David Allen: A Short Story

"You're driving tonight, Allen. It'll be hilarious," said a mumbled voice that sneaked out from the smokers crowded around Seth Raines' Explorer.

David Allen knew nothing about speakers or 'systems', nor would it have mattered if he did. Seth had recently had a new stereo installed, and Alice in Chains "Down in a Hole" blared from the open tailgate.

"I've been guilty of kicking myself in the teeth," David honed in on Layne Staley's admission, until Becca, a classmate of his since elementary school, shouldered him as she chased Seth around the school parking lot. Becca was getting a head start on her perpetual weekend dramatics.

"That's my CD and you know it, asshole!"

A pack of Merits fell from the front pocket of Becca's uniform blouse. Most of the seniors in David's class were eighteen by this time of year, including Becca. Judging by the brand, it appeared she still chose to steal the cigarettes from her housekeepers purse instead of buying them herself.

"Sounds good," said David. "Let me know."

He recognized most of these relationships as temporary, and knew that, for him, they would end the day after graduation.

David drove a 1979 Oldsmobile Cutlass. Over the past three years, it had become a virtual mascot at Episcopal. Upon arrival each morning, a smoke cloud would escape from under the hood with a desperate force, like someone gasping for air after being held underwater. The smoke would rise so high, David often thought it could serve as a signal to his first period teacher that he would soon be in attendance. Occasionally when he would get ready to head home, a handful of onlookers would applaud if the ignition turned over on the first try.

It was Friday, and Episcopal was in the second round of the high school football playoffs. There was plenty of excitement among his friends, and David felt it as well.

The cool November air agreed with David's car. The air conditioner had bailed long ago, and there wasn't much interest from he or his parents in getting it repaired. The once mighty Olds must have been a pioneer in power windows and locks technology, a feature that was surprisingly reliable. It was humbled, though, by a factory-installed eight track, three blown speakers, and a torn out headliner that David had hastily removed before picking up a date junior year. The once sagging felt was now replaced with profanity written in the underlying foam by his jackass friends.

David lived several miles across town. Most of his prep school friends lived in an upscale neighborhood near Episcopal that David passed to and from school each day. When he was in eighth grade, David's parents applied for and received a scholarship that provided him the opportunity to attend Episcopal.

Town South was the local public high school David would have attended under normal circumstances. TSH had ten times the enrollment of Episcopal, which lead to a daily traffic jam in front of the school. David looked forward to being held up at the signal just beyond the campus. He would see some of his old friends from his public school days, which always gave him a comfortable feeling. There was no way to predict, unfortunately, how uncomfortable things were soon to become.

The sound produced by the horn of a '79 Cutlass is like nothing else ever manufactured. David always hesitated to honk because anything within a two mile radius might feel it the recipient. So when the wretched Cutlass inexplicably wailed like a World War II air strike warning, David instantly regretted his decision to chance the after school gridlock, and soon felt suffocated himself.

The incident may not have been so embarrassing had he not waved in the Honda Civic carrying five cheerleaders attempting to exit the lot. David recognized a couple of them from a party at the Russell's lake house over the summer. They politely waived as David scrambled to find confidence. All was lost as soon as the horn awoke. They must have briefly thought he was just trying to get their attention, but after thirty-seconds of solid blowing, it became uncomfortable for everyone involved.

He watched in agony as the traffic light at the south end of the campus changed for a third time before he was able to break free. David considered shutting down the engine, but that could have potentially lead to a situation far more humiliating. For now, staying mobile was all that mattered.

David Allen took pride in his self-control, but as he approached the light at Highland Avenue, he brought with him language that would make a frat guy blush.

He made a sudden decision to cut through Park Heights, a quiet area usually immune to such a commotion. As the Cutlass serenaded the historic district, David's anxiety went elsewhere. The red brick homes with stately white columns reminded him of the sacrifices his parents made. He remembered life before high school to be less complicated. He could not remember ever doubting himself then. Maybe it was because he never sensed the slightest bit of shame from his parents. So where had this sudden shame in himself come from?

Southern Drive was the main street that lead to David's modest subdivision. His house was about a mile and a half from the intersection of Southern and Porter. As he continued on, he sensed empathy from some of the familiar strangers he passed along the way. He noticed a Caprice Classic in his rear view mirror transporting a plastic swimming pool. Instead of tying it down, each of the four passengers had one arm out of their respective windows holding the pool to the roof. David felt immediate community with them. Several cars joined in on the honking as the Cutlass neared the turn at Pilot, David's street. He noticed Edmond, his next door neighbor, laughing uncontrollably while getting gas at the station on the corner of Pilot and Southern. David was laughing, because he knew Edmond had never surrendered more than five dollars into that gas tank.

The honking finally stopped when he put the car in park. His mom was already home, and David drug himself inside, exhausted and numb from what had just happened.

"Was that you honking?" his mom asked when he opened the door from the garage. He knew she wasn't worried, only curious.

"It did that the whole way home."

"Were you embarrassed?"

"It was pretty embarrassing."

David could not have been more at ease at this point.

"Did it start in the parking lot?" she laughed.

"No, it spared me until the log jam in front of Town South."

The lessons from these adolescent wounds were what kept David's mom from feeling sad. Of course she wished they could offer him more, but she recognized that even as a high school senior, he responded to her reactions. As long as she maintained the humility that was missing from so many, so could he.

She paused, then said, "Oh well, these things are temporary. You have to find ways to celebrate them."

"At least it's Friday," David yawned. He dropped his backpack on a kitchen chair and started for his room.

"Are you going to the game?"

"I told some of the guys I would go."

"Seth and them?"

"Yes, ma'am. We'll probably take my car."

Her eyes closed and her hand went to her mouth as she kept a laugh from escaping.

Written by Paul McCallister author of http://www.nojerseysat30.com/ Mistakes We Make: Social, Professional, Spiritual, Style

View the original article here

Short Story - Eduard DeVere Bullington

Eduard deVere Bullington studied the printed flyer which had just been handed to him by Mycroft, his salesperson. "Awful!" he exclaimed. "Just so...tacky." He walked over to the massive front window of his store and looked out and across the street. "Yes, flyer printing like this is something I might expect from a dreadful place like 'Bob and Linda's Furniture Discounter'. All they emphasize is their 'good deals' and their 'fifty percents off' and their 'lowest prices in town'. It's so incredibly vulgar. You'll never see me distributing something as utterly banal as that." He handed the flyer to Mycroft, pinching it on the corner as though her were holding a dead rat by the tail.

"No, Mr. Bullington," said Mycroft. "This is a classy place you're opening. The finest antiques and high-end furniture in the state."

"When do they open, Mycroft?"

"Today, Mr. Bullington," said Mycroft. "Same as us. By the way, what is our marketing plan? I certainly would like to have some customers in here real soon, since I'm on commission."

Bullington smiled. "Follow me." He led Mycroft out to the front of his new store, reached for a rope, and pulled the long covering off his sign.

The sign read simply, BULLINGTON'S.

Mycroft stared at it. "That's your marketing plan?"

"My name, Mycroft, is my marketing plan. Do you know what that name means? The Bullingtons are a pillar of the community. My great-grandfather was a well-known businessman and my grandfather was the county judge for many years. This sign says 'prestige' and 'respectability.'"

Mycroft nodded as he balled up the flyer and stuffed it in his pocket. "We don't need no stinkin' flyer printing!."

"Don't be vulgar, Mycroft," said his boss. "Well, we're officially open for business. We'll see who's left standing at the end of the day - the tacky, flyer-printing Bob and Linda or the symbol of good taste and respectability, Bullington's."

The first customer came through the door twenty minutes later. Mycroft greeted him. "May I help you, sir?"

"I'd like to speak to the owner."

"I'll handle this one, Mycroft. Just watch...and learn." He offered his hand. "I'm Eduard Bullington."

"Fantastic," said the man. "I'm Bill Tandy, from the Volunteer Firefighters' Association. We always ask for a donation from new businesses to support the local firehouse." He looked around. "Look at all this old wood. What a fire hazard! If this ever goes up, you'll want us, no doubt about it. Now I'm sure a Bullington can afford to stroke a mighty generous check." He stood and waited.

Bullington forced a smile as he went into his office. When he returned, he handed it to Tandy. "I'm sure you'll be getting a visit from the Police Officers' Benevolent Society later today as well," said the firefighter.

Mycroft showed him out the door and looked across the street. "Wow. Look at all the cars at Bob and Linda's."

"Fear not, Mycroft. The most discerning of them will spend a little time there and will realize that what they need cannot be found there. Ah, you see. There's a charming couple coming in here right now."

A moment later the well-dressed couple entered the showroom. "How may I be of service?" asked Mycroft.

"Are you the owner?"

"Uh, no. That would be Mr. Bullington."

"Eduard Bullington. How may I help you?"

"Hi there. I'm Bob and this is my wife Linda. We own the store across the street. Listen, I was wondering whether you would allow us to borrow some of your parking spaces for any overflow customers. We're expecting a big opening day today -"

"We put out over ten thousand printed flyers," exclaimed Linda with evident pride.

"We'll be happy to pay you," added Bob, pulling his checkbook out of his pocket. "How about ten dollars per space per day? It would be well worth it to me. I certainly don't want to send any customers away because they can't find a place to park. Now when do you plan to open?"

"Very soon," said Bullington with pursed lips as he accepted the check which covered thirty spaces - just enough to offset the payment to the firefighters.

An hour later all of the rented spaces were filled, and customers were parking illegally on the side of the road just to get into Bob and Linda's. Bullington and Mycroft stood for long periods of time, staring at their otherwise empty parking lot. Just before noon, a crowd of people left Bob and Linda's and crossed the street en masse.

"Finally," said Bullington. "People are starting to hear about the high-end alternative. It always takes time, Mycroft."

Two minutes later a crowd of women stood in the showroom. "We're terribly sorry, sir," said one. "But apparently they're having plumbing problems at Bob and Linda's. May we use your restroom? Bob said you were so nice and he told me to tell you he'll send over another check at the end of the day for all your help."

By the end of the day there had been no sales; there was one expression of interest in having some restoration work done. Bullington and Mycroft sat silently, watching pick-up truck after pick-up truck carry goods away from Bob and Linda's.

Towards the end of the day, an old, beaten-down, bearded man came in the door. He shuffled into the showroom.

"Would you like to see the owner?" asked Mycroft.

"What's wrong with you? Can't you sell?"

Mycroft perked up. "Why, I'd be delighted."

The man tapped a French Empire sofa with his hand, and studied it. At that moment a woman walked in. She was dressed almost as shabbily as her husband.

"What do you think, Elmira?" he asked. "You think this will fit in the double-wide?"

Bullington interjected himself into the sale. "Sir, I'm not sure you saw the price tag. This piece costs fifteen thousand dollars."

The old man looked at the price tag. "So it does."

"In fact, I don't think there's a sofa in here that costs less than five thousand, if that's what you're looking for."

"Well, me and Elmira, we was actually looking for two sofas and a dining room table and some cabinets and a few other things."

"I hate to send customers away, but you may want to try Bob and Linda's," said Bullington. "They may be more in your price range."

The old man looked at him. "Bullington. Yeah, I remember your grandfather, the judge. I got hauled into court once and I didn't even have time to tell my side of the story. He just looked at me and said, 'Well, from the looks of you, you're probably guilty'. I got thirty days."

"How unfortunate."

"And you're probably looking at me and going, that man is way too poor to afford my fine furniture. But what you don't know, Mr. Bullington, is that I won the multi-state lottery last night. I can buy everything in your store two hundred times over. At full price. And not even make a dent."

Bullington stood stone still as his mistake sank in.

"But you know what, Mr. Bullington. I don't pay full price for anything. I'm going to go and check out Bob and Linda's. See, I got this flyer they sent out, and I just love to get something at a discount. Come on, Elmira. Let's go."

Mycroft followed them out the door.

"Where are you going, Mycroft?"

"To Bob and Linda's. I'm applying for a job. I need to make some money."

View the original article here

Forest Nightmare (Story)

Angrily, I stormed out of my car and smacked the bonet. I had broken down about five minutes ago. In front of me, was a car coming up the road. I put my hand out but they didn't stop to see if I was okay. How rude people are these days. I saw a path and decided to walk down it.

Slowly, I walked down the path which soon led me into a deep dark forest. The owls twooted in the dark night. Above me, was the shinning light of the bright full moon. I was all alone in the forset because I couldn't see anybody around. I desperately needed somewhere to stay. The wind, which was just calm, had suddenly turned into a thunderous storm. Lighting crashed and thunder boomed. Cautiously, I started slowing down and I suddenly tripped over a stone. I rushed back up off the ground with out hesitation. Running as fast as I could, I got to a nearby log and stopped. Hesitantly, I sat down and looked up at the black, bare sky. Was I ever going to find a place to stay? The rain started picking up so I started walking again.

All around me, fog started to fill up the air. In my bag was nothing but my hairbrush, bottle of water, purse, crisps and my mobile. . . . . Yes I found my phone. Speedily, I fished out my phone from my bag and looked at my signal bar. Damn it there is no signal in the middle of the forest. Without thinking I darted down the path and found an old, crooked house.

The house, which looked abandoned, had horrible looking vines hanging from it. Do you think anyone lives here? Above my head, bats flapped about. Carefully and quietly, the door swung open and it fell off of it's broken hinges. I walked into the house and walked into a room. The rooms door banged as the wind had made it close. Suddenly the light switched off and I screamed my head off. Sadly, I fell to the ground and let my tears stream down my eyes. Moving across the floor, I touched something hard and horrible. Ewww what was that smell. Flickering on and off, the light finally came on and in front of my eyes was something I never seen before. A skeleton with a blood stain on the floor. I screamed Help me. Was I going to get out of this forest nightmare?

View the original article here

Wayne Douglas - The Job (First Day) (Short Story)

The move to California wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. The new condo was fifty miles north of Los Angeles in a nice neighborhood. Work was two miles away with very little traffic. The only time I would have to go into the city would be when running errands for the new boss.

Monday morning I went to the school and got my son registered for the special education class. We had a prior meeting with the teacher and a tour of the class, so my son was not completely stressed out when I left him. I have to admit I am sick to my stomach about all this change at once. It is bad enough starting a new job but up rooting my kid too was enough to push me over the edge.

Wayne lives in a gated community so I checked in with the security guard before I could go in. I pulled into the driveway of this Mediterranean style house with a tile roof. A large fountain took center stage in the rounded driveway, with a large black truck off to the right. This truck was massive dual cab with a long bed all jacked up on big black wheels. Men and their toys.

Wayne answered the door in his underwear, apparently the look on my face said it all because all he did was smile and say get used to it I'm not shy. Amused with himself he told me to make myself at home while he ran upstairs to put some clothes on.

When he came back he had a hire package with him. Standard stuff health insurance, w-2, 401k etc. While filling the paperwork out his cell phone rang, he handed it to me and said tell my mother that he was on the other line. I chatted with her for about five minutes, introducing myself and other pleasantries.

He received a text message a couple minutes later that said "I like her." I had passed the test, at least his mom's test anyway. Wayne said that he talks to his mom about everything so it's no wonder that she called.

He faxed my hire packet to the management company and showed me to my office. A previous assistant put together a daily schedule so I at least had a place to start. Wayne said to figure out what I could and then ask questions. OK, I was on my own. I took a deep breath and dug in.

View the original article here

Erwin Van Buren's Son (A Real Love Story)

Sherwood Van Buren the son of Erwin Van Buren a drunk and loafer whom everyone said Sherwood would someday end up being just like-meaning, ending up on skid road, that stigma was branded on young Sherwood like the "A" that was worn by Hester Prynne, in Nathanial Hawthorne's "The Scarlet Letter" as if imprinted in the flesh, surely in the mind. I say had been, it no longer was-he had become a man of means.

The more he thought of Mary Peters, the more persistently he built so confidently his dream of a life to be spent with her. There he stood by the river looking at the silent moving water. She was fair, that is to say, she was not beautiful, to look at, but one that definitely told him he wanted her for his wife. His dreams were not full of making love to her, having her arms around his body and them kissing each others lips; oh no, instead his nightly dream world, his daydreaming life, with a fulsome heart, simply wanted a life lived with her. He wanted her to walk beside him, down the streets of the city, to show up suddenly at his office door, to sit outside by the water fountain-as he gazed into her eyes-and have her inquiry on his day, his convictions, his hopes and goals and values. And in the evening after dinner he would like her to sit by a hearth, feel the warmth of the fire, waiting for him to join her. Knowing as he sat down by her, by the flickering lights in the fireplace and listening to the crackling sounds of the longs burning, all the charm that surrounded him; until now, until this very moment, was but a depraved way of life to be lived, until this very moment-whereupon began life more fully and completely. To get to this moment, he had stopped excessive drinking, walking the streets, and no longer seeking old company.

He knew he loved her, from his hotel room looking out the window he'd look down upon the Mississippi River, watching he boats afar, with their lights, thinking of her. He imagined her in the room, behind him, her hands combing through his hair, all the quiet ways of a woman, yet she had strength, and was smart, perhaps from her good living, this he admired too.

He forgot the illuminating moment during which he had decided he would ask her to marry him, but it was a silent moment between them, when he had this predetermined certainty that she belong to him-that she was by definition, a part of him. Oh yes, his mind was flooded with screeching thoughts at that moment, but something in her had taken hold of him, perhaps both being curious of each others curiosity about one another, they seemed to want to be led the way onto the road they both wanted to travel.

And now he had fallen to sleep at the St. Paul Hotel, and Mary Peters, came to visit him in his dreams. It was a nightmare, he saw her suffering face. How could this be, he asked himself, sitting up on his bedside, wiping sweat off his brow! He seemingly had built so self-assuredly, with poise a dream schema for him and her, each and every night, looming as if it was a soap opera.

He had found out that very day, she had gone to Europe with her family, and so he kept his mind on his business, not allowing himself to be absorbed in thoughts of her. She did not know of the ardent desire he had for her, but his reasoning was, 'How could she not know of his feeling for her," although neither one said a word on the matter to one another. He wrote her several letters, tore them up, and she did likewise. In one letter he wrote, "In all this big whole world, someone once wrote there are only three persons who will match up perfectly for any one person, if indeed you can find that one out of three, to marry, before she gets caught up or entangled into the masses: thus, you are doing great, as for the rest, it's potluck."

Well, maybe there was some truth to it, or half-truth he thought. In any case, he said "This must be the one." He had had many an affair, and now he met one of those three, out of billions and billions of people. This miracle of miracles, he told himself would have reawakened anyone to old hidden desires, one he thought he had for another girl long ago while in High School.

He left his hotel office and walked down by the Robert Street Bridge, looking over and down upon the Mississippi River, how calm it looked, this afternoon. Then he walked over to Rice Park watching the children of the city play.

"Mr. Van Buren, Sherwood Van Buren!" Yelled a voice across the street, he had been sitting on a bench. The spring breeze and the lightly wet grass, was comforting. He tried to look up to get a better look, and lo and behold, there was an old friend-figurative speaking-familiar face that is, "By gosh," he said to the person inside of him "that's Miss Sybil Ramsey," a most shapely and beautiful girl he had known at High School, whom both attended the University of Minnesota at the same time, and had many a conversation over a sandwich between classes, during those long college days. She was dressed to kill, but then she was always dressed to kill. He tried to pay her no attention, but her insistent calling, made him stand up and wave. And she joined him. It had been five years since they had both graduated, although he had seen her from a distance on a few occasions at the Emporium and Golden Rule shopping with her parents. Her family was in politics, and he himself, now was of a high office position at Swift & Company, out in the stockyards in South St. Paul, the second largest stockyards in the nation next to Chicago.

"We might have that talk we never had while at the University," she said. He had liked her very much at one time; they had been engaged for one whole week, and when they broke up, they had set a date to talk about it, neither one had showed up at the appointed destination; her because she didn't know where he'd end up in life, and him because he was fearful he could never support her standard, or style of living. She was more likened to a princess with high maintenance, but a kind and noble princess. Matter-of-fact, at times he felt she was far above him, too far above him to ever reach, this kind of thinking was no longer in his subconscious, he had come a long way in life, he had come from the dark side of the city also, she, from the more lit and glamorous side. She smiled at him, as they sat down, her cheeks rosy.

"I have been thinking of you," she commented "I've heard good things that you are going places, that you're an executive with great ideas." And as much as he wanted to get away from her, he wanted to stay by her: a serious look coming into her eyes.

"After all this time, what have we got to say to each other?" said Sherwood, blunter than ever, no longer giving her that air of superiority over him. Sybil watched him steadily. "I have a lot of things to tell you, to say to you," she announced. He never did forget Mary Peters, for that few months they seemed to have followed one another like two quails chasing the wind.

The certain light he had for her was now a tinge dimmer. But isn't it so true, 97% of people are married to the wrong people. And men are so attractive to the physical. They married Sybil and Sherwood, and Mary lived a long and lonely life, with an intense waiting look on her face, for Sybil to die, so she could marry Sherwood. She stayed with that idea throughout her life, it had seemed to her she had arrived at some kind of zenith, some end for her, and perhaps a starting point for Sherwood, who's to say. Had you asked Sherwood, he would have said, "I found two of the three women soul mates, the perfect companions for me on this earth, made for me, and married one, both rich, both smart, both having given me vague shadowy uncertainties at first, and I do have reflective moments of Mary, I cannot brush them away, but what assurance do you have with anybody?"

Henceforward, he found some enormous realization out of all of this, and followed a moment of fear perhaps. How little he really knew of her, of Mary-sometimes we put horns on people to justify our next intended move, I can't say he did that, but I'm pretty sure he felt he didn't know her way of thought. And as for Sybil, he knew her inside and out, he knew her even in Junior High School, he knew her strong serious little face, her mild curiosity, her vast mind, he did not have to build an instant idea of her, and he knew her, and she knew him.

Years later, Sybil had said to Sherwood one evening sitting by the hearth, feeling the warmth of the heat, looking into the flickering flames, a glass of chilled wine in her hand, she said to Sherwood laying her head on his shoulder, "I had been thinking we might marry someday, I was hoping you'd prove to be a good businessman, you and I, after I read in the society section, that you were courting Miss Mary Peters, I figured you and I, could get things done. And when I read Mary went to Europe for an extended period, I figured she went to think things out, and this would be my last opportunity. I knew you liked making money, and I knew you like me."

Said Sherwood, in response to this statement: "Why should you have been thinking anything of the sort?" "Because I knew you were one of the few men on earth I could marry," and they both began to laugh, one not knowing why the other one was laughing, perhaps for the same reason. Sherwood faced her. "That's absurd!" "Before I liked you Sherwood," she remarked with deep sincerity, "I loved you, now I have both. I did not expect things to workout this way, you know me, but somehow I always knew I'd marry you in the end."

No: 794 (4-12-2011) SA

View the original article here

A Heartbreaking Story Of Loss By Substance

Married eight years, on one hand we knew something like this could happen, on the other, we never in the slightest, thought anything remotely like this, would ever happen to us!

The baby just turned five, wow, how time flies. I looked at him and thanked God again, just as I did every day, what would I do without him? We had been close like this since he was born, I didn't even have to work the long hours other dads did. We just played, laughed, ran and created, enjoyed the small things of life, together. We were real buds!

We had spent time that summer out on the golf course, he loved to play golf. I guess you would say I had taken some other things for granted, but not him! He was my right hand!

Looking back, I guess I'd have to admit, I didn't only take other things for granted, I took the fact that we spent everyday together, for granted, always thinking tomorrow would be the same until he grew up. I just didn't look into the future that far. I wouldn't be able to handle that, at that time in my life.

Living the good life, wife, family, kids, comfortable lifestyle, super car, you know, the whole, "Life is good," thing, sort of lulled me into forgetting that things could change! I wanted a few things to change, you know, who doesn't? But what took place next is beyond the imagination!

Couple buddies and I had hung out on Saturday, taking the boys to the course, strolling along having a few beers, you know, burning them off in the sun as we hiked through the heat! I didn't drink much, always kept it cool!

On this Saturday, however, my cool got blown away! We were done at the course, heading back to the house to throw a couple burgers on the grill, I was in the rider's seat, one of my buddies was at the wheel. I looked up when I felt the car jolt and everything became a blur.

The next thing I knew I was standing on the road, a bicycle laying at my feet, a boy not too much older than my baby, was lying there, the victim.

The rest is a blur pretty much, too sordid to relate! But I can tell you, when the judge said, "Guilty to the charges," I began a life that I would never choose for anyone to have to suffer through!

It wasn't just about me, it was about all of my family, the lives of my buddies, but mostly it was about the little boy's family! Did his Daddy miss him, like I missed my boy? I would one day be released to see my boy again, that Daddy would not!

What I had done in my ignorance, I would have to live with, for the rest of my life and search as deeply inside as I could, to find forgiveness for myself. I had been a party to robbing that man of his boy.

I was the cause for robbing my boy of the ten years we had missed playing, holding hands, holding him tight to my chest hammering love holds, on his back! I had missed all those years, sitting in a cell, an accomplice to manslaughter!

I had never considered the consequences that could come from my seemingly, small choices, as being real. I knew on one hand, but on the other, I had no idea!

I would be getting out soon, walking into a life my wife had continued without my presence for ten years. How would it go? Too many questions, I didn't have answers for, but questions I would face as, while putting my life back together,I tried to find ways to forgive myself!

My boy is now 15 and the years of holding him on my lap have been given away, I will still be able to wrap my arms around him and hammer love on his back, as I thank God that I have a second chance.

Today, the small choice I could have made, to live without being under any influence of any mind altering substance, seems so much greater than it did ten years ago. If only I could go back!

View the original article here

A Dog Story

Its a very peaceful morning here at home. I'm sitting here at the porch watching the rain, the great gardener watering her plants patting them with little drops of joy. It's one of these days that I feel grateful to be alive, although sometimes I still miss her. My summer love and friend in a whole package.

Her name was Cory but in my world, I see her as my Juliet and the beauty incarnate that I be so lucky to have met. The first time I saw her was when she came in to our house, and it was a momentous occasion. I was eating breakfast and I didn't even notice that the food in my mouth fell back out because I seemed to have lost control of it with my jaw hanging down as i gazed unto her. She looked back at me and her eyes smiled, then she lowered her eyes to my mouth and the steady flow of food out of it, and she giggled.

Soon after, we hit it off. She said they were to stay there for a portion of summer. My heart was so pleased with all the anticipation of spending time with her but my mind just cant stop calculating how many days, hours and seconds are slowly fading before she goes away. But with just one of her giggles or her smiles, all my worries go away.

I trembled at the sheer power from those giggles and smiles for they have the power to stun me and sometimes make me do things I don't usually do.

Things I never knew I could...like on the third day of her stay here, I was watching her as she was having a lovely stroll out in front of the house when Butch came by and in one glance at her, came zooming back. Anyone would be okay with me, I'd accept it if she likes him. But its Butch! The neighborhood bully and notorious heartbreaker. Now I'm just an average guy and not much good for anything, especially against Butch who I think is so huge that I'm just a match for one of his legs.

But courage flickered inside me when I saw Cory doesn't like him and is starting to get irritated as he kept coming on to her. I jumped from where I was sitting and dashed for Butch's side. My head collided with him with much force. He fell down from my surprise attack. I remember my head hurt insanely. Butch must have muscles like steel for I had a bump on my head for a whole week.

After smiling intently at each other, we realized that Butch was about to recover. So we ran away as fast as we can and paying no attention to where we were going. It felt good, running with her. Soon after, our rugged breaths became laughter and giggles. We wound up in a tulip garden just outside our small town. We played there the whole day running around and just... laughing. Those were one of the things I'll remember for the rest of my life, I think I was falling deeply in love with her.

Then it suddenly rained hard, the first rain after summer. The rain felt good. I was about to run for it when I saw in the corner of my eyes that she's just staring at me smiling. I wanted to tell her that we better get out of the rain but she had that kind of look on her face... then I smiled back and we played in the rain. I could almost hear the rain performing a symphony just for us and the tulips dancing to the music.

I woke up on my bed the next day flaming with fever and colds. I would have felt miserably awful but then I felt her beside me smiling. As it appears, she has a fever as well, we laughed about it the whole day. Onto the next days, we spent much time together... nursing each other back to health, making sure the other is warm enough and properly fed. We just stayed indoors watching the rain outside sitting on the porch side by side. We didn't even notice that we already got well.

After a few days, they left. I just woke up without her by my side and nowhere to be seen. I even went back to the tulip garden, but she wasn't there... it was a clean break, like waking up from a very very great and fantastic dream back to my lonely colorless life... I'll never forget her... my summer love.

And so here I am watching the rain here on the porch, remembering the good old days...

I hear footsteps behind me but I don't turn and look, I'm too depressed for it. He sits at the chair beside me and slides a bowl in front of me with "CODY" written on it.

"I bet you miss her... yeah, I miss her master too." my master said as he watches the rain with me. He then gently tussles my hair and pretty soon my tail starts to wiggle...

I won't be completely lonely, still have my master...

"A Dog Story"
by martin magano

View the original article here

A Love That Killed (A Short Story)

There was a man and his wife who were fervently in love. These two shared a love that was rare. A love that was extraordinary. A love that was unstoppable. Being with one another was their greatest joy. They had been married for four years and planned a trip to Italy for their anniversary. They were just through all the security checks and were boarding the plane for their trip. The woman loved flying. Her husband did not. However, he was willing to do anything for his dearest love.

This was the longest trip the man had ever gone on. The first half of the journey was very difficult for him. He had an anxiety disorder which the plane trip aggravated. He became more comfortable as the trip went on however and was even able to get some sleep. His wife enjoyed the trip immensely. The man had made sure to secure a window seat for his wife who loved to view the ocean from such a high altitude.

They finally arrived. Italy was beautiful. It was a marvelous day. First they went to try some of the famous, real, Italian food. It was delicious and their time together with the true, Italian ambiance was utterly romantic. After this, they made their way to the hotel to get some rest. But, in the cab on the way home, they met a very interesting driver. His name was Kaliim. They tipped him well as he was an excellent driver and had a glowing personality. They had all their luggage taken to their room, ordered some wine, and had a most romantic evening.

They had decided in the morning to go sight seeing. They called for a cab and to their surprise it was Kaliim in the driver's seat. They were delighted for they liked him very much. That however, was soon to change. There was another man in the passenger seat. A stern, mean looking man. He pointed a gun at the man and woman and told them not to say a word. Kaliim drove to a beaten down warehouse well outside of town and the man and his wife were taken inside.

The man and his wife were immediately tied up. They beheld other people being tortured and women being raped. The man was deeply afraid, not foremost for himself, but for his dear wife. His thought was, "what can I do to save her". The man who was in the passenger seat in Kaliim's cab was Abdul. He came over to the man and his wife and said to the man in a raspy voice with a thick accent, "your wife is very beautiful". This frightened the man terribly. Abdul hit the man in the face and his wife screamed in terror. The man and his wife were then taken to a room that was bare.

The man and his wife spoke of the horrid situation they were in. They discussed the possibilities of escape but could come up with none that was sufficient. But the man had an idea. An idea which made him shudder. This idea he did not discuss with his wife. His wife came up with many options but the man diffused them quickly. But the man, he had an idea.

The man suggested that his wife try to sleep. He said that he would stay up and think. He positioned himself against the wall and she curled up next to him laying her head on his chest and fell asleep, feeling safe and secure in his arms, listening to his heart beat. The man thought and thought. "It's the only way", he whispered to himself. "How could I though", he asked himself. He wrestled with himself in his mind. It was torturous. His wrestling was on this wise. He thought to himself that he must keep his wife from being beaten and raped and therefore his only choice would be to kill her. Finally, he came to the decision that he should act on his idea. He kissed his wife's hair and then, then he covered her mouth and nose with his large hand to suffocate her. After a few seconds she began to struggle. She jerked and looked deeply into his eyes. Death was in them. He clasped his hand tighter about her mouth and nostrils. She fell limp. Dead.

Moments, only moments later, the man heard the sound of a helicopter and then a voice. It was a loud speaker. The voice demanded that the terrorists come out quietly with no resistance. The voice insisted, "resistance is futile". Soon after this, the man was rescued. His wife was dead. His love, it was a love that killed.

View the original article here

Amanda (A Ghost Story)

Amanda, a slight woman of twenty, with a small round expressive face, at a young age met allegedly the Ghost of Simon Magus (I say allegedly, because he could have been a demon incognito), with his quick nervous fingers, black piercing eyes, long black hair, and the way he could become absorbed in his victim, consequently drawing energy of his victim to him, the ghost-for he had told young Amanda he was such-with this energy source (perhaps a mischievous sprite in disguise, in a charade, of this first century magic sorcerer), clutched the arm of the young girl, her little tense face become expressed, as he became transfigured, from her vigor, accordingly, she lost all her consciousness while in the process of his presence, and opinion she may have wanted to express for the moment she couldn't (then slowly regained them back).

That was the first meeting, ten-years ago, now Amanda, an office worker in a downtown insurance company, insuring the lives of some ten-thousand people, had continued this ongoing interest, in her ghostly relationship, unknowing if he was who he said he was, or of a demonic species.

((Let me update the reader on who Simon Nagus is. Simon the Sorcerer, of Gitta, 1st Century, founder of 'Simonians' a 2nd century Gnostic sect, which flourished in Syria, and flourished for some 250-years. As it has been said, he wanted powers the apostles had, and when he was not offered them, he went back to his demonic friends, and in the process told the masses he would fly, to show them his abilities, and he tried to fly, and he did fly with the help of the demonic forces, until Peter the Apostle, prayed to the high heavens, and thus, he fell and broke his legs. So this was the person in his ghostly form, visiting Amanda.)(The question arises, 'Is that possible?' This question may come up later.))

Simon had been talking to her flamboyantly of his abilities in past affairs, presupposing: what is the good of having power and talent if you do not use it; it was for the past, his way of thinking, and I would think, it was the way he thought when around Amanda, perhaps wanting to groom her for futuristic endeavors.

Amanda was intelligent; even disregarding of the usual womanly points of view to understand her hard driven grey-haired ghost; and during these years had built up a kind of understanding, and affection for each other (or so she thought). The problem being, ghosts may have such attributes, but demons don't and she became puzzled on his real identity, being at this later stage. He was at this point, part of her childhood they had sat at times, hours to talk and both looked forward with great pleasure to the time spent to together.

To her, he was at times her guide, counselor, and seemingly more than a friend.

Was he a friend or a henchman? The question now came up. The other question being and I had asked myself this: was she blind, or did she want to be blind?

Whatever the case, here was a little woman, half amusement for the eyes of the demon, cloaked as a ghost, laughing and astonished as he tells his fellow comrades in his assigned legion, of his charade.

"Oh, I'm not afraid of the Ghost." She went on to tell me, impulsively.

I supposed, I grinned.

She was what he called "One of the starving sheep," meaning, a person who found his world interesting, then it became more than curiosity and interesting, into the area of obsessions. You see there is much truth in the fact the devil would rather have you obsessed with his world-making you no good for God's world, or completely disbelieving of it-thus, less work for his cronies: anything in-between is annoying for him.

As he had been listening and watching her grow ever since their acquaintanceship began, talking that rang in her ears for years, the little black eyed devil, gave her a glimpse into a whole new purposeful universe of thought and energy, introducing her into a world she never dreamed. Strangely enough, she felt small, insignificant against the great walls of this new world in front of her, a world he was drawing her into.

No: 792 (4/10/2011)

Inspired, although fictionalized

View the original article here

The Story of a Furry Purry

A Cute Kitten Comes to Stay

The children were given a present of a cute little long-haired kitten with large green eyes. They were delighted. A kitten of their very own to look after, brush the long fur feed and play with. The first thing that they did was to find it a round basket with a fluffy soft cushion to sleep in. The next thing was to find it toys to play with while they were at school.

Going shopping with their mother to the supermarket, they chose two brightly colored dishes, one for eating out of and one for the water. Then they bought a big packet of kitten food so that it need never be hungry. Finding a soft ball and a toy mouse with a long tail, they bought them as well.

They were able to play for hours with their new kitten that they named "Mischief." Mischief certainly lived up to its name. It would chase them all around the house, getting under everybody's feet as it rushed around at great speed, hardly being able to stop before crashing in to the furniture or doors.

When Mother was sitting and doing her knitting, Mischief thought that this was for her benefit only and would leap up on to mothers lap, grab hold of the ball of wool and scuttle off with it, ending up becoming a mass of kitten and wool and unable to free itself. Mother would not be very pleased but as it looked so cute, she would not be cross with it.

A favorite game was to sit innocently beside the children and try and steal some food from their plates, by stretching out a paw to grab a titbit while gazing in to the distance as though nothing was happening, knowing full well that this was really not allowed. When told what a naughty kitten it was, it adopted a hurt expression on its little face.

Another favorite game was playing hide-and- seek. Hiding behind a chair or sofa and pouncing on your feet as you came past, then rushing off to hide again. Hours spent with this novel game.

By the end of the day, Mischief was very tired. After a big bowl of cat food, cleaning itself, (cats clean themselves by licking themselves with their tongue) it was time for bed. Off to its basket it would go and after a few minutes of turning round and round to become very comfortable, would fall fast asleep. By this time, the children were also exhausted and ready for their bath, bed, to fall asleep, and dream of playing with Mischief again the following day.

My name is Gloria Herman and one of my favourite pastimes is writing articles. I use a variety of subjects as my topics. Being well travelled has enabled me to see many sides of life. Meeting interesting people has given me an insight into their ways of life and the various conditions under which they live. Life is one big collection of inspiration.

Children are always wonderful audiences and love stories.

View the original article here

The Great Roof of Villa Rica (A Short Story and One Haiku Poem)

(It's how it was... in the coffee plantation countryside, 2007)

The coffee plantations (or farms) lying close to the township of Villa Rica, raised coffee beans (when red, they looked like berries) which commanded top prices in Lima, and elsewhere throughout Peru, reached by bus or car only, from La Merced, mostly dirt roads. And those folks in town not engaged in the coffee business, were in the trades-carpentry, mechanic, or the restaurant business, house painting or building or the like. The few small grocery stores, bars and one main hotel, were all in walking distance and on the Main Street, which had just been paved with concrete, otherwise it was for eons, a dirt road. A city of ten-thousand or less, nestled within a green and luscious valley, cuddled by the Andes.

On summer mornings men, women and children went to work on the coffee farms. And when the coffee beans ripened, everyone was rushed back to work and the streets of city were once again deserted.

Smaller trucks were loaded with boxes of coffee beans while children and dogs played and laughed nearby, and everyone else picking those coffee beans in the plantation type setting, a few banana trees scattered among the coffee plantation, and a few young men would shake the tree to get a cluster of bananas for the workers, men smoking their afternoon pipes after a meal, or chewing coca leaves, they carried in their pockets, talking about production.

At night folks of the town loitered in the nearby park, up a ways from around the hotel I was in, it had a statue of a giant coffee pot in the park, a city icon that seemed to disturb the new mayor for some odd reason. Children recited poetry for their coming poetry fiesta, and the normal talk among the old folks on: horse racing, politics and religion. It's how it was in Villa Rica.

Old men with lit pipes, young women with lovers, kids laughing, everyone gossiping along the curbs, all throughout the city sidewalks and especially on Main Street, in Villa Rica. Everyone had put on their white clean shirts, after a long day of crawling over and through the bush like shrubbery, of the coffee plantations, those coffee bushes on the farms, rows of coffee beans looking at you, in tangled masses. The girls put on pressed clean skirts and blouses, walked up and down the sidewalks before the young men. Under the trees lovers embraced.

At the end of the season for coffee bean picking, there was always a mild outburst of marriages to the town. So nicely isolated there was no great national problems that touched closely their lives, they received three newspapers three times a week, amongst the ten-thousand.

The soul and its destiny of each person was spoken out in the open on the streets, as was poetry, or the recent sermon at the church, and the coffee picking for next year, that was all that seemed to occupy the minds of the citizens of this little town.

The town had a character of its own. All the citizens of Villa Rica were like one big family. It was a town with an invisible roof of which everyone lived beneath. Here boys and girls fought and quarreled went to the same schools, formed life long friendships, fell in love, married, became fathers and mothers, grew old, sick and died. That's how it was in Villa Rica.

No: 799 (4-21-2011)

Haiku on Truth

When you seek out truth
You may find an end in life-
Just a child will do...

No: 2930 (4/17/2011)

View the original article here

Sheena and the Doppelganger - Horror Story

As part of our curriculum in college, my group mates and I were assigned to do a documentary about the old colonial-style houses and ruins of historic sites that rest among the urban communities. We wanted to impress our professor so we decided to shoot most of the film with the ruins as the background. Unfortunately, our budget has limited us to do the filming inside an abandoned building instead but which resembles the ruins in some ways. It was a convincing "mock" setting and we ended up shooting there until sunset due to the uncooperative weather.

The focus of the documentary was simply the historical value of the subjects. It didn't strike us at first that there is an eerie feel about the project.

While we were packing things up to head to our next destination, which is an old village, my classmate Sheena made an excuse to go to the restroom.

"Just stay here, guys. I need to pee," she said as she tugged her boyfriend to go with her.

All of us were busy with our knapsacks to pay any attention to Sheena; after all, it was already dark by the time we have finished shooting and we definitely won't leave the place until we were ready to go.

At about thirty minutes after we last heard of Sheena, she was still nowhere in sight. We couldn't afford to have someone look for her for we have sensed that something might go wrong. To our surprise, Sheena's boyfriend was with us and he himself was impatiently waiting for her to come back.

"Why are you here? We thought she tagged you along," we asked.

"No, man. I was helping Alex with the cables, right?" he replied in a rather irritated tone.

Chills went down our spines and we began to worry. Worse, Sheena had left her phone in her knapsack. Just when we are about to search for her, Sheena appeared, panting and crying.

"Where have you been? We're all getting worried here," her boyfriend asked.

"Worried? I told you to just stay by the door while I was inside the cubicle but you left! I saw a ghost right by the restroom door!" Sheena cried.

We rushed to our van and tossed our stuff inside right away. While we were driving away, Sheena related her scary story to us.

It so happened that the guy Sheena thought was her boyfriend was actually the ghost she had seen standing outside the restroom. How she had mistaken it for her boyfriend, she didn't know. They were so much alike, she said, except that the one she had been with "was rather cold in touch" but she just didn't mind until she had seen the apparition.

Sheena also said that she can't find her way back to our meeting place. Whenever she takes turns through the corridors, they always lead her back to the restroom. After trying four times around the hallways, she fretfully recited a prayer, then suddenly she saw us all in the distance. Sheena looked so freaked out while telling her story that it had to be true.

If you enjoyed this story, read more like it at horror stories. ReadingRabbits.com is a humanities weblog that features short stories by D.B. Crow.

View the original article here

The Swimming Lesson - A London Short Story

"I swear if there's a woman in Bedford, some school tart you used to shag behind the bike sheds, don't bother to come back. Don't think I won't find out either; I can smell them. There won't be any 'Donna, give me another chance' this time."

She went to the bedroom door and shouted, "Chrissy come up here and say goodbye to your dad."

Mike Anderson grimaced but said nothing. He continued to pack the overnight bag that lay open on their bed.

She watched him for the slightest clue he was lying. She was reassured when he put pyjamas, dressing gown, and his slippers into the bag. Then she reasoned it could be a scam. He wouldn't have packed a bottle of Champagne and a box of condoms in front of her.

Donna felt a strange sensation in her chest that she had almost forgotten. Love, she thought. This stupid, stupid man who she loved so much it hurt might be throwing away everything with some shabby one-night fling.

She handed him the T-shirt she'd ironed. The years together and she still got a thrill from the sight of his smooth, sculptured torso. The bulk of his biceps had been a pillow for her head just an hour before.

His daily workout in the gym he'd created in their garage meant if he was not the handsomest man she'd ever known, he was the strongest.

He dropped his mobile phone into his jeans' pocket. "Look it'll be on," he said. "Ring me any time."

"Don't flatter yourself."

He couldn't think of a smart reply so instead pulled her towards him by the belt of her housecoat.

She kept her lips closed until she yielded to the pressure of his mouth.

Perhaps he should cancel the trip, he thought. Some Saturday morning nookie - the only time their daughter could be guaranteed fixed to the television - would sooth both their tempers of the last few days.

"I haven't brushed my teeth," she said pulling away.

"You've got nothing to worry about. I'll be back before lunch tomorrow. Don, I really am going to meet Adrian, his missus, and their three kids."

She knew he was telling the truth about the meeting. She'd spied on his e-mails. But he had got up to enough mischief in the afternoons without spending a night away. Who knows what temptation he might find after a few drinks?

"No more tattoos," she said firmly. The last time he'd strayed - with a Bosnian ballet student he'd rescued from a chip pan fire - he had M and D entwined inside a heart decorate his shoulder. It wasn't his first tattoo.

He kissed her again and this time she'd didn't resist.

"Yuck," said their eight-year-old daughter Chrissy from the door. She was dressed in pyjamas and carried the television remote.

Blonde and pretty she was a tiny model of her mother, he thought.

"Chris, I'm sorry love but you remember daddy won't be able to take you to karate this afternoon." He used the third person-speak with his daughter that still unsettled Donna.

"She'll just have to miss class this week; I'm at the hairdressers." Chrissy didn't seem bothered.

"But daddy will be back in time to take you swimming tomorrow," he promised.

"Why do you have go at all?"

"Well, you've got your best friend Amanda at school. When I was at primary school I had a friend called Adrian who I haven't seen since I was 11 and that was nearly 25 years ago."

"So?"

"You tell him, Chrissy. It's not as though you were best mates otherwise why wait so long?"

He ignored Donna's dig and swept his daughter up in his arms, did two straight-arm stretches bringing her close to the ceiling and nearly kissed her before setting her back on her feet.

"There's this website on the internet that gets old school friends back together. We met through that and now he's invited me to visit him and his family. We all could have gone but it would have been a squeeze."

"Are they going to come here?"

"I don't suppose so."

"Why do you have to sleep there?"

"Enough," he said impatiently. "Go and watch the cartoons and I'll say 'bye before I go."

"Why are you sleeping there?" Donna asked when he was ready to leave. "It's not that far a drive, you could have done it in a day if you'd wanted to?"

"It means I can have a proper drink with him. We haven't seen each other for 25 years. Aren't you impressed? I know I am."

"Why have you got to get pissed?"

"Because that's what men do."

Mike was 20 minutes into a motorway traffic jam when he had his first serious reservations about the reunion. It had seemed such a good idea at first. One of the guys at work had raved about the website and he felt compelled to give it a go without thinking too deeply why.

Adrian Black made contact almost immediately. But their e-mail exchanges were clumsy and boring. Each recalled ancient incidents the other didn't remember. A face-to-face meet-up was called for.

But now Mike was doubting the value of the whole enterprise. They had been in the same class but had never really been friends. They hadn't even gone to each other's birthday parties. What would they have to talk about?

He was still wondering whether to turn back when he reached Bedford.

"A fireman of all things, who would have believed it?" said his host handing Mike a fresh beer before settling down in the garden chair opposite.

"No stranger than you turning out an art teacher," said Mike putting the can by his feet. He had only just opened the one in his hand. He had already drunk more than he cared to for the time of day.

It had taken him a while to find the house. They had exchanged pictures over the net. Mike had been prepared to find Adrian tall, balding, hungry-looking. And his wife Julia, small, mousy (Donna didn't have to worry about this one) and the young children indistinguishable from each other by age or sex in their general scruffiness.

However seeing him in the flesh, Adrian seemed genuinely surprised at the body Mike had built for himself.

"Good God, Jules, if you knew how weedy - I'm sorry you were - Mike was at school and look at him now."

He didn't know if to be flattered or embarrassed, as Adrian seemed to take his wife on a tour of his body. In fact he wasn't certain if Adrian was taking the piss and Julia seemed to be pretending interest.

The two men went off to the local pub an hour after Mike's arrival. The hours and the pints drifted away in empty conversation much like their e-mail exchanges.

On their return Adrian gave him the house tour proper, while the children, unchecked, charged about between them. It was a terrace house much like his own except with an extra bedroom and a much larger garden

Adrian's paintings were everywhere. Bowls of fruit and flowers and fields were just about recognisable. The thick paint looked as though it had been applied by hand. He thought of Chrissy's nursery school daubs and he wished now he had kissed her goodbye.

On the wall of the staircase there was a series of small frames containing drawings of nudes of both sexes.

Above Adrian and Julia's bed hung the largest painting in the house; a nude which he took to be of Julia because of the smallness of the woman's breasts and not because of the abundance of the model's pubic hair.

They moved on to red wine. Mike kept a clear enough head to be glad not to show his irritation when later Julia expressed regret on learning that he and Donna hadn't thought it necessary to marry. It was no one's business but theirs. Donna refused to tie the knot until she was sure Mike had given up his philandering ways. He didn't like to be reminded.

Early evening he found himself gratefully alone in the garden picking the grit of half-cooked veggie-burgers from between his teeth after the worst barbecue of his life. It took the couple an hour to bathe and put their children to bed.

About 9.30 Julia followed them to "give you boys a proper chance to chat." At the same time the men moved from the garden to the living room. There she air-kissed him goodnight. "Thanks for coming; Adrian doesn't bring many friends home."

Mike hadn't expected that despite the amount of booze that had been consumed, Julia's departure made he feel more uncomfortable not less.

Adrian seemed genuinely fascinated he had joined the fire service.

"You were brilliant at arithmetic," he said.

"Fancy you remembering that. I'm a bit of a disappointment to my dad. He wanted me to be an accountant. Somehow it never worked out. I'm happy enough."

"But burning buildings and all that?"

"All in a day's work." Mike was used to people wanting to hear about his job. It would have been easy to impress most listeners with the things he had seen. But he didn't like to. Unless the eyes widening at his stories of rescued children and bodies fished from canals belonged to an impressionable girl, who thought it witty when he brushed her tights saying, "I'd climb up your ladder any time."

But it was Adrian leaning across the gap that separated them to grip his knee and say, "You're too modest, matey."

Mike needed to change the subject. "What about yourself? Captain of everything. Tops in running, swimming, football. And teaching art?"

"My family moved so I could go to a decent secondary school. It had a really good Art master and I found I loved painting. I left the sport stuff behind. Art school and the rest followed - I'm good enough to teach but not enough to sell. All round I bet I'm a bigger disappointment to my father."

Mike was to sleep in one of the kid's rooms when he was finally shown to his bed at around 1am. Until that point Adrian had led their conversation on a ramble over many subjects; from the best place to locate a smoke alarm to infidelity.

"I've never been unfaithful to Julia, not with a woman, man or sheep. Not yet anyways." The remark penetrated Mike's alcoholic haze as a bit weird.

When Adrian said goodnight and left, Mike started to empty his overnight bag, his fingers made clumsy by the booze. He took off his T-shirt so carefully ironed by Donna. It was too late to call. So he sat on the bed and carefully texted her "Love u sweet dreams."

Adrian came into the room without knocking. "I forget to leave you a fresh towel. God!"

"What?" said Mike alarmed getting up quickly from the bed feeling giddy as he did so.

"Your chest - that really is a six-pack and a half."

"I...I like to keep in shape."

"I'll say. Do you shave your chest hair?"

"I suppose I do. There's not much to start."

"Would you mind? No, I'm pissed."

"What?"

"Would you mind if I touched it? Your chest."

Mike heard himself say, "Sure."

Barely grazing the surface Adrian's hand travelled down Mike's body from his neck to his navel and then back to the space between his nipples where it rested a brief moment.

"Wow, that's something. Well, goodnight. Again." He left closing the door quietly behind him.

Mike felt queasy, his knees weak. He sat down heavily on the bed.

In the instant Adrian had touched his skin, memories of childhood penetrated his brain with such sudden ferocity his head ached from a blinding light.

First the only sensation was the smell of chlorine. Then it was almost as though his eyes stung from the water and he could taste its bitterness.

He was 10. In his school's local swimming pool; he was flapping arms and legs in the cold water. He couldn't sink because Adrian was standing next to him, a hand supporting his chest, the other his waist.

Puny Mike, the class joke, the only one his age who couldn't swim. Adrian, both the tallest and the best swimmer, had been told by their teacher to help Mike in the shallow end, while everyone else shrieked and frolicked at the deep end of the pool.

Adrian must have said he was going to join the others, because Mike was crying, taking mouthfuls of water. "Don't leave me, don't leave."

One moment Adrian's hands were holding his body and he was safe, the next they were gone and he was drowning.

In his struggle to find his feet, Mike turned over on his back and through the water he could see Adrian towering over him, laughing.

Mike flipped over on to his knees and Adrian reached down through the water and grabbed his trunks. The material bit into his groin as Adrian hauled him upright until he was standing.

Adrian turned and was off. It seemed to Mike like a superhero from his comics, moving down the pool to join the rest of the class.

He stood alone shivering, holding the gully at the pool's edge. He peed filling his trunks with a pleasant warmth. He wished Adrian was still holding him.

The panic passed. He thought again about ringing Donna. She would think the worst and whatever he said his clothes would be waiting for him on his doorstep. He wanted to leave, to write a note saying Chrissy had been taken ill. But he was too drunk to drive.

It was then he saw Adrian must have put a key in the lock on the inside of the bedroom door. He was almost sure it hadn't been there before. Mike locked the door and went to bed.

He couldn't sleep. He lay on the single bed beneath the Transformers duvet fearful other ghosts from his lonely childhood might rise up from their graves.

Once during the night he thought he heard the door handle turn. He couldn't be certain he hadn't been dreaming. He got up and stood listening by the door. He touched the key erect in the dark. The door must always stay closed.

At 6 the children in the adjoining bedroom started fighting and Mike dressed quickly, had a brief wash in the bathroom, and headed for the kitchen.

By the time Adrian and Julia emerged, Mike had made himself some tea and toast.

"I hope you don't mind but my daughter Chrissy wasn't well in the night and I need to get back as soon as I can."

Adrian walked Mike to his car. "You're sure you're OK to drive?"

"I'm fine." said Mike knowing as soon as he could he would stop on the motorway for a proper breakfast and the chance to clear his head.

They shook hands. "It's amazing, isn't it, what we've done, getting together after all this time?" said Adrian. "You're not at all how I imagined you'd be."

"Nor you me," said Mike.

"We've got to stay in touch."

"Right."

"Look out for those fires."

When Mike arrived home Donna was about to berate him for the heavy drinking session which showed in his weary face but something told her just to be pleased he was back safely.

Chrissy hugged him and begged, "Don't make me go swimming, dad, please."

"Go next door and play with Jane until I call you," said her mother.

When Donna walked into the bathroom Mike had the shower going full blast into his face.

A little later they were lying on top of their bed, he in his bathrobe and she fully dressed.

"Was everything alright?" she asked.

"Of course. Why shouldn't it? Strange bed that's all. I didn't get much sleep and I'm on early shift tomorrow."

"I'll let you have a nap then" She got up.

"Donna, there is something." She held her breath. "Don, I was thinking we ought to get married."

She laughed. "Funny, I was thinking the same thing myself."

Mike and Adrian e-mailed once every couple of months over the next year. Adrian sent a picture of the two them taken by Julia, which Mike showed Donna.

"I like the garden" was the best she could say and she wasn't happy when Mike said Adrian had sort of added his wife and himself to the wedding guest list.

"I could hardly say no," Mike said lamely. But with a fortnight to go, Adrian cried off saying they were moving house because he was unexpectedly changing schools.

That was the last time there was any communication between the men - except for the exchange of a wedding present and a thank-you note.

Adrian sent a coffee-table book of David Hockney paintings. A swimming pool was on the cover. Inside he had written "Wishing you the best splash, Adrian."

"A bloody strange present and why didn't he put his wife's name?" said Donna.

"Don't ask me," said Mike.

Soon after the wedding Donna got pregnant and Mike dismantled his gym and turned the garage into a playroom.

I'm a retired former British national newspaper journalist who hasn't lost the writing bug. Visit me at my blog http://www.grapefruitcrazy.com/ Here I post regularly on my take on the world around me. As for the website's title all is revealed in the blog's profile.

View the original article here

Jack Daniel's Revenge (1972, a Story Out of Minnesota)

He had drank a full bottle of Jack Daniel's empty, he had it in a paper sack, he liked the best, if he was to drink at all, he drank the best, and he drank that liquor in particular, because his name matched. He said to himself: "I'm glad they're dead! They had a death coming-both of them.

When he got married he married a Catholic woman, in a Catholic Church, never went out on his wife, never thought to do it. He let her raise the child in her faith, and he hated the church for not baptizing his child, because he was of no denomination, thus, because of this, they refused to baptize the child. That started it all.

Kulin Schultz, was muscular, with a most pleasant face, ten years younger than Jack Daniel, and five years older than his wife, Anna Lee Daniel, and Kulin, was forty. She was of a light brown race, and Kulin was a black German-Jew, Jack was Caucasian.

They all lived in a small city outside of Minneapolis, Minnesota. The township less than ten thousand, which support some four churches-two Catholic, one Baptist, and one Mormon church, had one Main Street, two small hotels, one closed. The open Hotel was clean-not quite inside of town but about three miles on the outskirts, the rooms well heated in the winters, even had a cat for a few dollars rent if you wanted company at night.

Kulin a handsome blue eyed fellow, who smiled more than not, fell in love with Anna Lee, met her at one of those two Catholic churches, dark blond roots to her light blond hair, cut short, for easy combing.

Kulin was a police officer, employed by the city, Jack, who mostly sat cross-legged on a chair most of the day, sold insurance.

It was a beautiful church made romance, for these two handsome individuals, a man and woman, not a perfect picture but one that could get Anna's baby baptized. And so the love affair and this case in point, developed along these lines intricate as a rat's maze, especially in the wintry hotel on the outskirts of the township.

(Jack now is sitting in his room looking back at the situation, he is cozy in his little cottage like home, after all, this affair with Kulin and Anna had gone on and off for a year, and he now is talking to himself about it-seemingly at peace with it.)

"The amazing thing is, not a soul seems to know anything about this case, and it's hard not quite to believe it."

SS(His Mind's eye, or his second self): "There are reasons for that."

"Whatever they are it is like a jigsaw puzzle to me now, I'll never been able to put it all together, after the fact."

SS: "I shall begin from the beginning, go over it with you, and take a look at what's inside of you."

"I think of all the beast on earth without a doubt, man is the most hateful...the only one who inflicts pain for the sport of it, who lives and dies with a nasty mind."

SS: "Are you regretting what you did to Anna and Kulin?"

"I should be, shouldn't, I?"

SS: "Well, you filled up two coffins; I guess that is what you might call a good beginning."

"He was a lawyer, right?"

SS: "Wrong, he was a policeman."

"Eh, that's right, I forgot."

SS: "He was a happy-go-luck kind of fellow, policeman!"

"Whose side are you on?"

SS: "Amazing isn't it, nobody appears to know a thing about this case."

"Didn't we say that before?"

SS: "Yes, I suppose we did. It didn't take you long to figure out how to murder both of them."

"Someone, I think you, immediately, an hour after I saw them in the hotel, doing you know what-that's something I'll never forget. Anyhow, that's when I got thinking about revenge, and pain."

SS: "Go back, describe it exactly to me."

"Why don't you do it?"

SS: "Okay, I will. Neither one had an enemy. The police couldn't trace it to anyone. Everyone liked them, and you even pretended to like them. The morning was cold and snowy, and when Kulin went and left the hotel to get something in his car, and to warm it up to take Anna home-wam! One of the three rats you put into the car bit him-one after the other that is, all three injected with amphetamine, to make them hyper and wild and more vicious. They tore him apart. The police thought it was crazy, some Satanic group from out of town playing a trick, it was Halloween, wasn't it. They bit his arms, cheeks, legs, hands scratched out his eyes. He surely didn't die instantly."

"I hope not!"

SS: "I know that is one hope you really hoped for. And then Anna, who would have ever thought of using liquid nicotine-and Anna being a chain smoker, a pure poison, fast, powerful, colorless, odorless, and it killed her with one big gulp of Jell-O. And they didn't think of you because you didn't fit the pattern of a murderer, and you got that $150,000-dollars insurance."

"I wasn't thinking of that at the time, perhaps it got lost in my mind, but it wasn't there when I thought all this up."

SS: "You mean, when we both thought all this up. What are you going to do about Alvaro's Baptism? You are a well-to-do man now."

(Twisting his lips hissing and snorting...)

"Good question. It's hard to say now. But damned if I will go back to a church and beg them to do what they're suppose to do again, and had they done it in the first place, I do believe I would not have had to drink all that Jack Denial's down this evening.

SS: "Uh-huh. I figured as much."

No: 793 (4-9-2011)

View the original article here

Mad Love - A London Short Story

You'll know if it's happened to you; mad love. When it strikes it's the only adequate translation for the French L'Amour fou. All the more crazy, when, as in my case, it was unrequited.

I was in my early 50s, divorced, and living alone in a rented apartment in north London. To break the work-sleep-work cycle I signed up with an arts group for a course of Saturday guided visits to the capital's galleries.

The possibility of meeting a woman of a similar age from among my fellow students added extra spice to my anticipation. And when we met up that first Saturday, now more than 10 years ago, there were indeed a number of suitable 'candidates' in the group. That was until I saw Lucy.

She looked as though she had stepped out of my Sociology class in the Sixties dressed in a long white cheese cloth dress which one moment would cling to her hips, the next sway from her body as she moved.

Shortish, a brunette, I don't remember Lucy as a great beauty, but O, her eyes, her smile, her laugh. I wasn't to know a web of lies, sleepless nights, tears - all mine - was to be my fate for the next two years.

For the first couple of Saturdays I only exchanged a few words with Lucy. But perhaps because she was by a good way the youngest in the class - 31 as I was to learn - she didn't team up with any of the other cliques. We began to discuss the paintings in front of us as we walked round.

By the last few Saturdays we took our sandwich lunch breaks together. The final afternoon the two of us had a farewell drink in the Thames-side pub close to Tate Modern.

The setting sun bathed St Paul's; I glowed in the presence of an angel.

Lucy was an English teacher at a secondary school in the East End of London, one of the country's most deprived boroughs. She had been privately educated.

"On the front line now," I joked. She chided me on my flippancy and explained she felt driven to use her advantages to help youngsters to whom fate had dealt such a poor start.

The woman was perfect. She was better read than me; knew more about art, film and the theatre. Lucy was about the best-hearted person I'd met in a long time. There didn't seem to be a 'significant other' and, yes, I ached to take her to bed. This last consideration was the reason the "fou" got added to the "amour."

I had told Lucy I'd been divorced three years and it seemed so right to say I was in a long-term relationship which was on its last legs. I reasoned if Lucy was to see me again, she had to be reassured I wasn't a sex-starved no-good (you be the judge on that).

I invented a girlfriend Annie (probably after Annie Hall), a neighbour; an embellishment I would regret.

We did see each other again. As soon as I could I intended dumping fictitious Annie for flesh and blood Lucy.

Art galleries at weekends, some movies during the week. I once took Lucy to a black-tie dinner at the Royal Academy (I was disappointed she didn't make more effort to dress up) where a journalist chum slipped me a note: "Introduce me to your daughter."

But mostly we met for supper in the West End. Reader, take my word; she was lovely in candle-light.

Sometimes we went dutch but mostly I paid. As a journalist I was earning a lot more than her and I never once got the feeling I was being used. I talked about taking her to Paris but she never took the bait. We never ate anywhere I hadn't first checked out the location of the nearest hotel just in case.

My biggest extravagance was taxis. When I got to dropping her back to her place and then turning the cab round to take me home, I told Lucy I would be charging the fares on my work expenses. To be caught fiddling meant instant dismissal and I never risked it.

She refused to visit me; she said Annie wouldn't understand if we bumped into her. But I always tided the place up before we met just in case she changed her mind.

Eventually I got to cross the threshold of her small council flat. I'd bring a bottle of wine and we'd order a tepid takeaway, listen to music, discuss books, and talk. We'd sit in chairs with a few feet of insurmountable carpet between us - and the hours rolled by.

I learned how tough it was being a conscientious teacher in the East End.

There was nothing else going on in my life so I'd talk about Annie. Or Sarah as I once called her with my brain muddled by Merlot.

"Who's Sarah?"

"Did I say Sarah? I meant Annie. Sarah's Annie's daughter." Why not? Expanding the cast aided the narrative. Lucy liked it, for example, when I helped Sarah leave her abusive boyfriend.

A year came and went; I reached a point where I'd all but given up hope that Lucy would see me for what I was - a sensitive, intelligent, humorous if older man; one still with a man's needs for all that.

Given her generous spirit perhaps I could worm my way into her affections via a different route by becoming one of the sad case, lost causes she supported

Annie and I had a reconciliation; quite a passionate one if you get my meaning. Then we broke up again bitterly (hence the tears). I still couldn't make it across the carpet.

Lucy began to make excuses and our dates became fewer. I was even more watchful for evidence of a boyfriend when I did successfully invite myself over. There were neither razors nor multiple toothbrushes in the medicine cabinet.

One night I took a cab and had it park a few doors away from Lucy's building. I had intended to stake her place out from behind an abandoned car or whatever. But one look at the dark, threatening streets encouraged me to tell the cabbie to take me back home.

It started to look as though Lucy wasn't taking my calls. After about a dozen attempts one Sunday evening she picked up.

"I know it's late but I must see you," I blurted with a catch in my voice. "I can't explain over the phone."

"I had to get dressed," Lucy complained as she opened her door. "What is it?"

"Annie's a lesbian." I recited the speech I'd composed in the cab. I told her how I'd been shaken to my core when Annie came out during another argument. How unmanned I felt losing my lover to another woman. Meaning, Lucy, take me in your arms and make it better.

Lucy made me a cup of tea and said she was pregnant.

I never found out who the father was of baby Tomas (without an 'h'). Lucy never said and I didn't really care. I saw her twice during her pregnancy and once after the birth and he didn't seem to be around.

At first I felt pretty stupid. "You must get out more; all work and no play," I'd chide her over the phone. I'd kidded myself that without me Lucy would have become a hermit, or was that a nun? Clearly she was neither.

Dylan or someone sang you should not be where you don't belong. And I had no place in Lucy's life; certainly not her bed.

But no damage was done. Not even to my pride; if I'd had any I wouldn't have been such a dick in the first place. And then I would have missed not fun, no it wasn't fun. I would have missed the chance to feel alive - alive as a first parachute jump.

The chance to will the cabbie to jump every stop light. The chance to stand at her door; the chance to draw the cork and pour the wine. The chance to talk, the chance to invent a parallel life. The chance to kiss cheeks goodnight. The chance to come away in despair and frustration. To lie awake and replay the night.

The chance to know mad love.

I'm a retired former British national newspaper journalist who hasn't lost the writing bug. Visit me at my blog http://www.grapefruitcrazy.com/
Here I post regularly on my take on the world around me. As for the website's title all is revealed in the blog's profile.

View the original article here

The Forgotten Body - Short Ghost Story

Katy was twelve when she first knew that aside from her family, there was another presence in the house. It was almost dusk, and she was sitting alone at the swing out front. She had been waiting for Penny, the nanny, to call her in for dinner when she saw a lady in the kitchen window. The lady was wearing a long white dress, her hair was pitch black, and her skin pale in contrast. Even though she couldn't quite see the lady's face, she knew she was pretty. Katy was still looking at the lady when she turned her head and smiled. She headed back to the house but stopped in her tracks when she saw the lady up close, around the corner.

Where the lady's eyes should have been, were deep, dark and empty sockets. Her head was still inclined towards Katy, and on her mouth was a plastered smile. Katy almost uttered a scream when Penny came out to call her in, "Katy! There you are. What are you doing?"

"Hi, Penny! I'm starving..." She looked back into the kitchen, but the lady was no longer there.

*****

"Please pass the peas, Katy. Katy? Katy!" her mom, Mrs. Marie, snapped her fingers.

"Oh. Yes, Mum?" Katy had been in a daze, thinking about her earlier encounter with their other resident.

"The peas, dearest darling," Katy did as she was asked. "Is there anything you'd like to talk about, darling? You've hardly touched your food."

She hesitated for a moment, in light of the possibility that if she told her mom what had transpired that afternoon, they might think her silly. But her mind wouldn't keep her at peace. "Mom, who owned this place before we moved in?"

Mr. and Mrs. Marie looked taken aback. After a bout of silence, her dad was first to speak.

"This place was empty for many years. The last occupants had left 13 years before we moved in. They were the Lucans. Why do you ask, Katy?"

"Hmm, is there any chance they had a daughter? Maybe about 20 years of age?"

"Where are all these questions coming from dear?" there was a hint of strain and panic in Mrs. Marie's voice.

"There was someone this afternoon, in the kitchen..."

Creak. Creak. Creak. They all turned to look at the stairs. After a few long moments, the creaking stopped, but the air in the house suddenly felt chilly, if only slightly.

"Dad, maybe we ought to move out tomorrow. Please, Dad." She had never seen her mom so frightened. Her dad agreed and told them to pack their things tonight.

Without asking, Katy figured out what was happening. After dinner, her mom helped her pack in her room. They went into bed together while her father was out to arrange their move tomorrow.

But Katy couldn't sleep that night. She felt as if someone was in the room with them, and someone was watching them both. That night, the house seemed cold despite it being summer, and noises were becoming more and more prominent as the night grew older.

Katy could not restrain herself any longer and decided to come down to the kitchen. She wanted to run back up when she saw the lady sitting quietly on the kitchen counter. Despite the hesitation in her legs, she mustered the last ounce of any courage she had left and approached the lady. She peered through the lady's dark hair and looked at her as though she actually had eyes. The lady smiled again.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Katy implored.

Even though the lady did not have eyes, she appeared sad and stood up. She took Katy by the arm and started leading her outside. While they were moving Katy felt the heat in her body slowly draining out where the lady's hand held her. She was scared but would not let her curiosity have her.

The lady knelt down beside the swing without saying a word. She sat still for a few moments, then started digging with both her hands, scraping her fingernails into the cold, damp earth. After a few minutes of what felt like an eternity, Katy started to see bones of a hand emerging from the dirt. And then she noticed that one finger had a ring. She helped dig with the lady after what seemed like an hour. The earth revealed bones of a young woman who passed away a long time ago. Katy looked over to where the lady was sitting, but all she saw was the swing. And empty earth. Her mother woke up and came looking for her, and all that they had seen, they reported to the police.

The body was of Carol Lucan, a 22-year old lady who was to be married. On the eve of her wedding, she was kidnapped and brutally murdered. The police had to file her case unsolved after many years of fruitless searching. With Katy's discovery of her remains, the police could open her file again. Katy's family gave her a proper burial on auspicious land, and from then on, the ghost of the young lady never appeared before them again.

To read more ghost stories, visit ReadingRabbits.com, where you will find some of the coolest online short stories.

View the original article here