Official Blog of Kristy Gherlone

Tag: fiction

• The History Lottery (excerpt)

  Posted at 12:39 pm by writergherlone, on August 8, 2017

  This is a busy time of year for magazine submissions and contests. Please accept my apologies for the dwindling posts, as I have been working on completing my short story selections.

  Be sure to look for “Ice Cream or Moxie,” in Short Fiction Break this Friday, August 11, and the entire version of “The Falls”, coming up in the print version of Wild Women’s Medicine Circle Journal.

  For today: Here is an excerpt from one of my novels, which you can find on Amazon and Barnes & Noble:

  This novel has had excellent reviews and is a favorite with my readers.

   

  “Maize Getchell was just ten years old the night she went missing from the small town of Carlton, New Hampshire, where she lived with her father, Raymond Getchell, former Chief of Police. Rachael Somes, a clerk at the store from which Maize was taken, was only nineteen when she was shot and killed that same night by the man who is presumed to have taken Maize.”

  Raymond turned up the volume, put the footrest up on his chair, and took a giant swig of his beer. It always caught him right in the gut every time he saw a picture of her. It took his breath away. He’d chosen the picture to be shown every year. It was his favorite. She’d been caught in mid-laugh. He loved the way her nose had wrinkled in that way, and the way the sun caught the highlights in her orange-blonde hair. She had a lot of her mother in her. It was a picture he’d taken of her on their trip to the beach the summer before she went missing. The last vacation he’d had with her. She’d told him that it had been the best vacation of her life.

  “On April sixteenth, seven years ago tomorrow, Maize was taken from Beale’s Hillside Convenience at approximately eight o’clock in the evening by an unknown man. She would have been seventeen this year.”

  The news played a brief clip from a surveillance video that had been shot from outside of the gas station. They paused the frame on the abductor, but it wasn’t a clear shot.

  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged fiction, government, grief, loss, lottery, love, murder, mystery, novel

• Sometimes the Sun, Sometimes the Rain

  Posted at 12:30 pm by writergherlone, on July 28, 2017

  

   

  Sometimes the Sun, Sometimes the Rain

  By Kristy Gherlone

   

  Ah and Bao were two little slippers, crafted on a day so fine, the sun glimmered in the sky like a brand-new penny. Ah saw it shining boldly over the tops of the adjacent buildings when the factory lady carried her over by the window. She took it as a sign of good luck. She was sure it meant that she and her sister Bao were destined for great things.

  The factory lady held her up to the light. Her eyes squinted as she finished the last of the hand stitching. “You sure are a cute little thing,” she grinned, pinching her nose, “some of my very best work,” she said proudly, snipping the last of the stray threads. “I bet you’ll go to a good home. Some little girl will be happy to have you.”

  She brought Ah back over to her work table and set her down next to Bao.

  “Where do you think we’ll end up?” Bao asked excitedly as soon as the factory lady walked away.

  “I don’t know,” Ah whispered back. Her tummy was full of butterflies thinking about all the possibilities.

  “Maybe Australia, or Mexico, or even Italy! It could be anywhere!”

  “Yes,” Ah said, speculating, “maybe.” Her mind wandered to exotic places where the breezes were warm and the wild animals napped under the shade trees.

  “Do you think we’ll go by plane or by boat?” Bao asked.

  Ah didn’t have the chance to answer, not that she knew the answer, because the factory lady had come back. In her hands, she held a polka dot box.

  Ah was fidgety with nervous excitement as the factory lady scooped them up. She twitched and accidentally jumped out of lady’s hands. She landed with a soft thump on the floor. She held back a sneeze as the dust kicked up and tickled the inside of her nose.

  “Oh goodness,” the factory lady said, quickly picking her back up, “I hope you’re not hurt.”

  She turned Ah over in her hands. “No. Just a little dirty,” she seemed relieved. She brushed her off and set her into the box next to Bao. “You two stick together, now. No matter what happens, you must promise me that you won’t get separated,” she tucked them in securely with a piece of soft, pink tissue paper. “You won’t do anyone any good if you’re apart,” she added, closing the box.

  It was cozy and warm in there.  Before long, despite the excitement of the adventure ahead, Ah and Bao fell fast asleep.

  They slept all through the long and choppy boat ride across the ocean. They slept all through the narrow channels and passage ways that led into the shallower rivers, and they slept through the grating, grinding noises of the boat crashing against the city port dock.

  Ah and Bao didn’t wake up until the deck hands picked them up and hurled them onto the rough, wood- planked pier.

  “Are we here? Can you see anything?” Bao asked Ah, rubbing the sleepy bugs from her eyes.  She wiggled around, trying to see out, and rustled the paper.

  “Rats!” The deck hand hollered in surprise, seeing the box move.  He kicked it. The top flew off and Ah went soaring into the air. She landed in the mud very close to the edge of the water.

  “Huh,” the deck hand said shaking his head, when he didn’t find any rodents, “I guess not.” He went to retrieve Ah.  “It was probably just the wind,” he brushed her off, but she was dirty and a bit scuffed. He stuffed her back into the box and drew and X across the top with a black marker.

  “Is this box no good?” The sisters heard another man ask. They felt themselves being lifted into air.

  “They’ll be alright. Send ‘em over to discount. They’ll sell.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  Ah and Boa were tossed onto a truck. The smell of diesel and wood smoke was strong as they drove along. Ah’s dreams of wild animals and tropical places diminished with each passing mile. She shivered within the box. “It’s cold here,” she remarked.

  “It is,” Bao agreed, “but I guess we wouldn’t be needed in too warm a place.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Ah sighed.

  The truck’s tires screeched as they came to a stop. The doors crashed open.

  “What do we have today?” A woman’s voice asked.

  “Just a bunch of slippers. Some of ‘em are damaged, but they’ll sell. Don’t you worry.”

  “Okay. Bring them on in.”

  Ah and Bao felt the warm air of the shop keeper store as they were brought in and placed on a shelf.

  All through the night Ah couldn’t stop thinking about what would happen to them. What kind of child would want her now that she was dirty and bruised?

  The next morning Ah and Bao heard the shop open. Voices chattered as people flooded in. Their box was opened and closed so many times, Ah was dizzy with it all. The many faces became a blur and to her dismay, no one wanted them.

  Day after day they sat on the shelf, looked at but never bought and each day their price was marked down a little further until they could be had for a mere fifty cents. Ah was starting to lose hope they would ever find their forever home.

  The sun shone brightly one morning after a long period of rain. Someone had left the box open just a tad, and Ah could see out. She took it as a good omen that it would be the day they would be going home, but just like the days before, their box was opened and shut. Opened and shut.

  Ah was starting to get sleepy about mid-afternoon when she heard the chimes on the shop- keeper’s door. She heard to approach of tiny foot prints.

  Their box was opened. Ah nearly gasped at the sight of the child’s face peering back at her. She was the most beautiful child Ah had ever seen, but she somehow she seemed so sad. It hurt Ah’s heart to see such suffering from such a small little girl.

  “Daddy?” Ah heard the little girls say in a small voice, “Daddy, look at the cute kitten slippers.”

  “Close that box,” he boomed, “we can’t afford such nonsense.  You’re getting new shoes for winter and that is it.”

  “But daddy, I’ve always wanted slippers,” the child’s voice was wistful, but defeated.

  “I told you no!” The father scolded. He snapped their lid shut. Ah heard the child sniffling as she was taken away.

  “It’s okay if she wants the slippers,” the shop keeper said kindly, “there’s no charge. They’ve been here a while and I don’t think they are going to sell after all.”

  Ah heard the little girl’s feet running towards them. She felt the sway as their box was lifted off from the shelf.

  “Bao!” Ah cried, “We’ve found a home! Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “Yes!” Bao said. “I’m so happy I could cry!”

  “You better not do that,” Ah laughed. “What good is a soggy slipper?”

  The little girl opened the box when she got home. Carefully, she took Ah and Boa out. She admired them. She smiled broadly before putting them on her feet.

  Each day, Ah and Bao shuffled up the stairs and down. Out to the mailbox and back again. Into the kitchen and into the bathroom. Into a sister’s room and into a brother’s. Never had Ah and Bao had such a time!

  Ah loved the little girl. She loved her giggle and her gentle touch. She loved the way her tiny little toes tickled her belly and the way she stopped to smile down at them throughout the day. Ah knew her life couldn’t have been any better if they had been shipped to a tropical oasis.

  One night, just before the little girl went to bed Ah heard her say a prayer., “Dear lord, please bless daddy, and grandma. Please bless mommy up in heaven and give her a kiss for me, and please keep my new kitty slippers safe because I love them. Thank you, Amen.”

  Ah got teary eye-d. She hugged the little girl so tightly before she jumped into bed, the little girl couldn’t get her off. She had to wear Ah and Boa while she slept!

  Later that evening, long after the stars and moon began to shimmer in the sky, and long after the little girl was fast asleep, Bao smelled something awful. It was a smoky, poisonous odor. She woke Ah up. Something was wrong!  Ah could tell that the little girl was still asleep. She wouldn’t normally act out, but she was worried. She folded herself in and bit the child gently on the pinky toe.

  “Ouch!” the little girl cried, awakening with a fright. She sniffed the air and jumped out of bed. “Daddy! Daddy!” she screamed. She smelled what Ah and Bao did! “The house is on fire!”

  Ah and Boa were hustled out into the cold, dark night. They rushed down the street and away from the heat.  Ah was shaken loose and slipped off the little girl’s foot. She could hear Bao and the little girl crying for her as they hurried away.

  The next morning Ah woke up on the cold, dirty pavement. She was alone and scared. She remembered what the factory lady had told them: “Don’t get separated. You won’t do anyone any good if you’re apart.”

  Ah didn’t care about herself, she could only think about the little girl and Bao. Ah knew she would be very sad without her, as she didn’t have very much to begin with and Bao wouldn’t be any good alone. She might even be thrown away!

  A steady rain began to fall. It collected on the streets and formed rivers on the sidewalk. Ah was nearly washed down a drain! She took it as a bad omen that all was lost. Her tears mixed in with the rain and were washed out to sea.

  “Daddy!!” Ah heard a small voice squeal. “I found it! I found my lost slipper!”

  Ah’s heart leapt as she sailed up into the sky!  The little girl had found her! She held Ah up and covered her with kisses. “I’m so glad I found you,” she whispered.

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

  Posted in Uncategorized | 4 Comments | Tagged children, childrensstory, familyfriendly, fiction, rain, sales, shortstory, slippers, sun

• Speed Limit 25

  Posted at 10:20 am by writergherlone, on July 11, 2017

  

  Speed limit 25

  By Kristy Gherlone

   

  Old Speed Limit 25 had seen a few things in his thirty years of keeping guard just on the outskirts of Zephyr.

  The highway man had stationed on a fickle stretch of road that didn’t have the sense to know whether it wanted to be straight or curvy.

  He stood day after day next to the fields that, back in the day, used to hold flowers. They were pretty little things, delicate and bright as they sat preening in the sun, and he didn’t mind admitting, even as modest as he was, that they used to flirt with him on occasion, powdering him with perfumed kisses in the springtime. Now the fields had gone to hay, and all they did was sneeze turbulent fluff his way whenever the mood would strike them.

  When the summer would wane, and the days would grow shorter, the chill air from the east would grow bored from being so idle and kick up a spat with the west. They’d throw dusty words around, stinging him as they flung their insults. Eventually, though, the rains would come and cool things off a bit, or if the time was right, winter would be the one to settle in, scolding with icy fingers, leaving feathery prints on his face and sending blankets of snow to smooth things over.

  In his time on his stretch of the road, Old Speed Limit 25 had seen his share of accidents. The screeching tires and twisting metal made his post ache and his bolts go to rust. Some were worse than others, and though he tried to prevent them, all he could really do was give his advice. It was up to them whether they wanted to follow it or not.

  He’d seen wild fires blow in and scar the landscape with their meanness, promising to melt him with their anger. He’d felt the wrath of thundering storms that tried to push him over or rip him from the ground, but he dug in further and held fast. He had a job to do.

  Back when Zephyr buzzed with life, local kids would drive by him, music thumping so loud it would nearly shake him loose. Sometimes in their youthful aggression they’d chuck rocks at him, dinging his metal and leaving a few dents here and there.  He’d even been shot once or twice, but the highway man would always come and patch him back up. He was a nice old sort with a gentle touch. He’d brush him with a new coat of paint and set him straight whenever he needed it, and sometimes he needed it a lot.

  In the heat of the summer the highway man would hack away at the once innocent fronds that grew around him and playfully tickled his feet in their delightful infancy, but became poisonous devils as they grew, snaking up his post and threating to choke him. He’d even give him a shine now and again when he was feeling a little dull, and nowadays that was more often than not.

  It had been quite a time since he’d seen any real traffic. Just an occasional car that whizzed by, completely ignoring him. No one really came by to visit him anymore, with him being so far off the main road and the town dying out. Even the highway man, eventually, had stopped coming by. There was a fence post that sat up a little ways and he’d talk to him every once in a while, but he didn’t know much.

  He missed the family of five that used to live nearby. They always visited him whenever they walked by. The big kids would hold up the little ones so they could trace over him with their chubby fingers, reciting each number and letter in turn, before skipping off again.

  The truth was he wasn’t much needed anymore, and he knew it. There wasn’t enough traffic to warrant a speed limit of 25.  He supposed he’d be retired and sent off to scrap before too long.

  Sure enough, one morning, just after the first dew frost of the season began to melt into tear drops, Old Speed Limit 25 heard the rolling of familiar tires coming his way. It was his time. Some things he would miss, and some things he wouldn’t, especially the loneliness.

  The highway man got out of his truck. His wrench glistened in the sunlight as he walked on towards Old Speed Limit 25.

  “Come on, old feller. You’ve done your time. You’re coming home with me.”

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged familyfriendly, fiction, highways, nostalgia, shortstory, travel

• Introducing Sassafras!

  Posted at 12:16 pm by writergherlone, on July 7, 2017

  

  I’m not sure of how serious a venture this is, but I do enjoy writing small stories about my duck, Sassafras. 

  She is a willing participant and has been very popular on Facebook! I hope you find these occasional small stories enjoyable as well.

  Sassafras and…

  Home Is Where The Love IS

  by Kristy Gherlone

   

  

  “Mama, I have a question. Does everyone live in a house like ours?” Sassafras asked one spring morning.

  “Goodness, no,” her mama answered. “There are many different types of houses. Let’s take a walk around and see what we find.”

  

  “I think I found a house!” Sassafras called out excitedly. “At least it looks something like a house, but it’s very small.”

  “Right you are!” Sassafras’s mother said. “That is the chickadees house.”

  

  “I found another, but this one is blue!”

  “Very good! That is where the thrushes live.”

  

  “What about this, Sassafras? Do you think this could be a house?” Her mama asked.

  “Hmm,” Sassafras pondered, looking at the big pile of sticks. I didn’t look like any house she had ever seen. “I’m not sure.”

  “It is.” Her mama said. “This house belongs to a raccoon. Some creatures use leaves, sticks, and mud to make their homes.”

  Sassafras wrinkled her nose. “That doesn’t sound very comfortable.”

  “Well, I’m sure they think so,” her mama laughed.

   

  

  “I know this is a house!” Sassafras exclaimed proudly. “I’ve seen Mrs. Robin sleeping here.”

  “Great job, Sassy! You are right! You have found the Robin’s house.”

  “When her eggs hatch, maybe Mrs. Robin will let me babysit,” Sassafras giggled.

  

  “There is a hole in the ground. Could something live here?” Sassafras asked.

  “Watch for a moment and see if anything comes out,” her mama said.

  Sassafras stood over the hole and waited. “Ants!” She cried. “I think this is an ants house!”

  “Very good, Sassafras!”

  

  “I found our house again!” Sassafras cried. “I like it the best.”

  

  “Just remember, Sassafras…It doesn’t matter where you live as long as you are loved.”

  Posted in Uncategorized | 3 Comments | Tagged childrensstory, ducks, education, familyfriendly, fiction, nature, pekin, picturebook, shortstory

• Cold Comfort (Conclusion)

  Posted at 11:09 am by writergherlone, on July 3, 2017

  

   

  *I thought I would try my hand at a ghost story. While not my usual genre or style, it was fun to write! I especially enjoyed the research that went into it to make it as authentic as possible.

  This story was delivered in parts, as it is a bit long and still needs a little work.

  I try to use all of my own photos, but this proved difficult for this piece. For parts III and IV, and the conclusion, I was able to snag photos from my own stock! III and IV is a picture taken by my daughter’s friend, Sierra Palmer. The photo featured on the conclusion is my grandson.

  Also, my editor is usually not on duty for my blog posts. If you happen to find any errors in spelling or grammar…I’m sorry! I do what I can, but often miss things. Thanks for your patience!

  I truly hope you have enjoyed reading my first ever ghost story!

   

   

  Cold Comfort

  The Conclusion

  by Kristy Gherlone

  San Diego California-Present Day

   

  “You made your bed, you lie in it,” Victoria Combs griped into the phone. She lit a cigarette, though she’d just butted one out not even a minute before. She sat with a grunt in the cheap, aluminum lawn chair she’d thrown onto the beach and lathered on a glob of tanning oil with her one free hand.

  “Mother, I’m not asking for a whole lot. I just need to get some sleep tonight. All I need is for you to come over and give me a hand for one stinking night! I’m not asking you to raise him!”  Shelby Combs argued.  Her mother was ridiculously selfish. She always had been, but Shelby was exhausted. She had to try. She never knew that having a baby would be so absolutely draining. She’d only been home from the hospital for a couple of days, but it was already taking a toll. Not that her mother would be a whole lot of help, but it would have been something.

  “I told you having a baby was a bad idea. You know what the cards said. I don’t know why you never listen. They were pretty friggen clear,” Victoria scolded. She began to cough loudly and was forced to wait until it subsided before adding, “We both knew your man wouldn’t stick around.”

  “Sometimes they’re wrong.” Shelby sighed. She knew she was fighting a battle that couldn’t be won. Born into a family of clairvoyants, Shelby had learned from a very young age to ask the tarot cards before doing anything of importance. They didn’t always give her the answer she wanted, but they were almost always right.

  “Ha! Not in our family. Grow up, Shelby! Accept your responsibilities. Bye.” Shelby heard the phone click. Her mother wasn’t coming. She never could count on her and didn’t know why she expected any different this time.

  “Damn it!” Shelby screamed into the air. She almost threw the phone, but stopped.  She’d need it to call a nanny service if things didn’t get any better. She could deal with just about anything except for that incessant crying! That’s all Joshua ever did, it seemed. He was fine at the hospital, but as soon as she’d brought him home… day and night! It didn’t matter if he’d just eaten or been changed, or was being held. He cried until he lost his breath and Shelby couldn’t take it.

  She wanted the baby. It was as simple as that, which was probably why she didn’t listen. She was getting older. At thirty-four, the chances that she was going to marry were getting slim. The chances of having a baby were even slimmer. She felt like if she didn’t do it, she never would. She’d wind up a childless cat lady even worse off than her own mother.

  Shelby went to the freezer to take out a dinner that one of her customers had prepared for her for after she’d had the baby. She was grateful for the gesture.

  Cecile Craig, the one who’d provided her with all the food, was a sweet lady, but a bit of a kook. She was a religious follower of Shelby’s, coming in to her office once a week to have her palm read, or in dire circumstance, to have the tarot cards read.

  Shelby often wondered what went on in her head to think that she needed so much help from beyond. A woman of eighty years shouldn’t need so much guidance, but she’d come in and ask for advice about which brand of dog food she should get, which program she should watch on TV, or who she should vote for in the election. Shelby suspected she came in out of loneliness, but it wouldn’t have been good for her pocketbook to set her straight and she didn’t really mind the company.

  As she stood waiting for the microwave to ding, she felt a whiff of cold air. She’d been feeling it off and on since she’d brought Joshua home from the hospital, but she’d been too tired to address it.

  “I know you’re here and I want you to leave. I don’t need your kind of help,” Shelby called out with agitation.

  The spirits often came to her in bursts of cold. It was how she knew they were there. If she didn’t ignore them, they’d get worse, bugging her all hours of the night.

  Joshua began to fuss loudly. Shelby could hear him starting in, in the living room where she’d set up a portable bassinet. He’d hadn’t even slept an hour. She was tempted to let him cry it out. She’d fed and changed him before putting him down so he couldn’t possibly really need anything.

  He wailed fiercely. It set her nerves on edge, but then he suddenly stopped.

  Grateful, she went back to seeing about dinner but something about his silence bothered her even more than the crying.

  The dinner forgotten she hurried into the living room. It was freezing! She could hear the whispers of a song. A lullaby lingered in the room so faintly, it almost wasn’t there at all.

  “Get out!” Shelby screamed. She reached in to snatch the baby out. He was shivering, but relatively ok. “Go away. You can’t have him,” she said into the air.

  A shot of frigid air reached out and touched her cheek. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling. Joshua began to fidget in her arms. His lips puckered into a horrible little pout before beginning to cry again.

  “You may not know it, but you’re dead! This is my baby and you can’t have him.”

  Dinner could wait. This was too important. This one meant business, and if she didn’t do something about it…

  She set Joshua down and opened the drawer on the coffee table, pulled out the tarot cards and then ran back into the kitchen. She picked up the phone. “Cecile? Can you come over? It’s an emergency. I need to do a séance.”

   

  Later that evening, after Cecile had left, Shelby placed Joshua in his crib. She turned on the baby monitor and went to lay down in her own bed. She wished she had someone to watch over him while she slept. She didn’t trust that spirit. Something about her aura seemed too desperate.

  She’d just drifted off when the sounds of a lullaby woke her. She knew immediately what it was. She raced into the baby’s room.

   

  Isabelle held her baby and gazed lovingly into its little face.

  “Don’t you cry, now. Mummy is here. Mummy will never leave you,” she soothed.

   

  “Isabelle? Isabelle Hackney?” Shelby called out into the freezing darkness.

  Isabelle startled. She heard her name. Someone was calling her name, but it sounded so far away. So very far away. She ignored it, lost in maternal bliss.

  “Isabelle? That is not your child. He is mine. Yours was lost long, long ago. You’re dead, Isabelle.”

  It can’t be! Isabelle thought, continuing to rock. This baby is mine. Of course this baby is mine.

  “Mummy will never leave you. Anything you need, I’ll be right here.”

  “You’re dead Isabelle and your baby is long gone. Please leave before you kill him!” Shelby begged.

   

  For the first time, Isabelle took her eyes away from the baby. She looked up and only then did she notice how very different everything was. How strange. This was not her house!

  It was so cold there. She shivered despite the coat and scarf. She was so cold.

  She gazed down into her baby’s eyes. It wasn’t hers. She knew then that it wasn’t hers.

  Oh dear God, the morphine!

  “You’re killing him. You’re stealing the warmth right out of him with your touch and I have a terrible suspicion that in your ignorance, you may have done the same with others.  It’s cold where you linger. It’s always cold where the dead roam. Let him go, Isabelle, and don’t ever walk this way again. Your baby is gone. She cries for you from heaven.”

  Isabelle knew then the mistake that she’d made.

  “Oh my poor baby! Mummy is coming, little one. Mummy is coming.” She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged conclusion, fiction, ghosts, paranormal, shortstory, supernatural

• Cold Comfort Parts III & IV (Cont.)

  Posted at 12:04 pm by writergherlone, on July 1, 2017

  

  *I thought I would try my hand at a ghost story. While not my usual genre or style, it was fun to write! I especially enjoyed the research that went into it to make it as authentic as possible.

  This story will be given in parts, as it is a bit long and still needs a little work.

  I try to use all of my own photos, but this proved difficult for this piece. For parts III and IV, I was able to snag a photo from my own stock! This picture was taken by my daughter’s friend, Sierra Palmer.

  Also, my editor is usually not on duty for my blog posts. If you happen to find any errors in spelling or grammar…I’m sorry! I do what I can, but often miss things. Thanks for your patience!

  I truly hope you enjoy reading my first ever ghost story!

   

   

  Cold Comfort Part III

  by Kristy Gherlone

   

  London England 1947

   

  “What are you doing about, my love?” Thatcher James frowned as he walked in the door after a day looking for work. His wife, Elizabeth was in the kitchen, looking quite pale and tired.  He kissed her cheek and waited for an answer.

  “Effie’s left us. She was only paid up ‘til Tuesday. She stayed an extra day as it was. Anyway, she’s confident that little Thames is in good hands now,” Elizabeth stated, trying hard to sound positive, but knew she fell short. She turned her head away and held back the exhausted tears that threatened to betray her.

  At least she’d had enough sense to send Effie off to market before she took her leave. With the amount of rationing coupons she’d saved, she was able to secure dinner for the two of them anyway.

  “I’m sorry, my dear. I’ll scrape enough together to hire another mid-wife. You’re not ready for all of this yet after losing so much blood. You need to get some strength back. The doctor said it would take some time…”

  If they’d had the money, he would have taken Elizabeth to the hospital to deliver Thames. She’d never been a very strong woman. A bout of rheumatic fever as a child had left her a bit on the frail side.

  “No. Don’t,” she said quickly. “I’m actually looking forward to seeing to him myself. At least I won’t have anyone here telling me all of the things I’m doing wrong,” she chuckled thickly. She knew they couldn’t afford it, and there was no use in making him feel bad.

  “But how will you manage?” Thatcher asked, moving in to take over the dinner preparations.

  “Give me a little credit,” Elizabeth cried in mock indignation. She shuffled over to the table. She lit a cigarette and sat, grateful for the help.

  “One potato?” Thatcher questioned, looking around for another.

  “Yes, that’s to be the last of them too. There’s to be a ban soon, I hear.”

  “Where is the little monster anyway?” Thatcher grinned, asking of their week old son.

  “Napping in the pram.  I’ve set him out on the back stoop for some air.”

  “I don’t mean to sound like Effie, but isn’t it a bit cold?”

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes and gave him a look of exasperation. “Not at all. He’s in his bunting. My mother did the same with me, as I’m sure yours did with you. Babies need air.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to see the little fellow.” Thatcher set down the paring knife and went to get him.

  “Of course, but if you wake him, you’re changing him!” Elizabeth called out teasingly.

  Later that evening, Thatcher and Elizabeth sat in the living room listening to the The Adventures of Leonidas Witherall, as Elizabeth nursed Thames.

  As much as Elizabeth loved the mystery, she fought to keep her eyes open. She dozed off and on, giving in to pure exhaustion, as Thames suckled noisily.

  The episode ended and Thatcher got up to switch off the radio. “Let me carry him up.”

  “Fine by me. He’s eaten his weight,” Elizabeth laughed tiredly, as she handed little Thames off to her husband.

  “You go and get some rest. I’ll stoke the fires and put him down.”

  “There may not be enough coal to last until morning. You may want to start the electric fire,” Elizabeth suggested. “I’ll be glad when this blasted winter is over,” she added as she yawned, heading up the stairs to bed.

  The next morning Elizabeth woke feeling a bit stronger, but oddly at unease. She could tell by the light streaming in through the window that it was well past seven. She was alarmed that Thames hadn’t woken her in the night. It was quite unusual and all at once troubling. She got up quickly and went to check in on him.

  As soon as she entered his room, she could tell something wasn’t right. It was cold in there. Much too cold! Thames was unmoving. So still, and of peculiar color. She held her breath, fear and feelings of resounding dread washed over her.

  “Thatcher!” she screamed. “Get the doctor! Get the doctor quick! Something’s wrong with Thames!”

  An hour later, Elizabeth’s heart felt like it would never recover as the doctor delivered the news.

  “Classic case of crib death, I’m afraid,” he told them solemnly, listening with a stethoscope for any signs of life and finding none. “You mustn’t blame yourselves. There’s nothing you could have done. Third one I’ve had this year. Tragic.” He shook his head sadly and packed up his kit.

  Thatcher walked the doctor to the door, who then fished a bottle of medicine out of his bag. “Give her one teaspoon of this every few hours. It’ll help her sleep,” he said, eying him with meaning. He tipped his hat and took his leave.

  Elizabeth was inconsolable. “My baby. My sweet little baby,” she cried as Thatcher tried to comfort her. She buried her face in his chest, deep sobs wracking her body. He carried her off to bed as the doctor ordered.

  “There, there, now my love. He didn’t suffer. We can always have another,” Thatcher said, but he knew it wouldn’t be true. Elizabeth wouldn’t survive another.

  She blinked up at him, the tears unstoppable. “It was so cold in there this morning. He froze didn’t he? We’ve killed our son!” she cried.

  Thatcher wrinkled his brow in confusion. “My love, it was as warm as toast in there this morning. As warm as toast…”

   

  Cold Comfort Part IV

   

   1998 Maine

   

  Abigail and Jackson Shaffer were beaming with happiness. After nearly four years of marriage, a half a dozen fertility treatments, and two miscarriages, Abigail had just successfully given birth to their first child. Emory Rose was just about the most perfect baby they’d ever laid eyes on, and she was all theirs. They were taking her home after spending four days in the hospital as Abigail recovered from her C-Section.

  “The sweetest and most perfect baby there ever was,” Abigail whispered lovingly, planting a kiss on top of Emory’s nose as she carried her into their house for the first time.

  “Abs, let me help you into the living room and then I’ll make you something to eat.” Jackson smiled, guiding his wife towards the couch. He held onto her elbow as she eased down into a sitting position. She clung to their baby, unwilling to put her down for even a minute, though it was obvious that she was still in a fair amount of pain.

  “Thanks, baby. Isn’t she perfect?” Abigail asked, grinning proudly, not taking her eyes off from Emory’s face. Though she’d asked that question a million times already, Jackson readily agreed.

  “Yes, she is. She’s just like you. Perfect and beautiful and wonderful,” he confirmed seriously, kissing her on the cheek.

  Jackson saw Abigail’s face pinch with sudden discomfort as she adjusted her position.

  “I should probably get you some water to take your pills with. You don’t want the pain to get ahead of you, like the doctor said.”

  “No,” she protested. “They’ll make me sleepy. What if I fall asleep?” she asked, pursing her lips with concern. She clutched Emory in a protective hug.

  “That’s what I’m here for babe. I can wake you up if she needs to be fed. Abs, you need to take them. Doctor’s orders.”

  “Okay, okay. But you better make sure you wake me up if she cries in the night. And can you turn on the air? It’s hot in here.” Mid July in Maine could be a lot hotter and more humid than one would think. She unwrapped Emory’s blanket, checking for any sign that she was getting overheated.

  Abigail woke up with a panicky feeling the next morning. She reached out to feel around the covers for Emory. She vaguely remembered going to bed and Jackson placing Emory at her breast for her nighttime feeding.

  “Jackson! Where’s the baby?” she cried. She sat bolt upright and shook him. She leaned over and peeked at the floor next to the bed, terrified at what she might find. She was relieved that to see that the baby wasn’t laying there broken, having fallen off the bed in the night.

  Jackson rolled over and gave her a sleepy smile. “She’s in her room, in the crib. I figured since you both were sleeping so soundly, I’d put her in there and let you get as much rest as possible.”

  Relief flooded in, quickly replaced by anger. She gave Jackson a scathing look.

  “Don’t give me that look Abs. She’s gonna have to get used to it, eventually.”

  “Jackson!” Abigail protested loudly. “Not her first night!”  She jumped out of bed and was immediately sorry that she did. Pain ripped through her stomach. She doubled over.

  “Back into bed before you rip your stitches,” Jackson ordered, getting up to help her. “She’s not even fussing yet Abs. Calm down. I’ll go and get her if you want, but you’re going to have to learn how to relax.”

  Yawning, Jackson went first to the bathroom. He did feel a little guilty about having slept so soundly, but he hadn’t gotten a whole lot of sleep for the last week.  If the baby had cried in the night, he hadn’t heard her. He was both grateful and sorry at the same time.

  He flushed, washed his hands and went to Emory’s room.  He opened the door and was blasted with a burst of cold air. It couldn’t have been more than fifty degrees in there!

  He knew he turned the AC down just after he’d put her in her crib. He hadn’t wanted her to get too cool in the night.

  He half jogged over to her crib, holding his breath. Something about her didn’t look right. She wasn’t moving. She was just too still.

  He reached out to turn her over.

  Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus…

   

  Stay Tuned for the final chapter!

  Side note: This week I received word that a short story I wrote has been accepted by Short Fiction Break! It(Ice Cream or Moxie) will appear on Aug 2nd. Additionally, The Mystery Tribune read another story of mine(Thief) and requested it for their magazine. It is featured in their magazine now!

  Posted in Uncategorized | 3 Comments | Tagged fiction, ghoststory, paranormal, shortstory, supernatural

• Cold Comfort (cont.)

  Posted at 10:47 am by writergherlone, on June 30, 2017

  

   

  *I thought I would try my hand at a ghost story. While not my usual genre or style, it was fun to write! I especially enjoyed the research that went into it to make it as authentic as possible.

  This story will be given in parts, as it is a bit long and still needs a little work.

  I try to use all of my own photos, but this proved difficult for this piece, so the featured photo today is from The Lineup.

  Also, my editor is usually not on duty for my blog posts. If you happen to find any errors in spelling or grammar…I’m sorry! I do what I can, but often miss things. Thanks for your patience!

  I truly hope you enjoy reading my first ever ghost story!

   

  Cold Comfort

  Part II

  by Kristy Gherlone

  The baby was crying again. The sound wrenched her from a deep hypnotic sleep. Immediately on alert, her eyes flew open. Her heart began to thump loudly against her chest. Something was wrong! Something was wrong with the baby!
  Panicked, Isabelle threw the covers aside and jumped out of bed, nearly tripping on her night dress. Her feet touched the cold pine wood floor, making it creak. The baby hushed. Isabelle froze, her pulse pounding in her ears as she paused to listen. The silence was momentary.  The crying began anew. Soft beckons turned to billowy wails of fear and discomfort.

  She admonished herself as she snatched her dressing gown from the bed post and wrestled her arms into the sleeves. She shouldn’t have taken so much morphine! She didn’t mean to take so much. She only wanted to sleep. Just to sleep and to forget…

  She went to the nightstand, feeling around with clumsy fingers until she found a taper. Her hands shook as she lit a candle to see her way through the midnight blackness. Succeeding, she cupped the flame to keep it from whiffing out as she hurried into the long main hallway. The glow from the light snuck around her fingers, throwing shadows that danced on the walls, disorienting her. She turned left in the corridor. After only a few quick steps, she knew that it wasn’t right. The house seemed so different.

  Which way is it? Why can’t I remember?  She stopped, looking back the way she had come.

  Was it the east or west wing? Everything was so fuzzy in her mind.

  The baby’s fussing’s strengthened, turning into wounded howls.

  “I’m coming! Mummy’s coming!” she cried, spiriting back in the other direction. It was the west wing. Of course!

  She hastened her steps towards the baby’s suite just as its wails reached a crescendo. Filmy haze wafted in around her. She batted at it furiously, but it only thickened, making her cough. Stealing her sight, she was forced to feel her way and count the doorways. One, two…

  “I’m coming!”

  She could have sworn there were three doors! The sounds of the crying shifted as she’d reached a dead end and seemed to come from the other side of the house. She must have gone the wrong way! Confused, she turned and headed back. They never should have built a house so large!

  Dark figures lurked in the mist, hissing accusations as she breezed past, making her nervous and jumpy. She darted around them, moving quickly. The faster her feet moved, the more the hallway seemed to lengthen. Finally, she stumbled her way back into the main hallway and turned into the east wing.
  Her breath came out in wheezy gasps as she came to a door. The smoky condensation turned to icy crystals that frosted the air, but it went unnoticed. She tried the knob. It was locked! She felt around in her pocket for the key, but it wasn’t there. Frantic, she tried all of the doors, but they too were locked. The crying shifted again. The baby’s shrieks sliced through the windows, threatening to break the panes.  The sounds were coming from outside! Oh God! Her baby was outside! Someone had stolen her baby!

  “Mummy’s coming little one! I’m coming!”

  She thrust her arms into her coat, and wound a scarf around neck. She threw open the front door and bounded down the stony steps that led to the street.

  It was so cold. She steeled herself against it, but the sharp air stole her breath. She tightened her belt and pulled the scarf around her ears. It felt as if she would never feel the warmth again. She scurried down the street, letting the sounds of her baby guide her.

  The darkness of the night was broken by a light up ahead. She raced along the sidewalk on feather lite feet. The crying grew louder as she neared a house.  Her baby was in there!

  She ghosted through the doorway and up the stairs. She whipped open the door to the baby’s room and ran in to save her.

  “There you are. Mummy is here. Mummy is right here.”

  Isabelle reached into the crib and gently lifted her baby. Lovingly, she held it close to soothe the terrible cries.

  So relieved to have her baby back in her arms, she took her over to the rocker and sat signing to her until she quieted.

  Husha Husha daddy’s off to war, but mummy never leaves you while daddy’s on his tour.

  Anything you need now, I’ll happily provide. Just close your eyes and sleep now baby, baby mine.

  Stay tuned for more!

  Side note: This week I received word that a short story I wrote has been accepted by Short Fiction Break! It(Ice Cream or Moxie) will appear on Aug 2nd. Additionally, The Mystery Tribune read another story of mine(Thief) and requested it for their magazine. It is featured in their magazine now!

  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged fiction, ghosts, ghoststory, london, shortstory, supernatural

• Cold Comfort

  Posted at 10:06 am by writergherlone, on June 29, 2017

  

   

   

  *I thought I would try my hand at a ghost story. While not my usual genre or style, it was fun to write! I especially enjoyed the research that went into it to make it as authentic as possible.

  This story will be given in parts, as it is a bit long and still needs a little work. 

  I try to  use all of my own photos, but this proved difficult for this piece, so the featured photo is from aboutbritian.com

  Also, my editor is usually not on duty for my blog posts. If you happen to find any errors in spelling or grammar…I’m sorry! I do what I can, but often miss things. Thanks for your patience!

  I truly hope you enjoy reading my first ever ghost story!

   

  COLD COMFORT

  Part I

  by Kristy Gherlone

   

   

  London 1873

   

  “I need me a couple of you Peelers to go down to the new Hackney manor and have a look over,” Chief Constable called out to his men. “Captain Hackney is off at war and no one’s seen hide ‘ner hair of the missus in quite some time.”

  “We’ll do it.” Tom Barclay, a third year on Bow Street, readily volunteered, nudging his trainee, who gave him a look of inquisition.

  “Take yer truncheons and look smart then,” Chief Constable advised. “Steer clear of Alsatia tonight, unless you want to be training a new one again tomorrow.”

  “What did he mean by that?” Samuel Lester asked nervously, adjusting his top hat.

  “Word has it, there’s to be a raid in Alsatia tonight. It’s to be a rough one, I hear. I thought this might be a little kinder to your training,” Tom explained with a chuckle, “and my disposition.”

  The Hackney manor was quite a few blocks from the station. The heels of their shoes clicked and echoed as they hurried over the cobblestone walkways.

  Set back from the main road, the Hackney Manor had been built not even a year ago, and was quite a spectacle. It was rumored that Captain Hackney had it built to suit his wife’s specifications, and by the time it was completed, had eaten up a good portion of his wealth.

  Tom had heard from his own gossiping wife, that Mrs. Hackney intended to fill the giant estate with children. Her plan was already underway, having just given birth to her first. It didn’t surprise him at all that no one had seen her. She was probably holed up in maternal bliss just like all the new mothers he’d known.

  “Well, here we are now,” Tom said as they approached the main gate. “Everything from here looks to be in order. The gate seems secure,” he noted, rattling the iron bars.

  “So we can assume there ‘twasn’t a break-in at least,” Samuel concluded with a fair amount of confidence.

  “Ah, but can we?” Tom asked, raising his eyebrows.  He reached up and unlatched the gate. “In this business, it’s better not to assume anything.” He opened it and motioned Samuel through.

  The manor was dark as they approached. Not a candle was lit in any window. Tom found that to be at odds as, at that hour, most of London would be enjoying their evening meal.

  “Mrs. Hackney?” Tom shouted, knocking firmly on the front door. “Mrs. Hackney, this is Constables Barclay and Lester. Could you come to the door please? We’ve been instructed to look in on you.”

  “No servants?” Samuel whispered, genuinely surprised. Surely a manor as such would require a few willing servants.

  “From what my wife tells me, Mrs. Hackney wouldn’t tolerate them.” He knocked again.

  Receiving no answering reply, Tom turned the knob and walked in. “Mrs. Hackney?”

  The smell was the first thing that Samuel noticed. For such a new place, it contained the stench of the dredges of London. It was also cold and very quiet. He shivered and held his jacket sleeve over his nose with a grimace. “Smells like rotting tripe in here.”

  “It’s not rotting tripe you’re smelling, I’m afraid,” Tom said with remorse. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re about to have a lesson I’d rather you avoided.”

  “Oh?” Samuel asked with cautious curiosity.

  “I’ll take the upstairs, you check around down here,” Tom ordered.

  “What am I to be looking for?”

  “You’ll know it when you see it,” Tom said.  It was turning out to be a most unpleasant task. He almost wished he’d gone on the raid instead.

  He took the stairs two at a time, and as he expected, the smell worsened as he ascended.

  It didn’t take him long to find Mrs. Hackney.  The door to her bedroom was ajar. He entered and found her lying motionless, the bed covers drawn up around her chin. He shined the light over her face. It was blue and bloated. It was hard to say just how long she’d been like that.

  At that moment, Samuel entered. “What is it? Is she…?”

  “Samuel stay here and don’t touch anything. My wife tells me she gave birth recently. There’s a chance…” But even as he said it, he knew there was none. It was too cold. Given the temperature and the lack of attention, the baby wouldn’t have survived long.

  Tom ran off down the hallway opening every door until he found the baby’s room. It was obvious even at first glance that it had expired. Poor little thing was lying on its side completely without covers.

  He walked over to the crib and reached out to turn it over. He choked back a sob. The sweet little thing still maintained a pout as if the only thing it had ever done on the earth was suffer. The little nappy covering its behind had been soiled before death, but had long since dried into a crusty mess.

  He didn’t know why, but he picked up the baby and cradled it in his arms. He tried not to imagine just how long it had cried in agony from cold and hunger before it succumbed.

  Sighing deeply, he placed it gently back into the crib. He took a moment to collect himself before returning to Samuel.

  “Did you find the baby?” Samuel asked hopefully.

  Tom nodded gravely. “We’ll have to have a look around. There must be a way to contact Captain Hackney. ‘Tis unfortunate, but he’ll have to be informed.”

  “There won’t be a need,” Samuel said. “I didn’t touch anything, but couldn’t help noticing that letter there on the nightstand,” he said, motioning towards the paper.

  Tom went over, and holding the torch high, began to read.

  We regret to inform you that your husband Captain John Hackney has been killed in duty….

   

  Side note: This week I received word that a short story I wrote has been accepted by Short Fiction Break! It(Ice Cream or Moxie) will appear on Aug 2nd. Additionally, The Mystery Tribune read another story of mine(Thief) and requested it for their magazine. It is featured in their magazine now!

   

  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged 1800s, fiction, ghosts, ghoststory, london, shortstory, supernatural

• The Rain Maker

  Posted at 3:37 pm by writergherlone, on June 22, 2017

  

   

  *This story did make the literary pages! It was published by the The Squawk Back and appeared in edition 167 on March 19, 2017. 

  The Rain Maker

  by Kristy Gherlone

  The Rain Maker hears their cries long before she comes sweeping in to pass judgment. She hears it in the deafening stillness of the water. The creatures within lay in wait for her presence, listening in painful silence, praying for a miracle as the muddy depths suck them in and swallow them whole.

   

  Rivers and streams pause suspended, then shrink away as if chased by demons, hiding behind rocks and sinking in holes, their miserable tears devoured by the sun-cracked shores.

   

  She hears it in the crackling discomfort of the forest, assaulted by the hot wind’s laughing breath as it takes reign, snapping brittle branches and sending them crashing to the ground onto the splintering roots. Dry leaves toss and turn trying to find comfort in their stifling beds.

   

  The tree birds whistle as though their beaks are full of crackers, their calls become parched cackles that scream warnings below. They scatter in flight, running from gray ghosts born of tossed embers that shield the sun and choke their eyes.

   

  The Rain Maker moves in closer, growing heavy with sorrow. Creatures cry out for comfort, their tongues swollen with thirst. Tendrils reach for her, winnowing upwards for a taste of her relief. She knows she is being spiteful, withholding; but drought is making the rules. She fights with him, throwing cooling droplets that tease but he sends dusty swirls through the air that snuff out her moisture. He holds her back for only he can hear what whispers from beneath the earth and inside the decaying willows.

   

  Soft wails of release from long hidden prisoners, spilled seeds and locked treasures deep in the ground, denied of light from their ancestors: they’ve been patient, just waiting for release, begging for the fire The Rain Maker steals.

   

  Drought nurtures the flames that sweep through and open the land. The wind howls wickedly as she helps spread its demise, but some things must die so that others might live. Bringing new life that springs from the ashes and fulfilling promises broken each time The Rain Maker wept.

   

  His score harshly settled, the wounds deep and raw, drought takes leave when the captives emerge.

   

  The Rain Maker sweeps in with maternal bliss and offers the forest a Rain Maker’s kiss.

   

   

   

  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged #prose, birds, drought, familyfriendly, fiction, nature, rain

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