Official Blog of Kristy Gherlone | Heartfelt stories

- Hot and Sour
  
  Posted at 5:11 pm by writergherlone, on August 5, 2020
  
  Hot and Sour
  
  by Kristy Gherlone
  
  My sister and I are hungry. Our father is cramming bread and meat into his mouth as we wait at the table for our mother to give us something to eat.
  
  “Two sandwiches for yourself and nothing for the children!” she cries when she spies the empty bread wrapper in front of him. She snatches it and turns it upside down. A sprinkling of crumbs fall out and pepper the table. My sister and I lick our fingers, press them to the crumbs, and pop them into our mouths. “You never think of anyone but yourself,” she says. Our father does not spare us a glance as he rises and tosses his wadded-up napkin into the trash.
  
  “Sorry, girls, but thanks to your father, you’ll go hungry today,” she says.
  
  My tummy grumbles. My sister wails.
  
  “Oh, hush,” our mother says. She opens the fridge and peers inside, but it, too, is empty. “Do you have any money?” she asks.
  
  “Nope. I’m strapped,” our father says. He grabs his boots and sits back down at the table to lace them.
  
  “That’s just great,” she utters. She stalks off down the hall and returns with a small container of soup. “I was saving this for later.”
  
  “Saving or hiding?” our father asks, shooting her a hateful look.
  
  She doesn’t answer as she opens it, dumps the contents into a pan, and begins to cook it on the stove. When the soup is hot, she divides it in half and places two steaming bowls in front of us. “I wouldn’t have to hide things if you weren’t such a selfish pig,” she finally says.
  
  Our father slams his fist on the table. My sister jumps, overturning her bowl. Scalding soup spreads out in front of us and cascades onto her bare legs. She howls in pain, but quickly scrapes what is left back into her bowl. Red welts erupt on her skin as we lift our spoons to our mouths. Our father reaches out to steal a stray noodle. He tosses it into the air and captures it with his teeth. It shimmies, glistening on his lips as he heads for the door.
  
  End
  
  *This story originally appeared online in Down in the Dirt Magazine and went on to appear in print in Aurora Volume 168 on February 20, 2020, which is available for purchase on Amazon.
  
  **No part of this story may be copied or reproduced without consent from the author
  
  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged childabuse, childhood, family, familydynamics, familyissues, fiction, fictionvignette, hunger, poverty, shortstory
- English Tea and Crawdads
  
  Posted at 7:15 pm by writergherlone, on February 6, 2020
  
  English Tea and Crawdads
  
  Story and Art by Kristy Gherlone
  
  Old Felix Hicks caught the biggest fish of his life the day he died. He’d been teetering on the bow of his rickety boat in middle of the Mississippi, reeling like mad and grinning like a fool as he fought with it, trying to keep its muddy green head above the surface. “Whoo-wee,” he whistled when he finally wrestled it in. “You sure are a big ole sucker! Gonna have myself a feed tonight,” he said as he patted his belly. He was always hungry, and the fish would make a fine meal.
  
  When he leaned down to take out the hook, the fish jumped up and walloped him right in the jaw. Felix’s prized gold tooth came loose and went flying. “Nooo!” he cried, batting at the air as he tried to capture it. He needed that tooth to woo the ladies! His looks weren’t much to speak of, but they sure went crazy over that tooth. It was the reason Rosalyn Davies agreed to marry him.
  
  He might have caught it if the boat hadn’t sprung a leak. It filled with water, tipped, and spilled him into the river. “Gall dang it,” he spat, slapping weeds off his head. “My tooth!” he wailed as he watched it sink into the depths. He dove under to search for it, but it was no use. His tooth was lost among a maze of boulders and rotting pulp wood. When he came back up again, he found himself in the middle of a nest of Cottonmouths. “Welp, that’s that,” he sighed as the snakes hissed and snapped. “I guess this is how I go.”
  
  And that was how he went. The fish, however, got away.
  
  Four thousand miles away and across the ocean, William Whitby and Lorelei Addington-Whitby were at the hospital waiting on their first child: a son they intended to name Charles. Lorelei, a snobby, proper woman of distant nobility, gave one last gentle push so as not to exert herself, and out came Charles. The doctor examined him. “This is quite unusual,” he said.
  
  “Oh, dear,” Lorelei said, arranging herself into a more ladylike position. “Is something the matter?”
  
  “No, I don’t think so. It’s just this birthmark here on his neck,” he said, “See?” He lowered the child for his parents to inspect. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
  
  “They appear to be fang marks,” William said, furrowing his brow.
  
  “Hmm,” Lorelei frowned. “Well, he’s certainly not much to look at, but he’ll do. He is half-Addington, so I’m positive he will turn out fine and proper. Let me hold him.”
  
  The doctor wrapped Charles in a blanket and handed him to Lorelei. She put her nose to his head. “He smells like a mud puddle,” she grimaced. “And what, pray tell, is this?” she asked, picking a shiny fleck from his cheek.
  
  “Well, I’ll be,” the doctor said, scratching at his head. “It looks like a fish scale.”
  
  William and Lorelei took Charles home to their house on the hill; an inherited estate built with old money, and did their very best to raise him in a manner befitting an Addington. However, as Charles grew, Lorelei and William found their hands quite full raising him.
  
  Charles did not learn to talk like an Addington, nor a Whitby.
  
  “Can you say, ‘Mummy,’” Lorelei coached. “Come on now. Say ‘Mummy,’”
  
  “Maw.” Charles grinned, trying out the word.
  
  “Hmm.” Lorelei frowned.
  
  “Say, ‘Daddy,’” William urged with confidence.
  
  “Paw,” Charles said.
  
  “He must take after your side of the family,” Lorelei sniffed.
  
  Lorelei’s mother, who happened to be visiting, said, “you’re both doing it incorrectly. Let me show you.” She got down on the floor in front of Charles. “Say ‘Grand-ma-ma’ and I’ll buy you a pony,” she crooned.
  
  “Me-maw,” Charles said.
  
  “Oh dear,” Lorelei’s mother gasped. “Are you certain he’s an Addington? He doesn’t look like an Addington, and I’m quite positive he doesn’t talk like one.”
  
  “Of course, I’m sure,” Lorelei cried.
  
  “Great-great grandfather Addington,” Lorelei’s mother said, rolling her r’s regally, “was a noble, you know. He was the Duke of Oxford. He would never have said anything as distasteful as …” she paused, her face souring, “Me-maw.”
  
  Lorelei had never met her great-great grandfather, but she was sure that was true. “I think there’s something wrong with him,” she said.
  
  “Not to worry, my darlings. He is half-Addington,” William mocked, rolling his eyes. “He’ll be talking circles ‘round us in no time.” It turned out, he was right. And they didn’t have to wait very long.
  
  “Oh look, William,” Lorelei said during an afternoon stroll. “There’s a goose in Hampstead Pond. How lovely. Charles, can you say, ‘See the goose’?” she prompted.
  
  Charles peered into the water, and then back at his mother.
  
  She tried again, “Say, ‘See the goose.’ Come on, now. I know you can do it. ‘See the goose,” she said, louder.
  
  Charles laughed. “Aw, shucks, Maw, that ain’t no goose,” he said. “That there’s a Shitpoke.”
  
  “Well, there we are now, my dear,” William lifted his chin with pride. “His first sentence. I told you he’d come ‘round.”
  
  “Oh, good heavens,” Lorelei cried. She hurried Charles back into his pram and shoved a biscuit in his mouth. “For pity sakes, don’t say anything else until we get home,” she told him.
  
  Charles took the biscuit out of his mouth and dangled it from the carriage. It caught the attention of a hungry squirrel. When it scurried over to take a sniff, Charles grabbed it by the neck and hauled it into the carriage. He stuffed the tail into his mouth and chewed on that instead.
  
  Lorelei clutched her chest, batted at the squirrel, and shooed it away. “An Addington would never do such a vile thing. I must be doing something wrong,” she cried. “I will simply just have to try harder,” she vowed.
  
  Lorelei dressed Charles in rompers and bow ties.
  
  She took him to afternoon tea. “Remember to sit up straight and say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’,” she reminded him.
  
  “One lump or two?” The waitress asked, balancing a tray of fine china.
  
  “I reckon a tall glass of sweet tea and a heap ‘a corn bread ought to do the trick,” Charles said, patting his belly.
  
  “A what?” the waitress gaped.
  
  Charles reached over and pinched her behind.
  
  “Well, I never,” she huffed, hurrying away.
  
  Lorelei enrolled him in preparatory school and sent him to violin lessons.
  
  “Don’t you have ‘somethin I can stamp my feet to?” Charles asked after hearing the teacher play.
  
  “A violinist,” the instructor said, “does not ‘stamp’ anything.”
  
  Lorelei took him to museums and to Buckingham Palace, but it seemed that no matter what she tried, Charles would not act like an Addington.
  
  He wanted biscuits instead of crumpets and hid kidney pie in his socks.
  
  He preferred checkers to chess and refused to play rugby.
  
  “I do agree that it’s troubling, but don’t worry, my dear. He’ll come ‘round,” William said.
  
  “I certainly hope so,” Lorelei said.
  
  She hired a tutor and sent him to private school.
  
  “Charles, what is two times four?” the teacher asked, writing the equation on the board.
  
  “I figure a two by four is a good piece of lumber,” he answered.
  
  And while his peers joined the math league and delighted in cross country, Charles preferred fishing.
  
  Lorelei could barely get him out of the river and into the house long enough to even take a bath. “Come out of that filthy water at once,” she’d protest.
  
  “Let me be, woman,” he’d said. “I’m catching some supper.”
  
  “You’re not acting very much like an Addington. I doubt anyone in our family would ever do anything so atrocious,” she said.
  
  “Oh, I don’t care what a stupid old Addington would do,” Charles would sass. “I like fishing pretty near more’n anything.” He felt at home in the water, where the mud squished between his toes, and the mysteries of river were revealed with each reel of his line.
  
  As time passed, he felt more and more as though didn’t fit in in England any more than he fit in with the Addingtons. He was different on the inside and the out, but it didn’t bother him a much as it did his mother.
  
  “I just don’t know what to do with you,” Lorelei would cry.
  
  As time went on, she and Charles grew more distant. She loved him, but she didn’t understand him and he didn’t understand why acting a certain way was so important to her. They battled constantly about what Charles ought to be doing, and how he should behave. In the end, he was who he was. Much to Lorelei’s dismay, when he graduated from high school, he decided on trade school instead of college.
  
  “Trade schools are for commoners,” Lorelei protested. “An Addington would never learn a trade of any sort. Wouldn’t you rather go into finance or commerce or join the royal army?”
  
  “Nope. I want to build boats,” Charles said, and that’s just what he learned to do.
  
  Lorelei and William saw their son less and less and eventually, he moved to the United States and settled near the Mississippi River. He started his own canoe business and fished every chance he got. For the first time in his life, he felt like he fit in. He missed his parents, but it was nice not having anyone around to point out that he wasn’t acting like an Addington. For once, he could just be himself.
  
  Lorelei was beside herself. Despite their differences, she missed her son very much. She finally realized how wrong she’d been. What good was having a noble family if, in the end, you ended up with no family? “I’ve failed as a mother,” she sobbed to her mother.
  
  “Oh dear,” her mother said. “You haven’t failed. I have. There’s something I need to tell you.”
  
  Lorelei and William made the long journey to visit their son.
  
  When they got there, Lorelei jumped out of the car and ran to hug her son.
  
  “Hi, Maw,” he smiled.
  
  “Good heavens,” she cried. “What happened to your tooth?”
  
  “Oh, I knocked it out cutting down a tree,” he said, looking embarrassed. “I know, I know. I don’t look like an Addington,” he said.
  
  Lorelei was sheepish, “Let’s not worry about that right now. I want to know how you’re doing. Are you getting on okay?” she asked, looking him over.
  
  “I guess I’m all right,” Charles said. “I don’t live like nobility, but I’m happy enough.”
  
  Lorelei smiled. “That’s the most important thing.”
  
  “Have you found a young lady to settle with?” his father asked, cutting in.
  
  “Nah,” Charles said. “The girls don’t like me on account of my looks. I chase ‘em, but I ain’t caught one yet.”
  
  “Nonsense,” Lorelei said, kissing his cheek. “I think you’re quite handsome.”
  
  “Indeed. Takes right after the Whitby’s,” his father said proudly, straightening his collar.
  
  Lorelei cleared her throat. “I wanted to give you this,” she said, handing Charles a photograph album.
  
  “What is it?” he asked.
  
  “Pictures of your great-great-great grandfather. I thought you might like to see them.”
  
  “No, thanks,” Charles said, handing it back. “I know I’m a disappointment to you. I’m sure he’s fine and proper ‘n all that, but the truth is, I ain’t like him and I don’t care to be.”
  
  “Please,” Lorelei urged, quietly, “just have a look.”
  
  Charles sighed. Reluctantly, he accepted the album, and opened the cover. On the first page, there was a picture of a man standing by the edge of a creek, holding a long string of fish. As he flipped through the book, there were several other pictures of the same man. There was one of him frying crawdads, one of him dancing while someone played the fiddle, and one of him kissing a pretty young lady.
  
  “I don’t get it,” Charles said, scratching his head. “You sure this is my pappy? He don’t look like a duke at all.”
  
  Lorelei smiled. “That’s because he wasn’t.”
  
  “So, we ain’t noble?” Charles asked.
  
  “Not even a little bit,” Lorelei said. “You see, during the summer of 1888, your great-great- great grandmother, Rosalyn Davies, went on holiday to America and met a man. She fell in love, and became pregnant, which was quite scandalous, even though they intended to marry. Since she needed her parent’s permission, she had to take the boat back to England to get it. She knew her parents would be furious, and she was afraid they would send her away, so she told them that the father of her baby was the “Duke of Oxford.”
  
  “So, she lied?” Charles asked.
  
  “Technically, it wasn’t a lie. See here,” Lorelei said, pointing to the last picture. “Look at the handwriting underneath.”
  
  Charles read it aloud. “‘Felix “Duke” Hicks. Summer 1888.’”
  
  “That’s right. Your great-great-great grandfather’s name was Felix, but everyone called him Duke. It turns out we’re not Addingtons at all. We’re Hicks! Your great-great-great grandfather was from Oxford, Mississippi, not Oxford, England.
  
  “Well, what do you know about that?” Charles grinned. “That’s just where I live.”
  
  “Yes,” Lorelei said, “and there’s more. Apparently, Rosalyn’s parents were so thrilled with the prospects of having nobility in the family, they gave her permission to marry. Tragically, however, before your grandmother could make it back to America, she received word that your grandfather had died. His boat sank, and it’s assumed that he drowned while fishing on the Mississippi River. Your grandmother ended up marrying someone else, and her new husband, John Addington, insisted that the baby take his name. However, it didn’t stop her parents from telling everyone that your great-great-great grandfather had been a duke. Over time, people just naturally assumed it was on the Addington’s side. No one knew the difference, until your grandmother came across Rosalyn’s diaries tucked away in a safety deposit box a few months ago.”
  
  “So,” Charles said, “I guess I’m more like my great-great-great grandfather than you thought.”
  
  Lorelei nodded, then began to cry.
  
  “I’m sorry we ain’t noble,” Charles said, feeling bad for his mother.
  
  “I’m not crying about that,” she sniffled. “I’m just so sorry for trying to make you into something you were not. I have been such a fool. Can you ever forgive me?”
  
  “Course I can,” Charles said. “As long as you don’t mind that I fish, and drink sweet tea, and like building boats and such.”
  
  “I don’t mind at all,” Lorelei said, wiping her tears. “I’m actually very proud of you. You’ve done quite well for yourself, despite my dreadful parenting.”
  
  “Aww, shucks, Maw. You ain’t all that bad,” Charles said, giving his mother a hug. “Welp, I guess I’d better rustle you up some grub,” Charles said. “I sure hope ya’ll don’t mind, but I’m making crawdads.”
  
  “That sounds delightful,” Lorelei said. “I can’t wait to try one. I bet all the Hicks liked crawdads.”
  
  Charles grinned, “I don’t know about what other folks like and don’t like; I just know what I do,” he said, setting off to the kitchen.
  
  “Well, there we are now, my dear. I told you he’d come ‘round,” William whispered.
  
  “It wasn’t Charles that needed to. It was me, all along,” Lorelei said.
  
  Charles Whitby caught the biggest fish of his life the day his parents went back to England. He was teetering on the bow of a sturdy boat: a boat he’d built himself, reeling like mad and grinning like a fool as he fought with it, trying to keep its muddy, green head above the surface. “Whoo-weee,” he whistled when he finally wrestled it in. “You sure are a big ole sucker!”
  
  When he reached down to take the hook out, the fish spit right in his eye. “Ouch!” Charles yelped, covering his eye. “What in tarnation?”
  
  When he removed his hand, something fell out and clanked against the bottom of the boat. Charles bent to pick it up. “Huh,” he said, looking it over. “Looks like a tooth. A gold one.”
  
  He pondered on that a moment. “Welp, I might as well make some use of it,” he decided. He rinsed it off and stuck it where his own tooth used to be. It fit perfectly.
  
  “Hi there,” someone called out. “Can you help me?”
  
  Charles looked up. The prettiest girl he’d ever seen was standing on an island in the middle of the river.
  
  “My boat sank,” she said. “I seem to be stranded. I’d ‘a swum for shore, but this here river’s full of Cottonmouth snakes.”
  
  “Sure, I can help ya,” Charles said. “Hold on.” He paddled over and helped her into his boat.
  
  “Thank you,” she said, wringing out her hair, “I was s’glad you came along. I didn’t expect anyone to be out here today, especially someone so handsome,” she blushed.
  
  “Aww, shucks,” Charles grinned; his gold tooth glinted in the sunlight.
  
  “I’m real glad you were, though. Thanks again. I’m Maddy, by the way,” she said, holding out her hand, “and you’re my knight in shining armor,” she declared with a grateful smile. “From now on, I’ll call you…” she paused, “what’s your name?”
  
  “Charles,” Charles said.
  
  She laughed, “I shall call you Sir Charles, Knight of the Mississippi.”
  
  Charles frowned, “If it’s just the same to you, I’d just prefer just plain Charles.”
  
  End
  
  **This story originally appeared in The Hickory Stump Magazine. No part of this story may be copied or reproduced without consent from the author.
  
  Posted in shortstory | 0 Comments | Tagged crawdads, familydynamics, familyfriendly, fiction, fishing, gold tooth, hicks, humor, nobility, river, royalty, southern, tea
- Wawetseka
  
  Posted at 1:51 pm by writergherlone, on March 3, 2019
  
  Wawetseka
  
  Story and Art by Kristy Gherlone
  
  A single twig snapped. It broke the silence of a forest not yet awakened by the dawn. On slender, summer-browned legs, Wawetseka scuttled behind a shelter of cedars and pointed a bow and arrow in the direction of the noise. Fog ghosted up from the river and closed in around her, hindering her sight. She hissed and lowered her weapon. Batting at the air, she cursed the river spirit, Memekwesiw, for playing such childish games.
  
  With her vision limited, Wawetseka prayed for the clarity of her remaining senses. Grandmother Fox answered by lending her ears. Only then could Wawetseka hear a whisper of rustling leaves. Her heart skipped with excitement. She straightened and readied herself. A pair of antlers appeared through the haze. She began to tremble with anticipation. This was what she was meant to do. This was where she belonged. She closed her eyes and prayed for both serenity of mind and the surrounding elements. A successful hunt would show her grandmother and the others that Kisemanito, the Great Spirit, had made a mistake. He had sent her to mother earth in the wrong body. She was male no matter what she looked like on the outside.
  
  When she opened her eyes again, a tremendous deer was before her. A quick count revealed twenty tines on his rack. He was much bigger than any of the deer that Mingan had killed, or any that she had ever even seen. To bring home such a prize would be all the proof she needed. She willed Ehacatl, the God of Wind, to stay asleep, for the lightest breeze would reveal her. She beseeched Ayas, The Great Hero, to give her courage, for the slightest quiver would cause her to miss.
  
  The deer tossed his head as he grazed on acorns and the last of the season’s berries. Wawetseka considered her options. His neck was as thick as a bull moose’s and coursing with blood-ripe veins, but it made a poor target. The chest was too narrow and it was unlikely that she could reach the heart. Broadside was best. Puncturing the liver was the surest kill, but she’d have to wait for him to turn and still. There could be no mistakes.
  
  Her decision made, she trained the arrow towards the deer’s side and followed his movements as he foraged. Her heart quickened when he paused to chew. Beads of sweat broke out on her lip as she steadied her shot. She squinted through one eye to streamline her focus. Without warning, a collection of unwelcoming dew rained down from the branches above and drummed onto her head. Wawetseka squeaked and released the tension in her bow arm. The deer’s head snapped up as he finally noticed her hiding in the trees. Their gazes connected and for the briefest of moments, an understanding passed between them that no mortal creature could conceive. When the moment passed, the buck’s nostrils flared. Wawetseka was afraid to blink for fear he would flee. He snorted and pawed at the ground, tossing his antlers around in a show of aggression. Wawetseka prayed to Nanabozho to help restore peace. The deer grunted and sniffed the air but resumed his feast. Relieved, Wawetseka sighed inwardly and thanked Nanabozho. She shivered as the moisture seeped into her scalp, trickled the length of her braid and onto her dress. She would not show her discomfort. She wouldn’t give the Apiscinis the satisfaction. It was becoming clear that Kisemanito was angry with her for taking Mingan’s bow. In revenge for her crime, he had sent Wesakechak, the God of Mischief, to ruin her hunt.
  
  Though her legs ached, Wawetseka maintained her position. She braced as the deer paused to gnaw a mouthful of vegetation. Her arm shook with effort as she pulled back the fiber as far as it would stretch. Withholding her breath to keep the arrow from jiggling around, she took aim.
  
  “Wawetseka!” Mingan’s rebuke broke the silence. Wawetseka’s concentration shattered, and she stumbled under the unexpected intrusion. The arrow soared as it loosed prematurely from her grasp. It struck the deer in the flank. Startled and wounded, he took flight and raced away so fast he might have been a dream. Wawetseka cried out. She threw down the bow and, ignoring Mingan, ran to where the deer had been. She fell to the earth and pawed through the forest debris for signs of blood. If he’d left a trail, she could follow it and still make her kill.
  
  Suddenly, she was wrenched from the ground. Mingan held her belt as she thrashed around in mid-air. “You’re a thief!” he accused. “What kind of woman would steal from her future husband?” he demanded, shaking his property.
  
  Wawetseka spit in his face. “I am not a woman, and you are no husband of mine. Not now. Not ever.” The thought of lying with Mingan was too disgusting to imagine. Whenever she was reminded of their upcoming marriage, it was as though Kacitowaskw, The Bear, had cornered her on a cliff. She could choose to fall or to be ripped apart by Kacitowaskw’s teeth. Either way, death would be more pleasant than lying with a man.
  
  Mingan released her. She landed heavily in the dirt. “I see you are still convinced that Kisemanito is a fool,” he scoffed.
  
  “He is a fool!” Wawetseka cried, rising to her knees. She hated Kisemanito for his mistake. She hated both him and Mingan for thwarting her hunt.
  
  “You shouldn’t say such things,” Mingan scowled. “Kisemanito will curse you.”
  
  “He already has,” Wawetseka wept. “I am male. Kisemanito has ruined my life!”
  
  “Really?” Mingan scoffed. “A male?”
  
  “I have known I was male since my first memories. Why is it that you cannot see? Why is it that no one can see?”
  
  “Oh, I would like to see. Let’s check.” Mingan grinned. He kicked her back down and pinned her under the weight of his foot. Wawetseka tried to get away, but he wrested her over and yanked up her dress.
  
  Wawetseka kicked and bit at Mingan. His creeping fingers felt like invading beetles that had no business on her body. She prayed for Pinesiw, The Thunderbird, to carry her away, but he did not answer. Her woman’s body was powerless against Mingan’s strength. He managed to pry her legs apart as daylight broke through the trees. It cast away the remaining shadows and illuminated her most private place. The wilderness awakened and every creature seemed to leer at her. “I don’t see a member. You are still split,” Mingan smirked. He shook his head and laughed.
  
  Wawetseka’s cheeks flamed and tears filled her eyes. They had no right to see her. They were stealing from her. Maybe this was her penance for taking Mingan’s bow. “Let me go!” she screamed.
  
  She couldn’t breathe when Mingan moved his own clothing aside. “This is what a man looks like,” he said. His voice grew husky and his gaze darkened. Wawetseka shuddered. She turned away, completely repulsed.
  
  “Get up,” Mingan’s lip curled. He released his clothing and covered himself. Wawetseka nearly wept with relief. “Go back to the village and speak of this to no one. I will clean up your mess.” He snatched his bow and arrow, and headed into the woodland.
  
  Sniffling, Wawetseka sat up. She glowered in the direction that Mingan had gone and prayed for the Mishipizhi to remove him from the earth.
  
  “Wawetseka!” her grandmother exclaimed upon seeing her. “What has happened to you?” Wawetseka’s hands rushed to her head. Her braid had unwound and her hair was littered with pine needles, dried leaves, and dirt. “Nothing has happened, Kokum. I am fine.” She sighed and shook out some of the debris. Wawetseka kissed her grandmother’s cheek and hoped she didn’t suspect anything. She would be furious to know that Wawetseka had been hunting. She did not agree that Wawetseka was a man. In Wawetseka’s youth, she had idolized her grandmother, but with each passing year, she’d felt her hands tightening around her neck as if the older woman were trying to choke out her identity. Wawetseka’s one wish was that she could be accepted in her true form. Was it not possible to feel like a man but look like a woman?
  
  “But where have you been?” her grandmother asked, reaching for the brush.
  
  “Searching for the berries for Nuttah’s dress. I fell asleep in the forest,” Wawetseka lied, averting her gaze to avoid further scrutiny.
  
  “Come. Sit.” Her grandmother frowned, motioning to a pine stump.
  
  Wawetseka sat. She grimaced as her grandmother’s hands worked through the tangles. “You are a dusty flower,” her grandmother remarked. “When will you embrace your womanhood? How will Mingan love you when you look like this?”
  
  “I don’t know, and I don’t care,” Wawetseka snapped, flashing with anger at his name.
  
  The brush came down hard across Wawetseka’s back. Wawetseka yelped. She fumed as her grandmother ripped through her hair with increasing intensity. She sat on her hands to keep from pushing her away. “You’d better care!” Wawetseka’s grandmother chastised. “He’s going to be your husband in one week.”
  
  Bile rose in the back of Wawetseka’s throat. No one should have the power to choose another’s mate.
  
  Her grandmother finished and refashioned Wawetseka’s braid. “Hurry up, now,” she said as she swatted Wawetseka’s bottom. “The others are waiting for you to help finish the blankets.”
  
  Wawetseka joined the other women in the making tent. It did not feel right to her to be there. She belonged in the forest, tracking her deer. She smiled only when she noticed that Nuttah was there. Nuttah’s delicate fingers worked a needle through the tough seal hide with ease. Nuttah was beautiful, and her heart was pure. She didn’t care that Wawetseka didn’t look like a man. Nuttah was proud of the way she looked. Wawetseka sat next to her, breathing in her flowery scent as she began to work.
  
  “You look nice today,” Nuttah whispered shyly. Their hands brushed. Wawetseka’s heart soared.
  
  At mid-day, the voices of many rose suddenly through the village. The women dropped their blankets and rushed outside to see what was wrong. A crowd had gathered, and people were cheering. Wawetseka pushed her way to the front. Mingan displayed her buck across his shoulders. She was consumed by rage and jealousy.
  
  The people shouted, “Amazing! You are a legend! You are a hero!”
  
  The great weight of the deer buckled Mingan’s knees. He heaved the beast over his head and dropped it for everyone to admire. Murmurs of appreciation and awe rippled through the crowd in waves. Even Nuttah patted Mingan’s back in a show of respect. Wawetseka wanted to die. The congratulations belonged to her. Nuttah should have touched her back.
  
  Mingan saw Wawetseka. He nodded. For a second, she thought he might still offer her a small measure of credit. She composed herself and waited, but he gave her no mention. “Is he not the biggest? Is he not the best?” he boasted with a grin instead. Hateful thoughts filled Wawetseka’s head. If she’d had a bow and arrow at that moment, she would have used it to kill him.
  
  “You are the greatest hunter!” the people admitted. “You are the greatest man ever!”
  
  Wawetseka couldn’t watch any more. She had no way to prove that the deer was hers. She had no way to prove what she felt in her heart. She and Nuttah would be doomed to a lifetime of secrets. There was nothing else she could do. Her people would never accept her the way she was. Someone would always take from her the things she had earned and make her do things she didn’t want to do. She ran from the village and kept running until she reached the river. She jumped into the shallows, so full of despair that even Memekwesiw could feel it. He warmed the water to show remorse for his part in her turmoil. Wawetseka’s mind raced. She thought about Nuttah. She wanted to be with her, but how would she care for her if she wasn’t allowed to hunt? She considered how her grandmother always pushed her towards something she didn’t want. She considered Mingan. If she were to marry him, he would always overpower her. Her true soul would be lost forever. She contemplated being woman but feeling like a man. Why had Kisemanito made her so different? She found her reflection in the water. She didn’t hate the way she looked and Nuttah thought she was beautiful, but it was hopeless. Without the parts of a male, Wawetseka could not be with her. No one would allow it.
  
  She removed the binding on her braid. Ehacatl blew on her hair to set it free. She decided to confront Kisemanito. “I know I have not been nice to you, but you have wronged me,” she declared. “You made a mistake, and I want you to fix it.” Wawetseka waited, but Kisemanito did not answer. She pulled a sharp stone from her belt and drew it across her wrist. Blood gushed from her veins and spilled over, staining the water red. She grew dizzy and fell. Kisemanito finally appeared as she drifted in and out of consciousness. “Courage,” he said. Wawetseka did not understand. He laid his hand upon her head. “Be still of mind, my mortal flower. For when you wake, all will be as it should.”
  
  When Wawetseka awoke, she knew that something was different. She peered down at her body, expecting to find muscles and manhood, but instead she saw a beast. She was misshapen and covered with fur. Her feet had not toes, but hooves. Her head was heavy. She gazed into the river at her reflection. Giant antlers adorned her head. She spied a male part dangling between her legs. Kisemanito had made her a male, but not a human male. He had tricked her!
  
  She had the strongest desire to eat from the forest. It did not seem foreign to do so. Suddenly starved, as if she hadn’t eaten for days, she snatched a mouthful of leaves from the bank. Finally, she emerged from the water. Memekwesiw created a thick shroud of fog to help mute her footsteps as she proceeded into the timberland in search of more food. When she paused to graze on fallen acorns, a small noise insulted the stillness of the early morning forest. It might be a mouse, but she wasn’t sure. There could be danger. Wawetseka stopped eating and sniffed the air. Her brain told her to flee, but when she looked up, she saw herself; her human form was hiding in the trees. She was holding a bow and arrow. Her eyes were full of the same desperation and longing she knew all too well. The scene was familiar, as if she had lived it before. Mesmerized, Wawetseka could not look away.
  
  Wawetseka saw Mingan storming through the brume. She startled and then pawed at the earth, throwing her head around to show how much stronger she was than he. She had lived this before; This same endless loop. Just how many times was hard to say.
  
  Mishipizhi hissed in the distance, asking what to do. Wawetseka remembered how she’d prayed for him to remove Mingan from the earth. She had a choice. The power was hers. ‘Courage,’ Kisemanito had said and now she understood.
  
  She grunted, giving her permission. She raised her head and accepted, with bravery, the arrow that would pierce her lungs.
  
  End
  
  **NO part of this story my be copied or reproduced without written consent from the author.
  
  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged fiction, gender, genderroles, hardship, hunting, love, shortstory, spirits
- Piano Hoarding Christians
  
  Posted at 6:56 pm by writergherlone, on December 10, 2018
  
  **This story is a reprint. First electronic rights belong to Defenestration Literary Magazine and was originally published on January 24, 2018
  
  Piano Hoarding Christians
  
  by Kristy Gherlone
  
  The people across the street will not teach me piano. They told me ‘no’, even after I had put on a clean shirt, combed my hair, and walked all the way over there. I thought it would be like asking for a cup of sugar, like neighbors sometimes do. “Will you teach me piano?” I asked nicely.
  
  The woman who answered the door smiled and then frowned. “Oh, do you hear us playing? I hope we’re not too loud.” She glanced over at my house as if she were trying to gauge the distance of sound waves.
  
  “No, it’s not too loud,” I said. “So will you?”
  
  “Have you ever played before?”
  
  “No,” I said.
  
  “Do you own a piano?”
  
  “No.”
  
  “Hmm,” she said, batting at my cigarette smoke, “I don’t think so.”
  
  “Shit,” I said.
  
  “Well, thanks for stopping by. Bye,” she sang. She started to close the door, but I shoved my foot in just in time. “Wait! How about one of your kids? Maybe one of them can teach me.”
  
  “Hmm,” she said again, fiddling with the cross around her neck. “I don’t think so, but if you ever need sugar, we have plenty of that.” She kicked my foot out of the way and closed the door.
  
  I flicked my cigarette butt into their driveway, walked back across the street, and sat on my front steps.
  
  “Well?” my husband asked.
  
  “Hold on,” I said. I picked up my gun, aimed, and finally shot the bastard squirrel that had been chewing up the walls in our house. I put the gun down. “They won’t do it,” I told him.
  
  “I think they’re religious,” he said, as if that was an explanation. “Do you know they have seven children?” he added.
  
  “I know. I’ve seen the little brats. I think they all play the piano. It’s not very Christian to hoard all the piano music knowledge.”
  
  “I don’t think they hoard all the piano music knowledge. Besides, you have your own music,” he said; and he was right. I did have my music. I had The Medic Droid. I liked to listen to “Fer Sure,” when I mowed the lawn in my bathrobe. And I had Metallica. I liked to listen to them when I drank beer and took selfies on the front porch in my underwear.
  
  I scowled at their house. Someone closed the curtains.
  
  Not one of them came over to tell me they’d changed their mind, and now I hear them all hours of the day, tapping out their soothing, melodic rhythms, like they’re trying to taunt me. Like they’re rubbing it in.
  
  I seethe.
  
  When I’m never a concert pianist, I will blame them.
  
  ***No Part of this story may be copied or reproduced without consent from the author.
  
  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged #prose, christians, fakenonfiction, hillbilly, humor, music, piano, shortstory, teaching
- Ice Cream or Moxie
  
  Posted at 1:39 pm by writergherlone, on November 8, 2018
  
  *This story originally appeared in Short Fiction Break and went on to The Metaworker.
  
  **No part of this story may be copied or reproduced without written consent from the author.
  
  Ice Cream or Moxie
  
  by Kristy Gherlone
  
  In the heat of the summer, back when Willow’s mother slipped in and out of lunacy, sometimes she’d wake up at night to find her sitting on the edge of her bed. She’d whisper, “I’m in the mood for something sweet. Let’s walk to Mulberry’s. It’s a good night for ice cream.”
  
  Willow would search her eyes. If they seemed contented, she would slide out of bed and allow herself to be pulled out into the dark.
  
  Mulberry’s was a hike, but electric energy buzzed through her mother as they walked along. It felt like carnival rides and fireworks. Like parades and Christmas. The feeling was catching. It felt like she could walk until dawn without getting tired.
  
  All at once, Willow wanted to skip and run! She wanted to laugh out loud and dance around, but didn’t. Instead, she stayed silent, letting the humid air wrap around her shoulders, while her mother gushed on and on about the things they were going do that summer.
  
  They would go to the ocean and eat lobsters! They would climb the mountain and rent a cabin at the lake! They would have picnics at the park and go to the town pool every day! Willow wanted to get excited about those things, but couldn’t.
  
  Her mother would stop to point out stars. She’d show her the Milky Way and the Big Dipper. Then she would begin to tell Willow about the sky in Arizona, where she’d grown up. “You should have seen all those stars. There were millions of them out there in the desert. I swear you could see all the way to heaven, if you wanted to.”
  
  Willow’s stomach would tighten.
  
  “Sometimes, I wish I’d never left. I wish…” her mother would say, her feet slowing.
  
  Luna Moths danced around the street lamps overhead, attracted by the light and warmth. Sometimes, Willow felt like a Luna Moth, lured into the brightness only to get burned.
  
  “I wish…”
  
  Willow could hear motorcycles and cars zipping up and down Main Street. “We’re almost there. Thanks for bringing me! It is a good night for ice cream,” she would say, trying to lighten the mood again, if it wasn’t too late.
  
  “…I wish I’d never met your father…What? What did you say, Willow?”
  
  “We’re almost to the store.”
  
  “What? Oh. Well, I’m not getting ice cream. I think I’ll have a Moxie instead.”
  
  Willow’s mother drank Moxie when her mood was changing. She said it reminded her of how bitter life could be.
  
  A few doors down from Mulberry’s, there was a bar. There were always a few people milling around out front smoking cigarettes. Willow would try to pull her mother into the store before anything bad could happen.
  
  “I bet your father’s in there. I bet he’s with a woman,” she’d hiss, her eyes growing dark.
  
  “I can’t decide if I want a Strawberry Shortcake or a Crunch. What do you think?” Willow would ask, starting up the steps.
  
  “Oh, I don’t care what you get! As a matter of fact, if you want ice cream so badly, you should go ask your father! Why do I have to pay for everything while he’s out having a grand old time?”
  
  “I don’t know,” Willow would say.
  
  “Just forget it. I’m not in the mood now. Let’s go,” her mother would say, whipping around and storming towards home.
  
  Willow walked alone on the return, her mother having retreated inside of her own mind. She’d call out, spitting questions, and slinging insults at people who weren’t there. There were no promises of good things to come. Her energy was gone. It was catching. Willow would get so tired, it felt as if she could sleep for a week.
  
  When they’d get back home, Willow would fall into bed. After a time, her mother would peek her head in through the door. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Maybe tomorrow we’ll try again.”
  
  “Okay,” Willow would yawn. “That would be fun.”
  
  “Willow?”
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  “Sometimes we do get ice cream, don’t we?”
  
  “Sometimes we do and sometimes we get Moxie.”
  
  “Oh, I don’t like Moxie. It’s so bitter.” Willow’s mother would say. “Ice cream is so much sweeter.”
  
  Posted in #prose | 0 Comments | Tagged childhood, divorce, familyfriendly, fiction, icecream, maine, mentalillness, moxie, parenting, shortstory, summer
- Wayward Child
  
  Posted at 8:54 pm by writergherlone, on September 21, 2018
  
  *For my latest magazine publications see: “English Tea and Crawdads,” in The Hickory Stump and “When Gracie was Four,” in Down and Dirty Presents, The Legendary.
  
  Wayward Child
  
  by Kristy Gherlone
  
  Mama had a wayward child, but that child wasn’t me. Timmy-Tom was pickle juice, cider, and pockets full of slugs. He was armpit farts, soda burps, and ‘I don’t know how to whisper.’ He was dog poop on sneakers and a grimy mud puddle diver. He was crossing his eyes, sticking his tongue out, and coughing without covering his mouth.
  
  Mama had an obedient child, and that child was surely me. I was chocolate cake, and Kool-Aid, and pockets full of buttons. I was piano music, alphabet reciter, and singing in the shower. I was sequins on sneakers and reading a book under a tree. I was combed hair, smiles, and saying ‘please and thank-you.’
  
  Mama said, “You kids come on in now. It’s time for your bath.”
  
  Timmy-Tom said, “I ain’t takin’ a bath.”
  
  I said, “It’s, ‘I’m not taking a bath.’”
  
  Mama said, “Don’t you kids sass me. Both of you get in here now.”
  
  Timmy-Tom got into the bath after me. The water turned dingy-brown.
  
  Mama came in and saw the water. She said, “You kids are filthy! I told you to stay out of the mud.”
  
  I said, “I wasn’t in the mud. Timmy-Tom was.”
  
  Mama said, “It’s not nice to tattle.”
  
  Timmy-Tom grinned and stuck his tongue out at me.
  
  Mama dried us off and said, “Off to bed. You’ve got school in the morning.”
  
  Timmy-Tom said, “I hate school. I ain’t goin’.”
  
  I said, “It’s, I hate school and I’m not going.”
  
  Mama said, “I don’t know what the matter is with you two today, but you’re both acting naughty. No television. I want you to go right to sleep.” She gave us each a kiss and turned out the light.
  
  Timmy-Tom waited until mama went downstairs. He got out of bed, turned the television on, and jumped back into bed.
  
  I got out of bed to turn the television off, but mama came storming up the stairs and said, “I told you no television. I guess Timmy-Tom was the only one who listened. He can have an extra pancake at breakfast tomorrow.”
  
  Timmy-Tom said, “Yippee,” and coughed in my face.
  
  The next morning mama said, “You kids go across the street and borrow an egg from the Fitzsimmons’. Don’t forget to watch for cars.”
  
  When we got to the end of the driveway I said, “Check for cars, Timmy-Tom, before you cross the road.”
  
  Timmy-Tom ran across without looking so I ran after him and a car almost hit me! The sound of screeching brakes sent mama flying to the door. She shouted, “I told you not to cross the road without checking! You could have been killed! No desert for you after dinner tonight.”
  
  Timmy-Tom laughed.
  
  At the breakfast table, Timmy-Tom said, “I’m sure glad I have this extra pancake. It’s really yummy. I bet you wish you had an extra pancake.” He smiled, put his hand under his armpit, and made a farting noise.
  
  I grabbed Timmy-Tom’s plate and smashed it over his head.
  
  Mama said, “Samuel Richard! It is NEVER okay to hit another person. Not ever. That was very wrong. I’m afraid you must be punished.”
  
  So now I’m in the corner.
  
  Mama has a wayward child and I guess that child must be me.
  
  End
  
  *No part of this story may be copied or reproduced without consent of the author.
  
  **Photo is the author on her 1st Birthday.
  
  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged childhood, familyfriendly, fiction, flashfiction, humor, kids, parenting, shortstory, siblingrivalry, siblings
- THE WILD
  
  Posted at 11:30 am by writergherlone, on August 14, 2018
  
  Photo Credit: Sasha Fleming
  
  THE WILD
  
  by Kristy Gherlone
  
  Into a wild forest ragged and sharp,
  
  A tormented mind with thoughts so unsweet.
  
  Making her way to ascend the escarp,
  
  To hasten a day a future won’t meet.
  
  The air sweetened by raspberries and pine,
  
  Past crystal waters raging swiftly rushed,
  
  A small child traveled, unseen, not a sign,
  
  On that mountain, followed quietly hushed.
  
  Aloft, head laid stones, greened softly of moss,
  
  Ending a life of unbearable loss.
  
  And sun, beginning to set on the wild,
  
  Only then did she happen to see her poor child.
  
  The waning view of fir waves and lake,
  
  Morning will find neither one to awake.
  
  *No part of this poem may be copied or reproduced without permission from the author
  
  **Photo is the property of Sasha Fleming and may not be used without permission
  
  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged childloss, grief, loss, mountains, nature, parenting, poetry, sonnet, suffering, wilderness
- The Long Dirt Road
  
  Posted at 1:42 am by writergherlone, on June 2, 2018
  
  *Some of the stories shared on this page will probably never be seen in the literary magazines. However, I feel that they have some value and I’m glad to share them with you. “The Long Dirt Road” is the beginning of a series that appeared on my Facebook last year. These stories are about growing up in the Maine woods in a cabin at the lake without electricity or running water in the late 1970’s and early 80’s. Writing them brought me back to that time and I was able to re-capture some of the thrills and the challenges faced. I hope you find some thrills in reading them. (the photo presented is an actual photo of me during that time)
  
  The Long Dirt Road
  
  Part One: A Story of Summer
  
  By Kristy Gherlone
  
  There’s a road that inhabits a fair amount of space in my mind. I call it forward whenever I need a smile. I close my eyes and suddenly it’s there. Long and narrow, wash boarded and potholed. When I was a child, it was as familiar to me as it was a mystery. While the road itself didn’t change, the scenery often did. I never knew what we might see as my dad and I drove along.
  
  Sometimes there were moose. They’d come crashing out of the woods, shaking their heads and twitching their ears, crazy from the black flies and heat. They’d stomp all gangly legged in front of us before turning to trot back in again. I felt bad for them. They were tormented by bugs in the summer, and up to their bellies in snow during the winter. I used to try and convince my dad to build houses for them to escape to.
  
  If we were lucky, there might be a black bear nibbling raspberries in the dusty bushes that lined the sides, but they were either shy or snobby. They didn’t care for company, and would bound off as soon as they heard us coming. To see one was a real treat.
  
  I’d scan obsessively for bull frogs all along that road. They’d sit in the puddles, snapping up flies. I could spot their glassy eyes protruding on the murky surface a mile away, but they would always dive under as we neared, sending ripples in their wake. They couldn’t hide from me. I’d go back later to collect them. Knee deep in mud catching frogs was my life!
  
  I remember rolling down the window on the gold Custom Deluxe truck.
  
  I used to poke my head out and breathe in the powerful, tangy scent of pines. To this day, that smell makes me happy in a way that can’t be duplicated. The stream that ran along most parts of the road rushed restlessly in the spring and trickled lazily in the fall. Its smell was both boggy and clean as we drove over it on the old splintered bridge. I used to dream about the fish I’d catch in there the next time I had the chance and then I’d hang out as far as I could and try to spit far enough to hit the water.
  
  I’d reach out when we came to the clusters of sapling trees and let the leaves tickle my palm. Every now and then I’d find a big one and tear it off.
  
  Dad would say, “You know what that is, don’t ya? It’s woodsman’s toilet paper!”
  
  I’d watch for the brown wooden sign that said ‘You are now entering Indian Purchase land.’ I used to envision a whole tribe of Native Americans coming out of the woods. Their bows and arrows would be poised and ready to stop us from going further.
  
  And then I’d see the tree that stood at the entrance to our turn-off. It meant we were almost to our destination. It was a gorgeous tree, towering well above the rest. Its leaves blazed orange before turning fiery red late in the season. I could hardly stay in my seat with all of the butterflies jumping around in my belly.
  
  In June that road seemed a thousand miles long! We could never get to the end fast enough, but only because it led to Summer’s treasure box. Camp!
  
  Three whole months of fishing, swimming, bike riding and frog catching fun. There would be games of monopoly, and log hopping around the cove. I’d blaze trails through the forest! I’d sit on the big gray rock, high above the lake, and watch for shooting stars at night. The possibilities were as boundless as my energy.
  
  In late August that road seemed barely a mile. It went too quick! I was sure the very trip would ruin my life. Traveling south, it led back to town. School and dance lessons. Homework and bedtimes. Yuck!
  
  In reality, the road was no more than eight or ten miles, but I’ve traveled it so often it might now add up to a million.
  
  Of course, these days, I mostly travel it in my mind, but it’s definitely a road that’s worth the journey.
  
  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged cabins, childhood, maine, nature, shortstory
- Aloft
  
  Posted at 11:38 am by writergherlone, on April 3, 2018
  
  Aloft
  
  by Kristy Gherlone
  
  The eagle watches the doe step cautiously into the fringes of the Klondike.
  
  He has been stalking her for days, waiting for a moment like this. The vastness of the terrain will give him an edge.
  
  He studies her with hunger and curiosity. These willowy beings dance about on earthbound legs that are as delicate as spring shoots. He knows from experience, however, that they only appear that way. She will slice through him in seconds with those sharp hooves if she can. It is a risk he is willing to take. Starvation is all around him. It has been some time since he’s had fresh meat.
  
  The withering grassland comes to life with scattering creatures as the doe begins her passage.
  
  Chickadee’s chatter, seet seet,dee dee dee, before taking flight to hide among the brush.
  
  His attention is averted by a flash of white. A snowshoe hare darts in and out of a maze of burrows. He is tempted but bound by a greater purpose than himself.
  
  His focus sharpens as the doe stops to sniff around. The north winds would reveal much, but the air is as still as the frozen surface of the river.
  
  She is winter-weak and pregnant. Her coat is sparse and ragged. With the safety of the forest still in her midst, she proceeds, nibbling at bits of evergreen along the way.
  
  His talons retract, and he breaks away from the balsam to follow. His shadow spirits where the light touches the remaining snow.
  
  She senses his presence. Her nostrils flare, sending out wisps of smoke as she wheezes in the chilly, spring air. The white of her tail signals an alarm.
  
  He lands silently onto a Candlewood branch nearby. The bough dips under his weight before bouncing back in to place.
  
  She stomps a warning, her muscles twitching, as she decides whether to stay or to flee. The veins pulse in her neck.
  
  His stomach tightens as he breathes in the scent of adrenaline rich blood, but he must wait.
  
  Eventually, she relaxes again and wobbles over to a patch of grass. She paws at the earth and lies down. The bulging hulk of her middle heaves with contractions.
  
  The eagle regards the terrain. A lone coyote hides among the cedars. Careful, yet daring, he emerges. Without a pack, he will go into battle alone. He lowers his head and begins to advance. His lolling tongue drips with saliva as he zig-zags over the plain.
  
  The doe’s eyes widen as she realizes the danger. She bleats and tries to rise, but water gushes from her hindquarters. Her knees buckle, and she falls back to the ground.
  
  The coyote prances all around her, narrowing the gap with every rotation. He lashes out with snarled lips and bared teeth, taking nips wherever he finds purchase.
  
  She kicks, sending him backwards. Dust and debris fly into the air. Dazed but unbroken, he lies askew. He shakes his head, trying to regain composure before beginning again.
  
  The eagle descends. The tips of his wings brush the snow where he lands. He waits patiently in the shadows.
  
  She turns her attention to the birth. Gangly feet dangle precariously from her rump. She tugs at them with her teeth.
  
  The coyote rises.
  
  Light mist begins to fall. Beads of moisture collect on budded branches and spill over. Mixing with blood, they carve red rivers into the turf as they wash away. The air begins to move, sending wafts of flavor all around them.
  
  The coyote can wait no longer. The pads of his feet hit the ground, thumping in rhythm with beating hearts. He growls and lunges, striking her throat. His teeth clamp down and hold. The doe flips her body, trying shake him, but it does nothing more than hasten her demise. He tears through her neck. Her eyes fix on the horizon, looking toward something the eagle cannot see.
  
  The coyote raises his head and announces victory. He rips through her flesh, tossing out tufts of fur to get to the meat. Captured by the wind, they swirl through the air and alight into the sky.
  
  New life emerges into a motherless world. It squirms inside of a sack, trying to break free.
  
  Awkward upon landing, the eagle hops over to the bundle, casting a wary eye towards the coyote. He may rule the skies, but on earth he is merely a beggar.
  
  The coyote stops his feast. They stare at one another. A silent agreement passes between them.
  
  The eagle uses both beak and feet to open the pouch. Water oozes out, spilling the tiny fawn onto the grass. It blinks up at him and mewls, its gaze full of needful wanting. He cocks his head, reminded of his own young. Each newborn beast is so similar until they are polluted by age and circumstance.
  
  He leans in to take a whiff. It smells delicious.
  
  He snatches it and pushes off, using the currents to keep him aloft. The strength of his wings are tested under the weight of his wiggling bundle. He digs in, trying to maintain hold. The creature is silenced.
  
  His journey is long. On the distant horizon, where the mountain meets the sky and dark green hills erupt from the earth, waterfalls pause suspended, and the lakes are still mirrors of glass, he finds home. He has been gone a long time.
  
  He calls out, wheee hee. Wheee hee hee.
  
  His mate does not reply. He hears only the wind and the sound of his own voice echoing through the empty places in the valley.
  
  Wheee hee. He calls again.
  
  There is no movement as he nears. He lands to find the nest empty. Downy feathers whirl around in the breeze.
  
  He lays down the fawn and begins to feast. Tomorrow he must begin anew.
  
  **NO part of this story may be copied or reproduced with written consent from the author.
  
  .
  
  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged #newstory, amwriting, birds, coyotes, eagles, familyfriendly, fiction, hunting, nature, shortstory, wilderness, wildlifehabits, writing
- Nest Egg
  
  Posted at 1:52 pm by writergherlone, on March 25, 2018
  
  Nest Egg
  
  By Kristy Gherlone
  
  Every year when the earth decided it was time to flip over and get some color on the other side, the south wind got to missing the north so bad, she’d start crying and fill up the creeks and rivers with her sorrows.
  
  Then the north would get to missing the south, so they’d race towards one another and meet in the middle for a kiss so dizzying it would run the sea boats aground.
  
  The trees would get sappy about the whole ordeal and weep tears so sweet, the ground would open right up and swallow them whole. Eventually, it would turn green with sickness, and busting out of its bloomers, spew colors so bright they would melt what was left of the snow.
  
  The fish would get blue and start blubbering about being homesick. They’d swim up the fertile rivers to their old homesteads, running an uphill battle to raise a brood of kids to keep the loneliness at bay.
  
  Undoubtedly, all the commotion would ruffle a few feathers. The birds would decide it was time to get away from the whole soppy mess, high tail it out of there, and head to New England where things were a bit more conservative.
  
  Maribel was one of those, and one year she was just dusting with more anticipation than normal to leave.
  
  Over the winter she’d become quite vain, having overheard some tweets about how nicely she decorated her nests. She always did care a little too much about what others thought, but it got her to wondering about what treasures she’d find in the north. If the south had such beautiful things, the north was sure to have even better.
  
  She’d already acquired quite a few items and, reluctant to leave them behind, bartered with the trade winds to carry them up for her.
  
  And so it was that, after settling in for the long summer ahead, while the other members of her flock were gathering seeds and soft nesting materials, Maribel was out shopping. She had a keen eye and managed to amass quite a clutch of goods.
  
  She found strings of shiny silver, tufts of powder blue rope, beads, smooth rocks, and colorful wrappers. Tucking them gently into her beak, she carried them home and laid them out to admire before arranging them attractively around her home. Her nest wasn’t comfortable, nor was it warm, but it was pretty. Surely everyone would be jealous. She sat waiting for them to notice, but they were too busy raising their young to care.
  
  Unfortunately, the only ones that did pay her any mind were the black hooded thieves who’d come stealing in all hours of the day. They had eyes for shiny things too, and were either too lazy or cheap to get their own stuff, and so preferred to peck and choose from Maribel’s collection. She kept guard, working herself into a frazzle, as she’d heard they could be quite murderous.
  
  Unwilling to go out on a limb and leave her wealth for even a second, Maribel grew thin and tired. She started to doubt she’d have enough energy to make the trip back south.
  
  When Mother Nature began to blush, right before she undressed for the season, Maribel, as small minded as she was, realized that she had a problem. Glittery things were great to look at, but they couldn’t feed you. And while she took a lot of pleasure in counting and re-counting her hoard, it didn’t do a lot towards keeping her warm.
  
  She gave her precious valuables one last wistful look before taking flight in search for food. It was scarce by that time, but she managed to scrape enough together. She nibbled until she was able to find the strength to catch the last warm breeze streaming to the south. She vowed never to let vanity get in the way again.
  
  She caught up to some others, who were already in deep conversation and didn’t notice her arrival. “Have you seen Maribel lately? She’s lost so much weight! I wish I could have a figure like that. I’m so jealous.”
  
  Posted in #prose, nature, shortstory, Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged #newstory, #prose, nature
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