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    • Nest Egg

      Posted at 1:52 pm by writergherlone, on March 25, 2018

      IMG_9526

      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
    • No Parking

      Posted at 1:56 pm by writergherlone, on February 28, 2018

      Abandoned school bus.

       

       

      No Parking

      By Kristy Gherlone

       

      It was early September in 1973 when Stevie stood in bare feet on the edge of her grandmother’s yard and watched the bus pull up and park.

      The ground was chilly that time of year in Maine, but her feet had grown so tough and calloused over the summer, she hardly even noticed.

      She went out to the street and circled the length of the bus. It might have been bright red at one time, but a layer of rust clung to the exterior. It made the whole thing look as if it had been painted with blood and set out in the sun to dry. She shook her head and sighed. The entrance doors screeched as they flapped open. Her mother poked her head out and grinned. “Hey, kiddo. Whaddya think?”

      “Are we really going to live in that thing?” Stevie asked.

      Before her mother could answer, the rear exit opened with a clanking boom and slammed against the side of the bus. It caught Stevie off guard, making her jump. The heel of her foot landed on a sharp stone. She cried out and hopped around, rubbing at it, as her father began to hurl vinyl and steel into the road.

      “It’s going to be an adventure. You’ll see,” her mother hollered over the noise as she bounded down the steps.

      “Why can’t we just stay with Grandma?”

      “What?” her mother mouthed, pointing to her ear.

      Stevie waited for a pause in the noise before asking again. “Why can’t we stay with Grandma?”

      “She doesn’t have room. You know that. It’s bad enough that we’ve taken up her yard all summer with our tent. Besides, your father can make a lot more money on the road.”  Finally noticing Stevie’s discomfort, she asked, “Where are your shoes?”

      “I still don’t have any. Remember?”

      “Oh. Well, we’ll get you some. Listen, I’ve gotta give your father a hand. We should be finished gutting it today. Going to be just like a regular house when we’re done.” She slapped the side for emphasis. Gold flecks shimmied the ground.

      Stevie bent over and scooped up a handful. She took a plastic bag out of her pocket and sprinkled some inside. She tucked the bag back into her pocket.

      “Will there be a bathroom?” she asked, as more parts of the bus clattered into the road.

      Her mother raised her eyebrows in question. “What, Stevie? I can’t hear you.”

      Stevie shook her head. “Never mind.”  She wandered over to her grandmother’s lawn and sat.

      She ripped out a handful of grass and flung it over her head. As she watched the stray pieces flutter and fall, she noticed something white. She snatched it from the air and examined it. A feather! She put it in her pocket.

      She scowled at the bus. She couldn’t help wishing she was back home. But home, as she’d grown to think of it, never belonged to them. They’d only been renting the pretty little farm house on Merry Meeting Bay. Not even the furniture was theirs, but it was the longest they’d stayed anywhere.

      Green rows of farmland swept wide on both sides, and the bay was right out front. There was even a treehouse in the back yard. It looked impossibly high when she’d first seen it. It was way out of reach for someone her age. She’d stood at the base and peered up at the tiny house in the branches. It seemed as though she’d never be big enough to climb up and see inside, but eventually, she was.

      She and her mother used to take long, lazy walks down to the shore in the afternoons. A crooked cedar tree jutted out over the water, and Stevie used to climb up on it like a horse and sit there watching the ducks and geese take off and land. The air smelled of flowers, and of hay and boggy water. Sitting there with her mother in the scented air warmed her tummy. She was beginning to wonder if she would ever feel that way again.

      Her father had been a carpenter. He made good money, but he hated the work. He wanted to be a singer in a band. Every weekend he’d hold practice at the house. Friday night, cars would pile into the driveway and spill out scruffy men carrying guitars and beer. They’d listen to loud music and try to copy the sounds they heard with their own instruments. Stevie’s nose stung from the acrid smoke wafting out of their skinny cigarettes. The smell made her dizzy and giddy. On Saturday mornings, she’d have to pick her way around half a dozen sleeping men to get to the kitchen. When her father was a carpenter they could afford to pay rent, but not anymore.

      Stevie had come home from school in the spring to find the kitchen full of boxes.

      “What’s going on?” she’d asked her mother.

      “Your father’s quit his job. He’s going to play music full time.  We can’t stay here anymore. We’ve been evicted. We have to be out by the end of today.”

      “What?” Stevie cried.

      “Take what you can carry. We’ll have to leave the rest behind.”

      “Where are we going to go?” She couldn’t breathe.

      “We’ll think of something. You know your father hates staying in one place too long, anyway. This is a good thing.” Her mother stopped packing and smiled with reassurance. “A really good thing. I promise.” She planted a kiss on Stevie’s forehead. “Go on, now. Git!” She swatted her with a spatula.

      Stevie picked up a few empty boxes and climbed the narrow stairway to her room. She looked around, trying to decide what to take with her.

      Her father peeked in. “Just the essentials. I need room for my equipment.”

      “Well, what should I bring?”

      “None of that junk, that’s for sure.” He pointed towards Barbie’s town house and a collection of stuffed animals. “Just pack some clothes and whatever else you absolutely need.”

      “Dad! I can’t leave all my stuff behind!” She snatched a Teddy bear from the floor and hugged it to her chest.

      “You’re just going to have to. Besides, you can’t go anywhere in life if you’ve got too much junk weighing you down. Keep things light, then you can hit the road whenever you want. Don’t ever ground yourself with material stuff.”

      “But, Dad …”

      “Nothing is permanent. Remember that.”

      Stevie’s eyes filled with tears.

      He turned away. “Leave it all here.” His shoulders were tight as he paused at the doorway. For a second, Stevie thought he might change his mind. “I mean it,” he said, and started down the stairs.

      Stevie loved her father, but in that moment, she hated him, too. She hated him for quitting his job. She hated him for making them move. It wasn’t fair. He didn’t even sing all that well, and everyone knew it. People lied to him to make him feel better, and now it was going to ruin everything! She may have only been eight, but she knew that much.

      She closed her eyes and prayed that roots would grow out of her feet. She envisioned them busting out of her skin, breaking through the floor, and snaking through the thick earth beneath the house.

      Her mother hollered up the stairs. “Get a move on!”

      She checked her feet and scowled when she didn’t see anything. She stuffed a few of her favorite things in the boxes and hid them under her clothes.

      Later that afternoon, it felt as if she was leaving pieces of herself behind as they pulled away from the house for the last time. It made her feel sick and weak and hopeless as she watched the house get smaller and smaller in the rear window. Her stomach flipped when she thought about some strange kid playing with her toys.

      They had to stay in a tent in her grandparents’ yard ever since.  Stevie’s mom said it was just until they figured things out, but it had already been months.

      ***

      Stevie’s mom got off the bus. She shook padding and dust out of her hair as she climbed down the steps.

      Stevie stood and put her hands on her hips. “How am I supposed to go to school?” she asked.

      “You’re not. I’m going to teach you. Isn’t that neat?”

      “But you’re not a teacher.”

      “So? That doesn’t mean anything. I wouldn’t worry about it. The stuff you’re going to learn can’t be taught in school.”

      “You know, I could always …”

      “You’re not staying here.” Her mother’s voice was firm.

      “Fine.” Stevie ran to the tent and dove in.

       

      Stevie’s father finished fixing the bus the day before the sky spit the first snowflake. She was allowed in for the first time. All of the original seats were gone, except for the driver’s. Towards the front, there was a small table and chairs, a battered love seat, and a pot-bellied stove. Out back, there was a walled-in room for her parents and a bunk for Stevie in the middle. In place of a bathroom was a plastic toilet that had to be emptied. A shower curtain enclosed the area, giving it a small measure of privacy.

      “This is it?” she asked in surprise.

      Her father whirled around. His eyes were full of disappointment. “What more do you need?”

      Stevie got off the bus and ran over to her grandmother. “Don’t make me go. I don’t want to leave,” she whispered. She jumped up and wrapped her arms and legs around the woman.

      Stevie’s grandmother unwound her and set her down. “You take care now,” she said, dismissing her with a kiss on the head. “Be wary of strangers,” she added, swatting her on the butt. Her eyes twinkled as she reached up to capture her son’s face. “I’m just so proud of you,” she beamed, squeezing his cheeks. “I’m proud of all of my kids, but you …” she pulled his face down to meet hers. “You are my star.” She kissed him on the nose. “Follow your dreams, Frankie. You’re going to be a big hit.”

      Stevie’s father grinned.

      “Corrine? You take care of my boy. Hear?”

      Stevie’s mother cleared her throat. “Of course, Mother.”

      She waved from the driveway as they pulled away from the curb.

      The first night on the bus was cold and strange. They’d driven several hours before her father pulled down onto a dirt road and parked. The heat from the stove didn’t reach all the way to Stevie’s bed. Unfamiliar noises like wolves howling and a woman’s screams sneaked in through the windows. Stevie wrapped herself in a blanket, plodded down to the front, and fell asleep in front of the stove.

      The next morning when she woke up, her neck was stiff and sore. She untangled herself from the blanket and peeked out the window. There was a police car parked next to their bus. She tip-toed to the back of the bus and woke her father.

      “Break down?” the officer asked.

      “Nope. No sir. We’re just fine.” He scratched his chest and yawned.

      “This here is a private road. I’m going to have to ask you folks to leave. You can’t park out here like this.”

      “Sorry. We’ll be on our way real soon.” He began to close the door.

      “That kid in school?” the officer asked, nodding towards Stevie.

      “That’s none of your damn business.”

      “Well, actually it is.” He smiled at Stevie. “How old are you, honey?” he asked.

      Stevie’s father pulled the door shut. He jumped into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

      The officer pounded on the side of the bus. “It’s against the law! She needs to be in school.”

      He put the gears in reverse and pressed the gas pedal to the floor. Stevie’s heart pounded as the tires kicked up rocks and dust. They flew out of the road backwards and sped away as soon as they reached the pavement.

      As time went on, Stevie’s father got a better feel for where they could and couldn’t park in each of the towns they visited, but it wasn’t always foolproof.

      They’d been on the road for a couple of months when they pulled into the driveway of an abandoned farm house. They’d stayed there a couple of times and no one had ever bothered them before.

      Stevie liked to explore the half-fallen down barn on the property. She was doing just that when she noticed a man come out of the woods across the field and start walking towards her. She wasn’t scared until she saw that he had a shotgun slung over his shoulder. She froze.

      “You got any parents around?” he asked. He lowered his arm, letting the strap fall. He caught the gun in his hands.

      Stevie nodded, wide-eyed, and motioned towards the bus.

      “Get ‘em,” he ordered.

      Stevie’s feet flew. She bounded up the stairs out of breath. “Dad! There’s a man out there with a gun!” she cried. “He wants to talk to you.” She ran and hid behind her mother.

      Stevie’s father shoved his feet into his shoes. “Stay here,” he said.

      Stevie watched from the window as her dad got off the bus. “Can I help you?” she heard him ask. His voice was high-pitched and nervous.

      “Yeah, you can help me. You can get the hell off my property. Goddamn squatters think you can just park anywhere you want. You have exactly five minutes, too, before I start shooting.”

      “Sorry. We didn’t know anyone lived here,” Stevie’s father explained, holding up his hands in apology.

      “Don’t matter if anyone does or doesn’t. It ain’t yours, is it? You’re probably the same damn folks that have been tearing up my road. It’ll take me all spring to right it again.” He held up the gun. “Now git and don’t ever come back. You hear me?”

      “I’m sorry we invaded your space, man, but you got no call to point a gun at me,” Stevie’s father said.

      “Don’t you tell me what I got the call to do on my own damn property. I could shoot you right now just for trespassing. I suggest you get back on that rattletrap of yours and get the hell out of my sight.”

      Stevie’s father didn’t argue any further. He jumped back in and started the bus. “Hold on,” he said grumpily.

      He gunned the engine and wrenched the gears into drive. Clots of mud flew up and splattered the windshield. Stevie dared a glance back as they pulled away. The man chased after them screaming words that were swallowed by the sound of the spinning tires.

      When they got out to the pavement, he whipped the bus around and didn’t stop driving until they came to a shopping plaza. He drove to the end and parked.

      “I’ve gotta look for work,” he said, shoving his feet into his scuffed cowboy boots. “Stay here. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

      “Bring back some food, okay?” Stevie’s mom called after him.

      “Won’t be much,” he said. “Gotta get gas today, remember?”

      Stevie looked out the window. Something captured by the wind skittered across the empty lot. She waited for her father to leave before getting out. She chased it around until it crashed into a guardrail and flapped against the cold metal. It almost took flight again, but she caught it just in time and held it up.  It was a baseball card. She didn’t know much about baseball, but she shoved it into her back pocket anyway and got back onto the bus.

      “What did you find out there, Stevie?” her mother asked as she poked at the fire.

      “Nothing, really,” she said. She pulled it out of her pocket and gave it to her.

      “Huh. The Giants … Willie Mays …” She turned it over in her hand. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about sports.” She passed it back to Stevie.

      “Me either,” Stevie said. She went over to her bunk and rummaged around underneath. She pulled out the shoe box and opened the top.

      “Stevie?” Her mother called.

      “Yeah?”

      “Are you happy?” Her voice was high and strange.

      “I guess,” Stevie answered. She put the card inside and closed the lid. “Are you?” She held her breath.

      “I guess,” her mother answered, not looking up.

      “I miss school,” Stevie admitted.

      “Yeah,” her mother said sadly.  “I miss …” She didn’t finish the sentence. “I’ll try to get you some books soon, okay?”

      “Okay.”

      “I’m going for a walk,” she said suddenly. Her eyes were moist.

      “It’s cold out,” Stevie cautioned.

      “Yeah.” She grabbed a sweater off from the chair and draped it over her shoulders. “I’ll be back,” she said.

      Stevie went to the windows. Her mother’s shoulders shook as she hurried away. Stevie was sure it didn’t have anything to do with the temperature.

      ***

      Stevie’s father didn’t have a lot of work lined up that winter.  Sometimes he’d spend all day trying to find a bar that would let him sing for the night. He didn’t make a lot of money that way, but it would get them by for another day.

      Sometimes when he did secure a gig, Stevie’s mom would go in and watch and leave her out in the bus alone. She’d stare up at the apartments that were lined against the street. Lamplight glowed through the windows, casting shadows that ghosted on the brick sidewalks as the people inside moved around.

      She imagined herself inside. She could feel the soft carpet under her feet and the smell of dinner wafting from the kitchen. She could feel the heat from the furnace wrapping around her shoulders, enveloping her in a warm embrace.

      One night in late February, Stevie’s father parked in front of a bar in Brunswick.

      “We won’t be long. Short set tonight,” Stevie’s mom said. “Don’t open the door for strangers!”

      “I won’t.”

      “Oh, and put another log on in about an hour, will you?”

      “Okay.”

      She started down the steps, but hesitated. “Stevie?”

      “Yeah?”

      “I love you, you know.”

      “I know,” Stevie said. She poked at the fire.

      “It won’t be like this forever.”

      “Okay,” Stevie said, shrugging her shoulders.

      “It won’t.”

      “Okay,” Stevie said again, looking up.

      Her mother smiled. “Okay,” she said with confidence and walked off the bus.

      They hadn’t been gone long when someone came pounding on the door.

      Stevie looked out. It was a police officer.

      “This bus needs to be moved,” he shouted, spotting Stevie.

      Stevie went and opened the door. “I’ll have to get my mom,” she said.

      “You do that. Tell her there’s no parking here.”

      Stevie got dressed and went in to find her mother. She batted the cigarette smoke away from her nose as she tried to make her way to the stage. Colorful lights zig-zagged from the ceiling, illuminating the darkened room for a few seconds at a time. It made her feel dizzy and like she was walking funny. She tripped and almost fell.

      A woman sitting at one of the tables caught her arm and righted her. “Hey there, toots!  Aren’t you just the cutest little thing?” she said. “Come sit next to me.” She patted the chair next to her and smiled through hot pink lips. Her fingernails looked like talons as she tapped on the seat, and her hair looked like the sun on fire. “Come on. I won’t hurt ya. I’m Patti.” She held out her hand. “But you can call me Mimi. Everyone does.” Her hearty laugh turned into a violent cough. “What’s a nice kid like you doing in a place like this?” she rasped after catching her breath.

      Before Stevie could answer, a man stumbled and bumped into the table, spilling Mimi’s drink.

      “You clod!” she yelled, jumping up. Watch where you’re going!” She grabbed a napkin and began sopping up the mess. “You owe me a drink!” She glared, but the man was already staggering away. She sat back down. “Well, never mind. Let me get you a drink, sugar.” She patted the seat again. “Hey, Earl?” she yelled. “Get this little lady a Shirley Temple, would ya? And get me a drink, too. Put it on my tab.”

      Hesitantly, Stevie sat. She craned her neck around, trying to spot her mother, but didn’t see her anywhere. Sitting on the table in front of her was the smallest glass she’d ever seen. It had a picture of a lobster on it. She waited until Mimi wasn’t looking before stuffing it into the waistband of her pants. She pulled her shirt down to cover it.

      “She can’t stay here, Mimi. Even you ought to know that,” the bartender said as he sauntered over.

      Stevie stood back up. “I’m just looking for my mom. Have you seen her?”

      “Who’s your mom, honey?” the woman asked.

      Stevie didn’t know how to describe her. “Well, my father is the one on the guitar.”

      Mimi’s mouth fell open. “Oh, sweetie! That’s your dad? He’s a looker! A real heart breaker.” She put her hand over her heart and swooned.

      “Out,” the bartender said to Stevie.

      “For God’s sake, let her stay. You want to see your daddy sing, don’t you baby?” she crooned, batting her eyes at the bartender.

      “She can’t be in here, Mimi. Christ.” He grabbed Stevie’s arm. “Out,” he said, shoving her towards the door.

      “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll find your momma and send her out.” Mimi winked. She slurped the last drop in her drink, stood up, and headed towards the stage.

      The bartender pushed Stevie outside and shut the door. Stevie started for the bus, but there was a man standing near the back. He wasn’t facing her, but Stevie could see a golden arch of liquid coming from the front of his pants. It cascaded over the tire and splattered onto the road.

      Stevie’s parents stumbled out together right then. “Don’t come back!” the bartender yelled. “More trouble than you’re worth with that hunk of junk parked out front and your damn kid. Goddamn gypsies,” he grumbled.

      The next day Stevie’s father said, “I think we’ll head down to Florida. I’ve had it with this state. Besides, there’s a lot more clubs down there.”

      “How will we afford the gas?” Stevie’s mom asked.

      “I’ve been thinking about that. I say we head up north first and visit my sis. She’ll lend us some money and then we can be on our way. We should say goodbye to her anyway. Once we get down to Florida, I might not want to come back.”

      “Am I a gypsy?” Stevie asked suddenly, thinking about what the bartender had said.

      “Heavens, no.” Stevie’s mom laughed. “Well, maybe … by default, anyway,” she teased, ruffling Stevie’s hair. “Your father’s just full of wanderlust. He can’t help it.”

       

      A week later they were on their way. Stevie had never been that far north before. It was late afternoon when they neared their destination. Stevie saw the town where her aunt lived up ahead in the distance. It looked as if it had erupted from the earth and spilled out all over a sea of wilderness.

      “What’s that smell?” she cried as they got closer.

      “This is a mill town,” her mother said, pointing out the window and towards the sky. “See those stacks over there? That’s part of it. Looks like they’re making clouds, doesn’t it?”

      Stevie nodded. She watched as towering columns shot out fluffy white puffs and tossed them into the air. She laughed and held her nose. “It’s neat, but it smells like boiled eggs.”

      “It does stink,” her mother agreed, holding her own nose, “but I suppose people get used to it after a while. Oh! Look over there!” she squealed, as they came to the top of a hill.

      Stevie stood. Over the rise, she saw a mountain. It was jagged and tall, swallowing half the sky. It was a magical place.

      They descended and paused at a traffic light.

      “Almost there,” Stevie’s father said. “Sit down.”

      Stevie sat back down, but kept looking out. There was a lot to see. She liked the way all of the houses seemed to be lined up in neat rows and how all of the people she saw were smiling. She liked that place. It looked like a good place to grow roots in.

      “We’re here,” her father said. He pulled over and stopped the bus in front of a tall, green, shingled house.

      He opened the doors and Stevie ran out. There was a dime sticking out of a snow bank on the sidewalk. She snatched it up and put it in her pocket. Right beside it, there was a Pepsi cap. She put that in her pocket, too.
      “Hey, Sis.” Stevie’s father caught his sister in a welcoming embrace.

       

      Just before the sun rose a few days later, Stevie’s father shook her shoulders, waking her up. “We need to get going,” he whispered.

      “What?” Stevie asked, rubbing the sleep sand from her eyes.

      “We have to go. I have a gig in Jacksonville on Friday.”

      Her stomach filled with dread. She didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay. She wanted to go to school and make friends. She wanted to sleep in a warm room and go to the bathroom in a place that would flush. She wanted to climb that mountain and look out over a town she could call her own.

      “Hurry up,” her father said. He turned and tip-toed down the stairs.

      She jumped up. Her heart pounded as she got down onto the floor and snatched the shoe box from underneath the bed. With a fluttery stomach, she went to find her father.

      He was in the kitchen, rummaging through his sister’s purse. He looked around nervously before shoving a wad of bills into his pocket.

      Stevie’s mom stood at the back door, looking out.  She had a cup of coffee in her hand.

      “We need to go!” he hissed, heading towards the door. He pushed Stevie’s mother out, but she didn’t move past the steps.

      “I can’t leave!” Stevie blurted.

      “What?” her father asked, surprised. He stopped moving and gaped.

      “I can’t leave,” she repeated. Her voice was shaky but defiant.  She sat down in one of her aunt’s kitchen chairs and opened the box.

      “I don’t have time for this. We have to go now!” His eyes were daggers as he held the door.

      “You’ll have to go without me.”

      “What in the world is your problem?” he asked. He stormed back in and grabbed Stevie’s arm, trying to pull her along.

      “I can’t leave because I have too much stuff!” she said. She emptied the shoe box onto the table. All of the things she had been collecting fell out. “You’re the one who said you couldn’t go anywhere if you had too much stuff. I think I have too much stuff.”

      “Corrine?” he said, appealing to his wife.

      Stevie’s mother came back into the house. Her face was strange. She took her pocket book off from her shoulder and spilled the contents onto the counter. “I think I do, too,” she said.

      End

      *This popular story, written by Kristy Gherlone, was originally published by Bedlam Magazine’s Loud Zoo on April 30, 2017. From there, it went on to appear in Fiction on the Web in December 2017

      **No part of this story may be copied or reproduced without written consent from the author.

      Abandoned school bus.

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged 1970, childhood, family, familyrelations, fiction, gypsy, learning, maine, mountains, moving, nomad, published, school, shortstory, travel, traveling, writing
    • Sassafras: The Olympic Hopeful

      Posted at 11:42 am by writergherlone, on February 19, 2018

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      Sassafras: The Olympic Hopeful

      by Kristy Gherlone

       

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      “Mom? Can ducks be in the Olympics?”

      “I don’t see why not. I think anyone can be in the Olympics as long as they are willing to work hard and practice their sport every day.”

      “I can work hard,” Sassafras said. “I’d like to be in the Olympics and win a gold medal!”

      “Well, then you can. I think that is a wonderful goal,” Sassafras’s mother said. “Find a sport that interests you and see how you do.”

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      Sassafras tried snowboarding.

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      She practiced for a few hours and after a while, she learned some tricks.

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      “Hey! Look at me! I can go sideways!” She cried in delight. Snowboarding was fun!

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      “Look how fast I can go!” Sassafras laughed. She really liked snowboarding, but wanted to try some other sports, too.

      “How about snowshoeing?” Her mother suggested.

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      “How do I keep these things on my feet?”

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      Sassafras decided that snowshoeing was not the sport for her. She didn’t like it as much as snowboarding because she couldn’t go as fast.

      “Well, I’m glad you gave it a chance, anyway,” her mother said. “Is there something else you would like to try?”

      “How about iceskating? It would be fun to be a champion figure skater!”

      “Okay, but I’ll have to make you an ice skating rink first so you can practice,” her mother said.

      Sassafras’s mother shoveled the snow from the ice and bought her some skates.

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      “These skates hurt my feet,” Sassafras said.

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      Even after practicing, and trying as hard as she could, she kept falling down. “Can I try something else, like bobsledding?”

      “Hmm,” Sassafras’s mother contemplated. Bobsleds were very expensive. She didn’t want to buy one if Sassafras wasn’t sure she’d like it. “How about you try a regular sled first and see how it goes.”

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      Sassafras’s tried the sled.

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      “It’s fun, but I think I’ve decided that I’d like to concentrate on snowboarding. I like it the best.”

      “I’m glad you finally chose a sport that suits you,” Sassafras’s mother said.  “I’m proud of you for trying so many different things. That takes a lot of bravery.”

      “Thank you. I am very brave,” Sassafras said. “How long do you think it will take to earn a gold medal?”

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      “I think you’ve earned one today,” her mother laughed.

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      “Hooray! I’m a gold medalist!”

       

      Posted in Uncategorized | 3 Comments
    • The Whupping Tree

      Posted at 6:01 pm by writergherlone, on February 5, 2018

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      **This story was originally published by The Mystic Blue Review in September 2017

      **NO part of this story may be copied or reproduced without written consent from the author.

      The Whupping Tree

      by Kristy Gherlone

      Henry Hunton wasn’t quite right. His father told him as much all the time. He was so wrong, in fact, his mother took one look at him, fresh out of the womb, and ran away.

      “Your mother whizzed out of that hospital so fast, my hair got swept away with her. Left you all covered in innards before anyone had a chance to clean you up,” his father told him. “When they did, you looked just like a squirrel with a bad case of the mange. Ugliest damn thing I ever did see! Whoo-wee, you was ugly!”

      Henry thought about that. He couldn’t wrap his mind around a lot of things, but his mother was gone, and his father was bald. The old mirror hanging above his father’s shaving kit told him everything else he needed to know.

      “How come you wanted me if I was so ugly?” he asked.

      “Well,” his father said, scratching at his stubble, “I guessed you were kin, so I figured I’d probably better take you on. Plus, I s’posed you’d be all right enough to work the fields someday.”

      Henry didn’t know if he should be glad or not. They lived on a rundown farm, and his father had him hauling potatoes as soon as he’d learned to walk. It was a tough job and Henry struggled. He tried as hard as he could, but sometimes, even with all that trying, he got it wrong. His brain would tell him to do one thing, but his body would do something else. Or his mind would want to say something, but his tongue would get all mixed and he’d stutter.

      “You water the south crop?” his father would ask.

      “Y-y-y-yes sir,” Henry would answer.

      “You ain’t right, boy,” he’d say, smacking him in the head. “I swear you’re nummer’n a pounded thumb. Git on out there to the whupping tree and cut me a switch. I swear I’m gonna beat you until you learn to talk right.”

      Henry would hang his head and go out into the yard where the old willow tree stood. It had been there since before his great-great grandfather had been born. It was called the whupping tree because everyone in the family had been spanked with the branches at one time or another.

      It was a beautiful tree and Henry hated to cut it almost as much as he hated getting a whupping. “I’m sorry,” he’d whisper, snapping off a shoot. “I wouldn’t hurt you for anything, but Daddy says I’ve gotta get a whupping. He would go back inside. His father would put him over his knee and lash on him until he cried.

      After the punishment, his father would go over to the pot-bellied stove and rub his hands as if to say, ‘that’s that,’ and throw in the switch as Henry lay sobbing with his backside full of welts.

      “Don’t sit there blubbering, either,” he’d say. “My father used to lick me. Smartened me up and straightened me right out. Yep. Smart as a whip now, and tough as nails too. You don’t hear me stuttering, do you?  You won’t do it either, when I’m done with ya.” He’d nod his head and smile.

      Henry knew he wasn’t smart. He’d never been to school. His father said he wasn’t smart enough for school.

      “Boy, you’re too stupid for school. They’d laugh you right out of there. Nope, you stick to the fields,” he’d said, but Henry knew enough to know that a spanking wouldn’t help his stutter or make him any smarter.

      Sometimes Henry would go out into the yard in the early mornings before he went to work in the fields. He’d sit under the willow tree and talk to it as if it were a real person.

      “I don’t know why Daddy’s so mean,” he’d whisper, rubbing his bruises. “You suppose I’ll be like him, someday?” The tree never answered, but it was a kind and patient listener.

      “If Daddy is the way he is, and my granddaddy, and his daddy before him were that way, how come I don’t feel the same? You’d think there’d have to be some goodness in someone, somewhere along the way. I don’t want to hurt nobody. Not nobody ever. When I have kids, I’m never going to hit them. And I’m going to make sure they go to school.” He didn’t know if the tree understood, but he’d keep talking on and on about all the things he wanted to do and about all the things he’d been thinking about while the tree cradled a nest of young birds and rocked them to sleep.

      His father caught him one day. He overheard Henry’s ambition to become a forest ranger.  “You’re a fool,” he yelled. “That tree can’t understand you. That tree doesn’t care if you live or die.  No one does, except me. I swear, you’re softer’n a jack rabbit’s scruff. Forest ranger,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re never going nowhere.  You’re gonna stay right here and farm potatoes just like I do and just like your granddaddy did and his daddy before him did.  I guess I need to smarten that hide of yours up some more. Go on now, cut me a switch. I’m going to make you the meanest and smartest son of a gun there ever was, then maybe I’ll get some real work out of you.

      Henry didn’t know a lot, but he knew that a spanking wouldn’t make him mean. He also knew that it wouldn’t make him want to farm potatoes. He didn’t want to be like his father, or his father’s father, or anyone before him.

      As he grew older, the tree started to die. The limbs began to dwindle until there were only big ones left.  Each whupping became more painful than the last. One day when Henry went outside to get a switch, there was a woman standing behind the tree. He rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn’t seeing things.

      “Hi.” She smiled shyly and poked out her head. “You sure have grown up tall and handsome. You’ve changed a lot in fourteen years.”

      Henry turned around to see to whom she was talking. There was nobody there but him. “Who, me?” he asked.

      “Yes, you. What’d your daddy name you?” she whispered.

      “Henry,” he said. He didn’t know what to make of the whole situation. “Who are you?”

      “I’m your momma, Henry.” She smiled again as she tried out his name.

      “Oh. W-want me to go and get Daddy?” he asked.

      “No! Don’t tell him I’m here,” she said, her eyes wide and fearful.

      Henry felt kind of sorry for her but didn’t know if he should. “Why’d you run off and leave me when I was just a little baby?” he asked.

      “I didn’t run off. Your daddy threw me out when he took up with another woman. He used to beat me something fierce. He told me he’d kill you and me if I ever came back to claim you.”

      Henry didn’t remember any other woman being around. “You sure you didn’t leave because I was so ugly?”

      “Heavens, no,” she said. “Is that what your daddy told you?”

      “Yep, but I didn’t need him to tell me. I’ve seen myself in the mirror.”

      “I bet you’ve been looking in your daddy’s shaving mirror,” she said. “That thing is so old and warped, everyone looks awful in it. When I lived here, it got so I felt pretty ugly, too. It got so I forgot what I really looked like. I was afraid to leave the house because I thought people would laugh at me.”

      Henry wrinkled his nose. He didn’t know whether to believe her or not.

      “See for yourself,” she said. She fished a tiny mirror out of her purse and handed it to Henry. He glanced at his reflection and grinned. He needed a haircut, but other than that, he liked what he saw. He didn’t look anything like he did in his daddy’s mirror.

      “You were just about the sweetest baby I’d ever laid eyes on,” his mother said.

      “But I’m not too bright. Never was. C-can’t even talk right.”

      “Nonsense! All you need is a little schooling. Don’t let anyone ever call you stupid!”

      Just then, Henry’s father came out of the house. Henry’s mother ducked behind the tree.

      “Where you at, boy? Hurry up with that switch!”

      “I’m coming!” Henry said.

      When his father went back into the house, his mother came out from behind the tree.

      “He sure has changed! He’s just a little old man now. He’s shrunk five inches! I can’t believe I used to be so scared of him,” she cried, surprised.

      “Well, I’ve gotta get in,” Henry said. “I’m getting a whupping for breaking the harvester.”

      “He hits you too, does he?” She glared towards the house. “That man is as mean as a snake.”

      “Yep,” Henry said, cutting off a large, dead branch. He reached over and rubbed the tree’s trunk, “I’m sorry,” he murmured, “I hope I didn’t hurt you too much.”

      “You talk to this old tree, too?” she asked, giving it a slap. “I used to do the same thing. It was about the only thing I had to talk to.”

      “Yeah, I talk to it, but it’s pretty near dead now. I don’t know what daddy’s going to use to whup me with when it’s gone.”

      “Henry, I bet you’re two feet taller than he is, and I bet you outweigh him by a hundred pounds! He can’t beat you if you don’t let him.”

      Henry hadn’t thought about that. He was much bigger than his father. He couldn’t even put Henry over his knee anymore. Still, though, he feared him. “I can’t go against him,” he said.

      “You can if you want to. Why, I bet you could give him a whupping”, she said, testing him.

      Henry looked at the branch. It was a big one. It was big enough to break bones; but he didn’t want to hurt anyone. Not even his father.

      “Nah,” he said. “I can’t hurt nobody.”

      “You’re nothing like your daddy, are you Henry?” his mother asked quietly.

      “Nope. I don’t suspect I am.”

      “That’s good,” she said, relieved. “Would you like to come home with me? We could sign you up for school.”

      Henry thought about that. “Would you hit me?”

      “Never!” she gasped at the question. “I could never hurt anyone.”

      Henry grinned. He didn’t know a lot, but he knew right then and there where he got his goodness from. He also knew that he’d have to go to school if he ever wanted to be a forest ranger. “That sounds okay,” he said.

      “Good,” his mother smiled. “You go and pack your things. I’ll wait out here.”

      Henry went inside to tell his father.

      “Like hell you’re leaving!” his father spit with rage. “You give me that stick. I’m gonna whup you double now.”

      Henry looked at the stick and then back at his father. “I’m bigger than you and probably a whole lot stronger,” he said, surprised when he didn’t stutter.

      “What’s your point?”

      “Well, I figure I could probably whup you if I wanted.”

      “Is that what you aim to do?” his father asked, fixing his jaw, but stepping back a few feet.

      “Nope. I’m just going to leave,” he said, and that’s just what he did.  He went to live with his mother and his aunt a few towns away. He went to school and worked hard. When he grew up, be became a forest ranger, just like he’d always wanted to.

      One day, Henry received a call while he was at work, telling him that his father had a stroke. Henry wanted to see him, because no matter what, his father would always be his father.  He made the drive over, his stomach flopping around the whole way. All the wounds inflicted upon him, growing up, felt raw again when he pulled into the driveway. He rubbed at old bruises as he got out, opened the back of his truck, and took out a can of poison. There was something he needed to do.

      He walked into the yard. Henry got tears in his eyes when he saw his old friend. The once beautiful whupping tree was now a crumbling stump.  “You were a good friend for listening to me all those years,” he murmured.  “I know it wasn’t your fault that I got spanked so often, so I hope you understand what I have to do.”  New budding shoots sprung up from the ground underneath it, promising new life and another generation of whuppings.  Henry didn’t want to take any chances there that might be some bad in him somewhere. He placed his hand on the withering trunk. “It’s time for you to go,” he whispered. He uncapped the poison, poured some into what remained of the tree, and went in to the house.

      His father was lying in bed. He couldn’t talk very well or move anymore; the stroke having stolen his functions. Henry fed him some soup.

      “Th-th-thanks, H-henry,” he said, drooling and looking embarrassed. “I s’pose you oughta get a switch and whup me. C-c-can’t even talk right n’more.”

      Henry wiped the soup off his father’s chin, “Nope. I figure this family has taken enough beatings. I’m just going to love you.”

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      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged abuse, contemporaryfiction, dreams, family, familyhardship, familyissues, fiction, published, shortstory
    • Sassafras and Valentine’s Day

      Posted at 11:43 am by writergherlone, on January 24, 2018

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      Sassafras and Valentine’s Day

      By Kristy Gherlone

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      It was Valentine’s Day and Sassafras was sad. She wanted to get something special for her Daddy, but she didn’t have any money.

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      “What’s wrong, Sassafras?” her mother asked, noticing how unhappy she seemed.

      “It’s Valentine’s Day, but I don’t have anything for Daddy. How will he know that I love him if I don’t buy him a present?”

      “Daddy knows that you love him. You don’t have to buy gifts to show someone how much you care. There are lots of other ways to do that.”

      “Like how?” Sassafras asked.

      “Well, you could make him a card, if you like. I’m sure he would love that.”

      “That’s a great idea!” Sassafras brightened.

      A

      She gathered some art supplies and got to work.

      C

      Carefully, she cut out colorful hearts and pasted them to the paper she had folded.

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      Next, she used crayons to write what she wanted to say.

      “How’s it going in there?” Sassafras’s mother asked.

      D

      “Good, but I don’t want you to see until I’m all done.” Sassafras said, jumping onto the card to hide it. She wanted it to be a surprise.

      “That’s fine,” her mother laughed. “You know, when I was a little girl, my favorite Valentine’s were the ones that had treats inside.”

      E

      “I have just the thing!” Sassafras said.

      When she finished with the card, she called for her mother to see it.

      G

      “That is a lovely card, Sassafras. It came out very nice. What did you write?”

      D2

      “I wrote, ‘For Daddy, love Sassy.’

      “It’s very nice, but I thought you were going to add some treats?”

      “Well, I was going to share my worms, but I accidentally ate them.”

      Sassafras’s mother smiled. She knew that worms were her very favorite thing. “That’s okay. I think Daddy might like chocolates better anyway. I have some that you can give to him.”

      H

      “Oh, thank you! I think he will like those better.”  She chose a few and stuck them to the card.

      IMG_8121 “Can I give it to him now? She asked excitedely.

      “Of course. I think you’ll find him on the porch.”

      I

      “Wait! I have one for you, too!” Sassafras cried. She gave her mother the paper heart she’d made.

      “Why, thank you, Sassy! You’re so thoughtful.”

      “I know,” Sassafras giggled and went off to find her Dad.

       

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      “Daddy! I made something for you!”

      Sassafras’s Dad was very happy with the card. He could tell how hard she’d worked on it.

      “Thank you, Sassy! That was very sweet of you.”

      “I made it because I love you.”

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      “And I love you!” he said, giving Sassafras a hug. “Now we have something for you! Your mother has it in the kitchen. Go and see.”

      “Is it a present?” Sassafras asked.

      “It might be,” her Daddy smiled.

      “But Mama said you don’t need to buy presents to show someone how much you care.”

      “That is true,” he said, ruffling her feathers. “But we got you one anyway.”

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      “Worms!” she cried happily.  “I love worms and presents and Valentine’s Day. But you know what I love most of all? You!”

      **A new short comedy story of mine has just been published! You can find “Piano Hoarding Christians” in Defenestration Mag!

       

      **NO part of this story may be copied or reproduced without written consent from the author.

      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged childrensstory, ducks, family, familyfriendly, fiction, hearts, love, pekinduck, picturestory, shortstory, valentinesday
    • The Falls

      Posted at 1:39 pm by writergherlone, on January 9, 2018

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      *No Part of this story may be published or reproduced without the written consent of the author

      **This story was originally published by Wild Women’s Medicine Circle Journal. To see this story and  similar works in print, visit Wild Women’s Medicine Circle Journal Blogspot. You may also order on Amazon.

      The Falls

      by Kristy Gherlone

       

       

      She pauses to listen halfway into the ascent.

      The forest speaks to her in a language that is not at all foreign. She has grown accustomed to its dialect, but on this day, she cannot trust her own ears. They have been poisoned by hateful words.

      She is alone. The solitude amplifies the words. Foraging squirrels sound like approaching demons. Dark thoughts fill her head.

      Her heart beats out a rhythm of warning. The partridge drum in succession, alerting to a battle that is not their own. There is danger here. There is danger everywhere, but rarely here. She finds solace in the dark places of the wild. Perhaps it is she that is the danger.

      The world sways. She drops down and covers her head. Her throat draws in shallow gulps and her hands grow numb. The still air comes to life. The trees sway back and forth in a violent dance. Dust devils swirl into the valley, scattering dead leaves and bending branches as they whistle through the pines. “Go back,” they howl. “It’s not too late.”

      She buries her face into the pulpy green moss and waits, her breath hitching. The wind subsides as does the imminence. It becomes stifling, threatening to suffocate her where she rests. She’d let it happen, but she wants the final say.

      She jumps up and begins again, ignoring the feeling that she may have gone too far. Today there will be no such thing as too far.

      The trail is steep and tricky. Her legs are weak, but she keeps moving. Keeps climbing.

      The low shooshing of the falls finally touches her ears.

      Painfully she gasps, breathing in the enveloping fragrance of the forest. Tangy pine and damp earth fill her nose, washing out the scent of her own perspiration.

      She turns to look out over the vastness. Fir waves sweep through, gathering among the tree tops. They resemble an old quilt. She is reminded of her grandmother.

      Her eyes turn upwards. The sky is azure so high aloft, like an ocean to dive through. A passage to heaven.

      Will there be a heaven for me? She wonders.

      She closes her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispers into the valley.

      The tears come and spill over onto the scree. “I’m tired,” she says, “just tired.”

      Her shoulders shake as she turns her back on the landscape one last time.

      The mountain comforts her with a lullaby. It sends her the songs of the warblers and thrushes. Cicadas awaken, their high-pitched rubbings echo through the land.

      She steps back onto the trail and makes the final push to the top. To the falls.

      She can fully hear them now. Thunderous and booming, they drown away any lingering doubts.

      The sight of them quiets her like nothing ever could. They are familiar. She has drawn on their image continually. She always knew it would end like this.

      On the edge, a buck drinks from the pools. He senses her presence. His head snaps up. Water cascades from his antlers. They stare at one another, neither of them ready to speak first.

      “I..” she begins.

      The deer’s eyes widen. His nostrils flare. He stomps an accusation before taking flight into the brush.

      She feels guilty, but has made up her mind.

      She sits on a boulder and removes her pack. Cool mist sprays her cheeks as the water roars down the towering gray columns.

      She unzips the top and fishes around until she finds the medicine bottle. She unscrews the lid and examines the contents. She has been saving for a long time. Countless nights of torture so she could have such a moment.

      She dumps the entirety into her hand and pops the fistful into her mouth.

      She waits, hoping for quick relief. She does not wish for a final showing of her life. Her anxiety riddled brain has already replayed it many times.

      She stares at the water. A trout flips half in and half out of the shallows. Its red underbelly heaves as it sucks air. She slides down the rock and goes to release it. A final act of kindness.  She stands at the bank and watches it swim away.

      A warm and heavy feeling rushes into her chest. Soon it will make its way through her veins and settle inside of her head.

      She sits right there on the shore.

      “Samantha!” A voice pierces the uproarious motion.

      Startled, she whips around. The movement makes her dizzy, but she sees his form through the haze. He beckons to her with outstretched hands. Her heart soars.

      “I’m sorry,” he mouths.

      “I am, too,” she mouths back.

      She gets up and dives into the chute.

      End

       

       

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      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged depression, despair, desperation, flashfiction, nature, solitude
    • A Very Sassy Christmas-Starring Sassafras Gherlone!

      Posted at 7:17 pm by writergherlone, on December 24, 2017

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      A Very Sassy Christmas

      by Kristy Gherlone

       

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      “Is Santa real?” Sassafras asked her mama on Christmas Eve.

      “Of course he is,” her mama answered. “He used to visit me every year when I was a little girl.”

      “I’m glad he’s real, but you’re a person and I’m a duck. What if Santa doesn’t bring presents to ducks?”

      “Don’t worry, sweet Sassafras,” her mama smiled. “If you believe in him, he will come. Why don’t you write him a note, asking for something you would like.” She suggested.

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      “That’s a great idea! And I can leave him some milk and cookies and carrots for the reindeer.”

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      “How is this?” Sassafras asked.

      “It looks great! I’m sure he will love it. Don’t forget to hang your stocking!”

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      Sassafras hung her stocking on the fire place. “There,” she said. “I’m all ready for Santa. I really hope he comes tonight!”

      “He will come but not until you’re asleep,” Sassafras’s mama said. “You’d better hurry to bed.”

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      Sassafras climbed into bed with Teddy but she was too excited to sleep. She kept listening for Santa.

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      And kept getting out of bed to see if there were any presents in her stocking.

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      Finally she fell asleep.

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      When she woke up Santa had come! “Look mama! You were right! Santa does visit ducks! He left some worms in my stocking!”

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      “And he drank all of the milk and ate the cookies, too!”

      “He did indeed,” Sassafras’s mama laughed. “I think I see a present under the tree with your name on it.”

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      “I think I do too!” Sassafras cried with excitement. “It’s right here! I hope Santa got me what I asked for.”

      “Well, open it up and see,” Sassafras’s mama said.

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      “He did! He did! Santa brought me just what I always wanted!”

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      Sassafras was so happy. Now she had someone to play with, even if it was just pretend. She shared her worms with her new friend.

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      And they played dress up.

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      And had a tea party.

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      “This was the best Christmas ever! Thank you Santa and mama!”

      Merry Christmas everyone!

       

      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged christmas, familyfriendly, friends, pekinducks, picturestory, santa, shortstory
    • Magazine Submissions: Advice from Someone Who is Not an Expert, but Knows a Little

      Posted at 3:19 pm by writergherlone, on December 1, 2017

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      Magazine Submissions: Advice from Someone Who Is Not an Expert, but Knows A Little

      By Kristy Gherlone

       

      A couple of years ago, I didn’t know anything about the writing world. I knew I wanted to be a writer and I had a lot of ideas, but that was about it. As a child, I expressed the desire to become a writer, and it was met with a great deal of criticism. It probably didn’t help that I also wanted to be a ballerina, a singer, a figure skater, and an actress. My dreams were always dismissed as foolish, wasteful, and not very realistic. My mother had me late in her life and held on to old-fashioned ideals that a woman should get married and raise a family, but despite that, I did go to college and took my first writing class. The class was called Written Critical Expression. I wrote a piece that received high praise from the Professor and earned me an overall A in the class. I was so proud! The Professor encouraged me to write more. I thought I might have a chance to make one of my dreams come true, but I ran out of funds after two years, and had to drop out of school. I got married and had children, just like everyone expected me to.  The idea of becoming a writer did seem unrealistic for me at that point. I was up to my neck in diapers and had to work three jobs, at times. I still had all kinds of writing ideas, but never could find the time or the energy to jot them down.

      Finally, when my children were grown, I turned on the computer and began to write. I didn’t know where it would take me, but it didn’t matter. I was finally writing!  I completed my first novel and by that time, I knew a successful writer well.  I reached out for advice and assistance and was surprised when I didn’t receive a whole lot of encouragement. This is what I was told:

      1. Writing is a tough, competitive business.
      2. Everyone thinks they can be a writer, these days.
      3. Most people don’t make it.
      4. There’s a lot to it.
      5. You’re better off trying to figure things out on your own, like I had to.
      6. I don’t have time to read your work.

      I was stricken. I didn’t want to give up, but I didn’t know how to achieve my goals.  Like I said, I didn’t know anything about the writing world.

      Since I didn’t have a lot of confidence in my abilities, especially after that advice, I didn’t even try to submit my novel to a traditional publisher. I found a local publisher and did it that way. I received some fantastic feedback and sold quite a few copies. It boosted my self-confidence a bit and I was happy until that same author dismissed my success by saying that I had cheated by using a “vanity publisher.” After that, I had to admit that a part of me did feel like a cheater. My success didn’t feel real to me. I didn’t feel like a real author, so I did some research to find out what the “real” authors were doing. I found that most of them had started their careers by publishing in magazines. Everyone has to do what they feel is best for their own careers and for their own confidence levels, and I decided that what I needed for me to feel better, was to give that a try. Easier said than done!

      I wrote some short stories and began submitting to magazines. My early attempts were all rejected dismissively, harshly, and unapologetically. I began to question whether I had any real talent at all.

      It turns out that I just wasn’t doing it right. Now this is where I want to point out that I am definitely not an expert. Most of my submissions are rejected and I have yet to make it into the “top” 50, but I have received 10 acceptances in less than a year. I’m proud of every one. I have been in some beautiful magazines. If you only submit to the top 50, you are missing out on being part of some truly wonderful journals, and the chance to get your name and work out there.

      I want to share with you a few tricks in the hopes that I might make things easier for you. I want to give you encouragement, where I was given none. Here’s what I learned:

      1. Get an editor. I can’t stress this enough. I use The Letter Works and my talented husband. It doesn’t cost as much as you think. Your submission will be rejected for spelling mistakes and bad grammar most of the time. You might think your work is mistake free, but a good editor can point out where your work can be improved, plus they are immersed in the business. They know what’s going on out there. I have learned a lot from mine. Even still, my work will never be mistake free. There is still too much I don’t know and the rules are always changing. This document is probably full of mistakes because I didn’t let my editor edit it. Haha.
      2. Do the research. I mean that. Don’t just skim through the magazines you want to submit to. I’m embarrassed now that I sent what I did to the “top” magazines. I never had a chance! The magazines usually tell you, right up front, what they like and don’t. If you send a romance to a Sci-Fi they will reject you. Go figure. Also, check the word counts of the material they usually publish or ask for. If they are prone to publishing 2, 000-5,000 word stories and you send them 500, they might not take it. The same in the reverse. Don’t send a novelette to a flash fiction mag. Check the style of writing they publish. Are they contemporary, genre specific like non-fiction. What do you write? Does your writing fit in with what they have already published? Doesn’t mean they won’t take your writing, but it’s less likely.
      3. Keep your cover letters simple and on task. Sometimes, if you are lucky, the magazine will tell you what they want you to write in a cover letter. A few do want flashy, creative cover letters, but I have found that most don’t. They don’t have time to read it, so they just want the facts. And don’t be showy. If they ask for a past publishing history, give it to them, but only if they ask.
      4. Do simultaneous submissions. Don’t just send one piece of writing to one magazine unless the one magazine you’re submitting to does not allow simultaneous submissions. (Again…do the research into the magazine you’re submitting to-this could make or break your career) You will have a greater chance for success if you send your story to a few magazines at a time, if allowed. And keep track! This is very important. Keep a log of every submission, every rejection, and every acceptance. You will need this information to withdraw, if you get accepted somewhere else and for a thousand other reasons I can think of. Keep careful track.
      5. Have realistic goals. Very few people just starting out get in to the top 5. Not to say that you won’t, but try smaller and work your way up. But only if you want. If you really need that top 5, keep writing and improving and keep trying. It could happen and it does to some people. But like I said, you’ll be missing out, in my opinion, if you hold out for only the top rated.
      6. Don’t give up. You need to keep writing and improving.
      7. Be yourself. You don’t have to write with the trends to be accepted.
      8. Celebrate your victories but then keep moving, unless one acceptance is good enough for you.

      So did I achieve what I wanted to? Yes and no. I guess because I’m an artist, I still feel like a fraud sometimes. It comes with the territory, I’m told. I did ditch my worries about using a “vanity publisher.” Who cares as long as you’re happy and doing what you love. Do whatever it takes, just don’t give up.

      That’s all I have for now, but look at how much I have learned in such a short time! Just by doing research!  I’m here if you have any questions. I’ll do what I can to help you achieve your dreams.

      And whatever happened to that “successful author” with the wonderful advice? I don’t know. I didn’t need that kind of negativity in my life.

      Also, here are some good sites to look at to find who is requesting material and when:

      1. New Pages

      2. Entropy

      3. Subscribe to Submittable

      4. Simply google “literary magazines seeking fiction 2017” and you’ll come up with a bunch

      Good luck!

       

       

       

      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged advice, dreams, encouragement, goals, magazines, publishing, shortstory, success, writer, writing
    • Pie, Oh Pie Did I Do This?

      Posted at 1:06 am by writergherlone, on November 23, 2017

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      Thanksgiving is a going to be a little tough for me this year, as most of my family is feuding. Anticipating some depression about missing dinner with my children and grandson, I almost booked a cruise. Sailing into the sun, reggae music playing in the background, and a Pina Colada in my hand sounded like just the thing to cure my blues. However,  I decided to take my best friend up on her offer and join her family for dinner this year. We haven’t been able to spend Thanksgiving together for a long time and I’m excited to have the opportunity. As kids, we often shared the holiday and one of our favorite past times was eating pie for breakfast.  So, I told her I would come and I even offered to make the pies.

      Like any good, respecting Mainer, when we offer to do something, by God, we’re going to do it! I looked up some ideas online and set to work today. Hours later, I’m exhausted and not entirely pleased with my efforts. Pie art is probably something that could be improved with practice and maybe I’ll get there, but it’s doubtful since I rarely make pie. When I have, I have always made traditional pies with an occasional cut leaf here and there for decoration. Nothing to this extent. It was a learning process, but I did come up with some ideas of my own for next time.

      It did occur to me, about halfway through, when I was sweaty and swearing, that I had given myself this challenge to keep my mind off my troubles. It worked. I should have known! Writing, painting, and apparently pie art are all great activities for relaxing the mind and soul.

      Anyway, no matter what you are doing for Thanksgiving, I hope you have a wonderful day. I wanted to share my pies with you and my story. Family issues are brutal during the holidays, so I can only pray that you and your family are together and thankful to be so.  I hope next year will find me in a different circumstance, but in the meantime, I am going to enjoy spending time with my best friend. I am so blessed to have her and I’m grateful for her generosity.

       

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      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged family, familyissues, feuds, holidayblues, pie, thanksgiving
    • Who Are You Today?

      Posted at 1:47 pm by writergherlone, on November 17, 2017

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      Who Are You Today?

      By Kristy Gherlone

       

      I have been our Nation’s President and a street sign.

      I have been the rain and a pile of dead leaves.

      I have traveled through time and I have lived the life of a Nazi war criminal.

      I have climbed mountains and have thrown myself into The Falls.

      I have been witness to atrocities and miracles.

      I have been a whupping boy and a psychic.

      I have been autistic and an abused little girl.

      I have been abandoned and I have been the neighborhood comedic hick.

      I have been sought out by the government and killed by a prisoner.

      I have killed myself over and over again, but I have lived through a million words and at least a hundred lives.

      Today, I am the Pastor of a small Baptist church.

      My life is exciting because I write it that way.

      Who are you today? Where are you? What can you see? What will you be tomorrow?

      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged amwriting, microfiction, questions, stories, whoareyou, writer, writerslife
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