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Abbie Shores

9 Years Ago

Short Tales

LITERATURE IS ART :)

We have a fabulous thread ongoing by Maria for Poetry

I wanted to open one for VERY short stories you have written

I am going to open, with your permission, with my short story, Dot and Sam

You may share an image with the posting. You MUST have a short story to go with it though


Add your copyright if needed


DOT AND SAM
©All Rights Reserved - Isabella Shores

'Mum!'

Dot looked around and smiled at her son. His chubby face grinned back, loose hair flopped over one eye making him look like a one eyed pirate.

'Mum! Listen to me!'

'I am listening sweetheart.' Dot laughed. 'I always listen to you.'

'Samuel pulled away as most 13 year old boys do from a Mothers hug. He looked so adorable in his school shorts and blazer.

'I wonder where your father is' Dot sighed. 'He is always late these days.'

She walked into the kitchen. 'Would you like something to eat now?'

Samuel followed her in and gently led her back into the lounge.

'Mum, Dad is not coming home now'

Dot started, her heart in her throat as she stared at Samuel.

Then she remembered and sank down onto the nearest chair.

Gordon had died recently. His heart had given out they said. She found it hard when she forgot he was not there.

Crying herself to sleep had become a habit.

'Do you want a cup of tea?' Came a mans voice from the kitchen.

She looked up to see a middle aged man walk into the room, a questioning look on his face.

'Who are you?' She asked looking around for Samuel.

The man smiled sadly, lines wrinkling up around tired eyes as he did so.

'Its me Mum. Samuel. Your son'

Dot stared at him fighting through the sudden pain of recollection.

Samuel looked at his mum and hated the dementia that had a hold of her.


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John Haldane

9 Years Ago

A year or two after I started playing Santa, our office "adopted" the Child Crisis Center as a Christmas charity. We took the list of toys desired by the children in the center and purchase them, wrapped, them, and labeled them. Knowing that I was Santa, my work place asked me to deliver them.

The day came and we filled the bed of a pick up truck with presents.

I was a little disappointed when the staff at the Crisis Center told me that they wanted to hold the gifts until Christmas rather than let the kids open them when I delivered 2 days early, on the 23rd. They explained that kids come and go and they didn't want Christmas to come and have some get gifts and some not. It makes sense.

But I sat in an over-stuffed chair and one by one the kids came up, sat on my knee, took a candy cane, and told me what they wanted for Christmas.

The Child Crisis Center is filled with kids from broken homes; kids who have been abused; kids that have been neglected. It wasn't surprising, then, that many of the requests were simple and direct. Any toy was a great gift. My heart warmed knowing that they would get nice gifts this year. And the hard, clinging hugs I got told me they really loved that Santa loved them.

About halfway through the kids, a seven year old named Brianna sat on my lap. "Are you the real Santa," she asked?

I gave my standard answer: "Do you believe that I am?"

"Yes," she nodded.

"Well, what do you want for Christmas, Brianna," Santa inquired. I expected the same sort o9f answer I had been receiving all along, but the one I received left me almost speechless.

"I want to go home with you," Brianna answered seriously, looking me right in the eyes.

I had to think quick. Santa usually has to think quick to answer things like where the reindeer are, what they eat, how many elves there are, if I have ever seen the Bumble (Abominable Snowman), and so on. But this one was the biggest challenge I ever had - until then and even until now.

"Oh, I don't think you would want to come to the North Pole, Brianna," I tried. "It is very cold and snowy up there."

"That's OK," she said. "I still want to go with you."

"But Brianna," I protested with a soft Ho Ho Ho, "there are no children there - just Mrs. Claus and me and reindeer."

"I want to live with you and Mrs. Claus," she replied, undeterred.

I could only shake my head. "You have given Santa a very tough request, Brianna. I will have to think about it."

I had to move on to the next child, as my allotted time was going by quickly.

After about five or six more children sat on my lap and gave much easier requests, Brianna raised her hand and called out: "Santa? Santa?"

I acknowledged her and she asked, "Are you still thinking about it?"

"Yes, I am, Brianna." There was no escaping her tenacity.

"My room is over there," she said, pointing to a corner room where there were two beds and little else. "I will leave the light on so you can find me on Christmas Eve."

It was all I could do then - and now - to fight back the tears. I had to stay Santa, but my heart was thoroughly ripped to pieces.

After work that day - for I did have to complete my shift - I went home and told the story to my wife. Almost simultaneously - we still do this as we are truly kindred souls - we said to each other, "Are you thinking what I am thinking?"

"Yes," we answered each other in unison.

It was after 5:00, so no phone calls could be made that day. The next day was Christmas Eve; I would have to act fast. Fortunately, I had the day off from work.

On Christmas Eve, at 9:00 AM, I called the Child Crisis Center and asked if we could take in Brianna and care for her. I was dismayed when they said that they could not discuss her, her case, or anything else about her. They could not even acknowledge that there was a girl named Brianna there. It was the law and privacy was paramount. But they gave me the phone number of Child Protective Services.

I quickly called CPS and worked my way through the channels until I found a helpful women. They were working reduced crews because of the holiday. This lady was also unable to tell me anything about Brianna or to acknowledge that she was at the Crisis Center, but she promised to look into the case and get back to me as soon as possible.

We prayed hard and hoped for the best, but Christmas Eve, then Christmas Day came and went. I knew Brianna had been devastated. I couldn't even go to the Center and see her. It was a helpless feeling.

A couple days after Christmas, the woman from CPS called back. She explained that the family had prohibited any foster care, much less adoption. I protested, "But she asked to come with me! We would love her as our own!"

It was not to be. I never heard of Brianna again.

But to this day, I say a prayer for Brianna, hoping her life has turned for the good and that she found the love she so earnestly sought from Santa Claus.

There are some gifts we cannot give.
Art Prints

 

Marlene Burns

9 Years Ago

very well done, Abbie
i enjoyed it as much as the first time you posted it ;)

 

Abbie Shores

9 Years Ago

O my gosh John, that was so sad!!!!! Is that a true story or a fictional one? I had tears in my eyes

Thanks Marlene

 

John Haldane

9 Years Ago

It is a true story, Abbie. I have several others from my days as Santa Claus here: http://www.the-santa-claus.com/Stories.htm

I loved your story, too.

 

Abbie Shores

9 Years Ago

Aw that makes it even sadder. I will go take a look as soon as I have another spare hour :D

 

Carmen Hathaway

9 Years Ago

Great shares John & Abbie....

Sharing truth is a freeing experience.

Thanks to those that read the piece -- that's all she wrote ;)

 

Kelley Lee McDonald

9 Years Ago

This is a piece written on menopause, in my opinion, being a woman who has gone through it

It’s a woman’s rite of passage, and one of the most exciting things to experience if you give yourself over to it unafraid. Being fearless certainly helped me navigate through some of the darker moments, but I’m so grateful for the courage I summoned that allowed me not to miss this deeply personal event. It is a part of nature and life, and it’s not something to struggle against, but rather something you just lean into. Undoubtedly, it will be up to each woman and the meaning she gives it that will define the effect it has on her. This is the way I chose, and it worked well for me, but each woman will be faced with the deeper side to herself, and will discover her very own adventure through it. I have come to understand that the most problematic part of menopause is letting go of the past where your youth lives. It is more of a function of being satisfied with your life choices so you can continue to move into new waters for different experiences. This is probably one of the most difficult maneuvers a woman can face during her life.

Every fiber of our being begs us to hold on to the same habits, and choices while moving through familiar circles. It’s a part of our nature to want to hold steady and not release anything, but it’s also ingrained deep inside us to evolve through new things. In our youth we grow, learn and experience. Later it becomes a necessity to consume, acquire, and build. We move into yet another phase where we are compelled to maintain our position while filled by our acts and choices. Then there comes a time when releasing becomes the premier act. Instead of reaching out into the world we are encouraged to go inward to bring forward from ourselves a different kind of wealth, one of disciple and wisdom.

Like anyone, I don’t know how many years I have left but I want the courage to shed the ties to my past as I’m called upon to do so. Everyday I make good strides forward and always a few backward. I’ve managed to learn the art of patience while I still struggle to free myself from the things that would hold me back. I remind myself that the beauty is in the journey, and there’s every reason to continue to chip away at it again tomorrow. My life is an assignment, and it has been up and down, and left to right. Everyday I must decide again the kind of person I want to be, and this allows me to continue my crusade with all the hope in the world. I have every reason to keep my faith because I’ve always found the light through every dark moment in my life. This is no time to be afraid. In fact, things are just starting to get really interesting. Who knows where the future will lead.

Very Sincerely,

Kelley Lee McDonald 5/9/14

 

Abbie Shores

9 Years Ago

Fabulous Carmen! As one who knows violence that struck a cord!!

Kelley, great piece of writing. One sentence I think resonates with mot people, menopausal or not

Every fiber of our being begs us to hold on to the same habits, and choices while moving through familiar circles.

When we are going through changes this can be so hard. However, if nothing else is certain in this life, there is nowt so certain as change

 

Kelley Lee McDonald

9 Years Ago

Thank you kindly Abbie…

Dear Carmen, I'm part Choctaw...

 

Carmen Hathaway

9 Years Ago

Thanks Abbie...one can become inured to, but not accepting of, violence.

I always believed things could get better. It's a terrific goal. Mission accomplished. :)



~ Carmen Hathaway

 

Theresa Tahara

9 Years Ago

Since Mother’s Day is coming up, I thought I would put this story in.

My mother grew up during the "Great Depression" and the "Dirty Thirties" in Northern Saskatchewan and remembers having nothing to eat but white fish out of the river. When the depression ended, she never ate fish again.

In spite of the hardship and lack of food (my grandmother, her mother, had eloped and left the US ending up homesteading in Saskatchewan living in a shack with a dirt floor and eventually having nine children) mom had many fond memories of her childhood - riding to a one room school house on a big old work horse, the indoor drinking water frozen solid in the pail every morning in the winter, a favorite pet crow who would swoop down and take the pins out of my grandmother’s hair, cooking for large threshing crews, surviving a burst appendix, rescuing her little brother who had fallen into a nearby creek, and many more. Although these may not seem like fond memories to us, mom never thought about her childhood in a negative way.

The picture is my interpretation of the depression and the model is mom’s granddaughter.Photography Prints Here's to mothers everywhere.

 

Kelley Lee McDonald

9 Years Ago

Theresa, good words. No. Great words...

 

Kelley Lee McDonald

9 Years Ago

Dear Carmen, You should continue writing! So sorry for your material...

 

Theresa Tahara

9 Years Ago

Thank you, Kelly Lee.
I too have gone through menopause and wondered if the symptoms would ever end, thinking about life and what it is all about, looking in the mirror wondering who that old lady is. Inside, I am still the person I always was and always will be but hopefully with some vibrational improvements through living and learning.

 

Kelley Lee McDonald

9 Years Ago

Theresa, I think you are beautiful, and very talented.

 

Murray Bloom

9 Years Ago

Here's one I wrote several years ago:


Journey

Look down. Before you lies an obelisk, about the size of hope, half buried in the cool sand yet glowing like a luminous emerald.

Brush the sand away and free this strange yet alluring object from its long sleep. Hold it against the night sky and watch as it draws energy from the stars. Touch it to your face and feel its radiant caress. Let its power warm your spirit.

By the light of its emerald glow you behold an aperture, an impossible opening in the earth before you. To peer inside prompts inward visions of a far horizon, a beach along the shore of life’s fulfillment.

Should you enter? You might just fit. Do you possess the ability, the tenacity, to contend with the threats and dangers of this near yet distant new world in order to experience its virgin hemispheres and unconceived galaxies? Do you?

The peculiar opening conforms to your body as you cautiously slip through. Wonderment nearly conquers apprehension, but entry has stripped away your security. All that has protected you now lies outside, nearby but impossibly distant. You lie naked against the unknown, with only that emerald obelisk to light your way.

Inching into the foreboding darkness, you find yourself in a place barely large enough for your own presence, hearing only your breath’s hushed echo in this restrictive, but not entirely unyielding, space. The faint green glow reveals cryptic visions, clearly present but utterly confusing. Oh, for more light.

Press on. The tunnel slowly widens, like the long neck of some giant horn. Not room enough to stand, but you no longer need to crawl. But now the path divides, providing no clue to the correct route. Is there a correct route? Meanwhile, the obelisk begins to grow dimmer. You must decide. Now. Choose a path or remain here forever in darkness. Shielding your eyes from the diminishing glow, you perceive to the right a strange, faint redness.

Negotiating that short, perilous distance seems to take years, but eventually you behold a second obelisk, which bears the scars of experience and radiates ruby’s red fire. Rising up, you hold the two crystalline forms before you. Together, they produce a comforting yellow light, much more intense than seemed possible; drawing energy from each other to illuminate your way, yet recharging each other in the process. Will you utilize this new light to go back, and discern the formerly indiscernible, or to press forward? Enlightenment or expedience? Choose.

* * *

This is but the beginning of a life-long journey. There are many more obelisks to acquire: sapphire, amethyst, turquoise, and all the other colors of the spectrum; each contributing another valuable facet to the precious gem that you are.

Your journey will take you to ever larger and more enchanting places, traversing rugged hills and lush valleys, making wise turns and wrong turns. You’ll meet thieves who’ll try to steal your colors, and knights who’ll slay your dragons. And eventually, you’ll stand upon that beach along the shore of life’s fulfillment, to lay out your obelisks in the warm sand and revel in the heavenly glow of the most perfect rainbow; and learn the meaning of light, and of life.

But then, before you take another step, turn around. Take your favorite color and offer it to someone else, and send them off toward their own horizon.

Then you’ll face again that remarkable sea of fulfillment, that universe of unlimited possibilities; and go confidently toward a wonderful life.


 
 

Abbie Shores

9 Years Ago

What a strong woman she was Theresa!

But then, before you take another step, turn around. Take your favorite color and offer it to someone else, and send them off toward their own horizon. *sigh* What a wonderful piece of writing Murray

 

John Haldane

9 Years Ago

These are amazing stories. Artists here have many talents! Each touches a different chord in my heart and creates a music of emotion and thought. THANK YOU!

 

Kelley Lee McDonald

9 Years Ago

Hi Carmen, Yes you appear to be seasoned with your words. :-)

 

Kelley Lee McDonald

9 Years Ago

More for Murray later, Rather brilliant though, and now I must run out to tend to my immediate life surroundings.

 

Kelley Lee McDonald

9 Years Ago

Thank you Abbie for your original story, and the foresight to begin this thread.

 

Ed Meredith

9 Years Ago

Here's a tale i like to reminisce every Mothers Day...

A Story of My Three Moms...

i am a bastard son of a circus/carnival Geek father and my mother was a Magician's assistant...
At age 7, i was abandoned by my birth mother who was last seen walking into a full length mirror during
a tent performance in the Apollo Feed and Grain parking lot in Crooked Creek iowa.
According to one of the stagehands, she winked and gave a little wave just as the mirror began to fill with smoke
and was never seen again... My Geek father never recovered from losing her and lost his appetite for chicken
and rodent heads. He began to binge on fast foods, candy and donuts… literally putting himself out of work because
no one would pay to watch a sad fat man eat Big Macs and Snicker bars.
We spent the next few of my formative years traveling with the carnival because my father didn't know how to do
anything else, and besides that, who would hire a washed-up has-been Geek anyway.
Fortunately, i was taken under the tutelage of the Canry Forman and was able to learn some circus skills and supported
my father and myself by cleaning up after the elephants and bears.
i was almost eleven when my Geek father tried to take some marshmallows from one of the bears, he only survived the attack
for a few hours but i remember his last words, "I sure could go for bacon and cheese stuffed deep fried pig in a blanket" he said,
i asked him if he would like fries with that, but he never answered. A few months later my adopted guardian, the Carny Forman,
was shot and killed by the Bearded Lady who thought he was cheating on her and having an affair with the Sword Swallower.
She shot him with one of the 'HIT THE BULLSEYE AND WIN A KEWPIE DOLL' rifles.
And once again, i felt alone, abandoned.
Fate however, decided to smile upon me one last time and a loving gay couple who billed themselves as the Corsican Brothers
let me move into their trailer and became my two moms… life was good with Lucien and Mario, until one day they were both arrested and
deported for, according to the U S Government, performing a public lewd act on the high wire… i've hated critics ever since.
i continued to traveled with the carnival until i reached the age of seventeen, then ran away from the carnival and joined a circus
then another and another and another…. and here i am today, on Mothers Day, thinking and missing my all my Moms.…


Sell Art Online

Ed Meredith
© 2014

 

Dan Richards

9 Years Ago

John Haldane, I stayed with some friends in Pa. a few months ago, they were trying to help me find out what was causing my seizures, as the Doctors in Tulsa are less than qualified to practice medicine. Well their daughter had a daughter named Brianna, and had lived in your state for a while before moving in with her Mother and Father to help with her Daughter, Brianna, as she has some medical conditions, and was from what I understand in a center like that; long story. Anyhow she sounds like a lot like the girl you talked about, as she was nine almost ten while I was there. A beautiful little girl, that needs a lot of attention. When I was able to leave knowing what my condition was and having it partially under control, Epilepsy that was never diagnosed when I was a kid, she wanted to come with me as well.
Her grandparents had issues I was making more headway with her, than they could so I had to leave, because they felt I made them look bad? Like you I still wonder how she is doing, as she was not honestly treated as well as she should be. After seeing this first hand, I wish you had been able to take her, even if it was not the same girl. Just the fact that a child was being given the proper help and support would make me feel a lot better.
Brianna loved to hum and sing while she worked, something her grandparents would not allow. I let her listen to some of my CDs while she worked, and Brianna would get her chores done quickly and then have play time, another thing she was not allowed. I found Brianna loved Renaissance, Jane Oliver, and Miles Davis, of all things for a nine year old to love. LOL

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Kevin Callahan

9 Years Ago

Sell Art Online

Of Hogs and Hope
By Kevin Callahan
When I was a young man one of my favorite things was to watch the baby pigs come into the world. From the ages of sixteen to eighteen one of my jobs on our farm was to set up with the farrowing sows in the spring of each year. This was a job I did happily. When a mother pig, a sow, gives birth it is referred to as farrowing. In the normal cycle of farm life a boar is let loose into the pen with the sows in the early fall and by spring the little ones are ready to pop into the world.

In the upper mid-west Old Man Winter often retains his loosening grip on the world into late spring so it often stays cold at night, much too cold for little pink newborn baby pigs to survive. We generally farrowed from twelve to thirteen sows and when the mothers-to-be were close to their birthing dates they were moved into the farrowing house. The farrowing house was a long low building with a concrete floor and small, five-foot by seven-foot pens running down the outside walls with a door at either end. Each pen had, on either side, a two by four rail nailed about a foot off the ground running the length of the pen. The space in the pens was narrow and each of the sows weighed from 300 to 500 pounds. When the sow lay down in her pen there was a very real possibility they could accidentally crush their babies. The rails were a simple, cheap, and ingenious answer to this problem. The small space created by these boards gave the babies a space into which they could scramble out of harms way and avoid being crushed.

The farrowing house was prepared by spreading clean straw on the floor. Because of the hog waste the straw had to be scooped out and changed daily. Cleaning the pens was also one of my chores. To prepare for the births stacks of clean towels were placed on a shelf and each pen had a low hanging heat lamp turned on for added warmth. These lamps would burn night and day until the babies were big enough to create their own warmth, a couple of weeks after their birth.

Once the first baby began squealing its way into the world they just kept coming day and night until the last sow had delivered the last baby. This was the time I really liked. I would set up in the cold evenings after dinner and into the even colder nights to assist the mothers with the birthing process. If, as happened most of the time, the babies popped out with no problems I would scoop up the grunting little newborn, wipe it down with a clean towel, tell it hello, and tuck it to mama’s breast.

Each sow normally produced eight to twelve babies each year. It was not unusual for a baby to get stuck in the birth canal. This was the real reason we watched over the birthing process. If a baby was coming feet first or got sideways then there was a very real possibility all the other unborn piggies would die. Possibly even the mother. When this happened I would climb into the pen and calm the mother by talking to her quietly and stroking her head and back. Working my way down I would reach into the birth canal and grasp the baby by the legs and tug gently until it popped out into the world.

My nights were spent in silence. I would smoke, and think, and plan. And wonder. I would wonder what was out there for me beyond that great dome of cold darkness that surrounded this isolated farmstead. Beyond the great distance both physical and mental between my small world and the rest of the universe. I liked it here however. I was safe and warm. My only immediate worry was right in front of me and I had the power to affect that.

I remember, vividly, the smells of the new babies. Their smell was as fresh, and clean, and hopeful as any smell on earth. The smells of fresh straw and old dust. The guttural grunts of the sows and soft grunts of the babies as they slept and nursed and played with their new siblings. I loved the feel of being warmed by the heat lamps even as you could feel the cold seep in around the walls. It felt to me like I imagined it would feel to be in a cocoon, warm and safe. This is a part of the world in which I lived so many years ago and now can only live there in my memories.

 

Sydne Archambault

7 Years Ago

Millie

Jake Springston was the best man to walk this earth, thought Millie, he provided for her, they went everywhere together, and for the most part he never complained much when she committed her indiscretions. Today, however might challenge his patience as she looked at his favorite leather shoes on the living room floor, chewed up, wet with her slobber, and Millie wondered, why the red rubber ball would never be enough for her.

 

Abbie Shores

7 Years Ago

hahahah Awesome!

 

Sydne Archambault

7 Years Ago

I should have cleaned it up better. It is from my groups "Two Sentence Challenge".

 

A cautionary, yet sometimes playful parable of the 6th Mass Extinction from Climate Change…unless…

Based on a true story—the horrific 1999 petroleum pipeline explosion in Bellingham Washington that claimed innocent, unfinished lives.

So this tragic incident became the inspirational and aspirational genesis; a roman à clef, (Fr. a novel with a key) or a novel about real life, overlaid with a facade of fiction.

Certain liberties were taken with the facts, including causation and dates for literary and dramatic purposes.

Grandiose? Perhaps. Middlebrow? Probably. Pedantic? Sure. It’s a gift…

With the exception of notable historical figures, all the characters are fictitious–any resemblance to the bad guys, living or dead, is purely coincidental…unless it ain’t. The main protagonist Michaelangelo Kozlov bears more than a casual resemblance to the author…insofar as the similitude and abundance of disturbing foibles and irritating eccentricities.

The entire eBook(Kindle, epub and .pdf) can be downloaded at www.kozmickpress.com at no charge.

From "Michaelangelo's Renaissance" 2016 © michael a kominsky

CHAPTER -1 -

On a clear day
How it will astound you
That the glow of your being
Outshines every star
You’ll feel part of every mountain sea and shore…
– On A Clear Day (You Can See Forever) – Alan Lerner/Burton Lane

Moody Seaport, Washington State
October 10, 2001 Thursday 3:01 pm – 1 Kilometer from Ground Zero

A perfect Pacific Northwest Fall day…brimming with promise and expectation. So clear, Mount Baker, the great alabaster volcanic sentinel looming on the horizon is caressible.

Maple, Cottonwood and Alder are ablaze with riotous slashes of crimson, copper and rust against a backdrop of the same unsuspecting super-saturated cyan sky of September 11, 2001.

The Blue Beemer convertible top is down when the beautiful and bright mother of two, Professor Jessica Kennedy-Allison, drives away from her Lakefront McMansion on Cascadia Lake…for the last time.

***********

CHAPTER - 2 -

Those who do not follow willingly…are dragged by the gods.
– Ancient Roman proverb–anonymous

Moody Seaport, Washington State
October 10, 2001 Thursday 3:10 pm – .5 Kilometers from Ground Zero


Jessie Allison has been racing around all day in preparation for tonight’s VIP affair. It’s a beautiful Indian Summer day…she opts to park the requisite au courant Range Rover SUV of the arrivste, and take the convertible, a 2000 BMW 323Ci, to pick up her twin daughters Meghan and McKenzie from the prestigious and very exclusive Arcadia school.

The twins love riding in the backseat with the top down. They squeal with delight as their father Jack, District Attorney of Cascadia County, takes a corner hard, experiencing the lateral “Gs” of a roller-coaster. Because the Beemer, with the ‘DA BMR’ plate is Jack’s toy; his pride and joy…she seldom gets to drives it.

After picking up the girls she is running late, and afternoon traffic is starting to get heavy.

She punches in her husband’s mobile number, “Honey…I’m stuck in traffic here…so frazzled, I forgot the wine…don’t have time to stop and pick it up. Can you stop on the way home from work?”

“Dammit, Jessie…I got so damn much on my mind…getting ready for this dinner…why the hell did you leave this to the last minute? I shouldn’t have to tell ya this is a B-F-D for me…uh us. Just handle it!” John says with a bite.

“Okay…okay…sorry…just thought…never mind. If I take the shortcut…the Moody Creek overpass, I can probably bypass some of this traffic.”

“And pick something with an expensive sounding French name…at least 10 years old.” Click.

She could not have anticipated the road construction zone at the overpass…or…

She is immediately stuck in the afternoon bumper to bumper traffic idling on the middle of the overpass that crosses Moody Creek. Impatiently drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, she is waiting for the light to change. Dammit, this light is taking an eternity…I’ve got so much to get done before tonight…the forces of fate are silently starting to compound.

Picking up her children from school is a pleasant diversion from running errands and frantic shopping all day for tonight’s important affair. She listens distractedly as the girls, immaculately dressed in identical brightly colored floral print jumper suits, with matching day packs, share with great gravity, the daily minutiae so breathlessly important to a sixth grader.

“Mommy…do you know what that Maya Tarnowski did today?” says Meghan.

“Well…I’ll tell ya mommy…she brought her lunch in paper bag…a yucky paper bag!” chimes in McKenzie finishing her sister’s sentence as twins often do.

“And she was wearin’ some like sooo yesterday…totally uncool…like Walmart…thing.” Meghan finishes.

“Well, not everyone is born with a proper sense of fashion…in some it must be cultivated.” Jessica patiently counsels.

“Mommy…what’s a Muslim? Amber Ashton said that Maya’s mom is a Muslim…and that all Muslims are terrorists.” MaKenzie says.

“Hmmm…well…Muslims don’t believe in Christ as their Lord and Savior as we do. Even though they’re different from us and don’t believe in the Bible like we do, I don’t think all Muslims are terrorists…I work with Maya’s mother…and I don’t think she’s a terrorist.” Jessica says.

“Oh. Uh…mommy does that mean that they can’t go to Heaven…like us?” Meghan says.

“Well according to the Bible…yes…” Jessica says.

The girls drone on about Trevor this, and Tyler that, but her mind is elsewhere, as she ponders tonight’s haute cuisine bill of fare intended to duly impress the Executive Director of the Washington State Republican Caucus.

Her husband, John “Jack” Allision is young, handsome and bright…and nakedly ambitious. With his high conviction rate, he is carefully honing a politically appealing “no-nonsense” tough on crime reputation. He and Jessica, and their twin daughters, strike an inviting camera-ready All-American conservative Christian family image. He is being groomed for Washington State Senator, the first, but necessary step, of many toward becoming a serious mover and shaker in Washington state politics counsels ExDir, Jake Rossitor.

Jessie, is a ready for prime-time beauty–tanned, long legged, athletically lean with lustrous long blonde hair and wide-set luminous indigo eyes. The full package. A tenured Professor of Humanities at Moody University, where she herself graduated, she has graduate degree in Greek Classics–her Master’s Thesis was on Aristotelian Tragedy.

Both Jack and Jessica come from families of considerable wealth, prestige and privilege. A small-town golden-boy quarterback used to getting by on his looks, his family’s considerable wealth flowed from the plains of Wyoming black gold oil bidness. Having flunked out of Harvard, eventually a graduate of conservative University of Wyoming, his checkered and unremarkable academic achievements eventually led him to Seattle University Law School, where he barely qualified for admission, which in time would lead to meeting his future wife Jessica and settling in Moody Seaport where she was in grad-school and ultimately professor. He has chosen to practice criminal law as a D. A., a traditional gateway to higher public office…in ‘big fish-small pond’ Moody Seaport. He is a driven man–with aspirations one day to be Governor of Washington.

Her family amassed their huge fortune the old-fashioned way–they inherited it. During the Great Depression her predatory paternal grandfather, a distant cousin to Joe Kennedy Sr., the patriarch of the Kennedy’s of Hyannis Port, had bought up hundreds of distressed commercial properties in foreclosure for pennies on the dollar; prime real estate in central urban centers, like New York City and Chicago.

The light finally turns green, as the cars in front of her begin to move…

KA-B-O-O-OM!

Jessica’s reverie is abruptly interrupted by a deafening explosion, violently shaking the overpass and the eight cars traversing it. Startled by the explosion, the driver of the car ahead, brakes hard skidding to a complete stop. Jessica slams on the brakes, nearly rear ending him. Because she’s accustomed to driving the Rover with an automatic tranny, she neglects to depress the clutch…the engine sputters and dies. The twins are immediately quieted, then in unison, begin crying hysterically. The driver of the car ahead is now scanning the horizon for the origin of the blast, turning his head, first to the left then, when his attention becomes fixed to his right, he immediately floors the accelerator, leaving the pungent smell of burning rubber.

As she turns her body to reach behind her to try to comfort the girls with a mother’s touch, the driver of the car behind her is now frantically honking the horn…first intermittently, then a constant, irritatingly loud din. How rude! Okay…buster…calm down…I think I’ll just take my time…teach him some manners…

She is now looking to her right, up Moody Creek, when her eyes are assaulted by a vision that can not be possibly be real…a massive angry ball of fire is rolling toward the overpass…directly at them. A fire-breathing malevolent Medusa…like something from an end-of-the-world sci-fi movie. But the reality of this surreal mirage of mayhem, the speed and the size of it, as it roars inexorably toward them is validated by the extreme heat blast that precedes it.

She frantically slides the stick shift into neutral, and turns the key. Nothing. Paralyzed with fear, she is too terrified to look up, but her peripheral vision senses the impending fireball racing toward them. The constant, offensive blare of the horn unnerves her. It is getting closer. Closer. She is now in full panic mode. She turns and releases the key, again nothing. Nothing. But, in her panic she has forgotten that the clutch pedal must be depressed before the ignition can engage the starter motor.

Jessica knows that their only hope now, is to get her and the children out of the car. But traveling nearly 60 miles per hour, within just a few seconds, before Jessica can even release her own harness, the voracious Monster has already pounced upon them. The last sounds she and the girls will hear is the blaring horn over the snarling roar of the ravenous Beast. Jessica and the girls, their shoulder harnesses still fastened–this is how they will be found, frozen in place, after the fiery tsunami has washed over them, incinerating every thing and every one in its path.

For many years later, almost nightly, John Allison would bolt upright, sheets soaked with sweat, haunted by the same endless loop horror movie of his beautiful wife and two darling twins helplessly watching the wall of fire as it descends upon them. Torturing himself with the same question: If only I hadn’t…if Jessie had not taken the shortcut..that deadly shortcut…

Was it just bad luck that had snatched my promising future and my beautiful family? How could my omnipotent God allow this to happen…was he asleep on the job?

Or…was it one of the endlessly repeating Greek Tragedies like Nemesis, the Greek mythological spirit of divine retribution against those who succumb to hubris and greed…playing itself out again, as she had expounded in her undergrad Humanities lectures, so many times.

 

Abbie Shores

7 Years Ago

:-O

Oh my!

 

Abbie Shores

7 Years Ago

Probably the best story I've ever written... In my opinion... To me only probably but I love it so sharing again.... Consider my trumpet blown

http://abbie-shores.com/problem-love-short-story/

If you read it and like it, may I ask you to comment on that page? I need some new comments over there lol

 

Ken Krug

7 Years Ago

Abbie, I left a comment. I enjoyed the story, imaginative and well written. And as I said there, you should win some awards for your writing.

 

Abbie Shores

7 Years Ago

Oh thank you! I appreciate that! :: Head swell::

 

Kevin Callahan

7 Years Ago

A short story about my wife's grandmother.

It's Never Too Late
By Kevin Callahan

Chatting with friends the other night reminded me of a favorite story. It's one I have told many times, but I will be happy to recount it once more. The story is about my wife Karen's grandmother, Iona.

Iona was in very real terms a woman ahead of her time. She was born and reared in Nebraska on the prairies but boasted a pedigree that included membership in the Daughters of the American Revolution (DAR). On my wall, I have a tintype of Iona's father as a young man. GK, Guerney Knowles Pittinger, is shown with a friend, circa 1880. They are young and headed off to work on the Union Pacific Railroad. So it is easy to imagine Iona reared in a pioneering world.

When I met Iona, she was already "Grandma" with grown grandchildren. She stood under five feet was round of build and had snowy white hair. In short, the very embodiment of how a grandma should look. But in reality, she was so much more than that. As a young woman, she attended and graduated from Business College. Later Iona went on to teach at the same college. She was hugely smart and fiercely independent in a day and age when those characteristics were certainly not encouraged in the workforce, let alone in women.

Truthfully, even with this level of success as a pioneer in her own right, she still felt the pressures of society. Nearing 30 years of age and unmarried Iona had accepted the idea that she was, and would always be, an old maid. That's when she met Karen's grandfather. Gerhard (Gay) Howland was born in Iowa of Norwegian parents and had in his first 30 years had already been a farmer and teacher. He left for Des Moines to attend The College of Osteopathic Medicine, and at the age of 30 Gay became a doctor. Gay and Iona were married when she was 30 and proceeded to have four children: Keigh (GK, Gordon Keigh), Tyke (Leland), Donna, and Helen. They reared their brood in Decorah, Iowa where GK attended high school and college. After two years in college GK headed to Des Moines to the same college (COMS) where his father earned his medical degree. GK too became an Osteopath. He came home to Decorah to practice medicine with his father.

Of course, as these things happen, a lifetime went by, Gay and Iona's kids grew, and soon enough their children were grown. I came into the picture in 1970 and got to know Grandma and Grandpa, and I loved them. I learned a few things along the way, and they are: there was always something I could repair for Grandpa, you could not make his drinks strong enough, don't bet on sporting events with Grandma, and… don't plan to win if you challenge her to a game of Scrabble.

By n' by 50 years passed. Iona (the old maid) had been married for 50 years, Gay had practiced medicine for the same 50 years, and that year they both turned 80. Time to retire. Karen's parents had moved to Lenox many years before, and their other three children were in Minnesota. After a few years in retirement, it became evident the old folks needed a helping hand. Karen's parents bought the little house next door and invited Gay and Iona to move down state. Iona thought this such a grand idea that she immediately sold or gave away nearly everything they owned in Decorah so that she could purchase new things for the house in Lenox. Keigh (GK) and Martha completely refurnished the new house with washer, dryer, fridge, china, and more. Iona was like a newly wed. It was a last major shopping spree for Iona who, as we all knew, loved to shop.

A few more years went by, and GJ passed on at the age of 84. Shortly after GJ's death, Iona had her knee replaced and during the surgery suffered a mild stroke that affected her ability to swallow. By 1987 Iona was losing her battle with life. In her final weeks, she needed to leave the little house next door and go to the Care Center, two blocks down the street. After she had moved to the Care Center, Iona went downhill quickly. When it became apparent that her time was short Tyke, Donna, and Helen were called and made the trek down from Minnesota to say their goodbyes to Mom.

Helen, always beautiful and stylish walked into her mother's room. Her heart heavy with sadness. Iona, barely able to talk, lifted her hand and signaled Helen to come closer. Helen crossed to Iona's bedside, thinking to hear words of love and wisdom from her dying mother. Tears filled her eyes as she made small, tentative steps across the room.

Leaning in close so she could hear the fading voice of her mother, Helen burst into laughter and joy upon hearing Iona's words. Iona inquired, "that purse, where did you get it? I've been looking for one just like it." Iona was indeed shopping to the very end. This moment is how I choose to remember that dear lady. Shortly after her death in 1987, our second son Brad joined us in the world. Iona would have loved Brad's quick and gentle wit. I see lots of Iona in him. She would have liked that.

 

Abbie Shores

7 Years Ago

That is wonderful. What a great couple they sound and she sounds slightly formidable in her strength :)

 

This one is just an exercise in character building. I would love feedback here or on the actual site about what you made of it.

...............

Pitter Patter. Pitter Patter. The windscreen wipers sloshed the water off one side of the window and then dragged grime back to the other. Charlie grumbled and scrunched up his eyes, as if that would help him see better through the wet dirt. He leaned over the wheel and peered at the road ahead. The old truck creaked and hiccuped its way up the track. Nearly as old as Charlie and not as well looked after, if it had been a horse it would have been able to drive this way blindfolded. It was not a horse however and every potho..................Click the link to read more

http://yoursbyshores.com/francesca/2018/stories/it-was-raining

 

Uther Pendraggin

5 Years Ago

Just to say.

That was not fair to a noob

The day started with it's usual, what passes for hurly burly in a boring man's life.

Coffee, news, aggravation, breakfast, triple S Off to the office.

The crossword, some cross words on the political website then to the Miles Davis jazz of the art website.

Ba do ba do do doomp Boo doop....Saxophone...

"What's this? a short story? and then VIVA says what? Link it here? OK, I'll have a looksee..."

More time "arguing with idiots" on the politics site. Maybe get some actual work done, lunch, Work, politics. Skirt the political on the art site "Ahhh what's this now...?" Scrolling down the column of pictures to see which ones prioritize where, that one is about the business, I really shou... Oh look, I guess she took VIVA's advice. Let's pop in for a quick one.

"Oh, I didn't see that coming. She'd zoned out and didn't realize she'd been there for 20 years. Well done. look, people commented on it." How he manages to ignore the clues is probably what allowed him to be fooled in the car this morning too. Truth be told I stopped there and here, but I was willing, just like I was willing to disregard that "Newest to Oldest" would mean that comments would come before the story.

"Wait! This comment doesn't follow that story. WAIT!! This comment is a year old! What happened? Have I been sitting here how long?!"

Not fair, not nice! Reality's grasp on me is tenuous enough!

 

It was closed but there are a lot of great stories here and I was not going to open a new one and lose these

I wrote a new one a couple of hours ago and wanted peoples opinions on it and where better to come

So........................

 

Uther Pendraggin

5 Years Ago

To be honest, I didn't feel compelled by the narrative to hit the link.

I did so as an act of compatriotism.

I liked the word Scrobble, but I found it and other expressions to be rather Brit. Which would have been fine if it weren't for the $20.

But that wasn't the purpose of the piece, which was to build a character profile for... for... truth be told, I don't exactly know if the character you were building was Charlie's or Bert's.

I'm being picky here but. A line about Charlie met Bert right after he got home from (wherever it was that he was) would be helpful and then it could be 'ever since he was a pup, Bert instinctually knew to console Charlie as he suffered the night fits, as dreams of future morphed into nightmares of the past" sort of thing.

The horse and the road things: The horse reference makes Charlie seem to be just this side of an older time. Was Charlie a veteran of WWII? Because the scaffolding for a music event seems anachronistic (and $20 is a lot of money for itinerant labor in the 1940s) If he's back from the Nam then the horse is the anachronism but the scaffolding is closer and the $20 is more like it. Enough to be pissed for not getting and enough for a day's labor. Today, it's more like he wasted $20 on gasoline.

And there is a disparity between knowing the road and not. (Not to mention, if there is going to be a festival there this weekend and the road is in that poor shape...)

I could tell that there was a lot of your own experience in there. Observing your dogs riding along with you and certainly the affection of the dog to the tearful owner.

I'm not sure who was the character, but I certainly have more empathy for Bert. Although I certainly do know who Charles is, and have been him myself at least once in my lifetime.

Photography Prints

 

Hmmm it is the most shared piece ever, it is the most lauded piece ever and you are literally the ONLY person to not like it or understand it and certainly the only one to say it is Brit

I am sorry you did not get it. Thankfully everyone else did :)

Thank you. Food for thought

 

Uther Pendraggin

5 Years Ago

Typical of me.

Goes to show I have my finger on the pulse.

But my picture of the dogs was funny, right?

 

Melissa Bittinger

5 Years Ago

It's a fabulous story Abbie, love it!

Uther, uh...no...the dog picture wasn't funny. Also would point out, this was a 'short' story...not a full out wikipedia definition of life, relationships, changing tides, etc etc. I think wiki reading might suit your tastes better!

 

Uther Pendraggin

5 Years Ago

Wow!

Oooookaaaaayyyy.

Diese fliege ist fliegen.

 

Uther Pendraggin

5 Years Ago

Abbie,

I guess I owe you a character development story.

Just so you know, my style is pretty much Khyber Beltonian. But I'll try.

OK... lets see where this goes.

O Penbook, "yeah O is really my first name. no it's not short for anything. No they didn't shorten my last name, I'm not related to anybody named Penbrook, or Pembrooke." for having such a short first name it sure makes for taking a long time to say it. Because the standard disclaimers are... "and they all think I've never heard it before." Even the one's who are, like, "I bet you get tired of hearing..." and then go along and tell him what he's tried of hearing. Oh really? the S in harry S Truman doesn't mean anything? I never knew that." Which sends them off in search of other examples, "I.M.Pei? I don't know." He does, of course know,. No.

Yes. It was seven great grandfathers ago. He was a scribe. But he was asked to leave the monastery for including a little too much Norse mythology into the new Catholic bible. It is family lore that he was the one that got "hell" into the bible.

(Battery dying....) I'll get back to it... I'm kinda liking where it's going...

 

You owe me nothing at all. I took nothing from your 'critique' I needed. Nobody owes anyone anything on this thread. It is for short stories only.

To others, I have now finally written the prologue of that book I keep on about. I hope you enjoy....
http://yoursbyshores.com/francesca/2018/thoughts-from-the-artist/the-village-cuckoo

Uther, no critique is needed either on this one, I am happy with what I do it seems.

 

Ed Meredith

5 Years Ago

Well that took a turn... well done Abbie.
Yes, The Village Cuckoo
Prologue? Absolutely it certainly pulled me in, I would read more...


As a Yank reading your "It Was Raining" I have to agree somewhat with Uther.
it was a bit Brit here 'n' there, but hey... that what you are... now give me a good Scrobble... lol

 

LOL Ed

Glad you liked the prologue :)

 

Roy Erickson

5 Years Ago

Uther - ever hear of Ima Hogg - she was a real person, lived in Texas. ""The First Lady of Texas", was an American society leader, philanthropist, patron and collector of the arts, and one of the most respected women in Texas during the 20th century." Wikipedia

 

Ed Meredith

5 Years Ago

Abbie, speaking of Yanks and Brits, i lived in your neck of the woods in 1988 for almost year in Lytham Saint Annes...
My wife was working for an American consolation firm and her client was the NHS.
That's the National Health Service for those of you who don't know the NHS.

Anyway, i was known around town as the gentleman with the American accent... go figure... lol

Here's my Butcher shop story that you may find humorous:

We were having a couple over for dinner one night and Lynne (my wife) wanted to serve chicken and said
that our guest had hardy appetites... i assumed they ate large portions and I asked what size chicken
should i get from the butcher, she said, "i don't know, something around eight pounds".

Now i thought that was pretty large for a chicken but I'll give it a try.
When i asked the butcher if he had a eight pound chicken, he smiled at me knowing i was American and said,
"Is that weight or money".
We all had a good laugh and he had a good Pub story about the Yank and the eight pound chicken...
I always hoped that he embellished the telling of it for effect... LOL

 

Abbie Shores

5 Years Ago

Only 58 miles away. We could have done cream tea one afternoon!!

Liked the butcher's story

 

Uther Pendraggin

5 Years Ago

First.

I'm sorry. I must have misunderstood what was going on here. Also, I'm happy you brought this back CETCI 37 thousand views of 500 postings! That says people absolutely liked it, until something other apparently came up.

I meant that I owed it to the thread to add content. Conversations being a community effort.

rd,,

I haven't heard of Ima Hogg, Did she marry into that one or was the father the same one who named his boy Sue? My favorite real life (as in I saw it myself) was a preacher in a Baptist church named Waylon Bray. Just like here however, sometimes the jokes are unappreciated. I never got far with it in that small Catskill mountain community.


 

Abbie Shores

5 Years Ago

Our Writing Tasks on OAM have got a big following now. https://ourartsmagazine.com/category/literature/writing-tasks

Ocassionally I get a chance to write around one, so here is my new story, "The sauna was broken"

https://ourartsmagazine.com/the-sauna-was-broken-by-abbie

 

This discussion is closed.