One of my favorites....

I first drafted this story last year.  It is another one pulled from the classifieds.  I believe it went something like this:

Handyman, 35, looking for odd jobs around the house.  Plumbing, carpentry, electrical skills.

 

From that basic classified entry, I wrote this story, giving Joe, the handyman, a background and a job with Marge.  As I recently revisited this story for revision, I added a lot more, using the swing as a symbol of Marge's past, which reminded me of my grandparents' swing and all the time they spent on it, visiting and enjoying each other.  I even threw in a reference to feeding a squirrel, which refers to my grandma, who had a squirrel for years who would take cookies from her hand. 

 

Enjoy...and keep the comments coming! :)  I am also looking for a diffeent title...not sure that this one is a keeper yet.

 

“Handyman Classified”

            “Almost finished hanging the birdhouse in the back yard, ma’am.  Was there anything else you needed me to work on for you?’  The handyman wiped the sweat that had accumulated on his brow with his handkerchief.  It was already 95 degrees out today, and it was barely 9AM.  It would be yet another scorcher.  It was only June 2 and was fixing to be a hot summer.

            "Well, Joe, if you don’t have too much on your plate today, I do have some more little jobs around the house for you,” the old woman replied.  She enjoyed the company of having the handyman around.  She was quite lonely since her husband had passed.  She and her husband had no living children, so having him here, a young man about the age her son would have been, was a small comfort to her.  Plus, it allowed her the opportunity to get a few things accomplished that she didn’t have the energy or ability to do herself.

            “Follow me into the garage.  I have some paint and brushes.  I would really like to get started on painting the porch swing if you could work on that for me.”

            Joe followed the elderly woman into the garage, ready for the job.  He, too, enjoyed her company and the chance to keep himself busy.  Since he had lost his job at the plant, he had been doing everything possible to scrape by.  Luckily he was quite good with his hands.  He found that he could do pretty much anything around the house—carpentry, electrical-you name it; he could handle it.  Too bad he lacked education, he always thought.  He could have maybe been a contractor.  Had his own business.  Just a pipe dream, now, though.

            “Ma’am…” Joe started as they came into the garage. 

            She cut him off.  “Now Joe, please call me Marge.  Enough with the formalities.  I would like us to be friends.  You get started on the porch while I go and get started on the lemonade.  It is quite humid, even in the shade.”  She pointed him in the direction of the gallons of paint and brushes in the corner of the dark garage.

            “Yes, ma’am, um, Marge.  I will get right to work.  I have always enjoyed a fresh coat of paint on things.  Makes ‘em, seem like new.”

            He turned back to Marge as she stood in the frame of the man-door of the garage, ready to begin her slow pace back to the house.

            “Yes, I know just what you mean.  My husband made that swing for me many years ago for our 25^th anniversary, I believe.  It will be nice for it to look new again.  We always enjoyed watching the birds in the early evenings.  We even had a squirrel we had trained to come take a cookie from our hands for a few years.  Such good memories.  Thanks, son.”  Marge turned towards the house, pulling her shawl around her thin shoulders.  Joe wondered how she could bear wearing that woolen garment wrapped around her in this heat, but she was never without it. 

            Joe set to work, carrying a gallon of pale yellow paint onto the front porch.  He looked out onto the day and again took the handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the sweat away as he brought the gallon to the ground.

            The corn from the neighboring fields stretched for miles in every direction, and a slight wind whistled through it.  Joe took just a moment’s break to enjoy a sway on the treasured swing.  He leaned his head back to rest, taking in the landscape.  A butterfly of royal blue and black soared through Marge’s geraniums, and the small brook beside the house ran ever so slowly on this humid morning.  He imagined all of the nights Marge and her husband had sat out here for hours on end.  How peaceful that must have been for them!

            Joe’s thoughts drifted back to the task at hand.  “Well, I suppose,” he muttered, as he reluctantly pulled himself up from the swing and opened the paint gallon to apply the first coat of yellow to the rails.  He knew it would take several coats to restore the splendor the swing had once had.

            As he worked, he whistled a soft tune, “Brown-Eyed Girl”, that reminded him of his wife, Meg.  He knew that right now she was at her own job at the preschool tending to the little ones.  Meg was his high school sweetheart.  How he loved her and wanted so much to make her proud.  He wanted to provide the best life for her and little Max and now their new little girl on the way.  But he couldn’t help to now feel like such a huge disappointment to their family since the loss of his job.  He hadn’t done the best he could.  He hadn’t gotten the education he needed.  He hadn’t built the perfect house with the white picket fence for Meg.  Maybe someday.  He had faith that things would work themselves out and improve for them.  He just needed to be patient and get over this hurdle.

            About 30 minutes had passed as Joe put the finishing touches on the swing.   The hot sun blazed down on Joe, so he decided it was definitely time for a break.  His stomach growled as lunchtime was near, and his throat ached for a drink.  Marge had never appeared with the lemonade. 

            Wondering about Marge, who probably had just gotten caught up in some household chore, Joe decided to head into the house to cool off and take a quick break.  Leaving the heat of the porch, Joe made his way to the front door and tapped lightly on the screen.  He could hear echoes of The Price is Right playing from the kitchen. 

Joe called through the screen, “Marge?”  There was no answer. 

“Hmmm.  Maybe she can’t hear me,” he thought. 

Calling a bit louder this time, he said her name again.  “Marge?”  Still nothing. 

Joe found this quite odd.  Marge always brought him a drink after minutes of working.  And usually she has lunch waiting for him and was right at the door.  Joe was now worried, especially considering she wasn’t responding to his call.

He opened the door, continuing to call her. “Marge!”  Nothing.  He moved through the living room, the dining room, the kitchen.  There he noticed she had made the lemonade.  It sat on the counter, condensation gathered under each glass.  Clearly it had been on the counter for some time.  Where is she? 

Joe proceeded to search the rear of the house.  He paused outside of her bedroom.  The door was ajar, so he pushed it open and did a quick scan.  The windows were open, handmade curtains blowing in the breeze.  Marge’s cat, Prissy, sat on the bed, staring at Joe, who had clearly interrupted her sleep. No Marge, though. 

“Where is she?” he finally said aloud.  His heart pounding, he raced to the bathroom, the last room to search.  He knocked on the closed door.

“Marge?”  Silence was his only answer.  He knocked again, but now he expected no answer, his hand on the knob.

He turned it and slowly pulled it to him, dread filling him, knowing what he would find.

“Oh, Marge.” 

He found Marge spread on the cold titled floor.  Her glasses had fallen from her face and lay beside the toilet.  He rushed to her, but it was too late.  He checked her pulse, her breathing, but she was gone.

There was only one thing to do.  John reached for his phone and dialed 911.

“Yes, I am at the home of Marge Fuller.  She has died.  Could you please send someone?  I am her handyman, Joe Timmons.”  He listened for a moment, a tear threatening to fall from the corner of his eyes as he gazed at Marge.   “Yes, ma’am, I found her in her bathroom.  The address is 1910 Seacrest Lane.  I will see you shortly.  Thank you.”

He turned to Marge, taking her wrinkled hand in his. “Don’t worry Marge.  I will stay until they arrive.”  Joe placed a towel under her head and did what he knew he must.

With brush in hand, Joe retuned to the swing, putting on that final coat of pale yellow, the color of daisies, Marge’s favorite flower. 

Several weeks later, Joe returned home from a rather uneventful day.  He didn’t have many jobs lined up and felt very worried about how to pay this month’s mortgage.

As he made his way down the dusty driveway to the mailbox, he prayed there wouldn’t be yet another bill.  They seemed to be never-ending these days

Joe pulled all of the envelopes from the mailbox.  Flyers.  The water bill, electric.  The usual suspects.  Another envelope, though, caught his eyes.  It was from the Law Offices of Reinholt and Wilson. 

“What in the world is this?”  Joe wondered. 

Panicked and anticipating the worst, Joe ripped the envelope open, scanned the letter, shocked at what he read:

            Dear Mr. Timmons:

We are pleased to inform you that the estate of Marge Fuller has been settled at this time. 

You have been granted the sum of $500,000 as well as property in the amount of 65 acres located at 1910 Seacrest Lane. 

Please contact our offices immediately so we may proceed and settle this matter.

Most sincerely,

William Reinholt, esq.

Reinholt, Wilson and Associates

 

            Joe stood rooted to the ground, speechless.  What had he done to ever deserve this from Marge?  Helped her a few times around her house?  Her kindness to him was simply amazing.  At this moment he promised himself that he wouldn’t take her generosity for granted. 

Joe knew just what he would do.  He would use this gracious act of Marge’s to make a difference, helping his family and bettering himself through his education.  With wonder, he realized that we never really know the impact we have on others.  Maybe we do really make a difference.  With joy in his heart, he folded the letter carefully and strode back to his house to tell Meg the fortunate news, a wide smile across his face for the first time in months. 

 







Raising the stakes

This story was developed for the creative writing course.  The assignment was to create a character who faces some problem and then to "raise the stakes" with more mini conflicts he/she must solve and overcome.
With each story I write, as with all writers, there is a little grain of truth to it.  The rest is pure imagination of what could have happened...
Please feel free to comment.  A writer never improves without criticism.  And thank you again, for those who read and encourage.  :)

“Into the Abyss”

Only a few more minutes until lights out.  Mitch checked his watch for the 10^th time that evening.  Tonight was the night.  He would make his break for it.  He had carefully synchronized his watch with theirs, he had observed their nightly routines, and he was ready with his backpack securely fastened.  His disguise was even set.  Previously, Mitch had snuck into a supply closet and stolen the necessary items to allow him extra time as he made his escape.  It hadn’t been easy, but he had finally seen an opportunity a few days ago to acquire a lab coat.  He would blend in as he made his way into the night.

He lay under his sheets, feigning sleep as he had for well over a month.  She ducked her head into his room, ensuring all was well for the night, and closed it silently behind her, her sneakers squeaking along the heavily waxed floor as she left to continue her nightly rounds. 

How he hated her.  She always insisted he do this and that, never listening to his story or believing that he had a life on the outside.  He didn’t need to be here.  He had done perfectly well on his own, but clearly he had pissed off the wrong people one too many times, and now he was chained in this dungeon until God knew when.  That is, unless he took matters into his own hands and made his move tonight!

Alright, she’s gone.  Mitch slowly pushed his sheets and blanket back and gave a quick glance over at Edgar to ensure he was fast asleep.  Instead, wide, knowing eyes met his from across the semi-darkened room.

“You don’t really think you are going to get past them all, do you?”  Edgar straightened himself and swung his legs to the side of the bed.  “They will catch you and bring you right back here before you even round the corner.  How do you figure you will escape?  Do you really think your little disguise is going to do it?  You don’t look like one of them!  You look like a patient dressed as them!”  Edgar gave a little laugh as he sneered at Mitch.  He then pulled his oxygen mask to his face and inhaled deeply, attempting to calm his haggard breathing. 

Mitch sighed.  “I thought you were asleep, Edgar.  What do you mean, ‘escape’?  I am not going anywhere.”  Mitch realized how ridiculous this sounded as the words came from his lips.  He was dressed as a doc over his pajamas, and he wore his stinking backpack on his back!  Yep, conspicuous, but he knew it was worth a try.

“Okay, well if you insist on leaving, let’s make this more interesting for me.”  Edgar took another puff from the oxygen.  “I want some incentive to not let the cat out of the bag in regards to where you are.  They will discover immediately that you are gone.  The way I see it, this can go one of two ways.  I can either tell them everything I know or buy you a little time.  But the question is, what is my gift worth to you?”

Mitch knew that Edgar would try to manipulate the situation to his advantage!  How he hoped some nights this devil of a man would choke on his oxygen mask!  Selfish bastard.

“Look, Edgar.  If you don’t tell them how I escaped and come up with some story to buy me a little time, I will leave you the smokes I have hidden in the closet.”  Edgar sat up a little straighter, clearly interested in the deal.  Cancer sticks had gotten him here, and he probably would have given his right lung to suck on another one.

“You got it.  If I had known there were smokes in here, we would’ve been friends a long time ago!”  Edgar gave a little laugh, which started a small coughing fit.  Yep, the last thing he needs is another cigarette, but if it will keep him quiet for a while, it is worth it to me.

“Let me see them, and we have a deal.  I will put on my best performance to date to give you some extra time.  They will be so concerned about me, they won’t put much focus on where you have gone to.” 

Mitch walked to the closet and pulled out a long trench coat.  He felt along the stitching until he found what he was looking for.  The contraband he knew would one day come in handy.

“Alright old man, here you go.  Make ‘em last.”  Mitch handed the cigs to Edgar, who snatched them and brought them up to his nose, inhaling deeply.

“How I have missed you, my sweet!”  Edgar set the smokes in his lap and turned his attention back to Mitch, who had pulled his backpack more tightly around him. He was set.

 “It’s been real, buddy. Thanks.”  Mitch extended his hand to Edgar. 

Edgar was already busy hunting for a lighter and ignored Mitch.  It was always amazing to Mitch how resourceful the patients could be.  There was a black market in here, just like in the joint.  You could pretty much get anything you wanted if you knew the right people.  Luckily, Mitch had the inside track.  He had secured those smokes because he knew he would need them at some point.  Edgar was a slimy SOB, and Mitch had anticipated that one day he could use the smokes to barter with Edgar, who would rather smoke a last cigarette than live.

Mitch crept to the doorway, cane in hand.  He felt the familiar twinge of pain in his left hip, the one that always gave him trouble, a remnant of the Great War.  Sure hope I don’t have to run.

Mitch tossed the cane onto his bed, deciding if he was going to leave here without notice, he better do it without his cane.  He didn’t feel he needed it anyway.  Canes were for wussies.  It was his daughter who had insisted he needed one.  She was the one who had put him here in the first place.  Dumped him here when she was done with him, was more like it!

He was making a break, though!  He was going back to his home where he was quite capable of taking care of himself.  He didn’t need nurses, medication schedules, and sponge baths.  He was a grown man and could live as he had for the last 50 years since Maddy had passed.  He had kept their home, the one they bought with his GI Bill.  Sure, it had seen better days and needed some repairs, but it was his.  He didn’t need anyone’s opinion or help.  He was going back to his memories, to his Maddy.

Mitch leaned against the cold metal of the door, listening to the sounds.  All quiet.  It is time.

Slowly, so as to make as little sound as possible, Mitch cracked the door and cautiously looked out to the nurses’ station.  No one.  They must be on break.  It’s now or never.

Mitch silently emerged from his room and pulled the door behind him, pausing as it clicked shut.  He secured his backpack and made his way to the wing’s exit glowing brightly in front of him.  He moved swiftly, well as swiftly as one who limps on a bad hip, and got to the door, his hand extended and ready to push it open.

“Dr., wait.  Sir, could you sign this before you leave for the evening?”  He paused, his entire body tense as he considered how he would avoid the nurse who had stopped him.  Was he really going to be caught already? He had to get out before this nurse discovered he wasn’t a true doctor, but in fact attempting his escape!  

His back to the nurse, he replied.  “Uh.  I am sorry.  I will have to review that file tomorrow and sign then.  I will be here first thing in the morning.  Have a good evening.”  Mitch pushed the door open, and an alarm met his ears.  Red lights flashed all around him.  He hadn’t thought of this.  Of course there would be alarms and indicators that would go off when it was lights out!  What am I going to do?

“Oh geez.  I forgot my ID in the office.  Of all nights when I am in a hurry to meet my wife.  Could you slide yours for me?   Mitch slowly turned to the nurse.  As their gazes met, he sensed her suspicion.  She knew that something wasn’t quite right.

“I’m sorry sir.  I am new on the unit.”

Mitch saw his out!  She didn’t know who he was!   “Oh, yes, dear.  It is very nice to meet you.  Welcome to the unit.  I am Dr. Fox.”  Mitch extended his hand in greeting. 

Confusion washed over her.  “I am sorry.  I don’t remember seeing your name on the staff roster, but I am new here and probably missed it.”  She flushed crimson.  Mitch was elated!  She doesn’t know.  I just may get out!

“I’m sorry to be in such a rush.  But your ID, could you slide it for me?  Tonight is our anniversary, and if I am late, Maddy will have my hide!”  Mitch let out a soft laugh, so relieved he actually might trick this poor girl!

“Oh, yes sir.  I understand.”  The young nurse pulled her ID and slid it under the sensor.  The alarms and lights came to a stop as the door opened. 

“Alright, then.  Have a good evening!”  Mitch strode through the door, not waiting for her response.  He was out!  Now to the house!

Mitch walked through the parking lot to the main entrance, whistling his favorite tune, a big smile across his face.  Victory was his!

At the main entrance of the nursing home, Mitch paused, suddenly feeling disoriented.  Should I turn left or right? 

As Mitch looked around him, nothing seemed familiar.  Anxiety began to creep in.  He had escaped, only to now not know where to go!  Why can’t I remember where I am?  How did I get here? 

Mitch’s heart beat faster.  Okay, just take a deep breath, buddy.  You can figure this out.  Right?  Left? Straight?   Mitch just didn’t know.  What is wrong with me?  Maybe I just need a minute to sit and think about it.  It will come to me. 

Mitch saw a bench and had a seat.  He would just think.  He found he couldn’t, though.  All of his thoughts were a jumble.  A tear pricked his eye.  He had to remember!  Where am I?

“Do you need some help, sir?”  Mitch awoke with a start as a hand rested on his arm.  He looked up to see the same young nurse, the one who had facilitated his escape.  She looked down, concern etched on her pretty face.

“Um, yes.  I think I am lost.”  Mitch folded his hands in his lap, looking down.

“It’s okay, sir.  Let’s get you back into the home and get you settled again.”  With resignation, Mitch stood slowly and took the arm the nurse offered.  He didn’t understand why he didn’t remember the way home.  What had happened to him?

“So you know who I am?”  Mitch asked, already realizing the answer. 

“Yes, I do.  Something just didn’t feel right when you left, so I watched you for a while.  When you didn’t leave and sat on the bench, I did some checking around the unit and discovered who you really are.  Edgar tried his best to cover for you with a cockamamie story about aliens and abduction, though.” 

Good ole Edgar.  He never professed that his story would be good.    

The pair approached the entrance to the facility, and two other nurses greeted them at the door.

“Mr. Fox, let’s get you back into your room, now.  It is getting late.” The larger of the two nurses approached Mitch.  He could read her nametag.  Susan.  The nurse who never listened to him.

If only I hadn’t been confused outside.  I would already be on my way home and back to Maddy.  

A small smile crept across Susan’s face as she took his hand into hers.  She shared a look with the young nurse that Mitch didn’t quite understand. 

“Thanks for your help, Ms. Christy.  Mr. Fox gets confused sometimes.  He doesn’t remember that his brain doesn’t work quite the same as it used to.” 

Tears pricked Mitch’s eyes.  He had failed in his mission of escape.  This damn disease.  It had taken his mind from him.  Sometimes things are so clear and calculated, and then suddenly it is all gone, and I am lost again.

Mitch turned to the young nurse, full of remorse.  “Thanks for helping me, Christy.  I am sorry I caused you so much trouble and lied about who I am.”  Mitch met her eyes only briefly, but he saw great compassion in them, which comforted him some. 

“Mr. Fox, it is okay.  I am here to help.”  She put her hand on his back in comfort.      

Susan gently grasped Mitch’s arm, leading him down the hall.  “We are here to take care of you and not let anything bad happen.  I know you miss your old life, and it is hard to be here at times.  Please know that we care and want to protect you.  You can’t keep trying to leave us, though.  What if you get out, and we don’t find you one of these times?”

He followed Susan down the hall with no answer but a small sob, though he was appreciative of her sincerity.  Maybe he had misjudged her.  He wrapped the lab coat more tightly around himself, feeling like such a fool, so dumb.  He needed to be here because he couldn’t care for himself anymore if he didn’t even know where his home was.  He had been a chemist for God’s sake, and now he felt hollow and alone.    He had to hope that tomorrow would be a better day.  He would be sharper, clearer, and remember the way.

 

Song of the Spirit

The following story was originally done through a writing activity called "jumble story" that provided a list of characters, a setting of place and time, and a problem. 
These are the elements chosen for my story:

• jazz musician
• a city park
• new school year
• something embarrasing has happened

For those of you like Kerri who believe I only write sad (or shocking) stories, you should enjoy this more "uplifting" song of the spirit and what we all have within us that unites us.

“Song of the Spirit”

            There’s nothing like that crisp crunch of fall leavers under foot in Central Park.  It’s the only place in the city where there is really a sense of oneness with nature.  The squirrels race from tree to tree, running along the benches, trying to secure acorns to bury for the long winter ahead.  The children have all headed back to their routines, traveling through the park on the way to and from school, backpacks armed with new pencils, pens, folders, notebooks, ready to take notes, and acquire that all important wisdom their teachers wish to impart.

            The people pass me daily.  I have made it my primary job to “watch” or “observe” the world around me. I think it’s important to come to know others and their actions…it helps us to know ourselves even better.

            The old, the middle aged, the young.  One can see their troubles, their hopes, their dreams if we take the time from our own days just to watch and listen.  I do so in between my sets when I am not entertaining with the saxophone.

            People enjoy watching the show, hearing the music I play in the park.  They clap politely or sometimes erupt with loud applause and cheering if they are especially moved through the melody.  Music is the greatest equalizer.  It brings people of all nations, cultures, and ages together, encouraging them to feel a sense of solidarity.  The loneliness and isolation disappears as they listen as one. 

Many of us feel like we are alone in this world, based on so many reasons, be it the loss of family members, a job, or a lack of the basics necessities of like.  When music is heard, those thoughts disappear into the mist, if even for only the briefest of moments.  I am grateful I can help do that for people with my music.  Even if I have brightened the day of just one person and made him or her forget about the worries of life, I have done my job.  And even if I don’t reach everyone, whether too distracted or busy, I know I will reach someone else tomorrow I didn’t today. 

            One particular afternoon in early October, I noticed a woman on the edge of the park; sadness was etched firmly into the lines of her young face.  Long chestnut brown hair was tied loosely at the nape of her neck.  The first hints of fall were in the air, so a paisley scarf enclosed her slender neck. 

She walked along behind a young man who strode at least 10 paces ahead of her.  Anger flushed his face, and he refused to look back at her as she called to him.  Instead, he kept on with a quick gate, his hands shoved deeply in the pockets of a suede jacket. 

The young woman kept pleading with him, “James, Please.  Just listen to me.  It isn’t what you think.  Please, stop.  Please.” 

He wouldn’t stop, though; he wouldn’t listen.  She ran up to him, tears rolling down her cheeks.  She pulled on the soft suede of his jacket, hoping to get him to acknowledge her.  This only angered him more. 

            Suddenly he turned on her.  She stumbled from the sudden movement and hit the ground, a sob escaping her lips.  Tears spilled down her cheeks, but she didn’t bother to wipe them away.  Her eyes, a cornflower blue, glistened as she stared up at James.  The young man, however, was unfazed by her fall.  He stood over her and raised his voice, his arms lifted in consternation.

            “I will never get over or forgive you for what you have done, Melissa.  Why can’t you just understand this?  You have lied to me and to our entire family.  And now you are lying to yourself.”  He turned away from her, arms now folded across his chest.  He wiped away a tear that had escaped from the corner of his eye. 

            Melissa pleaded with him again, not bothering to pull herself up to stand.  “James, I have never lied.  You must believe me.  I love you and our family.  I would never betray that!”

            James turned further into the wind, ignoring her pleas once more.  In the cold stare of his eyes, I saw he would never get over the obvious betrayal he felt.  The love was gone.  I wondered what she could have done to cause such heartbreak.  Was it an affair, the likely suspect in our time?  Or was it really just a misunderstanding?  From watching her face as James spoke, I knew there was so much more to the story.  There was something he didn’t know.  I could feel her anguish, and my heart reached for her.  There was such suffering in both of their eyes.  I hoped with the sincerest of hopes that he would hear her out and let her explain. 

            Melissa sat on the pavement, her head in her hands while James went on.  Passerby in the park gawked, not really knowing what to do, and thankful they weren’t in her position.  Knowing her pain and how it feels to be misunderstood, I went to the young woman, hoping to provide some type of respite from her anguish.

            I took a small box of tissues from my breast pocket and approached the woman, extending a tissue it to her. 

“Miss, I would like to help if I can.”

She looked up to me, such relief on her face.  I saw her notice my dingy apparel and unshaven face, and I am sure she had jumped to the conclusion of my circumstance.  Melissa took the proffered tissue and dabbed her tears.  She clutched her knees and hugged them closely to her chest. 

“Thank you so much.  He just won’t listen.  It isn’t at all what he assumes.  I think I am going to lose him.”  Finally she stood and straightened her clothes, embarrassed about what had just happened.  A blush rose on her cheeks as she noticed the crowd that finally had begun to disperse during the spectacle. 

“That might happen, but believe that things will work out.  There is a plan.  Things will go how they should.  We can only do so much, but have faith in yourself and your relationship.  Know you can weather any storm.  I know that sounds very cliché, but it has fibers of truth.  I am proof of that!”

Her crying eased as she took long, deep breaths, listening as I continued. 

“I have been in your shoes, you know.  I can tell you that life isn’t always easy. Look at me.  Life is tough out here, but I work to make the best of it, no matter what is thrown my way.  I have my music and all of this.”  I motioned to the scenery around us, pointing to the trees turning the color of fall.

I continued.  “There are going to be times that those closest to us hurt us the most, but you have to remain positive.  It is the only way to get through those hard times.” 

Because I could see myself so clearly in her, I knew in my heart of hearts that all she needed was some comfort from another human, one who saw and felt her pain and understood.  She had felt alone and that no one took the time to understand until now.  

“Thank you so much for your words of kindness.  I appreciate them more than you will ever know.”  She gazed at me through teary eyes and gave a small smile. 

I took her hand and led her to my bench. “I have a gift for you, and I think it will help you to feel better.”

I sensed her apprehension, but she followed me and sat.  I picked up the saxophone, gave her a grin, and began to play for her, for her pain and her fear of what was to come.  It was her own little concert, a song of heartbreak, but also a song of hope for tomorrow.

 

feeling kinda lost...

This has kind of been a strange week.  Well, I have to say that it started with an email from a former colleague...incidently the one who now has my previous gifted ed. teaching position.  She had asked me about a project I had done last year...the Angry Birds Catapult, which really reminded me of the very cool things I was able to plan and accomplish with my amazing students.  Which of course led me to miss my job, my career.  I really hadn't until I was reminded of it and how rewarding it can be. 
Then there was today...I saw a middle school teacher on a field trip with her kids.  They had such spirit and enthusiasm, and I found myself becoming jealous of her and her opportunity to just be around them.  Kids, especially middle school ones, keep you young, fun, and most importantly, grounded.  Is it time to consider going back? 
Returning would mean stress, large classes, grading essays and stories, lesson plans, long nights and weekends...not to mention teaching to the test mandated by the state, drama among faculty, and ridiculous expectations.   
I can't but feel, though, that I was my best "self" while teaching.  Am I meant to do anything else?   It seems like other professions, though honorable, just don't make the cut for me.  Is it because I have done this for so long?  13 years is a big chunk of my life.  Do I think of returning simply because it is really what I know and the thought of doing something else is just scary?  Would there be anything else that is as fulfilling for me?  As I consider my options...which are actually limited due to my educational direction....I just don't know what else is out there for me that would provide the same rewarding feeling that teaching can.  Would I like to get involved in the wine industry? yes.  Would I love to write (and maybe someday sell!) short stories? yes.  Would I love to have an antique shop. yes.  Could I do it all?
Lots to think about. 

Rehabilitated

"Rehabilitated" was written last school year from a class creative writing activity in which we selected a classified ad and then wove a story around it.  Here was my ad:

SWM 45 inmate in search of a special lady with a warm heart.

I have worked on this story through about 3 revisions so far...any and all feedback welcome.  :)  Thanks, Liz, for your suggestions thus far!

 

Enjoy and please follow my blog!  :)

 

Rehabilitated

Brandon lay in his bunk, his legs crossed, and breathed a heavy sigh after finishing his latest novel.  He yawned and stretched, but not too far back as his bottom bunk didn’t allow much space for that.  Shortly it would be lights out.

            Brandon got up from his bunk, feeling several of the joints crack with the effort.  Getting older certainly took a toll on one’s body.  Hadn’t he heard that the 40s were the new 30s?  He certainly wasn’t feeling any younger.

            Moving toward the sink, Brandon caught a glimpse of himself in the small mirror, stained from years of men doing their daily cleansing routines.  He caught a glimpse of the lines in his face, the deep crevices of his eyes.  So aged, but still ready for life to begin again for him.  Only one night left here, and he would be out, working as a grocer, part of his plan of reintegration into society. 

Brandon wouldn’t make the same mistake again that got him in here.  He would live a good, clean life as a rehabilitated, contributing member of society, and never let the anger get the best of him again.  How he regretted his actions from that day, the events that put him in here.  He would never forget the rage when he saw that bastard put his hands on his girl.  Sure, they had broken up, but Irene had been his first love, and he just couldn’t bear the thought of someone else’s lips kissing her or touching her.  Brandon had become consumed when he yanked that kid from the car at the drive-in and hit and hit and hit, only satisfied when the screams finally stopped.

            That was all behind him now, though.  He had paid his debt to society, and the anger was now buried deep.  Brandon turned on the cold tap water, cupped his hands, and brought it to his face time and again.  The chill was refreshing.  He thought of his new life before him, felt hope for the first time in a long time.

            After all, he had something great to look forward to…he had met a very kind lady.  Well, met probably wasn’t the best word to describe this new relationship that has blossomed over a letter correspondence.

            A few months earlier, Brandon had moved past his previous reservations and had placed a personals ad in the classified section of the newspaper.  His ad simply read:

            SWM 45 inmate in search of a special lady with a warm heart.

            He hadn’t really expected a response from anyone.  He had never created a personal ad before, but he wanted to give it a shot.  He received 10 responses to the ad, a complete shock.

            As he read through the varied responses, he was shocked at the sincerity of all the women.  They were single mothers or recent divorcés.  Some had college degrees while others had barely finished high school.

            One letter, however, touched his heart and set itself apart from all the others.  Marie’s letter.  She wrote him a brief description of herself and her life.  She was a caretaker for an elderly woman with Alzheimer’s.  She had two older sons who now lived out of state.  He could tell she had purity about her, and he responded to her immediately.

            To his surprise, she continued to write to him; day after day he would receive a new letter, fresh with news of her life and dreams for the future.  Her letters flowed with hope and wishes for love.  She yearned for happiness again since the unexpected death of her husband.  He felt her devotion through her words.  He knew he could maybe, if she would let him, fill that void.

            Tomorrow was the day his life would change forever.  He would get to finally meet Marie; he would see if his mind’s picture of her matched reality.  He lay back in his bunk, his eyes closing while he listened to the coughs, laughs, and rustling of blankets of the other inmates.  He was ready for tomorrow to begin.  He had paid for his sins for 25 long years, so now he was ready to move on, hopefully with Marie.

            Brandon woke to the sounds of his cell mate flushing their shared toilet.  He was so glad that his daily personal hygiene routines would no longer be shared with anyone.  Luckily, he had been bunking with Mario.  He was a good guy overall.  Just one bad decision when he held up that convenience store to buy food for this family.  Mario had been caught on surveillance, and even worse, his getaway car had been out of gas! What bum luck.  Now he was stuck here for the next 5 years.  Up for parole in 2 if he had good behavior.

            Brandon swung his legs out of bed and pulled on his prison issue clothing.  Blue shirt. Black pants.

            “Well, today’s the day, man.  I am sure you are ready!”  Mario wet a comb and ran it through his jet black hair.

            “It’s been a long time coming.  9 years has been more than enough,” Brandon reached down and tied his boots.  He then looped his belt around his waist.

            “I feel you, bro.  Take it easy out there.  I can’t wait until I am in your shoes.”

            “Ok, Mallory, time to go.”

            The guard, Officer Mitchell, unlocked his cell door.  Brandon gathered up his only belongings, which consisted of several well-worn books and his journal.

            “Catch you on the flip side, Rodriguez,” Brandon held his hand out to Mario.

            “You bet. Take care.”

            He followed Officer Mitchell to out processing, so glad to never see the inside of this place again.

            Officer Mitchell dropped Brandon outside of the room holding personal belongings and he changed into his jeans and plaid shirt, the clothing he had worn in.  Brandon looked for his watch, and of course it was gone. Probably stolen long ago.  Checking his wallet, Brandon found it was empty of the cash he had when he arrived.

            “Okay inmate Mallory, you are finished.  Best of luck to you.”  The guard recited, of course, the same phrase given to all inmates leaving every day.

            He nodded and headed to the exit.  When he pushed the door open and felt the cold breeze on his cheek, he experienced freedom again for the first time in years, and damn it felt good.

            Brandon entered the parking lot to see his buddy, John, waiting beside his souped up 1993 red Mustang.

            “Hey buddy! Good to see you on the outside.”  He wrapped Brandon in a bear hug, patting him on the back.

            “I have fresh clothes for you.  Go ahead and change if you’d like.”  He handed Brandon brand new jeans, a short sleeved shirt, and new boots.

            Brandon unbuttoned his shirt and slipped on the new one.

"Let’s roll.  There is a lot to do.”  Brandon opened the Mustang’s door and John followed suit.

            “So where to?  Where can I drop you?”  John turned the key, and the engine roared to life.

            “Here’s the address.”  He handed him Marie’s return address and sat back.

            “Who’s this?  Where are we going?”

            “Just to meet the love of my life.  I have waited a long time for her.”

            “She only lives a short distance from here.  Why didn’t she ever visit?”  John gunned the Mustang out of the parking lot and hit the highway.

            “We’ve been corresponding through letters for months.  She hasn’t been able to visit as she is a caregiver for an elderly woman with dementia and can’t really leave her side.  Easier just to write letters in her spare time.  I can tell from her words that she is kind, smart, caring.  I know she is my ‘it’.  Now it’s time to see her in person.”  Brandon rolled down the car window, enjoying the breeze of the crisp day, thinking of his girl.  She was the only thing to bring him any happiness in a long time.

“Wow, have you seen a picture or anything?” John shifted, and the motor roared.

“Well, no, but I am not worried.  She will be amazing.”  A small grin crept across Brandon’s face and he looked out at the country scenery, dreaming of finally holding her, gazing into her eyes.

“Well, I hope everything works out.  You deserve happiness after the time you’ve been away.”

John slowed the car and approached the highway exit that would bring them to Marie’s home.

“Almost there.” Brandon thought to himself.  His stomach fluttered and his palms dampened.

As they approached Marie’s address, John slowed the car.  Large houses with well-manicured and landscaped yards were in abundance.  This was a neighborhood of wealth, and Brandon wondered how she could afford such a home on her salary.  Maybe her sons provided for her needs?  Possibly her husband had been quite wealthy before his death.

John braked, “Here we are, man.  232 Mountain Laurel Lane.”

The yard was full of geraniums and trees with cedar chips surrounding them.  Not a weed could be found in the flower beds. 

Brandon opened the door of the Mustang, grabbed his backpack, and then leaned over the side of the car into the open window.

“Thanks for the ride.  I will give you a call later.”

“Good luck, man.”  John backed the car out of the drive, and then Brandon walked up the cobblestone, anxious for what lay ahead, excited to finally be with Marie.

Brandon approached the front door, and as he lifted his hand to the large brass knocker, he heard voices inside and deep laughter.  He clinched his fist to his side.  It was the laugh of a man, there was no doubt.  Knocking and being united with Marie would have to wait for a few more moments.  Who was that man?  A neighbor stopping by the check on her?  A friend saying hello? A salesman trying to sell Marie a vacuum?  Brandon’s mind raced for an explanation.

He moved around the side and back of the house.  He needed to see this man with Marie.

As he made his way to the back windows, he could hear music, and the laughter continued.  Who was this man who seemed to be so incredibly entertaining?  Rage started to boil within him, that old, familiar friend.  What if this man was more than a friend?  Maybe a lover?  Is so, Marie had betrayed Brandon, betrayed their love.  He couldn’t believe this had happened again!

Brandon stepped on to the back deck for an even closer look.  He gazed at the pair through the window and saw Marie, his Marie, in the arms of another man.  She was laughing, laughing about him more than likely, and looked to be enjoying this man’s company very much.

Brandon’s heart pounded, and he grit his teeth.  His eyes burned with anger and jealous rage. He knew it deep in his soul.  Knew the woman he had devoted months to was s liar!  A cheat!  He would have to deal with this!

He turned the brass doorknob and found the door unlocked.  Quickly he entered the house, stopping only briefly in the kitchen, and finding quickly what he needed, he headed toward the music, the laughter.  She had betrayed him.  She was with another!

He burst into the drawing room of Marie’s house.  She was in the other man’s arms, dancing.  He held her close, and she leaned into him.

Marie was the first to notice Brandon.

“Oh my gosh!  Who are you?” Recognition entered her eyes.  She realized who stood in the doorway.  She noticed that his blue eyes were attempting to pierce right through her.  She looked to Brandon’s side as the sun gleamed off her kitchen butcher knife.

Before she could speak Brandon rushed toward Marie and the dog that dared to steal her from him.  He held the knife over his head, ready to plunge it deep into the man!

“Roger!  Watch out!” Marie yelled as Brandon pushed her from the man’s embrace to the hard, cold laminate flooring.

Her warning was too late, though.  Brandon sunk the knife deep into Roger’s chest.

“Take that, you bastard!”  Roger let out a small sigh and then closed his yes.  Blood poured onto the floor, seeping into to floorboards.

“How could you?  I can’t believe you!  I don’t understand!”  Marie brought her hands to her mouth to stifle her sobs.  Tears rushed down her face, streaking her cheeks with mascara.

Brandon went to her, attempting to pull her into his arms.  She pushed away from him, curling into a ball.

“How could I?  How could you?”  Brandon began.  “You cheated on me and our promise of love. Marie!  I came right here for you so we could start our life together.”  Brandon felt exasperated with Marie.  He felt so betrayed.

Marie jumped up and ran towards the bathroom.

“What are you doing?”

Marie didn’t answer and slammed the door behind her.

“Marie!” Brandon pounded on the door.  “Come out!  I am sorry.  Please.  We can still start over!”  He turned the knob only to find it locked.

Still no answer from Marie.  He could hear her on the other side of the door, crying softly.

“Damn it, open the DOOR!”  Brandon demanded, screaming at Marie.  He pounded on the door, kicking at it and swearing under his breath.

He needed to open that door.  That bitch had cheated on him and now had locked him out.  He raced to the kitchen and looked under the sink for something to assist him.

“This should do just fine.”  He pulled a crowbar out from under the sink and went back to the door.  He found it open, and she was gone!

“Marie?  Where are you?”  He checked all the downstairs rooms.  In the drawing room Roger lay lifeless, surrounded by his own blood.  He checked the living room.  Nothing.  The hall closet.  Nothing.  He knew she was upstairs as the front door had never opened.

He padded up the carpeted stairs and found 3 closed doors.

“Marie!  He again yelled.

“Marie!”

“She’s probably called the police.  I need to find her,” Brandon thought.

He entered the door on the left.  A guest bedroom.  He looked under the bed and shrieked.  A white fluffy cat hissed at him.

“Fucking feline! “  He swatted at the cat and left the room.

He turned down the hall.  The next door he tried was locked.  She was in here.  He knew it.  Brandon took the crow bar to the door and banged away.  The wood splintered from his force, and soon enough, he had a hole large enough for his hand.

He stuck his hand through, unlocking it from the outside.  He pushed the door open to what could only be Marie’s bedroom she shared with HIM!  Brandon’s rage was renewed and consumed him.

“Marie!  I will find you!”  He hollered.  He went to her closest, and when opening it, he found her huddled on the floor, sobbing.

Brandon brought the crow bar over his head and brought it down swiftly.  Anger, misery, desperation burned on his face.

Marie screamed as the bar connected with her skull.  He brought it up again and struck her chest.  He wouldn’t let anyone have her.  He had loved her.  She had consumed his every thought for months, and all the while, she had been with HIM!

“Why, Marie,” he leaned over her body.  Her breath was raspy and blood came from her mouth.  He eyes fluttered, and she spoke. 

”He was my dance instructor…” her eyes closed.

Brandon fell over her body.  Tears flowed freely from his eyes, realizing what he had done.

Police sirens interrupted his regret.  He had done it again and deserved all he got.  Rehabilitated?  Not yet.