Official Blog of Kristy Gherlone

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Official Blog of Kristy Gherlone
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    • Piano Hoarding Christians

      Posted at 6:56 pm by writergherlone, on December 10, 2018

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      **This story is a reprint. First electronic rights belong to Defenestration Literary Magazine and was originally published on January 24, 2018

      Piano Hoarding Christians

      by Kristy Gherlone

       

      The people across the street will not teach me piano. They told me ‘no’, even after I had put on a clean shirt, combed my hair, and walked all the way over there. I thought it would be like asking for a cup of sugar, like neighbors sometimes do. “Will you teach me piano?” I asked nicely.

      The woman who answered the door smiled and then frowned. “Oh, do you hear us playing? I hope we’re not too loud.” She glanced over at my house as if she were trying to gauge the distance of sound waves.

      “No, it’s not too loud,” I said. “So will you?”

      “Have you ever played before?”

      “No,” I said.

      “Do you own a piano?”

      “No.”

      “Hmm,” she said, batting at my cigarette smoke, “I don’t think so.”

      “Shit,” I said.

      “Well, thanks for stopping by. Bye,” she sang. She started to close the door, but I shoved my foot in just in time. “Wait! How about one of your kids? Maybe one of them can teach me.”

      “Hmm,” she said again, fiddling with the cross around her neck. “I don’t think so, but if you ever need sugar, we have plenty of that.” She kicked my foot out of the way and closed the door.

      I flicked my cigarette butt into their driveway, walked back across the street, and sat on my front steps.

      “Well?” my husband asked.

      “Hold on,” I said. I picked up my gun, aimed, and finally shot the bastard squirrel that had been chewing up the walls in our house. I put the gun down. “They won’t do it,” I told him.

      “I think they’re religious,” he said, as if that was an explanation. “Do you know they have seven children?” he added.

      “I know. I’ve seen the little brats. I think they all play the piano. It’s not very Christian to hoard all the piano music knowledge.”

      “I don’t think they hoard all the piano music knowledge. Besides, you have your own music,” he said; and he was right. I did have my music. I had The Medic Droid. I liked to listen to “Fer Sure,” when I mowed the lawn in my bathrobe. And I had Metallica. I liked to listen to them when I drank beer and took selfies on the front porch in my underwear.

      I scowled at their house. Someone closed the curtains.

      Not one of them came over to tell me they’d changed their mind, and now I hear them all hours of the day, tapping out their soothing, melodic rhythms, like they’re trying to taunt me. Like they’re rubbing it in.

      I seethe.

      When I’m never a concert pianist, I will blame them.

       

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

       

      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged #prose, christians, fakenonfiction, hillbilly, humor, music, piano, shortstory, teaching
    • Nest Egg

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

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      Nest Egg

      By Kristy Gherlone

       

      Every year when the earth decided it was time to flip over and get some color on the other side, the south wind got to missing the north so bad, she’d start crying and fill up the creeks and rivers with her sorrows.

      Then the north would get to missing the south, so they’d race towards one another and meet in the middle for a kiss so dizzying it would run the sea boats aground.

      The trees would get sappy about the whole ordeal and weep tears so sweet, the ground would open right up and swallow them whole. Eventually, it would turn green with sickness, and busting out of its bloomers, spew colors so bright they would melt what was left of the snow.

      The fish would get blue and start blubbering about being homesick. They’d swim up the fertile rivers to their old homesteads, running an uphill battle to raise a brood of kids to keep the loneliness at bay.

      Undoubtedly, all the commotion would ruffle a few feathers. The birds would decide it was time to get away from the whole soppy mess, high tail it out of there, and head to New England where things were a bit more conservative.

      Maribel was one of those, and one year she was just dusting with more anticipation than normal to leave.

      Over the winter she’d become quite vain, having overheard some tweets about how nicely she decorated her nests. She always did care a little too much about what others thought, but it got her to wondering about what treasures she’d find in the north. If the south had such beautiful things, the north was sure to have even better.

      She’d already acquired quite a few items and, reluctant to leave them behind, bartered with the trade winds to carry them up for her.

      And so it was that, after settling in for the long summer ahead, while the other members of her flock were gathering seeds and soft nesting materials, Maribel was out shopping. She had a keen eye and managed to amass quite a clutch of goods.

      She found strings of shiny silver, tufts of powder blue rope, beads, smooth rocks, and colorful wrappers. Tucking them gently into her beak, she carried them home and laid them out to admire before arranging them attractively around her home.  Her nest wasn’t comfortable, nor was it warm, but it was pretty. Surely everyone would be jealous. She sat waiting for them to notice, but they were too busy raising their young to care.

      Unfortunately, the only ones that did pay her any mind were the black hooded thieves who’d come stealing in all hours of the day. They had eyes for shiny things too, and were either too lazy or cheap to get their own stuff, and so preferred to peck and choose from Maribel’s collection.  She kept guard, working herself into a frazzle, as she’d heard they could be quite murderous.

      Unwilling to go out on a limb and leave her wealth for even a second, Maribel grew thin and tired. She started to doubt she’d have enough energy to make the trip back south.

      When Mother Nature began to blush, right before she undressed for the season, Maribel, as small minded as she was, realized that she had a problem. Glittery things were great to look at, but they couldn’t feed you. And while she took a lot of pleasure in counting and re-counting her hoard, it didn’t do a lot towards keeping her warm.

      She gave her precious valuables one last wistful look before taking flight in search for food.   It was scarce by that time, but she managed to scrape enough together. She nibbled until she was able to find the strength to catch the last warm breeze streaming to the south. She vowed never to let vanity get in the way again.

      She caught up to some others, who were already in deep conversation and didn’t notice her arrival. “Have you seen Maribel lately? She’s lost so much weight! I wish I could have a figure like that. I’m so jealous.”

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

      Posted in #prose, nature, shortstory, Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged #newstory, #prose, nature
    • Trail Magic

      Posted at 1:45 pm by writergherlone, on June 26, 2017

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      Trail Magic

      by Kristy Gherlone

       

      Life is a lot like a hiking trip. You start alone, ascending, learning, gaining strength.

      Some days are a real struggle. Rainy days. Water dripping down your neck days. Black cloud days. I’ve forgotten the toilet paper, and the only leaves available are poison ivy days. You can hardly put one foot in front of the other.

      If not for these days, we would never fully appreciate the SUNSHINE days! Beautiful sites, feet flying up the mountain, I have found an only slightly used pack of M&M days! TRAIL MAGIC!

      You meet people along the way. Some people are asked to join you, some people you’d like to throw off a cliff. I have met both. I have found the one I’d like to go to the top with. A hiking partner able to go the distance without giving up half way.

      I have three beautiful girls who used to hike with me. Some days they’d like to throw me off a cliff!

      Just remember not to spend too much time with your head in the clouds. Come back down. There is beauty and knowledge in the descent. Maybe you’ll just find some trail mix too!
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      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged #prose, hiking, nonfiction, trail, wilderness
    • The Rain Maker

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

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      *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
    • Nest Egg

      Posted at 1:53 pm by writergherlone, on June 10, 2017

      IMG_9526

      Nest Egg

      By Kristy Gherlone

       

      Every year when the earth decided it was time to flip over and get some color on the other side, the south wind got to missing the north so bad, she’d start crying and fill up the creeks and rivers with her sorrows.

      Then the north would get to missing the south, so they’d race towards one another and meet in the middle for a kiss so dizzying it would run the sea boats aground.

      The trees would get sappy about the whole ordeal and weep tears so sweet, the ground would open right up and swallow them whole. Eventually, it would turn green with sickness, and busting out of its bloomers, spew colors so bright they would melt what was left of the snow.

      The fish would get blue and start blubbering about being homesick. They’d swim up the fertile rivers to their old homesteads, running an uphill battle to raise a brood of kids to keep the loneliness at bay.

      Undoubtedly, all the commotion would ruffle a few feathers. The birds would decide it was time to get away from the whole soppy mess, high tail it out of there, and head to New England where things were a bit more conservative.

      Maribel was one of those, and one year she was just dusting with more anticipation than normal to leave.

      Over the winter she’d become quite vain, having overheard some tweets about how nicely she decorated her nests. She always did care a little too much about what others thought, but it got her to wondering about what treasures she’d find in the north. If the south had such beautiful things, the north was sure to have even better.

      She’d already acquired quite a few items and, reluctant to leave them behind, bartered with the trade winds to carry them up for her.

      And so it was that, after settling in for the long summer ahead, while the other members of her flock were gathering seeds and soft nesting materials, Maribel was out shopping. She had a keen eye and managed to amass quite a clutch of goods.

      She found strings of shiny silver, tufts of powder blue rope, beads, smooth rocks, and colorful wrappers. Tucking them gently into her beak, she carried them home and laid them out to admire before arranging them attractively around her home.  Her nest wasn’t comfortable, nor was it warm, but it was pretty. Surely everyone would be jealous. She sat waiting for them to notice, but they were too busy raising their young to care.

      Unfortunately, the only ones that did pay her any mind were the black hooded thieves who’d come stealing in all hours of the day. They had eyes for shiny things too, and were either too lazy or cheap to get their own stuff, and so preferred to peck and choose from Maribel’s collection.  She kept guard, working herself into a frazzle, as she’d heard they could be quite murderous.

      Unwilling to go out on a limb and leave her wealth for even a second, Maribel grew thin and tired. She started to doubt she’d have enough energy to make the trip back south.

      When Mother Nature began to blush, right before she undressed for the season, Maribel, as small minded as she was, realized that she had a problem. Glittery things were great to look at, but they couldn’t feed you. And while she took a lot of pleasure in counting and re-counting her hoard, it didn’t do a lot towards keeping her warm.

      She gave her precious valuables one last wistful look before taking flight in search for food.   It was scarce by that time, but she managed to scrape enough together. She nibbled until she was able to find the strength to catch the last warm breeze streaming to the south. She vowed never to let vanity get in the way again.

      She caught up to some others, who were already in deep conversation and didn’t notice her arrival. “Have you seen Maribel lately? She’s lost so much weight! I wish I could have a figure like that. I’m so jealous.”

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

      Posted in #prose, nature, shortstory, Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged #newstory, #prose, nature
    • Adirondack Leaves

      Posted at 8:37 pm by writergherlone, on June 8, 2017

      Adirondack Leaves

      By Kristy Gherlone

      Adirondack leaves in the early springtime were always the happiest.
      Their parents, pregnant with new budding youngsters, finally released them, sending them off with a loving snap and a reminder to behave.
      They’d rustle off in search of mischief, dying with curiosity to explore the places they’d only heard about from the gossiping birds.
      They’d skip down to the still frozen, glassy lake, tripping and twisting over one another to be the first on the ice. They would chase around calling ‘You’re it!’, while whipping up and down and side to side to avoid capture.
      One year, a small fellow, a bit too eager, slid unceremoniously into a watery hole and couldn’t get out.
      The wind, thoroughly enjoying the game and not ready to see it end, took pity on him and lifted him in one big gentle huff, setting him free again.
      The little leaf laughed, his heart racing as the others, in hot pursuit, tried to catch him. He somersaulted in the air, twisting back in the other direction and scampered out of reach.
      Growing bored of that play eventually, they’d go snooping under porches and poking around under the fat old pine bushes.
      Inevitably, they’d make a nuisance of themselves with all that giggling and get evicted. Pushed back out into the world, they’d scatter every which a way, fluttering off in search of new interests.
      They take to the fields, frightening the deer with their antics, sending them prancing off with warning stomps.
      They’d rush into the farmer’s yard, gathering in noisy clusters until he threatened them with the rake.
      When the season grew late, they’d find themselves quite tired. Yawning, they would look for a quiet place to settle in. The warming earth would welcome them.
      With tender fingers, she’d hold them in a soothing embrace as they drifted off to sleep. They dreamt of new adventures, never knowing that they wouldn’t wake to play again.

      Posted in Uncategorized | 2 Comments | Tagged #newstory, #prose
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      • Piano Hoarding Christians
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