Category: Stories

Then:

Water streams down my smiling face, my bare feet slap against the blacktop. The cuffs of my jeans the darkest of blue, drenched from the endless puddles I’ve walked through. The Lightning flashes in the blackness and a trickle runs down my back, raising the level of excitement, the fun, the rain.

Now:

Cars drive through the puddles, sending a cascade of water on my slacks. My tattered blue umbrella-two of its spires bent and rusty-assist the water onto my pressed shirt. My rage rising with each drop of rain, my briefcase bombarded by the wind-comes undone. Papers float, just out of reach landing in the cold wet street.

Somewhere it all changed, rain ceased to be entertainment and became a nuisance. What was once a welcome friend, a refreshing play time, bogs me down drenches my work, my life and engages my rage.

I wish the rain would wash away the taint of man and return me to the time rain was a joy.

The wind slams against frosted windows this February morning. The smell of a hickory fire, and sizzling bacon emanate through the kitchen, in my hand is a scalding cup of coffee, grounds from the bottom speckle my tongue.

The dog, Hermes, scratches feverently at the door, needing to do his business. Had I known he would be this much of a handful, I would have left him homeless on the street. I reach to scratch behind his ears as I rise, truly appreciating the companionship he offers, and open the door to the blustery wind long enough to let him out. As I sit to enjoy my bacon and coffee, I’m interrupted by the dogs barking, he can’t be done already, I know the cold must bite through his mane as it does my bones.

I arise to permit him back in, but as I do I see what the dog has been barking at… a woman, a white shawl covers her head and she is facing away from the wind, sheltering what I don’t know. Her shoulders slumped, head heavy, I rush out the door in my long johns to rush her in; the winter is enemy to all God’s creatures this day. I don’t notice until I’m upon her that she is black, a slave, a runaway perhaps.

Well, regardless of her color, she must come in from the cold. I cough to get her attention, the howling wind had masked my approach, as I cough she turns suddenly, almost dropping a package… a bundle, a child. God has sent me two lives this day.

I bring the girl child and her young into my home, Hermes following, tail wagging his message delivered.

I have a lot to read, short stories galore from ENG 112, and World Literature II and I love it. The problem? I keep seeing other stories in the book that I want to read – Faulkner, Morrison, Hawthorne, Le Guin… so very many. I get distracted in stories not on my syllabus, which is bad.
I’m supposed to write synopses on what I’ve been told to read, but I really want to write this or that or expound on this theory.

Seeing the story Where Are You Going – Oates, I see a story of the devil tempting the innocent girl with adventure, rhyme and rock and roll music. But, my first paper has to be about animal symbolism so I choose the story: A White Heron – Jewett and wrote about the cow (I am from Wisconsin you know).

Reading and writing is keeping me from video gaming, which is probably good, but a little annoying as well.

For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn. – Hemingway

As short stories go, they don’t get much shorter. This short story was presented to class yesterday.

Could it be that the wanna be grandmother, hearing that an important announcement was to be made by the newlyweds puchased the shoes? Only to discover the announcement was they were buying a house?

Or is it the father selling the shoes, because his baby died. The mother is still to distraught and connected to the shoes and cannot bear to let them go.

Maybe you have your own idea of where the story should go.