a shave once or twice a “Sit down, Dusty. Want a cup of joe?” week, and a haircut from time to time, and Dusty was willing to smile He nodded yes, sat down, taking off his floppy old sombrero, at a moment’s notice. He carried a little notebook and pencil with him snuffing out the cigar. Marlene frowned on people smoking in the and had communication with people all the time. café, or wearing their hats at the table. She brought two cups of One gentleman in particular was interested in long conversations. steaming coffee and joined the old man. David P. Christopher put out a newspaper once a week for the com- “How old are you, Dusty, about fifty?” She was looking into very munities up and down the river. Flat Creek was some ten miles up- bright eyes as he nodded yes to her question. Then she did some- river from Little Bend, and Ox Bow was about fifteen miles down- thing that surprised the man so much he almost jumped out of his river, so he delivered his papers by way of canoe once a week, with- chair. She asked the same question in Indian sign language, some- out fail. thing she had learned as a child while living near Fort Bridger. Most Dusty had the morning chores done around the café when of her friends were from the Crow and Blackfeet tribes in the area. Dusty had the morning chores done around the café when Chris- The old man collected himself and settled into his chair, again topher came in. “Marlene will you and Dusty join me for a cup of cof- answering her in the affirmative, in sign language. They sat across fee? I have an idea.” David P. Christopher was a man full of himself from each other, both with grand smiles on their faces, fingers and most of the time, and on this morning, his little pencil moustache was hands flying, chuckling a bit, getting active, then a bit more controlled, almost dancing, his hair was slicked back, just so, his frock coat im- eyes dancing with joy. Two or three late customers had come in, maculate. He pulled a worn letter from his coat pocket and handed it Marlene taking care of them, and getting back to the table with Dusty to Marlene as she settled in. “Dusty will be famous,” he said, giving as fast as possible. It became quite a show after a while, people the man a big smile. gathering around the table to watch these two making many ges- “Marlene read the letter, looked at Christopher as if to ask if this tures, even laughing from time to time. was for real, and handed the note to Dusty, who read it, and looked Old Jack Crockett hurried up to José at the bar, saying. “You at Marlene first, then the newspaper man. Christopher answered their aren't going to believe what’s going on down to the café. I’ve never visible questions. seen the like, and Marlene and Dusty flingin’ their hands around, My friend in New York runs a book publishing company as you The Storyteller 17 can see from that letter. When I told him about Dusty, that’s what he Lifeline wrote back. I want Dusty to write, in his own words and thoughts, about his life, as he has told us so many times these last few months. I was born Appalachian Branded—illerate, mountain feuding, barefoot hill- I’ll publish his column in the paper every week and send copies to Mr. billy. Some would run from the hollows, elope if need be to escape Burbank in New York. this stereotype, ashamed of their heritage. “Burbank will edit those columns into book form and publish the book. I’ll pay Dusty the going rate for that column every week, and We went barefoot in summer, not from necessity, but because we loved Mr. Burbank will offer him a book contract that could be worth a lot of the feel of the cool water from wading the creek and the dirt roads beneath money.” our feet. The woods would often be ablaze with color as though reflected It was very quiet at the table for several minutes. Dusty read the from an autumn bonfire. The road was shaded and cool, the dirt had been letter again, and then again once more. He looked at Marlene, and in packed down so tight from years of travel, you could almost skip a rock Indian sign talk said, “I’m so glad you’re a sign talker. I would still be across it. I’d smack my foot down hard on that cool ground like a toddler proud of his first march through a mud puddle. lost in this world if you hadn’t been able to sign talk. Tell Mr. Christo- pher, I accept.” He smiled, then added, “I already have the first sev- Our education started out in a two-room schoolhouse where we played eral columns written. He doesn’t need to know that,” and the two hopscotch on the covered cement porch, but life was the best teacher. chuckled. He reached across the table to shake Christopher’s hand Grandma took us to Sunday school at the little white Methodist Church and signed, “Thank you.” where Sue played the upright piano, and we stood to sing the songs of Zion, Mr. Gunn’s story collection, Out of the West, Tales of American being careful not to get pinched by those dark, pallet-style wooden pews. Frontier, was published by Bottom of the Hill Publishing in 2011. Most recently, he’s had short fiction published in Shotgun Honey, Yellow Times were tough, and we knew all about sacrifice. Grandma watched her Mama, The Western Online, The Storyteller and The McGuffin. He two-story house go up in flames just weeks before her daughter was to be lives in Reno, Nevada. http://johnny-gunn.blogspot.com or on face- born, and felt the loss of dividing up the other children among families in that rural community. book at https://www.facebook.com/?ref=home.

Dad worked in the oil fields, pumped wells, cut locations with a mowing scythe, farmed, butchered hogs—whatever it took to feed the family. We washed clothes in the washing machine on the back porch where the ringer caught a pretty girl by the hair every once in awhile.

My parents cut down trees from over the ridge to build footbridges when Porch Dreamer the floods came and washed ours out. To keep out the chill in winter, colorful quilts and comforters were fashioned from scraps of material or clothes He sits upon the old porch swing we had outgrown.

Watching the world rush by, Later, some moved away from the hills, went to work in the city, and some A bird bound in the cage of time even started their own business. As an adult, I moved further south to be Who’s lost the will to fly. near the ocean, but does that mean we are no longer Appalachian because we He longs to tell his stories change If only he were asked; our geographical location? My roots are deep in the hills of West Virginia, A book of weathered pages my lifeblood flows from the veins of those mountain folk who taught us With tales of times long past. survival skills, whose memories I will forever hold invaluable.

All the friends have come and flown A connection I’m proud to call my heritage.

But the memories linger yet, Debbie Richard Of happy days in younger times Green Sea, SC And what-ifs of regret.

So give a wave when passing by— A smile it’s sure to bring. Someday we too may sit and dream Upon the old porch swing.

C. David Hay Terre Haute, IN

The Storyteller 18

Dream House If he thought he was disappointed with the cottage’s outside ap- K. N. Copeland pearance, as he looked around inside, he became utterly flabber- gasted. The place was small and nearly bare. What furniture there

was looked positively antiquated. A few wooden chairs, a round beat- In a high-spirited voice, Vicky declared, “Oh, honey—you’ll love up looking pine table with dozens of initials carved into it and an old it.” pale yellow couch that looked as if it wouldn’t have been acceptable

to even Good Will. The animated voice of his fiancée compelled Roger to turn his The cottage walls were bare; not a picture, not a photograph and head from the road and take a quick glimpse at his passenger. even its dull beige paint was flaked in spots. The room was ill-lighted. Openly fidgeting, Vicky wore a wide smile, and her eyes sparkled The morning’s sunlight filtered by the surrounding forest, came dimly with excitement. Turning his eyes back to the roadway, Roger said, through the singly grimy picture window that ran most of the length on “I’d better love it. We could have gone to the Bahamas for less the far wall. The view through the window was of the forest and noth- money.” ing else. Already dismayed, Roger then noticed a kerosene lantern “Oh, Roger, I’m telling you. You’re going to absolutely adore it.” hanging from one of the rafters of the open ceiling. Maneuvering his Corvette around a tight curve, Roger asked, “You In an exasperated voice, he asked, “There’s no electricity?” said you went with Theresa once?” “Oh, Roger,” Vicky cooed with her eyes closed, her head tilted “Yes,” Vicky replied. “She goes almost every year. She took me upward as she again spun around and hugged herself in an ecstasy after graduating from college. Kind of a celebration for ourselves. I that baffled him. “It’s perfect. You’ll see.” always wanted to go back, but—I just couldn’t afford it.” She chuckled “I feel like monk going on some sabbatical,” Roger spat. “Hell, I then added, “Then I met you.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. think monks have it better.” A weak smile crossed his face, and he grunted. He had met Roger shook his head again as he watched his fiancée begin Theresa a few times at recent gatherings and thought she was a little dancing in some delight he couldn’t grasp. Then he saw the old ice flaky. He never said anything about how he felt about her because he box. The kind that maybe his great-grandmother may have had to knew how much Vicky liked the strange girl, and there seemed no use back in the thirties. He dropped the suitcases on the squeaky point now. “You’re sure this is the way?” he asked. “It certainly is out wooden floor with a thud, walked over to the icebox, and opened it. in the boonies.” Sure enough, there was a block of ice on the bottom, and the upper “Oh yes,” Vicky said. “This is the way. It’s not much further.” shelves held nothing but a few plastic jugs of water. “This is it?” Roger moaned trying to understand the charm of the He screamed out, “Vicky—what the hell are we supposed to eat?” small dumpy, looking wood shingled cottage sitting alone in the “Oh, don’t worry about that,” Vicky said and smiled widely. She woods. He hesitated, pulling the suitcases from the back of the car was now standing under the door sill of another room he hadn’t no- and didn’t try to hide his disappointment. “Looks like something some ticed. She laughed and added, “There’s canned food in the cup- hillbilly might live in.” board—now come here,” she coaxed. “Come see the bedroom.” Vicky ignored him. She was nearly at a run to get to the cottage He was becoming furious. Crazy Theresa and now crazy Vicky. steps and as she stepped onto its rickety porch she began hugging He slammed the door of the icebox and walked toward Vicky who herself and spinning around in a delight Roger couldn’t comprehend. was smiling mischievously at him and summoning him over with her “Come on, Roger,” she squealed. “You’ll love it.” finger. “Come see the bedroom,” she repeated. He picked up the two suitcases, still unconvinced. The proverbial Grudgingly, he followed her into the bedroom. It too was bare ex- red flag should have gone up for him when Vicky insisted on packing cept for a single queen-sized bed with tarnished brass bed posts. A so light. Not even a bathing suit. “We won’t need much,” she had dark blue quilt and matching pillows covered the mattress. insisted. And now he was looking at a dilapidated shack that might Staring at it, he suddenly declared, “My—that is beautiful.” fall down in a heavy wind with nothing around but trees and more trees. Suddenly, he startled awake. He realized someone was pounding “Roger, please,” Vicky begged. “At least come inside and see for on the cottage door. Who could that be? he wondered to himself. He yourself. You said you haven’t been sleeping lately and that you’ve was still groggy as he tossed his legs over the bed’s side. He turned been stressed at work. I’m telling you, this is the perfect remedy.” his head to see Vicky still asleep, a smile on her face. He chuckled “I was thinking more of a cocktail at poolside,” he grumbled. Re- and then yawned. A hard knock sounded again, and this time it was luctantly, he trudged slowly up to the cottage, the suitcases dangling followed by a man’s deep growl of a voice. “Come on—come on— from his arms. time to go,” it said. Squirming with impatience, Vicky waited until he reached the sag- Vicky stirred. She stretched, then yawned. Her eyes flickered ging wooden porch before pulling the skeleton key from her handbag. open, and she took a deep breath. She smiled at him and shrugged with an anxious delight. He “Who the hell can that be?” he asked, then yawned again. shrugged with dismay. She ignored him, turned from him, and went to Vicky sat up, stretched her arms again and said in a matter-of-fact the door. She inserted the key, giggled strangely as she turned it, voice, “It’s time to go.” then pushed the door that opened with a high-pitched creak. Without We just got here.” he said. “Didn’t we?” looking back she went inside. He frowned, shook his head, but fol- “Seems like it, doesn’t it?” Vicky whispered. lowed her in. The Storyteller 19

From outside the cabin door, the man’s voice grumbled. “Come on Observations on a southern morning now. Up and at em. I’ve got a couple due here by noon. It’s nearly ‘ ten. Get a move on.” The black lab dog quivering in anticipation of his morning walk. In a loud but raspy voice, Vicky called out. “Okay. We’re up.”

Roger, still sitting on the side of the bed, feeling somewhat con- Neighbors’ horses nickering softly as we walk close to their fence. fused and not quite awake, felt Vicky’s arms wrap around him, and We speak their names and they go back to their grazing. she squeezed. She then kissed him on his cheek and said, “Don’t you feel great?” A sweet, sweet smell in the air. “Yeah, I do,” he said. “I feel better than I have in a long time. But I Honeysuckle, with its spikes of white and orange blossoms. don’t understand. I thought we had the place for a week.”

“We did,” she said, then kissed the back of his neck. A pile of rabbit fur in the grass at the edge of the pasture, the owls “It seems we just got here.” most recent meal. “I know,” she said. “But don’t you feel absolutely wonderful?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I do. But do you mean we’ve been here for a At the edge of the woods, a glimpse of orange as a red fox lopes week?” He paused, then said, “I don’t remember.” home after a night of hunting. Maybe it wasn’t the owl after all. “It’s the dream house,” she said. “The wonderful, beautiful dream house.” And she sighed. The fluttering of a moth caught in a spider’s web, his struggles fling- On the drive home, Roger couldn’t recall ever feeling so refreshed ing sparkling dewdrops everywhere. The spider is not at home. or alert. There was an overwhelming sense of euphoria and peace he couldn’t explain. A black snake gliding silently along the base of the stone wall, some- Sitting next to him, her cheek resting against the passenger side times disappearing momentarily. But he’s still there. Still there. window, Vicky gazed out, watching the landscape pass. Both were silent as they tried to recall those bits and pieces of those week long Deer tracks mingling with those of a raccoon in the soft earth at the dreams. edge of the pond. Soft earth always tells a story. Mr. Copeland’s work has appeared in previous issues of The Sto- ryteller. He lives in Livonia, Michigan. Wisps of fog lifting slowly up from the surface of the water, the air

already getting warm.

A snapping turtle sun bathing on a log out in the middle of the pond.

He drops into the water with a plunk as we skirt the pond.

Deep in the woods, the decaying trunk of an old oak, now covered with poison ivy. Control Orange-capped mushroom soldiers surrounding it, standing at atten- tion on the dark forest floor. I stumbled on my past regrets And focused on future fears Bark rubbed off a slender sapling about two feet off the ground. I danced with the devil for much too long The buck was here last night. Ignoring my present tears. A big owl gliding silently through the trees, upset by the panting dog But not too soon, at last to see below him. The dog doesn’t look up, doesn’t even acknowledge him. I could control my fate And rise above those broken souls On the path, an Eastern box turtle closes his door as the dog ap- Who believed it was too late. proaches. The dog loses interest. Nothing exciting there. He trots on.

Rick DeBaun Thomas A complaining crow sounding a discordant note as he circles over the Wyoming, MI pasture. What does he have to complain about?

Kudzu sneaking up an old fence post, one menacing foot at a time. It’s taller today than it was yesterday.

After we pass, the crow flies off and the turtle resumes his journey. The kudzu keeps climbing. Nothing stops kudzu. Patricia R. Reed Fort Lauderdale, FL The Storyteller 20

The Claw-foot Table “Are you all right, Miss?” LeRoy Bohrer The woman raised her tear-stained face, nodded, and rolled the window half-way down. “I’m sorry,” she said as she snuffed back

tears. “I didn’t mean to worry anyone.” She swallowed hard as she On a cold, blustery February morning, Tom Grayson was sitting at glanced at the one-story red brick house. “I used to live here, and the kitchen table eating a bowl of hot cereal when the hair on the there are so many memories.” back of his neck bristled. He glanced at the window to see a dark- Tom adjusted his glasses. “Why don’t you come in and look haired girl staring at him. The blue t-shirt the girl was wearing was no around.” He glanced up to see the girl was standing under the maple defense against the morning’s bone chilling temperatures. He stood tree, which was halfway between the house and the car. “Come in up and put on the heavy coat and stocking cap that were hung on the and have a cup of coffee. You would be my first house guest.” back of the chair and went out the door as the cold north wind stung The woman bit down on her lower lip as she stared up the street. his face. He gingerly walked through two inches of snow and sleet Finally, she looked at Tom. “You don’t have anything you were want- that had fallen during the night to where he had seen the girl, but she ing to do?” was no longer there. “No,” Tom replied. “I was just going to take a walk, but I can do He glanced up and down the street, but there was no sign of her. that when it’s warmer.” Shrugging his shoulders he went back in the house, stripped off his The woman hesitated for a few seconds, then unlatched the car coat and cap and sat down to finish his breakfast. door and got out. “I accept your invitation, but I can’t stay long.” She When he had finished, he went to the sink and washed the bowl introduced herself as Carol Graves. She was six feet tall, some five and coffee cup. He glanced back at the window to see the girl whose inches taller than Tom. gaze was fixed on something in the kitchen. The girl disappeared as They walked up the sidewalk to the front door. Tom opened it, and he approached the window. As he stared at the window, he realized it Carol entered the house. He looked back to where he had last seen was too high for the girl to look in without aid of something to stand the girl, but she had disappeared. He closed the door and went into on, but there were no footprints in the snow along the side of the the kitchen where he plugged the coffee pot in and laid his hat and house or any other imprint. stocking cap across a chair and sat down. Tom rubbed his hand over his gray beard. “Damn,” he muttered Carol hung her knee-length coat she wore on the back of the chair aloud, “when I purchased this house, I seemed to have inherited a along with her headscarf and sat down. She was dressed in a red ghost.” He glanced around the kitchen at the off-white paneling, the sweater that emphasized her ample breasts and gray slacks that did brown and white linoleum, the refrigerator, the stove, and the round the same for her slim waist. She sat down and ran her hand slowly five-foot maple claw-foot table and the four matching chairs. “Why is across the top of the claw-foot table. she here and what does she want?” he muttered. “I was told you were a nurse,” Tom said, “and that your husband Tom had moved into the house three days earlier after he and his was killed in Afghanistan.” wife, Alice, spent fifty years tending the farm until she died of cancer. She clasped her hands tightly together and sighed heavily. “My He turned the farm over to his grandson and new bride. His grandson parents live across town, my grandparents live in Denver where my had helped him with the farm work in the summer and on weekends brother also resides. “I’m thirty-years-old and Leon was the first per- until he graduated from college. son close to me who died.” She dabbed at her tears with a handker- Tom and his wife were blessed with three children. Jeff, the old- chief. “I was devastated.” est, was killed in an automobile accident. His son, Martin, lived two Tom licked his lips. “We all grieve differently,” he said. “When the blocks away, his daughter, Heather, lived in California. cancer took my Alice from me, I had known for some time it would When he moved, he took only what he needed which didn’t in- happen. I expected it, but Alice and I took it very hard when our eld- clude much more than his clothes since the previous owner had left est son was killed in an automobile accident.” Tom looked at the girl most of the furniture behind when she left. He was told the woman who was standing in the doorway. He shifted his weight, uncomfort- had lost her husband in Afghanistan, and had moved to a small fur- able in the chair. “Did...did you also lose a daughter?” nished apartment that was close to her job at the hospital. The realtor Carol gasped. “I don’t recall telling the realtor about Laura. How hadn’t mentioned anything about the death of a young girl. do you know about her?” During the next two days, Tom saw the girl at the kitchen window “She’s here,” Tom replied. “She’s here in the kitchen.” several times, and once he encountered her inside the house. Cer- Carol gasped as she glanced around the room. “I’m sorry honey, tain the barefoot girl in the green shorts meant him no harm, and he for what happened.” She snuffed back tears and looked back at Tom spoke to her, hoping she would tell him what she wanted. The girl’s who was pouring two cups of coffee. “Why is it that you can see my face never changed from a solemn expression. She just nodded at daughter and I can’t?” him and vanished. Tom shrugged his shoulders as he sat a steaming cup of coffee in It was a cold but sunny Saturday morning when Tom decided to front of her. The girl stepped forward until she stood behind her walk the two blocks to his son’s house. He put on his coat and stock- mother. ing cap and went outside. He saw a blue Chevy Nova parked outside “What happened to your Laura?” he asked as he sat down. beside the curb. A dark-haired woman was sitting behind the wheel. Carol ran her hand through her hair. “On the days I worked at the Her head was resting on the steering wheel, and she was sobbing. hospital, I would drop Laura off at the Yellow Brick Road Daycare. Tom watched for awhile, and then he walked out to the street and The lady who ran the center was diagnosed with cancer and was tapped on the window. The Storyteller 21 forced to close the facility.” She paused as she clasped her hands As she drove away from the curb and down the street, mother and tightly together. “I was dating a man named Lester Able, a one-time daughter waved at him. He waved back and watched as the car dis- drug addict who had kicked the habit. He had been laid off at the air- appeared around the corner. craft plant three months earlier. He agreed to take care of Laura. I Mr. Bohrer lives in Zenda, Kansas. didn’t know he was doing drugs again.” She fell silent for a few mo- ments. “I don’t know for sure what happened, but on that Tuesday afternoon three months ago, he evidently shot himself up with drugs. 11 months in London For some reason, he pushed Laura, and she fell and struck her head on the table leg.” She bent over and looked at the three toed table As I turn left off Oxford Street leg, then sat up straight and stared blankly into space. “I guess when cloaked in a low sky and shuffling Lester realized what he’d done, he got into his car and backed out of along with the other furrowed brows the driveway and into the path of a truck.” Laura laid her hand on her mother’s shoulder. “When I heard about the accident, I came home I search for the accent of my youth and found Laura lying in a pool of blood.” She ran her hand through “Tomato” or “Tomahto” or “Tomata” her hair. “After Laura’s funeral, I cleaned the blood from the floor and “Aunt” or “Ant” or “Auntie” the table leg, and that was when I decided to move to an apartment.”

She sat there for a moment, then laid her head on the table and Punching my cold fists into a bawled. Harrods jacket I enter the tube, Tears welled in Tom’s eyes as he watched helplessly while Laura shortly reached another stroked her mother’s back. He had heard about the accident, but had grey gray station and soon see made no connection between it and the house he had purchased. He a pub with an old fashioned concluded that when Carol decided to move, she had done it so clock against the liquored mirror, quickly the girl didn’t realize what was happening until after her mother was gone. Laura would probably stay with her mother, giving damn, it’s way past our meeting time her strength, and eventually, she would find her way to heaven. and am I at the right place? Carol raised her tear-stained face. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t come here to burden you with my problem.” I really could go for Tom shifted his weight uncomfortably in the chair. “You evidently comfort food now, we need this haven’t talked very much to people concerning Laura’s death. You found it was too difficult to talk about. You had something you wanted connection to get off your chest, and I got broad shoulders.”

Carol took a sip of coffee and glanced at her wristwatch. “I have to “Buffalo Wings?” Or is it “Fish and Chips?” be going. I have to work this afternoon.” She finished her coffee, then Maybe “Saltfish?” stood up and put her coat on and glanced around the kitchen. “Is

Laura still here?” Which of these do I want? Tom nodded. “Yes, she’s still here.” The girl looked at him and Eh, it’s too late for such a smiled. He stood up and put his coat on. “Let me walk you to your search. car.”

“Do you think Laura will stay here?” she asked in a hushed voice. A sudden hiss of wind “I have no idea,” Tom replied. angrily flaps my jacket, and Carol pulled a small notepad and pen out of her coat pocket and a raindrop wrote “1205 East Broad View, Apartment 15” on the page. She ripped the page out and laid it on the table. “This is my address,” she said as taps my shoulder— she glanced around the kitchen. as a stranger does when they have “Laura is undoubtedly relieved to know you’re all right,” Tom said wandered and need as he grinned broadly. “But I’ll make sure Laura gets this.” direction. They walked out the door and down the sidewalk to Carol’s car. Tony Walton Before she got in, she hugged him. “Whenever I got to feeling low Grand Cayman Islands thinking about Laura, I would come back here. This morning was the fourth time I have been here, and I’m glad you saw me.” “I’m glad I did, too.” He saw Laura in the back seat of the car. “I was curious as to who Laura was and what or who she was looking for.” He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. “If you ever need someone to talk to, you will find me a good listener.” Carol got into her car and started the engine. “I just might take you up on that offer.” The Storyteller 22

The Treasure Box month goes by, and every once in a while a year passes, and then, in Rosalie Lombardo what now seems a blink of an eye, over a quarter of a century has flashed by.

I acknowledge I have learned to forget. Forgetting all the times in The sight of a lone picture resting on a box draws me to the spot between that I previously remembered. But during those long-lapsing where I would uncover one of life’s greatest lessons. forgetful periods, at some point I always return to my memories, It is late in the night and not a soul around. I am alone, and hungry sometimes returning with joy and laughter and other times returning for that warm feeling a sense of family used to bring, but not any with pain and sorrow: A phrase they had said, a look I was given, a more, not tonight. They are all gone, those souls who lovingly crooked smile, a gesture of kindness, a piercing difference of opin- quenched the longing of my heart and filled me with love. ion—that is just the way it continues to be. Unable to sleep, I retreat to my computer, hoping to write down Half disheartened I walk to my grandmother’s rocking chair, sit last night’s dream. Little things often catch our attention when we down, and attempt to inscribe a few notes onto a spiral notebook. I least expect them. Twisting sideways to stretch out the crick in my notice a beautiful melody coming from the boom-box in the back- neck, from the corner of my eyes I spot an old dingy box on the floor, ground. Music usually lifts my spirits, but today it cannot erase this peering half way out of the closet. An old portrait of my dear friend lingering ache. I feel the grief, the joy, the sorrow, the separation, and Ann and her boys strategically placed on the box stares back at me, the lost love bombarding me, intertwined into a big ball of emotional daring me to take a closer look. This is just a ploy luring me to come minestrone. In the midst of this turmoil, a simple thought creeps into peek inside the box. Little do I know what journey lies in store for me my mind: inside that stale container; once I lift the lid, there is no turning back. Good morning, world. I love you and thank you for this beautiful Wondering what would-be worthless treasures lie inside, I begin day. rummaging through old photographs. Picking up a tattered yellowed Where the heck did that come from? Somewhere from my sub- envelope and carefully unraveling the crumbling strings that hold the conscious, the exact phrase with which I began my journaling man- flap closed, I begin exploring. aged to dredge its’ way to the forefront of my mind; knowing damn Its contents reveal a mound of cards, images of faces appear be- well I did not bring this thought to the frontal position. I was too busy fore me. I remember some faces vividly, reminiscing with laughter at wallowing in my sorrow. I am sure this is a subtle nudge from Spirit. I our fearless follies and enlivening escapades, yet others seem foggy take a deep breath to open my lungs, hoping to free them of grief’s and disconnected from whom I have become. grip and feel the tension of every muscle in my body. The words “let Most importantly, this box holds memories of a previous occasion go” echo through the air. I tell my body to relax, and Spirit whispers when I was to depart from Chicago. I was moving to California. That back, “This is what opening up means.” My consciousness shifts into was August of 1985. Cards from old lovers, new found friends, and a insight once I recognize exactly what Spirit is trying to impress upon letter from my sister, Mary, are all part of the plot. Sometimes the me, “One must first let go in order to open.” Just like opening the door universe redirects us, and unbeknownst to me, I am being set up. to clear stale air from a room, the accumulated dust cannot be How interesting I think. The day before I announce my intended move whisked away by the wind if the door remains closed. Sometimes we to Missouri, I find these mementos reminding me of a previous at- have to re-open the stowed-away box in order to re-open our hearts. tempt to leave the Windy City a quarter of a century ago. An attempt We have to relive the pain, no matter how great, in order to release it. that was short-lived as I was destined to return just four months later And sometimes we have to expose our inner selves in order to re- when my mother became the first of the fatalities. evaluate our position in life. While absorbed in the sentiments, I sense vibrations of love and One might perceive this container as a box filled with pain, but on sorrow emitting from the handwriting, when suddenly a catastrophic the contrary, this box is filled with treasures and its most valuable pain lands in the middle of my chest, as if an eight-hundred-pound jewel, “the lesson of choice.” demolition ball has been slung full force. It is my heart and the culprit So here I am, twenty-five years later, experiencing yet another is grief. Sorrow instantly sweeps over me as I recall that period in day. This is a brand new day, and every twenty-four hours, we all get time when I was separated from my loved ones. Not separation of another chance to remember the pain we had forgotten or to forget physical distance, but separation by death. Six deaths took place in the things we previously remembered, to create or re-create, to cry or three years at six-month intervals (mother, father, brother-in-law, fa- laugh, to direct or be directed, to love and live, or to hate and die. vorite cousin, adopted grandmother, and my dog). Each new day brings a new opportunity to re-open our hearts and I stop for a while and cry, then sob uncontrollably, and finally blow allow the winds to force out the cobwebs, or we can remain cloistered my nose, but have to continue reading. With each recollection, the and drown in the accumulated dust. The choice is ours. scenes intensify and so does the pain. As for me, I refuse to reside in a cauldron of pain. I choose to Time has done nothing to relieve the outburst of agony I felt back open the door and let the winds of transformation carry the debris then and obviously still feel now. I sit back and ask myself, “Has any- away. thing changed in all these years?” At the stroke of midnight I snuggle with my plush rosetta blanket Fumbling for an answer, the words “yes, you made it,” mysteri- on the couch. I let go of my thoughts and feel Spirits tremendous love ously appear inside the next card I fling open, helping me grasp that surrounding me. Ultimately realizing they are not gone, I just can’t what has changed is the lapse of time between recalling those tender see them with the naked eye. Filled with a sense of family, I events. At first the memories stab moment to moment, then moments turn into hours, hours into days, and days into weeks. Sometimes a The Storyteller 23 finally smile, lay my head down, close my eyes, and cast these words Our World into the universe, “Good morning, my world. I love you and thank you for this beautiful day.  Ms. Lombardo has been published in periodicals nationwide and In our world there are you and I and our Creator first and foremost was featured columnist for a regional magazine. Last year she was loving and giving the recipient of “The Best of Springfield Writers’ Guild 20th Annual To one another and enjoying the love the Heavenly Father has given Literary Contest. She has taught a variety of classes at the local col- us for each lages in Missouri, Chicago, and through the private sector nationwide Other. We are oblivious to those around us unless they attempt to since 1996. She is a member of The Springfield Writers Guild, The come into our Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators, and the current World and we only allow this to the point of friendship, but none may vice-president of The Sleuths Ink. She lives in Brighton, Missouri. enter the Sacred ground of our ones with each other and our Creator.

Daily we go about living our world together with God above and our eyes first and foremost on pleasing each other so that rarely a hint of anger or sorrow is Allowed in our world because our love for each other drives this out of our World so that most of the time these are foreign emotions to us.

We both work hard in our world to become the best possible people we can Become, and we both give our all to every endeavor we undertake and Our God above has always blessed all of our endeavors with His gracious And generous Benediction, seemingly pleased with us and all that we Eschatology do.

Laughter rings through our home almost every day, and there are The last man joyful smiles Stood on the last From all who visit us because we are both whole heartedly committed Mountain top, to each Surveying Other’s happiness and well-being as well as wishing the very best The last stream, and great success The last bud For all those who touch our lives. On the last tree, The last cloud God above had been very generous with you and I, and we both In the last sky, have attempted to And, Use all of our talents, treasures, and time in serving Him through Feeling somewhat lonely, each other and Wondered what In the duties of our household. There is no one else for me except Had happened you, and there is To the rest. No one else for you except me, and that is the way it has always been with us Leonard H. Roller And will continue to be until God above calls us home. Santa Clarita, CA Love, Michael

Michael R. Tovrea Denver, CO

The Storyteller 24

On Needles and Pins sew, and clean house. By then, Madeline, at twenty-one was attend- Ramona Scarborough ing college and pleaded homework or headache. Penelope fed Mama coddled eggs in bed and sewed her big bibs to cover her flowered nightgown. Mama fed her compliments, and Penelope scrubbed and Penelope Jameson pressed her hot cheek against the cold glass washed clothes without complaint. jar. It wouldn’t be long now. She thrust her stash back into the recess After Mama died, Aunt Mavis stayed. In her senior year of high of her closet next to the doll hidden in the cloth bag. She glanced at school, Penelope was voted “Homemaker of the Year,” and her dress the clock on her headboard. She still had a half hour to finish the won second place in the fair’s 4-H exhibit. Aunt Mavis said a little “Perfect Pet” she had started last night. Madeline Pierce, her half prayer of thanksgiving when Madeline was at last engaged at twenty- sister, would arrive home at 5:45 from her job at the Welfare Office. eight to J. K. Mackintosh, an accountant for a large attorney’s firm. At her sewing bench, she lifted the furry puppy into her lap and He left Madeline for a yoga class instructor at the gym he frequented rocked back and forth crooning. His shiny black eyes looked back at before the wedding invitations could be sent. At the end of that year, her wistfully. She ran her finger over his embroidered mouth and pic- Mavis had a heart attack and died. Mama had willed the house to her tured the red felt tongue licking her fingers. If Mama had lived, she daughters. Madeline muttered under her breath about men, slammed would have let her have a real live puppy. She threaded her needle doors, and poked the meat Penelope had prepared to see if it was and began attaching the floppy ears. She hummed as she remem- dead. Penelope retreated to her room and began sewing animals. bered the little children’s faces pressed against the shop window of She gave one to their neighbor’s daughter, Amanda Kline. Mrs. Kline “Toy and Joy.” Some of her puppies and kitties sat on tiny chairs hav- gushed to her friends, and Penelope was in business. Eventually, she ing a tea party. Peter Pup in his overalls perched on a tractor, and entered into a contract with “Toys and Joy’s,” where they first fea- Cuddly Kitty angled for fish in a mirror pond. tured her pets in their window. Mr. Lloyd, the toy store owner, had A shrill voice penetrated her bedroom door. “Pen-ny?” The puppy continued to up her share as more orders came in. The glass jar jumped off her lap. Penelope’s needle slipped and punctured her opened its wide mouth and Penelope stuffed in the bonus bills. Pene- finger. She put her finger in her mouth and sucked the blood away. lope had named the jar, Gus Getaway, but until last week she had no The digital clock flipped to 5:30. idea where she was getting away to. Mr. Lloyd had called to ask if Madeline’s chunky heels clattered into the kitchen. “Where are she would consider a move to nearby Atlanta to oversee the mass you?” The rattle of china told Penelope that her sister was preparing marketing of “Perfect Pets” for Play Industries. her ritual tea. Penny picked up her little dog, hugged it for reassur- Penelope emptied Gus on her bedspread next to her suitcase and ance and set it gently on her sewing machine table. She opened the counted. She grabbed the hidden sack from the shelf, pulled out the door of her bedroom. “I’m here, Madeline.” She straightened her doll of Madeline, and stabbed all the pins from her pincushion into her slouch as she walked into the kitchen. soft body. “You’re home early.” Ms. Scarborough’s new book, Soft Kill, is on Kindle, on Nook, “Yes, the maintenance people are…” she turned from the counter. Amazon and B&N.com. She lives in Salem, Oregon. “Good grief, Penny, just because you are home all day doesn’t mean you shouldn’t comb your hair. You’re forty-two, not eleven.”

“For who? I get cleaned up when I go to the grocery store or the shop.” “Speaking of which, I don’t think that store is paying you half what those stupid stuffed toys are worth. I walked by there on my way to church, and I see they are making all the profit.” A vision of the glass jar made Penelope smile. Madeline sloshed her tea bags up and down violently in the tea- A Call To Verse pot. “Are you even listening to me?” “Not really,” Penny wanted to say. When her sister began her eve- Come! Drink ning tirades about her workload and the chores Penny had neglected, of life through verse: she led her mind on a detour to the pleasant part of her life. Mnemosyne’s daughter, Penny, previous to age ten, never wondered if she was happy. High Priestess of the Spoken Word, She just was. That was before her father; Fletcher Jamison, had presides. straddled his Harley and run away forever after discovering that Diana Jamison had cancer. She had sat on her mother’s vanity chair Jerold Zell while Mama twirled Penny’s curly auburn hair around the brush. “Just Orifubim ID like your daddy’s. Run along now,” she’d said, patting Penny’s little backside. Madeline’s dark brown hair was straight and stubborn. A picture on Madeline’s dresser showed her father with no hair in front and a frowny forehead. Aunt Mavis, Mama’s sister, had come to tend Diana during the long wasting away hours. She tried to teach the girls how to cook, The Storyteller 25

The Girl at Alki shoulder-length blond tresses frame a complexion that I would call Walt Polzin medium and quite smooth. I work at it. ‘Cosmetic Warfare’, I call it. I was still bored at the prospect of eating alone, with no conversa-

tion. I wanted to meet this guy. I drummed my fingers on the table. I It was a rainy, blustery day at Alki, but even those kinds of days watched the boats on the water. But I kept turning back to the man at can be interesting at Seattle’s beaches. I had time to kill, and I the next table. wanted to have a change of pace for the day. I needed to get away I wondered if he was married. He wasn’t wearing a ring. I just from my life and the men in it. wanted to meet the guy, all right? I wanted to know why he was sit- After freezing myself to the bone, partly because I wanted to be ting in a restaurant, casually dressed, in the middle of the afternoon; sexy and wore a backless sweater, I decided to leave the beach and no business pals, no social appointments. seek refuge at the restaurant across from the beach, near the Statue Maybe he had just finished a big deal of some sort and was wind- of Liberty replica. The restaurant is called, The Restaurant. ing down. Maybe he was in retail or some kind of business where There were lots of boats on the sound, big boats, small boats, red weekends are business days and time off comes during the week. I boats, blue boats. Sailboats were taking advantage of the winds, and know about that. the continual ferry traffic was plying back and forth from east to west. He certainly wasn’t bashful about looking at me. Maybe I should Rowboats and kayaks, canoes and fishing boats, they were all vying have gotten up and gone to his table. for space on the water. From the restaurant, I could still see them all, He had a nice voice, too. When he talked with the waitress, the without freezing! mellow sound flowed over to my table and had a pleasant effect on I took a seat near the entrance of the outdoor dining area, a me. glassed-in enclosure on the sidewalk. Despite the weather, the win- The age difference was a problem. He probably thought I was a dow was open by that first table. bubble head. Maybe, compared to him, I was. The difference be- The boredom of spending the day alone was accentuated by the tween the twenties and forties can be major. But, he sure seemed aspect of a solitary lunch. The idea of a change of pace was fast los- exciting to me! ing its appeal. There weren’t many people in the restaurant, but I had I don’t remember ordering, but our food came. I’d gone for it, like a opted to spend the day on my own and I was hungry. So my day pro- fool, and asked for The restaurant nachos, with guacamole. He had a ceeded as planned. salad. Heaven knows he didn’t need to watch his weight any more There were about ten tables in the outside area, all with red and than I did, but then, I’m the bubble-head, not him. white checkered tablecloths. I hoped I might meet someone interest- He kind of acted lonely. But, he had a book with him. He probably ing and really enjoy my day. If I gave it a chance, there was still a just wanted to read. He probably just wanted to get out of the house possibility, I consoled myself. or away from his job for awhile, just a change of scenery. The other diners were all inside. I was alone by the sidewalk. It I told myself, if nothing happened, I could just go on and make do was at that point in my thoughts when I looked up from my table to with the other men in my life. I’m certain I don’t know anyone like him, see an interesting man walking toward me. though. We exchanged smiles and hellos through the window my arm was We ate our solitary meals in silence, him reading his book, me hanging through, and he entered the restaurant. drumming my fingers. It took us both about an hour and a half to fin- He hesitated at the aisle beside my table and it seemed he was ish. It felt like a lot longer. I was consciously taking my time in hopes about to ask permission to join me, but he sat at the table across the that he would make a move or that I would get up the nerve to make aisle. a move myself. I had nowhere to be and neither did he, apparently. I was drawn to this man. I don’t know what it was. He had a nice He dallied over his book and I dallied over my nachos. I didn’t want to smile, and he kept on smiling at me. He had nice blue eyes, and it leave. While I was there, there was a chance. If I left, it was over. seemed he had a delightful sense of humor. He joked with the wait- Maybe he was thinking the same thing because he didn’t leave ei- ress, who seemed to know him. ther. Put all those things together, and it doesn’t tell why I felt drawn to He hadn’t done anything but smile and look at me, and that con- him. He was quite a bit older than me, perhaps in his mid-forties, and stantly, but God, I was turned on. I had some brandy to settle myself a little overweight. But, I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, and I wanted down, and perhaps to build my courage. Brandy is well-known for its so badly to meet him. medicinal properties, and it helps in other ways, too. I contemplated plotting some way to get him to join me at my table The drink didn’t work very well, and eventually I had to get out of or for me to have a reason to join him at his. He said, “Hi,” and con- there. I went to the ladies room to get myself together and take care tinued to smile at me, but I suppose it was just his way of being of business, and then I walked out of the restaurant. As I passed him, friendly. He was that kind of guy, I just knew. I decided not to do any I smiled and said, “Goodbye.” So did he. He seemed a little sad to scheming. see me go, but it was probably my imagination. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself or let him think I was one of Once outside, the blustery wind hit me again, but it didn’t really those mooches who join men at a bar, or in a restaurant and expect bother me. I felt strange. At least the rain had stopped. them to pay for everything, then say goodbye. The restlessness inside me made me whack at the bushes that I know I’m good looking, even though I need to shed a few hang over the sidewalk. My footsteps wavered, and I couldn’t help pounds. My bust is quite spectacular and the rest of my figure is pro- looking back. I’d given up any chance of meeting that guy. My only portionate. Most men like my hair and say my face is “to die for.” My The Storyteller 26 hope was that he would come after me. I couldn’t think of any reason Grackles In the cornfield he would do that. I’d blown it.

I decided the only thing for me to do was forget about him. I Flocks of luminescent grackles perform walked up the street, humming to myself and swinging at the bushes. nomadic acrobatics to our delight; fifty Then a car pulled up to the sidewalk beside me. At first my heart peck their fill of breakfast from our cornfield raced, I thought it was him! But, no, the guy inside the old red Datsun before they rise into the air as if choreographed was my age and a stranger. by Diaghilev and then sweep en masse beyond He rolled down the window on my side of his car and asked me the macadam to our neighbors’ property across what I was up to. It was a standard line. This body never fails to draw the road for yet another morning snack; feathers them in and I’d heard all the lines before. He asked me if I wanted a rustling like black satin, they resettle amid ride. I put him off. I just wasn’t in the mood. I told him I wasn’t going the leftovers of last year’s growing season. anywhere, just killing time. One of them, Swan Lake’s Odile, balances He asked me if I’d mind if he walked with me. I hesitated, but I motionless on a dry stalk en pointe in her figured, what the hell. sequined costume, a solo off to the left. He got out of the car and came around to me on the sidewalk. He was very nice looking. He commented on the lousy weather. He Not quite as athletically, Larry and I forage seemed capable of nothing but clichés by way of conversation, but he in the farmhouse refrigerator almost somnambulant, was pleasant. still half asleep from country slumber: pour We walked away from his car and I kept on swiping at the bushes. the orange juice we brought here from Chicago, He asked me what a nice girl like me was doing out there all by her- spear a few chunks of watermelon and pineapple self on a day like this. onto the blue Currier and Ives plates we found I noticed another car roll up to us very slowly. It was a new blue at a local Lewistown auction before this weekend one. The driver honked the horn, and when I looked to see who was treat of banana/raspberry pancakes already sizzling waving from the driver’s seat, I saw it was him, the man from the res- in the buttered pan. taurant.

He’d come after me after all! Or had he? Maybe he was just going I look up from Earl Swift’s The Big Roads that in that direction and it was just a coincidence. At any rate, he drove I’m reading at the cherry wood Amish kitchen on by. table to see the grackles reconfigure yet again, The guy with me asked me who the hell that was. their amethyst heads twisting in the morning sun I think there was water in my eyes. Maybe it was just the wind. before I look down at my book, salivating Mr. Polzin lives in Medord, Oregon. as the pancakes exude their fragrance into all

the corners of the room; “two minute warning,”

the chef, still in his gray plaid bathrobe, calls out, so I close my book expectantly, but hear the grackles once more rustle into another cornfield before Sisterhood we dine less dramatically inside.

Jan Ball This could be your first and best friend. Chicago, IL This could be competition and battles you can’t win.

It could be a teacher ready to take you to class.

Or a fashionista with those dresses with sass.

Sometimes a babysitter to keep you from harm. With inherited good looks, she could be a charm. Senior Notes Sister could be the best listener you will ever know. And, like Webster, just filled with info. I don’t know how old age affects the heart, When needed, she could have your back. I do know I’ve an ache in every part. Invite you to lunch and pay for your big mac! The trouble with this old age biz Every hypochondriac complaint Jane Sinclair Really is. Lithonia, GA Leonard H. Roller Santa Clarita, CA

The Storyteller 27

The Reluctant Rebel I knew she’d be furious—doubly furious, because she’d lost her Gwen Southgate afternoon off and endured the humiliation of sitting with her friend, all ready, the pair of them, to toddle off to the bus stop, slowly realizing that they were waiting in vain. But as I paid for my cinema ticket, feel- I was, by nature, a compliant law-abiding child, ill-equipped to ing like the proverbial worm that had finally turned, I closed my mind deal with the furious woman blocking my way, screeching hysteri- to the consequences and settled down for a precious hour or so with cally, accusing me of being, “deceitful, lazy, slovenly, insolent, and my first serious heartthrob. careless...ya never offer to help, always ‘ave yer nose stuck in a The storm broke the moment I walked into the house. Mrs. Sharp, bloomin’ book, an’ don’t even make yer bed prop’ly…” still decked out in her going-to-the-pictures finery, met me at the door This seemingly endless list of epithets greeted me late one after- with arms akimbo and eyes flashing, looking extraordinarily hand- noon when I came home from school or, more truthfully, came home some in her rage. I was prepared for her fury, or so I thought; but I after having spent the afternoon wallowing in the charms of James was truly astounded by that long list of unsettled scores. Was I really Mason at the local cinema. It was a Wednesday afternoon—always a like she said? After considerable soul-searching I decided that most half-day at school, so that was not the issue that had enraged Mrs. of her accusations were unfounded, though I did plead guilty as Sharp. Rather, it was the fact that I had gone to the cinema without charged when it came to sticking my nose in books and not making telling her of my intent, and she’d been left sitting with her friend, Mrs. my bed carefully. The charge of carelessness was also warranted. Phipp, both in their Sunday best, waiting for me to come home from After all, I had one day dropped and broken several cups, and, much school so that they could go to the pictures while I looked after Mrs. more serious, once had taken their sleeping toddler on an errand, Sharp’s two young boys. This arrangement was becoming standard parked him and the stroller outside the shop as usual, and then, mis- practice on Wednesday afternoons—fostering a growing resentment sion accomplished, forgot all about him and returned to the house, in me, a twelve-year-old who, like many of her friends, was just be- back to the book that I had been reading before being interrupted. ginning to think of herself as a fledgling adult. After all, we now trav- That was bad. Who knows how long the sleeping Robbie would have eled on buses by ourselves and darned our own socks! Itching to do been parked outside that shop if Mrs. Sharp hadn’t noticed his ab- things on our own, in our own way, we were all a bit scared at the sence? However, it was the only grave offense I could think of; until prospect, but I was probably less ready than most. In particular, I was my recent illicit afternoon with James Mason. certainly much less eager to embrace the embarrassing changes in I managed to hold my tongue through a number of lengthy ha- our bodies that a teacher had told us about in a small room off the rangues, but by Friday morning with Mrs. Sharp still screeching non- gym. I did my best to ignore all that, but, by golly, I did want the occa- stop, something in me snapped. And within moments, a no-holds- sional half-day to myself. barred shouting match developed—I’d never shouted at a grown-up The Sharps were my fourth ‘family’ since I had been evacuated before—and was astonished at myself but I couldn’t stop. Until, fi- with my elementary school to the countryside at the outbreak of nally, anxious to get away from this horrible scene and be on my way World War II; and the second since being re-evacuated to another to school, I tried to run out the door. But Mrs. Sharp lunged at me, part of the country a year later, when, at age eleven, I had to transfer screaming, “Oh, no, ya don’t, yew li’l bitch! I’m not finished with yew to a secondary school. I was not particularly happy with the Sharps, yet. Not by a long chalk,” and grabbed the strap of my school satchel. but neither was I desperately unhappy. Certainly not enough to pick In the ensuing tug-of-war, the strap broke, so I was suddenly free to up and settle in yet another new household, as my mother had been run off down the road with the book-filled satchel tucked under my hinting. She’d always fretted that the Sharps “used” my services too arm, only to see the taillights of the bus I was supposed to be on dis- freely; and, when I was kept home from school for a couple of weeks appearing over the brow of the hill. I ended up walking to school; and to care for their cranky, spotty little boys when they had chicken-pox, was given after-school detention for being so late. her outrage knew no bounds. She’d come close to insisting on a new On that lengthy four-mile walk I did a lot of thinking, and one thing placement, but I managed to dissuade her. Four homes in two years was clear: I couldn’t go back to the Sharps. Not after what I’d yelled were enough; I was not eager to make it five. at Mrs. Sharp. Not after the nasty things she’d screamed at me. But I But then came the week when a James Mason film came to town. knew no other family in the area (apart from the Phipps, and it was Having once caught a glimpse of James Mason in a pre-view for an- their house that I’d been thrown out of almost a year ago...for other film, I’d been bowled over by his sensuous plummy voice and “stealing” a spoonful of cold rice pudding. But that’s another story…). begged Mrs. Sharp, “Please let me go on Wednesday...just this once! Clearly, I was in a mess, a difficult painful mess. I badly needed to Please, please.” But my plea fell on deaf ears. get in touch with my mother, quickly. But a letter would take too long, “Nope, that’s my afternoon out!” she snapped. Which left me and phones were a rare luxury back then in 1941, I knew no one with seething, because my half-day was the only chance I had to see this a phone, nor did I have the faintest idea how to use one. I reluctantly film. We had school all day on Saturdays, and fear of air raids ruled decided that there really was only one option, a very scary option: I out evenings. I yearned to sit in the dark of the cinema with my had to run away...run home...to London...just arrive, unannounced, school pals, luxuriating in James Mason’s stomach-churning huski- on the doorstep. ness...wanted it so badly that, uncharacteristically, I went to the pic- I spent the day scrounging money from my school friends, pennies tures that Wednesday. Went without telling Mrs. Sharp what I had in here, pennies there, ‘til I had enough for the bus fare. And after my mind. last class, I went to detention, then made a mad dash to catch a local bus for the first leg of my running-away journey. (Many years later, a The Storyteller 28 friend said, wonderingly, “You went to detention? When you were house. I certainly had plenty of time to reflect bitterly on my lack of planning to run away?” And for the first time, I realized that it was a talent when it came to running away, as I waited to hear from my little odd. But it simply never occurred to me not to go to detention; mother. But eventually, there she was, standing at the door with my which, I suppose, gives a measure of how law-abiding I was; how three-month-old baby sister in her arms, ready to take me home. Me, remarkable it was that this worm had finally turned.) and all my belongings I noted with satisfaction, because that meant Unfortunately, the worm got careless. In the rush for the bus, I fell that I would not be returning to the Sharps. However, it also meant a down a flight of stairs and twisted my ankle. A kind teacher helped lot for Mum to carry, single-handed—literally—because with one arm me hobble to the bus stop and then, to my dismay, insisted on riding she was cradling the baby, and both of my hands were pre-occupied all the way home with me—home being the Sharps’ house, of course, with crutch management. Getting on and off buses was a nightmare, since I could hardly tell her that I really wanted to take the London only doable because friendly fellow passengers lent us their hands, bus, in the opposite direction, because I was in the middle of running and the long walk from the last bus stop was a serious challenge. But away...To her credit, Mrs. Sharp swallowed her anger when she saw we did finally make it—just before darkness set in and just before the my swollen ankle, and restrained any impulse to slam the door in my sirens began to wail. face; but she didn’t put herself out to help with awkward things like And, although my running-away plan could not be said to have getting up the steep narrow stairs of that small late-Victorian house. gone without a hitch, there was both a sense of triumph that it had, Nor was Mr. Sharp, who took me to the hospital the next day, exactly ultimately, led to escape from the ungenerous Mrs. Sharp, and con- pleased to spend his Saturday afternoon helping this pesky creature siderable gratitude to James Mason for his role in my reluctant rebel- on and off buses and waiting around for x-rays; x-rays that revealed a lion. break just above the ankle; which meant even more waiting around This story is an adaptation of an excerpt from Ms. Southgate’s for the cast to set. By the time we got back, I’m afraid there was not book, Coin Street Chronicles: Memoirs of an Evacuee from London’s much left of the poor man’s customary Saturday afternoon’s pottering Old South Bank, winner of a Star Award in 2011. Ms. Southgate lives with his chickens and garden. in south London, was an evacuee the entire war living with families in Nor was there much left of my running-away scheme. Crutches, the safety of the countryside. She came to America and taught high supplied by the hospital, did make it easier to get around, but not school physics. She lives in Monmouth Junction, New Jersey. easy enough for me to contemplate getting on and off buses unaided. My only hope of escape from the glacial atmosphere that now pre- vailed the Sharps’ house, was if my mother responded to my letter begging her to come and get me, to take me back to London. Mean- time, I could only hunker down and concentrate on mastering the use of crutches—surprisingly tricky in a small crowded house with two First Time small boys, both fond of toy cars, trucks, fire engines, anything with wheels, that were often left lying around on the floor. I had a number From blending with an audience, of hairy moments, the hairiest of which happened outside the house I stumble towards the spotlight, one night after I’d groped my way in the dark of the blackout to the Clench my hands on the podium. outside lavatory. Balanced on my good leg, I was about to sit down in the pitch darkness of its unlit interior, when something large and Startled little waves that leap feathery flapped in my face, startling me so much that I lost my bal- In my heart force my shaky legs ance and fell against the door. This was too much for the latch, and To freeze in front of hundreds; the door flew open and out I pitched, with my full weight on the freshly set leg. My screams brought everyone running, including the Their silence deafens my ears next door neighbors—who, in all the excitement, left their door open, As I speak in a voice less loud, which let light from their kitchen fall on me like a spotlight. Luckily for Trying to recite my own verse them, the air raid warden missed this serious infringement of blackout regulations but, for me, I didn’t know which was worse: the pain, or Until I envision a serene sea. the embarrassment of being seen by all those people with my knick- In wonder, I feel my worries ers around my ankles. My mother roared with laughter when I told her Wash away—my poems flow. about this. “Caught wiv’ yer drawers down, eh? Talk about a spotlight on Alina Zeng charm!” Sunnyvale, CA But I must confess, at the time, I failed to see the funny side; and I ended up feeling rather foolish, because the flapping creature turned out to be nothing more than a dead chicken, slaughtered that evening by Mr. Sharp and put on the lavatory door to “hang,” or whatever it is that one does to freshly-killed animals before they can be eaten. Two phrases from Robert Browning’s Meeting at Night inspired this I had always felt persona non grata in the Sharp family, and now, poem and appear in it. even more so, now that I could no longer help much around the The Storyteller 29

When the Lilacs Bloom in a daze most days, loneliness and loss her constant companions. Gaye Buzzo Dunn The farm was hers now, but without Dad it was too much to handle. The thought of selling the farm was her wake-up call. No way was

she going to lose the farm that had been in the Braxton family for Laura poured a full cup of cold coffee down the kitchen drain. over seventy-five years. She and Dad had worked too hard growing Thinking back, too bad she couldn’t have chucked Marty down the the bustling nursery together. sink. Back at the kitchen table, another cup of hot brew in front of her, Determined, Laura placed want-ads in the local newspapers, she stirred the coffee with a spoon circling the mug non-stop around taped Post-It-Notes in shops and diners around town. She had many and around while she contemplated the current devastation in her takers; many local farm hands stopped by and applied. So far, none life. The kitchen clock read nine o’clock; a splitting headache ham- of the applicants seemed to fit. However, one day when she was mered inside her head. dead-heading geraniums in front of the house, a man pulled up in a She zipped her comfy robe against the early spring chill, wrapped dark brown truck. her calloused hands around the hot mug, walked over to the kitchen “Good morning, I’m John Hardy, everybody calls me Jack. I’m window. The early morning sun glinted off the row of greenhouses here about the job,” he thrust a rumpled resume into Laura’s hand. highlighting growing plants in an ambient glow. Just looking at the “I’m Laura Braxton, owner of Braxton Farm.” When she shook his emerging seedlings lifted her melancholy spirits while a silent tear hand, Laura tried to look past his rugged good looks, his dark brown slipped down her cheek. The screen door banged against the door- hair under the ratty cap, hazel eyes that seemed to turn color when frame when she meandered outside, still cradling the coffee mug. he looked into the sun. She looked down and read his impressive Plopped down in the rattan lawn chair, she admitted her unfortunate resume: a horticultural graduate from Cornell University, extensive marriage with Marty was a colossal failure and this new mess, again, experience on many different farms. Something stirred inside Laura; was her own fault. Her late Mama’s face swam before her; the dire she was intrigued and attracted to Jack, guessed he was in his early warning voiced so many years ago reverberated through Laura’s up- forties. Feelings long denied brushed a palette of rose color on her set mind. sun-tanned cheeks. This wouldn’t do; she had to remain objective. Despite Mama’s advice, she married Marty anyway, just days be- She hired him on the spot. fore her 19th birthday. Their two daughters, Moira and Jasmine, born “Jack, when can you start?” Laura smiled into those crinkled, blue- in her early twenties, were still babies when the marriage to Marty green eyes, her heart beating just a little too fast. finally collapsed. He drank too much at the pub most nights after “Is next Monday okay?” a returned smile lit up his weathered face. work, and too many times, gambled away his paycheck. She thought Jack turned out to be a knowledgeable, hard worker. A budding she’d better get a job when one day he just left, leaving her to raise friendship developed between them, grew sturdy like their green- the girls alone. No money; the rent due. She swallowed her pride, house flora; their mutual love of the farm grew into a love for each called Dad in Pennsylvania. other. Thank God, the girls were away at college and couldn’t see her “Dad, I hate bothering you, but Marty took off; I’m broke,” Laura’s and Jack romping and making out like teenagers behind the green- voice, hoarse from stress, broke into tears. “I don’t know what to do.” houses. Still drinking the last of the stale coffee, she smiled at the “Come on home, honey. I could use help on the farm.” memory of that special afternoon. It seemed like yesterday Laura packed up their meager belong- “Laura, will you marry me?” ings and drove back home to Malvern. Laura, Moira, and Jasmine She had wanted to but hesitated, thinking of her awful marriage to loved the fresh air and adapted well to farm life. Laura discovered Marty. “I love you, Jack, but I think I need a little more time. Okay?” she liked working outdoors, enrolled in horticulture classes at night, Laura gently touched his shoulder. and became a member of the local Cooperative Extension. She and Jack waited. When the winter snows were melting into an early Dad planted numerous lilac bushes in a large area behind the green- spring, he asked her again. Laura accepted with two conditions: house—their favorite double, white and dark purple varieties. They they’d marry when the lilacs bloomed and he changed his last name grew vegetables, harvested fruit from established trees, but Laura’s to Braxton. My God, that horrible fight! Laura knocked over the empty true love was growing flowers. Slowly, her brown, inexperienced coffee mug, ignored the broken shards littered under the table, paced thumb turned a dark, experienced green. the kitchen floor back and forth. Jack’s awful words rushed through

her mind, she grabbed the kitchen sink for support. The sun warmed Laura’s face as she lingered on the back porch. “What? Are you crazy, Laura? No way! There’s no reason I should That’s it. She got up from the chair. She had chores waiting, and al- change my name. So the farm’s had the Braxton name for over sev- ready she had dallied too long reminiscing about the past this morn- enty-five years. Big deal! You’re supposed to be marrying me, not a ing. However, when she returned to the kitchen, instead of getting farm. If you care more about a piece of land than me, then forget it. dressed, she poured the last dregs of coffee into her mug, hoping she I’m out of here—gone.” still might resolve this newest problem. Dad, come back. I don’t know Jackass! What’s the big deal about changing your last name? if I can make this decision without you. Seventy-five years IS a big deal. My dad, his father before him, his Suddenly, the vision of that Sunday morning flashed unwanted in grandfather gave their lives to this farm. There’s no way this farm will front of her face. She found Dad laying in a crumpled heap on the have any name but Braxton. What if something happens to me? You hard-packed greenhouse floor, his hand wrapped around a pot of men are all alike; big egos that get in the way of common sense. Go petunias—a heart attack. The shock tore Laura apart, left her with a ahead and leave—good riddance! hole in her heart that still today had not healed. She walked the farm The Storyteller 30

She hadn’t heard from Jack since. A week ago, a neighbor told A Real Hero her he had landed in the hospital after he fell from his mother’s hug weeping willow tree cutting overgrown limbs . His right leg and ankle I don’t want a paper hero were broken, and he sustained an injured rib or two. Laura grabbed to rescue me from all evil and hate the broom and dustbin, bent over to clean up the broken mug. And that saves the world and gets the girl what would you have done, Dad? before it’s too late Laura, don’t be a fool. If you love Jack, and Jack loves you, that’s I want a real hero all that matters. He loves the farm as much as you do. who looks after others Laura took a deep breath, ran out the back door, grabbed the gar- sacrificing themselves den shears from the porch, ran behind the greenhouses to the lilac saving their sisters and brothers bushes. Her arms pulled at the boughs as high as her arms could I don’t want a paper hero reach, cut stalk after stalk of blooming lilacs. Her slippers flapped straight out of a comic book against her feet when she hurried inside. She buried her face into the who are unsure of their real identity lovely scent of Jack’s favorite white lilacs. Dashing into her bedroom, and have trouble catching a dirty crook she pulled on jeans and T-shirt, grabbed the lilacs, and hopped in the I want a hero pick-up. who doesn’t hide who they are She sped to Memorial Hospital, parked the truck, and sat in the and doesn’t flaunt or boast cab. What was she doing? She was afraid. She left like a rose bud or drive a soup-up car that may not bloom. The lilacs’ heady scent filling the truck calmed I don’t want a paper hero her frayed nerves. Her arms filled with flowers, she walked to the from a fake reality entrance. When the elevator opened on the third floor, Laura ap- with imaginary super powers proached the nurse’s station, asked for Jack Hardy’s room. The and is stuck in a fantasy nurse frowned, “Did you say Hardy? I don’t have a Hardy. Oh, yes, I want a real hero wait a minute. Here he is, Jack Hardy-Braxton—Room 315.” one who goes above and beyond A sudden smile curved Laura’s lips; happy tears threatened to a real person flood her eyes but she held them back. She stood just outside Jack’s one who I’ll remember even when they’re gone doorway and peeked inside the room. Jack was propped up watching

TV; he must havesmelled the flowers’ scent because he looked to- Leslie Milliken ward the doorway. Thompsontown, PA Laura strolled over to Jack’s bedside, set the lilacs on the bedside table, placed her small hand on top of his larger one. Smiled.

“The lilacs are blooming.”

Ms. Dunn is a freelance writer residing in upstate New York. Her work has been published in The Storyteller, Idea Gems Publications, The Painter of Rainbows Fictitious magazine, Long Short Story, Saturday Evening Post, Tiny Lights, Page and Spine magazine, Women’s Memories and an article If I were an artist commissioned in a dream, in the Times Union Newspaper—Sunday Edition. You can reach It would be to be a painter of arcing rainbows. Gaye at [email protected] and find more about her at Like some mythical Greek God of yore www.penandpatience.wordpress.com Whose worshipful task was to paint horizons With multitudinous colors after back storms In raging fury had passed, allowing the gleam Of the sun’s piercing eye to dissipate the rain. I should wish to dip my dripping paint brush And flourish it upon the canvas of azure sky Creating rainbow after rainbow with an artist’s Eye, inspired by eternal design and omniscience As the thunder receded and the peace of calm Was restored by swipes of heavenly paint— Until God’s promise of redemption Was revealed to Noah aboard the ark.

Richard S. Powell Pine Bluff, AR

The Storyteller 31

Dwarf’s revenGe Aon takes a menacing step toward the dwarf, ignoring the look of Adron Love warning from Queen Cine. “We don’t have your war hammer. Free Yaba and end this madness.”

The dwarf flashes Aon a nasty smile. “We have heard different. Cas no longer dry heaves at the daily smell of acidic smoke com- Elves talk and words carry on the wind.” Giving Cas a murderous ing from the funeral pyres. The war between elf and green dwarves look, the dwarf turns and heads to its horse. has raged on for two years. Death has taken from both sides as the A shaking and pale-faced Cas asks, “Who are you?” hatred deepens and blood soaks the ground. The dwarf settles into the saddle of the short midnight black stal- Cas and the other elves are besieged in their capital of Durza by lion. “I am Lorn, Prince of the green dwarves, and I will see you pun- the green dwarves who demand the return of their war hammer given ished for your crimes.” Lorn gives the stallion a gentle nudge with his to them by their god. Dwarf archers are hidden throughout the forest riding boots, and they proudly leave Durza. and valley, sit waiting to pick off any elf brave or foolish enough to Cas and Queen Cine exchange worried looks as Aon stares at head outside. Prince Lorn and the stallion riding off. Picking up a smooth light blue Dangling her long slender legs over the edge of one of Durza’s pebble and spinning it in his left hand, he scratches his face with his eight moss-covered gray towers, Cas watches the sun rise quietly as right hand. “What’s going on?” he asks, pacing in a tight circle. “Are a cool breeze carries the smell of wildflowers to her nose. A blue bird you involved in the theft of that dwarf toy?” lands a few feet away and gives its low woo-woo call and jumps back Cas steps within inches of Aon with balled fists, but falters. “We into the air. shall talk about this later.” Bowing her head, she turns and heads for “A bit dangerous to be out here with the dwarves and their bows.” her room. “I have a lot of thinking to do.” “I know, brother.” Aon sits next to Cas and passes her a flash of Cas settles into her stance, closing her eyes and clearing her cider ale. She takes a long, greedy drink and coughs as the strong mind of yesterday’s news. Pulling back the string, she locks her el- ale burns a trail down her throat. “Any news of Yaba?” bow and releases the arrow. The thwack of a steel-tipped arrow Aon shakes his head. “If anyone can survive out there and sneak slamming into a wooden target eases her nerves. She fits another back in, it’s her.” arrow and pushes back a loose strand of long black hair from her Watching the acidic black smoke of a funeral pyre rise and blow eyes. Hearing the soft crunch of boot to her right, she turns to see a north, Cas takes another long drink of ale. “We underestimated how messenger patiently waiting a few feet away. deadly the dwarves can be. I fear they may have gotten her.” She gathers her arrows and cautiously walks over to him. “It’s possible,” slurs Aon. A soft whack two inches from Aon’s neck “The queen has received another messenger from the green takes both of them by surprise. Two more thwacks send them scram- dwarves. She has called for an emergency meeting.” bling for cover. “Dwarf arrows,” Aon hisses from the safety of a tower “When?” Cas asks, her legs shaky. wall. “Right now,” replies the messenger. “Their range is getting longer,” says Cas. They crawl down behind Cas arrives at a dimly lit council room with small black candles a tower wall, ignoring dwarf curses and laughter as the barrage of giving off a pungent smell. Queen Cine sitting on her raised throne is arrows ends. surrounded by four figures. Cas steps closer and overhears the group Cas and Aon make their way deeper into Durza and find a crowd in a heated conversation. of elves talking in hushed tones. To her right is Prince Lorn and four other heavily armed dwarves, A dwarf in green camouflage riding gear stands a few feet away watching her carefully. from the elves with a smug look on his or her face. Cas tries to get Stopping at the edge of Queen Cine’s throne, Cas takes in every- closer for a better look, but is stopped by her mother. Queen Cine one’s worried looks. “What has happened?” has a worried look on her face and guides Cas and Aon a few feet Aon places a shaky hand on Cas and nods toward the dwarves. away from the other elves. “They have offered a twist on the deal. It is Yaba for the one who “The dwarf has news,” whispers Queen Cine. Cas and Aon look at stole the hammer. We have a week to decide.” each other and wait for the rest. Several seconds pass, and Queen Cas looks over at the grinning dwarves. “What happens if we Cine tightens her grip on her scepter. “The dwarf says a band of don’t?” green dwarves have captured Yaba and are demanding ransom.” Queen Cine whispers, “They will execute Yaba and continue the Red spots appear behind Cas’ eyes. She growls as Aon stumbles siege.” back two steps and cries, “What is the ransom?” Cas steps closer to Queen Cine. “Mother, is there anyway we can Queen Cine’s long black curls swing gently as she stares at the rescue Yaba?” ground. “They want the elf or elves responsible for stealing the war Queen Cine shakes her head, and the small group of elves stare hammer.” Queen Cine gives Cas and Aon a worried look. “We have at each other, listening to the soft calls of the blue birds and jays. Cas two days, or they will question Yaba to find out who stole the war drops her head and squeezes her hands together. hammer. “I know what must be done,” she says, hugging Aon and her Cas turns a deathly shade of white. “Oh, no,” she cries. mother, she heads out of the council room, avoiding the looks coming The dwarf’s deep laughter cuts in. “Oh, yes,” taunts the dwarf. from the dwarves. Jingling as its riding boots dig into the grass, the dwarf steps closer She listens to the peaceful bird calls early in the morning as she and stares Cas down. “Pay the ransom and give us what is rightfully waits for sunrise. The sky shifts from jet black to a light shade of ours. That is a simple price.” The Storyteller 32 purple as the sun starts to rise over the distant horizon. A dwarf picks Rejoicing at Bitter Creek its way over a small group of rocks. The dwarf struggles to climb the steep hill, and Cass can’t help but laugh softly. Breathing hard from When the small creek climbing, it starts at her for several seconds as it catches its breath. That ran shyly beside The recognizes the dwarf as Prince Lorn as he walks around her Our four street village cautiously. “Is this some kind of trick?” Grew a skin with Cas stares at the distant sun. “No, dwarf, it was me and me A rainbow sheen alone.” It was soon known Prince Lorn’s belly jiggles and his armor shakes as he laughs a The gasoline pipeline deep booming laugh that scatters a flock jays nearby. After several Upstream had sprung a leak. wheezes, he steps inches from her face, his eyes steely and hard. News crews came. Pulling out a black velvety hood, he places it over Cas’s head. “I was EPA and hazardous there elf, and you were not alone. We will take you and you alone for Waste cleanup guys now. The others will reveal themselves in time. The truth never stays Descend in droves. hidden forever, and both our races live for a long time. Surrender any And there was much weapons you have, and don’t think of escape. We have a long ride to Rejoicing at Bitter Creek your new home, so let’s get going.” As the cash registers Mr. Love lives in Kaufman, Texas. At the carry out and

Pizza place rang

With lunch time joy.

K. S. Hardy

Bowling Green, OH

One Of Us Is Missing

When we sit down to eat One of us is missing, When we watch TV, Petals Fall Away One of us is missing,

When we go out to a restaurant, Dried flowers falls through the vase. One of us is missing, A cigarette lets smoke swirl When we have company over, from an ashtray. One of us is missing, A gift sits unopened for days. Wherever we go now, Love resurfaced One of us is missing, but was ripped away We hold him in our hearts, from her reach. We keep him in our minds, The beauty she thought she knew We treasure him in our memories, over these last few months He was our Dad, wasn’t real, but an illusion He was special, in which she had wanted to believe. We called him Skinny, The frost over the windows He always loved that, paints across her soul. He will always somehow be with us, The darkness of the night Even though now, pretends dawn will not come. One of us is missing. She knows she’s been forgotten,

abandoned, unloved, unwanted— Celine Rose Mariotti sinking, sinking into nothingness, Shelton, CT losing all breath as petals

fall away from dried flowers.

Maura Gage Cavell

Crowley, LA

The Storyteller 33

i Don’t want to Kill the Butterflies diculous, she thought, how easy it was for her to cry. Tonya K. Dale A huge luminous Monarch flitted alarmingly close, and in spite of her best efforts to avoid it, was swept up and over the top of the car,

wildly helpless on the invisible current. She gripped the steering They were everywhere, or so it seemed; dancing in front of her, wheel with far more force than necessary, looking desperately in her daring to go where they should not be, oblivious to the threat of mirror to see if she could follow its progress. She saw it circle in a speed and bulk. Rather than watching for deer, the odd groundhog, wide swoop through the air behind her, then slowly fly upward, un- or pudgy raccoon as she drove through the Illinois countryside, she harmed. Back to the road, her mind beckoned, watch where you’re watched the butterflies. They pranced and jumped across the road, going. She had nearly stood in the seat, and was completely unaware active for this time of day in spite of the terrible heat. Around her were she had done so. She pushed herself back, unable to dislodge her rolling fields of corn, soybeans, grass, and trees; the sun was long in linen skirt from the fabric seat cover, and struggled to find a comfort- the late afternoon, seemingly weary from its trip through this day. She able position. Her heard was racing, while words thundered in her saw only drivers in cars and no other people, a symptom of the sauna brain. weather that had settled into their lives like an unwelcome, weari- She thought wearily of her mother, pondering the authority she some houseguest. seemed to still exercise over a daughter who was forty seven years Late summer was always a challenge in this part of the country, old and lived four hours away. Why did her mother enter into her daily but this stretch seemed to be endless, and she was feeling desic- commute, a time when nearly an hour was spend driving through a cated. The best way to deal with this, she thought, was to just con- countryside she did not live in or own, but merely borrowed for cede the outdoors to the mood swings of nature while huddling in her awhile? At what point, she thought, would she let go of the girl who house, which was colder than the bitter stare of a jealous woman. grew up so fearful of angering her parents? The youngest of four, Inside, she wore the clothing of winter year round; it caused the need small and surprisingly lonely, she kept herself busy with imaginary for frequent explanation to friends and visitors, but, she had long ago friends and the family dogs in rural Indiana. She avoided her siblings, tired of the thermostat wars with her husband. It was just easier to preferring creatures who did not hurt her with voice or actions. When dress for winter year round, at least inside the house, and let her hus- would she no longer be the girl who desperately tried to avoid seeing band have his frigid rooms. It seemed a metaphor for their marriage: the pain on her mother’s face as she sat adding up that month’s stack August outside, December inside, an all involved subject to the of bills? She remembered walking into their small kitchen, always at whims of an uncontrollable force. the wrong time, as children do. She seemed to face the brunt of her

mother’s fear and frustration more than her brother and sisters, who Twenty miles to go; she wondered, aloud, how many more butter- had apparently long ago learned when not to go into the house. Sib- flies and birds would swoop across her windshield on this trip? It ling rivalry extended to keeping certain details on how to avoid trou- seemed a strange thought, while she normally considered the work ble private, at least from her. that awaited her at home as she wound along this nearly empty two- Being the youngest was never a shield from the angst that lane road. But today, it felt as though nature was trying to keep her seemed to consume their small three bedroom home, as a family of there, with its small, delicate creatures intercepting the only way they six struggled under the weight of one unskilled income, hungry chil- could. A gentle soul she was, in spite of her position, and all of God’s dren, swollen pride and bill collectors. The impact of that struggle creatures found a warm home in her heart. She desperately wanted seemed to define her adult life, as she had pursued multiple college them to stop, to stay in the fields and trees, dotting the corn and bean degrees, had only one child, and had never lived in her hometown plants with their bright colors and stately perching. They were safe after college. She had always lived several hours away from her fam- there, and would not become part of the grille of her small, red im- ily, as if distance could somehow keep those memories at bay. Ironic, port. Small or large, yellow, brown, or gray, she wanted them all safe she thought, that no matter where she was, no matter how far away, from such a collision, and thus she dodged and braked to avoid their no matter how hard she tried to hide, they always found her. paths. Other drivers, she thought, must be thinking very bad things This was time normally spent pondering the cull of life, worrying about her. that her boss had unknown plans for her, chastising herself for saying Being quite comfortable in her thoughts but few other places, she the wrong thing. It was odd how she allowed her past to interrupt pondered metaphorically about the dance troupe God had provided even the most mundane moments; she liked to think that every mo- that day. What did it really mean? Seldom did she allow simple things ment was special, precious, something that should be reflected upon to merely exist around her; instead, she found ways to wind them into for any possible meaning or importance, and stowed away for quiet messages, much like the ghosts that others could not see. It did not moments. Perhaps, she thought, this habit was one she should try to occur to her to question this as it was a symptom of her existence, let go of; moments were allowed to be dull, after all. Not every sec- like her freckles and red hair, short legs, and small voice. So she ond should involve fireworks, or favorite music. A fleeting thought, as would write them, over and over again, and then brave to mention the fearful voice reminded her that something bad could happen if them in passing conversation with those of whom she was closest. one doesn’t pay attention to what they’re doing. She focused again The things she paid attention to were usually different from others in on the road in front of her, the landscape she knew so well, yet could her world, and she wondered at times what was wrong with her. Such never describe. thoughts would inevitably lead to her family and home, memories The small yellow butterflies seemed to be everywhere, and the from her childhood that she had not hidden away in dark rooms. She most adventurous with their choice of flight patterns across Illinois often allowed moments of self-doubt to fully consume her; it was ri- The Storyteller 34

Route 33. Again, she dodged to avoid several of them, thankful that in greeting. She had not seen it coming, in spite of being able to see the old, well-used pickup truck that had just passed her was well out the road for at least a mile ahead, and waved a shaking hand in re- of sight. She came to a bend in the road, next to a now empty lot sponse. A moment passed, then another. The river soon appeared where a small hometown bar had once stood. It had a short life that on her left, framed by tall trees growing bravely on a steep hill. ended as fire consumed its metal walls and roof in minutes. The Grapevines soaked in sunlight at a winery where a wedding would owner was unable to rebuild, and the lot was overgrown now with soon be underway. A sign up ahead shone brightly with the reflected weeds surrounding a battered and broken cement pad. It was a ghost evening sun, in spite of faded lettering and chipped paint. A ragged that everyone could see, she thought sadly, beckoning to everyone marker of a nearly finished day, it was more welcome than a warm that passed in the hope that it would be restored. No one had an- blanket on a cold night, and she found herself smiling through more swered its call. tears as she passed it for the second time that day. There, perched She passed a sign telling her she had twelve miles until she was on top of the sign, its wings gently folding open and close, was a home, and suddenly thought of a story her mother had told her. small yellow butterfly. Lately, her mother’s words drifted in from faded conversations many The light seemed to change, and the air lifted gently; a birdsong years old, rather than present encounters. She was unsure of the drifted through closed windows, delicate but strong, pulling her gaze purpose behind the story that her father, due to not having enough once again to the road ahead. She smiled as the sound danced money to buy license plates for their only car, had instead walked the lightly about her, a gift from an unseen muse to a small, lonely girl twelve miles to work one day when she was very young. She knew it with red hair and freckles driving with butterflies through the Illinois was meant to resonate in whatever manner she allowed; she could countryside, and a mother who had helped her find her way home. either feel guilt or empowerment for having known this. It was difficult Ms. Dale has been published in the PR News’ Employee Commu- to fully embrace a feeling of guilt from the situation as she had not nications Guidebook. She lives in Vincennes, Indiana. even been old enough for school at the time. Empowerment could only come in her not having such a story of her own her tell her son. Perhaps, she thought, the story was meant to inflict both, although guilt never seemed a productive state. To her, guilt damaged both those inflicting it and the intended victim, and no victor came from The Joyous Season such a battle. Whatever her mother’s intent, she knew the aching, deep sadness she felt from him being forced to take such measures You said, “We were busy with family and did not call” had found its way into the part of her soul where all of the worst for Christmas so I could hear your voices from afar memories lived. It liked its new home, and it was going to stay. me not the family busied with your father that’s all She sighed, heavily, as a tear found an unruly path down her cheek. Remembered long long ago when you weren’t so tall Someone in their forties knows all too well about changing eye- when you childishly looked on me as a brightest star sight, the need for arm extensions, the frustration with food labels not saying, “We were busy with family and did not call” and “fine print.” To someone whose near vision is as unhealthy as her far, anything that blurred the eyesight while driving was cause for That season so full so dazzling just like a great ball alarm. Tears resembled liquid blindfolds, and as she wiped the pud- a joyful cornucopia filled cards gifts the big bazaar dle in both eyes, she ventured out of her lane and found herself far for family busied with not me your father that’s all too cozy with a steep, rocky ditch on her right. The car’s small wheels and tires bounced and jerked, making the entire frame shudder as And would be lying if I said a sadness did not fall she sped along. She panicked, jerking the wheel too hard in the op- after that joyous day as I clearly heard you declare posite direction toward the center line, directly into the path of a huge, that, “We are busy with family and did not call” swirling, brilliant swarm of yellow butterflies. Her thoughts became manic and then suddenly slowed, becoming fully detached from the Deserved not more as a father I’d often stumble fall inertia of the car and the countryside that seemed to race past her less like a start than stinking burned up wet old cigar windows. Her vision cleared, remarkably so, until even the markings me not the family busied with your father that’s all on the butterfly wings filled her windshield with vivid color. And a calm, familiar voice told her softly, firmly, “pay attention now, slow And you my sons up upright so very fine and tall down...you don’t want to kill the butterflies.” I hope will no not ever have your sons say “I don’t want to kill the butterflies!” “We were busy with family and did not call” She was startled to hear her own voice, and took her foot off the me not the family busied with your father that’s all gas pedal, slowly easing the car back into its lane. It seemed relieved to once again have control of itself. She found herself breathing in Charles Larsen ragged gasps, and found the road mercifully empty. It seemed as if Bradenton, FL she were completely alone, with only the odd crow or sparrow sitting on a fencepost for company. Eventually, another dusty pickup lum- bered by, the farmer behind the wheel raising a tanned, gnarled hand The Storyteller 35

The Son Small Packages

When I turned 13, I learned to look I’d like to drink Like I didn’t care. up the Universe At 15, I learned how to pretend from a can That he wasn’t there. of Diet Coke, At 17, I learned to call The parents of his friends bought from Without him being aware I was worried at all my ancestors’ Of disastrous ends. most virtuous moments. When he turned 19, and I got a call From the mother of one of his cronies With no deposit Wondering where her “boy” might be. required—can’t be I was the falsest of phonies returned without When I asked her, “They’re not really ‘boys anymore, your consent, Are they, at 19 and 20?” And calmly comforted her. ‘Cause hoo-boy a secret label on I was wondering plenty! the side that reads: “only the purest, Just as I got her to promise to stop natural ingredients.” Crying, in they walked, My son and hers. Hanging up quietly, Has a pull tab that She said she was happy we talked. opens like a forever Then I fed them, or rather, invited them Christmas morning To raid the refrigerator And went for a drive, knowing we’d discuss or your lover’s Tonight two nights or twenty years later. warm embrace,

But we never have. He’s 40+ now with overflowing With teenagers of his own rivers of wine that Who he never never never never never run dry or Never leaves alone. leave you wanting.

James B. Nicola The aluminum reflects New York, New York images of man’s greatest achievements for study,

that hold you spellbound suchlike an enchanted storyteller.

Just a man and his can:

with whole chunks of Emily Dickenson on the bottom and

bubbles of time, Each writer is born with a repertory company in his head and as you beauty, and truth that get older, you become more skillful casting them. Gore Vidal won’t dissolve—

like a Keastsean urn.

Gil Hoy Chestnut Hill, MA The Storyteller 36

The Last Chapter She stormed out of the garden and retrieved her broom and went Linda Wowk to hunt down Watson. She found him inching his way up the tree to an unsuspecting robin. Watson spied the broom coming and tried to

dodge it, but the swift swing knocked him right out of the tree. Ms. On a warm summer day, the clicking sound of a typewriter could Wiggins snickered as she watched the dazed Watson scramble to his be heard through the open window as you passed by the old Victo- feet. He let out an ear-piercing howl as he ran away, seeking shelter rian house on Maple Drive. This fine home belonged to a spunky old from Ms. Wiggins’ mighty broom. spinstress whose name was Claire Wiggins. Age hadn’t dimmed the “That will teach you, Watson, you evil cat,” she said in a huff. sparkle in her big emerald eyes, nor dulled the peaches and cream Ms. Wiggins walked back to the garden. Muttering to herself she complexion she had maintained since her youth. Ms. Wiggins sat at proceeded to tidy up and put the scarecrow back together. Later, she the antique oak desk cluttered with manuscripts and papers. Her nim- found Watson huddled underneath the front porch. ble fingers raced across the keys, busily typing a new romance novel “Come along, Watson, let’s call it a day.” on her trusty, rustic 1931 Royal typewriter. Ms. Wiggins had never Ms. Wiggins retired to bed. She tossed and turned, accidentally fallen in love herself, but since the age of twenty-one she had written fluffed up Watson, thinking he was a pillow, found her sweet spot, but countless best-selling romance novels. sleep still would not come. Watson sat on his stool next to Ms. Wiggins, his whiskers twitched “The last chapter has me stumped, Watson. Until I think of an end- at the tapping of the keys as he watched her fingers glide over the ing I won’t be able to sleep. If we act it out, maybe that will help me.” keyboard. Watson, a bad tempered, mangy old tomcat, had been Ms. Standing at the foot of the stairs, Watson, ready to act on com- Wiggins’s faithful companion since the day she found him abandoned mand, Ms. Wiggins yelled loudly, “Sir Hillary is leading his brigade up as a kitten. the steep sandy hill to go into battle. The bugle blows. Charge!” Ms. Wiggins turned to Watson and peered at him through the half- She dashed up the stairs. Watson bolted up right behind her as if rimmed glasses perched on her tiny nose. “Well, Watson, I’m pleased his tail was on fire, howling at the top of his lungs. Up, down, up, to say I’ve almost completed my new novel. I do admit to this being a down, both of them yelling and meowing until they were hoarse and difficult chapter to write, so I’ll stop for now and prepare supper.” exhausted. Ms. Wiggins made her way into the kitchen, Watson tagging The front doorbell rang. Ms. Wiggins came to a sudden halt at the slowly behind her. Putting the apron over her cotton print dress bottom steps as Watson slid into the back of her heels. Panting she meant supper was to begin. Watson purred as he rubbed against her spied the baseball bat leaning against the staircase. Slowly and qui- black oxfords. etly, she walked over to pick it up. “Watson, you’re such a glutton, I bet you didn’t even stop to taste Watson arched his back and started to hiss. it.” Watson, now full, purred contentedly. “Shhhhhhh, Watson, not now,” she whispered. Ms. Wiggins turned up the volume on the radio and started to She grasped the bat tightly and tiptoed cautiously toward the front wash the supper dishes. A catchy ditty made its way through the door. Too afraid to turn the light on, she stumbled her way down the speakers. She quickly dried her hands, picked up Watson and twirled dark hallway. Finally, she reached the door, then turned to Watson. him around like a rag doll. His paws flew out and his head bobbed “Here goes.” from side to side. Her laughter could be heard above the music as Ms. Wiggins turned on the porch light, flung the door open, raised she danced around the kitchen, and Watson meowed to the song as her bat to swing and then quickly caught herself. if to know the words. “Why! Mr. Little, what are you doing on my porch at this time of Ms. Wiggins loved to garden. She opened the gate and walked night?” she stammered, lowering the bat, hoping the blood would through the assortment of colorful flowers and rows of vegetables. soon return to her fingers. The garden had become her sanctuary. “I couldn’t sleep and went for a walk. Passing by your house I I wonder if the scarecrow I put together yesterday has deterred heard a lot of noise and came to see if you were all right. Are you?” those pesky sparrows from eating my sweet peas? “I’m quite fine, thank you, Mr. Little. Watson and I were acting out As she made her way through the peas toward the scarecrow, she the last chapter of my novel, and I’m afraid we got carried away.” noticed a tiny mouse perched on top of the scarecrow’s hat, and at “Ms. Wiggins, is that mud on your face?” that same moment, so did Watson. The mouse eyed Watson, then “Yes,” she said slowly, forgetting that she had a mud pack on her hurriedly burrowed its way deep inside the scarecrow. Before Ms. face, trying to think of a clever response to his question. “Well, Mr. Wiggins could say a word, Watson leapt onto the stuffed dummy and Little, I rode my scooter to town today and accidentally drove through frantically started to shred it to pieces in an attempt to catch the a swarm of bees. A few of those nasty critters stung me. I find the mouse. Clumps of straw and bits of clothing went flying in every di- mud soothing on my bee stings.” rection, even the scarecrow’s hat flew past Ms. Wiggins’ head. The “I’m glad you’re all right. Well, I should be going. See you at mouse ran down the pant leg, then scurried towards a knothole in the church on Sunday. Good night.” fence to make his escape. Watson hissed loudly as he high-tailed it “Good night, Mr. Little,” she said softly as she closed the door. over the fence. Rubbing her eyes, she stared in disbelief. There be- For some reason I feel a tingly sensation. Oh, Claire get a grip. He fore her lay the scattered remains of her scarecrow, his hat, coat, and was only checking up on you. But her thoughts returned to that feel- trousers now nothing more than wisps of thread. ing the rest of the night. I’ll fix that darn cat. In the distance, the church bells pealed loudly. The Storyteller 37

“Watson, you silly old cat, where did you go? Come along, let’s times it would be nice to have a man around the house.” Watson not dilly dally, we’re going to be late for church.” purred as if to understand. Rushed, Ms. Wiggins grabbed Watson, put on his helmet with the In the following months, Nigel and Claire spend most of their time mouse antenna and placed him in her carrier. She carefully put the together. One night, while walking hand in hand under the starlit sky, helmet over her neatly braided bun. Being rather short and plump, Nigel turned to Claire, cupped her face in his hands and said in a she eased herself onto the seat of the blue scooter, revving the mo- soft, low voice. “Claire, I’ve been in love with you for a long time, you tor. She yelled, “Hold on Watson, I don’t want to lose you.” are the light of my life. Will you please grow old with me and be my Watson’s mouse antenna and whiskers blew back against the wife?” force of the wind as he looked eagerly around at passersby. Ms. Wig- “Nigel, I don’t know what to say. This is the first time I’ve ever gins was concentrating on getting to church, not on the road, when been speechless.” suddenly she hit a pothole that caused Watson to bounce up from the “Yes will do just fine, Claire.” carrier like a jack-in-the-box. Luckily, Ms. Wiggins hit the brake and “Yes, Nigel, I would like to marry and spend the rest of my life with Watson landed safely back into the carrier. you.” “Oh, Watson, I’m sorry I was in such a hurry I forgot to strap you The couple married in a small ceremony, a few close friends at- in.” tended, and, most importantly, the two best men, Sherlock and Wat- Watson let out a feeble meow as he peeked over the top of the son, were in attendance. carrier, his helmet covering his eyes and his mouse antenna bent. Now Ms. Wiggins no longer goes for a bicycle ride alone, but has Ms. Wiggins fixed him up and drove on to the church. She pulled into Nigel bicycling beside her on those warm summer nights. Both of her favorite parking spot, slid off, and hurried through the church them fade into the shadows of a beautiful sunset, along with their two doors. Watson curled up and took a cat nap in the carrier until Ms. traveling companions, Sherlock and Watson. Their mouse antennas Wiggins returned. sway back and forth in the gentle summer breeze. Ms. Wiggins hurried down the aisle and quickly sat down trying to Ms. Wiggins did complete her final chapter to finish yet another catch her breath as she glanced up. Mr. Little slid in next to her. romance novel, and now she would begin a new chapter in her life as Flushed, she smiled. Mrs. Little. “Fine morning, isn’t it, Mr. Little?” Ms. Wowk lives in Edmonton, Alberta Canada. “Yes, it most certainly is, Ms. Wiggins. Have you thought of an ending to your novel yet?” “Why yes, I think so.” When church ended they proceeded to the Sunday picnic. Watson and Sherlock, Mr. Little’s cat, frolicked around in the daisy-filled grass chasing butterflies. They laughed and talked for hours. Ms. Wiggins holDinG someone’s heart wondered why she hadn’t noticed him until now. He made her laugh and feel young again. Someone’s heart is “Claire, you should have seen the expression on your face when hurting. We best be you opened the door. You were scared to death. I saw the bat and gentle for someone in need. thought I’d better duck in case you took a notion to swing, not to men- Helping where it’s tion the mud on your face. It was a Kodak moment.” Tears streamed needed, brings love down their faces in a fit of laughter. where our Lord will “I haven’t laughed this much since I can’t remember when. I guess shape his growth that’s good… we should be going home, but I’ve enjoyed the picnic and visiting with We can grow some you,” Ms. Wiggins said. smiles with hoping. Love Strolling back to the scooter, Mr. Nigel Little reached for her hand. turns to joy, joy, joy today. She hesitated for a moment, then slipped her tiny hand into his. Her heart fluttered as if it were going to stop. She had never felt this way Heaven heaps before. goodness for holy It was dusk when Ms. Wiggins drove into her driveway. She lifted stories. Pray for Watson out of the carrier and noticed he’d lost his mouse antenna. a blessed outcome… Oh dear, I’ll have to make a new one and glue it on for Watson. It’s now happy today. He does like the antenna.

Somewhat tired, she made a cup of tea and sat down at the Carol J. Zileski kitchen table. Watson looked up from his saucer of milk and then Midland, MI licked the traces of milk from his whiskers. He stared at Ms. Wiggins, intently listening to her conversation with him. “Well, Watson, it’s been a wonderful day. You made a new friend and what are the odds his name would be Sherlock. If you were a human, you would find this funny. I have you for company, but some- The Storyteller 38

The Best Hamburger I ever ate dwindling funds, leaving us just enough money to buy gas for the Jeffrey Stone remainder of the trip. “With God’s help we’ll be all right, my mother said. I watched tears

well up in her eyes. She set her jaw, started the car, and drove onto My favorite food in the whole world is an old-fashioned ham- the main road. burger. I’ll tell you why. That day we made it to a small town a few miles inside Maryland. A few weeks ago, my ten-year-old son and I each ordered a ham- None of us had eaten anything since breakfast except a piece of burger, fries, and a Coke at a drive-in. I unwrapped my burger and bread. Mother stopped at a filling station just before dark. She filled began eating ravenously before my son had even taken the wrapper the tank one last time. The attendant gave us permission to park for off his food. I noticed he meticulously laid his burger and fries on an the night. open napkin placed upon his lap. I stopped eating and watching as “That’s enough gas to get us to Baltimore,” Mother said as she he picked up the hamburger and savored the first bite. counted her change. “You kids stay here. I’m going to the store down “Ummmm,” he said through a mouth filled with food. “This is the the street to get something for us to eat.” best hamburger I ever ate. Don’t you think so, Dad?” Across the street from the filling station was a silver diner with an “It’s good,” I admitted, “but I’ll have to think about whether it is the obnoxious yellow and purple sign that flashed every few seconds: best I’ve ever had.” Hot Dogs and Burgers...Hot Dogs and Burgers…Hot Dogs and Bur- Long after the burgers and fries had been washed down with gers. Coke and we turned our car toward home, I pondered my son’s “I would sure love a hamburger, Mother.” I pointed at the sign. proposition. I am certain he didn’t give the matter a second thought “Me, too,” my brother and sisters chimed, one after the other. and never expected me to consider it for another moment. I could “I don’t have enough money, sweethearts,” Mother opened her have answered him right away, but it would not have been enough to purse and stirred the contents. “But I’ll see what I can do.” simply tell him about the best hamburger—where and when I ate it, After twenty minutes, she returned carrying a small brown bag and how it tasted. There is much more to the story. two RC Colas. “You’ll have to share the drinks.” She took four ham- There were five of us in the old Dodge sedan. Our mother, who burgers out of the bag and handed one to each of us. was thirty-six, and my older brother rode in the front. My two younger The best hamburger I ever ate? That was the one. I held the sisters and I were relegated to the backseat, jammed between pillow- wrapped burger, feeling the pleasant warmth of it against my hand. I cases filled with clothing, pots and pans, and a few other personal savored the aroma of onions, tomato, mustard, and pickles all belongings. That morning, we left behind the only home we had ever blended together. Even the texture of the lightly waxed paper in known in a little Southeastern Kentucky coal town. All our posses- which it was enclosed remains unforgettable. I unwrapped the ham- sions were on our backs, in the pillowcases on which we sat, or in burger reverently as if it were a sacrificial offering. I was aware it duffle bags and beat-up suitcases in the trunk of the car. might be a long time before I ever tasted anything like it again. I lifted We were on our way to find my father, who had left us penniless the sandwich to my mouth and bit through the bun, mustard, lettuce, after the Black Star Coal Company closed the local mine. When tomato, onion, pickle, and patty. “Ummm,” I muttered. “Ummmm,” as I Mother learned Dad was living in Baltimore, she made plans to find began to chew slowly. him; and so we set out on that five-hundred-mile journey. After I swallowed my first bite, I stopped eating long enough to In preparation for our trip, Mother sold everything we possessed look at my mother’s face. She sat quietly in the driver’s seat with her except our clothing and the few items we packed into the car. We eyes closed. She had nothing to eat. said goodbye to our friends and headed out on highways Mother had “Where is your hamburger, Mother?” never before driven. “I didn’t get one for me.” “We’ll be all right with God’s help,” she said, “and if we watch our “You want some of mine?” money.” “No, honey,” she said, “you eat it. I’m not hungry.” We understood that meant we would have to tighten our belts for The author, whose penname is Jeffery Stone has written short the trip, and nothing would be bought that we did not need. It also stories about ordinary people most of his adult life. He is a retired U. meant we would eat bologna sandwiches two or three times a day S. Navy officer and businessman and now resides with his wife in and drink only water. southeastern Tennessee. The loss of much of his sight to Macular My mother was not a very experienced driver. She had never Degeneration has not diminished his zeal for writing. He is currently been outside the county where she was born. It was up to my fifteen- working on two novels and several short stories. His self-published year-old brother to read the map and keep her headed in the right book of short stories, A Lady I Met at Closing Time, is available on direction. Several wrong turns and double-backs impeded our pro- Amazon. gress, but we still made it to Roanoke before dark that first day. Mother found a filling station where we were allowed to park for the night. The next morning, we ate our last bologna and bread before continuing. When Mother attempted to start the car, it wouldn’t crank. The starter was broken. We waited until early afternoon while the station attendant got a rebuilt starter and installed it, costing nearly half our The Storyteller 39

The Way It Was was a busy commercial place of business now. I know for sure and Dorothy L. Bussemer certain that I will never lose the old home place. I will just have to close my eyes and remember, and there it will be.

No place built for love and remembered with love ever truly disap- It was 1962 when I left Zanesville to work for the federal govern- pears. It remains with us forever, for it is like Carol told me that after- ment and the old family homestead was standing just as it always noon shortly before her death, “You know, when you think of me and had. My great-grandfather had it built in the late 1840’s for his large the wonderful times we had, I’m still there with you, for instead of family. I was now retired and had returned to Zanesville even though living in your presence, I will live in your heart and mind.” I had steadfastly maintained that I would, but the terminal illness of a And old home places are exactly the same. Instead of being pre- friend had changed my mind. We had been friends since that day in sent in our eyes, we view them now with heart and mind, and they high school when our teacher said with a smile, “Carol, this is Doro- are the same, bringing the same comfort and happiness. thy and Dorothy, this is Carol.” Ms. Bussemer has traveled extensively around the world, and It was an instant friendship that was to last for Carol’s lifetime. She many of her stories reflect those travels. She’s had numerous stories brought with her friendship, her family of two brothers, in addition to published in a variety of magazines. She lives in Zanesville, Ohio. her parents and a grandmother, who made her home with them and insisted I call her Grandma also.

I lived with my mother and auntie on the old home place about a block up the road. That was 1936, the day we met, and it ended on a June day in 1992 in our hometown cemetery. The Yellow Sweater Carol had served in the Air Force during World War II and I worked in a defense plant. After the war ended, Carol married and I Is there an invisible keepsake box worked as a secretary until that day I accepted a job with the federal for all the Mother’s Day gifts government and left Zanesville, believing it to be forever. I was not allowed to give? The old home place looked natural the day I left the back porch where Carol and I had spent many happy hours gabbing with one If so, perhaps it could also hold another, especially now she had a husband and two little girls to gab the decades of birthday gifts with. I had a new career to think of. I was not allowed to give. Mother passed away in 1965 but had chosen to remain in Zanes- ville. My career with the government was delightful because the vaca- Unlike my mother, I am secure tions were long enough to permit me to travel over much of the world enough to be the center of attention and enjoy many delightful adventures and to learn how alike the peo- when those days honor me. ple of the world are—not how different were are from one another. On visits home, I would always view the old home place and remem- Once, when I was no longer a child, ber Auntie who had passed away in 1943; and the old home place I chose a pattern and yellow yarn had been sold to a wonderful little family who ran a fast food restau- (her favorite color) and had a relative rant. Yet, the building itself had not changed in the least. It had been transform the yarn into a sweater. well-kept, and I was satisfied with it. In May 1987, I had been retired for five years when I received a I presented it to my mother on— letter telling me of Carol’s tragic illness. She was a widow now, living of course—a non-occasion day. with her two daughters. I immediately returned to Zanesville to be- come a senior citizen girlfriend instead of a high school girlfriend. The She may have said thank you doctor had said six months, but he was wrong. We had five happy but that is beyond my recall. years until that day at the cemetery. I sensed that she liked it, I had sold the home I had grown up in and never viewed the old but—it was hard to tell. home place until about two months ago when friends took me for a ride and asked if I wanted to stop. I did. I walked to the front of the She did thank me—in her way, car and looked down to the walk which had led to the front porch. The by wearing the yellow sweater house was gone now, and a distributing company had been built in its on every cool-enough day place, giving employment to men in the old neighborhood. I could for—the rest of her life. remember the old house so well. The porches, where in summer, a lot of visiting had taken place. The inside sitting room with its grate Caryl Calsyn where Auntie used to sit in the long ago. I could see in my memory’s Marble Falls, TX eye, the upstairs bedrooms, especially the room that had been my daddy’s room when he was little and then was mine. The kitchen where Auntie used to cook such wonderful meals for the family and snacks for all the kids in her care, who came to play with me. Yes, it was all still there in my heart and my mind even though it The Storyteller 40

Naming Rights “How are my tomatoes, Frank?” he called out in a frail voice as John P. Kristofco Alex walked from the garage with a green plastic bag for the hedge clippings.

“They look real good, Dad.” Peter and Mary Allen had lived in their small white bungalow on “Did you trim the lower shoots?” a bony hand pointed to the corner the corner of Orchard and Dodge streets for almost fifty years, a mat- porch. “They just take away from the fruits, you know.” ter of five kids, nineteen grandchildren, ten presidents. “Yes, Dad, I clipped them.” Twelve years ago, Pete retired from more than forty years as a “Those strings aren’t too tight, are they? You don’t want them to timekeeper, his new life being taken up with a garden that occupied cut into the stalks. You didn’t tie them too tight, did you?” almost half of the back yard and watching Jeopardy and Wheel of “They’re all right, Dad.” Fortune. Mary played pinochle, bowled twice a week, and listened to “Is the soil good and loose? It can’t be packed too tight, or it will every inning of every Cleveland Indians game. Together, they played choke the roots.” Scrabble almost every night. A tall stack of scorecards (actually the “I think it’s okay. I added vermiculite when I trimmed them earlier.” backs of old punchcards that Pete had gathered up from his days at The late morning sun was bright on the concrete of Dodge Street National Industries) sat rubber-banded in the cabinet just above the and on the faded white paint of the Allen’s garage. The maple in the old yellow rotary telephone in the kitchen. middle of the yard, Alex’s maple (he had planted it there when he About five years back, on a chilly Saturday afternoon, Pete took was ten), cast a circle of shade like an island on the grass. almost an hour to make his way back from Santo’s Barber Shop, a Alex stood for a moment and thought about the August days at mere ten-minute, two-block walk from the house. He had become this corner house thirty years ago, when baseball-sized tomatoes confused and wandered all the way down to Highland, almost a mile hung from more than a dozen plants. A large chrome bowl filled with past his own corner. Harriet Gerbec, one of Mary’s pinochle com- the red fruit would sit in the center of the Formica table in the kitchen. rades, saw him standing in her driveway and offered to drive him Another six or eight would line the east-facing window above the home. Though he had known her for nearly twenty years, Pete didn’t kitchen sink. It was the time of year of BLT’s, tomato sandwiches on recognize her. buttered toast, or just eating them like apples. Warm August after- Two weeks later, while Mary was bowling in her Tuesday after- noons, the buzz of cicadas, baseball dust on jeans, and the harvest noon league, Pete found his way to Kay’s Drug Store, a block down of tomatoes. Orchard. He bought a carton of Winstons. “Did you trim those lowest shoots there, Frank?” Upon arriving home, Mary was startled to see the red and white Alex looked at his father in the small, screened porch, like an ex- rectangular box on the kitchen table, the house filled with a light blue hibit in a museum or at a zoo, short-sleeved shirt, weathered old dark haze, and her husband sitting quietly in his green recliner, taking long -rimmed glasses, a pack of Winstons in his pocket, squinting intently cigarette breaths and exhaling them happily into the living room. out at the four plants in the leftover corner of a once-proud garden, Pete had quit smoking ten years earlier. pointing with his bony right hand. In the time since those events, there had been “episode,” as Mary “Those little shoots will stunt the tomatoes.” Allen chose to call them, “little strokes.” Peter began to forget things. “Yes, Dad, I trimmed them this morning.” Sometimes he would pound the arm of the chair when he couldn’t Adam Allen walked up the neighbor’s drive behind the back porch, retrieve the name of a familiar television character or a neighbor dragging a green bag full of grass cuttings. Tired and sweaty, he walking past the house. It was as if, he told Mary one day, he had strained to bring the weight with him, but he managed. “lost the little file cards for things” in his head, and he simply could not “Hey, boy!” his grandfather called out as he passed. Adam find them, even though he easily remembered the capital of Finnish stopped. Lapland and its chief imports and exports (he had been, after all, an Peter Allen squinted toward his grandson. A cardinal called its award-winning high school geography student back in Potter, Penn- “wee-too” from halfway up the maple, and a brown squirrel tight- sylvania, sixty-five years ago). roped its way along the cable stretching over Dodge Street. Alex, at In these years, his once lean and agile body grew brittle and the hedge row now on the other side of the yard, paused a moment. crooked, and he could no longer get around as he once did so casu- “What’s in that bag?” ally, almost gracefully. He could no longer keep up with the once “Grass, Grandpa.” proud garden and his tidy yard. “Grass?” And so it was that Alex, the Allen’s only son, began to come on “From the yard,” Adam motioned toward the front of the house. weekends regularly to cut the grass and trim the property. He often “From this yard? My yard?” brought Adam, his ten-year-old son, and his daughter, Annie, who “Yeah, from the front yard, Grandpa.” was seven. Peter rubbed his forehead and turned in the direction of Adam’s This was one of those Saturdays. gesture. He looked back at the boy. “Where you taking that bag?” Peter Allen was sitting in the small screened porch facing the back “Out to the garage with the rest of the yard stuff.” yard. The outline of the once-prominent garden could be seen where Peter reached for the matches on the table beside his glider. He new grass had taken hold three years ago. All that remained of what fumbled for a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket, struck a was once a festival of vegetables was a small strip of four tomato match and raised it to the Winston. As he did, he noticed Alex watch- plants, each rising, as was the long-held custom, beside a tall ing from the hedge. He pointed to his son and looked back at Adam. wooden stake to guide its growth. The Storyteller 41

“Do you know that man?” Mary turned back to the window as if pushed there by the sound Adam looked across the small yard, puzzled. “Yeah, Grandpa, of words. that’s my dad.” “I know he used to call you hon, but today I heard him call you Peter drew in a long, slow breath, looking up at the glint of red Mom.” sitting in the maple tree. There was another silence. Mary drew a slow, deep breath, turned toward the door to the side “Be careful past those tomatoes over there.” steps and the basement. She rinsed a plate and set it down on the “I will, Grandpa, I will.” right counter. With that, Adam Allen continued to the garage. Alex watched for a “Did he call me Mom today, honey?” moment, then went back to his task of trimming the low row of “Yes, Grandma; I heard him call you Mom a bunch of times.” hedges that stretched the entire length of the property along Dodge “Oh, I hadn’t noticed.” Street, interrupted only by the driveway and the side steps. It was a Mary grabbed two of the stacked plates and placed them in the job that his father had held to himself until he could no longer do it. In dishpan. Annie set two glasses on the counter. The old red clock, fact, it was the last of the yard chores that he completely surrendered with its thick black chord snaking down beside the cabinet and about two years back. plugged in on the left side of the sink, slowly, relentlessly whirred out When Alex was growing up, his father would let him do small sec- the seconds and minutes as it had for nearly forty years. She paused tions of the long hedge, always showing his son how to hold the clip- again, closing her eyes to the cooling air that blew through the screen pers and how to extend the arms out so that the cut would be even, and exhaled heavily. “Annie?” and the top and sides would be straight. “Yes, Grandma?” By the time he was twelve, Alex was responsible for the entire “Would you like to help dry the dishes?” lower section, from the side steps to the front sidewalk, a shorter and “Sure, Grandma.” lower section, but, in all, a task of some significance nonetheless. “That way, we can get done faster.” Occasionally, Peter would even let Alex do the entire hedge row, a “And have another piece of pie?” job that he undertook with no small measure of pride. He had devel- “And have another piece of pie.” Mary Allen turned to her seven- oped a real skill for the work, and, more importantly, he enjoyed do- year-old granddaughter and smiled. ing it. Half a Saturday afternoon, the Indians on the radio that he’d set in the bedroom window, brushing his hand carefully across the line of “Who’s Willie, Dad?” his cutting, snapping a thick branch here, a missed tuft there, meticu- “Willie? I’m not sure, why do you ask?” lously sweeping the sidewalk after. “Well, Grandpa called me Willie a couple of times today.” Sometimes his dad, who had spent the same hours working in his “Oh, yeah. I heard that.” garden, would walk by when Alex was almost done, standing near “Who is he?” the road, scanning down the green and brown hedge line. Alex looked down the green and brown tunnel of Park Lane, the “Nice job, Alex.” street behind and parallel with Orchard. It was like looking through a Today, Alex could still hear those words. telescope, with light falling at the intersection a block away, where there were no trees, just the concrete of sidewalks and streets taking After dinner that Saturday, Alex and Adam went for a walk on the people somewhere, through the circle of the lens to whatever places long block around the Allen house. Mary stayed back with Annie. they would go. Pete was stretched out on the sofa snoring loudly, his customary post “I think that’s probably his brother, William, you know, Uncle Bill, -dinner nap. back in P. A.” “Grandma,” Annie began as she handed Mary dishes from the “Oh, sure. I didn’t know that they called him Willie though.” table. “Why does Grandpa call me Helen?” “Yeah, I guess they did when they were kids. Uncle Bill is about Mary Allen paused a moment, her soap-soaked hands dripping ten years younger than Grandpa.” over the dishpan in the sink; the warm water poured from the old fau- “Do I look like he did when he was a kid?” cet. She looked out at the neighbor’s house across Dodge Street, “I don’t know, Adam, but I guess maybe you do.” saw the cars passing up and down Turney Road, a block to the east. The boy lifted his Indians baseball cop, ran his left hand through She closed her eyes briefly then turned to her granddaughter. his hair, and replaced it. “Dad?” “You know...I’ve thought about that a little, and I think I might just “Yeah.” know. How about we try to figure it out after the dishes?” “Does Grandpa know who I am anymore?” “Will we ask Grandpa then?” A red Chevy pulled up to the stop sign at Dodge and Park Lane. It “No, no, we’ll let Grandpa sleep until Jeopardy.” rattled its noisy muffler and puffed dirty blue-gray smoke into the “Oh, okay.” early evening air. Alex watched as it drove off down the block toward “Maybe we’ll even let him sleep past that.” Mary said with a smile. Turney. “Maybe we could even have ourselves another piece of pie.” “I’m not really sure, but I think he does, down where it matters “Oh, could we, Grandma? That would be cool.” most. I think it’s as if what he knows has been locked away in a room Annie retrieved two more plates from the table and reached up to in his head, and there’s only a small window to look in. The stuff that put them on the counter. “Grandma?” she said timidly, “Um...um… he can still get to is what goes all the way back to when he was why does Grandpa call you Mom?” young. So, when he sees you, he knows that he knows you, at least The Storyteller 42 he knows that he should know you, and the only thing he can get to with soft, round features and a smile that lit up that summer after- is the image of a young boy who looked like you do now, to him, any- noon. way.” Alex shook his head and smiled. “Like he calls you Frank, like his brother?” “Fell Lake,” on a picnic with Sophie and Bob, the year before we “Yeah, and he calls Grandma, Mom.” were married,” Mary said softly. “A million years ago.” At that, Alex stopped and looked at his son. “We’re still in there, There was quiet for a minute. Adam, in that room. We’re still in there.” Then Alex said, “But still right here with you today. The picture, the Adam squinted at his dad for a moment. “Okay,” he nodded finally. day, still with you.” “But he scares Annie, Dad. She told me,” the boy offered in a small Mary looked at the photograph and nodded slowly. “Yeah,” she voice. barely whispered, though still smiling, only now looking out the “She’s in there, too, Adam, don’t you worry. Grandpa just never kitchen window to the corner of Portage and Dodge. “I guess so,” she got to know Annie too well before he got sick. But she’s in there too.” said. “Everything...it’s all still with us, isn’t it?” “And that doesn’t go away,” Alex said. “Like the figures on the When Alex and Adam stepped back up into the kitchen, they Grecian Urn.” found Grandma Allen and Annie sitting at the kitchen table. In the Mary turned to look at her son. She nodded. “Like the figures on middle was an old brown and green box that Alex immediately recog- the Grecian Urn.” nized. Over the past twenty years, Mr. Kristofco’s poetry, short stories, “Hey, Daddy, look!” Annie leapt off the chair, smiling broadly. and essays have appeared in more than one hundred different publi- “Look who I look like!” and she held out a faded old three-by-five, cations, including: The Cape Rock, Folio, Blueline, The Rockford Re- black-and-white photo of two children. “That’s Grandpa right there.” view, The Cimarron Review, Rattle, The Rockhurst Review, The Her pie-tainted finger excitedly pointed to a boy, about twelve, in Chaffin Journal, OffCourse, The Owen Wister Review, The Story- knickers and a heavy sweater who looked alarmingly like a scaled- teller, and Big Muddy. He lives in Highland Heights, Ohio. back version of Peter Allen. Alex shook his head. “God, look at him. He’s looked just like that for almost eighty years.” Mary Allen laughed softly. Poems “And you know who that is next to him?” the seven-year-old bub- bled. “Every poem quivers as I do “Um...let’s see...why, is it? Could it be…? He smiled at his daugh- and then moves forward.” Alice Notley ter. “How did you get into that picture, Annie Allen?”

“Daddy! That’s Grandpa’s little sister, Helen. See, she looks just They come at night and hide until first light like me!” while slices of morning cling like spider’s “Let me see that,” Adam insisted, stretching over to glimpse the webs playing with the east. Fast falling. picture. Inside. Glimmering. Alex held it out to him. The dreams of words and colors come out. “Well...maybe...maybe a little…” Spilling and splitting and sends roots into Alex nudged his son. a page. Oozing in all directions with shapes “Um, yeah, sure...she looks just like you, Annie.” not seen until they frost up, and freeze from the “She sure does!” his sister beamed. inside out. “And you know what else?” Annie added excitedly, and she Most days the rush of getting somewhere lets stepped back over to the table to grab another picture. “Look at this, them die. Unwanted tasks have taken their Adam!” she pronounced, handing her brother a snapshot. lives away. Until the sun is going down. There in the frame, wearing a Pittsburgh Pirates baseball hat and Rushes to take over. Fingers cannot keep a very disheveled looking mitt, was a boy about ten. up with the flood. As it comes like a stream. “Well, I’ll be,” Adam offered, shaking his head slowly. White fossils that were there in the beginning. Alex looked over. “Young William Allen, I presume?” Now they turn dark with black ink memories. “No, Dad, not William, Willie,” Adam smiled. Let it dry. Stir it. Changes come naturally now. Alex looked up at his mother, who rested her chin in her left hand The heat of wishes and words passed by. As and smiled softly. He stepped up to the table and looked over the the cold rain has stopped with the day dozen or so pictures that were still scattered there. He reached out to and has gone away. pick one of them up.

In it, a twenty-something young man was lying on a blanket, his d. n. simmers face lifted up for the snapshot. His hair was jet-black, curly, and riot- British Columbia, Canada ing all over his head. Standing above him, with one foot on his back and one arm raised as if in triumph, was an even younger blond girl The Storyteller 43

Wildcards The Voyage

Since we’ve learned our sweet outcomes were earned by elite Of the wind that casts a mystical secret toil and labor, if wildcards foil a neighbor, Of the bending of a fragile violet some people greet the self-righteous drums of bias Where wilt thou ever settle down? they love to beat when a bum succumbs to defeat. Tire of thy movement of eternity bound Don’t be so smug, if you catapult to success, that, with a shrug, you’d insult those in distress. Slithering thru hill and forest glen Before you show contempt, know none are exempt Riding up to and all around the bend from the shards of wildcards, and the dreams they pre-empt. Singing melodies thru naked branches Oh, don’t we realize as we open our eyes to rise Music to my ears, my fair heart anxious each morning, a surprise wildcard cries its warning, “You must romance the dance of chance and circumstances: Thru pipes thy voices rich and pure You’ll roll the tandem dice; they pay a random price…?” From ancient hymns of sound so demure The sharp shards from stray wildcards whittle away The voyage of the wind that mysterious romp the role of what little we may control… Waving unseen banners, a noble pomp So, you expect no strife in your perfect life? Wildcards! Your weak lucky streak may jackknife! Come home to where I can see thee clearly Humble heroes will stumble as they grumble. “How could trouble crumble my plans into rubble?” Robert L. Martin Do you grieve that today is tragic with sorrow? Bangor, PA Wildcards believe in the magic of tomorrow! Sometimes their goal is a rally to repair the soul they ensnare in the valley of despair. When God’s infesting “Job,” strengthen your immunity by knowing God’s testing the rest of the community because, if you’re unkind and ration your compassion, you’ll find the shards of those wildcards aren’t restricted reD warren’s reD loam to the suffering people already inflicted!

What secrets pass within the briar patch? E. V. Wyler The shameful pride of histories reflect Fair Lawn, NJ across the Tennessee farmyard where hatch

the fruitage of young life Spring resurrects.

Cold shovels dig beneath the packed red loam,

red hair over red dirt; is it the other Tribulation way around? Go brood as the hearthstone is scuffed by feet, you semi-blind star-lover. the mind a banging door Books says that minds never go home again, our current sentiments divide us from the heart what we once thought, those buried childhood fears. an open wound You look into your gnarled and age-stained hands and pull from entrails a curse for the downed sun the soul while telescoping the oscillating spheres. a bird that seeks her nest in the storm Christopher Fried Williamsburg, VA Anna Sykora Hannover, Germany

The Storyteller 44

Dead Connection blue ribbon at the County Fair next month. A smile played on the Lanette Kissel girl’s lips as she pictured Susan Morgan being presented with that blue ribbon. There was one particular memory that stood out in Felicity’s mind A Fourth of July accident involving some neighborhood boys and whenever she thought of Rodney. It was a memory that she shared a firecracker, had robbed her of her hearing a few years ago. She with his mother, Susan Morgan, and one the woman would never was now known as the strange little deaf girl who lived in the ceme- forget as long as she lived. This particular event had happened a few tery. Though she did not actually live in the cemetery, she spent most weeks after Rodney was laid to rest. He was a newcomer to the of her waking hours there. She lived with her parents in a house that cemetery, and Felicity had already introduced herself to him and wel- bordered the cemetery where her father was the grounds keeper. comed him to the neighborhood. All the people in town knew Felicity. People would drive by the One day he told Felicity he was worried about his mother, as she cemetery on their way to town and see the girl walking through the had seemed very depressed when she visited him that morning. Rod- cemetery yard; or perhaps she would be sitting upon one of the tomb- ney had then informed Felicity that he had written a letter to his stones. mother before he had left the country, a letter telling her all of the Everyone thought the girl was a bit of a mystery. They felt sorry for things he wanted her to know, just in case he didn’t make it back. The her, the poor little deaf girl who couldn’t communicate with anyone; letter revealed what he felt for her, how much he appreciated her, and no one could communicate with her. She lived in a world of her and how much she meant to him. She had always been a loving and own, yet didn’t appear to be lonely. supportive mother, and in this letter, he told her that. She was the strange little girl with the pale translucent eyes, which He told Felicity he had hidden the letter under his mattress in a reflected the grey color of the tombstones that surrounded her. She place where no one would find it, unless a person knew exactly was the strange little girl who seemed to be more comfortable with where to look. Rodney had told his best friend about the letter, and the dead than the living. She was the strange little girl who seemed to had asked him to find it and deliver it to his mother if he was killed. know things she couldn’t possibly know; and yet, she somehow knew But his best friend died a few days before Rodney. And there was the them. letter lying unread beneath his mattress. No one knew of its exis- People were accustomed to seeing her whenever they would tence, except the little deaf girl who could communicate with the come to the cemetery to visit a departed loved one. The girl was al- dead. ways somewhere nearby, silently watching with those pale grey eyes. So Rodney had asked Felicity if she would go to his house to find People often wondered what went on inside her head, what lay be- the letter and present it to his mother. Felicity wanted to help Rodney yond those silent lips and translucent eyes. in any way she could. She wanted to help ease the young man’s One day, Mrs. Susan Morgan came to pay a visit to her son, Rod- mind concerning his mother, and she promised to do as he asked. ney, who had been killed in the war in Afghanistan. Felicity was ac- Felicity was able to converse with her parents by using a combination customed to seeing the woman. Susan Morgan was loyal to her son’s of gestures, scribbled words, and a crude form of sign language. She memory, as she made a point of visiting Rodney every week, usually was able to let them know that she must pay a visit to Susan Morgan on a Tuesday or Wednesday morning. Felicity seated herself upon a that she had an important mission which must be carried out. nearby tombstone and watched as Susan kneeled upon her son’s Her parents did not question her strange request. They had been grave. The girl tried to imagine the words Susan might be saying to on such missions a number of times before and knew their daughter Rodney. But she knew that she would not have to imagine for long. must have received another one of her strange revelations. They As soon as the woman left the cemetery, Felicity hurried over to knew not to question the whys, hows, or wherefores. They knew Fe- Rodney’s tombstone and sat down. She was anxious to find out from licity had a quest she needed to carry out and that someone would Rodney how the visit with his mother had gone, and exactly what she end up benefiting from that quest in one way or another. had said to him. So she proceeded to ask Rodney how his mother Felicity’s parents had come to accept the fact that their daughter had seemed that day; for the girl knew that Susan was prone to bouts simply seemed to know things others did not. She was privy to some of depression, even more so after losing her son. kind of special information, which allowed her to do things for others. When Felicity quizzed Rodney about his visit with his mother, her Her parents realized Felicity was blessed with an unusual gift, which lips did not move and she didn’t utter a sound. She simply concen- made her very special and unique. They were always willing to in- trated and focused her mind on the young man who had come to rest dulge her strange requests without questioning them. in her cemetery yard, the young man who now slept beneath her feet. That evening, Felicity and her parents drove to the Morgan’s She communicated her thoughts to him, and he, somehow, was able home and knocked on the door. Felicity’s mother tried to make Susan to receive them and respond to them. The girl used her mind to com- Morgan understand that for some reason, Felicity needed to have municate with Rodney and with others like him who had come to rest access to Rodney’s room for a moment. Susan was puzzled, but here; and they, in return, communicated their thoughts back to her. agreed to let Felicity into her son’s room, even though she, herself, Felicity was not the poor, lonely girl people thought her to be. hadn’t been able to set foot in that room since Rodney’s death. Though she couldn’t converse with the living, she found she could Felicity entered the room and made her way directly to the bed. communicate quite fluently with the dead. That particular morning, She quickly found what she was looking for. The letter was just where Rodney told the girl his mother was having one of her good days and Rodney had said it would be. She felt a tremor of excitement as she that she was excited about the new pie recipe that could win her a held the important piece of paper tightly in her hand and proceeded The Storyteller 45 down the stairs, anxious to give the letter to its intended recipient. On the porch The girl approached Susan and held out the letter to her. Susan’s eyes grew wide as she read the word “Mother” written on the enve- I carry you outside lope. She knew instantly that Rodney’s hand had penned that word. Wrapped in your worn warm blanket She grasped the letter, hesitating a moment before opening it. She We nest on the porch, in rocking chairs. began to read those treasured words, which her son had written Like children, we marvel at what we find, many months ago; and the tears began to flow. Her hand trembled, Dusty remains of a shooting star, yet she kept reading through the tears, her eyes riveted to that letter, The somber black sky, sprinkled cherishing every loving word it contained. When she finished reading, In rainbow colored points of light. she carefully folded the letter. We touch the night wind as for the first time, She glanced in disbelief at the girl who stood before her, a sweet Like fresh babies surprised from the womb, smile on her silent lips. Then she looked over at the girl’s parents and Wide eyes startled by its coolness. uttered the words, “How...how did she know about this?” We nestle close together, reaching Felicity’s parents simply shrugged their shoulders and shook their For the warmth of our shared hands, heads. Susan stepped forward and bent down to embrace the girl. Not thinking of another moment in time, only now. Then the family left the bewildered woman to marvel over the myste- rious blessing she had just received. We sit alone on the porch, but more together Felicity was anxious to return home. She immediately ran to tell Than two people could ever be. Rodney she had carried out his wishes, that the letter was now in his I carry you outside, sometimes, mother’s hands, that she had loved and treasured every word he had Carry you with me inside, written and would until the day she died. She could immediately Always. sense the young man’s relief upon hearing the news about his letter and how much it had meant to his mother. William A. Hall Felicity was always happy and pleased to be able to be of service Little Rock, AR to those who shared her cemetery with her. She thought of them all as her own little family, and she watched over them as a mother watches over her children. Those who slept beneath the ground looked upon the strange little girl as an angel who helped them carry out last wishes, and to finish business that their premature deaths had left unfinished. As Felicity conversed with Rodney that Tuesday morning, she was Hillbillies Live Longer suddenly reminded that there was an urgent mission that needed to be attended to that evening. Seeing that Alice Montgomery had come Serve up the white lightnin’ to visit her beloved husband, Daniel, had jogged her memory. She grease up the hog. wasn’t surprised to see Alice at the cemetery that day. It was a spe- Get the cuzins to fighin’ cial day, or at least should have been a special day for Alice and round up the hound dog. Daniel Montgomery. It would have been had he not died unexpect- edly of a heart attack a few months ago. The couple would have cele- Ellie married brother Bill brated their fiftieth wedding anniversary that day. they been mindin’ the still. A curious smile appeared on Felicity’s lips. She knew she and her Ain’t never comin’ down parents would be paying an unexpected visit to Alice Montgomery ‘cause they never go to town. that evening. It would appear that before Daniel died, he had written a very special poem, which he had intended to present to his wife on We all eat collards their fiftieth... an’ chew t’baccy. Ms. Kissel is a writer of short works of fiction in a variety of gen- Don’t baby our innards res, along with Christian poetry, devotionals, and inspirational essay/ an’ we smoke some wacky. articles. Her work has appeared in print pubs, including The War Cry, Mature Living magazine, The Catholic Yearbook, Silver Wings, Bell’s What don’t kill ya makes ya stronger, Letters, and The Pegasus Review. Her first inspirational novel. The and that’s why hillbillies live longer. Lonely Preacher from Celestial Falls was released in e-book format. She lives in Evansville, Indiana. Walt Polzin Medford, OR

The Storyteller 46

I am Not a boy Think of Poetry as of a Painting Kelly Graham Think of poetry as of a painting My father said he wanted a boy. I remember hearing this when I a scene we all find ourselves seeing was young—maybe six-years-old—standing in the Grill Room at the a Sun over grand mountain ranges country club. I was most likely wearing Bermuda shorts, a cotton col- snow topped to stop the Sun fire lared shirt, and sandals in a “Kennedy-esque” style, which was my from ranging. mother’s preference. I was not a boy. The colors within a wild spring forest My younger sister told her kindergarten teacher that Mom had as it comes to life from what seem been spayed. How she knew this I do not know. That is the story my the death of trees father was telling in the Grill Room, and the men were laughing. The A creek that has the sky for a beginning Grill Room was filled with men. becoming a mighty river raging. My sister was not a boy. I was not a boy. I also wasn’t the girl—the little lady—my mother wanted. My exu- The song of birds whose songs celebrate beginnings berance was too much to be tolerated in a female form. My insistence whose feathers, creations of splendor, on cowboy boots with my bathing suit, candy, and adventure spilled privileged, with greater space to stretch their wings, out over the pretense of propriety. This little girl shell, this thing I was riding the winds of life, sing a freedom supposed to fit inside of, but didn’t. Late ’60s, still buttoned-down, we would dearly love to have. white, middle-class country club and life. “No colored people al- lowed,” the sign said—not as members anyway. What joy in paint or poem can come I played in the grass near the kiddie pool. Caught a bee in my to hearts in need of grand adventure, hands and it stung me. I didn’t cry. of warmth and beauty in abundance I will prove I am as good as a boy. that finds our hearts so in need of love. I positioned this decision like a grain of sand in my Keds sneakers. A world of wonder, all about us Encouraged its irritation. Accretion. Accumulated toughness with a giving the gift of beauty, truth, and life, thick, glossy finish. to be fed by I will prove I am as good as a boy. the greater spirit within. And so I did. I pretended not to care about things and people. Got upset silently. Played golf—which I hated but was pretty good at— Watt William Dozier and that made my father happy. Cut my hair short and wore boyish Missouri City, TX clothes. With occasional, unladylike bursts of outrageousness. Performing my new gymnastic routine for the neighbors upside down with panties In Time showing. And then came puberty. The day I walked down to Tony Hall’s to children basketball court in his driveway, as I did every afternoon after school. a day seems forever His cousin, Jimmy, was asking about me...and not about riding dirt all of us bikes. Tony thought it best to cut loose. And that was that: I was no live long enough longer one of the boys, and we were no longer friends. I walked back to die up the hill to my house alone.

I couldn’t be a boy. to the old I heard my father say he wanted a boy, forty years ago at a taken- life seems a single day for-granted tidewater country club—most memories of which are pun- gent and sweet, the substance of clouds and humidity in the eddy of let’s live Washington, DC, in the summer. right enough I am not a boy. to live enough Kelly Graham has been writing creatively since 1996 when she took a class with Francios Camoin at the University of Utah. Inspired, duration she went on to earn her MFA from Vermont College where Douglas makes infinity Glover motivated her to write in styles she would not have considered on her own. She also studied with Bret Lott, Ellen Lesser, and Mau- and every day reen Ryan Griffith. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Hobo is God Pancakes and The Manhattanville Review. She lives in Charlotte, Anna Sykora North Carolina. Hannover, Germany

The Storyteller 47

A 1746 Battle in Scotland crowning became both James VI of Scotland and James I of Eng- land. As the son of Mary, Queen of Scots, James was the first King to that Changed America legitimately reign over both England and Scotland. Beth Bristow Charles, raised to believe that he could win back the throne, had his confidence bolstered by wins in Edinburgh, Prestonpans, and The date is April 16, 1746. On this day over 2,000 Scottish High- Falkirk Scotland, together with his triumphant entry into Manchester, landers will die in the last battle fought on British soil. The tartan clad England. Charles left most of the field commanding of his army to a men do not want to fight, yet fealty to their Highland Chieftains de- highly battlefield-experienced man, Lord George Murray, but Charles, mands that they do so. They stand, shoulder to shoulder, clan by overly confident of his own abilities, undermined Lord George when clan, on the battlefield, desperately hungry, weary, and armed with making vital battle decisions. He was more concerned with inheriting only a few weapons. the throne of England from his father than he was with weapons for The objective of the battle, which will finalize the outcome of a his men. Jacobite rebellion, is to reclaim the throne of England and Scotland On the other hand, William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, repre- from a Protestant King, George II, who continues to place extraordi- sented his father, the King, in conflicts all over Europe, especially in nary taxes on Scotland’s properties and export trade, for a Catholic France and in protecting his father’s German homeland. He spent King, the son of deposed King James II who is waiting in France to months training his men in their opponent’s weak areas. regain the Crown for the Royal Stuarts. A “Jacobite” (in Latin, Jaco- In an incredible lack of judgment, on the night before the battle at bus means “James”) is a supporter of the exiled James Stuart and his Culloden, Charles ordered Lord Murray to accompany him, together descendants. James Stuart’s son, Prince Charles Edward Stuart, will with a large force of Highlanders, as they searched for Cumberland’s lead the Highlanders into battle. camp near Nairn, some twelve miles from Culloden where Charles Charles Stuart, referred to as “The Bonnie Prince,” has promised and his men were camped. Charles expected to find the Duke’s sol- the commanders (the Clan Chieftains) of his ragtag army that they diers drunk and languishing around a fire unable to respond to a sur- will have adequate weaponry to fight a good fight. The Highlander prise attack. Instead, when William Augustus’ camp could not be lo- Chieftains reluctantly agree to support Charles in his thrust to regain cated, Charles ordered his exhausted and starving men to march the the throne, specifically because Charles made that promise. The use twelve mile trip back to Culloden’s Moor. and possession of all weapons in the Highlands were banned by an Later that morning, Charles and his weary, cold, and starving English King in 1715 when a similar unsuccessful Jacobite uprising Highlander army would face the seasoned and well-rested King’s took place; the Highlanders have every right to be concerned about Royal Army on the battlefield. the availability of weapons. As predicted, King George II’s son, William Augustus, won the Charles Edward Stuart, twenty-five-years-old, is vain and self- battle and gained the right to the spoils of the battle. People tagged centered with little, if any, battle experience. His opponent, William him with the title of “The Butcher” when he ordered his captains and Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, equally self-centered and also lieutenants destroy the clan ways of life. twenty-five-years-old, is the second son of England’s King George II. After the battle, Charles Stuart became a fugitive with an immense The Duke has considerable experience in leading his father’s Royal thirty thousand pound reward for his capture. He sought sanctuary on Army on the battlefield; his troops are well-trained, well-equipped, several of Scotland’s western isles, once posing as a maid for a well fed, and are clothed in red coats with shiny brass buttons. wealthy MacDonald family. He narrowly escaped capture many times As Charles’s army of Highlanders gather on the battlefield, they before he finally fled to France. Today, Charles Stuart’s attempt to are well aware of the English Army’s wagons laden with food, medi- take the crown has been highly romanticized, and he is considered to cations and support for the Redcoats. They are also aware that there be a larger-than-life hero in Scotland. are no additional weapons; the Prince did not deliver on his promise. When he returned to London, William Augustus received a cham- In the absence of the promised artillery, some of the Highlanders pion’s welcome. His triumphant win in Scotland was celebrated with a carry their own pistols, muskets or rifles, but most have only sharp- concert; the orchestra honored him with music penned by George ened dirks and swords. Fredrick Handel—Hail the Conquering Hero. Could his defeat of the The battle takes less than an hour, and two thousand Highlanders Scottish Highlanders be called a conquest? Hardly, when his oppo- lie dead on the field, with another 1,500 wounded. The Duke of Cum- nents were unarmed, exhausted, and starving. berland orders no quarter for any injured Highlander left alive on the Take a few minutes to consider how an insignificant battle, fought battlefield. The Royal Army soldiers comply with those orders by sys- over two hundred fifty years ago, on a desolate moor in Northern tematically killing any Highlanders who are found alive. Scotland, could have an effect on the birth of a new nation, America. The Duke gives orders that the homes, barns, and cattle of any The Battle of Culloden, a small skirmish when compared to world remaining citizens of Scotland’s Highlands will be destroyed, and wars, led to the capture and imprisonment of many Scottish men who their men folk are to be either captured or killed. The King is demand- were then shipped to other countries, where they were sold for slav- ing that the Clans be dismantled because clan members have more ery. Their families hastily sold cottages and sparse belongings to loyalty to the Highland Clan Chieftains than they do to the ruling King raise enough money so that they could travel to places where their of England and Scotland. husbands and fathers were sent: Australia, New Zealand, Nova Sco- Both Charles Edward Stuart (1720-1788) and William Augustus tia, Canada, and the American colonies. (1721-1765) are descendants of King James Stuart I, who at his In America, the Scots, who first settled in the wilderness of The Storyteller 48 colonial America, traveled west to the Appalachian region, which The Carrier stretched from Pennsylvania to Georgia. As they planted tobacco and food crops, they listened when they heard those around them com- A lone figure, painted against forlorn surroundings, plaining about the high taxes of King George III. They well remem- stumbles up the ruined trail, bringing news to an outpost bered their own revolt against high taxes and how that revolt and its of the forgotten. Tales of victories and vendettas, of aftermath had cost them their loved ones, homes, and lands in Scot- boldness and betrayal, of love and loss, will be told in land. These people brought with them a profound suspicion of British a strident voice. rule and an inherited dislike of British oppression. The wind howls its protest, almost tearing the cloak When Scottish Presbyterian Patrick Henry stood at Virginia’s sec- from a gaunt frame. The muddy ground becomes quicksand, ond membership convention and shouted, “Give me liberty, or give testing her balance and willingness to proceed, leaving me death!” his words became the first great war cry of the American its mark on blistered feet. Revolution. His fellow Scottish-Americans were well-represented in Scarred oak and weathered stone bring wet relief to the revolutionary war. They proudly recognized the colonial naval strained eyes. A hoarse call of recognition and the hero, Commodore John Paul Jones, from Kirkcudbright, Scotland. gate yawns open, mingled with a loud growl for a repast. Another Scot, Henry Know, fought and made a name for himself at Taut greetings and papers are delivered. A cup of water the battle of Bunker Hill, which later led to his appointment to the staff is applied to a parched throat. Dust is shaken from faded of General George Washington. Many other Scots fought for freedom clothing and a bath is drawn. Plans are readied for her in the war against the King’s Royal Army; this time they were pre- grueling departure to favored homeland. pared.

Without a doubt, had the Battle of Culloden’s outcome been differ- John Schwabe ent, America would not have achieved freedom from British rule as Jackson, MI quickly, or as completely as she did. Can we imagine the residents of the colonies, and those citizens yet to come, shouting, “God Save the

King?”

With appreciation to all of the clans those expressly named are Cameron, Chisholm, Drummond, Farquharson, Ferguson, Fraser, Burst Gordon, Grant, Innes, MacDonald, MacDonell, MacGillvray, MacGre- gor, MacInnes, MacIntyre, Mackenzie, MacKinnon, MacKintosh, The day his eyes turned black, the drill MacLachian, MacLeod, MacPherson, Menzies, Murray, Ogilvy, began with the end in its mind, Robertson and Stewart of Appin. missing the wall, making the man These brave souls fought and died on that moor in April, 1746, a punctured cake with coal frosting. and their deaths made it possible for a new country, the United States of America, to become a reality—the land of the free and, the It left his little music bird home of the brave! muted, its wings swept back and singed, Ms. Bristow retired from the State Department of Social Services, as if a gramophone had burned and is a Pastoral Counselor in West Plains, Missouri. away the horn for its diaphragm.

He spoke of a nothing, the need for multiple escapes, ignored for being as lofty as a blimp, an unintelligent design.

And so it dove one way, the down entry just like an earthen dive, the quickest way to the hot core awaiting him to fuse the blow.

This is the way the frugal win, the breath of a miner falling between the costly and the cheap, a blackened burst within the cloud.

Andrew Jarvis Arlington, VA

The Storyteller 49

Bad Blood rear of the shop. If looks could kill, Vincent would be a dead man. Les Williams Quinton’s black eyebrows move up like a pair of caterpillars as his eyes bore into Vincent. Quinton’s hostile stare does not go unnoticed On a raw November mid-week night, while most residents are by Nickolas. either in their homes or apartments getting ready to sit down to an They enter a small room with a knotty pine desk and chair. Next to evening meal, three men exit a black Buick four door sedan. They them is a black floor safe with Schwab Safe Company Lafayette, Ind. gather underneath the green awning of a small shop to keep out of in gold lettering across the top. the steady mist that has settled over Kingston, a town of over fifteen “Open it,” says Vincent. thousand plus in eastern New York. It’s almost closing time. Buford kneels in front of the safe on his right knee. He flexes his Nickolas Savakis, a bleached blond, five-foot-nine slender man in fingers and slowly turns the dial. Pulling the handle to his right, the his mid-twenties. Twenty-eight-year old Quinton Peterson, a stocky heavy door opens. man who stands two inches taller and at one hundred eighty five, “On your feet.” Vincent nods his head at Nickolas. “Blue. Tie him outweighs Nickolas by twenty pounds. His hair is coal black. At five to that chair over there and gag him.” six, one sixty five, Vincent Bertoletti, a fire plug of a man, is the third Vincent takes Buford’s place by the safe. He extends his right member of the group. He runs his right hand over his close cropped hand. “Hand me a bag.” brown hair. “What’s he got in there?” Remember,” says Vincent, pulling on a black ski mask, “no “Man you’re not gonna believe this.” Vincent starts stuffing the names. We call each other by the color of our masks.” He adjusts his bag with greenbacks and jewelry. “This old boy’s loaded. We’re head gear. “You’re blue, Nickolas. Quinton is brown.” gonna be sitting real pretty.” Vincent puts his hand on the door knob. “One more thing. No one “Maybe we can retire.” gets hurt. That’d be a longer stretch in the pen. If we get caught…” “Yeah. Maybe so.” “Which we won’t,” says Quinton. Nickolas shifts on his feet. “What about the old man.? Want me to “Not if we’re careful. Let’s go.” waste him?” A short, rotund man in his late sixties with sparse gray hair wear- Vincent rises and looks down at Buford. “Man, use your head. ing brown coke-bottle glasses is bent over a display case with his That’s a capital crime. Just knock him out.” back to the door. The tinkling of a bell above the door alerts him. “Sorry. I’m closed for tonight. If you’ll…” The Astor Movie Theater has been abandoned going on two “Are you Buford?” says Vincent. years. Smells of mold, mildew, soiled carpet and other foul odors “I am.” He turns and gasps, his eyes going wide. permeate the building. The well-worn seats of torn purple fabric give Vincent sticks a .45 in the owner’s face. “Just do as you’re told. off their own musty smell as Quinton and Nickolas huddle together Everything will be jake. Understand?” on two end seats. “Yes.” Nickolas blows on his hands to warm them up. “Man, it’s cold.” Vincent nods his head at Quinton. “Brown, lock the door and pull “What you expect in November, 90 degrees?” the shades while you’re at it.” “Why not meet at the Village Inn instead of this run down build- “You. Buford. Open the register.” ing? We could’a at least had us a meal while waitin’. These empty “Sure. Sure. Whatever you say.” old buildings give me the creeps.” Buford shuffles behind the counter, pulls a lever and the cash “All you ever do is bitch and whine. Why don’t you move to Flor- drawer slides open. ida?” says Quinton. All Nickolas ever does is carp about one thing Vincent looks at Buford and points at a spot beside the cash reg- after another. No wonder his old lady turned him out. He’s glad he’ll ister. “Stand over there.” Pulling a faded white canvas bag from his be shut of Nickolas. He’s nothing but a pain… tan trench coat, Vincent removes all the bills and coins from the cash “Maybe I will. Once Vincent gets here with our cut.” Nickolas drawer. “That’s it for the register. Where’s the rest of it old man?” checks his Timex. “Say, where’s he anyway?” He hunches up in his “That’s…all there is.” coat, pushing his hands deeper in the pockets and crosses his legs “We look like we were born yesterday?” Vincent moves closer to trying to get comfortable in the small tattered seat. Buford. “The safe. Where’s the safe?” “If Vincent’s late, there’s a reason. You know he don’t do nothing “The money’s not worth getting hurt over. Get my drift?” says what he has a plan.” Nickolas. “That’s the other thing I don’t get.” “I swear…” “Yeah? What’s that?” “You’re trying my patience. We can find the safe with or without “You’re always defending Vincent. I saw the dagger look you gave you.” Vincent cocks the .45. “Which is it to be?” him.” With downcast eyes, Buford gives a heavy sigh and with resigna- Quinton turns to look at Nickolas. “That’s personal. This is busi- tion in his voice says, “It’s in back.” ness. Business comes first.” He shifts back facing the front. “Show us.” Vincent looks at Quinton. “We’ll escort our friend here “Like last night’s job. All the others we pulled had a small hitch back to the safe. You keep an eye out front here.” somewhere along the way. ‘Cept last night. It was as smooth as a Quinton gives Vincent an angry, piercing look, but it’s lost on his ladies silk scarf. We that good, or was it…” partner who’s turned his back and is shoving the owner toward the “There you go, complaining again. Vincent had it all figured out. The Storyteller 50

We was in and out ‘fore the cops knew what’s what.” “You’re wrong. There has to be another explanation. Isn’t that right “Sumtin’s not right about that job.” Quinton?” “What? We hit the pawnshop at closing time. The old man thought “Okay, I’m listening. Let’s hear it.” we was last-minute shoppers. Caught him just like Vincent said. Our Both men look at each other then back up at Jamison. haul was over five G’s in bills and jewelry. That ain’t chump change, Quinton removes his brown Fedora, runs his right hand through pal.” his coal black hair and replaces his hat. “You cops don’t know nut’in. “Yeah, yeah I know. I got a bad feeling the job was a set up. I’m Right Nickolas?” ready for Vincent to show so we can get our cut.” The sound of small “Right. They’re just trying to pin something on us. All’s we’re do- animals scurrying around two rows behind them is heard. “Hear that? ing is jus’ sitting here outta the cold.” Must be rats running around back there. I hate them things, with their “As much as I’d like to stay and chat with you boys, I’ve got an pointy nose, beady eyes, and long tail.” investigation to wrap up.” Jamison places his left hand on Quinton’s “Forget them rats. Go shoot ‘em you want.” shoulder. “Sullivan, take this man down to the station. Start process- “Yeah, and bring the cops in here? No thanks. So? Where’s Vin- ing him. We’ll follow with the other one.” cent?” “On your feet.” With a hand the size of a ham, Sullivan yanks “Hey, he’s never let us down. Relax. Vincent will be here.” Quinton up from his seat, spins him around, and snaps on a set of “I’m not a patient man. Not when it comes to getting my money cuffs. from a job. That’s another thing what bothers me about last night’s “Thanks for your help, Quinton,” says Jamison. job. There was too much dough for a little pawnshop. What’d the old “What’s he talking about? Thanks for the help.” Nickolas looks at man have to sell? Musical instruments, bicycles, house goods and Quinton. “What’s going on here?” such? That stuff don’t bring in the kind of dough we took off’n that “Sorry Nickolas. Them bulls pulled no punches. Said it would go guy.” easier on me, if I told ‘em where we were to meet to split the goods. Nickolas can’t put his finger on exactly what it is that bothers him Besides. My mother’s not doing well. The cops agreed to let me plea about last night’s hold-up. It was way too easy. Quinton doesn’t un- bargain down to a lesser charge if I testify against you and Vincent.” derstand. Maybe he’s right. Cashing in and heading south is starting Quinton shrugs his shoulders. to look more and more like a good idea. He’s thinking with his cut Nickolas jumps up but is grabbed by Armando. He’s turned he’ll be on easy street. around and cuffed. Nickolas turns back to face Quinton. “You what? “Been curious about that myself. You don’t suppose that guy is a You turned us in? You lousy two bit…” he sputters. “You even double fence for some family, do you? I don’t want no part of no mob money. crossed your own brother? You’re a low down…” They don’t mess around. They’ll fit you for a pair of cement shoes. “Vincent’s only my half-brother. He always lets me know when no Send you swimming with the fishes just like that,” Quinton says snap- one else was around. Maybe you’re smarter than you let on. You ping his fingers. picked up on the bad blood between us.” “How’d Vincent know there was going to be that much cash? Or “Enough already. You’ll have plenty of time to continue your dis- did he?” cussion while waiting for your sentencing. Take him to the car.” “You can ask him yourself,” says a stranger walking down the Mr. Williams has had several stories published in ebook format. aisle with two other men. They come up to stand behind Nickolas He also has a collection of short stories, Wheels of Justice now avail- and Quinton. able on B&N.com and Amazon.com. His next short story collection, “Hey, who’re you? Where’s Vincent?” says Quinton, putting his Justice Seekers will be available in the fall 2014. He lives in Lincoln, right hand inside his coat pocket. Nebraska. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” says the newcomer pointing a .38 police special at them. “Now real slow like, take out your pieces. Don’t be stupid and try anything funny. I don’t think either one of you is faster than a bullet.” Quinton and Nickolas remove their guns, holding them out with their thumbs and forefingers. “Take their hardware boys. I’m Sergeant Jamison. My associates here are Detectives Armando and Sullivan. We’ve been keeping an eye on Vincent. Had a tip there was to be another pawn shop heist.” “Who snitched on us? We know Vincent wouldn’t tell you bulls nothing.” Nickolas shifts in his seat. “He hates you guys with a passion. Ever since one of you cops killed...” “Yeah, nobody knew about them jobs but us.” “Kind of narrows it down then, doesn’t it boys? One of you two must’ve snitched. So the question you’re asking yourselves is, who?” says Jamison. The Storyteller 51

A Little-Known Fact “An MP3 people used to listen to,” the girl explained. M. A. Mendoza “Oh. Were they good?” “I don’t know but they had a bunch of songs.”

“Flower children were people who chose love and sharing as their The turtle’s trek through the thick green grass was excruciatingly core beliefs.” slow. He took three ponderous steps then stopped. He did this sev- “Democrats?” eral times as he made his way toward the tulips. “Were Mom and Dad flower children?” They watched him as they walked their garden path. “No, they’re Republicans.” “It’s a little-known fact,” pronounced the little old man with a fero- “And as beautiful as turtles are, they were also sweet and gener- cious wiggle of his enormous eyebrows, “that turtles, of all the ani- ous, but for some reason, they never found their soul mate.” mals in the world, have the most heart.” “What’s a soul mate, Grandpa?” The children—a boy and a girl—stopped paying attention to the “You are a part of a two-piece puzzle. The other piece is the per- turtle and both looked up at their grandfather. The boy’s look was son that makes you complete.” only a glance. The one you might give a fly that buzzed too close to “Do I have one?” your eye. The boy even flapped his hand mildly at his grandfather “I believe that everyone has one.” before squatting down to take a closer look at the turtle. “Did you?” The girl, on the other hand, rolled her eyes. She did this with the “Grandma, Doomba.” skill of aplomb of a girl of fourteen or fifteen, rather than a girl of “Oh, yeah.” eleven—almost twelve—which she was. “Your grandmother is mine. Though it took me some years to real- “You could even say that they were all heart,” the grandfather con- ize.” tinued. “Is she still?” “Grandpa, how come you’re the only one who knows all these little “Still,” he said and for a moment he stood quietly as he watched -known facts?” the girl, Dari, asked. the pictures inside his head. He saw her floppy straw hat as a young “Yeah. I told one of your little-known facts in class this year, and woman and then her in the same straw hat here, working in the gar- everyone laughed at me, even the teacher,” Deke, the boy, said. den. She smiles, as beautiful as any flower. He smiled, though his “Well,” Grandfather said. “Simply because they are little-known eyes filled. He dabbed at them with a crumpled tissue he pulled from facts. But it is somewhat disappointing to hear that about your educa- his pocket. tor. Though I’m sure he is excellent, in an ordinary way.” “The turtle never did that. But every day his heart grew bigger and “I hate being laughed at,” Deke said. bigger but he never gave it to anybody until one day it was bigger “Everyone hates being laughed at, Doomba.” than he was and he had to carry it around by himself because he “I know what that means.” never shared it. He kept it for himself. It became callous and hard “No, you don’t.” until it was a shell of armor he wore to protect himself. It’s very sad. “Yes, I do.” Love. True love, no matter how slow, bears rewards.” “Well, what then?” “And every turtle is like that?” the boy said. “You shut up!” “No. There are beautiful turtles with soft shells that swim gracefully “Dari, I thought for certain you would want to know this, since it is with their mates in the ocean.” the story of true love.” “Is that true?” Deke asked. “What?” she asked. “I thought you said it was about a turtle.” “It’s a little-known fact. Right, Grandpa?” Dari said and smiled at “I thought you might be interested. Deke, tap his shell.” her grandfather and squeezed his hand. Deke tapped it firmly. A tock-tock-tock echoed softly through the “It’s a little-known fact,” he said. yard, which the old man and his wife had slowly turned into a big gar- Mr. Mendoza has published poetry, fiction, and non-fiction from den. prison. He placed second in last year’s Pen Prison Writer’s contest. The turtle dropped and tucked himself into his green and gold tiled He says lots of writers got their start in prison, and his hero is Jimmy dome. After a moment, his head, which was bronze in the dappled Santiago Baca, who began writing in prison and carried it forward into sunlight of the garden, poked from his shell. His beak arced back and the world. Mr. Mendoza is in Children, Texas. forth. Then his shell seemed to lift almost before his thick-nailed legs came out. His tail wagged as the shell rocked back and forth with each small step.

“The turtle’s shell protects his heart from ever being broken, but turtles didn’t always have shells.” “Turtles?” the boy asked. “You both know, of course, that the turtle is considered the most beautiful of all the creatures.” “Turtles?” the girl asked, doubtfully. “It’s true. Beautiful and carefree. That is what turtles were once known for. The flower children of their world.” “Who are the flower children?” The Storyteller 52

Rubbed Out was cowering under the clothes horse. She knows, I thought. She Lisa Gray can read thoughts, even from the basement. “Stupid dog!” I said.

I had an idea. I pictured myself in the basement untying his ropes He’d be dead in a few days. I should have disposed of him and setting him free. It seemed to work. The dog’s head appeared quickly. Neatly. But I was weak. After all, we’d been together for slowly, tentatively, from under the clothes horse. She inched forward, eighteen years. That’s why I’d tied him up and locked him in the sniffing the air suspiciously. I grabbed her. soundproof basement. “Got you!” I shouted. I’ve always been a bit of an ostrich. What you can’t see can’t hurt She wasn’t like him. She cried all the time I was doing it. But I was you. And it didn’t. I put him out of my mind. Latterly, he’d been too cold like stone. One down, one to go, I thought on my return. demanding anyway. He never gave me any space. Always at my The house was eerily silent. A couple of times I thought I heard back. Watching me. I should have dumped him years ago. But he’d her bark and once I caught a glimpse of a faint shadow as if she taken over the house. And I hadn’t wanted to leave the house to him. passed by, but then I remembered. After all the time and effort I’d put into it. And I still was. I took my mental rubber and wiped out all thought of her. So I forgot about him. Conveniently. I’m not saying he didn’t cross I looked toward the basement door. my mind occasionally. Mostly when I was eating. I thought of him. A few more days, and it would be over. I just needed to hang on. Not. Not eating. Nor drinking. Getting thinner and thinner, paler and And hope he didn’t. paler, wasting away. But then I’d hastily rub out the picture in my The food he could do without. But the water. None of us can exist mind. without that, can we? The dog knew. That’s why she was pawing the door to the base- I startled pulling the carpet away from the wall and began rolling it ment and giving those pathetic whines. She’d watched me as I up. I’d put him in there once he was dead. Then I wouldn’t have to dragged him down the steep, narrow steps, cursing, his weight nearly look at him. And he’d be easily carried out. I’d thought about cutting sending me hurtling down there too. And she’d watched as I tied him him up. It would be easier to dispose of him that way but I hadn’t the up. stomach for it. No, I’d stick to my original plan. She’d known I was going to kill him from the beginning. I’d been I didn’t sleep well over the next few days. Upstairs was quiet with- thinking of what would be the best way and I’d caught her staring at out the dog, and downstairs? I began to picture his last moment be- me, her ears cocked up like she could hear my unspoken thoughts, fore he expired. I hastily took my mental rubber and rubbed the scene her gaze stern and reproachful. I knew she didn’t approve. I could out. It was too painful. see I’d have to be more careful with my plans. I took out my mental It had been long enough. rubber and wiped out my thoughts. After all, if she couldn’t read them, He had to be dead, I thought, as I descended the basement steps I needn’t feel guilty. one night a few days later. It wasn’t that she liked him. And he was none too fond of her. He’d And he was. At last. often hit her as she passed him. He was big and overbearing. And I unrolled the carpet which was lying there and dragged him on to she knew it. But she’d just accepted him. He’d been there when she it, not looking at him, then I rolled the carpet up again. I tried to lift the came. He was part of the furniture. carpet on to my shoulder, but he weighed a ton. I hadn’t reckoned on I should have killed him outright. I could see that now. The dog that. was going to be a problem. Still, there were ways of dealing with that. I’ll drag it up the steps, I thought. “Stop that!” I said sharply. I had to get him outside. She paused, her frantic scraping stopping dead at the stern voice. But I was weak. Always had been. She started whimpering. There was only one alternative. I’d have to get help. There was no “Stay!” I said, turning the key in the door to the basement and slip- other way. But it would have to wait till morning. ping through without her. “This the carpet you want disposed of?” said one of the big, burly I descended the steep steps slowly, uncertain of what I would find guys who had arrived in response to my call the following morning. at the bottom. I turned on the light. He was still where I’d left him but “I can do it myself if you’ll just lift it into the boot of my car,” I said he looked different. Still big, still overbearing even slumped over on hastily, looking at the well-tied carpet. the floor. But paler. Thinner. Weaker. I guess no food or water can do I was safe. There was no chance of it unrolling. that to you. I almost felt sorry for him. But I couldn’t let sentiment get “Just as well. We’re limited in what we can dispose of,” he said. in the way. “Leave it to us.” I felt him watching me as I tied the ropes tighter around him. I was And I did. I was that confident. taking no chances. A few more days should do it. And then I could I waited at the car. They didn’t appear. Where were they? I started dispose of him. to get nervous. I descended the steps to the basement. They were And the dog. standing there, the unrolled carpet in front of them, shocked looks on I hadn’t planned on that. But there was no alternative. I’d made their faces. too many mistakes already. “What the hell’s this?” one of them said. I climbed back up the stone steps that led from the basement to “You had no business unrolling the carpet,” I shouted. the house, opened the door, and stepped into the kitchen. The dog “Bloody good job we did,” said the other one. The Storyteller 53

“I wanted rid of him,” I blurted out. I still Live “We can see that, dearie, but there’s other ways to go about it.”

“It would have been all right if you hadn’t unrolled the carpet,” I The wind blows and away I go said. “Why did you do that?” The wind pulls and I return “We need to cut them up nowadays and put them in the bin. Just The world needs me and I need the world as well, eh?” Necessities, life, love, livelihood, understanding The other one nodded. He looked at me. Trust, belonging, companionship, guidance… “Fred’s called the firm. They should be along any moment now.” I see me in another form or gender and my thoughts are still the They arrived almost instantly. same. “Fine, big brute of a fellow, wasn’t he?” said Fred, looked at the It rains and it snows and the wind blows...still unrolled carpet which the firm had dragged outside. There are others, there are colors He spoke to me through the car window. There are shapes, there are wonders “I can’t imagine why you wanted to do away with him.” Expansion—I begin to realize and smiles and cries and strength and “He just got in the way,” I said. ties… “Well, you’ll be out of the way, now,” said Fred. The love spills from over the sky that my eyes can’t truly see and “Yes, I will,” I replied. grace riddles within me. All because I was weak. And now I would have to be strong. I feel my heartbeat...I’m mov- I watched the men enter my house. I could see they were doing a ing...I...breathing...exhaling...inhaling...tingling...and thorough job. A few hours, and it would all be over. wiggling all over The new carpet would be laid. I stand...again...after falling down and my back rested on the Just as well I’d taken the dog to the kennels. She’d never have ground… stood the upheaval. I got out of the car. I couldn’t spend the next Once again, a second chance, I still live… three hours there. Besides, there was work to be done. I picked him up gently off the ground and tried to avoid looking at him. He’d been Marlon Jackson with me for eighteen years. It was going to be hard. But it had to be Bronx, NY done. He’d outgrown the house. I knew he would have to go. Order- ing the new carpet had only confirmed that. If only I’d been strong in the beginning. I could have avoided this moment.

I snapped his stem. The once proud rubber plant hung limply, broken in two. Children At least he’d dead, I thought. He’ll never know what happened to him. I nurtured them in silence I opened the dustbin and stuffed him inside. For it would never last I’ve always been a bit of an ostrich. What you can’t see can’t hurt I smothered them with fairness you. I mentally rubbed out the picture of the pitiful rubber plant in his Fond memories for their past. dark upright coffin. I couldn’t let him take over the house. Not after all the time and I loved them unconditionally effort I had put into it. The way of Christ I’m told Ms. Gray is an ex-primary school teacher, now private tutor, who I taught them of indifference lives in Aberdeen, Scotland. She has recently had a mystery/ From strangers dark and cold. suspense story published in Aputamkon Review, Vol. 1V, under the name of Lisa Gray, two short stories published in The Storyteller un- I gave them all the best of life der the name of Nora McDonald and a third short story published in That seemed within my power The Storyteller under the name of Norma Hudson in the United And let them grow away from me States. A proud but quiet hour.

For children are our legacies If raised for all we’re worth A light of grand design A miracle in each birth.

Rick DeBaun Thomas Wyoming, MI

The Storyteller 54

Maybe Today head as if to touch the ceiling, and twirls in an arabesque. She circles Sarah Kruel and steps in tune with the beat, waltzing with an invisible partner. Then she swirls with arms up to the sky again, faster and now slower.

The music changes to a quick staccato and she throws her head The old woman opens here eyes and lies still in the bed. She lis- back and wheels and stomps her feet and whirls again until the room tens to the slow, heavy breathing of the old man. The room is dim but itself is spinning with her. Around and around, faster and faster until light has begun to stream in around the window shade. He sleeps she is gasping for breath. She steadies herself, holding the edge of longer now so she lingers there for a time and watches a fly crawl the vanity, and wipes the sweat from her forehead. The music stops. across his bare arm. He twitches and grunts. The steady breaths She stands still, her hands trembling. Her hair is damp on the back of continue. her neck. Slowly the labored breaths subside. She turns from the Finally she sits and swings her legs slowly to the floor. She rests window and walks away. her hands on her knees. The finger joints are thick and misshapen. She will make his breakfast—cereal or an egg. Perhaps a sliced Fat gray veins stand out on the backs of both hands and run in a banana. He will bring in the paper and read while he sips his coffee. curved path to her knuckles. The gold wedding band no longer fits. She will clean the table and wipe the counters, give him his pills. She She makes a fist and the skin turns smooth and taut. She opens it opens the front door. The day is warm already. He will turn on the and the skin becomes loose and fragile again. Back and forth—open television and the box fan. She will water the plants and weed the hand, closed fist, and the skin responds—smooth and tight, old and little flower beds at the front walk. frail. Maybe they will go to the lake. She can make a picnic. Fried She stands up, pulls on the flannel robe, and walks to the bath- chicken, some fruit. Maybe a little cheese and a bottle of cabernet. room. The windows are open and a warm breeze moves the curtains They will walk swinging the wicker basket between them, laughing. gently. She looks out across the lawn. A woman and child walk hand He will pick a flower and put it in her hair. Maybe today. in hand toward the lake. The woman is tall and her hair is tied back in Ms. Kruel is a new writer whose publications to date are primarily a loose ponytail under a floppy pink hat. Across the street a man non-fiction and include a self-published book, Speaking of Success: washes his car. Women’s Stories and Strategies for Living with Peace and Passion. She looks to the mirror and studies her face. Three deep horizon- Her first published short story appeared in the summer 2014 edition tal lines crease her brow. The mouth and chin pucker into thread-like of The writingdisorder.com. Ms. Kruel lives in Wellington, Pennsyl- cracks that branch out from the lips and grow into crevices across her vania. cheeks. Her eyelids droop, narrowing her eyes. She runs one hand through her thin hair. Gray mixes heavily into the dull brown stands. She turns to the window again. The mother and child have begun to run, and she can hear their laughter even after they disappear over the rise. She forces her eyes back to the mirror. Coffee has streaked and stiffened the front of the flannel robe. She picks at the stain for a minute, then straightens her shoulders in defiance of what the robe An Old Woman conceals—the sagging breasts and the loose pale skin of her abdo- men and thighs. My youth is fleeting, but hers is gone completely. Her eyes locks on the image in the mirror. The ancient face is a I wonder if she misses flexibility, spryness, speed. I stranger to her. She reaches for the brush and begins slowly stroking wonder if the smell of herself keeps her up at night. O, her hair. The soft bristles slide across her scalp. It soothes her, and but she is so kind! There is calm joy in her smile, and she brushes slower, then faster, enjoying the touch. She closes her she speaks with resolute politeness and grace. She eyes and tilts her head back as she continues the gentle motion. exits the building slowly, as she had entered it. Then she opens her eyes again. As she strokes, the hair grows Gently, she walks out into the old world. longer, longer falling at her shoulders now and the faded hue lightens to a vibrant blond. She stares at the thick silky tresses glowing golden Melanie Eyth in the mirror and smiles. Her lips are full and smooth. She takes the Ivyland, PA lipstick in her hand, lining the curve of the upper lip, dipping down in the center and then the other side. She traces the lower lip in one round curve and rubs her lips together. The outline she has drawn spreads out in a rich cherry color—succulent and sweet. Her cheeks are smooth and flawless, her eyes wide. The face in the mirror speaks to her. “I am beautiful.” She tosses her head, pushes her lower lip into a pout, puts her hands on her hips. A pale silk robe falls from one round shoulder. The reflected eyes repeat. “I am so beautiful.” Eyes to eyes—she cannot turn away. Below the open window a radio plays, piercing the still Sunday morning. Rich music fills the room. She raises her arms above her The Storyteller 55

An Unexpected Christmas Gift told them about my morning prayer. Their eyes revealed astonish- Joyce Heiser ment. They smiled at each other an then back at me as they realized the check was the answer to their prayer.

Frank told me he and John discussed my possible reaction on During my childhood, we gave the house its holiday look the day their way to my house. They expected me to be insulted and not ac- after Thanksgiving. I had followed this tradition to adulthood, but this cept it, embarrassing all of us. They’d not had time to formulate Plan year was different. I had neither the holiday spirit nor the energy to B—what they would do if I didn’t take it. decorate. It was now the middle of December; my Christmas tree was I laughed. “Now I understand why you were so nervous.” Sheep- stored away, and I was feeling guilty. My heat was heavy because of ishly looking at each other and back at me, they joined me in laugh- limited funds reflected by my checkbook balance that morning. ter. I’d had excellent health until a few months before. Even though I’d Frank prayer, thanking God for His provision and asking for a full- seen several specialists, I still had no definitive diagnosis. The “within time job for me. Soon after, they hurried to their car, anxious to drive normal parameters” test results proclaimed by each doctor discour- to church to share with the pastor the unexpected result of their visit. aged me. Would anyone diagnose my problem correctly? After they left, I ripped the envelope open to peek at the check. It was becoming more difficult for me to continue my office job as I The amount overwhelmed me. It not only covered my insurance bill developed more heightened sensitivities for second-hand smoke and and all the gifts on my shopping list, but a turkey dinner with all the fragrances, particularly perfume. My job performance became poorer; trimmings. There would even be some left over. My heart thanked my absenteeism excessive. Finally, my boss and I agreed I should God for answering my prayer—beyond my expectation. resign. Ms. Heiser lives in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. With dwindling severance pay and no job offers, I became a tem- porary office worker. My counselor, considerate of my health chal- lenges, assigned me to one-girl offices where I wouldn’t encounter smokers. Those assignments typically lasted a week or two. At first, I thrived on the challenge of getting used to a new “boss,” procedures and equipment every week, but the fascination quickly waned. My A Rude Awakening heart longed for the stability of a “real” job and identity within a per- manent office setting. Being referred to as “the temp” annoyed me September 11, 2001, more and more. The memories are burned in my brain, At the beginning of October, I’d had an ear and throat infection, I wasn’t there but I can hear the screams, missing several days of work. With the slower holiday mail delivery, I And down deep inside, feel the pain. realized my small paycheck wouldn’t arrive in time to pay my health insurance. My morning’s glimpse of my checkbook balance had con- The thousands of people who died that day, firmed that. Since I couldn’t let the insurance lapse, I did what came Were all blessed with both family and friend. naturally, “Lord, please provide the needed money.” The ripple effect went around the world, Feeling better and knowing that He was in control, I mustered up a Who knows where it might all end. little energy to start decorating. I pulled out my tabletop tree and be- gun to wind the lights around the branches. Then the doorbell rang. There are parents, who lost children and more, Annoyed because I didn’t want to lose my momentum, I peeked And children who lost Mom and Dad, through the window. Two of the church deacons stood on the front Relatives short relatives and friends missing friends, porch. I couldn’t imagine why they’d come to visit me. And the shock makes the whole world sad. I smiled, opened the door, and invited them in. They sat down across from me, obviously uncomfortable. Sitting My gut reflex was to kill them all, on the edge of their chairs, they fidgeted, played with their gloves, Let them know what suffering can be. and looked down at the floor. Their nervous expressions didn’t en- Shoot ‘em, bomb ‘em and burn ‘em to a crisp, courage me. What was going on? Had I done something? After what But fortunately, our leaders ain’t like me. seemed an interminable silence, John, one of the deacons, asked “Any job prospects?” They’d rather be trying to spend our money, “No, I’m still looking,” I responded glumly. And out partying and having some fun, By then John worked up the courage to plunge ahead. “As a But we’re behind you, Mr. President, member of the church, Joyce, you know about the deacon’s fund.” It’s your ball. Grab it and run. I nodded, and he continued. “The deacons met with the pastor this morning to pray who the Thomas A. Chipman recipient of our fund should be this year. The Lord brought your name Jonesboro, IN to each of us.” He then withdrew the envelope from his pocket and handed it over to me. To their surprise, I took it, set it on my lap, and thanked them. They relaxed, leaned back in their chairs and crossed their legs and I The Storyteller 56

Mom and that Story speaker at Bishop Daly High School so he was entered in the city- Henry G. Miller wide contest. He got in the finals—just five speakers. Mom, of course, was there for the finals, and she thought he’d clearly won, but

they chose someone else. She got it into her head that the Chief Mom was always a little stage-struck. Like the time we were in Judge, a Mrs. Shapiro, was against Brendan because he came from that steak house on 52nd Street. As we were leaving, she spots that a Catholic school, and Mrs. Shapiro favored a Jewish boy. Now gen- famous actress who had been in movies as well as in Broadway erally, Mom was very sympathetic to things Jewish. After all, her plays—Ruth—I can’t think of her last name. mother’s father was Jewish, and she always favored that side of the Now Mom had had a few drinks but that just heightened her mood family even though she was brought up Catholic. Anyway, nothing and made her gush even more. came of it. “Oh, Ruth. I can’t believe it’s you.” I always thought she was living through Brendan. He was getting Ruth couldn’t have been nicer, even though she was in the middle the chance she never had. Both Mom and Dad never had their of dinner. chance. Dad only had a few weeks of high school and loved it. He “How are you?” she says to Mom. told us how he cried when he had to quit to go to work to bring money “I’ve seen everything you’ve done. I can’t tell you what it means to in to the family. Mom also had to go to work early. There are so many me to see you.” people who never had their chance. Ruth just smiled. But sometimes Mom went too far and was too possessive when it I finally got Mom out of there, but I knew seeing Ruth was the high came to Brendan. She never approved of any of the girls he dated. point of her evening, even though Mom loved the show we saw. None were good enough for her star performer. When he got en- Mom’s name was Theresa, but she preferred to be called gaged to Mary, Mom never said anything too obvious, but you could “Terry”—she thought it more elegant. But Aunt Louise, one of her see she was always a little cool, which was unfair because Mary was sisters, always called her “Tess,” which Mom didn’t like. Aunt Louise a person of real quality and turned out to be a first rate sister-in-law. thought Mom gave herself airs, so Aunt Louise always went out of An early crisis came when Brendan went to college, the first one her way to say, “Oh, Tess, don’t be so dramatic.” in the family to go to college, and majored in accounting and busi- Well, Mom was a bit dramatic and never tired of telling “her story” ness, not theater or literature. He was still in all the school plays and about the rime she starred in the school play. would get the leading role, but Mom didn’t like this turn to something “You know, when I was in the eighth grade, I had the starring role as practical as business. in the school play. I kept looking out at the audience, but I didn’t see When Brendan kept getting promotions at the insurance company, my mother or father. They didn’t come. It was a Wednesday night, Mom still seemed disappointed. She’d always say, “You know, Bren- and that was the night they went to the vaudeville show—every week. dan could succeed at anything he tried, but he would have really And that’s where they went. I couldn’t believe it. They didn’t come.” been great as an actor. He had it all.” When Brendan was made the Every time Mom would tell “her story” as it came to be known, executive vice-president at the insurance company, a great accom- Aunt Louise would let her have it. “Oh, Tess, not that story again!” plishment, some folks in the old neighborhood said he was the most But I never said that. I never even let on that I had heard the story successful boy in the history of Himrod Street. Mom would be polite many times before. and smile, but I knew what she was thinking. He could have been, in Since I was Mom’s only daughter, we had a special bond, even her eyes, so much more. though I knew she favored my two brothers, particularly Brendan. But I don’t want to give you the wrong idea. She was a very good “Brendan is going places. I think he could be our star,” she’d always mother. Fiercely protective of her children and encouraging us at say. She didn’t mean to hurt me or my other brother, Kevin, but she every turn. Those that don’t have a mother who is always there for just thought Brendan was special. them are really cheated. She always went early to every play or recital he was in, no matter So that was our mother. She had stars in her eyes, but she never how small his part was. Then she’d always tell her story. let us down. Her worst sin was she favored Brendan too much. She’d I have to admit, Mom always came to anything any of the three of say in front of my brother, Keven, and me how wonderful Brendan us were in. It was just that she got more excited when it was Bren- was. I told her more than once not to do that, it might hurt Kevin. dan. Last week at her funeral, the three of us were there. We each Brendan was the one who always got the lead role in the school gave a eulogy. Kevin was pretty funny. He remembered how Mom plays. I think he got his talent from Mom. They both were a bit theatri- used to complain about Dad being a worry wart and annoying us all cal. Mom, late at night, after she’d had a few drinks and after the with his worries. But after he died twenty years ago, she only remem- aunts and uncles had gone home—they would come over to our bered all his wonderful qualities. Kevin said that after Dad died, Mom house at least two times a week—that’s when she’d be at her most canonized him. theatrical. She would shake out the crumbs from the tablecloth from But it was Brendan who got us all thinking. He recalled his last the back window in the kitchen and say, “Oh, look at the moon over visit with her the week before she died. She was eighty-five and frail. the tenements. All those people living out their lives in the tene- He told of her last words to him. “You know, Brendan, I’ve been very ments.” That was a bit melodramatic, even for Brooklyn. I mean, from lucky. My children have been my accomplishment. I’m proud of each our back window, all you saw were the backyards of three-family and of you.” But then Brendan said she could resist one last dig. “You six-family houses. No run-down tenements. know, Brendan, had you gone on the stage, you could have been a But she had a tough side, too. Brendan won the award as the best The Storyteller 57 great star.” Drummer Man Then Brendan returned the compliment. “Well, Mom, had you been given the chance, you could have been a star, too.” He was our neighborhood drummer, In my eulogy I told about when I visited her in the hospital, it was a player for all seasons—though—when the last time I saw her alive. And, of course, she told her story once his hands awoke the trees with blossoms more. “You know, when I was a schoolgirl, I starred it all the school they were yet stiff with midnight frosts. plays. In eighth grade, I had the lead role, and the nuns told me I was wonderful. That was something because they didn’t usually praise us. His sticks would begin the birds’ ramble I don’t know whether I ever told you, but on the night of the big per- their chatter amidst the windy trees formance, a Wednesday night, my mother and father went to the pattering upon his snare as if opening vaudeville show and didn’t come to see me. I was so disappointed. conversations between his selves in the air That’s why I always went to see everything you children were in, even if it was just a walk-on.” In the barrios of the hot summer nights, That brought a smile to everybody’s face in the church since he plays to the siren sounds, to the fires they’d all heard “that story” many times. his drum sounds draw, our ears, and in solos, Incidentally, my brothers and me, we never miss anything our chil- he is loose, and gives away the years dren are in, and you’d better not either if you don’t want your children talking about it for the next sixty years. In the autumn he plays for setting suns, Mr. Miller has had short stories accepted in The Chrysalis Reader, and the light is beautiful in the beholder’s Diverse Voices Quarterly, Forge, The Griffin, Karamy, The Owen eyes—and now the questions of the drummer Wister Review, Eureka Literary Magazine, Westview, The Distillery, have been answered—with their lives The Writers Post Journal, and RiverSedge. His play, Lawyers, was preformed at the Emelin Theatre and Westport Country Playhouse. In the winter, he glides across the skins. His one-man play, All Too Human, was performed at the 46th Street Reaching through the fogs with hands Theatre in New York as well as the White Plains Performing Arts that learned to sing. On Sundays he plays Center. His play, Alger—A Story, had a reading in New York with the dirges of our village, slowly, as we listen Fritz Weaver and Kevin Conway. A review praised his novel, More, stating—”A lesser writer could not paint with the subtle hues...Miller uses.” He lives in White Plains, New York. Michael S. Morris

Sonoma, CA

Sweetness Grows Dreams #2 Oh roses garden swelling your mounds of beauty Dreams are richer than realities, like prancing fairies Realities pass away. encircling, hands touch hands, Dreams can live forever, raindrops repose like mirrors. Keep worldly problems at bay.

Cheri Stow Nobody’s ever too old to dream Albuquerque, NM And dreams never grow old.

If dreams had weight for self-esteem,

They’d be worth their weight in gold.

Betty J. Sayles

Coupeville, WA

The Storyteller 58

Death and the cat “Just look to your left, please.” I struggled to move my head to the Daniel Leckie left without dropping the bags of groceries but they fell to the floor when I saw the cat. We made eye contact and the cat made one

quick circuit of the swing at his end then stood, keeping a wary eyes My wife, Marion, and I attended Auburn University in Auburn, Ala- on us. For a long moment, we three formed a tableau. bama. We needed a place to live, and, as it happened, our professor “What do you think he is?” Marion queried in a low voice, still hold- of some sort of woodsy subject lived in the country in a former ante- ing her groceries. bellum mansion with tall columns front and rear. There were also I looked at the biggest cat I had ever seen so close up. He was three outbuildings that had been a cookhouse, cooks quarters, and standing in front of the swing, side to us, head facing us. He was tall, the slave overseer’s cottage in the apartments for soldiers or, in most at least eighteen inches at the top of his head, and gray with just a cases, soldiers’ wives. After the war, they modernized them a bit and hint of black vertical stripes like a tabby but powerful with long legs, a rented them to student couples. dense, muscular body, and a long black tail. The professor was very strict. He learned that we allowed a vari- “Well, I don’t think he’s a bobcat. They’re not that big, are they?” ety of spiders to live on our porch to keep the bug population down, “I don’t know,” Marion said. “I think he would have shorter legs and he threatened to evict us if we didn’t evict them. After that we and a stubby tail.” had to clear the screened porch of spiders every month before he “This must be a mix, a feral tabby and something else. I don’t collected rent. Other than things that affected the attractiveness of know what.” Marion shook her head. The cat’s ears perked up at the the house he was pretty lenient. He saw us washing our car in the movement. rain and just shook his head. He let us buy our own dryer to dry our “I know one thing, dear. If we don’t figure out how to let him off the clothes when we came back from the Laundromat, and he didn’t porch, we’ll be two very torn-up people. We could die!” I looked at her complain about the streaking as long as we didn’t do it in daylight. as I spoke. She responded without turning her head. We enjoyed the bucolic beauty of the thick pine forest, the lack of “Well, it would definitely be painful. You have a plan?” traffic on the narrow paved road, the occasional wild animal. For I looked at the very small porch. There was less than eight feet awhile the little fish pond on the property housed a six-foot alligator; between us. The only way the big cat could leave was the closed then it disappeared. We didn’t care much for the stringent smell of the screen door. paper mill upwind from us but, all in all, it was a great place to live “One of us has to open the screen door to give this beautiful ani- while working toward our bachelor’s degrees. mal a way out.” One day we came home with bags of groceries in our arms, “You’re the man,” said Marion as she pressed herself closer to the opened the screen door to the low porch and approached the front front door. She held her grocery bags in front of her like a shield. door, the screech of the old door closer announcing out presence. I looked across the tiny space separating me from the muscled The screen door and the front door were in the middle of the thirty- predator. His eyes were fixed on me. His ears were turned to me. He foot long porch, so it was a short five feet to the door. would miss no move. I asked myself, Will I make it to the door before “Can you hold one of these bags while I get out my keys?” I asked he rips me open? I began to move slowly toward the screen door my loving wife. watching him watch me. I could hear and feel my heart. I figured he She looked at me with tilted head. “I’ve got two already. Where do could too, but he made no move. Over seconds that seemed like you expect me to put these?” hours, I stepped as slowly and quietly as possible. “I can’t get the keys with both hands full!” I reached the door and began to open it. The hydraulic door return “Put them on the swing.” screeched as the rod slid out. I watched him as I worked. He We looked at each other. She was right, of course, but I didn’t watched. I reached with trembling hand to the device and slid the little want to walk the ten feet to the chain-hung swing. clamp along the rod to hold the door open. I expected him to dart “I know. I’ll lean against the door and hold the bags with my body past me, but he was as still as a statue. Keeping eye contact with while I open the door.” him, I backed slowly toward the other end of the porch. “It’s ten feet!” Suddenly he darted through the open screen door and disap- “So?” peared into the woods. “You’re gonna drop ‘em.” I ignored her and positioned the bags “Okay. He’s gone.” high on my chest and pressed them against the door as I fumbled for Marion had her back to me. the door key in my right front pocket. But the bags kept trying to slide “You crushed the bread.” down, and it took two hands to reposition them. I kept up the struggle, Mr. Leckie lives in Jonesboro, Georgia. determined to prove her wrong.

“Daniel,” Marion hissed. “What?” “Look!” She leaned toward me like she was sharing a secret. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” At this moment I had to forget the key and grab the bags with both hands. I rested a moment, knees half bent, head pressed against the bags, arms trying to get a good grip. “Look!” “WHY?” The Storyteller 59

A Matter of Timing sation, hard to do with a five-year-old, touched me. I had to resist Elizabeth Standing Bear making the leap forward to Frank and me making a connection. We hadn’t even talked. For all I knew he had a wife, kids, and was return-

ing to France after the holidays. The Christmas after my daughter, Angel, turned five, he came Buck up. The day was over. Tomorrow was Christmas and every- home. I had seen his picture often—in albums, on the shelf in the thing was ready. Now get some sleep. living room and at Mom and Papa’s so I knew he resembled An- All too soon I was jiggled awake. gelo—still I was shocked when he threw open the door welcoming “Mommy, Mommy, is it Christmas?” me and Angel and Christmas Eve. “Emmm,” I stretched and glanced toward the window. “It’s still We were bundled up against the falling snow, arms full of pack- dark, Angel. Get in here with me.” She snuggled under my arm, but ages. Gabby appeared, took my arm, and pulled me into the house. she was wide awake and wiggly. “Are you my daddy?” Angel asked as the door closed. “Okay, Angel, go to Gabby’s room and see if they’re awake. Come “No, Angel. I’m your daddy’s brother, Uncle Frank,” he said, kneel- back and get me, and I’ll get up.” ing and unwrapping her scarf, helping her with coat and mittens. I fell into a deep sleep. Gabby took my packages to the tree, then led me to an upstairs Gabby, Gina, her “almost four” daughter, and Angel woke me, the bedroom and closed the door behind us. I sat stunned on the bed, girls excited and laughing. I put on my robe and slippers and joined already heaped with coats of guests. them going down the front stairs to the view of a Christmas tree sur- “You okay?” she asked, sitting beside me, taking my hand. rounded by gifts, including a tricycle for Gina and a bike for Angel. “I’m okay,” I lied. Squealing girls were tucked into Grandpa’s chair, shushed, and “Frank left for college when I was six and has not been back often. Gabby and I went to the kitchen to make coffee. He has been in France for the past ten years. Without photos, I Mom and Joe joined us, with Papa and Frank close behind. Who wouldn’t have known him at all.” could sleep with all that happy chatter in the living room? Coffee cups I stood. “Let’s go help Mom so she can enjoy her party,” I said, in hand, tea for me, we went to the living room to get the great un- smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from my skirt, trying to appear calm. wrapping started. The party was an annual Christmas Eve open house. Papa It had snowed more overnight. Bikes outside, impossible. After George would change from professor to emeritus next June, so this breakfast and dressing for the day, Grandpa and Frank put the cars was the last big party inviting faculty, students, staff—fully catered, a outside, leaving the garage available for the girls to try out their new nanny in an upstairs room for the children. bikes. Gabby and I circulated between the guests and the kitchen, greet- Sunday, the day after, found me loading the truck. Bundled for the ing friends, gathering glasses, plates, and cups. Gabby’s husband, cold, I hugged everyone and headed home alone. Angel was spend- Joe, kept the fireplace going. Mom and Papa enjoyed their guests. ing the week with Gabby, Joe, and her cousin, Gina. At eight p.m., I went upstairs to gather Angel and get her into bed. I made it through a tense few days at Papa George’s without mak- She was sitting on the window seat deep in conversation with Frank. ing a fool of myself over Frank, whose resemblance to Angelo was My heart leapt. I was seeing Angelo with his daughter. maddening. Now I was home in my own room, in my own shower, All evening I had tried to avoid thinking about Frank or seeking when the dam broke, and tears flowed. My heart never got over An- him out. Now there he was with Angel. gel’s father and was torn over my budding feelings for Frank. “Come, Angel, time for bed.” Preparations made for work tomorrow, I was sipping wine, watch- “Goodnight, Angel.” Frank kissed her forehead. ing the evening news, when the phone rang. It was Gabby. I scooped her up and carried her to our room, tucked her in to her “Hey, honey, you okay?” she asked. bed, and returned to the party. “I will be. How’s everything there? Mom and Papa getting rested At nine the buffet was no longer renewed. People began to gather after all the excitement?” their children and bundle them up for the trip home to their own “Yes,” she answered. “I have some news.” Silence. She went on. Christmas Eve activities. By nine-thirty the catering staff was finishing “Frank asked about you and Angelo. He asked if you were seeing up. Gabby and I made a pass through the living rooms then joined anyone. He rattled around Mom’s big house until she kicked him out. Mom and Papa in the kitchen for party wind-down. Mom and Papa, Then he came here. He’s in our guest room.” Silence. “Supposedly to Gina, Joe and Frank. My family. At last the house was quiet. watch bowl games with Joe.” Silence. “He pumped me for information I was tired, set my tea cup in the sink, and excused myself, going about you and little Angel.” up the back stairs, joining Angel in our room, the room we always “Did you tell him?” I asked. I had confided in Gabby about Angel’s used when visiting Mom and Papa in Ft. Collins. Tired as I was, conception years ago. Gabby was the sister I never had. Frank was on my mind. “No. It’s not my story to tell. He wants your number. He wants to Over six years ago, I had spent less than forty-eight hours with see you, honey.” Angel’s father, Frank’s brother, Angelo. Making comparisons be- I thought long and hard about my answer. tween Angelo and Frank was natural and futile. Angelo was there, “Honey?” then gone. Frank was here and now. “I would like you to give him my number.” All evening I had avoided Frank, but when my eyes sought him “And let nature take its course?” out and when I found him, his eyes found me and he smiled. The “And let nature take its course,” I said. I was already half in love picture of Frank and Angel sitting on the window seat deep in conver- The Storyteller 60 with Frank. The call ended. Now I was too wired to sleep, the sleep I “but I understand the need for a fresh start.” needed if I was to go to work tomorrow. “Billings isn’t that far. A road trip away. Still in the mountains.” Two minutes later the phone rang. I let the machine pick up and Who was I trying to convince? “You’ll have my address soon and you listened to the call. have my cell phone number. We’ll email and Skype for Gina and An- “Hi, it’s me, Frank. I know it’s late, but I wanted to ask you if you gela to see each other.” would spend New Year’s Eve with me. Please. Gabby told me the “I’m going to miss you...we’re all going to miss you, Mom and plans. If it’s okay with you, I’ll come down with them Friday. Please Papa are already planning to visit you early in the summer.” say it’s okay. Talk with you tomorrow. Goodnight. Sweet dreams.” His At the front door, tears and hugs, then Angel and I got in my truck voice was so like Angelo’s. and headed for Denver for one more day before following our furni- I got into bed and fell asleep, smiling. ture north to Montana. The week went fast, too quiet with Angel gone all week. I had se- My heart ached. lected a dress for New Year’s, but that was before Frank. I went The company put us up until we found a house, a motel with an shopping for a less conservative dress. indoor pool, and room service, much to Angel’s delight. She quickly New Year’s Eve is amateur night as far as I’m concerned. I sel- learned to dial room service and order what she wanted to eat. I dom venture out, but Gabby had purchased tickets for a charity gala, needed to get her settled and back in school. so I spent a couple of hours on my hair and makeup and was We were in our rented house before the end of February. I called dressed in my less conservative dress when the three of them arrived Gabby to give her the address and our new phone number, mostly to around nine p.m. The evening was underway. hear her voice. Joe and Gabby were staying in my guest room, Frank in Angel’s “You’re not going to believe this, honey,” Gabby said. “A package room, so they didn’t have to drive home in the wee hours. As soon as arrived here for you on Valentine’s Day, from Paris. I’ll forward it to we got to my house at two a.m., Joe and Gabby excused themselves, you. I got a letter from Frank the same day wanting to know why your leaving Frank and me alone at last. phone was disconnected. He evidently did try to reach you several We talked until first light reminded us it was time to get some times. He was worried when he couldn’t get you.” sleep. Very gently, Frank kissed me goodnight, our second kiss of the “Too bad. He waited far too long. I moved on and away,” I replied night, and went into Angel’s room. with a sigh. When we all began to stir about noon, Frank was gone. “He said in his letter that work was crazy when he returned.” I was “Did you hear him leave?” I asked Gabby. silent. “No. Didn’t he say goodbye?” she asked. “There’s more,” Gabby continued. “He didn’t want to get anyone’s “Not a word. There was a note on Angel’s pillow. I’m so glad we hopes up but he put in for a transfer to the Denver office. An e-mail had this time together. The same exact words Angelo used, and I today said the transfer came through yesterday. He will be moving to never saw him alive again.” Denver for a June 1st start date.” “Oh, honey, don’t go there. Frank is not Angelo.” We ate lunch in “Timing...life is all about timing,” I sighed again. silence. Gabby and Joe headed out afterwards for Ft. Collins. “Can I give him your phone number and address?” Angel was out of school until Tuesday. Monday I drove to Ft. “Just my phone number,” I said. “Let him figure out where I am if Collins to Mom and Papa’s to bring her home. I hadn’t heard from he cares.” I was feeling very out of sorts when the call ended. Frank. Not a call. No word through Gabby. My house phone rang in the middle of the night. I let the machine Gabby met me at the door. “Did he call you, honey?” she asked. pick up. “No. Isn’t he here?” “It’s Frank. I know I owe you many explanations for my silence “He left this morning for Paris. I can’t believe he did that without after our wonderful New Year’s Eve date, for leaving for Paris without calling you. I’m sorry.” a word, for not being in touch sooner. There was so much to settle Clearly I was not the one for him. here, too much at stake if I couldn’t unravel a ten-year web. You have “Just like Angelo. Here, then gone,” I said. I went into the hall been on my mind every minute since we met Christmas Eve. You bath, cried, washed my face, and joined the family at lunch. Angel and…” The machine cut off. was chattering happily, glad to see me, glad to be going home, glad The phone rang again. “It’s me. Please forgive me my silences. to be going back to school in the morning. I was silent. Allow me to make it up to you. I want very much to show you how I After three weeks went by with no word from Frank, I was re- feel about you and Angel. Let’s talk as often as possible until we can signed to his indifference. At work I began exploring job opportunities talk face to face, by mid-May. You deserve the very best. Will you within the company with branches in other states. By the end of Janu- allow me to earn your forgiveness? I’ll call at a better time later today. ary, I was accepted for a transfer to Billings, Montana. I was to report Goodbye.” for work there February 14th. Valentine’s Day. How appropriate, Now there was no way I could sleep. when my heart was in Paris with a man who was silent. I got up and replayed the message over and over, hungry for the Angel and I drove to Ft. Collins for a Sunday lunch with everyone message and the sound of Frank’s voice. Two and a half months to and goodbyes. the middle of May. No one had heard a word from Frank, not even an e-mail. Gabby I did understand Frank’s not wanting to get our hopes up. It and I had a word alone after lunch. seemed very protective rather than a reflection of indifference on his “I’m sorry you feel you need to leave the area, honey,” she said, part. A consideration, a recognition of the fragile nature of long The Storyteller 61 distance relationships, a desire to be fully present to embellish the Sunshine connection that we both had acknowledged on New Year’s Eve.

Negative feelings drained from me. I relaxed. I smiled. I worked Have you ever watched the sunshine and played with a light joy I hadn’t felt in a long time. Frank and I Sparkle in the dew talked every few days, e-mailed several times a day. On a frosty spring morning I held my breath and my feelings when Gabby and I talked. She The Lord made just for you? knew things had changed for me. I told her “Frank has some courting to do when we see each other. No rush, no commitment.” And have you ever thanked the sunshine May 10th, five days before I expected Frank, there was a knock at For every brand new day? my door. Angel was on an overnight play date, so I had ordered pizza Oh, sunshine, precious sunshine, for my dinner. I opened the door, expecting the pizza delivery man. May you never go away. Frank. We were instantly in each other’s arms. No hesitation, no courting required. We let nature take its course. Have you ever watched the sunshine Ms. Standing Bear lives in Aurora, Colorado. Burn away the haze

On a cloudy summer morning

With the sky all ablaze?

And have you ever thanked the sunshine

For ending a lonely night? Respecting the National Anthem Oh sunshine, precious sunshine, You’re such a welcome sight. I long to see a grateful crowd All standing tall Sunshine, precious sunshine And standing proud There’s no other as sweet as you, As the sounds of the music fills the air. To banish yesterday And let us all start anew. A throng of thankful citizens Saluting those So have you ever thanked the sunshine Who gave their lives For each and every ray? In order that their country would be free. Oh sunshine, precious sunshine, May you never go away. To hear each word the poet wrote Each somber chord Dan Edwards Each solemn note Cypress, TX And see all hands upon the heart or brow. A Soft Morning All eyes upon the flag on high

The stars and stripes A soft morning Against the sky wispy clouds Reminding us of what we strive to be. lingering starlight

last night’s And when the final note is done amber moon Cheers ring out

The crowd is one A mist holds In honor of our land of liberty. tomorrow

in suspension— Ron Flowers uncounted minutes Elk Grove Village, IL squares of hours

Softly, slowly

your heart beats

counting each moment…

on the beach,

wind-blown seashells Jane Stuart

Greenup, KY

The Storyteller 62

Mourning Doves “Not much.” He wiped his face. “Where’s the plumber? We found Loren Stephens this on the bathroom counter.” He showed me a red blowtorch. “And the box it came in was still on the bathroom floor. He also had put

down an asbestos blanket in the tub, just in case. So much for mot My husband and I are rebuilding our house, which was destroyed knowing what happened. I’ll need his contact information.” in a fire a year and a half ago. You could say it was my fault. Before “I can’t believe he lied to you.” the fire, I insisted on renovating my husband’s bathroom, turning it “We see this all the time. And they usually try to cover their tracks. into a spa-like space with a steam shower, mosaic glass tiles, and a He wasn’t too smart, but we would have figured it out, box or no box.” waterfall tap. I was shocked. Frank had always been so courteous and reliable. He said, “Why bother? It is perfectly good as it is.” He had brought his son on the job to “show him what it means to put “Have you noticed the rusty shower head and the peeling wallpa- in a good day’s work” and thanked me for hiring him. “Business has per? This will never do.” been slow lately.” Weeks after the fire with four insurance companies He capitulated because he knows that I am a serial renovator, but parrying and thrusting to sort out responsibilities, I found out that he did say, “When you finish my bathroom, you won’t have another Frank wasn’t licensed or bonded and didn’t have insurance. He had thing to redecorate. You’ve done everything in the house except the lied to me about that, too. How could I have been so trusting? laundry room.” My husband was at work when the smoke lifted. I called him with I smiled and said, “I’ll think of something.” the terrible news. He said he was in a meeting and couldn’t leave the I have lived in the same house for twenty-five years, sixteen of office. I screamed into the phone, “Don’t you get it? The house just them with my husband, who moved in when we got married. It’s not burned down!” large, but every time we think about moving, it always comes down My husband doesn’t react to what is not right in front of him, but to, “We love the neighborhood. Everything on the market is so expen- he agreed to come home. “It’ll take me about an hour with the traffic sive. What do we need more space for? We can take the money and on the 405, but I’ll get there. It can’t be that bad.” go on a trip.” And coming home to familiar surroundings was always We walked through what was left of the house. The ceilings in the the best part of going away. upstairs rooms were opened to the sky; electrical wiring hung every- On the last day of renovation, with champagne on ice to celebrate where; there was mud on the floor—plaster mixed with water, and a the ten-week remodel, the plumber used a blowtorch, throwing an terrible smell. A 7-Up bottle was stuffed into what remained of the ember into the air space behind the wall. I was in my home office, hole where the chandelier hung, and water dripped slowly into a pud- which has a common wall to the bathroom. For ten minutes I heard a dle on the floor. strange, crackling sound but attributed it to dripping water. It took us an hour to get our cat from under the bed, but she sur- Then the plumber yelled, “Fire. Get out.” vived, her fur smelling of smoke, but otherwise she was unscathed. Smoke billowed out of the shower head and spilled from the fire- The Air Quality Management Department required that everything be place into our bedroom. I called 911 and ran out of the house with documented because the fire released asbestos particles embedded only my pocketbook and cell phone. I remember standing on the in the walls. We had to throw all our appliances away; our furniture sidewalk, surrounded by concerned neighbors, watching a ladder was destroyed, our books charred, our clothes in a soiled heap. Not cantilevered up to the roof, fireman taking axes to break holes so the much was salvaged. Air scrubbers were installed for two weeks to smoke could escape, and a drill team of hose bearers shooting water clean asbestos from the air. through the front door. The townhouse adjoining ours was also en- Thankfully the firemen took our artwork off the walls and threw gulfed in flames. everything onto the sidewalk. It looked like a fire sale. Somebody Large oak trees brushed against the roof, and the branches would came by and helped themselves to a lithograph, The Butler’s In Love, have been perfect conduits to carry the fire throughout the neighbor- by Santa Monica artist Michael Stock, and a 1926 pencil drawing by hood, which explains the phalanx of one hundred firemen and four- New York illustrator Leland McClelland of Jane Kendall Mason disap- teen fire trucks blocking our street. Pedestrians were cautioned to peared. stay away, but looky-loos insisted on gawking as black smoke filled the sky. We moved into a rental apartment after the fire. I suffered from The plumber, Frank, was interrogated by the fire chief. “I don’t temporary PTSD. Every time I heard a siren, I jumped. I became sen- know what could have caused the fire. I was just screwing in the tub sitive to smell—even burning toast set me on edge. One night at our tap.” He adjusted his sunglasses. apartment, I triggered the fire alarm while cooking dinner. That was “You weren’t using a blowtorch, by any chance?” the last time I used the stove—take-out and eating out took the place “No. I can’t imagine what started it. I’ve been in this business for of preparing meals. twenty years, and nothing like this has ever happened to me. Maybe And then I became like the Ancient Mariner. I’d tell the story of the there is faulty wiring in the attic.” fire to anyone who would listen: the cleaners, the bank teller, the ba- When the smoke dissipated and the fire was put out after a half rista at Starbucks, the gas station attendant—they all became my hour (it seemed like an eternity), the fire chief took off his face mask. confidantes. A spitting image of actor/fireman Dennis Leary. Only in Los Angeles. I “You heard about the fire,” I’d say, and then launch into a short, asked him, “How bad is it?” medium, or long explanation. It became my way of alleviating stress. I “Bad,” he said. “Sorry.” usually got the same response, “You seem so upbeat.” And I was. I “Is anything left?” The Storyteller 63 shifted into rebuild mode, addressing everything that I didn’t like CSI: Edwardsville (March 2014) about the house before the fire. The fire turned into a made-to-order excuse to decorate and update. we can feel the murderer A pair of mourning doves nested in a light fixture on the patio at gloating our temporary apartment. The male bird busily carried twigs and de- at us tritus to build their home, and then the female settled in and waited. from above Three weeks later two little babies hatched. My husband named them

Paloma and Paolo, an homage to Picasso. The family stayed with us (his derision for four or five weeks until the babies were strong enough to fly. searing into When they left, we kept the nest where it was, hoping that the birds our flesh) would come back again to reuse it, but they didn’t. We did see four mourning doves this spring perched on the wrought-iron fence of our no evidence remains apartment. I’d like to believe that Paloma and Paolo are among them, except a meerschaum pipe but there is no way to know. and a carrot We are nearly finished with the rebuild. A joyous riot of color and floating texture has replaced a subdued and cautious palette: an exciting in a puddle fuchsia and gold Tibetan rug in my office, an apple-green Indian rug of filth in the living room with ikat accent pillow on the side chairs in purple in the backyard and green, ottomans made out of faux horsehair dyed purple, silvery draperies on the windows, a waterfall chandelier in the dining room, (the victim’s widow stands adobe walls in my husband’s office to complement a sage, English two yards away leather sofa that feels like butter. The wall in the Zen bamboo garden her coal mouth has been painted an eggplant purple. frozen open The fire certainly tested our resilience. My husband and I will drink in a silent scream) a toast (is that the right word?) to having passed the test with flying colors. And we plan on inviting everyone, not to a “house warming,” Kate Duvall but to what South Africans call a “roof wetting,” referring to the spray Edwardsville, IL from a bottle of uncorked champagne.

Ms. Stephens is the president and founder of Write Wisdom, Inc., which provides memoir writing and publishing services. She also teaches “Writing Memoir” for museums, religious institutions, and community organizations. www.writewisdom.com. She spent ten years in the mortgage banking business before moving to Los Ange- les to produce theater and film. Her film producing and cowriting Wanderers credits include Legacy of the Hollywood Blacklist, Sojourner Truth: Ain’t I a Woman? and the bilingual documentary Los Pastores: The Through gray-dark gloom, the mist of centuries Shepherds Play. She’s garnered two Cine Gold Eagle Awards, a Na- Through untold miles of corridors of dust tional Golden Apple Award, and was nominated for a national Emmy They meet once more, long lost wanderers Award. Her personal essays and short stories have appeared or are And touch inside the passageways of time forthcoming in The Chicago Tribune, The Distillery, Eclectica maga- zine, Forge, The Jewish Journal of Greater Lost Angeles, Jewish Where etched upon cold ancient floors in dust Women’s Literary Annual, ken*again, Knee-Jerk, The Los Angeles Are records of the countless times before Times, and The MacGuffin, to name a few. She lives in Los Angeles, They’ve met and touched along this winding hall California. And felt the gentle magic of their song

Again, they mark the tome upon the floor Again, record their passing in the dust They meet once more, star-crossed wanderers Touch briefly, and then they travel on.

Leonard Henry Scott National Harbor, MD

The Storyteller 64

Arms Raised in America polo shirts proffered greasy tidbits. D. Ferrara That wasn’t helping much either. Over her head, roller coasters rushed. One, designed to resemble

an old-fashioned train, clattered and clanked. The second, a sleeker, Worst storm to hit the Midwest in almost thirty years, the radio rocket shape, whooshed. For the third, single cars with four seat fac- said. Thirty years ago, she had been living in New York. She did still. ing inward hurtled down metal slopes, tilting, pivoting around its cen- The Midwest was a dimly realized concept having something to do ter. with cows. Cornfields. Far above, rain sheeted through the darkness onto a glass ceiling. Her flight had been diverted two hundred miles from where she Some people had braved the Great Plains. needed to be. She drove madly for five hours before her cell phone A lone man rode in the front of the train coaster, without expres- found service, a few miles from her meeting. The message: meeting sion, staring. Up the steep climb, along the edges, down the drops— cancelled, with not even an apology for her wasted trip. he made no sound or gesture—crammed into his undersized seat. She pulled to what she hoped was the side of the road, hazard A woman in tight pink Capri pants and a pink cap set on fluffed, lights ticking. Resting her forehead on the steering wheel, she lis- dyed-black hair passed. Heavily powdered, the woman strode on tened to the rain clattering over the car tallying up the costs: So many stiletto heels, shadowed by her miniature self: a tottering girl, also drops for airfare, the rented car, the hotel room, missed opportunities packed in makeup, clothes rhinestoned onto her thin frame. elsewhere...Time. Lost. Useless. Their path was crossed by a phalanx of strollers—no, not strollers. Somehow, she found her hotel. Without having been here, she Small wheelchairs, with pale children slumped, strapped. One child, knew the rooms would have beige walls, a hunter green and bur- androgynous, tufted blond, had a breathing tube. The fat, pale push- gundy bedspread, a too small desk, a too hard chair, rubbery pillows. ers wore professional indifference. Faint whiff of must. A room with anywhere outside and nowhere She averted her eyes. within. She had not been to an amusement park since childhood. Some All this was a reminder that the promise of clean sheets had re- of the rides were familiar: the roller coasters, a huge Ferris wheel, a placed the spirit of discovery, as if the point of travel was not to ex- carousel. Others were frightening. “Axe,” rows of seats swing high pensive the new but to recreate the same place again and again. and turned upside down, upending its two or three riders in padded The apologetic young man at the front desk explained that the harnesses. “Spider,” eight huge arms spun wildly, holding small restaurant was closed because of the storm; he offered her cereal cages rotating in the opposite direction. “Kangaroo,” dropped caged from the breakfast supplies in the lounge. passengers down a pole, bumping along the way. “Or,” he said with a smile, “The Mall is still open.” In the center were gentler treats—little trains, miniature roller She blinked. coasters, bobbing balloons. Along the periphery were doors and He pulled out a glossy map with stores, restaurants, vendors on caved, haunted houses, space trips, and cartoon adventures. carts, movies, and “attractions” in its pleats. He pointed out the door A group of girls with long wet skirts and head scarves rushed from to an enormous structure (revealed by a sudden flash of lightning), the log ride. Their attire would have raised no eyebrows in Beirut, circling items on the map, describing with enthusiasm the wonders so though pure American giggles escaped the somber scarves. close at hand. Several gathered by a kiosk, laughing and pointing. A bank of She could park in The Wild West and be in the food court without screens showed photos of the riders, captured at harrowing points. going outside at all, the clerk told her. When she hesitated, he con- The cameras had caught the girls as the logs plunged down the fessed that housekeepers had not made it to work and he would have steepest decline, some gripping safety bars or their scarves, as oth- to make up her room. ers raised their arms high, triumphant. She left her bags and headed for The Mall. Past the photos was a sign, “Extreme Trampolines.” As a child, Inside was perpetually fluorescent day. She found a directory list- she had loved the sensation of height and flight, jumping on beds and ing stories and restaurants. Four Mexican. Three pizza. Burgers. The sofas until she grew too tall. Korn Dog Palace. Sushi. Sushi? No. Not here. The trampolines were on an upper level, each straddled by poles On the map, The Mall was square, with layers of stories surround- with long elastic ropes, like bungee cords. ing something called “The Great Plains.” She was on New Orleans “Am I too big?” she asked the smiling young man. Jazz Way. “You Are Here” was opposite the food court. The young man was polite. “No, ma’am. The harnesses are She crossed the Plains. To her surprise, the Great Plains held an weight-tested. You’re plenty light.” amusement park. The mechanical sounds were rides—”attractions.” She was grateful that he did not question why a middle-aged Buried in the innermost reaches of The Mall, the Great Plains was woman in a rumpled business suit would want to jump on a trampo- invisible even to its vast parking lots. Yet every ride was running, like line in a soggy Midwestern Mall. carnivals in parking lots, flashing temporary pleasures to attract cus- “How much is it?” tomers. “Three tickets.” It wasn’t helping. “Oh,” she said. “Tickets.” The Plains reeked of frying food: donuts, funnel cakes, corn dogs, The young man shrugged. “Tell you what. If you want to jump, go French fries. There were ice cream parlors, a “steakhouse,” taco ahead. I can’t turn down my only customer after she comes out in this stands, chicken joints, cotton candy, soda, lemonade, face painting, weather.” and souvenirs. Remarkably clean, fresh-faced young attendants in The Storyteller 65

The young man shrugged. “Tell you what. If you want to jump, go Dawn ahead. I can’t turn down my only customer after she comes out in this weather.” While smuggling my heart He helped her onto the trampoline and into the harness, clipping along the bayou bank, everything behind her back. The harness could move freely as she my heart began to sing. Streaming jumped, allowing her to flip forward or back without fear of missing the trampoline or hitting the edge. clamor without sounds, profusions For a minute, she stood, uncertain. of red, white, green and gray, “It’s okay,” he encouraged, “just jump. You’ll get the hang of it.” spill and spray. God, “How long to I have?”

He smiled broadly. “Ten minutes, an hour. Till there’s somebody what are these things else.” that siren inside my head and veins? On her first jump, the surface seemed spongy. She stumbled to her knees. They are beauty, delight and joy She jumped again. Keeping her knees straight, she went higher. as much as flesh, blood, She leapt again, rising high above the trampoline, above the rides, water and rocks. the grim-faced man on the roller coaster, the giggling girls with their They can creep, spring, head scarves fluttering above the roller coaster, the pale children in surge and sing wheelchairs, the painted lady and made-up girl. She jumped, gripping against the boundaries of the head. the elastic ropes, as if she could rocket through the glass ceiling, through the rain, beyond gravity. Trembling in the opening She landed lightly, and her spring tossed her into the air. At her light, and oh, I feel apex, the storm pulled down a power line a half-mile away, plunging the whispering whispering of goodbye. the Old South, the Wild West, the Great Plains and the rest of ersatz

America into darkness. Emergency lights flickered on. Some rides William F. Guest stopped cold; gravity defeated the rest. Screams and squeaks and Houston, TX curses and fear and comforting voices rose.

Cameras captured one last round of screams and arms, the grim man, the scarved girls, the Pink Duo, rows of empty seats, then blinked into darkness.

At that moment, she thought of riding the roller coaster as a child, gripping the safety bar.

And although it was not the same thing at all, she raised her hands above her head and soared. D. Ferrara’s screenplay was a top finalist in the 2013 A. S. U. Sadness Is Screenwriting contest, and another play won the New Jersey ACT Award for Outstanding Production of an Original Play. Three other Sadness is a dark blue like the waters of a deep ocean. plays have been optioned, and two have been produced. Essays and It is one of the darkest emotions to have. short stories as well as over two hundred articles have been pub- Sadness is like one hundred bees stinging your heart. lished in legal, technological, and other business areas. D. Ferrara It is the scattering of the powdery ashes of your grandmother as her lives in Wyckoff, New Jersey. spirit goes up to heaven. Sadness is the tightening of your throat and you struggle to get words out. It is in remembrance of Marylyn Jewell...Rest in peace, Grandma.

Spenser Ryan Jennings Mebane, NC 8th grade River Mill Academy

The Storyteller 66

Crackers and Ketchup I followed his eyes and saw three figures with leather vests, Karen Tesdahl shaved heads, and lots of studs sticking out of their faces. The one on the right looked just like Jerry Mulroney, the bully from high school

I had dreaded the most. Was he looking at me? Did he recognize A shadow fell beside mine on the side of the dumpster. My sub- me? Was he Jerry? I tried to swallow, but the saliva caught in my conscious mind did an instantaneous comparison and shrieked an throat. alert. An impossibly vertical creature was standing between me and “They love taking lunch money from guys like you. I’ll slow ‘em the street light at the curb, but when I reeled around, I saw that it was down. Take this bag and run!” advised Bo. just a man like me. Well, not like me. A narrow head with a beak-like I did. From behind boxes in the shadowy part of an alley, I nose hung forward on his skinny neck. Arms hugged his bony watched the show, while my father’s voice played in my ear,” Larry, frame—like wings. Long thin legs completed his resemblance to a why do you want to move into that neighborhood with those friends of large water bird—maybe an egret. His gray hair gleamed under the yours? Stay home. It’s safer (and cheaper).” streetlight, but his backlit face and figure left much to the imagination. Okay, Dad. No more midnight dumpster diving for me. Low eyebrows hid his eyes (I pictured them as dark and glaring), but From his pocket, Bo pulled a paper bag wrapped around a bottle his mouth was clearly frowning. and said, “Hey, Bud, do choo...have some sp...spare change?” He Blood pounded my ears, and Birdman patched out in front of my staggered. “Fer...coffee?” eyes. Not now! I dropped to my knees and hung my head to prevent The first skinhead kicked Bo aside. “That’s what we got for you, one of my fainting spells. Was it anemia that caused them? Was it wino.” His friends unaccountably found that funny. low blood pressure? Who knows, but this was exactly the kind of After they trucked on down the street, I squeaked, “Thanks—are thing I feared happening when I had talked myself into this little scav- you okay?” enger trip to the dumpster. I’d seen so much perfectly good food “Sure,” said Bo. “Didn’t hit me hard. Old drunks aren’t worth much dumped there by the shop help on my way home after classes—food of a kick. You they’d have crushed.” I couldn’t afford to buy. Paying tuition was bad enough, but having to By now, I was ready to sneak home, but I was afraid to part ways put out for food was sometimes just too much for my father’s stingy with my protector. Big Bo. soul to endure. I needed that bread, but I hate confrontations. I might As we walked, he spewed a monolog about black holes and nano- be caught by the managers, the police, or… technology, history and the nature of God, one arm waving his ciga- The man shook me and said, “Boy! Get up off the ground! I just rette in the air and scattering ashes. I was surprised to hear him came over to tell you there’s a patrol car comin’ down the street. Got speak on such subjects and said so. a campaign goin’ on about street people raiding trash around here. “What? You don’t think I can read?” Then he laughed—a silly, Health Department—bed bugs,” the man said. “Shit, they’re slowing explosive hee-haw. I took in his faded cotton shirt, his grimy down. I’ll talk to them.” (mismatched) tennis shoes with holes, the string holding up his pants, Nausea washed over me again. Mrs. Murphy’s face flashed the four inches of bare ankle showing below the cuffs. The whole across my mind when she caught me looking at Jason’s test paper wrinkled outfit had a grey-toned sameness colored by dirt. His ruined back in the fourth grade. My tongue was frozen then. It was frozen teeth and big fingertips had the same yellow-brown nicotine stains. A now. I’d let Birdman do the talking all right. subtle aroma of mold and rot enveloped him. He didn't scare me He pulled me up as the patrolmen approached us. They frowned, much anymore. looked us both up and down, and explained that Cornwall Township Suddenly, Bo scrambled up and over a chain-link fence enclosing had an ordinance against picking through the trash. I looked down at a junkyard. Immediately, a noisy wolf-like dog chased him into a junk the loaf of bread and the bag in my hands. car. Bo slammed the door on the dog and rolled a window down a “Oh, no. We’re not pickin’ trash. This boy here works in the crack to shout, “Hey, can you give me a hand?” Schumacher Bakery there,” said Birdman, pointing to a shop behind Me? Was he talking to me? I fingered the scar on my neck left by us. “He’s pitchin’ the bread they can’t sell.” Birdman launched into a Muffin the Terrier when I was four. She weighed about ten pounds, lecture about the when, why, and how of day-old bread disposal until but this one...Bo wanted me to rescue him from that vicious creature? the patrolmen’s eyes drooped, and they moseyed back to their car. No! I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t do it. I felt sweat drip down my neck, I stood in awe of Birdman’s quick mind—and quick mouth. I al- but I had to try. I guessed I owed it to him. most missed it when he said, “What’s your name, boy?” I reviewed everything I knew about dogs: Number one, dogs can “Larry,” I finally managed. “What’s yours?” smell fear. I forced myself to breathe slower. Number two, hold out “Theodore—call me Bo for short. Why you out tonight? Why so your hand. I did, and he lunged at me. My heart lurched painfully in edgy? You a student at the university?” my chest. I jumped and gasped despite the fence between us. What “Physics major. I don’t usually steal trash,” I explained. “I was else could I do? One and two hadn’t bought me much. afraid of being caught, but I saw the bakers dumping that bread, and Then I remembered number three, dogs like to play fetch! I threw it’s the end of the month—nothing left but crackers and ketchup…” the sliced beef over the fence, and it sailed to the back of the lot with Bo said, “Grab that jar of pickles there and that sliced beef in the the dog after the price (my dinner). plastic wrapper. Follow me to my place, and we’ll have sandwiches.” Bo climbed like a monkey back over the fence, as the dog (my ) The Birdman had taken me under his wing, and I was grateful. He buddy now) savored the package of meat and trotted back to me, looked up and added, “Yo! See those bikers? They think they own whining for more. these streets. Roll you for sure.” The Storyteller 67

“Are you crazy? What was that about?” I cried. “What did you think Yet Again you’d find in that place worth getting mauled over?”

He answered, “Nothin’ special. I go by there sometimes. Never She reads to him every night, saw a dog before. Come on, I’ll fix us some toast and coffee.” I won- her eyelids as gummy as bread dough, dered how clean Bo’s table was. A mental picture of an open marga- the words trickling out like wooden soldiers, rine tub embellished by a dead fly flashed through my head. precise, regimented, Birdman Bo looked a little smaller to me sitting there at the bottom inflection as faded as bleached wallpaper of the fence. The dog was sitting behind the fence, smiling in antici- pation of another snack. It seemed satisfied with the two pieces of And his eyes lock on hers’ bread I sent sailing over the fence. seeing but hearing’ I offered the Birdman a hand, and we walked on down the street in or hearing but not seeing, the direction of the basement where he lived. watching the words form on her lips Ms. Tesdahl discovered her love for writing in elementary school like ice crystals on glass. when one special teacher changed her life by helping her overcome a His legs stir beneath the covers, reading disability, and then predicted that she would become a writer. more reflexive than enthralled One of Ms. Tesdahl’s stories has been published in Skipping Stones magazine. She lives in Cincinnati, Ohio. She suppresses a yawn,

repetition surrendering to boredom,

the story unchanging night after night, Some Assembly Required like the stars in the evening sky, permanent familiar, Big sections seem so easy, yet unattainable in their scope that’s where we first go wrong, drawings showing segments She bookmarks the page in the book, spun at angles we cannot create, knowing it matters not to him, crawling after pieces on the floor, each page the same as the last, imploring like a supplicant the spoken words just one more exercise running out of time… of synchronicity between larynx and lips the glossy picture on the box Yet it matters to her, mocks our sweat, blistered palms, bruises, for each passing page wounded heart, battered soul, is a measure of her own sanity its own imperfect building site. Conrad Gurtatowski How do these pieces come… Crown Point, IN cut from patterns, boxed at tables set beneath the false light of a building where the real sun never shines? Pre-fab incarnations, not divine, no word made fresh to dwell among us like the rain Best Friends against the sweatshop roof… water in the crater from an unexploded shell? Best friends are hard to find.

Best friends are there for you when you need them. John P. Kristofco Best friends are there to lean on when you are upset or feeling down. Highland Heights, OH Best friends are there to tell each other secrets, talk about boys, and even laugh together. Best friends are good to have. Best friends are there till the end.

Lauren Leonard Liberty, NC 8th grade River Mill Academy

The Storyteller 68

Where the Woodbine Twineth Something Left Unsaid Marty Carlock In sizzling heat we sat talking When something vanished in my childhood home, my mother inside of your truck, the air stag- sometimes said, “It’s gone where the woodbine twineth and the wild nant. You kissed my hand, held it as heart roameth.” The imagery of what she said, which I took to be a we shared secrets; yet as you’d slipped piece of a poem or a song, distracted me sufficiently that I failed to into the bright sunlight, I felt question where that might be. It was clear that it was somewhere there was more to be said, something beyond my discovering, and I might as well forget about whatever it particular you want to say was I wanted. to me, but somehow you haven’t The quotation seemed perfect coming from my mother, as if it found your way to speak it. We’ve epitomized her: touched with nineteenth-century romanticism, inexpli- grown used to waiting for slivers cable, rather beautiful, and not to be questioned. The part of it that of time to open for us, un- grasped my imagination was the wild heart, which resonated as part zip like a torn piece of blue sky of my own anatomy. It was not until I was an adult that I realized it letting in the sunlight; I waved as was really “wild hart,” as in deer. you drove off; but you looked ahead. And I was close to adulthood before I discovered that the wood- Special moments with you always bine twined and the hart roamed in a high cupboard above my fa- go by too quickly; whispers left ther’s closet. That whenever we were given something particularly hanging in the air, messages choice, something that might make a nice gift for someone else, my left unsaid under a pale sky. mother secreted it in that inaccessible place. Stole it from us. My church-going, Bible-reading, word-of-God-believing mother stole from Maura Gage Cavell her own children. Crowley, LA I never told her how cheated I felt. At the time, I was too confused by the disparity between her professed ethics and this stunning real- ity. Had I been able to articulate my disillusionment, she would have trumped me anyway. She would have argued that children get The Continuing Adventures of Hanora, Abi- spoiled if they have too much, that a little asceticism was healthy. gail, and Dutch an American Sonnet She must have been right, material concerns are very low on my per- sonal priority list. “Doing” and “being” trump “having.” That would have been her rationale. But it wasn’t the real reason. Hanora sat tall in the saddle under the New Mexico blooms Because I can no longer remember what it was she took, I can Watching the perfumed air take shape. forgive her. I can understand what she was doing. Living in genteel Sometimes she liked to think the lightened air of their ranch poverty in a genteel town, where all her friends were much richer Was Abby’s youth oozing out of her body. than we were, she would have been mortified to have nothing with which to pay back their generosity. I assume it was not just things But not today. Let the trumpets sound for this is Abby’s birthday! given to me and my brothers, but anything fine given to anyone in the Cotton candy swings from the trees and bathes the earth in sweet family. The wild hart cupboard was her gift shop. licour. This happened long before “regifting” was a word or even a con- This is an old English family brand new. cept. The part she didn’t understand was, you’re only to regift those They’ll be flinging scotch and drambuie before the night is through. things you don’t much want. And you’re not supposed to regift things given by others, except with their permission. My mother’s need to They’ll be flaying shalaylees under the blue moon. maintain appearances overruled any moral qualms about what she But in honor of the maiden’s birth, they’ll hold their peace with a pil- was doing. The odd thing is, she had friends who loved her anyway grim’s pride. and would not have cared if she had nothing. Her laughter was pay- Yon comes Abigail astride Canterbury. ment enough. Hanora sees her with her unclaimed smile I’ve never been able to track down the source of the woodbine- wild hart quotation. It remains as mysterious as ever. I have no high And her elkskin vest and her snakeskin boots cupboard, but the words still occur to me whenever things disappear And asks, “Where are my cattle?” without explanation. Mr. Carlock has been published or has forthcoming pieces in the Vern Miller following magazines: American Literary Fiction, Fiction Fix, The Grif- Kearney, NE fin, Halfway Down the Stairs, The MacGuffin, The Madison Review, MARY: A Journal of New Writing, Minetta Review, Old Red Kimono, to name a few. He lives in Weston, Massachusetts.

The Storyteller 69

My World Is Not The Same Benton County Ruts

My world is not the same Old man Scurlock from Benton County I just walk alone now Was hated by his sons. Because you are in Heaven They were beaten and kicked I miss your voice, scared I’ll forget it And berated from born. No whispers in the night Or making me laugh til I cry Over Benton County ruts Remember walking along holding hands He drove his old mules My hand so small in yours To his neighbors, he was Christian My world is not the same But the boys knew the rules. I just walk alone now I loved your surprise gifts The revenge was sweet when they laid him in the ground Hugging you, happy you thought of me Instead of a headstone showing date when born Seeing the twinkle in your eyes A bronzed slab covered piece of concrete they found, I knew no fear with you beside me Showing an epitaph of scorn. You made me feel safe and secure Especially with your arms around me The poem mentioned the roads full of ruts My world is not the same How hateful and deceitful he was I just walk alone now And Fear is my new best friend How his offspring hated his guts. I feel weak for you were my strength Funny how you could read my mind Scores of years have gone by Knowing what I was thinking before I did The sons have all vanished You were my best friend, my world But their hate is still strong The one I could always count on Shown by the marker, tarnished, but not worn. My world is not the same I just walk alone now Countless folks have stopped I miss all that you were to me By the overgrown place of rest And how you made me feel To read the words We had totally become one Carved in bronze but not written in jest. And I felt so complete inside Then you had to leave me So fathers remember Leaving me broken inside That sons grow into men. My world is not the same If given hearts of stone, I just walk alone now Words of hate are undoubtedly sown. I have no doubt you loved me I loved you more than words can say Lela Merrell-Savage I hope you feel my love in Heaven Sedalia, MO I send it to you each day My world is not the same I just walk alone now.

Gina R. Daniel Urbanna, VA

The Storyteller 70

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The Storyteller 71

HARVESTING MEMORIES Seeking Normal

Hazel Hale-Bostic’s tales about her home—the Jane St. John mountains and people of Russell County, Virginia— ring true and radiate with the personality of their If you think your life’s not been normal, read author: to-the-point, precise, funny, genuine. To Jane St. John’s Seeking Normal and include the read these essays is like pulling up a chair with a word courageous to the author’s resume. She seasoned tale teller who enjoys keeping the listener believes, by sharing aspects of our lives, we hanging on. If you want to sit down on the front porch with a cup of bring a light to others in similar situations so that coffee and hear a local tell the true story—mostly—pull up to HAR- they too are able to see a way out of their own personal darkness as VESTING MEMORIES and take a listen. Robert C. Merritt, PhD Prof. she has done. Her final victory would not come until she took a note- of English/Bluefield College Editor/Bluestone Review. book and pen to the kitchen table and moved all the events of her journey onto paper, where it was hard at first, yet in time, grew easier Ms. Bostic takes us all back home with memories that will make you like a need to love once more. This done, she was given peace. laugh and cry—occasionally at the same time. Regina Williams, Edi- Seeking Normal is a must read: a chronological narrative in which the tor/The Storyteller Magazine. author describes dramatic events over significant years with such bracing detail that you feel you are walking the halls of the psychiatric The front cover is of Mrs. Bostic’s parent’s first home, which is still ward with her on the night she’s admitted. As a child, she keeps se- standing today and is owned by her sister, Frankie. The front cover is crets like her father’s alcoholism, his mental illness, and her own ho- mosexual trappings… a water color rendition of that first home by Frances (Frankie) Hale Lowdermilk. ISBN 978-1-4669-7709-9 (trade paperback) $13.99 ISBN: 978-1-4669-7708 (hardback) $23.33 It’s nice to know some things never change and that the past remains ISBN: 978-1-4669-7707-5 (ebook) $3.99 with us wherever we go and Ms. Bostic takes us all back to our child- hood.

To get your copy, send $12.95 plus $3.00 s/h to: P. O. Box 411,

Swords, Creek, VA 24649 or you can email: [email protected]

In the spring of 1972, an independ- ent, ambitious nursing student, Carla Benson has returned home to Clinton, South Carolina for a short break before completing her final semester. When Carla’s sister introduces her to Jason Albright, sparks immediately fly, and Jason proclaims his intent to someday marry Carla, the very night they first meet. While Carla cannot deny her feelings for Jason, his insistence upon marrying and settling down in his hometown threatens to crush her dreams of furthering her education and traveling the world. Can Carla keep her hopes for her own life alive while shar- ing a life with Jason? Traveling through decades and con- tinents, tragedies and triumph, Almost is a story of love. As Carla and Jason intimately learn, love—though it may not align with our best-laid plans— always wins in the end.

The Storyteller 72

The Finish Line worries I have, that is momentarily appealing. If nothing else, it would be a fresh start, a turn of the page. All my trivial worries, regrets, and Bryan Byrd mistakes would give way to the far more important question of basic survival, where there wouldn't be time for worries and regrets, nor would I have very long to contemplate the mistakes I'd made. My world would be drastically simplified. Braaaaaiiiiiinnnns! And drastically horrible. I don't think it's any great revelation to say that a fairly common aspect of humanity is our tendency to focus on the negative. And when I focus my attention on anything, it seems I have a confession to make: I like zombies. Or should I say, I like disproportionately larger. It's easy for me, at times, to get carried the ideaof zombies, at least as seen on movies and TV. Having said away, to let my frustrations over petty concerns outweigh the positive that, I completely understand those who do NOT like zombie mov- things in my life. When that happens, a clean sweep might be mo- ies—one really should, I think. mentarily tempting. The concept of a mindless, shuffling, reanimated corpse motivated Instead, I have to use my brain like a muscle, rather than listing it to eat your brains should not be attractive. A world populated by such on the lunch special—more I exercise it to focus on the positive, the things should not, by any standard, ever appear appealing. more habitual it becomes to see the good stuff, and trivial annoy- And yet, I'm not the only zombie fan around. Judging from the ances are revealed for what they are: trivial. That isn't to minimize sheer volume of books and movies and television programs around true heartache and pain, which there is still plenty of in this life, but it right now, with more being exhumed all the time, I think that the zom- certainly doesn't do me any good if I allow my irritation at the rigama- bie genre has attained an all-time high in popularity, even though I role involved in renewing my driver's license to assume an impor- expect any minute for the subject to reach a critical mass, and im- tance out of proportion to the attention it deserves. For example—I plode under the weight of too much material. And I'm sure it will, at have to stand in line at the DMV (darn the DMV!), so does everyone some point—will surely go the way of glittery vampires, hobbits and else, thereby preventing a lot of Yahoos from driving a car who have droids. Still, I have to wonder what it is about flesh-eating corpses no business driving a car. Thank God for the DMV! (See how that that are so interesting in the first place. works? Exchanging positive for negative.) (I doubt it pays much to ask things like this, but here at The Story- Like any other muscle, my brain gets better at this when I exercise teller Magazine, we pride ourselves on asking the tough questions, it, and weaker when I don't. I'd like to say I give it a daily workout, but no matter what the payoff.) that would be a big fat fib. I stumble along, better some days than I suppose it's possible that if you gathered a hundred zombie fans others. But I'll always have at least one sure-fire positive to combat together and asked them why they enjoyed watching such a— any negative that comes along: no one is trying to eat my brains… frankly—type of horror movie, you might get a hundred different an- …yet. swers. But, if there is a common denominator, I'd posit that effective- zombie films seem to have more to say about an inherent dissatisfac- tion with our modern world than any direct desire to see the zombie Bryan has been writing for many years and has published several apocalypse become a reality. Now, that dissatisfaction might manifest short stories both in print and online and in three anthologies. His itself differently to different people, but for myself, I think of all the work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and will be taking up petty irritations that would automatically be swept away at the world's space at the end of The Storyteller for the foreseeable future. end, all of the accumulated artificial frustrations that I'd never have to worry about again. Life would be satisfactorily simply—your brains off If you just can’t wait to tell him how wrong his opinions are, or you the menu. want to congratulate him on his brilliant observances, you may con- Have you ever been ready to pull your hair out when talking to a tact him at [email protected] customer service rep on the phone? You'll never have to worry about- that again in the zombie apocalypse. How about standing in line at the DMV? Or what about your landlord? Is he giving you problems?

Well, he'll be too busy fighting off undead hordes to hassle you any- more! And maybe the most satisfying thing is that the problem you'll be faced with the most (the zombies), can be solved with a shotgun.

How's that for a deeply edifying and cathartic end to your frustration?

I see a problem…here's my shotgun…boom! I see no more problem.

Of course, not everything is going to be greener on the other side of that fence. There will be certain…inconveniences during a zombie outbreak that need to be considered—as not becoming a zombie oneself. Eating, and other basic survival needs could also be an is- sue—when balanced against never having to fill out a 10-40 long form again, one might think it six of one, half a dozen of the other.

Okay, sure, I'm joking, yet there is still something about imagining the end of the world, and the concurrent end of all these synthetic

DUSTY RICHARDS @ www.dustyrichards.com