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"The Fence" (the sixty-first ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "The Fence" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EDT), Sept. 15, 2006 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| The Fence By Cam cam_nine@yahoo.com (Entry #15) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| When Willa awoke this time, it was
to neither the hot yellow that made her eyes hurt, nor to the wet red chest
hurt, but to a cool, happy blue. The big and pretty and everywhere sky hanging
not just blue, but green and pink and orange, too, with clouds that made her
think of the elephams in the book about the place all the way on the other side
of the world that Mama wanted to see some day and used to let her look at when
she was really good until she tore one of the pages and Mama yelled at her and
took it away. Only these elephams up in the sky were not grey, they were white.
And they had yellow all over their backs, and big purple bellies. And they did
not just stand there in a bunch looking at you, but they moved across the all
of it, above, kind of fast but also slow, like they didn’t care you were
down here, looking up at them at all. It was sun-go-down, her favorite time of day, and that made her feel better. Sun-go-down always made the world look like there were nothing in it but pretty colours and, then, everything would hush up, even Mama and Papa most of the time, and with the colours and the hush, it was just like a dream, only it was real. Willa started to smile at how much better it was to see sun-go-down this way, from in the middle of it, and not just from the top step of the porch, where Mama always yelled at her to stop if she didn’t want her to go get the rope and tie her to the railing like she used to but, suddenly, she felt something move in her mouth and that stopped her. Creaking her mouth closed slowly, because it hurt the bottom of her face to do it faster, Willa saw two little green-and-black wingy-things fly out. She couldn’t see where they went, but she was pretty sure it was to be with the others she also could not see, but that she heard buzzing around down below her somewhere. And that was fine by her, because Willa did not want to see the little wingy-things buzzing around down below at all if she could help it. She saw enough little wingy-things on the Saturday mornings when Mama would be yelling at the breakfast dishes in the sink and Papa would be frowning and thinking so hard he would forget to tell her to get back on the porch and, so, she’d get to follow him all the way to the end of their property and, then, across the gravel road to see what the postman had put in their mail box. On those mornings, she’d always see laying on the gravel one or, sometimes, more “poor things” that Papa said had just gotten in someone’s way. And, then, Papa would kick the “poor things” into the grassy ditch on the side of the gravel road. But never before she got a good enough look to know that she didn’t like what she saw the little wingy-things doing to them, no she didn’t like it at all, not one bit. Willa decided to make herself stop thinking about little wingy-things. Breathing in until it hurt too much to breathe in more, Willa tried to reach out her arms on first this side and, then, that, to grab at the wires she was laying on, like she had tried to do the other times she woke up, but she still couldn’t move them and, so, she just slowly raised her head up until she was able to see around and past the post, which she tried not to think about, either, though that was harder to do and, blinking the dry from her eyes, she peered over the grassy ditch, then across the gravel road, then through Papa’s wire-and-post fence on the other side and, then, into their property, with the big piles of car parts and the old white fidgerator Mama made Papa take the door off of, and all the other things Mama was always yelling at her to stay on the porch away from, till she finally saw their house. Willa felt her chest hurt again and suddenly she coughed and something yucky came up into her mouth, and she wanted to spit it out but she didn’t want Mama to yell at her for getting her t-shirt dirty, so she made herself swallow it and, then, like with the little wingy-things, she made herself not think about that, either and, instead, smiled at how so pretty their house looked from here. She had seen it from here on those Saturdays when Mama was busy and she got to follow Papa to the mail box, of course, but that was always in the morning when there was still fog all over, and the colours you could see were not pretty, so their house was just plain old white and brown and black. But now, in the sun-go-down, their house was yellow and orange and pink and purple, and even the smoke she saw starting to come up out of the chinny pipe in the roof was orange and purple and green, and that made Willa happy because it was not only pretty but it meant that Mama’s headache was gone and she was making supper. Supper. Even though her chest hurt bad, her tummy growled and, suddenly, Willa remembered that the only thing she’d had to eat that whole day was the cereal Mama had given her for breakfast. Almost always on Saturday mornings Mama would get up and make flap jacks and sausages and scrambled eggs for her and Papa, but last night Mama had what Papa called one of her “fits” and stayed up late yelling at Papa things like “old man” and “too young” and “wasted life” and “stuck caretaking retards” and all the other things Willa always tried to not hear because they made her sad when she heard them, though she did not know why, and when Mama did that, the next morning she always gave Papa and Willa cereal for breakfast. Which was okay by her, she liked cereal just as much as flap jacks and sausages and scrambled eggs, and when it was the cereal with the sugar on it already from the box with the big smiling cat with the red scarf on its neck, she liked cereal even better. But this morning it hadn’t been the cereal with the sugar on it already, it had been oatmeal, and even Papa wouldn’t eat that and, instead, he just got up and stomped out into the back yard and banged the door real hard on the way. And Mama had just sat there sniffing and holding her head and, just kind of whispered for Willa to, for god’s sake, just eat her oatmeal like a good girl, and then she said when Willa was finished she should go to her room and play with Miss Tiddles or one of her other toys and leave Mama alone till she got rid of her headache. And then Mama went to her and Papa’s room and closed the door. And Willa had done what Mama had said and had eaten her oatmeal like a good girl, even though it was yucky and Papa didn’t eat any of his. And she had just been about to go to her room to play with Miss Tiddles, like Mama had said, when she decided that she could help Mama’s headache go away even better by being an extra good girl and putting her cereal bowl in the sink, too, even though Mama had not told her to, and that was when she saw Papa out the window, just sitting on an old bucket, with his elbows on his knees and holding his head just like Mama had done. Papa had a headache, too. And that was when Willa remembered it was Saturday morning, and breakfast was over and Papa had not gone for the mail yet and she’d decided to help Papa get rid of his headache, too, by being an extra good girl and going to get the mail for him. She could see it was still foggy outside but she was pretty sure she knew how to get from their house to the end of their property, even in the foggy, all she had to do was just walk by their big, blue truck and, then, follow the path where the tires went. Willa’s neck was starting to hurt from holding her head up to look at their pretty house, so she let her it hang back down again and looked up, instead, at the big, pretty and everywhere sky, which was, now, not so full of clouds that looked like elephams, and was also not as blue and green and pink and orange as it had been but was, now, kind of dark blue, and she was even able to see a few of the white specks that Mama said were “stars” starting to blink between the elephams that were still hanging around up there, still not caring that she was down here looking up at them. *** When Willa awoke this time, it was to neither the still, wet red chest hurt, nor to the big and pretty and everywhere sky hanging, now, so black and so sparkly above her it almost made her eyes hurt more than her chest, but to her name. “Willa!” “Willa!” So teensy, like one of those little dark green and black wingy-things was calling her. Her neck was hurting awful bad, almost as bad as her chest but, breathing in the little bit she could, now, before yucky things started coming up into her mouth, making her choke, Willa slowly lifted her head till, finally, she was facing, again, the post, which was now, in the night time, with only stars hanging over, just a thick, black, thing sticking out of her chest, and peered across the black that she knew was the grassy ditch and the gravel road and Papa’s wire-and-post fence and their field till, finally, she could see the windows of their house, all bright and white, and where the front door was, all bright and white, too and, then, a teensy little white speck moving up and down, this way and that, first close to their house and, then, slowly, moving away from it and all around. And, again, she heard her name. “Willa!” “Willa!” “Where are you?” Mama was looking for her. Willa tried to reach out her arms, first one, then the other, to grab onto the wire that was coming out from under her so she could sit up and call back to Mama and tell her where she was but, still, they would not work and, now, she couldn’t even feel them, so she stopped trying to reach out, and just let her head fall back and down. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to tell Mama where she was, anyway. She wasn’t sure because she knew that even though she had been an extra good girl and put her cereal bowl in the sink, Mama was going to be mad that she went off the porch. And then Mama would go get the rope and tie her to the railing like she used to. But, mostly, Willa did not want to tell Mama where she was because she didn’t Papa to get into trouble and have as sad a face as he did that morning when she had finally reached the gravel road and was about to cross it and heard a noise behind her, and it was Papa and his sad, sad face driving their big, blue, truck through the still foggy. Right before she got thrown across the gravel road and onto this fence post and Papa drove away. She knew that even though Papa didn’t stop but just kept driving their big, blue, truck, even faster, so fast some of the gravel from the road flew up and would have hit her in the face if the fence post had not already been sticking up out of her chest in the way, Papa didn’t mean to hit her with their truck. But Mama might not think that and Willa did not want Mama to have one of her “fits” and start yelling at Papa again. So Willa decided to not call back to Mama and tell her where she was. She would wait for someone to find her. Deciding this made her happy again. And being here like this was not so bad - her chest was not hurting that much any more and, though it was harder to take a breath, the ones she took didn’t hurt any more, either. And the coughing and yucky stuff coming up had stopped, too. Willa felt a wind blow over her and around her and through the grassy ditch and through the leaves on the trees in the field behind her and through her hair and it was kind of cold, especially where her clothes were still wet where the post was sticking out, but the big, black, sparkly, everywhere sky was blinking down at her like it knew she was looking up at it and it was happy to be looking back down at her, so she decided that it just felt like a wind from a dream and, because she didn’t hear the little wingy-things any more, the little wingy-things that buzzed around and did yucky stuff to “poor things” that just got in someone’s way and it was, suddenly, just too hard to keep it closed, she let her mouth fall open. |
| The Fence By autumncarol@yahoo.com (Entry #14) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| Herman turned the candlesticks over
and over, then tossed one lightly in the air, feeling it’s weight in his
hand as he caught it. “Forty dollars for the pair!” he declared,
planting them firmly down on the counter. “You’re kidding, right?” Aaron looked at him, that look of a desperate young man who knows his desperation shows. “They’re fine silver. You know they’re worth more than that.” Herman smiled the smile of a businessman who learned long ago how to take advantage before being taken advantage of. “Silver plate,“ he corrected. “Besides, no one wants silver anymore,” he growled. “It’s too high maintenance. People don’t wanna spend time polishing it. You see how tarnished these are? Watch this.“ He took out a cloth and a bottle of silver polish from a shelf beneath the cash register and began applying the polish to the candlesticks. Aaron watched impatiently as he rubbed the cloth over them time and again. Several minutes later, the pair was gleaming as if brand new. “Now you see how much care silver needs to keep clean. You gotta do that once, twice a week.” He twirled the side of his handlebar moustache, then leaned across the counter, his face inches from the boy. “Tell me, where did you really get them?” He already knew from experience what the answer would be. Aaron looked down at his feet. “I found them in my grandmother’s attic.” Herman rolled his eyes, then bashed himself on his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Oy! I should’ve guessed!” he fairly bellowed. He was laughing inside at his own sarcasm. “Let’s see if I get this right: Your grandmother asked you to go into her attic for something. While up there, you tripped over these silver candlesticks that somehow jumped out of the trunk they’d been stored in the last twenty years. You brought them downstairs like a good boy. Grandma is so full of pride that you took time to rescue them, that she gives them to you and suggests you pawn them off for money to go buy yourself something nice. Eh? Eh?” Herman stepped back from the counter with a chessie-cat grin, thoroughly enjoying how his scenario was making the boy squirm. Anger flashed across Aaron’s face. He shoved his hands in his leather jacket pockets, then calmly repeated, “You know they’re worth more.” Herman thought for a moment. “Look, the best I can do is fifty. I gotta make a living and the re-sale won’t be much on these, kid. Sorry. Take it or leave it.” Aaron reluctantly shook his head. “Ok,” he sighed. Herman reached into his cash drawer for the money. “There’s twenty, twenty, and ten.” He placed the three bills on Aaron’s open palm. Although he surmised the money would be gone in a half-hour, spent on crystal meth or whatever drug was in fashion this week, he still felt a twinge of pity for the boy. He looked like a good kid, but the drug world didn‘t discriminate. “I’m sorry I can‘t pay more.” “Yeah, so am I,” Aaron replied, then hurriedly walked towards the door. Before he could reach the knob, a tall, thin boy with greasy blonde hair came rushing in. His arm brushed against Aaron’s arm so hard that the leather of both their jackets squeaked from the contact. The boy quickly wheeled about and scowled at Aaron, then turned abruptly to face Herman. “You the fence that owns this place?” His voice was high and nasaly. “Yes, I am the proprietor,” Herman answered, rolling his eyes and stressing the last word. “Good. Let’s get down to business then, “ the boy responded quickly, then jerked his head sideways toward Aaron and asked, “Who’s he?” “A customer who was just leaving,” Herman answered, again stressing the last word. Aaron reached for the door. The boy yelled, “Wait a minute! Turn that ‘open’ sign on the door to ‘closed’, then stand in the corner over there!” Aaron looked quizzically at the boy, then a slight movement caused his eyes to drop and he noticed the boy’s right jacket pocket jutting out. He swallowed hard and turned toward the door, forcing his fingers between the open blind slats. He caught the corner of the sign and flipped it over, then moved to the corner as instructed. The boy looked back at Herman. “Now you, Mr. Proprietor,” he said mockingly, “lock the door.” Herman reached for a drawer beneath the cash register. There was an audible click from the boy’s jacket pocket. “Hey! Whaddya doin’? “ Herman raised his hands in the air. “The key.. I have to get the key to lock the door.” Aaron noticed Herman’s hands shaking. “Make sure that’s all you get or your friend here takes one.” Herman sorted through the drawer and pulled out the key, bringing it high enough for the boy to see it. He walked over to the door and nervously fumbled with the lock, finally getting the deadbolt slid in place. “Now close the blinds,” the boy ordered him. As Herman pulled the blinds, realization seeped through how oblivious the world outside was to the crime going down inside his store. Slowly, he shuffled back behind the counter, his eyes on the boy. With his left hand, the boy brought a folded cloth sack out of his left jacket pocket. He tossed it on the counter in front of Herman. “You know the drill,” he said cockily. “And make it snappy!” He laughed a short, bitter sounding laugh, then added, “Oh, and if you have one of them secret buzzers back there that rings the police, forget it. I hear a siren, I shoot, got it?” “I got it.” Herman picked up the sack and opened the cash drawer. His hands were still shaking and he dropped some coins on the floor. He started to bend down to retrieve them. “Leave the change, Pop!” Herman straightened up and began filling the sack once more. This time a bill escaped his grasp and floated down to the floor. The boy saw it. “Hey Pop, what was that, a fifty?” Herman leaned over for a better view and spotted the bill, which had landed slightly under the counter next to his silent alarm floor button. It was a five dollar bill. “Yes, it’s a fifty,” he lied. The boy shifted nervously. “Well, pick it up!” he snapped. “And no funny business!” He leaned way over the counter to keep Herman in his sights. Aaron suddenly saw his chance. He knew that the boy would probably shoot them since he wasn’t wearing a mask and they’d seen his face. He also knew if they were going to get out of this alive, it was up to him to make a move. With one quick, fluid movement, Aaron was suddenly at the boy’s side. His hand grabbed one of the silver candlesticks still sitting on the counter. In the next instant, the candlestick's base was buried in the boy’s skull. “Stay down!” he yelled to Herman, who immediately dropped on all fours, his hand pressing the silent alarm. Sirens suddenly blared in the distance. A shot rang out from the boy’s jacket pocket, where his finger was still firmly planted around the trigger of the Semi-automatic. The bullet blew a hole through the jacket leather upon exit and shattered the glass front of the display counter, sending a spray of sharred glass through the air and crashing down along the floorboards. One large piece ripped through the boy’s tennis shoe and buried itself in his foot mere seconds before he fell to the floor. When it grew quiet, Herman slowly raised himself and peered over the jagged edge of the counter. “Kid? Kid? Are you still here? Are you all right?” “Yes, I’m fine,” Aaron answered, shaking bits of glass from his clothing. The sirens drowned out any other words as they came to a halt outside the pawn shop. The doorknob shook and someone yelled, “Police! Open the door!” Herman fumbled for the key and tossed it to Aaron, who immediately unlocked the door. Two officers came rushing in. Both stopped short at the sight of the boy lying in a pool of blood and glass on the floor, with a silver candlestick jutting from his skull. “Boy, you sure got here fast. I had just barely touched the button when I heard the sirens,” Herman laughed nervously. One of the officers turned to Herman. “We didn’t respond to any alarm, sir. A civilian lady outside called in a robbery. Apparently she was waiting in a car across the street for her grandson who came in here.” “What??” Herman looked at Aaron and then walked to the door. Through the crowd of curious onlookers he could see an old lady standing across the street looking anxiously in his direction. Aaron stepped to the door and yelled out. “Grandma, I’m ok.” The old lady let out a small, inaudible cry. For the next hour, Herman and Aaron recounted to Detective Riffe what had happened. There was only a slight pause when, as the body was zipped into a bag and removed from the scene, the detective simultaneously asked Aaron at what point was the candlestick slammed into the boy’s head. Herman interjected by saying that the boy had told them if he heard sirens he would shoot, and almost immediately they heard sirens down the street. “So,” Detective Riffe addressed Aaron, “he heard sirens, fired a shot at Herman, and that’s when you drove the candlestick in his head.” His tone was mild and his statement was leading. Aaron took the bait and nodded. “Looks like you were protecting yourself and Herman. I mean, the boy apparently did shoot as he threatened he’d do, missed, and you did what you did to keep him from firing another shot at either Herman or yourself. A pure case of self defense.” He jotted something down on a form and closed the file cover. “Probably drug related. Dam druggies been robbing left and right lately. They‘ll do anything for a fix, even sell their own grandmother.” With that, the detective walked out. “Is it safe to come in?” a feeble voice asked from the doorway. Aaron ran to meet his grandmother at the doorway. Herman quickly shuffled over. “You the lady who called the police?” “Yes?” she answered and questioned, looking to Aaron for introduction. “This is my grandmother,” he told Herman. Herman extended his hand and with a warm smile said, “Your grandson saved my life, and you helped too. I cannot thank you enough.” He held her hand in both of his. “I had no idea you were out there waiting for your grandson or I would have hurried our business along. I’m very sorry you had to become involved in this.” “After Aaron didn’t come out in a reasonable time,” she explained, “and I saw the sign go from ‘open’ to ‘closed’, I knew something was wrong. So I went to the corner drug store and called the police. I should have came in and conducted my own business, but I‘ve never pawned anything before. Aaron’s been handling those matters for me.” She shivered as she finished her story, then looked straight at Herman. “Did you buy my candlesticks?“ A look of shock crossed Herman’s face. He looked at Aaron. “You mean she knew you were pawning them? But I figured… “I know what you thought,” Aaron interrupted, “and you should not have assumed. You were right that I was fencing the candlesticks to buy drugs-- prescription drugs for her. Medicare doesn’t cover all her meds and they’re expensive. She’s been selling off anything of value for months now just to make ends meet. Those candlesticks were the last of anything of worth she had.” Herman hung his head. “I had no idea. I’m sorry, kid.” He looked back up at Aaron and his grandmother. “Maybe I can help a little. Wait here.” He went back inside to the cash register, glanced around to make sure no one was looking, then dropped to the floor and reached under the bottom shelf for the money sack he had shoved underneath during the commotions. He fished among the bills that he knew totaled close to $7000.00. He had mentally counted the money during the robbery attempt so as to have an idea how much to claim on the police report for insurance. He considered the old lady’s predicament for a moment and what the sack of money would mean for her. Just as quickly, he reconsidered, counted out one thousand dollars, and tucked the remainder back under the counter. As he headed for the door, his eyes spotted the remaining candlestick. He picked it up and walked back outside where Aaron and his grandmother were standing. “Here kid,” he offered the candlestick to Aaron. “No need selling off all your grandmother’s fine things.” Aaron took it, looking a little puzzled. “I’d give you back both of them but one of them… is… you know,“ his voice trailed off. He then walked over and took the old lady’s hand, curling her fingers over the cash he placed in her palm. “It’s the least I can do,” he whispered. The old lady gasped. “Bless you for this!” She reached out and squeezed Herman’s hand, then stumbled slightly. “Oh dear,” she reached around for Aaron, “I’d better get home and lie down. Too much excitement for me today.” Then without another word, Aaron and his grandmother were gone. Herman shuffled back inside the shop and looked over the damage. His insurance would cover everything. The cash he’d given the old lady, well that would require a little creative bookkeeping on his part, but he’d recoup it. Even so, it was a small price to pay for his own life and well being. He retrieved the sack from under the shelf , shoved it deep into his coat pocket, locked the door, and went home feeling better about himself. Herman took a long sip of coffee as he scanned the front page of the morning paper. He quickly spotted the robbery/homicide story that took place at his shop the day before. He read it twice through, satisfied with the reporter’s accuracy. The article included a gruesome photo of the bloodstains and glass on the floor. He took another sip of the hot brew, but couldn’t contain a cold shiver. He turned the page and what he saw next froze him to the core. About half-way down was a small blurb that read: ‘Elderly woman found murdered in alley by blunt, heavy instrument to skull. Police seek grandson for questioning.’ There was a photo of the woman, her smiling face looked 10-15 years younger than it did yesterday when Herman had slipped her the cash… after he gave the heavy candlestick back to her grandson. He felt sick to his stomach. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #15 Second place (tie): #11, #14 Fourth place (tie): #1, #7 Others receiving votes: #10, #8 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| The Fence Robert P. Herbst herbst@gtcom.net WWW.MOUNTPERRY.COM |
#1 of 15 |
| 1351 | |
| About two months ago, just at the beginning of the
really worst part of the hot, humid, Florida Summer, the gang at the coffee
table, in my shop, got into a lengthy discussion about the shape of the world.
Some of my friends insisted the world was flat. They maintained, because if it
were round, the people on the other side of the world from us would fall off.
To demonstrate this, they sprinkled salt on a tennis ball and rolled it across the table. Naturally the salt all fell off the ball. “There!” they exclaimed with pride, “We have proved the world is flat.” To counter this argument, the principles of gravity were cited and the tennis ball was dropped on the floor to prove there was indeed gravity at work. Then they went on to explain how the world rotates on it’s axis making day and night and how the axis wobbled to make Winter and Summer. It was gravity, holding people all over the world in place as the Earth spun. The notion was scoffed at by the Flat World side, as they again sprinkled salt of the tennis ball and spun it around on the table, naturally, all the salt flew off. The battle of words raged on for hours as the two sides made one point after another. All the while the two sides fought, the, Shun, triplets sat spell bound taking it all in. Toward the end, as the two sides ran out of arguments, the brothers Slomo Shun, Quickmo Shun and Locomo Shun, looked at each other with wondering eyes. In all of their lives they had never ventured outside of the town of Mount Perry. As far as they knew, Mount Perry, was the whole world. They reasoned, if the world was indeed flat, the edge of the world must be just on the other side of the great morose swamp surrounding Mount Perry, Florida, and if people wandered too close to the edge, they might fall off.. They decided they were going to try to save the population of Mount Perry. The boys agreed to work together, for the first time in their lives, to build a great fence out in the swamps all the way around Mount Perry, Florida, to keep people from going too close to the edge of the world. They considered this their civic duty. Quickmo, would be in charge of clearing the way and setting the fence posts along side the trail through the swamps. As his name, Quickmo Shun, implies, he was the fastest worker of the three brothers. As he moved through the swamp, part of his job was to make lots of noise to scare away the carnivorous insects, poisonous snakes and hungry alligators, living along the sides of the trail. It would also be his job to make peace with any wild Indians he chanced upon along the way. His part of the job was the most difficult, but his two brothers had faith in his ability to do the job with great speed and efficiency. Slomo, was next in line and his job was to string the wire to the posts left by Quickmo and hang the warning signs in the wire, advising all who happened upon the fence, the edge of the world was only a short distance ahead. If they desired to go ahead anyhow, they should please use the gate and do not climb on the wire. This was also a difficult task as each strand of with had to be strung vert tight and secured to each post with staples. Both Quickmo and Slomo agreed their brother, Locomo, was operating with about a can and a half short of a six pack. They put him in charge of bringing up the supplies as needed. He would be responsible for bringing fence posts, signs, staples and wire to the area where the work was being done. Having bought, with their own money, 2,000 fence posts, a post hole digger, a hammer, wire cutters, 80 rolls of wire and two hundred pounds of staples from the Mount Perry Hardware Company, the boys set out on their appointed tasks. Quickmo charged ahead covering the first few miles of the morose swamp in good time and setting half of his fence posts while clearing a path for his brothers to follow. To this end they had acquired three trucks. Locomo would drive the first truck to the Mount Perry Hardware Company and have it loaded with fence posts, then he would drive the truck out into the swamps and exchange it for Quickmo’s truck, which he would have loaded with wire, staples and signs for his other brother. He would then collect his brothers and take the shortest route through the swamps to their homes in the empty truck, so they could start the same routine over again the next day. Slomo was not far behind Quickmo, carefully stringing the wire to the posts and hanging the signs at the given intervals with great care. The fence was a thing of great beauty and the two brothers were very proud of what they had accomplished. The next day they set about putting up more fence, absolutely convinced, they were saving the population of the known world from falling off the edge of the world into empty space. In good time Locomo arrived having followed the fence to where his brothers were working with a goodly supply of wire, signs and fence posts, so his brothers could continue with their work uninterrupted. He also brought food and water to his brothers. Work progresses smoothly through the Florida heat and each day the brothers congratulated each other on the fine job they were doing. It was indeed a work of art, with the fence posts being set in the ground at exactly the correct interval and the wire strung tight between them. Locomo, did seem a bit confused by all this, but this was to be expected as he ranked second only to, Yodar Hoopelhoffer, the Mount Perry town idiot. Yet, Locomo kept up his end of the work, arriving each day, just as his two brothers were about to run out of supplies. He didn’t say very much because he was used to being ignored, but he did listen intently as his brothers complained about the cost of the supplies they were having to buy. Then one day, after months of hard and grueling work, Quickmo, arrived at a spot where it looked as if a trail had already been cut. Naturally, he assumed, other good spirited citizens of Mount Perry had joined their efforts and were clearing a trail way up ahead of him where he couldn’t see them. Work on the fence moved ahead even faster now and Locomo seemed to be having trouble keeping his brothers supplied. He would arrive at the head of the fence with his truck load of wire, signs and posts looking absolutely worn out and used up. This seemed odd, as his brothers knew all he had to do was to go to the Mount Perry Hardware Company and they would load the truck for him. He wasn’t expected to do much more than this. In time, the area the boys were building their fence in, began to look very familiar and the posts and wire they were getting from Locomo looked well used. They stopped work one day and sat down with Locomo to inquire about the condition of the materials he was bringing up to the front of the fence building effort. Locomo explained about how, on his second day of supplying his brothers, he’d found a brand new fence along the side of the trail. He carefully pulled up the fence posts and re-rolled the wire on the empty spools he was bringing back from the head of the fence building project. He was very proud of what he’d done, bragging about how much money he’d saved his brothers. Rumor has it, the reason Locomo has not been seen lately, is because he is chained to a tree, next to a fire ant mound, out in the swamps near a partially built fence. |
|
| The Fence AuthorPete peter@bcpl.net |
#2 of 15 |
| 1649 | |
| An eight-foot high iron clad fence, covered with a
two-foot roll of razor-sharp barbed wire surrounded the Ft. Carson stockade
perimeter. The thickly woven fence was thought to be impenetrable, yet in the
middle of the night, Staff Sergeant Mason McHenry, made it out easily. The escape was detected after Reveille as the prisoners lined up for roll call. “McHenry,” Master Sergeant Steven Wolfe called out the name loud and strong. There was no answer. The 20-year veteran non-commissioned officer looked up from his clipboard peering into the five rows of uniformed prisoners. “McHenry,” he shouted again, his voice straining. The echo of the sergeant’s voice bounced off the stark barracks and dissipated into the cool mountain air of the Colorado compound. The dead silence was broken again. “Anyone seen McHenry?” the sergeant asked the group, determined to find an answer. A slight shuffle, some shrugs and an undertone among the prisoners resulted in a sudden break of ranks. Several of the inmates began cracking jokes and heckling the top sergeant with catcalls. Concern over the division and uncalled-for behavior, prompted the nine MP’s guards to go to their side arms. The sounds of slapping leather echoed through the yard like an Army drill-team coming to order arms. The sentinels in the tall guardhouses overlooking the compound stood at their posts with raised rifles. Without a spoken word of warning, the ranks straightened and order was restored. “Stewart? do you have a sick-bay report?” Wolfe addressed one of the MP’s. “Yes Sir, there are two men in sickbay: Pfc.’s Langer and Strong; that’s it Sarg.” Wolfe took note of the missing prisoner and continued to call the roll. As soon as the last name was called and answered, he ordered the stockade prisoners back to barracks and immediately called for an area wide lockdown. Sergeant McHenry was serving 30 days in the Ft. Carson military facility as a result of an article 15 imposed for being AWOL from duty. No one knew why the career non-commissioned officer went off base unannounced but when the MP’s picked him up at a Boulder motel, ten days after being reported missing, he claimed to be on a secret mission for the government. After repeating his bizarre tale to the Provost Marshal office, a hearing was held. When McHenry refused to give further details, he was sentenced to the stockade. The MP’s began their search by doing a bunk check of every barrack. The commissary and sickbay units were visited. Finally the administration building was checked, but there was no sign of the missing prisoner. Sergeant Wolfe then ordered a check of the perimeter fencing. The nine guards walked the entire premises reporting to each other by walkie-talkie. As they searched the thick iron link fence for breaks a voice from the East Side of the yard suddenly reported the opening. “I found it…it’s over here,” the voice shouted. “He cut the fence.” The MP’s came running from all directions. Sergeant Wolfe was there first. “I’ll be damned,” the breathless non-com said, seeing the gaping hole in the middle of the fence. ‘How in the hell did he cut that out?” The hole in the ironclad fence was big enough for two bodies. From the smooth edges, it was obviously cut with an industrial pair of snips. “McHenry had outside help on this one,” Wolfe gasped. “Notify the Provost Marshal’s office. Foster, you and James come with me, we’re going for a ride into town.” The Boulder Inn, where McHenry was originally arrested, was a small seedy motel on the West Side of town. Having read his Article 15 charges, Wolfe was aware of the arrest location. His thought was that whatever the secret mission was, it was probably being conducted from the motel. There was only one way to find out. The green Army jeep pulled up behind the small motel office. Wolfe led the short detail of soldiers inside. A dark-skinned attendant speaking in broken English asked if the men were looking for a room. Wolfe ignored the question and placed a photograph down on the counter. “Have you seen this man?” the sergeant asked, his mirrored sunglasses reflecting the immigrant’s image. The young woman picked up the picture and quickly placed it back on the counter, shaking her head a little too quickly for the intuitive top sergeant. Wolfe pulled out a crisp $20.00 bill from his shirt pocket and placed it next to the picture. The Latino grabbed the bill and quickly stuffed it in her bra. She picked up the picture and moved to her left where a diagram of the motel lay open on the desk. “210,” she said, pointing to the sheet of paper. Wolfe grabbed the photograph and turned toward the exit, then realized a door key might help. The reservation clerk was a step ahead of him. “Mister, I think you need this,” she said holding the key up in the air. With a swoop, Wolfe grabbed the key out of her hand. “Let’s go,” he said. “Foster, you take the outside with me; James, you take the back. Corporal Foster stood on the left side of the door to room 210, his weapon cocked and ready for action. Wolfe drew his service revolver and switched it to his left hand. He placed the knuckles of his right hand against the door and knocked gently. “Servicio,” Wolfe shouted in Spanish, slightly elevating his voice. If no one responded, Wolfe would use the key to gain entrance. The two servicemen leaned into the concrete wall trying to conceal their profiles. Then they felt the footsteps of someone approaching the door. The motel door opened slightly, pulling the inside security chain taught. The face of a man appeared in the narrow opening, his eyes moving back and forth like a cornered possum. Foster quickly moved out to the front and kicked the door hard with his heavy combat boot. The door and chain slammed into the startled face of the border sending him sprawling backwards. Sergeant Wolf stepped into the dank room his weapon pointed at the figure with the smashed face. Foster stood behind, struggling to remove his boot from the shattered hollow door. The man on the floor was not a happy camper and it wasn’t Sergeant McHenry either. The three soldiers returned to the Carson Stockade cursing their excursion into town. As they entered the stockade gate, they could see men at work replacing the iron fence that had been so adeptly breached. Sergeant Wolfe entered the mile high administration building and immediately checked his phone messages. A message from his wife was followed by another from the Provost Marshal. What now? the career soldier thought to himself, staring hard at the pink slip of paper. He opened the door to his office and placed his fatigue cap on the three rung cloak rack that resembled an antique from the Civil War. Backing into the wooden swivel chair behind his desk, Wolfe sighed as he sat down. He dialed the number of the Provost Marshal and waited for the receptionist to answer. “This is Sergeant Wolfe…Ft. Carson Stockade. Is Colonel Warren around?” The receptionist placed the sergeant on hold and rung the line of the Deputy Provost Marshal. “Wolfe, is that you?” the chief military police officer asked. “Yes Colonel, I understand you called, Wolfe answered. “Yeah, that’s right…listen about that fellow McHenry?” The sergeant sat up in the rickety old swivel chair waiting to hear news of McHenry’s apprehension. “Yes, Colonel, you found him?” “No,” Warren answered, “I want you to remove McHenry from your records.” “What?” Wolfe cried out in disbelief. “Calm down…it seems that this fellow is on a special mission for the government. General Wheeling called this morning and told me to quash the AWOL and Article 15 records. You need to get rid of all of your records as well. I know this is highly irregular but I can’t argue with the general and frankly, you can’t argue with me.” “But Colonel…” Wolfe tried to object. “Wolfe, that is an order. Is that understood?” “Yes sir,” Wolfe replied replacing the receiver. The twenty-year veteran sat back in his chair pondering the short conversation with the full bird Colonel. He couldn’t understand the command. Why should I have to follow an illegal order? he thought to himself. Why didn’t the colonel explain the matter? Warren was a “by the book” officer. He was one who would never break the rules. Something was not right. The sergeant walked over to his window and watched the workmen hauling away the section of heavily reinforced chain link fence with the big hole in the middle. His mind raced as he tried to unravel the mystery. The pieces of the puzzle were coming together…McHenry, Warren, Wheeling…they were all involved in the cover-up. Just as the conspiracy theory began to make sense, the thought was interrupted by an abrupt voice. “Steve, wake up, it’s rehearsal time.” The voice was familiar but the dream was even more so. The line didn’t fit in with the vivid stream of images passing through the screenwriter’s head. Gradually, the images dimmed and reality presented itself. Wolfe awoke to the voice of his producer. “What? you’ve been here all night?” Al Sorenson asked his chief writer, seeing him in the same clothes as the day before. “Damn it, Al, I had the script all worked out for the next show. Another ten minutes and I would have had an ending.” “Hey, so you’ll finish it tonight. What was the story about?” “Oh it was one of those prison escape stories…you know, cutting through the fence and all that.” “Hell, you’re lucky I woke you up. That kind of story is passe. The public’s tired of that kind of stuff. Come on, let’s go review tonight’s show.” “Yeah, I guess you’re right, Al. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Wolfe, stretched, cleared his eyes of sleep and followed his producer into Studio A. He sat in his usual seat and turned his attention to the actors on stage. In the next studio, a trailer was being produced for a new TV series called “Prison Break.” |
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| The Fence roger@cowboylogic.net |
#3 of 15 |
| 1076 | |
| Bill contemplated the cattle in the pasture as he
watched a new calf sniff the middle strand of barbed wire on the fence next to
his mother. Thirty feet south he noted that the calf could easily squeeze under the lowest strand where the fence went through a small, dry creek bed, A weight had been hung to dip the wire between the fence posts. Time and weather had rusted the wire strand and the weight had long since dropped to the creek bed. The result was a rather saggy 5 strands of barbed wire over the span that would be covered by two sections for the rest of the fence. Knowing the nature of cattle quite well at this advanced age in cowboy years, he was slightly amazed the herd didn’t try this weak point and an epiphany of sorts came to mind. “Conditioning”, rang through his thoughts. This herd had been born here. All of them were local cows and even the three bulls introduced at appropriate times were long timers on the Bent J. This herd had grown up seeing the fence as the boundary to their world. They were contently wrapped in their comfort zone. The familiar far off thudding and dust cloud pulled him out of his reverie as his conscience became aware of Ben emerging through the cloud on his quarter horse Biscuit. “You gonna cut some heifers out soon or you just gonna admire ‘em all day?” “Hey Ben, I was just figuring we need to fix the fence over the creek bed real soon. If we loose some youngsters to the Parson place, we may have some fancy negotiating to get ‘em back. Bud ain’t quite happy with us these days.” Ben grinned slowly to raise his mustache with the best effect and paused a moment before stating the obvious. “Yer mopin’ over that Sara girl movin' on down to Idaho ain’t ya?” “Ya, I guess so pardner, I just can’t understand why she needed to go down to the states. This Red River valley has always been good to us. How could she move away and to another country for pete-sakes.” “We been over this a hunert’ times Dimples, Lets get these heifers cut from their mammas and into the loading corrals. Les will be here in a bit with the hauler. I’ll buy you a beer down at the River Side when we get cleaned up and we can go over yer options.” Ben’s grin spread wide now. Unconsciously Bill pulled down on his cheeks with his thumb and fore finger trying to stretch out the deep dents that gave him his nickname. He climbed up on his cow pony and went to work with his mind on the chore at hand, As promised, when the cattle work was done and a new hanger stone attached to the fence at the creek bottom, the cowboys headed back to the bunk houses, cleaned up and drove into town. Bill watched a bead of condensation trace down the outside of the glass leaving a clear amber trail as it wound it’s way to the coaster. “Ok, big buddy, lets chew the fat over this girl problem you got.” Bill looked across to the crinkled eyelids framing the concerned but amused eyes of his friend and confidant for the last 4 years. “Well you know the deal Ben, she actually bought in to a spread in Idaho that is gonna cater to dudes and go all big business. She sold her spread over by my little place and moved lock stock and barrel to the states. She wanted me to come too. How in hell can she do that so easy? I could never leave Canada and the life I have here.” Ben looked at him a bit more serious now. “Why?” “What do you mean why? Leave Canada?” Ben took a deep sip of his beer, looked in it a moment and said, “Ya. Why can’t you leave Canada? You got big plans for your little 7 acre place? You got kids I don’t know about? What is keeping you from moving down to Idaho and hangin’ your hat every night in the same house as yer girl Sara?” “No, the little place is just a nest egg.. I can’t afford anything else yet and I don’t have any kids you ass. I just can’t move to another country. If she was moving to BC I would follow in a minute, If it was east to Saskatewan, I would have to think a little harder… but the states?...” “What’s so bad about moving to Idaho?” “I don’t know… That’s it right there. I don’t know Idaho.” “Well ain’t that an even better reason to move down there?” “No!” Ben was silent for a while and let Bill stew in his juices. An uneasy silence made them both draw from their beers, “Bill, do you know where I was born?” “No, can’t say as I do.” “I was born in Philadelphia.” “No shit?” “No shit… I got three sisters and a dear ol’ Mamma living there today. They think I’m on another planet some where ‘cause they feel the same way about Alberta as you do about Idaho. Only difference is Idaho is practically next door.” Bill’s eyes were big now. He was looking at his friend in a new light. “How.. When…Why… did you come up here? “I saw the fence lifted over the creek bed.” “What….. the hell are you talking about?” “The conditioning I was given while growing up wasn’t strong enough to give me the idea the world dropped off at the horizon. Did you know that big long line along the 49th parallel was only invented a couple hundred years ago to help some folks say “This is mine and that is yours?”. Tell me Bill, where was your Daddy and Mamma from?” Bill was beginning to get his second epiphany of the day. “They were both born in Canada, but Dad’s family was Pennsylvanian Dutch… I guess from Pennsylvania and before that Germany. Mom’s family came from Scotland and France.” Ben lifted an eyebrow. “So does it matter if your kids come from Alberta or Idaho?” “Probably, but I hear you loud and clear. Let’s get back to the spread. I need to make a phone call.” A pair of pick-up tail lights left the street lights at the edge of town and headed through the dark toward a nearby ranch in the country. Things were quiet at that time of night outside a small town in southern Alberta Two cowboys rode silent for some time in that old truck. Each thinking of a different hole in a fence. |
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| The Fence Sal Amico M. Buttaci sambpoet@yahoo.com http://www.geocities.com/sambpoet |
#4 of 15 |
| 246 | |
| O say can you see The border needs watching? Consider the millions Who have crossed into our land! These aliens come, not only in darkness, but boldly as well by the dawn's early light. What so proudly Has been our heritage These blessed centuries, Our United States, Now remains accessible To those daring enough To challenge the flag We hailed. At the twilight's last gleaming Day after day more and more Crawl through the brambles, Climb over mountains, Pass through where a fence Ought best be set up To restrain them so that our flag, whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight Of all our bloody wars For independence Will have true significance And not be a tri-colored rag For aliens to tramp muddy shoes. A fence would provide security O'er the ramparts we watched. Were so gallantly streaming? So why now do we close our eyes As though American soldiers Down through the ages Died for nothing? Meanwhile, in foreign countries More of our soldiers give their lives to The rockets’ red glare, The bombs bursting in air. Wake up, America! Our borders need watching; We're not doing our jobs. We need to put up a fence. All these aliens who so far Have infiltrated our nation Gave proof through the night That our flag was still there? Give me a break! They don’t care! They play on our emotions. They demand our tolerance And make us feel guilty About constructing a tall fence To keep them out. Innocently they ask: O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free? You bet it does, Mr. Illegal Alien! That flag still waves And we who truly love America Will make sure it always will. The border needs watching; It needs a very tall fence to protect the home of the brave. |
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| The Fence RUBY ASTARI author81@gmail.com |
#5 of 15 |
| 87 | |
| She's tired of hearing their constant fights. She's had it every day and night. It seems too impossible for them being in the same room. Nothing's going well unless they end it soon. Each has their weapons attorneys with words and papers. Finally, they sign the documents untying their bound forever. But what about her? Her opinions are seldom heard. Now they want her to choose eventhough she'll also lose. Mommy or Daddy? They have no idea how painful this can be with her love for both, unconditionally. So she just sits on the fence without giving them the answer. Whatever happens in the end she'll still love them forever. |
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| The Fence Lori Lindsey Loraine.Lindsey@piedmont.org |
#6 of 15 |
| 2328 | |
| The night was dark and stormy. Candie Ross and the
twins sat huddled together around the center coffee table that held a single
candle, which was the only light in the house. The candle dripped wax slowly
onto the brass base as Jason sat up straight and began his tale. “Candie, did you know that my grandpa used to live in this house?” Jason asked abruptly changing the subject from the latest movie craze. Jennifer sat quietly listening to the eight year olds words. “No, Jason, I didn’t know that.” Candie had recently moved to town with her father, the Lewis’ gardener, who had recommended her to them as a sitter. “Dad says grandpa lived here with dad’s younger brother Bradley. That is until the day when Bradley went crazy and killed grandpa up there in the bedroom at the end of the hall.” Jason pointed up to the right of the stairs. His words sent a chill racing up Candie’s spine; her entire body shivered. “Oh Jason, don’t say things like that.” Candie scolded but he insisted that it was the truth. “Are you sure?”ca “Sure, I’m sure. Dad told us this story when we moved in here.” Jason stopped as the thunder rumbled outside and the wind howled through the panes of the old windows. Jennifer sat up to join in on the story. “That’s right. Dad told us lots of times about his brother going crazy and killing grandpa.” It chilled Candie to hear these small children talk so matter-of-factly, as if they were telling what they had done at school that day. Jason lowered his voice and in just above a whisper continued, “See, granny died of pneumonia right after dad married mom. Grandpa was lonely in this house by himself so he moved Bradley from the institution where he had been since he tried to kill himself at five years old.” Lightning struck outside one of the large downstairs windows and the room became bright with light, but only for an instant. Thunder rolled immediately after the room returned to darkness and the whole house seemed to shutter. “Anyway…. they had been living here together for about a year and Bradley had not been allowed out of the house…” “He was caught peeping in Mrs. Phillips window next door.” Jennifer interrupted. “I’m telling this story,” Jason said cutting her off before she could go on. Jennifer gave him an evil look and sat back quietly. “One night – I believe dad said it was a stormy night like tonight – “ Jason paused for effect and looked toward one of the large windows, then continued. “Bradley took a butcher knife from the kitchen and stabbed grandpa twelve times. You see, Bradley was twelve years old so dad thinks it was once for each year of his life. They were found the next day, both dead.” “Both?” Candie asked. “Yes. The police said that sometime after Bradley killed grandpa he went into the sewing room, which was granny’s favorite room, and he threw himself off the balcony landing on the wrought iron fence that surrounds the patio below.” Jason stopped suddenly and looked around the room. His tone of voice was like something from an old Vincent Price movie. Jennifer sat calmly with her chin resting in the palms of her hands, her elbows on the table. Candie felt goose flesh creep up her body as Jason told his tale. She thought that he was probably making the entire thing up. Even so, he was a darn good storyteller. “You want to know something?” Jennifer was finally able to add. “Sometimes when it’s raining I can hear footsteps in the hall outside my room.” That was it. Candie couldn’t take any more. Here she was sitting in a strange house with strange kids – in more ways than one – and they were telling her this crazy story about their dead relatives. Frustrated, Candie stood and said, “Okay, that’s enough. I think it’s time you two went to bed.” “I’m sorry, did we scare you?” Jennifer asked with a slight giggle in her voice. “No, but you did get my blood circulating.” Candie tried to make light of the way she was feeling but, in reality, she was scared shitless. However, she was not about to tell this to these kids who were eight years her junior. If they weren’t scared, she would make herself not be also. “Up….let’s get moving.” She prodded and they rose from the floor. The house continued to moan from the fierce storm outside. She followed behind the twins as they climbed the stairs and turned toward the right. Jason pointed to the room at the end of the hall and said, “That’s my room. That’s where grandpa was killed.” “Well you are mighty brave if you sleep in there every night.” Candie patted him on the head and watched as he continued down the hall and through the door. Jennifer slipped through the door closest to the stairway and Candie followed, all the while thinking that these two children were playing a mean joke on her. Candie went to tuck in Jennifer and found a very cozy little girls room full of baby dolls, Barbie dolls and even dolls that looked like old porcelain collectors dolls. “You must really love dolls.” Candie walked over to Jennifer’s bed and placed the brass candleholder on the nightstand. Jennifer slid her little body underneath the covers, then said, “They’re more mommy’s than mine. She’s the one that loves them. They can be real creepy in the middle of the night, all those eyes staring at me. Especially on the nights I hear the footsteps and the crying.” Jennifer added before reaching up with both arms outstretched motioning for a hug. “Crying?” Candie asked as she embraced the girl. “Yea. It’s usually on stormy nights like tonight that I hear crying outside my door. The first few times I heard it I got up and opened the door to see if it was Jason but no one was there. Now when I hear it, I just duck my head under the covers and sing myself to sleep.” “Well, let’s hope that we don’t hear it tonight. Besides, the storm should be over soon.” Candie walked out of the door, pulling it shut, and thought how good these two were at their little stories. She wondered just how many sitters they had scared away in the past. Shielding the candle with one hand, Candie walked down the hall to Jason’s room. She looked into the boy’s room and found him fast asleep; or more likely, pretending to be asleep to avoid being tucked in. As she turned, pulling the door closed behind her, she noticed a flicker of light at the far end of the hall. No sounds. Nothing. Then a flash of lightning struck and thunder exploded, shaking the floorboards on which she stood. Her hands started to tremble and hot wax from the candle dripped on to her skin. She let out a gasp. Candie’s hand flew up as a reflex and the candle went out. Darkness. Pitch black. She reached around, searching for the banister like a blind person with no knowledge of her surroundings. Another flash of lightning and she briefly saw movement at the end of the hall in the direction of Jason’s room. “Jason. Is that you?” Candie could only manage a whisper. The rain beat against the windowpanes racing along with the beating of her heart. Then a little louder, “Jason”. There was no answer. With each flash of lightning, that seemed to flash too frequently almost like a strobe light, Candie searched the hallway for any movement. Between bouts of pounding thunder and over the steady beating of the rain, Candie heard crying. With the cacophony of sounds, she could not determine the direction of the crying but she definitely heard it. As she walked slowly down the long hall, feeling each notch in the paneling as she went, the sobbing stopped. All was quiet again, except for the incessant rain. She made her way to Jason’s room first. The darkness lasted for longer intervals and when she opened the door to his room there was nothing but darkness. Then suddenly a bolt of lightning flashed outside his large uncovered windows and Candie was startled by what she saw - a mutilated teddy bear that had previously been on the bedside table. Its head lay face up on the now empty bed, an arm here, a leg there and the stuffing from its middle scattered around on the rumpled bedclothes. Jason….where is he? Why isn’t he in bed? Candie thought as she turned and hurriedly felt her way to Jennifer’s room. The darkness engulfed her and she could see nothing inside the bedroom. From memory, she made her way over to where she had left Jennifer snuggly in her bed covers for the night. She felt around the messed up sheets and comforter but found no Jennifer. Her hands began to frantically search the bed, throwing bed covers everywhere. Still no Jennifer. Jason…Jennifer…where are they? How can I find them in all this darkness? First thing first….need some kind of light. A flashlight or matches to light the candle. Her mind raced back and forth about the house trying to remember what she had seen where. When the lights had gone out earlier, Jason had found the candle and matches not telling her where they were. The kitchen…check there first. Candie started down the long hall but before she reached the stairway there was a loud scream from the other end of the hall and then the crying began again. Screaming….crying…two missing kids…what else? Got to get the candle lit. Got to find out what is going on….hurry….hurry. Loud footsteps overhead…..the attic. But the crying is down here…who’s up there? Find Jason…find Jennifer…. Scream – no need. No one will hear. Though Candie could see nothing, she knew she wasn’t alone. She heard movement towards the end of the hallway, and then the squeal of a rusty-hinged door as it was being opened followed by a reverberating bang as it was slammed shut. Down the hall she walked as fast as possible without site. The crying became louder with each step and then suddenly, it stopped. Candie found herself in what she thought was probably the sewing room – the room Jason had pointed to where Bradley had killed himself. She immediately saw that the French doors stood open, the curtains flapping frantically in the wind and the rain blowing in, soaking the carpet. Candie hurried over and through the open doors and stepped into the pouring rain, not sure what she was expecting to find. Alone outside, becoming drenched, she looked down over the edge of the balcony wall and with a brilliant flash of lightning was able to see a body impaled atop the wrought iron fence below. She began to scream and continued to scream as she backed away from the edge and back into the dark room. She made her way into the hall and the lights suddenly flickered once, twice, and then stayed on. Candie ran down the hall, down the stairs and to the front door. As she reached for the knob the door swung open. Standing on the other side was Mr. and Mrs. Lewis, dressed in their evening wear, shaking off the rain from their umbrellas as they prepared to enter into the house. They seemed as surprised as Candie as they stood staring at her standing in their foyer, drenched and shaking uncontrollably. “What on earth is wrong?” Patricia Lewis entered and wrapped her arm around Candie’s shoulders. Paul put their wet umbrellas and raincoats away. “It’s….it’s….the fence…..the fence,” was all Candie could manage, her words exploding from her in convulsions. “Calm down dear and explain to me what you mean.” Patricia’s voice was very soothing and quite welcome after the fright Candie had just experienced. “What’s going on?” Paul Lewis joined them in the living room where they now sat on the sofa. He handed Candie a large towel that she immediately wrapped around her chilled body. “Hon, she’s about to tell us. Come sit.” Patricia said as she motioned for him to join them. Candie told her tale and left nothing out. Once she had finished, Paul went up the stairs to investigate. They don’t believe me. “Dear, are you sure you didn’t imagine all of this? It’s so outrageous.” Patricia said as she stroked Candie’s clasped hands. I knew they wouldn’t believe me. They’ll see. He’ll see when he gets up there. They’ll know I’m not crazy. Here he comes…..he’s so calm….oh no, what’s he saying? “Candie, I’m not sure what you think you saw tonight but it had to be your imagination because I found two sleeping children. The French doors in the sewing room were wide open but there was no body on the fence.” Paul sat on the chair across from the sofa. “I don’t understand. I know what I saw. How can this be? They weren’t in their beds earlier. It wasn’t my imagination. It wasn’t!” Candie demanded…pleaded. After a while, Paul stood and walked Candie to the door while Patricia retrieved her raincoat and umbrella from the closet. The door stood open revealing a wet night although the rain had almost stopped. “Dear, you be careful on those wet, slippery steps.” Patricia called as Candie made her way to the chauffeured limo at the end of the walkway. * * * * The door to the house was closed and locked. Paul and Patricia were sitting on the large sofa talking about Candie and her story. Uncontrollable laughter filled the room as Paul said; “This is the first time in two years they have pulled one of their stunts. I thought those psychiatrists had put a stop to all of this.” “But wasn’t it nice to come home and find them their old selves again? I always did enjoy the excitement.” “But, what was that about the fence and the body? How could they have pulled that off?” Paul asked. “That was probably her imagination. Or who knows, maybe your uncle Bradley is really haunting us now.” They continued to laugh as they turned out the lights and headed up the stairs to bed. |
|
| The Fence Michael michaelpelc@yahoo.com |
#7 of 15 |
| 2268 | |
| Just to look at him, little Donny Holmes looked normal
enough, all sprawled out on the living room floor of his uncle's house where he
and his widowed mother had taken to living for the past few years. His mother
had gone to the all night gospel sing over at the Divine Church of the Holy
Sarcophagus, leaving Donny and his Uncle Hamp home alone. As boys will do when
left on their own without the civilizing influence of a woman, they immediately
took to drinking beer and watching Hee-Haw on tv, though to be accurate about
it, Hamp was the only one partaking of any alcohol, what with Donny hardly
being old enough to shave yet. It was only recently that Donny's mother had taken to leaving the boy at home with her brother. It used to be that Ada Jean would make him go along with her to all sorts of church functions, figuring how an extra dose or two of religion might do the boy some good. As far as anyone could tell, however, none of it took. Besides, the boy was almost twelve now, and he was what he was. Now there are those who said it was the beer that made Hamp Carter forget for a moment about his nephew's condition because beer will do that sort of thing to a man on a Saturday night. And, there were an equal number who insisted it was the tornado warnings scrolling across the bottom of the tv screen that affected his brain somehow. Whatever the reason -- and it may not have been either of those things at all -- Hamp Carter leaned over and asked the boy what he wanted for his birthday, which was coming up right directly in another month or so. "The outhouse," said the boy. The words came out of Donny's mouth all easy like and every bit as natural as if the boy were normal, which he wasn't. For, as everyone knew in the small town world that was Pontotoc, Oklahoma back in the 70's, Donny Holmes had neither spoken nor gotten a haircut in the three years since the clean-shaven soldiers with the shiny medals and spit-polished boots had rung the doorbell of the apartment where he and his mother were living out in California to tell them that his father had been killed in Vietnam. A Sapper's lone bullet had intersected violently with the carotid artery of one Sgt. Donald Holmes Sr. after its path had been slightly deflected by a tree on the outskirts of a nameless village called Tay Ninh when the man bent down to pick up the cigarette he had dropped. Perhaps it's true what the Surgeon General says about smoking, how it can be hazardous to your health. If Hamp was aware of the significance of the occasion -- that the boy had started talking again -- he showed no outward sign of it. Instead, he explained in great and unnecessary detail how the outhouse shit hole had been filled in last fall right around the time of the OU-Texas football game, which was when they got the indoor plumbing that Ada Jean had wanted so as she might feel more comfortable inviting the ladies of the church over for quilting bees and the like, and that now the outhouse was pretty much unusable, and maybe the boy ought to give some serious thought to asking for something else for his birthday, like a new bicycle or a fishing rod or a shotgun. Of course Hamp's explaining about the functionality of the outhouse turned out to be mostly for naught since all little Donny Holmes ever wanted from the thing was the wood, a fact which, when he found it out, confused Hamp even more. So Donny tried to de-confuse his uncle, declaring how he wanted the wood so he could build a fence. It didn't help. The place already had a fence. Two, in fact. One, made of barbed wire, ran all around the boundary of Hamp's property, and it did an excellent job of keeping his cattle in their place so they didn't do stupid cow things like go wandering off and getting themselves lost or blocking up the roadways and such. It was, in Hamp's opinion, an exceedingly useful fence. Unlike the other fence. The picket fence. The little white picket fence that bordered the front yard and the driveway and didn't do too much at all except give Hamp something to jump over when he went out to the road to fetch the mail. "The Ada Jean fence," he liked to call it, it having been his sister's idea to build the thing so as to make the place look all pretty like, an improvement that was mostly appreciated by J.T. Maxwell's cows, who lived across the road and were pretty much the only ones to spend any time at all looking at the darn thing, which they did more-or-less non-stop all day long every day. So, seeing as how Hamp was of the opinion that they already had at least one more fence than they needed, he asked the boy why he wanted to build a third one. "So's I can stop the war," said Donny. Now to Hamp's way of thinking, which was not at all unusual in terms of the effect of fences on wars, there didn't seem to be any way a fence could stop a war. Why, a good fence -- a good barbed wire fence, for example -- could barely stop a cow, depending of course in great measure on the extent to which that cow was motivated to get to the other side of said fence that was, at least temporarily, in its way. Things like bullets and bombs and wars, on the other hand, just seemed like they'd be a lot harder to stop than a cow, though Hamp had to admit that he'd never actually conducted any sort of scientific-type experiment on the relative stopping power of fences with respect to either cows or wars. So, he did the only thing his mind could think of under the circumstances: he asked his nephew just how in the hell it was that a fence was gonna stop a war. If Donny had an answer -- and he very well might have -- he didn't say. For, just as he opened his mouth and got himself all ready to speak again, a siren went off over at the police station. A twister had been spotted on the ground. There weren't too many things Hamp Carter feared as much as he feared tornadoes, but fraidy holes was way up there on that list. Hamp simply wasn't the fraidy hole kind, but Ada Jean had made him build one, mostly for little Donny's sake, which was right immediately the two of them moved in with Hamp, which itself was right immediately after the aforementioned serendipitous death of the boy's father in that Vietnam place that everyone was always arguing about. So Hamp told little Donny to run for the fraidy hole, which he dutifully did without even bothering to put his boots on (which wouldn't have done him any good, except that, in its way, it would have been akin to not dropping a cigarette in the jungles surrounding Tay Ninh because the boy would have stayed in the house a few seconds longer in order to tug on his boots). Hamp, meanwhile, sauntered on into the kitchen to grab himself another beer or two. On his way there he looked out the window and muttered something to himself about how he could sneeze better than the storm that was fussing outside. If only he'd looked out a different window -- the southeast window, to be exact -- Hamp may have altered his opinion of that storm and how well it could measure up to one of his sneezes. For Hamp Carter never in his life had a sneeze that could pick a boy up into the air and send his body flying across the yard like it weren't nothing more than a week-old cow patty and end up killing him outright when his body got itself smashed up against the old outhouse before the boy ever had a chance to make it to the fraidy hole. - - - Most years the good folks around Pontotoc welcomed the spring. The grass would turn green, church attendance would go up, squirrels would dart out from their hidey holes looking for sweet nut morsels they'd hidden back in the fall, and the children over at C.E. Johnson Elementary School would take to painting pictures with cloudless coloring book blue skies. Hamp Carter never noticed those sorts of things: those grass things and squirrel things and coloring book things. Thus, it was surprising that he noticed the yard. How full it was. How empty it was. All picket-fenced in and empty of everything except the memories that filled it completely. No more rusty green bike from the boy who would have been twelve today. No more black Ford Falcon with its three nearly bald tires that belonged to the boy's mother who now lived at Central State Hospital and didn't have need of a motor vehicle any more since the rules on her floor didn't allow the inmates to do dangerous things like drive or use scissors or even cut up their own meat at dinner time. Hamp had never told his sister how the boy had started talking again. It didn't seem to him like the kind of thing that would have made any difference. What would he have told her anyway? For, if she had known that the boy had spoken, she would have wanted to know what it was he had said, and then Hamp would have had to tell her about the outhouse and the wood and the fence and how, somehow, it was all gonna stop a war, and the best that might could come out of knowing a thing like that would be that Ada Jean, in her misery, would find a way to blame herself for the boy's death and how that wasn't a best sort of thing at all, but a worst. How, if she hadn't insisted on the indoor plumbing in the first place, maybe the boy wouldn't have gotten to thinking about using up the wood from the outhouse to build a fence and stop a war and his mind would have had room enough in it somewhere to remember to put on his boots before going outside, and by the time he got out there it would have been enough seconds later that the tornado would have been somewhere else entirely and left him alone to live, and they'd all be here right now, sitting on the porch and drinking iced tea and eating birthday cake. Except that they weren't. And it was the boy's birthday. Even if he was dead and couldn't celebrate it, it was still the day on which the boy had been born, and Hamp got to thinking how maybe he oughta do something to commemorate a fact like that, which is how he first got to thinking about building the fence himself 'cause it was what the boy had wanted for his birthday, and it didn't seem like a lot to ask. Hamp had built fences before, barbed wire mostly, and he considered himself to be right good at it, but a war-stopping kind of fence, that was a whole 'nuther critter entirely, and he wasn't completely sure just how to go about it. Still, he worked through the night, prying apart the boards that used to be the outhouse and taking them around to the front yard where he'd dug a bunch of holes. He then proceeded to sawing them down to size and hammering the bits and pieces of what used to be the outhouse all back together in more-or-less a fence kind of pattern out there in the front yard mostly because it seemed as good a place as any to build a fence. If it did nothing else, at least it might just give old man Maxwell's cows over across the road something to look at besides that picket thing they were all the time staring at, so maybe the cows would appreciate the darn thing even if it didn't stop a war. When he was done, which was about noon the next day, Hamp sat down on the top rail of the zig-zaggy fence-like thing that he'd made out there in the front yard, and he and the cows from across the road began singing Happy Birthday to the boy who wasn't there any more, though really it was Hamp who was doing most of the singing. Round about four o'clock or so, the paper boy from the Pontotoc Chronicle came by with the afternoon edition, and Hamp asked the kid if he'd like to join him and the cows in the birthday songfest they were having and maybe stay to partake of some iced tea and cake with chocolate icing. The kid made some excuse about not having a very good singing voice, stuffed the paper in the metal tube that was open on both ends and sat on the same post as the mail box, except that the tube said Pontotoc Chronicle on it instead of US Mail, turned his bike around and pedaled himself right directly out of there. It seemed to Hamp that the cows were getting tired of singing even though they didn't particularly chime in much, not even on the choruses, so he got up off the fence he had just built, hopped over the Ada Jean picket fence, pulled the newspaper out of the metal tube thing the kid had just put it in, and read the headlines. The war was over. He had built the fence, and the war had stopped. It made no sense, of course, that the two should be related, that the fence had stopped the war. No sense at all. Kind of like a boy dying 'cause he didn't put on his boots or a man getting himself killed 'cause he dropped a cigarette. Yet today there was peace where yesterday there was war, and life where there used to be death, and a fence that used to be an outhouse. Hamp tried to explain the relationship to the cows across the road, but they didn't get it either. So, he turned to the sports page and started up to telling them about how the quarterback option offense that Coach Switzer would have the Sooners using again this year was better suited to the college game than the pro set offense that most other schools would be employing. Now there was a relationship the cows could understand. |
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| The Fence ellenkhatcher@adelphia.net |
#8 of 15 |
| 607 | |
| Peggy, a fifty-three year old grandmother, stood before
the doors of the Registrar’s Office at Marshall University. “I
can’t believe I’m doing this,” she muttered under her breath.
“I must be out of my mind. What was I thinking?” She had quit college when she was nineteen years old. She had been young and in love. In order to get married, she needed to get a good- paying job to help pay the bills, so good-bye, College. She didn’t think much of it at the time, because she had been living on her own for about a year and was ready to marry and have a partnership with someone, always intending to go back to school later. As expected, children came along and financial needs were great, so school got put on the back burner. Every couple of years, she would bring up the subject with her husband, Zack. “I want to go back to school,” she would say. He always replied supportively. “Why don’t you?” “No,” she’d say. “We can’t really afford it.” “Then don’t go,” he would say, shrugging his shoulders. All her siblings had college degrees. “I’m not stupid,” she would tell herself every time she thought about it. Another two or three years would pass, and her self esteem dropped lower and lower. She watched her friends become teachers, social workers, even doctors, for heaven’s sake. Every fall, as she watched the school year began, it was the same thing. “I want to go back to college,” she would whine. “Look, Peggy,” Zack said, after he had finally heard it enough. “If you want to go—go!” “I’m getting too old. I’d feel funny.” He looked at her in exasperation. “What do you want me to do?” “Nothing!” she said, longing for it to be different. “There’s nothing you can do.” More autumns turned into winters and winters into spring. Her youngest daughter Faith was beginning her last semester at Liberty University, and her first grandchild had just been born. “I want to … “ she began. “Peggy!” Zack snapped. “Get through the fence.” “What do you mean?” “Do you want to go back to school or not?” “I want to go back, but I’m afraid.” “What are you afraid of?” “I’m too old.” Zack put his arm around her shoulders. “You’re wiser. You’re smarter than you were thirty years ago.” “It’s so hard for me to make decisions.” Zack turned her to him and gazed deep into her eyes. “Is that so?” She nodded, her mouth turned downward. “Let’s see,” he said, stroking his jaw. “Who decided what our meals for the week would be?” She just glared at him. “Who chooses our furnishings and most of our clothes? Who chose the names for our children? Who organized Boy Scout outings, arranged to drop three kids off to piano lessons, cheerleader practices, and little league games, while maintaining a home and balancing the check … ” He stopped. Shall I go on?” “But …” “Don’t say but, again. You are on this side of a fence. On this side is your secure, safe, and comfortable past and present. You can remain here the rest of your life, but you will always be restless, seeking something you want but don’t have.” She lowered herself to the sofa, her head in her hands. “Or …” She looked up. “You can go through the gate and take part in a multitude of new, exciting experiences that will be opened to you with a college diploma. It may be scary, but it will bring you much joy and self- satisfaction.” He paused. “It’s your decision, honey. Only you can make it. But realize this. If you don’t go—you already made a decision. You decided to stay and be constantly tormented by the fact that you didn’t finish college.” So, here she was, standing in front of the registrar’s door. She could see that fence. As she pushed open the glass door to the office, she could envision the gate opening, and she stepped into her strange, new, exciting world. |
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| The Fence bren60@bellsouth.net |
#9 of 15 |
| 2306 | |
| He could feel the cold, wet pavement on his cheek.
Sounds of a siren pierced the background; he could hear footsteps of people
running. The pavement was robbing heat from his body and replacing it with the
sting of cold. He had never felt cold like this before it was almost painful.
The siren was getting closer and the man was praying for the icy fingers
playing with his spine to stop. “Who is it, do you know?” Asked a by-stander. “A guy from the neighborhood, we call him Porgie, because he would recite the nursery rhyme, ‘Georgie, Porgie pudding and pie, kissed the girls and made them cry’. He didn’t kiss any of my girls though. I made sure of that!” He recognized the voice of Back Street Blondie. Now she is a looker that is for sure. “Over here boys, he’s over here,” it was a man’s voice off in the distance. Porgie felt his body being pushed and nudged. “Okay people step back, let us do our work. Does not look good Jimmy, are we too late! Shall I call the coroner?” Jimmy Sullivan reached for the spot on Porgie’s neck to get a pulse. Nothing! He nodded to the officer on the beat. An EMT brought his case over and set it next to the body. He also checked the man then placed a blue tarp over the body. * * * “Jimmy, what do we know about the body on Back street?” asked LeAnn Taylor, Jimmy’s partner. Jimmy Sullivan was looking at photos from the scene while reaching for a large brown envelope; he dumped the contents on his desk. “This just came up from the morgue. A Rolex watch, probably hot, a wallet with a check for $250. Check is from the pawnshop and made out to a Constance Townsend. What do you think alimony? Bingo, we have a bank deposit slip in an envelope! It is not a New York Bank but an Ohio bank. Not much else; let's see a pack of gum, a key with Room 217 and Parkside Hotel on the fob. The contents of the wallet do not tell us much. An old picture of a woman and a little girl, maybe two years old, business card from the pawnshop, the check of course, no ID, $17, and…” Jimmy quickly counted the change on his desk, “85 cents. Well I guess we go to the Parkside and find out who this guy is.” An hour later, Jimmy and LeAnn were in George Townsend’s room at the Parkside. There were very few personal effects in the room. “Did you find anything in his pockets?” Jimmy asked as LeAnn came out of the bedroom. He had already checked under the bed, flipped the mattress and was now going through the cabinets in the kitchenette. “No, not a thing,” said LeAnn. “This guy did not want anyone to know his history, at all. The clerk at the desk said he was a loner and lived here for 15 years and always paid on time. Never had any guests, there were times he would go out of town but most of the time he was right here. He had a girlfriend for a while but she died about two years ago. Nobody really knew him just his name and the clerk said that he did not have any personal items in their safe. The only thing he knew that he had of value was his watch and he was very proud of that. It was his father’s so I guess it was not hot.” “Well we have to find next of kin so I guess I go to Ohio. Anything else you want to look at here?” “Did you check the bed?” LeAnn asked. “Yep, not a thing, draws had a few cloths and nothing else. The kitchen was empty; the refrigerator has some peanut butter, a loaf of bread, some jelly, a canister of sugar, coffee and 3 cans of beer. That is it! We have to put a police tag on the door and bar any entry until we have positive ID. I have ordered the room to be dusted for prints. You ready to go.” LeAnn and Jimmy walked out of the Parkside and went into the dinner next door to go over their notes. A waitress came over and took their order. “You cops?” They nodded their heads. “Are you checking on Porgie? I just heard that he died outside the Pawnshop on Back street. That’s a shame. He was such a nice guy, never caused a bit trouble! He came in here almost every night about seven for a cup of black coffee and a piece of Marty’s apple pie. He made such a fuss over the coffee being black. He would say, ‘why drink coffee if you are going to mess it up with all that junk in it.’ He sure loved Marty’s pie, though. Will there be anything else?” the waitress asked. “No thank you,” Jimmy said as he put money on the table. We have to go back upstairs LeAnn.” “What did we forget?” “Answer this, why would anyone keep a canister of sugar, if he made a fuss about drinking his coffee black?” * * * Connie stood in front of the floor to ceiling windows in the drawing room. She rearranged the bouquet of flowers from the garden and admired the Lalique vase with its clear and satin finish. She checked her arrangement before setting the vase down. It was her favorite piece. It was especially lovely, when it sat on the sideboard catching the afternoon sun. “Connie, I have placed your check on the kitchen counter along with cab fare for your ride home this afternoon. Charles is taking me to the club for bridge and I don’t think he will be back in time to take you home. I have asked Charles to pick you up at 7:30 Saturday morning to get things ready for my dinner party Saturday night. Please do not make him wait for you. I was very unhappy that you were 20 minutes late this morning. That is the second time this month.” “Yes, m'am, I'm sorry, I will not let it happen again.” A few minutes later Connie watched as Charles drove Mrs. Lathrup down the long drive and through the gates. She looked past the long fence down into the town and wondered if she would end up like her mother. Cleaning other people’s homes and not having two nickels to rub together. Was that the way it was going to be for her also. She was trying to get through night school, but she was so tired all the time. Her mother urged her to go to college but she did not have the money to send her. Now that her mother was gone, she had to fend for herself and she was not doing very well. Connie was lost in her thoughts when she realized that there was still work to be finished and Mrs. Lathrup did not want her to stay past 4:30. Connie stopped to check her mail then walked toward the little house that her mother had left her. A car pulled into the drive and Connie turned, assuming it was turning around. The doors opened and a man and woman got out. “Excuse me, we are looking for a Constance Marie Townsend,” the women said. “I’m Connie Townsend,” Connie stepped toward them and noticed that the man was showing her a badge in his wallet. The police, whatever did they want with her. “Sorry to frighten you miss, do you know a George Marcus Townsend?” the woman asked. “No, I never heard of him. Who is he?” Connie asked. “We have reason to believe he could be your father,” the man said. “My, father? My father died in the Gulf War when I was two. I never knew his name.” “May we speak to your mother, Miss Townsend?” “She passed away this last year, and Mother never talked about my father except to tell me he died in the war. I would really like to know more about him.” “So would we, Miss Townsend. My name is Officer Sullivan and this is my partner LeAnn Taylor. We are investigating the death of one George Townsend. May we go inside and talk?” LeAnn and Jimmy followed Connie into the house. “First of all, your father if indeed, George Marcus is your father, died a couple of days ago in New York City. We are investigating the circumstances surrounding his death. Do you recognize the people in this picture?” Jimmy handed Connie the picture they found in Porgie’s wallet. “Why, yes that is my mother. I guess I’m that little girl. Where did you get this picture? We have so few pictures and I have never seen this one before.” “Did your mother have any important papers; marriage license that type of thing. We would like to see the pictures you do have.” “Yes of course I will get the pictures other than that she had nothing. I do not even know where I was born. Can you believe that? Since her death, I have been looking for anything that would give me information about me. I have been planning to get my birth certificate but have not gotten around to it yet. You say that my father did not die in the Gulf War. What makes you think this man is my father?” “We found a key to a locker in Grand Central Station in his rooming house and in that locker we found a safety deposit box key and this note addressed to Constance Townsend.” Jimmy said handing the note to Connie. “Do you know anything about a safety deposit box in a Cleveland bank?” “No, I have no clue. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help to you.” Jimmy stood up and started toward the door. “Miss Townsend we are going to go to that bank in the morning and I would like it if you would go with us. Will you be available for the day?” “Yes, sir I can go. I have Friday off this week since I have to work on Saturday.” “We will pick you up at 8:30 in the morning and take you to the bank. If you think of anything that may be helpful to us, you can let us know tomorrow. Have a good evening.” LeAnn said as they went out onto the porch. Connie leaned against the door and she was at a loss as to what just happened. A father that she thought was dead all these years, amazing. A safety deposit box with who knows what in it. * * * They sat in a restaurant in downtown Cleveland and watched Connie and they knew she was trying to take in all that had just happened. “Miss Townsend,” Jimmy started to explain. “It seems that everything in that safety deposit box is yours and the money in the savings account you can use right away. We will contact the broker whose card was in the box. Your birth certificate and their marriage license were in the box along with a letter that explained everything. Your father honored your mother’s request to stay out of your lives and he set up a trust fund and many accounts that would come to you after your mother’s death. I do not know why that did not happen after your mother’s death, but if you did not know anything about the accounts then you would not know to contact the bank. We will get this all processed and make sure you are indeed entitled to these funds. You will have to have a blood test and the results should be back in about ten days. This is only a matter of formality. We do not want anyone coming back to claim anything that is rightfully yours. Apparently, it is all in your name and your father has paid all the taxes so that it is all legally yours. From what we understand from the vice president at the bank, you are a very wealthy woman. Like multi-millions richer, Miss Townsend.” Your father’s family was wealthy and they disowned him when he left with your mother. They had no other children and upon the death of the senior Mr. Townsend, your grandmother changed the will so that everything was given to your father on her death. Your father then put all of that in trust for you. He set it up so that it would automatically go to you when your mother died.” “I have prayed that God would help me to get through school so that I would not be trapped in a life as a domestic like my mother.” Connie shook her head trying to understand it all. “Just yesterday I was looking past Mrs. Lathrup’s fence fantasizing about living her life. That fence around her house and everything inside that fence always seemed to be something I wanted to work toward,” a faint smile showed on Connie’s face. “We will be in touch as we are still investigating the death of your father. You have a lot of legal issues so you will need to find a lawyer, do you know of one?” asked Jimmy “Yes, Mr. Lathrup, my employer, has a large law firm in Akron and he helped me when my mother died,” answered Connie. “What are you going to do, Connie?” asked LeAnn. “Oh, my, this is so much to digest. First, I would like to give notice as soon as I can. I really want to go to school, that is my number one priority, then who knows. I will take it slow; everything else will have to wait until I have a better idea of what my future holds. I know one thing; one day I will have a nice house without a fence. My mother and father put up their fences; there will no fences in my life. |
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| The Fence Carol K. cklos@jamadots.com |
#10 of 15 |
| 1321 | |
| Brentwood Commons had no fences when Christi, Bill, and
their two children moved in, but each lot in the new subdivision did have a
sapling silver maple tree. The three bedroom ranches and bi-levels on the lots
were surrounded by newly seeded lawns and the shrubs in front of the houses
were container-sized, fresh from the nursery. Most of the buyers of these
reasonably priced homes were friendly young couples with growing families.
Unfortunately, Christi and her husband and their two children ended up moving
next door to the Hendersons, a very unfriendly older couple with no children.
Except for these neighbors, Christi and Bill loved living in the close knit community. So instead of moving into a larger house after the birth of their fifth child, they took a second mortgage and put an addition onto the home they had outgrown. Three years later they added a six-foot high stockade fence down the property line between their yard and the Henderson’s. Things had gotten that bad. The trouble began only few days after Christi and Bill moved in. “Your yard’s a mess… Toys over the place… Your kids should pick them up…” the Hendersons would complain. When one of the children’s tricycles fell on their grass, they would yell at the child. The trouble continued and grew as their family grew. They screamed at the children who sometimes ran onto their lawn to get an errant ball. It escalated when the branches of a pine tree Christi and Bill planted in their front yard made the mistake of growing over the lot line. “We can’t mow our grass there,” was their neighbors’ bitter complaint. “It’s a beautiful tree,” Bill had countered. “It makes both our properties look better.” They didn’t think so, and after many verbal battles they had a chain-link fence installed across the back and up both sides of their yard all the way to the sidewalk. Of course, Christi and Bill’s tree was shaved straight up one side to do this. Then there were the leaves that had the nerve to fall off Christi and Bill’s trees and land in their yard. They began raking up these leaves and putting them in bushel baskets they would empty over their fence into Christi and Bill’s yard. In the winter neither Christi nor Bill shoveled the snow quickly enough. The thing that bothered Christi, Bill, and their growing children the most about the Hendersons was that whenever they had company and were entertaining outside these nosey neighbors would sit on their driveway and watch whatever was going on, making no attempt to hide the fact that that’s what they were doing. Things were going from very bad to much worse. The final straw came the day Christi saw both of them out her kitchen window as she washed dishes. The couple was in her yard (on her side of their chain link fence) close to the side of her house. She couldn’t see what they were doing, but rushed outside to find out. As soon as they saw her they scurried down the length of her yard to the easement and then around the length of their back fence on the other side of their property. She didn’t follow them. She wanted to see what they had been up to. Christi’s air conditioning unit sat on a cement slab near where the older couple had been. The unit had been vandalized. They’d tried to disable it, but luckily, Christi had seen them before they could do much damage. Immediately she called the police and was told that since she hadn’t actually seen them do anything to the air conditioner there was nothing they could do. There was something she and Bill could to do though. Even though they had a large mortgage and had taken second mortgage for the addition, they went more deeply into debt and had a six-foot high stockade fence put up on the side of their yard adjoining the Henderson’s property. It was worth it. Their neighbor troubles were finally over. At least they thought they were over. A year later Christi and Bill’s good friends on the other side of their property decided to sell their house. The buyers were another older couple, the Favias who also had no children. Christi and Bill held their breath. Please God, make them be friendly, they prayed. These neighbors had been in the house a week; when again Christi was washing dishes and looking out the window over the kitchen sink. This time she saw three of her children jumping into the newly poured and smoothed cement sidewalk sections that her new neighbors had replaced in front of their house. She corralled her little devils, scolded them severely and sent them to their rooms. Then she found the trowel her husband had borrowed from a friend and hadn’t returned yet. Armed with the trowel, she knocked at the new neighbor’s door. “Mary, I’m so sorry,” she said almost in tears. “I just saw three of my kids jumping in your new cement. I’m going to fix it and I want you to see.” It was November and very chilly, but Mary quickly came outside without a coat or jacket. Showing Mary the evidence of her children’s jumping game, Christi got down on her hands and knees and began smoothing the cement. Thank God it hadn’t set yet. “See, Mary, “she insisted, “It’s going to be just fine.” Mary was shivering. She didn’t look upset about the sidewalk, she just looked cold. Finally, she told Christi, her teeth chattering, “Christi, I’m cold. I’m going in. It’s all right; don’t worry.” And she rushed back into to her nice warm house. The Favias turned out to be much more than just friendly. Everyone in the neighborhood loved them. It had been sad saying good-bye to them when Christi and Bill moved to a small house on lake two states away, but their children were grown and gone and living on a lake someday had been their dream. That move had been six years ago, but they were finally back in Brentwood Commons to help the Favias celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary. Naturally Christi was curious to see the changes made to “her house.” She called Sally, the good friend of her daughter’s, who had bought “her house.” “Come over tomorrow, Mrs. C” Sally told Christi. “I can’t wait to show you around.” “Well, what do you think?” Sally asked the next day, as she had proudly showed Christi through the house and pointed out the changes she and her husband, Tom had made in each room. “Lovely, really lovely,” Christi assured her with a smile, while remembering the house as it had been during the 30 years she and her family had lived there. After the tour, Christi sat on the deck her husband and sons had built. While Sally got them iced tea in the kitchen, she gazed out into the yard at the tall weathered fence standing primly on one side of the yard. It was now only a backdrop for the daylilies in front of it. They were all that were left of the lovely garden areas she’d planted in the yard after her children grew older and the fence protected her from the hostility next door. Today, again the yard contained a swing set, a sand box, a tree fort, and toys scattered everywhere. Sally and her husband had moved in with two small children and eventually became the proud parents of seven just like she and Bill. Remembering her own children and their scattered toys, tears trickled down her cheeks. How lucky Sally and Tom were that the Hendersons had been long gone when they moved in, Christi couldn’t help thinking. None of their neighbors, apparently, cared about a messy yard or a tricycle on the grass—certainly not the Favias, she was sure. Their anniversary party was tomorrow. It was going to be in their yard—a yard bordered only by flowers. |
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| The Fence lee10@host365.com |
#11 of 15 |
| 2372 | |
| The Art Museum was closed. The Miscellaneous
Curiosities gallery was lit only by the orange streetlights that were hazily
reflected from the windows of the department store across the road, and the
eerie green glow of the EXIT sign. But it was sufficient for the silver streak
that slashed the face of item No.789 to shine in the darkened gallery. The
silver was bordered on each side by a thick black line, gloomily funereal. The
remainder of the piece was indecipherable without the bright light of day to
show off its multi-colours. Clare shone her torch on the label beneath the work. Street Art : 21st Century, she read. “Incredible,” she breathed, “that it should have been preserved for over fifty years.” She switched off the torch and returned to the corner of the gallery where she had set up camp for the night. She had a three-legged canvas stool, a huge thermos flask of coffee and her camera. She sat down and tried to make herself comfortable. She poured a cup of coffee, she stared towards item No.789, and she waited. ** Few people dashing to work bothered to glance at the fence the Council was erecting, it was after all, only to protect yet another archaeological dig. Ten postholes were dug and ten posts concreted in, then the team of Council workmen went for lunch. The archaeological team, using JCBs, had already torn up the tarmac of the old car park and heaped it to one side. Roman ruins were exposed as expected. No one could dig in this corner of Leicester without stumbling across the history of the old Ratae Coritanorum. The city folk, didn’t give the site a second glance. They’d seen it all before. At three o’clock the Council team returned and continued to dig postholes but all activity on the site ceased when Adrian, the youngest of them started screaming. His spade had struck something other than earth and he’d fished it from the hole for a closer look. But when he’d rubbed the soil from its surface and held it up for inspection, it turned out to be the bottom half of a skull. He threw the jaw back into the hole and began hollering. At first the archaeologists ignored the huddle of men in fluorescent jackets. The abandoned spades were not their problem. They carried on working until the words; “it’s a bloody skeleton!” attracted their attention. This was their business. They dropped their sieves and their trowels and rushed across to the fence line. The ensuing kafuffle caught the notice of many passers-by and within minutes there was a sizeable crowd of people, jostling to look down the Council workman’s hole. Only the arrival of the police quietened matters down and soon the words, "There’s been a murder!" raced round the excited crowd. The police had no choice but to cordon off the street, to divert the traffic and to give the archaeologists the hump by trampling all over the newly cleared site. And so matters remained while the police did a bit of digging of their own. The truth was fi | |