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    • On the River in the Sun

      Posted at 3:41 pm by writergherlone, on February 18, 2021

      On the River in the Sun

      Story and Art by Kristy Gherlone

      **This story originally appeared in the January 2020 issue of “Scarlet Leaf Review.”

      “Charlie? Time to get up, son.” 

           Pulled from sleep, Charlie stretched and kicked the covers aside. He’d been in the middle of a dream. He’d been digging through the ice cream chest at the corner store up the road from his grandpa’s cottage, trying to decide between a Klondike or a Snickers bar.‘Take ‘em both if you’d like. A little ice cream on a hot day never killed anyone,’ his grandfather had chuckled. ‘You’re gonna need some fuel to catch those trout’. Charlie was still smiling when he opened his eyes and looked up. 

           “Did you hear me?” his father asked, switching on the light. He was wearing his suit and tie.

           “I heard,” Charlie answered back. He sat up and yawned. Fully roused, the events of the day before came rushing back. It made his chest feel heavy, as if someone was squeezing it. His grandfather wasn’t at the cottage. He was laying as still as a sunning turtle in a wood box under the ground.

           “I have to go into the office,” his father said. “Your mother’s getting your breakfast ready. She’s going to drop you off at school and then go and sit with your Aunt June.”

           Charlie flopped back down, grabbed the covers, and pulled them up over his head. “You said you had the whole day off ‘cause of what happened,” he whined. “You said I didn’t have to go to school.”

           “I know and I’m sorry. Things didn’t work out like I planned. Besides, I think it’s best if everyone just gets back to normal. There’s no sense in sitting around moping. You’ll feel better once you see your friends. You’ll see,” he said before breezing out. 

           Charlie threw the covers back off. “Dad,” he called.

           “Yeah?” his father answered.

           “How long is Grandpa planning on being dead for?”

           Charlie’s father sighed. He came back into the room and sat on the edge of the bed. “I thought we talked about this. You’re eight now. You’re old enough to understand about death.” 

           Charlie understood about death. He didn’t know why he’d asked such a dumb question. He figured it was because he wanted his father to say something; something that would make everything alright.

           “Dead is forever,” his father said. He brushed the hair out of Charlie’s eyes. “Remember when Copper died? Do you remember what we told you?”

           Charlie nodded

           “Well, it’s the same thing with grandpa. He’s in a better place now.”

           “With Copper?” Charlie asked. 

           “Maybe,” his father shrugged.

           Charlie pulled the blanket back up over his head. It wasn’t possible there was a place better for his grandpa than the cottage. There might be somewhere better for a dog, but people were different. 

           “Listen, I have to get going,” his father said, getting up. “If you have any more questions, I’m sure your mom can help you out. I’m late.”

           “But what if Grandpa gets to that place, wherever it is, and doesn’t like it?” 

           “He can’t come back, Charlie,” his father said, his voice firm. “It’s not possible. I know it’s hard, but that’s just the way it is.”

           “But summer’s starting in a couple of weeks. Who’s going to watch me? Who’s going to take me to the cottage?” 

           “Let’s not worry about that right now. We’ll figure something out. Now hurry up, okay? Your mom’s waiting.” 

            Charlie got up and plodded towards the bathroom. His parents were talking down in the kitchen. 

          “I can’t believe you’re going in to work so soon after your father’s funeral,” Charlie’s mother said. “I know you two didn’t see eye to eye, but it just doesn’t seem right. I mean, what about Charlie? Your father may have been a thorn in your side, but Charlie loved him very much. He needs you right now.”

          “Shhh,” his father said. “He’ll hear you.”

           Charlie crept over to the top of the stairs to listen, even though he wasn’t supposed to eavesdrop.

          “Well, I just can’t believe it,” his mother said, lowering her voice.

          “Why?” his father asked. “He would have done the same thing. The man didn’t take a day off from work in forty years.” 

          “But it’s your father,” she said. “And now I’m the one who has to go and comfort your sister all day.”

          “Then don’t go! I don’t know why she’s so bent out of shape anyway. He treated her the same way he treated me. He was barely even around when we were growing up and when he was, he ignored us. The only thing that man ever cared about was work.” 

          “That’s not true,” Charlie’s mother said. “He cared about Charlie.”

          “Well it was true for me!” Charlie’s father boomed, then lowered his voice again. “I’m glad he cared about Charlie. I’m glad he took an interest. I just wish…,” he started, but didn’t finish.

          “Wish what?” his mother prodded.

          “I just wish he’d shown me the same affection when I was Charlie’s age.”

          “I wish he had too, Ben, for your sake, but don’t you think he made up for it a little with Charlie? He did us a pretty big favor by watching him, so we didn’t have to pay for a sitter. Charlie learned a lot from him. Don’t you think we owe him a little something for that at least?”

          “I don’t owe him anything.” 

           There was a long silence before his mother spoke again. 

          “Well, I still think you should be the one to go to your sister’s,” she said. “You two need to discuss what’s going to happen to his estate.”

          “There’s nothing to discuss. Everything will be sold, and the proceeds will be split in half.”

          “What about the cottage?” she asked.

           Charlie stopped breathing. His heart thudded inside of his chest as he waited to hear his father’s answer.

          “Well?” his mother asked again.

          “I guess it will be sold.”

          “No!” Charlie cried. 

           “Charlie?” his mom called. “Is that you?”

           Charlie dashed into the bathroom. Hot tears stung his eyes. His father couldn’t sell the cottage! He just couldn’t! 

           “Your breakfast is getting cold,” she said.

           Charlie didn’t care about stupid breakfast. “I’m not hungry,” he answered grumpily.

           “Your mother cooked you a nice breakfast, so you get down here. Now!” his father said.

           Charlie pouted. He blew his nose and went down to the kitchen, where he sat with a slump at the table.

           “Morning, sweetheart,” his mother said brightly. She smiled, kissed him on the cheek, and set a plate of pancakes in front of him.

           “I’ve got to go,” Charlie’s father said, checking his watch. “Try to have a good day.” He reached down to ruffle Charlie’s hair, but Charlie pulled away. His father frowned. “Maybe we can throw the ball around when I get home. Wouldn’t that be fun?” 

           Charlie didn’t answer. He wasn’t talking to his father.

           “Well, see you later, Champ,” his father said. “I’ll try to come home early,” he added before rushing out. Charlie scowled. His father wouldn’t come home early. He never did. 

           Charlie waited for his father’s car to pull out of the driveway before asking, “Why didn’t Daddy like Grandpa?”

           Charlie’s mother stopped washing dishes. “Oh honey, he loved your grandpa. What would make you ask such a thing?” she asked. She wiped her hands on a dish towel and went over to sit with him.

           “I don’t know,” Charlie answered, pushing the food around on his plate. “It’s just that he never came up to the cottage. All the time we were up there, he never came. Not for fishing, not for a barbecue, not for anything.”

           “Your dad’s a busy man, Charlie,” she said, coming to his defense. “He has an important job.”

           “But Grandpa told me that Daddy had a lot of fun at the cottage when he was little. He said he never wanted to leave. If he loved the cottage so much, then he must have stayed away because of Grandpa,” Charlie surmised. “Or maybe he didn’t come because he didn’t want to spend time with me,” he added, though it pained him. 

           “That’s just not true!”  his mother cried. “Daddy loves you very much. He just has a lot of responsibilities. I’m sure he would have gone if he’d found the time.”

           “Well, I’m never going to be too busy to go the cottage,” Charlie said, fixing his jaw. 

           “Charlie…” his mother started softly, reaching for his hand. 

           Charlie snatched it away. “Well, I won’t! And I’m not going to change either! I’ll always want to go. And if you let Daddy sell it, I’m never speaking to you guys again! You just wait and see if it’s true!”  he said. He jumped up and ran to his room.

             Charlie’s parents didn’t talk about selling the cottage again for a while. He hoped it meant that his father had changed his mind, but when school let out, instead of spending the first week of summer vacation swimming and fishing at the cottage, Charlie went to his Aunt June’s. The city was hot in the summertime, and her backyard was an oven in the afternoon heat. She didn’t like to go to the town pool, or to the park, or much of anything that had to do with the outside. 

           Charlie kept thinking about Grandpa and the cottage. He worried about the fish and the chipmunks. He and his grandpa always brought food to feed the creatures. What would happen when there was no one there to feed them? Would they starve? 

           Charlie’s Aunt June drove him home on Friday afternoon. When they got to the house, Charlie’s father was hooking a trailer to their van and his mother was loading suitcases into the back seat. Charlie hopped out of the car. “Are we going somewhere?” he asked. 

          “Yes,” his mother answered. “We’re going up to the cottage this weekend.”

           “Yippee!” Charlie screeched, leaping into the air.

           “Don’t get too excited,” his father cautioned. “We’re only going to gather some of your grandpa’s personal things and to clean the place up a bit so we can list it with a realtor.”

           Charlie’s heart sank. His father had made his decision. The cottage would be sold. Soon, it would be gone forever, just like his grandpa. 

           “If you’d rather stay here, with Aunt June,” Charlie’s father offered, “no one will blame you. There’s a lot of work to do up there. I won’t have much time to spend with you.”

           “I think he should go. It might be good for him,” his mother said, cutting in. “He has a lot of memories there. He might want to see it one last time.”

           “I suppose,” his father shrugged. 

           “What do you think, Sweetheart?” his mother asked him.

          “I want to go,” Charlie decided. It would be hard when it was time to say goodbye, but at least he’d have one last weekend of fun.

          Charlie’s father smiled. “I think that’s a good idea,” he said. “In time, you’ll understand why we couldn’t keep it,” he added, but Charlie knew he wouldn’t understand if he lived to be a million years old. 

           Charlie went into the house to gather some things for the trip. He stopped by the kitchen to fill his pockets with peanuts and crackers. He hoped it was enough to satisfy the fish and chipmunks for a long time.

             Outside, Charlie’s father honked the horn. “Come on you guys! Time’s wasting. We’ve got to get going if we’re going to beat traffic,” he hollered.

           Charlie ran out and got into the back seat of the van. His stomach flipped and flopped. He felt all churned up inside, like his happy and sad parts were fighting with each other.

           Charlie’s mother came out last, juggling a pile of boxes. “Thanks for the help,” she muttered. She tossed them into the trailer and got in next to Charlie’s father. “Do you think we’ll need more?” she asked, but he didn’t hear her. He was talking on his phone about work stuff.  

           “What did you say, Beth?” Charlie’s father asked finally, after he’d hung up.

           “I asked if you think we’ll need more boxes.”

           “If we do, I’m sure there will be places to get some. I don’t know what’s around. I haven’t been up there in years, but there’s bound to be a shopping plaza or something.”

           Charlie turned his attention out the window as they started along. He liked to watch the city get smaller and smaller until it turned into forest. His grandpa used to tell him that there was an invisible fence to keep the city from spilling over and messing up the woods. Green hills lay before them. The car climbed, winding its way up the highway. Charlie watched for the familiar lakes and streams before they disappeared on the descent.

           “This scenery is gorgeous,” Charlie’s mother remarked. “Isn’t it gorgeous? Just look at those valleys!”

           “The glaciers left those holes when the ice melted away,” Charlie said.

           “Well, isn’t that something,” Charlie’s mother said. “I bet your grandpa told you that. He was a very smart man.” 

           Charlie was about to say that he was; that he was the smartest man he knew, but his father’s phone rang.  “Quiet! I need to take this,” he said. He answered and talked on and on about more work things that Charlie didn’t pay attention to. 

           When they reached their exit, Charlie’s father got off the phone. He turned off the main highway and onto the long, country road that ran through the town near the cottage. Charlie spotted the store that he and his grandpa used to go to. He wanted to ask his father to stop in for ice cream, but decided against it. 

           Finally, they came to the fire road that went down to the lake. Pine branches scraped against the side of their van, screeching and scratching as they went along the narrow dirt road. “Well, the road’s still the same,” Charlie’s father grumbled. “You’d think after all this time, they’d have widened it a little.”

           “Oh, that’s all we need are more scratches on this car!” Charlie’s mother tsked.

           “I’m not sure if I remember which driveway is ours,” Charlie’s father said, slowing. “There’s a lot more cottages than there used to be.” 

           “I know which one it is,” Charlie said with confidence. “It’s the next one, right up there.” 

           Charlie’s father turned into the driveway and stopped. Charlie threw the door open and jumped out. He bolted down to the pond, grabbed a handful of pebbles, and threw them into the water. Sunfish darted out from underneath the lily pads and pecked at them, thinking it food. “The fish are still here!” he laughed.  

           “You be careful, Charlie!” his mother warned, as she got out of the car.  

           Charlie’s father got out too, and stretched. “Smell that air!” he said, taking in a deep breath. “I’d forgotten how clean it smells up here. It’s like we’re a million miles from the city and it’s really not that far away.” 

           “It’s pretty,” Charlie’s mother said. “And so quiet. I can see why Charlie’s so fond of it.”

           Charlie’s father joined him at the edge of the pond. Startled by the sudden movement, the sunfish scattered, but it wasn’t long before they made their way back. “Boy oh boy, are those fish still hanging around?” he chuckled. “They were here when I was kid. I used to feed them bread crusts.”

           “I know. Grandpa told me,” Charlie said. “He said you used to stand in the water and let them bite your toes.”

           “That’s right! I did. I’d forgotten all about that,” he said, then grew quiet as he gazed out over the water. His smile faded. “I used to spend a lot of time down here, Charlie. A lot of time,” he said finally. 

           “We could go fishing, if you want,” Charlie offered after a while.

           His father shook his head, as if clearing his thoughts. “I wish I could, but I have too many things to do,” he said. 

           Charlie stuck out his tongue and blew a raspberry.

           “I warned you it wouldn’t be much fun,” his father said and took his phone out of his pocket.

           Charlie sighed and kicked at the sand. “Can we go later?”

           “Shush. Not now, Charlie,” his father said, putting the phone to his ear. After a moment, he lowered it again and inspected the screen. “I don’t seem to have any service out here. Honey? Is your phone working?”

           “Lord, I don’t know!” she huffed, spitting bangs out of her face as she carried an arm load of boxes. “I’m a little busy at the moment.”

            “Hmmm…” Charlie’s father frowned. He zig-zagged around the yard, holding the phone over his head as he searched for a signal. Unable to find a connection, he scowled and shoved the phone back into his pocket. “What were you saying, Charlie?” 

           “I asked if we could go later?”

           “Like I told you before, we came to get things in order, not to play. Besides, I don’t even have a fishing pole.”

           “Yes, you do,” Charlie said. “It’s right inside. It’s the one you had when you were little.”

           “What?” his father croaked in surprise. “That old thing is still here?”

           “Uh huh. Grandpa said he was saving it for when you came back. He saved your tackle box too.”

            “Well how about that,” Charlie’s father said.

           “So, can we go?” 

            His father cleared his throat. “You go on ahead,” he said. “Maybe I’ll come down in a little while.”

           “But there’s only junk fish out here,” Charlie persisted, motioning towards the lake. “Just a lot of suckers and yellow perch. We need to go down to the river if we want to catch any good ones.”

           “Grandpa took you to the river?” 

           Charlie nodded. “All the time.”

           “Well I’ll be,” his father uttered with a snort. “I used to beg and beg him to take me, but he was usually too busy.” Just then, his phone began to ring. He snatched it out of his pocket and answered. “Hello? Oh, hey Tom,” he said, breathing a sigh of relief. “I’ve been trying to call you. The service here is terrible.”

           Charlie sighed and wandered back down to the lake. He hopped up onto the wharf, took his shoes off, and stuck his feet into the cold water, just like he and his grandpa used to do. He shivered, though the sun beat down hot on his back. He felt a pang thinking about how cold and dark it was where his grandpa’s body rested. He peered up at the sky and wondered about the place up there, where his grandpa’s spirit was supposed to be. Did it have a lake or a sun? Did it have ice cream or peanuts? He wanted to ask his father more about it, but he would be mad if Charlie interrupted him. 

           A fish swam up and pecked at Charlie’s toe. He dug a cracker out of his pocket, which by then was more crumbs than cracker, and threw the pieces in. He watched as the fish fought over the food. “You guys are going to have to find something else to eat now,” Charlie told them sadly.

           “Charlie? Ben?” Charlie’s mother called, sticking her head out the screened door. “I made you guys some sandwiches. Are you hungry?”

           “I guess,” Charlie said. He got up and scanned the yard for his father, but he was still on the phone. He picked up his shoes and went inside without him.

            The cottage still smelled like his grandpa. Charlie’s chest felt heavy again as he glanced around. The newspaper his grandpa had been reading the last time they’d come was still laying in the seat of his recliner. His flannel shirt hung over the back. The puzzle they had been working on was half-finished on the coffee table. Charlie’s eyes filled with tears. It hurt down deep inside. He wished like anything that his grandpa would pop out and tell him he was only kidding about being dead. 

           Charlie’s mom came up behind him and laid a hand on his head. “I’m so sorry, sweetie pie. You must be missing him awful bad,” she lamented, leaning down to plant a kiss on his nose.

           Charlie made a face, wiped the kiss off, and ducked out of reach. He didn’t want her to see him cry. “Dad said he might take me fishing later,” he said, changing the subject.

           “That’s great! I guess you better go on and eat then,” she said.

           Charlie had his sandwich alone at the table, while his mother poked around in the cupboards. He’d just finished eating when his father came in. 

           “It’s so nice up here,” Charlie’s mother remarked with a smile. “You never told me how lovely it was. And so peaceful. You know, this is the closest we’ve come to a vacation in years?”

           “It is nice,” Charlie’s father agreed as he gazed out the window. “I’d forgotten how nice,” he added quietly.

            Charlie’s mother yawned. “Well, I’m going to sit and rest for a while,” she decided. “I’m done in. I think I’ll start that book I brought to read. Why don’t you two go off and do something.” she suggested, giving Charlie’s father a wink.

           “I don’t know,” he said, surveying the clutter in the kitchen. “I should start going through some of this stuff.” 

           Charlie’s mother shot him a look. It was the look she gave when she didn’t want to argue but had something to say. 

           “Well,” he relented. “Charlie did mention that he wanted to go fishing.” 

           Charlie jumped out of his chair so fast, it nearly toppled over.

           “Just for a little while, though,” his father said. “What do you say, champ? Want to show me where that old pole of mine is?”

           Charlie ran into the living room and pulled his father’s fishing pole out of the corner. “Here it is. See? Right where you left it,” he said, thrusting it towards his father. “And your tackle box is over by the door.”

           Charlies father took the pole and checked it over. “Man, oh man. I haven’t seen this pole in years. It still looks the same! I hope it works as good as it used to.”

           Charlie snatched his own pole and followed his father toward the door. He hopped around impatiently while his father inspected the contents of his tackle box. 

           “Some if this stuff is probably antique, by now,” his father teased as he sorted through the lures.

           “Everything’s still good,” Charlie assured him. “Can we go now?”

           “Well, these hooks will probably disintegrate as soon as I cast them into the water,” his father said with a frown, “but I guess they’ll have to do.”

           Charlie followed his father outside and together they walked down the trail to the river. Charlie took a few of the nuts out of his pocket and dropped them on the ground for the chipmunks. 

           “You know, when I was your age, I caught the biggest fish of my life down at the river,” Charlie’s father said.

           “I know,” Charlie said. “Grandpa told me. He even showed me a picture. He said it was one of the best days he ever had.”

           Charlie’s father stopped walking and looked at him “He really said that?”

           Charlie nodded.

           “Huh,” Charlie’s father said. “I’m surprised he even remembered that day.”

           “Grandpa remembered lots of stories from when you were little. And you know what? Every time he told me one it kind of felt like you were here.”

            Charlie’s father fixed his jaw. “I’m surprised grandpa had so many stories to tell,” he said, bitterly. “I know he was great with you, but it wasn’t like that for me.”

           Charlie found a loose stone on the trail and kicked it. 

           “I’m sorry,” Charlie’s father said. “I know you loved him very much. It wasn’t right of me to say that.”

           “It’s okay,” Charlie said, even though it wasn’t. He didn’t like knowing that his grandpa made his father feel as sad as Charlie did sometimes. “I loved grandpa, but I love you too. I’m glad we’re going fishing.”

           Charlie’s father smiled. “I’m glad, too.”

           The thundering of the river began to sound through the trees. They were close. Charlie ran ahead. He had a surprise for his father.

           “Wait up, Charlie!” his father said, running after him. “That water is dangerous,” he cautioned.

           Charlie got to the river first and stood in front of the bench his grandfather had placed on the bank. When his father rounded the corner, out of breath, Charlie jumped aside.  “Tada!”

           “What’s this?” his father asked.

           “It’s a bench. Grandpa built it for us. It’s for sitting in the sun while we fish. Look at what he wrote,” he said, pointing to the carving along the back. 

           “‘For Benjamin,’” Charlie’s father began. “’For all the times I wish we’d come but didn’t. For all the….’” His voice cracked. His face crumpled. He turned away from Charlie, his shoulders shaking as he wept.

           Charlie didn’t know what to do. He’d never seen his father cry before. He went to him and wrapped his arms around his waist. “I thought the bench would make you happy.”

           “It does,” his father said, wiping at his tears. “I’m not crying because of that. I’m crying because I have been a fool. I’m so sorry I never came up here with you and grandpa. At first, it was because I was stubborn, then I just got so busy with work, I forgot how much I was missing out on. I bet you’ve been missing me, just like I missed him all those years and I’m sorry for that, too. Can you ever forgive me?”

           Charlie hugged his father tighter. “I have been missing you,” he said. “But I’m happy you’re here now. Do you want meto read the bench?” he asked.

           Charlie’s father nodded.

           “For Benjamin,” Charlie began, proudly. “For all the times I wish we’d come but didn’t. For all the times you can make up for it with Charlie.”

           Charlie’s father scooped him up and gave him a kiss. “I guess I’ve made some mistakes.”

           “Grandpa told me that he made some too, but that it’s never too late to fix a mistake, until it is.”

           “Your Grandpa was a very smart man,” Charlie’s father said, smiling through his tears. Just then, his phone began to ring. He took it out of his pocket. Charlie thought he’d answer it, but instead, he shut it off, and put in back into his pocket.  

           “Almost as smart as you,” Charlie said.

           Charlie’s father laughed. “Well, let’s hook us some fish and then we’ll go back and tell your mother that we’ve decided to keep the cottage. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

      **No part of this story may be copied or reproduced with consent from the author.

      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged childhood, family, familyfriendly, fiction, grief, loss, parents, relationships, shortstory
    • Hot and Sour

      Posted at 5:11 pm by writergherlone, on August 5, 2020

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      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
    • Wawetseka

      Posted at 1:51 pm by writergherlone, on March 3, 2019

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      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

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      **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

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      **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
    • Wayward Child

      Posted at 8:54 pm by writergherlone, on September 21, 2018

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      *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

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      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.

       

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      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged cabins, childhood, maine, nature, shortstory
    • Aloft

      Posted at 11:38 am by writergherlone, on April 3, 2018

       

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      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.

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

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      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

      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
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