Flash Fiction: "Waiting for a Greyhound"

“Men who flatter women do not know them; men who abuse women know them even less.” 

–Constance de Theis

by CJ Heck

In the early morning hours of a Baltimore Monday, I saw you -- just another nameless lady sitting quietly by herself on a dirty bench in the Greyhound Bus Station.

Like me, you were waiting for a bus; unlike me, you wore a long red coat on a warm spring day and your hat was pulled down to hide a swelling monument of love.

The matching handbag, you gripped two-fisted, leaving only the sleeves of your coat to wipe the sadness from your eyes.  I am so sorry.  I couldn't help but see ...

My God, how could so much misery share that old dingy bench?

What was it in your world that hurt you?  What, (or who), made you feel so beaten down?  What could have happened to make you cram your whole life into a suitcase?

I'm thinking it must be a man and not a very nice one.  No one could ever blame you for leaving.  Maybe wasting minutes feels better here, crying silently and waiting for a Greyhound with your suitcase between your legs, instead of him.

It's merely speculation on my part, but I suppose yesterday's hopes and tomorrow's dreams all die just as easily in a one-way ticket to somewhere else -- and anywhere's a better place than where you were.

Greyhounds may be late, but they don't punch or yell.

(from the book, "Bits and Pieces from a Writer's Soul", by CJ Heck)

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“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Christmas Short Story: "Christmas at Mel's"

Mel's

by CJ Heck

"How beautiful a day can be when kindness touches it." ~George Elliston

A broken neon sign flashed "Mel’s" on top of a small seedy bar on the edge of town.

The air inside was heavy with stale smoke and beer, blending faintly with the odor of dried spit on unclean bodies.

Sadie sat at a small table alone pondering the world and its problems, two drinks past actually seeing beyond the unkempt nails she drummed nervously on the chipped Formica in front of her. The lines in her face were knit as if by a palsied hand dropping stitches here and there, where a pox scar decided to roost.

For Sadie, this was home -- at least until tonight’s john, (with an empty glass and full libido), swaggered up and invited her to the nearest no-tell motel.

Life sucks -- but it was her life.

Feeling in control, a spider in her web, Sadie threw back another drink and waited.

The hours passed and Sadie slumped in the chair at her favorite table at Mel's.

Sadie

With each drink, the world's problems faded further and she was finally only mildly aware that she had more than enough of her own.

Merry Christmas. Yeah, yeah, so what? Sadie asked indignantly, as she counted the empty glasses lined up in front of her on the table.

Seven. Nice. Rhymes with heaven. How 'bout that -- as if I'll ever be there.  They prob'ly don't let people like me in a ritzy place like that.

Sadie pushed the thought away as she studied the half empty glass that was still in her hand with the same intensity a demented gypsy might, upon watching her favorite crystal ball suddenly deflate.

It was late and she was tired.  The lines in her face met in an intricate pattern just above her penciled brows as she pondered her situation through the booze fog.

Damn Mel -- and damn his twinkle lights. The damn things hurt my eyes. Friggin' barkeep had to put twinkle lights in here, as if anyone wants to see the graffiti better, she cackled to herself.

Sadie watched as the room with its new holiday lights blinked first red, then green, then yellow through the gently swirling smoke.

She threw back the rest of her drink. It made her want to puke, that's what it did. Who the hell cares if it's Christmas Eve?  Every day's the same to me, she thought. I'm just a workin' girl tryin' to make a buck.

Bad enough, everywhere you go, bells are ringin' on every corner, music blastin' outta radios, snow and slush in every step you take, and all that fancy decoratin' to remind you, you're friggin' alone.

Merry Christmas ... yeah, Mer-ry Christ-my-ass!  Cash registers are ringin' big time, too, Sadie thought, with a bitter smile.

Damn, business was slow this time of year. Every john she knew was prob'ly home playing Santy Claus with the kiddies and Husband Of The Year with the wife. What a joke, she thought.

What they really want, I give 'em.  What they really need, I give 'em. They're all the same. What a friggin' joke, she thought ... yeah, only the joke's on me.  I'm the one sittin' and waitin' in a blinkin-stinkin' hellhole by m'self.

Sadie set empty glass number eight at the end of the line on the table and raised a finger at the barkeep for another. Waiting was a bitch.

Just then, a shadow fell through the swirling smoke to settle eerily on Sadie's table. It was strangely blinking in mixed colors through the empty glasses in front of her.

Surprised, she looked up to see one of her regulars standing there. (Finally, she thought to herself, and 'bout time, too). Already a plan had formed in her mind to do him fast and then get some shut-eye. She gave the john her best crimson smile.

The man leaned down, handed Sadie a folded bill, and with a sad smile he said, "Go home, Sadie. This one's on me, and ... and well, M-Merry Christmas to you."

Then he turned and walked back through the swirled, blinking smoke to the door and the street beyond, with Sadie staring slack-jawed at the door closing slowly behind him.

Damn, if that don't beat all, Sadie thought, as she unfolded the fifty dollar bill.

Then she scooted her chair back, pushed herself away from the table, and for the first time in years, Sadie's face softened into a genuine smile.


(From the Book, "Bits and Pieces", by CJ Heck)



“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Flash Fiction Horror: "Half Past Five"

Peck's Corner

by CJ Heck

There’s a sewer drain in town on Peck's Corner.  At half past five every evening, the street lamp flickers on, near where gentlemen routinely take a leak after leaving the Raven's Wing Pub, after closing. 

It's been done for years.  No one even seems to notice, except for the smell of piss that assaults the nostrils when you step out onto the sidewalk. 

The smell immediately informs the brain, but only the vermin care -- and there were plenty of them out there, near the sewer drain in town on Peck's Corner.  I know.  I've been there.  That's where I saw the body.  

It was at half past five on Monday.  The chimes from the clock in the tower told me it was so, and when I called, that’s what I told the authorities. 

The body was posed, sitting.  The head was in his lap, resting between the legs which were all askew and bent at impossible angles.  

The arms hung down, elbows facing out. The hands were placed on top of the head, fingers entwined in the flaming red hair of the head -- the head that was in his lap. 

The body was sitting in a pool of its own blood, the mouth frozen in a scream that no one will ever hear.  But the eyes, the eyes ... I will never forget the eyes. The vermin had eaten both eyes. 

Will anyone ever know the horror they saw on Peck's Corner, just before half past five ...  


[From the Book, "Bits and Pieces", by CJ Heck]

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Short Story: The Unopened Letter

Table in the Foyer

"What do you do when the only one who can make you stop crying is the one who is making you cry?" --Anonymous

The Unopened Letter

by CJ Heck

The letter came on Monday, over a week ago. Maggie had been absently wading through the morning's harvest of mail, as usual, on her lunch hour.

Predictably, it reaped the usual bills, flyers, and grocery store ads.  Suddenly she spotted the familiar masculine scrawl. Maggie was stunned.

After years of checking the mail, here was (just maybe) a pearl among the cow pies.

She marveled at how the letter felt as she held it in her hand and then wiped at a tear that was threatening a slow getaway down her cheek.

The letter sat on the cherry table in the foyer for nearly a week, mutely resting between the potted ivy and car keys, marking time, waiting for her.

It remained unopened, of course, but Maggie didn't need to open it. She already knew what it said. She just couldn't make herself open it and read the words. She knew they were angry -- that was a given.  She also knew they were probably written to demand, in yet one more way, her whole future and one more chance.  Frankly, she was flat out of last chances.

Maggie tried so many times to tell Jonathan he needed help. Abuse was abuse. It didn't matter whether it was emotional, physical, psychological, sexual or verbal (he had been proficient in all of them), he had hurt her and it had been unnecessary.

She had loved him, but she also loved herself and valued her safety even more -- and now this letter. Well, it's too late, she argued. By moving away, she was finally free and that's the way it's going to stay, she thought -- and now this damned letter! Then again, what if he wrote to tell me he got help and therapy?

Maggie walked through the foyer a thousand times and stared at the letter. She even picked it up and held it close to her heart once, as if her heart could tell by sheer divination that the words didn't say what she knew they did.

She thought, maybe if don't read it, the words will somehow change and say what I need to hear, but then, Jonathan was never into apologies, or admissions of wrongdoing, or forgiveness either, for that matter. "Damn it to hell and back, what a sorrowful waste of a stamp!" Maggie shouted into the empty foyer, creating an eerie echo.

For a solid week, even Maggie's nights were plagued by the letter -- open it, don't open it, open it, don't open it.

By the following Wednesday, Maggie had had enough. She marched angrily into the foyer and grabbed the offensive letter. She folded it in half, then quartered it, and finally, she stuffed it roughly into the back pocket of her blue jeans.

Ha! There! Now it would be safe from misbehaving hands and with it out of sight, her mind wouldn't be tempted to breach its ceremonial rule and grant her permission to touch, or want to open it.

Within a few hours, Maggie found herself in a quandary. She was unable to ignore the letter, or throw it away. She wasn't sure how long she walked around with it in her back pocket. She only knew it began to burn her heart, blister her mind, and then it slowly started to scorch her self-control.

But it wasn't until she saw her jeans in the washer, twisting and turning in the soapy water, letter and all, that she was even aware of what she'd done -- unconsciously cleansing and purging the past.

It really was the only way ... maybe now, she would find some peace at last.


[from the book, "Bits and Pieces from a Writer's Soul", by CJ Heck]


“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Short Story: "Yardsticks"

"Yardsticks" of Life

by CJ Heck

It was late autumn, but a day still warm enough to make Kathryn sweat and she smiled, remembering her mother's words. "Always remember, Kathryn, ladies never sweat, they perspire."

The salty air wafting over the water felt good as it teased the corners of the tablecloth up and out, like checkered wings. It also mercifully cooled the, (ahem), per-spi-ra-tion that had glued wisps of hair to her forehead.

From somewhere nearby, cicadas in love were calling each other in the trees. Their haunting chirp mixed curiously with the waves, the soft clinking of silverware, and the distant laughter of children playing in the dwindling daylight on the beach below.

Kathryn was celebrating her last full day of vacation with a hot fudge sundae. Both were few and far between and justly savored -- the vacation, day by lazy day, and the sundae, spoonful by decadent spoonful.

The best hot fudge sundae she had ever eaten had been in San Francisco, down near the water at the Chocolate Manufactory in Ghirradelli Square. That had been back in the early seventies, now nearly a lifetime ago, she thought, with a sigh.

Through the ensuing years, whenever she allowed herself this treasure, a comparison took place in her mind. Each hot fudge sundae from a new place was measured against The Ghirradelli Square Yardstick.

Of course, there were very few of these indulgences -- she wanted to maintain her figure, but the time between them built up a delightful anticipation, which made the stretches between easier to handle. Funny, until now, she hadn’t realized just how many of these invisible yardsticks she actually carried around with her.

Katheryn had just turned fifty-nine. Admittedly, she had arrived at that age kicking and screaming -- after all, no one ever consciously decides to be middle aged. Ultimately, thoughts of the alternative to getting older washed over her and, with a feeling of resignation, she bathed in all the positives of actually being allowed to live that long.

Kathryn had a sudden epiphany. She just realized that she even looked at other women around her who were her age, or near it, with yet another invisible "yardstick".

While never model-beautiful, she supposed she could have been considered a striking woman. She still had her figure and she worked hard to keep it, although admittedly, gravity was beginning to coax some things a little lower ...

Her hair had recently begun to silver at the temples with a few others twinkling here and there, as if in afterthought. She smiled, deciding that the total effect could be considered attractive. Besides, she felt she had earned the silver -- after all, she was a grandmother several times over.

Kathryn still noticed, and secretly welcomed, when a masculine head turned in her direction for a second look. She wasn't aware, (and would have denied it had she been told), that their attraction to her came from a puzzling enigma, one that only surrounded her in public -- she seemed mysterious.

Her child-like naiveté contradicted the sensual, at times even haughty, self-assurance she exuded in her walk and manner. However, if you were to ask Kathryn, she would tell you she was merely aloof.

Men thought, now here was a woman who drew your attention. She could walk into a room and own the room. Here was a confident woman who looked comfortable in her clothes -- and a woman they enjoyed imagining even more comfortable out of them, thus, the enigma.

Kathryn wasn’t aware of those things. What she did know was, the heads that turned in her direction were divinely better than looking in a mirror -- and more flattering, too.

Kathryn leaned back in her chair, not wanting this last vacation day to end. The sea breeze still felt wonderful. Maybe she would sit here just a little while longer.

The sun was making its descent into the distant trees and she was suddenly struck by the silence. When had that happened? The laughter of the children, even the drone of the cicadas, had disappeared sometime during the reverie about her various yardsticks.

Comparing hot fudge sundaes, or other women her age, was one thing, but she felt guilty, when her mind eased on over to compare the men she had known in her life. She knew she shouldn’t -- each deserved to be separate and unique -- still, she rationalized, everyone did it and she couldn’t help doing it either.

It wasn’t that she had a huge number of men to compare.  She didn’t, but she felt safe saying that the ones who had been in her life, had been there for a damn good reason.

It took years, but she eventually came to see that each had played a specific part in who she now was. Each unknowingly brought a valuable lesson, or lessons, that she was to learn. After all, aren’t we all products of our environment? Everything that happens to us changes us, making us who we were destined to become.

No, she decided.  She would save her yardsticks to think about at another time. God knows, there were many nights when sleep wouldn't allow her in.  That's when she should think about her silly yardstick comparisons about life.

With that decided, Kathryn stood and adjusted her skirt. Then she lifted her chin for maximum effect and walked proudly and confidently to her car.



“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Short Story: In Honor of Life

Beautiful Flowers

by CJ Heck

It was Memorial Day and, as she did every year, Sharon Cleary drove to the Eternity Gardens Cemetery with three of the prettiest spring bouquets she could find.

She took this day seriously. It was her private, personal time to honor family members who died in war. It was her way to show she cared.

One bouquet was always for Great-Grampa, "PJ" Mullerton, who died in a bunker during the first world war. Another bouquet was for Uncle Theo Tarns, who was killed when his bomber was shot down in the second world war.

She had never met Uncle Theo, but she was still fiercely proud of him and, as with great-grampa, forever indebted to him for his service. The last bouquet of flowers was always the most difficult for her. She always made sure this bouquet was the largest and most colorful of the three. This one had to be special. It was for Daddy.

Sharon was only six when she hugged Steven Cleary's neck tightly for the last time at the airport in Stewartsville. She remembered crying and pleading with him to stay. "Please, Daddy, don't go. I will miss you and so will Mommy. Please stay with us. We need you." She knew her father had been just as sad to leave them. She saw the tears he silently wiped from his cheek after he hugged her and then turned to hug and kiss her mother.

Steven had been killed in action in Vietnam six months later, a decorated soldier and a hero. Her mother, Sarah Cleary-Buddig, had eventually framed his medals and they still hung on the wall beside his picture over the fireplace. Sharon remembered what a sorrowful time that had been, after the family learned of his death. But as sad as she had been, she had never felt so completely helpless as she did, hearing her mother sobbing into her pillow at night and not knowing how to comfort her.

Sharon had been so lost in thought that she nearly missed Uncle Theo's grave. She had to turn and walk back two rows and she chided herself for not paying more attention. After she finished her prayers and was done talking to Uncle Theo, she took a deep breath -- it was time to find Daddy. Her heart always felt like it was in her throat as she walked the steep path to the upper section where her father rested in the Cleary family plot.

Just as she reached the top, she noticed an elderly woman bending over one of the older headstones on the left. Sharon watched in silence as the woman tenderly kissed a folded paper and then slipped it under a vase of roses on the flat marble headstone. Then she adjusted the small American flag that was stuck in the ground to the right of the marker.

As she stood, she suddenly turned and their eyes met. Sharon was stunned. She could almost feel the woman's thoughts through the look on her face and what was in her eyes. Then just as quickly, the moment was gone and the woman had turned away.

How amazing, Sharon thought, as she watched the woman walk slowly back down the path towards the entrance gate. The woman was crying -- I could see her tears, Sharon thought -- but she had the most beautiful smile on her face at the same time. Sharon felt compelled to go over to the headstone and read the letter the woman had so carefully tucked under the vase.

"To my husband, my lover, my friend:
I will always love you.
I hope you like the roses.
All my love forever,
Your Maeve"

She read the short note and, now crying herself, the words filled her with a beautiful new awareness. She could almost see the wheels of time turning the days and months to years, and then you realize that it's been a whole lifetime that a loved one has been gone. One day, like a bucket with a hole, you can see the sands of grief sifting slowly through, and instead of mourning their death, you begin to celebrate everything they meant to you in life.

Sharon closed her eyes and, as she replaced the letter under the vase of roses, she quietly thanked the elderly woman and walked back to her family plot. Then she placed her third bouquet on the engraved marble monument for her father.

And as Sharon thanked Steven Adam Cleary once more for being her father, she remembered the love and the good times they did have together. This time when Sharon cried, she could also smile -- and the tears were tears of joy.



"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

Short Story: "A Penny for His Thoughts"

Mocha Java Swirl Espresso

by CJ Heck

Libby sat scowling into her medium extra sugar, extra cream, Mocha Java Swirl Espresso.

The small round table wobbled with an audible racket as she shifted the hot paper cup from her left hand to her right, and then back again.

Oh, what I wouldn't give for a folded piece of cardboard to shove under that stupid table leg for stability -- and some blessed silence! She thought to herself, her attitude nearly as steaming as the coffee was.

Libby had to admit, she had never been any good at reading Richard's silences. She tried to remember how long it had been since she and Richard had talked to each other about anything, other than when the dry cleaning should be picked up, or whether the trash cans had been put out by the curb on Tuesday mornings. 

She sighed. Sometimes, what's not said says way more than what is.  She almost didn’t want to know what was behind the silence.

There was a time when she would have just asked, "Hun, what's wrong? Is there something we need to talk about?" But not anymore. The silence had gone on too long now. Besides, there were times when she did politely ask, "Something bothering you, Richard?"

But he always answered the same way, "Nothing, Elizabeth.  Nothing at all."

Maybe she should just leave well-enough alone. Truth was, she was afraid to ask him the exact words, "What is wrong?" now. They weren't married, only living together, and had been for five years. Whatever was wrong would probably hurt and not be something she wanted to hear. Then again, she thought, maybe it's something I need to hear.

Libby's imagination was turning somersaults as she tried to imagine how the conversation might go:

First, I would smile and ask, "Richard? How about a penny for your thoughts?"

He would then say, "Elizabeth? Let's not play games. Would you like to tell me where you're going with this?"

Then, I would say, "Well, you walk around in silence these days, Richard. You never talk to me anymore. Tell me what's going on in your mind ... and in your life, while you're at it."

Then Richard would get haughty. "Elizabeth, you're being ridiculous. Let's stop all of this foolishness, shall we?  You must have things to do.  What time is dinner?"

Then, naturally, I would try again, "Talk to me, Richard ... you know, a penny for your thoughts. Would five or six cents get me the truth and maybe spare my feelings? Richard, come on, play along. How about two nickels then, that's ten cents? Would that sweeten the pot? Or maybe three dimes for two or three honest thoughts -- tell me what you are thinking right now, this very minute."

Of course, Richard doesn't like it when I use sarcasm, so he would probably get angry at this point, Libby thought. "Oh for God's sake, Elizabeth, stop it! I don't know what's gotten into you today! That is enough!  You don't want to push me! You may not like what I'll say. Do not push me with this game of yours, Elizabeth."

If that is truly what he would say, I still wouldn't be able to stop myself, "Okay, Richard, two quarters then. I DO want to know. Will that buy me your thoughts? Wait, I’ll even up it to a dollar for one clear, loving thought. That’s all I want … it’s all I need, but it has to be the truth, Richard. I need to know the truth. What is going on in that head of yours? Do you still love me, Richard?"

Libby slammed back to reality when the hot, medium, extra sugar, extra cream, Mocha Java Swirl Espresso suddenly belched all over her hands, the wobbly, noisy table, her lap, and the floor. She hadn't even realized she was doing it, but during the brief interlude into her imagination, she had squeezed her paper cup hard out of rage and pent up frustration.

As Libby helped the waitress clean up the mess, she couldn't help thinking, "I would never tell him this now, but he could have had me and everything I own forever if, just once, he had talked to me, lovingly talked to me ...


(from the book, "Bits and Pieces from a Writer's Soul", by CJ Heck)

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"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

Short Story: The Return

Bed and Breakfast in The Keys

Life is eternal, and love is immortal, and death is only a horizon; and a horizon is nothing, save the limit of our sight." ~Rossiter Worthington Raymond

The Return

by CJ Heck


Gillian grabbed her bag from the luggage carousel as it noisily passed in front of her. Finally. It had been well over an hour since her flight landed. The airport had grown and changed since she was last here, but then so had everything related to travel since the fateful day of 9/11.

Pulling the handle up, she tilted the suitcase onto its wheels, and pulled it behind her through the terminal to the automatic doors and the sidewalk. There, she hailed a taxi. It was time to face the memories.

It had been more years than she wanted to think about, since Gillian had been in the Keys. She had made a fateful decision here twenty years ago, one that would change her life forever.

Until now, she had been unable to gather the courage to face the Keys again, or the time she had spent here. With a sigh, she knew the truth was, she had been unable to face him again.

Not so, the memories. Unbidden and haunting, she carried them with her always, treasured and fiercely guarded. She realized with a deep and growing resignation, now she would hold onto them forever, because it's all she would ever have.

The decision she made so long ago had turned out to be the wrong one -- it had only taken her a few hours to see that, but sadly, by then she thought it was too late.

Coming here today was no mistake.  It would be devastating, and the hardest thing she would ever have to do, but now it truly was too late.

Gillian was jolted out of her reverie when the cab driver suddenly stopped the cab at a corner directly across from the beach. She had forgotten how really beautiful it was here. There was so much about the Keys she had missed.

She was surprised and yet glad, the building still stood; however, the once brightly painted facade was now badly weathered, now only a faded patchwork of condemned signs and crumbling plaster. Its boarded windows were long past feeling any warmth from the sun. 

She felt a clash of emotions, finally standing here after all these years and remembering. Only by steeling her heart with a deep breath, was she able to climb the steps to the spacious and once vibrant veranda.

Looking around for a safe place to prop her suitcase, Gillian noticed that the front door was literally hanging off its hinges. Why anyone could just open the door and step inside. Gathering as much resolve as she could muster, she pushed the entrance door aside, being careful not to allow it to fall to the floor.

The once magnificent foyer brought another flood of memories and her breath caught in her throat in a sob, surprising Gillian. She could almost hear the soft music coming from the dining room on the right, where they had danced until three in the morning.

The stairs that rose to the second floor from either side of the foyer were higher than she remembered, and also very rickety. Ignoring the obvious safety hazard, she began to climb and now realized that the trip up was almost as difficult as the trip back in time.

In ruins thick with dust, and thicker still with memories, she felt her past and present collide. Gillian sat down hard on the top step and allowed her tears their freedom. The pain and sorrow flowed for all that might have been, and she watched as each cleansing tear dropped on the dirty floorboards.

It had been right to return. Here was where she could allow herself to remember and grieve and the healing could finally begin. Gillian's memories enveloped her, one after another.

Barefoot and holding hands, with all of their dreams fresh and new, they walked down these same steps and then across the street to the water’s edge. She remembered looking down at their clasped hands, wondering where her fingers stopped and Michael's began and how wonderful that felt.

With their pants rolled up mid-calf, they had flirted with the waves, stashed baby sand dollars in their pockets for safekeeping, and he wrote her name in a heart in the sand with his big toe, and they had talked and laughed until they cried.

Sunset on the Gulf

She thought again about that last night, how the colors of the sunset had blended the blue-green water of the Gulf right back into the sky as hand-in-hand, they walked back to their room.

[We were so happy, Gillian thought, as a fresh wave of pain gripped her heart.  

And after making love, we would lay basking in the afterglow, my head resting in the cradle of his shoulder, and we would whisper long into the night.] 

Her heart ached as she thought about that last night together. She realized that she had never felt such joy and sweet abandon before, or ever since.

They had talked about him, and her, and they whispered of us. They never spoke of anything that might get in the way, or if something ever were to, how they would push it aside -- they never gave a thought to an end at all.

They even assumed her abusive marriage was finally over. After all, she had left Theo for Michael. She had called and told him it was over.

To Michael, kind and good, a truly honest man, he knew instinctively how to treat her. Abuse wasn't even a word he knew. A gentle and caring lover, Michael had known how to both give, and receive love. What they had together was tender and beautiful and she had loved him with all her heart

Then out of the blue, Theo had shown up, intending to play his trump card. Weeks after she had left him, he arrived unannounced on Michael's front porch when they returned from the Keys.

He reminded her they were married and he wanted her back. He had appealed directly to her keen sense of right and wrong -- he had been a master at pouring on guilt for even the smallest infraction. 

In his words, Gillian had been adulterous and he would be magnanimous. He had decided he would forgive her. He promised things would be different and he told her she owed him another chance.  

Michael had begged her to stay. He warned her that Theo would never change. Against everything her heart was screaming, she had listened to Theo and she made her decision.

She hurt Michael beyond words and she had also hurt herself -- and there wasn't a day that went by that she didn't regret her decision.

 
With a sigh, Gillian realized it had been right to return to the Keys -- even if it was twenty years too late. It was time to face the past. 

Cemetery

How she wished she had called and told Michael she had made a mistake, but there are some things that once done, can never be undone. 

Getting through Michael's funeral today would be the most painful experience of her life. 

Swiping at her tears once more, Gillian had a sudden realization. 

Some days are diamonds. Some days are dust. And some days ... well, some days will never, ever, be anything but both.

Michael, I will never be able to go barefoot without thinking of you ...

[A short story from the book, "Bits and Pieces of a Writer's Soul", a collection of short and flash fiction, by CJ Heck]

"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

Short Story: Stoker's Gift

The Snowstorm

by C.J. Heck

Little Stoker had never felt so alone. He was freezing and he missed Mama.

It was dark where he was, and it was bouncing up and down so bad that it was hard to sit still.

There were huge tears in his big brown eyes. Tears were even overflowing his eyes and making trails down both cheeks, just like before. It was cold and he was glad he had his warm winter coat. The tear trails were freezing up and that made his face feel funny when he moved.

He didn’t like this place and he wanted to go home. He wanted Mama. All he could do was sit here and remember. Remembering was sad. Remembering hurt.

The snowstorm had begun right after dinner yesterday. It was the most frightening thing Stoker had ever seen. He had been afraid, so afraid that his fear was like a real thing that he could almost reach out and touch.

The wind had been terrible and loud and long. It didn’t even snow like any snow he had seen before. This snow had come at him sideways and when it touched him, it was like a thousand fingers burning him with fire.

He was thankful Mama was there. She had coaxed him down into the place where they hid from the storm. She held him tightly, and enveloped in her hug, he almost felt safe. When he remembered the warm secure feel of her love, new tears slid down his face.

During the long, scary night, the awful storm showed no signs of letting up. Even the friendly moon had hidden from the wind and snow. Usually he could see it peeking between the branches of the trees high above their home. The wind blew wildly. It had made such an awful sound, like a lot of someones screaming and moaning.

The Blizzard at Night

He had sat huddled with Mama that long night in what used to be their home. Now there was nothing. Home had buckled under the weight of the snow.

Here and there, he heard parts of it being thrown all around them by the screaming, blowing wind.

Above them, he remembered seeing one large part of home that had fallen. It was leaning, teetering against something, and right below that was where they sat huddled together in its shelter.

Each new time he thought about how frightened he was, more tears overflowed his eyes, following all of the others on their trip down to his chin.

“Mama, I’m so scared! Hold me tighter!” Stoker had cried. “When will it end?”

“I know, Stoker, I know. I‘m frightened, too.” His mother had answered with the wind carrying her words off in other directions. He had to listen closely to hear the rest of what she said. “I don’t know when it will stop, son. We’ll be all right if we just stay together. Don’t move from here, no matter what happens, little Stoker. Promise me.”

Although Stoker had no way of knowing why she would ask for his promise, he agreed. “Okay, Mama. I’ll stay right here, I promise.”

All through the night, the wind raged and the snow came at them sideways. Mama pulled Stoker tightly to her, wrapping her arms around him to keep him safe and warm. Whenever he cried out, she did her best to comfort him. “Hush now, little Stoker, try to sleep. Mama’s here, and I love you.”

Just before dawn, there had been an enormous crash. Stoker suddenly felt a heavy weight come down on him -- it had been so heavy he could hardly breathe. He called out to his mother, “Mama! Mama, where are you?” But all he could hear in return was the screaming of the wind. “Mama, what was that loud noise?” Again, the only sound he heard was the wind and the pounding of his own heart.

Stoker wanted to run, but he remembered his promise to Mama. He would not move from this spot, no matter what happened. He wanted to scream and yell and run as fast as the wind all around him, but Stoker kept his promise. He didn’t try to get out from under this heavy thing. He sat quietly, listening for Mama with fear in every part of his body making him wish he could run, but he stayed right where she made him promise to stay. Mama would be proud.

Stoker didn’t know how long he had waited -- maybe he even fell asleep for awhile. He did know he couldn’t feel the sideways snow any more and he was warm. All of a sudden, he was aware of voices. They were loud and he could hear them above the wind which had now died down to only whistle.

The voices frightened him and he remembered calling out to his mother again. “Mama! Mama! Please, Mama, I’m here! I’m here where you told me to stay, no matter what happened! Please, Mama!” He waited, listening for her answer. When it didn’t come, he started all over again, calling and pleading.

“Over here, Johnny! Here! It’s coming from under this fallen tree! Help me get this cable attached and we‘ll pull the tree off.”

“You got it, Mike!”

Stoker continued to call his mother. He could hear a lot of sounds coming from above. Some were sounds of someone moving, someone’s feet crunching in the snow. Some sounds were mechanical sounds, like big machines, and that made him call out louder. He was terrified, but he kept his promise to Mama. He stayed there.

“Okay, Johnny. Now, pull!” The winch screeched into gear and the heavy wire cable began to do its job.

Slowly, the huge weight was lifted from Stoker. His eyes were shut tight and he was too frightened to open them.

“What have you got there, Mike?” Johnny called. “Can you see what’s making the noise?”

“Aw, Johnny, get over here! You’ve got to see this. ” Mike answered, above Stoker‘s cries for his mother. “C’mere, and hurry!“

Johnny ran to where Mike stood looking down into the hollowed out area. Mike glanced over at Johnny. “Well, I’ll be ... never saw anything like it. We’d better call Frank up at the Ranger Station. You have a cell phone in the truck, don't you?”

Johnny said he had one right there in his pocket and he handed it over. He dialed the number for the Park Ranger. Like Mike, his eyes never left the hollowed out area where the tree had rested only minutes before.

Stoker continued to call for his mother. Where was she? Why didn’t she answer him? He was still too afraid to open his eyes.

With a series of beeps, Johnny got through on the cell phone. “Hello Frank. John here. Well, sir ... what we’ve got here is the dangedest thing. We have a mother bear and her cub. No, sir, the mother bear is dead -- crushed by a huge tree which we removed. No sir. Cub’s okay. She shielded the cub. He was safely tucked in under her. Frank, she still has her arms, er ... paws wrapped around him, and him bawling like that!  It’s like she knew.”

Stoker

There was a pause, then Johnny continued. “Can you get the Animal Control people out here right away -- maybe make some arrangements for a new home for the little guy? Yeah, I agree. Thanks, Frank.” With that, Johnny pushed the button and ended the call.

“Johnny? What’d Frank say?” Mike asked, since he could only hear Johnny’s side of the conversation.

Johnny wiped at his eyes with his shirt sleeve. “He's going to make some calls, Mike, and get a truck up here with a cage to transport him.

This little guy will be sad for awhile, but he'll be okay. Frank said what you and I have been only thinkin' ... this bear cub received the ultimate gift of a mother‘s love.”


[From the book, "Bits and Pieces from a Writer's Soul", by CJ Heck]


"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck