Whispers (a short story)

Whispers

Written March 15th, 2012

A hill of gray, white, black, pink, and purplish marbled stone slopes from the foot of a tall white guardian and down into the chill, foamy waters of Maine, painted now by a masterful artist in the sky who is currently traveling downward to the horizon.

            This hill of stone rolls and has slices taken from it, and there are holes and curves carved in its face from the gentle kisses of the sea that slowly make an influence over time. Some of the pock-marks are big as my fist, others have developed into cozy caves in which children hide and share secrets.

            The tinkling of children’s laughter holds hands with the cries of the gulls and the whispers of the water across the stones. While the children dance and play and explore, the adults sit quietly, listening, their eyes far away. Watching them, I know that they are thinking, trying to find the meaning in the whispers of the waves and foam. What is the water saying? And perhaps, I wonder, the adults are truly trying to find the meaning of their lives in those murmurings.

Letter to a Ten Year Old (a short story)

Letter to a Ten-Year-Old

Written March 1st, 2012

It was a radiant summer day when I skipped down to the end of the driveway at the bidding of my mother to fetch the mail. Birds sang and butterflies danced, their performances filling the pleasant golden air decorated with sunlight.

            I was only ten then, my proud first year of double digits that I had long anticipated. In those days, the world was so small and simple, consisting of only a fence that I frequently jumped to reach the field and woodlands, my house and family, and above everything a sapphire sky with rabbit tail clouds. What lay beyond those boundaries, my small microcosm, were only distant dreams and aspirations that I still had a long time to wait for.

            I hadn’t the slightest clue I was in for a big surprise when I delved my hand into that black metal box to claim what the world beyond my boundaries had sent my family.

            I was delighted to find that the letter on the very top of the pile was addressed to me. My wondering eyes poured over all the stamps and markings decorating the envelope, announcing the many distant incredible places the letter had journeyed through to reach me. Me, a simple, unimportant American ten-year-old.

Lessons from Sheba

Lessons from Sheba

Written January 8th, 2012

There is one person in particular that I know I could never forget, even if I made an effort. She was present in my life for almost my entire childhood, from when I was a year old until she passed away when I was thirteen. When I remember her, all I can do is smile and shake my head, still amazed to this day that massive influence she had on me as a child.

            One of my most cherished memories is when Sheba helped me overcome my fear of the dark. Growing up, I lived next door to my grandparents. Sometimes my mom would ask me to fetch provisions from their house when we ran out of things, like milk or sugar. When she asked at night, it was all I could do not to cry. I would run as fast as I could to Grandma’s house and back, convinced I could hear some awful monster pursuing me as I ran. When I darted up the porch stairs, I imagined grotesque, slimy, clawed hands reaching out from under the porch to grab my ankles.

One summer night, my family and I were sitting on the porch, just relaxing and talking. I looked out across the field and saw that it was full of fireflies, and I had the urge to catch them. But of course, my fear of the dark stood in my way. The field was a long way away from the comforting light of the house, and handling a flashlight and catching fireflies simultaneously would be cumbersome. But I was determined to go firefly hunting. So, I asked Sheba to come with me, knowing her presence would comfort me. Mom and Dad would be keeping a vigilant watch form the porch too.

Faerie Dreams (a short story)

Faerie Dreams

Written in Winter of 2011

A small boy, no older than the age of five, came to find himself in a large, fantastic house of stunning, brilliant colors. It was as though the house had been specifically designed for Easter celebrations. The walls were adorned with luscious pastel shades and intricate winding patterns, delightfully filling his senses. There were wonderful smells of fresh baked cookies and pies, and the taste of sugary, candied things was in the air.

            Faeries danced and flew about the room, singing and laughing and playing, their voices like summer birds and sweet Sunday bells. They welcomed him with smiles and pinched his round boyish cheeks. One faerie in particular, an impish, mischievous girl with bright orange hair, took his hand and twirled him around. The air shimmered around them as they spun, as though they were a sparkling mirage. With a cry of delight, the boy found he could fly.

A Lucky Burden (a short story)

 A Lucky Burden

Written October 12th, 2011

Farmer Joseph made his rounds in the early morning as he always did, delivering to all his animals their breakfasts. First the cows, then the horses, followed by the sheep, chickens, and ending with the pigs.

            As he poured the slop into the pig trough, he watched one swine in particular trot over. It grunted as it walked and snuffed at the smell of food in the air with his slimy, whiskery nose. This certain pig could be identified by his front right hoof, which was pearly white, unlike the remaining three black hooves. Although Joseph called that pig many names, mostly cuss words, its official moniker was Runt. He had been a runt at one point, but now he was two years old and the fattest pig Joseph owned.

            Runt had been the sixteenth piglet of Old Maizy’s sixteenth litter; her last litter. She had died a few hours after giving birth, her seasoned heart unable to withstand the stress. Joseph had been quite fond of Old Maizy, and although he knew it to be irrational, he blamed Runt for her demise.

Broken (a short story)

Broken

written June 24th, 2011

Mason, it’s so beautiful out here, I texted a message along with the picture I had taken. Wish you were here.

I hit the send button, and then tucked my phone away in my pocket. I stood at the edge of the cliff, following the sweeping land slide with my eyes down to the roaring river at the bottom. It was spring, and the water level was higher than usual, dark and muddy, full of winter debris.

And it was here in this serene place tucked away in the woods, high up on the cliff looking over the whole world (it seemed), that I was at peace.

It was here that I could think, and think in my voice only. With no other influences or voices to distract me or deter me. It was just me, pure and simple.

And I guess that’s why I wanted Mason here. I knew he would appreciate this moment, this philosophical peace, just as much as me.  I could picture him next to me, leaned back on his elbows, looking up at the sky with those bright blue eyes so full of hidden intelligence. He would have a hint of a smile on his lips as he peered at life in its raw form. He loves moments like that, just like me, where things just click and you realize something new about life.  A new philosophy.

We would sit in silence for a while, him and I. Then we would start talking, and we wouldn’t be able to stop. If we had the time to talk about everything we wanted to with each other, we would talk until the day we died. I’m certain of it.

My phone chirped, and I opened up Mason’s response.

Looks awesome. I wish I was there. You always text me awesome things right when I need it, Ava.

I frowned at the last part, and quickly sent a reply:

Why, what’s wrong?

Just…shit at home. Mom.

‘Mom’. That one word explained it all to me. The two of them are always butting heads.

Call me tonight and tell me about it?

I smiled at the reply that came a few moments later.

Was already planning on it :]

I stuffed my phone in my pocket, looking down at my feet, hanging over the cliff edge, swinging back and forth to an unknown beat.

Casting a final glance over the tree tops of the expansive forest, I began the long descent down to the river, a descent I had made many times. I shimmied my way quickly down the sloped cliff-face, my feet and hands knowing where all the holds were from endless repetition of this process.

In the Moment (a short story)

In the Moment

They had predicted good weather this week. They had said it would be so warm out we would forget it was fall.

I don’t think I had ever heard a bigger lie in my entire life.

The three of us trudged through the sleepy neighborhood, our heads down against the driving wind. Small snowflakes gusted into our faces, gathering on our eyelashes and stinging our skin with icy coldness.

My hands were stuffed under my armpits, but it did little to keep them warm. I didn’t have gloves. Valerie and Erica did though. I’d never been more jealous.

“Just one more house,” Valerie said, her teeth clacking as she looked down at her clipboard.

I looked up ahead, my eyes falling on the house looming at the end of the street.

It was small, but quaint, more like a cottage than a house, and puffs of smoke were rising from the chimney. Oh, the things I would do to be huddled by that fire…

The house was painted a forest green, with natural-looking wooden and doors and shutters. Vines covered almost one entire side of the house, reaching all the way up the chimney. A pretty hedge bordered the property, lightly dusted with snow. Leaves fluttered across the yard in the wind.

As we approached the driveway, I heard Erica say; “I hear she’s a witch.” Valerie’s eyes widened.

“Who?” I called over the wind.

Erica simply nodded to the door we were nearing. It was adorned with a wrought-iron dragon knocker.

The three of us gathered on the doorstep, huddling for warmth.

“Do you think it’s true?” I asked, a chill running up my spine, and not from the cold.

“Just look at the place,” Erica said, gesturing. Valerie nodded in agreement.

“Maybe we should just go back. We can say she wasn’t home,” Valerie offered. I shook my head without hesitating.

“We should at least try. She is a child of God, just like you or I. She deserves a chance.” Valerie and Erica glanced at their feet. Taking a deep breath, I raised the knocker and clapped it against the door three times.

There was a pause, then, over the racket of the gale, I heard a bustle from within. The door creaked, then swung inward.

The woman that stood before us was not what I had been expecting.

*The List (a short story)

The List

Charlotte ate green peppers all day long.

She had been sitting at her little circular kitchen table, in her old chair (the only one accompanying the table), surrounded by piles of her bills, sipping coffee from her mug. But no, she wasn’t tending to her bills with one of her pencils or pens, she was bent over her piece of paper, her eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration. It had only two words on the top line, both spread far apart to represent two different categories. Two simple words, yet they represented something so incredibly big and important.

Boy                                        Girl

Charlotte had been sitting there for a half hour, names dancing by in front of her eyes, a parade of letters. But none had seemed right, so her pen remained poised in the air, waiting for its moment to shine. But it never came in contact with the college ruled sheet of white adorned with blue and pink lines.

She groaned. Blue and pink. Boy and girl.

Throwing down her pen, she paced in the kitchen, distracting herself by reciting in her head; My fridge, my counter, my sink, my dirty dishes, my curtains, my stove, my cooking spices, my overflowing trash, my coffee spoon. Not Mom’s stove, Mom’s fridge, Mom’s sink, Mom’s curtains, no, not hers. Mine. Not Dad’s coffee spoon, Dad’s dirty dishes, Dad’s overflowing trash, Dad’s cooking spices, no, not his. Mine. It was all Charlotte’s. It was strange, scary, and exciting all at once.

Ice Cold (a short story)

Ice Cold

            I remember that day being especially cold.

            It had been nice all week; we were having luck with the fall weather. So that morning I didn’t put on a coat, just a hoodie. As soon as I walked out of the house to wait for the bus, I knew it’d been a mistake. But I couldn’t turn back for fear of missing my ride. Mom would be madder than hell if I woke her up because I missed the bus. So I gritted my teeth and walked down the driveway.

            It was the type of cold that seeped right down into your bones and made them ache real bad. It was the type of cold that left your insides freezing long after your skin had warmed up again.

            The bus didn’t come right away, so I paced back and forth, like they say you’re supposed to in order to keep warm. AS my shoes crunched back and forth over the frost bitten pavement and I was shivering violently, I couldn’t help but think what a load of bullshit that was.

            I had never been happier when the long yellow vehicle finally came to halt in front of me, the sweet relief of the heater melting away my goose bumps.

            At the time I had just taken it as an indication that the winter season was staring to take over, and feeling angry about it. I could hardly stand the thought of pushing through another long New York winter, my sweet summer so far away.

            Looking back though, and knowing what I do now, the biting cold was almost like an omen.

*Named By Fate (a short story)

Named by Fate

“Alice.”

“Alice!”

“ALICE!”

A hand grabbed my shoulder and I jumped violently in surprise. Jessica leapt back from me, not expecting my dramatic response. After a moment she rolled her eyes and tossed her perfect blond hair indignantly, regaining her pristine composure.

“Honestly, Alice, are you ever tuned into Earth?” Jessica sighed, handing me the updated game and practice schedule.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, but she had already moved onto the next person.

I stuffed the schedule into my bag.

As I pulled out my CD player, I wondered if people who had different names were destined to be different. I mean, all the smart kids had names like Edith and Edward. Old fashioned names. They could solve math problems that usually required a calculator easily in their heads.  Then there were the Hopes and Trinity’s, all such nice girls who talked to everyone and stopped to help a kid pick up his books that he’d dumped all over the hallway. And Quinton would be the only kid in school whose name started with a ‘Q’. He would be the class clown, and would probably be a rich stand-up comedian with a show on Comedy Central before he was thirty-five.

            But what about the girl named Mercury who asked to be called by her middle name so she could feel normal? What was my special talent? The ability to be anti-social? I glanced around the bus. As usual, I was the only girl curled up against the window all by her self, while the other twenty-one Varsity and JV girls filled the bus with the awful racket of mindless chatter. On top of that, I was the only one with a CD player, which had been on the endangered species list of technology for at least five years now. Also, there were probably only two or three other girls on the bus who willingly listened to the Beatles. There were the fashionable blonds, the funny brunettes, and the good-time red-heads. Me? Natural black hair. How dreary.

So these are my talents: I’m anti-social (by choice), crappy hair, appreciation of technological dinosaurs, and an eccentric music taste. Great.

*Redemption (a short story)

Redemption

             

            When I woke, I immediately noticed how bright out it was. Usually I woke up in the misty gray hours of dawn, but the air was golden, and the leaves in the upper canopy shimmered in the light, the rain drops they held sparkling like diamonds. The forest was alive with sounds of busy animals rather than the sleepy quiet of daybreak. Through the thick canopy I could make out the position of the sun. I was aghast to see that it was nearly at the peak of the sky. I had slept in for much too long. I ran my fingers through my hair in frustration. I couldn’t afford to sleep in! I had finally started to get ahead of the recusant General Kyzen and his pertinacious tracking hounds, and I couldn’t lose my lead.

            No sooner had I realized my predicament when I heard the sound that made my stomach clench and my hands get clammy with the veriest fear. A chorus of bays and howls shook the woods, ringing in my ears. They could only be a few miles away. Birds chirped frantically and took flight. Oh, if only I could fly away to somewhere safe like them.

An English Love Story (a short story by Bruno Winterman)

An English Love Story

            The rain hit the cobbled street hard and ran in rivulets down the hill. It made a loud ringing sound on the corrugated tin roofs of the houses that merchants and street performers were hiding under.  The rain was fast, there was no warning, and only a clap of thunder and then the storm came.  The sky was gray and the street urchins who play in the alleys and sit on the corners are all hiding from the storm.  But not Richard Lancaster, he was safe in his carriage on the way to meet the love of his life.

Squeaky Shoes (a short story)

Squeaky Shoes

Today, I ran into an old friend.

            It was a strange, how something as simple as going on a toilet paper run could bring you to something as complicated as a blast from the past.  Just a plain old Sunday in a plain old Wal-Mart, and a particularly wet parking lot that made my shoes squeaky.  I hated squeaky shoes, ever since the 7^th grade, when I owned a pair of sneakers that sounded like ducks even when they weren’t wet.  I had often been stared at, and I had relied on the noisy babble of kids to disguise my noisy shoes.

            And then I rounded the corner, emerging from the toiletries isle, and bam. There he was.