Ways to Start a Story - Steve

 Ways to Start a Story

Oh, Fair New Mexico - Steve

 “Oh, Fair New Mexico…”

By the end of my four-year stint at Eastern New Mexico University, I learned more about the skeletal structure of the town of Portales and its surrounding terrain than ever expected. It can be a shock to reflect on how much your surroundings can come to play a part in your daily life despite them being totally secondary to any reason for being there. If it’s New Mexico, the impact of the Land of Enchantment is greater than most other locales due to the harsh environment that we call home. It has the capacity to seep into your conscious, subconscious, and unconscious being.

My reaction to Goober Gulch (the town’s unofficial nickname as a peanut-producing center) didn’t even register on my “first impressions” attraction scale. No “that’s an interesting building” or “wow, look at all the stuff in that store window!” I focused fully on getting to know the campus layout and what the buildings served: eat here, register and pay fees here, classes are here and here and here, study here, and shower and sleep here. Welcome home!

I loved Dorm life and class life and the Student Union Building (the SUB). Being on my own fit me like a glove – ah freedom!!!

But, eventually my toothpaste and deodorant ceased to exist! This circumstance brought on ta forced migration that began the accumulation of my intimate knowledge of Goober Gulch’s two shopping areas – ‘downtown” and THE STRIP (really the strip mall, such as it was). A second factor motivating my outreach campaign stemmed from the endless, singular diet of free (and old) movies shown on Saturday evenings in the SUB (the Student Union Building). The only cure? A trip to the downtown theater to see “Lawerance of Arabia” alongside a girl willing to let you buy her ticket and popcorn.

The experience of the journey downtown packed quite a punch – certainly more than expected. One trip morphed into a sweat-fest. Another, a full-body workout from walking the mile and a half back to campus face-forward into a 60-mile-per-hour wind laced with occasional blasts of sand (or as natives like to call it, “Enchantment”). The cumulative benefits of this exposure deposited a knowledge base of the locations of the awnings that would protect you from the rare occurrence of a brief but intense rainstorm.

It was only in subsequent years that the addition of a car to my personal asset inventory brought relief from the pain of ambulatory exposure. It also, however, simultaneously materially expanded the scope of my geographic intelligence. Translation: On occasion, I was able to transport me and a few of my newfound buddies for a social gathering at the nearby sand dunes (peanuts love sand). A full keg of beer and all manner of competitive and engaging activities always complemented these groupings.

Keg parties gave major stress relief from the relentless study load and were especially welcomed after finals. The challenges of some physical always added to the excitement. Inevitably, these exercises became progressively more challenging as the evening wore on. (No comment on the challenges involved in the return trip to campus.)

One special outing to the dunes marked the onset of Lent – otherwise known as Carnival. Late into that special night, our party was honored with some special entertainment. Everyone was questioning the need for such a steep cover charge – $15 per person, but any dispute regarding the exorbitant cost was immediately dismissed once the talent was revealed. Here, on site and in person was a National Treasure. Present was none other than Charene Promise, the renowned drag queen, most recently hailing from New Orleans, Louisiana. Let me assure anyone listening to this story that there was no person left unsatisfied that the performance was worth it. Charlene’s signature red dress, shoes, and painted toenails accompanied her magnificent voice. Indeed, her incomparable stage presence made each dollar spent feel like an Amazon Black Friday special. 

“I’ll be back!” was her departing signature “Promise.”

New Year, New Dreams - Steve

 New Year, New dreams – lessons learned and future plans.

(Do you know what you’re doing and why?)

Resolutions for the new year can come from a variety of perspectives. They can express a need to rid yourself of damaging habits that affect your physical and mental wellbeing. They can resurrect your longing for bygone feelings generated by lost energy and a lack of purpose. They can take form through conversations with yourself. They result from examining your position in the cycle of life and your proximity to its end. Resolutions can bring new dimensions to your life and your pursuits.

Normally, for me, the process of coming up with a few resolutions is one where I take a sheet of paper, sit for a considerable amount of time, and list the actions that I want to make as commitments for the new year and beyond. This year, I’ve decided on a different approach. Motivated in large part by the imminent arrival of my 80th birthday, I have decided it’s more critical to change my focus from looking for what’s wrong and shift to seeking what is most important and how to balance my commitments and time relative to those choices.

What are some of those decisions? First to pop up on the list is my commitment to my wife and family. The motive is reciprocal and connective. I don’t have feelings that I’m neglectful of this, but I believe I could be more purposeful in the use of this time allocation. So, my resolution is that I will strive to listen more closely, be responsive rather than lecturing, and reach out more frequently to raise my awareness of my family’s status and communicate mine.

Second is my attitude and commitment to my art. The primary impetus is self-satisfaction and, most of the time, independent of any feedback. I’ve allocated a lot of time in the form of direct work on art projects and contributions to the sculpture garden as well as other public art projects. This has happened somewhat to the detriment of other objectives. My resolution is to dial back on the time a bit while focusing on the current set of obligations (i.e., saying no to and delegating work on new projects). I’m only committing to projects that satisfy me personally – a selfish choice but one I can afford to make at this point in life.

The third one relates to the connective nature of this community. I have a great amount of respect and appreciation for the people of this community we call Elements. I know that virtually all people have their idiosyncrasies and occasionally reveal traits that aren’t aligned with my values. But at the same time, if I can limit my need to express and hold to my principles without forcing them on others (or even verbalizing them, for that matter), those bonds that provide the connections will make this a unique place to live and bring happiness and content. So, that will be one of my resolutions. 

Fourth and finally, I resolve to be less “preachy” and formal in my writing and so far, I’m not off to a very good start. This may be harder than I thought… but a little on the “necessary” side.

10 Minute Exercise - Onomatopoeia - Steve

 10 Minute Exercise – Onomatopoeia

Late at night when nothing is disturbing the house – no TV, no music, no conversation, no random traffic out front - the mind can be a snare for random sounds magnifying as they arrive. The surprise of a clap of thunder raises the hair on your neck and prickles the backs of your ears. The soft, subtle drops of rain falling on the window draw your eyes toward the drips of water slipping down to the bottom of the sill. The clacking of the keys of your PC forcing you to first lose touch with the whisp of thoughts that were guiding fingers busily hammering out words. Then, conversely giving you the rhythm needed to drive toward the final letters of a satisfying sentence. At the end of it, all this commotion yields a quiet, peaceful finish to another day. Time for bed!

10 Minute Exercise - pistrophe - Steve

 10 Minute Exercise – Epistrophe

I just felt the stab of a recurring bad memory - weighing on me like a wet blanket. It was from a time when I struggled to free myself from the depths of depression resulting from being let go from a job for the first time and the only time of my life and weighing on me like a wet blanket. I couldn’t function properly; every move was labored – weighing on me like a wet blanket. I had no energy, wanted to lie down and give in to the heavy load – weighing on me like a wet blanket…

Connecting Three Pieces - Steve

 Connecting Three Phrases: Gun runner, By the zoo keeper’s office, Over the frozen pond

It was during a particularly severe cold snap in February that the call came in. It was from a reliable informant. A gang called the Northern Alliance was looking for 4 clean-wiped AR-15’s. Normally, this was the calm time of the year because the weather kept most everyone off the streets, including the bad guys. Sargent Green entered the news into the call log database so everyone on his team would be informed of the activity about to take place. 

The sources for this type of weapon were limited to the few known gun runners that frequented East Albany, so Green wasn’t too concerned about something happening without him being aware of it. Still, being this close to the border invited the risk of a new bad actor coming on the scene. Better to be safe than sorry, he thought, so he alerted the feds as well via BSAM (the Bulletin System for Arms Movement). They have a BS for everything, Green thought.

Greens’ next step was to inform his chief of the call, so he left his desk and dropped by the zoo keeper’s office, the moniker affectionately given to the chief by his staff. After all, they were a bunch of animals that collectively couldn’t be more diverse, natively wild, and in constant need of being watched over.

Chief Baker wasn’t in.  Maybe he’s in the john, Green thought. I’ll give him a minute.  

Checking his phone, Green saw a red-text flash that alerted him of a call for backup at the new shirt factory located on the north side of town. It had just been verified this morning that the owner was a mob boss with connections to the big city, so it wasn’t a stretch to assume that this was a cover for money laundering and who knew what else – maybe gun runners. Two officers had a warrant and were getting ready to breach the entry at the shipping dock but needed support to cover the front entrance of the building. Without hesitation, Green grabbed his coat, called for Adams to join him, and left the HQ in a silent run heading to the factory location. 

The 8-minute ride was uneventful, and he checked in with the lead officer saying he and Adams were on site at the entrance and ready. Green got the word that the team was moving and to cover the front. Within a few seconds, three men burst out of the front door. Fortunately, none of them were armed. Each of the perps headed a different direction, one left, one right and one, the dumbest one, straight toward the officers. Green took down the man that had made the mistake of going straight at them and Adams took chase of the one that went right, leaving the other suspect no choice but to try his escape over the frozen pond - his only pathway. Adams caught up with the perp that went right and took him down without much effort. Anyone in a suit and tie was at a disadvantage and in seconds, Adams had him cuffed and shivering on the ground.  

By this point in time, Green had taken up pursuit of the pond perp just as the two breaching officers came out the front door to join in the action. Evidently, no other bad guys were found in the single story building and they were eager to join in the hunt. Because the frozen pond had slowed the escape significantly, and the final perp was handicapped three to one, he was easily caught and detained.

A search of the “factory” yielded 10 AR-15’s and enough ammo for a small army – evidence that would convict the three stooges and send them away for several years. 

Sargent Green intended to mark this as the shortest successful crime cycle in the history of zoo keeper’s tenure in East Albany and apply for a promotion that he knew he wouldn’t get. At least it would be worth an extra donut at the morning call session.

Bradley Wilson - Steve

 Bradley Wilson

A New Beginning - Steve

 

A new beginning? Why? Is my life so bleak or broken that I am required to start over? Maybe, but before starting out with that directive, let’s step back and look at where I am relative to where I want to be.

Here are few basic realities: 

Am I perfect? Far from it.

What is taking up most of my consciousness and is this “worth” the allocation of time and effort?

Am I fulfilling the justified demands of my life – to my wife, my family, my friends?  (feeding the connections that in turn, sustain my happiness; being sufficiently responsible for my health and wellbeing; awarding them the time and attention needed; 

After considering these allocations and necessities, what is it that I really want out of life; what goals are appropriate? 

The Last Season - Marc

 THE LAST SEASON

The fog parts

for the briefest of moments

Spring appears

then disappears as I reach for it

Leading me to doubt

I ever knew it

Summer, oh summer

superman I was

First love, invulnerable

first heartbreak

Never ending

but it did

Autumn, I know you

Working like a rabbit

On the run

in a race, chasing

Chasing, chasing

things that never mattered

Now, winter

in this forest of trees

All dead

Through the cold wind

I walk on

to my fate

Dreams in the Holler - Nancy

 The wind is blowin hard down the holler like some injured coyote howling in pain. I button up that last button on my shirt, put on my cap and head out the door with my pole. If I don’t get to it none of us will eat tonight. I head down on the well-worn trail that leads to the pond over the ridge. Just then I hear Hatch holler out to me, Hey June Bug hurry up, there are a gob of fish all gaum up here in the cove just right for catchin. My word I say with amazement. It’s like Jesus done did with Peter when he put out his net to fish. The catfish were practically jumping on to the shore for us to catch. I’m not sure why this was happening. But I knew I was going to have a tough time toting these here fish back over yonder.

I opened the front door with my load of fish to find mama still sitting in her chair looking out to nowhere. Since daddy died in the coal mine mama has never been the same. The kids were out back swinging on the vine and chasing around old Hank our mutt of a dog. “If you want to eat youngins you best be gettin some vegetables from the garden and gathering some eggs.” I started skinning the fish to dip in some flour batter when that Peckerwood from the government office comes bouncing up the road in her truck. “Hurry up Dolly and Loretta get in here the law is a coming”. They knew what I meant and what to do as we’d done this before. Fat Fani, that’s we called her cause her britches clean split in two waddling up to our cabin one time.  She thought because mama was out of her head due to too much moonshine and meth that us kids needed to live with a bunch of strangers. They can send me to the gates of hell before me and my sisters are going to live with a bunch of jaspers I yelled out to no one.

 I locked the door and cocked the shotgun. “You best be gettin your sweet ass off our mountain or this 12 gauge will be helping you to it. “Don’t think I won’t be back June” she said with certainty. “If you want to live like the rest of these hillbillies you can. But those youngin girls need a real mama who can school them while there is still hope for them.” “I school them just fine” I shouted through the door. “Now get with you.” 

As she drove off, I knew I had to hunker down with these girls and get them to learning good. I had finished 8th grade with almost all A’s. But that was before mama took a turn for the worst. Now I was the mama taking care of everyone. I wasn’t complaining. I was good at fishing and huntin. The girls loved to garden. And granny Willis taught us how to sew and crochet so we would have clothes on our backs and blankets on our beds. Everyone in the holler took care of one another. If you had too much of something you shared it. And if you were needing something you would most likely end up with a heap of it from folks stoppin by to give it to you.

Once awhile back there was a lady who had come to town. Talk all over the holler was she was from the big city and here to write a story about us mountain folks. I wanted to see what a big city person looked like so I took our old chevy truck missing one of the doors and drove it down into Hazard to take a look. When I saw her, it was like seeing a princess. She had beautiful long yellow hair, shiny like corn silk, ruby red lips and a full mouth of the brightest white teeth I’d ever seen. She smelled like a field of lilacs. She said her name was Diane, Diane Sawyer and that she was from Kentucky too. I always wondered if she was kin to the Tom Sawyer I’d read about in the books at school. 

The people with all the fancy equipment asked me if I wouldn’t mind meeting Ms Diane. And so we sat and talked for a spell.  She talked funny not like the folks around here. But it sounded real nice. She was nice. She asked me all about my life. I told her about mama, the girls and that I could cook fried chicken, collard greens and hot biscuits that would make you cry for more. She asked me what we did for fun when we weren’t working the land. I told her how all the folks gather almost nightly on Mr. Joe Don’s big porch and bring their fiddles, banjos and harmonicas and play knee slappin music we can all dance to. I told her me and my sisters can sing like songbirds in harmony to almost any song. Mama named us all after country singers she would listen to on the radio. I think we were singing in her womb before we were even born. She asked me to sing for her. I said better yet, you need to come tonight to Mr. Joe Don’s porch and hear for yourself how these magic mountains’ sing along with us. 

The word spread like wild fire that this Lady Diane would be coming to our social on the porch that night. Everyone dressed in their best overalls, pies were baked, viddles prepared and a little moonshine poured for inspiration.  Just like she promised she came with a few of those city folks in a fancy truck that looked worse for wear after climbing up those dirt mountain roads. The music started playing and me, Dolly and Loretta started singing our hearts out. After a few rounds of Blue Kentucky Girl and Jolene Ms Diane came up and hugged me hard. She looked me straight in the eye and said, “Sweet June you have the voice of an angel. You need to share this God given talent beyond these mountains.” A big tear welled up in my eye and I couldn’t stop it from running down my cheek. Nobody has ever told me I was special or had talent from God. She said, “Well you do young lady. Your beautiful voice could be the means for you to support your sisters, get your mama help and live in a house with real plumbing.” But how?” I said. Let me see what I can do. She left that night leaving my heart full of dreams. 

Several months later a delivery truck found its way to our little cabin. A man called out, you Ms June Swift? This here box is for you and it’s come all the way from New York City. Well, I’ve never heard tell that such a package bigger than the man himself could come to me from such a faraway place. It must be from Ms Diane.  I hurried and opened it up with my jack knife. It was like a treasure box full of gifts. There were lots of books, novels she had called them. There was a bottle of perfume that smelled like lilacs just like her. There were smelly soaps, fluffy towels and shoes and clothes for the girls. There was also the most beautiful dress I’d ever seen made with flowers in every color spilled all over it. And at the very bottom of the box was a funny black box that had a note on it that said, push this button. So, I pushed it. Out of that black box comes the sound of me singing. It was like I was singing on the radio. There was an envelope with a letter inside. It said, Dear June, I was so glad to meet you. I have met important people from all over the world whom most of them think they are very special and they’re not. But you sweet girl are very special and you don’t know it. The love in your heart for your sisters, mama and neighbors shone through you like a  light beam. That radiant light carried through in that fresh angelic voice of yours. My husband was the best at spotting talent and bringing it to full bloom. Perhaps I learned a thing or two from him, because I believe in you. So put that pretty little dress on and come sing to the real Dolly next week. I’ve arranged everything. A car will come pick you and your sisters up and bring you to Nashville. Pack a bag. You are coming to Dollywood.  

Retired Priest - Nancy

 Retired Priest, Mug Shot, Around the Bend

It was a cold January day with dampness  that chills you to the bone. Everyone hurried in to the church to try and find some relief from the brisk winds. The 80 year old church and it’s ancient furnace didn’t give much warm relief. 

The pomp and circumstances of Christmas was well over and dull grayness of winter had an effect on me. I had to try and keep delivering inspiring sermons each Sunday until Easter came where once again festivities would brighten the spirit. 

As I began to deliver my sermon I looked out over the  congregation and saw Doc Crawley’s head nodding as he tried to stay awake. There was Mrs. Ludwig trying to keep her 3 kids from acting up. Mr. Ludwig was not much of a church goer. He said he knew the Lord knew he loved him and he didn’t need a priest to intercede. There was Mrs. Bradley who always sat in the front row saying the rosary feverishly. She said she felt closer to God the closer she was to the altar. The congregation was aging just like the building and myself. I was performing funerals more regularly which meant the number in attendance was declining steadily. So, to see a new face sitting in the back pew by himself was quite unusual. I tried not to stare for not wanting to make him feel uncomfortable. But I was most definitely curious of who this fellow was. He was old and gray headed like the rest of the members. Probably in his 60’s or 70’s. He looked worn out and empty. 

After the service was over, I tried to rush over to say hello to this gentleman but I was caught by Mrs. Burns. “Father O’Connor” she shouted out, “won’t you please join me and Bev for dinner this evening. I’m cooking a pot roast and I’ve baked a peach pie.” I so wanted the solace of a meal to myself but said yes anyways. I would endure the town gossip between these two sisters for a home cooked meal and a slice of pie. By the time I looked up the gray headed man was gone. 

It was now Wednesday which meant it was confessional day. I opened the curtain to the booth, and sat preparing to hear the same routine confessions of judgement, gossip and unfriendliness. I was not disappointed as the sins were the same. I guess I should be glad that these people’s lives have only minor temptations. 

As I was preparing to leave after the last prayers of confession were said someone entered the booth. It was dark and the shadowy figure of a slight man was all I could see. When he spoke, it was soft and gravely. He spoke without prompting. “Bless me Father for I have sinned. My last confession was over 50 years ago.” Was this the man from the back pew? “Go on my son” I said trying not to sound eager to hear what he had to say. He took a minute before speaking as if he needed to summon courage. But without taking another breath he told his story. “Father I am dying and I need to ask the Lord for forgiveness before I take my last breath. I killed a man. A boy really. I was 14 and he was 15. His name was Kenny. I was with my best friend Jimmy swimming down at the quarry like we did most every weekend. Kenny rode up acting like a big shot, mouthing off about how we were a bunch of sissies. He was especially cruel in his curses to Jimmy who was a meek shy kid. He dared us to jump off the railroad trestle. We knew how dangerous the trestle was and wanted no part of it. Somehow, we managed to worm out of the dare and hopped on our bikes and road home. Well, that’s at least what Jimmy thought I did. Once he was out of sight I turned around and went back to the trestle. Kenny was still there. He said, “well I see you do have some balls boy. Come show me what a tough guy you are and jump.” Father this guy was a bully through and through. And too many times to count he caused kids to cry with his relentless teasing and physical assaults. My best friend Jimmy was one of his favorite targets.  I guess I had enough of it. We were standing on the trestles edge when I heard the train blow its whistle. I figured it was now or never. I pushed Kenny as hard as I could. He went flying in the air and let out a scream I can still hear today. I saw him land like a pancake in the water 40 feet below. He didn’t move. The train was coming around the bend with the whistle piping its plumes of smoke. I ran fast across the railroad ties and made it to the edge of the woods just in time. To this day Father, no one knows I was there or what I did. Everyone thought it was an accident.” He finally took a breath and then said, “This sin I have carried with me has destroyed my life. But now I am dying and want forgiveness. Do you think the Lord will forgive me Father?” he asked with a whimper.

I was so mesmerized and in shock from hearing his story I was at a loss for words. I mustered up “Our Lord is a merciful and forgiving God. If you are truly sorry for your sins and ask for forgiveness the Lord will grant you peace. Go and pray from your heart the Our Father and the Apostles Creed. May the Lord lead you to confess to the police as well.  In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.” I could see him through the lattice do the sign of the cross. And with that he left the booth. As I waited a minute to collect my thoughts. I heard the door to the chapel open and close. And with that the man was gone. 

I looked for him every Sunday but I was never to see him again. I thought a lot about him over the years wondering if he confessed to the police. Or if death had found him?

 Several years later, I was enjoying the comfortable life of retirement sitting in my easy chair with a glass of wine and some crackers watching Cold Case on TV. Crime stories are one of my hidden pleasures. While adjusting the volume a picture came up on the screen that looked somehow familiar. It’s wasn’t a mug shot but a rendering of a boy to an aging man. My attention peaked and I turned up the volume. The commentator told the story of a boy named Kenneth Dawson that died from falling off a trestle and breaking his neck in Chillicothe Ohio back in 1965. The siblings of Mr. Dawson were seeking answers through new found science of DNA found at the scene. They did not believe their brother accidentally fell but was pushed as they knew Kenny had a lot of enemies. With that, I spit out my crackers and nearly knocked over my  wine trying to get closer to the TV to hear more. Who are they looking for? What is his name I shouted at the TV. As if they heard me the announcer said, The police are looking for a Joseph Peterson as a person of interest. He would be around the age of 65. I was dumb founded. That was the man that came to confession. 

Swearing to the Profession of Faith requires that I never disclose what I heard in the sacrament of penance. Was Joseph still alive I wondered. If he has died, should I share what I know to the family of Kenneth Dawson to give them peace? My head was swirling with conflict. I knew in my heart the right answer. This secret that I knew must be between me, God and Joseph Peterson. I will take your confession to the grave Joseph I said out loud. May you and Kenneth Dawson both rest in peace.

Eleanor Rigby's Love - Nancy

 Eleanor Rigby picks up rice in a church where a wedding not hers has been

Father McKenzie reads his sermon while dreaming of her in lustful sin

Oh, these two lonely people

Where do they go from here

Will love miss them they fear

Eleanor Rigby, she smiles at him with a hopeful heart

Perhaps when his collar retires love can start

Oh these two lonely people

Wearing a face kept in a jar

No one suspect yet thus far

Father McKenzie, He loves the Lord but he loves her too

Is yearning for a woman’s touch well over due

Oh, these two lonely people

Looking for love in the wrong place

Holding on to hope with bad odds that they face

Tom Joad Meets Alvin Toffler - Mike P

 Tom Joad meets Alvin Toffler

Alvin Toffler’s 1970 book, Future Shock, underscores the anxiety

people face grappling with change. Too much, too soon, unable

to process and adapt. This is the upheaval we feel when change

outpaces our ability to adapt. This, in turn, leads to feelings of

frustration, disorientation, and loss of control of our lives. Toffler

argued that such conditions leave people ripe for the picking and

susceptible to con artists and quick fixes.

I just finished reading The Grapes of Wrath. The poor Joad family

faced their own future shock as the world changed around them.

Unable to adapt to the Great Depression, they lost their farm, their

home, their way of life. Oklahoma could now offer only death. Yet

the dream of a better life in California turned into a nightmare.

“Okies” were not wanted! They were derided, abused, and used

as the cheapest of labor. Frustration, disorientation, loss of

control, the family began unravelling and finally disintegrating by

the novel’s close.

I think future shock has always been with us. Only now does it

become so apparent with the ocean of information available with

the click of a mouse. Bob Schieffer, retired CBS Newsman, said

technology has made a publisher out of just about anyone with an

opinion and a computer. In the purest sense, more information is

fine. But is more always better? You can find someone or some

site to confirm just about any belief you have. Thinking the world

might be flat? There’s a site. Sensing that Dennis Rodman from

the Alpha quadrant? There’s a blogger. Believing that vaccines

cause autism? There’s a Kennedy. Knowing you’re a victim? Get

in line.

I try to arrive at conclusions based on at least some shred of

evidence. For instance, I believe we landed on the moon in

1969, I’m darn sure Elvis is dead, and lock-solid that 2 + 2 = 4.

However, when I was 17, I was convinced that Paul McCartney

was dead. Every kid in school knew it. You could tell! Clues

sneakily planted on the album covers from Sgt Pepper to Abbey

Road. Any fool could see that Paul was dead. But you had to

look long and hard! Connect the dots, see the evidence, and

expose the dark, shady men behind the curtain! We all knew the

truth—Paul was stone cold dead! Except for one small detail. He

wasn’t.

Future shock will always be part of our lives. The only question

is, are we grounded enough to manage it.

Mrs. Bracken - Kathy Link added 4/21/24

This link will bring up most updated version:  Mrs. Bracken working copy

Unfinished Draft - I'm trying to work on character, description, and writing a story that pairs and unlikely pair.   

Mrs. Bracken - FIRST DRAFT

Gray clouds covered the sun and a northerly wind sent leaves floating along cold drafts on their way down to blanket the ground.  A dog’s bark broke through the whoosh of the wind like a staccato beat of a drum.  A woman lumbered north teetering back and forth along the cobblestone street.  Her back bent as though she carried the weight of her past with her. The tails of her gray and black herringbone overcoat flapped behind with each breeze.  She carried a bulging black carpet bag, which hung from the crook of her left elbow.  It swung back and forth with each step, bouncing off her hip sporadically.  She carried a wooden cane in her right hand, her crooked fingers gripped the handle, moving the tip ahead to the next set of pavers with each step.  

Everyone in Taylorville knew Mrs. Bracken, or thought they did.  They knew where she lived, they knew who she was and could point her out of a crowd.  They knew she had been long widowed, had three grown children who never visited, and they knew she lived in the same house she grew up in, the house her father built before she was even born.  They knew her weekly pattern.  She grocery shopped every Monday, banked every Wednesday, tended her garden every morning at precisely 8:30, and paid the old man across her street to mow her lawn every Friday.  Townsfolk also kept their watches in sync as Mrs. Bracken began her afternoon walk sharply at 3:30 every afternoon, and returned home at 4:00 on the dot.  Mrs. Bracken rarely spoke, and that was mostly to the cashier at the IGA, the teller at Taylorville Land and Trust, and the old man who mowed her yard.  For the most part, the mysterious Mrs. Bracken kept to herself.

The children of Taylorsville made up all sorts of stories about her.  She was a witch that cast spells on the unsuspecting.  She used the herbs from her garden to mix up all kinds of potions to sell to all kinds of desperate people at night through her back kitchen door.  She hunted children and sold them to other witches in other towns.   She used her cane to whack kids who got in her way.  Her eyes could look deep in your soul and read your mind.  Of course none of this was true, and in fact, nothing could be further from the truth.  

Mrs. Bracken’s first name was Cindy, although no one called her that anymore.  Even though she was well into her eighties, her hair was void of gray hair, and under the hood of her coat, she was still blond as the sun.  Bright aqua blue eyes and pink cheeks were hidden under the cover of her hood as well.  Mrs. Bracken was indeed a contradiction of her reputation.  

Mrs. Bracken’s home was nothing spectacular, a two story brick square with a full front porch, like many in the area.  What made it stand out was the spectacular flower garden in front and the vegetable gardens in the back.  Wrought iron trellises covered with purple wisteria dotted the lawn, Arches covered winding footpaths shading them in fragerent honeysuckle vines, with beds of flowering annuals and perennials added more color throughout the garden. Climbing roses and mophead Hydrangeas broke up the darkness of the iron fence.while lavender, holyhocks, and fountain grasses softened the look on the ground.  Not a weed could be found.  But the iron fence in front kept visitors at bay.  Six feet tall with spikes, brick pillars on each side of the gate topped with gargoyles guarding the locked property.  No one had entered, save the weekly lawn mower, in years.  The back was just as impressive, herbs in one section, vegetables in the other, and in the very back corner stood a red barn storage shed, adorned with flower boxes and a small windows on each side of the door. For years, only Mrs. Bracken had been seen, silently pulling, cutting, watering, and caring for her meticulous and impressive garden

The fall weather this time of year showed signs of work needing to be done in both gardens.  The elderly Mrs. Bracken wondered how she could keep up with all the needs of her gardens, so she posted a help wanted notice at the IGA for someone to help her this year.  “Gardener needed, no experience necessary, able to lift, plant, and haul waste away. Contact Mrs. Bracken, you know where I live.”  And then she waddled back home and waited for someone to stop by apply.  

On the other side of town, a slight, pale, blond boy rolled out of bed and got ready for school, a place he felt unloved, unsafe, and a complete waste of his time as far as he was concerned.   His parents, ignoring the pain he experienced each day, compelled him to attend, thinking his teenage angst would pass and education eventually would save his future. He didn’t have a choice, so Nicholas threw on a pair of sweats, a hoodie and slipped into his Nike’s without socks, grabbed a strawberry pop tart and headed out the door. 

Winds of Change - Susan

 I reworked this story of Fila based on a Reedsy prompt which suggested beginning a story with the sensation of a breeze brushing against a character's skin. That led to more images of wind. Fun exercise to rewrite to fit a prompt, instead of starting with the prompt.

Fila stood beside her stepfather’s Model A at the side of the hard-packed dirt road running from Dallas all the way to Fort Worth. The wind blowing in from West Texas stirred up fine dust and grit and warned of a coming storm. Looking up at an ominous sky, loose tendrils of hair escaped her bun, and she wished she had worn a hat. “Never mind,” she thought, “I won’t be here long.” She needed to get this over with.

In her hands Fila gripped a surveyor’s map with property specifications for the 26 acres spread out in front of her. Pushing her hair off her face, she gazed out at the property her husband was determined to buy. Fila had learned over the years that George’s ideas almost never panned out, and Fila was opposed to leaving McKinney and her mother’s family for the uncertainty of Dallas. However, George was convinced the construction in a city booming with oil and gas money would mean more work for him and more money to educate their four boys.

Although she remained unconvinced, Fila knew that George was one to dig in his heels when challenged, and her arguments only increased his determination to move the family yet again. To keep the peace and break his stony silence, she agreed to drive a borrowed car the 30 miles from Plano to look over the property. Fear of more debt kept her up at night, and here was George, intent on adding more debt to what they still owed her stepfather. They never seemed to be able to get ahead, always taking two steps back for every step forward. “When will it end?” she wondered.

Fila pushed aside doubt as took in what she could see of the 26 acres. Some of the land had been worked recently; the detritus of a past cotton crop swirled in the wind, little whirlwinds whipping across the ground. A small grove of pecan trees bending slightly in the west wind bordered a field to the east where a donkey stood motionless by a split rail fence, his companion bird dog asleep beside him in spite of the wind and the dust. Fila smiled at the sight and wondered if the dog and donkey came with the property.

Through the dust, she took in the boundaries of the fields and calculated that the spread could support a few head of livestock and a sizable vegetable garden. She imagined a summer trade where the boys could sell fresh vegetables and shelled pecans to the travelers who were sure to come when the proposed viaduct across the Trinity River was built.

With a keen sense of value and potential, Fila turned her eyes to the barn and the farmhouse, both large, well built, and, from where she stood, in good shape. The house faced north, a red brick, two-story, with a covered porch entrance and windows across the front. Given a choice, Fila would prefer a south-facing home with its back to the north winds that were bound to come in winter, but she was glad for the mature live oak tree that stood not far from a stone wall separating the yard from the field to the west of the house.

Sighing, she said to the god of winds, who may or may not have been listening, “This will do. This will have to do.”

Turning back to the car, and clutching the map to her chest, she leaned into the wind, glad to put this visit behind her. She took one last look, obscured now by rain drops as big as dimes. She knew she must resign herself to the move, must give in to the winds of change. Yet, in her heart she feared that this was an ill wind, solving nothing.

 

[Word count 632]

My Long Overdue Apology - Nez

 My Long Overdue Apology

By Nez Nesmith

I can’t remember for sure but when I was in third maybe fourth grade in Lyman Grade School, during recess one day Ray and Bud, both buddies of mine, were in some sort of game of “chase or tag”, I was never sure about that either. Anyway, Bud came flying by me and Ray was chasing him, so I just stuck my foot out and Ray tripped and flew into the front concrete steps of the school house. I immediately pull my foot back, realizing that I had made a terrible mistake. There was a crowd of kids in the area and no one realized that I had tripped Ray and caused his unfortunate sprawl, but of course I knew. Fortunately, he wasn’t too badly hurt, but his knee was torn and bleeding through his torn jeans and both his palms were scraped. I did not confess my offense to anyone, but I did go to his aid. Several of us helped Ray into the school where our teacher, Mrs. Nichol, cleaned and dressed the wound. Over the many years since that moment, I’ve thought about that incident many, many times. 

Several years ago, I realized that I hadn’t seen Ray for at least fifty years and I had still not apologized to him. He had never come to any of the school reunions that I attended. I had been to only a few myself, being that I was in Texas most of that time. So, it wasn’t particularly unusual for us not to have run into one other. 

Years of guilt finally got to me, so I made some inquiries as to where Ray might be. I knew he was alive because his name was not in the list of deceased schoolmates. I found that he lives just three miles outside of Lyman. He doesn’t do cell phones, email or computers, so I left word on the answering machine and he called me the next day. I told him I was coming out there in about a week to visit my aunt in Lynnwood and it would be nice to see him again, so he suggested that we meet for lunch. We quickly settled on a time and place. 

I arrived at our appointed place and immediately recognized Ray, though he was older and a little heavier, but still looked like himself, even fifty-some years later. He still has a full head of mostly dark hair. I was a little jealous. I spoke first and he said he would not have recognized me.

We ordered deli sandwiches, sat and talked. We had a really nice conversation catching up on our lives, military service, work, and families. Finally, I got around to his tumble on the school steps when we were in Mrs. Nichol’s class. He didn’t remember the tumble, or the bleeding knee, or scrapped palms, or the torn jeans. He said those all sound like things that always happened to him in those days. His Mom was always mad at him for tearing his jeans and getting minor cuts, scrapes and bruises. 

I confessed, “well, you took that tumble because of me. You were running by me and I tripped you. It’s been a really long time coming but I sincerely apologize.” 

He said, “thank you, but I honestly don’t remember that happening at all.” A moment later he laughed, “you mean to tell me that’s bugged you all these years?” 

Humbled, I said, “it has whenever it comes to mind.” 

He chuckled and magnanimously said, “well, I bet you’ve suffered more than I did, so let’s just put it behind us and forget about it.” And smiled, “okay?”

We later parted agreeing to stay in touch, but we won’t. Neither of us thought enough about the other to reach out in over fifty years. So, not likely. 

On occasion I still think about that moment of the “tripping” and how vividly it keeps coming back to me from so long ago. Even though it wasn’t a major incident to him, the fact that I didn’t confess and apologize at the time still “bugs” me. But I don’t know what it means. So, I ponder on it for a moment or two and then I take Ray’s advice and put it behind me. Again. 

Nez Nesmith

February 2023 

1949 Skagit River Flood - Nez

 1949 Skagit River Flood

I Should Have Said No - Marc

 I SHOULD HAVE SAID NO

I have always been a sucker for a cute face, and she was damned cute.

Dark curly shoulder length hair, big brown eyes that reminded me of a doe, with a smile that screamed innocence and cunning simultaneously, with perfect pale skin to boot.

The band was in flux. We had been a solid hard rock foursome for the previous two years. Johnny D. was the best lead guitarist at 16 that I had ever heard. He could match Alvin Lee note for note playing I’m Going Home from the Woodstock Album. He could equal any performance of Eric Clapton, hence we played a lot of Cream in those days. Johhny was great but terribly shy, so while he played he would always keep his head down. The few times he did look up at an audience, his face would blossom into splotches of deep red.  Joey Statz was our lead singer, and the girls loved him with his shoulder length blond hair and crazy gyrations while he performed, like an early David Lee Roth. He was a few years older than us, which enabled him to get the band whatever it needed or wanted. Tommy was on bass, he was a fat Italian kid with dark hair which he tried to comb like Elvis. Every time there were problems with Tommy and a girl he would refuse to practice and lock himself in the bathroom, until one of us either talked him down or forced the lock and calmed him down with pharmaceuticals. He was a friend and a good bass player, so we tolerated his tantrums. I played drums, often finding it hard to believe that I might have been the most normal of the group. We played hard rock, mostly at frat parties and battle of the bands. 

The problem was that Joey was unreliable. He might show up to practice, and if he did, he was often too high to take it seriously. I’m not going to say that we didn’t all get high, but he was the only one that affected the work of the band. The first time he didn’t show up for a gig, Tommy, who had a good but subdued voice covered for him, but something was lost and we all knew it. After the second no show, Joey was dumped, which was sad to me because a good front man is hard to find. 

Soon afterwards, Johhny suffered a nasty broken wrist on his lead hand, and suddenly we were looking for a front man and a lead guitarist. 

We found am adequate lead guitarist in Carmine, a spoiled only child from a traditional Italian family. He had pale blue eyes and the girls loved him also, but his talent level was nowhere near Johnny’s. Although he rarely showed it, I saw a hidden mean side when it came to women in him, and I worried about the girls who were infatuated with his smile and beautiful eyes. For a lead singer, we recruited Cathy, I girl that I knew. Cathy had long dark curly hair to the center of her back, with a smile she rarely shared. She had ongoing problems with her mom, and the two of them spent most of their time screaming at each other. She swore that when she reached 18, she was leaving home. Cathy had a deep raspy voice, like Janis Joplin but under control. I nicknamed her Songbird. I really liked her as friend, but her choices in guys were always disastrous. 

Finally, to help cover for Carmine’s inadequacies on guitar, we recruited my best friend, Louie the Turtle, who looked more like a turtle than anyone we had ever met.

We were no longer a rock band, and started playing songs like Venus, or Something by the Beatles, which were boring as hell for me as a drummer. We practiced in an empty garage, and painted the walls dark blue with stars on them, and the floor white and red longitudinal lines. Tacky, I know, but at 17 it seemed cool. 

None of us were very happy with the way the band was headed, when Cathy said perhaps, we should consider adding a keyboard player to modify our sound. I was already mentally on my way out of this mess, and I should have said no but the rest of the band was willing to give it a try. If I had nixed it then and there, I would have had enough support to prevent it, but I went along with it. Cathy said she went to school with a girl who was a keyboardist and could she invite her to a tryout? I really should have shouted NO, knowing that Carmine would give both girls crap. But I was fed up and tired and thought;

“What the hell this can’t get any worse can it?”

Next practice, she showed up, and I was smitten. Her name was Mary Ann, and she was an average keyboard player, but when she flashed those eyes and smile, the guys would forgive her playing. When you are 17, you often make do not make decisions with the head on your shoulders. 

She went out with The Turtle for a time when I was away that summer, but I think we both know it was inevitable that we would end up the two of us. When it did come to pass, the Turtle wouldn’t speak to me, and the band broke up. A warm early autumn night found us making out under a tree, and my last chance to say no had disappeared. 

I taught her what I knew through our high school years, and we both ended up in college together. If you have ever been madly, hopelessly, completely in love with someone, you will understand how vulnerable you are. There is no logic to it, it is an out of control roller coaster, and you never know where the ride will end. But you don’t care, because you can’t, you won’t, get off the ride. 

By third year of college, we knew it was over, but neither of us would let go. If only one of us had been honest with the other, perhaps more pain could have been avoided, but neither of us had the courage. 

Fast forward to a wedding, and then a painful divorce less than two years later. In hindsight, I wonder what roads I might have taken if I had just said no that faithful day.