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    • Aloft

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

       

      IMG_2041

       

      Aloft

      by Kristy Gherlone

       

      The eagle watches the doe step cautiously into the fringes of the Klondike.

      He has been stalking her for days, waiting for a moment like this. The vastness of the terrain will give him an edge.

      He studies her with hunger and curiosity. These willowy beings dance about on earthbound legs that are as delicate as spring shoots. He knows from experience, however, that they only appear that way.  She will slice through him in seconds with those sharp hooves if she can. It is a risk he is willing to take. Starvation is all around him. It has been some time since he’s had fresh meat.

      The withering grassland comes to life with scattering creatures as the doe begins her passage.

      Chickadee’s chatter, seet seet,dee dee dee, before taking flight to hide among the brush.

      His attention is averted by a flash of white. A snowshoe hare darts in and out of a maze of burrows. He is tempted but bound by a greater purpose than himself.

      His focus sharpens as the doe stops to sniff around. The north winds would reveal much, but the air is as still as the frozen surface of the river.

      She is winter-weak and pregnant. Her coat is sparse and ragged. With the safety of the forest still in her midst, she proceeds, nibbling at bits of evergreen along the way.

      His talons retract, and he breaks away from the balsam to follow. His shadow spirits where the light touches the remaining snow.

      She senses his presence. Her nostrils flare, sending out wisps of smoke as she wheezes in the chilly, spring air. The white of her tail signals an alarm.

      He lands silently onto a Candlewood branch nearby. The bough dips under his weight before bouncing back in to place.

      She stomps a warning, her muscles twitching, as she decides whether to stay or to flee. The veins pulse in her neck.

      His stomach tightens as he breathes in the scent of adrenaline rich blood, but he must wait.

      Eventually, she relaxes again and wobbles over to a patch of grass. She paws at the earth and lies down. The bulging hulk of her middle heaves with contractions.

      The eagle regards the terrain. A lone coyote hides among the cedars. Careful, yet daring, he emerges. Without a pack, he will go into battle alone. He lowers his head and begins to advance. His lolling tongue drips with saliva as he zig-zags over the plain.

      The doe’s eyes widen as she realizes the danger. She bleats and tries to rise, but water gushes from her hindquarters. Her knees buckle, and she falls back to the ground.

      The coyote prances all around her, narrowing the gap with every rotation. He lashes out with snarled lips and bared teeth, taking nips wherever he finds purchase.

      She kicks, sending him backwards. Dust and debris fly into the air. Dazed but unbroken, he lies askew. He shakes his head, trying to regain composure before beginning again.

      The eagle descends. The tips of his wings brush the snow where he lands. He waits patiently in the shadows.

      She turns her attention to the birth. Gangly feet dangle precariously from her rump. She tugs at them with her teeth.

      The coyote rises.

      Light mist begins to fall. Beads of moisture collect on budded branches and spill over. Mixing with blood, they carve red rivers into the turf as they wash away. The air begins to move, sending wafts of flavor all around them.

      The coyote can wait no longer. The pads of his feet hit the ground, thumping in rhythm with beating hearts. He growls and lunges, striking her throat. His teeth clamp down and hold. The doe flips her body, trying shake him, but it does nothing more than hasten her demise. He tears through her neck. Her eyes fix on the horizon, looking toward something the eagle cannot see.

      The coyote raises his head and announces victory. He rips through her flesh, tossing out tufts of fur to get to the meat. Captured by the wind, they swirl through the air and alight into the sky.

      New life emerges into a motherless world. It squirms inside of a sack, trying to break free.

      Awkward upon landing, the eagle hops over to the bundle, casting a wary eye towards the coyote. He may rule the skies, but on earth he is merely a beggar.

      The coyote stops his feast. They stare at one another. A silent agreement passes between them.

      The eagle uses both beak and feet to open the pouch. Water oozes out, spilling the tiny fawn onto the grass. It blinks up at him and mewls, its gaze full of needful wanting. He cocks his head, reminded of his own young. Each newborn beast is so similar until they are polluted by age and circumstance.

      He leans in to take a whiff. It smells delicious.

      He snatches it and pushes off, using the currents to keep him aloft. The strength of his wings are tested under the weight of his wiggling bundle. He digs in, trying to maintain hold. The creature is silenced.

      His journey is long. On the distant horizon, where the mountain meets the sky and dark green hills erupt from the earth, waterfalls pause suspended, and the lakes are still mirrors of glass, he finds home. He has been gone a long time.

      He calls out, wheee hee. Wheee hee hee.

      His mate does not reply. He hears only the wind and the sound of his own voice echoing through the empty places in the valley.

      Wheee hee. He calls again.

      There is no movement as he nears. He lands to find the nest empty. Downy feathers whirl around in the breeze.

      He lays down the fawn and begins to feast. Tomorrow he must begin anew.

       

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

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

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      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged #newstory, amwriting, birds, coyotes, eagles, familyfriendly, fiction, hunting, nature, shortstory, wilderness, wildlifehabits, writing
    • No Parking

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

      Abandoned school bus.

       

       

      No Parking

      By Kristy Gherlone

       

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “What?” Stevie cried.

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

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

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

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

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

      “Well, what should I bring?”

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

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

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

      “But, Dad …”

      “Nothing is permanent. Remember that.”

      Stevie’s eyes filled with tears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      ***

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

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

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

      “But you’re not a teacher.”

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

      “You know, I could always …”

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

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

       

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

      “This is it?” she asked in surprise.

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

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

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

      Stevie’s father grinned.

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

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

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

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

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

      “Break down?” the officer asked.

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

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

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

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

      “That’s none of your damn business.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Get ‘em,” he ordered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Stevie?” Her mother called.

      “Yeah?”

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

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

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

      “I miss school,” Stevie admitted.

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

      “Okay.”

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

      “It’s cold out,” Stevie cautioned.

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

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

      ***

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

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

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

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

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

      “I won’t.”

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

      “Okay.”

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

      “Yeah?”

      “I love you, you know.”

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

      “It won’t be like this forever.”

      “Okay,” Stevie said, shrugging her shoulders.

      “It won’t.”

      “Okay,” Stevie said again, looking up.

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

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

      Stevie looked out. It was a police officer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Out,” the bartender said to Stevie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       

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

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

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

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

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

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

      They descended and paused at a traffic light.

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

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

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

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

       

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “I can’t leave!” Stevie blurted.

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

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

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

      “You’ll have to go without me.”

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

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

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

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

      End

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

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

      Abandoned school bus.

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

       

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

      IMG_9356

       

      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
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