The Orchard

Posted on June 7, 2017 by Terry Connelly

The view from the back porch was spectacular. White blossoms covered every single tree, looking like giant marshmallows clustered on strong, brown arms. Morning spring rains had freshened the air, releasing the sweet flowery scent and dampening the ground, feeding thirsty roots.

Marta smiled as she imagined how proud her husband would be, if only he was still alive. Burt would have stood there and counted the crop, taking careful note of how many individual apples creating how many bushels, which then generated how much income compared to cost. He had been good at this, thanks to time spent as a young child following his father around the fields.

After his parents’ deaths, as sole heir, the orchard became Burt’s, which although it was not the career he wanted, he carried on, understanding the importance of tradition. When they married several years after Burt took over, Marta understood that they would live the rest of their lives on the farm and that she would work by her husband’s side, caring for the trees.

And children. All the children they would have that would dash up and down the rows chasing butterflies and giggling until their sides hurt. But they were never blessed with children. It wasn’t for a lack of trying. Their doctor offered no logical explanation, so eventually they quit dreaming of little ones pulling off ripe apples and devouring them on the spot.

Normally this was a busy time of year. Burt would walk up and down the rows, cutting off suckers that sprung up along the bases of the trees. He’d plow furrows down the middle, creating natural basins for the spring rains.

The problem is that Burt had fallen off a ladder in the fall when he reached too far to trim a wildly growing branch, the ladder had tipped, and his back had been broken. Mercifully for Marta, he didn’t die immediately. When he didn’t show for dinner, she went looking for him and found him in the dirt, the ladder on top, unable to move or speak.

She held his hand and kissed his sweaty forehead, crooning words she thought Burt needed to hear: “I love you” and “It will be fine” and “Don’t worry.” After all that, as she bent to kiss his cheek, he closed his eyes and quietly passed away.

The farm was hers now. The neighbors had offered to buy the land, but she said no. Townsfolk told her she’d never be able to keep up, all by herself, and encouraged her to sell, but she refused. Her brother in Minnesota called her a fool for not taking the money and moving into a nice, new condo in town, but she hung up on him. And her last living aunt laughed when Marta insisted she could manage on her own.

And now, standing under the porch roof, looking out at all the blooming trees, Marta wondered, for the first time, if she had made a huge mistake by not selling and taking the easy way out.

How, when the fruit ripened, would she get it all picked?

Burt had relied on the migrant workers that came through every season. During his grandparents’ time, the workers had camped out along the river, building shelters with fallen branches and leftover pieces of wood. Burt’s parents had wanted to provide better accommodations for the workers, so in the off season hired a local men to build a row of little houses. They weren’t fancy, but they had windows and doors, heat and electricity, tiny kitchens with working stoves and refrigerators, and private bathrooms with showers and sinks. Clean, sturdy, and safe.

Rumor had it that the migrant workers were not coming. That increased deportations had frightened them off, and so they had bypassed America and gone to Canada.

Marta believed the rumors, for the clusters of men that always hung out down on Main Street were gone. Completely gone.

Marta advertised on the Internet, offering a good wage and a free place to stay, but only one man had replied, and when he found out how much work was required, he quit responding. No one wanted the job. No one saw working on the farm as worthwhile. No one saw the beauty of the apples and the rewards of picking. Good, honest work, with a bag of apples a week as a bonus.

That left Marta in a quandary. Soon there’d be fruit to pick, but no one to pick it.

She put on a sweater, picked up her purse and drove out past town, beyond the suburbs and schools, factories and plants until nothing was left but a long, winding road. She parked in front of the county jail. Stood and sighed and then strode to the sentry’s gate.

“I’m here to speak to the warden.”

“Do you have an appointment, ma’am?” the blue-uniformed man said.

“Yes. I called yesterday and set one up.”

The sentry ducked inside the shack, picked up a phone and then, after speaking to someone, returned with a smile on his face. “Ma’am,” he said. “Go straight through the double doors. Someone will be waiting to escort you to the warden’s office.” He tipped his hat with one hand while the other pushed a button that opened the gate.

When Marta arrived in the warden’s office, she was shaking. What she was going to ask for was reckless. Downright dangerous. Maybe even a little insane. But she had no other options.

“Please have a seat.” The warden smiled reassuringly and nodded to an armchair facing his desk. When she was seated, he asked, “Would you like something to eat or drink?”

“No, thanks,” she said.

“The coffee here is quite good and the pastries are delicious.”

Marta smiled demurely, trying to look both intelligent and winsome.

“I understand that you own an apple orchard and that you need help with the trees.”

“Yes, that’s correct. There are 100 trees. They’re currently in bloom. I cannot keep up with the trimming of suckers and the plowing between the rows. I cannot operate the machinery that brings water to the roots. And when the apples are ripe, I will not be able to harvest the crop. I need help. Lots of help.”

He tapped his chin with his pen. “How have you managed in the past?”

“Migrant workers. For generations my husband’s family employed migrants, but they aren’t coming. My husband passed away in the fall and I’ve got no family to help. This is why I’m here. To see if you can provide assistance.”

He looked out the wire-covered window and into a dusty yard. Prisoners milled about, some walking briskly while others stood talking in groups. A few played basketball while others kicked a soccer ball back and forth.

“Let’s get this straight.” He leaned forward, his brow furrowed. “You’re proposing that prisoners work on your farm.”

Marta nodded. “Yes. With supervision, of course. Work begins early in the morning and goes late into the night.”

“Wouldn’t you be afraid? After all, these men have committed crimes.”

“I’m assuming you wouldn’t send rapists or murderers. Or those at high risk of running off. Maybe only choose those that are close to being released. And I’d pay a decent wage. Enough that they’d have money to send home or to save.”

The warden nodded. He intertwined his fingers and placed them under his chin. He stared out the window, as if evaluating the men. “I think I might be able to help you,” he said. “I know about a dozen men that fit that profile. Most of them are here for drug–related offenses. Some for shoplifting, but none for burglary or home invasion.”

Marta looked down and nodded slightly. She had expected the warden to offer these types of criminals. “Okay,” she said. “How will this work?”

“First I’ll need to contact the correct people in the state office. Get permission. Then I’ll meet with my officers and ask them to suggest men for the program. We’ll conduct interviews to see who’s interested and if any have experience working in an orchard. We’ll narrow it down to only those men that we feel are trustworthy, hardworking and reliable.”

“How long will this take? My trees need help right now.”

“If things go well, which I assume they will, I can give you a few workers as early as next week. As we complete the interviews, I’ll give you more.”

“Wonderful,” Marta said with a smile and then she drove home with warmth in her heart.

Three days later a van pulled up. Out got an officer and three prisoners. Marta greeted them with a tray of chocolate chip cookies still warm from the oven. The men were introduced and then she walked them out back. She showed them the suckers and how to remove them. She demonstrated how to make furrows and how to lay the hoses that would bring water.

The men understood, so she left them to do the job and returned to the house.

At the end of the day the men got back in the van and drove away. Marta checked their work and found that they had done a fine job. They had earned a days’ wage.

Inside three envelopes Marta put eighty dollars, the going rate for labor.

The next day, the same men returned. Marta gave them their wages, then explained that they would receive the same for each day they worked. As time passed, more and more men showed up. The orchard slowly changed from an unruly mess to a trim, producing business. The apples grew and ripened.

One afternoon Marta went into town to withdraw more money from the bank in order to pay the men. Her friend, Susan Goodstone greeted her with a hug.
“Is it true?” Susan asked. “Do you really have prisoners working your land?’

Marta nodded. “I had no choice. I advertised, but no one wanted the job.”

“Aren’t you scared? I’d be terrified.”

“There’s nothing to be scared of. The men are supervised. They’re kept busy. They come in the morning and leave just before dinner. It’s perfectly safe.”

Susan shivered and wrapped her arms protectively around herself. “But what if one of them slips away and comes into your house? You could get raped. Or killed.”

“None of them are rapists or murderers. The warden promised me.”

“That’s not what I heard. One of them, I think his name’s Karl, murdered a man outside a bar. Claimed it was self-defense, but was sent to prison anyway.”

This was disconcerting news. Marta had trusted the warden completely, but maybe she should keep her doors locked just the same.

The next day while she was hanging out laundry to dry, one of the guards approached and asked for water for the men. “Sure,” she said, “if I can ask you a question.”

“Yes, ma’am. What would you like to know?”

“Is one of the men called Karl?”

The guard nodded as she handed him a pitcher of water. He slipped a stack of cups under his arm. “Karl’s a hard worker. He puts in a good day’s work.”

“Is it true that he killed someone?”

“Who told you that?” He leaned forward, a stern look on his face.

“It doesn’t matter,” Marta said. “Is he or is he not a murderer?”

“Ma’am, I don’t know what crimes these men committed. All I know is that they are all up for parole in the next few months. Most have families waiting for them at home. Two finished their GEDs and got high school diplomas. Karl’s been taking college classes and is almost finished with his Bachelor’s in Math.”

Marta felt the tension leave her shoulders. “I’d like to meet them. Is that okay?”

“Sure,” the officer said and led to where the men sat in the shade. “Men,” he said, “I’d like you to meet Mrs. Whitson, the property owner.”

All ten men stood, bowed their heads and looked at her with respect in their eyes.

Marta thanked them for working so hard. Then she asked them to tell their names. When Karl introduced himself, Marta smiled. He resembled her Burt! He had broad shoulders, thin hips, but well-formed thighs. His strawberry blonde hair was neatly trimmed. A hint of a beard outlined a strong jaw.

“Karl, could I borrow you for an hour? I have a fence that needs fixing.”

Karl looked at the officer, and when he had approval, he followed Marta to the east end of the property. Boards had fallen down, leaving a large hole, large enough that the neighbor’s cattle could easily sneak through.

“Do you think you can fix that?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

She watched for a while as he worked, but she had things in the house that needed her attention, so she left him alone. Marta knew that being unsupervised meant he could escape, but she felt that he would not.

An hour later there was a knock at the back door. Karl stood there, hat in his hand. “I’m finished, ma’am. Is there anything else you need me to do?”

Marts shook her head. “Not today, but maybe tomorrow.”

Karl stood there for a moment and then asked, “Ma’am, why did you choose me?”

Marta sighed. “I heard that you finished your college degree and would soon be out of prison. I knew that you wouldn’t run away when you’re so close to being done. Plus I knew you were smart enough to know right from wrong.”

Karl nodded. “Thank you. I appreciate that you gave me a chance.”

The next day Karl installed a new screen in her back door. After that he trimmed the bushes in the front yard. He edged the front and back lawns, oiled the lawn mower and removed weeds from her flower beds. Day after day he worked, always thanking Marta for trusting him.

The apples got picked, a bigger crop than she’d had in years. Burt would have been so proud that Marta had found a way to get the harvest done. Marta had sold bushels and bushels of apples, so many that she would be financially sound for another year.

One morning after breakfast she walked out to the front porch and looked down the road. No van from the prison would come. Not today or tomorrow or the day after that. Marta’s eyes filled with tears. She had loved hearing the men’s voices, but especially that of Karl. She would miss him.

One day she drove to the prison to see the warden.

“Hello, Mrs. Whitson,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, I wanted to thank you,” she said. “The men worked hard and earned every penny they got. There were no problems and all the work got done. I thought you should know.”

“I appreciate it. My officers felt that the program worked so well that we should do it again. Would you be interested?”

“Oh, yes! That would be lovely.”

“Great,” he said as he rubbed his hands together. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes, actually,” she said as a blush covered her neck and cheeks. “There was a prisoner named Karl. He helped me so much! Not just with the apples, but with other jobs that had needed doing for some time.” She took an envelope out of her purse and held it to the warden. “He deserves a bonus for the work he did. Can you give this to him?”

“I’d love to, but Karl was released on Monday. I think he’s going to return to Fresno where he has some family, but I don’t have an address for him.”

Marta’s spirits deflated as fast as a punctured balloon. She slowly put the envelope back in her purse. “Well, then I guess that’s it until the trees need to be pruned.”

She drove home, feeling down in the dumps and lonelier than she’d felt since Burt died.

When she put her car in park, movement at the front of the house caught her eye. It was Karl, now dressed in a button-up-the-front blue shirt and clean jeans. He looked so handsome that Marta could hardly breathe.

“Ma’am,” he said. “I was on the bus heading away from here and then I got off and took the next one back. I had to see you before I left. I thank you for trusting me and for giving me a chance. Your kindness touched me.”

Marta smiled. “Would you like something cold to drink?”

“Tea, if you have it.”

They went inside, and over glasses of ice-cold tea they talked about everything and anything. Hours later, as darkness fell, Marta led Karl to one of the laborer’s houses at the back of the property. She unlocked the door and showed him inside. “You can stay here, if you like.”

Karl swept her into his arms and gave her a hug. Just as quickly he let her go. “Sorry, ma’am. I shouldn’t have done that. Yes, I’d love to stay here. And I’ll work hard. I’ll keep this place up as if it was my own.”

Marta stepped back into his arms and felt safe and loved for the first time in a long time.

Touch

Posted on June 1, 2017 by Terry Connelly

When Thomas first heard the story of King Midas and his magical touch, he was living in a homeless shelter for women and children. His mom, a sweet and loving person, worked two jobs, but didn’t make enough money to rent an apartment. His older sister worked part-time as a clerk in one of those stores that sold everything for a dollar or less, but even with her help, they were hurting.

The shelter wasn’t so bad because Thomas had his own bed and meals were served twice a day during the week and three times on weekends. Plus there were other kids to play with and a tutor to help with schoolwork.

While Thomas was grateful for what he did have, he yearned for more. Like Midas he wished that he could walk around touching things and have them turned into gold. Think of the joy he could bring to him mom’s face! Think of how happy she would be! And Thomas would be so proud, since, for the first time, he was able to help his family.

But that was make-believe and wishful thinking. The stuff of little kids, not middle school boys like him. He had stopped believing in the Tooth Fairy and Santa and the Easter Bunny when he was four when he realized that none of those creatures ever visited him.

At first he thought it was because they couldn’t find him. After all, he had no home. Sometimes he slept on the floor in apartments of people he didn’t know. Sometimes he slept on the street, or tried to anyway. Until the shelter had room for his family, he had never known what it was like to sleep in the same bed every night.

And to go to school every day wearing clean clothes.

One day, in Science class, the teacher gave each student a cup and had them put dirt in the bottom. Then she gave them each two seeds and told them to push the seeds into the dirt. Next was a dribble of water and then the cups were put on the windowsill.

Thomas took good care of his plants. Every day he tested the dirt, and if it was dry, added water. He rotated the cup, making sure that sun touched all sides of the budding plants. And the plants grew taller and taller every day. In fact, Thomas’s plants did better than those of all the other students.

His teacher told him he had a green thumb, a talent for growing things, and that reminded Thomas of Midas.

What is he could grow the food his family needed? So he asked his teacher for more cups and more dirt and more seeds. The new ones flourished under his care and soon were taller than those his classmates planted weeks before.

The time came to take their plants home. Thomas carried two cups home one day, two the next, and two more the day after that. He found a sunny spot in their room in the shelter and put all the cups there, lined up, like soldiers. And like Midas, he touched them every day, constantly checking on them.

The time came when the plants were too large for the cups. Thomas showed them to the shelter’s director. Mrs. Malloy smiled and said, “Follow me.”

She took Thomas out back to what used to be a garden. “You can clean this up and plant here.” She touched him lightly on the shoulder, turning him to see a shed. “You’ll find all the tools you need in there.”

Thomas went to work immediately. First he chopped down the four-foot tall weeds, and then dug up their roots. He added enough water to soften the dirt, then turned it over and over and over until only rich brown soil showed.

Mrs. Malloy supervised his work, checking on him at least once a day. “You’re such a hard worker,” she said. “This garden hasn’t grown anything edible in years. The soil is well-used, but not in a good way. Guess what? I’m going to buy you some fertilizer.”

When Thomas came home from school the next day, four large bags of fertilizer sat next to the garden. Thomas opened the first bag, scattered the mix over the dirt, and then using the shovel, turned the dirt over and over. He opened the second bag and repeated the process. And then the last two.

By the time he was finished, the dirt was a coco brown and silky to the touch. Thomas smiled.

When the weekend arrived, Thomas dug enough little holes for each of his plants. Then he carried his little cups outside, two by two, and turned them upside down, settling each plant in its own hole. Lastly he sprinkled water over the plants until the soil was damp.

Every day, as soon as he came home from school, Thomas went out back to check the progress of his garden. Every day the plants were taller. So, tall, in fact, that they became top heavy and were falling over. So he went to Mrs. Malloy and asked for her advice.

“You need some baskets for the tomatoes and a trellis for the peas. The squash will grow wherever it pleases, but at least we can help the others. I’ll go to the store tomorrow and get what you need.”

“Thanks,” Thomas said.

“You’ve got a green thumb,” she said. “Everything you touch seems to grow. You should be proud.”

“Can I support my family with a green thumb?”

Mrs. Malloy looked down at him and smiled. “Not right now because your crop won’t be big enough to sell, but when you’re older, you can work at a farm and grow things that will feed hundreds.”

The next day Mrs. Malloy helped Thomas loop the tomatoes through the baskets and wind the peas through the trellis. “You’ll need to check every day to see if the plants need adjusting. As they grow, the tomatoes will be heavy and will pull the plant down unless you make sure the baskets provide enough support.”

Thomas nodded. He understood exactly what she meant, and so every day, as soon as he came home from school, he inspected his garden. He pulled out weeds, wound stray tendrils around the trellis, and pulled longer branches through the baskets.

His plants flourished. One day he was able to pick two tomatoes which he proudly showed his mom. “Oh, Thomas,” she said as she wrapped her arms around him. “I’m so proud of you! We’ll share them tonight at dinner.”

The next day Thomas picked four tomatoes and the day after that, six. Every day he provided food for the table. Soon the other residents started praising him and thanking him. And when the peas and squash ripened, there was even more to share.

Before dinner one night, Mrs. Malloy asked Thomas to come to the front of the room. “Thomas, we are all blessed because of you. You have given us many gifts and brought joy to our lives. Your green thumb has provided us with fresh vegetables for many nights. We are all proud of you.”

Everyone applauded, making Thomas blush. As he sat down, he smiled. While the things he touched didn’t turn into gold, they did grow into something better than gold. Nourishment. Joy. Happiness.

Thomas was just like King Midas. He has a magic touch.

Last Will and Testament

Posted on April 27, 2017 by Terry Connelly

It was in the designing of a home that was destroyed in a devastating fire that Robert first met Susan. One sunny afternoon she strolled into his architectural office in downtown Oakland looking for someone who would draw up plans to her exact specifications. She wanted a modern house on the inside, yet traditional enough that it blended into what she hoped would soon return to forested hills.

As soon as Robert saw her chin-length gray hair, he fell in love. Susan claimed to do the same when she looked into his deep blue eyes. Week after week they bent over plans, discussing the merits of this and that, until the house finally came together. And during it all, Robert learned to respect Susan’s intelligence and charm, while she loved his ability to think steps ahead, almost like seeing into the future.

Within a year of the completion of the home, they drove to Reno, married in a quaint chapel, honeymooned in Paris and then settled into the home, expecting to spend many happy days together. And then she was diagnosed with a rather aggressive form of breast cancer.

It was painful watching her willow away. Each day she grew smaller and grayer, slowly disappearing into the silk sheets of their bed. Then one morning when he awoke, Susan did not.

Robert made the appropriate calls to known friends. It was not easy telling people that Susan was dead. While Robert was able to choke back the tears while he was on the phone, at nights he sobbed like a baby. Unable to sleep in the bed they had shared, he moved into one of the many empty bedrooms.

Because Susan had never mentioned close friends or family, Robert expected a smooth transition, especially since he thought he was the sole heir. If he hadn’t been, he would never had sold his condo or consolidated their accounts. But there was never any doubt that Susan was giving everything to him, just as he was giving everything to her.

While his life, although forever altered, would continue on. He would walk the halls where Susan had walked, eat his meals at the same table and watch the same programs that they both had loved. The only thing that worried him somewhat was the young woman who lived in the apartment above the garage.

Robert had never met her, yet Susan had told him much about her. Nanette had been Susan’s chauffeur and confidant for many years after her first husband had died. Since Nanette had been living in a sketchy neighborhood before the fire, when Susan rebuilt her home, she had demanded that Nanette move into a guest room she had built over the garage expressly for that purpose.

Robert also knew that Susan had paid Nanette’s college tuition all through her undergrad and graduate school years at Berkeley. Because of Susan’s generosity, Nanette had her MBA, and once Nanette was no longer needed as a chauffeur, she had gotten a job in a high-class accounting firm in San Francisco.

Because of how close the two women were, Robert expected some kind of inheritance to go to Nanette. A financial stipend, for sure, but also the ability to continue on in the apartment, if she chose to do so. Robert spoke to Nanette when Susan died and found her to be charming, polite and extremely intelligent.

A week after Susan’s death the attorney demanded that Robert come in for the reading of the will. Robert dressed in his best black suit, slipped into his polished loafers, straightened his blue tie, and drove downtown to a starkly furnished office, done in blacks and grays, fitting for a somber meeting.

As soon as Robert was seated, the attorney read a bunch of legal mumbo-jumbo with a lot of albeits and heretofores. When he got to the distribution of assets, Robert perked up. Susan had led him to believe that was the sole heir, but once the words had been read, Robert understood that in fact, he had inherited absolutely nothing. No property, no money, no stocks, bonds or life insurance.

Robert was shocked. It was inconceivable that Susan could have deceived him so.

The attorney sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. He watched as Robert’s face turned a deep crimson. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“What am I to do?” Robert asked as he wrung his hands. “I have nothing left in my name. I gave Susan everything, just as she supposedly gave me everything.” He wiped his eyes with his hands. “So, since I have nothing, when do I have to move out?”

The attorney picked up the papers. “Susan stipulated that you be allowed to live on the property until either you died, remarried or moved out of your own accord. The only exception is that if you move due illness, then you would be entitled to a monthly pension not to exceed the cost of your care, until you die.”

Robert stood and paced about the office. “So what does Nanette get? After all, she was just a chauffeur!”

“You obviously weren’t listening. Nanette gets the property, the life insurance, the bank accounts, stocks, bonds, in fact, everything. And since this is a community property state, and you had added Susan’s name to all your accounts, Nanette also inherits a good portion of that.” The attorney smiled in a way that grated Robert’s nerves. “Susan told me that she felt closer to Nanette than anyone that she had ever known. Apparently even you, Robert.”

“My god, we loved each other!”

The attorney neatly stacked the papers and put them in a yellow file folder and leaned back in his chair. “Any questions?”

“Can I contest it? Go to court and demand a reevaluation?”

“The will was duly witnessed and filed. It is considered to be Susan’s final wishes.”

“I don’t like it, but I understand. Can I have a copy? Do I at least have the right to that?”

“Yes,” the attorney said. He pushed a button on his phone and when his secretary entered, he asked her to make one copy. “Would you like to wait here while the copy’s being made?”

Robert nodded. “Can I stay in the house?” he asked.

“That will be up to Nanette,” the attorney said. “If Nanette wants to live in the house, then you can have the apartment.” He stood and walked to the door. “You should also know that Susan stipulated that Nanette be the first one to hear the terms of the will. She was here this morning, so Nanette already knows. If there’s nothing else, I have another meeting to attend,” and he walked out, leaving Robert all alone.

Once he had his copy, Robert left, feeling quite bereft. Not only had his wife misled him, but the only things he could call his own were his clothes and any future income he might receive. He was sure that he would never qualify for a mortgage and that no one would hire him at his age. His only option was to be Nanette’s minion for the rest of his life.

When he returned home, he put in his key to unlock the door. It did not work. When he knocked, Nanette opened the door with a smirk on her face. “I was expecting you. Come inside.”

Robert stepped into the wood paneled front room that he had designed. Instead of the warmth he had associated it with when Susan was alive, now it felt cold and imposing.

Nanette pointed to a stack of boxes in the hall. “I had your stuff packed up. I think you’ll find everything here. And just to ensure my privacy, I changed the locks, both front and back.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a key. “This is to the apartment. I’ll leave the front door open for an hour. I’m assuming that you’ll be finished by then.”

“Why are you being so mean? I don’t understand.”

“Susan love me like the daughter she never had. She once told me that when she died, I was to protect myself. That men would want to move in here just because of my new wealth. I’m not being mean, Robert, I’m just following Susan’s orders.”

Robert sighed. There was nothing for him to do but to haul his possessions away. “Can I use the dolly?”

“It’s on the back porch. When you’re finished, put it in the garage.” She turned and sauntered away.

Robert got the dolly off the porch and two-by-two, moved his boxes. Just as he was putting his last ones in place, Nanette returned.

“If the steps are too tough for you, old man, I can have a lift installed.”

Nanette’s words rankled Robert so much that he simply walked away. There was no way he would stay in a place where he was treated like dirt. First thing in the morning he would visit an attorney for a second opinion and then find a real estate agent who would help him find a rental unit he could afford.

Robert was deeply hurt by what he saw as Susan’s deception, but there was nothing he could do about it except sigh.

The Awakening

Posted on March 9, 2017 by Terry Connelly

When Vivien opened her eyes she didn’t recognize where she was. It was a small room, in a small bed, not the queen size she shared with her husband of many years. Her left arm touched the wall, an unfamiliar feeling. Directly above her was a large window through which the sun shone. The curtains and the comforter were white with tiny purple flowers, something Vivien would never have purchased.

When she looked to the right she saw a small, cheaply made table and a worn orange upholstered chair, its legs scraped clean of any stain. After that a built-in closet, painted white. At her feet, a small television was bolted to the wall. And next to that, an open doorway.

Vivien had to go to the bathroom, so she sat up. Her head spun for a bit and her body felt clumsy and heavy. She swung her legs over the edge, then stood. At first she feared that her legs would buckle, but once she was solid, she slid her right foot forward. Then the left, slowly, slowly until she was able to stick her head out the door. To her left was a bathroom, so Vivien headed that way.

Inside she went to pull down her underwear, but found she was wearing a diaper, taped at both sides. She ripped it apart, then sat, just in time. Finished, she looked in the mirror. Her hair, which she always kept short, hung limply to her shoulders. It was greasy and matted. And she smelled as if she hadn’t bathed in weeks.

Vivien turned on the shower, removed her stinky nightgown and stepped under the spray. It felt fantastic to have water streaming over her head and down her body. She found shampoo and scrubbed her hair. Conditioner. Soap. When she turned off the water, she heard pounding.

“Vivien, open the door.”

She didn’t. She pulled a stiff white towel from a rack and dried herself. The towel left her skin pink and barely dry. She hung it back up, carefully folded and even at the bottom. Vivien opened the medicine cabinet and found deodorant and lotion, which she happily applied.

“I’m coming in,” the voice said as the knob turned. A small brown-skinned woman came in, an angry look on her face. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I was dirty. I took a shower.”

“You have to ask for help,” the woman said as she pulled Vivien, naked, back into the small room. “Sit.” The woman pushed Vivien into the chair and began opening drawers. “Put this on,” she said as she handed Vivien a blouse.

Vivien had a little difficulty getting her arms in the sleeves and her fingers wouldn’t cooperate with the buttons, but she got it done by being patient. That’s one thing Vivien admired about herself: she was a patient person. “Why am I here? I want to go home.”

“Don’t ask silly questions. This is your home,” the woman said. “Lay on the bed.” She pulled Vivien up, moved her to the bed, and pushed her down. “Lift your butt.” She slipped a plastic-sounding thing under Vivien.

“Stop,” Vivien said. “No diapers.” She tried to pull it off, but the woman slapped her hands. “I want to wear panties and a bra.”

“Okay,” the woman said as she removed the diaper. “Let’s see how long you go before peeing your pants.” The woman rummaged in the drawers and came up with a beige pair of underwear. “Put these on.”

Vivien loved the feel of the material. It was slippery and smooth. She put on her panties, and then when the woman handed her a pair of slacks, Vivien refused to take them. “I want to wear jeans. I wear jeans every day.”

The woman tossed a pair of jeans at Vivien and then huffed out of the room.

Vivien finished dressing herself. After a bit the woman returned carrying a brush. The woman was a bit rough, not seeming to care when the brush tangled and pulled.

“I need a haircut,” Vivien said. “I wear my hair short.”

“Stay here,” the woman said as she left the room.

Vivien found a TV remote on the table and pushed the red button. The news came on. She had always like listening to the news, knowing what was happening in the world, so she watched. So much devastation! Wars. Famine. Drought. Floods. Snow storms and tornadoes. Arguing about laws and decisions and statements. It seemed as if the world was crazy, but she felt compelled to watch, as if she hadn’t seen the news in a long, long time.

The woman returned with a small table and a tray. “Eat.”

Vivien tasted the pancake and it was cold. The eggs were gooey, not firm like Vivien preferred. Limp bacon and tasteless toast. She was hungry, so she ate as much as she could tolerate.

When the woman returned, she scooped the food remnants into Vivien’s mouth until the plate was empty. “You have to eat all your food. We’ve been over this.” And then she left, caring away the table and tray.

Vivien went into the hallway, turning to her right, and soon found herself in a sitting area in which four woman stared at a blank television screen. Vivien first sat on the couch next to a woman wearing a huge flowery dress, but the woman stank, so Vivien got up and moved to a wooden chair.

Vivien smiled at a woman, but the woman stared ahead, no reaction on her face. Vivien said, “Hi” to another woman, but that one looked at Vivien then brought one finger to her mouthed and shushed her. Vivien asked if she could turn on the TV, but another woman told her no, so she didn’t. It was boring sitting there with nothing to do.

Time passed. When Vivien had to use the restroom, she took herself. She used the toilet without incident. “I don’t know why that woman wanted me to wear a diaper,” she thought. When finished, she returned to the small bedroom room and turned the TV back on.

“Time to go,” the woman said when she came into the room. “We’re going to the park.”

“I want to go home and be with my husband,” Vivien said. “I don’t want to go to the park.”

The woman grabbed Vivien’s arm and pulled her to a standing position and out into the hall. Altogether there were three women wearing some kind of uniform who led the silent women down the ramp and onto the sidewalk. Even though she wanted to wait for her husband to come, Vivien was happy to be outside. The sun was shining, the sky was blue and birds were singing.

They walked two blocks down to a main street, waited for the light to change, then crossed. The group walked a short distance to a park. It was a huge place, with two baseball fields and a playground. Small children were swinging and climbing up and sliding down. Vivien smiled, remembering when she used to take her son to the park and how much fun he had.

“Sit,” one of the uniformed women said as she pushed Vivien toward a picnic table.

The women sat at the table. No one talked. No one looked at Vivien. All of a sudden Vivien knew where she was. She knew she was on Dyer in Union City. All she had to do was walk down Dyer and turn right on Whipple. East on Whipple, then north on Ithaca. A left turn, then a right, another right and she’d be home. Back to her husband, whom she loved and missed.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Vivien said. One of the women took her to a bathroom behind a baseball field. Vivien noticed that the building backed up to the scorekeeper’s shack. Suddenly she knew how to get to her husband. All she had to do was sneak out of the bathroom, squeeze between the two buildings, and hide there until she could find refuge some bushes in a neighbor’s yard. Stay there until they stopped looking for her, and then walk home.

When she was finished in the bathroom, Vivien looked outside. The woman’s back was to her, so Vivien slid around to the back, moving as quietly as she could. She brushed away cobwebs that tickled her face and arms. She waited there, breathing as quietly as she could.

She heard the woman calling her name and when the sound seemed further away, Vivien took that opportunity to scuttle around the baseball field and into a front yard, where she found large bushes that were perfect for hiding behind. She sat on the ground, amidst ants and bugs and dirt and waited, expecting to be found, but thankfully no one came.

Early evening came. The sun lost its brilliance and the air cooled. Cars zipped down the street, but still no one came for her. When it was nearly dark she left her hiding spot and headed north. She realized that there was no hiding places on this side of the street, so when she came to a crosswalk, Vivien went to the other side.

She was careful now. When she heard a car coming, she ducked into the darkness. When it was safe, she walked, further and further along. She crossed Alvarado Boulevard, then Alvarado-Niles. When she tired, she’d rest on fire hydrants. It seemed like she had to rest more and more often as she walked past a restaurants that her husband liked and then past Walmart where she bought her birdseed. She acted as if she belonged there, believing that no one would challenge her if she stood straight and moved swiftly.

Traffic eased from the evening rush to a trickle of cars. After the train tracks, Vivien turned north at the Seven Eleven. Left at Geneva. Right at Carroll. Right at Gresel. Right on Gerald Court. Two houses and she was home.

Vivien wrapped her arms around herself and admired the front yard and the stucco and the windows, but most of all, her car, sitting right there in the driveway like it always did.

Vivien went to the front door and turned the knob, but it didn’t open. She knocked and heard shuffling, then the door opened a crack. Her husband’s face looked at her. She smiled. “Steve,” she said. “I’m home.”

He opened the door and pulled her inside. “Oh, Honey, I’ve been so worried. Why did you run away?” His arms felt strong and good, even after all these years. He smelled of Dove soap and coffee and felt like love. He brought her into the bathroom and asked if she needed help.

“I’m fine,” she said, but she had difficulty pulling down her pants, so he helped. When she was finished, he pulled them up for her. Then he took her to the dining room and sat her in a chair.

“I bet you’re hungry,” he said. “I’ll zap some spaghetti for you.”

Vivien admired the beautiful house. The pictures on the walls. All scenes of Native American life. The dolls in the display case, dressed in the traditional clothing of various tribes.

Steve put a plate in front of her and handed her a fork. “I don’t understand why you ran away.” He brushed her hair back from her face.

“I wanted to come home. I woke up in a strange room. I smelled and got yelled at for taking a shower. The food was soggy and cold. I wanted to be with you.” She tried scooping up the spaghetti, but it slid off her fork, so her husband fed her.

When she was finished, he led her to the family room and settled her on the couch.

He ran his fingers over her head. “I love you,” he said. “But I can’t take care of you. That’s why you live in the home.”

Vivien stared at her husband. “I can take care of myself just fine,” she said.

Steve kissed her cheek. “Today maybe. But most of the time you can’t. You need more help than I can give. That’s why you live in the board and care home.”

“Please let me stay here,” Vivien said, tears running down her cheeks. “Don’t make me go back there. They’re mean to me. Please let me stay here.”

He got her a tissue and wiped her cheeks and then he went into the kitchen. She heard him talking to someone and thought it was her son. That maybe he was telling her son how happy he was to see her. He returned and sat next to her. He pulled her to his chest and held her tightly.

“If only it could be like this. It would be wonderful.” And he sobbed.

He held her until the doorbell rang. A woman and a familiar looking man came into the room. The woman said, “We searched all over for you. We even called the police.”

Vivien tried to remember where she’d seen the woman before. The man smiled at her, then held out his hands and pulled her up. “Come on, Honey,” he said. “Time to go.”

The woman held one arm, the man the other as they walked her through the building and out the door. They helped her down some steps, then put her in a van and buckled her in. The woman started the car and pulled away. The night was dark except for a few streetlights shining here and there.

Vivien stared out the window, watching as buildings sped by. The van stopped and the woman turned off the engine.

“We’re home now,” the woman said. She opened the door and said, “Get out.”

Vivien did as she was told. The woman pulled her into the building and then into a small room. “Lie down,” the woman said as she pushed Vivien onto a bed.

The woman washed Vivien’s legs. “You’re a mess,” she said and then put a diaper on Vivien. Took off Vivien’s top and slid a soft nightgown over her head.

“Get under the covers.”

Then the woman pulled a blanket up to her chin. “Go to sleep,” the woman said and then turned off the light as she left.

Vivien lay there for a long time, trying to figure out where she was. She closed her eyes.

A Dilemma

Posted on February 27, 2017 by Terry Connelly

She opened her portfolio and turned to Martha’s picture. It had been hastily chosen, but it perfectly captured the image of the washerwoman Ziana had wanted. She held her hand over the image and said the word alive. Martha appeared in the room and without command, began cleaning the messy kitchen.

Next she found Jackson’s image, that of an old English gardener. Ziana brought him to life and sent him out to trim hedges and mow her expansive lawns.

She released Jacques and set him about preparing a fancy dinner for twenty. She loved watching him work. His arms flew with lightning speed as he chopped, diced, mashed and rolled. And his creations were divine.

Ziana was pleased with her life. From the time she was a small child she had been able to animate pictures. Her skill had been honed by a series of private tutors, the most recent being Suzanne, from the Illustrators Academy in Woodside. Suzanne taught her not just animation, but anything Ziana was able to learn. She wasn’t adept at all skills, but at many.

When she was of age, she enrolled in the academy where her progress was rapid. She graduated well before her peers and then was hired as an instructor, where she taught a variety of skills, but specializing in animation. She was happy in both her career and her abode, nestled deep in a wooded enclave in Woodside, California.

The one thing that Ziana had never been able to magic was a suitable boyfriend. Her first attempt was a strongman from an ad that appeared in the Sunday paper. He was handsome with blond hair and bulging muscles, but all he could talk about was cleaning products.

Her next boyfriend was a well-dressed man in a three-piece suit. His smile was seductive, and Ziana imagined herself falling into his arms. Unfortunately his repertoire was confined to the quality of the fabric, and limited to the fact that his clothing was made in America.

She had tried a race car driver, a politician, a late-night host and a singer whose voice gave her goosebumps, but all had failed miserably. These so-called boyfriends lacked depth, which Ziana yearned for in her life. She did not want a poster-man as a husband and father to her children.

And those children were important to her. She wanted them to be gifted like her, but to also be able to survive in the greater world. To be college professors or town mayors, engineers or even, well, yes, to be president. She knew what she liked in a man, but unless he was a living, breathing real-life person, she would never fulfill her dreams for herself and for the future of her magical world.

That left the employees of the academy as her only options. She had to marry someone who understood the importance of magic and who wasn’t repelled by its use. The man had to be able to speak about a variety of topics in order to hold her interest, but to capture her heart, he would have to focus on her and her many attributes.

To win that man’s heart, she created her people on this day, of all days. Tonight she was hosting the Spring Dinner, a formal affair for all those who resided in the academy’s private grounds. It was a time to see and be seen, to walk about her gardens and have private chats. To stroll arm in arm and fall in love.

Ziana wanted the stage to be perfectly set, so while her house was being cleaned, her yard trimmed and her food prepared, she brought forth a hairdresser she liked and a dressmaker whose skills she had used many times, who would add the finishing touches to her gown. She smiled, for in a way, she felt a little like Cinderella whose bidding was done by birds and animals and eventually by a fairy godmother.

Among the many who would come tonight, there were two men who she thought might do. James, who taught the art of growing things, was tall, slim and a tad handsome, but not gorgeous. He was intelligent, kind and patient, qualities which Ziana admired. And single. He was the one that all the single women lusted over, but Ziana had never seen him walk about with any of those women. She felt her chances were quite good to snare him.

But there was also Parker, the headmaster. He was recently widowed after the death of his wife of thirty years. He was a bit old, but still intellectually stimulating and not too bad looking, despite random hairs sprouting from his nose and ears and hair that was rapidly disappearing from the top of his head. The good thing about Parker was that he ran the academy with aplomb, not favoring particular students or skills, but rather treating all as equals. And he was rumored to be an old-fashioned romantic.

Once the house was in order, Ziana retired her helpmates, and called out three who would serve drinks, food and cater to the whims of her guests. She sent them off to a room reserved for staff, and had them dress in evening attire, black suits with crisp white shirts.

Her guests arrived in a flurry of excitement. The married ones brought spouses and the singles arrived either alone or in small clusters. There was much talk and after a few rounds of champagne, quite a bit of giggling.

Ziana began to panic when an hour had passed and neither Parker nor James had arrived. She asked a few of the guests about them, and found out that the two had last been seen going into the academy’s observatory, a room that only a select few had ever entered. Rumor had it that James was being promoted, but only if he could demonstrate mastery of invisibility, a skill that few ever attained. If completed, James’ repertoire would include all the major magic skills, making him the best candidate for headmaster whenever Parker retired.

While she waited and worried, Ziana flitted about. She kept an eye on her employees, correcting here and there when she found them lacking. She spoke with teachers about students, the caretakers about the condition of the academy’s many buildings, and the spouses about children that seemed to be appearing with alarming speed. One woman already had five kids, four of which had magical skills, and was soon expecting twins. Another had just given birth to her tenth, the most recent one being without talent.

Something was happening, but no one could explain. It used to be that magical parents had magical children, period. But over the past few years, change was robbing the community of talented heirs. Doctors had been crafted and scientists set to work, but so far none had been able to identify the cause nor stop the downward slide.

Ziana hoped to counter the trend. She knew that if she married either James or Parker, their kids would have the best possible gene pool. With their combined skills, they would represent the entire magical spectrum. Such power would counter whatever negative factor was destroying the future of the community. Or so she hoped.

When it was time for dinner to be served, Ziana had planned on seating James to her right, Parker on her left, but since neither had yet to arrive, she sat between too old teachers whose spouses were not in attendance, claiming fatigue and illness, but Ziana thought it was probably due to boredom. Too tired to keep on living, a symptom of the rising death rates of an aging population that wasn’t being rejuvenated by the young.

One of the teachers, Tabath, was a dour woman whose face was shriveled and covered with fine white hair. Her voice was grating, but her command of magic and her ability to teach was unparalleled. “Have you heard from James?” Tabath asked.

“No. Sorry, but I’m expecting him shortly,” Ziana replied.

“I’ve heard he’s going to take over next year,” Quinton, the dean of discipline, contributed. “That’s why the meeting tonight. To formally pass the baton, so to speak.” He winked at Ziana as he laid his hand on top of hers. Which she quickly removed.

“James would make a wonderful husband,” Tabath said as she leaned toward Ziana conspiratorially. “He’s kind, smart and dependable. Plus he’s handsome. Have you considered marrying him?”

“What? Why, no. I mean yes,” Ziana stammered. Before she could embarrass herself further, she arose and stood by the large window at the front of the mansion.

Just at that moment a limousine appeared, stopped, the chauffeur jumped out, ran around and opened the door. Ziana smiled as first Parker, then James emerged. Both straightened their tuxedo jackets, then walked in tandem to the front door.

Ziana greeted them both with a handshake, saying, “I’m glad you made it, but dinner has already been served. I can have the staff heat up plates for you, if you like.” She escorted the men to the dining room, where they were heartily greeted by a round of upheld champagne glasses and shouts of “Hoorah” in rather drunken tones.

“Parker, please sit here,” she said as she showed him an empty seat next to Stephen, a large, sweaty man who oversaw the academy’s grounds. “James, take this spot,” which just happened to be between two married, but not on speaking terms, teachers.

Ziana sauntered to the head of the table where she stood until silence filled the room. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I am pleased that so many of you were able to come this evening. Together we are the most talented magical community. Our combined skills are incomparable anywhere within the state. In fact, most likely anywhere in the world. It is with great pleasure that I present Parker Masterson, our headmaster.” And then she sat.

Parker stammered a bit, seemingly embarrassed by the hoopla. He raised his glass, saying, “To my coworkers and friends. May we be blessed by many happy years of magical living.”

When the meal was over and the table cleared, the guests moved into the back gardens, where they split into small groups as they meandered through the beautifully blooming flowers. Ziana walked side-by-side with Parker and James. “So, how did your meeting go?” she asked.

“Pleasantly,” James said.

“We think we have a solution to our problem,” Parker said. “Our scientists have found an increase in lead in our water supply. After much testing, they have decided that lead is damaging our children. That it is robbing them of their full potential.”

“Oh, dear,” Ziana said. “What can we do about it? Doesn’t our water come from the reservoir that feeds the city? So it isn’t just affecting us, but the nonmagical community as well.”

“True,” James said. “But there is a solution that only people with our talents can handle.”

“Yes,” Parker said. “We will construct a filtering system that will remove lead before it is able to enter the reservoir. For the nonmagical community, it would be cost prohibitive, but for us, it is quite simple.”

“How so?” Ziana asked.

James touched her lightly on the arm and turned her toward the maze in the center of the yard. “We create it. Just like you create people and I create plants and buildings.”

“The scientists have given us a design. All we have to do is magic it into being,” Parker said. “I’ve put James in charge of the project. It will be a good test of his ability to manage and direct groups of people both inside and outside of our community.” At that Parker bowed, saying, “I’m sorry, my dear, but I must go. There is much to be done in preparation. Besides, you two lovers must have time alone.” With a wink, he left.

“Lovers?” Ziana sputtered. “What did you tell him?”

James smiled. “Nothing. He’s an emotions reader, remember? Besides, would it be so awful if we were a couple?” He touched her on the arm and led her to a stone bench near a bubbling waterfall.

Ziana smiled. “You’re right, I suppose. But first and most importantly, did Parker appoint you to take over as headmaster?”

James frowned. “Is it that important to you that you must know my status before we could date?”

Ziana thought for a moment before answering. She liked James, found him both attractive and intellectually stimulating, but could she love him? Marry him? Live with him forever and bear his children? “I…I don’t know. It’s important, yes. I want my husband to be powerful within the community. To be able to travel between worlds and be influential in both. But I also want to be in love.”

James brought her hand to his chest. “Feel the beating of my heart,” he said. “It pounds a love song for you. But no pressure. I will build this filtration system and then I will ask again.”

After all the guests were gone and the workers put to rest, Ziana slid into bed. She considered the challenge that she had given James. It was demanding, but honest. She knew that Parker could do these things, but he had shown no interest in her. Among the remaining staff, there was no one but James who Ziana considered worthy. Maybe that made her arrogant, but she wanted future children to have the best chances for being born with tremendous talent, and that meant James.

Time passed with no word from James. Children were conceived and born. Marriages performed. Houses built and the academy expanded to include a more modern science lab that competed with the nonmagical ones at universities and research centers around the world. And in all that time, Ziana waited and watched.

Parker retired. James took over. The filtration project long completed, lead no longer polluted the reservoir. No longer were children born without skills and the magical world was sound.

Ziana still dreamed of love, but time had not been kind to her. Despite creating the best physical trainers possible, her body had unaccountably shifted. She was no longer slim and trim, but matronly. Her hair would have been gray if not for the hairdressers she created from advertisements. Thanks to designers she found in magazines, her clothes were modern and stylish. But her life was empty.

All was well except that James had found love when a new teacher moved in a few years ago. Ziana wasn’t worried, for Sharone, a lithesome dark haired beauty from Nevada, was severely lacking in talent. But Sharone had lured him in. They married and had a gifted child. A son, who was expected to be the most powerful creator in the history of the magical world.

This was the son who should have been Ziana’s if only she had not been so diffident. So determined that James show his worth. She had thrown away her only chance for love. She had only an empty house to look forward to, to spending her days creating whoever she needed, whenever she needed them, to teaching at the academy, and to looking dreamily whenever James passed by.

Jocelyn’s Story

Posted on January 1, 2017 by Terry Connelly

Jocelyn never knew her dad. When she was tiny, her mom told her that he was away at work, but when she got old enough to understand, she found out that he died. Not in a glamorous way, like fighting for his country, but to cancer.

She knew what he looked like, for her mom kept pictures on the mantle. One on their wedding day, one when they were on vacation to Yosemite when Jocelyn was a toddler, and one taken at a family reunion somewhere down in New Mexico.

Jocelyn loved to look at the photos. She tried to see resemblances between her and her dad. The eyes. The chin. The color of their hair. Those were there for anyone to see. But what Jocelyn really wanted to know was what her dad was like as a person.

Her grandmother said he was kind, athletic and smart. Her mother thought he was a gentleman and a hard-worker. Those things helped, but what Jocelyn really wanted to know was what his voice sounded like when he was happy and mad, how did he laugh, and what he smelled like after a shower.

When Jocelyn was twelve her mother got a new job and they moved out of their apartment in a tiny country town and into grandmother’s house in Chicago. Jocelyn hated leaving her friends, but she loved spending time with her grandmother. No more before and after school childcare. No more being shuffled from one friend’s house to another while her mother worked.

Things were going along nicely until her mother started bringing Mark into the house. He was kind to Jocelyn. He smiled a lot, gave her big hugs, and like to rub her on the back, but Jocelyn didn’t like his touches or smiles. He didn’t seem real. More like a mannequin in a store window, posed to look friendly but would shatter if someone moved the limbs a little too far.

Mark insisted that Jocelyn go everywhere with her mother, making a threesome. That part of it was kind of fun. They went to the zoo, to the theater, to see movies and to the park. They ate fast food and in fancy restaurants. They went swimming at the pool in Mark’s apartment complex and went walking along Lake Michigan, Jocelyn always between her mother and Mark, Mark always holding her hand.

When she pulled away, he grimaced like the Grouch in the cartoon and quickly reached for her hand, squeezing it tightly, sending the message that he didn’t want her to let go.

After several months of this, her mother called her aside. “Honey, we need to talk,” she said. She ran her fingers through Jocelyn’s hair, which always felt good. “Mark and I have been seeing each other for quite a while now.”

“I know.”

“He wants to make our relationship more permanent. Last night after you went to bed he asked me to marry him.” She leaned forward and pulled Jocelyn to her chest.

“Do you love him?”

“Yes, I do.”

“But you love my dad. How can you love two men?”

“Your father’s been gone a long time now. He’ll always have a special place in my heart, but it’s time to move on. Mark’s a good man. He loves both of us and wants us to be his family.”

Jocelyn stood up and walked over to the front window. She ran her fingers down the cool glass, pretending to write her father’s name, over and over.

“Well,” her mother said. “What do you think about that?”

“I don’t like it at all. Mark is not my father. He likes to touch me and hold my hand. It gives me the creeps.”

Her mother stood behind her and pulled her against her chest. “I’ll always love you. That will not change. But I love Mark and want to bring him into our family.”

The wedding was two months later. Jocelyn and her mother moved into Mark’s high-rise apartment, on the fifteenth floor, high above the city. Jocelyn changed schools. Mark enrolled her in a private academy close to where he and her mother worked so that he could walk Jocelyn to and from school every day.

He held her hand tightly in his own hand. He bought her gifts almost every day. Toys. Dolls in fancy dresses. Clothes much too fancy and in styles that Jocelyn didn’t like.

After school they were alone in the apartment until her mom got off work. Mark made her get dressed up and sit on the couch next to him. He put her hand in his lap and held her tight against his chest. So tightly that she could barely breathe.

He fixed her special treats and insisted on feeding her as if she was a baby. Jocelyn complained, but Mark didn’t stop. Instead he demanded more a more of her time.

“Mom,” Jocelyn said one night when her mom came into her room. “Can I stay at school until you can come get me? There’s an after-school study group that I’d like to join.”

“Why? Are you having a hard time in your classes?”

Jocelyn shrugged. “Not really. But I’d rather be with kids than her alone with Mark.”

“But Mark loves you. He’s changed his work schedule just so he can see you safely too and from school.”

“I don’t want to be alone with him.”

“I don’t understand. I thought you like Mark.” Her mother sat on the edge of her bed and rubbed her daughter’s feet.

“No, I never did. You liked him.” Jocelyn pulled her feet away and wrapped her arms around her bent knees. “Can’t I go live with Grandma?”

“Honey, Grandma lives too far away.”

“I’ll go live with her and go back to my old school.”

“I’m sorry, but no. Mark, you and I are family now.”

Jocelyn refused to say any more, so her mother left. Jocelyn wanted to tell her mother about the way Mark looked at her, at the way he held her hand in his lap, about the special clothes he made her wear, but she didn’t say any of those things.

She wished she had as it only got worse. One day Mark took her to a shop for young women and asked the clerk to pick out bras and matching panties for her. They were very pretty, very expensive, and very fashionable, but Jocelyn would rather have gone shopping for these things with her mom. And when she and Mark got back to the apartment, he made her try on the underwear and model them for him.

Jocelyn didn’t want to do it. “No, Mark,” she said and went into her room.

“Yes, you will. I spent quite a bit of money on these things and I want to see how they fit. Put them on,” he said as he tossed the bag on Jocelyn’s bed. “You’d better be in the front room within ten minutes or I’ll come dress you myself.”

Jocelyn opened the bag and pulled out one set. It was a pretty purple, her favorite color, but she hated the color now. She didn’t want to model the clothes for Mark. She didn’t want to parade around in her underwear, so she stuffed the bag in the back of her closet and went into the bathroom.

“Jocelyn,” Mark called. “Come out. Right now.”

“No. Not until my mother comes home.”

The doorknob turned and Mark stepped into the room. He grabbed Jocelyn’s right arm so hard that it hurt, pulled her to a standing position and drug her into her bedroom. “Change clothes. Now.”

“No.”

Mark’s fist punched her in the stomach, bending her over. “Do it. Now.”

Jocelyn stumbled over to her closet and opened the door. She bent over to reach for the bag, but then Mark leaned over her, pressing himself against her back. “Now you’re being a good girl,” he said as he smoothed back her hair. He reached into the closet and pulled out the bag. He took out the purple outfit and handed it to Jocelyn, all the while holding her tight against his chest. “Put it on.”

Jocelyn stood frozen. When Mark held the garments before her, she refused to hold them.

“So, you’re going to be that way,” he said through gritted teeth. He turned Jocelyn around so that she faced him and unbuttoned her school blouse with his right hand, never letting go with his left. He slid the blouse off her shoulders, exposing her naked chest. He handed her the bra. “Take the tags off and unsnap it.”

When Jocelyn refused, he put the tag between his teeth and pulled. The cardboard easily tore off. Then he put one end of the bra in his mouth and unhooked it. He placed the cups over Jocelyn’s barely showing breasts, then turned her around. He fastened it, then pulled off her uniform skirt and panties.

He handed her the matching lace panties. “You do it.”

Again Jocelyn refused, so Mark did it for her. Then he walked her into his bedroom and stood her before the floor-to-ceiling mirror. “Look how beautiful you are,” he said as he rested his chin on the top of her head. He ran his arms down hers.
“Stop or I’ll tell my mother.”

“No, you won’t. Your mother trusts me. She knows how much I love you. She approves of the time we spend together. She wants us to be closer. I want us to be closer.” He turned her around and touched her belly button. “You have an innie.” Then he bent over and kissed her, right there.

Jocelyn wrenched free and ran into her bedroom, then into her bathroom and locked the door. Mark pounded on the door, making it rattle. “Open this up right now.”

Jocelyn sat on the floor and made herself as small as she could. She heard Mark leave and sighed, thinking it was over. But then he returned and she heard scratching sounds coming from the other side.

“When I get this open, you’ll do as I say,” he shouted.

Just as the doorknob fell to the floor, Jocelyn heard screams.

“What are you doing?” her mother said.

“Jocelyn locked herself inside and can’t get the door open,” Mark said.

“Move away,” her mother said as she opened the door. “What are you wearing?” her mother knelt before her and touched her on the chin. “Look at me. Tell me what’s going on.”

“Mark bought these for me and put them on me. He touched me, Mom. He made me uncomfortable.”

“Oh, my baby.” Her mom pulled her close. “How long has this been going on? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried to, Mom, but you wouldn’t listen. You said you loved him and he loved me. You made me spend time with him even though I begged to stay at school.”

“I’m so sorry, honey. So very sorry.” Her mom wrapped Jocelyn in a towel, sat on the toilet seat and pulled Jocelyn into her lap. Tears poured down both of their faces. “I should have listened to you, but I thought I was in love. Now I see that it was too good to be true. I’m so sorry.”

Jocelyn got dressed while her mother packed their suitcases. Before they left the apartment Mark was sitting at the kitchen table. “Whatever she told you was a lie,” he said.

“My daughter doesn’t lie.” Her mother took off her wedding rings and placed them before Mark. “Don’t call me, write to me, or text me. Don’t come near us or make any attempt to be near us. It’s over.”

Jocelyn smiled when the door closed behind them. She walked as close to her mother as she could all the way to garage. They got into the car and headed out of town. “Where are we going?” Jocelyn asked.

“Back to Grandma’s. We’ll live with her. I’ll get a new job, close to home.”

“What about Mark?”

“He’ll never bother you again.”

And Jocelyn believed her.

Spring Shooting

Posted on December 23, 2016 by Terry Connelly

Spring had finally come. Storms had pelted the area, turning the hills a verdant green. Flowers were in bloom and grasses were growing ever taller by the day. The air was crisp, albeit somewhat cool, and the sky was deep blue with a scattering of wispy clouds.

Perfect weather for taking pictures, so Mara picked up her camera bag and purse. “I’m leaving,” she said. “I probably won’t be back until late afternoon.”

Her husband Mark waved his right hand, holding it high over his shoulder, never turning his head from the baseball game on the television. “Have fun. Get lots of good shots.”

“You don’t want to come along?” Mara asked. “I’d love the company.”

“No,” he said. “I’m going to run over to my mom’s house in a bit to make sure the roof didn’t leak in that last storm.”

“Okay. Then I guess I’ll leave.”

“See you later.”

“Oh, I should tell you where I’m going. Up Niles Canyon and into the hills. Maybe go to Sunol and then wind my way over to Clayton Valley.”

With that Mara left. She loved Niles Canyon. It was a two-lane narrow road that would its way along a small river, which was a dry creek bed in late summer, but a roiling mass of water in spring and fall. Both sides of the river were lined with trees. In spring they were covered with buds of leaves that would soon burst forth, and in fall they showcased a variety of colors, ranging from yellows to burgundy reds.

There were no formal parking areas, but dirt pull offs left plenty to room to leave her car. As she drove along, Mara looked for such a place. Within a mile she found one, pulled over and parked. She picked up her camera bag and hiked down to the water’s edge. It was picture-perfect, just as she hoped it would be.

Mara took out her camera, removed the lens cover and snapped a series of shots from the hillside and along the river bank. Satisfied, she returned to her car and headed off to the next available spot.

It didn’t take long to find one. This one offered a fantastic view of a railroad bridge that crossed the river. On both sides stood tall trees, and with the blue sky as a backdrop, the image was striking.

Two miles later she pulled over again. There was one car already there and so Mara almost didn’t get out. What if these people were up to no good? What if they were down there smoking pot or doing drugs? This area was known to be a haven for the homeless and ne’er-do-wells. She didn’t want to stumble upon a scene that might cause her harm, so she would donw her window and listened.

Sounds of children’s voices floated in the air. High-pitched screams and giggles resounded off the canyon walls. Mara nodded, smiled and got out. If it was safe enough for families, then it was safe enough for her.

She followed a dirt trail through the thick trees that took her down to the river. To her right, children splashed in the water while a couple of moms sat on a log that ran parallel to the ground. Nothing unsavory going on there, so Mara turned and headed east, slowly moving away from the families.

She found wildflowers in bloom, so got down on one knee to get a close up of the petals. Golds contrasted with the deep greens of the forest grass. Beautiful.

Mara moved along, stopping to capture anything that interested her. Crows cawing as they circled high overhead. A bird’s nest in the crook of a branch. A log floating down the river. Leaves nestled around wild mushrooms.

Snapping away, Mara soon lost track of time and place. Immersed in her art, in the pictures she was composing with her lens, she forgot to keep an ear tuned to the sounds around her. She forgot to pay attention to where she was and how far she had strayed from her parking place.

After kneeling along the bank of the river to focus closely on a tiny bud breaking through, Mara heard a noise that sounded out of place. It wasn’t a whistle or a screech of a bird. It wasn’t a train chugging along the tracks. It was a crackling. A rustling. And it frightened her.

Mara stood and looked about. There was nothing in her field of vision that stood out as being foreign. Nothing that screamed of danger, yet she could not deny the hairs standing up, full attention, on the back of her neck and along her arms.

She capped her lens and shoved her camera in the bag. Just as it clicked shut, she saw them. Two roughly dressed men sliding down the hill behind her. One had long messy hair that looked like at hadn’t seen a comb in days. The other wore jeans with huge holes in the knees and a flannel shirt that was clearly way too big. Both were staring at her.

Mara took off. She scrambled up the hillside, grabbing a hold of bushes to help her move faster. The men were moving too. It seemed as if their footsteps were getting closer, so Mara bent over and dug her hands into the dirt, trying to find purchase. But instead of moving faster, it slowed her down.

“Hey, pretty lady,” one of the men called. “Where ya going?” His voice was high-pitched and a bit squeaky, out of sorts with his size.

Mara ducked behind a tree, hoping it hid her from their view.

“I saw your hair. It’s pretty. And your clothes. You look like a nice lady.”

To Mara, it seemed as if the voice was getting closer and clearer. She looked about, hoping to find a friendly soul coming down the hill, but there was no one but her and the men.

“Come out and talk to me,” a man called. This voice was different. A bass with a bit of a rumble. It gave her chills. There was something about it that seemed ominous.

Steps moved closer as the men came up the hill. Mara dared a peak and jumped when she saw that one of the men was touching the tree right below where she was hiding.

“I see you, pretty lady,” he said. He giggled like a school girl, an unexpected sound from someone so large.

Mara turned to her right and saw the other man’s hand reaching for her arm. She screamed, “Leave me alone,” and bending over as far as she could, scrambled further up the hill.

Footsteps followed. Grunts and wheezes told Mara how close they were to her. The sounds also let her know that both men were out of shape and that the climb was wearing them out. So Mara moved faster and faster, relying on her strength and youth to get to the top of the hill.

When she stepped into the clearing, she knew she wasn’t safe. She had to get to her car and lock herself inside before the men could get her. But her car was nowhere to be seen. She guessed that it was to her left, and so she took off in that direction, all the while praying for a friend to rescue her. A passing motorist maybe, or the families finished with their play. But she saw no one.

The footsteps followed her. The men yelled and taunted her. They laughed and offered her money, drugs, booze, good times. Mara did not turn back, did not respond, but kept running.

Finally, after going around a bend in the road, she saw her car. Her keys were buried in her jeans’ pocket. She stuck her hand down inside and used her fingers to pull them out. The effort slowed her down, causing her to stumble in the loose gravel of the parking area.

When she fell, her first thought was that now the men could catch her. That her husband would never know where she was and that her body would never be found.

The realization energized her. Just as fingers ran down her hair, Mara pushed off the ground and ran to her car. She beeped it unlocked and fell inside, and just as one of the men grabbed the door handle, Mara locked it shut.

She put the key in the ignition despite the protest of the men. They continued to call her pretty lady, to offer her a good time, all the while pounding on her windows and leaning against the side of her car.

As soon as the ignition engaged, Mara turned the steering wheel away from the men and stepped on the gas. She felt the car slide to the left and so turned into the spin. Then the wheels found purchase and the car flew away. Mara pulled onto the road without stopping to look for oncoming traffic. Thankfully there was none.

She drove east, constantly checking her rearview mirror to see if she was being followed, but there was no one there. Eventually she came to the freeway, hopped on heading north, then worked her way west and home.

When she saw Mark, she walked up to him and hugged him.

“What’s this for?” he asked.

“For being who you are. My rock.”

He stroked her hair and pulled her even tighter to his chest. “Tell me what happened.”

Mara spared no words in describing her joy when she first arrived in Niles Canyon, her abandonment of caution, her fear when she was being hunted. “I’ll never go back,” she said.

“You will,” her husband replied, “but with me. From now on I go with you. Nothing bad will happen as long as we’re together.”

Mara sighed. She knew it was true and that was all that mattered.

Somebody to Love Me (Please, not for children to read!)

Posted on December 2, 2016 by Terry Connelly

Nikki hated Los Angeles in the summer. Hot and stinky, the smells of car exhaust, cooking food and steam from street vents far below filled the air with an unmistakable stench.

Her apartment was not air-conditioned, so she sweltered in the never-ending heat, drinking glass after glass of ice-cold cola and eating ice cream by the gallon. No other food held her interest. Nothing hot, certainly, even though a plethora of ethnic restaurants lined the streets far below her tenth floor flat. Her appetite killed by the combination of stench and heat, Nikki invariably lost weight every summer, to be put back on once the temperature cooled enough to make it desirable to eat.

Her job was boring. Every afternoon she walked a few blocks to one of the university’s residence halls, clocked in, then took her seat behind the desk. She watched familiar, but unnamed students come and go as they met up with friends for an evening out or to study in the quiet of the massive library. Some of them stopped to chat, but mostly they ignored her as if she were invisible.

The best part of the job was the air-conditioning. Heaven forbid that students should swelter or feel uncomfortable, so the building was kept cool in the summer and warm in the winter. Just the way Nikki liked it.

There was one student, a rather awkward-looking boy, who stopped by and chatted with her every time he stepped through the double-glass doors. Joe. His name was Joe. Nikki never knew his last name, but she had learned that he was wealthy, came from a land-owning family in the Central Valley, he had one older sister who was attending Princeton and a younger brother who was an all-star high school athlete being courted by a vast array of colleges.

Nikki did not like Joe, but she listened to him because he was the most interesting thing in her nights. There was something a bit off about him. His face was not put together all that well. His ears a bit low and large. His forehead bulging and shiny as if he polished it before he went out in the mornings. His eyes, his best feature, were a deep brown, but too far apart and separated by an overly large nose. There was even a problem with his hair. It seemed to have a mind of its own. Despite the oiled appearance, the strands poked out in random directions, creating a spikey halo that gave him a devilish air.

Joe was engaged. Nikki had never met the girl for she attended a university somewhere in the Midwest. Joe had told her the name, but Nikki wasn’t interested so never remembered. Joe and the girl were high school sweethearts. Their parents were best friends. They played tennis and went to dances at a private country club. They went boating on a nearby lake and rented a cabin up in Lake Tahoe every summer.

Normally Joe would be gone by now, off living his fancy dream life far from LA, but not this year. He had not done well in one of his required classes and was forced to repeat it before he could move on. So here he was, bored and lonely.

He turned his attention on Nikki, which she did not encourage, but tolerated.

“Hey,” he said as he approached the desk. “Want to go out for a beer after you get off work?”

“Not really.”

“Aw, come on. You deserve a night out. I’ll treat you.”

“No, thanks. I’m meeting someone.”

“Then how about tomorrow? You can’t have plans for tomorrow already.”

Nikki was saved when a noisy group of girls entered, all of them obviously drunk. Not all of them residents. “I need to see your IDs,” she said as she waved the girls over. She noticed that Joe slithered away, and sighed with relief. These girls were just the distraction she needed.

One by one the girls pulled out their cards. Three of them lived upstairs. Two in the residence hall next door. “Okay,” Nikki said. “Remember that no guests after eleven, so you two have to be gone by then.”

“We will,” one of them said, and then the group took off, staggering and giggling toward the elevators.

Nikki’s shift ended at eight in the morning. By that time she was exhausted, and since she had no classes this summer, she could go home and sleep. When she finally left the building, she had an uncomfortable feeling that she was being followed, but whenever she turned around, there was no one there.

All the way home the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She felt nervous and agitated, and so as she neared her building, she got out her key and quickly let herself in. She pulled the door closed and then stood there, peering through the opaque glass. Nikki thought she saw a shadow pass approach, stand still for a few minutes, and then slowly turn away.

It spooked her enough That she didn’t wait for the elevator, but instead practically ran up the four flights to her apartment. The first thing she did was close the curtains. Then she turned on the television and scanned channels looking for news. There had been a series of break-ins lately, all clustered around the university. In all cases the victims were single women. All lived alone. All attacks happened during the early morning hours or late at night. None had been solved.

When Nikki found no new stories, she went into her bathroom to shower. But thoughts of being caught there, naked, were too much. So she crawled into bed, hoping to push away the spooky image long enough to get some sleep. It didn’t happen. The shadow approached the door, over and over in Nikki’s mind.

Eventually she got up and poured herself a tall, cold soda. Then she opened her psychology textbook and tried to study. She couldn’t get passed the deviant behaviors described in the required chapter. Obsession. Narcissism. Compulsive, repeated actions. Inflated egos. Sexual perverts.

Nikki fixed herself a bowl of strawberry ice cream topped with whipped cream for lunch. It felt cool on her tongue, and when she closed her eyes, she pictured the patches of strawberry plants that her mom grew in the backyard. The bright red of the ripened berries. The sweet taste, almost like pure sugar.

After washing out her bowl, Nikki was calm enough to shower. She lingered under the cool spray, relishing in the temporary respite from the heat. She dressed in denim shorts and a light blue tank top, packed up her books, and walked to campus.

As she crossed Main Street, that sense of being followed returned, but there was nothing Nikki could do about it. She had to move on, get to class without stopping and looking over her shoulder or she’d be late, and her professor humiliated anyone who wasn’t seated when he passed through the door.

When class ended, Joe was there. “Want to get a pizza?” he asked.

Nikki pushed past him, pretending not to hear.

He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her toward him. “I asked if you wanted to get a pizza.”

“Let go.”

He wrapped his arms around her, bringing her close to his chest. He placed his chin on the top of her head. “Come on, Nikki. You know you want me. You’re such a tease.”

Nikki planted her hands and pushed. She managed to create a bit of space between them, but then Joe trapped her against a door, bent down and kissed her. “See how much you like it. Next time, we’ll take it further.” Joe released her, waved, blew her a kiss and strolled away.

Nikki was shaken. This was sexual assault, her first. She knew she should go to the counselors’ office and report it, but it would be Joe’s word against hers. He came from wealth, she from a working family. He didn’t need money to go there; she was on full scholarship. When it came down to it, Nikki knew she’d lose. So she went to work.

Thankfully nothing exciting happened. No clusters of drunken students, no rambunctious athletes, no giggly girls. And especially, no Joe.

In the morning Nikki walked home, alert in case she was being followed, but after crossing Main and not feeling the least bit perturbed, Nikki relaxed. When she entered her building, no shadows appeared. She collected her mail, called for the elevator, and rode up feeling good about the day.

When she unlocked her door, she knew something was wrong. She stood in the open doorway, ready to leave in case of attack, but as she looked about she quickly saw that there was nothing out of place. No weird smells or writing on the walls. No dead pigeons or strangled cats. But there was something. Something that Nikki could not see or smell or define. It was there as surely as that shadow had been in the glass.

She gently closed the door behind her. An arm went around her neck and pulled her back into a burly chest. “Nikki, my love,” Joe’s voice said. “I didn’t think you’d ever come home.”

“Let me go,” she said as she heard the deadbolt turn.

Joe kissed her on the neck. “You smell so good.” He turned her around and kissed her neck.

“Stop it. I want you to go.”

“You want me, yes,” he said as he pushed her into the bedroom. He placed one hand on her right breast, the other went under the waistband of her shorts.

Nikki struggled, but her arms were pinned to her sides. She tried kneeing him, but couldn’t get enough force behind it to hurt him. “Stop. Please, stop.”

His lips found hers. He tasted like whiskey and cigarettes. Marijuana. His hair smelled so bad she gagged. And his body odor, beyond foul. He was so disgusting that Nikki thought that he probably hadn’t washed or brushed in days. It made no difference.

Joe pushed and shoved until he had her on the bed. The unmade bed, which shocked Nikki as she never left without everything being neat and tidy.

He forced Nikki’s hands above her head, trapped them with one of his much larger hands, then unbuttoned her shorts with the other. Nikki wiggled and squirmed and tried biting Joe’s arm, but couldn’t get enough of his skin in her mouth to hurt him.

“Getting feisty. I like that in a woman.” Joe pulled away and looked in Nikki’s eyes.

“Don’t rape me, please. Don’t hurt me. Leave,” she said, “and I won’t report this.”

“Rape? This isn’t rape.” Joe smiled. “This is consensual. You’ve been begging me to do this for months now.”

“No, Joe. It isn’t true. You’re lying. I never teased you,” Nikki said as tears poured down her cheeks. When he let go of her hands she scooted away until she was off the bed and against the far wall. “You’re engaged,” she said. “Your girlfriend loves you. Imagine how she’d feel if she knew you were a rapist.”

Joe stood up and glowered at her. “I’m no rapist.” He stepped toward her, his hands clenched. “Don’t go spreading rumors about me. It you say one word, I’ll get you fired. In fact, I can do worse. I’ll get you kicked out of the university.”

“Just go. Now.” Nikki moved toward the bathroom door, stepped into the room, slammed the door shut and locked it. Joe pounded on the door, screamed additional threats, and then finally walked away.

Nikki stayed in the room, sitting on the toilet lid for what felt like hours. Her entire body trembled, her teeth chattered, and despite the intolerable heat, she felt frozen. Only after convincing herself that he was gone, did she feel brave enough to open the door.

She went into the front room. No sign of Joe. Nikki quickly crossed the room and bolted the door. She sank to the floor and dropped her head into her arms. She breathed deeply, telling herself that she had escaped. She had survived.

And she knew that she couldn’t report it. Joe’s family was wealthy enough that he could lie his way through the accusations and live to rape another girl. Which made Nikki wonder, was there any possibility that Joe was the neighborhood rapist? Could he be the one terrifying single women?

Nikki packed up as many of her belongings as she could in the two suitcases she owned. She wrote two letters: one to administration claiming a family emergency that required her at home and the other to the apartment manager. She put stamps on the envelopes, and carrying everything squeezed into the elevator. She dropped the letters into the mail slot in the lobby along with her key.

She walked briskly to the nearest bus stop and waited nervously until it arrived. After several transfers, she arrived at the bus depot, where she bought a ticket to San Francisco. It was not until she was seated on the bus that she was able to breathe without panicking. As the bus pulled out, Nikki saw a figure that she thought was Joe leaning against the wall.

It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t dare. Would he?

Dreams

Posted on October 1, 2016 by Terry Connelly

When the tall stranger walked into the room, Susan’s eyes were immediately drawn to his face. Partially hidden by a wide-brimmed Stetson, all she could see was a trim black mustache and a well-formed chin. It was his posture that had caught her attention, not his looks. He stood with shoulders squared and head held high, a proud stance. One that spoke of confidence and pride.

He turned the corner and stepped out of Susan’s vantage point, so she closed her laptop, picked up her things and followed him. It was with great disappointment that when she caught up with him, as he stood in front of a local coffee shop. He was surrounded by goggling women, all smiling and nodding profusely. This was someone they most likely knew, not some random stranger. Susan sighed and turned away.

She hadn’t enrolled in the conference to meet a man, even though, since she was hungry for love, she wouldn’t mind finding someone walking the halls of the center. She was a writer and wanted to be recognized for her ability to craft story. A wordsmith. A paradigm of the literary world who was waiting to be discovered. She came to share her work and listen to all the praise that she hoped she would receive. Maybe even get an agent in the process.

The morning began with a general meeting in the ball room. Susan sat at the side in order to be able to sneak out if she got bored by the speakers. As her eyes scanned the room, she spotted the man she had seen the day before, seated in the front row, directly in front of her, close enough that she could smell his aftershave. Not too heavy on the cologne, a slight hint of mint. Everything about him was captivating. Dressed smartly in a black jacket, white shirt and bolo tie, he looked like he had stepped out of the pages of a western novel. He sat with one jeans-clad knee crossed over the other, his well-polished black boots clearly visible.

Susan could not take her eyes off of him. He radiated a sense of magnetism that was irresistible to a weak woman like herself. Susan cringed at the thought of being weak. It’s not how she normally thought of herself, but here she was, like a common bimbo, staring at the man as if she had lost her mind completely. She wasn’t currently looking for a hot new romance, but wouldn’t object if one landed in her lap. What she would like is a companion. Someone to share stories with. To stroll downtown, arms linked, and stop to admire the window displays. Maybe even accompanied by a little romance. But nothing too serious.

During the course of the day, Susan caught glimpses of the man as he walked across campus. Every time she stared as if her mother had never taught her manners. She wanted to go to him and fall into his strong arms. Feel the crush of his embrace. Rub her fingers down the line of his beard. She blushed each time as if caught doing something obscene. Whenever these thoughts hit her, a blush crept up her neck and into her cheeks and she was forced to change directions. Turn away even against the emotional tug she felt in his presence.

Lunch was a catered affair. Seats were not assigned, but participants were told where to sit as they walked through the huge double doors of the ball room. As Susan neared her table, she stopped midstride. The man was at her table! This could not be. What would she say to him that didn’t sound moronic? How could she eat in front of him? She was sure she’d get lettuce stuck in her teeth and dribble soup down her chest.

She stopped in the middle of the aisle, not sure what to do. Take her seat or turn and leave.

An usher approached her. “Is there something wrong, Miss?”

“No. It’s just that…”

“Come, this is your table,” he said as he led her to the chair next to the man, pulled it out and waited for her to sit.

The man smiled. Such a beatific smile. White teeth. Wide, relaxed grin. Sparkling eyes. He held out his hand. “I’m Daniel Moore.”

“Susan Newsome.”

“What are you working on?”

“A Young Adult novel. It’s finished. I’m hoping to find an agent.”

Daniel leaned forward and said, “Tell me about it.”

As Susan spoke, he nodded and asked occasional clarification questions. Talking to him was so easy, too easy, and so she found herself falling into a natural rhythm.

Daniel reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. “Send me the first fifty pages of your manuscript. I’d like to take a look at it.”

Susan gasped as she read his card. Daniel was an agent with Goodtimes Literary Agency. He specialized in Children’s and Young Adult literature. This was too good to be true. A fantasy. A magical happening.

“Thanks,” she said. “I appreciate that. You’re too kind.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m here to find new authors to represent. Your book sounds right up my alley.”

They talked about a variety of things as the meal progressed. Sports. Politics. World happenings. Travels. Susan found him enticingly easy to be with. When lunch ended, Daniel walked her out to the foyer. “I hope I’ll see you later,” he said and then turned and left.

Susan smiled the rest of the conference. She took notes, listened carefully, learned a lot. After she checked out of the hotel and headed toward home, she thought only of Daniel. Not just as a potential agent, but as someone she’d like to know better. Someone she could call friend.

It might be just a dream, but it was a good one. And it made her happy.

The Storm

Posted on July 8, 2016 by Terry Connelly

Thunder rocked the house while lightning danced across the sky. Stan Ellis, a slightly built fifteen year old, stood on the front porch, watching the show. Simultaneous bursts struck at a couple of trees on the nearby hills, sending puffs of smoke into the moist air. He wondered where his grandpa was. He hated to think of the old man out driving in this terrible weather.

Stan’s eyes followed the gravel drive from the front of the barn, through the wooden gate that enclosed their property, and out toward the state highway that went into Bozeman. No rusty red truck rumbling home.

A jagged bolt of lightning plunged into the field just beyond the horses’ corral. The impact sent small rocks flying and a dust cloud filled the air. The horses stabled in the barn screamed in fear. Stan knew he’d better check on the horses and make sure that all were safe in their stalls.

Pulling on his anorak, he ran down the steps and across the yard, hoping to beat the next bolt. Just as he pulled open the barn door, another hit, stronger than before. Stan held on to the door as the earth trembled, absurdly terrified that he might fall. Eyes huge, he saw a nearby fir tree burst into flame like a forgotten shish kebab on a grill.

Stan stepped into the cool semi-darkness of the barn and pulled the door closed. It slid easily on its well-greased track. After dropping the latch into place, he turned to examine the animals.

Dopey and Suzy-Mae stood in the back of their stall, brown eyes as large as platters. The stallion’s head draped over the mare’s shoulder, his nuzzle stroking her mane. Dopey snuffled in a whisper-like voice, trying to calm his frightened partner.

Big Joe’s hooves clattered against the sides of his stall, a staccato beat that seemed to match the pounding of Stan’s heart. The big horse’s snorts sounded like rifle shots, and Big Joe’s sides were covered in a foam-like lather. Stan knew he’d better wipe Big Joe down before he left the stables.

Betsy and her foal, Spotter, squealed when the ground shook from another blast. They stood at the back of their stall, with ears pulled back, seeming to be listening to the pounding rain.

At the back end of the barn, Lucifer, the most gentle of the bunch, snorted, neighed, screamed, and bucked when another round of thunder shook the barn. This would be Stan’s first target. Lucifer was his grandpa’s favorite, a horse that was bought for Stan’s mother to ride when she was young.

“Hey, boy. Lucifer boy. It’s OK, big boy,” he softly crooned as he approached the stall. Whistling the stallion’s favorite tune, “Edelweiss,” he stepped closer and closer, hands outstretched in a pleading fashion. When even with the stall door, Stan peered in over the edge. Lucifer plunged forward, crashing into the wood, nearly cracking it down the middle. “Calm down, Lucifer. Calm down, boy.”

Stan picked up a handful of sweet hay, the stallion’s favorite, and held it gingerly toward the horse’s mouth. Still whistling, the young man slithered forward at turtle speed. Lucifer’s eyes rolled, showing white even in the gloom of the stall. Foam dripped from the horse’s mouth, and his sides heaved and rattled. Stan moved closer, still offering the treat. “Come on, boy. Easy, boy.”

When thunder sounded again, Lucifer burst through his door, shattering the wood as easily as breaking toothpicks. Stan jumped out of the way of the flailing hooves just in time to avoid being struck a deadly blow to the head.

He cowered against the back of the barn as the terrified horse raced up and down the center. Stan trembled in fear, leaning tightly against the door to Knight’s stall. The giant horse suddenly stopped running and looked around the barn with terrified eyes. Taking advantage of the temporary calm, Stan took a step into the center aisle. “Here I am, boy. Come here, Lucifer. Come to me, boy.” His hands shook, but he kept his voice soft and calm.

After shaking his head up and down a few times, Lucifer allowed Stan to approach. Sides quivering, spittle flying from his gritted teeth, Lucifer was far from relaxed. “Let me touch you, boy,” Stan crooned. He resumed whistling and watched as the horse’s eyes focused on the hay and the hand. “That’s it, boy. That’s it.”

When Lucifer took the first tentative nibble, Stan grabbed his halter. After pulling the giant head toward his chest, Stan offered the last of the hay, and then began stroking the black muzzle. The stallion slowly calmed, thanks to the passing of the storm and the persistent cooing and petting of the young man.

Once the horse’s eyes narrowed to a more normal size, Stan urged him forward. They walked from one end of the barn to the next, stopping only to turn and change directions. In time, Lucifer’s breathing took on its changed cadence. “That’s the way, boy. That’s the way.” Stan wondered where to put Lucifer now that his stall door was shattered. Not in with Big Joe. They’d fight and get each other riled up. Not with Betsy, either. Lucifer hates Spotter. He decided to put him in Knight’s stall as it was empty. Grandpa had taken his Appaloosa into Dr. Steinway’s clinic for some kind of operation, and so the stall would be available for a few days.

Stan walked Lucifer to the stall and opened the door. Agitated about entering another horse’s place, the stallion reared in protest. Stan jumped out of the way of the hooves. “Hey, boy. No problem. Knight’s gone for a few days. He won’t mind.” Lucifer instantly calmed, as if he understood every word.

“Go on, now,” Stan said. “Step in. Step in, boy.” The stallion did as told, as meekly as the lamb he normally was. “Yeah, that’s it. You okay now?” Stan picked up a soft cloth and rubbed the horse’s sides and neck. When Lucifer was quiet, Stan checked the food and water, and then quietly stepped outside. He closed the door and dropped the latch into place.

Now that the stallion was calmer than before, Stan rechecked the other horses. He spoke to them and whistled each one’s special song. Within minutes, all were relaxed, and even Big Joe was wiped down.

Stan left the barn and headed back to the house. His grandfather still was not home to prepare dinner, so he went into the kitchen to find something to eat. The refrigerator light did not come on when he opened the door. The clock on the microwave was dark, and when Stan flicked the switch for the ceiling lights, nothing happened.

He dug into the meat drawer and pulled out some sliced turkey, and then he got out the mayonnaise, some leaves of lettuce, and a slice of mozzarella cheese. He assembled a mammoth sandwich, tossed a handful of chips on his plate, and poured himself a tall glass of water. Stan carried his meal out to the front porch, sat in his usual chair, placed the glass on a nearby table, and balanced the plate on his lap. As he ate, he watched lightning bolts, far off in the distance, as they zigzagged across the darkening sky. The air had that fresh smell that always followed rain.

As night came on, Stan gave up his watch and went inside. The electricity was still out, so with nothing to do, he decided to go to bed early. He was worried about his Grandpa, wondering if he was safe, holed up somewhere in town, or stuck in mud out on the road. There was nothing he could do about it, so Stan pulled off his shoes, socks, jeans and shirt, and then climbed into bed. He stared at the dark ceiling, trying to recall if his grandfather had said anything about visiting Uncle Jack, or dropping in on his old friend, Zechariah.

In time Stan’s breathing slowed to a rhythmic cadence and his worried face relaxed.

“Stan, wake up, boy. You’re having a nightmare,” a familiar voice penetrated the haze that fogged Stan’s brain. A rough hand stroked his right cheek while another squeezed his left shoulder.

Stan fought back, trying to escape the demon that held him in a vise-like grip.

“Settle, boy. It’s me, Grandpa.”

Stan opened his eyes into the dark of his own bedroom. He made out the silhouette of his grandpa, leaning over him. “Grandpa? Is it really you?”

“Yes, it’s me. You’re safe now. You’re safe. Nothing’s going to hurt you,” he said as he removed his hands from his grandson’s shoulders, and then sat on the edge of the bed. “You were dreaming. It must have been one heck of a nightmare. I’ve never seen you so scared.”

“It was terrible. The barn was on fire and the horses were calling for help. I opened the door, thinking there was a lion in there, but this thing…this thing came after me. I’ve never seen anything like it. It…it tried to kill me. I had the rifle, but I couldn’t squeeze the trigger.” He stared into the darkened room, seeing the creature once again. “Grandpa, are the horses safe?”

“Yes, they’re fine. Everything’s fine. The power’s still out, but everything else is fine. How about you, boy?”

Fully awake now, Stan reached for his grandfather’s gnarly hand. Finding it, he gave it a firm squeeze of gratitude. “I’m glad you’re here. I couldn’t remember if you were coming home or not. That was a bad storm, Grandpa. It scared Lucifer.”

“Don’t worry about it, boy. I got hung up at Becker Creek. The darn thing overflowed its banks. And then lightning hit a tree right in front of me. It burst into flame like a torch. Next thing you know, the grass caught fire and surrounded the truck. I thought I was a goner. The gas, you know? But your grandmother must have been watching over me, like she always does. The flames moved away, silently creeping back into the woods as if blown by a ghost. Her spirit has saved my life more than once. I sure owe that woman.”

“Next time you see her, give her my thanks,” Stan whispered.

“I will, boy. I will.”

“Did you see anything in the flames? You know, like an animal?”

“I was too scared to pay attention,” Grandpa said. “Even if I had, I couldn’t have done anything but sit there and watch. You calm enough now to go back to sleep?”

“Yeah,” Stan answered as he settled back on his mattress. “Would you mind staying for a bit?”

“You want me to hold off that demon?”

“Yeah. That would be real nice.”

Silence fell, wrapping both men in a blanket of comfort. Soon snores echoed off the walls: Grandpa’s deep rumbles harmonized with Stan’s staccato tenor notes. They slept.

Words and Thoughts

Poetry, stories and personal essays

Category Archives: Shiort story

The Orchard

Touch

Last Will and Testament

The Awakening

A Dilemma

Jocelyn’s Story

Spring Shooting

Somebody to Love Me (Please, not for children to read!)

Dreams

The Storm

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