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    • Sassafras: The Olympic Hopeful

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

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      Sassafras: The Olympic Hopeful

      by Kristy Gherlone

       

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      “Mom? Can ducks be in the Olympics?”

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

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

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

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      Sassafras tried snowboarding.

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

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

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

      “How about snowshoeing?” Her mother suggested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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      “These skates hurt my feet,” Sassafras said.

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

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

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      Sassafras’s tried the sled.

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

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

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

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

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      “Hooray! I’m a gold medalist!”

       

      Posted in Uncategorized | 3 Comments
    • The Whupping Tree

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

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

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

      The Whupping Tree

      by Kristy Gherlone

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “I’m coming!” Henry said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Nope. I don’t suspect I am.”

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

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

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

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

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

      Henry went inside to tell his father.

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

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

      “What’s your point?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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      Sassafras and Valentine’s Day

      By Kristy Gherlone

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

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

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

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

      “Like how?” Sassafras asked.

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

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

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      She gathered some art supplies and got to work.

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

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

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

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

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

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      “I have just the thing!” Sassafras said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       

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      “Daddy! I made something for you!”

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

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

      “I made it because I love you.”

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

      “Is it a present?” Sassafras asked.

      “It might be,” her Daddy smiled.

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

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

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

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

       

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

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

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

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

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

      The Falls

      by Kristy Gherlone

       

       

      She pauses to listen halfway into the ascent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      The low shooshing of the falls finally touches her ears.

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

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

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

      Will there be a heaven for me? She wonders.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “I..” she begins.

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

      She feels guilty, but has made up her mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

      She sits right there on the shore.

      “Samantha!” A voice pierces the uproarious motion.

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

      “I’m sorry,” he mouths.

      “I am, too,” she mouths back.

      She gets up and dives into the chute.

      End

       

       

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

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

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      A Very Sassy Christmas

      by Kristy Gherlone

       

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

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

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

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

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

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      “How is this?” Sassafras asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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      Finally she fell asleep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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      And they played dress up.

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      And had a tea party.

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

      Merry Christmas everyone!

       

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

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

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

      By Kristy Gherlone

       

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      1. New Pages

      2. Entropy

      3. Subscribe to Submittable

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

      Good luck!

       

       

       

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

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

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

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

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

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

       

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

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

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      Who Are You Today?

      By Kristy Gherlone

       

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

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

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

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

      I have been witness to atrocities and miracles.

      I have been a whupping boy and a psychic.

      I have been autistic and an abused little girl.

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

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

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

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

      My life is exciting because I write it that way.

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

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

      Posted at 8:47 pm by writergherlone, on November 13, 2017

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      Winter

      by Kristy Gherlone

       

      There are knives in the eaves.

      There are shards of glass in the streets.

      There is a serial killer just outside my window.

      I’d complain further, but there’s a heart attack in my driveway.

      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged ice, microfiction, snow, story, winter
    • Cracked

      Posted at 8:46 pm by writergherlone, on November 6, 2017

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      *Unfortunately, to date, the following story has not made it into the literary pages. It is an old-fashioned story in feel, but a particular favorite of mine, so I thought I’d share.  I hope you enjoy it too! While this one won’t be seen in the magazines, I do have three more that will. “The Forest Fire,” will appear in Edify Fiction on December 29, 2017. “No Parking,” will appear in Fiction on the Web on December 11th, and my new story ( a comedy), was just accepted by Defenestration Magazine. I’ll announce the date for that one as it gets closer. Also, my story, “The Falls,” is now available in print through Wild Women’s Medicine Circle Journal and you can find it on Amazon, if you are interested.

       

       

      Cracked

      By Kristy Gherlone

       

      There were cracks in the driveway. Deep, ugly grooves that marred the surface of the inky pavement.

      Janice cried out in shock. It wasn’t so much the cracks that bothered her. It was that the cracks had weeds growing in them.

      “Honey? Better get those paver fellows to come back. We have cracks…”

      She set her purse and coffee down onto the top of her car, and plucked a lime green shoot from a crevice.

      In disbelief, she held it up to her eyes, squinting as she rolled it back and forth between her fingers. “What in the Sam holy old hell? How is this even possible?” They’d only just had the driveway done a couple of days before.

      She shook her head and threw it down. She crushed it under the heel of her shoe for good measure.

      “Make sure you call them today, too! Those scamming little bastards are not going to get away with this. We paid good money for this driveway, and they’re going to fix it or we’ll sue!”

      She opened the car door. “Did you hear me? I’ve got to get to work. I’m late!” She jumped in and tore away.

      Later that afternoon when she arrived back home, nothing had been done about the driveway.

      I bet Jack didn’t even call, she thought, fuming.  That man is as useless as tits on a boar hog.  If Tommy was home, he would have made sure they’d come right back over.  Such a good kid, Tommy… nothing like his father.

      She sat, holding the keys in her hand, and wondered about her son. She hadn’t heard from him since he’d left for his cross-country trip to college out in Utah. She was beginning to worry that something was wrong. It wasn’t like him not to call.

      Suddenly, there was a rap on her window. She jumped and whirled around. The afternoon sun had dropped below the horizon! It was nightfall!

      “Who’s out there?” she cried.

      “It’s me, Mrs. Sanborn. Your neighbor, Ted Gatsby.”

      “Who?”

      “Ted Gatsby. Don’t you remember me? Is everything alright?”

      Janice felt foolish. Relieved, but foolish. She rolled down the window. “Of course I remember you. How could I forget? You must think I’m some kind of nut, sitting out here like this. I was tired after work. I guess I must have dozed off for a minute.”

      “I was surprised to see anyone over here this morning. I tried the front door when I saw a car in the driveway, just now. I knocked but no one answered. I was about to leave, but then I saw you sitting inside. You scared me half to death. I thought…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

      “No, no. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” She rolled up the window and opened the door, “Jack didn’t answer when you knocked?” She scoffed, struggling to get out of the seat.  “That man, I swear to God! All he does is sit in that chair and watch television. I have to light a fire under his ass to get him to do anything.” She swung one of her legs out, but couldn’t go any further.

      “Jack? You mean your husband, Mrs. Sanborn?” Ted asked, bewildered.

      “Of course my husband! Who’d you think I was talking about?”

      Ted’s mouth fell open. He didn’t know what to say.

      “Never mind. Give me a hand, will you? I can’t seem to get out of this thing.” Janice laughed, embarrassed.   “Imagine a forty-year-old woman having so much trouble.”

      Ted chuckled awkwardly, but reached in to take her by the arm. Gently, he pulled and managed to get her out. Her legs quivered beneath her as she stood, clinging to his arm.

      “Is there someone I should call for you?” he asked, his voice full of concern.

      “Call? Heavens, no! Who in the hell would you call unless it’s those damn pavers? Did you see my driveway?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “A kindergartener could have done a better job!”

      “But…” Ted stammered.

      She rolled her eyes and waved him away. “I’m fine. Just a little unsteady. I don’t know what’s gotten into me today, but I’m sure it will pass.   Probably just a bug or something.” She started for the house, but stopped and turned back around. “What did you want, anyway?”

      “Want, Mrs. Sanborn?”

      “Yes, why did you come over?”

      “Oh, yeah,” Ted said, suddenly remembering the reason for his visit.  “I thought, maybe, since you were back, you could use some help fixing the old place up again. I could put a coat of sealant on that driveway for you. I have some left over from a job I did over in Chickory. It might keep the weeds from sprouting up.”

      “So that’s why you’re here?” Janice cried, insulted.  “There is nothing wrong with this house other than that blasted driveway. Old place, indeed! What a thing to say! Our house is the nicest one on this block and you know it! I bet you’re in cahoots with those pavers, aren’t you?”

      “I…well, no! Of course, not,” Ted stammered.

      “I’m not an idiot, so don’t take me for one,” she said, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “I happen to know a thing or two about contractors. Never met a single one I could trust.”

      “Mrs. Sanborn, please…I didn’t mean to offend you, it’s just that it’s been a while since anyone…you’ve been gone…”

      “Well you can forget it,” she snapped, cutting him off. She turned on her heels, “I paid good money for that driveway not even a week ago, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to pay you too. They are just going to have to come back and fix it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a husband to attend to.” She stormed into the house and slammed the door behind her.

      She threw her things down onto the table and stalked into the den. Jack was sitting in his chair. The television was blaring.  Janice walked over and turned it down. “Can you imagine the nerve of some people? You’d think you could trust your own neighbors! Ted Gatsby thought he was going to con us into paying him for something that should have been done right in the first place. Well, I’ll tell you! It’s a good thing you’ve got me around. I set him straight. And where the hell were you when all of this was going on? Sitting right here, just like always. You know, I’m sick of doing everything by myself. I have a good mind to take Sal Eames up on his offer to run away with him.” She smiled smugly and went off to make dinner.

      The next morning, when she stepped into the shower, she noticed the tiles right away. They were cracked. Not all of them, but quite a few. Splintery cracks feathered the delicate flowered porcelain.

      It wasn’t the cracks that bothered her so much. It was the black mold peppering the rubbery grout that baffled her. She scraped some off with her fingernail. “Jeez Louise!” she muttered.

      “Jack!” she hollered over the rush of running water. “What on earth happened up here? The tiles are cracked! I bet you busted them up when you were trying to replace that shower head, didn’t you? I told you to be careful. If water gets in behind those cracks, we’ll have a mess on our hands for sure. There’s already mold growing. Replace them today while I’m gone, will you?”

      She finished with her shower, dressed, and grabbed her lunch out of the fridge. “Well, I’m off. Don’t forget about those chores,” she told Jack before stepping outside.

      She started down the walk, but something on the side of the house caught her attention. She whirled around and froze.  There were cracks in the foundation! Deep fissures ran all the way from the bottom edge of the siding to the ground. Gaping, jagged edges of concrete. Lush green moss clung tightly to the rough gray surface. It was unsightly. Horrified, she dropped her lunch.

      “Jack? Jack! Get out here! We have real problems.”  Stunned, she staggered over to the foundation and dropped to her knees. She began pulling the moss out in clumps. “Did we have an earthquake?  Did you see anything about an earthquake on the news?”

      When Jack didn’t answer, she got up and went back into the house. “Jack?” she yelled, going from room to room.  “Jack?”

      She found him in the den.  “I’ve been shouting for you. I should have known you wouldn’t hear me over that stupid television.”  Exasperated, she snapped it off. “Don’t you ever do anything else besides watch TV?  Did you hear me? I think we’re going to have to call the insurance company. I think we’ve had an earthquake. I’ve got to get to work. Make sure you do it today and get an estimate.”

      She hurried back outside.

      “Mrs. Sanborn?” A voice called to her.

      Janice’s head snapped up. She shielded her eyes from the morning sunlight.

      “It’s just me, again, Mrs. Sanborn,” the voice said, getting closer.

      Janice recognized the voice as Ted Gatsby’s. “I don’t want to talk to you,” she snapped. She hurried over to her car, opened the door, and threw her purse inside.

      “Mrs. Sanborn, I called Gloria. Just sit tight, okay?”

      “Gloria?” she croaked, her anger momentarily forgotten. “My Gloria? Whatever for?”

      “Yes, your Gloria. Your daughter! She was glad to hear that you’re okay. She was very worried about you.”

      “Worried? What on earth for? You didn’t drag her into our spat, did you? You had no right! She needs to be studying instead of worrying about what’s going on here. Why don’t you just mind your own business, Mr. Nosey.” She scowled and got into the car.

      All the fuss and bickering made her tired. She leaned against the door and closed her eyes. A few minutes later, she felt herself falling and nearly toppled out of the car. “What on earth!” she bellowed.

      “Mama! Oh, mama! You can’t imagine how sick I’ve been with worry,” Gloria wailed. She grasped her mother’s shoulders, and tried to right her again.

      “What?” Janice demanded, confused. She looked up at the sky. The position of the sun told her it was late afternoon! She’d fallen asleep again!  She shook her head, “Gloria! My God, girl, what are you doing here?”

      “I’m sorry mama. I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s just that when Ted called…” she began to cry, “I’m just so glad to see you.”

      “For crying out loud! It’s only been a couple of weeks since daddy and I dropped you off at school. The way you’re carrying on, you’d think we hadn’t seen each other in years. Well, never mind. Give me a hug you foolish girl.” She rolled her eyes, but smiled as she let Gloria help her out of the car.  “I can’t believe you let Ted Gatsby talk you into coming home from college for something so ridiculous. Well, daddy will be glad to see you anyway. Let’s go in and say hello.”

      Gloria sniffled as she led her mother up the walkway. “Mama, I think we should talk,” she said, helping her mother inside and onto the couch in the foyer.

      “You didn’t flunk out already did you?” Janice tsked. “Is that what all this blubbering is about?”

      “No mama. I…”

      “Something worse then,” she pursed her lips and frowned.  “Well, go and get your father. Whatever you have to say, he should probably hear too. God! I hope you’re not pregnant,” she huffed, clutching her chest.

      Gloria searched her mother’s eyes.  “Please tell me you remember about daddy, mama. And Tommy. You do remember, don’t you?” She reached up to cup her mother’s cheek.

      “Remember what? What has gotten into you today?” Janice said, pushing her hand away. “You just go and get your father, like you’re told.”

      “Mama,” Gloria began gently, “Daddy isn’t here. He’s been gone since the week after Tommy left us.

      “Gone? What are you talking about? He hasn’t gone anywhere. He’s right in the den.” She got up and started down the hall. “Jack! You get out here and see your daughter.”

      “He isn’t here,” Gloria said again.  She got up too, and hurried after her. “He couldn’t be.” She caught up and reached for her mother’s shoulder, trying to stop her. “Daddy’s been dead for nearly thirty years.”

      “What?” Janice yelped, pulling away. Her face flushed scarlet. “Why would you say such a thing? Have you gone mad? He’s watching television, the old fool.” She made it to the entrance of the den. She stopped and thrust a finger towards her husband’s chair. “See?” she said. “He’s right there.”

      Gloria followed her in. She walked over to the chair. She held her breath, and turned it around. Other than an old drop cloth, it was empty!

      “What in the world?” Janice cried. Her eyes were frantic as she searched the room. She ran around, opening all the closets, and checking behind all the furniture. “Jack? Don’t play games now! Your daughter is here and wants to see you.”

      “Mama, stop. Please, just stop. Daddy isn’t here. He’s gone. He died of a heart attack. And Tommy died in the accident on Route sixty-six on his way to college.”

      Janice’s hand flew to her mouth. “No! That’s not true! You’re lying,” she rasped.

      “I’m so sorry, but it is true. You have to believe it. You have to remember!”

      Janice began to shake. A flood of horrible memories rushed into her brain, though she tried to push them out. “No!” she wept. “I don’t want to remember!”

      “You have to. I need you! Your grandchildren need you”

      “No, no, no,” Janice shook her head. Her legs gave out and she sat with a slump onto the couch.

      Gloria went and sat next to her. “I thought when Ted called and told me that you were here, that you were starting to remember again. Was I wrong?” she asked.

      “Here? This is my home. Where else would I be?”

      “At the center, mama. We had to take you there after daddy died. You’ve been there all this time.”

      “It can’t be,” Janice said with horror. “It just can’t be.”

      “But it is.  They called when they couldn’t find you yesterday. They didn’t know where you’d gone. We’ve all been so scared. You can’t imagine my relief when Ted called. I thought, then, that you were starting to come back to us.”

      “Come back to you?”

      “Come with me mama.” Gloria got up and held out her hand.

      Janice hesitated, but finally took it and followed her out into the hallway. Grandma’s antique mirror still hung crookedly on the wall, next to the back door.

      “Turn around, mama. I want you to see yourself.”

      “See myself? I’ve seen myself a million times,” she said, but turned towards the mirror anyway.  The woman she saw starring back at her was old. An old woman with crazy, deranged eyes!

      Frightened, she took a step back. Her hands reached up to feel her face. Deep cracks and creases lined her cheeks and forehead. Her lips were dry and puckered. Crinkles erupted next to her eyes as she stood there grimacing. “I’m old,” she whispered. “I can’t be this old. I was just forty a few months ago…”

      Gloria reached over to rub her mother’s back. “It’s been thirty years since you were forty, mama. You’ve been gone a long time, too.”

      “Am I back now?”

      “I hope so, mama. I really hope so.”

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged age, family, fiction, grief, illness, loss, mental, shortstory
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